SE2 - Lesnes Abbey

Hello people

Sorry there's been no new updates to the 28 Districts lately; me and Rosie have been having a bit of a nightmare. The upstairs neighbours flooded our bedroom - three times! Once from a leaky tap, once from a rotten seal around their bath, and once from a leak behind their washing machine, we’d have less trouble if our upstairs neighbour was Neptune the God of the sea. Their landlord assures me he’s doing all he can to fix the problems, but he mostly just complains how much it’s all costing him. We got some Builders round who said they couldn't do anything till we got a Plumber in. So a Plumber came, who said he needed a Tyler to help him. The Tyler came, but then the Plumber disappeared. Me and Rose are starting to think it’s all a conspiracy to stop us from being happy; and to turn our little flat into a lido.

And speaking of conspiracies, I'm still troubled by my recent visit to the SE10, when I stumbled upon a plot connecting someone, or maybe everyone, at the National Maritime Museum to the 2007 fire attack on the Cutty Sark. My head was spinning and I needed to go somewhere quiet where I could think. So I got in my canary yellow Fiat Panda Eleganza and headed to Abby Wood to take a look at Lesnes Abbey; a former monastery from the 12th century.

As I pulled up near the abbey I cursed my luck, it was pissing down, and there was no shelter to be found. Not to be beaten, I got out the panda, ran under the closest tree I could find, and I stood there for a moment, collecting my thoughts. I looked out at Lenses Abbey, the bad weather meant it was completely deserted, and clearly it had seen better days. It was nothing but a bunch of broken down walls, it could have been a B&Q in the 10th century for all I could tell. But it was peaceful, and I enjoyed watching the rain beat down on the site for a while. To my surprise the silence was broken by the sound of a voice.

"Glorious isn't it?"

I almost lept out of my skin. Standing next to me was a tall thin man in his fifties wearing a smart long black coat and black trilby hat. I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed him before.

"Excuse me?" I asked.

"The abbey" he replied and gestured towards it in quite a theatrical way, "Quite glorious is it not?"

I looked out at the ruins and the rain again, "It's very nice" I said.

"Is this your first visit?" He asked. I nodded, and he continued.

“It was founded by Richard De Luci in 1178; as I'm sure you’re aware. It's suspected by many that De Luci built the Abbey as a way of Penance for his complicity in the murder of Thomas Becket, as if this one good deed could in some way cancel out the evil ones of his past. In fact all it does is stand as a monument to his guilt. Wouldn’t you agree?”

I wasn't sure how to respond to this. There was something about the guy that made me uneasy. He had a smile across his face. But he didn’t seem friendly, he gave me the impression that he was in on a joke that I didn’t understand; and maybe I was the butt of. Now that I looked at him properly I could see he was very tall, maybe 6ft 8. He was an incredibly well-spoken man, he sounded like a stage actor rehearsing a play. He went on.

“De Luci, died just a year after the Abbey was finished, and is buried here. I wonder if the Abbey ever gave him the absolution he craved?”

I think this question was to himself, but I hadn’t spoken in a while so thought I had better say something; so I said, “The walls are nice"

His smile widened, "Are you still enjoying writing your blog?"

His question stunned me, "How do you know about the 28 Districts?"

He chuckled to himself, "Simple, you've written the address of Lenses Abbey on the back of your hand to help you find it; so you’re clearly not a local man out for a walk. You're here in the rain, that shows dedication to your task; so you're not here for a leisurely visit. Also you’re holding a notepad with the words 'My Secrete Blog' written on the front."

"Wow that's amazing! What else do you know about me?"

The smile left his face and his eyes seemed to darken, "That you’re in grave danger."

A chill ran down my spine, "Who are you?" I asked.

"Think of me as a friend."

"Ok."

We stood in silence for a moment, I think he was waiting for me to say something. Eventually he said, "And what is it friends do?"

I thought for a moment, "We could go bowling?"

He seemed disappointed then added, "I was thinking of something far more intimate."

Again an awkward silence fell between us, this time it was me that broke it, "I think maybe the yellow Fiat Panda Eleganza has given you the wrong impression about me. I'm very flattered but...."

He cut me off, "Friends confide in each other. They share their troubles. So tell me, freind. What troubles you?"

"The clutch pedal on the Panda keeps squeaking. I've taken it to the garage but..."

"I don't know why your clutch pedal squeaks, what else?"

"When the engine gets hot the pedal sticks to the floor..."

"I'm not a mechanic. What else?"

"I might have uncovered a crime but I'm not sure what to do about it?"

"Aha! Why not go to the police?"

"I'm not sure they would believe me"

"So you have no proof of this crime?"

"Nothing."

"Which is probably the reason you're still alive."

Now I was frightened, “What do you mean?”

“Your adventures through these 28 Districts have caused you to wander from the safe path, to the ones less travelled. Ones filled with dark shadows and darker secretes.”

“This is so fucking weird” I said, but he didn’t seem to hear me. His manner changed, and his eyes darted around the woods, something had spooked him. Perhaps it was the noise of leaves rustling in the wind, perhaps the song of a distant badger, who knows? When he did speak again he said simply,

“We are not alone, I must go”

“Wait!” I said, “You haven’t told me anything. What do you know about the fire to the Cutty Sark?”

“Shh” he hissed, “If you want answers you shall have them but not here.”

“Where?”

“Meet me next week at 3pm, at the Birth place of the most famous South East Londoner who ever lived.”

“Jools Holland?”

“Even more famous than him. He was a man who spoke to millions; yet never said a word.”

And with that he disappeared into the woods and left me alone. As I drove home my mind raced with questions. Who was this strange man I’d met? How did he know me? Should I trust him? And who was the famous SE Londoner he spoke of, an author maybe? If you have any ideas readers, I’d be grateful to hear them.

Till next week.