Lost Lad

by Annable, Narvel

  This sudden off hand reference to his long lost friend made Simeon emotional. His mind went back across the decades to that ever smiling baby face of perfect complexion, that mischievous cheeky grin, the breathy way he said 'Dobba' and that sexy sliding tongue. Gary had said enough. Dobba did not want to answer the question, but it triggered a special secret memory of damp towels, the smell of chlorine, standing on duck boards in a shambling cubicle at the old Langley Baths. Both boys having dried off had donned tatty shirts and nothing else. Both boys were facing each other in a rare moment of guilty silence. One boy had replaced the smile with a downward look of pure wonder. The other, getting highly excited, noted the opening little mouth and a crafty protruding glistening tongue. Inquisitive little fingers of one smooth hand reached out to tickle and tantalise a raging phallus, sticking up, pleading - begging for relief. The other naughty fingers investigated, teased and stroked pleasure regions below. Fiddling fingers, busy fingers, only stopped by a sudden ecstatic spurt of finality: a milky mess hurriedly cleaned up with a dingy raggy towel.

  Mindful of this broody silence, Gary softened his tone.

  "I'm sorry. This can't be easy for you, but we must consider these things."

  Still holding a beaker of barely warm tea, Simeon was recalled back to the current conundrum. In a hoarse whisper he said -

  "Is it really possible that a man like Dr Hardman could actually kill an innocent young boy like Brian?"

  "I'm afraid it's more than possible - it's probable."

  "How?"

  "How! Well ... most amateur murders are bludgeons. A crow-bar, hammer - whatever. It's quick and effective. He wouldn't be expecting it: wouldn't know what hit him."

  Simeon had laid back on his bed and now seemed to be in a trance. He was trying to find the two happy crows. Gary got up and started to get dressed. Instinctively, as best policy, he continued to talk.

  "You know what the problem is don't you: the problem with us? We're both addicted to Agatha Christie and tend to dismiss the 'most obvious' suspect which is, of course, Algernon Hardman. In real life you stick to the most probable - Algernon Hardman. Don't be fooled by his 'nice family' credentials. Many killers dote on their wives and children. I don't know exactly what happened, but once he had made his move with Brian - well, he may have been horrified by the sudden danger. You said Brian was a chatterbox. Maybe Brian co-operated maybe he didn't. Either way he was a risk. The Master of Cressbrook Hall was facing possible ruin, facing all the horrors of long years inside prison - make no mistake about that. And you know what happens to people who are in jail for that kind of stuff! Faced with that level of risk - yeah, sure ... he'd kill Brian."

  "Why didn't he kill Scott?"

  "Not the same level of risk! Scott North was like another man. He would have come across as more mature, more sensible, able to be bought off, able to keep his mouth shut. Brian was a child in comparison. Not for one minute am I suggesting that Scott had a hand in the murder. As far as Scott was concerned - Brian just disappeared. He may have suspected murder, but your hero could hardly go to Hardman and remonstrate. He'd just freeze. He was only 15, he was in deep doo doo, really just a kid himself."

  "Wait a minute!"

  Simeon jumped out of bed, grabbed his underpants and struggled to put them on.

  "You've forgotten! The accident in Albania. It couldn't have been planned because Hardman and son returned to England suddenly, unexpectedly ... get out of that!"

  Gary Mackenzie smiled a superior smile and put a gentle hand on Simeon's bare shoulder.

  "I'm way ahead of you, old pal. Keep your eye on the ball. Algernon Hardman is a rich man, well travelled, familiar with European countries. His wife may have caught wind of rumours, may have already known about his 'extra-curricular activities'. Mrs Hardman may have become a risk - Mrs Hardman has to go! Money can buy 'an accident'. Look, I know Europe a lot better than you do. Just after the war, Albania was a mess and stayed a mess for years. It was a miserable little country - bureaucratic incompetence, inefficiency, administrative confusion, language problems, poor records, lost files, people starving, lots of corruption, cops for sale ... get the picture? Think back to what you told me about 'The Journey to the Far North'. Who decided to go? Who decided when to go? Who decided where to go? OK, so a teacher suggested accommodation. That only helped Scott. Hardman expected delivery and received his delivery - on time, as planned.

  Simeon looked dazed. His head was spinning -

  "Just can't get my head round all this ... The bike! How the hell did the bike get to Belper?"

  "More guess work, but dealing with probabilities ... OK, the police took you all home on .. [he checked the document] that Sunday evening of July 24th. Wormall claims he found the bicycle leaning at the back of his woodshed early the next morning. My theory: take it or leave it. After he arrived home, Scott, no doubt seriously concerned, would need to contact Hardman as soon as possible ..."

  A distant image floated up into Simeon's mind, a familiar image of Scott examining a hand full of small change, selecting three large copper pennies to use in a public telephone box. He was the only boy in the school who had the courage to enter and closet himself in that strange forbidding piece of street furniture. Only Scott North had the skill and intelligence to penetrate the mysteries of that high tech, complex and confusing arrangement of 'Press button A' and 'Press button B'. His mates were ordered to stay out on the pavement. It was always assumed he was chatting to girlfriends, making arrangements, planning further conquests.

  " ... Algernon Hardman would give his pimp specific instructions. Likely as not, Scott would be assured all was well. Brian Forrester was fine and would 'turn up' the next day. Money was on its way - probably via Coggan at some quiet, regular, meeting place or, it may be simply secreted in a regular hiding place. Hardman, Coggan or Tonks - anyone of them may know somebody with a van, of similar taste, who could transport the bicycle over night. The old freak at Belper may have been suggested by Coggan or Tonks since they were both annoyed with him. Remember, he tried to get Tonks fired. Hardman would have approved the choice since Jasper Wormall already had a dubious reputation with his massaging activity - and, of course, in the popular public imagination, a character like 'The Goblin' as he was called, is exactly the type who would try and seduce a young boy."

  This triggered a memory. It was in Aunty Gertie's house in 1962. They all heard the familiar plonking of the Steptoe and Son signature tune coming from, their pride and joy, the new TV.

  "Ton that dotty bogga off!" ordered the outraged Matriarch who had just read that the famous, 'dirty old man Steptoe', had been arrested in a public lavatory for 'importuning'. In her opinion he was precisely the sort of ugly, toothless, un-shaven, filthy, stinking shambles who would be haunting a latrine, leering at young men at the smelly urinals.

  Then he remembered her caution when he announced his intention to search for Brian Forrester. She had warned that the truth might not be pleasant, it might be too close to home. Had there been gossip and talk over the years? Did Gertie Hogg know something about Scott North?

  Gary Mackenzie was still in full flow -

  "All this is the most likely scenario. Everything fits. It explains why Algernon Hardman put up with the outrageous behaviour of Simon Tonks. Look at this bit here, it says his butler (or whatever he was) is brought back to Cressbrook Hall by the police in the middle of the night! And look at this - and this! Jesus! It makes me look like a monk! Tonks was tolerated because Tonks was useful. Mark my words, if Dr Hardman was so very respectable, that common slut would be out of that house so fast his feet wouldn't even touch the ground!

  And this 'Dolly'! Boy oh boy! A gardener who gardens - just maybe, once in a while - and only when he feels like it! And has lots of money to spend? That car has the same symbolism as Scott's bicycle."

  "All right - all right! Enough! I've heard quite enough about Scott this morning," concluded Simeon.

  They detected the delicious aro
ma of crackling bacon floating up from the kitchen below. Simeon broke the rather sudden and difficult silence he had just inflicted. He spoke quietly -

  "I don't accept your theory, Gary. But you came here to help and I thank you for that. If it turns out you're correct, (and God knows if we'll ever get any evidence after 43 years) - but, if you are right, then Scott North should have received an Oscar for his brilliant acting."

  The response came in a similar quiet measured way -

  "When we want something real bad, or when we're in trouble, Simeon, we're all good actors. It goes against your moral sensitivities to find out that Derbyshire isn't really much different to Detroit. We live in a horny world were people take what they can get and look after number one. Algernon Hardman looked after Algernon Hardman. Scott North looked after Scott North.

  Devoid of confidence, a sad whining voice drifted up the stairs -

  "Shall ya av a bita breakfast?"

  Chapter 26

  Sluts Slags and Strumpets

  After the pre-breakfast disturbing incursions, Simeon was grateful to press on with his plan of action and was keen to make his appeal for information on BBC Radio Derby. He had written them a long letter from Babbacombe giving details of the 'cause celebre' which gripped the county in late July of 1960. In response John Holmes invited them both to appear on his programme that morning at 10.00am.

  Breakfast was good. Aunty Joyce was pleased with the compliments from her two guests and delighted by the diplomatic (if forced) interest shown in her only child Joey, who lived just feathery inches away from the happy industry of carving food. He bounced about his cage and chirped back at Joyce's inane and irritating budgie baby talk. Having knocked back a further beaker of unwanted tea, Gary was keen to escape from Aunty Joyce's claustrophobic world -

  "You were going to show me the recreation ground, Simeon. Such a beautiful morning. I could do with a walk after this excellent grill."

  But on leaving the house, they were arrested by the sight of a toothless crumpled old woman sitting on a chair in front of number three, right next to Joyce Hogg's number four. She stared up at them, stared hard through crumpled, screwed up piercing bullet eyes. For long seconds, both men were held by this silent leer which was both inquisitive and interrogating. Simeon broke the uncomfortable moment by affecting a cheerful -

  "Good morning, Aunty Nelly. And how are you today?" Getting no answer, he exerted himself to more artificial conviviality. "This is my friend Gary Mackenzie. He lives in America."

  This produced nothing but a sardonic nod accompanied by a contemptuous grimace which seemed to imply - 'Aren't you the posh one then! I expect you'll want a curtsy next.' Gary, totally repelled by this inward looking wrinkled and ruckled old hag, could not even bring himself to utter his usual civil 'Hi!' Nelly solved the embarrassing impasse by suddenly shooting out a spray of verbal bullets as if from a machine gun: a cascade of seeming irrelevant speech without benefit of punctuation -

  "Our Vivienne were on t' rec an the were a lad oo were goin' t 'it our Vivienne but our Vivienne said 'I've got a stick and I shall 'it YOU!"

  As the narrative was brought to an abrupt halt, the two friends took a few seconds to absorb and decode this staccato intelligence. Gary Mackenzie was particularly fascinated by her mouth on the word 'you' which became a perfect circle. It reminded him of the 'oo' sound made by characters recently seen in an animated film called 'Chicken Run'. Simeon mustered a further effort to be pleasant to Aunty Nelly, making a suitable response, polite apologies and a quick exit.

  Bog Hole terrace ended with a duck pond in the garden of The Duckery on their right and a rustic stile gave entry into the recreation ground directly ahead of them. It was a large, flat, well tended, close cut field which afforded a good walk across its long diagonal, ending in an other stile which took you into the main village. Apart from two distant girls on the swings, the two strolling men, comfortable with each other, comfortable with a friendly thoughtful silence, had the whole area under a big blue sky - all to themselves.

  Near the centre, this little interlude of serenity was impaired when Simeon (ever on his guard with teenage girls) noticed that the two 'swingers' were no other than his relative Sara and the fallen floozy - Kelly Grocock. He had hoped that they would be too engrossed in the whoops and shrieks of their enjoyment, but no, alas, the two interesting aliens from another land were spotted in a loud crescendo of "You-hoos!" and frantic waving. Gary was amused. Simeon was alarmed. Notwithstanding, in just over a minute the four were in conversation. Gary was chief spokesperson answering questions about his homeland and fielding a few inappropriate personal questions with admirable skill and tact. He gave nothing away. Kelly was keen to draw attention to her condition -

  "What must ya think on me? Ere's me eight months up t' stick!"

  In an attempt to be kind, Simeon suggested that some of the inhabitants of Horsley Woodhouse were old fashioned and perhaps rather narrow in their views. He hoped that she had not been subjected to too many hurtful comments. Her response was both shocking and horrifying.

  "Nay lad! Am a loose bitch an they all know it. 'Get ya knickers off' - that's wot lads shout at me! The dunna call me Grocock for nowt!" This caused an explosion of yelping giggles and nudges. "Dunna thee bother thee sen, lad, am 'ard bitch me. Ya know - thick skinned."

  They were all laughing except Mr Hogg who objected to being addressed as 'lad'. Noting his displeasure she attempted a diversion -

  "Vicar's wife's a stuck up bitch." Kelly nudged Sara. "She sez ta me 'Don't you feel just a bit ashamed, Kelly?' So a sez back, well, a did a bit, but, oo, - a sez to 'er, when Wayne talks dirty, a can't 'elp meself! 'E sez ta me - 'Sprag thee legs, lass!'. Ooo it did turn me on! An is a big lad 'e is. An it were rate grand. Ooo when 'e shoved it oop me, ee it were grand! Ooo, an when 'e spunked in me - ee, it were rate loovely, it were!"

  At this, the two girls shrieked and screamed with raucous laughter and uncontrollable giggles. Gary smiled at her outrageous performance. Simeon, gob-smacked and disapproving but still attempting to be sociable, tried hard (but not hard enough) to resist assuming an air of his old Mr Hogg. With dead-pan face and his best Sunday accent he said -

  "I suppose you are the product of what the progressives call 'free expression', Kelly."

  "Ay?"

  "It's just as well you don't live back in the medieval period when there was a special punishment for girls like you, girls of easy virtue."

  "Wot were that?" said Sara, now curious.

  "Oh, nothing dreadful, nothing too visceral. This was purely to humiliate the victim." He addressed Gary and Sara. "Kelly would be tied to a hurdle, a sort of sledge in a sitting position and dragged through the village with a sign around her neck."

  "Wot's it say?" inquired Kelly.

  "Oh no! Don't ask me - too cruel. I can't, I just can't tell you. It's just too awful!" replied Mr Hogg looking away in pain but also warming to his subject and getting exactly the response he wanted - an avalanche of protests, pleadings and demands to learn the appalling truth of how Kelly would be labelled before the entire jeering population of Horsley Woodhouse.

  "Well, if you must know, it said - 'Strumpet!'"

  "Oh no! Please don't say that. Say it's not true! Surely not 'strumpet'," joined Gary, on cue.

  At this the girls were intrigued if not entirely convinced by the sincerity of this impromptu history lesson.

  "Worse was to come," continued Mr Hogg. "The villagers would follow the sledge and hurl vile abuse at the strumpet already suffering a bumpy ride."

  "D'ya mean they'd call 'er nasty names?" said Kelly with a big grin getting bigger by the moment.

  "Indeed! They would shout 'scrubber', 'slag', 'cow', 'tart', 'dirty bitch' and - in very bad cases, perhaps even - 'whore'. In your case, Kelly, they may even go as far as - 'trollop'!"

  As expected this precipitated a ribald and hilarious uproar of screaming laughter. Simeon left the scene with mixed feelings. A part of him h
ad been amused at the tactics but the bigger part was outraged that he, a man old enough to be their grandfather, had been drawn into such an obscene exchange within an atmosphere of 'trendy teacher' bred familiarity. Sensing the root of this silence, now a brooding silence, Gary tried to put the episode into a more acceptable context.

  "You'll never put the clock back, old friend, don't try. You've spent the last five years trying to put the genie back in the bottle - it's just not going to happen! Oh I know she'd never talk to Aunty Gertie like that, but then again, we're not Aunty Gertie. Be flattered that they see us as more modern and more 'with it'. Anyway - they probably 'picked us up'. They probably get 'life style' lessons in school.

  Aw come on, Simeon! Don't go on the radio in this mood. It's what kids do, they push to the limit, they were testing. Don't sweat. Forget it."

  But Simeon did sweat and he was never very good at 'forgetting it'. He stoked up to give vent to a controlled tantrum which started with a soft, almost whispered -

  "What have they done to my world?"

  "Pardon me?"

  "The world I once knew and loved. At her age we would never, ever, speak to an adult in that way - unless you wanted to get your face slapped - and slapped hard. They know what I do, for God's sake!" Simeon reeled round and looked Gary directly in the eyes. "I am entitled to the respect and dignity of my professional standing. How dare she! That foul mouthed lowly common slut ... "

  "Whoa! Hold up there! Do I see before me Mother Teresa? Or do I see the one time White Star of the Harlem Stud Baths? Whose had more meat - Kelly or Simeon? And who, yes, my friend, who would just love to get his paws on the ever horny Wayne Pickles?"