Weekend in Weighton Final Amazon version 12-12-12

by Weekend in Weighton (mobi)

  ‘But you said she was breathing when you left.’

  All Jimmy’s tics erupted at once. He stared at each of his crew in turn, boring into them, trying to make them give him an answer that worked. Tommy shook his head, Keith shrugged, and Mickey puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘Anyway, back to me. I’m slipping here.’

  ‘I’ll plug that fuckin’ noise,’ said Tommy. He took a step towards me.

  ‘No, wait,’ said Jimmy. He pushed a hand out to his host of heavies. ‘I’m trying to think.’

  My left foot broke away from the edge. All I could feel was a shooting pain in my other foot. Taking more of my weight on my arms, I clung tighter to the railings. As my inner elbow dug into my jacket, it pushed at something in my pocket. Why hadn’t I thought of it before?

  ‘I’ve got an old photo.’ I was shouting now. ‘Of the twins. It’s in my jacket pocket. Take a look. It proves what I’m saying.’

  Tommy turned side on to his boss. ‘He’s fucking you around.’

  ‘Get the photo.’

  ‘He’s a toe rag. Don’t listen.’

  ‘Get the fuckin’ photo,’ ordered Jimmy.

  ‘And hurry the fuck up,’ I added.

  I glanced down at the swirling, brown water. It looked as if the river was parting to receive me, begging me to let go. Tommy marched over to the railings and crunched his face into a snarl as he faced me. I tipped my chin toward my inside right pocket. He yanked my lapel to one side and thrust his hand into my jacket. He pulled out the photo, gave it the “once over” then held it out behind him. Jimmy came over and took it. He studied the black and white image and started nodding to himself.

  ‘I told you, Jimmy. It’s proof. You can bring me back now.’

  ‘It means fuck-all,’ said Tommy.

  Jimmy couldn’t tear his eyes from the photo. He kept flicking it against his thumbnail. With Cartwright toiling against his own misgivings, Tommy edged closer to the railings. He noticed the blood on my hands and smiled.

  ‘Come on, Tom,’ I said, ‘war’s over.’

  He studied me for a few seconds, and with no emotion in his face he offered his hand. It jutted out above the railing. As I tried to grab his wrist, he withdrew it in a blur, and I clutched at damp air. From the recoil I could feel myself tipping backwards and beginning to slide down. Before I could clamp my hand back around the railing, Tommy swung his pistol butt into my holding hand.

  ‘Fuck!’

  The pain went through me like a fireball. I had to let go. Within a blink, my feet gave way. I started to fall, my hands flailing at the railing posts. I saw Tommy laughing as Jimmy pushed forward. My head dropped below the bridge beams, and I managed to grapple both hands around the bottom bracket of the railings. My grip held, but a sharp pain seared through my fingers. Suspended, my body went into a natural swing. I knew I only had a few seconds. If I could swing out far enough past the middle of the river, I might get to the bank on the other side before getting churned by the weir. That’s if I ever surfaced.

  My arms were exhausted. I couldn’t feel my fingers. One last swing and it would be down to hard words with fate. But as I made the final inwards swing, wishing I could have done everything differently, something caught my eye below. I let go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Sunday – 18:02

  With toes pointing down I dropped six or seven feet, aiming for the workers’ cage below. Like a high jumper in reverse, I curved my legs and lower back past the top bar of the cradle, landing heavily on the steel platform. Springing forward from the hip-hop landing, my chest crashed into the bar on the other side. Only the steel tubes stopped me from toppling straight back out. The basket rocked from side to side, but its cables held firm. I sat hunched over my damaged ribs and clung on. I rubbed my chest with my bloody hands, but didn’t actually think I could feel distinct bones anymore. I daren’t look, either. They would be black, blue, and all shades in between.

  On the bridge above I heard Tommy telling the others he hadn’t heard a splash. From their footfalls and voices, I guessed they were looking over the railings, trying to spot me in the water. I didn’t think they could see the cage, but it wouldn’t take long before they worked it out. In any case, I had to keep moving. I was late for a date.

  After a few deep breaths, I got to my feet and examined the cradle. Judging by the rust, it had been around longer than I had. There were no controls that I could see, and though I spotted a winch crank-handle, it was at the top of the cable, alongside the bridge. Well out of reach. A jump to the middle stanchion looked a fair bet. I measured the distance in my head and tried to imagine where I’d land, but I couldn’t see any handholds or footholds on the sandstone blocks to aim for.

  I looked down. The river still beckoned. At least if I dropped from the bottom of the cage I’d have a better chance.

  With my mind made up, I grabbed a cable, squeezed through the top two bars and lowered myself down the outside of the cage one rung at a time. Sensing a movement above me, I looked up and saw Mickey at full stretch over the balustrade, trying to see under the bridge. I tucked my head in and kept still, but the cage swung from the momentum. The groan from the cable made a dull echo in the stone arch and Mickey shouted something I didn’t hear. I figured they were onto me. It was time to make a leap of faith.

  Dangling over the churning waters, waiting for my “hallelujah” moment, a familiar chug chug noise started to throb in my ears – the most joyful, welcome sound I’d ever heard. I looked out from under the bridge to the upstream curve of the river, and there she blew: the “Mark Twain” showboat, moving at full speed. It always turned by the Mill Bridge, threading back through the middle span. The boat would pass right under me – and who said “never the twain shall meet”?

  If there was a soundtrack to our lives, I’d be hearing Let It Be playing in the ether. George was right, sometimes there really is an answer.

  I climbed back up the cage and spread my legs to the furthest points on the lowest rung, almost doing the splits. A minute or so more, and I could drop onto the roof of the upper viewing deck.

  A high-pitched metallic clang erupted in my ears as a bullet ricocheted off the frame of the cage. Close. Very close. I beat back the shock and clung tighter to the bars. From the bridge above I heard the bark of orders from Jimmy, and Tommy’s answering grunts. I twisted so I could peer upwards, and three muscle-heads filled my field of vision. One was slightly more prominent than the others. Keith and Mickey held Tommy over the side of the bridge, and Tommy’s gun hand wavered with the strain. They were on the blind side of the approaching boat, and Tommy was trying desperately to hold a steady aim. I wedged my head back into the side of the cage as a bullet whistled past.

  Running commentary from the skipper-cum-tour-guide began to vibrate off the sandstone walls as the boat wheeled into its slow turn.

  I heard Jimmy call out, telling Mickey and Keith to haul Tommy back in.

  A few seconds later the bow of the boat passed under me. Diesel fumes filled the space under the arch as I monkeyed back down the bars. Hanging from the bottom rung, I waited until the middle section of the boat’s roof was below me, and then I dropped.

  The corrugated Perspex bowed but didn’t break as I landed and sprawled forward. I heard raised voices from the sightseers below but it didn’t sound like “welcome aboard”. No pipes were piping, either. Nevertheless, I spun around on my backside and crawled to the end of the roof. Peering over, I saw the back half of the boat, uncovered for open air viewing. As the tour commentary burbled back to life, I edged my legs over the roof line and dropped down to the upper deck. Five passengers sat under the covered section at the front. With my arrival, they turned and stared.

  I held up a reassuring palm. ‘River Marshal. Please remain seated.’ The bemused stares continued, so I pointed over the side using a starboard thumb. ‘Tidal check in progress, folks. No need for alarm.’

  They looked at each other and shrugged.

/>   As the boat emerged from the far side of the arch I turned and looked up at the bridge. Jimmy stood behind the balustrades, arms folded, his face as dark as a storm cloud. Alongside him were the three stooges, hands in pockets. No sign of any guns. Within ten minutes or so, the “Mark Twain” would end its trip, as it always did, at the pontoon by the Old Bridge, a short sprint from the Town Hall. I was riding pretty and home free. I gave Jimmy a six lane grin, mouthed a silent “fuck you” and stuck up a one finger salute.

  My exuberance was short-lived. Up on the bridge, Tommy took a step back, grabbed the wooden rail with one hand, and vaulted over the balustrade. With a face moulded in determination he leapt down towards the back of the boat. The incredibly stupid hulk thudded into the rear deck and collapsed in a mess.

  I swore under my breath and prayed he’d broken both ankles, before shouting into the river wind, ‘Looks like it’s raining men.’ From behind me came gasps from the day trippers. I glanced over my shoulder. ‘S’okay, folks. Fellow marshal on board. He’s got the tide charts.’

  Tommy picked himself up and clicked his joints back into place. Even against the backdrop of the Mill, he looked huge. And the expression on his face made the Terminator look half-hearted. As he took a step towards me, I peeked over the side. Maybe it was finally time to take that plunge. I was pretty sure I could outswim him.

  ‘You bring the charts, Tom?’

  ‘What?’

  I winked at him and flicked my head in the direction of the passengers behind. ‘You know. Tidal flows.’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  My head shook in admonishment. ‘Language, Tommy. Kids on board, yeah? What will Customer Relations say?’

  I shifted to my right and to the edge of the boat, but Tommy moved with me. He felt for the bulge in his jacket then hesitated. His gaze looped over my shoulder at the paying passengers.

  I caught his eye and pointed at the deck cam. ‘Don’t worry. It’s just you, me, and HBO.’

  ‘Makes no odds, Greene.’

  ‘I don’t know, Tom. You’re not so brave without your shooter, are you?’

  He punched one fist into the other. ‘Come on, then, take me.’

  ‘Ladies first.’ I beckoned him over.

  He took a step forward, his eyes fixed on mine, while the passengers behind us exchanged deliberately loud whispers. I swept my right foot back in a slow quarter circle, pushed my upper body down into my hips, uncrossed my arms, and hardened into a “fists of fury” pose.

  ‘Tom,’ I said, ‘allow me to explain. There are five tenets of Tae Kwon Do.’ I did a quicksilver air swipe with my hands, my elbows making a loud slapping noise against my jacket. ‘Number one: courtesy. How are you, Tom? Two: integrity. I will use no tricks or weapons to vanquish you. Three: perseverance. As many blows as it takes. Four: self-control. No more than it needs. And lastly, but of most relevance: indomitable spirit. Courage and principle will prevail against overwhelming odds. Every time.’ I gave him the tiniest bow of my head. ‘And now I’m going to kick the shit out of you.’

  Tommy lunged forward with a predictable haymaker, which I dodged. Keeping my eyes focussed on his, I skipped into the row of seating to my left. He pounded after me, and I skidded out the other side, grabbed a seat post, and zipped back the other way. Tommy almost lost his footing on the wet deck as he tried to follow me. I stopped at the edge of the next row and smiled.

  ‘Keep up, Tom.’ I winked. ‘You’re a big man, but in bad shape. With me it’s a full-time hobby. Now behave yourself.’

  He glared at me and resumed the chase. Keeping two rows of seating between us, I dashed back and forth along the row. Each time I got to the end seat I doubled back the other way. The tour commentary boomed out obliviously in the background, propagating some bullshit about “Weighton Pier” also being known as the “Bridge of Sighs". Was that after they jumped or before they hit the water?

  Tommy was puffing and panting as he tried to catch me. Perhaps I couldn’t hurt the “Man Mountain”, but I could wear him out for sure.

  The boat was rocking now, literally, and Tommy struggled with his balance as the boat pitched.

  ‘Not laid a glove on me yet, Tom.’

  He stopped, blowing hard. He set his hands on his hips and stared at me as he tried to catch his breath. I raced towards his end of the row and stopped opposite him.

  ‘Give in yet?’

  Tommy roused himself and lashed out at me. I ducked underneath his fist and scampered back the other way. Stumbling forward after his missed swing, Tommy recovered his momentum and came at me full tilt. I left it to the last microsecond before sidestepping his charge. Tommy applied the brakes too late and couldn’t stop. He lost his footing and smashed into the boat’s guardrail, then fought desperately against his over-tipping balance, dangling like an inebriated walrus over the side. I seized a wooden barge pole from its mounting under the rail and swung it with maximum velocity at the back of his bulbous head. He flipped over the rail and somersaulted into the river. It was a 9.9 for artistic impression on most scorecards. I grabbed a life ring and hurled it frisbee style at Tommy’s bobbing head. As he paddled towards it, I imitated the breast-stroke movement as a hint.

  My arms and legs started to shake as the adrenaline receded, so I sat back on the nearest plastic seat and took in a lungful of downwind air: rotting fish and sulphur dominated the blend. The passengers, plugged into their ringside seats and looking a bit sea-sick, resumed chattering in low voices. Several of them risked a stare in my direction, but no one said anything to me.

  I jerked a thumb toward the rail where Tommy had gone over. ‘We always play that game. Local tradition. It’s a re-enactment of the solstice tide.’

  A young boy wearing a big smile sidled a few seats nearer to me. ‘That was wicked.’ His head bobbed in approval. ‘I’m doing karate, but I might switch now. Cool moves.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He bit his lip and looked beyond the stern to where Bob’s head was still visible. ‘You did promise not to use any weapons or tricks, though.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ I said, eying him, ‘I forgot to mention the sixth tenet. Win ugly.’

  ‘When’s the next show?’

  ‘Ten minutes at the Town Hall. I’m planning to bring the house down.’

  The boy smiled and nodded. ‘Nice one.’

  ‘Listen, you better scoot back to your mum and dad.’ The pair were giving me the concerned eye. ‘They ever tell you not to talk to strangers?’

  ‘Okay. See you later.’ He swivelled around and headed back to the seat next to his parents.

  I looked at my watch. It was stretching past Nkongo time. I couldn’t make the boat go any faster, so they’d just have to wait a little longer. To get my bearings I surveyed the river from bank to bank and smelled seaweed on the breeze. As we passed a small wharf I saw a wet-suited figure lowering himself onto a jet ski moored alongside. Before I could turn away, there was a “lock-on” look of mutual recognition, and anticipation tingled in my stomach. It was the kind of tingle that at first you don’t know if it’s a good tingle or a bad tingle, just a tingle. Then the photo-fit registered. Oh shit, it was Diffy. I instinctively gripped my pocket containing the keys to his scooter, hoping it was still where I’d left it – in the parking bay behind Clegg’s flat. Only a stone’s throw, in fact, from the next bridge.

  Before I could duck away, Diffy waved at me – an unexpectedly friendly wave, considering I hadn’t returned his scooter. But the Diffster had so many gadgets and toys he’d probably forgotten about his RV. He couldn’t even remember where he lived most of the time. All the same, I pretended I hadn’t seen him and instead wondered about his professed broken arm. He’d either picked up a bionic wrist on eBay or he was pulling a scam. And knowing Diffy …

  I closed my eyes and tried to regain my senses. Before calm could settle in, a beep sounded from my phone. It was a text from Kate: ‘where r u?’ I thought about texting back, ‘lazing about on the river, u?�
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  My fingers played with the screen as I wondered how to reply. It was too early to throw the switch. I would have to wait until I was on dry land and nearer the Town Hall. In any case, it would be foolish to discount Jimmy’s next move.

  My phone had another text showing from earlier. In all the excitement I must have missed it. Not that I’d missed much. Even by Debbie’s standards it was unequivocal: ‘Hey shithead, I w8d but u didn’t cm. Congrats u r now single.’ No kiss, either. Call me self-centred, but it wasn’t what I needed right then, even if I had kind of stood her up. Not that I actually remembered agreeing to meet her. It sounded pretty final, though. I’d have to phone her later.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Sunday – 18:14

  I glanced back at the bridge but saw no sign of Jimmy or the others. I tried to calculate what they might do next and figured fishing for Tommy wouldn’t be a priority, even if they did happen to have a harpoon. I guessed they didn’t, but with Jimmy’s sadistic streak anything was possible.

  When I thought back to my babbling session on the bridge I vaguely recalled telling Jimmy about the rendezvous, but I was pretty sure I hadn’t told him where it was supposed to take place. Even so, he was bound to try to guess. Would he try to get to town before I could, or would he try to intercept me? With Jimmy, I figured the latter.

  Panic hit me like the barge pole I’d used on Tommy. With a sudden and crushing realisation, I knew he’d try to beat me to the next bridge. I swivelled port side, looking beyond the river bank and fields. Bollocks! Jimmy’s Range Rover was hurtling down the embankment road, trailing a cloud of dust. I leaned over the side of the boat, straining to look ahead to Queen’s Bridge. I gauged Jimmy’s progress and judged he’d get there first.

  This made for another dilemma: should I stay put and chance another wrestle with one of Jimmy’s paratroopers? Or should I bail and swim to the bank? Despite being flush with success from my bout with Tommy, I didn’t relish another skirmish with Cartwright’s cavaliers, even with “home field” advantage. My indomitable spirit knew its limitations. The river seemed determined to have the last laugh.