Bridget sighed. ‘Anyway, I thought you’d like to know about your brother. Maybe you can get him away from them before he’s in too deep.’
Henry didn’t tell her Frank was already in too deep, had touched bottom, his feet stuck in the mud, murky waters swirling all around him.
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll try. Did you happen to get the name of that farm?’
Bridget thought a moment. ‘Brass Farm. Yes — that was definitely it. But you could hardly see the sign from the road. Probably they didn’t want anyone to.’
Henry smiled at the double irony. Where there was muck there was brass and the Jacksons had plenty of brass neck to brazen anything out.
This time, when he stood up, she rose with him. ‘Appreciate you telling me about Frank,’ he said, making for the door.
She followed him onto the doorstep. When he turned towards her she seemed more enlivened, like an animal awakening from long hibernation, the light of life reviving in the eyes. She pinned him now with those same eyes.
‘I loved Tom, you know. Even when I was stupid enough to go out with Jet the main part of me thought I was doing it for him.’
He leaned forward, instinctively kissed her cheek. ‘Consider that from Tom and try to move on. It’s what he would have wanted.’
As he walked to the bus stop, it struck him how conscience was a terrible thing, didn’t always show at the first transgression, lurked until changed circumstances forced you to confront it head on. Of course, there always had to be the exceptions who proved the rule. Frank and the Jacksons? Did any of them have a conscience? If so disuse must have shrunk it to the size of a pea. Or was even that a gross exaggeration?
Riding back on the bus, he mulled over everything Bridget had told him. The Jacksons were engaged in an evil trade and Frank was no better than them. Their nefarious activities were leaving a trail of destruction, damaged lives. Could he sit back or was it time to go on the attack? The more he thought about it Brass Farm could well be the key to bringing the empire down on its own head and Bridget had handed it to him on a plate.
CHAPTER TWELVE
That night, sleep evaded Henry. He’d been out with Mary earlier but was distracted all evening. She’d caught on and, against his better judgement, he’d told her what he’d decided and, in spite of her heartfelt protestations didn’t let her dissuade him. When he left her, he promised he’d keep her informed, then rang Micky and arranged to borrow his car next day.
Rising early, he told John he had business to attend to, something he could only do alone, would be away all day so not to worry about him. He loaded his haversack into the boot, placed binoculars and a camera he’d borrowed from Mary on the passenger seat.
He drove to Saltburn, purchased an ordnance survey map of the area, then parked on the sea cliffs and found Brass Farm on the map. He saw that the land surrounding the farm buildings was mainly flat, not a good thing for his purposes, but there was a line of green trees that ran onto the land. The line ended 200 metres from the buildings and from there, according to the contour lines, a small gully slanted towards the farm.
When he’d finished with the map, he looked out to sea. It was a monotonous grey colour today, white mouthed breakers rising like predators out of the grey to bite down like teeth He didn’t envy the trawlermen out on a day like this. But, then again, would they envy him? He was hoping for a catch of his own; sharks who’d emerged from that same sea aeons ago to walk on the land in the guise of humans.
It was a two-mile drive to Brass Farm. Just as Bridget had informed him the sign was half hidden. He didn’t see the guard as he drove past. Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he didn’t turn his head to look for him either. But once he was past he glanced in the mirror, caught a slight movement in trees growing well back from the road. Someone was in there keeping an eye out.
He used the back roads, found the finger of trees shown on the map, parked the car. Rucksack over his shoulder, he started out, to all appearances an enthusiastic, lone rambler.
Ten minutes later he was at the extremity of the finger of trees, flat land all around. But his map reading had not let him down; just as he’d expected there was a depression in the ground twenty metres ahead. Using it, he could work his way to within 125 metres of the buildings without being seen.
Dragging the rucksack behind him, he bellied his way towards the shallow gully, slid down into it, moved along in a low crouch towards the buildings. When the gully became almost too shallow to hide him, he halted, removed his sleeping bag from the rucksack, laid the camera, binoculars and a flask of coffee laced with whisky beside him. Next he arranged a screen of grass and mud at face level to help camouflage him when he used the binoculars, then settled down to watch the farm.
An hour dragged by and he began to wonder whether it was going to prove a fruitless exercise. Then a car came down the main track. Through the binoculars, he recognized the figure who climbed out. It was a drug dealer he’d seen during his time in prison. Henry’s hopes revived, especially when Danny Jackson stepped out of the main building to meet him and their arms went around each other’s shoulders as though they were bosom pals. Watching the display made him want to puke. These were vicious men putting on a show of hail fellow well met because it suited their purpose, but it was all affectation, all front, and they knew it. They would be prepared to cut the other’s throat at the drop of a hat if a big enough profit was involved.
They entered the house for a few minutes. When they emerged, Danny went straight to a pile of manure piled up against the side of a shed, picked up a shovel. Henry permitted himself a smile of satisfaction, silently thanked Bridget Daly as he used his camera to capture the gypsy digging into the dung and pulling out a bag which he handed to the dealer. He was still snapping away as they walked to the car and did that hugging thing all over again. Finally, the ritual over, the dealer got back in his car and drove off.
Henry relaxed, rewarded himself with a hot drink. So far, so good, he thought as the liquid warmed him; Bridget had been right on the ball and there was still time for more developments. Though it was going to be a long day, he figured it could turn out to be a profitable one for him.
Another visitor, this time one he didn’t recognize, arrived exactly an hour later. The artificial emotional stuff was on display again and Henry captured it on the camera, with Danny excavating the manure again and handing over his little gift. After that, it was back to waiting until, mid afternoon, Terry and Jet Jackson came out into the yard and entered an outbuilding to emerge moments later carrying a sack which they buried in the manure. Henry kept clicking away. This was an unexpected little bonus and he prayed all the photographs he was taking would come out clearly.
Evening drew in. Down at the farmhouse, someone put the lights on and pulled the curtains. Henry, stiff and cold, crawled into the sleeping bag and drained the remnants from the flask. He still had work to do, but he needed the cover of darkness to carry it out. He managed to doze off, awoke to find the lights from the farm were beacons in a sea of darkness. It was time for his next move.
He packed his rucksack, left it in the gully to collect later, then, glad to be on the move, started across the field towards the buildings. This was the dangerous part of his plan, but it would provide him with the icing on the cake if he could pull it off.
*
For a long time Henry stood watching the yard, motionless like a creature of the night, senses alert to every nuance of shape and sound, praying there was no guard or, equally daunting, a watchdog. When he was satisfied, he covered the last few yards, heading into the yard, knowing if they caught him he’d be lucky to see another dawn.
He guessed his nose could have guided him because, close up, before he saw the manure, the stench hit him. They’d chosen well; nobody would go near that dung heap voluntarily. He searched for the spade Danny used, couldn’t find it, so got down, tunnelled with his hands, the smell making him nauseous. He dragged a large bag clear, ope
ned it, extracted smaller bags of white powder, snapped away with his camera. All the while he cast wary glances at the house. No sign of movement there, thank God! Sweating, in spite of the cold, he put everything back the way he’d found it. Finally, satisfied nobody would know he’d been there, he started back the way he’d come.
He was halfway across the yard when the door opened and a shaft of light sliced the night wide open. Henry froze. Like a moth compelled by sudden brightness, he could only stare for a moment. Snapping out of it, he took two steps backwards into the dark, conscious of his boot scraping on the cobbled yard, the thud of his heart.
A man’s silhouette appeared in the doorway. His shadow seemed huge, a night monster blocking the light spilling from the door. The shadow grew longer, was swallowed by the darkness as the figure stepped out of the arc of light. Henry fought his panic, forced himself to stand still. Where was the man now? He had no idea!
Suddenly, twenty yards to his left, a match flared, followed by the red glow of a cigarette dancing in the dark like a firefly. It came from the direction he needed to go, meant the man was blocking his route out of the yard. He edged backwards, smelled the dung heap, realized he was back where he’d started, could retreat no further because of the wall behind the heap. Like a midget heat-seeking missile, the red firefly began heading in his direction. Henry figured he only had a few seconds before the man would be on top of him. Desperate, he did the only thing that came to mind. Stuffing the camera inside his jacket, he launched himself into the dung and burrowed in like a mole.
The smell was foul, worse than any sewer, the urge to gag overwhelming. He daren’t move his head, used his ears to try to pin-point the man’s position. After what seemed an eternity of silence, he heard a boot scraping on a cobblestone. It was so close its owner must be almost on top of him. He sucked in his cheeks, battling against the nausea. Not to be outdone, his body cranked up the tension so that he was conscious of every muscle tightening. He forced himself to listen but the only sound was an owl hooting out there in the night, as though it could see his artifice and was amused by the human drama played out in its own preserve.
Close by, came a guttural sound. Somebody clearing his throat. By now the urge to leap out of the pile and take his chances was almost irresistible but he forced himself to wait. Then he heard a whistled tune, an old gypsy song he recognized, one he’d heard his mother sing. He knew the man was on the move because the melody grew gradually fainter.
A minute later the door slammed and he took a chance. Like a creature slithering from a primordial mud heap, he dragged himself from the dung, stood and gulped down fresh air. He quickly rearranged the manure, then cautiously started back the way he’d come. Lady Luck had almost deserted him at the last moment, but fortunately returned to him again in the nick of time and he walked clear.
Before he drove back, he covered his seat with newspapers that he found in the boot of the car and opened all the windows. The smell was still sickening but he consoled himself that, unlike the rotten stink of those corrupt souls he’d witnessed pursuing their vile trade today, he could wash it off when he got home.
*
John Walsh froze. The spoonful of cornflakes made it only halfway to his mouth. Henry smiled at his reaction and drank his tea. He was feeling better, enjoying his breakfast now that he’d had a good night’s rest and was cleansed of that smell of manure which he’d had to endure on the drive back last night.
John found his voice. ‘You’re serious? You want to take me with you when you go?’
Henry nodded. ‘Have a good think about it. You don’t need to answer right now. Besides, the best laid plans of mice and men. Everything could fall in on my head. There’s a lot of people have to agree.’
‘It’s a big risk, what you’re doing,’ John said. ‘But it’s a way out.’ He put the spoon back in the bowl, stared out of the window, added ruefully. ‘And a way out for me too if you can pull it off.’
Henry sat back. ‘Don’t mistake me. I don’t relish what I’m going to do. Sometimes there’s only one choice, however unpalatable, however much it goes against the grain.’
John’s gaze came back from the window. ‘I don’t need to think,’ he said. ‘I’ll go.’
‘That’s settled then.’ Henry rose from the table. ‘Now I need to get a shift on. I’ve a busy day. I rang my dear brother soon as I got out of bed. I’m meeting him outside the church in half an hour.’
He left John at the breakfast table, put his jacket on and stepped out into a cold morning. Micky’s car was parked outside but he decided to walk. Later he’d vacuum the interior, return it in the same condition he’d received it.
Frank was sitting on the church wall waiting for him. Behind the wall, gravestones stood in sombre lines, an army of the dead keeping silent watch. Henry wasn’t as superstitious as a lot of gypsies, but a shiver ran down his spine. Part of him would have liked to have made one last appeal to Frank, but the rot had gone too far. His brother would just see it as a weakness.
As Henry approached him, Frank smiled, as though he was confident Henry had come here to capitulate, accede to his demands at last. Studying his face close up, though, that smile belied a dullness in his eyes.
‘Seen the light at last, have you?’ Frank’s tone was arrogant, but a nerve pulsing above his eyebrow gave him away. Beneath the bravado, there was anxiety.
‘You’ve got your way, Frank,’ Henry said, affecting a weary, defeated tone. ‘I’m tired. I just want you off my back — out of my life — forever.’
‘Took you long enough to come round,’ Frank grunted, rubbing his hands together. ‘Here’s how it goes, kidda. If you win, you get twenty thousand — I get the same amount. Our nearest and dearest gets his forty grand back. You lose, we all lose — everything.’
Henry cocked an eyebrow. ‘Doesn’t sound your kind of deal. You know I’ve been out a long time — the odds on me winning can’t be that good, can they?’
Frank shrugged. ‘This wasn’t down to me. The old man was foolish enough to lead us into this one.’
Henry shrugged. ‘Suppose so.’
He knew what he knew. Frank was aware he would win either way because as long as he fought Chip he would avoid punishment, or death perhaps, at the hands of the Jacksons.
A momentary spark lit Frank’s eyes. ‘If you threw the fight, maybe I could fix something so we get a share of the betting.’
Henry thought about it. It would be one way of ensuring he didn’t take a real battering. But it didn’t feel right.
‘Five years hasn’t taken away all my dignity,’ he snapped back. ‘Not that you would know anything about dignity.’
Frank snorted. ‘You know me so well, Brother. Let’s hope you’re good enough, or the old man’s savings go down the shoot.’
Henry couldn’t help himself. ‘Nice that you’re so concerned about the old man.’
Frank’s eyes flashed in temper but he didn’t answer.
Henry said ‘Is he going to be there, the old man?’
Frank shook his head. ‘He’s as weak as a kitten, taking the big count but just won’t stay down, the silly old goat.’
That came as a shock. For sure, all the signs had been there when his father came to the house, but he’d been so set against him he hadn’t allowed himself to see how near the end he was. Now he realized his father had made a big effort. But there was no time to dwell on that. Frank was watching him and the matter at hand needed all his concentration.
‘I take it the arrangements have been made.’
Frank put his thumb up. ‘Friday night’s the night. I’ll pick you up about seven with the money. You make sure you’re ready.’
‘And the venue?’
Frank narrowed his eyes suspiciously. ‘You don’t need to know. The Jacksons will tell me and all the punters at the last minute. That way there’s less chance of the law hearing about it.’
Henry wasn’t surprised. It was standard practice to keep the w
hereabouts of a big fight quiet.
‘The punters won’t even know where they are when they get there,’ Frank added. ‘They’ll be picked up in minibuses with the windows blacked out and it’ll be isolated.’
‘That’s us then,’ Henry said. ‘All done and dusted. You’ve managed to get your way, Frank. But there’ll be a day of reckoning. There always is for people like you.’
Frank laughed, but in those dull eyes there was no real mirth.
‘Sounds like you got religion, kid. Heard you had. Hope it doesn’t affect your performance. Me, I’m just glad you came around to my way of thinking after a little — earthly persuasion.’ He jabbed a finger in Henry’s direction. ‘Friday!’
Henry watched him walk away. Just for a moment he saw his mother’s gait, the same slight roll of the shoulders and it made him feel worse about what he had to do now.
*
After his meeting with Frank, the next few days dragged by for Henry, though he was busy enough setting everything up. Mary proved just how much she believed in him by agreeing he should take his plan all the way to make them safe, even though she was worried stiff about him and it would turn her life upside down. Without her assent he couldn’t have done it because it would have meant losing her.
Friday evening arrived and dead on the dot Frank drew up outside the house driving a van. There could be no going back now and Henry knew it. For better or worse, the dice were cast.
‘Mary will be coming for you,’ he told John as he stepped out the door. The youth looked at him as though the end of the world was nigh.
Frank jerked his head, indicating he should ride in the back. He threw his bag inside, climbed in after it. His brother pointed to the passenger seat. Henry stretched his neck, saw a leather bag lying there.
‘I’ve brought the old man’s money. It’s down to you now whether we keep it.’
Henry splayed his legs on the floor, not wanting to stiffen up. He’d put in a couple of extra training sessions, geared specifically to bare knuckle fighting, but was aware that he was only seventy five per cent ready physically for a fight like this. There was the mental side to consider too; the last time he’d fought, a man had died. How would that affect him? Hopefully, he would never get even near to the point where he had to do serious damage.
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