(2) Stalking The Neighbourhood
The night passed without further incident, in the body or out of it. His occasional obe’s excited him, particularly when they were something more than vivid memories, but to pass a night undisturbed was still a source of comfort. Jordan had commented ominously, and, with his usual slight raise of eyebrows, maybe mockingly, enjoy it while you can. It had obviously rained during the night, but the morning, by the time he’d managed to face it, was showing definitely signs of lightening up, so he retrieved some stout walking shoes and a tweed jacket of indeterminate origin and set off for a bracing walk. That was the sort of thing one did in November, wasn’t it? He felt kind of country squire-ish stalking the neighbourhood. Passing a familiar garden he noticed the cheery fellow he bonded with some weeks before. Malcolm, wasn’t it? Indeed it was. He leant on his garden rake as they chatted. November was just a break before skiing for Malcolm, especially now he was sorta kinda retired. The old knees were still holding out, he was pleased to report. Ankles too. Wife was usually too busy, though she loved it when she had the weekend free. Andrew had never been an outdoorsy sporty type and didn’t think that loads of dosh would suddenly change that. How could he squeeze the Vatican library into his basement, or at least the best of it, was more in his line. Or maybe the complete sound board tapes from every Floyd tour from 67 onwards, how could he wangle that deal? Knowing what perfectionists the band were it was bound to be hopeless, but wasn’t that the essence of the quest, the very hopelessness of the enterprise? This passed as Malcolm filled in the daughters-at-university details. Sensing he was done Andrew lurched into a what-was-new-in-the-neighbourhood question. Well there’s some ragheads just around the corner. You know, the big square ugly place that was power of sale last year? Malcolm wasn’t a racist as such, nor particularly prejudiced, but Muslims in Rowanton was about as useful as Jews in Forest Hill fifty years ago. If you think about it Muslims really are the new Jews, just like Sunday is the new Saturday. Andrew had to admit he had a point. He didn’t care to be so forthright on such touchy matters, but there was a thread of sense in what he said. There followed a period of standing on thin ice, trying not to skate away. He seemed like a friendly fellow who would be a good neighbour for years to come, a kind of hot mulled apple cider kind of guy, but friendly fellows tended to have their limitations, and Andrew had butted heads back in the city with them. He managed to steer the conversation into his new conservatory, his newly decorated conservatory, which softened the edges a bit. Malcolm asked if he had a tennis court. Actually he did, though it was need of some serious maintenance, maybe even upgrades. Malcolm would love to get back into tennis now he had the time. Andrew agreed, it was a fun game, especially doubles. Maybe next spring?
Yes, why not, it was only money after all wasn’t it? And you can’t take it with you. I’m not even gonna try, Malcolm laughed. I’ve got a couple of ideas that I’m gonna work on, Andrew called as he walked off, thinking for no good reason , innovations in unctiousness.
He passed the big square ugly place and glanced in. No activity, not even a car in the driveway. Mind you there was a three car garage. He didn’t want to be biased in any way, but Malcolm was right, there had just been an arrest of three supposed conspirators, and the evidence looked damning, and all three of them professionals, a doctor, an engineer and a something else. CSIS had been watching them for years. Still, they’re been other cases that had fallen apart in court, and others that had collapsed within weeks of the arrest. But an atmosphere had been brewing because of all this, and it didn’t feel pleasant. At least not to Andrew. He made up his mind to go out of his way to be nice to these new folks whenever he ran into them, which, he somehow sensed, would not be long.
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