No Going Back

by Mick Moran

  He didn’t know how much trouble revealing all that would get him into with the law. But, he didn’t care. All the mattered was that justice be obtained for Michael O’Malley. He had then come to realise the wisdom of Father Downey’s advice. The priest had said that without that information, the police would be on the wrong track.

 

  Then all that was stopping him from immediately going to the police was the uncertainty about whether he would be believed. He had doubts about whether they would take him seriously. Although convinced himself, he thought, that in order to investigate his theory, the police would probably need more evidence. Therefore, before going to the police, he would try to get something more to bring to them. That, after all, was why he was in Birmingham. Although he knew he was no detective he could still snoop around.

 

  His original plans, however, would have to change. He had planned to tell Dom about the assault on Michael O’Malley and about the suspicions he had about the son’s involvement in that assault. However, seeing how frail Dom was, Martin hadn’t felt able to burden him with the problem.

  ***

 

 

 

  Entering The Queen’s, Martin was still feeling good. On his walk from the bus stop, the frosty air was invigorating. But, it also made him appreciate the warmth of the pub and he quickly closed the door after entering.

 

  He looked around. The pub comprised of just two rooms, one each side of the hall that led to the bar. Martin remembered it vaguely. He used to occasionally drop in when he needed a quite drink. Unlike The Antelope, in Martins experience The Queen’s never got crowded.

 

  That evening, of course, he was there for a different reason and, at least at first, was disappointed that the pub was even quieter than he had expected. He looked into the empty room on the right hand side of the hall before entering the other room in which two young men were sat in a corner.

 

  Martin’s cheerful “good evening” was barely acknowledged by the men. The barman, leaning on the bar, continued reading his paper without a glance at Martin even when he reached the bar. It was only when Martin politely asked for a pint of Guinness that he, apparently grudgingly put his paper to one side. No wonder he hasn’t many customers thought Martin. Martin remembered him. He was the pub landlord. He had been for a number of years. He was never a very friendly man. That wouldn’t normally bother Martin. In fact that’s how he liked it. But, that evening, Martin would have liked a chat: hoping to discover a thing or two about the pub’s customers.

 

  With that landlord, however, he had no chance. Without even a glance in Martin’s direction, the landlord’s whole attention was on watching the flow of Guinness. Martin waited for the glass to fill up. Then handing the landlord a pound note, he remarked, “It’s a cold night.”

 

  The landlord was not playing ball. He took the pound note to the till. Then, in silence, put the change in front of Martin and returned to his paper, as if he hadn’t heard the remark. He’s even less sociable than usual thought Martin. Giving up on conversation he looked around the room.

 

  It was then that Martin took notice of the two young men in the corner of the room. It was the same two that he saw getting on the train in Manchester. He was almost certain of it. As one of them looked in his direction, Martin, not wishing to be caught staring, turned back to the bar and had a sip of his Guinness. He picked up his drink and without giving the men another glance, took it to a table at the back of the room. He removed his coat and, not seeing anywhere to hang it, placed it on the seat next to where he sat.

 

  He was in a position where he could observe the two young men, without, he hoped, arousing any suspicion: not too close, but close enough to be able to hear, if he was lucky, some of the conversation. However, his hearing was not what it used to be. The years spent on noisy building sites listening to concrete mixers, pneumatic drills etc had its effect. Also the men seemed to be keeping their voices down as if, Martin thought, they were wary of being overheard. They appeared uneasy, mostly communicating in whispers. Although the odd glance was thrown in his direction, he didn’t think it was just his presence in the room that worried them.

 

  Martin, smoking his pipe, and drinking his pint appeared totally disinterested in his surroundings. His natural demeanour was one of total contentment even when the opposite was true. If someone spoke to him he would respond politely. But, he gave the impression that he would prefer to be left alone. He seemed happier in his own company. Sometimes people even forgot he was there.

 

  That’s how it was that evening. After a while the two young men seemed barely aware of Martin’s presence. But, Martin was taking everything in. The men were clearly agitated, apparently waiting for someone who should have been there earlier. They were getting more and more restless. Their voices got louder, although Martin could still only pick out the odd word. He heard the word Broadfield a few times. No doubt there were other Broadfields. Nevertheless a picture was emerging. Although he showed no sign of it Martin was getting excited.

 

  Then he heard it clearly. “Michael O’Malley.”

 

  Martin immediately looked at the men. On saying the name the man instinctively covered his mouth with his hand, while his mate shook his head disapprovingly.

 

  That was it. No longer was there any doubt in Martin’s mind. He then knew for certain that it was those two men that carried out that terrible, cowardly assault on his friend. Martin, then, had all he needed to go to the police and that he intended to do without delay.

 

  Confrontation, at that stage was not planned, but when Martin looked again and saw both men laughing he felt his anger rising to such an extent that he could no longer contain himself. Putting his pipe away he turned to face the men. Then, slowly and deliberately, he rose from his seat.

 

  At that moment, unaware of Martin’s anger, the men’s attention was suddenly diverted to a man approaching the bar. “It’s big Dave at last,” said one of them excitedly. Martin dropped back on his seat as a big man in a dark stripped suit swaggered to the bar. Martin took an instant dislike to him, even before the man looked back and acknowledged the two men in the room with thumbs up gesture. That, to Martin, could only mean one thing. The man knew and approved of what they had done to Michael O’Malley

 

  Two pints of bitter?” The man pointed to the men’s almost empty glasses. Then the man looked at Martin. “Would you like a drink sir?” he asked. Shaking his head Martin declined desperately trying to hide the hatred he felt for the man.

 

  Unlike in Martins experience, the landlord appeared pleased to serve Dave. “And one for yourself,” said Dave, seemingly not wishing to leave anyone out. The two pints were placed on the bar. Then Dave took his whiskey and, signalling with a motion of his head, that the men follow him, proceeded without a backward glance into the other room. Like sheep, they both followed him taking their drinks off the bar on their way.

 

  Alone, Martin was seething with anger. His hand was shaking that much he was unable to pick up his glass. He sat there for a while taking deep breaths hoping his nerves would calm. Eventually, with both hands on his glass he finished his drink. He didn’t get another. He just sat there staring at his empty glass, thinking. He should go to the police and tell them all he knew. But, his nerves were so bad. Would he be able to explain himself clearly enough? Brendan, in The Antelope, was the man that sprung to mind. But, at that time The Antelope would be full. Brendan would have no time to talk to anyone. But, what Martin had to tell couldn’t wait any longer.

 

  He decided to give his nerves another few minutes an
d then set off for the police station. Sparkhill police station was close to his digs and, he believed, it was open all night.

 

  As Martin was about to leave the Landlord put a pint of Guinness on the bar. “This one’s for you Paddy,” he said “Paid on.” Dave had not taken no for an answer. Martin was taken aback. He didn’t want another drink. Definitely not one that Dave had paid for.

 

  Then a thought occurred to him. His nerves had calmed down somewhat and the landlord seemed in a better mood. Before going to the police he thought he would have another stab at getting more information about those he was about to accuse. He really needed a name or two.

 

  Martin approached the bar is if to get his drink. The landlord, rearranging bottles on the shelves, had his back to him. Nevertheless Martin asked hopefully “Who is that Dave fellow,” making the question sound as casual as he could.

 

  “Dave Campbell,” answered the landlord, without turning round.

 

  “Thank you.” At least, Martin thought, he had one name; maybe even the name of the ringleader. “He’s a generous man, I’ll have to thank him,” continued Martin, hoping to engage the landlord further. But there was no reply. He’s certainly a man of few words, thought Martin, or is it me? Then Martin tried a direct question. He had nothing to lose.

 

  “And who are the two young fellows,” he asked, keeping his voice as calm as possible, although he could feel his anger rising again.

 

  The landlord stopped what he was doing as if contemplating the question. Then he slowly turned to face Martin.

 

  “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

 

  Martin shrugged. He resented having to explain himself. Another time he would have just walked out, but then, in a vain attempt to soften the man’s attitude he looked the landlord in the eye and offered; “I haven’t been in for a while. I was working away.”

 

  He should have saved his breath. The landlord, while continuing to weigh him up, did clearly not trust him with any more information of the kind Martin was hoping for. The last question was totally ignored. Then, eventually, when he was ready, the landlord grumpily offered his advice on Martin’s earlier comment.

 

  “If you want to thank Dave, he’s in there.” The landlord pointed to the door leading to the other room.

 

  Martin, of course, already knew where Dave was. He was being treated like a kid. His anger got the better of him. He knew he was being irrational. But, he was unable to control his anger. He did a silly thing. Without another word he turned and rushed to the door that was pointed out to him and stormed into the other room.

 

  All three were sat round a table. A newspaper was spread out on the table and they were studying its contents. On seeing Martin rushing towards them Dave immediately started to fold the paper.

 

  “I know what you’ve done,” screamed Martin

 

  Surprised, they just stared at him. Then Dave calmly asked, “What’s the matter Paddy,” putting the folded paper in his pocket.

 

  Martin looked him in the eye. Then, controlling his voice as best he could, he answered, “I’m Martin Prendergast. I’m known around here as Michael O’Malley.”

 

  “You can’t…” The young man was stopped dead by Dave’s glare. Dave tried to intervene with, “Martin calm down please.” But Martin, picking upon the attempted protest, would not be put off. Turning on the young man he raged.

 

  “What do you mean, I can’t?”

 

  The Young man obviously frightened just shook his head as Dave again tried to intervene. “Martin please, calm down”

 

  But martin was not calming down. Still addressing the young man he yelled, “You killed a man thinking it was me. Didn’t you?” He meant to say nearly killed, but in the excitement, that was how it came out. He didn’t correct himself.

 

  The young man just shook his head. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he protested.

 

  Martin could see he’d got him rattled. “I know you did,” he said in a slightly calmer voice. “You and your mate.” Martin turned to the other young man, who, under Dave’s watchful eye, remained silent. Then Martin turned on Dave.

 

  “And you Dave Campbell, I know you’re part of it.”

 

  “Paddy, please, you’ve got this all wrong.”

 

  “Don’t call me Paddy, and you know I’m not wrong. I’m going to the police.”

 

  At that Martin turned and left the room as quickly as he’d entered it. In the hall, the landlord, who was on his way to investigate the shouting, was violently pushed to one side in Martin’s rush to leave the pub.

 

  “Don’t go. Let’s talk about his,” pleaded Dave who had followed Martin in a desperate attempt to stop him leaving.

 

  Martin wasn’t listening and was through the door before Dave, who was impeded by the landlord, could reach him.

 

  “Oh, let him go,” urged the landlord, pulling himself up from his sprawled position, “I’m glad he’s gone. He’s a madman.”

 

  Out of the pub Martin knew he’d acted like a madman. But, there was nothing he could do about it then. He also realised he’d forgotten his coat. Cold as the night was, however, he didn’t return for it. All that mattered was that he got to the police station as quickly as possible.

  ***

 

 

 

  “What was all that about,” asked the still bewildered landlord as Dave impatiently helped him to his feet. “I thought he was a very quiet man.”

 

  “Like you said, he’s a madman,” snapped Dave.

 

  Then one of the others remarked, “He’s gone without his coat.”

 

  “Oh Jesus,” cried the landlord. “We’ll have more trouble when he comes back for it.”

 

  “Don’t worry,” said Dave “He won’t be coming back.” “Get the coat,” he ordered one of the young men. “Come on. We’re going after him.” “You too” he urged the other one impatiently, and all three rushed out.

 

 

  Chapter 9. Alan.

 

  It was the early hours of Saturday morning. Alan was already almost in despair. His fate, he knew was in Dave’s hands, but he was fast loosing confidence in Dave. Then, they saw the flashing headlights of the vehicle behind.

 

  “Oh no,” cried Dave, “it’s the police”. He was in the wrong lane. Alan could see that he wasn’t concentrating on his driving. In a panic, Dave swung the Ford Transit into the inside lane, while Alan and Tommy held their breaths in terror. The vehicle whose lights were flashing then sped past. It was not the police, just an impatient motorist. They could breath again. Dave wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve.

 

  But the panic was still on. Something had to be thought of fast. They knew, from experience, that the van they were in was one that the police frequently stopped, especially when driven at that time. But, it was down to Dave and clearly he couldn’t think. He did what seemed to Alan like the worst possible thing. He pulled in and stopped in the next lay-by.

 

  “Why have we stopped?” cried Alan fearfully looking around. “We can’t stop here.” He was getting desperate. “Let’s get off the road.” In the lay-by, he knew that they were in a more vulnerable position than when they were moving. If the police came along they would almost certainly be checked upon: the consequences of which didn’t
bear thinking about.

 

  “Just shut up,” screamed Dave. “I’m trying to think.” He banged his head on the steering wheel, terrifying his passengers all the more. Then, with both clenched fists on his ears he pressed his face on the wheel.

 

  Cowed into an uneasy silence both Alan and Tommy just stared into the blackness of the night. The sky had clouded over. There were no streetlights. Traffic at that time of night was almost non-existent. It was almost total darkness. The only audible sound was the rattle of the still running engine. Alan felt Tommy shiver. The heater as not working, but that was the least of their worries.

 

  Sat between Dave and Tommy, Alan was becoming increasingly edgy. He looked at Tommy. It was too dark to see faces. He could just see outlines. Tommy appeared to have turned his head away, probably, Alan thought’ detaching himself from everything that was going on: typical of Tommy.

 

  Alan turned round. He couldn’t see anything. The back of the van was in total darkness. He considered switching the interior light on: the switch was within his reach. But, thought better of it. He listened carefully for any sound, but could hear nothing other than the rattle of the engine. The man stretched out on the floor of the van, amongst the tins of paint and rolls of wallpaper was probably dead.

 

  What a mess they were in. To Alan the situation looked dire. He could see no way out. He felt ill. He was cold, scared and angry. He was angry with Dave. This was all down to Dave. It was Dave’s sweet talk that got then into it all. He was also angry with Tommy. But, mostly he was angry with himself. He should never have let Tommy loose on that man in Broadfield. They were only supposed to rough him up a little bit, but, as usual, Tommy went far beyond that.

 

  But, it was Dave’s vicious assault, with the stating handle, on the man who was then in the back of the van, that really sickened Alan. The man never stood a chance. Dave was ruthless. Alan regretted not trying to stop him. But, it all happened so fast. Dave was out of the van and had hit the man before Alan realized what was happening. Without a sound, the man fell to the ground, like a sack of potatoes.

 

  Horrified, Alan cried, “did you have to hit him so hard?”

 

  “Hush. Keep your voice down.” Dave had no time for explanations. “Come on, quick, let’s get him in the van.” He was a big man. It took all three of them to lift him in the van.