Circumstances were wildly different and that had resulted in a new attitude. Alison had become a burden, and Tim had felt trapped. Hugh was often truly helpless, and this brought out his caring side. Chuckling to himself as he prepared a meal, Tim couldn’t believe that he felt happier living in a caravan with a drunk than in a home with his family.
Sharing the small space had been good for Tim, but it was bad for Hugh. Getting himself up and to work had kept a rein on his drinking. Now, relying on Tim for so much, he could hit the bottle more often. Tim would wake him up, cook his dinner, cover him at work when he couldn’t cope, and take out the empty bottles.
Tim was seeing Hugh deteriorate a little more each day. He wasn’t deliberately enabling his addiction, but he understood that he was not helping. What could he do? The job and accommodation were important to Tim and he was not about to give them up. Options were considered for how to stay where he was, but not add to Hugh’s problem.
Stop doing so much for Hugh, was Tim’s first thought. Would that prevent him from drinking and taking drugs? A lifetime of abusing his body could not be undone now. Maybe Tim should just carry on and let Hugh gradually fade away in a haze of alcohol and narcotics. What did Hugh want to do?
“Hugh, how are you doing?” Tim started a conversation as he cooked their evening meal.
“Well, I’m still alive.” Hugh grinned.
“I’m worried about you. And the impact me being here is having. You don’t have to look after yourself anymore, I make sure you eat, get you up, and that is giving you the chance to drink more. I don’t want to be responsible for something bad happening to you.”
“Tim, don’t worry. The only person responsible for this is me.”
“Okay, but what happens if you can’t work anymore? Jimmy is not a generous man. You would be out on your ear.”
“What I think is that I will either collapse and die, or collapse and end up in hospital. I don’t think Jimmy will have to kick me out. Not sure which of those choices is the best. Dying, probably.”
“That’s okay for you mate, but that would leave me with all the work.”
Hugh laughed, coughed a lot and then took a swig from his can of strong lager. He ate the meal put in front of him and then drank some more. Tomorrow was Sunday, a day off, and that meant he could really go for it. He had a small bottle of vodka which he would open next. And, as a bonus, he had scored a couple of pills and would do those too.
Seeing the vodka and hearing Hugh slurring already, Tim knew it was going to be one of those nights. Hugh ranting and singing, badly, before collapsing. It was not something that Tim wanted to watch again. The need to get out of the caravan was overwhelming and he didn’t really care where he was going.
Tim went out for a walk. Hugh might be unconcerned about his fate, but Tim didn’t want to watch him inflict more damage on himself. Walking through town towards the pub, he paused and then changed direction. Not where he wanted to be tonight. His stroll took him back to the place he had made his camp.
The wooded area, a short walk from a main road, looked untouched. It seemed that people rarely ventured into the trees. There were paths nearby that were used by dog walkers and joggers, but no one strayed from those. Walking through the foliage he found his old camp. All the rubbish had been removed, so there was no trace of his occupation. It was hard to tell that he had once slept there.
Finding the tree stump where he used to sit, Tim rested and thought about poor Hugh. The look on his friend’s face had signalled that he would be on a right bender tonight. An hour later, with the temperature dropping, Tim reluctantly stood up. Pulling his second-hand coat closer around him, he set off back to the scrapyard, his breath misting the air.
Chapter 14
What a good bloke that Gerry was. Hugh had been happy when his colleague had moved into the caravan with him. No more loneliness, he had thought. It had turned out better than that. His meals were cooked, the place was tidied, and he had made a friend. It was a long time since he could say that.
The chats were good, mostly, but they had brought up some interesting subjects. Being asked where his life had taken a wrong turn made him think back to try to discover the answer. Every person who had made a mess of things could find something to blame. Their bad childhood, abuse, violence, heartbreak even. What was his excuse?
Being brought up by a single parent hadn’t helped. His mum hadn’t been able to control him once he became a strapping teenager. His father had been gone since he was a small child, but family talk had revealed that he had been a heavy drinker. Maybe it was in his genes. Born to become an addict.
Off the rails by his late teens, his life was already ruined. Never attending school, so no qualifications. No qualifications meant no job. No job meant that he couldn’t better his life. The downward spiral had started and there was no way back: from drink to drugs to crime. Even when he was desperate for a fix, he rarely resorted to robbery. He wasn’t going to snatch a bag off a little old lady.
Never into the hard drugs, he relied on cheap alcohol to numb his way through life. In his early twenties he had been off it for a while and had actually got a job. A skivvy for a computer company, cleaning toilets and scrubbing floors. He had put out a small fire on one of his evening shifts and they had rewarded him for his actions. That was such a long time ago.
At that time, had he held it all together, he might have built a proper life. He had a girlfriend and a job, so the foundations were there. Settle down, have a family. But it hadn’t worked out like that. If he remembered rightly, there had been some sort of celebration in the pub, a friend’s birthday or something, and he was drinking again. That was the turning point.
Eventually he became what they call a functioning alcoholic. Benefits, bedsits, and sometimes doorways were all Hugh knew for a long time. Stumbling into this small town, and then to the scrapyard, he had found a home of sorts. A caravan and money were the best it would get for him.
A steady income and a home should have seen a recovery in his fitness. It had not worked out that way. Going from the relatively strong man aged thirty who had walked into the scrapyard to a frail, weak specimen. When he looked in the mirror he saw a blotchy face, missing teeth and hollow cheeks.
The regular money meant regular drinking. He lived on sandwiches and beans on toast. Stodgy, cheap food which left plenty of money to buy booze. Working, drinking and sleeping was the pattern of Hugh’s life. The balance between the three slowly changed and drinking became the main occupation.
Gerry had added another dimension to his life. A friend. Chatting of an evening instead of sitting alone. The first few months had been great. Then, as Hugh came to rely on George more, he was able to devote even more of his time to drinking. The discussion about whether his pal was enabling him was interesting. The answer was probably yes, but he was already a long way down the slippery slope.
It wouldn’t be Gerry’s fault, or anyone else’s for that matter, if he drank himself to death. That was going to happen one day. Hugh wondered if it was just a slow suicide. Too cowardly to finish himself off, he had chosen to do it over decades instead.
A music channel was on the television, some rock song. The right ambience for taking those pills he had scored. Washed down with beer, they met his stomach and began their work. Hugh did a little dance in the tiny space available. Laughing, he grabbed the vodka and took a gulp. This was a good night.
Weaving towards his bed, Hugh fell onto it and made no effort to take off his clothes. His heart was pounding and he felt unwell. It wasn’t the first time he had felt like this. Now there was pain, this was new. Seconds later the pain had gone, because Hugh was gone. He had finally succeeded in killing himself with his slow suicide.
Chapter 15
Sat on the floor, leaning forward, unblinking, Beth was glued to the latest episode of Tales of Retribution. The story was about a man who had murdered his wife. The case was not straightforward, it never was, with the killer havi
ng set up fake alibis and covering his tracks. Retribution would see through all of that.
Although she appreciated the skill of the detecting, Beth was waiting for the denouement. Would the murderer be arrested, or would he die in a hail of bullets? She was hoping for the latter option. Sometimes she was happy to go along with Retribution’s decision, but this time she wanted death.
Retribution had his gun in his hand and was delivering his speech. It was a summing up of how the killer had been tracked down and how one could not escape justice. Beth gasped as the masked man raised his weapon. Sadly, the guilty man gave a tearful confession. That meant that his life would be spared.
Beth was usually happy after watching the programme, but this time she felt cheated. That man had killed his wife and prison was not punishment enough. Frustrated by the ending, she turned the television off, shouting at the screen before it went blank:
“YOU ARE WRONG.”
“What is all this shouting about?” Nana had appeared in the doorway.
“Retribution did it wrong. He should have shot the man, not sent him to prison.”
Asked to clarify, Beth told Nana what the episode had been about.
“If you kill someone, like your wife, you should die.” Beth folded her arms and glowered.
“So if the police lady, Anna, caught your dad, she should shoot him?” Nana asked.
“She should, but she won’t. In this country they don’t have guns.”
“Well, I understand what you are saying. I think I might kill him if I got my hands on him. Anyway, it’s only a programme. And you said the murderer was sorry and confessed, so they have to take that into account. Now, I’m going to wash the kitchen floor, so stay in here. Why don’t you watch one of your favourite episodes while I’m cleaning?”
Nana cleaned a lot. She was impeccably turned out and her home was spotless. Her mania for order kept her busy. When she stopped tidying, she was talking – on the phone to friends, with a neighbour, to Beth, or to anybody within range if they were out. Sometimes a sentence would start as she left a room and then continue when she came back in. Beth barely listened.
Life with her grandmother wasn’t so bad. The hypercritical part came out every now and then, but Beth didn’t take it to heart like her mother had. Comments on her hair and weight were shrugged off internally, but she knew how to play the game. Making an effort to wrangle her hair into a ponytail or asking for a salad for tea made Nana calm down.
Where did the woman get her energy? Beth felt exhausted just watching her Nana vacuuming and dusting vigorously. A walk to the shops was undertaken at a swift pace, with Beth having to jog to keep up sometimes. On the whole, Beth would rather take things easy than rush around. Her parents had been anxious and busy, and look where that had got them.
The clothes were a bit of a problem. There were times when Beth liked to look girly and frilly. There were times when she wished that she could be in jeans and a T-shirt. Nana didn’t think that there were any occasions where one would wear a casual outfit. Her idea of relaxed was leaving one button on her coat undone.
Nana wore crisp, ironed shirts and blouses. Skirts that finished halfway down her shins and shoes with kitten heels. In the summer there were a range of cotton dresses, short-sleeved and with a modest neckline. Beth had only seen her wear trousers once, and Nana had looked uncomfortable in them.
Beth wanted a pair of jeans. A bit of scheming was required to get Nana to buy them. Always busy, often distracted, Beth would have to catch her grandmother at the right time with the right suggestion. Study had shown that Nana was influenced by celebrities and fashion in magazines. This gave Beth an idea.
There were certain famous people who Nana was a fan of. The princess, with her impeccable style; a couple of actresses, who were also well dressed in her grandmother’s opinion. The ladies who wore short skirts and got drunk were frowned at and shown to Beth as an example of how not to behave.
“I’m making a scrapbook, Nana.”
“Oh yes?”
“Do you want to look at my pictures?”
“Okay.” Nana was dusting and wanted to get it finished. Sighing, she stood by Beth and looked over her shoulder.
“This is the princess lady. This is the actress lady that you like. This is the lady off the telly with her little girls. They look cute, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do.”
“I would like to look like them.”
“They are wearing jeans.”
“Yes, but they look cute. You said they do. I could be like the lady’s little girls.” The wide-eyed stare with a growing smile was employed to push home the point.
A week later, Beth had her jeans. She also had a shiny pink blouse to go with them, but she could live with that. When Anna called at the house, she mentioned the jeans. Nana looked slightly annoyed and Beth looked like the cat that had got the cream.
Chapter 16
When Tim got back to the caravan, he was surprised to find the place quiet. Hugh was usually passed out in front of a blaring television or snoring in his bed. Unnerved by the silence, he went to investigate. One look at his colleague told him that the man was dead. Finding no pulse, his instinct was confirmed.
Hugh was sprawled across his bed, lying on his back, mouth agape. Arms flung wide, legs hanging over the edge, he looked like he was asleep. The lack of sound coming from him was the first clue. Tim had called to him before moving closer and shaking him. The cold, clammy skin and the lack of breathing had sealed the deal.
It was eleven o’clock at night. What should he do? He ought to call some sort of emergency service, but that would bring the police to his door. He would have to think very carefully about what he did next. Tim opened the drawer in Hugh’s bedside table. It was an action born of curiosity, and as something to do while he thought about his next move.
In the drawer, Tim found a passport. Hugh Miller was his friend’s name. The photograph showed a different man from the Hugh he had known. Checking the date, it revealed that the picture was at least nine years old. A dark-haired, blue-eyed man stared out at him. Fuller cheeks and a healthy colour made it hard to believe that the pinched and sallow man he knew had once looked like this.
Recalling the conversation when Hugh had said he was a similar size to Tim, it gave him an idea. He left the room and went into the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, he could see a resemblance between himself and the passport photograph. Was Tim about to become Hugh? With a bit of luck, he might just get away with it.
This golden opportunity could not be missed. If he could somehow assume Hugh’s identity, a number of his problems would be solved. Tim would be able to work legitimately, rent somewhere to live, even get benefits. He could get out of the scrapyard and have a whole new life.
Right, he would have to work fast. If he was to become Hugh, the real one would have to disappear. Jimmy and the boys wouldn’t go looking for him or call the police if he vanished. Too many questions would be asked about what he was doing there. Questions about tax and his living conditions. If no one was notified, that would prevent the authorities from coming to the scrapyard. The priority, therefore, was to get rid of the body.
There was always an old working car parked near the gates. The Kings used it when they went out to get food or drove around the yard. Tim found the keys in the office and then drove it to the caravan. Hugh’s skinny body was easy for him to lift and he bundled it into the boot. A spade was tossed in beside him.
Off to the woods where Tim’s camp had been. A natural dip in the ground, maybe a collapsed badger sett, saved him having to dig a hole. This was a strange turn of events. Here he was, in the middle of the night, burying a dead body in a shallow grave. He covered it with soil, branches and fallen leaves. Back in the car to the scrapyard and the keys back in the office. Now to plan out his story, and his next moves.
Hugh had died of natural causes. There was no blood to clean up and no weapons to be disposed of. It would be easy to tel
l the Kings that Hugh had been on a bender and had gone missing. Tim rehearsed his story ready for Monday morning. He also went through Hugh’s scant possessions. There was nothing worth keeping, except for the passport, but he would pack them up and hide them until they could be disposed of. If the Kings bothered to look in the caravan, it would appear that Hugh had left of his own accord.
“I haven’t seen Hugh since Saturday night. He was on one. Had some drugs as well, I think. I went out for a walk and when I got back, he had gone. Anyway, I didn’t do anything, I thought I’d better talk to you first. I looked at his stuff and some of it is missing. I think he might have left for good.”
The Kings had no idea what things Hugh owned. Tim guessed that they would not look in the caravan, and he was right. They did ask some questions, though.
“Had he talked about leaving?” Jimmy wanted to know.
“He talked about dying. He had been drinking a lot and he could barely get out of bed in the morning. You must have noticed the state he was in.”
“Well, yeah.” Peter was the only one to speak.
“He said that his life was ending. Maybe there was something he wanted to do or somewhere he wanted to go before his time was up. He had sorted his stuff out, so I suppose that was a sign. Didn’t think about it before, but looking back it makes sense.”
“He didn’t leave a note or anything?” Paul asked.
“No, nothing.”
“If he’s upped and left, there’s nothing we can do about it.” Jimmy spoke, and that seemed to be that. “No need to report it or anything.”
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