by M. P. Wright
“I need to get to a phone.”
“A telephone? Who ye need ta call?”
“A relative back in Bristol. My cousin, Victor.”
“And this Victor, he can help get ye outta the mess yer in, can he?”
“We’re family, Milo: we look out for each other.” I smiled to myself. “And Vic knows his way round trouble better than any man I ever knew.”
“This fella Vic likes a fight, does he, Joseph?”
“Always has, been throwin’ punches ever since we was kids back home. Fight anyone or anyting. Vic’s got the heart of a lion and the temper of a sea snake. The man always loved to box. He’s just taken on a gymnasium for fighters.”
“Ye talking ’bout the boxing there, young fella?”
“Yeah. Vic owns a gym back in St Pauls.”
“Ah, he does now. Well, they say the phari like ta scrap, ain’t no doubt about that.”
“You like to box, Milo?”
“Like ta box, can ye hear yerself? Quit acting the bollocks, will ye. I was t’rowing a punch while you was still hanging off ye mother’s teat. I’ve toed the line at horse fairs, racecourses, backs o’ pubs an’ knocking shops from here to Sligo. Anywhere travelling men meet, argue or brawl, that’s where I make me brass, with this.” Milo raised one of his sizable fists at me and shook it in front of my face. “Me daddy, he scrapped all his life. Killed he was, right before me very eyes, God rest his soul.” Milo stretched out in his seat then stood up and rested his forearms on the table in front of me.
“Joseph, ye just had what we call the kris and ye didn’t even know it, boy. Ye see my people use the kris to hold court with another fella, ye tell ’em yer troubles then afterward the kris fixes them troubles. Let’s get ye fixed before it’s too late for the pair o’ ye. We’ll break up camp before nightfall. Get ye to that telephone that ye need. Have the chavi and you ready to leave when the sun just touches the tops o’ them there trees behind us. We’ll have pray to the Lord Almighty that those gavvers ye just told me about are still lost in those woods back there.” Milo clapped his hands and began laughing to himself.
I hadn’t the heart to raise a smile. I stared bleakly back out towards the outcrop of dense woodland behind me and shuddered. I knew that Paxton and Jardine would soon pick up our scent and that the time for me to start praying had long since expired. For a man like me there’d be no God worth his salt that would want to break bread with any of my sorry business. In my experience, those kind of lost and tormented petitions could only beseeched unto the ear of the Devil himself.
30
Drina laughed and called over to Truth, “Child, I wouldn’t be standing too close to him if I were ye. That poultice he’s smearing all over himself ain’t fit for the smelling. It’d knock a fly off a bucket o’ shite, it would.”
Truth began to laugh, and it was a welcome sight. Somehow during the last few hours she had seemed different, less tense. Her face, which had previously held an unmasked sadness, now seemed a little brighter; her eyes had begun to slowly come to life, their original dull stillness replaced by a sparkle that you only ever see in the young. In just a few hours it appeared that the Hughes’ young son, Connell, had successfully used a little of his traveller’s charm to prise her away from the withdrawn, sombre world in which she had been held prisoner and had brought her out into the light. I could not have been more grateful to the little boy.
Truth was sitting on the steps of the caravan with Connell watching me apply the thick yellow liniment Milo had given to me to treat a series of small cuts and scratches on my ribs and lower back caused by the bramble thorns I had fallen through the night before. Whatever the stuff was it stank to high heaven and was fiery hot on my skin as I rubbed it into the tiny lacerations. I stuck two fingers into the old jam jar, pulled out another lump of the foul-smelling lotion and began to apply it to one of the deeper abrasions.
“What the hell is this stuff, Milo?”
“What ye tink it is? It’s mustard.”
“Mustard? I’m smearing damn mustard on my skin?”
“Course ye are, ye damn eejit.” Milo began to snigger at me. “Mixed wid a drop o’ horse piss.”
Truth, Connell and Drina burst out into fits of uncontrollable laughter. In disgust, I looked at the repellent contents inside the jar then slung it as far as I could across the meadow.
*
True to his word, Milo had the camp broke and cleared and the caravan laden to the brim with their belongings before nightfall. Drina had cleaned Truth up, tended to her knocks and grazes, and got her a change of clothing from the holdall. I’d washed and put on my freshly laundered clothing, and sat with Drina and the children among the pots and pans inside the caravan.
“I’m gonna take ye ta a fella, name o’ Bodden. He lives in a village called Bradley Cross, about two miles as the crow flies. He has dat telephone you’ll be needing. I’ll tow us along de old miner’s track through Mascall’s Wood. It’s quiet and we won’t be bothered, wi’ any luck. There’s a gathering o’ tinkers pitched up just outside o’ the village. I’ll take ye and the chavi from there ta Bodden’s place. You make yer telephone and we can be gone. After that, I know of an old unused barn at the back of the White Hart pub in Cheddar, just down road from Bodden’s place. It’s safe and it’s quiet. You can lay low there till yer man comes to get ye. Once yer there, mind, ye’ll be on yer own. How’s dat sound?”
“Sounds fine by me, thank you.”
Milo nodded his head matter-of-factly at me and then swiftly closed the caravan door, sealing the four of us inside.
Our journey to Bradley Cross was a bumpy and slow one, and it was just after eleven o’clock in the evening by the time we reached the travellers’ settlement. Milo unhitched the horses, and from inside the caravan we could hear the sounds of Romany men chattering amongst themselves.
A short while later Milo swung open the door. Behind him, bunched up in a semicircle, stood ten or fifteen travellers, all staring keenly at their friend’s new-found cargo.
“Never mind dem eejits, dey won’t bother ye. Come on, fella, time for us ta be on our way.”
Milo smiled at Drina and then summoned Truth and I to get out of the van. I grabbed up the holdall from between my feet, thanked Drina, took Truth’s hand in my own and went to get out. As I was rising to my feet I felt Truth squeeze on my fingers and tug on my arm. I turned and watched as she slowly raised her tiny right arm and hand out towards Connell. The boy leant forward and took Truth’s slender hand in his own grubby mitt. The children sat like that for a moment, just looking at each other, holding on to each other’s hands. No words were exchanged, just a series of simple smiles and unspoken gestures given and shared between two innocent youngsters, both of whom knew that they would probably never set eyes on each other again.
We walked into Bradley Cross in the shadows with the moon rising up behind our backs. Milo led us quickly through tiny cobble-stoned backstreets made up of small tenant farmers’ houses and shabby-looking run-down estate cottages.
In the darkness the village sure didn’t look like it amounted to much, and I’d no interest in hanging around to see what the damn place looked like by daylight. Milo turned to me and whispered, “I know old Wilf Bodden from my time working the land round here. He’s a game warden for some swanky fella in the big house up the road. Bit of a gobshite, but the fella’s keen on the horse races and likes the folding stuff. Hand him a coupla quid and we’ll be fine with him, for sure.”
At the furthest end of the village we approached a small cul-de-sac, and the sulphurous stink of farmyard animals hit me immediately as we tramped up a dirt track towards the only house on the blind alley. Even in the dark I could sense the open expanse of the moorlands either side of the road, stretched out around us. It was still a warm night, and as we approached the gate to the ramshackle property the whispering flutter of a calm night breeze blew across the fells and gently caressed our faces.
Milo opened up
a large iron front gate, the ageing metal hinges creaking as it moved. I felt Truth squeeze hold of my hand a little tighter as we made our way up the path to the house. I pulled her in a little closer to me as Milo lifted the brass knocker and rapped it against the front door. Two dilapidated copper lanterns were flanked either side of the farmhouse entrance. Inside, wax candles burnt at the low end of their wicks, offering us the barest illumination. Milo gave the knocker another hammering against the wood panelling.
I looked at my wristwatch; it was a little after twelve thirty.
A few moments later, the sound of a series of locks being unbolted could be heard and the door swung open. A thin, grey-haired man in his late fifties, his trouser braces hanging around his scrawny waist, peered out from behind a poorly lit hallway. “Who the bloody hell is that banging about at this time of night?”
Milo stood in the dim candlelight and broke out into a huge smile then raised himself up onto the doorstep, leaving Truth and me looking like a couple of wayward strays behind him.
“There’s the man. Evening ta ye there, Bodden. It’s me, Milo Hughes. I’m sorry to be troubling ye at such an ungodly hour, but I’m looking for yer help so I am. I have a fella wid me here. He’s in dire need o’ the use o’ yer telephone and willing ta pay handsomely for the call.”
Bodden stuck his head out into the night and gawped down at both of us.
“What the bleeding hell are you doing wandering around the place in the dark with that coon and kid in tow? Have you lost your senses, man?”
“Ah, Bodden, that’s no way ta talk about a man’s friend. Be a good Christian now and let us in. Yer the only fella I know in these parts with a telephone. It’s urgent. What says ye let me man here have a crack on it.”
I stuck my hand into the inside pocket of my jacket, pulled out two five-pound notes and pushed them past Milo towards Bodden. “Like Milo says, I’m willing to pay you.”
Bodden looked at the cash in my hand for a moment and rubbed greedily at his chin. I could feel his itching palm from where I was standing and took an instant dislike to the man. Milo stood to one side and Bodden moved towards us out of his doorway, stuck out a spiny-looking hand and with pinched fingers snatched up the money from me.
“You better come on in quick then.” Bodden reluctantly stood away from his step and quickly ushered us into his hallway, shutting the door behind him. Inside, the house stank of a gagging mix of rotting vegetables and stale body odour. Milo sniffed the musty air, blew out a breath and grimaced to himself. “Jaysus, Bodden. I live in a damp seventy-year-old caravan and it still smells better that this fecking dump. What ye bin doing in here, painting the walls wid cow shit?”
Bodden, his face like thunder, stood with his back against his front door. “Mind your bloody cheek.” He stabbed one of his bony fingers at Milo’s face. “You must be off your pissing rocker, man. What the hell are doing bringing a wanted man to my house?”
Milo’s face went blank. He looked across at me gravely then back at Bodden.
“What ye talking about, a wanted man. Joseph here’s no felon.”
“No felon. Come off it, Hughes, do I look a bloody fool? The police have already been here, scoured right through every house in the village they have, looking for the wog and that child. Your Negro friend here’s in big trouble with the law and that’s the end of it. The coppers are saying he’s dangerous too.”
“Dangerous, me arse! Does the fella look dangerous to ye?”
“It don’t matter what I think. He’s on the run, wanted by every bobby from here to the English Channel.”
I reached back into my jacket pocket, pulled out a handful of five-pound notes and shoved them towards Bodden’s chest. “Here, how much do you want for the use of your telephone? Look, here’s sixty pounds for your trouble. I’ll make my call and be on my way.” I wafted the money in Bodden’s face a couple of times. “Sixty quid for one phone call. What do you have to lose?”
Bodden swallowed hard. I could see the beads of perspiration beginning to bubble up at the edges of his grey hairline. I watched as he covetously eyed up the notes. “My freedom, that’s what I have to lose: just like you, nig nog.”
Bodden stared down at my chest, his gaze directed towards my jacket pocket. I clicked on quick to what he was after. I reached into my coat, pulled out another wad of cash and counted out another thirty pounds in front of him. Milo, angered at his friend’s avarice, reached out towards me and tried to stop me handing over any more of my money.
“Bodden, why are ye acting the bollocks? Let the fella use the damn telephone, won’t ye?”
I moved Milo’s arm out of the way and pushed the money into Bodden’s grasping old hand. “Take it . . . that’s a hundred pounds. Easiest money you’ll ever make.”
Bodden looked down at his new-found wealth, splaying it out like an oriental fan between his fingers. He looked up at me and nodded towards an open door further up the hallway.
“The telephone’s back there in the parlour. Go use it and be damn sharp about it. These two can come in the kitchen and wait for you there.” Bodden pushed past me and walked down to his parlour, flicked on the light switch and turned to face the three of us. “Come on, I’ll put the kettle on, make us a brew while your friend there uses my telephone.” He spat out the words and disappeared into the kitchen behind him.
Milo reached down and gently took Truth’s other hand. The little girl’s fingers instinctively stiffened and began to hold on to my palm tightly.
I looked down at her and smiled. “I’ll be five minutes, that’s all.” I felt her nervously knead at my hand again with her fingers. “It’s OK, Truth, you’ll be safe with Milo, I promise. Just five minutes, OK?”
Truth looked up at me. “OK, just five minutes.” She let go of my hand. Milo winked at me and the two of them left me to make my call.
I walked into Bodden’s grubby little parlour and found the black Bakelite phone sitting on a green wicker plant stand. I picked up the handset and dialled the number to Vic’s gym then pressed the earpiece close to my head and waited nervously. The dialling tone must have rung out a dozen times before somebody finally answered.
“Yeah, who is it?” barked the voice down the line.
“Vic, that you?”
“Yeah, course it is, JT. I came hauling my ass back here as soon as Redman got a hold of me. He tole me you in a heap o’ trouble again. Where the hell are you?”
“I’m stuck in the middle o’ nowhere at a place called Bradley Cross, ’bout half a mile away from the village of Cheddar.”
“Cheddar, Cheddar in Somerset? You tellin’ me you is down in the sticks again wid all those hay-chewing muthafuckas? What the fuck is wrong wid you, brother?”
“Never mind what the hell’s wrong with me. I’m up to my neck in deep shit here.”
“Oh yeah, deep shit you say, what’s new? Ain’t you ever gonna learn? Everton, he tells me since I bin gone we’ve had that nosey flat-footed pig Fletcher looking fo’ you here an’ all over St Pauls. There’s talk o’ you doin’ all kinds o’ crazy shit. He’s bin yackin’ ’bout how he’s gone an’ lost one o’ his men, that greasy-assed bastard Beaumont. You know anyting ’bout that?”
“Beaumont’s dead.”
“Beaumont’s dead. How’d he end up a stiff?” Vic snapped.
“I shot him,” I replied blankly.
“What, you shot him? Well, ain’t that just fuckin’ swell. JT just became the first nigger in Britain to start his own version o’ the gunfight at the OK Corral. Tell me you didn’t croak ole Flush-it Fowler too, did ya?”
“Course I didn’t kill him. That poor bastard was just the start of all of this. He was probably murdered by Beaumont or one o’ the sons o’ bitches that he was workin’ for.” I took a deep breath on the other end of the phone. I could hear a vexed Vic sucking in air through the gap in his front teeth.
“That honky copper Fletcher said you got some young pickney girl wid you, said you stole
her from some damn orphanage or someting.”
“I didn’t steal anybody. Doc Fowler had already taken the girl, kept her cooped up underneath the old swimming baths out at Speedwell.”
“Speedwell baths, that rathole? Oh, this shit just keeps gettin’ better all o’ the time. Look, you is playin’ at some dangerous shit down there, cousin.”
I barked back down the phone. “Look, I ain’t playin’ at nuttin’, Vic. I been set up and played by a bunch o’ crooked white folk that saw me comin’ like a fool from the off. I got blood on my hands an’ a heap o’ dead folk mountin’ up behind me. There’s at least four or more fellas who’ve been tracking my tail since I left Bristol and who want me and the child dead.”
“What damn fellas?
“Probably more bent law from Fletcher’s station, plus there’s a couple of American policemen, one by the name o’ Paxton, the other Jardine.”
“American? You talkin’ Yankees?”
“Yeah. Sounds like one of ’em put the strong arm on Loretta. Busted her up real bad to get to me.” The line went silent. “You still there, Vic?”
“Yeah, I’m still here. Why’d these Yankee pigs go after Loretta an’ do her harm?”
“Loretta put the child up for the night at her place, let me use one of Carnell’s motors to get us outta Bristol too.” I heard Vic sigh heavily into the mouthpiece at the other end of the line.
“Oh, you is a damn fool, JT.”
“I know what I am, Vic.” The line went quiet again. My mouth was dry. I closed my eyes, swallowed hard then coughed to try to clear my throat. I heard Vic throw something across the room in temper. I stayed silent and waited for him to speak again.
“Just gimme the details o’ where you gonna be hangin’ out. I’m gonna get my stuff an’ leave St Pauls for you as soon as I can.”
“I’m gonna be holed up in some barn way out at the back of a place called the White Hart pub. It’s in Cheddar village. Milo said it’s the only pub they got, so it ain’t gonna be hard to find.”
“OK, got it. Who the fuck is Milo?”