by Gerald Wixey
‘You look awful.’
As if to confirm my deep impression that my features resembled something from a Hogarth painting. One he’d sketched in a madhouse. I pointed his way, ‘I tell you everything, you’ve told me nothing. Especially things concerning your mate and my secretary.’
Stuart blinked a couple of times. Appeared to be about to say something when Carol walked into the office, out of breath and smiling my way.
‘It’s cold out there.’ Carol kept smiling after she spoken.
‘Sure is.’ I nodded and said. ‘Patrick’s out and about again though.’
Carol’s cheeks went scarlet, she turned away and slipped her coat off. Kept her back to me as she hung it up. Slipped through into the annex and left me to my list.
It hadn’t taken Patrick long to get back into the saddle.
I said, ‘What happened to Patrick?’ Stuart frowned and gestured towards the door Carol had just disappeared through. I shook my head, ‘He’s been punched about by the look of it.’
‘Two of our finest policemen – there’s no place in this town for men that screw under-age girls.’
I raised my eyebrows and whispered. ‘Not Don… Surely?’
Stuart shook his head, ‘Couple of thick plods, the same two that were outside the school when the girl jumped.’
I picked up a pencil, studied the point. Slid it into the sharpener and gave it a couple of turns. Stared at it again and began my list. I felt Stuart glowering my way as Carol came back in, back in control and smiling my way.
Don’t worry Carol, your secrets safe with me.
‘You’re a miserable bugger at the moment.’ Stuart barked this my way, then whispered, sotto voice…he wanted Carol to hear. ‘What the fuck’s up with you? Patrick getting beaten up in his cell upset you that much?’
I blinked up from my desk, as I’ve said many times, his father’s son for sure. I glanced quickly across to Carol, she acknowledged my shocked expression with a smile. But it was true, I shook my head. Apart from my long exposition last night, I had said little recently. Listened a lot, only spoke when I was spoken too. Drank more and ate less, introspection had become the order of the day.
I sat forward and as if needing confirmation, I asked Carol, ‘Am I?’
She laughed, an affectionate gesture that suggested she was fond of her employer. ‘Perhaps you’re working too hard.’ Said it with a touch of melancholy
We both have lots on our minds at the moment.
‘C’mon, let’s go down to the burial chamber.’
I blinked, Stuart stood and picked my overcoat up, passed it across and gestured me towards the door.
I said, ‘What’s up with you today?’ Enthusiasm for any sort of work well down the list on his back burner, only one thing worth waking up for in the morning as far as Stuart was concerned and it didn’t involve getting out of bed. All I get from him now is questions, constant, non-stop questioning. I felt like I sat opposite some Stalinist inquisitor.
Why? How? Where were you when this happened?
‘C’mon, before it gets too dark.’
Leave me alone.
We arrived at the old mill, my ears ringing from the questions that he still buzzed my way. Despite my confession, Stuart just wouldn’t shut up. We crossed the wooden footbridge and Stuart pointed at the narrow drive that led to a small cottage that lived amongst the trees and dense hedging and shrubbery.
‘Mum said that you all lived in there with the old man and Wyn for a while. That’s the scene of murder and mayhem then.’
I ignored the last bit, ‘Just after the war, the three of us – no women.’
Well apart from Daphne.
I stared straight in front, I only ever came down here in bright sunshine and even then, certainly never looked through those wooden gates. I rushed past like a twenty five kilometre Olympic walker. Some people just drink too much, I justified my habit with the simple fact that I’d had good reason to drink too much. How else do you forget what had happened down here. I rushed headlong along the footpath that twisted and meandered alongside Letcombe brook. My younger companion trailed in my wake …I heard him mumbling away.
Slow down, slow down.
I stopped, not because of Stuart’s grumbling, but I saw a figure in front. Slightly stooped, an elderly posture, pressed up against the police tape that cordoned the area off. It could have been a network of First World War trenches. Gas pipeline trench running away from the footpath at forty five degrees, ten yards from the footpath and there it was. A small area that ran away from the trench rather like the beginning of a communication trench. It had been excavated carefully, rather in the way an archaeologist digs. The smell of recently turned soil made me reel. Not the neutral scent of a tilled allotment, the deeper you got, the stronger the smell.
‘Hello Jack.’
Bert Powell!
Coincidence.
I reeled back at the only witness from thirty five years ago and now… the same, except the police had found a body this time. I took a couple of deep breaths and said, ‘Bert how are you?’
Wrong place at the wrong time, I felt a bit like someone sneaking over into Poland from the east, just as the Germans panzers rolled up from the south. I always had a problem with timing Even in this twilight zone old Bert’s thoughts appeared as transparent as a sheet of glass as he stared, first at me and then across at Stuart.
What’s that troublemaker doing here?
I wasn’t sure if Stuart had recognised Bert, he should have, his primary school caretaker and Bert’s job for the last twenty years of his working life. But Stuart couldn’t shut up, despite me and the anxious old man stood opposite, Stuart wouldn’t stop, blurting like a hair triggered machine gun, ‘Shall I take some pictures, two bodies in two weeks. Did you know him Bert, you’re old enough? Did you know him? You go back to medieval times.’
I noticed Bert’s shoulders tense, Stuart took no notice, turned and nodded at the hole, then he said, ‘Shall I get close and take a few? It’s hardly a crime scene is it?’
I said, ‘Stuart – I wouldn’t say too much at the moment and it might well be a crime scene.’ Advice from one well versed in these situations, keep quiet and save it all for the lawyer some of us are going to need. Stuart just smiled and then looked across at Bert, recognition at last. Bert shivered and I thought he was about to scuttle away. In some perverse way it triggered another burst of activity from Stuart, who slipped under the tape and started to snap away. Flashes going around an empty paddock like an inland lighthouse.
‘Stuart.’ I said.
He strolled back and came up close to Bert, brought the camera up and said, ‘One for the paper Bert.’ Stuart quickly took a close up.
Bert’s eyes clamped shut, blinded, he reeled away. ‘You stupid fucking bastard.’
If Stuart had a degree of lucidity left in his body at this moment in time, he would have realised that his own face had become twisted and contorted. The dim street light fifty yards away had deepened his features, coarsened them and probably made him look like a murderer now. Choleric shadows covered Stuart’s face and he looked like an irritated Bela Lugosi.
Enough to convince Bert anyway who turned and walked away from us. We both watched him as he walked back to the slow and relaxed moving little brook. On a sunny day the water carried reflections of fluffy clouds and twisting willow trees. A bleak night like tonight nothing, only the sound the rain that pattered down onto a nearby car roof. That and a whispering wind sighing down from the north. A full moon still appeared fitfully behind the heavy scudding clouds. Its bright face casting ashen shadows and when it appeared, the body came into a soft focus again. Stuart got his outsized torch out and he played it over the scene like a frantic cinema usherette looking for a spare seat on a busy Saturday night. As it made its uneven journey around, I imagined the beam as it picked out a dead man’s face. One with a pair of very thick glasses on, one form thirty five years ago.
‘C’mon, I�
��ve seen enough.’
What I meant was, I’d already seen too much.
*****
We stopped outside the Bear on the way back; I had hoped that Stuart might have to get back to his wife and kids. I even dropped a hint, ‘Don’t you have to get back to Kathy, wash the children, read them a goodnight story.’
I wanted to drink alone, but Stuart shook his head and we walked underneath the arch and into the bar. The hotel for the poorly dressed travelling salesmen and midday lovers, women of a certain age taking a pretty average lunch and men of my age… boozing. The losers, the deluded, the fatalists, and those hoping against hope that they’d be left alone in peace.
I stared into the head of my beer, when it frothed as perfectly as this. I felt it invasive to drink through it. Not that invasive though, I threw some beer down my throat, the feeling never lasted long. I gestured to Stuart, ‘C’mon, drink up.’
‘Jesus, slow down.’ His mouth hung open, Stuart’s pint hardly been touched. I’d become so preoccupied, I couldn’t remember drinking mine. I needed to be alone at this time of the day, as if the night has become my walkway into history, I enjoyed grandiose thoughts, especially after sunset. Night time, a place where, within the blink of an eye, you can be either victim or murderer, it’s all the same at this time of day. When I worked in London I had scrounged for gossip, press releases, tele-printer readouts and in amongst the chaos of old copy and plastic coffee cups and the phone’s constant ringing.
Thank god I was out of all of that, but even small town hacks like me still twist sarcastic half-truths into headlines. I had made a good living in east end sewers searching for copy. I saw murders and listened as pink tongued, suspects full of inane gossip and dishonest cunning. Stories appeared in front of me like a phantasm, a mirage with their teasing possibilities. I shook my head, feeling maudlin had slipped unnoticed into my life lately – perhaps I needed some female company, proper female company.
‘Jack, Jack.’
I blinked Stuart’s way, he was pushing his empty glass my way.
‘I’ve got it.’ It came to me suddenly, like a blow between the eyes. The shock of it took my breath away. I put my hand on Stuart’s forearm. ‘I think Shirley needs to be careful.’
‘Why - just because Don spending too much time around there?’ Came quickly back my way.
‘No - it’s more serious than that.’ In fact, if she had any sense of self preservation, she’d feel a little bit like a fox loitering around the kennels of the Old Berks Hunt at the moment.
Stuart blinked, then shook his head. ‘What’s up?’
‘Teddy Lewis.’ I waited until Stuart nodded, ‘He used to be so dangerous.’
‘He looked like a bookmaker.’
‘The point is, he’s the type that would bear a grudge big time. He had a thing going on with Shirley as well and he was in the Wheatsheaf the other night.’
‘Everyone has a fling with Shirley, except me that is.’
‘And me.’ I laughed and it felt good. Laughter and a decent pint an instant ameliorant for the blues. I gestured Stuart in close, ‘The strange thing was he left the pub with old Daphne, don’t look like that, she used to shack up with Stopcock Arthur.’
He smiled, ‘I know who she is, she must be seventy that’s all’
‘And what’s up with someone her age having a fling?’
‘Nothing I suppose.’ He shivered. ‘I just don’t like the thought of it.’
‘I’m sure Daphne’s all right, but…’
Stuart finished his pint, getting into the swing of things now. ‘I’ll give her a ring, give us some change.’
Stuart went to the pay phone in the corner of the bar and went scrolling through the phone directory. Found what he was looking for and gave me the thumbs up sign. Turned his back and began to dial.
He sauntered back shaking his head, ‘Nothing. Drink up, let’s go and have a look.’
******
Sunset had long since gone as we walked towards the caravan site; both of us taking a slow, gossip hound walk, pursuing another sad little headline. I glanced around as I walked, I hated the caravan site at the best of times and trying to coax something out of an old woman appeared to be scavenging of the highest order. I tried to justify it of course, whereas Stuart just thought it a grand little caper. I took a couple of deep breaths and knocked on the door, glanced down at my watch and wondered if perhaps she’d be around the Wheatsheaf by now anyway. But I could hear the radio on and expected to hear steps across the caravan floor, soft echoes that became louder as she got closer.
Instead we got nothing, just the crackling radio.
‘She’s probably down the pub by now.’ I wanted to get away.
Stuart had the bit between his teeth however, ‘There’s a light blazing away in the kitchen, the doors shut though. Not a light on anywhere else though. She might have had a heart attack or something. Shall I kick a window in?’
I stared at the lock, not a good quality lock like a Chubb. I thought for a moment, I knew a chap, bit of a rogue I suppose, when I was in military intelligence. We had to get into some office and he became offended when I started to kick the door in. Whoa up he shouted and pulled out what looked like a set of feeler gauges. Until he opened them up that is, most had a tapered tang and different shaped ends. Long, thin tapered ends, some were curly cork screws, there must have had a dozen. A locksmith by trade, he gave me a set and he taught me everything I know.
‘What are you doing?’
I hadn’t done this in anger for a few years. Kept my hand in picking my own lock now and again. Having someone breathing down my neck tended to affect the concentration. I raised my eyebrows towards the lock and gave myself a running commentary. The spring force increases as the pins are pushed into the hull, but the increase is slight, so we will assume that the spring force is constant over the range of displacements we are interested in. I humffed with impatience, looked back down at the picks.
‘How come you’ve got them then? I thought you could only buy them if you were a locksmith.’ I ignored the question, but more came at me. ‘C’mon – Raffles you’re not.’
I smiled to myself as I felt the last pin drop and a sense of elation swept over me. My heart hammered with a pulse in my temples that hurt, but the pressure clamped around my lungs vanished and I began to breathe again. I pushed the door open and it was as dark as a crypt, just a hint of wind in the eaves. I stood and waited for my eyes to adjust, I pulled the light cord hanging in front of my nose. Then a blinding, naked bulb cast its stark shadows around the strangest of scenes.
‘Fucking hell.’ From my fellow burglar, ‘Too late Jackie boy.’
Blood.
Blood everywhere, an uneven trail on the floor, it ran from the bedroom door, to the open bathroom door. I stood still. It was impossible to be certain which direction the wounded women would have been moving in.
I’m not going to find out either.
I turned towards the front door, ‘Let’s get the police.’
Footprints in the blood, one barefoot, another a shoe print. No single trail to follow, to me it looked like someone had been doing a conga. From bedroom to bathroom and back again, more blood down the bathroom door, handprints everywhere.
Stuart tiptoed towards the bathroom door, I shouted. ‘Don’t touch anything.’ Stuart’s fingerprints were on the record that’s for sure. He pulled his shirt out from the trousers and wrapped the tail around the door handle. He slowly pushed the door open, his head came up and back quicker than a Jack in the box. Stuart’s face took on the complexion of a mummy.
‘Ring the police – let’s get out, I’ve seen enough.’
Teddy - 1980
He slept next to Shirley and dreamt of chaos, slaughter, disaster and humiliation, Teddy laughed at the suffering poor and sneered at the narcissism of the rest. The reek of full dustbins and the image of new born babies falling from third floor windows jolted him back. He shook his head and brought his gaz
e back to the shop window and then looked quickly away. I used to be smart, wear decent suit, with a sharp tie and a confident walk.
I looked and felt good, what happened?
I want to be a camera again.
Get rid of any photos taken in the caravan,
When did all of this catastrophe muscle its way into his life? Teddy knew it was when he least expected it, too complacent about Shirley. All he could see was that vile old short arse in bed with her. Fat arse pumping away. The thousands of times he thought of that image and every time he writhed and squirmed in a raging impotence. How he wished he had the chance to push a glass into his fat face instead of …
He sighed, looked across at Shirley. Asleep on her back, he stared at her and his daughter muscled her way back inside his head. That night Connie was out with her lover and his daughter sat close by, filling his glass whenever it was less than half full.
Celia’s eyes, why didn’t he notice her eyes. Like piss holes in the snow.
What had she been taking? Then she starts talking about school. The conversation got weirder and weirder.
‘Why do some theologians take the old testament literally?’
All the time her eyes half shut like she was staring into a setting sun.
‘Are the stories symbolic, allegorical?’
He felt himself blink, did he ask her why she was in that police car?
Why didn’t he mention the geography teacher?
‘Were the biblical disasters just payback for human misdemeanours? After Sodom and Gomorrah disappeared in a pyrotechnic, did you know that Lot escaped with his two daughters?’
He shook his head, hypnotised by her cheekbones and the mellifluent voice that had developed after puberty.
‘They lived in a cave with no men about. Can you imagine? They got him drunk.’
Got who drunk?
‘Their father, got him pissed and both slept with him. Can you imagine?’
No.
‘Listen to this, incest amongst the biblical patriarchs was rife, Abraham marries his half-sister; Abraham's brother, marries their niece. Isaac marries his first cousin, once removed. Jacob marries two sisters who are his first cousins and Moses parents are nephew and aunt. Can you imagine?’