It was Karen who had the radio up to its full volume—probably to drown out the dogs and the argument her grandparents were having as we arrived—and she sat at the table with a spoon in her fist scraping out the flesh of a swede. The village children would all be out with lanterns tonight. The doors along New Row done up with spray-on cobwebs and hung with cardboard skeletons.
‘Switch it off or take it upstairs, Karen,’ said Jackie. ‘I can’t hear myself think.’
The little girl held on to the radio and pretended not to be able to hear her and it was only when Sturzaker came into the room that she cut the deafening fuzz.
‘Bedroom,’ he said. ‘Go on.’
She huffed and tossed the spoon loudly on to the table before she went out.
Sturzaker waited until he heard her feet on the stairs.
‘So your dog gets killed and you come straight here?’ he said. ‘How does that work, then?’
‘Killed?’ said Jackie.
‘Last night,’ I said.
‘And you think it were one of Ken’s, do you?’ she said. ‘Well, you’re probably right. They’re nasty bloody things.’
‘Unless they’ve learned how to undo padlocks,’ said Sturzaker, nodding out of the window, ‘then it can’t have been one of mine.’
‘They’re not all in cages, though, are they?’ said Bill, as more dogs thumped and padded through the bedrooms upstairs.
‘The ones I keep in the house wouldn’t be able to do that to your dog, Bill,’ said Sturzaker. ‘Anyway, they’re all accounted for. If one had got out, I’d know. They’re all listed in the book. I can show it you, if you want.’
The dogs upstairs rumbled back the other way and a tired-looking wolfhound wandered into the kitchen looking for the warmth of the fire.
‘How can you know what you’ve got here?’ said Bill. ‘You’re overrun, man.’
‘I have told him that,’ said Jackie. ‘I did say that, didn’t I, Ken?’
Sturzaker got up and opened a drawer in the table. He held up a little leather book and passed it to Bill.
‘You count them,’ he said. ‘If you find one missing, then I’ll listen to you.’
‘I know they didn’t come to the farm by themselves,’ said Bill. ‘Someone brought them.’
‘Someone?’ said Sturzaker.
‘You know who I mean,’ said Bill.
‘Do I?’
‘Your Vinny,’ said Bill, looking through the window. ‘I’ve seen him out walking some of them big fuckers you’ve got. A couple of those could have torn up our Douglas, no problem.’
‘It weren’t Vinny,’ said Sturzaker, sitting down at the table again.
‘How do you know?’ said Bill. ‘You’ve no idea what he’s up to most of the time.’
‘Excuse me?’ said Jackie.
‘Well, is he here?’ said Bill, glancing at the stained polystyrene tiles on the ceiling.
‘No,’ said Sturzaker.
‘There you are then,’ said Bill. ‘Point proven.’
‘He’s not been here for a week,’ said Jackie. ‘He’s gone away with Cheryl to see his auntie in Bradford. Didn’t Ken tell you that?’
Sturzaker drank his tea and looked at us.
‘Sorry to disappoint you, Bill,’ he said.
‘Come on,’ said Dadda, patting Bill on the shoulder. ‘Let’s go. We’ve got enough to do today.’
‘Hang on a minute,’ said Bill, nodding at Sturzaker. ‘I’d still like to know where he were yesterday evening.’
‘Night-shift,’ Sturzaker replied. ‘Ask at the abattoir if you want.’
‘He’s only just got in,’ said Jackie.
‘I don’t usually have pork chops for my breakfast, Bill,’ said Sturzaker, indicating the plate of food that Jackie was preparing for him.
Bill handed him back the leather book.
‘I’ll show you out,’ said Sturzaker and got up from his chair.
‘Will we see you in the pub, while you’re here, John?’ said Jackie. ‘You and your wife?’
‘He’s not stopping,’ said Dadda, and took me out into the hall.
Another couple of dogs squirmed past us and started barking for food.
‘Jesus, Ken,’ said Jackie, pushing the smallest one away. ‘I won’t be stopping much longer here myself at this rate. Can’t you get rid of these bloody things?’
Sturzaker cut her off by closing the door with his foot.
‘Sorry you had a wasted trip, lads,’ he said.
‘It weren’t wasted,’ said Bill. ‘I said I wanted to look you in the eyes, and I’ve done that.’
‘And what did you see?’
‘That you had summat to do with it.’
‘Is that right?’ said Sturzaker, unlatching the front door. ‘You want your eyes testing, then.’
‘Listen,’ said Bill, his voice low now that we were standing in the street. ‘If owt else happens in the Endlands, I’ll be back down here before you know what’s fuckin’ hit you.’
Sturzaker smiled and shook the dregs of his tea out on to the steps.
‘You ever heard of a bloke called Dent?’ he said.
‘No, we haven’t,’ said Dadda, trying to encourage Bill to come away.
‘Dent?’ said Bill. ‘Who’s Dent?’
‘Paul Dent,’ said Sturzaker. ‘Liberace, they call him.’
‘Pouf, is he?’ said Bill.
‘Because of all the rings he wears,’ said Sturzaker. ‘One on each finger.’
‘Sounds like a pouf to me,’ said Bill.
‘Well, I wouldn’t like to call him that,’ said Sturzaker. ‘You can’t mention his name in a Burnley pub without someone shitting themselves. Proper nasty fucker, he is. You must have read about them two kiddies. The rumour I’ve heard is it were his dogs that were set on them. Their daddy owed him money, apparently.’
Bill looked at him.
‘No?’ said Sturzaker. ‘I’m surprised you don’t know him, Bill, to be honest, the circles your Jeff moves in. Who does he work for now?’
‘The brewery,’ said Bill. ‘You know he does.’
‘Aye, that’s his job,’ said Sturzaker. ‘I’m asking you who he works for. Or hasn’t he told you? Mind you, best his mam doesn’t know, I suppose.’
‘Why are you telling me about this Dent?’ said Bill.
‘I’ve heard he’s looking for a Tranny van that’s gone missing,’ said Sturzaker.
‘You’ve heard how?’ said Dadda.
‘Through the lads at work,’ said Sturzaker. ‘A few of them come from over that way. You know how it is. A mate overhears summat and he tells his mate and he tells someone else.’
‘And you listen to gossip, do you?’ said Bill.
‘Not usually,’ said Sturzaker. ‘They talk a load of bollocks at our place most of the time. But then I remembered seeing a van come past the house one night a few month back and head down your way.’
‘So?’ said Bill.
‘The thing is,’ said Sturzaker. ‘I didn’t see it come back.’
‘I think it’s you that wants his eyes testing,’ said Bill, and finally conceded to Dadda’s hand on his arm.
‘I’ve not said owt to anyone yet,’ said Sturzaker. ‘I just thought I’d ask you lads what you knew about it first. I mean, I wouldn’t want someone like Dent paying you a visit if he didn’t have to.’
Before we got into the truck, he called to us across the street.
‘Sorry about your dog, Bill. I hope you find the bastards,’ he said.
Bill said nothing as we drove out of the village, leaving Dadda to explain that Sturzaker was right. He would have seen a van come through Underclough. The blue Transit van that the boy had intended to fill with stolen lambs.
In the pitch dark of the early morning, he’d left it on the lane and walked the last hundred yards to the farm so as not to wake anyone with the noise of the engine. He’d had a few meat bones to keep the dogs quiet too. But that was about as far as his expertise went.
>
‘I think it must have been the first time he’d come robbing sheep in his life,’ said Dadda. ‘They were all over the yard when the Gaffer went out.’
‘And the van belonged to this Dent?’ I said.
‘Christ,’ said Bill. ‘We don’t want someone like that turning up, Tom.’
‘I thought you said he sounded like a pouf?’ said Dadda.
‘What if he comes poking about in the Wood?’ said Bill.
‘And what if he does?’ said Dadda. ‘He’s not going to find owt, is he?’
‘Even so.’
‘I don’t think Sturzaker will say anything to him,’ I said. ‘He’s enjoying all this too much.’
This Dent was his trump card and to play it on a whim would spoil the pleasure he’d get from keeping us on edge.
‘I think Sturzaker’s told him already,’ said Bill.
‘Don’t talk daft,’ said Dadda.
‘Well, if it weren’t Vinny that set fire to the Wood or killed our Douglas then perhaps it were Dent.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Dadda.
‘You heard what Sturzaker said,’ Bill replied, as we passed the war memorial and came into the Wood. ‘If Dent set his dogs on those little kids in Burnley, then burning down trees would be nowt.’
‘If he had summat to say to us,’ said Dadda, ‘why wouldn’t he just come and knock on the farmhouse door?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ said Bill. ‘They’re twisted in the fuckin’ head, blokes like that.’
‘I can’t see it,’ said Dadda.
‘Well, someone’s been to the Endlands,’ said Bill. ‘You can’t deny that, Tom.’
‘What happened to it?’ I said. ‘The van.’
Dadda lit his roll-up and put his eyes on the lane.
‘We burned it,’ he said. ‘And then we pushed it into the Moss.’
Bill shook his head. ‘Fuckin’ hell, Tom,’ he said. ‘What were he thinking, the Gaffer? Couldn’t you have stopped him?’
But he knew that there was nothing Dadda could have done. By the time the gunshot had woken him up, it was all over and the boy was lying dead in the bye-field.
‘Not a word when we get back,’ said Bill. ‘All this about Dent stays between the three of us, all right? I can do without Laurel wringing her bloody hands every hour of the day.’
‘Course,’ said Dadda.
‘And your lass definitely doesn’t need to know, John,’ said Bill.
‘Agreed,’ I said.
‘Have you spoken to her this morning?’ said Bill.
‘She didn’t say much,’ I said. ‘She’s just trying to take it all in.’
‘What will she do?’ said Dadda. ‘Will she say owt?’
‘I don’t think she knows what she’s going to do,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to give her some time.’
‘We need to know,’ said Bill. ‘What if she decides she’s going to tell someone?’
‘You should have thought of that before you opened your mouth,’ said Dadda. ‘If you’d let me speak to John first, she wouldn’t have needed to know at all, would she?’
‘Bollocks,’ said Bill. ‘You wouldn’t have told John a damn thing unless we’d made you.’
‘Aye, well, perhaps that wouldn’t have been so bad either,’ said Dadda.
‘The lad had to know,’ said Bill.
‘I’m glad I do,’ I said.
‘See?’ said Bill.
‘You tell your lass to pack up her things,’ said Dadda. ‘I’ll take you both to the station this afternoon.’
‘I thought you wanted some help in the Wood today?’ I said.
‘We do,’ said Bill.
‘We can manage on our own,’ said Dadda.
‘And what about Gathering?’ I said.
‘You just get yourselves home,’ said Dadda.
‘For Christ’s sake, Tom, this is his home,’ said Bill. ‘If our Jeff can float back here whenever he wants, I don’t see why John can’t stay. Let him work if that’s what he wants to do.’
Dadda took another drag of his roll-up and looked out of the window.
∾
It had always been like that for Jeff. Always welcomed back. No questions asked. Indiscretions forgotten, as an adult and as a child. In Laurel’s eyes he was always taken advantage of, easily led because he was so trusting.
The summer I’d left primary school, Jeff had spent more and more time down in the village with Sam and Monkey and Jason, breaking windows at Arncliffe’s and learning how to pocket things in Wigton’s when no one was looking. Perhaps such things were initiations, I don’t know, but a few weeks into the summer holidays and he seemed to have become a fully-fledged member of their little cabal.
One afternoon, the four of them came thrashing through the bracken in the Greenhollow, following Lennie, making bird calls and baboon shrieks.
‘Is this where you’ve been going all this time then, Thunderbelly?’ said Sam, staring at him with his large eyes.
‘You been meeting a lass down here?’ said Jason.
‘Is it Irene Dewhurst?’ said Jeff. ‘Does she give you a fishy finger?’
Monkey laughed as he picked his nose.
‘Is this where you saw the ghost?’ said Sam.
‘I didn’t see a ghost,’ said Lennie. ‘I said there were someone watching me.’
‘Who were it?’ said Sam, looking around but not seeing me, of course, sitting cross-legged behind the willow branches.
‘Were it the Devil?’ said Jason and Monkey laughed again.
‘Aye,’ said Sam. ‘Is that who it were, Blubber?’
‘He lives in the Wood, doesn’t he?’ said Jason.
‘Aye,’ said Sam.
‘No he doesn’t,’ said Lennie. ‘The Devil lives on the moors. Doesn’t he, Dyer?’
‘That’s just an owd story his lot tell their little lads,’ said Sam. ‘Isn’t it, Jeff?’
‘Aye,’ said Jeff. ‘This is where he really lives. He jumps from one animal to another so he can’t be caught.’
‘What animals?’ said Lennie.
‘Birds and rabbits and that,’ said Sam. ‘Whatever’s here.’
‘Aye, right,’ said Lennie. ‘You’re talking bollocks, the lot of you.’
‘Sometimes,’ said Jeff, ‘he’ll jump into people too, if they stay down here long enough. That’s right, isn’t it, lads?’
‘Aye,’ said Jason.
‘Aye,’ said Monkey.
‘And you have to look in their eyes,’ said Sam. ‘That’s how you know if they have the Devil inside them.’
He clamped Lennie’s face and stared at him.
‘Is he in there?’ said Jason.
‘Aye, look,’ said Sam and twisted Lennie’s head so that the others could see.
‘Those are his eyes,’ said Jeff.
‘Oh aye,’ said Jason. ‘That’s the Owd Feller for definite.’
‘Piss off,’ said Lennie and pushed Sam’s hands away and then Monkey started them off shouting Devil, Devil, Devil.
Lennie shoved each of them in the chest as they closed in and they laughed.
‘We have to get him out,’ said Sam. ‘We can’t let him into our house. We have to put him in the river. Then he’ll jump into one of the fishes instead.’
‘Leave me alone,’ Lennie said, and when he tried to duck under Sam’s arm, Monkey and Jeff caught him and dragged him down to the mud and shingle. His cries as he twisted and kicked sent the wood pigeons clapping away through the canopy. Chanting again, they pinned him down on his belly and Sam kicked water into his face. Lennie spat and choked, while Monkey and Jason held his hands and Jeff knelt on his back.
‘That’s it,’ said Sam. ‘Spit him out.’
‘Put his face under,’ said Jeff and they edged Lennie forward and Sam pressed his head into the running water.
Monkey laughed as Lennie convulsed and then came up opening and closing his mouth like a fish.
‘Has he gone yet?’ said Sam. ‘I don’t
think he’s gone yet, has he, lads?’
No, the Devil was still there. And so Sam gave him another opportunity to escape into the river. And then another.
When Sam was satisfied, he told the others to let his brother go and Lennie sat on the bank and began to cry.
‘Stop it,’ said Sam. ‘Stop wailing, you big fuckin’ baby.’
Lennie put his hands around the back of his head and told him to piss off again. And then Sam was on him, trying to prise his fingers apart, trying to get to his face with his fists. The others watched for a while and then, one by one, they went away.
I wanted to tell Lennie that it would all be over soon. That his story was so close to the end that I could hear the sand grains dropping in the hourglass. Those bruises from his brother’s fists, I wanted to say, would still be there when they buried him.
I wanted to tell him that I almost envied him too. Nothing much mattered now. There were so many things that he would never have to worry about. He was going to be spared so much.
∾
Back at the farm, Angela’s Hilux was parked near the hay barn and on the other side of the kitchen window I could see Liz filling the kettle at the sink. She lifted her hand when she saw us and Dadda went off to see if the ram had eaten any of the food he’d left for him that morning.
As soon as I knocked on the front door, Kat came to open it. I could tell that she’d been crying but she tried to cover it up. There’d been noises outside, she said. She couldn’t describe them now. The dogs had been barking at something, too. Yes, she knew that the door was locked and bolted, but even so, she’d been frightened. And then when Angela and the others had arrived that awful smell had come with them.
‘It’s Grace,’ she said. ‘She carries it with her, I’m sure of it.’
‘Come and sit down,’ I said. ‘You look like you’re going to be sick.’
It was nothing to do with Grace, of course. Kat was still shaken about what had happened back in the spring. All night she’d been up and down to the toilet, pulling on T-shirts and jumpers when she was cold, undressing again when she was too hot, opening the window, closing it, staring at the rafters while Dadda tinkered with something in the workshed. The others had their doubts about her, but I knew that she wouldn’t say anything. And she knew it too. That was why she was frightened. She hadn’t ever been trusted with so much before.
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