Robert Longs Escapades In Marzipan

Chapter I
The Pub and the Briefcase

Robert Long, Nobby to those who know him, sat on his lazy backside, smoking his usual four O’ Clock cigarette outside the only watering hole in Greenhill, a small, lifeless town just south of Croydon. That watering hole was “The Duck & Duck”.
Snowbridge Brewery must be the only company in the world to spend thousands buying and renovating British pubs, only to employ a dyslexic sign maker. Across the land, Snowbridge has pubs named “The Quiins Head”, “The Nose and Frown” and “The Cat and the Piddle”, to name just a few. Nobby only took the job to escape a boring compensation call centre role with a clean CV. Get out before you’re thrown out, that was Nobby’s philosophy.
He took the penultimate drag of his cigarette and scanned the row of buildings opposite. He noticed some building work. He squinted to read the sign that was being raised into place above the main door. That was all he needed. Another pub. Not any old pub. A HeatherKing pub. Not any HeatherKing pub, a Stuart Harding owned HeatherKing pub. As soon as he saw the red and blue striped scarf, he knew it was Stuart Harding. He’d worn that same Crystal Palace scarf since school. Stuart always managed to do better than Nobby. Even the milk bottle boat competition, which Nobby was predicted to win when he attached not one, but two battery powered motors to make a beast of a machine, Stuart came along with one of the new plastic milk bottles, much lighter, more aero dynamic and he didn’t rely on Super-deluxe mega power batteries that lasted four minutes before catching light. The finish was tense, and Stuarts boat won by the tiniest of margins.
Ever since, they had been mortal enemies. Well, at least Nobby saw them as enemies. Stuart had forgotten who Nobby was until they bumped into each other a year ago at the Guilford beer festival, where Stuart was representing HeatherKing. Nobby just went along for the alcohol, making a complete idiot of himself as usual.
Nobby decided not to take another drag of his cigarette and flicked it into a puddle of what he thought was water. But a flame three feet tall shot into the air and nearly burnt the eyebrows of a lady struggling to stay upright after her walking stick was burnt to a cinder. Nobby sheepishly stepped back into the pub as his arson attack went unnoticed since life in Greenhill largely consists of rigor mortis.

Today, the 12th November, would be the last day Nobby would step inside the Duck & Duck, although he didn’t know it yet. Somewhere, on a train about fifty miles from Croydon, was a man with a limp. He wore a black suit, bowler hat and carried a white umbrella. He worked for C.R. Anderson-Peters, and his latest assignment was to hunt down potential employees.
C.R. Anderson-Peters has had recruitment trouble ever since Mr. Peters merged all his assets with C.R. Anderson.
Of course, there was more to is than that, Peters merged in the first place because he thought he could save a sinking ship. Things started to get better at the turn of the 17th century, but without enough quality staff, they struggle to carry out their……”work”.
The man sipped the last of his Earl grey and watched as the cup re-filled itself and he continued to enjoy the view of the south downs as it glided past him. He was rudely interrupted by a man in a dark blue uniform. He had a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip that had long gone out. He was scraggy looking and very scruffy.
‘Tickets.’ Said the scruffy man, his voice was full of phlegm.
‘I beg your pardon.?’ Replied the suited man.
‘Tickets.’
The suited man placed his cup and saucer of the shelf next to him and stood with a confused, yet confident upright pose. He brushed himself down and stared down at the ticket inspector.
He flicked out a ticket from his top pocket and presented it to the ticket inspector. ‘It doesn’t hurt to say please.’
‘Sorry. Please.’ The ticket man said unapologetically.
‘And use correct grammar according to the situation that one finds themselves in with accordance to the objects and or people around him to prevent confusion amongst the aforementioned and provide a safe pathway to the continuation of any potential future conversation.’ Stated the suit man in one breath.
‘Eh?’
The suit man let out a heavy sigh. ‘There is only one person in this cabin, therefore, you only need ask for one ticket, not plural.’
The ticket inspector punched the ticket and handed it back to the suited man. He turned and exited the cabin, coughing phlegm on the way.
‘And smarten yourself up.’ The suited man shouted, before sitting back down to his Earl grey.

6pm. In an hour it would be Wednesday’s busiest time in the Duck & Duck. It was traditional on a Wednesday in Snowbridge pubs to see an almighty battle, a power struggle, a dual between the quiz master and the screeching little chav’s that think Karaoke is the best thing since Alco pops and Burberry.
A member of staff called in sick, another member is away on holiday, so, rather against company policy, Nobby asked a friend to help out behind the bar. When I say friend, I mean student he bumped into on the way to work, and when I say help, I mean doss.
It’s the busiest time of the week, Nobby has bent the rules, and he has to catch up on some paperwork and do his new assistant managers review before Monday morning. He also has to change the menus and recommendations signs because he failed to do so all week because he had “errands” to run and would rather sit at home and play “beer tycoon” than do the real thing which he’s actually being paid to do.
So, on today of all days, the last thing Nobby would want (apart from seeing a new HeatherKing pub managed by Stuart Harding) is for the area manager to pay a visit, but as sure as the tin of baked beans at the bottom of a campers rucksack, Mr. Wyatt, area manager south east, was standing in the door way, viewing proceedings like a Broadway director during a matinee.
Rain washed off his plastic raincoat and the unflattering light made him look like a troll as he just stood for about half a minute or so, blocking the entrance. People behind him walked on instead of having the guts to ask him kindly to move. He carried a briefcase and smoked a cigar, which he finished before putting it out in the palm of his hand entered the pub.
Nobby swallowed, but as usual did well not to show his fear to the staff. He acknowledged his boos as he served a pint to a regular, produced the usual small talk and headed over to Mr. Wyatt.
‘Evening, sir’. Greeted Nobby.
‘Nobby, Good Evening. How are things?’. Mr. Wyatt replied. He had a very squeaky voice that made a few punters spit with laughter.
‘Not too bad. Takings are up.’ Nobby announced with pride.
‘I see a HeatherKing is opening up across the street. Not good news is it?’ Stated Wyatt as he clicked open his briefcase and took out a pad filled with notes and plastered with post-it’s and index cards.
Nobby told how his schoolboy enemy is the manager of the new pub, how he has turned three HeatherKing pubs from loss making ventures into profit making enterprises.
‘I only noticed it today. They’ve nearly completed building by looks of it.’ He finished.
‘I’ve heard of this Stuart character. That’s what this company needs, someone who takes action, gets things done.’ He squeaked. ‘Talking of getting things done,’ he continued. ‘Let’s have a look at the notes from my last visit’.
Half an hour had passed in Nobby’s dingy little office. His palms were clammy and he was dying for a beer and cigarette. Contrary to his fearsome stance, Mr. Wyatt was quite a nice guy, although he wasn’t a man you would want to piss off. And for the last four months, that’s precisely what Nobby had been doing. Not directly of course, and from a neutral distance, it wouldn’t seem that he was yanking Wyatt’s chain, but his assistant manager and a young lad he’d just promoted to supervisor.
Nobby took a sigh of relief as Wyatt stood and gulped down the remainder of his coffee. He was about to say his goodbye when Wyatt sat again and slapped the tabletop with a snap. ‘Do you have an aversion to telephones, Nobby?’ He asked whilst squeezing his eyes tiredly.
‘Telephones?’ Nobby said, confused.
‘Do you not like using them?’
‘No, they’re fine.’ He said.
Wyatt stood and leant on the computer which had a number of items stuck to it. Furry animals, colourful pictures and doodles, and notes with humorous gestures written on them.
‘Every time I call this pub, Oliver or Daniel answer, and when I ask to speak to yourself, it’s your day off.’
‘Well it probably was’. Nobby protested. Something people tend not to do to Wyatt. Luckily he seemed to let it lie.
‘I ring at least four times a week’. Wyatt pounded. For a split second, Nobby was sure he saw his bosses eyes turn a stinging red. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’
Nobby shook his head.
‘There doesn’t seem to be any improvements since the last time I was here’.
‘It’s Oliver and Daniel. They never do what I ask.’ Nobby pleaded.
Wyatt stood up and seemed to grow another foot as he bared down on Nobby. He reminded Nobby that he himself had employed Oliver and Daniel, and they were both still within their probationary period. Nobby felt guilty as he knew Oliver and Daniel had been working their socks off because of his own “days off”. But when backed in a corner, Nobby’s first instinct was to defend himself any way possible.
‘In fact,’ Wyatt beamed, ‘it’s past the three month period. Why haven’t you done their reviews?’
‘Because I’m extending them. I need more time to see if they can improve.’
Wyatt dropped himself back on his chair and held his head in desperation and he rubbed his eyes again. ‘You still need to do their reviews and tell them you are extending the probation.’
Nobby knew that. The truth was, he only had a few niggles with Oliver and he actually wanted to get rid of Daniel. He just couldn’t be bothered. He didn’t have the balls to tell someone they weren’t up to the job. He couldn’t face Daniel and say “Sorry, I won’t be taking you on, you’re fired. Sacked”.

It was another hour until Mr. Wyatt finally left the pub and gave Nobby a list longer than Santa Claus Toys ‘R’ Us receipt of things he needed to do by next week, including probation reviews for Oliver and Daniel, and quarterly reviews for the rest of the staff. Typical, Nobby thought. Christmas is nearing, busiest time of the year and he’s been given MORE to do.
Nobby put on his usual confident face on in front of his staff and gave Wyatt a thumbs up as he drove off the premises. He turned to his staff, who were busily running around, serving and chatting to the chavs- I mean clientele who occupied the public house.

Two miles away, the suited man arrived at his hotel, checked in and ran to his room forgetting the key, which was snatched by a porter carrying the mans only luggage, his briefcase. The porter was quite miffed to see the suited man stride up the stairs. Was he aware his room was on the top floor? The lifts were quick and the stairs can knacker the balls off a canon.
The porter arrived on the top floor, obviously ahead of the suited man. He approached the door, waited for a second, wondering whether of not open the door and just leave the briefcase. Then he remembered he has the key, and more importantly, he remembered how smartly dressed the man was, and how he might earn a nice little tip if he gave him the items in person.
He stood in front of the door. Brushed his lapels and swept away some dust from his trousers before turning his attention to the briefcase, looking it over and dusting it down. It was black with a golden trim and had a small white swan on each lock. The porter placed his finger and thumb on one of the swans heads, and the door opened, with the suited man standing prim and proper in the threshold.
With surprise, the porter entered the room. ‘H- how did you-‘
‘Good evening young man.’ The suited man said.
The porter tried to tell the posh man where everything was in the room, only the posh man already knew. Even where the thermostat was, which for some strange reason, no-one could ever find. Do people actually look?
‘Dinner is served at-‘
‘Seven until Ten. Breakfast is from half six ‘til eleven.’ Interrupted the suited man.
‘You’ve been here before.’ Commented the porter.
‘Never, and you shouldn’t assume. Assumption is a substitute for pretence and can cause rumour and slander.’ Asserted the suited man.
The porter swung close the door but opened it again before it shut as he noticed he still had the briefcase in his hands. He re-entered the room, presenting a polite cough as he stood before the suited man, who wondered what on Earth he was up to.
The porter coughed again and held out his palm. In realization, the posh man raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, you want a tip? Well you haven’t actually done anything that I haven’t done myself.
‘I’ve brought you your case.’ Said the porter, raising his clenched fist which was holding absolutely nothing. He was stunned and look about him in panic.
‘Young man, my case has been here all along.’ The suited man corrected, gesturing towards the table at the other side of the room, on top of which, was the black briefcase, complete with swan locks. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, I need to get ready for a meeting.’
In bemusement, the porter apologised and left, bowing ridiculously at the man in the suit, checking his watch after closing the door and mouthing the word “meeting” in a baffled manner.

Nobby said goodbye to the last of the punters and closed the door before turning to Daniel. ‘Are you hanging around for a pint?’ He asked.
‘I can’t tonight mate. I gotta go’. Daniel responded sheepishly.
‘Go on, just one.’ Urged Nobby happily.
‘It never is one, though is it? It always turns into two, three, four. Sorry, I’m trying to cut down. And you should too, Nobby.’
Nobby was going to respond with his usual “I get ill when I try giving up”, but thought it best not, since the last three occasions he’s been off sick, Daniel has been the poor bloke whose had to work extra.
Sometimes Daniel feels that Nobby doesn’t realise everyone has lives outside of work. Everyone has things to do. Got friends to see, families to be with, and girlfriends to keep happy. Daniel took out he’s keys and let himself out.
‘Maybe tomorrow, huh?’ Daniel said, waiting for Nobby’s nod before pushing the door to.

After Nobby closed the tills, he took a look around. Glasses, crisp packets and dirty ashtrays lay sprawled across the place. He took a look behind the bar and saw pinned up the list given to him by Mr. Wyatt.
Oliver appeared from the toilets, gazed around, and saw Nobby. Oliver was very self motivating, and always tried to pass it on to others. If it wasn’t for him, and to some extent, Daniel, this pub would have closed down long ago. He clapped his hands and rolled up his sleeves. ‘Right, and hour to go, come on, Nobby let’s get this place tidy.’ He beamed.
‘Er, to be honest, Oliver, I think we’ve (meaning Oliver and Daniel) worked really well today, and I think we deserve to go a bit early.’ Nobby announced.
If Oliver could hide a smile he would. He laid a five pound bet with Gregory, the par-time cook, that he would be going home early. Gregory hadn’t been with the company long enough to know exactly what Nobby is like.
‘Oh, ok. I’ll just put these glasses away then.’
‘Nah, nah, come on, let’s get out of this place. I’m sick of the sight of it. Bloody, Wyatt has given us loads of stuff to do.’ He moaned.
‘I can’t complain about going early, but hadn’t we better do them, really?’
‘Oh, it’s alright because I’ve a contingency plan in place. (meaning he can’t be bothered). I’m gonna work extra hours on Saturday (meaning Oliver or Daniel will work extra hours on Saturday) and get it all done then.’ He said in a strange confident stroke clueless way that only he can achieve.

The suited man walked along the main road, until he realised it best to walk on the path next to it, after narrowly being mowed down by a very fast, very red, supped up Smart car.
He carried the briefcase, letting it swing in the cold November air. The swans seemed to breath as hot air blew from the locks. He walked past various buildings, a row of locals shops, a chippie, and various houses, some with Christmas decorations already on display. In front of one house, he noticed a dead animal on the lawn. He couldn’t quite tell if it were a squirrel or a cat. It looked as though it was burned alive, and the man wondered what on could have happened to it. He nervously scanned the area, expecting hooligans to jump out from behind garden fences and fall from the lampposts branding lighters with giant flames and petrol bombs.
He heard a click, and the sound of an overloading electric current, until a bright, blinding light appeared from the house. The heat from the light was extreme and he was breaking a sweat and he started to smell singed hair, his hair!
He ran a couple of hundred yards until the heat was at least bearable, and he turned back to view the cause of the light. The entire house was covered in a mass of lights, arranged pleasantly in the image of Santa on his sleigh. He turned back, still squinting and continued to walk.

The suited man arrived on a corner opposite a pub. He could see shadows inside, and realised he was just in time as the lights went out and the door opened. Out stepped two men. One in his late twenties, about five foot six, untidy stubble covered his face and he wore jeans, a fashionable jacket and a beanie hat. The other was early twenties, taller and smart looking, wearing jeans, and a massive warm coat.
The men were known as Nobby and Oliver. Oliver walked away, leaving Nobby to lock the door.
The suited man put down his briefcase and turned the heads of the swans, left, right, right, right, left, right, left, left, and there was a click, and the man opened the case, taking out a small gun, a silencer and a scope.
He stood up, attached the silencer and scope, and pointed in Nobby’s direction, until he spotted Oliver returning. The two stood, smoking and chatting while the suited man cursed in frustration.
He continued to watch the two men, growing tiresome, until they said goodbye and walked in opposite directions. This was the mans chance. He stepped up behind Nobby, keeping a good distance and trying to be quiet. He concealed the gun in his jacket and he slid along the pathway following his target.
Nobby reached the steps to his flats and fumbled for his keys. He dropped them on the frosty ground and as he bent down to retrieve them, he heard something if the bushes behind him. He squinted as he peered over at them, he picked up the keys and walked towards the bush. His head spun round as he caught a chill from a breeze and decided to get into the flat as quickly as possible.
He opened the door and made his way up the steps, reaching number eight on the second floor. He inserted his key, turned it and pushed open his door. In front of him stood the suited man, dressed smartly, holding his briefcase and hiding his gun in the inside of his jacket.
Nobby panicked. ‘Who the hell are you?!’ He exclaimed.
‘My name is Nevesotolip Madadabanextop. Neville for short.’ Replied the suited man. ‘Now, please stay calm’. He said as he pulled out the gun. Nobby screamed, threw his keys at the man and run back down the stairs.
The man leaned away from the keys and fired his gun.