Dovetail

by Bernard Pearson

‘Come here, love,’ he said, putting his arms around her and pulling her close. ‘I’m so sorry. I have been so bloody occupied with my own problems that I completely lost sight of yours.’

  Lucy sat back and rubbed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Bill –’ she started, but he cut her off.

  ‘You’ve nothing to be sorry for. It’s past time we talked about this. Now, as we know, we have two main problems: the chairs, and Skates and co. Both are solvable. You, my darling, just need to ponder on what you want to do after they are taken care of. If I work it right, we’ll have about sixteen thousand quid in cash from the chairs.’

  ‘Do you really think Skates will pay you the ten he still owes you? He won’t have to if he lets Warren loose on you.’

  ‘He will if I only deliver two chairs and tell him he won’t get the others until I’m paid the remaining ten grand. Oh, he’ll plan to have Warren get it back when he knocks me off, but he’ll give it to me, especially if I deliver the new chairs first and keep the really valuable ones back. I’ll tell him they’re wired up to be destroyed or something if I don’t get back to my workshop by a certain time.’

  ‘It sounds an awful risk to me,’ said Lucy. ‘You’ll be in their hands, not here. Will Skates even let you go?’

  ‘You are my ace in the hole, love. Neither Skates nor Warren knows I have an accomplice. They’ll assume they can get to me any time they want. One old man, sick and alone. That’ll make them careless.’

  Lucy still had her doubts, and if he was honest, Bill knew the plan still needed a bit of work, but that was tomorrow’s problem. What Lucy needed right now was a road she could travel, or at least a few options she could consider.

  ‘Okay, let’s move on. The job is done and I’m in a hospice. It won’t be for long, and the way I’ve been feeling of late, honest lass, I won’t be sorry.’

  Lucy’s eyes filled with tears again, and Bill leaned over to take her hand.

  ‘If I were a dog they’d have put me down weeks ago and you know it. So let’s look to the living: you, my love.’

  ‘Bill, the problem is I really don’t know what I want. I love it here, but without you it will be empty and lonely. But I don’t want to go back to London,’ she added with a shudder.

  ‘What about Dylan?’

  ‘Oh, no, he’s sweet and all that, but I really wouldn’t want to spend the rest of my life there.’ She gave him a weak smile.

  ‘Not with those loos.’

  ‘How about a holiday, then? Anywhere you fancy going?’

  This suggestion took Lucy by surprise. She had never given thought to a holiday; had never really had one since childhood, in fact. ‘What about Clive?’ she asked.

  Bill had a rude answer to that but managed to stop himself saying it in time. ‘A dog is no problem, depending where you go. You could take a trip somewhere in the UK that you’ve never been before. Better still, just outside it. How about Ireland? You could drive there, even with that daft animal.’ He could see she was intrigued by this idea. ‘A lovely part of the world,’ he went on, ‘You can do a bit of sightseeing, and it’s not as cold there as here. Wet, yes, but not really freezing. Nice, small hotels and pubs you can stay in. Great food and friendly people. I loved going there.’

  ‘What did you go there for?’

  ‘Irish silver and furniture. More silver than furniture, but if you do your homework right there are some great bargains to be had in some of the smaller towns that don’t get infested by tourists. You have a good eye, girl; you could buy a few pieces of nice silver and bring ’em back, sell ’em on. And look,’ he added. ‘Philip is going to need to move a bit of stuff from here in order to make space, and Sid will be flogging off what machinery in the workshop is worth anything, and he’ll need a bloody grown-up around, that’s for sure.’ Lucy felt slightly better. A holiday, then back here to review the situation, or at least a break away with time to plan her next move. It was a stopgap of an idea, but it was something to be going on with.

  Still holding Lucy’s hand, Bill looked her in the eye and said, ‘It will work out, my darling. We’ve got some shit to shovel between us, but it will work out. I promise.’

  They had done no work on the chairs that day; now it was too late and Bill was too tired. He phoned Sid to see if he was available for a couple or three days this week, and could he bring over a grain dryer if he had one? Sid said he would look into a grain dryer and, yes, he was available. Rat catching was quiet, and no one wanted any welding, not even his dodgy car dealers, so he would be there in the morning, bacon-sandwich time.

  After supper, Lucy asked about the man she had met in the fields that afternoon. Bill told her that Hugh and his brother Alan had inherited the farm from their father and had added to it and expanded it beyond recognition. Hugh was the older son and more of a true farmer than Alan, who had the business brains. Nice blokes, was Bill’s summing up of them, and good neighbours who loved the land they farmed.

  ‘Most people think Hugh is a confirmed bachelor, but the fact is he’s actually a widower. His wife died in a car crash not too long after they were married. Very tragic, that. She was pregnant with their first child. Ever since then he’s kept his head down and just focused on his farm.’

  Lucy looked shocked but said nothing, and the subject was dropped.

  When Bill went to bed that night, however, it struck him that Lucy had mentioned Hugh twice that day. Something might be made of that, he thought. Each of them had wounds the other might be able to help heal. He determined to sleep on it.

  Chapter 34

  TUESDAY–WEDNESDAY, 23–24 OCTOBER

  Sid returned early next morning and set to work demolishing the huge pile of bacon sarnies Lucy had got ready for him.

  It turned out he didn’t have a grain dryer that worked, which for some reason didn’t worry Bill at all; quite the opposite, in fact. He looked downright pleased when he said he would phone Hugh instead and ask to borrow his. After doing so, he went out into the yard where Sid and Lucy were slowly and methodically rubbing down the new chair with fine wire wool to soften its edges.

  Working outside was a real bonus, and thankfully the weather was kind. Cool but not cold, and blessedly dry. The rich colour of the old oak mirrored the colours of autumn all around them. Bill kept upwind so as not to breath in the dust, and occasionally suggested they do something here or a bit more there. Lucy could see he was a little frustrated, though, because his own hands were not on the job.

  She went inside to make yet another pot of tea. Those two seemed to swim in the stuff, but men who could be made happy with constant cups of tea and good, plain food were still a revelation to Lucy and not something she was ever likely to take for granted.

  When she was gone, Bill leaned over to Sid and asked him if he could lay his hands on a better shotgun than the one he had borrowed from Hugh. Sid nodded and asked if he wanted a legal or a special. Bill said he wasn’t bothered so long as it was deadly. Sid smiled and said he had just the thing and would bring it tomorrow.

  They carried on the long, slow job of rubbing down, now with fine sand on a damp chamois leather. This exposed the grain when it was rubbed along the wood following the natural contours. Already age and wear could be seen blending the new wood into the old on the repaired chair; it was only the colour and tone of the woods that differed. Bill said they would leave the staining until both chairs were completed as that would be ‘an arsehole of a job’ and they would only have once chance at getting it right.

  Sid stayed for supper but left off drinking too much cider as he wanted to get home that night. As Bill walked out with him to close the yard gate for the night, he asked Sid about a quick lesson with the revolver tomorrow.

  ‘Not a problem, but what about Lucy? You still haven’t told her you have the bloody thing, have you?’

  ‘No, but she’s going into town to get groceries in the morning. We can practice then.’

  The next day Sid was there by nine. Bill was not yet up, and Lucy wa
s getting ready to go shopping. There was a cashbox without a key in a drawer in the dresser, and she always took whatever cash she needed from that. Once, early on, she had asked Bill if he wanted receipts when she shopped, and he had said a very rude word that made her laugh out loud.

  Before he left, she put a handful of pills in a saucer and asked Sid to make sure Bill took them. Sid stared at the heap of capsules and tablets in the dish. Different colours, different sizes, some looking like sweets and others decidedly not.

  ‘Poor bugger. How is he?’

  ‘Not good,’ said Lucy sadly. ‘But holding in there.’

  ‘I’ll do anything I can, you know that, girl.’

  ‘I know that, Sid, bless you.’

  After Lucy had gone, Bill came down carrying a large, heavy box. He ate his usual meagre breakfast and took his pills, then he and Sid went out to the workshop.

  From the large box, Bill took out his old revolver and the box of ammunition. From a small box, Sid took out two sets of earplugs. There was plenty of room in the workshop for Sid to pace out fifteen feet right at the back. He chose a place away from the main door and near to the gable wall. It would be safe from ricochets and not easily seen by anyone coming into the building.

  Bill had a dining table that was in such poor condition it was only good for burning, but it did have a top of solid wood over two inches thick. On this Sid drew the rough outline of a man’s torso and head, then he put the table on a couple of tea chests to raise it to man height. The light was not very good this far into the barn, but that suited Sid, who wanted to replicate the worst-case scenario Bill might have to face.

  ‘Show me how you’ll get the gun in,’ he said. ‘Let’s make this as real as we can.’

  Bill got out a long, narrow, wooden toolbox, the sort carpenters used years ago for carrying tools on a job site. It had no lid, but the ends narrowed at the top and were connected by a stout wooden handle. There was enough of a gap between this and the box itself to get to the tools inside, and yet the box was still deep enough so you had to look right down into it to see anything. Bill said the gun would be covered with a cloth in any case, and Sid approved the scheme.

  Out came the revolver, and Sid took Bill through the best way to hold such a big weapon. Next he had Bill dry fire the gun so as to get used to cocking the large hammer. Sid watched carefully and noticed how the gun wavered in his friend’s hands. It was a heavy piece; he reckoned it must weigh near to three pounds. That was a lot if you were nervous and your arms were weakened by illness. Finally, Bill put the gun in the toolbox, covered it with the cloth, and put the box down on the floor. Sid moved behind Bill, looked at his watch, and said, ‘Right, go.’

  Bill took the huge revolver from the box, holding it as he had been shown: right hand by the butt, finger alongside the trigger guard, left hand supporting the right from underneath. Standing square onto the target, he cocked the hammer, brought his finger around onto the trigger, and fired.

  The noise was terrific. It filled the building and brought dust down from the roof high above. Both men were very grateful for the earplugs. The recoil had thrown Bill’s arms high, but Sid was pleased to see he still had it in his hands. Some people let go at first, and it could really cramp your style if you had to go looking for your weapon after each shot.

  The grey stone wall several feet behind the target now had a bright crater in it, and there was a large hole in the table right where the head had been drawn. Sid thought it was probably just a lucky shot, but Bill was beaming like a schoolboy.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ he said, awed at his own performance.

  ‘Yes, not bad, but that was only one shot, and you might have to take three or four depending on how many people are in the room.’

  Bill looked shocked. ‘People? Three or four?’

  Sid pulled a dusty dining chair from a stack nearby and got Bill to sit down on it. He was looking a bit shaky. Then, with the smell of cordite still enveloping them, Sid looked him in the eye and spoke to him slowly and seriously.

  ‘If you go into Skates’s house to kill him and it turns out there are people there besides Skates and Warren, you will have to kill them as well.’

  Bill said nothing, just looked down at the gun. The wooden grip felt warm in his grasp, and the dark blue metal of the barrel and cylinder had an oily sheen that reflected the light. This was no toy, this was a weapon, a tool with only one use: killing.

  ‘If there are servants,’ continued Sid firmly, ‘you can tell them to fuck off. They will, I assure you, but they’ll still be witnesses, so it’s down to you. But there might well be a minder or two in addition to Warren and if there is, they will have to be taken out. Otherwise, they will do you.’

  He paused for a moment to let that sink in, then added, ‘If you’re really going through with this, Bill, then you have got to go through with all of it. There is no other way.’

  Bill knew Sid was right, of course. It was just that so far it had only been talk and now it was becoming real. He had imagined he would walk into Skates’s place, shoot the bastard and hopefully Warren, too, then just walk out. Silly, really, to have thought it could ever be that simple.

  Then, for some reason Bill found himself telling Sid about the day Warren killed Eric. Sid had read something about someone dying in a fire near Chard, but now he heard the full details. He had never had any doubts about the ruthlessness of either Skates or Warren, but after learning what had happened to Eric he was absolutely convinced they had to be put down.

  ‘They’ll never let you live after witnessing something like that.’

  ‘Which is really neither here nor there under the circumstances, Sid, but if I don’t do this, Lucy will never be free of those bastards. Besides,’ he added softly, ‘there’s what they did to Bess.’

  Sid could see Bill was tired, and not just from the firing practice but also from recounting what he had been forced to witness only last week. The poor bugger, he thought, and suggested they get a cup of tea.

  Bill nodded, then emptied the cylinder of cartridges, wrapped the old firearm in its oily cloth, and put it back in its box with the rest of the ammunition. Ever mindful of good housekeeping when it came to evidence, Sid extracted the bullet from the stone wall, brushed dirt over the crater it had left, and took an axe to the table. Back in the warm kitchen, Sid made tea while Bill went upstairs and returned the gun to his room. When he came back down he sat in his armchair, pensive and quiet. Taking the mugs across to the table, Sid watched Bill spoon sugar into his tea. He spilled some on the tabletop and tried to wipe the sticky crystals up with his handkerchief.

  ‘I hope you’re going to be a better shot with that gun than you are with a bloody spoon, mate,’ he said kindly, and handed him a wet cloth.

  He let Bill rest for a bit, then returned to the business at hand. Sitting back in his chair, mug of tea cradled in his hands, he delivered what amounted to a sermon. A very Old Testament kind of sermon, full of the smiting and harrowing of the ungodly. ‘A firearm, old son, is the ultimate leveller. With one, any person – even a weak old granny with a prolapse and no teeth – can be as deadly as a muscular marine with skills in unarmed combat and wielding a fucking great sword to boot. Providing,’ he stressed, ‘providing, they have the element of surprise. If Skates has minders, shoot them first. Shoot accurately; you need not be quick, but you do need to be accurate. Do not hesitate. Once in, make sure you open fire as soon as the targets are within range. You have six rounds; one each should be enough to put them down. These are big shells, but even so, when you have accounted for all of the buggers, if they’re not shot in the head or the chest, shoot the fuckers again. You have to,’ he added grimly. ‘It’s you or them.’

  Sid drank the remainder of his tea and went out, leaving Bill a bit shell-shocked. He soon returned carrying something wrapped in dark cloth. He opened it up on the table near Bill. It was a shotgun, but not the elegant hunting weapon as typically found in the hands of gentry plugging
away at plump game, posturing and chortling whilst showering the beaters with shot. No, this had once been a gun of that kind, but now it was just nasty, brutish, and short. The barrel had been butchered to less than a foot and the stock had been cut into a butt-like handle. A single lever opened the breach and it had two triggers, one for each barrel.

  ‘This can be held and fired with one hand if you’re busy,’ said Sid. ‘But it’s better with two.’

  He took from his pocket a box of twelve-bore shells. ‘These have been doctored a tad. They’ll blow a hole six inches wide through an oak door, so just imagine…’ He left the rest of the sentence unsaid.

  ‘Now,’ he added with a wolfish grin, ‘would you like me along to ride shotgun? For free, pro bono!’

  Bill thought for a bit, then said, ‘No, not with me, Sid, but I’d be grateful if you’d be here with Lucy when I… um… deliver the chairs.’

  Further discussion was put on hold as Lucy’s Volvo drove in just then and parked outside the kitchen door. Sid went off to help her bring in the shopping while Bill took the shotgun upstairs and secured it in his room.

  Lucy seemed to be in a good mood as she unloaded the grocery bags and put the contents away. ‘Open wide, Beryl!’ she said with a laugh as she stocked the huge refrigerator with eggs, milk, and other provisions.

  Bill, coming back into the kitchen then, only smiled, having heard the joke before, but poor Sid nearly choked on his tea.

  ‘You got that right, girl!’ he gasped. ‘Large and frosty, that was Beryl all right, eh, Bill?’

  Bill grunted and said, ‘Not far off.’

  When all the groceries had been stowed away, he told them it was time to get back to the chairs. ‘One more day of rubbing down and we can start staining. Hugh’s bringing his grain dryer over tomorrow, so we need to get as much done today as we can manage.’

  As they all trooped into the workshop, Lucy said she thought she could smell fireworks. Neither of the men made any reply, so she put it down to a quirk of the old stove.