Son of Heaven

by David Wingrove

  ‘Yeah?’ Goodman almost smiled. ‘Point me in her direction, Jake, and I’ll see what she can do…’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve only got seven crowns left… d’you think that’ll be enough?’

  ‘It’ll be plenty. Now get going. I’ll see you back at Harry’s…’

  After checking on Tom, Jake got washed and changed, then went downstairs. The bar was already packed out, the air thick with cigarette smoke and the heavy buzz of conversation.

  Jake hadn’t eaten since breakfast and was feeling famished. They had paid Harry up front for bed and board, so if he wanted anything, it was just a question of him ordering from the menu. But they’d not paid for their beer, and with things having soared in price, he knew that finding beer money would be difficult. Taking Harry aside, he asked if they could have a slate this once.

  Harry’s momentary hesitation spoke volumes. Jake clearly wasn’t the first to ask.

  ‘All right,’ he said, nodding. ‘You’re good customers o’ mine. But I want payment within a week, right?’

  ‘A week?’ Jake considered that, then, ‘Done!’

  The two men spat on their hands and shook.

  Just like in the film, Jake thought, watching as one of Harry’s girls, Jessie, poured him a foaming pint of Best.

  Ted Gifford and a few of the others had taken one of the big tables on the far side of the bar. Jake made his way over.

  ‘Room for a little ’un?’

  Tankards and glasses were raised to welcome him. Someone shifted a little and Jake squeezed in, between Dick and Ted’s old pal, Brian Leggat, from Abbotsbury.

  Talk was of how expensive things were, and of the latest rumours coming down the road. Everyone was in the same boat when it came to the price of things. There’d been no warning, and a lot of them had been left short.

  ‘God knows ’ow we’ll manage next time roun’,’ Dick Cooke, who came from Cerne Abbas, said. ‘As it is I’ve only ’arf o’ what I meant to get. An’ if this winter’s a bad un’…’

  It was a fear they all had. That they’d be without essentials over the winter months.

  ‘The price o’ vaccines…’

  ‘Couldn’t buy one for love or money…’

  ‘Gonna have to chop a fucking heap o’ wood to get us through…’

  ‘The cost of fuckin’ salt… unbelievable!’

  And so it went. But Jake kept his silence. He’d seen what was going on. What he wanted to know was why, and none of his friends, concerned as they were by the situation, could answer him.

  ‘So…’ Eddie said, turning to face him. ‘Where’s old Jack’s bride, then? I thought she was comin’ back with us.’

  ‘And so she is. But she’s got to get packed and ready.’

  ‘A local girl, then?’

  ‘She is.’

  Ted Gifford groaned at that. ‘Fer fuck’s sake, Jake… tell us… I can’t stand the suspense no more.’

  But Jake ignored him. He finished his pint and set his glass down. ‘Who’s having another?’

  ‘I meant to say about that…’ Eddie began.

  Jake leaned in, as if confiding to them all. ‘Harry’s given us a tab for the night. You can order what you like, boys…’

  There was a great cheer at that. Eddie and Dick stood, taking orders, then made their way over to the bar to get them in.

  It was just after ten past five.

  ‘It’s gonna be a long night,’ Leggat said from where he sat to Jake’s right. ‘Men’ll be drinking to forget their sorrows.’

  Jake nodded. That was the truth. And they had the time to get oblivious.

  ‘How’s your Jean?’ he asked, after a moment. ‘She okay? And the kids?’

  Leggat grinned and pulled out his wallet, searching through it, then presented Jake with a small colour photograph, which showed him, his wife and their two children.

  ‘Christ! Where d’you get this?’

  ‘Tinker… came roun’ our village. Was chargin’ five crown a picture. No end of takers, I tell you. Ain’t seen nothin’ like it for years. Bloody thing actually developed in the back of the camera. Guy sez they ’ad cameras like that fifty, sixty year ago.’

  Jake stared and stared at the photo, then handed it back.

  ‘Fuck…’

  ‘You a’right, Jake?’

  ‘Just that. It’s so nice. To have a picture of you all.’

  Leggat laughed, then shook his head. ‘Yeah… yeah, it is.’

  ‘Look, I just gotta go sort Tom out. I said he could come down for an hour or so. I’ll see you in a bit…’

  Outside, on the back stairs, he stopped, holding on to the rail for dear life.

  That picture had got to him.

  Jake took a long, shivering breath. He had been close to tears back there, just thinking. What a treasure it was. What a priceless fucking treasure. It had got him thinking. If only I had the like of it. Some image of her. Because all he had were the pictures in his head.

  Tom was awake. As Jake came into the room, he yawned and made to stretch, then winced.

  Jake smiled. ‘You forgot for a moment, eh? That’s a good sign. It means it’s healing.’

  The light outside was fading now, the room in half darkness. Jake lit the bedside candle, then leaned across and drew the curtains.

  ‘What’s the time?’

  ‘A quarter after five.’

  ‘It seems later…’

  Jake looked down at his old friend. In the candlelight, Tom seemed to have aged. Perhaps it was just a trick of the light, but he seemed tired. Not tired the way a young man got after an exacting day, but the kind of tiredness that seizes on the old. A drawn kind of tired.

  He sat Tom up, then felt his brow again. It was cool.

  ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘The pain…?’

  ‘Is manageable. It’s a dull ache now, most of the time.’

  ‘Good. But I’m still getting the doctor, right?’

  Tom made no move to argue.

  ‘Okay,’ Jake said. ‘Let’s get you dressed.’

  At the top of the steps, Tom paused and looked to Jake.

  ‘Let me do this on my own.’

  ‘Fine. But hold on to the rail.’

  ‘What am I? Eight?’

  Jake chuckled. ‘Okay. But they’re steep.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘Let me go first…’

  ‘What? So I can fall on you? That’d be useful, having the both of us in hospital.’

  ‘Then stay in bed.’

  ‘Stop fussing, man.’

  He stopped fussing. But he couldn’t stop worrying until Tom was safely at the bottom. There, Tom let Jake help him again, Jake putting an arm about his waist as they stepped out into the bar.

  ‘There ’e be!’ Ted Gifford said, getting up to welcome Tom.

  There were smiles all round.

  ‘Get the man a beer!’ Frank Goodman called, looking to Eddie, who was up out of his seat and on the case already.

  ‘Pint of Best, Tom?’

  ‘And no flies in it this time!’ Tom shouted back, alluding to the time, back in the summer, when a half-drowned bluebottle had spoiled Tom’s first mouthful.

  Tom nodded, then squeezed into the seat, between Ted Gifford and Dick Cooke, the Cerne Abbas man.

  Jake took a seat just across from them.

  ‘How you feelin’, boy?’ Ted asked, touching Tom’s good arm. ‘Not still weepin’, is it?’

  ‘No. It’s good. The doctor’s looking at it later.’

  ‘Ah… good…’

  Jake watched Tom take the tankard from Eddie and, after a salute to all those gathered there, raise it to his lips, savouring the taste.

  Like old times, Jake thought, only it wasn’t. They were relaxed now, sure, but not as relaxed as in the past. There was still an underlying atmosphere. A sense of unease.

  ‘So when’s this woman comin’?’ Frank Goodman asked, looking to Jake.

 
‘Soon,’ Jake said, amused by their persistence. ‘Just be patient.’

  ‘I don’ reckon she exists,’ Frank said, his gaze never leaving Jake’s face. ‘I reckon Jake’s ’avin’ us on.’

  Jake smiled, taking no offence. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘Well… where’d you find one, just like that?’

  ‘In the market… that’s where…’

  They all turned, their faces a mixture of shock and surprise. It was Becky, and she was glammed up to the nines. Lazy eye or no, she looked in excellent shape.

  ‘Becky,’ Jake said, standing and offering her his seat, ‘meet the boys. Boys… I think you know Becky. Becky Hamilton, as’ll be.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be…’ Ted Gifford began.

  ‘No you bloody won’t,’ his son chipped in. ‘Not if she’s Jack Hamilton’s missus!’

  And they all roared with laughter, Becky included.

  ‘What you ’avin’, Becks?’ Eddie called. ‘It’s on the tab…’

  Becky squeezed in, waggling this way and that to get comfortable, much to her neighbours’ delight. ‘A pint o’ Best’ll do me, Eddie, my love.’

  ‘Quite a change of career,’ Brian Leggat said, grinning at her.

  Becky turned to face him, her one good eye focusing on him. ‘Oh, I’ll still be comin’ back ’ere to market from time to time, don’t you worry. Bein’ Jack ’Amilton’s missus won’t change that!’

  ‘If ’e’ll ’ave you,’ Leggat said mischievously.

  Oh, ’e’ll certainly ’ave me!’ And she winked outrageously with her good eye, making them all roar with laughter.

  Peter stood there in the quiet of the shadowed hallway, listening. Apart from the steady tick of the old grandfather clock, and the sound of Boy gently panting, there was nothing. The house was silent, empty.

  He walked through, into the comparative brightness of the kitchen. The room was lit from outside by the moon, a great white circle in the dark, halfway up the sky over Kimmeridge, away to the south-west.

  Boy padded after him, then gave a tiny growl.

  ‘Quiet, Boy…’

  Even so, he went to the pantry and, reaching up, took down one of the long, leathery chews that hung there and threw the dog his share of their last pig. Boy jumped up and caught it in the air, then settled with it, chewing away contentedly.

  Peter went to the window and looked out into the yard. Everything seemed fine. The wood was where he’d stacked it earlier, the lid to the water barrel padlocked. There was a brief, faint noise from the chicken coop and then silence again.

  He looked back at Boy. ‘Okay, Boy… all’s well here. Let’s go look around the barn.’

  He walked back out into the hallway. His gun was in the case on the wall, where he’d left it earlier. Taking the key, he unlocked the mesh-protected door and took it out.

  He breached the gun, checked it was loaded, then clicked it shut again.

  ‘Come, Boy… let’s go see if there’s any foxes…’

  Boy growled at the word, but held on tight to his chew-strap, even as he padded after his master.

  There was a faint breeze blowing from the east, coming across Poole Bay and Studland. In the distance he could hear an owl. It was a fine night for hunting.

  The barn was further down the slope, backing on to the high wall of the New Inn tavern. Back in the old days, so he’d been told, this had been a really popular spot, and every evening, during the summer, the great car park at the back of the inn had been filled with motor cars. There’d been parties here running late throughout the summer, with the electric lights blazing out and the music drifting across the night-cloaked fields.

  Peter sighed. There hadn’t been any cars these past twenty years and it didn’t seem likely that there were going to be any ever again. Which wasn’t a bad thing, according to his dad. Only sometimes he found himself wishing he could ride in one, just once. Just to know what it was like.

  He looked up, out across the fields. From here, at the top of the long slope, you could see the sea, like a shimmering sheet of metal in the distance.

  Boy had stopped suddenly. Now he began to growl. A moment later he dropped the chew and began to bark. It was the kind of bark he gave when it was someone he didn’t know.

  Peter raised his gun. He had a whistle on a string about his neck. When this kind of thing happened he was supposed to take it out and blow it hard and people would come running. Only he didn’t.

  He walked on, slowly, silently, moving out a little, away from the barn.

  ‘Hush, Boy,’ he whispered.

  At once the dog was silent. But Boy was fully alert now, his ears pricked up, his body crouched low to the ground, like he was hunting game.

  Slowly Peter circled, trying to make out who or what was there. At first he couldn’t see a thing. Boy had to be mistaken. Either that or it was some small animal. But then he glimpsed something.

  He took the safety off, then began to edge closer.

  There were three of them, stretched out on the straw pallets at the back of the barn. At least, two of them were stretched out. The third was sitting up, his back against the end wall. From small movements of his head Peter could tell he was awake, even if the others weren’t.

  Keeping watch…

  He crouched, making himself less visible.

  They didn’t seem to be armed, but he couldn’t be sure. He couldn’t see any weapons, but maybe they were resting on the floor beside them, or tucked away in their clothing.

  There was the faintest groan. One of the ‘sleeping’ men turned a little, moaning as he did, as if he were wounded. The watchman leaned in, saying something, but Peter couldn’t make out what.

  He crept closer, Boy shadowing him, moving as he moved, looking to his master with bright, eager eyes.

  He could pick them off from here, easy. Could have two of them before they even moved. But he was curious now. Who were they?

  Peter glanced round. Behind him, to his right, near where the old pet sanctuary had once stood, was the Hubbards’ house. They’d be expecting him back, and soon. He could see candlelight in one of the upstairs windows and wondered which of the girls it was. Beth probably. It was her room.

  He looked back, and felt his stomach lurch.

  He was gone! The watchman had gone!

  Peter turned, looking this way and that. Then, from behind the barn, came the sound of someone pissing.

  He let a long breath escape him.

  As the man came back, buttoning his flies, Peter got a good look at him in the moonlight. He was a stout man, in his thirties, with a straggly beard. A very ordinary man, except for the look in his eyes.

  He was afraid. And he had every right to be. You didn’t cross the countryside these days without being in fear of your life. To be a drifter was to be a problem. A problem that was solved more often than not with a bullet to the head.

  Boy had been silent until that moment. Now, seeing the stranger so close, so clear in the moonlight, he let out the faintest whine. Immediately the man froze, looking out towards where Peter crouched beside Boy.

  ‘Japhet… Japh…’

  The words issued from the man in a low, urgent hiss. Their answer came from the darkness inside the barn, the word slurred and sleepy.

  ‘Wha…?’

  Peter’s gun was aimed directly at the watchman’s chest. With his left hand, he reached inside his shirt and drew the whistle out. He had only to blow it.

  Only if he did, they might run off, and then they’d be up half the night chasing them round the countryside. As it was he had them. Provided he played it right.

  The question was, what would his dad have done?

  He knew without having to ask.

  Straightening up, he raised his gun to his shoulder and took two paces towards the man.

  ‘Run and I’ll shoot you dead!’ he said in a loud clear voice. ‘I’m a fuckin’ good shot and I won’t miss. Now put your hands up where I can see them!’


  To his surprise, the man groaned and sank to his knees, his hands raised in surrender. From the barn came a similar groan of anguish and a babble of words.

  ‘Oh shit… oh fuckin’ shit…’

  This was where he’d have to be careful. If either of the two in the barn were armed…

  Only he knew they weren’t. If they were they’d not be so afraid of him.

  ‘Boy! Guard them! Go on, Boy… make sure they stay!’

  Boy leapt up at once and went across, barking at the two men who were there. One of them lay there still, oblivious to all that was happening. The other was sitting up now, his hands raised in surrender.

  Good. Putting the whistle to his mouth, he blew. Once. Twice. A third time.

  There was a moment’s pause. Then there came the sound of slamming doors, the noise of running feet. The kneeling man – the watchman – was whimpering now. He knew the game was up.

  Peter stayed where he was, not showing himself fully. The man could see the glint of moonlight on the gun’s barrel, however, and would know that Peter wasn’t messing.

  As the first of the villagers ran up, Peter gestured towards the barn.

  ‘There’s two in the barn… and this fellow here. I don’t think they’re armed.’

  He glanced round; saw that it was the butcher, Matthew Hammond. Behind him Jack Randall and his wife, Jenny, were hurrying down the slope, coats thrown on hastily, both of them armed with shotguns.

  Hammond nodded to Peter then stepped past him, going right up to the one on his knees. He pointed his rifle at the man’s head.

  ‘Okay… who the fuck are you? And what are you doing on our land?’

  Others were arriving now, among them Mary and her daughters. They too had pulled on coats. Mary had a gun, while the girls had clubs and knives.

  The kneeling man tried to answer, but he was stuttering now. ‘W-we’re just p-passing through.’

  From his accent he sounded like a Midlander.

  Hammond looked across, to where Jack Randall stood over the prone figure, while the other man cowered against the back wall, Jenny Randall’s gun pointed directly at his face.

  ‘This one’s injured, Matty…’ Randall said. ‘Badly by the look of things. I’d say our friends here have been in a bit of a ruck.’