“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Get in the van.”
“I will not.”
“Get in the van. Let me take you for a ride.”
“I think you’ve already done that,” I sneered. I added “Guy” for good measure.
Cleon shook his head and laughed.
“Sorry about that, man.” He opened the passenger door. “I’m here to make it up to you. Let me make it up to you. Come on; what else you got to do today?”
Well, I didn’t say out loud, I was hoping to get across to Ealing and consult my contact. I’m up to my neck in an undercover operation, you see and -
I got in the van.
***
Cleon took me to an old East End pub. It stood incongruous among terraces of shuttered shops, a wedding cake surrounded by metal boxes. Close up, you could see the paintwork was chipped and faded, the whole edifice coated in dirt and grime. If it was a wedding cake, it was Miss Havisham’s.
Inside, the bar was bustling, in a dreary kind of way. Broken men in sportswear and fleeces made from Asian child labour hunkered over their pint glasses like crystal balls. The murmur of conversation was all around although at a glance, no one appeared to be speaking.
“Come through,” said Cleon. His South London accent rendered this as “Cam frew”. He pushed a door of smoked glass and we crossed a corridor to another door of solid wood. The gilt letters, Smoke Room, were still discernible, ghosts of an earlier age.
The atmosphere in this room was different. A flat screen TV, anchored high on the wall, dominated the scene. Men were sitting under it in a loose semi-circle, calling out encouragement to the footballers and casting aspersions on the referee’s parentage.
Cleon leaned on the counter. His eyes flicked around the room yet he still gave voice to his opinions on the latest onscreen mishap, adding his commentary to the general hubbub.
A pint of lager appeared on the counter beside his elbow. The barman looked at me with eyebrow raised.
“Um, the same,” I squeaked. I cleared my throat. I thanked the barman for my pint but he slipped away before I could pay for it.
A whistle blew. The crowd at the match stopped roaring. The picture cut away to the studio where pundits, uncomfortable in suits and a space-age set, began to regale the viewers with their opinions.
The men in the room shifted. Some headed off to a door labelled Toilets. Others ambled to the bar. Cleon moved me aside. He took me to a corner where a grand, winged armchair was occupied by a corpulent smartly dressed man, with oil in his hair and sovereign rings on every finger.
“Excuse me, Ronnie,” Cleon came over all deferential. “Got a minute?”
This man, Ronnie, raised a ringed hand from the arm of his chair, like a pope granting a favour.
“This is him, Ronnie. This is the guy. This is Tonk.”
He presented me like the top prize on a game show. I felt Ronnie’s tiny eyes, hidden by the folds on his face, take me in. The oily head nodded slowly.
“Pull up a seat,” he nodded. “Got a drink.”
I held up my lager. Cleon fetched us a couple of stools. Ronnie looked at him fleetingly. Cleon remained standing.
After a moment or two, Ronnie spoke. He had heard a lot about me. All of it from our mutual acquaintance and all of it good. He was impressed with my, whatsit, work ethic. He valued a good work ethic. Above all else, he valued trustworthiness. And I had displayed trustworthiness by the bucketful. Or should that be ‘vanload’, heh heh heh.
I was confused. I sipped the lager - too gassy, too tasteless - and let him speak. I gathered it wasn’t the etiquette to speak unless he invited you to.
Cleon was laughing like the good little sycophant he was.
“Carry on the way you have been carrying on,” Ronnie tilted his head, “and you will go far in this game, Tonk. Tonk? Farkin’ ‘ell! What kind of a name is farkin’ Tonk?”
He chuckled. So did Cleon. I nodded in a ‘what can you do?’ kind of way and took another sip.
“Come and see me tomorrow. Cleon will bring you. We’ll talk.”
He lifted his gaze to the television: I was dismissed.
I stood up. It felt as though some kind of nod or bow was necessary. I did neither; Ronnie wasn’t looking anyway.
As Cleon and I went back to the counter, the barman lifted the flap and came through. He approached Ronnie, eyes downcast.
“Someone to see you, Ronnie,” he muttered.
“Well, farkin’ bring ‘em frew then!”
The barman scurried back through the flap in the counter and disappeared into the other bar. He returned seconds later with two men in tow. They strode right up to Ronnie and sat in the stools Cleon had left there.
When I saw who they were, I nudged Cleon sharply but he scowled in annoyance, intent on the second half of the match.
I edged along the counter, trying to hear what these new arrivals were saying.
It was clear they hadn’t come to make an arrest. The barman took them shots of whisky and pints of lager on a tray.
What the fuck was going on?
Why were Whiting and Sprat drinking with a crime boss?
5.
Linda’s feet were aching. Her eyes kept returning to the clock, willing the hands to move faster. Ten more minutes and she could close up. She gave the counter one last wipe. She could feel the man’s eyes on her as she worked, although if she looked at him he would be contemplating his cappuccino.
Oh, just drink the blasted thing and go away!
She felt instantly ashamed for this uncharitable thought. The man - what was his name? Trevor? - obviously had nowhere else to go.
He’d been sitting there for over an hour. The coffee must be stone cold. Linda wished he’d go and do his hanging around elsewhere.
Eight more minutes...
She looked at the cupcakes under the glass lid. Eight more minutes and they would be hers. They’d only be thrown out otherwise. Before closing time, she’d have to pay for them. As soon as the door was locked, they were up for grabs.
Seven more minutes...
Trevor showed no sign of moving. She could feel his eyes on her as she did a tour of the cafe, wiping tables and tucking in chairs. She gave his table a wide berth.
Five more minutes...
Oh, look! He’s picked up his mug and taken a sip! Progress!
Linda returned to the counter and switched off the radio. Hint, hint. She took off her apron. Hint, hint. She switched off a couple of lights. Hint, bloody hint!
Three more -
And suddenly, he was there, right in front of her. She could feel his breath on her cheek. She averted her gaze, avoiding eye contact. She looked instead at his jumble sale anorak and the threadbare collar of his charity shop shirt.
“Will there be anything else?”
Trevor nodded towards the counter.
“Those cakes will be drying up. Are you going to chuck them out?”
“Um...”
“If you’re going to throw them out.”
“Cupcakes are eighty five pee each.”
“That’s a bit steep. They’re past their best.”
“I don’t set the prices, Mister, ah...”
“I thought this was supposed to be a charitable organisation.”
“It is! We are! But -“
Linda tried to back away but he moved closer. He reached out a hand - his fingerless glove was straggling loose threads - and lifted the glass lid. His fingers closed around three of the remaining four cupcakes. He picked them up, squeezing them out of shape. He thrust them into his mouth, masticating grotesquely. Linda thought of the back end of a bin wagon, its metal jaws working. She shivered and closed her eyes. A fervent prayer ran through her mind, transmit
ted at speed, an appeal for divine assistance.
The bell above the door tinkled. She heard the door close. She opened her eyes.
The disgusting man was gone. Linda let out a gasp of relief. She dashed to the door, locked it and pulled down the blind. Shaking, she went back to the counter. The last remaining cupcake was standing proud but it had lost its allure, contaminated by the proximity of that disgusting man’s disgusting fingers.
Holding the cake tray at arm’s length, Linda tipped it over the bin. The final cupcake slid out of sight. What a waste!
There was still the disgusting man’s cappuccino mug to tidy away. Perhaps she should bin that as well? She went to his table to retrieve it, unwilling to touch the handle. The disgusting man had left some papers on the table. Photocopies. Despite herself, Linda glanced at them. They showed pictures of naked women, silhouettes encircled and with a diagonal line across them.
Disgusting!
Linda steeled herself, gathered up the papers and the mug in one frantic sweep and transported them all to the bin.
She washed her hands and put her coat on, resolving to have a word with Pastor Mike about the disgusting man. She couldn’t be expected to work with people like that coming in. She was only a volunteer, after all. And if Pastor Mike didn’t do something about it, he would run the risk of losing her goodwill. There were limits to everything, after all.
Ah, but she mourned that last cupcake.
She switched off the last of the lights and exited through the back of the cafe, ensuring the door was securely locked behind her. She crossed the busy road, relieved her shift was over. Immediately she felt a twist of guilt in her conscience. Pastor Mike was always preaching about loving your neighbours, even if they’m Samaritans or whatever helpline they worked for.
From the bus stop opposite the cafe she could see a light on in Pastor Mike’s office above. Preparing for the evening’s meetings, no doubt. Perhaps she could have a word while the iron was hot?
It was difficult to believe it was only a couple of years since the Flames of Revival church had opened, occupying a terrace of three shop fronts and the flats and offices above. To Linda it felt like she had known the charismatic Pastor Mike all her life. He was such a kind man. Lovely speaking voice... He wouldn’t mind if she went back across the road and let herself in and went up the stairs and knocked on his door and -
No; she didn’t like to disturb Pastor Mike while he was working. Perhaps she’d catch him tomorrow. She shuddered. She would definitely catch him tomorrow. She wasn’t prepared to give up another minute of her time in that cafe if the likes of that disgusting Trevor were going to frequent the place.
A thought struck her and sent a chill right through her. She glanced around anxiously. What if Trevor was still around?
Praise be!
The bus pulled up with a screech. Linda couldn’t get on fast enough.
***
Just after dark, footprints appeared on the roof of the White Swan at the bottom of Dedley High Street. The after-work crowd, many of them enjoying a much longed-for smoke after the stresses and strains of their offices and shops, were outside and had a clear view. They got to their feet and stepped away from the umbrellas over their tables for an unobstructed sightline.
Appearing in pairs, flames seared into the rooftop, leaving scorched hoof prints glowing like embers. Something, some kind of animal, was leaping across the tiles, invisible save for these fiery tracks.
Non-smokers hurried outdoors to see what was causing such noise and interest. Glass-collectors fetched their co-workers to come and witness this phenomenon.
Some of the onlookers necked their drinks. Others stubbed out their cigarettes. Some were afraid. Some were amused. Some cheered and applauded. It was months away from Bonfire Night and here was a free pyrotechnic display.
Then, as suddenly as they had begun, the footprints stopped. It was as though the invisible creature had leapt into the sky but hadn’t come down again.
The hoof-shaped embers died out. Only blackened imprints remained.
The duty manager came out, demanding to know why the bar and more importantly the tills had been left unattended. One of his bar staff pointed up at the roof.
“Pig me...” the manager gasped. He fumbled in his pocket for his mobile. “Hello, yes. Get me the fire brigade. And the police.”
***
Theo Dunn followed the sounds of the sirens to the White Swan. He had technically finished work but, hey, a good reporter is never off duty. Newsworthy events tend not to stick to office hours and the commotion at the pub had all the makings of a newsworthy event. He approached the fire engine. The firemen were leaning against it, shaking their heads. A man in a tie was trying to persuade them to get their hoses out.
“There is no fire,” one of the firemen was repeating. “There’s nothing to be put out. We’re going to have to charge you for making a call-out.”
The man in the tie took offence at this and called the firemen something Theo couldn’t print in his newspaper.
Oh, face it, Theo: this could be the story of the decade and it would never appear in my newspaper.
The truth was Theo worked for a publication that was more properly an oldspaper. Nothing that appeared on the pages of the Dedley Chronicle could be considered news. An event had to have taken place at least fifty years prior to publication. The older the better. The Chronicle filled itself each week with faded photographs: classes of children, dragoons of soldiers, factory or mine workers on their annual jolly. Pictures of the dead or the very, very elderly. Preferred over these were the stories so old they pre-dated photography. These were illustrated by the editor’s son, an art school drop-out who had spent the last thirty years making ham-fisted lino cuts for Daddy’s paper.
Theo kept pressing for a more up-to-date approach. A section of actual news, at least. Dedley Today. It could be a four-page pull-out and those who didn’t like it could, well, pull it out.
The owner-editor, Mister Flax, dismissed the idea whenever Theo presented it. The only Dedley Today he was interested in was photographs of the High Street printed adjacent to photographs of the High Street from a hundred years ago, so that the readers could see how things had declined. Yes, the slum housing had gone but now there were greetings cards shops, charity shops, and garish everything-for-a-quid shops, so on balance, things had taken a distinct turn for the worse.
The fire engine was leaving. The police constables were leaving. The man in the tie - whom Theo deduced was the pub manager or somebody - was berating them loudly. When the emergency services were all gone, he turned to berate the bar staff, ordering them back to their stations. Then he turned a public relations smile to his customers and smarmed his way around them, checking they were all right.
Theo looked at his watch. Then he remembered he didn’t have to get home for anything in particular anyway (the DVR was set to ‘series record’ Emmerdale); he decided to work the crowd. If he asked the right questions, he could put together a story that old man Flax wouldn’t be able to resist.
And if old man Flax somehow managed to summon up resistance, Theo would take the story to one of the bigger papers in Wolverhampton or Birmingham, papers that were actually interested in what was going on.
He went inside and bought himself a pineapple juice to legitimise his presence. He decided to begin with the smokers out at the tables with umbrellas. Some of them were still gazing up at the roof.
Something had happened. Theo made it his evening’s mission to find out what.
***
“Now look here,” Peter Brough tried to reason with the masked gunman. “This has gone on long enough. It’s dark out. You could slip away and no one would be any the wiser.”
“Shut it, old man!” The gun barrel swayed in Peter’s direction. “Or I’ll shut it for you.”
“Well, really,” Peter Brough was exasperated. “You’re becoming cornier by the minute. Enough of this posturing and grandstanding. Blow our brains out if you’re going to. Shit or get off the pot.”
“Peter!” Mrs Brough was aghast.
“Sorry, petal. Desperate times.”
“Hey! Hey! Before you two have a full-blown domestic, kindly remember I’m the one in charge here.”
Miller tentatively raised her hand.
“Um...”
“WHAT?” The gunman roared. The shotgun swerved to point at Miller.
“We’ve been sitting here for hours and well, I’m a bit uncomfortable, like. My bladder...”
“I don’t believe this!” The gunman made an expansive gesture. The gun went off, obliterating a porcelain caryatid that had been doubling up as a standard lamp. Mrs Brough wailed.
The gunman tried to continue as if nothing had happened.
“This place is going to be splattered with the contents of your heads any minute. I don’t think a puddle of piss on the carpet is going to make any difference.”
“Sorry,” said Miller. She lowered her hand. Peter Brough sent her a sympathetic smile. Something beyond his shoulder, something outside the French windows, flitted past. Miller tried to keep her expression neutral. She looked away, trying to replay what she had seen in her mind’s eye, trying to slow the image down...
There was someone out there...
And then the lights went out.
6.
“This is big, guy,” Cleon was enthusing. “It ain’t about the weed and it ain’t about no DVDs. This is big shit, man. There’s some big shit going down.”
I cast an anxious look at the sky. No shit; just clouds. We were outside an ugly fried chicken shop. He was tucking into a box of southern fried grease and I was getting impatient, wishing he’d get to the point.
“You passed the test, man,” he kept saying, giving me a greasy grin. “You are the man, guy.”
I pressed him to elaborate. What fucking test?
“It was all a set-up, bro.” ‘Bro’ was a new one.
The Footprints of the Fiend Page 5