Salt of Their Blood

by Gerald Wixey

  ‘What about the usual suspects, then?’

  Jack sipped his beer, patted his jacket pockets, pulled a battered packet of cigarettes out and then fumbled for his lighter. I groaned, which just encouraged Jack. He finally located it and lit up. ‘Usual suspects?’

  I was getting the ‘answer a question with a question’ routine much favoured by Jack. Especially when his mood was untempered by two pints of beer.

  I tried again, ‘The burglary, the smothering – I suppose our illustrious detective has eliminated cat burglar Ron?’

  Jack massaged his chin, dragged in a lungful of smoke and nodded at the same time as the smoke exited his mouth. A passable impression of a nodding dog with a smoking habit. ‘They have, actually.’ Jack wagged his finger at me. ‘No good you looking like that. You saw him in here the other Saturday afternoon. The time of her death was pinned down to that evening. He’s got a cast iron alibi.’

  ‘But he wasn’t in here then, was he?’

  ‘No, but Kathy said that she was with the pair of them all afternoon.’

  ‘But…’ My head corkscrewed away; this was just not possible. Kathy was in bed with me at precisely that time.

  ‘What’s up?’

  I said nothing. There must be some mistake, surely?

  Is that what she meant about doing something terrible?

  ‘That can’t be true.’

  Jack hissed another stream of tobacco smoke my way and rolled his eyes at the same time.

  I held my hand up as I said, ‘You know he must have had something to do with it.’

  The level voice of reason dampened my delirium. ‘Not this one young man; given an alibi by the lovely Kathy. Must be someone else, have you considered that?’ No, actually.

  ‘Changing the subject Stuart, I’ve heard a few things about Declan’s accident.’

  ‘Accident?’ I slammed the flat of my hand onto the bar, causing Jack to blink a couple of times.

  ‘Careful, there’s a danger that you’re turning into your father.’

  ‘It wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘You’re only seeing what you want to see. There’s none so blind as those that can’t see.’ Jack looked up. ‘Facts, deal in facts. I’ve had a chat with the pathologist, he’s had a superficial look and there were no obvious signs of trauma.’

  I sighed, ‘What’s he saying… Accident?’

  ‘Looks like it, one thing though.’ Jack did this all the time, gently lead you up the garden path before spinning you around and marching you back in the direction you favoured in the first place. He smiled. ‘He was holding a cast-iron radiator.’

  That old radiator, I frowned; we used it to bridge what was left of the old lock and I couldn’t believe that Declan could move it. We propped it against trees and used it as a ladder, our wafer-thin feet easily sliding in between the rungs.

  ‘Something’s not right, he couldn’t lift that. It took two of us. Why can’t you see that someone hid his body?’ A brief smile crossed Jack’s face, ‘Why don’t we all wait until after the coroner’s report? Make your wild allegations then.’ ‘They’re not wild.’

  Jack shook his head in a calm disagreement, shrugged and slid off down his stool to go and play crib with Patrick. He paused, lifted a finger in the air. ‘That was a good looking girl you were seen out with the other week.’

  ‘Who? When?’

  Panic… Don’t say Kathy. Please.Blonde-haired girl, slim, attractive.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief. A short-lived reprieve, as it turned out. Jack said, ‘The widow – you know who she is, don’t you?’ No, but you’re about to tell me.

  ‘She was married to the mechanic, the one that died in the accident.’

  For the second time in less than five minutes, my world spun off its axis. I grabbed the bar and felt the colour drain down to my shoes. Suzie never talked about her first husband, just moaned and groaned all the time about the second. I tried to remember the woman with the baby, crying as she came into the bar, talking to Jack briefly before leaving. It was Suzie!‘I can hardly remember, just her coming into the bar and then she spoke to you and left. She never looked more than sixteen at the most. Why did she speak to you?’

  ‘Seventeen, married at sixteen, pregnant of course. I’ve known her family for years and she was desperate – nice woman, but she’s almost as much of a conspiracy theorist as you.’

  ***

  Suzie blinked a couple of times. ‘This is a surprise, what do I owe this pleasure to?’

  Suzie had a simple technique that gave an instant definition of her mood, the distance she left between door and doorpost became an accurate indicator. On cool days, she squeezed her slim frame against the door, giving the most ample of guests plenty room to slip past. On the most receptive of days, she blocked the doorway completely, as if an embrace and a lingering kiss the only key to this door. Tonight she stood midway, her mood dependent on mine.

  ‘The kids are still up.’

  That meant nothing on offer, apart from a coffee if I was lucky. Which suited me fine. ‘That’s not what I’m here for – can we talk? It’s important.’

  She nodded and gestured me through. ‘In the kitchen.’ I brushed past and sat at the table as Suzie boiled the kettle. We’d been through this enough times, I disliked instant coffee, just about finding it drinkable either made with milk, or taken with cream. Suzie poured the boiling water in and topped it up with single milk. I sighed and stirred the cup. I wasn’t sure how to start, my beginning not as subtle as I’d hoped for.

  ‘You never mentioned it.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Who you were married to, your first husband. You never mentioned it.’

  She stood and turned away from me, head bowed like a cowed schoolgirl made to stand in the corner of the classroom. Reading her had become impossible for my badly-adjusted mood antenna. I decided to stay put, using my old man’s logic in this situation which dictated that any gesture is always the wrong one.

  I tried again. ‘Jack told me, he saw us out together.’

  ‘That old gossip.’ Suzie turned and came up to the table and placed the fingertips of each hand on the top, head bowed all the time. ‘I never talk about it.’ This was spoken to the fruit bowl. ‘I saw you, that night you came into the pub with the baby.’

  Suzie glanced at me. ‘Did you? I thought the room was full of old men, all staring at me like they did.’

  ‘You’re an attractive woman – course they stared.’

  The phantom of a smile drifted across her lips. ‘But you didn’t remember me?’

  ‘You had short hair.’ I shook my head. ‘I never got a good look at your face.’

  I pulled a chair out and gestured for her sit. Suzie meekly did just that, staring into her coffee cup all the time. ‘I always felt that my friend disappearing and the accident in the bus station were connected somehow.’

  Suzie’s blue eyes burnt into mine. ‘That’s silly – anyway, you’ve never mentioned your friend was the boy that disappeared. So why would I talk about my husband?’ ‘No reason I suppose, I remember what you said, to Jack.’

  Suzie just stared, she had a long face and a wide mouth. You’d think her features might make her less than attractive, but the sum of it all was just the opposite. Beaten back by events, she sometimes gave the appearance of being weighed down with life. Two children, one a teenager now and the other yet to start school, would be tough at the best of times. Add to that a part-time job with unsociable hours, a heavy reliance on her less-than-generous mother and the occasional state handout. Suzie took it all badly as well, she was one of life’s victims and she made sure everyone was well aware of that.

  ‘What did I say?’ The question eventually and somewhat reluctantly came out.

  ‘You said his watch was missing.’

  She sighed. ‘He was having an affair.’

  I raised my eyebrows. ‘You’d just had a baby
.’

  ‘Men always mess me about – I don’t know why I bother.’

  Then Suzie stared again, she gave me everything, a gaze that said just don’t you try anything either. I stared at the floor and said, ‘We’re not all like that, you know.’ Then I waited for more.

  ‘We’d only known each other a few months. We got married in a hurry, it was all so intense; we were both out of control. We couldn’t leave each other alone, then suddenly I had such a terrible time of it all. I felt sick all day long, it was a difficult pregnancy. We never touched each other for six months.’ Suzie tapped her fingernails on the tabletop. ‘He told me all about it. I didn’t know anything, never suspected anything. He bought me this dress watch.’ Suzie glanced down at her wrist and sighed again. ‘He begged forgiveness. I was only a couple of weeks away by this time. Looking back, I don’t blame him in a way. You know what it’s like when something’s so good and all of a sudden it stops? I don’t blame him.’ ‘You sorted it out?’

  ‘We sat down and talked, a new beginning. That’s when I bought him the watch.’

  ‘Which then went missing.’

  She nodded, ‘Yes, he wore it all the time, even at work. I told the police, they noted it and promptly did nothing.’

  My mind scrambled, forever trying to make an unlikely connection. The usual obsession unlikely to give me anything that resembled evidence. ‘It’s a mystery and likely to remain just that.’

  Suzie nodded. ‘We had some pictures taken, properly. Alan, me and the baby. I did a really stupid thing. When he died, after the coroner gave his verdict, I threw them all away. God – how daft was that?’

  I nodded, ‘We do the wrong thing often and regret it forever sometimes.’

  ‘I was so angry, everyone knew that he was a careful worker. Always used axle stands, whatever they are. If he had the bus up on a jack, that is. I’ve always believed that it wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘And the watch has gone forever, never to be seen again?’

  Suzie nodded, ‘And the picture; he kept it in a clear plastic envelope in his shirt pocket, never went anywhere without it. The three of us, how strange is that? His wallet was there, untouched, yet the picture and his watch were nowhere to be seen.’

  We sat in silence, broken by a match being lit. Then silence, apart from the sound of smoke being expelled between her lips. You couldn’t hear the noise as the gears in my brain clanked and rattled as I looked to bridge an unbridgeable chasm.

  Chapter 7

  1960

  My old man worked me hard every Sunday morning. Not content schooling me in the more physical aspects of football, or the less subtle facets to be found in the noble art of boxing, foreheads and elbows hurt more than knuckles. He groomed me behind the bar, apprentice potman, and dad made me work hard for my pocket money.

  Patrick and Declan both had a Sunday ceremony too, but theirs was all faith, faith and more faith. Envious of my catechism, they sat in church while I worked for my pocket money. I disconnected pipes from barrels, dragged caustic soda through and then flushed two buckets of water through each of them. Gallons of water to drag through stiff beer engines. Needless to say, I got lots of encouragement from my old man.

  ‘C’mon – pull harder.’ He urged me on. As I strained and struggled and heaved, dad teased away. ‘I’ll get your mum, she’s stronger than you.’ We always got there – just. My old man finished with his usual tease, ‘That was easy – I’m going to open the doors.’

  Easy? I wasn’t so sure about that. But a reward for bottling up, sweeping the cellar floor and dragging four or five gallons of water through an unwilling beer engine; half of shandy, a packet of crisps and, best of all, a pocket full of money for my labours.

  Two minutes later and Declan’s grandfather, immaculate in his Sunday best, his hair slicked back, perfectly knotted tie, down to the mirror finish on his polished shoes, creaked in through the door and up to the bar.

  My old man held a Guinness out and barked, ‘One and seven, Brendan.’ Brendan stared vacantly at me, who are you?

  ‘One and seven,’ shouted to reinforce his earlier pricing.

  I waited and waited. Finally Brendan, never one to disappoint, said, ‘I’m ninety two you know.’

  ‘No you’re not.’ My old man slammed the Domino box and Crib board down on the bar. ‘Fuck off in the corner and play – you must think I’m a benevolent society for senile old paddies.’

  Brendan put the Dominos on the Crib board and shuffled over to the old boy’s corner, saying, ‘Thanks, Harry – I’m ninety…’

  ‘Shut up.’ Dad winked at me as Tommy came in with Kathy. My old man pointed at her, ‘What’s she doing in here? She’s not eighteen.’

  Kathy’s appearance, hesitant for once, was wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Despite her being his constant Sunday lunchtime companion, Tommy had to work hard to get permission. I had to admit that you could never question my old man’s impartiality – age never became an issue as Kathy got the same abuse as all his other customers.

  Tommy went through the same pleading routine at this time every Sunday. ‘Give us a break Harry; she’s been fucken moaning all morning. Bernice told me to get the miserable bitch out from under her feet or there’ll be no Sunday dinner.’

  Tommy used the same excuse every time and anyway, Kathy was daddy’s girl. Despite all the curses and glares he sent her way, I think she was the only thing in the world that Tommy truly loved. My old man played his part in the weekly charade; he glared at Kathy and brought his finger up to his lips.

  ‘Sit down and not a word.’

  I grinned. He’d been in cracking form all morning and I never knew whether to tell Kathy about their little game or not. She always looked so terrified. My old man continued to glare at her; a good enough reason for her nervousness. He turned back to Tommy and said, ‘One for you, one for her and your old man hasn’t paid for his.’

  ‘Fucken tight bastard.’

  Dad suddenly remembered something and snapped at me, ‘You haven’t turned the radio on. C’mon, do your job.’

  Catechism complete, Sunday lunchtime, Ray Charles on the radio – You don’t know me. Sunday lunchtime and everyone looked neat and tidy; even Stopcock Arthur had his best Sunday beret on. Two hours drinking and arguing, dominoes and crib, eat a huge dinner and then sleep for a couple of hours – everything’s right with the world.

  A Sunday morning and Shirley always rushed home after work, then came back half an hour later with Ron. She’d have a couple and get off home and finish lunch off. Ron stayed and drank, never late, however; often drunk, but never late. I watched them sat at the same table, Shirley in the same chair but this time, Ron sat opposite and they never spoke much. When they did, Shirley did all the prompting. She talked for the pair of them.

  She looked dazzling. I didn’t know why she should look any other way, but her closeness to Wyn had changed my perceptions. I thought Shirley would be somehow different with Ron and she was; but closer, not more distant, touched him more not less and talked more when I expected the opposite.

  Ron looked dreadful, exhausted, he blew tobacco smoke out with his hollow, spectral white cheeks. He rubbed his eyes, pink from sleepless nights, frantic, fatigued and unshaven, his prominent rodent’s ears as white as the rest of his face. Ron was short and wiry and despite hours and hours spent on his allotment, his face lacked any colour. He could be taken for nothing other than what he was – a factory-bound, machinist. The smell of cutting fluid and sour beer stuck to him, hugged him, like a stubborn fog to his clothes and breath.

  I guessed that Ron worked any machine tool in the same way as he worked his allotment – in a fury. Forever angry, Ron worked in a frenzy that reflected his rage. When I saw him out and about, he walked with his head down, eyes looking at his feet, deep in thought, scheming away like any creature of the dusk. Not just livid with his neighbours, but apparently the whole universe. I’m sure he only felt safe
the way any rat is secure in the twilight; happy to be one of life’s shadows. Even his footsteps carried no echo on the pavement. Ron boasted that he could read the elements like a dog or a Navajo Indian. He was a strange little man; creeping about, suddenly appearing alongside you as if from nowhere – I thought he would be invisible in front of a cricket sightscreen.

  Shirley picked his glass up and walked my way, smiled and pushed two empty glasses across the bar. ‘Get Ron one, Stu.’ I stared – where’s dad? Shirley coaxed and cooed me into action, ‘Go on – Harry won’t mind.’

  Oh yes he will! I needed permission from the Godfather.

  I pulled Ron’s pint when my old man came back from the living room – he stared. I expected a shout, but when he noticed that Shirley was first in the queue, he said nothing to me. ‘I’ll have to get the gin.’ Spoken to Shirley, ‘Short-arse,’ nodding my way, ‘Can’t reach the optic yet.’

  Wyn came through the door, a pile of Sunday newspapers under his arm, with a cheery good morning to one and all. He dumped the papers on the bar next to Shirley and they never looked at one another. ‘Hello Shirley, how are you?’ A neutral enough greeting, as if they had only met once or twice before. There was an exaggerated distance between them. They both smiled and stared straight ahead.

  I took my eyes back to Ron. Something in his face; something indefinable. I knew it wasn’t pleasure – forever alert and never forgiving. He stared, so cold and hard, that I wanted to warn Wyn. Shirley listened to Wyn, still not looking at him, but still smiling at something he said.

  ‘Do you remember V.E night?’ Shirley nodded, turned slowly and looked into Wyn’s eyes. ‘I never thought anyone could fall in love that quick.’

  I gazed at Ron. He stared and stared at Wyn’s back; he disliked men who kept themselves tidy, or dressed well – in fact, Ron detested everyone, including his own son. Wyn sat, obliviously secure, with his back to the bar and I wondered if the others noticed Ron’s fixation with Wyn’s back.