by Gerald Wixey
‘What are you doing?’
The air hissed out from my chest like an exhausting air brake. A frail voice, an old man’s voice – a familiar voice. But it still made me jump to attention. I had to thump my own chest hard, like I needed to jump-start my heart.
‘I’ve rung the police, you know.’
I took a couple of deep breaths, turned and blinked in the direction of the voice. And a familiar face greeted me. I smiled, ‘Bert, how are you?’
He squinted at me; even in this twilight zone his thoughts appeared as transparent as a sheet of glass. I could be stood next to a homicidal maniac, where have the police got to?
If I had a degree of lucidity left in my body at this moment in time, I would have realised that my own face would have become twisted and contorted. The dim street light yards away deepened my features, coarsened them and probably made me look like a murderer now. Angry shadows covered my face and I probably looked like an irritated Bela Lugosi – enough to convince Bert, anyway.
He was about to turn away for safety when he saw a figure amble down Locks Lane. A policeman whose approach mirrored the typical rolling gait of a farm labourer. A policeman maybe, but also one of the nicest men in the world. He nodded and his grin widened when he recognised me and he said, ‘Stu.’ He stared, a frown slowly manifested, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Fred.’ Bert shouted. ‘I found the body, you know, I rang you lot.’
Fred squinted across at the old boy, who are you?
‘Oh, hello Bert.’ Took his gaze back to me and asked the same question. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ He frowned again, ‘Who’s the body then?’
I shrugged, ‘You’re not going to believe it.’
The policeman peered back across towards his witness. ‘Don’t worry Bert, the cavalry’s on the way. I mean, what do you expect. It’s a Sunday night after all.’
‘I saw who did it.’ Bert pointed at the body and groaned. ‘You haven’t even checked to see who it is, or if he’s even dead.’
I took a deep breath and said, ‘Oh, he’s dead all right.’
We all looked back to the slow and relaxed moving little brook. On a sunny day, the water carried reflections of fluffy clouds and twisting willow trees. On a bleak night like tonight, nothing just the sound of rain that pattered down onto a nearby car roof. That and a whispering wind sighing down from the north. The full moon still appeared sporadically behind the heavy scudding clouds, its bright face casting ashen shadows. When it appeared, the body came into a soft focus again. Fred’s outsized torch came out and he played it over the body like a frantic cinema usherette looking for a spare seat on a busy Saturday night. It made its uneven journey, first up the legs and then the torso and stopped as it shone on the dead man’s face.
Fred’s mouth swung open like an excavator’s bucket, he stared at me and then back to the body. I knew what the policeman was thinking and it must have looked as though I wanted to reassure him.
Not me, Fred – honest.
Fred stared on, ‘What’s happened? It’s… Ron… Jesus, Stu – Ron Catmore. Who did it?’
Kenny.
There could be no doubt about that but despite that certainty, my mind kept driving one way. I was responsible, my old man culpable and Uncle Wyn equally so. I looked at Fred and he knew well enough how the three of us had twisted and tortured Ron for years; I had successfully managed to break Kenny’s spirit pretty much on my own. My eyes went to ground, my old man and Wyn began to torment Ron at the end of the war. I was a mere usurper and only joined in the fun twelve years ago.
Jesus Christ, what have we done?
I had stumbled across the dead body of someone that I hated. The police wanted to charge me and they certainly gave me a hard time for an hour. Don shouted and pointed – you were always gunning for him, threatened him in front of witnesses. I got the whole thing, the finger jabbing and the threats – a few nights inside will sort you out. I imagined him to be desperate for it to be me, but on reflection I didn’t think his heart was truly in it. Despite my motive; the fact that old Bert had seen the attack and the assailant running away, was always going to swing it my way.
They booted me out and I walked onto Church Street at half past four and into a howling gale. That’s when I saw Kenny, fifty yards away from where he had tried to cave my head in a couple of months before. He had his head down as he walked slowly my way. Kenny stared down at his feet and never saw me. I stopped in front of him.
‘Kenny.’
Not a thing; he stood still and stared down at the ground.
‘Kenny.’ I said, louder this time and movement at last. His head came up, slower than Tower Bridge.
He mumbled my way and I strained to listen as the sign for the Woolpack directly above us squeaked and grated. The wind drove his voice away from me. I leaned in close as he whispered, ‘What are you doing creeping about at this time of night?’ Kenny shivered, rolled his shoulders and pulled his coat together. ‘You’ve heard?’
I nodded, ‘I’m sorry…’
‘No, you’re not – no one is, least of all me.’ His voice suddenly became too loud in a deserted street. His words ricocheted around as if it were an empty crypt. Kenny’s eyes never left the pavement and he talked to the tarmac. ‘I’ve had two dads in my life and hated both of them.’ Without bringing his head up, he pointed my way, ‘I’ve told you that before, haven’t I? Why did Ron have to say that? I suppose you’ve always known?’
‘No.’ I shook my head, ‘Only recently – no one tells me anything either.’
Kenny’s eyes came slowly up to meet mine and he drifted off at a tangent. ‘I rushed the three hundred yards back home, you know the feeling… Frightened and elated at the same time.’
Oh no!
He needed to talk and I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to listen. I tried to look interested, which seemed irrelevant really, as Kenny’s eyes had suddenly found the streetlights’ fascinating. He stared up at them, like a wolf about to howl at the full moon.
‘When I got in, I took the stairs two at a time and into the bathroom, three steps across the floor, up close to the mirror and stared. What did I see? Did I look like Ron? No, thank fuck.’ His eyes finally came across to meet mine, deep, dark circles around them. Bloodshot as well, I imagined, but despite it all, I shivered as it could have been Wyn’s eyes I stared into.
Why couldn’t I ever see it? I shook my head; I was in the middle of a confession as Kenny bared his soul and I knew where it was leading. His hand came across the short distance between us and gripped my wrist. Despite our history, I never felt threatened, just calm; a confessional and me an unlikely priest.
‘No dogs barked, no wail of a police siren either. You’d think it should have been the worst day of my life, but it was the best. It wasn’t as though someone I loved or something I cared about had gone forever, only Ron.’
I imagined a flurry of intense activity, a rain of ineffectual blows. Could it have been just like that? Or maybe only one blow? I shrugged, Ron attracted a punch in the same way a cowpat draws flies and either way, Kenny had delivered the final blow. He loosened the grip on my wrist and clasped his hands together and began to wring them. Lady Macbeth in a small market town sprang to mind.
Kenny rubbed his eyes and I stated the obvious. ‘You need some sleep.’
He smiled. ‘I never feel drowsy at night, I need sleep now more than anything – apart from Kathy, that is.’
He stared at me now and we both knew. She had been his religion once upon a time, but now sleeplessness had become his new belief. Kathy had been his magnetic north and his thoughts always pointed her way. Kenny sighed, ‘You think I’m all talk, don’t you?’
Not any more, I don’t.
‘Do you want to hear something really funny?’
I shook my head, comedy hour was the last thing I needed. I got it anyway.
‘You know when you nearly killed Ron?’
Kenny twisted his face close to mine. ‘When he came out of the bus station on a stretcher? He lost his union card in there, the night the mechanic had his accident. He went back four or five times to look for it. When he did find it, you gassed him.’
I found it, I found it.
I nodded and was about to ask Kenny if Ron killed the mechanic, when he beat me to it. ‘I’m going in there.’
Kenny nodded towards the blue lamp above the door of the police station
I gently held onto his bicep. ‘Don’t do that – he wasn’t worth it. Go home, clean yourself up and get some sleep.’
He smiled and shook his head. ‘I remember telling Ron, years ago, well before Shirley told us she was about to up and leave. I said, ‘why do you put up with the two of them?’ He lost his temper – shouted at me, mind your own business you skinny twat.’ Kenny laughed, a hacking croak of a death rattle. ‘Do you remember? You were listening.’
I nodded as he ploughed on. ‘Then history repeated itself, me waiting for Kathy to come home, counting the number of times she’d been out. Her oh-so-fucking-innocent look drifted into the living room, that and her butter-wouldn’t-melt smile coming my way all the time.
‘Do you know that those sounds still bounce around in my head? They drive me fucking mad even now; her climbing the stairs, the bathroom door shutting, taps on, the toilet flushing, taps on again, footsteps coming down the stairs. Tights and knickers in the washing basket, why did she do it – and with you as well?’
Kenny wanted an answer. He twisted his head into mine again and stared deep into my eyes. I could only shrug as he brought the palms of his hands up and rubbed his temples with the heels. He screwed his face up and rubbed for minutes it seemed.
He shook his head and fumbled around in his coat pocket. ‘Have you told Kathy about Declan?’
I shook my head as I said, ‘Did Ron kill the mechanic?’
Kenny’s head twisted and settled at a crazy angle. ‘I was with him. Didn’t see it, though. He said it was an accident. He said the same thing a few weeks later when he tipped Declan into the canal. It was an accident and we had to hide the body.’
An uneasy silence enveloped us. I wanted to go home to Kathy, but questions needed to be asked. ‘What about Dennis Evans, did Ron burgle that house?’
‘We did, you mean. Ron started to become friendly about that time. Towards me, I mean. Just before they found Declan’s body. I was suspicious about Kathy, by then as well. When they found the body, I cracked up. Ron said that I needed a distraction. Did I fancy helping him? He knew the house was empty. A couple of days later, I found myself scrambling through the window after him; this old lady was sat in an arm chair, smiling up at us. Ron picked up a cushion and walked towards her. That was no accident. She watched him approach and never moved a muscle, apart from smile at him. I turned and bailed out the window.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’ve had enough.’ Kenny nodded towards the Police Station again, ‘Bert Powell saw everything, dead in the water, me – I’m going in there for a chat.’
I nearly told him that his dad knew enough good lawyers, talk to Wyn first. Instead I said, ‘Why don’t you get some legal advice?’
He ignored my question, just spoke softly my way. ‘Do you know that mum’s going away with my real dad?’
I frowned, until the penny finally dropped.
Kenny nodded as he saw me make the connection, ‘I wanted to tell her that I’d killed the little bastard, knew that she’d be pleased. Never had the chance to tell her… She left a note on the kitchen table, only said a few words, ‘Wyn’s taking me down to Cornwall for a few days’, that’s all it said.’
I didn’t know what to say. He said nothing either, just walked slowly past me. Kenny went five yards before he turned and stopped. ‘Don’t forget, not a word to Kathy.’ He shouted this my way. Kenny walked on through the car park, up the steps, pushed the heavy door open and went under the blue lamp.
***
I had to get home, I knew Kathy would be frantic by this time. But an unlikely burst of intuition made me pull up. I glanced down at my watch, just after five and Jack’s time to arrive at the office. An early bird, he liked to get things organised, before the distractions of a normal working day, barged their way into his deeply structured work pattern.
I pushed through the door and Jack squinted up at me, through his first cigarette of the day.
‘What’s happened to you?’
‘You won’t believe this.’
I gave him a quick run down on last night’s events. He sighed a lot, shook his head occasionally and took notes at the same time. A true professional.
‘Have you got a crow-bar?’
‘What do you want one of those for?’
‘I want to find Declan’s favourite marble.’
He pointed at me. ‘Stuart, I’m busy – its too early for games.’
I quickly explained.
‘My typesetter uses one to free one of the flywheels on that old Victorian press out the back. I’m really busy Stuart, this hadn’t be another of your wild premonitions.’
Minutes later, we stood in front of Ron’s shed. In this half-light, it could have been the time I wrecked his allotment. It all came back to me. Not with any organised chronology, just images and an abstract feeling that resolution might still slip away; blown eastwards by the blustery wind.
Jack burst into my deep sense of vagueness. ‘A crow-bar to open the door this time; a slightly more subtle way of opening the door than by blowing it off its hinges with high explosives.’ Jack smiled as he spoke.
‘That wasn’t me, guv.’
There was a satisfying splintering of wood as the crowbar did its efficient job. I stared at the inside of the shed. Neatly lined-up rows of long handled hoes, rakes, spades and forks. On the shelf, various tins including rat poison. On the floor was the toolbox, I lifted it up, turned and placed it carefully on the grassed footpath.
‘Is that blood on your hand?’
I nodded, ‘Ron’s blood. I was checking to see if he was alive. The back of his head was missing.’
I turned back to the tool box. I levered the claw end behind the hefty padlock and slowly increased the pressure until, with a rivet-bursting ‘snap’, Ron’s safe was cracked.
‘Give me a lever long enough and I can move the world.’ Jack nodded, ‘I hope you’re not going to be too disappointed.’
The lid creaked and groaned as I lifted it up and we stared at the contents. It was a typical toolbox used by mechanics – or in Ron’s case, machinists. A tray at the top for his precision instruments and the heavier socket set and spanners underneath. I scanned the tray and saw it straightaway. I picked it up and gazed for a few seconds. Then passed the clear plastic, enveloped photograph over.
‘Well, well.’ Jack stared and stared at it. Eventually he said, ‘Suzie, husband and baby. Where did this come from?’
I was sure that Jack knew the answer to that one, but I told him anyway. ‘Suzie told me her husband carried it with him at all times.’
Jack nodded, ‘I remember her asking me about it enough times.’ His gaze went back to the toolbox. ‘The watch?’
I picked it up and read the engraved back, I’ll always love you – Suzie.
‘The bastard.’
Jack rarely swore; when he did, it always shocked. ‘The police should have all of this. Or should I just show them to Suzie and ask her what she wants to do?’ He glanced between the picture and the watch, stared at me for a while and said. ‘What’s up?’
I stared at Jack, my chest tightened, I wanted to cry, ‘I thought I would find Declan’s marble.’
‘Marble! Never mind that. You were right all along. Don’t look so miserable.’
***
I crept through the living room door and gazed down at Kathy as she slept on the sofa. Her slip was up around her waist and one of its straps halfway down her
arm. I slipped my coat off, sat on the carpet and leant back against the sofa. I turned and kissed her neck.
Kathy’s eyes slowly opened. ‘You’re late, where’ve you been? I’ve been going round the bloody bend with worry.’
‘Ron’s dead.’
‘Tell me it wasn’t you.’
‘I could have stopped it happening. Too busy having a good time.’ I shook my head and gave her the blank stare for a few seconds, ‘I’ve been talking – to Kenny, then the police, and then Kenny again. Ron’s dead, don’t look like that. It wasn’t me. I should have stopped it though.’
‘Christ.’ She frowned. ‘Who did it?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘Not Kenny, please not Kenny.’ We wrapped our arms around each other and Kathy kissed the back of my neck.
‘It was only ever going to be either Kenny or me.’
‘Don’t joke – please.’ We stared at one another, Kathy shut her eyes and sighed. ‘I don’t believe this is happening. Tell me its some kind of sick joke?’
I said, ‘I feel responsible, culpable.’
‘No!’ Kathy’s eyes blazed away and her fingers tightened their grip on my shoulder. ‘No, never think that – we fell in love. We didn’t mean to hurt anyone.’
I loosened her fingers and stood up, ‘I’ve got to tell you something about Kenny.’
Kathy sat up and I walked over to the window. Looking out over the market place and watching her reflection at the same time. The only sound of rain hammering against glass. Kathy’s image in the window became distorted by rivulets dribbling down as I told her everything, almost everything. I struggled to catch her expression. I turned and sat alongside her. Kathy looked up at me, her eyebrows came slowly up, into that elegant arch that I adored.
Her mouth opened a touch as she stared at me. ‘Why did he put mum and dad through all of those years?’ A solitary tear journeyed down her cheek as she whispered, ‘You were right, not that it gives me any pleasure to say it.’