Ch 6 - THE NOBS
The final chapter of this ripping yarn of some totalitarians and their slaves
In case you missed the previous episodes in this dark soap opera:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
CHAPTER 6 - THE FINALE
Spotty Boy was squeezing the worst of his zits, standing by his window overlooking the driveway at dawn the very next day. He witnessed the Chauffeur and Fuky Nob quietly leaving the house but something odd caught his eye. The bearded illegal immigrant was with them, carrying Caressa Nob’s ashes with reverence.
”I wonder why he is going to Fishguard!” he pondered. They weren’t taking the velvet padded commode stool along, so what duties would he be performing?
Spotty shrugged and went down to the kitchen as the car purred into action, quietly leaving the grounds and Spotty’s attention.
A nice cool bowl of cornflakes was all he cared about at that early hour.
The young bearded illegal immigrant sat in the passenger seat beside the Chauffeur and Farquhar Nob settled down to sleep in the back of the limousine. The signal of one finger on the lips is international. Silence was the order given by the Chauffeur. Driving at 4.30am was giving them a long clear run before the roads began to get busy around 6.30am. The journey would take at least 4 hours and followed the old trunk route of the A40 more or less all the way. Some of it was now the M40 and shortened the distance to 220 miles. Chauffeur never used Satellite Navigation. He did not need it or trust it. His previous employments had been long distance lorry driving so he was enjoying a decent road trip like a blast from the past.
With one stop for fuel and lavatory necessities, Chauffeur estimated to be at Fishguard harbour by 8.30am. ‘Perfect for picking up the boat by 9am’ he surmised.
Fuky was sound asleep within minutes and the Chauffeur smiled at the bearded young man who showed no emotion whatsoever. He still held the urn between his hands. He had no intention of letting go of his precious burden.
By 9am the three men were preparing the small, neat blue and white boat for launch. The owner had been paid in cash, the fuel had been loaded and the precious urn had been installed in the wheelhouse, strapped carefully into place.
As predicted by the Chauffeur, Fuky insisted upon completing this heroic deed alone, in memory of Caressa. His belligerence was reliably predictable.
Waving him goodbye, the bearded immigrant and the Chauffeur returned to the car and drove along the coast road to a spot with a clear view so that they could keep a watch on the little blue and white boat as it turned out of the harbour and headed north into the stretch of rough sea between Wales and Ireland. Visibility was perfect.
The bearded illegal immigrant got out and opened the boot of the limousine. He pulled out a long object wrapped in black silky cloth with Arabic symbols set in a circle upon it. The Chauffeur was training his binoculars on the vessel. Fuky was keeping a steady line, enjoying his freedom and the salty air. He began to sing. He was happy for the first time in years. The immigrant lay flat on an outcrop of rock he had selected. The Chauffeur signalled him when the boat stopped. He could see Fuky leaving the wheelhouse, clutching Caressa’s urn.
The shot rang out, pierced the plastic urn, igniting the hidden tightly packed explosive contents, and the little blue and white boat was obliterated in a mighty flash. Pieces rained down upon the sea in a huge violent arc.
Farquhar Nob was no more.
The illegal immigrant handled his sniper rifle expertly and unemotionally, returning it to its black silky wrap gently chanting “Allahu akbar!” as he fondly admired the ISIS symbol it carried. The Chauffeur nodded approvingly and holding his cruxifix, agreed that God is indeed great.
The two men returned to the limousine and the Chauffeur made a brief call from his mobile phone to Waterford in Ireland, just across the stretch of sea known as St George’s Channel. “It is done.” he said dispassionately and a call went into Scotland Yard in London, claiming that Fuky Nob had been targeted by the IRA for global lethal arms trading over many decades. It was an old score settled at last, said the caller.
By lunchtime the Chauffeur and his trusted companion were parking the limousine in front of the old Tudor manor house. Miss Judge, the gardener, Chef and Spotty Boy all smartly dressed in their new black suits filed solemnly out of the house and joined them in the car. In silence they set off to attend the Ramsbottom elaborate funeral for Getona and Toadie. The ceremony was beautiful, with spine-tingling choral accompaniment. The bodies were placed side by side in one crypt on a tiny island in Ramsbottom Lake and swans arched their slender necks as the procession of mourners crossed the private bridge tearfully signalling their final goodbyes.
Messrs Goldsworthy & Pierce appointed senior partner Hymiel Saul Goldsworthy to research and read the final will and testimony of Farquhar Nob. It took some time but finally a date was set and the interested parties were assembled in the large hall at the Nob’s Tudor Manor House.
Standing to deliver a brief synopsis of the tragic sequence of events, which had occurred in the space of only one week in June of that year, Goldsworthy did his very best not to distress the staff gathered before him. He was aware that they had every reason to believe that their services were no longer required and he wished to end the tension expediently.
He finally reached the most important matter.
Who would inherit the Nob estate and investment portfolio?
He announced that a minor proviso in Farquhar’s will mentioned an illegitimate child born to Getona fifteen years ago, when she had been merely fifteen herself. He had a copy of the birth certificate, which he lay on the desk. Everyone gasped and reeled. Everyone except Chef, who rose from his chair and stood to attention like a soldier saying, “Permission to speak, Sir.”
Goldsworthy nodded and sat down, gesturing for Chef to proceed.
“When we were both teenagers, sixteen years ago, Getona and I had a love affair which resulted in the birth of our son.” At this point the entire room was staring wide eyed at Spotty Boy….. “Fuky and Caressa would not acknowledge the child. Getona did not care for him either. I took responsibility and brought my son up under that cloud of shame and rejection. I never told him who his mother was, it would have pained him too much.”
Silence seemed to go on for eternity and then, with a sharp intake of breath, Miss Judge squealed with delight! “Spotty Boy is a NOB?” she almost choked.
All the voices chimed as one in a joyful chorus:
“SPOTTY NOB!” which they repeated and repeated leaping out of their seats with rapturous joy!
”SPOTTY NOB! SPOTTY NOB!”
LOLOLOLOL
Fun, fun, fun. Let's hope this can be a premonition for some actual Nobs...
And the moral of the story, boys and girls, is don't be playing with any spotty nobs. And never trust a guy who wears nightshades.
I'll guess Colonel Chauffeur, retired SBS, "on assignment" MI6, in the limo, with a "lost" during the Falklands, L96 PM, chambered in 308 Winchester, with Caressa's ashes ironically wrapped in nitroglycerin chauffeur had procured for her stallion servicing. And the wheel keeps turning...