Falls the Shadow

by Mark Timlin

  ‘So you didn’t?’

  ‘What, take that mutt? Not me. I was glad to see the back of it. And her.’

  I didn’t mention that the feeling was mutual. ‘It was just an idea,’ I said.

  ‘She gets lots of funny ideas, does Sheila. Maybe I’ll go round and tell her some of my ideas.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bother,’ I said. I was getting tired and talking to Cochran seemed to be making my hangover worse.

  ‘But I’m not you, am I?’ he said back.

  Thank Christ, I thought. It would be wrist-slitting time if he was.

  ‘So she’s hired a poncey private detective to find old Prince. What a laugh!’ he continued.

  ‘She doesn’t seem to think that it’s funny.’

  ‘I do.’

  You would, I thought. ‘So you haven’t seen the dog?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And he’s not here?’

  ‘I already told you that. I wouldn’t have that rug rat round here.’ He grinned ‘So you’ve wasted your journey. Anyway, how’s she paying you? She’s got no money. Are you taking it in kind?’

  I felt like putting his head into the waste disposal. ‘Why did you dislike the dog so much?’ I asked, ignoring his question.

  ‘Because it looked stupid. Like a mop head on legs. And she had to go and name it after that nigger poof. Why couldn’t she have given it a proper name?’

  ‘Like what?’

  He thought for a minute. It looked like it hurt. ‘Like Elvis. That’s a proper name.’ I swear he said that, straight-faced.

  ‘Elvis the West Highland White,’ I said. ‘It does have a certain ring to it.’

  He looked at me and his eyes narrowed. ‘Are you taking the piss?’ he said.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Well, the fucking thing’s not here. I don’t know where it is.’

  ‘Mind if I take a look round?’

  ‘Yes, I fucking do! I’m telling you. Now get out before I lose my temper and throw you out.’

  ‘I don’t think you could.’

  He puffed out his chest and clenched his fists until his biceps stretched the material of his shirt. ‘I wouldn’t bet your life on it.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Course you’re not. You’re scared, like the rest of them.’

  ‘The rest of who?’

  ‘That’s for me to know and you to find out.’

  That sort of conversation was a waste of breath, and I’d already wasted enough climbing ten flights of stairs to his flat. ‘Thanks for your time, Mr Cochran,’ I said, got up and went back down the hall.

  He crowded me as far as the front door. He thought he was tough and I couldn’t be bothered to show him different. Besides, the state I was in he might have punched the shit out of me. I left without having my tea. I was tempted to stop on the fifth floor to ask the old lady if her offer of a cup was still open.

  8

  I went back to my car and drove to the office. The digital display on the new answerphone was flashing that I had four messages waiting. I made a cup of tea, sat down, lit a cigarette and pressed the re-wind and play button. The first message was from my tame journalist. He said he’d be in his office all afternoon slaving over a hot word processor, and I should give him a call. The second was from one of the people I’d tried the previous day, who was well into local fringe politics. Please call back, was the message again. Pretty soon our answerphones would be well acquainted. Who knows? They might even meet, fall in love and produce a family of portable fax machines. The third message was from Tony Hillerman. Another nasty package had arrived at Sunset. What he didn’t say was, what was I doing about it? But the unstated message was there nevertheless. He wanted me to get in touch as soon as I got back. The final message was from Peter Day. He asked if I’d heard. I imagined he meant about the parcel. He seemed to lose a lot of his communication skills on the machine. He also said that if I was doing nothing to meet him same time, same place as last night for a chat, and left his home number for me to get back to him.

  I returned the calls in the order that they had come in. First I got through to the local paper. My man was there.

  ‘What’s cooking?’ I asked when I got through.

  ‘Maybe I should ask you that,’ he replied. ‘You don’t usually get in touch unless there’s something nasty brewing.’

  ‘Sector 88,’ I said.

  He was suddenly very interested. ‘What about them?’ he demanded.

  ‘That’s what I’m asking you.’

  ‘Very nasty people,’ he said. ‘Neo-Nazis. The organisation’s based on the Fascists of the thirties. They’ve been tied in with some firebombings of Asian shops and houses, painting swastikas and graffiti on synagogues, busting up a gay rally or two. You know the type of thing. But no proof. Nobody seems to know who the top man is. We actually tried to infiltrate them last year. One of the young boys in the office got a number one crop, a pair of DMs and a Harrington jacket and went to one of their meetings.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  ‘The usual. A lot of slogans and shouting, but nothing worse than you get at the local Conservative Club, really. He tried to get closer to the committee but they blanked him. It seems you’ve got to pay a lot of dues before you get into the inner sanctum.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So we dropped the story. Is something happening?’

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘Give me a clue.’

  ‘I can’t right now, but…’

  ‘Don’t tell me. I’ll be the first to know when the story breaks. I’ll get the scoop. You’ve been watching those afternoon films again, Nick. I’ve warned you about that before.’

  ‘Look, Chas,’ I said, ‘dig me out anything you can on these creeps. No bullshit, if a story does happen – and I’m not saying that it will, but it might – you’ll get the hot poop, I promise.’

  ‘Why do I always believe it when people tell me that?’

  ‘You’re an eternal optimist. When have I ever lied to you?’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll run the list off the computer.’

  ‘Amusing. Will you do it?’

  ‘OK, Nick, I’ll bell you tomorrow. Next day latest. But don’t mug me off. If I read anything about this in the Standard first, I’ll be well pissed off.’

  ‘It’s what living in London’s all about, Chas.’

  ‘Funny man, see ya.’ And he hung up.

  Next I got on to my agit-prop pal. ‘Sector 88,’ he said. ‘Christ! Don’t you ever learn?’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘Bad news, Nick. The politics of the steel toe cap.’

  ‘So I’ve heard, but what do they do exactly?’

  ‘They firebombed a left-wing book shop in Catford last Christmas.’

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Then how do you know?’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘That’s what everybody says. These goons are bad news underneath, but on top they’re as harmless as a vicarage tea party.’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘Who’s the gaffer?’

  I could almost hear him shrug over the phone. ‘If anybody knew that they might be able to break them up. Get some evidence.’

  ‘But evidence of what?’ I asked.

  He went through the depressing list again. Minority baiting by the dispossessed was the name of the game. What it boiled down to was that if you weren’t young, white, male and unemployed, or in a dead-end job, you might end up on Sector 88’s hit list. It was a pretty depressing thought. I asked him to try and get me more details, but he didn’t sound hopeful. I promised to get back to him within a few days.

  Next I telephoned Hillerman. He wasn’t a happy man. ‘Have you made any pro
gress?’ he demanded when I got through to him.

  ‘Not a lot,’ I said. ‘I do know that this crew exist, and their aims and ambitions. I also know that they can be pretty heavy, but no one seems able to get any proof of the things they’ve been accused of. And no one knows who gives the orders. I sat in on the show last night, but they didn’t call.’

  ‘So I heard,’ he said. ‘Get on the case, Sharman. That’s what we’re paying you for.’

  ‘What was in the parcel?’ I asked.

  ‘Shit. It’s not very nice.’

  Understatement of the year I’d say, but then he didn’t have to open it. ‘Who found it?’ I asked.

  ‘Clyde. He recognised the style and passed it to Security.’

  ‘And the packaging was the same as the others?’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘I’m coming up again tonight,’ I said ‘Perhaps they’ll call then.’

  ‘How will that help?’

  ‘I don’t know. Don’t worry, I’m making enquiries of my own.’

  He grunted as if he wasn’t impressed.

  ‘Have you kept the parcel that came in today?’ I asked.

  ‘No. We’ve passed the whole thing over to the police.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The usual. Nothing.’

  ‘Next time, call me. I want to see what one looks like.’

  ‘It’s not a very edifying sight, believe me.’

  I was getting tired of talking to him, and my head was beginning to hurt again. ‘Let me worry about that,’ I said. ‘I’m working on it. You’ve got to give me some time. I can’t perform miracles.’

  He sighed, as if paying me a couple of grand guaranteed it.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘As soon as I get a break, you’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘I hope it’s soon.’

  ‘So do I,’ I said. ‘I’ll keep in touch.’ And we said our goodbyes and hung up.

  Finally I called Day at home. His answerphone was on. I left a message saying that I’d see him in the wine bar at nine.

  After that I didn’t know what to do.

  9

  So I did nothing. Just sat and pondered until it was time to meet Peter Day, with only a break for cod, chips and a gherkin from the local chippie. I ate them out of the paper with salt, vinegar, and one of those little packets of tomato ketchup that is impossible to get into without spraying it all over the place. The plastic fork broke the first time I tried to cut the batter. But that’s life in the white heat of a technological society.

  I called Mrs Cochran to tell her that I’d located her husband, but there was no answer. I made a note to try again the next day, and maybe go and see her, but that was really the extent of any constructive undertaking until I locked up the office and left.

  I arrived at the wine bar at nine and Day was already waiting for me. He’d got in a couple of drinks and was sitting at the same table that we’d shared the previous night. ‘How’s tricks?’ he asked when I sat down.

  ‘Not so good. Hillerman’s right on my case. That parcel that came for you today’s got him at it. He wants results, like yesterday.’

  ‘That’s showbiz,’ he said, and grinned. ‘You wanted in. If you can’t stand the heat…’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Same as usual, was it?’

  ‘That’s right. A nice little tribute. Shit. Human. Fresh. It gives me a warm feeling right here.’ He touched his chest.

  ‘God, you are popular.’

  ‘I’ll survive. I expect I’ll get a call tonight about it.’

  ‘Good. Maybe whoever calls will give something away.’

  ‘They already did. A box of shit.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said.

  We sat and chatted and had a few drinks. The more I got to know Peter Day, the better I liked him. He was good company, with lots of funny stories. But when I tried to find out about his past, he clammed up. I let it go. When and if he was ready to open up, he’d do it. So we kept the conversation light and the drinks few and far between. But I did get the impression he was a lot more concerned about Sector 88 than he was letting on.

  At a quarter to eleven we went to the station. Once again he checked his cubby hole and found a few more freebies. When I remarked on them, he invited me round to his flat soon to go through his record and CD collection. I told him I’d look forward to it. We got coffee and went upstairs. Stretch was in his cubicle chatting on the phone.

  Around 11.45 they started to get the show on the road and I was forgotten again. As the second hand on the studio clock hit midnight, the newsreader who worked from a tiny cubicle on the floor above gave out the news, sport and weather, and at four minutes past precisely, Peter Day took over. The first hour went smoothly, the topics covered ranging from the state of road sweeping in the area to the political situation in the new Russian Republics. Day was in fine form. He argued with just about everyone, cutting some off in mid-sentence with a sarky comment. Business as usual. Then at five past one, just after the next news bulletin, Stretch typed up ‘Bill from Streatham’ on the screen.

  ‘OK Bill, what’s it all about? And for God’s sake make it interesting,’ said Day. ‘I’m about ready to give up on you lot tonight and make a break for home.’

  ‘Did you get our gift through the post, Mr Day?’ said a voice in my headphones. Day looked over at me.

  ‘What particular gift was that, Bill?’ he asked.

  ‘You know. Something to remember us by.’

  ‘Us?’ said Day. ‘Who’s us? Spit it out, Bill, if that really is your name.’

  ‘Friends of Freedom,’ said Bill proudly.

  Day went almost as red as Ben had the previous night. He pulled down a fader so the voice in my earphones which was still ranting on almost disappeared. ‘Friends of Freedom, ladies and gentlemen,’ he almost spat. ‘So speaks the voice of the Friends of Freedom. Also known as Sector 88, if I’m not much mistaken. In other words, and let’s not be afraid to say the word, Nazis. The kind who fifty years ago were gassing and burning Jews and gypsies and homosexuals in the greatest holocaust the world has ever seen. The Nazis who send rotten meat and human and animal waste to radio stations who dare to broadcast any criticism. These are your so-called Friends of Freedom. The Friends of Freedom who burn down the homes and businesses of any minority they see fit to persecute. Who firebomb shops that dare sell literature that disagrees with their point of view. Nazis. Fascists. Scum. Dirt. And as far as I’m concerned, they can go straight to hell. Now what do you say about that, Billy, old boy?’

  Now it was Bill’s turn to throw a wobbler. ‘You dare call us scum, you cu—’ And that was the end of Bill. Day’s hand shot out as quickly as a snake striking, and cut him off.

  ‘And that just about sums up that particular Friend of Freedom,’ he said. ‘Now we go to a commercial. Back soon.’ And he slid a cart into its slot and cut the volume. ‘Wanker!’ he said. ‘Does he really think he can hijack my show? Tossing little shit!’

  ‘I think he was a little miffed,’ I said.

  ‘Bloody good job.’

  ‘But I’m afraid I’m none the wiser.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. The listening figures are good. Hillerman’s just being a pain in the arse. Do what you can. Don’t forget, I’m a man of influence round here. The whole thing will probably blow over in a few days anyway. It usually does.’

  I nodded, the commercial ended, and a woman came on who was convinced that her child was the spawn of Satan. Day agreed that it probably was, which was the last thing she wanted to hear but brought a smile back to his face, and the show rolled on.

  Shortly after two we got the second call. ‘John from Stockwell’ came up on the screen, and Stretch gave a thumbs-up sign and a big grin from behind the soundproof glass. Day looked over at me and raised his eyebrows. He took the call a
nd said, ‘Hello, John, how’s every little thing with you tonight?’

  ‘Hello, Peter, how are you?’

  ‘Surviving. But barely. It’s having to talk to the dregs of humanity that does it.’

  ‘Would you be referring to me by any chance, Peter?’

  ‘If the cap fits…’

  ‘I don’t know that I like that kind of remark.’

  ‘I don’t know that I care what you like, John. If what I say offends you, then change stations. It’s your choice. It was still a free country when I came into the studio tonight, even if there are some factions of society who would like to change that.’

  ‘But I like listening to you, Peter.’

  ‘I’m touched.’

  ‘In fact I like you so much that I sent you a little present.’

  Day’s face suffused with blood again. ‘So you’re one of them, are you, John? I thought you were just a pathetic, harmless little creep, but obviously I was wrong. We’ve been all through this once tonight, and I’ll tell you exactly what I told your friend. Take your present and go straight to hell.’ And he cut John off before he could reply. ‘They’re really coming out of the woodwork tonight,’ he said to me over a station break. ‘I’ll be glad when this is over.’

  Which it was before long. I declined the offer of another visit to Ben’s. Many more of them, especially if they ended with a session on the pool table with Stretch, and I’d not only end up with ulcers but be broke too. I made my farewells and went back to my car and drove home. I was inside the flat and in bed by four.

  10

  When I got up the next morning I went straight down to the office. It was just after ten when I unlocked the door. The answering machine showed that there were two messages waiting. I sat at my desk and ran them through. The first was from Chas.

  ‘Nick,’ he said, ‘I caught the late show on Sunset Radio last night. It was very interesting. Especially the calls from Sector 88. What’s happening down there? Has this got something to do with what you were talking about? I’m in the office all morning. Give me a ring.’

  The second call was from Sheila Cochran. ‘I’ve been trying to get you, Mr Sharman,’ she said. ‘To find out if you’ve got any news on Prince. I’m at work now and can’t take calls but I’ll be in this evening. Will you phone me or call round, please?’