4 Bones Sleeping (Small Town Trilogy)

by Gerald Wixey

  Who had more to worry about? Me I thought, Stuart would disagree with that one sided assessment. His sense of intuition more than niggled and bothered. His anxious eyes searched the road in front as if the answer was to be found in front and not the back end of another car or lorry.

  His father and uncle had most to lose that’s for sure and Stuart didn’t know who to believe anymore.

  Always expect lies or half-truths at best.

  I guess that’s what had drifted his way for most of his life.

  Stuart glanced my way and said, ‘I’m going over and over it all, looking for another road, another route. I’ve even tried to wind the clock back, unwind the past – trying to unlock events, trying to find that perfect place I need at the moment.’ He gestured with his head towards his uncle, ‘I know they’ve got a lot to lose, but I feel threatened too, something, someone is reaching out and trying to touch me.’ He quickly touched my arm, ‘Touch all of us and I haven’t felt like this before – I don’t like it.’

  The traffic ground to a halt along the Botley road and we became enveloped in a universe of stillness, Stuart whispered – something about it being like a cathedral. Unable to hear the sound of anything, just driver’s faces closed as they sat determinedly patient in the slow moving traffic drifting past in the opposite direction.

  He might feel threatened, but my own trap was about to be sprung, I looked at my watch – Mably certain to be prompting Don by now. Someone else aware of the Pandora’s Box of deceit. Lies that we’d told to prop up earlier lies, people that were dead, more people supposed to be dead, suddenly alive again. At this rate we would all be joining Patrick for a spell inside.

  Change the subject please.

  Stuart said, ‘It’s like the Godfather – Wyn looks like Don Corleone anyway.’

  I smiled at that one, he did as well, what an image.

  Stuart pressed on, ‘The old man’s in the bunker guarding Mum. On a war footing, which we all know he’ll love.’

  I said, ‘He’s too old for all of this.’

  Stuart snapped at me. ‘He can still punch.’

  Father and son, they might have blazed away at each other for the last thirty odd years. But criticise either one and the other will bite your head off.

  I stood my ground, this was too serious an issue and I needed to pour cold water on Stuart’s idealised image of Harry as still being some sort of omnipotent fighting machine. I snapped back, ‘His fingers are like overcooked toast crusts. Harry, all of us come to that are too old, except you.’

  He stared forwards and never said anything. I didn’t want Harry, I wanted Stuart close by, quick, fit and tough. To do what his father did for me for years. My very own Praetorian Guard. Wyn ignores our exchange, apart from a couple of sighs, he left us to it.

  Stuart shivered and his eyes went to the chestnut trees alongside the road, the bare branches naked and stark against a blue sky. My mind went back to the earlier conversation we had, there we had exchanged hopeless, bittersweet smiles that said everything, what sort of person would do this?

  Stuart jumped the lights by the Royal Oxford hotel, parked on double yellows in Beaumont Street, took a nonchalant glance my way, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll keep my eye on it.’

  *****

  We sat, lined up around large table, staring at this incredibly smart woman. Slim build, black Wallis suit. The skirt cut just above the knee. Long black hair, cut straight and pulled back behind the ears. Lean face, high cheekbones and you’d have to say it, Jewish looking. She sipped her coffee and sat back. Our newly acquired legal envoy, called Abigail. We had all agreed earlier, to come clean and fall on the sword of justice. Well I’d agreed for them I suppose, Harry reluctantly nodded acceptance.

  Wyn shrugged agreement at the time and immediately went off on his own merry way. ‘Of course we never found out until our accountant died recently.’ Wyn’s opening gambit, not only a lie, but a barefaced one. ‘He’d fleeced us for very nearly thirty five years.’ He showed Abigail the palms of his hands. ‘What can we do – whose going to believe that, but it’s true.’

  I covered my eyes with my hands, thought about saying can we start again please. Abigail demonstrated the sincerity that goes with the job, ‘My God this is awful. I’ll draft a letter for the Inland Revenue, we can come to an arrangement I’m sure nearer the time. Don’t worry – we can sort this out.’

  And I sat there open-mouthed at the brass neck of it all. John Robinson had died recently and he was an accountant in town. A bad one too, defrauded half a dozen over the years. Never handled a penny of Harry’s or Wyn’s money mind you. No one could ever check that one out though, just before he died, a huge fire had burnt every record of every client he ever had. Wyn’s opening ploy was inventive and a decent beginning for our shaky defence.

  But my nerve had gone, after a few minutes of watching Abigail taking notes, I said, ‘Whose name are you going to sign the affidavit with? It has to be Wicks; Major Wyn Watkins doesn’t exist anymore.’

  Abigail leaned forward and frowned, Wyn sat back and folded his arms and said nothing. All the time Stuart was watching and listening, constantly watching and wondering.

  What is going on?

  It had become contagious, I started to lie now. ‘Things happened, nothing illegal, I must stress.’ In for a penny, I ploughed on. ‘At the end of the war, we made a lot of money. Legitimate of course. But we upset some rather nasty people in the process. Bookmakers and criminal types and we left in a hurry, our lives in real danger. We’ve lived our lives looking over our shoulders since then.’

  I took a deep breath.

  Here we go.

  ‘Point is, Wyn and his brother have lived under assumed names from that day onwards. If we had stayed in London, they would have been killed… that’s for sure.’

  I glanced over at Wyn, a hint of a frown, but he nodded at the same time. Wyn shrugged for all of us. He spoke slowly, measured his words like a machinist sizes up a piece of metal in a vice. ‘I think that’s all we want to say at the moment, the police have suddenly realised who we all are. We were supposed to have died in a night club fire. Even the newspapers reported it that way. We never contradicted it at the time, it meant safety and a chance for a new life.’

  He shrugged again, showed Abigail the palms of his hands.

  What else were we supposed to do?

  That was the first time I could recall him saying anything about those events. Of course he sounded as genuine as the Pope delivering his Christmas day sermon in St Peter’s Square.

  Abigail swung her eyes along our anxious set of eyes. Made a few notes, brought her head back up and said, ‘I think that you had every right to lie low. I’ll have a nose around and look for any previous instances that will give us some reference point. Don’t worry, everyone knows that you’re all pillars of society.’

  I heard Stuart snigger at that one, Abigail glanced across at him, their eyes met for a few seconds, before she smiled and took her eyes back to her notes.

  ‘Thanks for getting Patrick out.’ Stuart stared her way.

  She smiled back, ‘They had no right to hold him that long. He should file a complaint, there’s no place for that sort of police brutality anymore.’ Her eyes flicked his way again. Before darting away again. She fixed on Wyn, did she think he was less predatory?

  If only she knew.

  We filed out and to be fair to Stuart, he never said anything until we were going south along the Botley road again.

  Stuart looked at Wyn in the interior mirror. ‘Do I exist?’

  Wyn groaned from behind me and I said nothing.

  *****

  We drove back into town with the temperatures already dropping. Shadows lengthening as the sun dipped behind buildings. Into the market place and the shoppers alert, looking for contact – a chance to talk, to gossip on their way home. The sky was a fragile evening blue, the moon already rising in the east, a soft pink blush waiting expectantly for the sun in the we
st to sink. Dark hills against the sky, mist bubbled up nicely over the canal. We followed the red taillights down Grove Street, the brake lights in front, distorted when he flashed the windscreen washers for the last time.

  A long day and now what? He swung the car into the gravel floored car park, switched the ignition off and yanked the handbrake up. Stuart stared out of the window and said, ‘That was a waste of time.’

  We followed Stuart into the bar. The heat from the fires in the bar did what it always did in wintertime. My glasses steamed and Harry shouted at me. ‘Watch where you’re going, why don’t you get contact lenses?’

  I cleaned them with my tie, replaced them and glanced around. We sat, four of us, equally spaced around the table. Stuart staring at Harry, Harry stared down at the table. Wyn stared at the ceiling, I stared at the three of them wondering who would snap first, father or son?

  I tried to move things forward, nodded at Stuart and then addressed Harry. ‘I’ve told him everything, cats out of the bag well and truly. We’ve just had some good legal advice and now we have to stay together.’

  Harry never moved, never shouted, slammed his fist into the table or indeed, turned the table over. Just sat there, head bowed and he lit a cigarette, smoke punched out as he spoke. ‘Police have been, I’ve given a statement.’

  He’d suddenly turned into the magnetic north and all of our eyes swung his way.

  ‘What did you say?’

  He stared at me, rolled his eyes. ‘What do you think? Nothing, I said I couldn’t remember anything. Just the fucking snow.’

  Stuart said, ‘At least they haven’t made the connection yet - the shit will well and truly hit the fan when that happens. He looked at Harry, ‘Let’s hope Bernard Schwartz and Teddy Lewis never meet.’

  Silence.

  Harry glanced across to his son, ‘Your Mum doesn’t even know the half of it.’ His head slowly came up and his blue eyes fixed on me. ‘You can tell her, you got us into this mess.’

  Wyn straightened his shirt cuffs, Harry sighed, Stuart fretted, drummed the table with his fingers and I wondered who would get the call next?’

  I sat and dreamt a little, the same feeling I had at the end of the war. It felt safer during the blitz than it did now. At least Shirley wasn’t pulling the strings now.

  ‘Where’s Shirley?’

  The others looked at me and said nothing.

  Teddy - 1980

  He liked this game, he’d followed her around for most of the day. Waited outside shops and followed Shirley. Oh yes he liked this game. He even roared with laughter when she came up from Market Street laden with shopping like a refugee’s donkey.

  They even joked, like they had just bumped into each other.

  ‘Fancy seeing you again.’

  ‘Teddy? You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

  He got his wallet out, Shirley held her hand up. ‘Not a penny more, I’m spent out. I have to pop home, business to attend to.’

  ‘I’ll drop you off.’

  ‘Do you mind if I catch the bus, I’ve got a personal matter to sort out? Don’t frown like that, do you mind?’

  He shook his head, walked her to the bus stop.

  ‘Can I see you tomorrow?’

  He nodded and then rushed back to his car and headed west down the Botley road and out of Oxford. Teddy drove back in a rage, punching the steering wheel, blasting the horn whenever a car or a cyclist or a pedestrian came within shouting distance.

  ‘Fuck off out of the way.’

  He drove the fifteen miles back like this. Parked his car and walked into the market place. Looked at his watch, her bus was still fifteen minutes away. He thrust his hands deep into the raincoat pockets. He liked the coat, it felt reassuringly heavy and his wife said that it hung well.

  Teddy sighed, she used to say I was well hung.

  Caught in a deep reverie, he jumped, when the waitress said, ‘What can I get you luv – that’s a nice camera. What a big one.’

  ‘An iced bun and a fucking coffee… Please.’

  The cake looked jaded, but the coffee was decent. Inside the café it was hot and damp at the same time, a contradiction he felt. It smelt of both straw and wet cement, vinegar and wet dogs and fresh coffee. Teddy stared out of the window at the small shops with their irregular roofs, twisted in the evening sun. The soft darkness giving a pleasant, if odd effect. He liked this time of day, late afternoon and light from the shops radiating across the pavements. The temperature dropping as the shadows lengthened and shoppers went home.

  He even got the smell from the newsagents, tobacco smoke and wet coats as he crossed the market place and waited. Hardly Piccadilly, but on market day the streets hummed and throbbed with shoppers. The Chinese restaurant began to kick out smells of garlic and fried onions. Teddy couldn’t put his finger on it, the first time for weeks that he’d sensed anything. Smells and buildings and evening light mixing into a familiar mélange that he’d forgotten about for some reason.

  Teddy had lost the quality that he’d concentrated so hard on achieving. No longer just a camera that saw things. His senses had started to work again. He dragged air reluctantly into his tight chest, he didn’t want feelings and emotions getting in the way of what he had planned. He wanted to be a camera again.

  The double decker pulled into the market place and he watched. He knew she would be on her own, but it still provoked a fury within him when he saw her get off the bus. He kicked the door of the tobacconist hard. Too hard and Teddy hopped around for a couple of seconds and then limped after her.

  Losing the lights of the market place and into Grove Street’s evening world, Teddy’s breathing eased and his pulse slowed. Twilight shadows and rats went hand in hand – he followed unseen and happy.

  Until he saw the man, in the shadows by her back door.

  Followed by the embrace, then the kiss, then his hand…

  *****

  He stared at the photo, the policeman and his daughter.

  The policeman and the blonde.

  He’s a bit of a lad.

  He’s going to get some.

  Teddy shivered, fucking shithole. Nice little row of terraced houses though, nice little row of outhouses opposite. Used to be toilets, or a place to do the washing?

  Fuck knows.

  He waited.

  He’d wait, did she say it?

  Yes, she said it.

  What did she say? That she’d lost a baby at the start of the war and it was about time she had another one, that’s what she said. Mind you that was in 1945.

  The eyes.

  Not my eyes that’s for sure.

  The curtains drew back in the bedroom.

  That fucking policeman.

  That policeman wrapped himself around her, Jesus she hardly had anything on. All over each other. He carefully placed the lens cap back on and slid the camera back into the case. He rushed out and started hammering on the door.

  Locked.

  Shoulder into it.

  Triple locked.

  No chance.

  Where’s the library mate?

  Thanks.

  Into the warmth of the public library, phone book… what was his name, Wilson. Wilson, D. what did that stand for? Dick probably. Finger down the columns of Wilson’s – there, that’ll do.

  ‘Mrs Wilson?’

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘Do you know that blonde?’

  ‘Who are you?’

  He put the phone down and made note of the address, then stared at his watch. Time to get home, get them developed and make it back before that dick gets home.

  14 Hamfield, what sort of an address is that?

  Connie was out anyway, she’s always out.

  Dark room.

  He always felt good in here, as if you suddenly sober up and everything in the world comes into a sharp focus. Teddy must have been eleven or twelve when he started. No football or conkers for him, just a harmless little pastime that didn’t rely on anyone
else, his old man even helped him set the loft up. Plumbed the tank in, plumbed the waste line did the lot.

  Still never spoke a word while he worked away in a concentrated frenzy. Apart from telling him to get out of the fucking way every five minutes as regular as the stop-clock Teddy had stolen from Woolworth’s.

  And there it was a professional dark room. Water tanks, stop-clock, measuring jars, developing solution, running water – everything he needed right down to cotton gloves. Then he stole a camera from the Newspaper offices, a German Voightlander Vito B and it was only a couple of months old. Then he heard the owner moaning in the pub about nothing being sacred anymore, some degenerate stealing his best camera and how was he expected to take decent pictures now.

  He took thousands of pictures. Mostly of people, mostly no one knew they were being pictured. That’s the thing, that’s what gave him the buzz, people could be staring directly into the lens and still be unaware they were about to become part of Teddy’s photo album.

  Bizarrely, developing film fed all of his emotional needs. After the initial doubts that always plagued him at the start of the process he soon soared and flew. Within the space of thirty minutes he got higher and higher. Breathing became irregular and shallow, hands shook when he placed the film into developing tank. Then a calmness, a certainty in a process that he knew intimately. He inverted the tank every thirty seconds, a moment’s unease when he removed the tank lid. And then the climax, a sexual pinnacle as perfect images appeared, satisfaction and smugness when he hung the film to dry.

  This was the moment – his moment, as the picture appeared he always smiled, some women could be careless with their legs sometimes, the way her slip worked its way up her thigh as she sprawled over the sofa, the blonde and slips – her indoor uniform. Watching them this morning, irritation as she kissed his neck, he’d taken a few shots of them like that. He struck gold when though, the blonde’s eyes on Don, the man’s thoughts as transparent as sulphur smoke over a battlefield. Then they wrapped around one another in the window, her falling out of her slip. Him with his hands all over her and then she started rubbing his cock… both of them laughing.