Bag of Weasels. Chapter 8

But I was well and truly done in by now. I collected some shreds of curtains and sheets and came back up to the large front bedroom to look for sleep. I always slept upstairs if I could. Ralph wandered in, looking done in too, and lurched over the floor, falling into a corner and curling up like a dog. I covered him with and old green velvet curtain, heavy enough to cut him off from the waking world.
We were just nodding out when a vehicle pulled up outside. I had to look. There was a large grey van: Authority Grey. Here for a reason. It sat with its engine running; no-one got out.
Ralph was at the other window. We could do nothing but look.
The large grey van moved off, but it had left its mark. The shadows were taking form.
"Does that feel like a coincidence? Ralph asked me, as he joined me at my window.
"No.
"No, it can't be, we'll have to go in the morning. This house is marked.
But later that night, at its darkest and coldest, the van returned; we heard it for we had not slept.
Its doors slid open and Men of Authority emerged, two in suits, three in overalls, all in grey, all in a line looking up at our house, silently studying its façade. There were exchanges of looks but no words we could hear, then they all descended the steps, pushed open the door and entered the basement.
If they'd come for us, we were fucked.
"Shit! Shit! Shit! ' it was Ralph, pacing round, from window to door, pulling at his beard, "I'm not going, I'm not going back, and he climbed on to the window ledge.
"Ralph, shut up, and get back in, you can't jump out mate, you'll smash up on the floor and they'll have you any way. They still don't know what room we're in, we'll have to try and sneak out.
After a moment's thought he climbed back in, but we were both scared shitless-hyped up with adrenalin.
There was still no sign of the Grey Men. Were they sneaking?
We crept to the door, and froze to listen.
Nothing.
We waited. Nothing. Then a cough, echoing up from way below: they were still in the basement.
So quietly round the door and tippy-toe to the stairs, where we crouched and craned to hear what we could.
"It makes me feel sick, said a weaselly London voice.
"Don't feel nothing. A throatier reply.
Echoing footsteps, scraping and shuffling.
"Board it up or pull it down, I say, Weasel.
"Or both, Throaty, again.
"Could you both be quiet? Well spoken, assured. That was a suit.
"I think, said what sounded like another posh suit, "we should board it up, then pull it down.
"And what about visitors? Asked the first suit, "We should be collecting them, shouldn't we? Shouldn't we let them come?
There was a brief silence, some shuffling about, then the second suit replied: "The way I see it, if there's nowhere to visit, there can't be any visitors, and if there aren't any visitors, there'll be no upset. Kill the illness at its root. Tear it down, and build again. Reclaim is the order of the day.
"Fair enough, but I'd like to keep an eye on the place in the meantime, in case any of these wandering souls turns up. Remember, we reclaim the people, and reclaim the land.
"Right, that's it then. I'll get on it first thing. We'll leave two of the chaps here in case any of your little numbers comes along in the night.
There were sounds of scraping and coughing and five voices speaking at once that we could not decipher, followed by goodbyes and "see you first thing. We crept back to our window and watched the suits climb back into the van, with someone to drive them, of course. Leaving two in the house.
"So how do we get out? whispered Ralph.
Fucked if I knew. There were two in the basement so that way was out. That left the front door and the back door. Front doors are obvious on a good day, and this was a bad night so that was off-limits. That left the back door and I didn't know where that would get us. Apart from the back garden of course, and even that was uncharted territory. Not a clue.
"We'll go out the back door.
"And then?
"We'll garden hop.
"And then?
Then I knew. It was somehow clear to me. I would take us to Upton Lane, to the big house with the tower, where things would go missing. Recoiling back on a path I had laid, tracing backwards and pulling Ralph with me. This was a turning point; up til then, I never went backwards. I never returned, forever moved on, drifting; but now there was a plan, and a change of behaviour, breaking of a habit. Or something from outside urging me back with powerful subtlety: go from here to there. Go back.
"Take us, whispered Ralph over my shoulder. He knew. We crept down the stairs, stopped to listen, then crept some more. Along the hallway and into the kitchen. Scraping and coughing from down below. We became statues. No-one came up. Under cover of a drowned conversation we made it to the kitchen door, and to our relief it opened with a turn.
We stepped in to the night and garden hopped away.