by David Carter
Vimy took the first pistol from the box and holding it by the barrel, handed it to Arthur. He smiled as if collecting a first degree at Oxford University and was expecting cameras to click. Vimy collected the other gun and the box of ammo and walked away, as Arthur followed, squelching on the marshy ground.
Vimy spotted an old cola can and set it up on a round boulder. He stepped back twenty yards, opened the ammo box, and gave Arthur three slugs. Somehow he managed to open the gun and feed them into the chambers. He glanced across at Vimy as if for approval, then at the cola can, and back at Vimy. He thought his boss looked so cool in that tweed hat, incredibly handsome, and it reminded Arthur of the reason he was standing there. He loved the man to bits; every bone in his fit body, every fibre of the man, always had, always would.
‘Go on,’ said Vimy, in a mockingly irritated manner.
Arthur grinned and raised the gun and fired.
The sound crashed around the quarry. In a second the echo flashed back as if a jet fighter had zipped above their heads from RAF Valley on the far side of Snowdonia. It seemed loud enough to Arthur to wake every copper in Denbighshire.
‘Hellfire!’ he muttered, and worse than that, he’d missed by a mile. The bullet crashed onto the edge of the boulder and ricocheted into the distance.
‘Another,’ ordered Vimy, and again Arthur fired, and missed.
‘Again!’ he said, like a dissatisfied teacher.
The can went flying with a metallic ping. Arthur beamed like a baby.
‘More like it,’ said Vimy.
Images of long forgotten western movies flooded back into their minds. Arthur began playing with the gun, twirling it around his index finger like a cowboy.
‘It’s great, isn’t it,’ he said, in his thick scouse accent, unable to keep the excitement from his voice. He turned his hand from side to side, admiring the weapon, getting the feel of it, growing to adore the power and authority it brought. He’d been frightened of guns before. He wasn’t anymore. He wanted one. He’d get one. He’d get two. He’d buy a whole box of the damn things.
‘Set it up again,’ ordered Vimy.
Arthur ran forward and reset the can. He glanced back at Vimy and the loaded gun poised in his hand, and Arthur looked terrified. What if this man, his one lifelong friend, experienced a moment of temporary insanity? He might prefer real life target practice. He could murder him right there and no one would ever know, except Pete. He would know, and thank God for that.
‘Just a mo, just a mo,’ pleaded Arthur, as he rushed back to the safety of Vimy’s side.
Vimy recognised the power the weapon exerted. It frightened people, it terrified them, and they were right to be frightened for the gun could blow their heads off at fifty paces. He couldn’t wait to terrify the revolting Ma Wilkins and her two loutish sons. See how they liked it. His eyes were unblinking and steady. He fired the gun through the gloom, hitting the can first time, imagining bullets ripping through the twin’s torsos. He didn’t stop, but chased the shredded can away from the boulder, hitting it time and again, ripping it to bits.
‘You’ve done that before,’ said an impressed Arthur.
‘I told you, I come here shooting in season.’
They spent twenty minutes practising and only when Vimy was sure Arthur was up to the task, and most of the ammo had gone, did he pocket the guns. They headed back to the car, jumped in, and hurried away, still on a big high.
‘Don’t forget,’ said Vimy, ‘we’ll be standing right next to them. We won’t miss.’
‘It’s not the thought of missing that worries me.’
‘You’ll be fine, it’ll be a piece of piss.’
But would it though, thought Arthur, be a piece of piss? So long as he didn’t piss himself, that’s what worried him. Despite the love and affection of Pete Lee, he couldn’t wait to get the hell out of it and back to the safety of London.
VIMY SHOOK HIS HEAD and opened his eyes. He was still sitting in the Police Station in Chester with Laura at his side, and those pictures of Arthur and thoughts of murder from long ago vanished, just as the magic of Christmas vanishes when you grow old.
‘The whole thing’s laughable,’ she was saying. ‘As if a Ridge could ever commit murder. Laughable!’
‘Quite,’ said Vimy. ‘Truly laughable.’
Chapter Fifty-Four
THE POLICE OPPOSED Midge’s application for bail but the court disagreed, setting the figure at a prohibitive million pounds. The cash was delivered to the court within twenty-four hours.
The conditions of bail stated Midge must not leave the country; must not speak to his sister Coral by any means, including electronic, until the police had interviewed her, and that he must report to the police station every morning.
This he did, at Upton police station on Arrowe Park Road on his way to work. Everything would continue as normal for the five months before the trial was scheduled to begin.
Three weeks later on the Sunday morning, Midge was playing golf at the Royal Liverpool Golf Club at Hoylake with three of his pals from the rugby club. Afterwards they returned to Misnomer for lunch. They often did on Sundays, for Laura adored filling the house with bright young men, and as Misnomer was widely known as the home of the beautiful blondes, it was never difficult to find eager guys to fill the chairs.
Vimy had eaten alone, the first shift, something he did when he had more than usual on his mind. He was in his study, a long narrow room set off the hallway. He was doing homework, catching up, checking figures, examining projections, trying unsuccessfully to banish from his mind the rapidly approaching murder trial, the same trial that had dragged the family name through the gutter press, and onto those identical local television news programmes he had once scrambled to be on. He was making plans; and there was nothing new in that, but he was struggling with them. They didn’t sit right, and that irritated him.
Harry King was the only person who heard the strangled cry, and the thud as Vimy hit the carpet.
‘Is your dad OK?’ he whispered through the side of his mouth.
‘Why do you ask?’ said Midge grinning, as he reached for extra beef, before recognising the look of concern on Harry’s face.
‘I heard a noise... and a bang.’
Midge flew from the room and dashed to the study. His father was on the floor, lying on his back, his face drifting toward a shade of purple, one hand clutching his heart; the other lying loose at his side. His eyes were closed; his breathing heavy and irregular, and between breaths, there were occasional gasping attempts at speech.
‘Shit!’ screamed Midge. ‘Dad’s had a heart attack! Call a doctor!’
Harry jumped on the phone as Midge bent down and loosened his father’s collar and felt for a pulse. It was there, but irregular and for how long? He dashed to the cloakroom for a cloth that he ran under the cold tap. When he returned there was a crowd of people packed in the study. Laura was on the floor bending over him. She was in control of herself, and between regular brushed kisses to his forehead and cheek, she was whispering into Vimy’s ear, ‘Hold on my love. Hang in there. You WILL be all right. I promise you, you WILL be OK. The doctor’s on his way. Hang on, my darling, you must hang on.’
‘Everyone leave the study!’ shouted Midge. ‘Everyone out, now! He needs air.’
The office cleared, and minutes later the ambulance arrived in the road outside. It was unable to gain access. The gates were closed and locked.
‘Open the gates!’ yelled Harry from the front garden. Midge rushed to press the red button. The gates opened, and the ambulance sprinted up the drive.
The paramedics were brilliant. They did everything quickly, but never in a panic. They moved everyone away and took charge of the situation, instilling confidence that all would be well. Vimy was laid on the gleaming gurney and carried to the ambulance. The siren wailed; the vehicle dashed away, a convoy of panicking Ridge vehicles in hectic pursuit.
They took him to Murrayfield private hospita
l in Thingwall where every one of the thousands of pounds of health care money they had invested was lavished upon him, and much more besides, the latest and best health care, and it paid a huge dividend. It saved Vimy’s life, though it had been a close call.
Laura, Midge, Messine, and Persia remained at the hospital all night. The staff made them comfortable, but none of the family slept a wink. They sucked mints, drank buckets of hot black coffee, and talked about telling Coral and Lisa. Every ten minutes one of them would step outside to the car park to take phone calls, read text messages, and send fresh dispatches to the concerned and the nosey. Someone betrayed their confidence and tipped off the local press.
Within the hour a television news crew arrived, eager to be first with the news of the near death of a celebrity, however minor. Wasn’t this the father of the man accused of murder? The man who appeared on TV extolling the virtues of hard work and honest enterprise? There must be a juicy story to be had, no one was that perfect.
The reporters tried to enter the hospital and film emergency procedures. Security was called, and the newshounds were banished to the lawns outside, amongst much shouting and threats. Midge, red-faced and furious, knocked a camera from one man’s hand as he hurried by. He kicked the photographer spitefully on the thigh as the guy bent down to retrieve his equipment, yelling, ‘Get the hell out of it!’
‘I’m only doing my job, mate.’
‘Get out of it before I ram that camera down your throat!’
‘Keep your hair on, pal!’
It was the middle of Monday afternoon before the Ridge family traipsed home, tired, dirty and numb, and then only after the senior consultant had assured them the worst had passed. He would personally telephone if there was the slightest change in Vimy’s condition. The patient was heavily sedated and hooked up to the national grid. There was little point in staying any longer, yet when they left they all felt a sense of guilt, of betrayal, as if they were abandoning him at his greatest moment of need.
At home they showered, fixed some sandwiches, sat together and shared an impromptu family conference, before stumbling to bed. They slept fitfully and were awake early. Midge rang the hospital, and the news was encouraging. They could see him that afternoon. He shouted the update through the house before ringing Diane at her apartment to share it with her. She could pass the news to the office staff.
‘Thank God,’ she said. ‘I thought we might have lost him.’
‘So did we, but he’s a tough bugger. You know that. We Ridge’s are. It’ll take more than a heart attack to knock my old man over.’
Diane breathed a little easier. She knew how tough Vimy Ridge was, and couldn’t wait to see him, though she would have to be selective with her timing.
Laura set about preparing bacon and eggs and the aroma of smoked fried rashers drifted through the house. Midge wandered into the study where his father had collapsed. He peered round as he pictured the scene. He imagined dad reaching for his chest, trying hard to cry out, his frantic thoughts flashing through his mind as if they might be his last. Midge wondered what those thoughts were.
Maybe we should speak our final thoughts before it is too late, he mused, in case no one is there to hear them, and they are lost forever. Better still, perhaps we should write them down. Was this what was in store for him? For all of them? He shivered at the thought and tried to push such images to the back of his mind. He sat at the desk and stared at the wall, his mind blank. He remembered his grandpa for he was sure that no one had thought to tell the old man.
It was just after eight in the morning. He knew granddad always rose early. He took out his mobile and rang him, as he rehearsed what he might say. The phone rang six times and the old man answered, shouting a single word, ‘What!’
‘Hello, granddad. It’s Midge, Michael Ridge.’
‘I know who you are, Midge. But I can’t imagine why you would be ringing at this hour.’
‘Bad news, granddad, it’s dad, he’s had a heart attack.’
The line went silent, except for the old man’s heavy breathing. Norman sat down and Barney, ever eager to stick his nose in whenever there was news, trotted to the couch and nuzzled into his master’s knees.
‘Is it bad, son?’
‘Pretty bad.’
‘He’s alive?’
‘Just about. He’s in Murrayfield. But we’re not allowed to see him until later today.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘Sunday lunchtime.’
Norman thought about that for a moment, but he wasn’t about to complain that no one had bothered to tell him. He hadn’t spoken to Vimy in years and they must have had other things on their mind.
‘Thanks for telling me, Midge.’
‘You’re all right, granddad. I’ll ring you again later.’
‘Do that, and thanks, Midge, you’re a good boy.’
As he was speaking Midge noticed papers strewn across Vimy’s desk, handwritten papers.
‘Bye, granddad,’ he whispered, but the line was already dead. Norman had returned to cupping his whopping hands around the dog’s ears as he gently rubbed them. His eyes mirrored the dog’s eyes, and then Barney whined. Why do things never turn out as you imagine? Norman pondered. He was always certain he would predecease Mary, yet he was still alive, and she was gone, and now it seemed his only son might predecease him too, and that couldn’t be right, him still alive, and his son already away. Why does life have to be so ramshackle?
In Misnomer, Midge glanced back at the papers. There was something odd about them. They consisted of huge Kalamazoo bookkeeping sheets covered in handwritten names and figures, all written in fountain pen. They looked like the kind of thing his father might have used thirty years before. Almost no one used handwritten records anymore. Yet the entries were fresh, the transactions dated during the previous week, some of the recent data written by his father.
He rustled through the pages. About a quarter of the entries were written by his dad. He’d recognise that scratchy handwriting anywhere. But an altogether neater more confident hand had written the remainder. A woman’s hand perhaps, in a style he did not recognise.
He examined the first page again. In the left column were numerous nondescript names he presumed were customers. Against the names were listed monetary amounts, and they weren’t small. Most of the sheets were totalled and ruled off, the carried forward figures neatly brought forward to the next sheet, and underlined twice in red ink, as if they had been checked and verified by a clerk in some Dickensian office. An annual audit, perhaps?
The final page had yet to be totalled. Could this have been the task his father was working on when he’d been struck down? Midge scratched his head and flipped back through the sheets. The figures totalled huge sums, but what were they for? At the top of each page was a heading COMMODITY A or B, a code perhaps, no description, right through to the letter P. But what did they mean, and why had he never seen them before?
The phone on Vimy’s desk rang, a loud old-fashioned on-off ring. Midge jumped in the chair. He grabbed the phone, imagining it might be the hospital.
‘Hello.’
‘Can I speak to Vimy please?’
‘Who is this?’
‘One of his colleagues.’
Midge stared at the handset. He did not recognise the voice, and he was sure his father had no colleagues with a voice like that. It had to be a hack, a gossipmonger, a shit stirrer. God, was there no peace?
‘Who is this?’ he demanded.
‘Never mind that now. I must speak to Vimy urgently.’
‘Well, you can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s had a heart attack, that’s why!’
A brief silence, and the caller said, ‘Oh, shit... is he alive?’
‘Just about. Look, who is this?’
‘My name is Arthur Harkin.’
The name meant nothing to Midge.
‘Never heard of you, if you’re a reporter I�
�ll batter you into next week.’
‘I’m not a reporter. You must be Midge?’
‘Yes. How did you know?’
‘We need to talk, Midge.’
‘We do? About what? Look, who are you?’
‘Come to the safe house in an hour and I’ll explain.’
‘Safe house? What the hell are you on?’
‘You don’t know? Oh my God.’
Arthur rattled off the address and excused himself by saying, ‘I’ll see you in an hour. It’s most important. You must come.’
Midge replaced the phone and glanced back at the papers, his face reflecting his puzzled mind. He left them spread out across the desk and ambled through to the kitchen where his mother was feeding the dishwasher.
‘Have we ever owned a property in Bromborough?’
‘Good God, no. Not to my knowledge. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, nothing, just a crazy idea I had. I’ve got to go out for an hour, I’ll call in the cop shop on the way and say hello.’
‘Don’t be too long.’
‘I won’t, I’ll be back for lunch.’
MIDGE LOCATED THE HOUSE easily enough, hidden as it was behind monstrous green firs. He stood on the step wondering what he was doing there and rang the bell. A man came to the door, a guy with an egg for a head from which a pair of shrunken piggy eyes stared out.
‘Midge?’
Midge bobbed his head and grunted.
‘I’m Arthur, come on in. I didn’t have to ask who you were. You’re the spit of your old man. Come on through.’
Egghead minced away towards a back room, and Midge reluctantly followed. The house smelt musty and dusty as if it hadn’t been cleaned for months, as if it wasn’t truly lived in. It lacked a woman’s hand, and looking at this guy, perhaps that wasn’t surprising.
Midge said, ‘Do you mind telling me what the hell is going on?’
‘All in good time, but first things first, how’s your father? Do you want a scotch?’