by Gerald Wixey
He went down the hill, never looking my way. I went in to waste five minutes in Mr Goldstone’s.
‘What’s up? You look terrified.’
I tried not to cry, glanced his way and really tried, but the tears came and I turned and left in a hurry. Kenny was running away from the pub and I felt my own pace quicken. I peered in through the open front door. Why was it open? A strange sight, Patrick mopping the floor, mum watching and my old man grinning at me. What’s going on?
It went on all evening; dad wouldn’t leave me alone. Every time we passed each other. His fists came up in front of his face, inviting me in and when I got close, he’d clinch and maul and I tried to wrestle myself free. His customary way of showing affection; he never told me he loved me, he didn’t have to – I knew he did. It was his way of cuddling and we both loved it. When he hit me, his hands were already resting against my ribs and he never pulled them back – just pushed against my chest, or my shoulders.
Not tonight; for the first and only time, I didn’t want to fight. I blamed him for not taking the dog to the vet’s earlier. My ribs ached and my biceps were black and blue. I thought of Kenny, a maniac on the loose. My old man wouldn’t have been aware of any of these things and he bustled in and stuck me in the ribs. I wanted to scream, to tell him what had happened. Instead, I stepped back and got three off quickly, left, right, left – bounced them off his big, globular dome of a forehead. Not big enough, heavy enough or strong enough, but well-coordinated, the punches well timed and they left three distinct marks on his head.
The look of astounded disappointment on his face disturbed me and I expected him to cut me in half, but instead he pushed past me, turned and pointed. ‘You hurt me – what the fuck’s up with you?’
He rubbed the top of his head, I don’t think he really minded me hitting him, but I’d lost my temper and hit him on the forehead, breaking his two golden mantras. He’d hammered those instructions into me, don’t hit the top of the head, face, nose, cheekbones are good. Eyes, ribs, solar plexus – temple maybe. You’ll break your hands hitting someone on the head. How many times had he said that?
He stared down and slowly shook his head. ‘Why did you lose your temper?’
Losing my temper, that was it, I’d lost my temper. Keep your mind clear – don’t lose it – stay focused. Another of his hymns ignored. I could punch him as long as I didn’t lose my temper. I tried not to smile.
He said it again, ‘You hurt me.’ Then he said something cryptic, ‘Don’t worry, it’s over.’ That’s all he said; looking into my eyes. Finally he smiled and nodded, ‘It’s over.’
I stared at his fading back; my knuckles burned and my chest stung. I went out and sat under the apple tree and talked to Dudley. I sat there until the clouds darkened and the sun dipped. I felt chilled and thought constantly about punching my old man; it’s over, why did the crazy old sod say that? The light had gone by now, darkening clouds were multiplying, moving towards a colourless horizon. Mum came out and sat beside me. It seemed a long time before she spoke.
‘What’s up?’ She rubbed my shoulders as she spoke. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’ I stood and wandered away, ignoring her plea to stay.
Nothing’s wrong – I’m going crazy, that’s all
***
I went to school the next day and Kenny left me alone, walking straight past me – a bruise on his cheekbone. He glared at me, but left me alone. I looked at his back, expecting him to turn and hit me from behind. He kept walking, a temporary stay of execution? I took the deepest breath ever and hurried away. He ignored me all day. What a cruel bastard, paying no attention like he did; that totally unnerved me, what was going on?
When I got home my old man intercepted me in the car park. Why wasn’t he asleep?
‘How did it go today?’ He stared at me, scrutinising my face. ‘Any trouble?’ The first and only time he asked me about school.
Leave me alone.
I walked past him, up into the sitting room and put an album on the record player, positioning the arm to pick up the track I wanted. Reassured by the scratches and then comforted by Ella Fitzgerald, Someone to watch over me – someone was and I didn’t care who. I knew my old man must have done something, but the pain remained; it wouldn’t go away despite much deep breathing and a realisation that he’d done something to Kenny… I’m still frightened.
Chapter 16
1972
‘I wanted to move away.’ That’s all she said, a few weary words that frightened me more than the marauding lunatic out on the loose. Kathy tried smiling, but her eyes never gave the impression of humour, just a valiant weariness. ‘There’s a couple of jobs coming up – in Winfrith, one would be a shoe-in for me; I’d qualify for a house down there as well. It would be perfect.’
Dorset – no thanks.
I scowled across at the slate grey roofs opposite. A couple of days in hospital and the ghost of summer’s end had left me with autumn, a stern cobalt sky and bright sunshine in the market place. It might have been a clear day, but there was a distinct chill in the morning air now and something else, something vague that I couldn’t pin down. Then the tips of Kathy’s fingers brushed against my bare shoulders, distracting me with their tease.
Unsettling possibilities wouldn’t leave me alone and I couldn’t get Kenny’s confession out of my head. That and Wyn and Shirley; how trauma had obliterated their passion, violence violated happiness. Wyn wasn’t the same, he never gave anything away, of course, much too conceited to admit anything. What, me? Hurt because of a woman? His eyes gave him away though; they were crushed, dull and miserable for a long time afterwards.
I watched Kathy for any signal, any little sign of change and just like Wyn, the eyes gave it away. Before, when we had made love, they had a triumphant look, the greenness of her eyes blazed into mine. I’m the only woman in the world who can make you come like that! Kathy honestly believed that, and so did I. She still looked at me afterwards – but her joy at what had just been achieved seemed muted. No longer a big deal; just a trick anyone could execute.
I wanted to talk about what had happened to us and Kathy was all, it’s happened, I want to move on. I wanted revenge; she wanted to move, not only on, but move away as well. It became hard work, like ploughing a muddy field. What surprised me most, the thought of reprisal hadn’t become the all-consuming issue I expected it to be. Perhaps the fight had been kicked out of me. Perhaps Kathy’s reasoning had more going for it than I cared to admit, move on – move away.
Silence, I spoke first, ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I didn’t tell you yesterday, but…’ She glanced across and her face said it all, you’re not going to like this. ‘Kenny rang me at work. He wants to see me, to have a chat.’
‘Is that a good idea?’
Kathy thought so. ‘I’m meeting him at lunchtime – I won’t if you say no.’ She sensed an unwillingness emanating from me. ‘Don’t worry, I’m seeing him in the social club, I’m walking down there with a friend.’
I couldn’t think straight, it had to be done, but did that make it good or bad? Despite all the confusion and upheaval, happiness sat uneasily around me, a perplexed pleasure. I didn’t want to move away, yet at other times I was desperate to go. I didn’t want her to see Kenny, but I knew she had to.
Make your mind up, a simple act, well beyond my fractious state of mind.
Kathy kissed the back of my neck. ‘I think you’re living in a dream.’ Did she mean I was in a dream, or living within a dream? A nightmare perhaps? ‘You haven’t been listening have you?’
Then her words came back. Move away? An inward groan rumbled through me. All caused by moronic luck, that’s what really hurt me; the sort of luck as rare as a lightening strike, where you know it couldn’t come around and kick you up the arse again. Wrong place, right woman, wrong time, deserted by the gods and here I was, left staring out of a window.
‘I rea
lly don’t want to move away.’
She sighed, I watched her button her jacket and brush her skirt down then quickly glanced into the mirror. Kathy smiled at me, ‘You weren’t listening, I said I would have liked to move – would have.’
Kathy left me frowning with those words as I watched her bus pull away. Her first day back at work, and the silence of an empty flat rang in my ears like a cathedral bell. Fred cycled past – late for work – and I could see his back wheel squeaking with each laboured revolution. The smell of fresh bread blew down on the brisk wind from the bakers, replacing staleness of fried onions and aged chicken from the Chinese restaurant next door. A bright early morning was soon replaced by typically, afternoon autumnal grey.
The temptation to go for a drink was all-powerful and my resolve all too weak – but I had no money and that wasn’t going to change for a couple of weeks. As for football, that source of income had been torpedoed as well; another leverage point for Kathy. ‘You’ll have to think about getting a proper job.’
I wanted to scream, five days a week.
I resorted to watching an old film on television, James Stewart listening to the radio. Men, are you over forty? When you wake up in the morning, do you feel tired and rundown? Do you have that listless feeling? Well, I wasn’t over forty and unlike James Stewart, I wasn’t a wheelchair-bound photographer spying on neighbours from my apartment window. But I did have too much time; my world filled up with tantalising and disquieting promise. I rubbed my hands and walked around the room, the cold air from the unheated shop below climbing up my legs rather like capillary attraction up the stem of a plant.
I needed some exercise, some fresh air. Instead I lay on the sofa and thought about Broughton’s farmyard, one of our summer haunts, we used to mess around there a lot. We crushed walnuts under the old bearing press, similar in overkill to using an elephant gun to shoot a sparrow. We’d back the press up to its top limit, place a nut on the table and throw the handle as fast as we could. Gravity and the centrifugal force, albeit an extremely unequal force, drove the bearing ram down onto the unsuspecting nut. The coarse and heavily-greased screw thread turned silently, until its journey was abruptly arrested and a satisfying crunching sound preceded the crushing; the shell splintering into shards and flattened the kernel rather successfully.
But it had a rather obvious danger; constructed safely onto the correct bench, the huge weight and the arm would have spun safely enough inside the footprint of the bench. For some reason, someone had taken one side of the bench off. Whilst this allowed the operator the luxury of getting closer to the business end of operations, it meant that a half-stone counterweight spun away, threatening to inflict a painful injury on anyone stood too close.
Time for a closer examination; I jumped up, threw my jacket on and rushed down the stairs. At a trot I loped down Grove Street, pulling up sharply outside Jack’s office. He sat at his desk, tapping his teeth with a pencil. Just before midday on a miserable Wednesday, copy for the week finished and a long lunchtime beckoned.
He jumped up and hurried over to see me. ‘Stuart, Stuart – how are you?’
He pumped my hand and his other hand rested gently on my shoulder. ‘You frightened the life out of all of us.’
‘Fancy a pint?’
‘If you’re buying, then the answer’s yes.’
We walked quickly past Goldstone’s shop and as we approached the pub, Jack slowed at the front door, but I hurried him on, down the hill and opposite the police houses – Broughton’s farmyard. I leant on the gate and stared down the track that ran at ninety degrees to the farmhouse. The farmyard itself looked the same as it ever did, apart from a newish milking parlour with its stainless steel panelling glistening in the cool of the autumn morning. The pitted track, old potholes and recent cowpats; a strong smell of silage, warm fresh milk and cattle, but no-one around. Milking finished, would old man Broughton be at cattle market? What was today, Wednesday – Banbury market, or was it Abingdon? Cows to buy or sell, deals to strike, old friends to talk to.
‘Market day… Abingdon?’
‘No.’ Jack hissed, ‘Banbury on Wednesday. What are we doing here?’
‘Chance for some real journalism for a change. Scene of a burglary and a suspicious death twelve years ago.’
Jack groaned, glanced down at his watch. ‘I need a pint, not some rambling, inaccurate local history lesson.’
‘New information, listen to this.’
He stared at me and tipped his head a touch, c’mon then, let’s get it over with.
I told him everything. Kenny’s confession took me ten minutes and, to be fair to Jack, there wasn’t a single interruption. When I finished, Jack lit a cigarette and pointed it at me. ‘Lets get this straight, you were unconscious when he told you all of this?’
I waved my finger, not liking Jack’s approach. ‘No, no…’
‘It would never stand up in court; it can only work if Kenny admits this in a formal statement to the police.’
‘Humour me, please, Jack.’ He sighed and I tried again. ‘I wasn’t dreaming or unconscious, I wasn’t 100% I agree. But it happened just like that.’
Jack looked away into the farmhouse and there it was; the bearing press, several shades of rust deeper than when Declan ran into it. The ram was in its safe resting place on the grease-smeared bench top. The eight-inch diameter counterweight was exposed and sticking out by a good foot from the bench. Forehead height – Declan’s forehead anyway. Declan had a unique and ungainly running style, staying on his heels and never extending his legs fully. In operation, a little like Groucho Marx’s stage walk; except he was quick, considering the mode he employed and over a short distance; downright rapid. I pictured him perfectly, sidestepping Kenny, and then the impact.
Straight between the eyes and at full pelt.
Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m worried you’re about to turn into a one man vigilante. Where’s this leading?’
‘Kenny said that Ron lowered Declan into the canal.’
He shook his head, ‘Have you told Kathy any of this?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You have to go to the police, for God sake. You leave Ron alone and don’t tell either Harry or Tommy or we’ll have a lynch party on the loose. Please, you must promise me this.’
‘Promise, I won’t say a word.’
Although if I just happened to bump into Ron it might be a different story.
I pushed myself away from the gate and started the climb back up the hill when Jack grabbed me by the elbow. ‘Just a thought, if Ron was a souvenir hunter he may have kept something from these imagined crimes you think he’s committed.’
‘What?’
‘Lots of criminals keep things from jobs they’ve been on – criminologists call them souvenirs, or trophies. If we had something that connected him to some of the many crimes stored away in your fevered imagination – well, that then becomes a different story. No evidence, no crime.’
‘You can see how Declan hurtled into that counterweight, though?’
Jack nodded, ‘Maybe.’
We walked back up the hill. The image so vivid in my mind’s eye. Did Declan cry out? Probably not, the only sound being bone crunching into a steel counterweight. Kenny probably cursed away in panic as he saw the accident unfold in front of him.
I stopped in front of the public bar door, took a deep breath and sauntered in.
My old man jumped to attention and put his newspaper face down. He never said anything, how are you? Fancy a pint? Scuttled across behind the counter and just pulled me one, slid it my way and said, ‘How is it? Whenever I copped one in the face it hurt for weeks.’
I nodded; the beer tasted good, rich and not too sharp, ‘You always told me you never got hurt.’
Jack laughed at that one and stared at the head of his pint.
Dad glared at his friend and said, ‘Hmmph, I took too many over the years; your mother only sa
w me fight once, hung the gloves up for me.’ He smiled a reflective – good job she did. But I knew that to be untrue; the boxing authorities took his license away, not mum.
It could have been uncomfortable, but wasn’t. We talked about football, boxing and gossiped; Shirley’s working again, but not been herself, Ron’s a regular in the Wheatsheaf again – Fucking good job. Talked about everything apart from what his plans were for Kenny.
‘It wasn’t Kenny.’ I said this more in hope than expectation, hoping to prevent a violent death close to home.
Dad frowned. ‘If you say so.’ He took a furtive glance around the bar, before he whispered, ‘Got any money?’
I shook my head.
He dragged a fistful of notes out of the depths of his trouser pocket, ‘Don’t forget me at Christmas.’
There must have been fifty pounds – enough for a month. I choked, ‘Thanks, I’m pretty short at the moment.’
‘They’ve rung and asked when you’ll be back training.’
‘Another month at least I guess.’
My old man tipped his head to the left a little, I knew what this meant, I’ve got something to tell you.
‘We’re thinking of getting out, in a year maybe.’
Don’t say that.
‘Tell me you’re joking? You are joking.’ The rug was pulled out from under me once again. ‘What’s Shirley going to do? What am I going to do?’
He laughed, ‘Get a proper job like anyone else.’ He found this extremely amusing, chortling away. ‘You can take this over if you want, Shirley would be pleased to carry on, I’m sure.’
‘Have you told her?’
He didn’t answer my question, saying, ‘The offer’s there, if you want it – take your time, it’ll be the best part of a year before we get everything sorted out.’
I had been born here, my hermetically sealed safeness. What was up with me? I wanted to cry, everything had changed and now my remaining certainty too. ‘What brought this on? Why?’