‘I have a grandson and I have not seen the boy in a long time and soon I die.’
‘How long are we talking?’
‘Not your concern. You have two days.’
Two days. Ben mouthed the words and shook his head. ‘Why only two days?’
‘It’s a two hour trip. I’m being generous and that’s the deal. Find the child. Come back. Get paid. I don’t ask much. But men have failed before you.’
His hand lifted off the armrest. Winston stepped forward, pulled a photo from his jacket pocket and placed it in Max’s hand. Ben clocked the gun tucked into the shoulder holster. Max dropped the photo on the table and sat back waiting for Ben to admire his daughter. A young, dark-headed girl dressed in a floral frock smiled at the photographer. The paper looked worn and the colors had faded.
‘This isn’t recent,’ Ben said. ‘I mean the colors look washed out and she’s got to be a child here. Twelve or younger, if I’m making a guess. How old is she now.’
‘That’s my Claudia. You have two days.’
‘Hang on. How old is this photo?’
He looked at Winston who shrugged in response. ‘Sixteen when she ran with Gypsy boy. Two days you have.’
Ben held his hand out, rubbing his thumb against his finger. ‘Some expense money might be nice, eh? Only I’m going to need petrol I reckon and I’ll probably have to pay for some information and the like, eh? And I’ve not eaten, not in an age because Ivan don’t pay me and he’s got bugger all to eat in that kitchen. I’ve been living off crisps and nuts.’
‘Of course. That’s reasonable. I pay you half now and half when my girl is in my house.’
Winston took out a long, black leather wallet from his inside pocket. Again the shoulder holster with the grip of the gun showed beneath the jacket flap. Winston counted off two large notes and placed them flat on the table. Ben wanted to touch the money, caress the pictures, and trace the numbers.
‘We have a contract,’ Winston said. ‘You have two days.’
Winston stepped forward, his hands taking hold of the wheelchair, ready to steer it out the back exit.
‘Slow up,’ Ben said. ‘Where am I supposed to start looking? A clue might be nice, eh? The Lowlands is a big part of our country.’
‘She ran off with a Gypsy,’ Winston said. ‘Reports tell us she’s living in the Lowlands.’ He shook his head in dismay. ‘The bloody Lowlands with a gypsy. She may as well have gone to hell.’
‘Yes, I get she’s run to the Lowlands, but where in the Lowlands?’
Winston stopped and turned to look at Ben. ‘Try Henwell or Bloxhelm. They have a site just outside Bloxhelm and businesses in Henwell. They drink in the Diggers, which is happy to take Gypsy money.’
Chapter Six
A Curious Visitor
Loubie faced the television watching the late night news report. Ben sat on a stool playing with his empty glass, waiting for the girl to serve him. The news report crossed to a live broadcast. A reporter held his microphone in the face of a large, bearded man. He wore the orange and black prison garb beneath a bulky checked coat. Two heavily armed guards watched his back.
‘Turn it up Loubie.’ Ben smiled and pointed at the screen. ‘That’s Pete,’ he said. ‘He’s still wearing that hideous coat.’
The man on the television pointed up the hill, the camera following. ‘I was looking after the sheep,’ he said. ‘Lots of wolves about this time of year and they’d kill for a sheep if you give ‘em a chance. I’m not allowed to lose sheep. These two,’ he pointed his thumb at the guards, ‘give me right grief if I lose a sheep. The other week I lost one in the river. We’d had a load of rain and she just got swept away. Sheep don’t swim so well and you’d think they would like, don’t you? What with all that wool, I’d thought they’d float.
‘But usually wolves are my problem. I mean Larry and Loretta keep ‘em at bay, but you got to be vigilant with wolves, like. They don’t like fire, but neither does Larry.’
He pointed to his right and the camera zoomed out so the two long necked Alpaca’s came into view. They stepped forward wanting to eat the soundman’s fluffy microphone. ‘The one on the right is Larry. The wolves don’t like Larry. Loretta with the long lashes, well they don’t like her much either, but she’s prettier, so I like her.’
‘You said you saw a man,’ the reporter prompted.
‘Yeah, I did. This man comes running past. He was hurt bad.’ The camera zoomed in on Pete’s round face. ‘He was hurt real bad. He had this big gash down his leg and blood all over his mug. He told me he’d crashed and he had a load of bad men after him because he hadn’t been able to deliver their cargo cuz of the crash like? If he hadn’t crashed it’d been fine, but he was right stressed, he was, and he wanted me to hide him. Then a load of men and dogs and a couple of pigs come driving by, and he ran.’
‘Pigs driving?’
‘No, silly, pigs can’t drive.’ He looked into the camera and shrugged.
‘And did you know how many children were in the van?’ the reporter asked.
In the bright spotlight, her face appeared white, her make-up severe. The wind played havoc with her long dark hair. Pete reached to remove a lick of hair from her mouth and the reporter slapped at his hand with the microphone.
‘No,’ he said, keeping his hands behind his back. ‘He told me people had been hurt, and I wanted to go to them straight away because I’ve got my first aid badge. I used to be in the Scouts, you know. But he said they’d be all right. And I’ve got my ankle tag on my leg, so if I cross that road at the bottom of the field then it sounds an alarm and the warden sends the dogs out to retrieve it.’ He nodded at the camera. He couldn’t stop nodding, but he’d stopped talking for the moment. He’d forgotten the question. ‘He never said there was children in the van, like.’
‘People are bastards, aren’t they?’ Ben spoke to the television. ‘And how has Pete got involved?’
‘You know him?’ Loubie asked.
‘Yeah, he used to hang about with me and Tommy by Blacky’s workshop. He was hard work and had a real issue with boy scouts that got him a life sentence.’
‘Why isn’t he locked up?’
‘Good question. Only Pete could get life and end up working on a farm. And he looks well. It’s so typical of Pete, him being a convicted pedophile, to get found with a van load of dead children. Nothing changes, eh?’
‘You say yes to Max?’ Loubie said.
‘No one says no to Max. Not to his face, eh?’
He retrieved one of Winston’s notes and placed it beside the photo. A fresh faced lass with thick, wavy hair smiled at the camera. ‘Get us a healthy measure of Ivan’s good stock, eh?’
‘Like I’m going to be able to change that,’ Loubie said, holding the note up to the light. ‘Ivan leaves me a cash float of bugger all.’
Ivan slumbered on the small table by the front window. A small pool of drool had formed on the warped wood, the long, loud exhalations producing a rippling effect. The thin, white hair fell across his face, and his arms hung loose with his thick fingers resting on the cold slate.
Loubie filled Ben’s glass tumbler and picked up the photo. ‘Is that the girl?’ Ben nodded. ‘You just got to find her and bring her back. Should be dead easy.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. There’s a child involved, so it’s not just about the girl. But I figure we work on that problem when we get up there. I’m not that keen on visiting the Lowlands, but. I’ve never heard anything good about the place.’
‘Me and Tommy were watching a documentary on the mines in Henwell earlier. They got children, really young children working the mines up there.’
‘Yeah, well children are good for that, aren’t they? Sometimes you need small to get through the tunnels. That’s why they use dwarfs and midgets up there. Tall buggers like me don’t take to stooping all day long. You’d be okay. You’d have to cut your hair, and muscle up a bit. You’ve got right skinny limbs.’
A body stumbled through the front door and grabbed at the chair opposite Ivan. With a grunt, the man collapsed with his head cracking against the wall behind him. The chair swayed under his momentum, creaking as his body deflated. Ivan’s bloodshot eyes stared at the man. He grumbled a nonsensical complaint, before heaving his body upright. For a moment he swayed, then waddled to the hatch, turning sideways to enter the back bar and headed out back to the kitchen stairs leading to the first floor apartment.
Blood covered the man’s face and neck. His clothes wore a green sludge and a foul odor. Injuries to both eyes left them swollen shut and a gooey red mess leaked from his nose and mouth.
‘We going to serve him?’ Loubie said. She was shaking her head. ‘He’s already pissed off Ivan.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Ben replied. ‘He should be sitting in a hospital. Bit of a bitch there isn’t one within a day’s walk.’
The man sat a tin of tobacco on the table and tried to release a paper with his bloodied fingers. Ben approached, picked up his tobacco tin and tipped a gooey sludge onto the floor. He stuck one of his own cigarettes in the man’s mouth and struck a match against the grain of the wall. The man reached forward to the flame, the cigarette trembling as he puffed and sucked deep.
‘Couldn’t get a beer, could I?’
He spluttered a mixture of saliva and blood through a large gap to the side of his mouth. Smoke crawled about his face. A sodden sleeve wiped at his lips before he replaced the cigarette and puffed a load more smoke into the room.
‘You need to see a doctor,’ Ben said.
The man squinted through the smoke and shook his head. ‘No, I’m fine. If I could borrow your bathroom, clean up a bit, might you sell me a beer?’
Ben shook his head. ‘You can’t be having a bath here. You don’t want to be having a bath here. Folk choose to piss out back, rather than soil our conveniences. You see the toilets…’ Ben turned to the toilet door, the noxious puddle lapping at the tiles, and laughed. ‘Go for it, eh? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
The man stood and shuffled the length of the bar, gripping chairs and tables as walking aids. He held the small of his back as he splashed through the puddle and fell against the toilet door.
‘I’m for throwing him out,’ Loubie said. ‘He’s covered in blood, and he smells bad.’
‘He’s all right. Let’s see how he scrubs up. If he’s trouble, I’ll deal with it, but he looks harmless.’
Ben and Loubie watched the news item on the slave trade in the Lowlands. Water theatrics played loud in the toilet. A voice, angry in tone, yelled muffled abuse, and Loubie lowered the hatch to the bar.
‘Yeah, he’s alright,’ observed Loubie, ‘but angry enough to want blood to flow if we don’t serve him, for sure.’
‘Yeah, he don’t sound happy, eh?’
The puddle by the toilet door ebbed with each toilet flush and the man emerged free of blood, but a sour aroma clung to his wet clothes. He’d brushed his hair off his face, but the injuries to his eyes left them puffy and reddened. His shoes squelched with each step from the toilet to the bar.
‘Can I have a beer? I got most of the river Ost out of my clothing, but the smell sort of clings don’t it?’ He offered a soggy, crumpled note.
Loubie held the money up to the light by the till. A big globule of green formed at the bottom edge and dropped to the counter with a splat. Loubie gave up looking for a water mark that might authenticate the note. She turned to Ben, waiting for him to tell the man his soggy money was no good.
‘Just freshly printed,’ the man said. ‘The ink should dry out okay if you keep it somewhere warm and dry.’ He stood with both hands on the bar, the dirty nails tapping a jerky rhythm on the weathered wood. ‘Something strong to start, I think. If that’s okay with you guys. And I’d love a good draught of your finest ale.’ He nodded, wiping at his mouth and cringing when his sleeve brushed the jagged cut to his lip. ‘No hurry, like, coz I’ve got nowhere to be tonight. I thought I’d be working, but I’ve been pulled off the job, so to speak. Huh. Bastards.’ He spat the last word and slammed his fist on the bar.
‘Loubie’s going to serve you, but you need to quieten just a tad, eh?’ said Ben. ‘The Old Poet doesn’t do angry. You want angry, go and drink with the army in the Drunken Duck. They like angry big time.’ Ben leant his back to the bar, his booted foot on the rail. ‘So what happened? How’s the bus looking?’
‘Someone didn’t like my work. Figured I needed to be taught a lesson, but as I didn’t sign up for the class, I figure I’ve not absorbed the teaching too well, like.’ His fingers touched Max’s photo, turning it so he could better his view. He laughed loudly as he rummaged through his clothing and slapped a crumpled damp photo on the bar. ‘Snap.’
Apart from the water damage, the photos matched. Loubie and Ben stared at the two photos.
‘Don’t know where we can find her, do you?’ Ben asked.
He picked up the tumbler, both hands holding the cut glass as he sipped at the golden fluid. He sighed and smacked his lips in appreciation. Color began to taint his grazed cheeks and the twitch in his fingers lessened. He placed the empty glass back on the bar, close to the bottle. Ben nodded to Loubie’s silent query and the man smiled as she topped up his glass.
‘Max’s daughter, right?’
Loubie and Ben both nodded.
‘He’s dying and wants to make it up with his daughter.’
Again they nodded.
‘Good luck with that.’
‘You couldn’t find her.’
‘That’s not the real issue.’
‘No? What is?’
‘She hates her father. I mean she despises him.’ He drank, licking the liquor from his lips before downing the remaining scotch. He knocked the bottle and Loubie refilled his glass. He picked the glass up with the one hand, the tremor almost gone. ‘And she’s got issues herself. There’s a child and she’s got grief with the boyfriend’s family. Gypsies,’ he said, nodding his head. ‘It’s all about family with them and they’ve got the child. So she won’t come back without the child, but they won’t give the child up. She’s been outcast coz she put her fella in the hospital. It’s a bloody mess.’ He pushed the empty glass forward again. ‘And that’s not your biggest problem.’
‘No?’ Loubie said.
He shook his head as he drank. ‘No. You’ll have to come back and tell him you fucked up. That’s when it starts to hurt.’
‘He’s an oxygen cylinder away from death,’ Ben said. ‘He’s hardly the force he was.’
The man shook his head and blew smoke as he spoke. ‘Don’t fuck with Winston. That black dude hurts for fun.’
Chapter Seven
Wanted, Dead or Alive
The aroma of paint complimented the new coat of institution green adorning the police stations walls. Wynona sat at the back of the office working on her computer. The sergeant sat at his desk facing the jail cell, watching a body snoring on the wooden bench. PC Baker occupied the desk next to the sergeant’s, his back to the wall and his pen pointing at a map on the sergeant’s desk.
‘Just after permission to keep the pub under surveillance, Sarge,’ Barney said, ‘I got a couple of soldier mates happy to help out. I’m going to station a soldier in the rear alley and a second body in the graveyard. I’m going to be on beat in the square keeping an eye on that Coffee House. He likes the girl who works there. I still think we should be watching her house. From what I’ve read, she’s been dicking us about.’
Wynona had given up on her work. ‘I’ve talked to the girl,’ she said. ‘And she’s done with Ben Jackman. He got her child shot and allowed Old Doc, that smelly old beggar, to cut the bullet out. She wouldn’t let him within a mile of her house. That’s a certainty, Sarge.’
Wynona had her phone hidden beneath her desk sending a message to the phone she’d given to Ben. GET OUT OF POET NOW!
‘They aren’t going to go gung ho and shoot the place up,’ Barney
said. ‘But they’ll keep me informed and watch my back when I find him. He’s a killer and we need to get him off the streets.’
‘You’ve already been to the Poet,’ the sergeant said. ‘He wasn’t there, so why are you thinking he’s there now?’
‘No, but that dark skinned-girl behind the bar wasn’t giving nothing away. She’s a right liar, she is, and I don’t like being dicked about. Her and that Tommy who lives out at the blacksmith’s can’t lie straight. I caught up with him earlier and he was with a right dodgy group of folk. There’s a wiry-looking foreigner I need to research coz I’m sure he’s a person of interest, I’m sure. And who’s the big old boy with the mass of hair and the stink of skunk?’
‘What you doing bothering Blacky,’ Wynona said. ‘That’s just out of bounds that place. They don’t do nothing wrong to the world.’
‘The wiry chap fits the description for the Projects leader.’
The sergeant sat forward, his interest peeked by the mention of the Projects. ‘Jackie John? You talking about Jackie John? There’s serious money on offer for his head. When did you see him?’
‘Not more than a couple hours ago. But what about my surveillance detail, Sarge? Have I got the go ahead?’
‘Yeah, go for it. Once you done with that we’ll talk about having a chat with Blacky. Getting the leader of the Projects sitting in my jail would be big news. I need to get me a haircut.’ He brushed at the thin, fair strands clinging to his head. ‘The great Jackie John.’ He smiled a goofy grin and stretched back in his chair with his chubby fingers resting on his fat gut. ‘In my cell. That might help people forget the fire here, and me being loaded into the ambulance.’
***
Tommy returned to the pub with a motor fresh off his mother’s street. Ben left the bar to use the upstairs toilet and found Ivan asleep on the floor. His trousers had shackled his ankles and his soiled briefs straddled his knees.
‘Jesus, Ivan. This isn’t dignified.’
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