Carter and his dull-witted son had declared war on Moe until it became clear to him – already armed with the perception of the policeman to be – that it would be risky indeed to continue tempting fate by venturing anywhere near their domain. Intuitively, Moe had recognised the danger … the potential for deranged and destructive urges to burst forth like pus from a festering boil. His acceptance into The Met had taken him far beyond his former self and made a grown man of him.
Many years later, Moe had heard that the elder Carter had been found murdered beside his cemetery, bludgeoned to death with a blunt instrument. Such was his character, there were any number of likely suspects but his killer had never been caught.
Moe regarded ‘Farter’ Carter’s son, for it was indeed he, with a healthy disrespect. He was rewarded in turn with an appraisal that lay somewhere between a leer and a sneer.
“There’s sumthin famil’yar about ’ee. Do I know ’ee?”
Moe shrugged nonchalantly, at the same time aware of a certain quickening of his heartbeat.
“I’m sure I’d remember.” Moe lingered on the word remember. Carter’s eyes narrowed … but he seemed uncertain now.
“Funny. I could swear …”
Moe seized the initiative. “Earlier today maybe. I was here for a funeral.”
Carter scratched his head, finger lines of mud oozing down over his temples like warpaint. Then he nodded.
“Course! I knew I’d see ’ee somewhere here. Just don’t ask me to name names. I were never no good at names.” Moe relaxed. That was handy. He pointed back the way he’d come.
“New interment … over there.” Carter peered over the edge of his excavations and past Moe and the yew tree.
“Oh – right. Did that job meself. Nice bit of masonry there, I recall. Folk these days won’t spend the money. Too busy buyin’ vidyoos and the like, I shouldn’t wonder.” He spat to one side.
Moe hadn’t known, hadn’t witnessed him at work. And he was glad he hadn’t. But Carter had a point, he conceded. It was just another sign of a consumer obsessed society. Why spend on what was dead and gone? But to Moe, there had to be more than that. It was a measure of how much love and respect there had been. Gazing about, he saw too many examples of afterlife neglect. It was more than depressing, it was … dispiriting. The gravedigger was staring up at him.
“Upliftin’, it ain’t! Don’t expect no Kew Gardens ’ere.” He spat again and leaned on the fork. “Gave up on most of ’em years ago. If kin can’t be bothered, why should the likes of Oi?”
Moe bit his tongue. Lights were flickering on in Baytown. They seemed to galvanize Carter, like new batteries powering some ‘Gargoyle Man’ toy into life.
Moe had to jump to avoid the fork as it speared the ground where, a split second before, his recently cleaned shoe had been. Carter’s smirk gave him away. One all.
“Giz us a pull.” No pliz again. Moe was sorely tempted to ignore the unappetising paw thrust up at him, but his better nature prevailed.
Taking hold, he was immediately struck by the animal strength of the grip that held his own. He braced his legs but found himself actually being dragged inexorably towards the edge of the pit. He knew that Carter was trying, for whatever reason, to pull him down into his filthy hole with him. Two – one?
Sorry to disappoint you, my old son. Moe fought for his balance, flinging his free arm up and away to the rear, the hand securing a firm grasp of a lower branch. Holding on, he exerted his advantage in height if not in age, and taking a deep breath heaved for all his worth. A very surprised Carter fairly flew up from his pit to land on his knees at Moe’s feet, still holding his hand. Moe carefully disengaged and studied his soiled fingers.
“Always glad to help someone out of a hole.”
The gravedigger sloped to his feet and reached for the fork with an expression that forcefully reminded Moe of the man’s late, unlamented sire. “No point takin’ this further now.” Moe was minded to add “Upliftin’ it IS!” but Carter was elaborating: “Too bluddy dark – and too bluddy wet – to do anymore dahn zere.”
Moe studied the open grave. “Aren’t you going to leave any hazard lights? Some poor soul might fall in and break his neck.”
“Serve ’em right for being where zey got no bizness.” In the half-light, Carter pushed past Moe, his breath a bilious blast of stale beer and onions. Moe couldn’t resist the wind-up and began singing softly to himself as he went on his way with a casual wave.
“I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places...” He didn’t hear Carter mutter: “That this heart of mine embraces all day through.” Nor was he aware of the gravedigger stopping to watch him go, resisting any temptation to glance back even when he reached the Astra. The lights of Baytown twinkled invitingly. In a few moments Moe was inside the car and keying the ignition. He had come to hate the short winter days; they made the nights so long. But the rain had stopped at long last. That was something. Maybe not quite miraculous, but still something.
Moe didn’t like the idea of leaving his parents in the care of a creature like Carter but they had each other again. He and they would have to take a chance on the flowers staying put. Moe wondered what odds his dad would offer on that.
Releasing the handbrake, he accelerated away down the hill into Baytown, leaving the dead, the dead of soul, and the dark to keep each other company.
CHAPTER FOUR
Moe wriggled luxuriously in the heat of the air blasting out of the vents in the fascia of the Astra, the condensation on the inside of the windscreen slowly fading in the warmth, helped by an occasional wipe of Moe’s hand. He couldn’t help notice the smear of mud from his initial efforts as the moisture sucked on his soiled fingers. But a few more determined wipes had cleared it.
He had owned his share of cars over the years, ranging from sports roadsters to staid saloons of a certain vintage, all of them second-hand, or ‘previously used’ as the trade liked to say now. The little Astra had been his for seven years, and whilst over twice that age it was in pretty fair nick and one of the few cars he had owned that could, for all its modest dimensions, comfortably accommodate his long frame with headroom to spare.
He had never been tempted, either financially or aesthetically, to buy a new car. What was the point? Directly the money was paid, the car lost a hefty percentage of its value and promptly became just another used motor anyway. Moe never felt the need nor saw the point. OK – his Astra needed extra tender loving care and regular modest bills to keep it up to snuff as far as the annual MoT was concerned, but it was a small price to pay. Better the devil you know, Moe reasoned. And it had repaid his attention with a reassuring reliability that in his younger days he might have found almost boring. But not now, even though there were times when he joked with himself that the GT S Auto on the back end stood for gone to seed – automatically!
A passing car backfired, startling Moe momentarily. Then it took his mind back again to the day he had scared ‘Farter’ Carter witless. Moe chuckled audibly. He had seen Carter lounging disrespectfully against a large family memorial – one of those with noble sentiments and flying angels that proudly proclaimed itself to be the last resting place of the local Kallor family, well liked for their charitable work in days gone by.
The rising smoke rings bore witness to Carter’s certainty that he was unobserved since such behaviour was hardly likely to be condoned by his council employers. Moe quickly put paid to that presumption but the contorted fury on the man’s face focussed the young Moe’s mind wonderfully. He had just beaten Carter to the gate despite their differences in age, leaving the cemetery keeper gasping for breath, the dog-end crushed between thick stained fingers that would have probably wrung his neck.
Moe had met enough odious specimens of humanity, had witnessed enough examples of violence, venality and sheer vileness in his police career to place the Carters in proper perspective. Hardly a barrel of fun, either of them, the dead ‘Farter’ or the live son, whom Moe now ter
med the ‘Smarter’ Carter. But you had to laugh.
He had dismissed both of them from his mind by the time he drove into the busy late-night shopping centre of the town. The traffic was awful. Nearly as bad as the city he had left behind him allowing for the relative scale of things. Too many people, trying to escape from the cities in search of the good life, and bringing with them the downside of the bad life they had left behind. Moe sympathised and swore.
He had to drive around the town centre three times before finding a parking space within reasonable reach of the Best2Buy supermarket. Even then he had to be quick, politely nodding in response to the mouthed but unheard abuse from the driver of a disintegrating dustbin of a Capri, a shaven headed moron more suited to Broadmoor than a nice spot like Baytown.
Moe had inserted the Astra into the slot and locked up before he noticed the yellow lines. Damn! He did a quick recce. Fat chance of finding anywhere else within a ten-minute walk. He’d just have to risk it. In London, he’d have a fighting chance, armed with a bit of charm and his warrant card. But even there the odds were shortening more and more. Too many cars.
Supermarkets weren’t Moe’s idea of fun – too much choice! He took a last look around – so far so good – grabbed a discarded trolley and joined the scrum.
Ten stressful minutes later, Moe emerged victorious only to taste the ashes of defeat. On his windscreen was a parking ticket. And a few cars on stood the traffic warden, a thin streak of black and yellow, topped by a cap with a slashed peak that made its wearer resemble a particularly unpleasant and vindictive SS officer. Moe suspected that the effect was intentional.
Swearing quietly, he nearly lost his car keys down a drain as he juggled the groceries from the trolley to the back of the Astra. The warden watched from a safe distance. Beyond him was a familiar motor.
Within sight of the same warden, and within his reach, was the disreputable Capri, empty and just waiting to be ticketed. But then, as if to add to Moe’s discomfort, there was a coarse cackle in his ear. The shaven headed moron, clutching a couple of carrier bags, was just sauntering by, indicating Moe’s ticket with undisguised glee.
“Haw … haw. What ’ave you got there then?” – as if he didn’t know.
Moe ignored him, peeling off the plastic envelope with a gracious smile at the warden who stroked a small black moustache and immediately turned away. Towards the Capri. Moe silently urged him on. Go on, blast you! He hoped to keep the sniggering hulk a while longer, maybe just long enough for the strutting warden to get to the Capri. Moe was insouciance personified as he blocked the moron’s view.
“That’s the way it goes,” he said with a casual aplomb that was far from his inner feelings on the subject. The other chortled but with less conviction. Moe went on. “You were well out of it, after all.” His tormentor was just about to agree when, with a four-letter word, he suddenly broke into a wobbling run towards his own car, bawling out as he ran. Moe’s blocking tactic had been only partially effective.
Another traffic warden, but a world removed from the first in appearance, had appeared in front of the Capri and with practised ease attached a familiar plastic envelope beneath one wiper blade. Moe experienced a warm glow not normally associated with encounters with traffic wardens. That was the ticket!
Passers-by were entertained by the sight of the foul-mouthed moron pitching his purchases to the pavement and rapidly exhausting a short and disgusting range of expletives. The intended target merely smiled a bewitching smile and swayed past him in Moe’s direction, leaving the recipient of her attentions visibly shaking with rage.
Whilst Moe’s warden was the personification of arbitrary arrogance, this new arrival was altogether a different sort of animal … blonde and curvy in her tight uniform, like a voluptuous honeybee flitting from flower to flower, or rather – from car to car. She joined her colleague and everyone watched as the comedian from the Capri rushed at his car in fury and ripped the offending mark of offence from it, proceeding to rip it into shreds. Moe sighed. It was like being back in London.
Accompanied by the effing and blinding from down the road, Moe began to study his Fixed Penalty Notice on the basis that it was always wise to check anything unexpected – and perhaps hastily written – especially when it involved paying out money. His efforts in this direction were interrupted by the escalation of events close-by.
The cretin from the Capri had placed his lard-like bulk in front of the two traffic wardens and was in the act of forcing the remnants of his ticket down the ample front of the tunic worn by the vision of beauty who had issued it. Her male colleague seemed transfixed by this unseemly assault on his partner’s person, his eyes popping in time with her buttons. Moe sighed again. This was getting silly. Pocketing his FPN, he wandered over.
“Hey, come on now. That’s enough. The lady was only doing her job.”
“Says who? Piss off!” The shaven head swung his way, the anger unabated. Moe tried again.
“This won’t help anybody. Now leave her alone.”
The lean streak chose that moment to stir it up. “That’s right – take your medicine.”
This was like a red rag to a bull. Moe fully expected the hulk to deck the warden there and then. No time to waste now. Stepping in quick and tight between the two men, he produced his warrant card with an authoritative flourish, holding it up but not long enough to read.
“I am a police officer.” For a moment, Moe thought that the hulk was going to hoot with mirth. All right then, time for Plan B.
“National Armed Robbery and Crime Organisation – NARCO!” Moe snapped, adopting the no-nonsense style he had heard used by the lads from the regional crime squads. Theatrically, he turned towards unseen backup and made a fine show of waving them away. The effect was dramatic.
The raging died, and with a hurried – and worried – flicker of his eyes in every direction, the hulk backed off. Moe indicated to the vision of loveliness that she should remove the remains of the torn-up ticket and give it to him. She stared deep into his eyes, her hands doing his bidding. He wished he could help. Then her soft fingers, still uncalloused by too much scribbling on exposed pavements, were pressing the remnants into his palm. There was a distinct and very pleasant pressure, and a corresponding reaction from further down. Moe handed the FPN back to its ungrateful but not unworthy recipient.
“Yours, I think. But you’re not alone, if you recall.”
There was a reluctant withdrawal towards the Capri. The crowd that had gathered began to disperse, the fun over.
“But you won’t be paying yours, will you … copper?” The last word was flung back at Moe. But it was the last word. And Moe had heard it all before. He could live with it.
The messy motor polluted its way past them with a final savage sneer from within. Around them, the world returned to normal. Moe felt his arm being squeezed and the curves were pressing closer than might be considered usual in such circumstances. She was tall too – around five feet eight in her stockinged feet, Moe estimated.
“Thanks so much, officer.” Her voice was husky, a faint muskiness filling his nostrils, “I thought he was going to lose control.”
Moe grinned at her in admiration. Going to? She was a cool one. Her eyes were wide, the pupils green in the streetlights, over a pert nose and full, slightly parted lips. Her cap – no slashed peak for her – sat snugly on a coiled snake of silky ash blonde hair. Moe put her in her thirties, but age didn’t really come into it with a woman like that. She probably improved with each passing year, designed by a caring Father Nature to delight some very fortunate man.
“I wish there was a way I could repay you.” She meant it too. Moe’s imagination steamed through half a dozen possibilities before he produced his own parking ticket for her inspection and pointed at the thin streak. Her eyebrows rose. “Oh dear.” Moe could only agree.
She pouted prettily and that made Moe feel better at once.
“Surely you can get it fixed. You must have
ways and means, you being a policeman and all. Policemen always have ways and means.”
“We have the ways if others have the means, is that it?”
“Don’t be naughty. You know what I mean.”
The thin streak chipped in, obviously feeling put upon.
“How was I to know? I’m not telepathic. Anyway…” he whined resentfully, “you shouldn’t have…” Moe froze him out with a look. He pocketed the FPN and leaned forward to murmur in a shell pink ear. “I’d rather have had one from you.”
She giggled and blushed. Her irritated colleague stamped his heels and testily adjusted his cap, looking more SS than ever.
“Come on, Marie. We’ve still got to do the seafront.”
Moe made a mental note. Marie. Nice. ‘Marie, the dawn is breaking…’ He teased her as she let herself be led away, turning to tempt him shamelessly with those eyes to die for. Moe found himself following along, trying to keep her in view. He heard a voice – his voice – calling after her. “My name’s Arthur … Arthur Moe.” But she had vanished from sight as suddenly as she had appeared.
CHAPTER FIVE
If Moe was ever minded to make a list of least enjoyable domestic chores, he would have to admit that washing and wiping dishes came very near the top. Behind ironing shirts, but right up there.
Having grown accustomed to a disciplined life at work, he felt no qualms about adopting a relaxed life-style away from it. Wash clothes by all means, but wear the same shirt twice; cook when necessary but heat ready-mades when available. That was one of the reasons why supermarkets like Best2Buy had their uses. There, he could choose from a range of his favourites – ready to heat – that contributed considerably to his temperament and patience as a cook. Much of what he liked or, at any rate, was content with, could be on his table in a matter of minutes – and that suited him just fine.
With a contented belch, Moe flicked open the plastic bin beneath the sink and dropped in the foil trays that had held the chilli con carne. Then he returned to his seat and sank back, content with a cup of steaming coffee, the gas fire hissing cosily close by, to listen to the uplifting strains of the George Lloyd symphony on an old but still serviceable player.
November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Page 3