Chapter 13
When he got home that evening, Robin put the letter from Barker, Momen and Dodds, along with its mysterious token, in his tiny study, alongside the other letters he’d received from solicitors over the course of the past twelve months.
At least this one, on the face of it, wasn’t going to cost him anything.
It was a scam, of course, but it was hard to see how he could be charged money simply for receiving it through the post.
The others, though? The others got more demanding by the week. The emails were worse; the emails were harder to ignore. And then there were the phone calls.
A little over a year ago, desperate for business, still crippled by loans he’d taken out during and following the Covid pandemic, Robin had ignored all his misgivings and agreed to organise and officiate at an outdoor wedding by a waterfall near Tintagel.
Not remotely suitable for events, the site was a mile walk from the nearest car park and offered neither toilets nor shelter.
Had the weather held, it might have worked.
That August, though, had seen unprecedented thunderstorms throughout the southwest. The heavens had opened as the bride set out to walk down the impromptu aisle.
He’d kept the service as brief as possible, but by the time they all got back to the car park, the guests were soaked and the couple’s parents furious.
Spirits had largely been restored by the reception in a nearby tithe barn; Robin had even persuaded a hairdresser to turn up and repair some of the damage to the bride and bridesmaids. All’s well that ends well, he’d told himself, as he’d finally arrived home.
All was not well. His bill for nearly twenty thousand pounds was ignored for three months.
After he’d sent the third reminder, he made a claim through the county court.
He had no choice. He’d paid the venue, the florist, the band directly.
He couldn’t afford not to recoup the money.
The groom’s father had counter-sued for twenty-five thousand pounds’ worth of damages including emotional distress.
Robin couldn’t even begin to find twenty-five thousand pounds, never mind the legal costs on top.
Thanks to the remortgage, even selling his house wouldn’t raise enough.
On top of that, the fees for servicing his various loans were mounting daily.
His court date was set for 14 December. On the 15th, he could be bankrupt, unemployed and homeless. And that was only the beginning.
It was getting difficult to move around in the small room.
Robin’s study was piled high with boxes and packages, wedding paraphernalia of various themes and vibes: fairy lights, nets of sugared almonds, rustic place settings, Jax’s miniature coffins, wedding directional signs that mimicked official AA signage; all of it contributing to his mounting debt, none of it likely to be recouped for weeks yet.
One box sat unopened. Absent-mindedly, he ran a paper knife around the seal to find that the leprechaun’s gold had arrived.
Minty and Toby, due to tie the knot in three weeks, had never lived in Ireland, but both claimed Irish ancestry and wanted to go to town with Irish theming.
A massive rainbow of multi-coloured fairy lights would stretch from one end of the hall to the other, culminating in a black cauldron of fake gold coins.
The couple had refused to go for chocolate coins, which would at least have doubled up as wedding favours, opting instead for a metal coin of bright gold edged with concentric circles and delicate beading.
An image of a bearded, long-haired man, no doubt some Irish hero of old, sat in the centre.
Together with unrelieved green décor and shamrock place-settings, the venue was going to look like a down-market Irish pub.
Coincidentally, the coins looked the exact same size as the token that had arrived that morning.