Ben walked away kicking at the dirt and gravel. He stopped and turned back. ‘Hang your head, Jackie John. You are no leader of men.’ Ben approached with his finger again threatening Jackie. ‘You got an army back at the Projects pissing about taking out our electric every bloody night. You talk about revolution and dream of power and doing right for the citizens, but it’s a wank. Get your hand off your dick and step up, be the Heroes you deserve to be. Fight for right, and stop pissing people off with your strikes and bombs. Do something clever, eh? Urban bloody Guerrillas? I don’t think so. Urban bloody chimpanzees, more like.’
He turned to front the Feral man. ‘I’m sorry about your lot,’ he said, ‘but fuck you. You grow stuff. You think you’re immune from the suffering we all have to endure. Wake up wanker, you aren’t immune. You and your crappy crops of dope don’t deserve immunity. So stop giving me grief. This isn’t my fault.’
Ben stopped, his breathing labored and his heart pounding, but he’d heard a noise. A scuff on the dirt. The step of a boot. He backed into the dark of the shed.
A lone figure emerged from the shadows by the old brewery. Ben reached for the door leading to the abandoned industrial estate behind Blacky’s shed. He was ready to run, but waited, his curiosity causing him to hesitate.
PC Barney Baker cleared his throat. ‘Evening gentlemen. A curious place to be meeting, don’t you think? Night’s falling and the chill settling in, but here you stand, trying to get warm by the old blacksmith’s furnace.’
He circled the men and kicked at the gravel. ‘It must be important to be here in the cold. Sport or politics, I wonder. Maybe it’s religion. Are we discussing the meaning of life, perhaps?’
He rubbed his hands by the coals and turned his back to the heat so he could look at his audience. ‘You and I have met,’ he said to Tommy. ‘In the Old Poet, I believe. It’s strange our paths should cross again, in another known habitat of the infamous Street Boy.’
He looked at Feral Man and stepped back so as not to crane his neck. Feral Man’s deep dark eyes watched with little expression to his features. Barney sniffed at the air and smiled. ‘Fragrant.’
Jackie John shuffled on the spot and Tommy rolled his cigar in his mouth. He wanted to spit, but he didn’t want to alarm the copper.
‘You, I don’t know,’ he said turning away from Feral Man. ‘And you…’ He pointed at Jackie, his finger jabbing close to his chin.
Jackie breathed out in a slow sigh. His right foot slid backward, his knees flexing as he eased into his fighting stance.
‘You, I’m sure I should know. You look like a man of worth. By the end of my shift tonight I will know who you are, that’s a promise.’
He smiled at Blacky. ‘It is a charitable thing you do sir, keeping the furnace burning through the night.’
Blacky grunted and left the party. He leant the door against the jamb and began banging at stuff in his shed. Ben stepped around Blacky and stopped at the door, peering through the gap in the doorway.
No one at the fire spoke. Barney waited, but his audience chose not to share.
‘So I’m new on this beat. My name is Barney, but if we need to be formal you can address me as PC Baker. I’m looking for Street Boy.’ He took a business card from his pocket and offered it to Jackie John. ‘I’ve been looking all day and don’t seem to be getting any closer. I’m hoping you won’t get to know me too well, like that would be unfortunate, but if folk keep dicking me around then I’ll turn into a right arse. So, gentlemen, can you help me with his location?’
The three men shook their heads with a grave rhythm. Feral Man turned and walked away. Three strides and the deep bush crowding his allotments absorbed his body. Tommy finally spat, but aimed well away from Barney. Jackie had moved his hands so that they defended his face and midriff. He made no move to take the business card.
‘I seem to have broken up your party,’ Barney said with false regret. He dropped the business card on the arm of the sofa, touched his cap, turned with a click of his heels, and marched back toward the alley to disappear into the darkness.
Tommy removed a fresh cheroot and spat the soggy butt into the fire. ‘That’s Wolf Girl’s new partner. Thinks he’s tough, he does.’
As if on cue, Wynona stepped out from the shadow of the council sheds and approached the furnace.
‘He’s an arse,’ she said. ‘And he won’t give up. He has this place clocked and he’ll be back. He don’t like being dicked around, does he?’
Ben joined them at the furnace. ‘Can I come back to the Projects?’
‘No.’
‘Well I can’t join the Ferals and live in there.’ He pointed into the dense undergrowth. ‘That is one scary plot of turf.’
‘Get your arse back to the Old Poet,’ Wynona said. ‘But keep your head down. Barney’s got a meeting with the Sarge, so he won’t be bothering you tonight. I’ve got a man coming to see you. He’s going to offer you a job. Take it.’
‘What’s the job involve? I’m not one for hard labor or menial.’
Jackie shook his head. ‘Menial and hard makes man. Not talk. Not sofa. Not booze. One day you realize truth.’
Ben had been well known at the Projects for lacking the fortitude to hike, run, or climb, but he trained for the martial art forms like a demon. He pulled his left sleeve back to reveal the Black Dragon tattoo.
‘I earned this,’ he said. ‘I passed every test you set me. You wouldn’t have authorized this grading if I hadn’t excelled.’
Jackie smiled and nodded his head. Ben had impressed the Projects with his training ethic since Christmas. He’d dedicated his time to learning to shoot. He’s also spent time finishing his knife and pole disciplines. And he’d become a master of the wooden dummy.
The Projects awarded him the black dragon tattoo, but kicked him out of the camp on the same day for insubordination. He’d been given the job of lookout on a sabotage mission to take down the power station servicing the western sector of Old London Town. He’d fallen asleep, was the guess, but Ben denied the accusation. The mission had been compromised when one of the guerillas had been captured and the explosive failed to detonate. The team arrived back at the Projects camp, minus the captured man and Ben. It was another hour before he arrived back in camp, but by then he’d been blamed for the failure, sentenced for his incompetence and his bags packed for reassignment on the streets of Ostere.
Wynona called to Wolf. He padded into view and stood watching the alley leading to town. ‘The man coming to see you is old, sick old, and has lost his daughter. She’s hiding out in the Lowlands and he needs you to bring her back.’
‘What if she don’t want to come back.’
‘You’re to convince her that he’s dying and he needs to see her.’
‘Lowlands is good,’ Jackie said.
‘Oh sure, Lowlands is great,’ Ben said. ‘It’s primitive. They’re all feral in the Lowlands. They shoot at each other for fun on a Saturday night. Miners and Gypsies and fuck knows what other low life crawl in that stench and they don’t like strangers. It’s a closed shop, so yeah, it’s a right holiday. Get your bucket and spade kids and don’t forget the sun screen.’
‘I know people, Burrowers, who can help.’ Jackie slapped his riding crop against his leg. ‘This is good. I give you pigeons. You offer Projects support. We need Lowlands fighting the Man.’
‘Pigeons?’
Ben smiled at the prospect of carting pigeons about the countryside. He had no idea how to cook a pigeon, but it had to involve plucking.
‘Two jobs I’ve got now, and do any of them pay for my time? I’ve been living off Ivan’s kindness of late. He doesn’t have a shed load of charity left.’
‘Meeting Burrowers is no job.’ Jackie pointed at Ben. ‘You ask for Bob. He helps you. You help him. We help Burrowers. This is good.’ Jackie smiled, reached forward and clapped Ben on the arm.
‘Bob the Burrower. He’ll know I’m not plucking no pigeons, eh?’
‘He fights Chelsea Mining Corporation. They have army. Man’s army. Pigeons will act as communication. We can bomb roads, snipe at arse of army. Is good. All good.’
‘And Max will pay if you bring his daughter back,’ Wynona said.
‘So I’m going to the Lowlands.’ Ben sat on the sofa, leaning against the lumpy padding. ‘How am I supposed to get there?’
Wynona linked arms with Tommy. ‘Young Tommy has volunteered to drive you.’
‘I have?’
‘Yes, because Loubie is going, and you like Loubie.’
‘I’m not going anywhere with Loubie,’ Ben said. ‘She’s got issues, that girl. And she don’t like men, so good luck with that, Tommy.’
‘We all have issues,’ Wynona said. ‘Loubie’s a good girl.’
‘She cuts herself.’ Ben looked at Jackie. ‘Would you go to war with someone who likes to bleed? Does anyone understand what that’s about?’
‘Bleeding is good,’ Jackie said. ‘Bleeding is part of fight.’
‘So you want to walk?’ Wynona said. ‘Because you can’t stay in Ostere and Jackie doesn’t want you at the Projects. We could ask Feral Man if he needs a laborer, but you don’t like the dark or the creatures that go boo in the night. And holding a spade gives you blisters.
‘Why don’t you talk to the job I’ve arranged? He’ll be in the Old Poet tonight.’ She handed Ben a phone. ‘It’s clean. I’ll keep in touch. Check in with me when you know what’s going on.’
Chapter Five
Max Offers a Job
A gust of wind rattled at the window frames and pushed at the back door. A puff of smoke from the wood burning in the Old Poet hearth clouded the front bar. Litter scurried around the back room, chased by the sour aroma of waste from the bags cluttering the back alley. With an extra huff the door slammed open and a wheelchair careered into the room. Big spokes and worn hard rubber squeaked as the chair rolled across the uneven floor. The skeletal body of Max Meldrum gripped at the armrests. Boggle eyes stared as if he sped towards his death. Winston, dressed in black garb, thrust the wobbly chair toward the bar and parked it beside the puddle outside the Gents toilet.
‘I’m looking for Ben Jackman,’ Max said.
The nasal voice rasped and sent ripples across the puddle. Charlie woke with a cry. ‘I wasn’t there.’ He pushed away from the wooden pillar, disorientated, but heartened to find his mug half full. The soldier boys concerned themselves with the playlist on the jukebox. Ivan glanced at the tall black figure standing at the bar and raised his glass in salute. Tommy swapped feet on the foot rail and removed his straw hat to scratch at his blonde curls. He slurped on the bendy straw in his cola and looked toward the dark figure hiding in the gloom of the ladies lounge. Loubie retreated, sitting on a stool, her thin arms crossed and her boots resting on a wooden shelf. The small black and white television set above the bar whispered in the background.
A purple blood vessel throbbed at the side of Max’s head. He tapped a finger before repeating his question.
Tommy rolled his cigar in his mouth and pointed to the back room. Winston removed the brake on the large wheels and pushed the chair to face the tall figure standing in the gloom. Ben had shut the door and stood rubbing grit from his eyes. He smiled at the attention.
The chair squeaked and bobbled into the Ladies lounge. Ben took a seat at his favorite table and lit a cigarette from the thick candle’s flickering flame. Max parked opposite, leant forward, his thin neck stretched taut. Pale blue eyes searched every pore on Ben’s face while his nose twitched and sniffed.
‘Hello Mr. Jackman.’ Max looked at the men’s toilet and twitched his nose from the sour aroma. He pointed to the oxygen cylinder and Winston stepped forward to attend to the mask.
Ben pulled his coat tight and rubbed at his arms. He’d heard tales suggesting he show respect concerning Max, as Max ruled Ostere. Legitimate businesses welcomed his name and money as a trustee, but Max dealt in prostitution, gambling, and protection.
Max’s head wobbled as it stretched forward. His boggle eyes stared with intent.
Ben busied himself with the manufacture of cigarettes. ‘There can never be enough cigarettes,’ Ben said.
Max retracted his head and looked down at Ben’s tin of thin white sticks, bobbing as he counted. A small tongue, coated in a white paste licked at cracked lips. A shaky hand drummed long crooked fingers on the armrest. He stretched his head forward, his eyes concentrating on Ben’s dark eyes.
‘I used to have a tortoise called Max when I was little,’ Ben said. He picked up his cigarette and took a long drag. ‘It ran away.’ The smoke curled from his mouth with a soft sigh. ‘I was heartbroken, I was. How does a tortoise run away, eh?’
‘You come recommended by an intriguing young woman,’ Max said. His head bobbed and swayed. Ben hadn’t expected the foreign accent. ‘She helps keep streets free from criminal elements. She tells me you are good. You’re a man to trust and will help with my problem, and she suggests to me that you are in need of work.’
‘This girl talks too much.’ Ben lined up his cigarettes, making sure they sat straight and tight in his tin. ‘We don’t like her day job so much, but for a copper she does all right by me, eh?’
Max lifted a small plastic mask to his face and raised a gnarled finger. Winston stepped forward and helped him with the rubber ties, snapping them tight to his face. He released the oxygen with a hiss and stepped back to the wall. Max’s shallow breathing slowed and he took a long draught of the clean air. His large eyes searched into Ben’s soul and a glint appeared beyond the milky film.
Ben puffed on his cigarette and blew the smoke above Max’s head, watching it swirl towards Winston.
Max’s hand struck out and grabbed a handful of Ben’s fingers. The butt flew to the floor and the icy digits squeezed bone against bone. His muffled voice hissed, ‘I have lost a daughter.’ He pulled Ben close. ‘I want her back.’
Ben frowned as he retrieved his hand from Max’s icy grip of death. He felt for his cigarette tin, looking at Winston for an explanation. Winston stood with his arms crossed and stared at the dirty window above Ben’s head.
Max’s thin chest heaved as he pulled the mask from his face. ‘I treated her bad. I thought I gave her everything, but children demand much of parents. It is typical of her age. And no mother to help with girl stuff makes it hard. She got lost to me.’
Winston stepped forward and tapped the oxygen cylinder. He waited for Ben to look at him and wagged his finger. Ben pushed the tin away and drank from his whisky. Max bent to the mask and sucked at fresh air. Perspiration beaded his forehead and a trickle of moisture crept down his cheek.
Ben didn’t get the oxygen cylinder. Ostere had a problem with pollution, but most folk suffered or wore a surgical mask. The eyes troubled Ben. They never blinked and the lower lids drooped with a pink cup of skin catching tears. He rubbed at his wrist, massaging the red painful mark Max’s icy claw had left on his skin.
‘Where do you think your daughter has gone?’
Ben understood the question was puerile, because he knew the answer: As far away as possible. But he felt a need to ask questions, show intent, and exhibit a professional attitude.
‘The Lowlands,’ he said. ‘She has family there.’
‘What if she doesn’t want to come back? If she’s with family, then she may be happy with her lot. Give her some hours with her relatives and she’ll tire of the trip, eh? I hated staying with family, but sometimes you got to do it. Leaving always felt good.’
‘It is not choice I offer. You will bring her back. That is the help I need.’
Ben pushed back from the table and selected a cigarette from his silver tin. He tapped it against the worn wood, desperate to light it. ‘Strange folk live in the Lowlands,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard it’s the cult center of our wee country and cults are big business. She hasn’t got herself caught up with some mad preacher type, eh? It’s not so easy getting people out if they’v
e found the messiah. The crap they rabbit on about, but somehow they hypnotize them, eh?
He placed the cigarette back in the tin. ‘I blame the recession.’ People who have nothing want to believe in something. They get sick of scrapping about for a feed and look for someone to offer answers. Some bloke an age ago suggested religion and cults was a drug and should be prohibited. Look at Weismann at the Camps. Those hopeless grubby folk see him as the savior because he gives them a bowl of gruel and a festering canvas tent to kip in. Lowlands is full of stuff like that’
Ben took a sip of whisky and watched the throbbing blood vessel at Max’s temple. ‘Lowlands, I imagine, don’t welcome strangers seeking to kidnap a disciple, eh? Have you contacted the local police?’
Max’s grip on the arms of his chair turned knuckle white tense. His eyes narrowed as his anger threatened to erupt. Ben stuck the cigarette in his mouth and stooped toward the candle.
‘Of course you have. Wynona is the police.’
‘Please don’t smoke. My lungs are bad. I struggle with impurities in the air. But you make good point concerning Wynona. She is police, but the local law is not trustworthy. And my girl is not in some cult. She is with family.’
He turned to Winston and pointed at the oxygen cylinder. He pulled the mask off his face and waited for the hiss to subside before he continued. ‘She trusts you. She says good things and says you will find my girl so I can see my child.’
He stopped talking, his mouth gulping with shallow intakes. Again he pointed at the cylinder. The mask went back over his crooked nose and thin purple lips. He calmed a little once the oxygen pumped breath into his lungs.
Ben wondered if he should ask Max for a down payment. He needed cash and the old boy looked ready to stop with the breathing should the oxygen cylinder empty.
Heroes Don't Travel Page 3
