by Jennie Finch
Tom braked sharply, swung the heavy car round and set off up a narrow, unmade track.
‘Enough, slow down!’ said Milosh through gritted teeth. The car slowed a fraction. ‘My back will be broken with all this rattling around.’
Tom brought the car to a halt just in the shelter of a small hillock, a slight rise in the universal flatness surrounding them. Opening the driver’s door he got out and stretched, waiting for his brother to join him. Together they stood, looking out over the old peat works, across an uninterrupted landscape of water and marsh that stretched away in the distance until it reached the foot of the Mendip Hills. It was very quiet in the still air of dusk and had it not been for the first of the lights from farms and occasional houses embedded in the soft purple haze of the foothills they might have imagined they were alone in the world. Tom kept his eyes on the distant lights when he spoke.
‘I need to use the bridges,’ he said.
Milosh stood next to him, hands hung loosely at his side.
‘You cannot,’ he said softly.
‘I must,’ said Tom.
Milosh rounded on his brother.
‘The bridges are our secret!’ he said. ‘You cannot allow the gadje to use them. I forbid it.’
Tom turned slowly and looked at Milosh.
‘You can’t have it both ways,’ he said. ‘I’m no longer Rom, remember? You can’t forbid me to do anything. I wanted to tell you out of courtesy, of family and friendship. I will use the bridges but I promise only a few of my most trusted men will know of them and I’ll only use them near the centre of the marsh. I’ll not be letting them wander around and all the others will remain a secret.’
Milosh was silent for a minute, staring across the plain, now in deep shadow as the sun set behind them. Tom waited. It was important his brother spoke first, for his pride.
‘Why must you use them?’ asked Milosh finally. ‘You have vans and lorries – why use the marsh roads?’
‘The traffic would be noticed,’ Tom explained. ‘I need a safe place to store my goods and send them out in smaller amounts. There’s an area near the centre, where the peat cutting has been stopped. Is deep – about four feet, so it’s hidden from the paths. Has got sheds and best of all the council have just fenced it all off. One of my men was working on the fences and knows how we can get in.’
‘What has this to do with the bridges?’ demanded Milosh impatiently.
‘We cannot have vans going along the roads and then just turning back,’ said Tom. ‘They’d leave tyre prints along the tracks, leading to our store. We’d get away with it for a while maybe, but after a week or so people would notice and ask questions. This way we can move our stuff in from off the road and no-one’ll know.’
‘I may not be able to stop you,’ said Milosh, ‘but I want your word you alone will use the bridges. And they must not be used to bring in the drugs!’ He turned his head and stared at Tom. ‘I want you to swear. There are evil things moving through the towns and we have nothing to do with it. If you had any sense left neither would you.’
Tom shifted uneasily from one foot to another.
‘I swear,’ he said. ‘I don’t want anything to do with that stuff either. Ain’t right, selling it to kids.’
Milosh spat in his palm and held his hand out for Tom to shake.
‘Well brother, now you owe me a favour, perhaps you can tell me something about these strange stories I’m hearing. They say the Drowners are back and hunting on the Levels. Would you know anything about that?’
Tom shook his head thoughtfully before answering.
‘Was a warning,’ he said. ‘There was this man, always hanging round, listening in where he’s no business. I spoke to him and then I had several of my lads make the point a bit more forcefully. I thought he’d got the message but seems not. Couple of the younger gang bosses, they spotted him and followed him out onto the Levels. Reckon he was so drunk, he was seein’ things and tipped hisself into the big canal. One of ’um, smart lad from the ports, he decided to send a message, maybe scare a few people off from round there so they made it look like he was drowned.’
Milosh listened, nodding occasionally and stared out into the darkness thoughtfully.
‘I’m glad you had no hand in that,’ he said. ‘It is a pity the man died, but at least I know my brother is not a murderer. But the music, Tamas – what about the music?’
Tom shrugged his broad shoulders and turned back to the car.
‘I will be honest with you, I have no idea ‘bout that. Folks keep hearin’ it but I’m damned if I know where is coming from. Promise you, Milosh, is none of my doing.’
The Highpoint office seemed very calm with Garry gone. The women in the office smiled and seemed particularly patient with even the most difficult client, and the probationers responded with some rudimentary politeness. There were fewer missed appointments and even the court days seemed less arduous.
For the first time in many months, Alex woke one morning without a feeling of dread in her heart. She was beginning to enjoy her work again, she realized. There were still the daily bumps along the road, especially where certain people were concerned, but generally she felt more capable and optimistic than she had since arriving at Highpoint.
One of the bumps in her road was Alison who had reverted to her usual stubborn, sulky self, a lank streak of self-righteousness whose role as Alex’s support seemed to be a source of perpetual discontent. Despite all her efforts and a couple of late nights tidying and filing the paperwork herself, Alex could not match up all the forms she needed to the cases she supervised. Some notes were incomplete, some files were full of the wrong information and some stuff was just plain missing.
‘I know I’ve done most of this,’ she moaned to Lauren at the end of one particularly stressful day. ‘I remember filling in the referrals and the plans for all the attendees because that led to a massive row with Garry about what sort of provision we were offering. Now half of them are gone. I don’t know what’s happened to the system to be honest.’
‘Maybe Alison’s got them?’ Lauren suggested. ‘Typing them up perhaps?’
Alex shook her head. ‘I asked and she insisted she’d not touched them. You’d have thought I was accusing her of something – actually thinking about it, if she hasn’t been near my files recently just what the bloody hell has she been doing?’
‘Pauline gave her a load of Social Enquiry Reports to do,’ said Lauren. ‘Just while you was away. I’ve been busy with “Wonderboy” and so we was a bit pushed.’
Alex frowned at the mention of Ricky.
‘What is it between you two then?’ Lauren asked. She sat in Alex’s chair in the tiny office, swinging herself backwards and forwards with every sign of enjoyment. It was making Alex feel sick just looking at her.
‘Just stop will you?’ she snapped. Lauren grabbed the desk to steady the chair and looked hurt.
‘Was only asking,’ she said. ‘No need to snap like that.’
‘No, I meant please don’t spin around like that. You’re making me giddy. It’s a bit hard to explain, about Ricky …’ She paused, considering all the implications of the conversation. Alex was an intensely private person and she had found it hard even to share her house with Sue at first. She gave little of herself away and rarely talked about her past. The arrival of her family in her carefully guarded Somerset world had shaken her more than she liked to admit. She was very fond of Lauren but was aware that she was now Ricky’s support assistant and she didn’t want to do anything to influence that relationship. Sharing her past experiences of Ricky, tempting as it seemed at the moment, was just asking for trouble.
‘Oh, you know,’ she said vaguely. ‘Things are different at university and sometimes people get tangled up in stuff that’s not important.’
Lauren gave her a withering look.
‘I think he’s still “tangled up”, the way he’s been talking,’ she said. ‘And what’s this about you bein’ a psycholog
ist?’
Alex was startled but recovered quickly.
‘I did philosophy at university,’ she said firmly. ‘You know that. I bet you’ve sneaked a look at the personnel files.’
Lauren grinned. ‘Well, I did, just after you came,’ she admitted. ‘Mind you, they’ve been moved since, so that was the only time.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Alex. ‘Do you know where they are?’
Lauren shook her head. ‘Nope. An’ neither does Pauline I reckon ’cos she was swearing about it earlier today.’
‘You don’t think they’ve disappeared too, do you?’ Alex asked, trying not to appear too anxious. ‘If it was a client in there that night, well there are addresses and all kinds of personal details in the files. Phone numbers – everything.’
‘That cabinet weren’t touched,’ said Lauren. ‘Was the case files someone went for, with some of the court stuff an’ a load of boring new protocols from regional at Taunton. Is just, Pauline was goin’ to update the rota for everyone, this bein’ the end of January, and they was gone. Officers and us clerical too. Whole cabinet was wiped clean, she said.’
Despite the disturbing nature of this development Alex was glad she had succeeded in sidetracking Lauren, moving her away from the sticky area surrounding Ricky Peddlar and his ‘revelations’. She would have to talk to her friends soon, she thought. She just needed a bit more time.
The chalet had served him well after his grim time sleeping rough over Christmas but Derek Johns was feeling the need to move on. Spring was coming early to the West Country with the first snowdrops mingling with gold and purple crocuses in the flowerbeds around the camp. There were more birds in the morning and the sound of their singing was a reminder that the seasons were moving on and fine weather was on its way. Oblivious to this outbreak of nature’s joy, Derek was more concerned about the imminent arrival of very early visitors, holidaymakers looking for a cheap break out of season and more concerned with the location than the lack of traditional amenities. He was awakened to the danger when the tractor hauling the little ‘train’ began to worm its way around the adjacent sector, the carriages filled with fresh linen and the first teams of cleaners preparing for the extended season. It was time to move on and he packed up his belongings whilst considering his next move. The holiday camp had been too far away from the Levels anyway, he thought. There was a lot of stirring and plotting going on out there and he needed to get back and sort it out. He might have to disappear for good but he intended to make sure things were set fair for Newt on his release. The Levels belonged to his son and properly run would provide a decent income so Derek could go somewhere warm and live a quiet life, free and happy, away from the law and the threat of arrest for his murderous little rampage. Yes, Newt would have to see him right.
It was a long trudge back inland, avoiding the main roads and skirting round the villages that littered the back roads. It had been a dry winter with only a scattering of snow and now the sun was out, drying the land and keeping the fringes of the great marshes firm enough for a nimble and experienced traveller to pass without danger. Derek had grown up on the Levels and he knew the areas to avoid and how to identify a safe path. For all his disdain for nature, he used the clues left by the natural world instinctively and so arrived, tired and hungry but both unscathed and unseen, on the banks of the River Brue.
The water was high but not flooding and there was no sign of the mud normally left by winter overspill so Derek headed upstream, skirting Westhay and ploughing doggedly on as the sun sank behind him and the Tor of Glastonbury rose against the orange sky, guiding him home. As the light faded he decided he’d better find somewhere to spend the night. Despite his long day walking he was still too far north for most of the abandoned pill boxes, the majority of which were strung along the old defensive line known as the “Taunton Stop Line”. He cursed quietly as he realized he would need to trek several miles to find shelter if he relied on the fortifications. Despite the rising moon it was getting very dark and Derek was only too aware of the dangers surrounding him, both natural and man-made. Picking a safe route around the rhynes, over ever-shifting marsh subject to sudden floods and unexpected enclosure was almost impossible. He cast around, peering into the gathering gloom. He had wanted to get to the Wastes, an area that was perfectly summed up by its name, consisting of treacherous stretches of liquid mud, a maze of narrow channels and a few forgotten drover roads. Dotted around this area were a few old machine gun posts and the remains of several failed farms. Derek had expected to find shelter and a base for his campaign in this forgotten patch of the Levels. Now he faced an extremely uncomfortable night in the open unless he sneaked into a barn or risked venturing in to Westhay or Meare in search of an open outbuilding.
Suddenly he saw a single flash of light in the distance, over the river and towards Shapwick. Immediately, Derek was rooted to the spot, his whole body still as he waited for some further sign. Around him the air was still as though the Levels were holding their breath and waiting with him. In the distance was the sound of an animal, an otter perhaps, sliding into the water of the river to his left. Ignoring the tiny rustles and ripples as they rose around him, Derek held still until, away in the distance, came the mutter of voices, hastily stilled. Like a predatory animal, Derek moved swiftly but silently towards the river, crossing on a tiny footbridge made from a concrete post laid across from one bank to another. Once safely across, he placed his bag of belongings on the ground, slipping a carving knife out of the side pocket and into his belt so that it was within easy reach. He checked the position of the bridge and his belongings Then, keeping his head low, he skirted a solitary farm and headed towards the source of the voices. Someone was out on his patch and he wanted to know who – and why.
He slowed even further as he approached the old peat works, keeping off the ancient tracks that still ran from the cuttings to newer paths and eventually on to the roads used to transport bags of rich earth to the stations and ports of the area. The area boasted a few, rare wooded patches and Derek slipped under the cover of the stunted trees, wincing as the willow branches whipped at his face and legs. Sinking down on to his knees he waited and finally his patience was rewarded. Voices floated towards him, startlingly close in the night air, and he froze in his hiding place as he heard footsteps coming his way. Moving very slowly he eased his knife out from his belt, feeling a twinge of regret at the loss of his beautiful and versatile Normark, lost on the canal bank when he had almost drowned last year.
Two shadowy figures passed just in front of his hiding place, closely followed by a third. The leading figure turned and in the pale moonlight Derek recognized the craggy features of Tom Monarch, self-styled ‘King of Somerset’. His eyes glittering with anger and his heart full of hatred, Derek forced himself to stay where he was. He wanted nothing more than to plunge his knife into his old rival’s throat but Tom had his henchmen around him and Derek had not come so far and suffered so much to commit suicide through a moment’s rashness.
‘Now then, you got them tools you was talkin’ about?’ said Tom softly, and the last man in line grunted, swinging a small workman’s bag from his shoulder.
‘No problem,’ he said softly. ‘Is right here. Where is it you’m wanting this entrance then?’
A light shone out from a torch and Derek blinked in surprise. Outlined in the glow was a metal fence, matt black in colour and about three feet high, sealing off the peat excavations. Now what the bloody hell was that all about, he wondered. He leaned forwards hoping to get a better look and there was a rustling of leaves as his heavy frame disturbed the overhanging branches. Tom’s head whipped round and Derek froze as those hard, dark eyes hunted through the darkness. Finally, Tom relaxed and turned back to the fence.
‘Just the breeze,’ he said. ‘How’s it coming then?’
‘Nearly there,’ the workman said, and at that moment there was a clank and a section of the fence swung free, tipping in to the deep trench on the i
nside of the enclosure. The noise seemed shockingly loud, echoing off the rusting iron sheets of the remaining buildings to the left. It landed with a splash, disappearing from Derek’s view.
‘Watch what you’m doing!’ Tom hissed as the workman leaned forwards and tried to haul the section up out of the water.
‘Sorry,’ gasped the man. ‘I wasn’t expecting it to just go like that.’ He was panting with the effort as he fished for the railings.
‘Just get in there and lift it up will you,’ snapped Tom. He looked around anxiously. ‘Reckon that’ll bring anyone on the Levels out, the racket you’s making.’
‘Is all full of water!’ protested the workman. ‘Look, ’tis all flooded and ’ent no idea how deep it is. We was told to keep clear, not set foot off this here path when we was fittin’ this here fence.’
‘Keep your voice down!’ hissed Tom. ‘I’ll not be telling you again. Get in there and pass that out – now.’
The workman slid over the edge and gradually lowered himself in to the mud at the bottom of the cutting, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Tom and his associate leaned over to watch as the man’s legs disappeared up to his knees before he hit the bottom.
‘Ah – is bloody freezing!’ he complained, but Tom snapped his fingers impatiently, gesturing to his henchman to grab the end of the fence as it slid up over the edge. Derek watched as the man struggled out onto the bank, thick mud plastering his legs.
‘’Bout time – now fix it back using these,’ ordered Tom, ignoring the man’s discomfort. He held out a small box that rattled as the workman opened it and tipped out fresh bolts and a tube of lampblack. Swiftly the barrier was repaired and the bright steel of the new fixings were smeared with the blacking to blend them in with the framework. Tom stepped forwards and examined the section carefully, leaning over to inspect the back before nodding.
‘Right, get that bit cleaned off,’ he said grinning broadly. ‘Looks right mucky compared to the rest. Don’t want to be too obvious now, do we?’ Derek stayed motionless, his legs beginning to cramp and his back aching, as the men finished up and checked around to make sure they had not left anything lying around.