Born Guilty

by Reginald Hill

  Shoot, thought Joe. The weak preying on the weak, the lost on the lost.

  ‘Was he a student then, this boy?’

  ‘Naw. He wasn’t one of them. More like me, just hanging around. I asked him if he’d had any luck.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Said he had some speed, nothing else. He gave me a tablet. Didn’t help much but it was better than nothing.’

  ‘Did he tell you his name?’

  ‘Said to call him Rob or Robbie, didn’t matter which.’

  ‘And was he there like you, trying to score?’

  ‘No, he was after something else. He went in asking questions but no one paid any heed and they just told him to leave.’

  ‘What kind of questions?’

  ‘I don’t know. Something about his parents. He said they were students here. Or his father was. Or his mother. I don’t know. Parents are stupid. Who gives a fuck about parents? Can I have the money?’

  ‘In a moment,’ said Joe. ‘What else did he say? Where else did you go?’

  ‘Nowhere. We went nowhere. He said nothing. I mean, look, you’re not the filth are you?’

  ‘Do I look like the filth?’ asked Joe.

  ‘You tell me, they all look alike,’ she said illogically. ‘Listen, he broke in. Not me. Him. I told him it was stupid.’

  ‘That was very moral of you,’ said Joe.

  ‘Moral shite. I told him if he was going to break in, hit the student rooms or the med. centre. But he went into the offices. Jesus, I thought at least he might get his hands on some money or something we could flog. But when he came out …’

  ‘You waited?’ said Joe.

  ‘He asked me to keep watch, said he’d help me out. All he had was some stupid telephone number scribbled on his hand. That was all. And me he gave another lousy tab of speed. I asked him what the fuck use that was and he told me it was all he had but he was expecting some cash soon …’

  ‘Where from?’ asked Joe.

  ‘I don’t know. From his parents, I think.’

  ‘But you said he was trying to trace his parents, didn’t you?’

  ‘Did I? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Let me have the other ten, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, let me have it, you black bastard!’

  She was pulling desperately at the corner of the note with her fingernails but all she managed to do was tear a small corner off.

  Equally desperately, Joe was seeking for all the questions he was going to regret not asking later.

  ‘Where was he going next? Where did you leave him? Did he tell you where he came from? What did he sound like?’

  But she was almost hysterical now, beating at the window with her small fists.

  ‘Please, please, please, I gotta have it … He spoke sort of funny … he asked about the Heights … Please, I’ve got to have it, I gotta go, you gotta go, please!’

  It was past bearing. He pushed the note through. She grabbed it, pulled it from his fingers, turned and ran.

  And at the very same moment, the passenger window exploded behind him, showering his head with flying glass.

  He twisted round, then jerked his head backwards to avoid the iron bar being driven at his face. The man holding it had bright mad eyes above a black beard through whose tangles jagged teeth glinted as he grinned in delight at the terror he was causing. Another man had his hand in the car feeling for the door lock. Behind them, Joe could see a couple more.

  Consciously or unconsciously the girl had done a great job of holding his attention while this lot crept up, he thought bitterly.

  Fortunately, the two prongs of the attack were getting in each other’s way, with the man trying to open the door interfering with the man wanting to put a hole in his head with the iron bar, and vice versa.

  Fortunately also, as often happened, Joe’s limbs were way ahead of his mind. His hand had crashed the gear lever home and his foot was standing on the accelerator leaving the would-be door opener sprawling on the ground. But the guy with the bar had flung himself forward through the smashed window. Joe took his left hand off the wheel and grabbed at the bar as it came swinging at his head. His mind, which was so much better at problem stating than problem solving, was pointing out that if he wanted to survive he had to (a) get this car turned round and heading the other way, and (b) stop this bastard from smashing his head in. Trouble was, both problems required two hands and his full attention to solve.

  He was among the derelict buildings now, on the road to nowhere except a water-filled clay pit. For some reason his left hand had released the iron bar and gone to the control panel. He hoped it knew what it was doing. The sudden removal of resistance had the temporary good effect of sending the bar swinging over his head to crash against the roof. But this left the back of his head vulnerable to the return swing. And about sixty yards ahead, in the beam of the headlights he could see the sharp curve of darkness which marked the edge of the pit.

  Old Scratch was waiting down there, indifferent to whether he got the good, the bad or the undecided, so long as he got someone. Time to forget the man with the beard and concentrate on driving the car. Time to show all those exhibitionist kids on the no-go estates that he’d learnt about handbrake turns while they were still hijacking each other’s perambulators.

  He grabbed the brake and spun the wheel. The car began to whip round, only this was no hard metalled road but rough clayey ground, greasy with the mists of autumn. He felt the beginnings of a skid which could only have one end, unless the Almighty lent a helping hand.

  The iron bar crashed into the back of his head. For a second the night sky lit up with jags of lightning, then all was dark again. There was pain, but it was bearable. Perhaps the man with the beard had suddenly reasoned that in a situation like this, the last thing you wanted was an unconscious driver. Whatever the reason, the blow had reminded his left hand that it had another job to do besides hauling on the handbrake. It let go. The car was now sliding sideways towards the brim of the pit. The left hand meanwhile was grabbing the cigar lighter which a moment earlier it had pressed in. Now it pulled it out and thrust the glowing element against the bearded man’s long pointed nose. He screamed and jerked back with the lighter still wedged there. At the same moment the car side-swiped a low protective fence placed around the pit by the Council or by God. The wire screamed against the door panel. The posts bent and cracked. But finally, miraculously, the car shivered to a halt.

  The man didn’t. Out he popped into the darkness of the night, his scream fading away till it terminated in a loud splash and a tiny sizzle.

  Joe hoped he could swim or that despite his many obvious unattractive traits he’d made some friends, though he doubted if many of the dark shapes running down the track towards him purposed to plunge in and haul their fellow attacker out.

  The engine had stalled. Joe couldn’t blame it. Instead, he sent out little waves of confident affection and turned the key. It coughed, groaned, and caught. With a silent prayer of thanks to God and Lord Nuffield, Joe swung the wheel over and sent the marvellous old machine roaring up the track towards the golden glow which marked the civilized world of Luton. Right and left the figures scattered. Left and right fists and voices were raised in angry threat. But Joe was up the track and away.

  20

  When he got into his flat the phone was ringing but it stopped as he closed the door. He was glad of that. He didn’t feel that the link between his tongue and his mind was quite in working order at the moment.

  He had left the Morris with the keys in by the pavement far below. He hadn’t been able to look at the damage inflicted down at the Scratchings. Perhaps by morning someone would have stolen the car. All he wanted to do now was collapse into bed and sleep for a year.

  Pausing only to unplug the telephone and drag his outermost garments off, he fell on to the bed, disturbing Whitey who was in there already.

  ‘Move over,’ groaned Joe. And closed his eyes.

  When he opened them
again it was daylight. He didn’t feel any better. He tried to sit up but his head felt it weighed a ton.

  It was only when he put his hand up to it that he realized where the extra weight came from. The pillow had somehow got stuck to the back of his skull. He prised it loose, very painfully. It was brown with congealed blood.

  The doorbell was ringing. He answered it still clutching the pillow.

  It was Dunk Docherty.

  ‘What happened to the car?’ he said. ‘Oh holy Jesus, what happened to you?’

  Joe didn’t want to go to hospital but he found he had neither the strength to resist nor the voice to protest and with commendable alacrity, Dunk had him in his tiny Fiat and down at Casualty where the mere sight of Joe’s ghastly appearance got him to the head of the queue.

  Half an hour later, he found himself cleaned, injected, bandaged and back in bed again, this time in hospital.

  ‘But I’m fine,’ he claimed in his returning voice.

  ‘You’ve lost a great deal of blood, your head was full of glass splinters, and you may have a fractured skull,’ retorted the sister. ‘At the very least, you have a severe concussion. Now would you kindly leave?’

  This last was to Dunk Docherty who had been hovering anxiously during all these ministrations.

  ‘Aye, now I see he’s in such good hands,’ said the reporter with a charming smile which clearly warmed the nurse all the way through. ‘Joe, I’ll be back. I’ve got to do a wedding, would you believe? But great news about last night. I think you’ll be pleased.’

  ‘What? What?’ asked Joe.

  ‘Out, out!’ insisted the nurse, driving Dunk before her.

  Joe didn’t mind too much. He wasn’t feeling well enough yet to give even good news the attention it deserved, a condition he confirmed by being sick when they told him his skull wasn’t fractured. But by early afternoon he felt able to give brief audience to a steady stream of would-be visitors.

  Beryl Boddington possibly initiated the recovery when she gave him a kiss which had his body sending faint signals that there might be life in the old dog yet. She neither questioned nor reproved him but went off willingly to feed Whitey. Then Mirabelle came and compensated for the lack of reproof and questions from Beryl. Then Gallie Hacker appeared in her building society mode.

  ‘How did you know I was in here?’ asked Joe.

  ‘That reporter told me.’

  ‘Dunk? Gallie, you didn’t say anything to him …?’

  ‘About Grandda? No, of course not. But he tried chatting me up last night so I thought I’d go along with it, and we went off in his car round to St Monkey’s of all places. He was very mysterious so I pretended to be impressed. And then we went down to Headbutts and discoed for a while … He’s dead full of himself, isn’t he? And he rang me today to try to make a date and he told me about you being in here, so I asked if I could come round in my tea break. Are you all right?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Joe. ‘Now you head back and look after my money, will you?’

  Next came Willie Woodbine.

  ‘Joe, just heard the news. Anything we should know about?’

  ‘No,’ said Joe with the utmost sincerity. ‘Just a bit of a shunt in the car. No other vehicle involved.’

  ‘And you didn’t want to hang around in case one of our bright young things made you blow in a bag, is that it?’

  Maybe you hope that’s it, thought Joe.

  ‘Yes, that’s it,’ he said. ‘Mrs Woodbine OK?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Woodbine. ‘She’ll be sorry to hear about you, Joe.’

  I doubt it, thought Joe.

  In between visits Joe had a lot of time to think. Interestingly, his concussed brain, in its efforts to get things back in their proper order, still kept on slipping up, except that sometimes the new disorder, with B coming after C instead of before it, seemed to make more sense.

  When Merv Golightly came visiting late afternoon, Joe brushed aside his expressions of concern.

  ‘You want to help me, there’s something you can do,’ he said. ‘You know Wyatt House?’

  ‘Aye, Dextergate? Fancy flats, lousy tippers. Yeah, I know it.’

  ‘Then here’s what I want.’ He handed Merv a piece of paper. ‘Find out if there’s anyone got a flat there of that description. That’s the name but he may not be using it. And be subtle, Merv. Tell the janitor you’ve been called out, or maybe this guy left something in your cab. Don’t just ask!’

  ‘Hey, I’ve watched all the movies,’ said Merv, who not too secretly reckoned he’d make a much better Eye than Joe. ‘So shut your face, Merv’s on the case!’

  Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea, thought Joe as he watched the long taxi driver stride purposefully away.

  Then Merv was erased from his mind by the return of Dunk Docherty.

  ‘Joe, you look so much better,’ he said. ‘I thought this morning, the poor wee soul looks set to cash his coupons.’

  ‘Less of the poor wee soul,’ said Joe. ‘You said you got something last night.’

  ‘Aye, did I,’ said Dunk, his face aglow with delight. ‘Jackpot. Your troubles are over. I tried to ring you last night but I got no answer. Then I had to see that wee lassie home.’

  ‘Via Headbutts, I gather,’ said Joe sourly. ‘What the shoot you playing at, Dunk? No, never mind. Let me see what you got.’

  With an air of triumph too childlike to be offensive, Docherty reached into his inner pocket and with a flourish pulled out three objects which he placed on the counterpane in front of Joe.

  ‘One wallet, empty,’ he said. ‘One letter, full. And, best of all, one passport, Australian. You owe me twenty, by the way. Passport cost me the fifty. But when he mentioned the letter and the wallet, I thought I should have them too. Good value, I think you’ll agree.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that,’ said Joe.

  But one look at the passport told him Dunk hadn’t been ripped off. Travel, and growing up, and hardship, and a habit, and of course death had taken the boy in the box a long way from this fresh-faced youngster smiling out of the passport picture, but it was clearly the same kid.

  He was, had been, Robert Vicary, of Melbourne, Australia, brown eyes, fair hair, no distinguishing marks, and he had died two days before his twentieth birthday.

  Immigration stamps showed he’d come to England the slow way: Thailand, India, Turkey, Italy, France, Holland, docking at Harwich last month.

  The letter was addressed to Robbie Vicary, c/o the D.U. Club, Earls Court Terrace, London SW5. It was from his mother, writing from the same Melbourne address that figured on the passport.

  Dear Robbie,

  Here’s the money you asked for. Hope it’s enough, and there’ll be some more coming on your birthday. But I hope you’ll ring again before then and for God’s sake, don’t let yourself be cut off this time. Transfer the charge. No problem about getting Malcolm, he’s in the States for a couple of months. It’s a good breathing space for us both. There was so much anger flying around when it all came out, and I know that to you it all seems black and white, a divorce would solve most things, but life’s not so simple and Malcolm’s got rights too. Also there’s something else I should have told you. I would have done on the phone, only we got cut off. Please ring so we can talk things through. Better still come home so we can talk face to face. It’s really important. I know I’ve managed to get everything wrong. You do what you think best then later it all falls in on you. I don’t want this to happen to you too, so please ring. Please. With all my love to you.

  Mum.

  He put the letter down and examined the wallet. It was soft expensive leather with the initials R.V. gold-stamped in one corner. It was empty as Joe’s mind.

  ‘So what do you think, Joe?’ said Dunk, eager as a puppy for praise.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ said Joe. ‘You’ll get the extra twenty.’

  ‘No sweat. Tomorrow will do,’ grinned the boy. ‘Now I’ve got to scoot. I’ve got a date.
’

  ‘Not with Gallie Hacker?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right. How’d you guess?’

  ‘But why?’ pleaded Joe.

  ‘Beneath all that warpaint, she’s a sweet kid, Joe,’ said Dunk reprovingly. ‘I like her fine.’

  ‘And that makes it OK? You’re trying to prove her grandfather’s a Nazi war criminal, remember?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said the youth, a look of concern momentarily clouding his face. Then it cleared and he smiled and said, ‘But not tonight I’m not! See you, Joe!’

  Joe watched him go then returned his attention to the letter, passport and wallet. They required an effort of concentration which in his present condition was beyond him. Better to sleep on it – in fact, on them. He pushed the items under his pillow but before he could compose himself to slumber, Dora Calverley came hurrying down the ward, her face and voice filled with concern. ‘Mr Sixsmith, I tried to get in touch with you to find out how things were working out with this possible contact, then I heard you were in here. How are you? I hope to heaven this had nothing to do with our business? If so, I want you to forget all about it. It’s certainly not worth running physical risks for.’

  ‘No, it was just a stupid car accident,’ he heard himself lying.

  In fact, her concern touched him deeply and he almost reached under the pillow for Dunk’s trophies. But if he did that, besides confirming that she was indirectly responsible for his damage, her next reaction would probably be to wave the passport triumphantly in Willie Woodbine’s face. Joe was uncertain of many things but one thing he knew beyond doubt. No way did he want the Woodbines brought into this till his suspicions, not to mention his legs, felt a lot stronger! At the moment he had nothing but a phone number he wasn’t sure of and which had probably been washed off the boy’s hand by now anyway, plus the ramblings of a junkie.

  Though there was something else. His mind which was once more shuffling images like a kaleidoscope had superimposed Georgie Woodbine’s kitchen calendar on top of the girl in the Scratchings. Said to call him Robbie or Rob, the girl was crying. While behind her on the calendar there glowed the mysterious entry which he’d read as Rob Vicar.