by John Barlow
‘Are we chasing?’ Joe asked.
Andrew thought about it, cocking his head to one side as he considered the proposition.
‘A small Jameson’s? That’d be grand.’
Joe nodded to Karen. The whiskey was served with the same cynical scowl.
‘On your own?’ Andrew asked, before bringing his pint glass carefully up to his mouth and sinking a couple of inches.
‘Well,’ Joe said, ‘I was supposed to be having a drink with my daughter. But we had a bit of a row. Screaming blue murder she was! They grow up fast, young girls. And they never stop shouting!’
With that he buried his face in his Tetley’s and waited.
Andrew’s rasping breath developed into a chuckle.
‘He’s not wrong there, is he, Karen?’
Joe looked at the landlady, who hovered nearby and was doing her best to ignore them both.
‘Just like little Lisa! She tore the bloody place down! Hammer and tongs!’
‘What, today?’ Joe asked.
‘Aye, this afternoon!’
Andrew’s face was screwed up now, the whole thing wildly amusing to him. But Karen was pinning him with an expression of hardly disguised loathing. He got the message soon enough, took both drinks, nodded his thanks to Joe and shuffled back to his table over by the wall, out of the landlady’s range.
‘How old is Lisa?’ he asked when the old man had gone. ‘What, twenty-one, twenty-two?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Craig Shaw was twenty-five. You ever meet his mum?’
She shook her head.
‘Decent woman. The father was never involved. She did it all on her own. Do you know what she’s telling herself now?’
She shrugged.
‘She’s telling herself that it’s all her fault,’ said Joe, putting his pint down. ‘She brought him into the word, raised him on her own, and he turned out to be some second-rate drug pusher who got torched in a bloody Toyota Corolla. Her Toyota Corolla, actually.’
‘That’s drugs for you, eh?’
‘Lisa was living with him. She was involved. What if there’d been two bodies in that car?’
She took her time.
‘It’d be the end of my life.’
He gave it a second.
‘Help me, then.’
She shook her head. ‘It wasn’t anybody from here.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. I know it.’
‘Shall I tell his mum that? You just know it? Jane, she’s called. Jane Shaw.’
‘It’s none of my business.’
‘It could’ve been. So easily.’
She tried to look away. But he held her stare.
‘Give me a mobile number,’ he said. ‘Somewhere I can reach you, in confidence.’
He struggled to finish his beer, which was so cold that he could have been drinking chilled piss and never noticed. But when he left the pub there was a Tetley’s beermat in his pocket, with a number written on it in Biro. Below the number: Text first.
14
Craig Shaw. Drug dealer. It’s been on the news, his face all over Twitter. Those nasty eyes.
The world did this. Not me. I was just there, under that railway bridge. Now I’m part of it.
I remember sensing him on the floor beside me as I drove away. It felt like everything had just clicked into place. I had the whole thing mapped out in my head in a matter of seconds. It was risky taking his car, but there was no choice. Leaving him there wasn’t an option.
I hadn’t been driving his car. I realize that, now. I’d been carried along, shooting forward to a new, simpler place. And I can’t get back. I don’t think I could make any of this go away, not now.
There’s good and there’s bad. It’s that simple. All these years, and it was Craig Shaw who showed me the truth. Good people and bad people. Two columns on a ledger. All you can do is take something away from one of the columns. Add something to the other. Make things right.
On Tuesday I got home, parked the Toyota, sat there. Who was he, this ugly young man who’d shown me the way?
Did it matter?
No. It didn’t matter two days later either, when I torched the car. I know exactly the kind of person he was. And I know that it doesn’t matter. I didn’t mean this to happen. Ha! That’s what they all say, isn’t it? An accident, I never meant to… Well, I’m going make it mean something.
It doesn’t matter who Craig Shaw was. But it matters what he was. He was a gift, a chance to make things better, a chance that came my way. And now I have no choice but to go on. Who else is going to do it?
The next one was easy, once I started to think about it. I know him this time. It was a few years back and he won’t remember me. A lot’s happened to him since then. He’s a rapist, a thief and a drug dealer. How’s that for a CV? And he’s young. So young and so bad! He can’t change that. None of them can. They can’t change who they are.
But I can change something. I can save the world from a great deal of pain.
From Jason Beverage.
You won’t remember me, Jason.
But I remember you.
Saturday
15
He skirted Cleckheaton town centre and drove up past Tesco, its car park already three-quarters full. Beyond that was a large mill building. It bore down on everything with a kind of natural arrogance, a presumption so casual that its very presence was easy to overlook. Wouldn’t be a mill now. Flat conversions and business units, perhaps.
He drove past it as he made his way up the valley side and out of town. What does a mill town do once its heart is ripped out, when the mills have closed down? He had no idea. But the rows of tightly packed terraced houses in the shadows of the mill looked solid enough, in good condition. They were larger than the one in which Jane Shaw now sat alone, wondering why her son was dead.
On he went, and the terraces soon gave way to larger, stone-fronted houses. Then trees began to appear, mature sycamores and chestnuts amid the buildings. Less than a mile out of town and already the neighbourhood had changed entirely. Judging by some of the older houses, this would have been where the mill owners and their managers lived, higher up, away from the smoke and the grime. The natural order of things.
Ahead of him was a double-decker bus. It indicated and pulled in, coughing out a little puff of blue diesel smoke as it came to a halt by the kerb. Something caught his eye as he braked. Lobster. Large clear letters on a white background. The Lobster Pot.
The bus was already pulling away by the time he was out of his car and standing in front of the poster, which had been fixed to the end panel of the bus stop, a fresh piece of clear Sellotape in each corner.
The Lobster Pot
Modern society: A fresh view
How many things are you not allowed to do or say anymore?
Tell a woman she’s looking good? Sexist pig!
Clip a naughty kid behind the ear? Abuser!
Criticize a racial or religious group? Racist!
‘Special interest groups’ now dominate the political debate: radical feminism, ethnic minorities, gays and lesbians, transgender, immigrants’ rights… It’s a wonder there’s anyone left.
But a lot of us are left. And we’re becoming an endangered species: the Great White Male (GWM) and the Great White Female (GWF).
How did we get here? And who’s responsible?
Modern society simply ignores inconvenient truths (ethnic grooming gangs, criminal immigrant networks…), and it’s now borderline illegal to say certain things (kids need a mother and a father, corporal punishment works…).
The truth can be uncomfortable, but our discussions are open to everyone and are a space for free speech and expression.
Let’s build an alternative view of society, one based on decency, honesty and common sense.
All we ask for is an open mind!
Cleckheaton Library, every Tuesday, 7.30 p.m.
He read through it a couple of times. An open
mind. The phrase felt out of place, a cliché, almost cute. How long was it since an open mind had been of use to anyone?
About as long as it was since he’d been in a library, he told himself as he took the poster down and got back in the Mondeo. And how many years ago was that? He tried to answer the question, but soon realized it was the wrong one.
Not years.
Decades.
Cleckheaton Library was a square, low-slung building from the early twentieth century. In addition to its impressively broad brass-framed doors and the four classical pillars that stood in front of them, there was a well-kept lawn, plus raised flowerbeds on both sides of the approach. The effect was like that of a plain, stocky person who’d made considerable efforts to be attractive, with a nice hat and coat, a pleasing smile… but who had failed, nobly.
He pulled open one of the heavy doors and was greeted by laughter. Three men of retired age were taking off their anoraks, rubbing their hands and nudging each other. It looked more like a lively night at the bingo than a place of learning. A moment later they’d disappeared into the main part of the library.
Finding himself alone in the entrance, Joe began reading through the many posters on display: Mummy Pilates, No Strings Attached Ukulele Group, Kirklees Dementia Hub, Scrabble Club, Get Down and Buggy Pushchair Walkers’ Group, War-gaming Club… It was like a parallel universe in which every possible excuse for seeking out human company had become a reality. The nearest he’d ever got to joining a community group was a monthly neighbourhood soiree in France. He’d hated going, whereas Jackie had loved it. The only way he could make it through an entire evening was to drink until he was half-asleep, closing himself off from the bullshit posturing of his French hosts. Meanwhile, Jackie whooped it up, oblivious to the nuances of her neighbours’ tedious conversation. Then she’d fallen in love with one of them, as Joe dozed in the corner.
He used his phone to take a picture of each poster, then moved onto a second notice board on the other side of the entrance area: Creative Writing Circle, Inviting You to a Baby Shower (advice and support for expectant new parents), Living with Bereavement, Building with Lego, Seated Tai Chi, Indoor Curling… How could you play curling indoors? It sounded as bizarre and improbable as Race Nite, an activity done without the main element, like darts without the dartboard. Some sort of in-joke, perhaps.
A young man appeared, easing himself between Joe and the notice board.
‘Excuse me,’ he said without looking round, as he tore down a large poster, screwed it up, and dropped it into a waste-paper bin in the corner.
He remained there, admiring the empty space on the board between Cancer Survivors’ Circle and the Model Aeroplane Club.
‘Lot of groups you’ve got here,’ Joe said, noticing the Kirklees Library Services badge on the breast pocket of the guy’s faded denim shirt.
The young man did a what’s it to you? shrug.
‘Actually, the one I’m interested in doesn’t seem to be here. Modern society. Open minds. Lobsters?’
The guy turned away from Joe, speaking as he rummaged in the bin.
‘There’s a bunch of fascists use the meeting room. Can’t stop ’em, long as they book it through the proper channels. I can take their posters down, though. Here. He’ll be back to put another one up. Little Saturday ritual we’ve got going.’
He handed the ball of paper to Joe.
‘Actually,’ Joe asked as he straightened it out, recognizing the same glossy poster from the bus stop, ‘I’ve already got one of these.’
The librarian didn’t even dignify that with an answer.
‘I’m not a sympathizer,’ Joe added, wondering why he’d felt the need to explain himself.
The young man stopped, mid-step, and looked Joe right in the eye.
‘I don’t care.’
‘I think you might, Mark Sugden,’ he said, reading the name from the library name tag as he held his warrant card up close to the young man’s face.
Sugden was probably around thirty. But he had the pallor of a student who’d been left out in the rain a bit too long, the faint air of crusty radicalism, the whiff of protest marches full of white guys with dreadlocks and bad teeth.
‘These lobster people, tell me about them. You know Daniel Cullen? Tall guy, alpha-male type?’
Sugden shook his head.
‘You know anyone else in the group?’
Again, a shake of the head.
‘I know nothing, officer.’
‘They take a vigilante line. Cleaning up the streets, that kind of thing.’
‘That’s the police’s job, isn’t it? Cleaning up the streets, keeping everybody in order, nobody stepping out of line?’
He snorted like a sarcastic teenager and looked down at the floor.
‘You don’t like the police?’
‘Got my opinions. It’s a free country. Sergeant.’
‘One last question, Mr Sugden. Indoor curling? Is that really a thing?’
‘See for yourself. They’re through the library. The meeting room’s at the back on the right.’
Joe checked the time on the poster. That was it. The old fellas had been getting ready to go curling. Competitive curling too, judging by the way they’d been ribbing each other a few minutes ago.
With the librarian now making a great show of ignoring him, Joe stepped cautiously into the reading room, saw that there was hardly anyone there and wandered down between the stacks.
The atmosphere was warm and dry, with that subtle but delicious aroma of paper, the smell of calm, of order, of casual discovery. He hadn’t been a particularly dedicated scholar in his youth, but now, so many years later, those evenings in Nottingham University Library came back to him. Lazily reading Giovanni Guareschi’s Don Camillo stories for the sheer, innocent pleasure, unhindered by any worries about tuition fees, student debt for the rest of his life. It seemed like a distant wonderland that he’d drifted through, and right out of, never to return. He’d chosen a career in teaching, but five years after that he was in the police. Now he was back in a library, looking for the killer of a drug dealer who no one seemed to know or care about. More Divine Comedy than Don Camillo.
He didn’t need to look very hard to find the indoor curling. The raised voices led him right to it. In a long, carpeted room at the back of the library he found a sea of silver hair, muted corduroys and hunched backs. About a dozen men and women were playing, sending small curling stones on wheels across the carpet, each shot accompanied by winces and groans. Yet there was also laughter, a great deal of it, the sound of people having a bloody good time doing something a little bit ridiculous in a location decidedly not intended for it.
‘Fancy a go?’ asked a ruddy-faced man in a maroon Harvard sweatshirt and brown slacks.
Several others stopped to look.
‘Unfair advantage!’ shouted one of the ladies. ‘Look at him! He’s half our age!’
‘And able-bodied!’ someone added.
‘I’ll leave it to the experts, if that’s all right,’ said Joe, sitting down in one of the plastic chairs against the wall.
He watched as a woman sent a wheeled stone along the carpet, garnering praise from the crowd, several of whom were not only able-bodied but spritely. He hoped he’d be in that kind of shape when he was drawing his police pension.
A large, portly man came across and lowered himself down into the adjacent seat.
‘A bit young for this crowd, aren’t you?’ he asked, wheezing a little as he shifted his weight in an attempt to get comfortable.
‘Curling in a library? It’s… it’s a strange one!’
‘That it is!’ He paused. ‘Looking for anyone in particular, officer?’
Joe thought about it.
‘That obvious, is it?’
‘A man your age in a suit and tie on a Saturday morning? Few days after a murder just down the road?’ He held out a hand. ‘Dave Bannister. I was a local councillor for more years than I care to remember. Spent
a lot of time with the police. I can spot you lot a mile off!’
‘I’m looking into the Lobster Pot,’ Joe said, lowering his voice a touch.
Bannister considered the information, nodding appreciatively.
‘That the angle, is it? Interesting.’
Joe hated amateur sleuths. And he hated local councillors. It dawned on him that perhaps he hated too many people. Busybodies could be useful sources of information, though.
‘No angle, just one of many lines of enquiry.’
‘It’s all over Twitter,’ Bannister said.
Joe had agreed to release the fact that the last sighting of Shaw was in Cleckheaton town centre, expecting a few dozen vague and unhelpful phone calls from the public. As it happened, no one had rung, although plenty of people had taken to social media to offer their theories and opinions.
‘Do any of these folk go to the Lobster Pot?’ he asked.
Bannister took a moment, glanced around the assembled curlers.
‘I think Trevor went once. He’s not here today. Having a stent out at Pinderfields.’
‘What did he say about them?’
‘A bit of anti-Islamic what-not, but mainly traditional values, y’know. A woman’s place, smack your kids, that kind of style.’
‘He didn’t carry on going?’
‘Elaine wouldn’t let him!’
‘Vigilante justice? What’s your take on that?’
Bannister shrugged. ‘That murdered lad was involved in drugs, I assume. It’s Happy Valley round here! Could’ve been anybody. Besides,’ he looked at the veterans in front of them, ‘a few of this lot smoke cannabis. Or make biscuits. The grandkids get it for ’em.’ He lowered his voice. ‘It’s better than the stuff they give you for arthritis, now that’s a fact. Oh look, it’s my turn. Nice speaking to you.’
Back in the entrance a woman was putting up another poster on one of the notice boards. Joe paused, trying to guess: Advanced Tiddlywinks, Wheelchair Taekwondo… When she stood back to admire her work, he was a little disappointed. Job Club: Finance Skills.
Having perhaps sensed that someone was watching her, she turned. She was about his age, with shortish dark hair and an expression which managed to be both serious and distant. For a moment she seemed not to understand why he was looking at her. Then her expression lightened.