Turning Blue

by Benjamin Myers

  The dancers move in unison. They weave and they reel and they duck and slot their swords into configurations. Over the shoulder and under the arm; round the back and through the legs to form interlocking latticed shapes. The fiddler speeds up and the men follow picking up their pace. There is a brisk skip in their steps now. A hand-clap starts up from the crowd. The dancers reel in an even tighter circle with their faces more concentrated as blades cross and clatter. Feet shuffling and stamping. The clapping increases and the crowd closes in even tighter around Rutter.

  The sun is out and the breeze brings in a warm front. Rutter starts to sweat in his many layers. Winter is finally in retreat. It is being danced away and cast out.

  The fiddler’s bow is bouncing off his strings as the dance fans out now. Each man holds on to the tip of his neighbour’s blade then they swoop in tight again and three of the men duck down and let go and make a half-turn then come up to create a new shape with their blunted blades. One man shouts and the blades come unstuck and then the dancers are marching a quick-step in the same direction – like bloody show ponies thinks Rutter. The clapping from the crowd is getting louder and his shirt collar suddenly feels tight like it is closing in around his neck. There are bodies squashing against him; the bodies of people clapping and laughing and grinning but then when they push up against him their faces change. They scowl. He has to get out. He has to leave.

  He pushes back through the crowd the way he came but after a few moments a hand closes on his shoulder. It clamps on with strong fingers curling around his scapula and pressing down hard. Rutter flinches. Rutter thinks of broken bones and a lolling neck and open wounds and flies laying eggs. Rutter thinks of a cold kiss on lips turning blue. The firm feel of them.

  It is a man with a beard. Rutter turns and shirks. He tries to free himself from the grip but it holds. Tightens. Rutter turns and sees a man with thick hair over his ears and a heavy beard flecked with grey at the chin.

  Steve says the man.

  It’s Muncy. It’s bloody Ray bloody Muncy. The man’s barely recognisable to him.

  The vice grip loosens then turns into an arm flung around his shoulder as the crook of his arm bends around Rutter’s neck and the Long Sword dance crowd closes in around them again. The clapping is getting faster and louder as the fiddler’s elbow jerks and thrusts.

  Rutter sees a change in his neighbour. He sees burst capillaries and ageing. He sees that something has snapped deep inside.

  You look different.

  I am different Steve. I am different.

  Muncy smiles as he says this but it is a non-smile. An unsmile. A lie on his face.

  Rutter wonders why Muncy has his arm around him. He has never done that before. He can see Muncy’s fillings. He wants to not see his fillings. He wants to not have Muncy’s arm around him.

  The dance is reaching a frenzied pace now. Rutter can hear it in the fiddle player and the clogs on the flagstones and the way the crowd is clapping faster and louder still.

  Not seen you since the snow says Muncy. Not since Melanie. Strange isn’t it? How someone can just disappear like that. No one can know what it feels like until it happens to them. It keeps me awake at night the thought of her. June’s in bits. You’ve no doubt heard. Gone to pieces.

  Rutter shakes his head.

  Oh yeah I forgot you’re Steve Rutter the village idiot keeps himself to himself and never asks questions. Stuck up that farm. Tied to that farm for life aren’t you. You and your secrets.

  Muncy finally loosens his grip and Rutter steals a glance at him. His eyes are glazed. Different. Something has changed inside Muncy forever.

  Rutter shakes his head.

  But I thought your mother had made it so says Muncy. Old Aggie’s final cruel trick. Keeping you tied to our little hamlet till when?

  Rutter turns away again and mumbles but he is trapped by bodies. The dancers are red-faced dervishes whirling in the May sunshine.

  What’s that? says Muncy.

  Till I’m fifty says Rutter.

  Say again? says Muncy.

  Till I’m fifty.

  Oh aye that’s right says Muncy. Until you turn fifty. Must be a hard one to take that but Steve. Knowing that wreck of a house is yours and all them outbuildings too – I mean the land alone’ll be worth a sum that someone like you can’t comprehend. And then to find out from the solicitor how she wrote it into the paperwork that whatever happens to her you have to stay until you’re fifty before you’re allowed it. Jesus man. That’s a betrayal is that.

  Rutter says nothing so Muncy continues. There is venom in his words now.

  Stuck up on the dark side of the dale like that he continues. Them turbines whirring away all day and all night and the rest of the world around you changing and you not being able to leave for years and years. No wife no kids no company. Just some stupid pigs and some half-bald chickens. That’s not farming; that’s desperation. No escape and knowing that if you left you’d have nowt. Legally nothing. The farm the land the buildings the stock – all that would revert to the government. They would take it all. Just sitting there waiting for time to pass waiting until you turn fifty. Must be a decade or more by my reckoning. That’s a life sentence is that.

  Rutter shrugs and makes to turn away but Muncy has him in his grip again.

  You’ve got to ask yourself why she would want to do that to her own son. Keep him tied up in red tape like that. It’s like she never wanted you to have a life Steve. It’s like she’s laughing at you. Mocking you Steve. It’s enough to turn you funny is that. But still I’d swap my life for yours in a heartbeat if I thought it would bring our Melanie back.

  Something flashes in his eyes. Across them. Like a shadow at the back of his mind.

  Just to see her face says Ray Muncy. The police had you down as a suspect you know.

  The police had you down as a suspect as well says Rutter. I heard them say so.

  They raided you though.

  They turned up he says.

  Muncy is pressed in close to Rutter and all Rutter can think about is getting away. Turning and walking then running through the crowds and out of town. Up the valley and through the hamlet and across the hill. Maybe he’d keep going. Past the farm out the back and up to the top. Across the moors to the deep dark water to memories of the way the silver moon played across its surface last winter and how thin frosted fractals of ice formed on the stiffened sand of the shore.

  The dance reaches a climax as the men shout and thrust six swords together to create a hexagram while the seventh pierces it and holds it high. The crowd cheers and whistles.

  Muncy still has the same desperate smile playing about his mouth. The broken look in his eyes. Around them the crowd loosens and relaxes and breathes a collective sigh.

  Funny how they never got you on anything.

  How do you mean? says Rutter.

  Well they say that that Brindle is the best.

  So?

  It’s almost like you knew they were coming.

  Rutter looks away but Muncy’s face is in his. It is inescapable. Muncy’s grip and the push of the crowd holds them together. He grimaces beneath his beard; his eyes are desperate and his eyes are deranged as they search his mind for an answer.

  Our Melanie –

  They are face-to-face now their eyes black as something tightens in Muncy.

  If ever I find out –

  Muncy cannot finish the sentence; doesn’t need to. His hand grips harder still but this time Rutter doesn’t shirk or flinch and doesn’t even blink. Muncy’s eyes search Rutter’s now but he sees that they are black and they are still and they offer nothing in response.

  MACE SEES RAY Muncy lurking behind a rack of faded birthday cards in the newsagent’s. Mace is buying his morning cigarettes and escaping the thrust and pull of the Long Sword dance crowds. His head is thumping to the beat of a distant bodhrán.

  Muncy looks nervy. Wild. He corners Mace on the way out.

  You’re
the writer lad aren’t you?

  Yes he replies. Roddy Mace. And you’re Ray Muncy.

  He extends a hand but Muncy ignores it.

  You’ve been helping that copper Brindle look for our Melanie.

  Yes says Mace. He makes sure to choose his words carefully. I covered the initial story. You know I was really sorry that—

  Have you heard about Larry Lister?

  What? says Mace slightly thrown by the question. What about him?

  They’ve got him.

  Who has? What do you mean?

  He’s been done this morning. Sex stuff. An underage lass. Maybe loads of them. Boys maybe. I don’t know.

  The TV presenter?

  Of course the TV presenter says Muncy. Yes. Lovely Larry. Uncle Larry’s Party and all of that shite.

  Bloody hell says Mace. Then again it’s no great surprise though is it?

  How’s that?

  The guy’s a creep. Anyone can see that. There’s been rumours for years.

  Yet no one did anything about it.

  Yes says Mace. It would seem that way.

  He used to come up here a lot you know. Uncle Larry. I used to see him about.

  Where? Town?

  Oh aye. Friend of Roy Pinder’s.

  Really?

  Yeah. Two creeps together.

  You’re not a friend of Roy’s then? says Mace. Didn’t you two go to school together?

  If you’re asking then you probably know that we did. And no we’re not mates. Roy Pinder has his own friends and his own ways of doing things.

  How do you mean exactly Mr Muncy?

  Use your noggin lad. Everyone knows Pinder runs things round here. He doesn’t run Ray Muncy though. Heck no. None of them do. Why do you think I moved all the way up to the top of the valley? To get away from him and his lot. Bull Mason and their friends in the city. Because they can’t bend me that lot. No way. Pressuring me to do all sorts of things.

  Would you care to explain what exactly?

  No I would not says Muncy. That’s best left unsaid for now; I’ve still got businesses to run. But you should look into Pinder and Larry Lister. Thick as thieves those two.

  He turns to leave.

  Larry Lister he says again. A whisper this time. He’s a filthy sod. Pinder too. You investigate that.. Find it out and bring them all down. This town can burn for all I care.

  You might be surprised says Mace but you’re not the only person who thinks that.

  BRINDLE LURKS. BODIES press against him.

  Here’s up here again. Town.

  He can’t leave it. The valley.

  The valley has haunted him. The town has got him. The hamlet too.

  They ribbed him about it when he first left Cold Storage and came up here when the case was first called. They stuck a picture of Edward Woodward burning in the giant wicker effigy on his monitor.

  And now winter has birthed spring and many weeks have passed and there’s still no body and no evidence and no leads. Set it aside they said. Leave it be. There’s fatter files in Cold Storage. New cases coming in. You don’t even know she’s dead. Put her down as a runaway and come back to it later with a clear head.

  But this is Brindle and he has silently relived the disastrous raid of Christmas Day time and time again. He has tortured himself with the shame. All those officers dragged out at night on their one assured day off. The turning-over of Rutter’s house and being outwitted. That’s how he felt. Outsmarted by an unhygienic imbecile.

  He had got drunk. He had shamed himself. He had nearly broken himself.

  They had seen a difference at work. Supe Alan Tate had said he was losing focus Supe Alan Tate had recommended counselling. Said Brindle was only human and all humans needed help from time to time. Cognitive behavioural therapy he said. It’s a way of rooting out the causes of anxiety. Of righting wrongs and moving on. Nothing to be ashamed of he had said. A lot of the detectives had it – especially here in Cold Storage. Brindle had said he would think about it.

  No need Tate had said. He was already booked in.

  All part of the twenty-first century policing package he had said.

  So he had had to come back: to right this wrong. There was no question. It’s like a different world up here today. He barely recognises the small country town now that it is no longer covered in the stifling blanket of silent white.

  With the residents out in the sunshine after months of winter darkness and the music and the dancing and the hog roasts he could almost grow to like the place on a day like this. Almost – were it not for the folk crimes. The stories and secrets buried in the soil.

  He would find her. He would not give up. He told himself he was doing it for the girl and doing it for the family but deep down he knew that more than anything he was doing it for himself.

  THE SCREWS ARE practically queuing up to get a look at him. They don’t know how to react. On the one hand he’s suspected of committing the worst of the worst crimes but on the other he’s Lovely Larry Lister. Larry Lister – here and in their care.

  He’s as much a part of their childhoods – all their childhoods because Lister has not been off the idiot-box for fifty years – as bicycles and scabby knees. And so it confuses them now seeing him sitting in his cell and wearing the same fat trainers they’ve seen a thousand times on television (the only difference now is the necessary removal of his laces).

  Surely not Larry? No. Not Larry. It must be a mistake.

  He’s under protection yes but Lovely Larry Lister seems in good spirits. None of this suicide-watch nonsense that they usually employ on the beast wing. No. He has a grin and a nod of the head and a wave of the hand for everyone. Keep smiling he says to the screws – even to those who aren’t – and be lucky.

  Some of the younger POs forget protocol and have their pictures taken with him on their phones. They open up his cell door and stand next to him against the dull taupe gloss wall. They want to put their arms around the big man but do not dare to because how would that look – befriending a (if the charges are to be believed – and amongst the screws they are always believed until proven otherwise) sexual predator? They exchange small talk though. Small talk and banter is fine. They quiz him. They ask him about television and who is the most famous person he has met and the millions he has raised for charity and how many houses he owns and how many birds he’s shagged and Christ who does your hair? and is he comfortable. How is he set for smokes and Mars bars?

  None of them asks if he did any of the things that the newspapers have been drip-feeding out to the public on a near-daily basis. Each more extreme than the last and a growing gallery of faces of those new victims coming forward to make statements.

  Because to hear an admission of guilt from Lovely Larry Lister would be like having a small part of their own childhood destroyed; hearing Lovely Larry Lister confess to those crimes would be an abuse of the trust they had placed in the man who has been with all of them for all of their lives.

  Perhaps Larry Lister knows this. Perhaps this is why he continues to wear the mask he always wears. That of smiling wisecracking joshing punning Lovely Larry Lister: son of Yorkshire and lynchpin of light entertainment. King of television.

  MACE IS SIPPING bitter instant coffee and watching the live broadcast of Larry Lister being released on bail. Everyone in the office of the Valley Mercury is watching.

  He comes out not under a dull military-grey blanket thrown shamefully over his head in the scrum nor by a side door two hours before the morning press have assembled but walking purposefully out the front door where he pauses at the top of the old granite steps and forces a smile that inadvertently twists into a smug sneer. He is wearing what appears to be a freshly tailored Harris tweed three-piece suit beneath which he sports a Hawaiian shirt and down below a garishly luminous pair of Nike trainers and matching baseball cap worn askance at a jaunty angle. Mace sees the stringers and paps swarm him: Larry Larry. Over here Larry.

  The face of light ent
ertainment – the man who is the history of British television – raises his hands in a gesture of supplication. He smiles. Appeals for calm.

  Out of the melee of flashbulbs and elbows comes a voice louder than the rest – the recognisable bellow of one of the Yorkshire Evening Post’s most ardent stringers.

  Larry – what do you say to the accusations that you’re a sexual predator?

  Having clearly had plenty of time to prepare for this scenario Lovely Larry Lister removes his electronic cigarette from his pocket and draws on it before exhaling a thick fug of synthentic cherry smoke into the lenses of the assembled throng and with a big beaming smile as if he is anchoring the opening night of Get Down and Groove back in sixty-three he winks at the assembled throng of hacks snappers coppers supporters fans jeerers protesters amateur bloggers autograph-hunters iPhone-wavers and rubber-neckers and says: keep smiling people keep smiling – and be lucky.

  And then as Lister pushes through the crowd Mace hears a smaller voice – one that is thick flat and defiantly Yorkshire – picked up by the BBC’s boom mic as the big man himself passes by.

  You’re going to need all the fucking luck in the world pal.

  And back to the studio.

  BRINDLE HAS BEEN back up to the hamlet – how many times? Many. Every weekend plus numerous midweek visits. In any free time he has made his excuses from Cold Storage – from his other cases – and put on his walking boots and filled his rucksack and made entire days of it.

  He has got to know the higher slopes of the valley. He has a feel for them now. The bogs and marshes and turbines and copses and tumbledown dwellings long since abandoned. Rutter’s turf. He has inhaled the sharp clear air. He has slowly filled his lungs with it and mapped the area in his mind and found to his surprise that he likes the solitude of the open spaces and the breeze in his face. The broad landscape of the upper valley and the moor-tops fit his personality. He now understands why people might choose to live here.

  He has walked the path along the gill that leads out of the Muncy’s campsite and followed it all the way down into town then followed it back up again. He has circumvented the reservoir and found it bleak and functional and ugly; a kind of nowhere space over which the darkest clouds seems to gather. A foreboding puddle.