Chapter 12 Bugs

In a way it was incongruous that she carried a handbag at all - he found himself examining it as they went along to see if he could spot any secret compartments or places where you might carry a gun, just as in some handbags he had noticed a place for an umbrella. But it looked like a perfectly normal bag, albeit rather larger than current fashion dictated. More like a small rucksack really - which would be useful if her route took her over the rooftops or through skylights, he supposed.

'Do you think the American had something to do with what happened last night?' he asked, just to avoid an awkward silence.

There was an uneasy pause.

'Do you know anything about him?' he persisted.

'Could be,' she said.

They walked up the road, heading, he presumed, back towards his own house. After a while Amaryllis suddenly announced,

'I've got to go this way,'

and headed off along a side street that, as far as he knew, was a dead end. Only of course she probably wouldn't think twice about shinning up a wall and jogging through a whole lot of back gardens. He stopped in his tracks. What if she were a spy? He had no idea at all how the intelligence services operated apart from the insight gleaned through various television programmes, both fact-based and completely fictitious. The different branches were always at war with each other and they all hated the Americans - everybody knew that - but he wasn't sure of some of the logistical aspects, such as what the retirement age was. Perhaps it was immaterial and spies always died in harness, as the horrible phrase went.

Christopher shuddered. Simon Fairfax certainly behaved like a spy, he reasoned as he continued walking, and Amaryllis had a few skills that might be useful to a spy, such as entering other people's houses illicitly, and getting into underground tunnels - not that she had been very successful at doing that, having got stuck. And were spies supposed to be afraid of spiders? Surely they were fearless, ready to go anywhere and do anything to protect the rest of us from evil... or was that Harry Potter? or Frodo Baggins?

Deep in thought, he arrived home. Big Dave had just gone out to take Marina to school - apparently she had insisted she didn't need an escort, but he had over-ruled her - and Mrs Stevenson had been left to play Monopoly with Faisal, who had his work cut out explaining the rules. He told Christopher in a stage whisper that he had already been through them twice. Well, it would keep him out of mischief. Christopher realised suddenly that Faisal should have been in school too, although under the circumstances it was only to be expected that he didn't feel up to it. He now had visions of the school attendance officer coming round with a whole regiment of social workers. He shut that out of his mind - it was the least of his worries, after all.

He rang the school anyway, and explained what had happened over the weekend, or at least the part of it that related to Faisal's mother being taken off in the ambulance. The school secretary said, 'But don't you think he would be better in school? - it would take his mind off things.'

'No,' said Christopher, who knew already how much Faisal hated school and was not about to enter into a debate about it with the school secretary in any case. Why have a long rambling pointless conversation with the monkey when you could have one later on with the organ grinder? He put the phone down. At least he had done his bit - they could worry about the rest later.

Amaryllis came down the stairs as he was still standing by the phone. She walked past him and straight into the sitting-room.

'Sorry to interrupt, guys,' she said to Mrs Stevenson and Faisal, 'only we need the parcel of money now, if you don't mind.'

Mrs Stevenson gazed at Amaryllis as if she were from another planet - which indeed could have been the case. Faisal sighed, got up and said,

'How did you know it was me?'

'Eleven-year-old boy - lots of money - Playstation games - just a wild guess,' said Amaryllis calmly.

Faisal fetched the parcel of money. He hadn't even opened it yet.

'Open it,' said Amaryllis to Christopher.

'But DNA - fingerprints - '

'It's too late for that. Just handle it yourself from here on in. I won't touch it. The police don't need to get a free sample of my DNA - it's probably on file in fifty-six countries already... Now take this - '

With a gloved hand, she gave him the envelope she had brought from her desk drawer.

'Take out one of the microdot containers - those round things. They're not the microdots themselves, you can't see those, but they hold the microdots.'

'Should I be wearing gloves?' said Christopher, trying to delay the moment when he would have to do anything difficult. He peered at the package of money, now loose and spilling out all over the coffee table. It could be radioactive as well as bugged, for all he knew.

'It's too late for that,' she repeated. 'Just open the container and scatter the dots over the money. They'll attach themselves to the raised bits on the notes. Almost impossible to detect without specialised equipment, nearly as difficult to get rid of them once they're clinging on. Great for tracking people.'

She sounded as if this was a subject very close to her heart.

'Now wrap up the parcel again,' she instructed him. He did as he was told.

Faisal watched her intently.

'Are you a spy?' he said suddenly.

Christopher did the only thing he could think of to cover up this faux pas: he had a lengthy and alarming coughing fit, causing Mrs Stevenson to pat him a bit too vigorously on the back, which in turn caused his glasses to fall off into the fireplace, from where Amaryllis retrieved them and handed them back to him with an odd look on her face. He didn't know why he had been so determined to divert everyone's attention. Perhaps he didn't really want to know whether Amaryllis was a spy or not. It was one thing for him to mull over these ideas in the privacy of his own mind, quite another for Faisal to blurt them out so that they became public property, open to the cold light of day.

He went into the kitchen for a glass of water, but as he left the living-room he heard Faisal say to Amaryllis, 'Uncle Christopher doesn't want to know if you're a spy or not....'

He deliberately didn't listen out for Amaryllis's reply.

The day's postal delivery arrived, or at least the portion of it arrived which hadn't been delivered to number forty-three, the destination for most of the mail for the street. There was an official-looking letter without logos or a sender name for Christopher. He hoped it wasn't one of these junk mailings disguised as personal letters. He particularly hated the ones from an astrologer who claimed to be able to save his life for a payment of only one thousand three hundred pounds in thirty-six convenient monthly instalments. He couldn't stand the thought that someone felt unable to make a living without conning people, and, worse still in many ways, without making up such an unconvincing back story.

It was written on headed Council paper with many intimidating phone, fax and reference numbers at the top.

'Oh, my God,' said Christopher as he read the first paragraph.

'Is it about Mum?' said Faisal, trying to sound as if he didn't really care one way or another.

'No, definitely not,' said Christopher. He looked up and gave the boy a smile that he hoped was reassuring. 'I think any news of your mum will come from the doctors once they've finished running all the tests. No, this is completely different and very annoying.'

'I didn't know Steve Paxman knew your address,' said Amaryllis, and laughed at the expression on his face. 'No, I'm not a mind reader, I just have very good eyesight. I read his name at the end.'

'It isn't from him. He's just been copied in, that's why you saw his name there. That reminds me, have you go any idea what's happened to him? I've forgotten to worry about him with all this other stuff going on.'

Amaryllis shrugged her shoulders.

'Haven't heard anything...What's the letter about then?' she said.

'This woman from the Council - Linda MacSween - wants to see our accounts,' said Christopher in a hollow voice.

'Accounts? For PLIF?'

'Exactly.'

'I've been keeping a note of what we spend,' said Mrs Stevenson suddenly. She took a small cash book out of her handbag and flipped through the pages. 'June 2nd. Meeting in Queen of Scots. Three pints of bitter, one Dubonnet and lemonade..... Seven pounds twenty.... August 4th. Meeting at the new bistro down by the harbour. Five ice-creams. Six pounds thirty-three.'

'Oh, my God,' said Christopher again, and sat down on the sofa, remembered Big Dave and Mrs Stevenson had slept on it, jumped up again and started to pace up and down the room.

Having meetings in the Queen of Scots had seemed such a reasonable thing to do - it hadn't occurred to him before that having a few drinks could be misinterpreted, or indeed that anyone was keeping track of this expenditure. After all, people couldn't be expected to turn up at meetings at all without an incentive. It was all quite harmless, and they did stick to the agenda and have minutes. Or did they?

'I thought you were meant to be the secretary?' he said to Mrs Stevenson, vaguely remembering what fun it had been choosing office-bearers in the first place, speculating on whether being chairman of PLIF absolved you from paying fines at the library for instance, or got you free bus travel, or free prescriptions, or free anything else.

'I do both,' said Mrs Stevenson grandly, turning to the back of the little book. 'PLIF steering group meeting, Queen of Scots, September tenth. Apologies from Young Dave. He had an important case going on in Stirling to do with environmental protesters. Big Dave commented that he didn't see why anyone would defend those tree-hugging porridge-weavers, especially not Young Dave whose idea of environmental protest was to complain to the landlord if the heaters weren't on in the lounge bar.'

'That's very impressive, Mrs Stevenson,' lied Christopher, becoming more horrified by the moment as the proceedings of PLIF were dragged into the limelight for the first time. He hadn't realised things were quite so well documented. This little cash book could provide valuable ammunition for Steve Paxman or the woman who had written the letter, should circumstances bring it into their hands. 'You should keep that book safe.'

'Oh, it's always safe all right,' she laughed. 'I keep a tight hold on my bag. It's got my whole life in it.'

Christopher looked at the battered old handbag and suppressed a smile.

'Oh, well,' he sighed, 'I suppose we can base some sort of accounts on your book, Mrs Stevenson. Have you ever done proper book-keeping?'

'This is how I've always done it,' said Mrs Stevenson indignantly. 'If it's good enough for Inverkeithing pensioners' Christmas Club, it's good enough for PLIF.'

'Wait a minute,' said Amaryllis. 'Why should they see your accounts? It's got nothing to do with them - you're an independent organisation, aren't you?'

'Right,' said Christopher doubtfully. After a moment he realised that in his muddle-headed state he hadn't really taken in what Amaryllis was talking about. 'What do you mean, independent?'

'I mean you're not dependent on council funding. Or at least not up to now.'

'We pay our own way,' said Mrs Stevenson indignantly. 'We all take our turn to get the drinks in - of course I can't go and stand at the bar, that wouldn't be right, but I give the money to David when it's my turn. It's nothing to do with the council.'

'I didn't mean - ,' said Amaryllis.

'No, Mrs Stevenson's right, we haven't had a penny from them,' Christopher assured her. He read the next paragraph of the letter, and felt less depressed. 'It says here the Council want to give us money.' His spirits and face fell again. 'But it's for restoring the village hall and developing a viable and socially useful programme of activities.'

'Where's the fun in that?' said Mrs Stevenson. 'Socially useful! - bleurgh.'

Amaryllis was looking very smug indeed.

'So have they actually agreed to give us the money?'

Mrs Stevenson chose to take offence. 'Some of us have been part of this for longer than others without wanting any help from the Council, and don't you forget it!'

'But have they agreed?' persisted Amaryllis.

Christopher peered at the letter again. He was having trouble taking it in - the events of the past few days had overloaded his brain, and there wasn't room for any more information in it. In his past life as an archivist he would have thought this was impossible, but then as an archivist he hadn't had much to do with real life, having spent the whole working week among historical documents. The demands of day to day living were obviously more complex than he had imagined at that time.

He read a sentence out loud to avoid having to think about it.

'The Council has money available for restoring old village halls, and if the PLIF steering group can satisfy the appropriate criteria, then an application for funding on their part for the purpose of restoring the hall at the end of Merchantman Wynd and developing socially useful community activities would have a good chance of success.'

'What are appropriate criteria?' said Faisal, just as Amaryllis asked,

'What are socially useful activities? Do they mean worthy things like knitting? Or old people's Bingo?'

'Appropriate criteria are things like having accounts, and minutes of meetings and stuff,' said Christopher to Faisal. To Amaryllis he just shrugged and smiled.

'I'd rather be in the Queen of Scots having a wee drink than hanging around some draughty hall with a lot of old people,' said Mrs Stevenson.

What do you think?' said Christopher to Amaryllis - thought he had no idea why he should trust the opinion of someone he was on the brink of deciding must be a spy.

'What do I think of what?' said Amaryllis. 'Would I rather be in the Queen of Scots or the village hall playing bingo? No contest. I'm with you, Mrs Stevenson.'

'Call me Jemima, dear,' said Mrs Stevenson.

'Why?' enquired Amaryllis, apparently as taken aback as Christopher had been at the thought that Mrs Stevenson had a first name. He decided not to tell her about Big Dave and the night on the sofa. He could hardly bear to think about it himself.

'Because it's her name,' he muttered to Amaryllis before Mrs Stevenson took serious umbrage.

'Oh, sorry Jemima,' said Amaryllis.

'No offence, dear,' said Mrs Stevenson. She winked horribly at Christopher.

'What do we have to do to get the money?' Amaryllis enquired.

'Fill in a form - you have to download it from their website, so I expect it's the kind of form that rearranges itself while you're typing into the boxes,' said Christopher darkly. He skimmed the last part of the letter. 'Funny, this woman seems to think we've already had money from them. I wonder where she got that idea.'

'That's always the question with Councils,' said Amaryllis.

'Can we call off our guerilla warfare now?' asked Christopher.

'Oh, no,' said Amaryllis, ' this is just the beginning of it.'

'Guerilla warfare?' Faisal had picked up his ears. He probably thought it was a computer game. Maybe it was. 'Guerilla Warfare for the PS3' had a certain ring of familiarity to it.

'It's a kind of war that's fought everywhere, not just on battlefields,' said Amaryllis absent-mindedly, and then, to Christopher, 'We've got to keep up the pressure now that they're softening.'

'Keep up the pressure?' said Christopher. 'We haven't even started yet - have we?'

'What do you have to do?' said Faisal.

'Well, I've started a website...' said Amaryllis.

'A guerilla warfare website! Cool!' said Faisal. 'What's the URL?'

Amaryllis wrote it down for him and he bounded off upstairs to look it up on his computer. Christopher hadn't seen his nephew bounding for quite some time; at least involving Amaryllis in their lives hadn't been all bad, he reflected.

He was still rather puzzled by this communication from the Council. What could possibly be behind it?

He must have wondered out loud, for Mrs Stevenson said wisely,

'They'll be worried about not spending their budget for the year. They get it taken away if they don't spend it, you know.'

'Is that true?' said Christopher, surprised. 'So the - ' he peered at the letterhead again, ' - the Communities and Knowledge department, which I don't believe really exists at all, incidentally, has been allocated a ridiculous amount of council taxpayers' money, and there's this pressure to spend it all on some dodgy project or other, just in case somebody realises they didn't need it in the first place and doesn't give them as much to fritter away next time.'

'Yes, that's exactly how it works,' said Mrs Stevenson, nodding and smiling. 'That's why I haven't paid any council tax for the last five years.'

'You've what?' said Christopher, aghast. He was harbouring a council tax cheat under his own roof. He had allowed her to sleep on his sofa - at this point he mentally shielded his eyes lest they inadvertently see a picture of something happening between Big Dave and - no, he mustn't go there.

'How did you get away with that?' said Amaryllis, sounding mildly interested.

Mrs Stevenson shrugged her shoulders.

'I move house a lot.'

'Does Big Dave know about this?' said Christopher sternly.

'I don't know... Big Dave isn't my keeper, you know, whatever you might think. We lead separate lives - mostly.'

Christopher tried to suppress a shudder.

'I wonder,' he said, more to divert his own attention, 'what the Communities and Knowledge department actually does.'

'Nothing, probably,' said Amaryllis, 'but at least that means they won't do as much harm as other agencies of the state bureaucracy.'

It was very strange, if Amaryllis had indeed been a spy, that she seemed to have such fervent anti-state opinions, bordering at times on -

'This may seem an odd question,' he said to her, aware that it was a complete non sequitur, 'but where do you come from?'

'Well, I live in Pitkirtly,' she said.

'But where did you come from before that? Where were you born?'

She hesitated for too long, her eyes very wary, like a wild animal who suspects there is danger round the corner. He relented and said with a smile,

'Sorry, it's none of my business. Forget it. It's got nothing to do with anything.'

Faisal came down the stairs two at a time.

'It's great!' he said to Amaryllis. 'How did you manage to get my uncle looking so - like himself?'

'Just a lucky shot,' she replied, glancing mischievously at Christopher.

'Am I on this website of yours?' said Mrs Stevenson, sitting up straight and patting her hair all round the edges of her woolly hat, which, Christopher surmised, she must have put on first thing this morning, since he didn't remember seeing her without it. He tried not to wonder if she had taken it off to go to bed, but his mind formed a hideous picture of her sitting up in bed next to Big Dave, a seemly floral flannelette nightie covering everything except her head, which wore that same hat.