Salt of Their Blood

by Gerald Wixey

  Instead I said, ‘He wouldn’t have been able to do your job.’ Jim looked positively affronted that I could possibly entertain such a thought. ‘Tell me something I don’t know. Does Tommy still talk to him?’

  I nodded and Jim said, ‘Keep your head still.’

  The champion shit stirrer twinkled away at me from the mirror. Jim had to ask questions that he knew the answers to. ‘Why did he set fire to the bus station? Or Ron’s allotment shed come to that? Which of course everyone knows you did, and then blamed Declan. Why did you keep shooting him with that old air pistol?’ I said nothing, Jim sighed and showed me the mirror. ‘You got him into so much trouble, no wonder he wandered off into the sunset and disappeared.’

  Jim would have been an efficient inquisitor for Stalin. I had this urge, whenever he asked a question, to own up. I felt myself confessing to anything. I forced myself to say nothing. That made him twitch a couple of times. ‘Want your moustache trimmed?’

  I shook my head.‘Where are you playing tomorrow?’

  ‘Dover.’

  ‘How much do you get a game then?’

  ‘Thirty, plus a small win bonus.’

  I’d hooked him, we stared at each other in the mirror. His sly little eyes glittering away at me, his little pig-like smile in place. Jim’s vocation in life wasn’t just about cutting hair – he read minds, insidiously clipping and combing his way into the meanest of souls.

  Finally he said, ‘That’s as much as they take home for a weeks work in the car factory. And your dad gives you a small fortune for doing a bit of bar work. You got it made boy.’

  Well, dad did pay me, not a huge amount; but if Jim thought it was a fortune, who was I to disappoint him? I smiled and said, ‘It’s a tough life.’

  ‘Hmm, its all right for some. Game tomorrow, you out on the razzle tonight?’

  I watched his cigarette begin to tremble, the ash an absolute monster, the cleavage plane opened, the crack propagated – my choice of answer critical, I mustn’t get him excited.

  ‘You know me by now, Jim – it’ll be a night in front of the TV.’

  Wrong answer and a predictable outcome; I stood and inspected myself in the mirror, brushing the ash away at the same time. I glanced up the road, saw Kenny walking towards the barber’s door and groaned.

  Jim growled and tapped me on the shoulder. ‘No trouble now.’

  Kenny came in and I glanced across at him. A man born angry and unwaveringly resolved to remain so, Kenny sniffed my way. I glared on. His eyes flicked away and settled on the demon.

  ‘Morning Jim. Lash some of that hairspray around. There’s a nasty smell in here.’

  My eyebrows went up and I shrugged. ‘Cut both of the chips off his shoulders while you’re at it, Jim.’

  Jim smelt a brawl coming on and his eyes darted from me and then back across to Kenny. The thought of a fight in his biscuit tin sized barber’s shop sent him into action. ‘Off you go Stu. Get off, or you’ll be late opening up.’

  I smiled; the thought of Jim as not only a champion shit stirrer, but a world class liar and a diplomat amused me. But seeing Kenny had unnerved me. I quickly shut the door and left them to it. I glanced back and saw Kenny staring out of the door at me; I shivered all of the way back home and it wasn’t caused by the cold.

  ***

  A couple of hours later, on a typically quiet lunchtime. Jack stared at his empty glass. Did he have one more and go home? Or stick and go back to work? He frowned up at me and I made the decision for him.

  ‘You know you want another.’ I swept his glass up and placed it under the beer tap. We both laughed as the phone clattered away behind me. It was a man’s voice I recognised, yet couldn’t put a name to. A soft spoken, calm voice, ‘Is Jack Carter there, please?’

  ‘Jack? I’ll have a look.’ This was the unwritten protocol in my old man’s pub; whenever a phone request came in like that, this charade had to be observed. This gave the person in demand the chance to decline the offer to join in a phone call. After all, it was likely to be an irate spouse enquiring after her inebriated husband. I’d tell the person on the other end of the phone that they’d just left. I watched Jack as he shook his head and waved both hands in an exaggerated display that demanded a discreet lie from me.

  But I felt an impish delight overwhelming me and I said, ‘Hang on,’ and passed the phone across to Jack.

  He whispered ‘bastard’ at me, before slipping into his customary phone mode. ‘Hello, Jack Carter – David, well thanks. How are you… The big house? Thanks. Window been forced? Ok, be there shortly. Yes, yes, something to enliven a dull afternoon – yep, bye now.’

  As Jack passed the phone back I said, ‘Short and sweet. What was it, a scoop, hot story, whistle blower at the bingo hall? Or something important for a change?’

  Ask the owner of the town’s only newspaper that sort of question and Jack would list his usual barrage of non-news stories: rent defaulters, social security fiddlers, lost dogs, drunk drivers, flashers and someone stripping lead from the Masonic Hall’s roof again.

  Not this time.

  ‘That was our esteemed police inspector. We’ve got a burglary definitely and an old woman dead on the sofa.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Big place, just beyond the camel crossroads.’ Jack shook his head. ‘And my bloody cameraman’s bunked off for the day. Train-spotting, hah! Cameras, lenses, everything – I wouldn’t mind, but he’s next to useless anyway.’

  ‘Never trust a train-spotter. I’ll take a few pictures, there can’t be much to it, surely?’

  ‘You haven’t even got a camera.’ Jack raised his eyebrows

  I nodded. ‘Birthday present from my favourite uncle. Zenith ‘E’ – Russian camera – even got a film in it. You’ll have to wait until closing time, though.’

  ***

  We walked across town, Jack more garrulous than usual and me with my camera around my neck and a sombre expression. Jack was reassuring, recognising my discomfort. ‘It’s only a photo of a house, for god’s sake… Relax.’

  We arrived just as the ambulance pulled away. I spotted the town’s only detective wandering around, staring at his shoes. Waiting for instructions, Don Wilson spotted us and walked our way, his fat-faced customary sneer firmly in place.

  He pointed at my camera. ‘What’s that – a Fisher Price camera. Does it play ‘Wheels On The Bus’ when you press the button?’ He laughed, making me even more self-conscious. I felt easier carrying my football kit, or a pint glass.

  I pointed the camera at Don and said, ‘One for the front page, Don,’ and clicked a couple off. ‘I can see the headline now, Fat Detective Baffled Again.’

  He pointed at me, ‘You smart little sod.’ Don shook his head and turned to face Jack, ‘Nothing here for you, sniffer.’

  I smiled.

  Jack hated that sobriquet. Years ago, he’d been a crime reporter with one of the London tabloids. He’d given that up and become an independent newspaper owner in a small town. He had security, a low-pressured job… And nothing exciting to report on. He viewed Don’s comment as nothing other than an insult but ignored it; rather like someone says nothing when he overhears two thugs saying something personally offensive about him. It’s easier and safer to affect a discreet deafness.

  Instead Jack said, ‘What’s happened?’

  Don shrugged, ‘Family on holiday, old woman dead, sat up in her armchair, book on her lap. Cold as ice. Bottom window been forced open. Doctor thinks she’d been dead a day or two at least. Not a mark on her – been in poor health for a few years, evidently.’

  ‘And the windows been forced?’ Jack spoke as he scribbled away into his notebook.

  ‘Yeah – fingerprint guys are swarming around right now. The house is clean, not a thing out of place. Neighbour noticed the window hanging open. Why does anyone go on holiday at this time of year?’

  ‘They’ve gone skiing,’ I said, feeling self
-satisfied.

  ‘And how would you know?’ Don turned to me, his bloated lips making their habitual, disparaging smirk. His olive complexion was more suited to lying on a Mediterranean beach than stood around in a wind driving straight down from Greenland. ‘Where are they then smart arse?’

  The two of us had a bit of history, usual stuff from years ago; teenagers shouting abuse at a fat policeman. He especially resented being called a dago, which made us shout it all the more of course. He’d trundle after us and we’d run away like Olympic sprinters. It was always a short-lived victory though; he’d eventually run into us, hand out the smack around the ear, followed by the finger-wagging admonishment.

  We didn’t get on and I felt good questioning his diligence. ‘You boys don’t try very hard, do you? Dennis Evans lives here. I was at school with his children. One of them told me a couple of days ago that their parents have gone to the Dolomites to ski. I wouldn’t have thought they’d leave Granny to fend for herself though.’

  I smiled at Jack who sent a careful wink back my way.

  ‘How soon before we get the autopsy report?’ Jack knew this better than Don, but he asked the question anyway.

  Don shrugged. ‘Who knows? Anyway, things to do.’

  We watched him amble away from us. Jack fingered his chin between thumb and forefinger as I took more pictures of a window hanging off its hinges and an ugly policeman. Jack wrote some more notes and his frown stayed firmly in place.

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked

  ‘Not a clue.’ Jack shook his head. ‘I suppose you’re going to tell me it’s exactly the same scenario as Broughton’s farmhouse all those years ago?’

  I felt my eyes widen. ‘Much the same thing; window hanging off and Granny’s dead in her bed.’

  ‘There was nothing suspicious about her death and it was a long time ago.’

  ‘I know exactly when it was.’ I was having a good afternoon. Getting the drop on Jack didn’t happen very often. I smiled at him. ‘Hours before Declan disappeared.’

  Jack shook his head and we walked on in silence, until Jack told me he was going to have his siesta and asked me what my plans were for the evening.

  I shrugged. ‘Not out on the town I’m afraid; pulling pints and listening to you arguing the toss I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t argue – I discuss.’

  I strolled away from Jack, trying to concentrate on the burglary and Declan. But Kathy kept nudging her way into my thoughts.

  ***

  My uncle came in the next day. The front door squeaked its customary warning and Wyn’s memorably broad face smiled across the room at me. ‘Where’s your dad? Surely they haven’t left you in charge?’

  We both laughed. He came up close and did what he always did – a gentle squeeze on my bicep, then a close look into my eyes. ‘How are you?’

  I said, ‘I’m well thanks.’ Wyn raised his eyebrows at me. I read his mind. ‘And no, he still doesn’t trust me to tap a barrel yet.’

  He smiled. ‘I’m going to make some coffee, do you want a cup?’

  Wyn’s day for a bet; him and my mate Patrick were always in position by twelve. Wyn computed the races for hours, his Sporting Life open at the televised meeting, a huge pot of coffee, A4 exercise book, gold-tipped italic fountain pen (Parker), gold Ronson varaflame lighter and a packet of Manikin cigars. During a bad run, superstition drove him to bring a ramekin full of sugared almonds through, they’re lucky, my boy. He’d begin by pouring a cup, warm his cigar over the flame and start writing in his beautiful copperplate; the form, the going, the jockey, overhead conditions, underfoot conditions. He watched the betting fluctuations, that often threw his carefully computed calculations out of the window with an impetuous wager on a late betting surge.

  Patrick and Wyn were an unlikely looking couple; Patrick with his post-hippy look, alongside Wyn’s Oxford Street, late 1950’s chic; Wyn’s sheet after sheet of calligraphic perfection, Patrick’s scrawled names on his cigarette packet. The partnership, once grand master and tyro, now a more formal alliance of Wyn’s capital and Patrick’s supernatural skill.

  Wyn glanced up from his fixation, tapped Patrick on the shoulder and smiled across at me. ‘Are you two out tonight?’

  Patrick didn’t say much at the best of times – it seemed that he often relied on telepathy – just lifted his eyebrows a fraction at Wyn – ducks have watertight arses don’t they?

  Wyn laughed and Patrick came up to the counter and said, ‘Where did you get to the other night?’ He stared at me, a mean and intent look. I said nothing, gave him my, I don’t know what you’re talking about, sort of look. Patrick said, ‘No good you looking like that. Suzie rang me. Wondered if I knew where you were. What’s going on?’

  I shrugged. My possessive and very occasional girlfriend wasn’t high on my list of priorities at the moment. I said, ‘There’s nothing going on.’

  Wyn brought his head slowly up and he frowned; a hint, a distant memory, and I wondered how many times he’d said it; don’t worry, there’s nothing going on?

  Patrick still had his niggardly face on. ‘Why do you mess her about?’

  I sighed and then said, ‘I don’t – it’s just that she thinks we’re an item, that she’s my girlfriend. I don’t know why, whenever I ring her, all she does is bollock me.’

  I stared back at the self-proclaimed protector of good-looking women. Saint Patrick, patron saint of girlfriends – he pissed me off sometimes. He grunted something my way, grunted something in Wyn’s direction, took the crib board over to the far table and sat on his own. At the same time, Shirley came in with Kenny. She walked over to Wyn and kissed him on the cheek. Despite everything, both of them remained close and comfortable in each other’s company. Kenny stared at his mother, shook his head and snarled at the same time. He peeled off in the other direction and sat down with Patrick.

  Jack noticed me staring across at Kenny. He smiled, reading me perfectly. ‘If silence is the one truly great art of good conversation, then it must be stimulating sat between those two.’

  Shirley said, ‘What are you two grinning at?’

  ‘Boy’s talk.’ Jack’s answer was enough to send Shirley back out to the kitchen and leave us to talk the afternoon away.

  I glanced up at the clock, half past four on a Saturday afternoon and the door slowly opened. Don stuck his head inside, his face affecting surprise, what’s going on here then? He came slowly across the threshold, stopped midway between door and bar.

  Don glanced left and right, before saying, ‘Well, well – if I’m not mistaken, an after-hours drink, which as you are aware is illegal.’

  He sounded pompously preposterous, like the actor Claude Rains – Captain Renault in the film Casablanca – arriving in Rick’s Bar and declaring himself ‘Shocked, shocked!’ to learn that gambling is taking place there. Well, having a drink after hours in your local – nobody can possibly be surprised, but then I could never work him out.

  I said, ‘It’s no wonder you made Sergeant.’

  I stared back at him; my features under control – just.

  Fortunately Shirley had just returned and she never trusted my equanimity and jumped calmly in. ‘Don give it a rest.’ She sounded unusually irritated. ‘We’re just having a quiet one. Don’t be such a bore.’

  If I’d have said that, he would have exploded. Instead he looked suitably uncomfortable and smiled at Shirley saying, ‘Only joking, Shirley, I might as well have a quick one while I’m here.’

  What a temptation to say, I’m not serving you… You’re on duty, but I kept my mouth shut. I pulled a pint and placed it in front of him. I waited and waited. He had this half-grin, a smug expression plastered over his coarse features. Despite my attempt to remain in control, he got under my skin and I had to say something. I wanted to punch Don; twist his thick-lipped smirk into submission.

  The best I could do was, ‘You haven’t paid for that.’


  He glanced up from his beer. ‘Hasn’t your old man told you about our arrangement?’ Now he really did look conceited. He knew something and I didn’t. I stared at him, arrangement? I couldn’t comprehend an arrangement between Don and my old man; it didn’t make sense. Don never felt the need to tell me how it all worked. Shirley said, ‘No arguments, please.’ He turned away and tried to flirt a little with Shirley; I felt my fists bunch again and watched him drink up in silence, beaten back by her coolness. Don thanked me with a measured politeness and then turned towards Jack, ‘You’ll be pleased to know that it looks suspicious.’

  Jack glanced from Don, to me and then back to Don. ‘How?’

  ‘A whisper from the pathologist. Looks like she might have been smothered.’

  Don gave a me cheery good evening and left. Shirley said, ‘What was that all about?’ Jack said, ‘It seems our recent burglary has become a murder investigation as well.’

  Chapter 5

  1960

  I slept fitfully, woken by my old man’s usual bark up the stairs, ‘The dog’s waiting for you.’

  I threw my clothes on and rushed headlong down the long flight of stairs to begin my early morning stroll over the fields with the dog. It was interrupted by the sight of my old man in deep discussion with Jack the Scribe, both of them staring the short distance across to the bus station. As well as buses on the forecourt, two black police cars hovered and an ambulance pulled out onto Grove Street and turned towards Oxford. Jack clutched his battered notebook in one hand and a cigarette in the other. His pencil was wedged behind his left ear and he waved the cigarette as he spoke.

  ‘Something went wrong, that’s for sure. The jack must have malfunctioned. Five tons of double decker bus came down on his head. They’ve just finished scraping skull and brains from the floor as we speak.’