Mystery 9

Full House

by Annie Shnapp

The village handymen were painting the gents' loo in the George Hotel.

"I wish they'd let us choose the colour," grumbled the first one. "This is really bright."

"You're right there," said the second one, "It's a shock to the cistern."

"Sometimes I think it would be a relief if you stopped trying to be funny," complained his partner.

"Well if you're looking for relief you're in the right place!"

"Shut up!"

They continued painting in silence for a while. Then the second one said,

"Talking of cisterns, there's something stuck behind this one."

He fished about behind it for a minute and then pulled out a tattered scroll of yellowing paper. "Looks like this's been here for a while," he said as he unrolled it carefully.

"What is it?" asked the first one, craning to see.

It was a map but they couldn't work out where of, so they decided to finish painting and look at it again over a pint after work.

The Craig was busy, it being a Friday evening, and the Gala Committee were having a heated pre-gala crisis meeting. As the handymen entered a blond woman could be heard shouting at the satellite dish installer, "What do you mean the band have cancelled!"

The handymen sat down in a quiet corner with their pints, unrolled the map and peered at it intently. It was of a large open area surrounded by trees and houses, two roads ran past the houses on either side. Sketched in the open area were several rectangles grouped together and further up by itself was a large X.

"I think," said the first one, "this is Macara Park. Hold it round the other way. Look, there's Ayr Street, and these rectangles are the playground equipment."

"You're right," said the second one. "But what's the X? That's bang in the middle of the football pitch."

They looked at each other, the possibilities of buried treasure and early retirement by a hot shore slowly dawning on them both.

"Not one hint about this to anyone, not even your wife," said the first one, "You know how word gets round in Moniaive."

As his partner nodded in silent agreement, the blond woman could be heard shouting again at the satellite dish installer who was replying, "I don't know where it is, everything went a blur after midnight."

"Tuesday night," whispered the second handyman to his partner, "It's always quiet on Tuesday night, let's go and dig it up."

"Ok," murmured the first handyman.

Just then the shopkeeper sat down. "Are you boys organising a poker night?" he asked them.

"No, why?" they answered.

"It's just you were whispering," said the shopkeeper.

"Don't mention poker to me!" said the arts worker, who was sitting at the next table with a group of her friends. "I'm going to have to go to Gamblers' Anonymous".

"Why?" asked the windmill farmer's wife, who had just joined them.

"She's only gone and gambled her house away," the hairdresser told her.

"It's an emergency," said the arts worker, "My dad'll kill me. We'd only just moved in."

"Who won your house?" asked the artist.

"That guy who writes the comic strips," moaned the arts worker, "I don't know what I was thinking of, I just lost the plot on the head to head."

"Don't feel too bad about it," said a farmer in a blue boiler suit sitting nearby, "It's not the first time a property's changed hands over a game of poker in Moniaive."

As the pub filled up the Gala committee continued shouting at each other, the women settled down to hatching a plot to regain the house and the handymen couldn't resist speculating as to what the treasure was and how rich they might become. As time went by, they forgot to whisper and didn't notice that the windmill farmer's wife had sat up and started to pay attention.

When it was time to go home, more than one person noticed the small group of bodies sliding furtively into one of the houses up Chapel Street and a series of people trying unsuccessfully to gain entry. They were chased away by a tall man with a big nose shouting, "Numbers are leemeeted!"

"I knew there was a poker game on," thought the shopkeeper as he turned for home.

Tuesday night arrived, the midges had been ferocious earlier, but by the time the handymen got to the park they were past their worst. It was a dark night with only the sliver of a moon and the handymen unloaded their spades from the garage as silently as possible. Standing by the swings, they opened the map.

"Where should we dig?" asked the first one.

"What we should do," said the second, "Is measure the distance on the map and then pace it out on the pitch."

"Well I'd better do the measuring then," said the first, "Knowing your track record."

It wasn't as easy as they'd thought. They had several hissing arguments before they decided on a spot. Then they dug about a foot down before abandoning the attempt. They went back to the map and examined it again by torchlight.

"Look at this," said the first, "There are two rings you can hardly see on either side of the X. I hadn't noticed them before."

"Maybe they're the goalposts," said the second. "The distance looks about right.

It was true enough, the X was right between two faint circles. They started digging again. This time they only dug down about 9 inches before the first handyman's spade hit something solid and they both yelped with excitement.

They kept going and had soon cleared the earth over a wooden box. They were so engrossed they didn't notice the group of women hiding in the bushes by the slide or the lights go on in one of the bungalows by the park.

In the bushes, the women were holding a whispered conversation.

"Where is she?" asked the tee-shirt designer, "We're all doing this to help her get her house back and she's not even showed up."

"Never mind," said the cook, "Let's just go for it. If anyone needs the treasure right now it's her. She's got to get her house back somehow."

Nodding in agreement, the group of women tiptoed over to where the handymen were just pulling the box out of the hole. With a yell, they leapt on the men.

"Hand it over!" snarled the hairdresser, "We need that!"

"Get lost!" said the second handyman, "It's mine!"

"Well you can't have it!" yelled the windmill farmer's wife and hit him over the head with his spade.

"Steady on!" said the artist as she and the tee-shirt designer tussled with the first handyman and brought him down.

Just then torches shone on them and a loud voice came from out of the dark. "What the heck's going on here?"

It was the satellite dish installer with his friend the journalist. "What do you think you're doing to the football pitch?" he roared, "Have you no sense of decency whatsoever!"

"We've found some buried treasure," said the first handyman, "And these horrible women are trying to steal what's rightfully ours!"

"We need it!" shouted the cook.

"Just hold on a minute here," said the satellite dish installer. "Something's coming back to me."

"How did you know we'd be here anyway?" asked the second handyman angrily.

"Word gets around in Moniaive," said everyone.

"That's it," said the satellite dish installer, scratching his head. "I mind now."

"You mind what?" asked the journalist.

"I mind now where I put the gala queen's crown. I'd completely forgotten. It was for safety, I buried it here last gala night. How did you find it lads?"

"We found your map in the George," said the second handyman. "Typical, now I'll have to keep renovating cottages until I'm eighty."

"You think you've got problems," said the hairdresser, "We've got to get enough money to buy a house, and quick."

Just then the arts worker turned up, smiling brightly.

"Where have you been?" asked the tee-shirt designer.

"Panic over and problem solved," said the arts worker cheerily.

"How?" asked the hairdresser.

"I've just been having a wee game of poker," said the arts worker, "And I won that nice big white house in Ayr Street off Franz Ferdinand."