Balls

by Tommy Dakar

  At a nod from Daphne he insisted. There was an expectant moment as they tried to interpret the tiny sounds that came from inside the house, then a thin woman dressed in jeans and a large jumper opened the door.

  Ron was about to speak when Daphne held him back. This was not the defiant, strong, healthy woman Mr. Wallace had described. This woman had a defeated air about her, a reluctance, a lethargy bordering on apathy. Just look at her hair, so clumsily pulled back off her face with those cheap plastic grips. Or those clothes, designed to hide her body as if there were something she was deeply ashamed of. Lifeless, drab, no make up, no frills. Even her humble brown slippers did their best to go unnoticed.

  ‘Miss Prior?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Let me introduce myself. Mrs. Daphne Kavanagh. My husband, Ronald Kavanagh, and his brother, Paul, who perhaps you recognise?’

  Stunned silence, not only on Catherine's part, but also on Ron and Ken's.

  ‘May we? We won't take up much of your time, it's just that we believe you may be able to help us.’

  And she took advantage of her hostess's state of shock by pushing past her and making her way into the hall. Once inside she gestured to her husband via eyebrow movements she had trained him to interpret over the years. Come on, we're in luck, it's that Prior woman herself. Get in here before it's too late and bring that half-wit of a brother of yours, too. Quick.

  Ron barged past Catherine, half dragging Paul by the sleeve, and the two brothers instinctively took up position behind Daphne in the hallway. Let the ladies sort it out, they seemed to know what was going on.

  On paper this was an historical moment. At long last this elusive woman, the Curse of the Kavanaghs, stood before them. Eighteen years of mystery and suffering on all sides, eighteen years of supposition and consequence. A generation of ignorance. Here was a chance to recoup those lost years, to find a common denominator, to clear up misunderstandings, to make amends, apologise. Call it what you will, catharsis, watershed, a weight off one's chest, the choice of vocabulary was insignificant. Reconciliation, perhaps even Truth, was at hand. At last, at long last.

  On paper. Meanwhile, back in Burton, back at number thirty seven Tannery Lane, in the wallpapered hall, the four protagonists eyed each other warily. There was a smell of furniture polish mixed in with something cooking, potatoes probably, and a clock ticked loudly just behind them. Ron could see perfectly from over his wife's shoulder, but Paul had to keep twisting and straining his neck to get a glimpse of his raison d'etre. The space was cramped, but Catherine did not invite them into the lounge.

  Miss Prior was outnumbered. She looked at the clock on the wall and realised that Trudy would not be home for at least an hour. It was unlikely that Chris would be back much before lunch either. She was alone. So she climbed back into her shell and waited.

  Daphne however had fully realised that she was in command. Backed up, literally, by her eloquent, learned husband she knew she was in control. Paul, she assumed, was also on her side, albeit theoretically. The door to the street was still open, they were miraculously alone with this woman, Robbie was in extreme danger - let us take advantage of this gift, let us not linger.

  ‘Miss Prior. I'll be blunt. We have reached a dead end and we are at our wits end.’

  She quickly threw a glance at Ronald. I know, badly put, but it doesn't matter now, does it?

  Catherine did not respond. She was not sure if she trusted these people, if she should have opened the door to them. This was the enemy according to Chris and Trudy, and there was a good chance they were right. Not officially maybe, but... The woman had a hard face and beady eyes that cut right into you. Her husband, hiding behind her, must be the one who had fallen from grace. That made the other one the freak who.....

  ‘We are not sure, but we hope that you can help us, tell us something, anything, that may help us, lead us to, to....’

  It was unusual to find Daphne so clumsy with her speech. Perhaps she was not as confident of her command of the situation after all. She shook her head and started again.

  ‘Our nephew, Robbie, you must know, it's in all the papers. Well, we don't know who to turn to, honestly. Maybe it sounds absurd, maybe, maybe, but well we just thought. Oh, I don't know, we just hoped maybe you could, tell us something that might just lead us to find the poor child. I don't know why.’

  Which was true. Now that she had Miss Catherine Prior before her very eyes, now that she had the chance to ask her direct questions, she wondered why she had ever thought this woman could help. Naturally she was part of the puzzle, but how could she possibly know what had happened to the boy? It would have made more sense to ask her about the rape, but that was now neither here nor there.

  Miss Prior was now convinced she could not trust these types who had forced their way into her home and basically accused her of participating in the abduction of a minor. The sheer cheek was outrageous, even if there was an element of truth in it. She had to protect her family. What they were doing was wrong, she knew that, and she could understand these people's anguish over the poor boy, but her family's intentions were noble, they were, after all, only doing it for her sake. She had practised silence over the years and knew how to play the damaged soul. Her lips were sealed.

  Ron stepped in.

  ‘Look. I know you probably have been led to believe certain untruths over the years, and I can understand how much of a shock all this must be to you. Certainly events have veered out of control over the last few months. So firstly let me say how much I sympathise with you for your terrible suffering, and if I have unwittingly contributed to that in anyway I offer my most sincere apologies.’

  Daphne was kicking him from behind but he was determined to have a go, after all it couldn't be any worse than his wife's clumsy attempt, could it?

  ‘That said we need to know if you feel that Robbie's, our nephew's, kidnapping is in any way tied up with, with..... past events. Maybe someone seeking some kind of revenge?’

  A revelation. He was surprised at this, as he had only said it because the sentence seemed to push him in that direction. It was not a theory he had discussed previously at all, it had never occurred to him before, it was pure inspiration. But the flash of movement on Miss Catherine Prior's face made him wonder if he hadn't inadvertently stumbled across a piece of the truth.

  Daphne had spotted it too. Did this woman know something after all? Was her silence protecting someone, perhaps? She was about to begin a cross examination when Paul pushed his way to the front.

  He had been waiting for a lull in the conversation, but Ron and Daphne did not understand the effect of a pause, and this was an opportunity he could not let pass. For many months now he had been plagued by the idea that he should have sought personal retribution from this woman, that if he had contacted her, in person, one on one, if he had been able to put across to her his point of view, his deep and sincere sympathy, his willingness to make up for what his father had done not only to her, but to universal womanhood, then..... Or something along those lines. What if the President of the United States of America humbly apologised for fabricating evidence as a pretext for invasion? Or if the Pope begged forgiveness for all those corrupted choir boys? Would it have helped if, instead of using self castration as a symbol, he had given her the sheepshears? He wrung his hands and half shouted,

  ‘It is all my fault. I should have sought you out earlier, I should have come to you and offered myself up. Only you can forgive the sins committed. Mine was an act of...’

  Catherine had backed off in horror. Who was this man and what the hell was he rambling on about? Ron to the rescue.

  ‘Stop it! Leave it to us, for Christ's sake, you're scaring the bloody wits out of the poor woman. God help us. Just shut up and leave it to us. Sorry.’

  ‘We are all a bit nervous, I'm afraid,’

  justified Daphne. They both pushed Paul behind them again. What an idiot. They had hit the jackpot and were about to crack the cas
e when....... Leave it to us, for heaven's sake. Councillor Kavanagh, please.

  ‘Yes, well I've had enough pussy footing about the bush. What do you know? Come on, if you know something, anything, let us know. He's just a child, for heaven's sake, just a poor little child and they're going to kill him.’

  ‘If I could only make amends....’

  ‘Just shut up. Well, come on I know you know something, you can't stay silent all your life, you know. And let me tell you my good woman that withholding evidence is against the law. The penalties for doing so are very severe.’

  ‘I'm not sure that browbeating her is going to...’

  ‘Leave this to me, dear. She knows something, we can both see that. This is serious business, it's about murder and abduction, and if this woman knows something, anything at all, then she should start by telling us. If not, then I'm sure the police would love to pay her a visit, eh? And you just stay put and keep quiet, ok?’

  Impasse, stalemate, a stand off, call it what you will, they all froze frame waiting for someone to give, to make the first move, to break the silence.........

  …............. as a red Ford Focus drove past unnoticed. In the passenger seat Danny recognised Ron's car with its tell tale scratches, and informed his Dad. They could see Catherine's back through the open door, and she was not alone. The Kavanaghs! Chris's initial impulse was to ram on the brakes and rush to her rescue, kill a couple of the bastards, take them down with him. But reality and caution urged him to keep driving.

  This time they were not going to get their long sought after revenge. Reluctantly he recognised defeat. He had read the latest news, all that rot about neo Nazis, and if the Kavanaghs had already dug them out, it would not be long before the place was swarming with cops.

  ‘Where's Tommy?’

  ‘At school.’

  ‘Are you one hundred percent sure? He's not out with Bobby?’

  ‘No, he's at school. Anyway he's got his control today so he'll have to stay on.. I'm on next, two o'clock.’

  The contingency plan, then. They felt sorry for Bobby, but it was the only way to throw the police off the scent. There was a sense of defeat, of missed opportunity. It was a tragedy, they had lost the battle this time just when they had been so close, but it was futile to fight against fact, their vengeance would have to wait. They drove on past the house and out of Tannery Lane.

  Mr. Morton pulled up at a public phone booth and dialled the help line number which was in every shop window.

  ‘Listen to me carefully, I am only going to say this once.’

  1

  Down by the river, along the overflow canal which slips under bridges and slides over weirs on its way out of town, a piece of thick, transparent wrapping plastic was snared on a wire fence. Battered and dulled by the weather it flagged desperately in the wind trying to catch our attention. It had a story to tell if only someone would listen. But nobody did. There was no chance witness in a passing car, no Mr. Murray the milkman, no horribly surprised cyclist.

  If it were not for the time element the perfect crime would not exist. We all leave our mark. But the evidence must be collected, like mushrooms, at dawn, or it will vanish under the bright light of day. Tyre tracks will be lost in the rain, cigarette butts, like ugly flowers, will burst open then disintegrate into the soil. Eventually time will wipe the scene clean; moor hens will continue to breed in the rushes, children will return to play along the footpath, the river will flow on regardless. What really happened will dissolve into the past, vital clues will turn to dust, and History will be nothing more than conjecture.

  So it is possible that nobody will ever know that Mr. Sam Kavanagh had never laid eyes on Miss Catherine Prior, let alone raped her. He had learnt there was an easier, safer, less traumatic way to force a woman – money. As he so bluntly put it, there are always plenty of them that want to go from rags to bitches. He had been an assiduous client of various whore houses in and around Burton, most of them curiously baptised with extraterrestrial names - Paradise, Big Bang, The Black Hole. They were often lurid, tacky places, despite the gilt and gloss, very business like and to the point. Which was what he had been searching for; a no strings attached, now you see me now you don't job well done.

  Until he had listened to Maika's tale.

  Maika worked at The Black Hole, which was basically a warehouse swathed in neon and cheap red upholstery, with the bar area taking up the ground floor, and a number of 'offices' on the first floor. It stood in the middle of an industrial estate on the outskirts of Burton, but because of its youthful staff, its well-tended car park and professional looking security guards it was considered to be one of the finest brothels in the area.

  Maika said she was from Bulgaria, that she was a dancer, a very good dancer, with classical training. She told him she had been hoodwinked, that she had been led to believe she was going to form part of a ballet troupe that would perform in important venues across the nation. Instead she had been raped, beaten, her passport taken, her family threatened. Her pimps said she had run up a huge debt with them, a debt that was always on the increase as they now charged her board and lodgings. If only she could earn a little money without her jailers knowing, but she was trapped, she was a sex slave, she was alone and had no-one to turn to. Except big Sam. Big Sam and his big heart.

  But Maika was not the name that appeared in her passport, she had picked it up from a brand name she had seen on a coffee machine. It was her artistic name. She had arrived with her pimp lover from the Ukraine, and the idea of her unfortunately feasible tale of woe was to milk a little extra payment from unwitting clients by appealing to their compassion. She knew which ones she could rely on to leave her a little unofficial extra cash - the gullible ones like Sam Kavanagh.

  Her bosses knew of her false accusations, but as all their sex workers were legally presentable, they had no real qualms about her yarn spinning, as long as they got a cut. Anyway, they concluded, it was not such a bad thing that their customers suspect them of mafia tactics, it created an aura of menace that helped keep the young stallions on a short rein. It was also comforting that a great deal of Burton's elite were amongst their clientèle, so a midnight raid was out of the question.

  Although Sam had swallowed Maika's tale, he was not one for crusades, and had no intention of going to the police or standing up for her against her bosses. Mainly because he had no respect for any of them, they were merely a bunch of unscrupulous whores and pimps, foreigners mostly, and in reality he couldn't care less one way or the other what they did to each other or why. However, he had started to feel a certain amount of animosity towards the owners and their sadistic methods, especially after half a dozen pints.

  Like one fateful night, the eleventh of October, as Miss Prior enjoyed herself at a house party not far from a piece of wasteland outside Mercury Carriers Ltd. Too drunk to require Maika's attentions, he started to rant at Luis, a body building Portuguese bouncer, mixing accusations with insults. Dead pan Dmitri tried to intervene, but was met with a barrage of expletives and a lunge. This undesirable person would have to be removed from the premises. Sam's resistance was a little more than they had at first imagined, and they were forced to take him into a back room where they could make him see reason away from the gaze, or rather glaze, of the other punters. As Quigley's dossier had so correctly pointed out, Sam was not an easy man to subdue, and Luis and Dmitri had to break into a sweat before they eventually downed him by administering an expert blow to the head with a baseball bat. Sam slumped to the floor and never moved again.

  Manslaughter is not good for business, and after a hasty consultation it was agreed that the corpse be disposed of. Luis and Dmitri would have to clean up their own mess. They wrapped Sam in a large piece of plastic they found in the store room and with difficulty hoisted him into the boot of a car. Dmitri's car because the boot was larger, as was Luis.

  They would also need some bricks, which they would pick up from a build on the way,
some rope, and a large sack, a very large sack, which proved impossible to find at such short notice.

  Sam's lifeless body was unceremoniously dumped on the tow path, where part of the plastic sheet, by now torn in various places, ran off on the wind to call for help. There was enough forensic evidence caught on that wire fence, enough blood, sweat, and fingerprints to tidy up the case in record time, but unknown to Luis and Dmitri, events on the other side of town would divert attention and help cover their tracks. The cadaver was tied and weighted, then rolled into the deepest part of the canal.

  One day, perhaps, his remains would eventually be discovered during a dredging operation. But by then it would be too late, for everyone.

  Then who raped Miss Prior and unleashed all the hate? You turn to the author,

  who is ubiquitous and omniscient, like god. But even god holds his cards to his chest. So you are left to be the judge of things you neither witnessed nor understood.

  5.....

  At the extreme end of the upper level of the shopping mall, close to the access to the car parks, an enclosure had been built for children. The theme was The Jungle, and the elaborate cages were decorated with plastic stickers of cheeky monkeys and smiling giraffes. At a price, the kids could deposit their shoes at the entrance, then work themselves into a frenzy while their parents watched on, safe in the knowledge that their offspring, flushed and sweating, would eventually find their way back to civilization.