Cut to the Chase

by Ray Scott

  He tore the newspaper into shreds and flung it into the waste bin. He didn’t want that hanging around the cabin if he had any visitors.

  The following night he stayed on the boat feeling no urge to go out and mingle with his fellow men. He travelled quite a few more miles up the water but by the next night had had enough of the smell of Calor gas and visited another pub further up the canal. This time he bought an evening paper but there was no mention or any sign of a picture of him anywhere in the pages. He had been superseded by Liverpool being beaten on their home ground, England forcing a draw in the last Test match in India, and a Cabinet Minister being compromised by an assignation with a young lady of dubious morals. Nevertheless, he sat in the darkest corner he could find and dined on fish and chips, he wanted to merge in.

  The next morning, just as he was just becoming concerned about the fuel question, a petrol depot appeared as the boat rounded a bend. There were a few craft of various sizes hanging around the basin, he checked the fuel and decided that it would be politic to top up.

  There was a pub nearby and a newsagents shop. Next door to that was a chandlers’ shop that seemed to be doing a roaring trade. He eased in behind a small motor cruiser which was graced by a girl in a bikini who certainly raised the sap. She was accompanied by a muscular brute built like an all-in wrestler who would discourage any other hopeful’s sap rising more than hip high. Wallace gently nudged their stern as they, and he, moved slowly forwards. Wallace received a flashing smile from her that made his adrenalin run, and a surly nod from her companion.

  Wallace decided to turn in early that night and fantasise, he found that her assets were fascinating, again emphasising how long it had been since he had had female company. He realised that his glances, however covert, were becoming obvious to her companion so Wallace hastily applied himself to removing a stain from the deck.

  Wallace received two nasty shocks after he had filled up, and regretfully bade the bikini girl farewell. She looked just as good from the rear. He entered the newsagency and was greeted by a billboard that read:

  WALLIS BELIEVED TO BE HEADED NORTH

  Roads and railway stations being watched.

  He wasn’t sure what to make of that, would the police really be so stupid as to give the game away like that…or did the press have an informant within the police who had leaked the news? He was also encouraged by the continued misspelling of the surname; the reporter must have been in a hurry to catch the later editions. He decided to buy a newspaper and was paying for the fuel when a policeman walked in. Wallace nearly had a fit, and his voice was trembling as he completed his purchases.

  ‘Pardon?’ asked the newsagent.

  ‘I want a piper…paper as well…and some loll . .er…’ he just stopped himself in time from saying “lollies” and likewise discarded “choccies” ‘…Cadburys fruit and nut, thank…please.’

  He could have kicked himself; that was three Australianisms in one sentence. Nearly saying “piper” instead of “paper”…“lollies” instead of “sweets” and ending a sentence with “thanks” instead of “please”. He would really have to watch himself.

  But the shop-keeper appeared to have noticed nothing amiss and neither had the policeman who was buying a newspaper and two coffees in plastic containers from the attractive young assistant, presumably for him and his partner who was still seated in the police car outside. His close attention to her precluded him from making the arrest that could have enhanced his promotion chances and been the foundation stone of a successful career.

  Wallace stumbled out keeping his head down, and walked to the boat to cast off. He wondered how much longer he could carry on without broadcasting his origins or identity far and wide by making silly verbal mistakes.

  At the next stop he stocked the pantry well up, he wanted to avoid disembarking from the craft too often until the heat died down. The fuel tanks were full and he cruised at a leisurely rate heading slowly northwards.

  During the next week he almost forgot his troubles. The canal banks slid past slowly, the sunshine in the main was bright and warm, and he persistently received greetings from other boat people as they either passed in the other direction or overtook. Some were pleasure craft while others were commercial craft with company names emblazoned on their sides.

  Wallace passed near to places with names like Slapton, Dunstable and Leighton Buzzard, he wondered for some days what the Buzzard meant and resolved to find out when next in a library. He was struck by the amount of wild life that frequented the waterways and he saw countless birds, shoals of small fish and occasional animals on the bank that could have been otters or water rats. He was just turning in one night when unmistakeably he saw a fox regarding him curiously from a patch of open ground between a bridge and a clump of trees. They eyed each other for some time as Wallace sat in the stern, then it slowly wandered off into the gathering dusk, presumably heading for somebody’s henhouse.

  He drew in near to another of the many public houses that graced the banks of the canal, once again he was fed up with his own cooking and was sufficiently confident with the growth of his beard to risk going ashore and having a meal at the nearby pub.

  Earlier in the day he had seen a rubbish bin by the side of the canal with a newspaper sticking out of it, he moored the craft and then walked back to retrieve it. After getting it back to the boat he quickly scanned through it and was relieved to find that there was no mention of him on the front three pages, apart from a brief footnote at the bottom of page 6 that commented that the police had reached no further with their enquiries regarding the master criminal, Henry Wallis. There were no more pictures, so it looked as if Saul had not been forthcoming with any further photographs nor had they yet received any from Australia.

  The pub exuded old English atmosphere with highly polished horse brasses on the bar, old wooden tables and chairs, and an adjoining bar room with tables and chairs for diners. Wallace got into conversation with the publican as he ordered a pre-dinner beer. The conversation was not of his seeking as he had no wish to draw attention to himself, but the place was nearly empty, it was about 5 o’clock, and the evening trade had not really commenced.

  As Wallace quaffed his ale the landlord began to engage him in conversation, he didn’t believe mine host was unduly inquisitive but when talking to a stranger one has never seen before it’s natural to ask questions. To combat these Wallace began to ask questions of his own, having exhausted the ‘how long have you been here?’ and ‘…do you have much trade from the canal itself?’ he asked him why the town he had just passed through was named Leighton Buzzard…why the Buzzard? Wallace didn’t have much hope that he’d know the answer, but to his surprise he did.

  ‘The name was given to the town in the 12th Century or there-abouts,’ the landlord said, leaning on the bar and flicking some beer spots with his sleeve. He was an ample, bald headed man with steel rimmed spectacles, with hairs sticking out of his nostrils. ‘One of the local noblemen was Theodore de Busar…’ he spelt it out: ‘…and it was to distinguish it from another Leighton nearby that was called Leighton Bromswold.’

  He paused to reach for a cloth to mop up another beer spot on the bar counter.

  ‘You seem to know a lot about it then,’ Wallace replied, for want of anything better to say.

  ‘Lived here all my life,’ the landlord replied. ‘I was born in Leighton Buzzard, I was living here as a youngster when the Great Train Robbery took place not far away, and when they shot the film some years later. That really put us on the map. Have you seen the narrow gauge railway?’

  Wallace assured him that he had not.

  ‘Worth a ride on that,’ he commented. ‘The proper railway station is worth a look too, when they made the film about the robbery they did some of the filming there.’

  Wallace thanked him and assured him that he would, then decided that it would be best if he left it at that, the thickness of his concave spectacle lenses denoted that he was short sig
hted but Wallace didn’t want to tempt Providence. He asked for a menu and went into the farthest corner to study it. More customers came in and the place began to fill up, by the time he ordered his meal the place was nearly full.

  It was in the middle of one morning shortly after that episode that Wallace eventually reached Fenny Stratford and Milton Keynes, and was confronted by a portal that was the Blisworth Tunnel. He must have sat outside it for nearly an hour as he plucked up courage, which was assisted by observing other boats that entered and exited apparently without sustaining any harm. Finally he cranked up the engine, after having boosted his courage with a bottle of beer, and headed for the entrance.

  He nearly panicked as the darkness closed in and suffered acute claustrophobia. The drumming of the engine filled his world, and he had an unreasoning panic, wondering what he should do if the boat ran out of fuel and he was stranded for evermore within the recesses of the tunnel.

  He kept to the right of the tunnel, having switched on the boat’s light and it flung a beam ahead. He had just managed to calm himself down when he saw another light ahead, his hand slipped on the tiller and the boat swung into the centre of the waterway. The other light came closer as Wallace over adjusted and hit the side, the bow then careering back into the centre of the tunnel. Then he took a grip on himself and returned to the right hand side, and saw with relief that the approaching craft was well to the right as well, that is, his left. The sound of engines filled the narrow tunnel, it became deafening as the other craft came closer and closer, and then passed alongside. There was a hail from the other boat; it looked like a commercial craft from what he could see. It sounded like a greeting so he shouted a greeting back. Then the other passed astern and slowly receded, and the noise gradually lessened.

  Wallace emerged into bright sunlight, never had he been so grateful to see the sun. He realised that eventually there would be the Braunston Tunnel to negotiate but somehow that seemed less of a threat now. He had confronted his demons by traversing the Blisworth Tunnel; he considered he could manage the other tunnel all right.

  He surprised himself when he approached the portal of the Braunston tunnel, he had a momentary hesitation as he steered for the bank and had a brief think about it, during which time another commercial craft emerged from it; the helmsman raised a hand in salute as he passed. Then Wallace swung the tiller and headed for the open mouth of the tunnel and was surprised by his calmness as the darkness closed in.

  He eventually emerged into the same brilliant sunshine that he had left, and gave a casual wave to another pleasure boat that was approaching. Wallace felt that he was an old hand now.

  Chapter 14

  Wallace must have been travelling on the water for about 12 days before he reached a point near to the city of Birmingham, the journey was uneventful apart from a near collision with a commercial craft when he allowed his mind to drift. He came to with a jolt when he heard frantic shouting, and swung the boat back to the right hand side of the canal. He spread out his hands apologetically as the boats passed each other. The helmsman shouted something as the boats were alongside each other which he didn’t quite catch. Wallace didn’t think the other boatman was enquiring after his health.

  Pleasure traffic increased markedly after that, by which Wallace assumed he was approaching a large population centre. It proved to be the outskirts of Birmingham, that vast metropolis in the middle of England that houses a myriad of industries, a Test cricket ground, three top class soccer teams and a very distinctive regional accent!

  After negotiating many locks which he found quite exhausting, he finally reached the centre of the city and moored the boat in a basin under a busy Birmingham street and considered his next move.

  McKay had said that the shop where he could find the person suspected of being Murray Craddock was in Birmingham, but on arrival in the Midland city Wallace had found that far from being a Birmingham suburb, Stourbridge was a town in its own right about 12 to 15 miles west. He also had another reason for landing in this area, this being his old friend Ben Wakefield whom he had known when they were both young boys in Australia; they had both lived in the same street. Ben’s parents had probably fitted the scathing description made by many Australians of English immigrants of being whingeing Poms, they had migrated to Australia and then done nothing but grumble, with the result that they had eventually uprooted themselves once more and returned to England with their two children, Ben and Elizabeth.

  As schoolboys and teenagers Ben Wakefield and Wallace had got into many a scrape, once being arrested by the police for being drunk and disorderly outside a hotel in a Melbourne suburb. They had been in a group of six youths; the other four had been sufficiently sober to be able to run fast enough to evade the constabulary. Nothing much had come of it, they were both under age at the time and had been fined plenty of dollars, which their luckless parents had to pay, but the escapade had solidified a fast friendship between the two of them.

  In teenage they had also been members of the same cricket club and Australian Rules football club, and until Ben and Elizabeth had been forcibly returned to England they had spent much time together. Wallace could still remember the last night they had all had before Ben and Elizabeth returned to England. Ben and Elizabeth, or Liz as she was always known, had been most upset. Ben had been about 18 at the time, while Liz had been 14. Wallace remembered that she had had a crush on him, almost worshipping the ground he walked on, but although Wallace had a great affection for her, at the age of 19 it wasn’t advisable to become too involved with a 14 year old!

  On previous visits to England Wallace had met up with Ben, and each time they had repeated their Melbourne drinking spree, though happily without falling foul of any local constabulary. Wallace had also met up with Liz on his last visit to England, she was a young woman by that time, and had developed into a very attractive one. She was living with some man that Wallace didn’t really take to; when Wallace was talking to Liz about old times he was conscious that the other man was watching them both all the time.

  Wallace decided to research Murray Craddock, a look at the map had ascertained that the canal system extended to Stourbridge but by that time he had had enough of sputtering around on the water and wanted a change. He had already climbed a long bank of locks on the approach to central Birmingham and had finally moored, in a state of exhaustion, at a point just under Broad Street, one of the main thoroughfares into the city from its western suburbs. He decided that it may be an idea to make the visit to Stourbridge by using the train.

  He slept that night on the canal boat and found that the canal around the Broad Street and Gas Street area of Birmingham was quite busy. Much work had been carried out on the canal basin and there were shops and paved quays. Many pleasure boats passed by and paused in the basin as did several commercial craft. Next morning he had some breakfast and then decided to head for the nearest post office to make a phone call to Ben Wakefield. He anticipated problems, it was possible that Ben may have heard of the police being anxious to interview the wanted Henry Wallis in relation to Ravindran’s murder and could put two and two together, but Wallace resolved to cross that one when he came to it.

  ‘Hallo Ben,’ he said tentatively as soon as the phone was answered. ‘This is Harry!’

  ‘Harry, ol’ son, where are you?’

  Wallace told him and they exchanged some small talk. Ben made no mention of Wallace being on the run; he didn’t read the papers much and when he did he usually turned to the Business pages and then the sports pages and never left them. Luckily, the description and the name of the wanted Australian had been so distorted that it was doubtful whether even Ben would associate it with his old friend.

  ‘How are you travelling, by car?’

  ‘No, I’m using the canal. I’ve come up from London.’

  ‘Canal! You’re in Knowle then?’

  ‘Knowle…no! I’m in Birmingham, it’s a place called the Gas Street and Broad Street basin.’
/>   ‘You prat! The canal passes through Knowle, you could have stopped off on the way.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘Well you know now, never mind. When can you come down here?’

  It was arranged that Wallace would call on him that evening, they agreed what train Wallace should catch and Ben arranged to pick him up. Knowle was a suburb south of Birmingham and that was also on a railway track as well as the canal, Wallace had another look at the map and realised he must have passed very near to Ben’s place.

  Wallace had the rest of the day to kill and decided to have a look around the city. Like so many industrial cities in England, the immigrant population was very noticeable; the face of Britain had certainly changed over the last 50 years. Wallace took a ride on the new metro system, which was the former Birmingham to Wolverhampton Great Western track and was most impressed with it. He had lunch in Wolverhampton and then returned to Birmingham. He caught the train for Dorridge, which was the nearest station to Knowle.

  He stepped from the train and made for the station exit and arrived in the car park outside and saw Ben waving enthusiastically. They shook hands warmly and then clambered into Ben’s car and headed off.

  Ben’s house was on the outskirts of the village, backing onto a large expanse of green fields. He was clearly doing very well for himself; Wallace knew he ran his own insurance broking business in Stratford-on-Avon.

  Ben was what you could call a jovial man, overweight but muscular with it, he still played Rugby football, though his first love had always been Australian Rules as a boy. He had a ginger beard, close trimmed; hair cropped short and had a tanned complexion. He was married, but his wife was away in Scotland visiting her mother with the children so he had the house to himself.

  ‘We’ll go to the pub tonight – how long are you staying for?’