CHAPTER FIVE: FACING REALITY
Things are seldom what they seem,
Skim milk masquerades as cream;
Highlows pass as patent leathers;
Jackdaws strut in peacock's feathers.
(Gilbert & Sullivan, HMS Pinafore)
Part Four: Solutions
So very elementary.
The disturbance of dust where no disturbance should be, the oddly placed rug on the top landing, the floorboards that do not match- the list goes on. Suffice to say, if an object looks out of place, it usually is, and a first instinct is often a very valuable asset (ignore it at your peril). John Watson, army signalling techniques clearly still embedded, gestures across that the coast is clear. His new practise, excellent wife and second baby have succeeded in sequestering his undivided attention in recent times, yet the words 'there may be danger' have once again, invalidated all previous distractions, so here he is (and I am more than delighted).
Low, silent and insidious, we slide like wraiths between the ancient doorways and through the paved, endless corridors of the Arts & Philosophy Society on New Brunswick Street. Most recently, I have found a weakness in the Professor's dealings and must grasp this opportunity, even though it lies within the eye of the storm (or the lion's den) itself. John looks across, his eyebrows raised in silent questioning, but I cannot answer directly, since I am counting.
One… two… three...
The paces from the third floor landing must tally with my exhaustive research using the detailed blueprints Seiga managed to find of this building (the real blueprints that is, rather than the ones filed for public consumption). By way of disguise and general surreptitious dealings, I have paced out the building from each angle and direction, all concluding in a single assertion - there are too many windows.
Much in the manner of Glamis Castle - where once all the houseguests ran around, displaying a towel from each window in the castle and finding there was still one window without one - I know there is a secret room, and I think I know which particular guest might be housed there.
Four… five… six…
I turn to John, nodding through the cloying darkness of this dusty, gothic monstrosity, then gesturing to a small, murky doorway to my left. He mimes a key turn, but I shake my head, since noise equates to warning, and there can be no warning. Through the echoing, night-clad passages the perpetual, sonorous ticking of a clock adds pace and clarity to the job in hand, and we must act.
A split second later, we both rush at the door, splintering the seemingly impenetrable barrier like matchwood beneath our shoulders, tumbling headlong into the room and onto the sleeping form of Mr Birdy Edwards, who`s untimely death had been rather prematurely reported in recent coroner's papers, and who's shocked countenance often revisits me at night, eliciting a tiny smile each time.
"Long story short," pants John Watson, pulling the blathering idiot out of the wreckage of his hidey hole and to his shaking feet as we dust ourselves down, "not dead."
~x~
The customs officer is young, nervous, sweating visibly and has recently returned to work after a workplace accident, but she is immutable and steadfast in her stance.
"I realise your paperwork appears to be in order sir, and I also realise your time is limited- " barely five feet tall, she stares up into the malevolent, narrowed gaze of her dissatisfied traveller " -but so is mine."
Walking around the coffin-shaped, vacuum-packed crate, the officer is tapping her pen against her teeth, slowly and rhythmically in a manner more irritating than whistling, cracking one's knuckles, or even dragging a fingernail across a blackboard. Her sigh, although far from convincing, evinces a barely contained tremor of agitated impatience from the (possible) owner of the goods atop the pallet.
"I am finding it difficult, madam, to understand why we are being detained in this manner, since everything appears to have been filed and catalogued. All necessary permits have been applied for…"
A taller, fair-haired man (long-time assistant to the customs officer, and currently still harbouring the long-time crush he has developed since probably their first meeting) appears from a small door next to the customs desk. He has a clipboard and several walkie-talkies, all crackling in spontaneous eruptions of static at intermittent intervals. He has had pasta for lunch. He did not care for it.
"Ms Ford-Maddox, Mr Norton has confirmed the documentation from the Pica Corporation regarding this shipment - everything has been signed back at the docks."
She stops tapping and looks at her lovelorn colleague, tilting her head slightly as she turns back to consider the glistening black plastic casings waiting for their admittance into her domain. People are gathering behind the barriers and a degree of rubber-necked curiosity is creating the buzz of a murmuration amongst the impatient. Mr Package-owner has had enough.
"This is intolerable treatment! Pica has shipped through Heathrow weekly for the past twenty years with no problems whatsoever; our record is exemplary!"
The murmur increases, mobile phones are being pulled out of pockets of bored queuers, as if anticipating a potentially scandalous face-off at HM Customs, and in the distance, a child screams and launches into wracking sobs. As if in sympathy, one of Mr Customs-assistant`s walkie-talkies chooses that exact moment to crackle into life, jolting the dissatisfied traveller into silence, and evincing a small (almost invisible to the naked eye) bead of sweat to roll from the temple of Ms Ford-Maddox. Mr Customs assistant takes the information in, face dropping in an almost comical pantomime of surprise as he turns to his superior.
"It's word from the top-" looking as apologetic as it is possible for a man in his position to be (sentimental; entirely unsuited for said position) as he continues:
"We have to open the package."
And the camera phones begin to flash.
~x~
Luckily for Pica Industries, the scandal of the smuggled jade deities was a little overshadowed by the scandal of the Deputy Prime Minister's love child being discovered living on a council estate in Woking, in a less that newsworthy week, but the social media whispers had begun, and there is rarely smoke without a determined pyromaniac and a decent propellent. Thus, in the weeks that followed, more shipments were interrupted and checked, and although nothing was found, whispers became words, words became incantations, and incantations became sign-writing, billboard high, in Times Square.
'Antiquities Bungle - Blue Chip company red-faced' (The Guardian)
'Pica Industries - is our heritage safe in this multi-national free-for-all?' (The Daily Telegraph)
'Stock Market shock for Pica Industries - twenty years of reliability failing' (Financial Times)
'Grave Robbers go belly-up!' (The Sun)
Yet, the pundit who proclaims that all publicity (even bad) is actually good publicity must now shrug his shoulders and accept defeat in the face of such encroaching mendicity. Stocks fall by the hour and bulls become bears as the sun goes down on another day on Wall Street. In the three and a half weeks following the discovery at Heathrow, the world-renowned Pica Industries is forced to close its Far East and Northern European subsidiaries, with the US and UK operations hanging in the balance. Across the internet, from Reddit to Facebook, from Tumblr to Instagram, the whispers are fanned into flames, damage is done, and all anyone can really do is… burn.
~x~
a/n:
pica pica is the latin name for magpie
