by R. Jay
The young Arab's face puckered in concentration, his small mouth trying to form unfamiliar sounds. "W - Wha - Whit … "
"Whitby? Abu is it Whitby?" Abu nodded, looking pleased with himself. "That makes sense. It's on a direct line from here to the coast. Lots of fishing boats there."
"Used to be before the EU fucked them over." Ned ventured helpfully.
"Jesus, this is turning into a paper-chase!" Chris stepped back to kick at the table again, splashing dark water up his jeans leg. "And where's all this water come from?"
Abu looked away, dark thoughts haunting his expression. "We must hurry if you want to catch them Mr. Christopher." He muttered unhappily.
Chris Carter stared at him, frowning. There was something he was not telling them.
"He's right Chris." Rick spoke up. "The buggers ain't coming back here and they're on their way somewhere."
Chris nodded. "True. We could always stop by here again if there's no luck there." He looked searchingly at Abu again. "You recognise this boat again?"
"No Mr. Christopher, I do not think so."
"A trawler full of bloody Bedouins in salty old Whitby should stand out a treat." Nobby ever so practical.
"That right? Nobody spotted Dracula sneaking ashore did they?" Sol' being facetious.
"We got East European blood suckers by the thousands turning up here now and nobody's bothered. At least he had his own coffin to live in and fed himself. In a manner of speaking." Ned observed with a grin.
Chris smiled. "Come on then, let's roll. It'll be getting dark before we know it."
***
The two watchers hidden in the shadowy recess of a small copse up on the hill, aimed binoculars and a telephoto lens at the small troupe of young men as they filed dejectedly back out of the barn towards the Landrover. The photographer snapped several pictures and more of the number plate for good measure.
The other man with the field glasses had a mobile phone pressed to his ear. "Yes seven of them. One is Arabic or Pakistani in appearance dressed in traditional garb. Bit bizarre out here in deepest Yorkshire. … I can't tell, but he doesn't look to be in any distress. From here, who knows? … Whoever they are, they're here for the same reason and have come to the same conclusion, the targets have flown the coop. Lord knows where, bound to show themselves sooner or later … yeah, we cleaned up as best we could, an old water pump in the yard still operational, just … Middlesbrough, yes … They understand the need for absolute discretion.
"Anyhow, we are forwarding photos to you right now with the registration plate of their vehicle. Hopefully you can identify the driver at least … Okay, we'll let them get well clear before we're away ourselves. Freezing our nuts off here. Should get back to the Smoke in what, five hours? Be good to see civilisation again, if you can call London civilised … Okay, Ciao."
As the Landrover moved slowly back up the track, the two MI5 men gingerly rose to their feet, brushing off dead bracken, massaging stiff, cold joints.
"Half the fucking day and we got sod all." The photographer grumbled.
"Well we did." The other man corrected grimly, anger flushing across his face. "Only not what we really wanted. Not at all."
******
TWENTY-ONE
On narrow torturous roads that roughly followed the course of the River Esk, Chris guided the Landrover down through a broadening cleft of the North Yorkshire Moors and into the old town and harbour sitting on a bottle shaped estuary. Whitby, the only natural refuge from raging North sea storms along that hundred miles stretch of treacherous coast between the Humber and the Tees.
They cruised through medieval streets on the west side of the river that were lined with gnarled, red roofed cottages and proud Georgian merchants' houses. Chris parked up behind the Fish Market on pier road abutting the Lower Harbour to the seaward side of the iconic swing bridge. A marvel of Edwardian engineering, the whole edifice, seventy-five feet of roadway, street lamps and all, could be moved aside at high tide, to allow tall ships access to the yacht moorings in the Upper Harbour.
They stood in an uncertain knot on old stone cobbles slippery with fish scales and oil, watching battered, sea rusted trawlers unloading plastic crates and baskets of white fish and shell fish. Robust, florid faced fishermen swapped banter and grumbles between themselves as they hoisted their harvest up onto the dockside, studiously ignoring the inquisitive outsiders. Particularly the Arab boy who slowly paced the harbour's edge, followed a step behind by his companions, closely scrutinising the chain moored boats that bobbed gently in the rising tide.
They showed no interest in the usual tourist attractions; the ruined Abbey crouching on its high headland across the river that gave Bram Stoker inspiration, or the great bronze statue of Whitby's most famous son, Captain James Cook, posing proudly on his stone plinth on West Cliff.
Getting distinctly impatient and tetchy, Chris rounded on Abu as they neared the end of the dock, close to the modern ornamental gate that gives access to the West Pier. Together with its twin East Pier, they reach out part way across choppy waters towards one another, affording the town and its fleet, shelter from the tempestuous storms that funnel down from Arctic waters.
Sea-gulls swooped overhead, screeching dire warnings to those who go down to the sea in ships, beady eyes fixed on the unloading operations below, ever hopeful of a dropped or discarded free meal. Ominous spots of rain drifted in the cold wind as twilight edged over the far horizon.
"Nothing at all? You don't recognise any of these bloody boats floating right in front of you? What was it then, a submarine? Would it help if I ducked your sodding head under the water to look for it?"
Abu pouted miserably. "Sorry Mr. Christopher. I do not think it is here."
"Bleeding marvellous!"
"It could just as easily mean that the thing has gone Chris." Nobby pointed out, eyeing a nearby pub longingly. "Sometimes a negative is an affirmative you know?"
Chris glared back at him slightly nonplussed. "I wish I'd left you back at grandpa's bedroom hanging my wallpaper."
Nobby laughed. "If you want it put upside-down fine. I ain't no sticker, just a common old painter."
Chris smirked, ire abated. "Paint is probably on back to front then. 'Ere, where's he going the sulky little git. Oi, Abu, get your scrawny arse back here!"
The young Arab pretended not to hear him, continued walking away, the bottoms of his pantaloons soaking up rain water and fish oil.
"I'm afraid you've missed the boat young man." A stout figure in naval blue serge and gold braid had wandered down from the marina office, quietly observing them from the lee of the ice-house.
Abu stopped sharply, at once fearful of this authoritive figure in uniform. Chris quickly crossed the dock to stand alongside the dumbstruck Abu, a polite smile of enquiry on his face.
"Is that in the literal sense do you mean?"
The Harbour Master scratched at his pepper and salt beard, tilted back his peaked white cap, every inch a man of the sea.
"Aye I do mean that son. This here lad your friend then?"
Chris thought quickly. "Not exactly. Found him up the road a bit thumbing a lift, doesn't speak much English." He lied, nudging Abu in the ribs. "But we got the gist of what he wanted. To come here and meet some friends from college. Have you seen them then?"
"I have. A rum business it was an' all. Some wild looking character straight out of Lawrence of Arabia turns up here to view Lonny Grogan's boat. A light trawler he's had up for sale for months.
"Not had too much interest, who'd want to be a fisherman these days with no fishing allowed. Anyhow, this character pays him out on the spot, thirty-eight grand cash in the hand. Not that the beggar had much in that department; had half his fingers missing. Fish must have been biting well that day.
"Didn't even take her out for a sea trial until after the deal was done. Turned up later with another of his ilk for Lonny to give him a crash course on how to sail a fishing boat. Lord, that's half a l
ife time's experience that is.
"Must have got the bug for suicide, because a couple of days later, a whole bunch of them turn up an prepare her for a jolly boys outing. Food and such like. Then today a bunch of them shows up again, but without Three Fingered Freddy, settle the mooring charges and prepares for the immediate off.
"'Not until you get a bit more water under your keel I tells 'em."
Getting vexed at the verbal odyssey, Chris cut in quickly. "But they've gone ?"
The man looked surprised he could ask such a question, made a show of looking up and down the dockside. "'Course, no holding them any longer. The tide had barely turned when they took off. The bottom o' that tub musta' been scraping over the cockle-beds all the way to open sea, a good two hours ago."
"Two hours?" Chris had a sudden urge to punch Abu's face.
"At least, possibly more, I'd have to check my log. But I hope they know what they're about. Bought themselves a tidal table for Hunstanton down in Norfolk. That's a good days sailing or more. At least in that old tub. Not to be taken lightly, not along this coast, one of the busiest sea lanes in the world. Then there's the windmill farms off of the Lincolnshire coast, gas platforms, to avoid, ferries in and out of Hull cutting across your bows.
"Bad enough in daylight, but in the dark?" He jabbed the stem of a briar pipe, unlit, that had appeared miraculously in his big hairy hand at Abu. "Probably done himself a favour turning up here late. What are you going to do with him now?"
Chris shrugged. "Oh he'll be okay. We'll just drop him off somewhere on our way south." He answered vaguely. "Just as well he was late probably. Sea-sick prone I'd say judging by how peaky he looked in the back of my truck."
"Big seas out there tonight, not like riding on a camel's back." The big man chuckled, winked, then strolled away through the gathering darkness to his office, lighting the pipe with an old brass lighter that had just as miraculously appeared in his other hand.
Exasperated, defeated, Chris turned back to the other lads who looked just as glum at their wasted, uncomfortable day. "Back home chaps? Let's hope that Sid don't suffer from seasickness himself too much."
"Shouldn't do, a roughty-toughty, Naval Royal Marine." Ned Ryan observed drily.
***
The long drive back south was an ill-tempered, tiring journey, for six disappointed, cold, angry men. Abu had been relegated to the back of the cab, wedged in between Nobby and Rick Ryan. Ned was honoured to sit up front on the passenger seat on the understanding he would share the driving with Chris who was feeling the strain of a long day.
Nobby gave vent to some of the animosity that had built up, stoked by fatigue and unspoken worry for their mate Sydique Sahni.
"Led us on a right fucking fool's errand ain't you sunshine?" He grunted, poking a stiff finger into the boys ribs.
Abu winced, the thin cotton of his clothing little protection against assault no matter how trivial, or the cold and dark night.
They by-passed Scarborough on the A165, hugging the coast road as if that would catch them up with their sea borne quarry. Rick rapped the knuckles of his left hand against the door's window glass in his vexation, staring out into a cloak of blackness broken only by the holiday town's illuminations to their left and tiny pin-points of ship's lights far out to sea.
"You Muslims going to take over the world then Mustafa?" He sneered at Abu's reflection staring back at him in the glass.
"Abu sir. My name is Abu."
"Sounds like a fucking monkey."
Nobby chuckled until a surprise belch rose from his churning guts, courtesy of the suspect burger he had wolfed down before leaving Whitby. Wished he'd had the fish and chips instead like the others. At least there you knew where the fish came from.
"But you don't like Christians?" Rick pressed the topic for want of anything else to talk about.
"Sir, I have no quarrels with Christians, but your church is misguided. Islam is the true religion. In time you will come to recognise this and embrace Allah."
For a fraction of a moment the temperature inside the Landrover's cab dropped below that on the outside.
Chris Carter's warning grimace transmitted via the rear view mirror quelled the threatened eruption of violence.
"So you believe that Britain will turn Islamic?" Nobby asked in a low, level tone.
Abu turned his head to face him, white teeth prominent in the cab's darkness. "Oh yes, certainly. We are many, have lots of children, they will have lots of children. Mohammed demanded this of us. England will be a blessed muslim Caliphate."
"Cheeky fucker!" Nobby could contain himself no longer and slapped Abu hard up the side of the head before slumping down further on his seat, breathing heavily, staring moodily out of the windscreen between the two heads in front, wondering like the rest of them, what lay ahead beyond the cone of halogen light spread before them.
***
It had been a dispiriting journey of over four hours on unfamiliar roads in the dead of night before they rolled into the Holtingham Rugby Club car park. It was close on midnight and their cars there had acquired a thin skin of sparkling frost that glittered under the arc lights on tall poles at each corner.
Most of those on board had dozed fitfully once over the Humber Bridge, hunched in their seats, arms wrapped about themselves to ward off the bitter November night. Surprisingly, Nobby had donated a woollen fleece body warmer that he tucked over Abu's sleeping form. Only Chris and Ned had stayed fully awake the whole time.
"Listen lads," Ned yawned as he switched off the engine and stretched short, strong arms. "We're outside of licensing hours but there's an unopened bottle of scotch under the counter I can replace in the morning. My treat?"
There were no arguments with that proposal as he pushed open the cab door and an inrush of cold air swamped the warmed cocoon of the cab. Eagerly they filed into the bar snapping on lights and the big blower heaters. Them and a couple of glasses of whisky restored some measure of humour and blood-flow.
Thawed out, relaxed and laughing once more, it was time to call it a night, go home to hearth and family. Back out into the shock of cold night, as Ned threw switches and rattled keys, Nobby stopped with a sudden thought, staring about them.
"Erm, where's Ali Baba?"
Consternation cutting away his exhaustion, Chris thought hard, back on the last hour. "I haven't seen him since we got here. Have any of you?"
"His lot ain't supposed to touch alcohol, perhaps he just butted out, the party pooper." Solly suggested.
Chris shook his head with concern. "Shit! He's done a runner again."
Nobby laughed, clouds of vapour swirling above his head. "Look on the bright side Chris. You won't have to share your bed with him tonight, because grandpa's room ain't useable yet."
"You're a big help." Chris grumbled, taking the Landrover keys back off of Ned.
"Well we don't need him anymore. He's got no more idea of where Sid is right now than we do." Rick said dismissively. He just wanted to get home. Sod another search. "What are you Chris, his keeper. Can't force him to stick with us, we virtually kidnapped him as it is."
"Yep, you'd do better standing on Hunstanton beach to wave at them as they sail by. Assuming that they get that far without drowning that is." Ned added for everyone else. "You coming brother of mine? I'll drop you off. Night all."
Chris reluctantly had to agree. "But he'll bloody freeze wandering about dressed like that. Perhaps he's gone back to the Mosque, kissed and made up with the mad Mullah."
"Yeah, say a few 'Hail Mecca's' and bend over for the Imam as penance." Rick sniggered as he slid into his brother's car.
"You're just too Catholic at times, you know that?" Nobby called over jocularly, reaching into the back of the Landrover for his shotgun. "Aye, aye, what's this then?" He pulled out the battered leather satchel that Abu had carried with him all day." The boy's left his make-up bag."
Chris rubbed at his eyes. "Just leave it there Nobby. If he wants it back he
knows where I live sure enough."
***
At about the same time as the group of friends blearily swung their cars out of the Rugby Club in Holtingham, nearly two hundred miles north, a black unmarked van drove slowly out of Middlesbrough, heading on a long south-westerly journey through the night; inconspicuous were it not for the two police motorcycle outriders on big Triumphs.
******
TWENTY-TWO
Long hours at the wheel, smoky whisky and a late night had made their mark. No sooner had Chris Carter dragged the blankets up over his muzzy head, he had dropped into a well of sleep that had no bottom, the smell of paint and wallpaper paste a fleeting tang on the fading senses.
A heavy banging noise that eventually woke him could have been a nightmare, or a spectacular headache. Painful light stabbed into his eyes, having been too whacked to close the curtains before crash landing onto his bed. The clock level with his smarting eyes declared it to be past nine-thirty, the latest he had slept in for years. Prison did not allow for such laxity. Neither did grandpa.
Delicately he sat up, wondering in his confusion whether he had got the day wrong and Grandpa was out there now with his bag of pyjamas and left-over grapes, stranded on his own doorstep on Thursday morning. 'Shit!' His new bed and heater had not even been delivered yet, not due until that afternoon.
With the irrational thought process and loose joints that interrupted exhausted sleep bestows, Chris rolled out of his bed, still fully clothed, and stumbled down the stairs, shouting back at the door that shuddered and rattled under another flurry of knocking.
"I'm coming, hold your horses!" He flung back the street door with an apology ready on his tongue.
Standing in a loose group were four, no five, young men about his own age. Strangers, but he recognised toughs readily enough. Short cropped hair, windcheaters, jeans and no nonsense boots; lean, stern faces. Chris could feel the pain in his ribs and face already just looking at them.
"Chris Carter?" The nearest man who had done all the knocking demanded. Medium height but well packed with muscle bulk, West Country accent. Chris studied them suspiciously through gritty, sleep encrusted eyes, balanced on the balls of his feet, ready for fight or flight.
