The Circle Now Is Made (King's Way Book 1)

First published on Kindle in Great Britain in 2014

©
Mac Fletcher 2011

The title, and the lyrics from which it is taken, were used by kind permission of Dave Cartwright to whom I'm very grateful. Dave, a fellow Westmidlander, has for many years been a very popular Singer-Songwriter, Broadcaster and Writer, and is author of Bittersweet, a moving and impeccable biography of the late Clifford T Ward.

"Dance of the Seasons" © Hare Songs
All rights reserved. No part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means: electronic,
mechanical, photocopy, recording or otherwise, without the
prior permission of the copyright owner.
Characters in this book are fictitious: any resemblance to
actual persons, living, dead, or otherwise is purely coincidental. The author is and always has been puzzled as to why the word "otherwise" is used. It's difficult to see how anyone one can be anything other than dead or alive.

I have another mystery thriller on Kindle: “Forever April,”

and a Black Comedy called “Death Must Go On,”

which is nowhere near as sinister as the title implies
Please contact me directly: [email protected]
I'd love to hear from you, whatever your thoughts.
(Flinches)
 

Prologue

"I saw your final warning, but it's not my debt. It's my ex-wife you need to see." Greg Alison snatched his arm from the man's grasp and continued across the deserted multi-storey to his car. He was cold, tired and hungry, and didn't feel a fraction of the indifference his body language suggested. Before Greg reached his car-door though, the stranger had stepped in front of him.

"I get the money - I leave you alone!" The man's sallow complexion took on an olive-grey hue in the dimly lit area.

"You leave me alone
full stop
!" Greg was about to grab the man and drive him against a support pillar. Hard. The man had other ideas. Within a heartbeat he held a knife beneath Greg's chin.

"Bastard!" Still unbowed, Greg prepared to bring up his right arm. To knock the man and his knife clear. But suddenly he froze. Sightless for a second, he felt a stabbing pain in his right shoulder. His body recoiled as if from a giant sting, every muscle convulsing, contracting - almost to snapping point. A powerful arm reached from behind and locked across his throat.

"That was just a tweak," he said slowly. "When will you have the money?"

Greg was barely conscious. He could only play for time as he felt a trickle of blood creeping from the knife point. "Friday, I swear." He knew they meant business but strained to tilt his head away from the pressure of the tip.  His captor countered with more pressure behind his neck.

"I can't sort
anything
unless you let me go."  He could smell the foul breath of the men as he waited for the worst. "Let me
go
!"

"Tomorrow!" The accent sounded Arabic, Moorish even. "You have money for tomorrow night or
really
suffer!"

"I can't get it for ..." The pressure was further increased.

"You have no
choice!
We collect tomorrow night at seven. Your home!"

Suddenly the pain eased.  The men released him and walked away. Half turning, the knife-man called over his shoulder.

"We know
who
your kids are… We know
where
your kids are."

The threat, in essence, disturbed Greg but didn't unduly alarm him: the children had relocated to France with their mother some weeks earlier. Still aching and sickened from the effect of the shock, Greg lost no time clearing the town before pulling onto a busy all-night service station. He'd no need for fuel. Just somewhere open and light enough to use his phone safely.

"Sam, does the offer still stand?"

"Christ Greg, what a time to call - scared the shit out of us." Sam paused to calm his anxious wife. "It's OK Jo… your little brother."

"Hi Jo," Greg had no time for pleasantries. "Can I still have it, Sam? A few weeks might be enough."

"Take it and keep it -
and
the Off-Roader - the whole outfit wouldn't fetch a grand these days. Keep 'em if they'll help you back on course, though I'm buggered if I'd want to join you in mid-winter."

"I'll need to collect them first thing. About six."

"Everything's ready as promised, and I'll leave the doors unlocked.
Please
don't wake us again mate – and get some rest yourself!"

 "Ring me…
please
!" cut in Jo anxiously as the call ended.

A. E. Housman

Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows:

What are those blue remembered hills,

What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went

And cannot come again.

Chapter One

It was dark and cold as Greg lumbered wearily down the drive, away from the magnificent building that had been home. As he reached the iron gates, he turned and blinked through watery-eyes at the house. His house. The house he'd supervised throughout its renovation: brick by brick; wall by wall; tile by tile.

It felt painfully ironic that the home he'd been so proud to restore, the crystallisation of past success, should be taken from him by people who knew nothing of its character. Before chaining the gates for the last time, he gazed at the swimming pool; the scene of so much enjoyment on warm summer evenings of the never-to-return past. Now it stood, grey and desolate, its frozen surface covered by a layer of winter debris.

Gone, probably forever, was the sort of opulence that had allowed him to fuel the boiler through half of December, just so he could take a dip on Christmas day. Forever lost, the laughter of the children he worshipped, and his wife’s caring smile as she'd watched them during long days of summers long gone.

Greg turned away as the meridian of his dreams dissolved, and
walked from the gates to his waiting car, his sole possessions waiting humbly at the kerb-side.  An old Volvo estate now represented the fruits of a lifetime’s work. Seated on the passenger side was his only remaining friend, a greying old setter. Puzzled and dejected, he looked vaguely hopeful that Greg might yet call him back to the house, where he could continue his decline in comfort and dignity. He saw no reason for disruption of any kind.

"Sorry Red - not to be. No time for sentiment I’m afraid.” Urgency entered Greg's voice as he climbed into the car and started up, a farewell nod to his past as he pulled away.  "We can't hang about any more, mate; it's no longer the leisurely escape I had planned. Not until we've put some miles between us and Callow Hill anyway." 

Greg had been a highly successful businessman, his success, as is often the case, proving to be his downfall. On leaving college, after a spell on building sites, he'd set up in domestic security. Business had boomed and his company expanded rapidly, venturing into energy conservation and upgrades. All seemed well until a temporary respite in the recession had enabled punters to move rather than renovate, resulting in a brief but apocalyptic slump in home improvements. This, coupled with near-saturation of a highly competitive market, had left him overmanned. The inevitable happened, and Greg was made bankrupt - paradoxically by the upturn he'd so anxiously awaited. Sad as he’d been at the time, he'd consoled himself that he still had his home and family. But that was to change also...

*

The pair had been travelling about ten minutes when Greg became aware that the car behind had been following since he'd set out. He put it down to paranoia, but decided to see what happened when he signalled to turn left onto a side lane. Sure enough, the car slowed dramatically and dropped well back… but followed him into the lane.

"Hold tight, Red," he said, "another sharp left soon, but you'll know where we are by then, I reckon." He almost felt Red's reaction as the ageing dog realised, even in darkness, he was on familiar ground. After three hundred yards or so, whilst the following vehicle was eclipsed by hedges, Greg turned off the lights, swung hard left through a wide gateway and onto a farm track, slowing enough to see the pursuing headlights zoom past. 

"Whether he was chasing us or not Red, we've lost him. Just a quick stop now; no time for your usual fuss from Jo and Sam, I'm afraid."

The estate car rattled and bumped the last fifty yards to a huge barn of a garage. Greg put on the headlights while he opened the double doors, at which the ageing dog became all but delirious.

"Just wait there, Red, it's not quite what you're expecting."

Moments later a jaded Frontera emerged from the garage, behind it the cause of Red's excitement. "Yes, you're right about the caravan, but no Bev and Shaun to play with I'm afraid. What a memory you must have."

Within minutes the Volvo had changed places with the pair's new home, and they were on their way back down the track.

"Phew," gasped Greg, suddenly feeling much less conspicuous as he paused at the gates before rejoining the lane. He took a bag of loose biscuits from a holdall beside him and tossed a handful to Red. "Time for a treat, I reckon. I'll just take a livener." Greg had never been a heavy drinker but, since the onset of his current situation, he'd used drink as an instant fix. Most days he could take or leave it, though often he took it anyway; and some days it made life easier; smoothed the rough edges.

"Today's a real rough edge day, Red!"

Having realised this wasn't to be one of the holidays of old, Red just got on with the biscuits. Before Greg became established, he and his wife had been glad to borrow the caravan from his sister. "The only way we could manage time off in Cornwall those days, Red, but there's just us two now." Greg forced a smile. "But not forever I'm sure; I'm just glad she didn't do a runner with you as well."

The support Clare had shown while work was flooding in had evaporated like a summer shower the instant it stopped. To Greg’s dismay, she'd upped and left within months of the collapse of his business. His children, both in their mid teens, had been given to their mother’s care. As soon as all was finalised, Clare had remarried and moved to France - so swiftly as to arouse Greg's suspicions regarding the length of her relationship. He'd not wanted to cause aggravation over the children though, accepting that they’d been offered a much better home than he could now provide.

The recent discovery that his wife had run up massive debts
after the collapse
of his business hadn't, in light of her recent behaviour, entirely surprised him. Clare had obviously chalked up a massive slate in preparation for a split she was actively engineering. The fact that the credit companies had sold the debts on to an unscrupulous recovery agency hadn't helped Greg though – it had in fact been the final straw.

He bit hard on his lip, trying desperately to grasp what course to follow. The only thing he was sure of was that he wasn’t going to give up. He kidded himself he'd take a short break in the south west somewhere (in January?) and get his thoughts together.

"We'll end up living really rough if the cash runs out, Red. Not cut out to become nomads are we - surviving on our wits from day to day?" He reached down and stroked the dog, his bony frame by now cramped into the foot-well to gain full benefit from the heater.

“We’ll become hunter-gatherers,” Greg joked, and he caught his own grinning reflection in the mirror. The intense green eyes were sunken, the dark, lean features more gaunt and drawn.

Before joining the south-bound motorway, Greg stopped at a convenience store to stock up with immediate requirements: food supplies - largely pre-packaged - and alcohol. He'd earmarked several all-year sites in Cornwall, and planned to do little more than eat sleep and drink, for a few days at least. Although the caravan wasn’t designed for winter use, it incorporated high-capacity batteries and two large gas bottles, so he felt confident of surviving the elements within the snug interior. In some respects, Greg was looking forward to a spell of seclusion; in spite of his words, he'd often fancied
living with nature
- though his only experiences had been with family during summertime.