Chapter 14

For once it was a nice day, which made a pleasant change. It wasn't that I minded getting cold and wet, after all I was used to walking the hills and you take what you find when you're three miles from the nearest shelter, but tramping through fields and woods in the rain, peering over fences and through trees, as I had been doing for over a week, did not rate highly on my 'good ways to spend your time' meter. Today, though, was a real taste of spring; the one the weather forecasters had been promising for a week was just around the corner.

I had looked over one property that morning and it was a dud. Despite the agent's blurb, it wasn't secluded, being entirely visible from the road. It was modern but mock-Tudor with pebble-dashed walls and fake beams and the owners had decided that suburban-geometric was a de rigueur for the garden. You know the sort of thing; a huge area of concrete in front of the house, a small patch of grass with a perfectly circular hole in the exact centre in which is planted a flowering cherry, and a herbaceous border, planned and executed with a precision that would have gladdened the heart of the stoniest Sergeant-Major. I'm exaggerating but not by a lot. It didn't take more than five minutes to decide this was definitely not the kind of place I wanted to live.

I decided I needed to walk for pleasure. The map indicated that I could do a circular tour where I could cut away from the road, through some woods and up a hill where I might get some good views. Whistling cheerfully, if tunelessly, I set off. I had been right: it was a pleasant walk. The woods were open and the sun bathed the burgeoning leaves in bright, warm light, making them glow with vitality. The birds, too, seemed to believe that spring had arrived at last and they filled the wood with their calls as they flitted from tree to tree.

The hill climb proved to be not too arduous and the view from the top was most pleasant. On one side the hills climbed higher and stretched away in a long line fading into purple in the distance while, on the other, the land sloped down to the river valley where the rich brown earth was just showing the first sprinkling of green. It would probably turn out to be rape but, just now, the colours were soft and natural. Fields crested the lower hills, mostly grazing for cows, broken up by patches of woodland. I stood and drank it in — this was my sort of country — until the brisk wind reminded me that it was still early in the year. Shivering, I sought a more sheltered spot in which to eat my belated lunch.

I was just about to depart when something caught my eye in the small wooded valley below. I hauled out my binoculars for a better look. It was the roof of a rather substantial house. It was so well hidden that it was only the sun glinting on the dormer windows that caught my eye. From here it looked like a nice house; not modern, natural-looking grounds and lots of trees around. I decided it required a closer look even though it was not on any list of available properties I had found. As I made my way down the hill, I was struck by the similarity between this situation and my discovery of Charles, even down to the feeling of wanting to know more without knowing why.

"What d'you think, Charles? Is this the house for us?"

"What do I know about these hideous things you call houses? All fripperies and frivolity."

"So what would be your perfect house?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Mere curiosity."

"I don't know why I bother talking to you. You never listen to a word I say."

I was in too good a mood to let him upset me. "Humour me. If we were to move to where you wanted, where would it be?"

"On top of a hill, for a start, so you could keep a good look-out with good thick walls and none of these stupid holes you call windows. There would be a high wall all round it and only one way in or out."

I laughed. "That sounds like a castle."

"Castle?"

"Yes, like the one in the city."

"There's no castle there — at least nothing like I've described which you're labelling a castle."

"Well, what's this, then." I flashed him an image of the castle, perched on its rocky crag.

"That's not a castle, that's a monstrosity. Look at all these windows."

"I suppose it has had a few additions over the years. Tell you what, someday soon I'll take you to see a real castle. I think you'll like it."

"Hrmph."

"You seem to have come from a most unfriendly planet. Perhaps that's why you're so cantankerous."

"I'm not cantankerous."

"You are. You're the most cantankerous, awkward, stubborn person I've ever met. But never mind that, I can see the house again."

I stopped and pulled out the binoculars, ignoring his protestations of innocence. I was looking at a side of the building. It appeared to be Georgian. Built of fine, light sandstone with a grey slate roof, it exhibited all the characteristics of good Georgian architecture; the large, rectangular windows divided into smaller panes, the tall chimney stacks, the elegant proportions. It had clearly been added to over time but the additions had been done sympathetically, retaining the feel of the original design. Sweeping the glasses around, I could make out what appeared to be a kitchen garden and evidence of outbuildings.

I walked on and, as I descended I caught glimpses of the landscaped grounds — they were too grand to be called a garden — and more evidence of sizeable, if tumbledown, outbuildings. Whoever had built the original house must have been a man of some means. As I approached the road, the house disappeared behind the trees.

From the road the only evidence of its existence was a high, overgrown, ivy-covered wall which followed the curve of the road with a gap in it where a tarmac drive emerged between two gateposts that had seen better days. The whole appearance of the property from the road seemed to be deliberately self-effacing, as if the owners had gone out of their way not to draw attention to themselves. If I had been driving past, I wouldn't even have noticed it. It was perfect; just what I had in mind. Now all I had to do was find some way of getting in.

I perched on the remains of a dry-stone wall which bordered the field opposite the house and considered my options. I couldn't just walk up and borrow a cup of sugar. Nor could I pretend my car had broken down, and, somehow, I felt that the bold approach of simply saying I'd noticed the house and admired it wouldn't work either. These people clearly valued their privacy.

"Right, Charles, how are we going to get into that house?"

"Try the front door."

"Very funny."

"No. Very simple. Far too simple for you."

"You mean that literally? Walk up to the front door and ring the bell?"

"Yes. Simple. I'm surprised you understood it so quickly."

"And then what?"

"How do you mean?"

"I ring the bell, the butler answers. Then want?"

"I persuade him to let you in."

"Great. Then what?"

"What is your problem? You ask me how to get into the house. I tell you but that's not good enough for you. Oh, no. You want me to map out the whole afternoon for you. Would you like me to wipe your bottom for you, too?"

"You do. Stop being petulant."

"Petulant? Me? You... You... Anyway, what do you mean I do wipe your bottom for you?"

"All part of your 'instant body maintenance'. Showering, shaving and so on," I smirked.

"Oh. Well..."

"Back to the house. I don't want to simply march in and take over. I want to get the feel of the place and the people who own it. It's not on the market so I simply want to get a find out what it's like. To do that I need a legitimate excuse to be there."

"Why don't you?"

"Why don't I what?"

"Want to march in and take over."

"You could do that?"

"Of course." His certainty was almost obscene.

That brought me up short. Indeed, you could say I was gob-smacked. It was so alien to my way of thinking that it took several minutes before I could even start to let the idea into my brain. Walk into a house and take control of the owners? Live in someone else's house with the owners as your slaves?

"But... but... what about everybody?" I spluttered.

"Everybody?"

"Well, the owner's family and the cooks and maids and butlers and gardeners and... everybody."

"No problem."

"How many could you manage?" It was amazing that I could even think about it but curiosity overcame revulsion.

"I coped with eight before."

"Before?"

"The cavemen. Mind you they were even more primitive than you."

My mind was still in shock so I hardly noticed this rather back-handed compliment.

"Eight." I took a few deep breaths and tried to organise my thinking. Instinctively I knew it wouldn't work, never mind my automatic disgust at the idea. "Let me get this straight. These people would become my slaves and you could manage eight of them?"

"Eight at one time. And, yes, they would be your slaves in the sense that they would let you live in the house. The servants would treat you the same as if you were the owners."

"But if you can do that, presumably you could make them do other things?"

"Such as?"

"Such as, I don't know, crawl on all fours? Walk around naked? Stick their heads in a midden heap?"

"Well..." I could sense he was embarrassed. "There is a limit."

"How so?"

"You can only 'pull the threads', as you have so crudely put it, so far."

"What happens then?"

"They can sort of snap back into place, but that's rare. Mostly, they break."

"And that means?"

"In the case of inanimate objects, they are destroyed. In the case of living creatures, they die. There can also be other unpredictable results."

"Such as?"

"I don't know. They're unpredictable."

"Why can't you predict them?"

"You remember your crude analogy of a nexus with a multitude of threads?"

"Yes."

"You may recall, if you can remember that far back, that I manipulate the threads. The threads have some degree of elasticity and it is this fact that tolerates my manipulations." He was in full lecture mode, now. "If I force a thread beyond this natural elastic limit, tension is introduced. If that tension becomes too great, the thread breaks. Disconnecting a nexus from its threads induces death in the nexus. As the threads are connected to other nexus, breaking them can have an unpredictable effect on the other nexus. It can disturb their equilibrium or, in extreme cases, kill the other nexus. It all depends on the number of threads that are broken and their interconnectivity with other nexus. I hope that is clear."

"Not at all but I think I get the gist. You can only force people so far or you'll kill them. In doing so, you might affect other people and possibly kill them as well."

"Crude but concise."

I took a deep breath and was silent for a few minutes while I tried to digest this. "But you can take direct control of the people of the house without damaging the nexus. What about others; visitors, friends, family, tradesmen?"

"I take control of them as they arrive."

"What about people who are not in direct contact?"

"Like who?"

"Say a friend of the owners who they haven't seen for some time phones them? How would they explain my presence?"

"They wouldn't. You wouldn't even be mentioned in the conversation."

"Okay. What about locals? The postman's wife and family. His neighbours and so on?"

"Why should he say anything? To him it would be perfectly natural for you to be staying there."

I shook my head. I knew he was wrong but I couldn't quite put my finger on why. It was, like all his solutions, far too simplistic.

"No. I'm sorry but it wouldn't work. Somebody, somewhere would find out and start to ask questions. Besides, I find the whole idea of slavery anathema. I won't have anything to do with it."

"Even now you don't get it, do you? No matter how many times I tell you, you refuse to believe it. Forget all your wishy-washy scruples. You're the man. You're number one. You're top of the pops. You can do what you want and no-one can stop you." His voice was rising in agitation.

"Hold it right there. You got it exactly."

"Then you've finally come to your senses and will do what I say?"

"No. I've just worked out why your ideas never work. You said it yourself, 'no-one can stop you'. The key word is 'no-one'. In that you're right. No one person can stop me. If we lived in a world like your beloved cavemen or the one you obviously come from where people lived in small tribes, it wouldn't be a problem. You could take control of everybody in the immediate vicinity and that would be that. People naturally follow leaders so once I'd taken control of the key people and established myself, all the rest would fall into line. And you're right; I would become the top man and control everybody around me.

"Unfortunately I don't live in a world of primitive tribes. I live in a world where everything is connected to everything else, like your threads. I live in a world of impersonal rules and regulations administered by people who follow them blindly. People don't live in isolation, not even in the wilds of the Highlands. They're affected by, sometimes controlled by, a bunch of rules which are administered by people who they've never met face-to-face, might live at the other side of the country and couldn't give a shite about the effect the rules might have on any particular person." I was quote astonished at my internal loquacity. Deep thinking is not my forté.

"I don't understand what you're saying. This is just you trying to complicate things again." He was sounding petulant.

"No it's not. Let's take a 'for instance'. This house will have running water which will be piped in by the water company. One of the pipes in the grounds springs a leak. It's too big a job for the local plumber, assuming there is one, and, anyway, the rules say it's the water company's job to fix it. So they send in a squad of men and machinery to fix it. Where do the men come from?"

"I've no idea. Where?"

"Neither have I. They could come from anywhere and that's my point. You don't know and you can't control who these people are and where they come from. Say we want a new telephone — the phone company. A new carpet — the carpet shop in the city. Some building work done — probably builders from the city. And these are only the people we indirectly invite. As well as them there's the uninvited visitors; the charity collector, the travelling salesman, the local council, etc, etc, etc. However powerful you think you are, you can't control all of them and you can't stop at least one of them blabbing about the strange house he did a job at last week. Am I getting through to you?"

"I knew you were trying to complicate things again," he muttered sullenly.