Cod Beck: & other Dark Teesside stories

by Glenn McGoldrick

  Cod Beck

  & other Dark Teesside short stories

  By Glenn McGoldrick

  Text copyright © 2017

  Glenn McGoldrick

  All Rights Reserved

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  Contents

  Cod Beck

  Just Keep Walking

  Nightmare Waiting

  Cod Beck

  Ken stood by the open grave, not feeling the rain or hearing the priest’s words. He looked at the weeping faces beside him, but did not cry with them; he felt only shock.

  He opened the kitchen door, shaking his head as he watched the cigarette smoke escape.

  “Good idea, Ken,” said Bernie. “Let a bit of fresh air in.”

  “Well, I don’t smoke, so I don’t-”

  “Best way to be,” Bernie said, taking a big drag on his cigarette. “Nasty habit.”

  Ken nodded. “How long do you think everybody will be staying?”

  “Just a little while, Ken. Give you a bit of company. It’s not a day to be alone.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “It’s just that…”

  “What?” Ken said.

  “We’re all worried about you, that’s all. We know how close you and June were.”

  “Yes.”

  “It must be a terrible loss.”

  “Well, yes, but-”

  “Come on, Ken. Let’s grab a whisky, and join the others in the front room.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, don’t stay in the kitchen alone.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll be in shortly.”

  “OK,” Bernie said, taking the whisky bottle with him.

  Ken sat at the kitchen table, picking at a pork pie, waiting for everybody to leave.

  He woke up in a sweat, saying, “No, no, no.” Stretching out his hand, he felt only a cold sheet where June used to lay.

  He made his way to the kitchen, switched on the kettle and checked the wall calendar.

  “A month,” he said, shaking his head. “Where does the time go, love?”

  Taking his coffee into the living room, he sat on his end of the sofa. He picked up a red cardigan and held it to his face, breathing through his nose.

  “You always did smell good, love,” he said.

  Switching on the TV news, he sipped his coffee and thought about leaving the house.

  Returning from the hospital, Ken sat on the sofa and re-read the letter. Then he made a coffee, and sipped it while he stared out of the kitchen window.

  “Just my fucking luck,” he said.

  “Thornaby?” Bernie asked, taking a seat next to Ken on the sofa.

  “That’s where I’m from. Where I grew up.”

  “Right. Right. What about it?”

  “Well,” Ken said. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I don’t know. It makes no sense. I’ve been living here in London almost fifty years now. And-”

  “But why think about it now?”

  “I used to do a lot of walking, with my mother and father. Out in the hills where we lived.”

  “I see.”

  “Some of the happiest times of my life. June was never much of a walker. She-”

  “Ken. Stop! Listen to me.”

  “What?”

  “It’ll do you no good,” Bernie said. “This moping around.”

  “I am not bloody moping around.”

  “It’s been three months, Ken, and you’ve barely left the house.”

  “Yes, I have,” Ken said, nodding his head. “I’ve been to the cemetery, and I also-”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, Ken. You need to get out and socialise a bit. Or talk to someone. You can’t go on like this.”

  Ken sat in his living room that evening, replaying the conversation with Bernie in his head.

  “He’s right, love,” he said. “I can’t go on like this.”

  He buried his face in the red cardigan.

  Ken rose early the next morning, and had a large breakfast. He had a long soak in the bath, a close shave, then he put on his favourite suit and left the house.

  After a visit to the bank he stopped at the florist, taking his time before selecting an expensive bouquet.

  He walked to the cemetery and placed the flowers in the planter, then knelt down beside the headstone and talked softly to June.

  “I hope you’ll understand, love,” he said, before leaving to catch his train.

  He stepped off the train, admiring the afternoon sun and nodding his head.

  “It’s as good a day as any,” he said, buttoning his jacket against the mild chill.

  He noticed a ticket office, and a small area with plastic seating; everything else was as he remembered. He walked to the taxi rank, and took the first cab in line.

  As the taxi drove away, Ken stared at the small shop with the Post Office sign in the window. He’d never used its mailing services, but he could still taste the boiled sweets he used to buy there, daily, so long ago.

  He set off walking, beside a quiet road that cut a straight line through the village. The gardens were green and well kept; he was struck by the contrast, between this peaceful place and the noise of London.

  He passed a pub, unsure if he remembered it or not. The road led him up a gently sloping bank. He stopped at the top to catch his breath.

  “Well, love,” he said, “that’s steeper than I remember.”

  He followed the road for another minute, then took a right into Falcon Close. There were six houses in the quiet cul-de-sac, and he stopped in front of the second one.

  Looking at the detached house, he took in the neat garden and the fence that enclosed it.

  “That fence wasn’t there before.”

  He looked at the windows, replaying childhood memories. He put his hand on the gate, deliberating.

  “I’d better not, love,” he said, stepping away. “I don’t know who lives there now. What on earth would I say to them?”

  He walked back to the main road, glancing over his shoulder and wiping his eyes.

  “What can I get you, sir?”

  “I’ll have the filet mignon, please,” Ken said. “Well done.”

  “And to drink, sir?”

  “A large whisky, please. An expensive one.”

  “Yes, sir,” the bar server said, scribbling in his notebook. “The food will be about forty-five minutes, if that’s OK?”

  “That’s fine. I’m not in any rush.”

  He looked around the pub, seeing a lone drinker at the bar, and a young couple sat in a booth by the window. The bar server brought his whisky; he took a slow drink, nodding his head appreciatively.

  He picked up a newspaper from the empty table next to his, and flicked through it as he waited for his meal.

  “Thank you very much, sir,” the bar server said, seeing the large tip that Ken had left him.

  “You’re welcome. It was lovely.”

  They chatted a little, as the bar server cleared the table and Ken finished his third whisky.

  “Up by Cod Beck? Don’t you have a thicker jacket, sir?”

  “No. Just this one.”

  “Oh, well, be careful, sir. Don’t stay out there too long.”

  “OK.”

  �
�It gets very cold, out in the open.”

  “I should be OK,” Ken said. “Thanks again.”

  He followed the road leading from the village, taking a right and walking down a small slope to the reservoir. He took a seat at a picnic bench, looking out over the water.

  He re-read the letter from the hospital, then tore it up, watching the pieces blow away on the wind. Then he took a path through a wooded area, which bordered one side of the reservoir.

  The path led him up a small hill. At the top of the hill he took a left, and walked a little further. Then he sat on the grass, taking in the expansive view over Cod Beck and the surrounding countryside.

  “Just as beautiful as I remember,” he said. “This is the spot, love.”

  He lay back in the grass and closed his eyes, listening to the wind, hearing the voices of his parents, long gone. And he could hear June, whispering his name.

  He smiled, knowing that he would see them all soon.

  Just Keep Walking

  Harry stood in the kitchen, wearing only boxer shorts and socks, staring at the washing machine as the wash cycle began.

  “Bit late for laundry, isn’t it?” I said from the doorway.

  “Jesus!” he said, startled for a moment. “How long have you been there?”

  “Just now. I heard you coming in. Everything all right?”

  “Fine,” he said, shrugging. “Actually…”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been here all night with you.”

  “Have you?”

  “If anybody asks, that’s what you say.”

  “Who’s going to ask?” I said. “What have you done?”

  “Nothing,” he said, then pointed his finger at me. “Just remember – I’ve been here with you all night.”

  I looked away from him, watching as the clothes in the washing machine tumbled in red-stained water.

  I got to the casino at 1 p.m. for my shift, and it was a slow day; as I inspected two dull games of Roulette my mind wandered.

  What had Harry been involved in the previous evening? He’d went off the rails a bit since I’d split from his mother Shirley. He’d been cautioned by the police on a number of occasions, usually for shoplifting or petty vandalism.

  He lived with Shirley, but she mostly left him to do what he wanted. His real dad wasn’t part of his life, so in the five years since we’d separated he’d got into the habit of visiting me a couple of times a week.

  “Wake up, Derek,” Pat said. “It’s your break.”

  “About time,” I said. “You’ll fall asleep watching this nonsense.”

  He looked from one Roulette table to the other, nodding at some of the regular customers.

  “Enjoy,” I said as I walked away.

  “Bollocks,” he replied.

  When I returned from work that evening, I sat across the kitchen table from Harry.

  “Last night?”

  “Yeah,” Harry said.

  “Well. I watched Eastenders first…”

  I told him what I’d watched on TV, as he listened and scribbled in a notepad.

  “Then I started watching a film after the news. I was watching it when you came in.”

  “What film?”

  I told him, he asked a few questions and made some notes.

  “Did you eat?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I had pizza.”

  “What kind?”

  “Margherita.”

  He tapped the pen on the table and said, “What time?”

  “I don’t know, Harry.”

  “Think.”

  “About nine,” I said. “More or less.”

  “OK.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  He stared at me for a few seconds.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, why-”

  “So,” he said. “We had margherita pizza, sat on the sofa and watched telly all night.”

  We went over it all again, getting the story straight.

  “This dayshift is really dragging,” Pat said.

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “Look at these two pricks,” he said, nodding at the two young guys sat at the end of the Roulette table. They whispered to each other, then one of them placed a single chip on the layout.

  “Trying to make twenty quid last forever,” he said, shaking his head.

  I had my long break at 5 p.m., buying a sandwich and the Evening Gazette from a newsagent. It was warm and bright, so I sat on a bench in the park, eating and reading the paper.

  “Fuck,” I said, when I read the headline on page seven.

  “This nineteen-year-old is in North Tees with stomach wounds,” I said to Harry.

  He sat on the sofa, reading the article on page seven of the Gazette.

  “I can read, you know,” he said.

  “Critical condition, Harry. He could die.”

  “So? Why have a go at me about it?”

  I pulled the paper from him and read aloud the eye-witness description of the suspect.

  “White male. Dark hair. Six feet tall. Stocky build. Early twenties. That sounds a lot like you, Harry.”

  “Piss off, it could be anybody.”

  “It was you, wasn’t it? It was the same night you came home late, and threw your clothes in the washing machine.”

  “Don’t be silly. We watched TV and had pizza that night, remember?”

  When I didn’t answer he stood and moved closer, looking down at me.

  “Remember?” he said.

  I handed Pat his pint and sat down, watching as he took a long gulp.

  He wiped his lips with his thumb and said, “That’s just what I need after that shift.”

  “Yeah,” I said, sipping at my pint.

  “So, what is it you wanted to talk to me about?”

  I looked over my shoulder, making sure nobody was within earshot. Then I told him everything about my dilemma with Harry. He asked a few questions, and by the time I’d finished explaining we were on our third pint.

  “Tell him to go to the police, Derek,” he said. “Don’t cover for him.”

  “Maybe he didn’t do it. I don’t know for sure.”

  “Bollocks. Maybe you don’t know for sure, but you must admit it looks very suspicious.”

  “What if he says no?”

  “Then tell him you’ll have to go to the police.”

  I scratched the corner of a beermat with my fingernail. “I don’t know.”

  “If Harry did it, and the police find out, they’ll be wondering why you didn’t tell them.”

  “Shit. I know that, Pat.”

  He shook his head. “You’re too soft on him.”

  “He hasn’t had much of an upbringing,” I said.

  “So? That’s not your fault. He treats your house like a hotel. When was the last time you brought a woman home?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, now folding the beermat in half. “A few years or so.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Because they take one look at that little bastard and they never come back.”

  “Jesus. Don’t make me laugh.”

  “Derek. Seriously. Tell him to go to the police,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. “If he’s innocent, then he’s got nothing to worry about.”

  I sat with Harry in the living room and advised him to go to the police.

  “No way,” he said. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “So, why were you so keen to wash your clothes that night?”

  He drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa but didn’t reply.

  “Were you there when the guy was stabbed?” I asked. “Did you see what happened?”

  “What if I did?”

  “So tell the police what you saw,” I said. “I don’t see what the problem is.”

  “Ha! The police! They’re always trying to screw me and you know it.”

  “Maybe I should tell them, then.”

  He stopped dr
umming his fingers and looked up towards the ceiling. Then he smiled and shook his head.

  “You don’t want to do that,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’re in this with me.”

  “What?” I said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Come on,” he said. “You knew what I’d done.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  He pointed his finger at me and said, “It was you who told me to put my bloody clothes in the washing machine.”

  “Harry! What are you saying? That’s not what happened at all.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  Just keep walking, Derek.

  I’m almost at Milbank Lane now. Not far to go. It’s a sunny day, but I feel cold, I feel nauseous. It’s just nerves. It’ll pass, I hope.

  Am I doing the right thing? I think so. I don’t know. What choice do I have?

  If I cover for Harry now, then where it will end? He’s already trying to blackmail me. If I keep quiet now, then I’ll have to keep quiet next time.

  I’m not even sure that he did the stabbing, but I’m pretty sure he was involved. The police can figure it out.

  And no matter what he’s done, he’s going to be angry at me. Very angry. I can ask the police for help, protection or something.

  Anyway, here I am. Might as well get on with it.

  I push open the door and walk to the desk.

  The man in uniform says, “Can I help you, sir?”

  “I have some information,” I say. “About the stabbing in the town centre.”

  Nightmare Waiting

  “You’re going to pay up,” Dave says to me.

  We’re in his garden. I’m watching him working on his bicycle in the afternoon sun.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “I’m not joking, Mark,” he says. He stands up, moving towards me, holding the bicycle pump like he’s about to swing it.

  “No!” I say, backing away. “Don’t!”