by Ripley, Mike
Unless a juggernaut came round the corner too fast, or a drunken Melanie wheelied up and rear-ended it, I reckoned it was safe enough while I took a swift moonlight stroll in the countryside.
Two problems emerged straight away. Firstly, the lack of street lights, the cloudy sky hiding the moon and the fact that I had left the only torch I possess in the boot of Armstrong, meant my progress was anything but swift. Secondly, the countryside was no place to go for a stroll in the dark without protective clothing and a mine-detector. A space suit and thick rubber boots could have kept me cleaner, the mine-detector might have spotted the strands of barbed wire which seemed to grow out of the bottom of the hedge as if planted there. After about thirty yards I gave up and walked into the village down the middle of the main road where there were only hit-and-run drunk-drivers to worry about.
Even so I almost missed it, spotting the thatched cottage only when I was right outside it and then having to backtrack half a dozen steps.
It was a five-bar gate, a heavy, rusted iron job held, between iron posts, by two hinges at one end and a leather loop which could have come from a horse’s bridle at the other. Hardly hi-tech security; just lift the loop over the post and push.
Not that there seemed to be anywhere to push to. The gate opened into a field or a paddock which I guessed dog-legged round the back of the thatched cottage. Perhaps the students had just found some off-road parking. Without some light I couldn’t see any other reason for them coming and going through that gate.
As if on cue, I was to get my light as I heard a car approaching from the north end of the village.
Rather than be caught in its headlights like a bemused rabbit, I grasped the top of the gate with both hands and vaulted over it, going into a crouch behind the gatepost. The car’s main beams swept over the road, the gate and me and were suddenly gone and the light from them had not given me any time or opportunity to get my bearings before plunging me back into darkness.
But jumping over the gate had presented me with a clue. It was not exactly staring me in the face; in fact I was kneeling on it. What most people driving by and what most people living here would call grass, wasn’t.
I was from Hackney. I could recognise Astroturf when I landed on it.
It didn’t take me long to work out why someone wanted to lay a piece of artificial grass measuring, as near as I could estimate, three metres wide by ten metres long at the edge of a field in the middle of Kent. Under my feet I could feel the deep wheel ruts made by incoming and outgoing vehicles under the carpet of plastic turf and they were deep enough to have been made by regular trips over a period of some time, not just tonight. Somebody had put it down to cover up tyre tracks which showed the gateway was in use. Therefore there must be something through the gateway worth hiding.
I put my back to the middle of the gateway and walked in a straight line out into the paddock or field or whatever it was. Once the Astroturf ended, the ground was firm enough and I could make out tyre tracks and, to my right, a hedge about ten feet high.
My eyes were getting used to the dark and I followed the tyre marks around the corner of the hedge and suddenly there was light ahead.
About a hundred yards away was a single-storey building showing lights in two windows. From its outline, it was flat-roofed and could have been a barn, a large garage or the sort of pre-fabricated service building which still dotted hundreds of disused airfields and RAF stations in this part of the world. I could guess even from where I was standing that it would have metal-framed windows. There was a Jeep parked outside and I didn’t need to get any closer to read the number plate. I had it on tape already.
But I did get closer, in a shambling, crouching run. Close enough to confirm my guess about the metal window frames. Close enough to peep in through one.
They had venetian blinds on the windows but hadn’t bothered to close them so I got a good view. So good it hurt my eyes.
Whatever the building had been, the walls and floor were now painted white, white enough to dazzle and I was on the outside. But students were tough, they could take it. They could take the harsh strip lighting and the cold stone floors as long as they had a camp bed (eight to be precise), a sleeping bag and an individual case of St Omer beer, and there were more than enough for one each piled casually around the room.
They did run to a few home comforts, though: a four-burner stove powered by a canister of Calor Gas, three giant space heaters, a CD-player and tape-deck with hundred-watt speakers, a large-screen television and video, and, naturally, a computer or two.
Four computers, actually, though only one was in use.
The student Mel had called Axeman was hogging the screen watched by two of the others as he began to interact with one of the porno sites on the Internet. From the reactions of the other two, Axeman’s tastes clearly drifted on to the wrong side of sexuality street but they didn’t stop looking over his shoulder.
Scooter on the other hand was more interested in plugging a video into the VCR under the giant screen television.
I moved along to the second window to get a better look, not worrying about any noise I made as I could hear the throb of the space heaters from outside, so they wouldn’t hear me clumping about.
They didn’t have to. They had already seen me, they just didn’t know it.
Scooter pointed a remote at the VCR and pulled a chair over from one of the computer terminals. The screen flickered into hazy black-and-white life and I thought for a moment this was part of his PhD studies into silent Japanese cinema.
Then the picture became clearer as he paused and frame-advanced the tape and I knew what it reminded me of, the sort of footage you get on Crimewatch from closed-circuit security cameras. Probably cameras just like the ones Veronica sold.
But the tape must have been an old one to give such a washed-out picture with almost a greenish hue. I could just make out a road and some houses and then, as Scooter froze the frame, the outline of a car pulling into the side of the road and its lights going off.
That’s when I realised that some form of light-intensifier had been used and the scene had been shot at night.
That night, about forty-five minutes earlier.
Up there on the screen, in dingy murky green, was Amy’s BMW right where I had parked it on the main street of Whitcomb.
I made it back to the five-bar gate without falling over or bumping into a cow and walked briskly back to the BMW.
I wasn’t paranoid, but I do admit to checking every roof, tree and telegraph post for closed-circuit cameras and I didn’t see one. Maybe he only had them facing northwards, maybe they were motion-activated. Maybe he only turned them on when they were using the gateway, after all, he was watching a tape shot whilst he was down the pub so it wasn’t continuous surveillance. Maybe I was worrying about Scooter too much.
In London I must appear on CCTV a hundred times a day, in car-parks, banks, department stores, even Mr Patel’s 7–11. It was said that the cops had a video surveillance unit at Marble Arch which could zoom in on a pickpocket at Tottenham Court Road station the other end of Oxford Street. Why should I worry? These days your fifteen minutes of fame comes with not appearing on a screen somewhere.
But out here in the sticks it was unnerving. The only people who should be allowed to use cameras like that out here were the BBC’s Natural History Unit and then only if they were on badger watch.
I unlocked the BMW and looked behind me for the last time. Nothing stirred. Good; keep it that way.
As I got behind the wheel I thought I heard the sound of a siren in the distance and thought that it would be just my luck if Scooter had reported me for trespassing or violating the Country Code on some account.
I turned the Beamer round in the road and focused on getting back to the big, safe city where you simply didn’t notice sirens any more.
But this was one siren I could not ignore. It got louder and then up ahead I could see blue flashing lights turning across the
road in front of me. Turning into the car-park of the Rising Sun.
The front door of the pub was wide open and all the lights in the place seemed to be on to welcome the ambulance as it screamed to a stop and two paramedics piled out and began to unload a stretcher.
I could have driven on, gone home, gone clubbing, gone to bed.
Instead I drove up to the pub again.
And that was when it all started to go wrong.
11
‘She was looking for a silver tankard and had to get a chair to stand on so she could reach. Said somebody was offering good money for them,’ Melanie was explaining breathlessly. ‘She dragged the chair behind the bar and she must have knocked the latch on the trap-door – the trap-door that goes to the cellar. The chair started to fall through and she sort of fell sideways on to her ankle.’
‘There’s no need for all this fuss. I might leave this pub in a box, but I’m not ready to go yet.’
I could hear Ivy but not see her. I presumed she was behind the bar, one of the paramedics leaning over her, the other kneeling under the open bar flap. Melanie was swinging her chair from left to right, trying to look over his shoulder. Dan was ashen-faced at the end of the bar, his fingers in a white grip around an empty glass. It must have been shock – and the prospect that the pub might close on time for once.
‘You’re not going anywhere on that foot, Mrs Bracegirdle,’ said one of the paramedics, ‘except hospital. We’ll get you into the Royal Victoria and you’ll be flat on your back for a week at least.’
Ivy laughed loudly and dirtily.
‘Heh-heh! I haven’t had any offer that good since VE Day!’
The kneeling paramedic turned and shot Melanie a killer look.
‘Who gave her the brandy?’
‘I did,’ she said sheepishly, ‘while Dan was upstairs phoning you lot.’
‘I only went into Ivy’s bedroom ‘cos that’s where the phone is,’ Dan blustered as if anyone was listening.
‘And you couldn’t even remember the soddin’ number,’ shouted Ivy.
‘I knew it was nine nine something,’ Dan muttered quietly.
I thought that was hilarious but realised no one else was laughing.
‘Don’t you piss me off, Dan Dexter, I’m running out of places to hide the bodies,’ the hidden Ivy retorted. ‘Oooh! That hurts like fuck, as the bishop said.’
‘I don’t think the brandy was a good idea,’ said the other paramedic.
‘I don’t think you gave her enough,’ I said and they noticed I was there.
‘Who’s that?’ shouted Ivy.
‘It’s me, Roy. I was just passing and wondered if I could help.’
I moved to the bar and leaned over. Between the bending heads of the two paramedics, Ivy was sprawled on the floor of the bar, her legs spreadeagled. They had put an inflatable neck-rest behind her head and the kneeling paramedic was holding her right ankle and tenderly feeling his way up her calf muscles. Her dress had ridden up almost to the knee.
‘’Ere,’ she snapped, grabbing the hem of the dress, ‘I don’t show me knickers to complete strangers.’
‘I was in earlier, with Ted and Marion and the Major,’ I said quickly. ‘And I played darts with Mel here.’
‘Oh, that’s all right then,’ she relaxed. ‘Actually I wouldn’t mind another snifter, Roy.’
‘No!’ said both paramedics together.
‘She’ll only start singing in the back of the ambulance,’ said Dan with a twinkle in his eye as he added: ‘Like last time.’
‘I’m sure Mrs Bracegirdle is going to behave herself,’ said the medic who had been examining her leg. ‘We’ll get you on the stretcher and down to Casualty. I’m afraid that ankle’s broken. You’re going to be laid up for a while.’
‘You’re afraid? Who’s going to run my pub for me?’
There was silence at that and the paramedics looked at Dan. Ivy followed their gaze.
‘Oh no, not him. Anybody but him. Get a Methodist minister in, but not him.’
‘Can’t somebody just lock the place up for a couple of weeks?’
‘What? You mean stay shut, as in “not open”? I’d lose my licence. The magistrates told me I had to be open every day to prove there was a need for the place.’
‘That’s ‘cos you called them all Freemasons,’ said Dan and we all glared at him.
‘Where’s Mel?’ Ivy snapped.
‘I’m here, Ivy,’ Mel said from my side.
I looked down into her chair and noticed that the mobile phone that had been clipped on to the side was no longer there. I had wondered why Dan had had to go upstairs to ring for the ambulance. And there was something else about Mel which bothered me, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.
‘You can run the bar, Mel,’ Ivy was saying, ‘You’ve done it before.’
Because she was flat out behind the bar and Mel was in her wheelchair, Ivy could not see Mel’s expression, which was probably just as well.
She twisted her face and gritted her teeth as she said: ‘Not like this I can’t, Ivy.’ She slapped the palms of her hands on the padded arm-rests of her chair in frustration.
‘We could rename it the Walking Wounded,’ Dan offered helpfully.
‘You can just fuck off and die, Dan Dexter!’ Ivy bellowed. ‘You’ll not be walking straight if I get my hands on you.’
‘Let’s get her on the stretcher,’ said the lead paramedic, then softly to the other one: ‘Have the straps ready.’
They picked her up gently and manoeuvred her out of the bar on to the stretcher laid out in front of the dart board. Ivy kept talking.
‘Oh, go on, Mel, you can manage. You know how to do the books and the VAT better than I do. Deliveries on Tuesdays and banking on Fridays, you know the score. You could do it.’
‘I can’t do the heavy lifting, can I, Ivy?’ Mel said, desperation in her voice. ‘I can’t even get behind the bar in this thing.’
‘Then I’m not going.’
Ivy put her hands on the floor and tried to lever herself up. The paramedics nodded to each other and flipped a blanket over her and then two wide straps, securing them with the dexterity of magicians.
‘Oi! What’s with the strait-jacket? I’m lame, not fucking mad!’ she screamed.
The senior medic came over to Mel and me and spoke under his breath.
‘Look, can’t you help out?’
I realised he was talking to me.
‘Me? Run a pub?’
What would Amy say? Get me a solicitor, is what Amy would say.
‘Just for tonight. Lock the place up, send everybody home.’ He looked around, realising that there were only three of us and I didn’t even have a drink. ‘It’s nearly closing time anyway. Just lock it up and make sure everything’s secure. I’ll tell the local police in the morning and they can clear it with the magistrates.’
‘But I’m just passing . . .’
‘I’ll do it if Roy here will help,’ Mel said, not looking at me but reaching out to take hold of my hand.
‘Are you sure?’ the paramedic asked as if genuinely concerned. Me, I might not have been there.
‘I’ve done relief work here for years, since I was at school,’ she said, ‘and I still do the books for her. I’ll cover for a week or so and I’ll let the brewery know tomorrow so if it’s any longer they can get somebody in. We can manage, can’t we, Roy?’
She squeezed my hand.
‘Yeah, ‘course we can.’
What was I doing?
Mel let go of me and wheeled herself over to Ivy’s stretcher.
‘Don’t you worry about a thing, Ivy,’ she said sweetly. ‘Roy can do the bottling up and changing the barrels, I’ll keep an eye on the takings and make sure Dan and the Major behave themselves.’
‘Don’t take any bullshit from them, Mel my dear, and you keep a sharp eye on the money. The keys are in the till.’ Ivy’s panic attack had suddenly vanished. ‘Will I get a private room at the hospi
tal?’
I would have said that was a safe bet.
The paramedic leaned into my ear and whispered:
‘Do you know if she suffers from any sort of insanity?’
‘From what I know, she doesn’t suffer at all. She enjoys every minute of it.’
The three of us stood in the doorway of the Rising Sun as the ambulance’s blue lights and siren faded into the night.
‘There’s a turn-up,’ said Dan philosophically.
‘Poor Ivy,’ said Mel, shaking her head.
‘Anybody fancy a drink?’ I asked.
I awoke the next morning to the sound of a ringing bell, but I was too old and too wise to be caught out by that one.
I knew perfectly well where I was, I was on the couch in Ivy’s upstairs living-room. I knew exactly what was wrapped around my legs, it was the eiderdown from her bed. I knew I had drunk too much brandy into the wee hours of the morning and as I knew I was going to have a hangover, I had been sensible and placed a bottle of mineral water next to the couch. And I knew that ringing bell was not in my throbbing head, but was really my mobile phone. No mystery, nothing to worry about.
Except that I had left the mobile in the BMW and the ringing showed no sign of stopping. Plus, the eiderdown seemed to have taken on a homicidal life of its own and I couldn’t find my jeans.
‘Roy? Roy? You up there?’
A voice replaced the ringing sound. It was Mel. I remembered her quite clearly. If only I could remember where I’d put my jeans.
‘Yeah, yeah, down in a minute.’
I found them behind a chair, struggled into them and pulled my T-shirt over my head as I negotiated the winding staircase down to the bar barefoot and picking up splinters with every step.
Mel was in her wheelchair the other side of the open bar flap. She was holding a handbell by the clapper, tapping the handle on the palm of her other hand. (I had seen it, thick with dust, on the bar during the evening where it was supposedly used to ring ‘Time’.) She had her hair tied up in a bun at the back of her head and wore a tight white cotton top and no bra. She looked an awful lot better than I felt.