Pharaoh Jones

Somewhere near the nose of the Underbelly, past the rioting school isa derelict but impressive mansion. It sits in its own architecturalhissy fit amongst hectares of golden grasses grazed by ragged bolt prone sheep. There is no end of dangerous tip offs. The mansion was ruined in the war but no one in the Underbelly is alive to remember that night. The rumour has it that the Germans sneaked up the estuary, under the radar and let loose with their deadly butterflies having been given a tip off that Churchill was in residence. Soon after, the anti-aircraft gun was installed in the town's heart. Another equally baseless theory is that it was burnt down for the insurance but everyone quite rightly likes to believe the former.

There is nothing up here but space and fresh air, two rarities I value more than gold. As the Underbelly basks in it is dark, godless interior, the open land up here that surrounds the mansion seems quite the reverse. Light and hope floods in pushing the trees at its edges to breaking point. Many have been reduced to dry splinters but theUnderbelly refuses to shrink. The dark carpet of the valley is beautiful in its own way, but occasionally their canopies sickeningly bow and scrape and I need to escape their overbearing shadows.

The incredible Zac is on the lead; there are sheep about. I carry him over the cattle grid worried about him snapping his skinny legs; he seems to understand despite the Elvis lip. We walk around the mansion kicking through the stones on the dusty track. There have been noises about redeveloping the whole plot but I am sceptical. I get to thinking that towns and cities should keep at least some of their ruins, even the modern ones if only to remind us of the frailty of everything we build. Plus we all need somewhere abandoned and spooky as places to meet hired killers, informants, dealers, journalists and racketeers especially since there are no underground car parks in the Underbelly.

I can see the dark outline of my contact on the horizon of a hillock. He has his back to me but I am not stupid enough to think I could ever catch him unawares. He is the man who has summoned me here; he is my raison d'etre. I have worked indirectly for him before under the strictest confidence, so much so that I never actually met him and from what I could gather, very few people had. Of course people said they met him all the time, especially in the Dog and Frog on a Friday night after several rounds of drinks. Local descriptions of him varied like the quality of the beer they were served. Some said he was a boy with the mind of a man, others the exact opposite. Women made claims for his extensive glans, men for his fighting skills. The only thing that any of the tales had in common was his name, Pharaoh Jones.

I reach the base of his grassy throne. A man I presume to be PharaohJones is knee deep in the tall grasses, his long dark coat billowing in the fresh breeze. He turns and looks down just as I look up. The bright afternoon sun beating down on his back and into my shielded eyes obliterates the finer details of his features but I can still tell that his features are stepped and strong."You were told to come alone." I looked momentarily confused until he pointed at Zac.
"I hardly think…"
"You could be recognized." His accent was the cross fertilisation of every West Country drawl you could think of.
"I'm sorry, I take your point."
"As you will have gathered, I require your services or should I say this town requires your services." You don't normally question a man like Pharaoh Jones and before I could spit out my question he answeredit, vaguely. "What's in it for you? Is that what you were going to ask? Don't worry you will be well rewarded." I was forming an idea in my mind that he was some sort of intellectual or left wing Romany. A kind of SuperPikey.
"You don't want me to kill anyone?"
"Don't be so stupid man, of course not, if I want a man dead, mine is the last face he sees. I want you to take this." He handed me a small plastic card, I recognized it instantly, as I boy I used to carry one. The card entitled its bearer to full membership at the club.

"They say that the love between a man and his dog is the purest kindof love. Is it true?""Quite possibly." I replied and walked off troubled that a man like PharaohJones may be harbouring the thought that I'm a dog fiddler.
“One more thing. Check out Parsley’s.”

Parsley’s is a nursing home nestled in the woods right behind the school. It was recently re-named after a local girl, Joanne Parsley who fought off three intruders killing them all only to find that they were in fact her, father and two of his drinking buddies. They had been sneaking back into the house after a standard night out in the Dog and Frog and were trying not to wake the household. She wrote a painfully emotional letter to the local press whilst awaiting trial. I can almost remember it verbatim.

To the families of those I have harmed including my own,

No words I can ever write
No thoughts I can ever think
No deeds I can ever do
No love I can ever give
No money I can ever repay
No death I can suffer

Can ever make amends for what I have done. It is better for me to join them and beg their forgiveness rather than plead for yours in this world.

Joanne

The letter arrived too late; she had thrown herself on the mercy of God rather than trust the judgement of twelve of her peers.
I decided that the best approach was a formal one. I strode boldly up to the front door and rang the bell. There was no answer. I rang again and took a pace back. Still no response. Perhaps it was feeding time. I made for my third attempt but as I reached a finger out the door opened to the width of an eye.
“What do you want?” A wizened voice said.
“I’d like to enquire about the home, for my mother.”
“We’re full.” And with that the door closed as quietly as it had opened. Unsatisfied, I rang again. The door opened, wider this time and an older lady, possibly one of the residents stuck her head and shoulders out. “I told you we are full.”
“Yes but can I put my mother’s name down on a list? You must have vacancies from time to time.”
“Hmmm…very rarely.”
“Really? Could I have a look around anyway?”
“Look, whatever your name is, we are very full and very busy so please come back another day. Why don’t you ring and give us some warning?”
“Fine.” I held up my hands and accepted defeat. The door was closed on my back. My first instinct was to turn and charge the door like a rhino on angel dust but I decided that stealth should prevail. Soon I was into the dusty foliage that lines the boundary walls not far from the main building. The grey stone building resembles a converted rectory. The concrete addition to the elegant carapace is like a knife slash across the face of a model whilst the expansive conservatory on the back is like a common or garden hump. I moved round towards the badly lit carbuncle carefully eyeing the caged windows. At the corner of the house and the conservatory where the boundary wall meets, I crouched and peered into the home. Sat in a half square in comfy chairs were a dozen people in varying vegetative states. Heads lolled and yawed like church bells. Hands jittered and in some cases swung like the sails of a windmill. The first thing that should strike you about an old people’s home is that it should contain old people. These people were young, younger than me, dressed in the brown and tweed of their grandparents. What was going on here? Was this just some sort of scam? If only I could get the name of just one person who was dribbling onto their own shoulder perhaps I could get to the bottom of this.