Monty Bailey was not a fastidious man. Other adjectives that did not define him were careful, sensible, or mature. In other words, he didn’t give much thought to thinking things through. What he was though, was clever and clever was currently keeping him alive.
His day had started much like any other. He’d woke up, bright and early, in his ridiculously expensive flat. Then again, it was London, so who’s wasn’t? He’d gone to work at his computer, comfortably decked out in his pyjamas, and spent the biggest part of the morning moving the same two million pounds from one bank account to another and then back again. This was how he’d had spent almost every morning of the last six months. Monty was an account for the Mob. Or, at least, that’s what they called him. Unfortunately, this was also the day that the Mob realized he had no idea what he was doing.
One could argue that it wasn’t Monty’s fault. The thirty year old from Birmingham had never had any interest in maths. In fact, he was terrible at figures. What he had wanted to do, ever since he was a little kid who watched way too much television and found out that his father had been a rather shady character, was to become a Mob enforcer. Ties or no ties, when he was old enough, it didn’t take long to find out that all of those positions were filled in his hometown. That suited Monty anyway; he’d just as soon move on to the bigger and brighter lights of London anyway.
Sadly, that hadn’t gone so well either. After some asking around and a couple of near-death experiences, he’d managed to find some bosses willing to talk to him. The trouble was, as soon as he said the words enforcer and me in the same sentence, he was met with the same reaction from all of them; laughter. You see, Monty Bailey was a small man; not just small, but small and cute. He had the kind of face that made old ladies want to pinch his cheeks. The bosses would be laughed out of town if they sent him to collect a debt or carry out a hit.
To say that Monty was disappointed would be an understatement. For a while, he was despondent, with nowhere to go and no skills. He’d never even considered any other kind of employment. All of his dreams had been dashed. However, Monty was nothing if not optimistic and, after a day or two, decided he’d take any job the Mob was willing to give him. He was also likable, so the bosses gave him another chance. Having no skills, he would try anything to impress them. They sat him in front of a computer and by some complete fluke, he performed a minor miracle with a troubled bank account. An accountant’s position immediately opened up for him, in which Monty spent a few moments wondering about how, and he began a career in money laundering. The bad news was, he had no idea what he’d done or how to replicate it.
So, as he’d sat in his flat, early one spring morning, he’d begun to feel the pressure closing in. The boss had become suspicious; perhaps someone had tipped him or the Fuzz had begun to notice. Either way, he hadn’t actually been laundering anything, only cleverly moving the same money back and forth, and he’d known that the game was about up. So, he did the only thing he could think to do; steal the money and run.
So now, here he was, speeding along the M40 from London to Gloucestershire; his Porsche 911 GT3 wounded by a bullet hole or two, with no idea where he was going or what he was going to do. Monty was a city boy, through and through, but he’d seen pictures of some very pretty places in the West Country. As he passed an annoyingly slow lorry, he giggled at the thought that, maybe, he could become a farmer. Yes, he’d find some tiny, out of the way village and never be heard from again. He frowned, not quite liking the sound of that.
He didn’t want to die there, just get lost. He glanced out of his window at the country side as the M40 turned into the A40. “God, this is gonna be so boring,” he sighed.
He’d decided he’d better get off the main roads if he was going to find a truly out of the way place and, a couple of hours later, he found himself in Stow-on-the-Wold. From there, he picked another random road and headed even deeper into the countryside. By then, the afternoon light was dimming to the rich glow of the gloaming and he figured he might as well stop in the next town. It didn’t take long to find one in the village dotted landscape of England and as the sun sank beneath the clouds, Monty found himself pulling into the picturesque village of Chipping Morecombe. He found a lovely guest house with a room available and, though his room was tiny, he didn’t mind. What was vastly more important was the safe he could keep his duffle-bag full of money in.
He didn’t bother to take a look at the village, or even get any dinner, he simply fell into the single bed, exhausted. While worry and fear may have kept normal mortals awake, Monty slept peacefully, mostly optimistic about his chances of survival. Life was day to day for Monty Bailey, always had been. He’d worry about tomorrow when it was there and, in the meantime, dreamed of a little cottage where he’d be safe from the long reach of the Mob. He was blissfully unaware that, as he slept, angry men with very large muscles and even larger guns were planning his eminent and very painful demise.
The next morning, Monty woke with a groan and a bit of a start. He sat up and quickly glanced around, before remembering where he was and calming back down. He yawned and rubbed the sleep out of his big brown eyes before stumbling to the basin. He looked himself over in the tiny mirror. He was still wearing his clothes from the day before and they were all eschew, much like the tuft of dark hair sticking up from the back of his head. He frowned at the feature, which had been plaguing him since boyhood, and tried to smooth it back in place. It did little good so he cursed at it instead and then dug out some clean clothes from his hastily packed suitcases.
Once he’d finished the adventure of showering in a shared bathroom and had some breakfast in the little dining room downstairs, he began his mission to find the nearest estate agent. He decided he might as well walk and get to know the village while he looked. Right from the moment he stepped out the door, he wasn’t sure what to think. The village looked like something out of a fairy tale, complete with stone cottages and businesses, cobbled streets and hedges and bushes full of flowers everywhere. Chipping Morecombe even sat on a hill, overlooking a small stream of a river, with farmland and woods in the distance. If he squinted, he could just make out some place that was probably also Chipping Something or Another.
He strolled along the High Road and, before long, found a large window with pictures of properties hanging in it. As luck would have it, the agent was already open and, as he opened the door, he was greeted with a confused, but friendly smile. He chose to ignore the confusion and returned a toothy grin of his own.
“Good morning,” the young woman from behind the desk said in greeting.
“Hello,” Monty answered brightly. “I’m looking for a farm,” he then announced as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Right,” the woman answered slowly. “Of course,” she then added once she’d bit back the growing confusion and remembered her training. “Plenty of farms around here,” she chuckled.
Monty chuckled back and nodded. “I figured. That’s why I’m here.” He stepped close enough to read the name plaque on the woman’s desk and put on his best flirty air. “Look, Theresa, I have…” He trailed off, knowing that it would be unwise to spend all his money or even let on how much he had. He might need to live off the Mob’s dirty money for quite some time. Besides, he didn’t want to draw attention by forking over that much quid in cash. So he changed his tactic. “I know it sounds silly, but I’ve really grown tired of working in the city. So much hustle and bustle, you know?”
“Oh yeah, I understand completely,” Theresa answered with a vigorous nod.
“I know I don’t look like a farmer and, frankly, I’m not, but I just want somewhere nice and quiet to settle down to. I don’t have…a lot of money, but maybe a property that needs a little care, a little…mending as it were…” He gave her a pleading look and then woefully sat down in the clients’ chair in front of her desk.
“Well, some of the farmers have been hard hit the last few years. Some of them had to give it up, so their properties have just been sitting there. Let me see what I can do,” Theresa said with a wink.
“Bless you,” Monty charmed and then waited patiently while Theresa looked through her database and talked to the head agent.
Two hours later, Monty climbed out of his bright orange sports car and stared out at what could potentially be his new home. At first he could only stare in both wonder and horror, until he was startled out of his reverie.
“So, what do you think?” Theresa asked. “I mean, you haven’t seen much of it yet, but it’s not too bad, is it?” She waited a moment as her client scanned the property. “Monty?”
All Monty could say was, “I’ve only ever lived in a flat before.”
