Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  ‘All legs and hair?’ Alice finished off.

  ‘Yeah, kind of. You’ve blossomed.’

  At that, it was Alice’s turn to blush.

  I heard Tony cough. It was intentional, an attempt to stop the conversation. I looked round and saw Tony’s eyebrows arched, amusement lighting his eyes.

  ‘Anything else I can do for you, Jack? Once you’ve put Alice down, that is.’

  I looked back at Alice, then back at Tony. Then I remembered why I was back in Turners Fold.

  ‘There is something else.’

  Tony raised his eyebrows.

  ‘I need to plunder the archives. I haven’t got long to submit this, so I just need the quick stuff, you know, the school football results, any articles from around that time, that kind of thing.’

  Tony watched me for a while, and then asked, ‘How long are you in town for?’

  ‘A couple of days. Deadline is Friday at noon as it’s a feature. I’ll be trying for an interview with David on Thursday.’

  ‘So who else are you going to speak to?’

  I scratched my nose and thought about it, realising that I wasn’t really sure. ‘I thought I’d start with his football coach, and then go on from there.’

  Tony shook his head. ‘He died last year. Heart attack. David came back for the funeral.’

  I exhaled.

  ‘If you want the stats, get on the internet,’ he continued. ‘Most of the high school stuff ends up on the web these days, and it will save you some time.’

  ‘And if I want more of the man than the player?’ I asked.

  ‘Get round the pubs,’ Tony suggested. ‘It’s the best place to interview people because they’re already loosened up. Fame is a seductive drug, so everyone will have some story that’s personal to them about David Watts.’

  ‘But what about your archives?’

  Tony smiled. ‘You can for me, but you know how funny the boss is about the archives. We know where most of his stories are, because other papers call us from time to time wanting an old picture or article.’

  I held my hands up in surrender. I remembered my old boss. He was good to work for, but he was very protective of the archived newspapers. They were a history of the town, and he wasn’t going to let just anyone spoil them.

  I saw Tony snatch a glance at his watch. I spotted the time and I realised that the Post’s deadline was approaching. I knew Tony wasn’t being rude. The paper had to get out, and that was all that mattered.

  ‘I’ll move on,’ I said, giving a wave to Tony, nodding and smiling at Alice. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, to go through some back issues.’

  Tony smiled. ‘Work late and put yourself about tonight. You might come in tomorrow knowing what you want.’

  And with that, I left the Post building.

  I made it around the triangle and back to my car. I knew I had to go to the old house. At least if I got it out of the way, I could get on with writing my article.

  I got in the car and started it up, easing out into the street, no traffic to avoid, and slowly pointed it home.

  David Watts was still at home when Johnny Nixon was shot, tuned into BBC News 24, waiting for the latest from the Dumas shooting. The apartment seemed quiet with Emma on the other side of the Atlantic somewhere. The traffic from Chelsea Bridge crept in through the open balcony door, mixed in with the sounds of the river cruises, but it didn’t disturb the calm.

  He’d been for a run earlier in the day, but it had been a different kind of run. He usually ran in a cap, the visor pulled down, just enough to keep the recognition at bay until after he had passed. There had been no need today. He had noticed people staring, maybe wondering what he was thinking, but there had been no shouts or catcalls.

  He had returned to the apartment, hoping it would be a respite, but he had become fidgety. The newsflash about Johnny Nixon stopped the fidgeting with a slam. Now he was sitting bolt upright on the sofa, the apartment shielded from the rest of the world by drawn blinds, watching the television news for updates.

  Not much was coming through. He’d sat through repeated shots of the scene, now just crime-scene tape and litter.

  David got up to pace around the room.

  He knew there was no connection between Henri Dumas and Johnny Nixon. Dumas had been a clean-cut guy from Paris, urban and sophisticated. Nixon had been from Leeds, and even the transfer to Manchester hadn’t knocked the inner city out of him. He had played like he had spent all his life, fighting, and David had left games with him bruised and blue more than once. Nixon and Dumas hadn’t played together as far as he knew, and were unlikely friends. That made David nervous, because it could only mean one thing: that there was no connection. And that put him at risk. Any footballer who went out in public was at risk of getting his head shot at. And then there could be copycat shootings.

  He turned round when he heard a sense of urgency in the broadcaster’s voice.

  ‘… and it does seem a breakthrough in the case.’

  He stepped away from the window and sat down.

  ‘Thank you, John. And there you have it: the surprising news that the murderer of Henri Dumas might not be a madman after all, but a madwoman.’

  David whistled.

  ‘In the sniper’s nest where two bodies were found, both bound, one shot at point-blank range through the head, the other strangled, hairs have been recovered from the tape that bound them. Those hairs are female hairs.’

  David took a drink of beer. There were two men on the television. One was tanned and dark, the hair too dark to be natural for a man in his forties, looking warm in a grey suit, whereas the other one was much younger, blonde and relaxed in just a shirt, standing at the scene of the Dumas shooting, mostly back to normal, full of shoppers and ghouls, the cafe the only business still closed, the grey shutters bright with flowers from people Dumas had never met.

  ‘Well, this is turning into quite a story.’

  David snapped off the television and walked towards the window. Is that what it was: just a story?

  He tried to call his agent but all he got was the answering service. Where was she?

  He watched the city beneath him for a few minutes and then turned back into the room. For the first time in his life, he felt powerless. He had always won, no matter what the contest. High-school hero to Premiership superstar. However, all he could do with this one was sit it out, and he hated the sidelines.

  FOURTEEN

  I sat in the car for a few minutes outside my father’s house.

  It used to be the family home, when the sash bay-windows were painted pastel-clean and the lawn borders overflowed with colour. The house looked colder now, darker, the paintwork old and listless, flaking in places, the windows dusty and full of shadows.

  I hadn’t spoken much with my father since I’d been back at Christmas and for a week last summer. He was working mostly, so I just slowed down for a while and then headed back south.

  As I sat there, my childhood came rushing back at me. I could sense that freshness of early-morning spring mists that I never got in the city, or the bite of a November wind when it blew into the valley from the north. I saw myself cycling down here, a skinny kid with legs whirring over the pedals, or running and skipping along, kicking autumn leaves. Teenage screams and screeching tyres, the clunk of car doors on a Sunday morning as people went to church, a catholic town. I’d grown from boy to man along this road, and as I sat there it was as if nothing had changed.

  But it was changing. People weren’t moving in any more. The young families wanted either the bright new boxes or original features. Those who had made their old house move with the times got lost as trends turned back full circle. The neighbours were still the same as before, but were wearing out like the houses. I had passed Bob Coleman outside his front door, watering plants. I remembered him as a large solid man, strong and powerful, callused and blackened hands from hard work. Now he was starting to bend a little, some of his bulk gone, and he m
oved with more shuffle than before.

  I climbed out of my car and felt nervous, like I was expecting a fight. I don’t know why. My father and I hadn’t parted on bad terms. We’d just parted on no terms, and as I stood there, looking up at the house, I wondered whether he blamed me.

  I didn’t go to the door. I went to the garage instead. I pulled up the door and smiled as I saw the sunlight blink back off the Calypso Red bonnet of the Triumph Stag, my dad’s pride and joy. When I was younger, I would polish it once a month for extra pocket money, and if the weather was good we would go for a drive, the windows down, the radio playing.

  But that was a long time ago.

  I looked up when I heard a door open into the garage. I saw my father standing there. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at me like I was a stranger. Then he nodded.

  ‘Jack.’ That’s all he said, but his accent sounded strong, blunt, flat.

  ‘Dad.’

  ‘You all right?’

  I nodded. ‘Not bad.’

  He turned to go into the house. I took that as a sign to follow.

  As I walked in, I crinkled my nose at the musty smell. It was like all the bad habits of a man living alone were hanging in the air. I wandered through into the living room, a light and spacious area at the front of the house, south facing, so that the incoming shards of light caught the dust as I moved around the room. I sat down and looked around. Nothing had moved. It was as if I’d only ever gone into town, a short car trip or something, not moved to London. It was tidier than I remembered, but it lacked feminine warmth, those fragrant touches here and there. Johnny Cash album covers were strewn around the corner of the room, my father’s special place.

  ‘Do you want a beer?’

  I looked round and saw him heading for the fridge. ‘Always.’

  As he handed me mine, I pointed the bottle towards his clothes. He was in his dressing gown, just shorts and a vest underneath.

  ‘Working nights?’

  He looked down. ‘You could have been a detective.’

  I laughed, couldn’t help myself.

  We both took a drink, smiled at each other for a while, and then he asked, ‘What brings you back here?’

  ‘I’ve got a deal for a feature on David Watts,’ I said.

  His eyes flickered, so quick it was hard to see, but just as quick his look turned thoughtful and then he said, ‘Is this because of the Dumas shooting?’

  ‘It’s Johnny Nixon as well now.’

  He looked surprised and went to sit down.

  ‘There’s been another one, in Manchester.’

  He reached for the remote and I watched him as he flicked around the channels, looking for the news.

  ‘What are they saying?’ I asked, even though I could hear.

  He watched for a while and then said, ‘They’re filling. Nothing to say, so they say it over and over, hoping it might turn into something.’

  I went and stood behind him. He smelt familiar, like warm sleep. I couldn’t place it at first, but then I realised it was the smell of Sunday mornings, when I’d creep into my parents’ bed and watch television with my mother until my dad brought her breakfast.

  My eyes flicked to the screen and I thought about Johnny Nixon. Thinking aloud, I asked, ‘What have they got in common?’ When my dad looked round, I pointed at the television. ‘Dumas and Nixon? What’s the connection?’

  He scratched his head. ‘Does there have to be one?’

  I shrugged. ‘You’d expect one. Must be a reason why they both got shot.’

  He pointed at the television. ‘These things take planning, and two days running, that’s a quest for attention. But what if Nixon had stayed at home today? My guess is that he knew they had a routine, somewhere they would always be. Maybe that’s the connection.’

  I nodded. It was a possible. ‘Maybe, but why go all the way to Manchester?’

  ‘Why not? He couldn’t stay in London. Too much heat.’

  ‘Okay, that’s fine, but why risk making a trail?’

  He smiled. ‘A ransom.’

  I looked at him curiously. ‘Ransom? What’s the demand?’

  He looked back at me shrewdly. ‘Whoever he is, however little he thinks his life is worth, he’ll shut down football. That’s a lot of money. He could just about name his price right now.’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘And this is a spree. So it will keep going until either he is caught or he kills himself.’

  ‘Does it have to be that way?’

  He nodded. ‘With a spree, it’s always that way.’

  Then we heard something that took us both by surprise. They suspected the perpetrator was a woman.

  ‘He’s a she,’ I said, my eyes wide. ‘Shit.’

  My dad shook his head, ruffling his hair. ‘This is one weird dream. Firstly, you’re here, and now this. A woman doing all of this.’

  I smiled. ‘No, you’re awake.’

  He tugged on his lip, and then said, ‘Changes nothing, though.’

  Then something occurred to me. ‘She’s still making a trail,’ I said. ‘She started in the south but came up north. Surprise might work at first, but it will be harder the more this thing goes on, so she will want somewhere she knows, so she can get away quickly if it goes wrong. So maybe she’s from the north?’

  My dad smiled. ‘If she wanted a two-day shooting streak, she had to come up north once she’d been through London. A northern player would see it as a London problem and carry on as normal. In London, footballers’ routines will have changed immediately.’

  That made me quiet. As did the thought that we’d spoken more in the last five minutes than we had in the preceding six months. It had been comfortable, and I found myself wanting to hear more from him, just so I could hear him think.

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  I smiled at that. I’d assumed I’d be staying at the house, hadn’t considered anywhere else.

  He guessed from my smile what I was thinking, and he nodded towards the stairs. ‘I haven’t moved anything.’

  Just then the doorbell rang. My dad didn’t look up.

  I was about to go to the door when he asked, ‘What kind of article are you writing?’

  ‘Just a biography. You know, the hometown boy turned into England’s biggest hero.’

  ‘Just that?’

  ‘What else could there be?’

  He looked down, and I thought I saw something cross his eyes, just a subtle mood change, but I put it down to tiredness. I knew he hated working nights.

  The bell went again, so I turned away from him and went to open the door.

  I was surprised to see Alice. She blushed when she saw my dad there, but she turned straight to me.

  ‘Tony thinks it will be good experience for me if I shadow you. We don’t get many big-city feature writers passing through. Is that okay?’

  She said it like she thought I might object, as if she had to get the whole request out before I had chance to turn her down. She looked past me. ‘Hello, Mr Garrett.’

  He nodded. ‘Hi, Alice,’ and then sensing that I was stalling because he was there, he stood up. ‘I’ll leave you both to it.’

  I watched him go, and then I turned back to Alice. ‘Whatever you hear, it’s my story,’ I said. ‘You understand that?’

  Alice agreed but looked hurt. ‘I’m not doing it to get a by-line. I want to do it so I can get away, like you did.’

  ‘Turners Fold no good for you?’

  ‘Was it for you?’

  I didn’t have an answer to that.

  I sighed. ‘I’ll go get my file. We’ll split the numbers and start making calls. Is that okay?’

  ‘Nothing better.’

  She sat in her car on the edge of the town, at a red light by the old Clifton Mill, a scene distant to the buzz of Manchester which she had left not long before. This was quiet, derelict. The mill looked cold and dark, a brick block lined on all sides by windows, five floors of glass a hundred yards long, light f
or the cotton workers, only now they were either broken or bricked up. She could see strips of housing climbing away from her, blackened millstone, chimneypots, no gardens. A bus, single-decker, went through the lights across her path, all empty seats. The town seemed as quiet as she remembered. But she knew that was deceptive. The road into town stretched in front of her, a slow crawl along the valley floor.

  The journey was a haze now. She’d rushed out of Manchester, the flash of speed cameras as she headed for the M60 circular making her paranoid. But she knew it wouldn’t matter soon. The radio had been off at the start; she didn’t want to hear about the shootings. She’d seen through the sights of the gun what had happened. She had tried to focus on the road, but it had been like a dream sequence, like she hadn’t been there. But then her mind would snap back to the scene in the apartment and she would find herself fighting the wheel, the tyres dancing with the tarmac.

  The voices had made it harder, like flutters of laughter whenever she was alone, whispered taunts she couldn’t really hear. They’d been with her for a long time, but they were getting louder now, more frequent, like the hiss of escaping gas, hard to pin down. She remembered driving past the Lancashire sign, and then it was all blurred images until she saw Turners Fold ahead of her.

  When her lights changed to green, she paused for a while, and then she began her crawl into town.

  The road took her to the town triangle. As she drove, she passed the old library, some shops in decline, lines of houses with low bay fronts and gardens just a step wide. Some youths walked in a pack, faces hidden by hoods.

  In the town triangle, the town hall was lit by floodlights, the afternoon beginning to fade, the sandstone cleaned up and bright, built with cotton money, Greek pillars shouting a grandness it never had. Most of the shops and businesses around it were closed, so she drove along before stopping at another red light. As she sat there, the warmth of the late sun crept in, but she went cold when she noticed the police station. It was a long grey rectangle with a flat roof, with the white and orange of patrol cars just visible down the side of the building. Some lights were on inside, but it looked quiet.