4 Bones Sleeping (Small Town Trilogy)

by Gerald Wixey

  No, was the answer to the Major’s question. But I knew a couple of lunatics that were trying to do just that.

  I sighed a couple of times, as we slipped away from Chiswick and into the countryside. My mind wandered to Shirley and Peggy, I knew where they both lived. It was simple enough, head along the A4 towards West Berkshire. The daylight bringing me no relief from my congenital cowardice. As the sun rose, headlights disappeared and my twinkling points of reference vanished as well.

  I pushed the accelerator to the floor and raced towards Slough.

  ‘Slow down – we’re not being followed. Try and enjoy the scenery.’

  Oh, of course, the scenery. Harry’s heaving sighs kept coming across from the back seat.

  ‘We have to find a hospital.’

  I watched Wyn in the mirror, he raised his eyebrows and nodded, ‘He’ll be all right for an hour or so, distance first.’

  That age old equation, as the distance, X, increases. The threat, Y, decreases. Carter’s formula for a long and safe life meant that to solve this equation I had to find the value of the unknown quantity. In general, solving an equation relied on keeping it balanced; always add the same quantity to each side of the equation. Therefore, how great did X need to be before Y, vanished over the horizon. Harry would have worked it out quickly enough.

  Fucking miles.

  An obvious answer really.

  Talk of the devil, ‘Where the fuck are we going?’

  ‘Out into the sticks.’

  Over the hills and far away.

  I thought the corners of Wyn’s mouth turned down a touch. Where are the painted ladies of the night? The street markets and the clubs and a chance to make easy money.

  ‘No need to look like that.’ I said. ‘What about the chance to live a little longer?’

  Wyn’s eyebrows went up, ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘The country, the sticks and the chance to live a normal life.’

  I’d never been out of the city, not once. Never seen a cow or a sheep and had no real desire to make their acquaintance either. Rather a cow than a bunch of knife wielding cowboys, shouting and whooping for blood though.

  ‘Do you think that they’ve got out yet?’

  Wyn laughed, a rather soft affair, but a laugh nonetheless. ‘Oh I don’t think so. I had a steel door put in, kept my whisky in there for God’s sake. All my spirits actually, a stick of dynamite wouldn’t loosen that door.’

  ‘They’ll be getting hungry later then.’

  ‘You left the key in the door though, someone will let them out… eventually.’ He laughed again.

  Fully light now, countryside and all this greenery. Surrounded by pasture and an empty road. Nothing behind me, X had increased and therefore, Y decreased in direct proportion. I passed my cigarettes back to Wyn; he slid one out and pushed between Harry’s lips. Used his expensive lighter and Harry whispered thanks between groans and tobacco smoke. Wyn lit one for me and then brought a cigar out. All of us smoking, sat amongst all of this smoke gave me more of a sense of security that the fields that sped past outside.

  I ticked the place names off, Maidenhead Thicket, Reading, Thatcham, Newbury and on ever westward. As we entered the outskirts of Hungerford, I saw the sign for the A338. I swung right, fourteen miles away and our resting place. Twenty minutes later and I drove carefully along Newbury Street, turned left into the market place. Drove another forty yards and pulled up in front of the Bear Hotel. Handbrake on, ignition off, lean back and sighed and sighed. Great heaving gasps like a man given a last minute reprieve by a sympathetic home secretary.

  Wyn glanced around the market place and shook his head. ‘Oh well… beggars can’t be choosers. Sit tight, I’ll get a couple of rooms sorted out.’

  ‘What about Harry?’

  ‘Ten minutes – they must have a hospital here somewhere.’

  He took the suitcase of money with him, I smiled at that, still it was appropriate enough for Wyn to attend to the accommodation details and five minutes later he came back with a couple of keys and a wide smile. ‘Gentlemen, your suite awaits you, we have to share a bathroom I’m afraid.’

  I thought getting Harry through unnoticed wouldn’t be easy.

  ‘Wait here, give me a couple of minutes.’

  Wyn went first and started flirting with the receptionist, a plain woman with a good chest. She cooed and giggled and never gave us a second glance. Harry leant against the wall as climbed the stairs, a slow and painful ascent, looking down at his hand every inch of the way. It was my idea to clean him up before we visited the hospital. As well as his hand, he had the customary facial injuries from his fight. Most noticeably, the huge swelling that resulted from butting his opponent. We needed to smarten him up somehow and get some sort of story in place.

  In spite of his discomfort, I smiled at the incongruity of it all. Three of us in a small, provincial town’s only hotel, one suitcase and not a change of clothes between us. But rich, if not beyond our wildest dreams, then enough to set us up for life if we were careful. One suitcase packed with used notes and the probability that we would be pursued for the rest of our lives.

  Discretion was the order of the day. The next week, year… decade.

  I watched Harry, sat on the bed and he groaned softly, his right hand still crudely bandaged by the tea towel. The walk from the car had caused the wound to seep blood. I stared across at his left knuckle, red, swollen and broken on Teddy’s forehead. Another injury to explain away.

  Wyn sat at the foot of the bed, flawless in his appearance and he gazed into the mirror to confirm this. To the uninitiated, the Major might have appeared more concerned with the line of his cravat than the state of his brother. That definitely would be the height of vanity in a way, after all Harry had nearly bled to death saving both of our lives.

  We all knew that not to be the case though, both of them unable to show any affection for a sibling. But things were very often not what they appeared to be at first glance. Harry knew that Wyn had a deep affection for him, likewise, Harry felt the same, albeit a grudging, fucking smarmy bastard sort of fondness. Brothers through and through. Two brothers and me. Three of us, still in one piece… and rich.

  And the thing that I always remembered most, in amongst the stillness of the hotel room, the heaving, rasping sighs from the injured man. I glanced from one to the other and gestured to the wide outside.

  Let’s get him sorted out.

  *****

  Farming accident?

  The nurse in the small casualty department shook her head. All the time she dressed the damaged hand. Not that I was an expert, but we didn’t look like farmers. One of our number looking like something you’d see in the window of a Piccadilly men’s shop. Wyn had smartened his brother up, but farmers… the nurse talked all the time.

  ‘You need surgery on this.’

  ‘Tendons cut and nerve damage.’

  ‘A trip to the infirmary in Oxford.’

  That never happened and Harry never recovered full movement or sensation in the hand. Such was our collective persecution complex that we stayed away from big town infirmaries. Instead we made our way back and shared the money out. Wyn immediately started to open bank accounts. One in each of the town’s four banks. It took a lot of persuading, but we agreed to deposit the money in small, weekly deposits. Harry pooled his share with Wyn, two look-alike brothers depositing huge amounts of cash would have been a give-away.

  It was straightforward enough, no formal identification needed. He used a false name of course, false references as well. Major Watkins became plain old Wyn Wicks and he resented the sudden demotion back to the ranks. He liked being a Major. We’d agreed, regular payments – the size of an above average wage-packet. I was able to use my real name and the bank clerk’s eyebrows went through the ceiling when I loaded banknotes in front of him. ‘It’s my old aunt, she insists on paying my allowance in cash. Is that a problem?’

  ‘Of course not, thank you
mister Carter, would you like to see the manager?’

  I shook my head and hustled out.

  Harry had turned into some sort of guard-dog and the bag of money his juicy bone. We planned and he sat with his good arm around the bag. It would take months of small deposits before his guard duties would become redundant.

  We had so many ideas as well. Hanging in the air like swallows about to migrate. Go our own ways, too risky at the moment. Rent a house together, yes to that. Look for Peggy, not yet, look for Shirley, not yet. Find out what’s happening in London, one for me, ring my old boss, he’ll know.

  Harry threw his sling away, stared at his bandaged hand for a long time, before saying, ‘Stay together for six months, no R&R visits up to London mind.’ He glanced at Wyn ‘Not six months in this hotel though.’

  We needed a house, Harry’s temper encouraged by the confines of a small hotel room. We talked about getting separate rooms, but my instructions were clear. Find a house with a garden. I walked around the market place the next morning, eventually found the only estate agent. Walked around several houses, before deciding on one that I really took to. Down by what was the old mill, a stream running alongside, a small drive running up to a chocolate box of a house. Thatched roof, four bedrooms, all surrounded by abundant hedgerows and bushes and trees.

  Six month lease, no, no cash is fine sir.

  My next task gave me an anxious moment. I stared at the town’s two phone boxes. Both stood outside the Post Office Vaults. I glanced through the pub window and there was never any doubt what I would do first. A pint or the telephone call?

  The beer was good enough, the locals nosey. I didn’t realize I had an accent.

  Where you from then?

  I thanked the landlady, and walked into the phone box. Got my pile of pennies ready and listened as the phone the other end began to ring. Then through two more internal exchanges and eventually the phone picked up.

  ‘Crime desk.’

  ‘Michael?’

  ‘Jack?’ Michael Parlane hissed down the phone. ‘I thought you’d copped it as well. I thought you were dead.’

  I frowned, alarm bells ringing, ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Where’ve you been? That club you used a lot, firebombed. Four bodies, all unidentifiable. Obviously not you though.’

  I leant back, another punch to the stomach. Fighting for breath.

  ‘Hello, hello, Jack.’

  ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Your two friends and Teddy Lewis and his brother. But the bodies are so badly burnt, they could be anyone.’

  I couldn’t concentrate, images of bodies piled up at the door, trying to clamber over one another and escape from the furnace. Scrambling, pushing, scratching each other in a frenzied maul of bodies. Screaming for their mothers as their eyes popped like champagne corks from the heat.

  ‘Jack? Was it them?’

  Life turns on a sixpence at moments like this. If I hadn’t been so scared then the truth would put the record straight. A few hours of tough questioning from the police and with a bit of luck, everything on the straight and narrow again. If I hadn’t been so scared that is, surely it would be better if Teddy believed that we had all perished? His hunt for violent revenge would be over on a bonfire of bodies and exploding whisky bottles. The harrying pursuit is over, just one more lie and years of the good life stretched away in front of us all.

  ‘I haven’t heard from them for a couple of days.’

  ‘They’re checking dental records now.’

  Dental records often told the police nothing. Many of these people never went near a dentist.

  ‘Jack, Jack, when are you coming back?’

  Never!

  I staggered across the market square and lurched into the newsagents, bought the Telegraph and the Express. Rushed the short distance and up to our room. Harry was sleeping, on his back with his bandaged hand across his chest and cuddling the money with the other. Wyn sat by the table writing a letter, more references for himself I imagined.

  I tossed the Express his way and said. ‘Scan through that.’

  I sat in the rooms other chair and stared at the newspaper. I found it on page two, a photograph of Wyn and Harry in the ring after their last fight staring back at me.

  Champion boxer and his brother missing after club fire.

  He read the article and then read it again. He placed the paper down and gestured for me to pass the Express over. He read the article and then read it again.

  ‘I’ve caused four men to die, unwittingly I know, but…’ I let it hang in mid-air.

  Wyn turned my way, ‘It’s not our fault.’ His eyes went towards the floor suggesting the opposite. ‘This makes things easier I suppose.’ Wyn brought his gaze my way.

  ‘My old editor asked me if it was you.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That I hadn’t seen or heard you for a couple of days.’

  Wyn nodded, ‘Good man.’

  I stared at him, ‘Have you ever been to a dentist?’

  ‘Are you going mad?’

  ‘Have you?’

  ‘When I was in the south of France. Why?’

  ‘What about Harry?’

  We started at him, his mouth wide open showing a full set of strong teeth.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Wyn frowned at me. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Police are checking dental records now.’

  ‘Don’t worry; I don’t think we’ve got any problems there. You know that it leaves us in the clear. A clear run at a few new enterprises.’

  ‘Not for a few weeks though, your faces are plastered across every paper in the country. You’re both staying in this room until I collect the house keys.’

  Teddy - 1945

  Everyone called him a hard nut, crazy, a psycho. Yet no one knew that he was frightened of heights, spiders, dogs, some women, most women, the dark. Convulsions have been brought on in the very core of his stomach by any one of the above. He fumbled, where the fuck? Anxious to be rid of at least one of his phobias by throwing the light switch… if he could ever find it. The smell of paraffin oil, mothballs and coal began to penetrate his senses. All those smells that repelled him, confronted him now, paraffin oil, mothballs, coal dust, sex, especially his wife’s sex.

  He shivered, threw the light switch… nothing.

  What the fuck did you expect?

  If Eyeless’s knife had made them both an appointment with the hangman, the Molotov's had meant that the noose was tightening, he could feel its strands brushing his neck.

  He groped around, a blind man somewhere familiar. Somewhere he spent hours as a boy. He went through the geography in his mind, stood statue still until satisfied. A photo in his mind from years ago. He shuffled and felt his way across the cluttered floor. Felt the damp wall farthest from him and lit the match. Counted up to ten, by which time he’d located the candles. Boxes of them. Teddy lit another match and transferred the flame to the brand new candle. Blew the match out as one died, another flame flickered into life. He pulled the old milking stool closer, sat down and surveyed the scene.

  A fur hat, his mothers, a pile of gramophone records, his uncles. A small axe, his own. A ventriloquist dummy, Eyeless bought it when they suddenly came into some money a few years ago. A push bike with the back wheel missing, his old man’s. Used to cycle down the docks to work, until he discovered throwing an half brick through a jeweller’s windows brought about a better hourly rate that is. A wooden crate of Mackeson, his auntie only ever drank Mackeson. Sometimes in his parent’s bed which confused his Mum as she pointed at the old man.

  You don’t even like Mackeson, why do you drink it in bed?

  Teddy’s heart careers away like brakeless bike being ridden down a steep hill. The silence makes the thumping against his ribs louder, he can smell his own breath down here too, anhydrous, a solvent, meth’s or ether. I’ll have to stay down here for the rest of my life. The euphoria of the exploding Molotov’s and the screams of men be
ing blast furnaced into crisps had long vanished. Quicker than a light bulb filament being turned off. His life has wasted down to this, living in a basement in his parents bombed out house. Dozens of cans of food, eight bottles of Mackeson, a stuffed fox. His grandmother bought if from a pawnbroker twenty five years earlier.

  Teddy stared into its glass eyes, flexing his fingers at the same time. A joint cracking symphony that somehow slowed his pulse. He held not only eye contact with the fox, but his rancid breath as well, fifty, sixty, seventy – then an exploded burst of pressurised, hot and stale solvent breath.

  He’d stay down here for… he made some calculations. He hated baked beans and tinned fruit. Tinned stewing steak and tinned biscuits.

  Nonetheless, enough for a month and it was stuff they’d given his old man. Black market stuff of course, not that the old man ever thanked him.

  He was a tight bastard.

  But the old man had planned for a German invasion and if that meant staying in the cellar, then so be it. They went down there every time the air raid siren went off. Shelters? Underground? Fuck off, my old man new they’d be safe down here. And they were too, missed everything, except the V2 that crashed through the ceiling in early April. No warning, no siren, just a fuck off explosion and the old man and auntie … well, they went out with a bang. Perhaps that’s why he had four crates of Mackeson down here, keep her well lubricated.

  The fox kept staring his way, everyone used to kid him that it had put next doors cat up the duff. They all expected him to belief that one, he did for a while. Until he saw the kittens, they just looked like fucking cats. He stood up and placed a dusty tea towel over the fox’s eyes. Nodded with a degree of reassurance towards the now sightless, sightless fox.

  Me and you foxy boy – till it all dies down.

  Where the fuck did Eyeless get to?

  He patted his jacket pocket and felt the letter.

  18

  Jack -1980

  In the night I’d dreamt of women’s hips, wide hips, some too wide, or just voluptuous depending on your point of view. Not like Shirley, she still had hips like a small boy. As I dreamt on, I wondered what it was doing outside. Exploding clouds? Yes that would be it, evaporating into little pools, remnants of clouds. The gusting wind that had whipped the puddles, warm and mild not like the frosty mornings that reminded me of Stuart and his sister. When they were young, how they waited in the queue at the bakers. Then the trudge home, Stuart laden with the weekend’s bread, his sister unburdened and staring down.