So, as they sat amongst the breakfast debris, Bill told Sid the true state of affairs with Skates, and Lucy told him how she fitted in. Sid had always known there was more to the story than he had been told and that Bill would put him in the picture when the time was right, but when he heard what had been done to Bess, his face darkened and his knuckles whitened on the mug in his hand.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘if there is anything I can do, you got it, right?’ And that was it. Bill went off to make final preparations for the pole saw to be set up in the workshop, and Lucy helped Sid unload the van. Lucy was impressed that Sid had been able to create a device out of elastic bungee rope and a few metal bars that would take half the effort of a traditional lathe but deliver the same sort of results, and it was fascinating to watch him set it up.
During one of Sid’s many cigarette breaks that morning, Lucy told him just how ill Bill really was. Sid shook his head at this news, saddened but certainly not surprised. To cheer her up, he recounted a few of the things he and Bill had got up to over the years. These made her laugh and like him all the more. It was obvious to her that he held Bill in high regard, and she looked forward to hearing more of their history of combined naughtiness.
After lunch, Sid wandered off for a smoke while Lucy cleaned up and Bill took his midday pills. A little while later Bill was just walking back towards the workshop when he heard a strangled scream. He thought it came from outside the yard, but somewhere fairly nearby. Running down the passage between the barn and the cart shed, he hurried through the meadow gate, then stopped to try and see what was making the noise and where. He was afraid it might be someone pinned under a tractor or one of the many other rural opportunities for serious injury, but then he saw what it was. It was Sid hammering a man against a tree.
They were at the edge of the field, not far from where Bill was standing, and the man was no longer screaming, but each time he hit the tree, he made a sort of shrill bubbling sound.
When Bill came panting up, he saw that Sid was holding a large, well-muscled man dressed in camouflage jacket and trousers who had a really nasty bruise already coming up on his greasy forehead. Blood was running from his nose down the front of his jacket. He was stubble-headed and had a round, coarse, blubbery sort of face. Glancing down, Bill saw a long, nasty-looking hunting knife shining in the grass at Sid’s feet. Nearby was a large and very new-looking pair of binoculars.
‘This stupid bastard pulled a fucking knife on me!’ said Sid indignantly.
‘Didn’t,’ said the man, trying to squirm free.
‘Yes. You. Fucking. Did,’ said Sid, each word accompanied by another thump against the oak tree.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked Bill.
‘Bird watching,’ said the man. ‘I’m a bird watcher. I got permission, you know.’
Suddenly, Sid let the man down. Stepping back and adopting a more conciliatory tone of voice, Sid asked, ‘Oh, was you looking for the black-winged woodpecker we’re famous for in these parts?’
The man nodded his head vigorously in agreement. ‘Yes, that’s the one. Very rare in the rest of the country.’
Sid’s right arm, moving at tremendous speed and with a remorseless attention to detail, punched the man in the pit of his stomach. He folded over at Sid’s feet.
‘Prat,’ said Sid. ‘No such fucking bird. Now, why are you here?’
‘Never mind,’ said Bill in a tired voice, ‘I know.’
Reaching down, he picked up the expensive binoculars and smashed them against the trunk of the tree just inches above the man’s head.
‘Tell Skates if he sends any more of his little thugs here he won’t get them or his fucking chairs back in one piece. Understood?’
The man said nothing, but was obviously glad to be let go. Holding his stomach and dripping blood, he hobbled away as best he could. He didn’t even look back.
Lucy had heard the commotion and got the shotgun, but had waited out of sight, holding Clive by his collar. When Bill and Sid walked back into the yard, she ran up to them and, seeing the red mark on Sid’s forehead where he had administered a ‘Glasgow kiss’ to Mr Peeping Git, took him into the kitchen to administer a bit of TLC to her new hero. Sid shrugged it off but quite liked the unaccustomed attention.
Bill got out a whisky bottle from the dresser. Not bothering with glasses, the two men drank a goodly drop from their tea mugs. Sitting there, the excitement ebbing away, Sid examined the shotgun. Breaking it open, he extracted the two cartridges with a theatrical ‘tut-tut’ and put the gun on the table in front of him. After another slug of whiskey, Bill went to the phone and called Skates’s number. After a short while the telephone was answered by a voice Bill didn’t recognise.
‘Mr Skates, please,’ he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral. ‘He’s not here,’ was the reply.
‘When will he be back?’
‘Who’s calling?’
This is like verbal fucking ping-pong, thought Bill.
‘An old friend,’ said Bill, and suddenly realized the voice was Warren’s, so he continued. ‘Was that fucking idiot in the camouflage jacket Skates’s idea or something you thought up in your own tiny, pox-infested brain?’
No reply, just a bit of heavy breathing, so Bill went on.
‘Well he’s not a happy little twitcher now, I can tell you. Ran into a mate of mine who had been doing a bit of welding on my van. Silly bastard tried to frighten him with a fucking great knife. Not a good move, that.’
A grunt and then silence.
‘So Skates is away and this is your own bit of arse-licking initiative, is it? You trying to think like a grownup, you dumb, muscle-bound fuckwit?’
‘You do what Mr Skates wants or you’ll have the same as your fucking dog,’ was the reply.
‘I’ll do what I want,’ said Bill. ‘And what I want is to get on with these chairs without a lot of stupid interruptions, get my fucking money, and have you piss off back up Skates’s fundament. But if I see a shiny black motorbike or any more camouflaged twats around my place I will burn those fucking chairs and take my chances.’
Bill slammed down the phone and turned around to a sudden burst of applause from Lucy and Sid.
‘All right,’ he said, smiling, ‘back to work, you two.’
Finally, the lathe was up and tested, all the arms had been cut with Sid’s help, and the two long back timbers for the new chair were ready to shape. Having both Sid and Lucy really made the job a lot quicker and easier for Bill. Sid knew his way around wood a bit, and machinery even more. Lucy was organised and had sorted the timbers out to size so they were ready to be coarse-trimmed, and Bill was there, out of the dust, fussing it all through.
Lucy invited Sid to stay for supper; he was delighted to accept as he lived on his own and his meals were usually from a tin or a microwave packet. That evening, Lucy fed them the mother of all beef stews, full of vegetables and crowned with huge, fluffy dumplings. Bill had not eaten so much in weeks, and Sid not eaten so well in years. This was followed by an apple pie of heroic proportions with a whole jug of custard.
Bill got out some cider for himself and Sid, and Lucy opened a bottle of wine. The men sat back in their chairs, replete and content. Bill had not felt so well in an age. He could see the way forward now, for a bit anyway.
When the table was cleared, Sid rolled a cigarette, Bill lit his pipe, and no sign of reproach crossed Lucy’s face. It was too good an evening. Bill said how much he appreciated Sid’s help and what a difference it had made, and Lucy agreed, adding that, without Sid, there could really have been a problem with the snooper in the field. Sid shrugged it off, but it was true and he knew it.
Then Bill got out the huge flagon of applejack and carefully removed the wax seal from around the cork bung. Putting an empty whisky bottle next to it, he had Lucy hold a large copper funnel while he carefully decanted some of the liquid into the bottle.
It had a pale yellow tint and a peculiar fragrance of apples with j
ust a hint of turpentine.
‘Christ, is that old Jimmer’s horizontal fluid?’ asked Sid, with awe in his voice.
‘The same,’ said Bill, ‘the very same.’
‘Horizontal fluid?’ asked Lucy, looking down into the copper funnel, the inside of which was now much brighter than it had been. ‘I thought you said it was applejack.’
‘Oh yes,’ chuckled Bill. ‘You drink too much of that particular applejack and you’ll be horizontal, all right.’
‘Possibly even permanently,’ added Sid.
Bill got out some tiny glasses from which they all took small sips. Lucy coughed, her eyes watered, and as the liquid burned down her throat, she knew she wanted no more. It was getting late and she was tired. It surprised her that Bill was staying up so long, and then she realized he must have something he wanted to discuss privately with Sid.
Sid had drunk too much to drive home safely, much less legally, so Lucy made up a bed for him in the spare room, reminded Bill to take his medication, and bid them both goodnight. After she had climbed the stairs, Bill asked Sid about the ammunition. Sid went out to his van, came back, and put a small brown cardboard box on the table in front of Bill. The faded green lettering on the top said ‘24 Cartridges Revolver .455 DCM’ and there was also a date stamp: August 1942.
Opening it up, Bill poured the cartridges onto the table. The lead bullets were a dull, dark grey and the brass cartridges stained by time, but despite their age, they still looked usable. He walked over to the dresser, opened one of its bottom drawers, and pulled a locked wooden box from deep within it. Back at the table, he unlocked the box and took from it an ungainly shape wrapped in an oily cloth. It made a dull thump as he placed it in front of him. He pulled away the cloth, and a huge, ancient army revolver gleamed dully in the soft light of the kitchen. It had a proof mark for 1917 stamped on it, but it was oiled, cleaned, and still obviously in working condition.
Bill released a catch on the side, and the revolver split open to reveal the empty chambers in the cylinder. He picked a round up from the table and slid it into a chamber. It fit perfectly. Then another and another, until all six cylinders were loaded, and he closed the gun with a metallic click.
‘That’s lucky,’ he said. ‘I was afraid they wouldn’t be the right size.’
‘I don’t know about lucky,’ said Sid, then added impatiently, ‘Give it here, you’re like a cow with a gun.’ He laughed at the unintended joke. ‘You ever fire one of these?’ he asked Bill, standing up. Holding the gun in a practised hand, he pointed it at the floor, testing its balance and weight. ‘No,’ said Bill.
‘I have. Lots. Not as big as this; ours were all modern, only thirty-eights, but the principle’s the same.’
He held the revolver up, his arm straight out in front of him, then changed to holding the heavy gun in both hands, the right hand holding the large butt, index finger along the trigger guard, his left hand supporting his right from underneath.
‘Unless you get close, really close, you won’t hit a barn door with this. I couldn’t, and I’ve been trained.’
He broke the gun, extracted the bullets, closed it again, and put it down on the table. Then he rolled a cigarette.
‘How about I show you what I mean another time, when we’re were both completely sober?’
Bill nodded. Suddenly he felt completely exhausted. Somehow having this gun out from hiding and with ammunition to hand was more unsettling than reassuring. For a start, what would Lucy make of it? Shotguns for intruders were one thing, but this? This had to do with an end game that seemed barely real even to him.
Chapter 30
SATURDAY–SUNDAY, 13–14 OCTOBER
The next morning Bill repeated how grateful he was to Sid for all his help and asked how much he owed him. Sid finished chewing a mouthful of bacon sandwich from which dark brown sauce dripped, adding another bit of gastronomic history to the front of his dungarees.
‘Fuck all!’ he said finally, with a wink at Lucy. ‘Sweet fuck all!’ But neither Bill nor Lucy were having any of that. Bill took out an envelope he had prepared earlier. Sid was a good mate, but even so it was right to pay him properly for his work. He placed the envelope on the table in front of him and sat back.
Sid looked inside.
‘Hey, there’s real money in here, you daft bugger. Notes with big numbers on!’
‘Two hundred and fifty pounds,’ said Bill. ‘And when we need you again, there’s more. That and the rest of the bottle,’ he said, indicating the applejack, of which only a small amount had been drunk.
‘I’ll pass on that, thank you,’ said Sid with a brief shudder, grateful for Lucy’s offer of paracetamol first thing that morning.
‘Anything else I can do?’ he asked.
Lucy was at the stove with her back to them, and he made a sign with two fingers like a gun at Bill.
‘Not right now,’ said Bill, who had hidden the firearm and ammunition away in his bedroom the previous night. ‘But I’ll let you know when there is.’
‘Any time,’ said Sid. He got up, went over and gave Lucy a peck on the cheek, then walked out into the yard. Bill followed him out, and as Sid climbed into the driver’s seat of his transit van, he looked down at Bill and said, ‘You take care, mate. We might have scared your little chum away for now, but in the end… well, in the end …’ He made the sign of a gun again, only this time he mimed the gun firing.
‘Thanks,’ said Bill. ‘I’d have been a bit buggered without your help. I owe you one.’
Sid closed the door and wound down the window. ‘Nah, whatgoes around comes around, and it was just my turn to be around for you. Say, you know what I’d do if I was you? I’d call the Dawlish brothers and tell them you’ve seen strangers on their land. Maybe even plant a few feathers in the hedgerows for his gamekeeper to find, eh?’
‘Sid, you’re a bloody genius,’ said Bill, and he meant it. Sid laughed. ‘Been telling you that for years!’
And with a cloud of black diesel smoke, the old van pulled away. Bill closed the gate after him, then walked back into the kitchen and told Lucy about Sid’s idea.
‘The land ’round mine is owned by two brothers who really like their shooting, and they get seriously pissed off if anyone poaches their game. Anyone they catch would be lucky to just be handed over to the police. The lads are a little old-fashioned in their ways,’ said Bill, smiling grimly at the thought of the beating Warren or his minion would get if they were found by the brothers or any of their men.
They went to a local butcher who sold game and bought a brace of pheasant, then walked the meadow around Bill’s house. They left a wing and some tail feathers tucked in the spot where their last illicit visitor had lurked, and Bill identified a couple of other places that could be usefully spiked. Then he phoned Hugh, one of the brothers who owned the land, to say he had seen what he took to be poachers. Hugh sent his head gamekeeper, Garry, over to investigate, and when Garry saw the planted evidence he took it for what it might have been. This field was away from the main farm and only got shot over at the end of the season, but Garry said he would look by now and again, just to keep an eye out.
Bill knew that was as good as he could hope for. Between Miss Templeton keeping an eye on things with her powerful binoculars and Garry putting these fields on his watch list, he felt they were a bit more secure and could turn their attention back to the chairs.
With all the wood cut, the shaping and such surface carving as there was to do took the best part of two days. The hardest part was cutting the mortise and tenon joints. Only Bill could do this, but they were second nature to him, and he used his antique chisels only on the last finish, which saved time and effort.
He and Lucy had fun with the pole lathe. Sid had done a tremendous job of adapting the medieval construction of the machine to something that gave the same result with a fraction of the physical effort.
‘This sort of kit was used for donkey’s years,’ Bill told Lucy. ‘Those Win
dsor chairs in the kitchen you like so much were turned out by bodgers over a hundred years ago. Same bit of kit, same technique, same cut lines on the wood.’
Bill had boxed a bit clever by rough-shaping all the turned areas in the chairs’ arms and legs on his big lathe. This used different turning tools, but it was much more efficient and started with a big green button rather than a wobbly leg with dodgy knees. It was only the final finish he had to do with the pole lathe, but that alone took a whole day.
And then there was the carved chair back to collect from Eric. Bill had a bad feeling about that – not to do with the quality of the carving, but with Eric’s strange behaviour.
He phoned him on Saturday morning and Eric said, yes, the back was ready and Bill could collect it any time he liked, just phone first and, of course, bring the money. There was no hint of Eric raising the ante, but Bill didn’t think there would be until he was in the man’ workshop with the finished piece in front of him. ‘What worries me,’ he told Lucy, ‘is that Eric is no fool. The little shit will have some way of protecting himself. I doubt it will be a minder; that would cost money and besides, minders can become keepers if they feel so inclined.’
‘But isn’t that what he’s got his vicious dogs for?’ asked Lucy. ‘I remember Skates having dealings with some very unsavoury characters who didn’t needs guns because they had these damn great attack dogs frothing at the mouth instead. All they had to do was take off the muzzles and point the horrible things. Even Warren was afraid of them.’
‘Was he?’ mused Bill. ‘Then perhaps he ought to come with me when I collect the panels.’
At first Lucy was appalled at the idea of having any more contact with Warren or Skates than they had to, but Bill eventually brought her around to the idea.
‘I don’t have the strength to put the fear of God into Eric myself anymore,’ he said. ‘I may as well use Warren for that.’
‘Oh well,’ said Lucy, ‘with any luck, he’ll get his throat torn out while you’re there.’
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