seat!' and other smartarse comments. He preferred to let them think that he loved sitting in the sun and watching the sea.
Then, quite inexplicably, one hot summer's day, Mr. Cummings made a terrible mistake. The chickens used to create the franchise's breadcrumbed one hundred percent poultry delights arrived deep frozen, presented on sterilised white plastic trays, and covered hygienically in cling film. They were as hard as rock. 'Whole Chicken' the packages read, though in reality they had already been beheaded, plucked, their feet and wings removed, their innards sold on for other, unnameable uses. What remained had been neatly cut and arranged to make nugget and drumstick preparing a less labour intensive task. It had been Alex Cumming's intention to slightly defrost the chickens, take a little hardness out of them thereby accelerating the thawing process, then, when they had been softened up, put them back into cold store. It was only a very subtle bending of health and safety regulations, and of little or no importance if done correctly. Certainly no more than an hour two at the most. Because, as he had screamed so often to his moronic subordinates, the cold chain must never, never, be broken. It was the golden rule of catering. But that day he had entirely forgotten about the chickens, had dismissed everybody, Ambrose included, and sent them all home until Tuesday. That had been on Sunday evening; the Golden Nugget was always closed on Mondays.
When Ambrose had opened up the following Tuesday he had been met by a particularly cloying stench. Huge flies buzzed orgasmicly round the soft, pink-brown, dripping flesh of the rotting carcasses, which had burst their transparent wrappings as if trying to escape. There must have been over fifty dead birds putrefying on that stainless steel ledge, more than a day's worth of golden nuggets fit for no more than the bin. Lara had arrived next, and had helped Ambrose tidy up the mess. They both knew who had slipped up, but who would have the guts to say so? Ambrose knew who would eventually get the blame, and for a few minutes was able to accept that reality, his schooling had helped prepare him for such events. But when the furious, hypocritical Mr. Cummings had the gall to fly into a terrible rage and hurl abuse at him, it was more than he could take. 'It wasn't me?', he said, trembling a little at his audacity, but stubborn too, 'it was your fault. You forgot to put them back into cold store, not me'. It was the first time Ambrose had retorted to his supervisor, and it would be his last. Whilst Mr. Cummings, the ex head waiter of a reputable French restaurant launched into a tirade against the incompetence of young Mr. Ork, Ambrose took off his apron, tossed it onto the work surface, and walked out. 'Where do think you are going? Eh! Come back here this instance, I didn't give you permission to go. Thickhead!'
Looking back he should have punched the fool in the face.
Ocean Way slipped out of the city centre and made its way along the shoreline towards the plush suburbs of the West. Since his last visit he noticed that the coast road had been widened, flowers had been planted, and new lights had been placed overhead like enormous reading lamps. Langley, his destination, was a quiet, discreet, exclusive enclave which kept its distance from the hubbub of the city as if it were above such mundane and frenetic activity. Here it was assumed that people knew their sycamores from their ash. Buses and other means of public transport were only tolerated on the perimeter access routes, whilst inside, along spotless, leafy lanes, a civilised calm reigned supreme.
It had been his father's idea - Ambrose, food of the Gods. The story went that he had seen it in a newspaper, Ambrose somebody-or-other, he couldn't remember now, a wealthy businessman of sorts, a self-made hero of the times. A simple, honest type who had risen from rags to riches, from misery to economic happiness by investing, or buying and selling, or something like that. It was all about tycoons and fortunes and fabulous inheritances, and Ambrose had never been able to fully understand the plot, but his father had obviously hoped that his son would be inspired by such an optimistic yarn. He'd had a belief that a name could make or break you. He had known so many nondescript types called Nigel or Graham, so many athletic empty heads named Scott or Greg, a host of untrustworthy Denises and Leslies. He had preferred bold, forceful Mikes, know-where-you stand Steves, everyday Johnnies and Jims. But for his son he had wanted something special, something that would make him stand out in a crowd, something that would inspire people to doff their hats and make room for him as he passed. His mother had disliked the idea from the start and had put up token resistance, but having had her way with the naming of his elder sister, she didn't have a leg to stand on. Had his father known that his offspring, his sole male heir, would not turn out to be the sharpest pencil on the desk he might have had pity on him and called him something forgettable like Joe. Alas, Ambrose Ork it was.
Ambrose felt nervous. He knew perfectly well which stop was his, yet he could not avoid imagining that he would make a terrible mistake; get off too soon and have to hike miles along the hot, dangerous hard shoulder of the motorway, or miss his stop altogether and end up in... who knows where? What if the setting down point had been changed? What if the driver forgot to stop? What if he took too long getting to the door, and the bus pulled away while he was half in, half out? He would break a leg and have to go to hospital, and then the whole scheme would just screw up. It was incredibly hot stuck up against that window, and his heavy dungarees clung to him like a damp towel. Crawford Bridge, Blume, Upper Cowdale Metal, Lexington Mall. He knew them by heart, but still he had to be careful, remain alert, keep his mind on the task in hand. Today of all days he could not afford a blunder.
Well before time Ambrose stood up and made his way to the back door. He wanted the driver to be able to see him in his rear view mirror, just in case the buzzer hadn't sounded, or he hadn't seen the red Next Stop sign lighted up in his cabin. What if nobody else wanted to get off, what if there was no-one waiting to get on? Would the driver just carry on down the highway, leaving Ambrose in a state of panic, his plan ruined? Better safe than sorry. Anyway, he enjoyed the swaying movements of the bus, its boat like swelling and dipping, its sudden surges and swerves. It was exhilarating and challenging, like dancing to a strange new tune whose rhythm it was hard to catch.
The world over a fool and his money are easily parted. Ambrose and his sister Petunia could unfortunately corroborate that. Maybe he wouldn’t even be there today if it wasn’t for the likes the Wiggins. The mentally dense are too often considered easy meat, to be preyed upon by unscrupulous, untrustworthy people who cynically gain the confidence of their unwitting victims then quickly dash off with their spoils. The culprits claim that it is purely survival of the fittest, the fastest in this case, and that if nature has arranged things thus, who are they to criticise? So thousands of unwitting souls are skinned alive every year by those lucky enough to have been born with a decent dollop of grey matter in their skulls. If it happens once, there is general sympathy, but after a second or third incident cold judgement is passed – they must be stupid. All compassion ends there. Fools are not suffered gladly.
He jumped off the bus just before it pulled to a halt. He knew it was not the right thing to do, that he should wait until the vehicle had come to a complete standstill, that it was dangerous and foolhardy. But he couldn't help it, it was something he had always enjoyed doing despite continual parental admonishments. 'You'll break your legs one of these days', 'You'll fall flat on your face and knock out your teeth, then what?' Nothing had ever happened.
He checked his watch. He would be there much sooner than they had originally planned, as he had decided to take the earlier bus to avoid unseen snags like accidents, traffic jams, roadblocks and the like. But arriving before time could only work to his advantage. It was what Spotty would call a contingency. He remembered his old cell mate Spotty drilling him, quizzing him, the light glinting off his spectacles, his shiny head and keen eyes trained on his apprentice, like a well-fed Ghandi with a goatee. What if the bus didn’t stop, eh? What if it burst a tyre, or over-heated, or was hijacked by desperados? What if a van had crashed and spilt toxic waste over the highwa
y? What then, Bro? Well it wouldn't have necessarily spelt disaster, because Ambrose had taken it into account, had taken the contingency. Now he could take his time.
Across the dual carriageway Langley, like a tycoon on a sun bed, languished in its sea of green, rising up slightly so as to enjoy a privileged view of the immense azure ocean, today as calm as a kidney shaped pool. Somewhere behind that curtain of bright green leaves, a little to the right of the towers of the Golf Club, lay Haute House. Ambrose took a deep breath. He had to control himself, to control his memories. Stick to the plan, think of nothing else. He would try.
He crossed the busy road at the lights and headed up Chester Drive, past imposing metal driveway doors, surveillance cameras and madly barking guard dogs, towards the wrought iron main gates of the mansion. It was deserted now, as the family, or what was left of it, would be at their summer house on Kenton Beach. The gardeners would be in three times a week, but today was Thursday, so he would have the place to himself. He followed a narrow path which ran alongside