by Jim McGrath
The men asked if they could have twenty-four hours to consider the offer.
When Hicks phoned ACC Knowles the next day he said, ‘The answer is yes from all three of us. With two requests, Sir. Firstly, we all want Constable Marie Bolding to be a member of the squad. Secondly we would like the squad to be situated at Thornhill Road.’ Both requests were acceded to.
June Greggs and Andy Dewar were released from their approved schools within four months of each other. Their first act was to meet up and shag each other to within an inch of their lives. Their second was to move to Sheffield. Their third was to start fantasising about how they could abduct young boys and girls, murder them and dispose of their bodies without anyone ever finding them.
The End
Until A Death in Birmingham
A Death in Birmingham
By Jim McGrath
Barry Foster was a big man. Over six foot three inches he’d been the tallest and most powerful Marine in his platoon. He still smiled when he thought of his Royal Marines passing-out parade and the party he and his mates had held afterwards. They’d been happy days. Six months later the captain’s seventeen-year-old daughter had got her claws into him and when they were caught naked in his bed she’d screamed rape. He’d spent four years in the cooler for indecent assault.
Now aged twenty-five he tramped the streets of Birmingham wearing an old checked suit, still older black brogues and a grimy white shirt. He had no overcoat, no money, no friends, no future and he hadn’t eaten in two days. The winter of 1963 was setting records as the coldest on record and tonight the temperature was well below freezing. He didn’t think he would survive. He didn’t want to survive.
Turning into the alleyway behind the amusement arcade he stumbled towards the two wooden pallets leaning against the wall and the tea chest. They were just as he’d left them that morning. A torn plastic tablecloth pinned to the pallets give some protection against the snow and frozen rain. The ground between the pallets and wall was covered in two inches of old newspapers and cardboard. Kneeling he eased his way backwards into the gap between the wall and the pallets. When his feet were fully in the tea chest he lay down and rolled onto his back. Within seconds he was asleep.
An hour later the sound of voices woke Foster. ‘Give us the money old man or I’ll fucking cut you and take it.’
‘Fuck off, you little shits. You have no idea who you’re dealing with.’
Foster moved to where the plastic tablecloth was torn to check out what was going on. The old man was in his sixties and he had the look and confidence of a man who once upon a time was able to handle himself. Now he had a pot belly and white hair that only covered the sides of his head. The bigger of the lads swung a punch at the old man which hit him on the side of the face and sent him sprawling to the floor. The smaller lad then kicked the man in the belly.
Foster had seen enough. He stood up knocking the pallets over and shouted. ‘Leave the bloke alone. You want a fight, try me.’
Both lads looked at the swaying tramp in front of them and started to laugh. ‘Piss off and go back to your bottle of meths.’
Foster walked slowly towards the two lads. His legs were unsteady, and he really didn’t feel well. The big lad marched up to him and then took a step back. ‘Christ, you stink,’ he said.
Foster didn’t say anything, he just swung an uppercut into the youth’s belly that lifted the yob two inches off the floor. Bent double, clutching his stomach, the young man had no chance to avoid the next punch, which connected with the side of his face and smashed his cheek. The lad dropped to the floor a low moan of pain – the only sound he made.
The smaller lad backed down the alley and Foster followed him. ‘Why did you kick the old man when he was down?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘I dan’t.’
‘Yes, you did,’ said Foster and landed a forearm smash in the boy’s face which broke his nose and jaw.
Turning Foster returned to the old man who was now sitting up. Foster held out his hand and helped the man to his feet. ‘Thanks, mate. I’m afraid me mouth keeps writing cheques that me body can’t meet. I owe you.’
‘Glad to help,’ replied Foster as his knees collapsed beneath him and the ground came up to smash him in the face.
When he awoke Foster was sure he had died and gone to heaven. He was in a king size bed, in a room that was painted in a soft grey with a carpet to match. A drip was attached to his clean left hand and he felt incredibly hungry. A middle-aged nurse appeared at his bedside. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Hungry,’ he whispered his mouth as dry as an Irish pub after St. Patrick’s Day.
‘I’m not surprised. You’ve been unconscious for nearly three days. I’ll rustle you up some food and tell Mr Summers you’re awake.’
Foster waited until the nurse had left, then tried to sit up, but his head started to spin and he lay down and wondered how the hell he’d ended up here. The last thing he could remember was crawling into his bed between the pallets and wall.
He was too tired to think and lay still enjoying the feel of the Egyptian sheets on his naked body and the softness of the mattress beneath him. He started to drift off when the door opened, and Mr Summers entered. The sight of the older man, with a huge bruise covering the left side of his face, brought back memories of the fight in the alleyway. ‘Thank God you are awake, lad. I was starting to think that you wouldn’t make it.’
‘What…? Where…?’
‘Shush now. You’ve been sick and collapsed after sorting those two bastards out. I brought you home and called a doctor. You need to eat now and get your strength back. Then we can talk about your future. I owe you, and I always pay me debts. Just rest and eat for now.’
Foster felt his eyes start to close and he drifted off into sleep. Mr Summers remained with him until a maid brought in a full English breakfast, woke Foster and started to feed him.
Outside the bedroom George was waiting for the Boss and immediately asked, ‘How is he?’
‘He’s one strong bugger. He’ll be fine once he’s had some food and rest.’
‘What you going to give him?’
‘I’m not sure yet. I need to see if he has any brains to go with his bulk. Are the two lads awake?’
‘Yes, Boss.’
‘Well hose them down with cold water. I’ll be down to see the bastards in half an hour.’