by James Clarke
“Oh, what bloody jobs?”
Asa grabbed what remained of Swarsby’s hair and used it to slam his face against the desk. Then he lifted him by the pyjama collar and cuffed him around the back of the head like he was some back-chatting kid.
Arthur had to break it up. Swarsby was bleating by then, stammering, confessing tearfully that a friend had taken advantage of his daughter. There was more dirt to come, he said. This Guiseley was worth a packet and likely to pay.
Arthur couldn’t breathe properly through the tights. He put his forehead against the politician’s and said “Like what? What you fuckin’ got?”
“I’m not sure! But why not chance me finding out? I need someone to come in with me as it is,” Swarsby said. “Keep me distant. No one will suspect you. I don’t even know who you are . . . We can split the money.”
“Fuck off,” said Asa.
Arthur flapped him quiet. “How much we talking?”
“Put it this way,” Swarsby said. “It’ll be a lot more than the three thousand you came here for today.”
A cessation then, one of those loaded moments where something you knew all about is revealed to someone else. Realising his lowballing had just been outed and certain Asa would take the news thick, Arthur reached for the cricket bat. The red and white Grey Nicholls sticker was vertical against his eye.
“Three thousand?” said Asa quietly. “An’ wi’ the bat now, Art, n’ all?”
“Listen, wait, hang on a tick!”
Asa snatched the keyboard from the desk, yanked it free of the computer, wire and all, and swung it broad as a plank at Arthur, who ducked. The keyboard caught Clive Swarsby in the temple, letters and numbers flying everywhere. Swarsby fell to the ground, pyjamas rucked at the shins and his stomach jiggling openly. Arthur stared at the scattered alphabet, the keys one to nine. At his feet was the number one, and above that fabled digit was an exclamation mark.
Oddly, that seemed to quieten things. Asa was shaking. He prodded Arthur in the shoulder, once, then stormed out of the room.
“Scanny!”
He didn’t stop. Fucking Moonface. You tried to do a guy a favour. Arthur went to help Swarsby up. The daft bugger was about to have a heart attack so Arthur passed him a tissue and let him dab himself.
“Let’s make call,” he said, patting Swarsby’s back. “This Guiseley. Get it over wi’.”
“We can’t. I need proof. Evidence. You need to give me until the election. I need more time.”
Summer had crawled on since then. Picket after protest, relentless. Police on your doorstep, stationed on the outskirts of the borough and all over Yorkshire. A bunch of clowns are supposed to be funny; this lot were far from it. Stop and search every day. The whinny and whine of their animals, the chug and fume of their engines, their sirens busy and your powdery breath visible now that August had puttered away.
The TUC talks had finished, with the NUM of course left high and dry, and as per fucking usual, the Labour party was nowhere to be seen. It was the seventies all over again. And while they were kissing Thatcher’s and Heseltine’s arses, Scargill and Mick McGahey could get in line to kiss Arthur’s too.
What a joke. The government were coming in hard, going after the union’s brass, persuading two blokes from Manton to take the NUM to court over what they’d have been told to say was an illegal ballot. This whole strike was illegal, according to Thatcher and her cronies. A helicopter had been chartered to serve a writ to Arthur Scargill at the Labour conference.
Rejoice, Maggie.
Rejoice.
It was a low blow going after the union’s brass, even a non-believer like Arthur could see that. So many families the NUM were supporting had nothing, really nothing, and the government still weren’t satisfied. Sons and husbands were getting their heads split open every morning, wives and daughters were supporting them and everybody else and people were still losing their bloody homes. No electric, no heating, having to pick loose coal-scraps from the spoil heaps to burn or flog any way you knew how. It wasn’t enough, no. Forcing folks back to work was the size of it. It was no wonder people were listening. In front of them was the Litten Path.
Arthur was almost halfway up it himself. His sulky wife had driven him a good way along. Shell was such a let-down. So she’d had a horrid do down in Sheffield – she’d been making out like she’d been born under a bad sign way before then. For Lawrence they had to make a go of it; she just wasn’t interested. Not in anything but herself. Every conversation Shell steered back to how she was feeling, the muck they’d been forced to eat for dinner that day, wondering what someone was saying about her in town. Arthur was constantly trying to make her feel better, cuddling her, kissing her and being told to leave off for his trouble. Give me a break. Gob full of catarrh. Carpeted into a strike you didn’t give a fuck about. It was like being back at school, being told to stand during the national fucking anthem. Told to shut up and say the Lord’s fucking Prayer. Arthur had never once kept his eyes shut during those incanted words. The teachers could try and make him as much as they liked, and they bloody well had done, but if the carrot hadn’t worked then why the hell should the stick?
Shell had done the yard recently, her little project, and that was something. Plus she was reading the books Arthur lent her. That was something, too. She’d started to come along on the visits to Lawrence as well, although reminders over how to behave were all she seemed capable of uttering. Don’t be out past curfew. Don’t do ’owt you shouldn’t. At least Arthur knew how to say sorry. At least he could relate to their angry son. He couldn’t understand why Shell had to be so damn pig-headed.
Or ignorant. As for another matter Shell hardly ever noticed the mounting Hate Mail, or was refusing to discuss it if she did. A one-track mind she had, a one-way street Arthur always had to be the one to do the reversing up. The only thing to grab Shell’s attention recently had been when he’d hinted at going back to work.
“You wouldn’t give in like that?” she’d said, the first true question she’d asked him in many weeks.
“I dunno.”
“Arthur?”
“I said, I dunno.”
“Whole of Litten’ll turn on us!”
That pretty face, so animated. She was lovely, Arthur couldn’t deny that, nor could he deny that the passion Shell brought to everything still got to him. He’d win her back, make her happy and get them out of this shithole once and for all, soon as he had the money. Maybe then Shell could be who she wanted. He’d given her a lengthy look then gone walking on the moor.
Autumn here we come. Sat on the settee with the lord of Threndle House, Arthur could almost hear his ancestors laughing. Clive fucking Swarsby still towed the smell of aftershave around. Spiced stuff, sort of like you got in Catholic churches when they swung the thurible. Sloshing that shit all over himself when he was supposed to be skint. Swarsby was just another liar. Lying is as much of a choice as cowardice.
“You’ve lost a few pounds, our kid,” said Arthur.
No reaction.
“Suit yourself.”
He lit a fag and smoked it though the scarf.
Swarsby dragged over the coffee table and dropped some papers on it. They were stapled together in the top left corner. “These might help,” he said, fixing Arthur with a flat stare. “Visual aids.”
Arthur tried to work out if he was being mocked, decided he was and logged the insult. “Let’s have at it then,” he said.
The first sheet was a photocopied image of the same thick-haired, heavy-set man as had been having dinner with Guiseley at the Savoy in the original set of photos.
“Recognise him?” Swarsby pointed at the face.
A gesture of agreement with the hands.
“This is our leverage.”
“Fat as fuck paddy.”
“Irishman is correct. It’s taken a w
hile but I can finally confirm that this is not the kind of individual our mutual friend should be meeting with.”
“Guiseley reckons he’s invincible,” said Arthur. “What did you say he is again – a flaming duke?”
“A baronet, a peer and arrogant with it.”
It paid to be underestimated. Arthur amped up the ee-ba-gum. “Lad’s spit of us father-in-law o’er Leeds way,” he said, examining the photograph theatrically.
“His name is Martin Doran. He’s an intermediary of the Irish Republican Army . . .”
Jesus. Arthur cricked his neck.
“Or one of their subsidiaries, I’m not sure. Either way, he’s been introduced to Guiseley by this gentleman, here.”
Swarsby flipped the page and revealed a picture of a little man who could easily have been a jockey. Name of Sheehan, Swarsby said. “But it’s Doran we’re interested in. He’s the one who’ll help us apply our squeeze.”
Squeeze. Prick thought he was in some spy story. Arthur could barely keep a straight face as he said, “Reight, what ah’ll do is ring him up and say I’m wise to him. I’ll go, listen, kid. How much is that peerage worth? Few bob or nay, fucking tell us.”
The expression on Swarsby’s face was priceless. Arthur cackled and punched the jumped-up little toad on the arm – he knew exactly where to aim to make it go dead – and waited for him to continue. The politician just cleared his throat. The two of them were stuck together now, Arthur knew, and there on the wall was that vein of subsidence. It reached the ceiling thanks to the empty ventricle of Brantford pit. The damage had travelled right the way here, cracked all the way through.
He spent the rest of the afternoon celebrating. You could rely on the veteran miners from the welfare to shout you an ale: men like Henry Evans, a former lampman, a pithy celebration of old bones in braces and a grandad shirt. In exchange for a pint all you had to do was listen to the stories, over-cooked as they were, tales of giving up the bacon and egg shift for the two till ten, dashing in for last orders and getting so hammered you missed your shift the next day and had to soot your face up to fool the wife as to where you’d been.
Arthur had stories of his own: nicking the keys to the steel case set in concrete and having away with the morphine, getting at the youngsters with some old shotfiring cable in the showers that time. But there were more pressing matters at hand: namely, how to explain away Skegness. When he felt himself getting too pissed he made himself scarce, gave a screw of tobacco up to Henry then went home to paper it over with Shell.
On the way back he stopped at the shop, stuffing a box of chocolates up his jumper while the girl behind the counter fetched him some fresh tobacco. It was late afternoon and already darkening.
He ate a peppermint before entering the lounge. “Here you are, pet,” he said. “Sorry I missed beach.”
Shell had been dozing on the settee. Arthur knelt by her side and handed over the chocolates. “I ended up last minute help for a mate who needed a lift wi’ a set of drawers,” he explained, taking Shell’s hand. Her wedding ring felt so loose. “The buggers turned out too big for the stairs. I had to take ’em apart. By the time I got to Wolton the coach had gone.”
Shell set the chocolates on the floor. “You’ll have stopped in the WMC then,” she said.
“Aye, popped us head in.”
Shell sat up, rubbing her face. “There weren’t time to leave a note. I left a message wi the barman. Did tha speak to him?”
“Aye, chap mentioned it. He were all right, actually. Decent fella.”
There was a long period of silence before Shell lay back down. “I’m tired, Arthur.”
“I said I were sorry, love.”
“Well in that case don’t worry about it.”
You just never knew when you were going to drop in the drink with her. Arthur stood. “Did tha least have a good time? Bit of a break, wasn’t it . . .”
“No I didn’t have a good time.”
“Well, what about Lawrence? You an’ him get chance to talk?”
“He didn’t turn up either.”
There went the last flutter of salvation. Arthur picked up the chocolates. “I’ll pop these on t’side for when you wake,” he said.
There was no talking to Shell when she was like this.
On the front step Arthur sucked down a flood of air. He could see the leaded windows, the gloom-obscured brick and pebbledash of the neighbouring houses, and of a sudden, a shape in the window opposite. It could have been a spectre formed by candlelight in the Cairns’ house. David Cairns, beckoning with his head.
Arthur knocked-on. He’d always had time for David, so when he was let into the lad’s house he tried not to show his dismay at the sight of the downstairs, which was completely empty of furniture save a deckchair in the front room.
David sat on the chair. An unlit Calor Gas camping stove stood in front of him on which a pan of spaghetti rested, a plastic fork buried in the slop. Circular beds of light ringed two or three patches of candles and piles and piles of letters were on the mantelpiece, under which some embers throbbed. Arthur could just make out what looked like a table leg protruding from the ash.
“Just you in?”
David nodded.
“Where’s Cherry and t’kids?”
“Left.”
“Anywhere nice?”
“Left, Art.”
“Oh.”
Arthur sat cross-legged on the carpet. David was a good ten years younger than him and had a boyish cow-lick and non-existent eyebrows, both of which were obscured by a woollen hat. David set the pan down, took his hat off and scratched his head. Some pictures the tots had drawn were in the kitchen, taped to the cupboard near where the fridge had been. He said, “Probably for best. Not fair on t’littluns, living like this.”
“Who knows, after all this is finished . . .” Arthur trailed off.
David looked like the food he’d just eaten was off and had been all along. He fixed his gaze on the subdued fire and said, “I were sorry to hear about Het.”
“What’s sack-head got to do wi’ anything?”
“If I’d known they’d go after him, I’d have doubled back.”
“What you on about?”
“You not heard about us getting stopped?” David said, staring at Arthur as if he’d grown a second head.
“Apparently not.”
David’s duffel coat was hiked around the stomach. He undid it, smoothed it, picked the pan up and started tucking into the spaghetti once more. Speaking through his mouthful, a cave of wet string, he said, “Spotted after curfew on us way to picket Braithwaite. Busted on us way back. Someone’s reported Het’s car – they had his details on file. He were arrested. Now he’s on bail.”
A crump is a shake in a bed of stone when a gap closes and you get an almighty bang in the earth above your head. Arthur had a similar feeling now. David was a bright lad who was after becoming a ventilation engineer one day. Perhaps he could explain it.
“All of yous lifted?”
“Just him. Got any cigs?” said David. “I’ve started again.” He gestured at the empty room as if to say, why not. Arthur handed over the tobacco.
“You’ve spoken to him?”
“Thought you might’ve.”
Arthur snorted. “Y’know what us two are like.”
“That I do,” said David. He seemed really to be searching for something as he put his tongue to the rolling paper and ran it along the gum. “Which is why I was surprised to see him on the coach to Skegness wi’ your missus earlier.”
And you’re very keen not to make eye contact, so very careful now you’ve let the pin out of the grenade, David. Arthur made disbelieving noises that felt false, even to him, as he began to pace the room. He might have known. Of course he knew. He had always known.
“Before Cherry w
ent to her mam’s,” David was saying, “she mentioned Shell and Het had been seeing a lot of each other. I been on picket more often than most, so hadn’t noticed . . . Course you knew.
“Anyway,” David continued, before Arthur could respond. “I were on coach, sat minding us own at back. I thought it’d clear us head, the day out. Sea breeze, like. Well them two got on, one after t’other. Side by side. They went off together on t’sand.”
“Reight.”
“Shell weren’t on t’bus back.”
This was the emptiest house Arthur had ever been in. He watched the smoke unfolding up the chimney.
“I’m losing the place, Art,” said David.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” replied Arthur, or at least that’s what he thought he’d said. He couldn’t be sure with his brain fizzing the way it was, the keening noise in his ears, sort of like the sound they played at night on TV when there were no more programmes to watch. He felt sick.
“Sure you seen ’em?”
“Well, I couldn’t reckon it up for definite, but I saw ’em side by side, getting all comfy, then they went off together. Like I said, only one of ’em were on t’coach home. I suppose I could have said summat on the way back, give Het chance to explain it away. I just couldn’t for some reason. Shell had her head on his shoulder all the way there. I thought it best I say summat, Art. If it were me I’d want to know.”
. . . A reckless spread of fern and gorse. A wolfhound emerging from the undergrowth with a conduit of blood trickling from its nose . . .
Arthur snapped awake, trying to catch his breath.
. . . The hound leaping off the mountain, a hen harrier trapped in its mouth. Through the beating hail the dog’s paws thumped the last of the burnt heather, pounding the Litten Path, the bird’s blood sizzling as it dripped on the ground . . .