‘Wow, that is interesting.’ Said Sam. ‘Please, tell me more.’
'Give me a chance.' Said Dave, slightly aggrieved by the interruption. 'I'm just getting to the interesting bit.'
Sam and Mickey grinned at each other and feigned interest, supping more of their drinks.
Dave continued.
'Well.' He said. ‘I managed to pick up one of these signals. Strange as fuck. It was on a frequency that isn't in use. 792 MHz. That frequency will be up for auction soon, but it is close to the digital TV channels.'
Mickey interrupted again.
'So what are you saying? Andover has its own pirate radio station? That's cool.'
'Unless Dave's running it.' Sam added, 'In which case it will be twenty-four hour Rick Astley and Bronski Beat.'
Again they laughed at Dave's expense.
Unperturbed, Dave went on.
'No, it's not like that. These were just short bursts of data. You know, like in Independence Day when Jeff Goldblum's character discovers the countdown timer coming from the satellites.'
'So while surfing porn and eating lunch, you've stumbled upon plans for an alien invasion?' asked Mickey sarcastically.
Dave sighed before stating,
'It's probably a bit too complicated for you computer types to understand.'
Sam downed the remainder of his pint and slammed his empty glass down on the table to silence his audience.
'No Dave,' he started, trying to keep a straight face. 'it's not that us computer types are a bit thick, it's because we don't have a degree in bollocks like you do, so we're just not interested. Now, if Mickey and I had a degree in bollocks, I'm sure your tales of pirate radio and alien invasion would be gripping. But we don't. So they're not.'
Mickey smiled and nodded in agreement.
‘Hear, hear.’ he added in a mock House of Commons manner.
'I propose a new motion.’ Continued Sam. ‘Another pint and a change of subject.'
'I second that motion.' Added Mickey enthusiastically.
'Passed.' Replied Sam as he stood and headed for the bar, grinning from ear to ear.
'Twats.' Muttered Dave.
Chapter Four
Nathan Raynor checked into The White Hart and walked upstairs to his room. The hallway dark, the floor creaky and uneven. He found his room, unlocked the door and entered. Out of habit he got his bug detector from his backpack and swept the room. All clear. As expected.
His room was spacious, with a solid oak bedstead which had a small oak chest of drawers on either side. A Gideon Bible no doubt left in one of the drawers.
The walls were a neutral magnolia, except for the wall at the head of the bed which was a “feature wall” with gaudy light brown wallpaper featuring gold flowers. A pair of chairs sat facing each other across a small round table next to a fireplace. The fireplace chimney had long been blocked off, the hearth now home to a vase of fake flowers, and above the fire was a wall-mounted 32 inch LCD television looping through the usual hotel information.
A single window looked down onto Bridge Street. In front of the window a desk and office chair, and next to that a beige, two seater sofa. A contemporary print hung on the wall above the sofa. Raynor didn’t have a clue what it was supposed to be, and didn’t really care. A door led into the basic but tidy en-suite and an alcove allowed for a fitted wardrobe which housed the safe.
Raynor examined the safe. Standard hotel fare, anyone who knew what they were doing would be in it within thirty seconds.
He scanned the room and gazed at the ceiling. A loft hatch. Standing on the office chair he lifted the hatch door, switched on his Maglite and looked into the loft space. It was perfect. It didn’t look like anybody had been up there for years. Old tables and chairs covered in a thick layer of dust were strewn about, resting on the roof beams. Raynor was certain that there must be a larger hatch somewhere to allow access of the larger items, probably over the landing or via a separate stairwell. He wasn’t too bothered as he was probably the first person in twenty years to have seen the loft.
After taking out a clean t-shirt, he lifted his backpack into the loft and hid it beneath an old, round, dusty table.
Raynor showered and got dressed, putting on the clean t-shirt. He’d only packed for a couple of days, he preferred to travel light. If his trial hadn’t gone as well as expected, he would have stayed a few days more and tried to get it right. If need be, he would have bought some new clothes.
He looked out of the window onto Bridge Street and decided it was time for a walk.
Before leaving the room, Raynor inspected the door handle and lock. A standard pull down door handle instead of a twist style knob and an old style Yale lock, which could be opened with a credit card, instead of a card entry system or mortice lock. Raynor wasn’t too happy with this, he took a piece of hotel headed writing paper from the desk and rolled it up into a cylinder. He taped the edge and after opening the door placed it on the inside door handle. Then, using the outer handle he checked the angle at which the paper would fall off as the handle moved on a central axis. Satisfied that anybody entering the room would result in the paper falling off, he left. He’d use an old credit card to gain access on his return. Sometimes, the simplest solutions were the best. And sometimes paranoia paid off.
After a walk around the town centre and a quick burger at a fast food outlet, Raynor walked into the Town Mills and headed for the bar.
‘Fuck me.’ exclaimed Dave having spotted Raynor. ‘Look at that big bastard. You could have him though Bond, couldn’t you? Give him a Nagasaki nose-throw or some other of that bollocks you do.
‘Maybe you’ve got a pen which is really a gun, or a credit card with a razor blade in it. Kick him straight in the nads, that’s what I’d do, watch the fucker keel over in agony.’
‘No Dave, you’d run away crying, like the pussy you are.’ said Mickey.
‘Probably to your mum.’ added Sam, ‘ask her to save you.’
‘Wankers.’ Said Dave.
‘You are right though Top Gear.’ Said Mickey. ‘He is a big bastard. I doubt even Sam’s expertise would be enough to take him out.’
‘You know my rules as far as fighting goes.’ Replied Sam. ‘I only have one. Run. Fast. Don’t look back.’ He picked at a beer mat, ripping the layers apart.
‘If somebody grabs you from behind while you’re running, hit the deck. His momentum should keep him going. If he doesn’t let go he’s going arse-over-tit and will have to, giving you a chance to leg it in the opposite direction.’ He dropped the beer mat on the table, and looked at Dave.
‘Only fight if there is no possible way of avoiding it, and then get it over with quickly. A head-butt to the nose is a good choice; your forehead is very hard.’
‘That’s like eight rules or something.’ Said Mickey, smirking at Dave.
‘Yeah, and what’s the use of knowing all that martial arts malarkey if you’re not going to use it?’ Asked Dave.
‘Don’t get him started Dave,’ Added Mickey, ‘you know he can go on for hours about the differences between Chinese and Japanese fighting styles.’
Mickey pulled a face like a child mimicking an adult, screwing up his nose, head wobbling from side to side. He spoke in a nasal, high-pitched voice.
‘Kicking with your front leg, kicking with your back leg, the difference between Sets and Katas.’
Mickey took a sip of his pint.
‘Christ, we’ve heard that nearly as much as we’ve heard Dave’s Robert-bloody-Plant story.’