No Going Back

by Mick Moran

  “Now Alan, stop there,” Dave interrupted, getting annoyed. “It wasn’t in cold blood as you well know. It was in the heat of the moment.”

 

  “Whatever. You killed a man and then you robbed him. I saw you do it.”

 

  “Alan, keep your voice down.” Dave looked around him before continuing. “You don’t understand. I emptied his pockets so he wouldn’t be identified. That was all. In any case I did it for you, to save you from being done for that job that you bungled up north. Remember, you killed a man too.”

 

  “I didn’t kill anyone.”

 

  “So, you’re blaming Tommy. Are you? Well, you were there too. You’re just as much to blame as he is; more so, I’d say, in the eyes of the law. Tommy is a bit of a nutter. You’re the one that will be held responsible for it. If you’re caught, your prison stretch will be much longer than his. You’ll get life. But, don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe. Ow! This wall’s cold.”

 

  Dave stood up. “Come on. Let’s sit in the van. At least well be out of the cold wind.”

 

  Alan didn’t move. The exchanges with Dave had got his blood flowing. He didn’t feel as cold. And he didn’t like the suggestion that his safety depended on Dave. Dave was only thinking of his own skin.

 

  “How will you keep me safe?” he asked angrily. “By killing someone else?”

 

  “Alan, why are you like this? You know that if we let that man go to the police you were in deep shit.”

 

  “I don’t care. I wouldn’t have done what you did.”

 

  “You want to give yourself up then?” Dave threw his hands in the air. “Is that what you want?”

 

  “Maybe it is.”

 

  “You’re annoying me now. I’m not staying here in the freezing cold any longer. Come on. Let’s walk to the van.”

 

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.” Alan turned away again.

 

  “You’ll do as your fucking well told.” Dave had lost all patients with him then. “I’m still your boss.”

 

  “No, you’re not. I’ll never work for you again.”

 

  “Alan, for the last time.” The time for smooth talk was over. “You can’t do this to me. I’ll not allow it.”

 

  There was a pause. Alan, still facing away from Dave didn’t look, but he could sense Dave’s fury. Was Dave going to physically attack him? Maybe even kill him. Dave was a powerful man. Alan was no match for him. Dave also always carried a knife. Alan considered running when he heard a gate rattling, this time close by.

 

  Maybe that was what saved him. The gate belonging to the house they were in front of was being opened.

 

  Dave got his voice back. “I’m going to get the van. Don’t you dare move from here,” he hissed. “I’ll be back shortly.”

 

  A car emerged from the gateway. Alan stood up and ignoring the driver’s curious look, waited for Dave to get out of sight, before setting off at top speed in the opposite direction.

 

 

  Chapter 10. Getting concerned.

 

  On Monday morning John Mountain’s gang was assembled at Burton’s corner. “Well, that’s it now. I think all that are coming are here,” said John as Jimmy McCarthy hurried towards them. “No sign of Martin Prendergast?” asked John, when Jimmy reached them. John knew Jimmy shared digs with Martin.

 

  “No. He hasn’t been seen in the digs all weekend.”

 

  John was disappointed. Martin would have completed a good gang. On the previous Friday evening John had personally called round at Martin’s digs. Unable to see Martin, he left a message with Mary, Martin’s landlady, telling him, as he’d told all the others, to be outside Burton’s at seven o’clock on Monday morning, if he wanted the start on the new site.

 

  “Martin, however, wasn’t John’s only concern that Monday morning. “Ah well,” he said. “At least the rest of us are here.” John counted the men. He had eight men travelling from Broadfield, including three new starters. It was a big job. There would be a lot of navvying to do. He hadn’t been convinced that they would all turn up, and he wouldn’t blame them if they didn’t; the way they were being treated by the company.

 

  John was still annoyed about how his complaint about the mode of transport was dealt with. The bus was being repaired and would be out of use for at least a couple of weeks. They were informed that the men would have to travel to work and back –nearly twenty miles each way- on the back of an open wagon. When Jim Butler, the company owner, visited the site, on the previous week, John complained bitterly to him, but with little success.

 

  Jim was totally unsympathetic. “What are you complaining about?” he asked. “You’ll be travelling in the cab.”

 

  “It’s the men. It will be bitterly cold on the back of that wagon. And what if it rains?”

 

  “All right. All right. We have a canopy in the yard. I’ll have that fitted on the wagon. Some seats as well. How’s that?”

 

  “If it’s the one I’m thinking of it’s badly ripped.”

 

  “I don’t think so. But, if so, I’ll have it repaired.”

 

  “That might keep the rain off. Might? But it’ll still be bitterly cold. It’ll be a bad start of the day for the men. Can’t you hire a bus or something?”

 

  “”No way. No way. Have you any idea what that would cost?”

 

  John knew money wasn’t a problem. In recent years the company had gone from strength to strength. He didn’t answer the question. Instead he said angrily, “It might cost you the men if you don’t.”

 

  But Jim knew that wouldn’t happen. Jobs for navvies were scarce at the time, and he was not a man to waste an opportunity to save himself some money. “John,” he said. “Don’t threaten me. I’ve agreed to fit a canopy. If the men are not happy with that they know what they can do.”

 

  “In better times John would have told Jim what he could do with his job. However, in the circumstances, annoyed as he was, he held his tongue. He had a dependant family and needed the work, as apparently did all of his gang.

 

  John didn’t tell the men the whole story of his encounter with Jim Butler. There was no need to upset them all the more. He just said he’d failed to get a replacement bus, but the company would get the old one back on the road as quickly as possible.

 

  “I, when it’s summer and we’re not bothered,” was Jimmy’s angry reply.

 

  John nodded in agreement. None of the men were happy about it. Nevertheless they all promised to be there. However John knew he couldn’t rely on those promises. If any of the men got a better offer over the weekend, he would, no doubt, take it. But, at that time, such offers were few.

 

  John looked at his watch. It was almost seven. He hoped the wagon would be on time. Although, thankfully, the weather was much improved, it was still too cold to stand around for long. All the men were wearing donkey jackets or some other form of heavy coat. Some were sheltering in doorways from the cold wind. Michael O’Donnell in Burton’s doorway holding a handkerchief to his nose didn’t look at all well to John “Just a bit of a cold,” he said brushing off John’s enquiry.

 

  John watched anxiously as the dirty grey tipper wagon approached. When it got closer, he was relieved to see the canopy on the
back; it’s canvas flapping in the wind. At least Jim Butler had arranged that. John had doubts about whether even that small concession would be granted.

 

  Standing on the edge of the pavement, holding his hand up John called. “Come on men,” as the wagon stopped. As he watched the men climbing on to the back of the wagon, some shivering, he felt slightly guilty about himself travelling in the relative warmth of the cab.

 

  Michael was last. He was finding it difficult pulling himself on to the wagon. John moved to help him. Then he made a decision. Placing his hand on Michael’s shoulder he said, “Michael, get down. Get in the cab. It’s easier.”

 

  “No,” Michael protested. But John insisted. Himself joining the others in the back as Michael reluctantly got in the cab.

 

  “Come in out of the cold,” joked Jimmy, rubbing his hands together as John entered the canopy. “And shut the door after you. You’re last in.”

 

  John examined the back of the canopy. “Looks like the back end is missing; if there ever was one,” he observed, much to the amusement of the others.

 

  The men were sat on two low benches facing each other. Jimmy moved up a little to allow John to sit next to him on the end of the bench.

 

  The wagon juddered and moved forward, causing the men to sway on the bench. Caught unawares, John fell off the end on to the floor. The men moved up to give him more room on the bench as he scrambled to get back on the seat. The bouncing of the wagon was not helping.

 

  Although a familiar mode of transport with navvies, tipper wagons were never made for that. Designed for carrying several tons in weight the wagons have extremely strong rear springs, which are totally ineffective when empty. Therefore, when in motion, the back of the wagon is constantly bouncing, which doesn’t bode well for passenger comfort.

 

  “You get used to this luxury travel in time,” remarked Jimmy, as John with difficulty got back on his seat. “But you have to hold on to your seat.” Jimmy watched with amusement as John gripped his seat with both hands.

 

  John made no reply, as Jimmy continued, “Aren’t you the ‘daysent’ man, giving up your nice warm seat in the cab.”

 

  “Well, it’s Michael. It was too much to expect him to climb up here. He’s getting a bit old for this game”

 

  “Sure aren’t you as old yourself.”

 

  “I suppose. But, Michael seemed very stiff this morning.”

 

  “You’re a kind man.”

 

  Not allowing Jimmy’s sarcasm to get to him. John changed the subject. “You seem in a good mood for a Monday morning. No hangover? Have you stopped drinking again?”

 

  “Not a drop all weekend.”

 

  “Well. I’m proud of you.” John would have clapped Jimmy’s back. But he dare not take his hand off his seat.

 

  John looked across at Andy, who was sat opposite, looking sad: his thoughts apparently miles away. “Andy.” John had to shout to be heard over the noise. “Have you heard anything of Martin?”

 

  Andy, looking momentarily startled seemed to take a while to gather his thoughts before shaking his head. “No,” he said. “He’s been away for a few days.”

 

  “Do you think he’s gone for good?”

 

  “No,” Jimmy intervened, “He’ll be back. Mary said the most of his clothes are still there.”

 

  “John,” asked Andy. “If he comes tomorrow will he still get the start?”

 

  “I wish I could say yes Andy. But if Ginger Burke turns up I’m afraid there will be no job for Martin. Ginger lives in Burnley. He’s going straight to the job.”

 

  “Ah,” said Jimmy. “Put him off. Tell him you’re full up.”

 

  “If I was sure of Martin. I’d do that. But we don’t know where he is, or when he’s coming back, if at all. And we don’t know that he wants the job anyway.”

 

  “Oh, he wants the job all right. Sure there’s no other work round here.”

 

  John thought about it for a couple of minutes. Then, turning to Jimmy said, “Maybe you’re right. I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take a chance. I might be loosing a good man. Ginger is a good man, and I don’t think he’ll like being messed about, but it’s all I can do. I’ll tell him there is no job for him this week, but if he comes back next Monday morning there’s a good chance. That will give Martin a week to sort himself out.”

  ***

 

 

 

  Friday evening Father Downey sighed as he got up to answer the door- bell. There was to be no rest for him that evening he thought. . He had just put his slippers on and made himself a cup of tea He had a busy day. Amongst other things he had met the bishop. That on it’s own was tiring.

  The nine o clock news was about to begin. He was hoping to relax for the rest of the evening in front of his little television, a much-appreciated present from a parishioner. But it was not to be. Nonetheless opening the door he put on a cheerful face.

 

  “Andy; are you o k?”

 

  “Yes. I’m all right. But…”

 

  “Come in. Come in,” urged the priest before Andy could say any more.

  “It’s a cold evening. I’ve just made a cup of tea. Would you like one?”

 

  “Thank you father.”

 

  The priest turned the television off. “Take your coat off and sit down,” he said, pointing to the chair.

 

  “It’s about Martin, Martin Prendergast,” began Andy when they were both sat down.

 

  “Yes Andy?” The priest was concerned.

 

  “I just called at Mary’s. He hasn’t been seen for over a week. He told Mary that he was going away, but he said only for a few days.”

 

  “He was out of work. Maybe he got a job somewhere else.”

 

  “ Mary said the most of his clothes are still there. She’s worried about him. She thought you might know something. She said he had a talk with you before he left.”

 

  “Yes. We had a chat. But, he didn’t say where he was going. He didn’t even say he was going away.”

 

  What Martin told him was not in the confessional. Therefore, that seal did not bind the Priest. Nor had Martin said it was confidential. Nonetheless, Father Downey felt it should be treated as such. Martin had unburdened himself of something he had kept locked up in his head for so long; something the priest felt he had told no one else. Therefore, without very good reason, he believed it would be irresponsible to reveal any of what Martin had told him. For that reason the priest had not gone to the police, although he had urged Martin to do so.

 

  Andy, however, was not giving up so easily. “Father,” he asked, “what did you mean when you told me not to let Martin draw attention to himself. The priest hesitated before replying. “Andy,” he said, “you’re someone who cares about Martin and for that reason I going to tell you something that I trust will not go any further.”

 

  Andy nodded and the priest went on. “It was Sunday morning when I spoke to you. Well I talked with Martin on the previous evening and he told me things that I believe were meant to be in confidence. However, I think I can tell you this much. You know about the attack on Michael O’Malley. Martin is convinced that it is a case of mistaken identity: that the intended victim was Martin himself.
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  “How could that happen father?”

 

  “Well, for a time, when he worked in the Birmingham area I believe, Martin was known by that name, Michael O’Malley. The person, or persons, who carried out the attack on him thought that Michael O’Malley was he. Martin felt guilty, like it was his fault, and he wouldn’t be told otherwise. He seemed very depressed to me. He might have got it all wrong. When someone is feeling low his mind can play tricks on him.”

 

  “He wasn’t himself for the last few weeks.”

 

  “In what way Andy?”

 

  “Well, he was quieter. He didn’t say much. And it didn’t take much to upset him.”

 

  “Did you say anything to him?”

 

  “I tried, but he got annoyed when I asked him if he was all right.”

 

  “Yes. I don’t think he’d let anyone get too close to him. Have you known him for long Andy?”

 

  “Only for about a year. But his brother Jim was our next-door neighbour. He had the next farm to ours in Ireland.”

 

  “Do you know if they keep in touch at all?”

 

  “No. They don’t. I heard that Martin never writes home. His brother didn’t know where he was, even if he was alive or dead, until about a month ago when I told my mother in a letter that I met him. But, it annoyed Martin. He went mad when I mentioned it to him.” I don’t know if I did the right thing when I gave my mother his address. She passed it on to his brother. He wrote to Martin, but Martin never answered him.

 

  “ Well, what’s done is done. No point in worrying about it. You can’t do anything about it now.”

  “You knew his brother then. Did he ever talk about Martin?”

 

  “No. Not that I can remember. I heard there was some disagreement about who got the land. But, I’m not sure. It might have been about something else. It was before I was born. All I can say is that Jim was a very good neighbour. He was very helpful to us when my father was sick. But, when I mentioned it to Martin he just didn’t want to know.”

 

  “Andy, you’re a very caring young fellow. That’s very commendable, but right now there is nothing you can do.”

 

  Standing up Andy shook his head. “Thank you father,” he said, and left.

 

  Walking away, Andy thought about what the priest had told him. It explained a lot. He then understood why Martin had visited Michael O’Malley in hospital. He wondered what Martin had done to annoy someone so much. There was so much he didn’t know about Martin. The priest had only revealed a little of what Martin had told him. No one, it seemed, told everything.