Never Forgotten

by G H Mockford

  Never

  Forgotten

  G H Mockford

  First published by Taralyn Books in July 2015

  1st Edition

  © Gareth Baker 2015

  Cover image © http://www.selfpubbookcovers.com/goodCoverDesign

  The right of Gareth Baker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. Apart from any use permitted by UK copyright law no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or translated, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent publisher.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1505597851

  ISBN-10: 1505597854

  Also published in Kindle.

  Printed by Createspace

  For my parents.

  One

  SATURDAY 5:25 P.M.

  Stephen listened to the metallic whirring of his bike’s gears. A minor adjustment was all that was needed to make the sound go away. Most people wouldn’t even notice the clicking, but he knew his bike better than he knew his family.

  A cold wind blew down the passage created by the River Trent and the buildings along it. Stephen let go of his handlebars and zipped up his coat as he crossed Manor Bay Bridge. Once on the other side, he waited for a gap in the traffic, swung the bike across the road and entered the deserted office carpark. The bike coasted down the slope of the smooth tarmac.

  Once he was at the bottom, Stephen dismounted, squeezed himself and the bike through the well-worn gap in the self-seeded buddleias, and then through the hole in the fence that separated the car park from the riverbank.

  No one came down to the riverside arches except teenagers, workers from the office in need of a cigarette and the homeless.

  And today at least one of the groups wouldn’t be here.

  Pushing his bike, Stephen walked towards the pair of arches that held the bridge above the river bank. The last of the October light was slipping away and the skateboarders, who usually occupied the larger of the two arches, had already packed up and gone home. They had probably been driven off by the bitter wind, Stephen decided. As soon as he entered the smaller of the two, the wind died down. Stephen knew this was why the homeless occupied that particular arch.

  A single figure, almost obscured by the darkness of the archway, sat on the floor, leaning against the wall in the middle of the tunnel. Stephen propped his bike against the brickwork and reached for the flashing light that was strapped to his head. He pressed the power button until it was on its lowest setting, then walked over to the man, hoping it was who he was looking for.

  ‘What the hell happened to you?’ Stephen said, pulling the legs of his jeans up so he could crouch in front of him. It was no wonder the man had been hard to pick out in the low light. He was wearing ex-army gear – as usual. ‘Edward? What happened to you?’ Stephen said, careful not to shine the torch in the man’s eyes.

  ‘I slipped,’ Edward replied, shifting on the flattened cardboard box he was sitting on and pulling his ripped sleeping bag tighter over his legs. Edward reached out and put a hand on the green duffel bag that was propped against the wall next to him, a suspicious look in his eyes.

  ‘I’m not going to take it,’ Stephen said. ‘Have you been attacked?’

  Edward shrugged his shoulders. Stephen shook his head at the man’s unwillingness to accept help.

  Dried blood from Edward’s split lip lay congealed and crusted across the bottom half of his face, trapped in the three or four days’ growth of facial hair. A matching smudge of reddish brown swept across his right cheek. The back of his right hand was covered with the same stain from where he must have wiped it across his face.

  Returning to his bike, Stephen retrieved a plastic bottle from the single pannier on its back. Holding it out to Edward, he said, ‘Here, have a drink.’

  ‘Got nothing stronger?’ the homeless man asked as he took the bottle and tried to undo the lid. When Stephen didn’t respond, he added, ‘What are you, a gorilla? You’ve done it too tight.’

  Stephen took the plastic container from Edward’s shaking hand and pulled up the drinking spout.

  ‘At least you didn’t say you loosened it for me,’ Edward said with a laugh, which descended into a hacking cough.

  ‘You know we’ve got to get you off these streets before it’s too late.’

  ‘I’ve been ‘ere years. I ain’t leaving now,’ Edward said before taking a large gulp from the bottle.

  ‘Most people living on the streets don’t see their forty-eighth birthday.’

  ‘Well, I haven’t done ‘alf bad then, ‘ave I. I got ten years on that.’

  ‘Let’s get you cleaned up before Nanak’s arrives. I’ve got some wipes and—’

  ‘I ain’t no baby,’ Edward said, looking at the pink packet Stephen had collected from his bike.

  ‘Then don’t act like one.’

  Edward rested his head on the brickwork and relented. ‘It’s Stephen, in’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve been looking for you all day,’ he said as he began to work on the homeless man’s face.

  ‘Why?’ Edward said. ‘You ain’t one of them towel heads are you? Or a bloody Christian?’

  Stephen shook his head, as much at Edward’s racism as to the answer of the question, placed the used wipe by his bike’s front wheel and got another. ‘No, I’m not. I’m—’

  ‘Hang on, it’ll come back to me. You’re looking for someone. You asked me to keep me eye out for her. Your sister, right?’

  ‘Foster sister, yes. Her name’s Felicity.’

  ‘I always remember a pretty face.’

  ‘Why, thanks,’ Stephen replied.

  ‘Not you, you fool.’

  Stephen smiled, put the next filthy wipe down, reached into his jacket and retrieved his wallet. He looked at the photo of his sister and then the version he’d aged on a website.

  ‘So, have you seen her while you’ve been on your travels?’ Stephen said, flipping the wallet around for Edward to see the pictures.

  The old man shook his head. ‘I don’t think so, but me memory ain’t what it used to be. I’ll keep me eye out.’

  Stephen looked down at the ground and questioned the validity of Edward’s help. ‘The Mission’ll be here in a minute. Want me to help you up to the car park?’

  ‘I’m not useless you know,’ Edward said, clambering back to his feet. He threw the old army bag over his shoulder and stuffed his stinking sleeping bag through the strap. ‘I fought in the Falklands, you know? Last thing I ever did before I left the army. I’ve kept this bag ever since. Wish I still had me maggot. Nice and warm it were.’

  ‘I know, Edward,’ Stephen said. The soldier told him almost every time they met, though it had taken Stephen several visits to work out that a maggot was a sleeping bag. ‘You want a hand with that?’ Stephen said, reaching out for the tattered, green bag.

  ‘I carried one hundred and thirty pound up Mount Longdon. I can damn well carry this now.’

  ‘It wasn’t one of those skateboarders again, was it?’ Stephen said, bringing the conversation back to Edward’s injuries.

  ‘No, we’ve ‘ad no problems with them lads for months. Bloody kids these days, couldn’t cope with the discipline of the army,’ Edward said.

  ‘You on your own tonight?’

  ‘I don’t see anyone else around, do you?’

  ‘It’
s a good job I like cantankerous old gits or…’ Stephen left the sentence unfinished as he placed everything back in the bike’s pannier. He grabbed his cycle, walked out from under the bridge and along the bank with his companion.

  The mobile soup kitchen was already in the office car park and three volunteers were preparing to hand out the donations from the back of the van.

  ‘Hello, Stephen,’ said a man from inside, his orange turban bright and colourful inside the pale interior.

  ‘Hello, Jay. How’s it going?’

  ‘Busy. We’re getting more volunteers, and the number of donations continues to surprise us,’ Jay answered with a cheerful smile.

  Stephen first met the group when they started handing out food to the needy from Norton Street Gurdwara. Then they set up outside Marks and Spencers in the city centre. Now they were using a van to bring aid further afield. Since Stephen had last seen them someone had painted the words Nanak’s Mission on the side of the vehicle along with a Facebook thumb, a khanda, and the hashtags #onecommunity and #humanityhelpinghumanity.

  Stephen turned back to Edward who was busy tucking into his food. ‘I’ll leave you in Jaydeep and Satbir’s capable hands,’ Stephen said. ‘I need to visit one more place before it gets dark. I’ll see you soon. Remember — keep looking.’

  ‘We’ll keep looking, too,’ Jaydeep said, tapping a photo of Felicity that he’d stuck to the wall of the van. ‘You sure you don’t want some vegetable rice? It tastes even better than it smells.’

  ‘Sorry, can’t eat and ride,’ Stephen said as he set the LED light on his head to flash and mounted his bike.

  Stephen rode through the carpark toward the bridge. Bracing his leg against the pedal ready for a quick exit onto the road, Stephen caught sight of someone looking around the corner of the office block. The figure locked eyes with him for a moment and then ducked out of sight. Stephen decided it was someone too proud, or afraid, to accept the Sikh volunteers’ help, and thinking nothing of it, he carried on riding.

  Two

  Stephen lay in bed and looked at the clock. It was past one in the morning and he still wasn’t asleep.

  At first he wasn’t sure what was keeping him up. He assumed it was Felicity. It was ten years ago today, or rather yesterday, that she’d disappeared.

  The years had flown by.

  And dragged on forever.

  He’d spent all morning in the library following his usual routine and then the afternoon riding around Nottingham visiting various charities, shelters and known hangouts for the homeless. No one had seen her.

  But it wasn’t Felicity keeping him up, it was Edward, and the figure who had hidden around the corner. Stephen couldn’t explain why, but something just didn’t feel right.

  Half an hour later, Stephen got out of bed and decided to go back to the arches.

  The night air was cold, and as Stephen’s bike picked up speed, the chill began to eat through his jacket. He was halfway across the bridge when the roar of a fast moving vehicle tore through the darkness ahead. The car raced up the slope in the middle of the road, driving erratically with its lights off.

  At first Stephen thought perhaps he’d forgotten to turn on his own lights, but he distinctly remembered doing so. Stephen prepared to get off the road and onto the pavement when the car straightened up and the headlights flicked on. Blinded for a moment, Stephen looked through the car window as it raced by. The driver sat low in his chair with his hoodie up and head tipped down. Stephen looked back over his shoulder and watched the car disappear into Manor Park.

  ‘Dickhead,’ Stephen said and let his bike roll down the slope and into Lady Bay.

  Battling through the bushes at the bottom of the carpark, Stephen made it to the riverside. He peered into the smaller tunnel. It seemed to be empty, but at ground level it was so black it was impossible to see into it. If Edward were asleep, he would probably be lying down somewhere within the inky depths.

  Stephen made his way up the dark, dank maw. His head light swept from side to side as he searched for the homeless man. But there was no one there. The soldier must have moved on, or maybe Jay had taken him in the van to a shelter.

  Emerging from the other end of the tunnel, Stephen swung the bike around in a slow, easy arc. His mind clear of worries, he looked at the skateboard ramps in the adjoining archway and decided to have one last thrill before heading off to bed. With his mind now at rest he could hopefully fall asleep once he got home.

  Stephen rolled his pedals back, drove his foot down and rode up the first ramp and onto the flat top. He didn’t linger and started to roll down the other side.

  He threw his weight to one side and swerved.

  A body was lying at the base of the slope. He couldn’t see a face, but as he flashed by, the camouflage jacket and the green lightweight trousers made the figure instantly recognizable.

  Slamming his brakes on, Stephen threw the bike away, clattering into the darkness, and rushed to his friend’s side. Fingers trembling, Stephen reached toward the old soldier. ‘Edward? Edward, are you okay?’

  No answer came.

  Stephen reached into his pocket and took out his ancient pay-as-you-go Nokia. The screen was cracked, and the keypad no longer lit up, but much like his aging bike, it did the job. Stephen pressed the number nine. The beep from the speaker felt loud in the emptiness of the arch.

  But not loud enough to hide the sound of a shoe scuffing on the tarmac behind him.

  Stephen turned to look and was about to speak when a solid punch connected with his cheek. His head reeled from the impact. Before there was time to work out what was happening, he felt a foot press into the small of his back and shove him forward. He lost his balance and pitched forward, landing on top of Edward, forcing a moan from the homeless man’s mouth. The moment of relief Stephen felt was replaced with a sudden flash of fear as an arm hooked around his neck.

  Stephen threw his head back hoping to butt whoever was behind him, but missed. He followed it up with his elbow. There was a sharp intake of breath and the arm loosened from around his neck. Stephen swung his elbow up again, twisting his body so that it would reach further behind him. Whether his attacker had jumped out of the way or he’d simply let go, Stephen wasn’t sure, but he was free from the chokehold.

  He scrambled to his feet. The light from the LEDs strapped to his head exposed the area in front of him and lit up his quarry, forcing the unknown assailant to throw up his arm and protect his eyes.

  The attacker was short - five eight at the most. He wore boots, jeans and an old, scuffed leather biker jacket. A large black hoodie covered his head. His face was hidden by a bandana with a smirking skull emblazoned upon it. Stephen noticed blood splattered some of the white bones.

  Skull-Face flicked his wrist and a black, cylindrical object extended out from his hand. He stepped closer and brought the baton down towards Stephen’s head.

  Stepping back to avoid the blow, Stephen felt something grab at his foot. He glanced down. He’d moved back into the frame of his forgotten bike. Before he could even think about stepping clear, Stephen lost his balance and tumbled down on top of the frame. Pain lanced through him as various protruding parts bit into his leg and back.

  The attacker swung the weapon down.

  Stephen rolled to the side, reaching for the pannier on his bike. The baton skimmed across his back, striking his spine and sending pain through every one of Stephen’s bones. The sound of metal against metal rang out into the night as the extendable baton hit the bike frame.

  Stephen’s hand slipped inside the unbuckled pannier and found what he was looking for. With a roar, he rolled back towards his attacker, dragging what was in his hand out of the canvas carrier. The chain slithered out and arced through the air, following the path of his arm. The solidly built padlock on the far end of the chain gave the improvised weapon more momentum and power.

  The attacker stood and watched, stunned for a moment, as it whistled through the air toward h
im. He brought the baton up to block the attack. The chain wrapped around it like a whip and it rang out through the silence of the night.

  Stephen pulled, hoping to wrest the weapon from his attacker’s grip but Skull-Face pointed the rod upright and pulled back against him. The links of the chain clattered around the telescopic weapon. Just as Stephen feared he’d lost his advantage, the chain locked hold again, leaving them ensnared in an unconventional game of tug of war.

  Stephen kept the chain tight and got to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed on the darkness inside the hood. He couldn’t see his opponent’s eyes, but neither could he shake the unnerving feeling they were staring straight back at him.

  ‘Why’ve you done this?’ Stephen asked, breaking the silence.

  Skull-Face continued to keep up the pressure on the chain.

  Then let go of the baton and ran.

  Stephen stepped forward, ready to set off after him, when a soft moan came from behind. He separated the baton from the chain and threw his attacker’s weapon into the river. Hanging the chain around his neck, Stephen hurried over to his friend.

  ‘Edward? Edward, can you hear me?’ The homeless man didn’t respond. Stephen reached into his pocket for his phone.

  It wasn’t there.

  Then he remembered. He’d it in his hand when Skull-Face had grabbed him from behind. He must have dropped it during the struggle.

  A car crossed the bridge overhead but it had gone before Stephen even thought about going for help. Forgetting the phone for a moment, Stephen pulled the green scrim scarf from around the unconscious man’s neck and pressed his fingers against the dirty, wrinkled skin. The heartbeat was weak, but there. Shallow breaths whistled through Edward’s damaged lips.

  ‘Edward?’ Stephen counted to ten in case there was a response, and then maneuvered him into the recovery position, his Scout training never forgotten. The ex-soldier was lighter and frailer than Stephen expected.