Dying Fall

by Sally Spencer

  Beresford turned toward the speaker. He was nineteen or twenty, the DC guessed. He was a big lad with calloused, work-hardened hands, arms covered with badly etched purple tattoos and a scar above his left eye.

  ‘Don’t you have a name?’ the hard mod demanded.

  ‘Do you?’ Beresford asked, feeling his mouth drying up.

  The mod grinned unpleasantly. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I’m Big Bazza.’

  Barry Thornley, Beresford thought. Worker at Lowry Engineering, and enthusiastic supporter of Councillor Ron Scranton.

  ‘So you’re Big Bazza, are you?’ he asked, as his heart went into overdrive. ‘An’ is there a Little Bazza?’

  Big Bazza scowled. ‘Are you tryin’ to be funny?’ he demanded.

  ‘No,’ Beresford replied. ‘I was just askin’ a question.’

  Big Bazza seemed unsure of what to do or say next. Violence was always a good response to any situation, his expression seemed to suggest, but it might just be more interesting to let things slide a little more first.

  ‘That’s Little Bazza over there,’ he said, flicking his thumb in the direction of a shorter boy at the other end of the semicircle.

  ‘I’m Col,’ Beresford said. ‘Not Little Col or Big Col. Just Col.’

  ‘Haven’t seen you around here before, Col,’ Big Bazza said, somehow making the last word sound like an insult.

  ‘Haven’t been around here before,’ Beresford said.

  ‘So why are you here now?’ Bazza wondered.

  ‘It’s where they told me to come when they let me out,’ Beresford replied.

  ‘Where who told you to come?’

  Beresford sighed, as if he were already becoming bored with the conversation. ‘The filth. They said they didn’t want me goin’ back on my old patch, an’ that they’d have me if I did. They said they’d fixed me up with a probation officer in Whitebridge who was tough enough to handle me.’

  ‘Are you sayin’ that you’ve been in prison?’ the mod asked.

  ‘You catch on quick, don’t you?’ Beresford replied.

  ‘What did you do?’

  Beresford shrugged. ‘Nearly nothin’.’

  ‘What kind of nearly nothin’?’

  ‘There was this Paki …’ Beresford began.

  ‘Beat him up, did you?’

  ‘Hardly touched him. I think he must have broken that big nose of his when he fell over.’

  There was a few seconds’ silence, in which all the mods looked to their leader for guidance. Then Big Bazza nodded to Little Bazza, and the smaller youth stepped forward, holding his cone of newspaper out in front of him.

  ‘Fancy a chip, Col?’ he asked.

  Ten

  The town-hall clock chimed eleven times, and in the Drum and Monkey, the Crown and Anchor, the Geo­rge and Dragon – and countless other pubs around the Whitebridge area – drinkers heard the dread sound of a bell behind the bar chiming in sympathy with the municipal timekeeper.

  ‘It’s too late now,’ those bars’ bells were saying in a language that all the drinkers could understand. ‘If you’ve miscalculated the amount of ale you need to get you properly pissed – if you were so distracted by your chatter with your mates that you failed to order a last pint when you heard the first warning bell ten minutes ago – well, tough! The towel has gone over the beer pumps, and you’ve missed the boat.’

  There were some drinkers, in all the pubs, who went hopefully up to the bar anyway, in spite of the bells’ clear message. There always were, and always would be. They were doing no more than following a long tradition which stretched back into the mists of antiquity, when the very first licensing hours were introduced.

  ‘Any chance of one more quick pint?’ they asked, smiling ingratiatingly and playing heavily on their commercial ‘friendships’ with the landlords.

  It had sometimes worked in the past, and the customers had watched with joyous hearts as the landlords slipped a glass under the towels and looked the other way while they were pulling the pint – as if the action had nothing at all to do with them.

  But it didn’t work that night. All the landlords that night were firm. All of them were absolutely resolute.

  ‘There are a lot of bobbies out on the street tonight,’ they informed the hopeful boozers, ‘and I’m not about to risk losing my licence for one shilling and eleven pence.’

  The landlords had not lied. There were a lot of bobbies out on the streets that night, and two of them – PC Roger Crabtree and PC Dave Warner – were driving around the area of the abandoned cotton mills even as the landlords were heartlessly turning down the last desperate requests.

  ‘Foot patrol!’ Warner said in disgust, as Crabtree parked the car outside one of the derelict buildings. ‘We’re on foot patrol!’

  ‘True enough,’ Crabtree agreed.

  ‘But we’re motor patrol,’ his partner pointed out. ‘That’s why we wear smart flat caps, instead of big pointy helmets.’

  Crabtree chuckled. ‘Are your bunions playing you up again?’ he asked innocently.

  ‘I don’t have bunions,’ Warner answered, with mock outrage. ‘Bunions are an old man’s affliction, and I’m still a slip of a youth.’

  A slip of a youth who would be twenty-nine next birthday and was already developing a beer belly, Crabtree thought, but he kept the observation to himself, and simply said, ‘As the duty sergeant pointed out, the reason we’re issued with thick boots is so that we can walk if we have to.’

  ‘And we do have to?’ Warner asked, as if still searching for a loophole.

  ‘Yes,’ Crabtree replied firmly. ‘We do.’

  Warner shrugged. He was not a bad bobby, and he supposed that if that was what the Sarge wanted, then that was what the Sarge got.

  He stepped out of the car. The sky above them was cloudless, and the full moon bathed the old mill in a ghostly golden glow.

  Warner shivered. ‘It’s brass-monkey weather out here,’ he complained.

  ‘Look on the bright side,’ his partner told him.

  ‘What bright side?’

  ‘When all this is over, you’ve got a nice warm bed to go back to, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Which is more than any of the poor buggers we’ve been sent out to protect can say.’

  ‘I heard in the canteen that Councillor Lowry thinks all this is a waste of time,’ Warner said, making one last-ditch stand.

  ‘And I heard in the same canteen that DCI Woodend doesn’t,’ Crabtree said. ‘Which of them would you prefer to cross?’

  Warner grinned. ‘Let’s get patrolling,’ he suggested.

  Beresford had only been a hard mod for a few hours, but had already decided that it was no life for a man.

  The simple fact was that the mods were both bored and boring. What conversation they had was desultory at best. They didn’t talk about their jobs – and why should they, when most of them were employed in mind-numbingly repeti­tive industrial tasks? They didn’t talk about their home life, because the very reason they were out on the streets was to forget about all that. And they didn’t talk about their prospects, because they were realistic enough to accept that – in a declining industrial town – they had none.

  A few years earlier, they would have been conscripted into the armed forces, which would at least have taken them away from Whitebridge for a couple of years, and subjected them to a different kind of boredom, but the call-up had been abolished in the early sixties, leaving these lads with nowhere to go but along the streets of their own home town.

  From the chip shop, the gang had drifted aimlessly to the shopping centre, but there was very little of interest there, since lads, unlike girls, considered window shopping to be soft. They had eventually found themselves outside the off-licence, where Big Bazza had held a collection, and – armed with the pitiful amount of money that the entire gang could stump up between them – bought a couple of bottles of rough cider.

  They’d passed the bottles back an
d forth. Each member only took a small drink – they were all aware that their leader’s eyes were on them – but even with moderation, the bottles were soon empty, and a listless apathy settled over the group again.

  At eleven o’clock, the lights in the off-licence went out, and at ten past eleven Big Bazza said, ‘Well, I’m off.’

  ‘You’re what?’ asked another member of the gang, who, Beresford had learned, went by the name of Scuddie.

  ‘I’m off,’ Big Bazza repeated. ‘Any objections?’

  ‘None,’ Scuddie said with a grin. ‘I suppose if your mum says you have to be home by a certain time, then you have to be home by a certain time.’

  Beresford studied Big Bazza’s reaction, and tried to get inside his mind. On the one hand, Bazza has his position as leader to consider, and Scuddie’s dig at him would have to be dealt with. On the other, what Scuddie had said clearly amused the rest of the gang, and – for the moment at least – they were on his side.

  Bazza had three choices, Beresford decided. He could smash Scuddie in the face and run the risk of also smashing the fragile structure of the gang. He could say he’d decided to stay after all, but that would be seen as a sign of weakness by the others. Or he could tell a lie.

  Beresford was putting his money on the third course of action.

  ‘I’m not goin’ home at all,’ Bazza said. ‘I’m meetin’ a bint.’

  ‘A bint!’ Scuddie repeated. ‘What’s her name?’

  Bazza laughed unconvincingly. ‘I’m not goin’ to tell you that,’ he said.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’m not just goin’ to meet her – I’m goin’ to shag the arse off her. An’ I’ll do the same tomorrow night, as well. An’ the night after that. But if she finds out I’ve been talkin’ about it, she won’t let me get anywhere near her.’

  It wasn’t a particularly good lie, Beresford thought, but it was acceptable to a bunch of lads who, having no opportun­ities of their own, were more than willing to get their pleasures vicariously.

  ‘Good for you,’ Scuddie said, with mild envy.

  ‘Give her one for me,’ Little Bazza added.

  Bazza, confident now that he was back on top, smirked. ‘I’ll give her one for all of you,’ he promised.

  And then he swaggered off into the night.

  For a moment, Beresford considered making his own excuses and following Bazza. Because though he did not believe the story about the girl, he was convinced that the lad was up to something.

  Then he quickly dismissed the idea. Leaving now was too great a risk, he’d decided. He’d only got the barest toehold in the gang, and to push off immediately would open him up to a great many more jibes than Bazza, the established leader, had had to endure.

  ‘Tell us about this Paki you beat up?’ Little Bazza suggested to him.

  Beresford forced a grin to his face. ‘It was in this pub in Accrington that it happened,’ he said.

  ‘I thought Pakis didn’t drink,’ Scuddie said suspiciously.

  ‘They don’t,’ Beresford agreed.

  ‘So what was he doin’ there?’

  ‘Sippin’ lemonade! In a pub! Well, if that isn’t askin’ to get the shit kicked out of you, I don’t know what is.’

  The gang nodded their agreement.

  ‘That’ll learn him,’ Scuddie said.

  It was at two minutes past midnight that Tel Lowry, after pacing his living room for several minutes, picked up the phone and dialled Henry Marlowe’s home number. It took some time for Marlowe to answer the phone, and when he did it was in a dopey voice which suggested that he’d been asleep.

  Lazy bastard! Lowry thought. But aloud, he said, ‘Have you been giving any thought to our problem, Henry?’

  At the other end of the line, Marlowe groaned. ‘It’s not that easy, Tel. I’ve got the press to think about.’

  ‘And I’ve got my re-election to think about,’ Lowry snapped.

  ‘You got in with quite a comfortable majority the last time,’ Marlowe said weakly.

  ‘Last time, I wasn’t standing against Ron Scranton, was I?’ Lowry countered. ‘Look, I’m not concerned for myself …’ He paused for a moment. ‘All right, I am concerned for myself,’ he admitted. ‘I like being a councillor.’

  ‘Well, of course you do. That’s only nat—’

  ‘But I’m also concerned about the people of this town – especially the newer arrivals. There’s a lot of decent, hard-working Asian families that have moved to Whitebridge in the last few years.’

  ‘Are there?’ asked Marlowe, as if it were news to him.

  ‘There are,’ Lowry said firmly. ‘They want to build a new life for themselves, and I think they should be given that chance. Besides, the town in general will benefit from the influx of new blood.’

  ‘If you say so,’ Marlowe replied, unconvinced.

  ‘I do say so,’ Lowry insisted. ‘But things could go the other way as well, couldn’t they? With me off the council, and Scranton still on it and stronger than ever, we could have a race war on our hands. And if that happens, everybody loses. Not just the Asians. Not just the whites. Everybody!’

  ‘I … er … rather think you might be overstating the case there, Tel,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘Well, I don’t! I could lose my seat, Henry, I really could. The riff-raff in my ward have already defected to Scranton, and if I can’t deliver on my promise to cut spending, some of the more respectable voters will, too.’

  ‘When you put it like that, it certainly does seem to be something of a problem,’ Marlowe said reluctantly.

  ‘And it’s not just a problem for me,’ Lowry pointed out. ‘The next chairman of the Police Authority might not regard your little failings quite as indulgently as I do, Henry. The next chairman might want you out!’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ Marlowe said.

  ‘And do it quickly,’ Lowry advised. ‘Do it before there’s a hole in my budget you could lose the Titanic in.’

  The narrow alleyway ran between two industrial buildings, a tannery and a small abattoir. They were connected, on their first floors, by a covered bridge which had once been used to transport the skins of the slaughtered cattle from the one to the other. But it had been a long time since that bridge had been used – a long time since either of the businesses had been a going concern.

  Crabtree and Warner walked down the alleyway at a leisurely pace, their torches lighting up the cobbled ground in front of them, their minds searching for something to break up the monotony of this patrol.

  ‘What’s the time?’ Warner asked.

  Crabtree shone his torch on his watch. ‘It’s just turned five past twelve,’ he announced.

  ‘It’s goin’ to be a long, cold shift, without even a cup of tea to warm us up,’ Warner said mournfully. ‘Don’t you think it’s about time that somebody opened one of them American all-night diners in Whitebridge?’

  Crabtree chuckled. ‘Oh, absolutely,’ he agreed. ‘And while they’re at it, they might as well go the whole hog and start a film studio as well.’ He looked around him at the blank, decaying walls, then said, in a bad American accent, ‘Welcome to Whitebridgewood – the new home of the movie!’

  ‘Aye, move over, John Wayne – and make way for John Wainwright,’ Warner said, getting into the mood.

  A dark silhouetted figure suddenly appeared from out of nowhere, and stood at the other end of the alley, watching them approach.

  It was Warner who noticed him first.

  ‘Police!’ he shouted, raising his torch. ‘Don’t move!’

  And then the beam landed on its target, and he saw just who the dark figure was.

  ‘Evenin’, lads,’ Woodend said. ‘Anythin’ to report?’

  ‘Not a bloody thing, sir,’ said Crabtree, and he was thinking, even as he spoke the words, that it was more than fortunate that he’d insisted he and his partner had followed the duty sergeant’s instructions to the letter.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep,’
Woodend told the two constables, as if he felt that some explanation of his presence was necessary. ‘An’ rather than lyin’ there, tossin’ and turnin’, I thought I might as well come an’ see how you lads were getting’ on. Mind if I join you on patrol for a while?’

  ‘Of course not, sir,’ said Crabtree.

  Because what else was he going to say?

  They turned the corner from the alleyway and walked around the front of the tannery. The main entrance had been boarded up when the business closed, but the boards – and the door which they had covered – had long ago been removed for firewood, and now there was just a wide gap in the wall.

  ‘Have you been in here before?’ Woodend asked.

  Crabtree nodded. ‘About an hour ago, sir.’

  ‘Did you find any tramps?’

  ‘Just the one. We asked him if he was all right, but we got no answer. The truth is that he was so drunk he wouldn’t have noticed if I’d sung the “Hallelujah Chorus” in his lughole.’

  ‘Still, there’s no harm in checkin’ on him again, is there?’ the chief inspector asked.

  It could have been a suggestion or it could have been a question – but the two constables knew it was neither of those things.

  ‘No harm at all, sir,’ Warner agreed.

  The floor of the tannery’s upper storey had long since collapsed, and there were holes in the roof which let in the moonlight, so while the place was dark, it was not quite as dark as it might have been.

  In the immediate foreground, Woodend could clearly make out the shape of a huge stone vat which had once been used to soak the cattle skins, and as his eyes adjusted to the new conditions, he was able to see more vats stretching into the distance.

  The chief inspector recalled the time when the tannery had been in full production. Back then, the smell of the curing hides had found its way out through the air vents and drenched the whole area around the building with an unpleasant stink. But what he was sniffing now was not tanned skins – or even the olfactory memory of tanned skins.

  ‘Can you smell what I think I’m smellin’?’ he asked the two constables beside him.