On the second nod – and completely without warning – the German sprang back with a loud yell. The horse took fright and reared up. Beede clung on, resolutely.
‘Hey, hey…’ he hissed (managing – rather miraculously – to rein in both the horse and his temper), ‘just calm down, Dory. She won’t hurt anybody. She’s worn out. Let’s try and hold this situation together, shall we?’
‘But I hate horses,’ the German whimpered, hugging himself, tightly (the way a frightened girl might), and gazing up at the horse with a look of sheer, unadulterated terror. ‘I absolutely…I…I loathe them…’
‘That’s fine,’ Beede interrupted, ‘I’ll lead the horse, see?’
Beede led the horse two steps forward. ‘The horse is fine. Everything’s fine. There’s no need to panic. Everything’s just fine here.’
But the German was still panicking. ‘Oh God,’ he wailed, ‘if I’ve lost the car they’ll sack me for sure. Then where will we be?’
‘You won’t have lost it,’ Beede said determinedly.
‘Why?’ He grew instantly suspicious. ‘How do you know? How can you be sure? Were you there?’
‘No. No, I was here,’ Beede pointed towards the French Connection, ‘I was in the restaurant. I was having a coffee with my son. My son is called Kane. He’s still inside, actually.’
As he pointed, Beede glanced over towards the window where Kane had stood previously. The window was empty. ‘Coffee?’ The German peered over towards the window, scowling – ‘Coffee?’ – but then something powerful suddenly seemed to strike him – a revelation – ‘But of course!’ he gasped. ‘Kaffee… kaff…kaff… Koffee. Coffee. I remember that. I know that. I know kaffee…’
He put a tentative – almost fearful – hand up to his own chin and gently explored it with the tips of his fingers. Then he smiled (it was a brilliant smile), then he gazed at Beede, almost in wonder.
‘Beede,’ he said, rolling the name around in his mouth like a boiled toffee. Then he clutched at his stomach (as if the memory had just jabbed him there), leaned sharply forward and took a quick, rasping gulp of air –
Oh God –
Oh God
Just to be…to be…to be…
He stared around him, quite amazed –
Where?
‘Of course,’ Beede smiled back, clearly relieved by this sudden show of progress (tastes and smells, he found, were often the key), ‘of course you remember…’
He placed a reassuring hand on to the German’s broad shoulder. ‘Now – deep breath, deep breath – are you ready? Shall we get the hell out of here?’
Kelly Broad was sitting on a high wall, chewing ferociously on a piece of celery. She was passably pretty and alarmingly thin with artificially tinted burgundy hair –
Because I’m worth it
Her face was hard (but with an enviable bone-structure), her ‘look’ was urban – hooded top (hood worn up), combat mini-skirt and a pair of modern, slightly scuffed, silver trainers (the kind astronauts wore – devoutly – whenever they went jogging above the atmosphere). No socks (not even the ones you could buy which made it look like you weren’t wearing any – the half-socks you got at JD Sports or Marks & Spencer).
Her legs were bare and white and goose-bumping prodigiously. But she didn’t feel the cold. She had bad circulation, weak bones (fractured both her wrists when she was nine in a bouncy-castle misadventure. Earned herself a tidy £3,000 in compensation, and the whole family got to spend three weeks in Newquay; her gran lived there), a penchant for laxatives and an Eating Disorder –
Might as well bring that straight up, eh?
Un,
Deux,
Trois…
Bleeeaa-urghhh!
Although her eating habits (if you wanted to get pedantic about it – and Kelly did, because she was) were ridiculously orderly (the Weight Watchers’ manual was her bible; she drew up a special weekly menu and stuck to it religiously, counted every calorie, took tiny mouthfuls, ate with tiny cutlery – just like Liz Hurley), so it wasn’t actually a problem, as such; more of a…a preference, really. She simply preferred her food fat-free. It was a Life-Style decision (the kind of thing they were always banging on about in magazines and on the telly), and so all perfectly legitimate (especially when your own mother was too big to cram herself into an average-size car-seat – used the disability section on the bus – belly arrived home seven seconds before her arse – hadn’t seen her toes since 1983 – Feet? They had their own fucking passports down there).
Kelly came from a bad family.
No. No. That was just too easy. They weren’t bad as such (no, not bad) so much as…as known…as familiar…as…as –
Notorious
That was it
And only locally. Only in Ashford –
Well…
– and maybe in Canterbury. And Gillingham (where her older sister Linda supported The Gills – I mean really supported them – with a fist-guard, business cards, a retractable-blade). And in parts of Folkestone. And Woodchurch. And some of those smaller places which didn’t really matter (except to the people living there).
In the local vicinity, basically. It wasn’t national or anything (no special reports on Crimewatch UK – aside from a small, pointless item on Network South East – November 2001. And that didn’t really count. It was probably just a quiet day – a craft fair had been rained off in Sheppey or something – and they had to fill up the time somehow, didn’t they? Yeah. So the Broads copped it again – Uncle Harvey; Dad’s oldest brother; the world’s shonkiest builder –
Blah blah).
Notorious.
Like the Notorious B.I.G. The rapper. That fat American dude who got shot –
Bang
– dead. And then they made a documentary about him. And she’d watched it. And they’d said that he was actually a really nice guy (underneath. But fat. Very fat. That was partly what he was famous for. That’s essentially what the BIG stood for). And his mamma loved him (which had to count for something). And when he died they made a tribute song for him. With Sting. And Puff Da – Di – Daddy.
Notorious.
Isn’t that what Ashford people –
Gossips
Wankers
– liked to call the Broads? Wasn’t that the word they preferred?
Kelly sniffed.
Did it have to be a negative?
Notorious?
As in train robber?
As in sex offender?
She pinched some pearlescent pink lipstick from the corners of her mouth.
I mean, wasn’t Mother Theresa notorious? A notorious saint? (Remember that thing Kane told her – about Mother Theresa not being a saint at all. About how Catholics always wanted to keep the poor people poor by making them have lots of kiddies. ‘Contraception murders love.’ That’s what he said she’d said –
Her mantra
Didn’t sound very saintly, huh?
– but he was laughing as he’d said it. Maybe he was just taking the fucking mick. Like always. The fucker.)
Hang on…who was that…that Russian geezer they’d called a prophet who actually had sex with just about everybody? And Boney M wrote a song called Ra-Ra-Rasputin all about his various pranks and everything?
Wasn’t he notorious (didn’t they mention it somewhere in the lyric?)? And when they shot him dead, didn’t he keep on getting up again? Like Freddie Kruger? Didn’t he just keep on rising? Like Jesus or something?
Don’t remember Mother Theresa pullin’ any stunts like that –
An’ if she did the papers would’ve been full of it, ’cuz Kane says The Pope owns the media –
Or is that the Mafia?
Uh…
Hold on a sec…
Did everybody notorious always end up getting wasted?
Couldn’t you be something plain and simple like a notorious doctor (if you hadn’t killed a patient? What about the bloke who created the first test-tube baby? Did he q
ualify?)? A notorious priest (if you hadn’t messed with a choirboy)? Could you be a notorious…a notorious sweetheart? Yes?
No. It didn’t sound right. A notorious flirt, maybe.
Kelly frowned and tucked in her skirt so the wind wouldn’t lift it and show off her thighs. It was a little short –
Should’a thought of that
– and the fabric was rather flimsy (for something supposedly military
– although she’d never yet seen anyone wearing a mini-skirt in a situation of mortal combat. Except for Lara Croft –
Tank Girl
That pretty cow in Alias…
– and she always did okay).
Kelly was sitting on a wall outside the Elwick Road Villas. It was a high wall facing a main road in Ashford’s town centre. Her brother, Jason, had taught her how to climb it (before they’d put him away. Joyriding. His thirteenth formal offence –
Aw…
Unlucky for some, eh?).
Jason always knew the best route and the shortest cut (it was a fancy wall, built from some kind of rock –
Limestone?
Granite?
– there were bits where you could find a hand-hold and a foot-hold. Where you could pull yourself up).
Kelly took another bite of her celery. A car honked its horn at her. She didn’t look towards it, merely raised her middle finger –
You twat
– and pulled her hood down lower.
Yeah. Notorious slut –
Stop thinkin’ about it
Jason was her middle brother. Jason Broad. Twenty-one last Thursday. Inside for three years solid. Served eight months already. Father of four (two different mothers). At school Billy Sloane – Sloaney – had called him queer; Jase broke his arm in three different places (the canteen, the corridor, the playing fields) and no one – but no one – could ever seriously question his masculinity after that.
Had a heart of gold. He really did. Always took care of her (once shat on the bonnet of the car of a teacher she hated –
Jap car –
Hyundai –
Mr Whitechapel –
Fuckin’ Northerner).
Jason was loyal –
Bottom line
– and you couldn’t put a price on loyalty (as her dad always used to say –
Before he ran off to Oldham with the daughter of that pig who ran the chippie…
To get the police involved!
She was sixteen next birthday – and a slag – everybody knew it
The whole family had been barred from the shop, after –
Dad’s legacy –
I mean we were hurtin’ too, weren’t we?
No decent chippie within a 2-mile radius…
– until Jason finally put the wind up them, and they moved to Derby.
The new people were definitely much better – better batter, her mum said; crispier. And they were cheaper –
Didn’t have no teenage kids –
Not that it really mattered any more, now Dad was out of the picture).
Nope. You couldn’t put a price on loyalty. Kelly cleared her throat (the celery was rather stringy) –
I’ll say as much to Beede when the bugger finally gets here…
‘Excuse me.’
Kelly frowned.
‘Excuse me.’
She glanced up. A young woman was standing to her left, next to the entrance gate. She looked vaguely familiar.
‘What?’
‘Are these your dogs?’
The woman indicated, haughtily, towards two large lurchers which were collapsed on the pavement directly in front of her. Kelly gazed at the two dogs, blankly.
‘Nope,’ she eventually volunteered, ‘strictly speakin’ they’re my dad’s.’
She smirked as she spoke (perhaps a little provocatively). The woman didn’t smile back. She was youngish –
ish
– and quite pretty. Black, with scruffy, nappy, mid-length hair (pushed back from her face by an alice-band, no earrings, no make-up). Square glasses. Arty frames. Dressed like a virgin –
Or Tracy fuckin’ Chapman
Corduroy jacket, grey polo-neck…
Jeans by fuckin’ Pepe or something
Kelly coolly surveyed her body –
Hmmn…
Junk in her trunk
But no spare tyre
The woman scowled. ‘Well could you get them to move for me?’ ‘Why?’ Kelly shot back. ‘You too good to step over ‘em?’
The woman placed her hands on to her hips (Yup. She was class – smart but bolshy – and Kelly could respect that). ‘Of course not,’ she snapped, ‘I just don’t want to stand on them.’
‘They gets stood on all the time at home, mate,’ Kelly dead panned, ‘so don’t you worry yourself, okay?’
She turned her head and gazed up the road. Counted to three. Over the sound of the traffic she could hear one of the dogs growling. Yeah. Right on cue. That was Bud.
‘Excuse me.’
Kelly didn’t turn back straight away.
‘Excuse me.’
She turned and mugged surprise. ‘Man, you still there?’
‘One of your dogs just growled at me.’
‘No!’ Kelly gasped, throwing up her hands in mock-alarm (then plunging them straight back down again as she wobbled on the wall).
‘Did he really?’
‘Yeah. He did. And I’m in no mood for getting bitten, so would you ask them to sodding move, please?’
On ‘move’ Kelly threw her celery over her shoulder (finally engaging fully), pushed her hood back and pointed emphatically. ‘You know what kind of an animal that is?’
The woman folded her arms, boredly. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Well tell me.’
‘It’s a lurcher.’
Kelly nodded. ‘That’s it. A Long Dog. A workin’ dog. My dad used to go coursin’ with ‘em down on the Marshes…’
The woman looked disapproving (but only mildly). Kelly shrugged. ‘Not any more, though. We got five of ‘em at home altogether. My dad’s up in Oldham. My poor mum has to look after ‘em. Costs her a small fuckin’ fortune, it does.’
The woman surveyed the animals, coldly. ‘Well it’s pretty hard to see what she’s spending her money on.’
Kelly straightened her back –
Hoity!
– ‘It’s just old age as makes their ribs stand up like that,’ she explained patiently. ‘Soon as they eat anythin’ they shit it right out again. Only thing different is it ain’t in a can.’
As if on cue, one of the lurchers stood up, stretched stiffly, tottered (Kelly’s rival snorted, under her breath), farted (she winced), put its nose to the pavement, located a scent, and staggered off in pursuit of it. The woman immediately took her chance; leaned boldly across the second animal and shoved the gate – the second dog didn’t object – but the gate was locked.
‘Bollocks.’
Kelly’s eyebrows rose –
Get her
‘So what the hell,’ she asked smugly, ‘d’you think I’m sittin’ up here for?’
The woman didn’t answer. She pressed the intercom.
Kelly sighed, piously. ‘Intercom’s broke. They’re fixin’ it. That’s why the gates are locked.’
She pressed it again, anyway.
‘If you wanna get in you’ll need a key.’
Without warning, the woman kicked out her right foot and booted the wall with it. ‘I’m meant to be visiting somebody,’ she snarled. Then she winced as her toe registered the full impact of the attack.
‘Feel better now?’ Kelly asked, plainly delighted by this flagrant loss of composure.
The woman half-smiled to herself (embarrassed – but she was cute when she smiled). ‘No. I don’t, actually.’
The smile gradually expanded into an apologetic smirk.
‘Ring ‘em,’ Kelly offered constructively.
‘Can’t. Haven’t got my phone on me.’<
br />
Kelly removed her own phone from her pocket.
‘What’s the number?’
‘Don’t know off-hand.’
‘Oh.’
Kelly put her phone away again.
The woman glanced up, remembering her manners. ‘But thanks, anyway,’ she murmured.
Kelly graciously tipped her head, then peered over towards the Villas. There were eight of them; grand; free-standing; Victorian. For the most part converted into flats – or ‘apartments’ as the twatty local Estate Agents liked to have it.
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