by Ray Scott
Then there was a shout from the pub on the corner. A man had come out, seen what was going on, had retreated back into the bar room to summon assistance by shouting through the open doorway, then he and four or five other men piled out and there was a pounding of feet as they all came running in the direction of the fracas. The gang fled, two of them clutching their heads and one of them running with a pronounced limp.
Fred Hackett and his companion clambered slowly to their feet.
‘Weer did yo’ spring frum?’ was Hackett’s first question.
‘I was coming for a pint,’ Wallace answered. ‘I saw your boat down below so I decided to give the pub a try.’
‘Fuckin’ good job you did!’ said his companion, who was holding his head and Wallace assumed this was Bert. He was bleeding from a cut on the head and his shirt was ripped, he’d probably have a shiner the next day.
‘What the fuck was going on?’ panted one of the newcomers as he arrived. ‘Is everyone all right?’
‘Ah, we’m aright,’ said Fred, rubbing his wrist. ‘But we wun’t ’ave bin if it wor for ’im.’
More people began to emerge from the pub and Wallace started to become uneasy. Before he knew what was happening he found himself being treated as a hero. This was a worry. This could get his picture into the papers if he wasn’t careful, and in turn could put either the hounds or the police onto his trail.
‘It was nothing,’ he protested. ‘Look it was nothing…!’
But clearly the pub denizens didn’t think it was nothing, he received several slaps on the back which nearly precipitated him into the gutter.
‘Come in and have a drink, mate…on the ‘ouse!’ said one man who was clearly mine host and Wallace found he was being swept into the bar-room of the pub by an enthusiastic crowd. A pint pot was thrust into his hand and he was clearly expected to drink it; he had no objections to that. He knocked it back with relish, and then he went cold with alarm.
‘Well done, mate,’ the landlord said. ‘I’ve sent for the cops, they should be here any minute.’
Wallace downed the pint pot and it was refilled, he found Fred Hackett at his elbow.
‘I’ve got to go Fred,’ he said desperately. ‘How do I get out of here?’
‘Ay yo waitin’ for the coppers?’
‘I can’t Fred, I have to go.’
Hackett looked at Wallace quizzically, his eyes bored into his. A simple boatman he may have been, but in those eyes was a depth of wisdom and experience of life.
‘Gents toilet out the back, through that doo-er theer,’ he indicated a door at the rear of the bar-room. ‘Then over the fence, get into the street at the back, then round the corner on the right and then cross the street out the front here, and down the bank to the cut.’
‘All right…just listen. Say you’ve no idea who I was…I can’t stay. Look, I’ll explain later…OK?’
‘Never sid yo’ afore…too dark to see…big blowk…over six foot… right?’
Again his eyes held Wallace’s, who nodded.
‘Yo’d best be a-gooin’!’ he said and jerked his head towards the front, they could both hear sirens. ‘See yo’ at the next lock, aright?’
Wallace nodded again.
‘I’ll just go then, see you later.’
Wallace took several mouthfuls from the second pint and then made his escape, encountering a few handshakes and back slaps on the way, and made his way out at the rear. He clambered over the fence and found himself in a street at the rear. He ran to the right, turned right again and after a quick look left and right ran across the street where he had broken up the fight. He dived down the bank and as he did so a police vehicle was already drawing up outside the pub.
He stumbled down the bank, untied the mooring rope and climbed aboard. He pushed off from the bank and started the engine.
In a television thriller, especially those emanating from Hollywood, it appears to be standard verbiage for the hero to say ‘I’m wanted by the police but I’ve been framed!’ Whereupon everyone accepts it at its face value and the gospel truth, and they all rally around to assist the fugitive and mislead the police. In real life to make such a statement would be quite unrealistic. The oblique reference given to Fred Hackett was enough for him after Wallace had rescued him from a gang of thugs, but Wallace could see that he had a problem. He was reticent about saying: ‘I’m wanted for murder,’ even to a man like Fred, whatever favours Wallace had done him and however grateful Hackett may be.
It was well after dawn before they finally met up again. Wallace had taken it slowly after pulling away from the vicinity of the pub and he had halted further up the canal. He realised that Fred must have overtaken him during the night because as he approached the lock Fred had already passed through it and was patiently sitting on the wall at the far end smoking his pipe.
He emptied the lock for Wallace and he steered into it, Fred closed the gates and it slowly filled. He was watching Wallace closely most of the time, probably assessing his capabilities as a boatman as well as being curious.
‘Bit of a scrap!’ Wallace said brightly as he alighted and they shook hands.
‘Good job yo’ wuz theer,’ was Fred’s laconic reply.
Wallace sat on the wall next to him and there was silence. Finally Fred broke it.
‘Yo’ in trouble?’
Wallace nodded.
‘Yo’ wanna say what?’
Wallace shook his head.
‘A’right, it’s your business,’ he said and relit his pipe.
‘I’d like to tell you, Fred, but you’re better off not knowing… for the present anyway.’
‘Arright!’ he said and puffed clouds of tobacco smoke into the air. ‘But thanks for lending us an ’and, they wuz too many for me and Bert.’
‘Who were they?’
‘Dunno…but they’m everywheer. Bloody gangs of young ’ooli-gans who attack ordinary blokes like thee and me. Not the fust time it’s ’appened round ’ere.’
‘How’s Bert?’ Wallace asked.
‘’E’s arright…’e says to say ’allo and thanks. He ’ad to go early, but ’e won’t forget neither.’
‘Where are you heading?’ Wallace asked to change the subject.
Hackett told him. He had to unload down the canal, or ‘cut’ as he called it and then had another load for Stourport. Then back up to Stourbridge, through Birmingham and back down the Grand Union to London. They chatted on for about an hour and then solemnly shook hands and bade each other farewell.
He gave Wallace a wave as his boat got under way and set off. Wallace watched him go regretfully as he slowly receded into the distance. He had longed to take Fred into his confidence, but with a murder charge hanging over him it was quite impracticable.
Wallace hoped that one day he would meet him again, during the short acquaintance he had begun to feel quite a regard for him. Fred gave a final wave as he passed under a bridge, Wallace returned it and then he vanished from view.
As Wallace fended off the bank he considered his next move. Maybe it would be best to head for the Stourbridge arm of the canal and then look for Murray Craddock’s abode. If Wallace was able to take a few shots of him he could take his leave and concentrate upon threading his way around the canal system. Maybe a further call to McKay would be in order to see if he had found out anything.
It would probably be a good idea to call in the Stourbridge Post Office; McKay had mentioned that he would drop him a line Poste Restante there, in the name of Bramble.
Chapter 18
Wallace circled the house several times, it was on a corner and he examined every car in sight after the bus dropped him at the end of the road. He could see nothing that aroused suspicion; no car was occupied by any sinister men in slouch hats so he devoted his attention to the undergrowth. He became aware of three small boys eyeing him with interest as he peered through one gate into a solid bush behind it; he hastily cleared his throat and moved on. Then he realised he had walked
past Craddock’s house and had to run the gauntlet back through the small boys once more.
He knocked at the door, being still unsure of his motives for embarking upon a friendship with Murray Craddock alias Adam Morris. The original plan had been to disappear within England until matters regarding Ravindran’s murder had been sorted out, using a mode of transport that would not attract too much attention. Taking a ‘part-time’ job in snapping an expatriate Australian to ascertain whether he was the missing Murray Craddock, at a distance, to check that he was who he said he was or wasn’t, or to note any minor changes in appearance to enable McKay and his blasted ASIO friends to keep their files up to date, had not been on his agenda.
On the other hand Wallace needed to keep ASIO and the High Commission on side. Wallace now having partially blown it and established that he was an Australian to Murray Craddock, he was ready to at least pursue an acquaintanceship. He had to admit he hungered for the company of Australians, and since Wallace’s meetings with McKay appeared to degenerate into slanging matches, he enjoyed the thought of meeting with another Australian. So, seemingly, did Murray Craddock. Wallace had the camera with him; being a small one it fitted easily into a pocket.
Craddock answered the door, shook him by the hand and ushered him into the living room. Adele Briscoe was also present, which surprised Wallace to some degree, maybe there was something going on between them. She rose to her feet and gave him a brief nod that didn’t seem particularly friendly. She eyed him searchingly; possibly she suspected Wallace could be a police spy, which, to a certain degree, he was. She greeted him, in those accents which were reminiscent of television newscasters, which not for the first time made Wallace wonder how a dedicated Socialist or Communist could sound like that. Still, had there not been a Red Duchess in Spain during and after their Civil War?
Wallace had a beer thrust into his hand and looked around the room. There was an air of affluence about it, not too pronounced, but again with the beliefs that had been attributed to Craddock by Bramble and others, Wallace was mildly surprised.
‘Have you been in England long, Charles?’ asked Adele.
Wallace took his time replying as he sat down. Firstly he was stunned momentarily by the use of a first name. He had already introduced himself at the shop as Charles Carlton – Charles being his father’s name and Carlton coming to mind just before he nearly said Wallace. Carlton was one of the first names that came to mind. Being from Melbourne Wallace was an avid follower of Australian Rules, and as he groped for a fictitious surname his mind had hastily scanned the Australian Rules lists. Carlton was one of the first names that came to mind that had the attributes of a surname. He had never supported the club in question, but could hardly call himself “St Kilda” or “Western Bulldogs”.
‘No…er…Adele, only a few weeks,’ he floundered. Maybe he should have given a longer period, since the fugitive the police sought had only been in England for that length of time. But it was too late now.
There was a copy of The Morning Star newspaper on the sofa, Craddock removed it and placed it on a shelf under the coffee table. Then he started talking. Inevitably after Australia talk, he began talking about socialism and the manner in which the Americans were trying to thrust their views on the rest of the world. Wallace tried to look interested as he progressed; but as the conversation progressed Wallace was somewhat puzzled, it was as though Craddock was talking to one of his party hierarchy.
As the conversation progressed Wallace made one or two comments that caused Craddock to halt in his tracks. Adele looked enthusiastic with the choice of subject but as the one sided conversation progressed and Wallace made some asides she seemed to be looking at Wallace with some puzzlement. Finally she rose and went into the kitchen where Wallace could hear dishes being placed on a table. Maybe she made some concession in her beliefs of equality for both genders and was starting to prepare a meal. Wallace’s spirits rose, he was famished.
She was, she appeared and announced the meal was ready, and the two men trooped into the kitchen to partake of it, a location that seemed natural for members of the oppressed classes. Wallace had hoped that the meal would divert Craddock from his hobby horse, but it didn’t.
Craddock was fanatical, there was no doubting that. Having made a lead in on Rugby League, which Wallace thought would appeal to him as a Sydneysider, the subject was brusquely brushed aside after a couple of minutes in favour of the situation in the Middle East where the Arabs were being oppressed by US invaders and Israel. Wallace began to wonder why on earth ASIO was interested in the man. Any meeting with his Russian handlers would dissolve into sheer boredom for them in a matter of minutes. He could imagine all the undercover KGB operatives would go back to Moscow to get away from him.
Wallace managed to take a couple of shots while they had a brief look at the garden, it had been suggested by Adele as it seemed possible she wanted them out of the way while she cleared things up in the kitchen and sitting room, or maybe she was bored stiff too. Wallace wanted to give her a hand but she ushered him and Craddock outside. Then Wallace pocketed the camera and forgot it, it was getting dark anyway, and he was heartily sick of the whole business. If McKay wanted a further sequence of photographs he could get one of his own men to do the task.
Later, back in the sitting room, Craddock was in full flight about a Republic for Australia when Adele interrupted him by rising to her feet.
‘Time I went, I think,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’d better give Charles a lift.’
‘No don’t do that, I’ll do it,’ said Craddock.
‘Thanks,’ Wallace said without enthusiasm, he would have preferred Adele, at least he’d be able to get a word in edgeways.
‘Where are you staying?’ asked Craddock.
‘Not far from here?’
‘Where exactly?’
Wallace told him he had moored the canal boat nearby, and promptly regretted it. He felt it was foolish to give too much away so he wasn’t too specific.
Adele began collecting some things together and Craddock disappeared. Wallace looked out of the window into the street. It was a very quiet backwater with a high proportion of foliage. She re-appeared with a handbag and her car keys.
‘I’ll probably see you again some time, Charles,’ she said in the time honoured cliché that most likely meant never.
‘Yes, it has been nice meeting you,’ Wallace replied in the equally time honoured white lie.
‘You and Adam probably have a lot to talk about as two expatriate Australians.’ she observed.
‘Oh yes, indeed,’ Wallace replied with a smile. ‘He seems very strong about politics, doesn’t he?’
‘Well, we all feel strongly about things, don’t we?’
‘Well, I’m not much of a political animal. My voting has ranged from Labor to Liberal in Australia.’
‘What?’
She looked at Wallace with some surprise.
‘Liberal! I was told you were one of his Party friends.’
‘No, I was just an Australian tourist who came into your shop.’
‘Oh!’ her face clouded. ‘Well I can understand it now, I noticed you didn’t seem to contribute too much about politics while he was talking, you just nodded politely.’
She picked up her book from the table and headed for the door. ‘I’m afraid I have no sympathy for people who don’t think strongly about things, but I’ll wish you good luck,’ she said primly as she prepared to leave.
‘Good luck?’
‘You’ll need it, he had a call from some visiting communist party members during the last week or so, they said there was a visiting comrade who wanted to call on him, who was travelling incognito and they were going to meet up with him here. We thought they meant you because they rang shortly after you arrived in the shop. Probably they didn’t mean you after all, must be somebody else. They are arriving later tonight, I think.’
‘Christ!’
‘Maybe I’ll see you again,’ she gave
a stern smile which caused Wallace to wonder whether her desire to rekindle the acquaintanceship was to enable her to make a convert to the cause.
Wallace watched her walk down the drive towards her car, for all her fanatical politics she was quite an attractive woman and Wallace felt a momentary interest. Her eyes met Wallace’s briefly as she entered her car and then she drove off.
Craddock returned and he looked somewhat upbeat, though there was a slight air of puzzlement about him. There had been a slight ‘tink’ from the dining room so Wallace gathered he had been on the telephone.
‘Oh! She’s gone has she?’
‘Yes.’ Wallace answered. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he answered, a little testily. ‘Would you like some more tea?’
‘Yes, I don’t mind.’ Wallace was relieved as Craddock/Morris left him momentarily as he didn’t want a fresh barrage on politics. When Wallace had told Adele that he had been a Liberal voter it had not been strictly true, his tendency had always been to be a swinging voter but certainly his allegiance had never been to the extreme areas to which Craddock appeared to subscribe. Wallace also resolved to make some sarcastic remarks to McKay for subjecting him to an evening of total boredom.
After he returned with a fresh cup for Wallace, they settled down to more conversation, or rather Craddock/Morris did. Yet he didn’t seem to be at ease.
‘Are you a member of a political party?’ he asked eventually.
‘No, never have been,’ Wallace answered.
‘Oh!’ he digested that in silence. ‘Have you ever been involved in Party affairs?’
‘Party, what party are we talking about?’