It was the motorcyclist. The bike was laid in the road, with the rider nearby. Another man was trying to remove the stricken rider’s helmet, pulling and twisting at it.
‘Hey! Don’t do that!’ the lorry driver yelled, hitting the brakes. The heavy rig juddered to a standstill and he jumped down from the cab. ‘Don’t do that! You could paralyse him.’
He pushed the man aside and bent over the rider. He lifted the visor, unfastened the chinstrap and loosened the top of his leather jacket.
‘Lie still,’ he said calmly. ‘You’ll be OK.’
There was a metallic click near his right ear, a double ker-chink that he’d heard a thousand times before in TV thrillers, but never in real life. He turned slightly, and felt the cold metal of the gun barrel press into his neck.
The motorcyclist opened his eyes. ‘I’m OK,’ he said, ‘but you’re in the shit.’
The passing motorists were mildly relieved to see the young man in leathers jump to his feet. They assumed he’d been riding like a madman; how else could one fall off in a slip road? They accelerated away from the scene and promptly forgot all about it. The lorry driver saw that the man who’d been directing the traffic was particularly unpleasant-looking. He wouldn’t be too difficult to describe. The ugly one climbed into the cab of the lorry, and the other, the big one with the gun, ordered him to follow. The driver’s legs felt as if they were made of blancmange as he hauled himself up.
‘Follow the red car,’ the ugly one ordered, ‘and don’t try anything. I can drive this thing, so it makes no difference to me if you’re dead or alive.’ His argument was reinforced by another evil-looking automatic pistol.
They left the bike neatly parked at the side of the road and drove away in convoy. At the next exit they left the motorway, and half an hour later the red Sierra led him up a narrow lane and into a disused farmyard. The farm had been cut off from its fields by the development of the roads, and was now isolated and run-down. Frank Bell had bought it a few years earlier at a knockdown price. Literally. When the old farmer argued, he was knocked down.
The Volvo rig just fitted in the barn. The driver and Shawn Parrott jumped out and met the other two at the back of the container.
‘Right,’ Bell said. ‘Let’s get it unloaded.’
Parrott attacked the lugs for the padlocks with an oxy-acetylene torch while the ex-motorcyclist, Darren Atkinson, snipped through the seals with a pair of pliers. As the locks fell smoking to the floor Parrott turned, waving the cutting torch, and boasted: ‘Easy as pissing on yer feet, eh?’
Not as easy as using the keys I have in my pocket, the driver thought. How did they expect the customer to get in?
He needed time. He was scheduled to ring in at about six a.m., when he reached Dover. They’d give him an hour, maybe, then start asking questions. The police would be informed, and also Lorry Watch, the informal network that circulated the number of a stolen vehicle to nearly every driver on the road. But it would all take time. He knew exactly where he was, would have no difficulty coming here again, and that was a worry. They couldn’t let him go until the load was well away from this place, and them with it. Unless they didn’t intend to let him go …
‘C’mon, you,’ the big one growled at him. ‘Start lifting boxes out.’
They toiled through the night, and it was well after dawn when they finished. The driver worked inside the container, passing the boxes to the other three. Slowly he mined his way into the solid wall of brown cardboard, easing each carton out and carrying it to the tail of the lorry.
The other three took them from him and stacked them somewhere round the front of the vehicle. Each one would wait until his colleague returned empty-handed before staggering off under his load, making sure that the driver was watched all the time. After the first hour they all stripped to the waist.
At one point Darren was waiting for the Skipper to replace him. As the driver dropped the heavy carton into his arms he said: ‘You ride a motorcycle well.’
Next trip he said: ‘I have a Harley Davidson.’
‘I know,’ Atkinson replied.
When there were only about six cartons left the ugly one dropped out of the sequence, leaving them to the Skipper and Atkinson. The driver didn’t know it, but he’d gone to fetch his beloved Kalashnikov.
‘Last one,’ he declared as he carried it from the far end of the container. He’d expected Darren to be waiting, but it was the ugly one. He couldn’t see the gun over the top of the carton he held in his arms.
‘Put it down,’ the ugly one said ominously.
The driver stopped, and as he lowered the box he saw the Russian-made assault rifle, favoured weapon of a thousand armies and a million terrorists, pointing at him. Now he knew, with a clarity denied to most of us, what his fate was to be.
He hurled the box, containing thirteen thousand cigarettes, at the face he knew he could never forget.
Parrott moved his head sideways, like a boxer slipping a punch, and the carton flew over his shoulder. He pressed the trigger and gave the driver a burst of three bullets, SAS-style. The impact carried the driver’s body backwards. He hit the far wall of the container and turned as he pitched forwards, landing on his back. His right knee bent and straightened three times, then he lay still. Outside, the birds stopped their singing at this sudden intrusion of noise, cocked their heads quizzically for a moment, and resumed saluting the new day.
The following evening Parrott drove the rig fifty miles down the M6, with Atkinson following in the car. He parked at a services, between a Texaco tanker and one carrying an indeterminate, but probably highly toxic, load. He lit a cigarette and took a couple of long drags, making sure it was well alight. He emptied a box of matches on the passenger seat and formed most of them into a bundle, held by a rubber band, with the lighted cigarette passing through the middle.
‘Now for the tricky bit,’ he mumbled to himself.
Every motor mechanic will tell you that a lighted cigarette will not ignite petrol vapour, but only the foolish ones make a habit of putting it to the test. Parrott unscrewed the stopper from a two-gallon can and doused a rag. He placed it on the floor of the cab and carefully rested the improvised fuse in a fold of the sodden cloth. The can was left upturned, gurgling the remainder of its contents over the high-quality upholstery of the £100,000 Volvo. Parrott climbed down and calmly walked round the back of the rig, as if checking his load. Darren was waiting at the other side, in the Sierra.
Eleven minutes and fourteen miles later the cigarette burnt down to the match-heads and the lorry exploded. The fire brigade managed to save the Texaco tanker, but they couldn’t help the poor chap who’d been resting in the Volvo’s sleeping quarters. The overworked pathologist found the bullets the following day, and said a little prayer of thanks that he hadn’t jumped to the obvious conclusion.
I decided that I’d drive home to Heckley straight from the football match. I loaded the car, went through the checklist for locking up the cottage – windows shut, thermostat down low, that sort of thing – and set off to look for the Grammar School playing fields.
The match was well under way when I arrived. I’d seen some sports fields during my travels around town, but they were the wrong ones, and I had to ask directions. About twenty spectators were down one side of the pitch, and a little solitary figure stood apart from them, near the goal where Guy was bobbing up and down to keep warm, as if he were suspended by a spring from the cross-bar.
‘Good morning, Diane,’ I announced briskly as I approached her. She was submerged in a big navy-blue coat that nearly reached the ground, its collar up over her ears.
‘Good morning,’ she mumbled, without enthusiasm.
‘What’s the score?’
‘Nil nil, I think.’
‘How long have they been playing?’
‘About two hours.’
‘A game of soccer only lasts ninety minutes,’ I informed her.
‘Does it? Well, they must have b
een playing for nearly that long.’
‘So they’ve had half-time?’
‘Half-time?’
‘You’re not really a fan, are you?’ I chuckled.
‘No. This is the first time I’ve been to a game. Probably be the last, too.’
I turned away from her, as if to watch the play, but really it was to hide the self-satisfied grin on my face. If Diane Dooley hadn’t come to see the football, what, or who, had she really come to see?
Guy’s team were on the attack, with every player in their opponents’ half. It was typical schoolboy kick-and-rush, but no less passionate for that. Their goalkeeper gathered the ball and punted it downfield. It went to their centre-forward who booted it towards Guy’s goal, and the chase was on.
Their player was a big lad. One of those genetic freaks who has a five o’clock shadow at seven. Seven years old, that is. He streaked towards Guy, kicking the ball well forward to keep his speed up. Big kids like him have it easy at school, but when the others catch up they fade away. Then it’s the little tough ones, who know what it’s like to struggle, who make the grade.
Guy saw him coming and moved off his line. He was nervous, and so was I. The centre-forward came charging towards the goal, and Guy wasn’t sure how to tackle him. At the last second the ball ran away from their player, and his shot was feeble. Guy stuck out a leg and deflected the ball round the post. He’d saved it, but it wasn’t a move he’d read about in a textbook.
‘Well saved, goalie,’ I shouted, and Diane applauded with her gloved hands. The referee gave a long blast on his whistle and waved a hand in the air – the signal for the teams to change ends.
‘That’s half-time,’ I told Diane, who looked less than enthusiastic at the news. ‘Only another forty-five minutes to go.’
Guy came running over to us. ‘Morning, Charlie,’ he greeted me, smiling happily.
‘Morning, Guy. That was a rather unorthodox save, if you don’t mind me saying so.’
‘Clean sheet, so far,’ he responded.
‘Fair enough.’ I nodded towards the other players, who were gathered around their games master. ‘Go see what the coach has to say,’ I told him. ‘Then I want a quick word with you.’
Guy trotted off towards the others, Diane and I following him at a more leisurely pace. ‘Guy’s a smashing boy,’ I told her. ‘You must be proud of him.’
‘I am,’ she answered.
‘I’m surprised you haven’t watched him play before.’
‘Is that meant to be a reprimand?’ she demanded.
‘No. I’m sorry, is that how it sounded?’
I was receiving mixed signals from Mrs Dooley. Maybe I was wrong in my assumption that her motive for coming to the match was to see me. I chuckled to myself as I remembered our first conversation in her office, ‘specially the bit where I’d said …
Oh shit! Oh shit and corruption! With great big spikes on and wired up to ten million volts! How stupid could I get?
‘Aw God!’ I exclaimed, clapping my hands to my head.
She looked at me, without saying anything.
I let out a big sigh. ‘I’ve just remembered what I said,’ I told her.
‘Said? When?’
‘In your office. When I came for a consultation. The bit about choosing a counsellor. I told you that I was worried that I might fall in love with my counsellor, and I said … you said …’
‘I said you could always have chosen a male counsellor,’ she interrupted.
‘That’s right. And I said
‘You said that was why you’d chosen a female one.’
‘Er, yes. Oh God! What must you be thinking? Well, I wasn’t telling the truth. I was trying to wind you up, plus pay you a concealed compliment. I really did feel vulnerable. You’re a very attractive woman.’
‘With a very attractive son?’
The answer to that was yes, but not in the way she thought. I said: ‘Look. I’m straight. I’ve been married once and have a girlfriend that I’m devoted to. I’d like it if we could all be …’
‘You two arguing already?’ Guy interrupted. He was carrying the ball, and tossed it towards my head. I nodded it twice, caught it on my instep and flicked it back to him.
‘You never lose class,’ I boasted, holding my hands wide for the applause. It was the first time I’d kicked a ball for fifteen years. ‘What did the coach tell you?’ I asked.
‘Oh, him. He’s only the English master. Something about “And gentlemen in England, now a-bed, Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here.” He’s a right tosser, he is.’
‘Guy!’
‘Sorry, Mum. But he is.’
‘Right. So listen. The main danger is that big centre-forward—’
‘Lurch?’
‘Yes – when they break away. You were lucky to save that last one. Forget him, just go for the ball. Throw yourself at it and try to turn sideways. That way you cover as much of the goalmouth as possible. Understand?’
‘He’ll kick my head off!’ Guy protested.
‘Very probably,’ I admitted. ‘But the good news is this: you won’t feel a thing. If you go in half-hearted, you’ll get hurt. Go in like a kamikaze buffalo, determined to go straight through him, and you won’t feel a thing. Not until next day. You’ll have some bruises, but you’ll be proud of them. Ask any rugby player – he’ll tell you the same thing.’
He didn’t look convinced, and neither did his mother.
The second half was just like the little bit of the first that I’d seen. Guy’s team did most of the attacking, but couldn’t score, the others making the occasional break down the field. Guy made a couple of flashy saves from long-range efforts and did a lot of dancing about. With about three minutes to go his side were peppering the other goal with shots, every player except Guy packed into their half. Then the inevitable happened. Their goalkeeper gathered the ball and punted it over the halfway line to where Lurch was waiting. The referee, who taught history through the week, had never heard of the offside rule and kept his whistle in his pocket.
Lurch charged towards Guy’s goal like a Rottweiler after a rent collector. I felt Diane grab my arm, then let go. Guy crouched, bobbing about, and moved forward to narrow the angle. Lurch had the ball under better control this time – he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.
I waited until he was nearly on Guy then screamed: ‘Go gerrim, Guy!’
Guy threw himself at the flashing feet of the big youth, blanketing the ball with his chest and arms. Lurch’s legs flew into the air as he cartwheeled over Guy’s body and he crashed down in the back of the net. Guy jumped up, bounced the ball twice, and booted it back up the field.
The other team had raced after their centre-forward, leaving Guy’s players stranded in their half, but now fortunes were reversed yet again. The referee was consistent in his disregard of the offside rule and eight of Guy’s team managed to manoeuvre the ball around what was left of their opponents’ defence to score the only goal of the match. Diane danced a jig and shouted her congratulations down the length of the field. Lurch, stars revolving around his head, was still trying to find his way out through the netting when the final whistle blew.
‘I’m on my way back to Yorkshire,’ I told Diane as we walked slowly back towards where the cars were parked. The two teams had gone for a shower. We never had showers in my day. A bucket of cold water between twenty-two of us, and we thought we were lucky.
‘Oh,’ was all she said.
‘Will you say goodbye to Guy for me?’
‘He’ll be sorry you didn’t say it yourself.’
‘I know, but it’s a long drive. Should have been off hours ago. Tell him I’ll be back, in the summer.’
‘Very well.’
‘That’s if I’m welcome,’ I said, with a sideways smile at her. She didn’t smile back.
I fished an old envelope out of my pocket. ‘Here,’ I said, handing it to her. That’s my address, and a couple of numbers
where I can be reached. The name and number on the back is one of your local police sergeants. He’s expecting Guy to ring him to arrange a day with them. Tell him to mention my name. He’ll be OK.’
She slipped the envelope into a coat pocket without any comment.
We’d reached the cars. I was wearing my big Gortex anorak that I wear for serious walking, half-open at the front because I’d overdone the warm clothing. ‘Look,’ I said, turning to her. ‘I want to tell you that I am not gay. I have never been gay and never want to be gay. I have no inclinations in that direction whatsoever. Understood?’
She reached up and pulled the collars of my jacket together, snug around my neck. I gazed straight into those eyes that caught the winter sun and shattered its rays into all the unnamed shades of green.
‘I don’t believe you,’ she said, and jammed my zipper tight up under my chin. I swear there was a challenge in her words, and I swore not to accept it.
It’s a long way from St Ives to Heckley. You drive east for two hundred miles, then turn left and drive north for another two hundred. Most of the roads are motorways, which are fast but boring, and the caravans are still hibernating in February, so I was home by nine o’clock. Highlight of the journey was playing a tape of Glass’s Itaipu, extremely loudly. Annabelle gave it to me at Christmas. I rang her, arranging to see her for Sunday lunch, read my mail, had a shower and crashed out.
Annabelle insisted on cooking lunch herself, and out of deference to my tastes it was roast beef and Yorkshire puddings.
‘Nearly as good as Mother’s,’ I told her with a contented smile, raising my wine glass and lowering my head in respect.
‘Praise indeed,’ she replied.
I was looking forward to spending a relaxing afternoon stretched out together on her settee, listening to Elgar, or … Max Bygraves, but Annabelle had other ideas. She wanted to know all about photography.
‘So you’re still taking the tobacco pictures, for Andrew Fallon,’ I said.
The Judas Sheep Page 10