by David Carter
Thirty-Three
Jason Wellworthy returned to Martin’s room at six on the nail. From somewhere behind the guy Martin caught the aroma of old fashioned school dinners, perhaps steak and kidney pie and mashed potatoes. Jason nodded at Martin and began setting up the table. ‘Had a good day?’ he asked.
‘Oh sure,’ said Martin. ‘Could have done with a TV or radio.’
Jason pulled a face. ‘Not permitted, no chance.’
‘It’s like being in solitary.’
‘You noticed.’
Martin sat at the table; as an unbreakable olive green plate was set before him, heat shimmering from the porcelain. On the dish was a round pastry pie and a heap of mashed potatoes. Thick brown still bubbling gravy oozed out. It looked good and smelt surprisingly delicious. Martin thought how much better it was than the scran dished up in Blackpool.
‘Lovely,’ said Martin, taking the plastic knife and fork from Jason’s hand.
He stabbed the pie and was happy with what he found. Jason stretched down toward the mattress to where the red notebook lay. Martin began eating without taking his eyes from Jason. He watched him flip open the book and stare at the tidy writing.
‘What’s this?’ he said, sitting on the bed.
‘What does it look like?’
‘It looks like poetry.’
‘Close. It’s a song.’
‘You write songs?’
‘Used to.’
‘Does it have a tune?’
‘Sure.’
‘Where’s the tune?’
Martin jerked the knife to the side of his head.
‘In here,’ he said. ‘It’s my song. You can never take that away.’
‘Would I want to?’
‘You want to take everything.... don’t you?’
‘Course not, terrorism information, that’s all.’
‘That’s what you say.’
‘It’s hardly what we wanted, is it? A bloody song.’
Martin rippled his eyebrows and shovelled more mash into his mouth in case the guy threw a strop and changed his mind about feeding him.
Jason scratched his head and stutteringly read aloud.
BLACKNESS, DARKNESS, disturbing images flow
Nightmares, knife scares, recurring feelings grow
HE SCANNED THROUGH the rest and tossed the book on the floor.
‘Very poetic.’
Martin had scoffed the pie. ‘I’m glad you approve.’
He belched, and set the knife and fork down on the empty plate.
‘This won’t go down well.’
‘Won’t get an early release, then? The song that is, can’t say as I am totally surprised.’
Jason shook his head.
‘Are you so blind you can’t see that I am trying to help you?’
‘You can help me.’
‘Yeah. How?’
Martin held out his hand, fingers pointing to the floor, beckoning Jason away.
‘You could sod off and accidentally forget to lock the door. That might help.’
‘That’s not going to happen, pal. And even if I did, you wouldn’t get off the block.’
‘I’d take my chances with that.’
Martin reached down for the notebook.
‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Jason, snatching it away. ‘No chance, this is your official response to my request for information, a bloody stupid song. The book and its priceless content will be forwarded to my superiors for assessment. God alone knows what they will make of it.’
Martin pulled a face and sat back. ‘I hope they like it.’
‘I doubt they will,’ said Jason, waving the book in Martin’s face. ‘You have had all day my friend, and this is the best you can do.’
‘Thought you said you liked it.’
‘You don’t seem to understand that I will get a bollocking for this crap.’
‘Sorry, Jace.’
Jason sniffed. ‘Who’s the girl, anyway?’
‘What girl?’
‘The girl in the song,’ muttered Jason, losing interest, as he folded away the table.
‘Who says it’s a girl?’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘Sometimes.... not always.’
‘Do you always talk in riddles?’
‘It’s the times in which we live,’ said Martin, standing and stretching. ‘The times in which we live.’
Jason went to the door. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’
‘I didn’t warn you,’ said Martin, grinning.
EARLIER THAT DAY, JOSS saw her chance of escape. The troop had set off for the dykes at just before eight. The vast party consisted of teenage girls, the boys working separately on another section of vulnerable coastline, three miles to the south. The girls were dressed in filthy dungarees, and each kid carried a long handled shovel over their shoulder like guardsmen.
At the dykes they were set to work, cutting away a new overflow channel. It reminded Joss of old black and white film she had seen at school during history lessons, thousands of people in the former communist China during Mao’s Great Leap Forward, building and cutting dykes like worker ants. It was uncannily similar.
‘Damn!’ shouted one of the three accompanying officers. ‘Left my bloody specs in the hut. You!’ she grunted, staring at Joss. ‘Come here!’
Joss didn’t need inviting twice.
‘Get back to the officers’ quarters sharpish and fetch my bloody glasses. They are on the bedside table, left corner bunk. Got it?’
Joss nodded.
‘Don’t nod, fool. Answer!’
‘Yes, Chief.’
‘Away with you, and don’t be long about it.’
‘Yes, Chief,’ nodded Joss, cheekily handing the fat woman her shovel, as she turned about and trotted back toward the camp.
It was a good half an hour trek, and maybe another quarter of an hour, while she wasted some time locating the spectacles, plus another half an hour to get back. She wouldn’t be missed for maybe an hour and half. Two hours at most. She might never get a better chance.
Back at the camp, she went straight to the officers’ hut. There were two overweight off duty Chiefs there; stretched out on their beds like dozing killer whales. They were reading old issues of Cosmopolitan, another banned and much missed magazine.
‘What do you want?’ snapped the ugly one with the hideous stand on end black hair.
‘Chief sent me back for her specs.’
‘Well don’t just stand there, dobber! They are on the bedside table! I can see them from here.’
Joss picked them up and headed for the door.
‘Oi, you!’ said the other one, ever eager to flex her authoritarian muscles.
‘Yes?’
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, Chief.’
‘That’s better. Make sure you go straight back to the dyke, you hear me?’
‘Yes, Chief.’
‘Well don’t just stand there like a pregnant pig. Sod off back to work!’
‘Yes, Chief.’
Joss ran outside and closed the door but she didn’t head for the dykes; instead she turned away toward her own hut.
‘She’s an idiot that one,’ said the black haired Chief.
‘Dead right,’ said the fatter one. ‘Kind of cute though.’
‘You noticed?’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘Maybe. There’s one or two hereabouts got their eyes on her.’
‘I’ll bet. She’d make quite a prize.’
‘Wasn’t she the one whose father was up on terrorism charges?’
‘The very same.’
‘We’ll have to keep a close eye on her.’
‘You’re right there, and I am sure we will.’
They both giggled, though it came out more of a grunt, before returning to their well-read magazines.
At Joss’s hut, she was mortified to find it wasn’t empty. Two cadets were flat out on their beds. They had reported sick. On closer in
spection she found they were both soundly asleep, probably knocked out by the strong prescribed medication. She skipped round the lockers looking for money, but found none. She found food though, and that was almost as good as cash, for she had no idea how long it would take to get back to Christchurch. In truth it was sweets more than food, but sweets keep you alive. Joss could happily live for a week on sweets alone.
She collected two bars of chocolate and an unopened packet of liquorice. Lickerarse, her father always called it, much to everyone’s amusement, and it brought a smile to Joss’s face.
Lickerarse, she muttered aloud, remembering her father repeating the word the previous Christmas, after some old biddy up the road had presented him with a whole box of liquorice assortment, in payment for cutting down her high hedges.
‘Colin, you are terrible!’ her mother had said. ‘Not in front of the girls!’
‘That’s how my father always pronounced it,’ Colin smirked, ‘and if it was good enough for him, it’s good enough for me.’
Joss laughed again at the happy memory, and stuffed the packet of Lickerarse into the top of her dungarees, and crept outside.
There was no wire fence round the camp, but there was a main entrance where two dozy guards pretended to be alert. The sentries were trusted Party members from one of the boys’ platoons, and Joss knew they wouldn’t hesitate to detain her, given the opportunity. It would make their day, and be a sizeable feather in their caps, another tick on their Party record, another step toward another stripe.
The entrance led to the only main road in the vicinity, and that was where Joss wanted to go. She aimed to hitch a lift, for she didn’t have the money or valid ID to buy a rail ticket. She guessed hitching was her best chance of getting away, and fast. She couldn’t go out through the main entrance, but neither could she go back past the officers’ hut in case one of those fat idiots came outside for a sly ciggy.
The alternative was to make a long detour across some flat scrubland that would eventually bring her back out on the main road, about a mile to the east. Half a dozen curious cows watched her creep across the flat meadow, and by the time she arrived at the road, she was sweating. Fortunately, there was a decent clump of gorse bushes there that offered cover. She cowered down and peered to the right along the flat, straight road.
The first vehicle that came into view was a police car, hurtling toward her, as if on important business. Not looking for her, surely? She couldn’t imagine an alert was out already. In any event, the car zipped by and disappeared into the distance. The next wheels belonged to an old truck, rumbling closer across the sticky tarmac. Her heartbeat picked up for she knew she ran the risk of early capture the moment she made her presence known. In good time she jumped out and began frantically thumbing.
She could see the driver now. He was by himself, a middle-aged balding man. For a moment she didn’t think he would to stop. Joss smiled sweetly and he did stop, over running the gorse by twenty yards. She ran after the truck and by the time she reached the door the driver had flung it open.
‘What you want, duck?’ he said in a local accent.
‘I need a lift?’
‘Where to?’
‘London, I was hoping.’
‘Your lucky day. Hop on up.’
‘Ooh, ta.’
She dropped the specs under the huge filthy wheel and climbed into the cab, as he suddenly said, ‘You are not from that camp back there, are ya?’
‘Nah!’ said Joss. ‘I’m a veterinary trainee over at Johnson’s farm. The guy who normally gives me a lift to London has fallen sick.’
‘Yeah, babes? OK,’ he said, forcing the old truck into gear, and launching it down the road, crushing the specs in a flurry of dust and decibels.
The radio was on and it was loud, some middle of the road muck station playing golden oldies. Joss soon began humming along.
‘You like music?’ he said.
‘Yeah, but not this old stuff much.’
‘What do you like?’
‘The Goosesteppers.’
‘Pfft,’ he said, ‘they are crazy, that lot. Round the twist if you ask me.’
‘I like them,’ she said, smiling.
She had a nice smile, he noticed that well enough.
‘What’s your name, ducks?’
‘Eve,’ she said, ‘Evelyn,’ borrowing her sister’s name.
‘I’m Barry,’ he grinned, and he took his right hand from the wheel and reached across and offered it. She took it reluctantly and he squeezed hers hard. She had rarely shaken the hand of a grown man before, not in that way, and she recalled meeting Granger and Tomkins. This man’s hand was rough; it felt like weathered canvas, and it seemed so strong. She shivered. There was nothing about it she liked.
‘Whereabouts in London are you going?’
Joss wasn’t ready for the question, for she didn’t know London that well.
‘The University,’ she stammered.
‘Which one?’ he asked.
Oh God, she thought. ‘London,’ she said, hoping there wasn’t a whole heap of them.
‘Whereabouts is that, what street?’
‘I can’t remember the street name,’ she mumbled. ‘I’ll recognise it when I see it.’
‘If we see it,’ he said. ‘Fat chance. I’ll drop you by Big Ben and you can make your own way from there.’
‘That’s great,’ she said, relieved at reaching some kind of conclusion. She reached down and turned up the volume to drown out further questions.
‘Not so loud!’ he said, and then more softly, ‘I have a bit of a hangover.’
‘Oh,’ mumbled Joss, ‘sorry.’
‘No worries, babes.’
She fell asleep, or at least pretended to, and that seemed to work, for he fell quiet too. After an hour or so she felt the truck slowing. It was pulling off the road on the left side. She opened her eyes. They were braking heavily and turning in before an old timber transport café: Martha’s Sinyard.
‘You hungry?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said, slowly, torn between eating and wanting to put as many miles as possible behind her.
‘Late breakfast,’ he said, ‘My treat, on me.’
He was going to stop anyway, so she might as well make the best of it. He pulled the truck to a stop close to the old single story building, and yanked on the handbrake.
The café was an old fashioned greasy spoon. Inside, it was half full of rough looking and dirty men. It smelt of fried bacon and body odour and stale fat. Joss felt uncomfortable in there, as she followed the guy to the counter. She guessed she was the only woman on the customers’ side under fifty.
‘Hi, Martha,’ he said to the well-made woman in the dirty overall. Her face was caked in makeup and black mascara, and she stared back at them through hard eyes like a mean panda.
‘Hi, Baz,’ she said, pouring a mug of thick tea from a large battered steel pot. ‘The usual?’
‘Yeah, full English; and one for her too.’
The pair of them glanced at Joss.
‘Who’s she?’ asked the woman, as if Joss wasn’t there.
‘My new oppo,’ he grinned, paying with a £100 note.
‘You should be so lucky, Bazza. I’ll bring ’em over.’
‘Ta, duck,’ he said, and they turned and headed for a vacant pair of seats by the window.
It was a good seat, so far as Joss was concerned, for she could see everyone who came and went. The late breakfasts tasted better than they looked, and rapidly disappeared, Joss forgetting how hungry she was. Temporarily, she forgot too about vegetarianism and veganism, and any other faddish ism’s. Twenty minutes later she was grateful to be back in the truck, on the road again, heading south, heading home.
Thirty-Four
‘I have been looking at your drug usage records,’ said Elizabeth.
‘Yes ma’am,’ replied Smeggan, still standing in the centre of her office, shifting from one foot to the other.
‘T
hey don’t stack up.’
‘In what way, ma’am?’
‘Don’t mess with me, Smeggan.’
‘Sorry ma’am, but....’
‘You are signing out far too much flunitrazepam.’
‘Best thing that ever happened,’ he blurted, ‘the usage of drugs on suspects, if you ask me, makes our job so much easier, and the results are amazing. Best thing ever.’
‘I am not talking about bloody results!’ snapped Elizabeth, struggling to remain cool. ‘I am talking about rohypnol! The more common name for flunitrazepam, and we both know what rohypnol can be used for, don’t we, Smeggan?’
‘I am not sure I follow your drift, ma’am.’
‘You follow my drift perfectly well. But let me spell it out for you in case there is any long-term misunderstanding. If I find that you are using SPATs drug supply for your own recreational purposes, not to put too fine a point on it, to disable, abuse, and rape women, or pretty little boys, for that matter, you will be on the first truck to Blackpool. Is that clear?’
‘Yes ma’am, but....’
‘No damn buts! Now get out! And Smeggan....’
‘Yes, ma’am?’
‘I’ll be watching you.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Liz eyed his back disappearing across the general office, and inwardly smiled to herself, and called her young assistant.
‘Molly, I see on the arrest lists there is a young guy named Adam Goodchild.’
‘Don’t know the name meself, ma’am.’
‘Find out where he is being held.’
‘Certainly, ma’am.’
Molly returned a few minutes later.
‘You are in luck, ma’am, he is being held here, in this building.’
‘Here?’
‘Yes, ma’am, according to the latest stat reports, he is downstairs in cell sixteen.’
‘That’s fine, Molly. I want to see him. I’ll pop downstairs now.’
‘I’ll hold your calls, ma’am.’
‘Do that, I won’t be long.’
Liz collected her bag and headed downstairs toward the in-house newsagent on the ground floor and bought a Messenger and some chocolate. She skipped down the stairs to the basement and flashed her ID card at the two guards who were pondering over The Messenger sports crossword. Seeing her, the new SAC, they jumped to attention.
