Chapter 42
Late on Saturday, three days after the solicitors’ letter had arrived on his doorstep, and two days into the most spectacular bender he’d been on in decades, Tug realised that the tokens were making the news.
He’d started drinking within hours of being fired, kicking off with beer and whisky chasers and moving on to cheap, supermarket vodka when the pubs refused to serve him.
He’d stopped only to pass out and to piss.
He woke in darkness, and realised that if he didn’t get to the bathroom in the next sixty seconds, he’d have a whole heap of nasty laundry to deal with.
The flat looked like the aftermath of a police raid.
The remains of food he couldn’t remember eating littered the floor; a jumbo packet of crisps was open on the armchair and take-away cartons sat on the lid of the pedal bin.
A packet of cereal had spilled across the counter and the sink was piled high with bottles.
On the carpet between the coffee table and the TV was a pile of congealed food that could, at a stretch, be vegetable soup.
Tug had never bought a can of vegetable soup in his life.
The TV was on, and he had a vague memory of watching a Steven Seagal movie sometime during the day.
Currently, it was showing the six o’clock news and had reached the section on local issues.
A young woman on the seafront was talking about untreated sewerage being discharged directly into the sea following the recent heavy rain; the sea swimmers, as usual, were kicking up a fuss about it.
Tug, meanwhile, had his own sewerage problem to deal with.
He got his trousers down in the nick of time – since when had he slept fully dressed?
– and sat waiting for the noisome evacuation.
His head felt like it was trapped between a pair of frigates moored in a choppy sea and his stomach, like his bowel, was on the edge of emptying out.
He couldn’t remember having to shit and vomit simultaneously before but hey, what was life without new adventures?
‘And finally, this evening, another of the mysterious tokens has emerged in Cornwall, although this time it seems to have vanished as quickly as it appeared.’
Tug raised his head.
‘Mrs Sheila Young, of Armitage Road in St Austell, claims she received a token, along with a letter from Barker, Momen and Dodds, in the post last week,’ the familiar voice of the anchor went on.
‘Unfortunately, it seems her daughter, Cheryl, threw the letter on the fire. Our reporter, Jasmin Basri, went to meet her.’
Grabbing a fistful of toilet paper and clutching it to his arse, Tug staggered to the bathroom doorway.
On the screen was a young, brown-skinned reporter wearing a bright blue coat and yellow scarf, perched on the sofa in an old-fashioned sitting room.
Sitting at an angle, glancing nervously at the camera, was a large woman in her late seventies.
‘It came last Wednesday,’ the woman was saying. ‘My daughter opened it. I don’t get about as much as I did, I’m registered disabled, so she opens all the post for me, and it said, you know – what you said earlier.’
‘That you would inherit an equal share of Logan Quick’s wealth when he passes away?’ the reporter prompted.
The woman’s chins wobbled as she nodded. ‘That’s it, that’s right. That’s what it said.’
‘And it came with a token? What did it look like?’
‘Small and round, like a two-pence piece, but not a coin. It was shiny too, like new coins are.’
‘And you don’t have it anymore?’
‘Cheryl, that’s my daughter, threw it on the fire.’ The old woman rolled her eyes. ‘But that shouldn’t matter, should it? These solicitors will have records.’
The Basri woman looked doubtful. ‘Well,’ she began, ‘there is some doubt about whether the beneficiaries have to be in possession of the tokens to inherit. How will you feel if it has been lost? If you miss out on your inheritance?’
The older woman’s eyes widened. ‘They can’t do that. It was sent to us. Ask the solicitors, they’ll know it was sent to us. Cheryl didn’t know what she was doing when she threw it on the fire.’
Tug glanced at the mantelpiece where his own letter and token sat. No way would that thing melt in a domestic fire. It looked like solid bronze.
On the TV the scene switched back to the studio. The anchor had been joined by Jasmin Basri, the reporter, this time wearing a tight-fitting purple dress.
‘So, that’s three of these so-called tokens that we’ve been able to track down, Jasmin,’ the anchor said. ‘And we still haven’t managed to get a glimpse of one.’
Basri held up a newly minted two-pence coin.
‘From Mrs Young’s description the token she might have burned looked a bit like this.
She says she’s planning to make an appointment with the solicitors later this week and has promised to let us know what happens.
But the other two recipients we know of are being very tight-lipped about the whole business. ’
‘I think the letter advised them to keep the existence of the tokens a secret, is that right?’ the anchor said.
‘It seems that way. So maybe it’s not surprising.’
The anchor glanced down. ‘And these would be Sabri Carter and Tara Webb?’
The reporter nodded. ‘We caught up with Mrs Webb earlier today, but she seemed very reluctant to talk to us.’
‘I think we have that footage,’ the anchor said. ‘Let’s have a look, shall we?’
The scene switched again, and Tug saw the same reporter standing in front of some wide, wooden gates at the bottom of a tree-lined lane.
He watched a small electric car approach as the gates began to open.
The camera zoomed in to show the woman in the driving seat.
She was around fifty with blonde hair and a long face with a perfect profile.
A classy-looking girl. She kept her eyes facing forwards.
Basri leaned in and tapped on the glass. ‘Mrs Webb, have you decided what to do about your token? Have you made an appointment with the solicitors?’
The blonde gave no sign of having heard. The gates opened and the car moved forward.
‘Why do you think Logan Quick is leaving you his money, Tara?’
The gates began to close, but not before Tug caught a glimpse of a massive place with huge glass walls.
‘Well, there you have it.’ The scene cut back to the studio. ‘It seems the mystery of the tokens has only deepened.’