Turning Blue

by Benjamin Myers

  Brindle walks to the front door and surveys the hallway.

  He will be back tomorrow.

  Brindle leaves.

  2

  THERE IS BANGING. There is footfall and voices out back.

  Someone is shouting his name.

  Rutter. Are you in there Steven Rutter?

  He’s upstairs. He looks down and sees someone cupping a hand to his back kitchen window and looking in. He sees only the one person but hears other voices. A mumbling. His name being said again: Steven Rutter. It sounds alien to him – like they are looking for someone else; someone from his past who he once vaguely knew.

  He walks downstairs and opens the door. His rifle is in his hand.

  Well you can put that away for a start.

  It’s his nearest neighbour. Ray bloody Muncy. Muncy and a policeman in a hi-vis patrol jacket.

  Steven Rutter? asks the policeman.

  Of course it’s Steve Rutter says Muncy.

  What do you want?

  For you to put that gun down.

  Alright.

  Rutter turns and leans the gun against the door frame.

  I’m PC Temple says the policeman and I only hope for your sake that you’ve got registration for that.

  He’s alright Jeff says Muncy – that gun’s as old as these hills. Look at it. He’s had it since he was a kid. Then to Rutter he says: it’s our Melanie. She’s missing. Have you seen her?

  Rutter shakes his head.

  You’ve not seen her out and about on your walks. With the dog like. Up top maybe?

  No.

  Have you been out today? says Temple.

  Aye.

  Where?

  Rutter shrugs.

  Sorting the peckers mainly.

  The policeman is peering into the house.

  Peckers?

  He means chickens says Muncy.

  Live here alone do you? asks the policeman.

  Of course he does says Muncy. You know he does. It’s Rutter.

  I was asking him.

  Aye says Rutter.

  You’ll not mind if we have a look around.

  Rutter shrugs again then steps aside.

  Temple comes in. He stops to look at the gun. He touches it lightly and then steps into the kitchen and is followed by Muncy.

  Listen – she’s been gone all day Steve says Muncy. You know I wouldn’t come up here if it wasn’t serious. It’s just not like her. I’m bloody worried.

  Am I under suspicion? says Rutter.

  Under suspicion says Temple. For what?

  Whatever it is you’re suspecting.

  Who says we’re suspecting. Are you always this cagey? Is he always this cagey Ray?

  They’re sending someone up Muncy says to Rutter. From the city.

  So what do you need me for?

  They are in the kitchen now. The policeman looks to the top corner of the room.

  What’s that – is that a bird’s nest?

  Rutter nods.

  Indoors?

  Aye says Rutter. A wren.

  It’s nesting indoors.

  Aye that’s what I said.

  Well how does it get in and out?

  Rutter points.

  She comes in through the top of the door. Where it’s all rotted like.

  Temple turns and looks at the back door.

  And you don’t mind?

  Why would I mind?

  Shitting everywhere like that says the policeman as much to himself as anyone.

  Rutter’s top lip twitches at one corner but he says nothing.

  Temple shakes his head and mutters Christ and then walks down the passage and into the front room. He has to stoop to mind his head catching the thick stone lintel above the doorless doorway. Rutter follows then Muncy. The policeman walks to the window and wipes a finger through the grime.

  Nice view I’d bet.

  Rutter says nothing.

  I bet you can see your place from here Ray. In daylight. Through clean windows. God man it stinks in here.

  THE SKELETON STAFF are unsure of their roles.

  Usually they are defined but not enough drink has been consumed yet for their workplace inhibitions to have been shed and boundaries to become blurred but just enough of the cheap wine has gone down for ties to have been loosened and the radio turned up. The incidents of future regret will come later in the evening.

  It is the festive season. The office party for a dwindling workforce demoralised by the slashed budgets for a dying medium.

  There are too few of them left for festering grudges or distant flirtations to bubble up to the surface because the Valley Mercury is a newspaper struggling and save for the remaining half-dozen staff the team has been reduced to part-timers passing through. Subs and designers mainly. A production crew comprised of a desperate graduate and two old-timers returning from retirement after careers on Women’s Institute newsletters or the National Trust members’ magazine or the free news-sheets the postmen are paid to shove crumpled through letterboxes. Most of them don’t even live in the valley. They drive in from far-flung suburbs and recently they have even had interns filing pages to the repro house. The old bonds are no longer there and the medium is dying; paper they whisper is pointless.

  They have gone to print an hour early today. The annual Christmas party – four boxes of warm wine and cheese sticks; Classic FM on the radio – has started. Dennis Grogan has dipped into petty cash especially.

  December the 22nd.

  Across the office a phone rings. Production editor Anne Byron answers it then holds it aloft. Looks around the room.

  Roddy. I’d say this one is for you.

  What is it?

  A potential something or other.

  He sighs and mutters: fucksake.

  When London had turned sour Roddy Mace had scoured the job market. Fired off his CV to dozens of papers and decided to take whatever came up first. If anything came up.

  He got offered a staff job in the upper Dales; a surprise posting in a far-flung market town. Apparently experience on a tabloid still counted for something. Had he even heard of the place? He can no longer remember. What he did know: the wage that the Valley Mercury paid was only half of what he was used to in London but so was the rent and – he hoped – the pressure.

  Fresh air. That’s what he needed. Easy work.

  The job and the Soho scene had wrecked him within eighteen months. Left him in tatters. London had been ruthlessly efficient in its near-destruction of both body and mind and this move he reasoned would be a holiday from life – from himself. Sobriety and fewer sexual encounters would be refreshing and it would give him a chance to make headway with the novel he was writing. Yes. He would regroup and rejuvenate. Yes. Maybe disguise his past indiscretions and reinvent himself slightly. Oh yes.

  London had been where he had bottomed out but up here he would get the work done during the day and work on the novel at night. Hill walks at weekends for mental clarity and physical refinement. A more wholesome existence. All of that. Put in a stint for a few months and then think about moving on. Down in the capital he was the northern oik who’d got a lucky break but up in the Dales he could be whoever he wanted to be. He would – he told himself only half-convincingly – get it together in the country and then return with all guns blazing. He was still young. He just needed the hunger to return.

  He took the job and had barely looked at the novel since.

  Mace took the call. He held the phone in one hand and the cheap warm wine in the other.

  Hello?

  Roddy?

  Yes.

  Les.

  It was Les Bunker. One of his newfound drinking buddies in the Magnet. A roofer and fully committed broth-hound.

  Les. Is everything alright?

  I thought I might have a little something for you.

  I’m at our Christmas party.

  You’re not interested in a story then?

  Of course I bloody am.

 
I just heard that Ray Muncy’s girl has gone missing.

  Ray Muncy?

  Yeah. He lives up the back of beyond. He’s worth a packet. Used to sit on all the boards. All that shite.

  I know of him.

  Thinks he’s about something but really he’s just a bit of an arsehole. Still.

  Go on says Mace.

  His Melanie’s gone missing and now the cops are out looking.

  For how long?

  Long enough to treat it as serious judging by the number of blue lights they’ve got up there. I’m surprised you’ve not seen them heading out.

  I’m still in the office. How old is she?

  I don’t know. Fourteen or fifteen. I’m not sure. They send her away to school. She’s just back for the holidays.

  How long has she been gone?

  Since first thing.

  It’s not really a story yet then is it?

  Don’t ask me.

  How do you know all this anyway? asks Mace.

  Our lass ran in to Sheila just now.

  Who’s she?

  Sheila Laidlaw. Our lass’s’ cousin. She runs the Post Office up there.

  And?

  And nothing Roddy. That’s your story. It’s fucking freezing and pitch black the snow is yay deep and a wee lass has gone missing on the moors. They’re got a search party going and everything – what else do you need?

  You never mentioned the moors.

  I’m mentioning them now.

  Maybe she’s got lost up there then. Gone for a wander with her boyfriend.

  I doubt it Roddy. I’m no copper but people from round here don’t get lost up there. That’s for the mumpers and the yompers. There’s been cops everywhere. Ray Muncy’s going spare.

  Mace sighed.

  Alright Les. I appreciate you letting me know. I owe you a pint.

  Or two.

  Or two says Mace.

  I mean she might be alright but she might turn up dead an all. You know what it’s like up top when the storm sets in.

  OK Les.

  THERE IS ONLY one chair so they all stand. Rutter and Muncy and Temple. There are pictures on the walls. Horse brasses too. Everything is coated in dust. The fireplace is an explosion of black on the back wall. A sooted grimace. Temple’s face a pious twist.

  What’s that smell? he says.

  Rutter shrugs. The policeman turns to Muncy.

  Ray – can you smell that?

  Aye. It’s fairly ripe.

  It’s vile is what it is. You can’t smell that? the policeman asks again.

  I can’t smell owt says Rutter. No smell.

  What do you mean no smell.

  No sense of it.

  You’ve no sense of smell?

  Aye.

  That’s right says Muncy. It’s true.

  Temple: how come?

  I took a few knocks to my head when I was a bairn says Rutter.

  What happened?

  Rutter shrugs.

  Different things.

  Like what.

  I fell out of a tree one time. Fell off a roof another. Lost me sense of smell and my hair. The hair came back. The smell stopped away.

  Consider yourself lucky then because it smells like a butcher’s slop-bucket in here. You need to get the place aerated.

  Muncy interjects.

  Look – don’t fuck about Jeff. Melanie’s missing.

  You’re sure you’ve not seen her? the policeman says to Rutter. About five-three. Five-four. Mousy hair.

  I know what she looks like says Rutter.

  Only because Ray tells me you’re always lurking about and you’re the person most likely to have seen something.

  Lurking?

  Aye. Lurking. Up there. Like a weirdo.

  Rutter says nothing.

  Aye says Temple. Bet he can see right into the back of yours Ray.

  Maybe.

  My boss Roy Pinder said you were alright but I’m not so sure.

  What’s it got to do with Roy Pinder? says Rutter.

  Everything in the valley has got something to do with Roy Pinder says Muncy. You should know that by now.

  Do you always answer the door with a gun in your hand? says the policeman.

  Only when folk are knocking on it like idiots.

  Go shooting do you?

  It’s not a crime but.

  What do you shoot?

  Pests.

  Like what?

  Owt says Rutter.

  Poacher are you?

  No.

  Where’s your bloody furniture at?

  What bloody furniture?

  The PC is incredulous.

  What bloody furniture he says. The furniture to sit on you clot.

  Rutter stiffens at this and Rutter stares. Stares back at the policeman that is in his living room.

  That there chair’s enough. What of it?

  Looks like it’s seen better days says the policeman. And so’s this house.

  There’s nowt wrong with it.

  You’re off your rocker you are. He’s off his nut Ray.

  It’s just his way Jeff. The farm’s not been the same since your mother’s day – that right Steve? You’re not so used to minding the place on your own that’s all.

  Rutter shrugs and reaches for his packet of tobacco.

  What about them buildings out back? says the policeman.

  What about them says Rutter.

  You’ll not mind if we have a look around.

  Do what you like.

  There’s a pause.

  No missus? says Temple.

  Rutter snorts some phlegm from his nose to the back of his throat then slowly shakes his head.

  Muncy looks at his watch. Rutter looks at it too. It is large. Too big for his wrist.

  Never been married? says Temple.

  Rutter’s eye twitches.

  The valley’s most eligible bachelor is it.

  Rutter stares back.

  What is it you do up here? says the policeman.

  Come on Jeff says Ray Muncy. He’s answered your questions – this is getting us nowhere.

  Farming says Rutter. What does it look like?

  What is it you farm?

  Coconuts says Rutter.

  Are you getting smart? Is he getting smart Ray?

  I told you – it’s just his way Jeff. And you are asking stupid questions.

  Rutter lights his cigarette.

  There’s another pause. Rutter exhales smoke then speaks to the floor.

  Is she seeing anyone?

  What? says the policeman.

  Is she seeing anyone – your girl? A lad like.

  No says Muncy. Not that I know of. She’s only fifteen.

  You think we haven’t already considered that? says the policeman. It’s me that asks the questions not you Norman Bates.

  Lasses can get up to all sorts says Rutter.

  She’s not like that says Muncy. Not our Melanie. No.

  They all fall silent again.

  Maybe you should look on the moors says Rutter.

  We’ve looked on the bloody—

  Muncy snaps but then composes himself. He points a finger at Rutter. He wags it.

  You better not have owt to do with this Steve he says. I mean it. I’ll put you in the ground myself.

  BRINDLE SAW IT laid out already. From the moment he got given the file containing her photo and family details. The last sighting and so forth.

  He knew the status of the case. These hillbilly plods would barely have managed the basics. That would be a certain. Some door-to-door and a search of the moors maybe. They would have checked the nearest train and bus stations too. Token gestures for the family.

  But they’d have done bugger-all else of worth. Nothing beyond the standards of procedure. Brindle would bet his life on the fact that they’d have shot the case in the crucial first twenty-four hours. This lot – the detectives assigned the Muncy case – would be living in the last century. Reading between the lin
es the notes told him as much.

  He’d had dealings with some of these backwater boys before. North Yorkshire born and North Yorkshire bred. Real-ale-and-a-round-of-golf types. Relics; the last of a breed. Murders were as rare as sirloin up there in the Dales so they never had to challenge themselves whereas as he lived breathed and had nightmares about cases that would turn the local coppers’ hair grey.

  So now they were bringing him in to stick him in a coffin room above a grotty pub where he would be forced to play catch-up with nothing but a laptop a phone and a slim file of notes and the prospect of a cold turkey dinner and his multitude of demons. To hell with it. Christmas is for the birds anyway. To hell with it all.

  AS HE WALKS back up to the moor in darkness he thinks about how even then – even then years ago before this internet business took off – the Odeon X Adult Cinema was one of the very last of its kind in the north of England. A relic. A throwback. A place for men stuck in a sordid past. Men like him.

  Men not fully formed or functional.

  Once a month he made the pilgrimage to his flesh Mecca. Every month and always a Saturday. Salvation Saturday away from the farm.

  Saturdays you could stay all day. Saturdays was when the action was. It quelled the loneliness and released a certain tension. Made you forget. Made them all forget.

  He was twenty that first time. Half a lifetime ago now. So young he was. So green.

  A day off from the buckets of feed and the slopping out and the swill and the slurry and the silage and the poaching and the hunting. It promised this and more.

  And he never veered from the same route down there; he never even considered going anywhere else. No shops or galleries or parks interested him. No. Not he. Hell no. Not there.

  He knew the quickest route all the way down from the dale to the car park nearest to the X and he always took it. He knew how much it cost and the shortest way through the back streets on foot. He never strayed from his route. And he never told his mother.

  He walks now and he remembers all those years ago.

  How you had to be a member.

  How you registered and then they gave you a laminated card that had your name on it and a strip and inside the films were imported projections of writhing bodies enlarged on the screen. The bodily sounds – the pants and moans – were amplified and the lights always kept low to create a dreamlike state and the seats were velvet covered flip-up ones bought as a job lot from one of the great old cinemas across the city when it had closed. The Alhambra perhaps. Or the Rex. Now the seats were worn and threadbare. Indelibly stained.