by Adam Hamdy
‘Where to, pal?’ the driver asked, as Wallace slid on to the back seat.
‘The Staffordshire Star,’ Wallace replied.
Crumbling old buildings lined the main road that led away from the station. Some of them were abandoned and derelict. Further along, the city had been razed to create wide open spaces for car dealerships, megastores and prefabricated hotels. Rather than renovate and improve, the past had been destroyed to make way for a cheap, functional future. It was as though the place had given up on its history.
The Staffordshire Star occupied a small, white two-storey building in Stoke’s museum quarter. Wallace paid the taxi driver and went inside to find a modern lobby where a tattooed Goth sat behind a large reception desk.
‘Hi, I’m here to see Graham Parkes,’ Wallace said, as the painted man looked up. ‘I’m an old friend.’
‘Does he know you’re coming?’ the Goth asked.
‘No. I was in the area and thought I’d surprise him,’ Wallace replied.
‘And your name?’
‘Huvane. Stewart Huvane,’ Wallace gambled.
‘Take a seat,’ the Goth instructed. ‘I’ll see if I can find him.’
Wallace walked over to a seating area that was lined with framed images of some of the newspaper’s more memorable front pages. As he pretended to scan the headlines, he kept glancing at the receptionist, who was on the phone. After a couple of minutes the Goth came over.
‘Hi,’ he began, ‘Graham is out on a story. He said he might be a while, but if you want to leave a number, maybe he could give you a call.’
‘I lost my phone,’ Wallace replied with a half-truth. ‘I’ll just wait,’ he added firmly.
‘He might be a while,’ the Goth repeated.
‘That’s OK,’ Wallace countered. ‘I’ve got time.’
He planted himself on one of the moulded chairs, which were all linked to form a circular bench. The Goth hesitated, unsure how to handle the situation, but then reverted to his training.
‘Can I get you something? A tea or coffee, maybe?’
‘I’ll have a tea, thanks,’ Wallace replied. ‘Black, weak, no sugar.’
He read the newspaper, occupying himself with stories of money raised for a heavily disabled child to go on a dream holiday, an overweight local who’d shed half her body weight on a new miracle diet, and a local entrepreneur’s dream to revitalise Stoke as a Silicon Valley for the West Midlands. When he’d finished the paper, Wallace drank his tea and waited. The Goth would occasionally glance over with growing resentment in his eyes, as though Wallace’s continued presence was a serious inconvenience. For a little over two hours Wallace watched the comings and goings of staff and visitors, until finally a balding, middle-aged man entered. When he glanced at Wallace and then scurried over to the Goth for a huddled conference, Wallace knew the man was Graham Parkes. After a minute or so, an uncertain Parkes approached.
‘Are you here for me?’ he asked. ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember you.’
Parkes’s bare pate gleamed under the recessed ceiling lights. Wallace placed him in his mid-to-late fifties. He was mildly overweight and had the grey skin of a man who spent too much time indoors. Underneath a dirty coat, he wore a cheap crumpled shirt and shiny black nylon trousers.
‘We’ve never met,’ Wallace replied as he stood and offered Parkes his hand. ‘I’m investigating a man called Stewart Huvane.’
Parkes declined any physical contact with a dismissive wave. ‘Never heard of him,’ he said. ‘Listen, I’d love to help, but I’m up to my neck in it and I’m on deadline.’
‘A few months ago you wrote a story about Huvane,’ Wallace continued. ‘He was a farmer who claimed someone had tried to kill him.’
‘Oh, that guy,’ Parkes recalled. ‘Strange fruit.’
‘He’s dead,’ Wallace said.
‘I’m sorry,’ Parkes responded. ‘Was he a friend of yours?’
‘No, but I think he was right. I think someone tried to kill him,’ Wallace replied, as Parkes eyed him with suspicion. ‘I’d like to take a look at your notes,’ he continued.
‘Notes?’ Parkes asked with a smile.
‘Your notes of the interview,’ Wallace clarified.
‘See this building?’ Parkes inquired. ‘You probably think it’s a pretty decent little place, but until a couple of years ago we used to occupy an entire office block in the city centre. Now, every moronic Tom, Dick and Sally thinks they can be a journalist because they’ve got a blog. In the last five years this paper’s reporting staff has shrunk from forty to four. So if you think I’ve got time to keep track of every kook I talk to, or keep notes of my interviews, you’re mistaken. I’m not a reporter any more. You want to know what I really am?’ Parkes paused. ‘I’m a filler,’ he continued. ‘It’s my job to fill the space between the adverts that keep this sinking ship afloat. My only hope is that we stay above water until I’m old enough to retire, because God knows the world doesn’t need someone with my skills any more. I wish you well, friend, but I can’t help you.’ He turned and began to walk away.
‘Can you at least tell me where he lived?’ Wallace called after him.
Parkes stopped. ‘What was his name again?’
‘Stewart Huvane.’
‘Huvane Farm, out past Leek. I remember thinking that only a narcissist would name his farm after himself,’ Parkes said before continuing on his way.
The Goth looked at Wallace with the half-smile of pity people reserved for those caught in embarrassing circumstances. Wallace ignored it. He had a lead.
‘Thanks for the tea,’ he called out to the Goth, before picking up his backpack and leaving the building.
Wallace regretted not having asked the taxi driver to wait. A cool wind negated the warmth of the late afternoon sun, which beat down on his shoulders as he knocked on the farmhouse door. The only response was the steady bark of an unseen dog. The deep timbre suggested that the signs that peppered the farmyard were correct to advise visitors to ‘Beware of the Hound’. Other than the ferocious-sounding canine, the old gritstone farmhouse did not appear to be occupied, so Wallace backtracked through the farmyard. The scree and concrete surface was cracked and potholed and in as much need of repair as the tumbledown outbuildings that surrounded the farmhouse.
Wallace walked up the drive and off the property, taking care to follow the posted instructions to close the gate behind him. Flakes of rust came away in his hands, which he brushed clean as he continued up the gravel track to the tarmac road. The track was flanked by ancient drystone walls, and the fields on the other side of them were bleak, a mix of hardy short grass and gorse bushes; perfect land for sheep. Dozens of the puffy white animals dotted the landscape. Wallace climbed up the shallow slope that led to the road, and when he reached the tarmac, he stopped and admired the view that had so impressed him from the back of the taxi. Huvane Farm was tucked off a tiny country road that cut into the Peak District National Park. The road itself ran along the flank of a hill, about three quarters of the way from the summit, and offered a commanding view of the smaller hills and valleys immediately below, and the flat plains and pastures beyond. The patchwork of fields was peppered with farmhouses, tiny white sheep, a handful of horses and cows. Ancient oaks rose out of the land, and in the distance a large reservoir glistened under the falling sun. It was a truly grand landscape that would be worth a return journey once he had his old life back.
Wallace chewed down a couple of painkillers, hitched his backpack over his good shoulder and set off for the hostel he’d spotted on the taxi ride out to Huvane Farm. With no guarantee that Huvane’s wife still lived at the farm, and the impending sunset, he thought it prudent to find a bed for the night. He guessed it was about a three-mile walk back to the hostel, and it was all downhill, so he strode on, just an ordinary hiker seeking refuge.
The occasional weathered wooden post informed him that the road cut across a number of public footpaths, but he didn’t meet another soul
during his forty-five minute hike. The only sounds he heard were of nature: the autumn wind breathing gently in his ear; sheep blathering to one another; birds tunefully warning of the coming winter. Wallace couldn’t remember the last time he’d gone so long without seeing another person. Born and raised in West Hampstead, he had the city in his blood. As he walked through the peaceful countryside, he wondered what long-term toll the bustling metropolis had exacted. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt calmer, more at peace with himself. He longed for his camera. He was seeing the world with new eyes and ached to record his visions. The landscape before him held no cares, and had stood more or less unchanged for eons. It reminded Wallace that he was less than small and insignificant; he was nothing, and the world around him would endure, unchanged by his presence or his passing. He felt strangely freed by the thought: nothingness brought with it a freedom that any sense of self-importance could only deny.
He arrived at the hostel just after six. The manager was a gruff, bearded man who introduced himself as Mark. The hostel was quiet – November was not a good month for ramblers – so Wallace got a four-bunk room to himself for just ten pounds. Mark showed him the men’s shower room and toilets and explained that the front door was locked at ten sharp. Stereos weren’t permitted and any anti-social behaviour would be dealt with harshly. Satisfied that Wallace couldn’t claim ignorance of the rules, Mark stalked away to his office. Wallace found a payphone just off the recreation room, deposited the two-pound minimum charge, and dialled. He listened to the ringing tone a few times and had prepared himself to leave a message when his call was answered.
‘Hello?’ Connie said.
‘Con, it’s me,’ Wallace spoke softly in an effort to avoid being overheard.
‘John! I’ve been worried about you. You need to get a phone,’ Connie advised.
‘I’m fine,’ he responded. ‘The farmer’s wife wasn’t home, so I’m going to stay overnight and see if I can get hold of her in the morning.’
‘Where are you?’ she asked.
‘The Roaches Hostel. It’s a little bunkhouse just outside Leek.’ There was a brief silence which Wallace felt compelled to break. ‘Please don’t worry about me, I’m fine. I miss you.’
Connie was silent, and Wallace wondered whether this was due to shock or dismay.
‘I miss you, too,’ she finally replied. ‘But I’m still at work, and I’ve got to get back to the meeting from hell. Be careful.’
‘Will do.’
Connie hung up and Wallace put the receiver down. He wandered into the deserted recreation room and found local takeaway menus fanned out over a pine coffee table. He sacrificed another two pounds to the avaricious telephone and ordered a pizza. Forty minutes later, alone in the recreation room, he tucked into a greasy, doughy Sicilian, with tuna, anchovies and capers. He could only eat half of the giant disc and left the rest near the tea station. Congealed pizza would make a functional if somewhat unappetising breakfast.
The clock in the recreation room said quarter past eight, but Wallace was tired and didn’t know what the next day held in store, so, with a belly full of fish, dough and cheese, he sauntered down the quiet corridor and went to his room to collect his toothbrush. After a quick visit to the communal toilet, he returned to his room and locked the door. With the prudence of someone who’d recently had multiple brushes with death, he placed his backpack in front of the door as an early warning system, and elected to sleep fully clothed. He climbed aboard one of the lower bunks, swallowed a couple of painkillers and laid his head against a skinny foam pillow. The bunk was six inches too short and the mattress an inch too thin, but Wallace didn’t care. He fell asleep quickly, but then spent a fitful and troubled night being assailed by vivid dreams of Connie and his would-be killer.
12
Wallace woke to the strong smell of bacon frying. The pain from his collarbone had diminished to a dull ache, but he took a couple of Paramols to subdue it further. Downstairs, he discovered Mark standing over a stove at the far end of the recreation room. The tiny kitchen area was flanked by a large twelve-seat rustic dining table which was blemished with the pockmarks of thousands of meals.
‘I found your pizza,’ Mark said as Wallace approached. ‘Man can’t live on that rubbish. You need proper food.’
Wallace looked at the bacon, sausage and eggs frying in a blackened old pan. ‘Thanks,’ he said gratefully.
‘No bother,’ Mark said. ‘There’s only one of you. I couldn’t rightly let you sit watching me eat. Get me some plates. Down there.’
He gestured at an ancient cupboard with a chipped laminate door, and Wallace reached in and produced a couple of mismatched plates.
‘There’s tea by the kettle,’ Mark said, as he served their breakfasts and took them to the table.
Wallace collected a couple of mugs of strong, milky tea. He never normally took milk, but he wasn’t about to undermine his host’s generosity. He passed Mark a mug as he sat down.
‘Other one’s mine,’ Mark informed him. ‘I take a lot of sugar. Keeps me smiling.’
Wallace swapped the mugs, looking for any evidence that Mark had just made a joke, but his host was as gruff and deadpan as ever.
‘You from London?’ Mark asked as he ate. The question seemed loaded with all kinds of prejudice.
Wallace nodded.
‘What you up here for?’
As he chewed a mouthful of egg and sausage, Wallace considered how best to answer the bearded man. A lie might result in a swift cooling of their nascent relationship. ‘I need to talk to Mrs Huvane,’ he said eventually. ‘Thanks, by the way. This is great.’
‘No bother. It’s all local,’ Mark said, as though there was never any doubt his food would be anything but great. ‘You want to talk to the woman about her husband, I’m guessing.’
‘Yeah,’ Wallace said. ‘I think he was telling the truth.’
Mark sat back, his scowling, weathered face impossible to read. ‘Probably,’ he said at last. ‘All that nonsense that came out after he died. Someone wanted to get him.’
‘What nonsense?’ Wallace asked.
Mark resumed eating. ‘Not my business. Talk to the wife. If she’ll see you.’
‘I tried yesterday. There was no answer.’
‘She doesn’t come out much,’ Mark explained. ‘Not since it happened. But she was in there. Probably didn’t like the look of you. I’ll run you up after breakfast. See if that makes any difference.’
‘Thanks,’ Wallace said.
‘No bother,’ Mark replied.
When they’d finished eating, Wallace grabbed his backpack and paid for his bunk.
‘Can I give you something for breakfast?’ he asked.
‘No,’ Mark replied as he led Wallace out to his Land Rover Defender. ‘I didn’t feed you for money. You needed food, I gave it t’you.’
Wallace climbed into the passenger seat. Mark clambered in beside him, sparked the old four-wheel drive to life and drove away at a lumbering pace. Wallace had to jump out a couple of times to open and close gates, and they covered the three miles to Huvane Farm in less than ten minutes. Mark drove down the gravel track and stopped at the farm gate, which was as Wallace had left it. The only difference was the huge dog that leaped up at them and barked ferociously, startling Wallace, who took a step back.
‘Don’t mind him,’ Mark advised. ‘He’ll have your arm off, but as long as you stay this side of the gate, he can’t get you.’
The dog was truly formidable; Wallace thought it was a Bullmastiff. Muscles rippled all over its large frame and its slavering jaws snapped open and shut with sobering ferocity.
‘Cynthia!’ Mark yelled. ‘Call your beast off! Man here wants to talk to you!’
Wallace looked past the dog to the farmhouse. There were no signs of life.
‘Don’t be mardy, Cynthia!’ Mark yelled over the dog’s deep barks, as he turned towards Wallace. ‘Say something, man,’ he suggested. ‘State your case.’
>
‘Mrs Huvane!’ Wallace called towards the house. ‘I want to talk to you about your husband!’
Nothing moved but the relentless dog. Mark looked at Wallace and signalled defeat with a shake of his head, but something caught Wallace’s eye. Across the yard, the farmhouse door opened and a ruddy-cheeked, rotund woman with blond hair filled the frame. She held a large-bore shotgun, which was levelled in their direction.
‘What’s he want to talk about?’ she called to Mark.
‘I think your husband was murdered,’ Wallace yelled back.
Cynthia studied Wallace for a moment and then lowered her shotgun.
‘Ronnie! Come!’ she commanded, and the giant dog stopped barking and complied immediately.
‘She’ll see you,’ Mark noted, as he turned towards his vehicle.
‘You not coming?’ Wallace asked, nervously eyeing Cynthia and her canine guardian.
‘Nope. This is between you and her,’ Mark stated simply, without breaking his stride.
Wallace approached the gate, released the latch and kept his eye on the dog as he stepped into the yard. Ronnie tracked Wallace, but made no attempt to move. Wallace heard the sound of the Land Rover starting and looked over his shoulder to see it drive off. He turned towards the farmhouse, where the gun-toting widow waited with her wolf.
‘Come in,’ Cynthia instructed.
Up close, Wallace could see that she wore her troubles on her face. Craggy worry lines were etched into her skin and dark shadows ringed her eyes. Wallace glanced nervously at the dog.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ Cynthia said. ‘He won’t hurt you. ‘’Less you cause trouble.’
‘Big dog,’ Wallace noted. ‘Is he a Bullmastiff?’
Cynthia chuckled darkly. ‘Namby dog for blowhards, the bull is. Ronnie’s an English Mastiff. All two hundred and twenty pounds of him.’
Wallace looked at the beast with new-found respect. The dog weighed more than him.
‘Come on,’ Cynthia said impatiently. ‘Let’s hear what you’ve got to say.’