The Truth We Chase

by Carl Richards

  Or... was he just stirring things up, there is obviously no love lost between the two of them.

  And that was it... the last thing I remember before being woken up on the park bench by a downpour of rain. It is now morning time, I’m soaked to the skin, cold, hungry and suffering from a horrendous hangover. There is congealed blood down the front of me, I tap my pockets, I still have my phone and wallet so I haven’t been mugged. I touch my face until I feel the pain from the cut just above my right eyebrow. I sit still for a moment waiting for my head to stop spinning, then getting up, I make my way to the far corner of the park and down on to the disused railway line. At the other end I make my way through the housing estate, across the road, over a field and then up a grassy embankment - I emerge at the top on to the cobbled street that leads up to the pub.

  But of course, nothing runs smoothly for me at the moment, just as I emerge at the top of the embankment my jacket snags on a tree branch. Cursing loudly and wildly chopping at it with my hand, my jacket finally rips, I stumble backwards, falling over a low barrier on the roadside. As I pick myself up, I realise that I’ve twisted my ankle.

  Now I look like I’ve stepped straight out of a zombie movie; a cut above my eye, congealed blood down my face and on my clothes, ashen skin, soaking wet ripped clothing and I’m dragging my damaged foot behind me in true zombie style, whilst cursing out loud to myself... I stop for a moment halfway up the street just as a man and his daughter are leaving their house; yes, it’s the eight-thirty Monday morning school run and yes, it’s the same man from Friday who witnessed me laughing out loud to myself in the street and then standing in the park waving at aircraft!

  He looks concerned.

  I grunt an apology at the man and his daughter and carry on with my zombie style walk up the street, I turn around and see they have gone back inside the house and are watching me from the window, and who can blame them?

  I arrive back at the pub; Sean lets me in and looks me up and down. ‘What the hell happened to you; have you been run over?’

  I reply, ‘it’s a very long story, but hey, Jesus loves me... apparently!’

  Sean looks confused, ‘they did that to you in Church?’

  I burst out laughing.

  Sean is laughing with me. ‘Right let’s get you sorted out, first things first, hair of the dog, what were you drinking last night?’

  ‘Lager and whiskey chasers.’

  ‘Of course, you were...’ Sean pushes a glass up to the whiskey optic twice for a double, puts it down in front of me, then proceeds to pour me a pint of lager. ‘This is coming out of your wages!’

  After getting himself a drink, he taps my glass, ‘cheers.’ I do likewise.

  Sean continues. ‘You’re going to make a statement to the Police today, I don’t want them coming here every day, and they will. So, go clean yourself up and I’ll take you down there.’

  I go upstairs, take a shower and put on some fresh clothes. On my return to the bar I see that Mandy, the landlady from the pub down the road, my old local, is sat there talking to Sean. She watches me limp into the bar, then looks me up and down. ‘I see last night didn’t get any better for you then?’

  ‘Get a pint pot whilst you’re there Joe and give it to Mandy, I believe you owe her one!’ Sean has a wry smile on his face.’

  Mandy puts her hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry about it Sean,’ then she turns to me, ‘Joe you’re barred from my pub, I can’t have you in there while people are so fired up.’

  I nod an acknowledgement to Mandy.

  Sean grabs his keys off the bar. ‘Come on then, let’s go,’ he stands up kisses Mandy on the cheek then turns to me and gestures towards the door. ‘Thanks again for looking after things for me Mandy, we won’t be long.’

  Ten minutes later and we’re pulling up outside the front door of the Police Station, Sean drops me off and drives away.

  I walk up to the enquiry counter, and as I ask for DCI Myddlewood, he appears out of the back office. ‘I’ve been expecting you!’ he says in a confident, almost cocky manner. He presses a button and the security door at the side of the counter clicks open, ‘come on in Joe’ he nods to the door.

  He greets me on the other side of the door. ‘Right Joe, the legalities, you are here as a witness, not as a suspect, you do not have to tell us anything at all and you are free to leave at any time you wish. However, any statement you do give us can, and most likely will be used in Court should we identify a suspect, is that okay?’

  I nod.

  ‘Excellent, I’ll need to repeat all that in the interview room just as a formality, I just needed you to be reassured of your status as a witness not as a suspect.’ He points to my head, I heard there was an incident with you and a pint pot last night, you should get that stitched up.’

  I put my fingers on the cut again. ‘That was from overnight, not the incident in the pub. I’ll go over to the infirmary later, I think I might have broken or dislocated my ankle too.’

  ‘It was a good night then?’ He pauses, then continues. ‘It must have been, you still smell like a brewery now.’

  Disgruntled and in pain I mutter under my breath, ‘define a good night.’

  Changing the subject as he opens the interview room door, DCI Myddlewood asks ‘How’s Luciana?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Not good then? Shame, you two looked so good together too.’

  An hour later and we’re all done.

  DCI Myddlewood shakes my hand. ‘Thank you Joe, a lot of your statement corroborates a new line of enquiry that we have, I can’t say too much at this stage, but I think we may have a suspect. I’ll let you know how things are going and we may need you to come back and look through some mugshots to see if you recognise our person of interest.’

  We say our goodbyes and I hobble across to the infirmary.

  After seven hours of waiting and treatment, I get to leave, the cut on my head has been glued together, my ankle has had closed reduction and is now strapped up, so I’m good to go.

  It is nine o’clock at night by the time I get back to the pub, I go straight upstairs make myself a sandwich and a coffee.

  The weeks go by, I help the best I can around the pub but I need to rest up while my ankle gets better. Unfortunately, that means I have no wage, Sean has been kind enough to let me stay and I’m paying board and lodgings from the money my uncle lent me.

  On Friday the 7th of September, I receive a call from DCI Myddlewood asking me to come down to the Police Station. I presume that today is the day I get my life back, my assets, my money, my passport, my green card. I can finally go back to the USA, back to where I am in control, away from all of this.

  I feel elated, my heart is thumping in my chest, I stand up then fall back to my knees, I can barely contain the explosion of happiness from within.

  Then it happens, in the privacy of my room I break down. I have held on to life, my emotions, my sanity so tightly and held everything together for so long, that this good news has triggered a tsunami of every type of emotion in one go, it has overwhelmed me. For everything that I had held so dear to me, Jill, my friends, the memories and even Wildgoose Heys have all gone. What started out to be a trip of a lifetime just over a year and a half ago, had turned into a living hell.

  I sit for a while whilst I regain my composure before making my way over the road to catch the bus to the Town Centre.

  Chapter 32

  ‘Morning Joe.’ DCI Myddlewood enters the room, ‘I took the liberty of getting you a coffee.’ He slides a cup over the desk to me, his colleague follows on behind with a pile of paperwork and they both sit down opposite me.

  I thank him and for a couple of seconds the three of us just sit there in silence looking at each other.

  ‘Anyway,’ he says, ‘I’ve asked you to come down... erm... well... for a couple of reasons. First, I’m pleased to say that we now have a definite suspect and we’re just finalising some aspects to the investigation before we
proceed and, as we discussed last time we met, we will need you to look through some mugshots to see if you recognise the suspect; second, there’s no easy way to say this,’ he folds his bottom lip in two with his thumb and index finger, ‘today should be the release day for your accounts, assets and the such. Now, I have your papers from the American Immigration Department, you’ll be pleased to hear that you can return, you can live and work in the USA as you did before. I also have your passport and that is all in order too.’

  I can feel a but coming.

  ‘But,’ DCI Myddlewood looks sheepish, ‘the American authorities are struggling to locate your money and assets... and your financial guru Jamal.’

  I slump back in my seat; if I didn’t have bad luck, I’d have no luck at all.

  ‘Also, I’m sorry to tell you this Joe...’

  I have my head in my hands and in a muffled voice I ask, ‘You’re sorry to tell me what?’

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that the early indications are, that, Jamal and Luciana may be in partnership together, they may have stolen your identity and your money and neither the Newark or New Jersey Police Departments, nor the NYPD can trace their whereabouts.’

  I remove my hands from my face, ‘Luciana?’

  ‘I’m afraid so Joe, I’m sorry.’

  In disbelief I stare back across the table at DCI Myddlewood and his colleague; ‘Jamal and Luciana have screwed me over?’

  ‘I’m not going to sugar-coat this Joe; you quite literally have nothing left.’

  It’s bad enough that I’ve lost everything, but my two main concerns now are, first, how am I going to pay my Uncle back the money that he has lent me and second, what am I going to live on?

  ‘There’s another thing Joe...’ DCI Myddlewood’s tone has changed, ‘I’m a little concerned, actually, I’m very concerned, you see I have been passed information that you are about to be targeted by a South Manchester gang who have heard about your forty five million dollars. Can you guess who tipped them off?’

  I don’t have to guess, I know who tipped them off, ‘Sean?’ I reply.

  ‘Correct,’ DCI Myddlewood replies, ‘I would get away as fast as possible, they’re not going to believe you’ve got nothing left.’

  There was genuine urgency in his voice when he said I would get away as fast as possible. It was good advice that wasn’t lost on me.

  ‘What about your suspect, can I not identify him now to save me from having to come back?’ There’s a pause before DCI Myddlewood replies. ‘It’s complicated, what I can tell you is the suspect is also from the USA. We’re working hard with the American Authorities to trace his movements and to get hold of a photograph of him so key people like yourself, can identify him.

  I have your mobile number; I’ll give you mine so you can contact me anytime. So, go grab your belongings from the pub and lie low, I’ll be in touch.’

  DCI Myddlewood escorts me back to the front door. He walks out onto the street with me.

  ‘Between us Joe, and I mean just between us, because if what I’m about to say ever gets out I’ll deny everything, we suspect Sean was present on the night your real father Mick went missing; rumour has it that you witnessed what happened that night? Don’t you fall victim to them, get back to the States if you can, I can arrange safe passage, I can get you from here to the airport and fast-tracked through security, just let me know... you’ve got my number.’

  I say nothing. I shake his hand and leave, making my way down the hill to the bus station to start my journey back to the pub.

  After half-an-hour I arrive back, Sean is on his own behind the bar and in the back room there is a group of businesspeople from the nearby Industrial Estate having some lunch.

  He looks up as I walk through the door and then starts tapping his hands on the bar whilst singing If I Were a Rich Man from Fiddler on the Roof.

  ‘So, come on Joe are you ready to make me an offer on the business, I’ll do you a good price!’

  I must stall him; I need to buy some time to hatch a plan to get away. I sit down on a barstool and order a pint of lager.

  Sean stops singing, ‘What’s the matter with you, you miserable sod?’

  I don’t look up, partly because I need him to think I’m depressed but mainly I fear he will detect that I am lying. I just sit there with my hands together on the bar, fingers interlocked and rubbing my thumbs together.

  As Sean puts the pint of lager down in front of me, I finally speak. ‘They’ve cocked-up Sean, the Police thought it was the seventh actually it’s the seventeenth, so I’m still waiting.’

  I hear him sigh, ‘I hope you’ve got enough to pay for that pint,’ he says, before continuing ‘...and it’s a good job you’ve paid your rent up to the end of the month.’

  A sense of relief washes over me, as he has obviously bought my story.

  I reply, ‘... isn’t it, it’s an absolute joke, well it would be - if it was funny. I’m sorry Sean, but you’re going to have to put up with me a bit longer.’

  Sean ignores my last remark and carries on, ‘I need you to help me out later Joe, I’ve got a meeting with the lads down the road at The Printing Press pub, Lucy and Dale are coming in at seven tonight but I just need you to keep your eye on things whilst I’m out.’

  I reply in a disgruntled tone, ‘no problem, it’s not as if I can afford to do anything else.’

  I finish my drink and head upstairs. I don’t have much so it doesn’t take long to pack what I have. From the kitchen I take a click seal food bag and put my documents into it. I rip a section of lining on the inside of my jacket on the left-hand side near the zip and push the bag around to the right-hand side. I look around the room, I have everything, but I can’t go yet. There is only one way into and out of the pub, apart from a fire exit that leads out onto a raised patio. That could be an option, but even if I could reach it, I’d still have to go through the bar area and risk being seen.

  I’m anxious and on edge, I need to look calm on the outside despite the inner turmoil on the inside.

  Sean shouts up the stairs. ‘Joe, I’m going to the shop, come down and look after the bar.’ I make my way downstairs. ‘Do you want anything whilst I’m out?’ he asks. I tell him I’m okay. He leaves and I watch him until he is out of sight.

  Ten minutes later, the business people settle their bill and leave. I pop my head around the door to the kitchen area, the chef is busy clearing up and washing down.

  I run back up the stairs and bring my suitcase down.

  There are two bar areas, the main bar and a smaller, rarely used one in the back room. In the back-room bar, there is a suitcase shaped wheelie bin, the same shape, just slightly larger. The wheelie bin fits under the bar and it is used to transport the empty bottles from the pub to the bins outside. I pull it out to find it is empty as we are only using the one in the main bar. I put my suitcase in, and to my relief, it fits. Quickly I drag the wheelie bin from the main bar and scoop handfuls of empty bottles out of it to cover my suitcase in the second one.

  It is a success, the main bin is half full, the second in the back bar looks full, and it is full, full with my suitcase, just poised to be pushed out later on the pretence that I am emptying the wheelie bin.

  I must hold my nerve, if Sean or any of his cronies get wind that I’m about to do a runner then they’ll kill me.

  I am desperate to go but I can’t, Sean will be back in the next half hour; if I’m not here then the manhunt to track me down will start and I’m easy prey because without money, resources or friends I’m not going to get very far.

  Then a thought comes to me, apart from myself and the Police, nobody else knows about my financial situation. I start to hatch a plan. I know people in Hounslow, London and I need everyone to think that I have left the area, so I make a couple of phone calls to train companies and Transport for London.

  I grab a pen and piece of paper and write down:

  Friday - Stockport Train Station to London Euston (8:23
pm - arrive - 10:30 pm)

  Take the Victoria line to Green Park – switch to Piccadilly line to Hounslow West

  Then at the bottom of the note I write the name Matt and a mobile number, that mobile number is mine. The advantage is, Sean doesn’t know it’s my mobile number.

  After today I will need to ditch everything that I can be tracked by, and my phone is going to play a part in my escape smoke screen.

  What I need now is for someone to record an answerphone message on my phone pretending to be Matt.

  As I’m pondering, I see the man from the school run walking past, the same man who witnessed me laughing out loud to myself in the street and then standing in the park waving at aircraft then walking like a zombie on my return to the pub. I rush out of the front door, catch up with him then stop him in his tracks. I thrust my phone towards his face, ‘please, please I need a favour...’

  I do my best crazy impression to overwhelm him into agreeing. ‘Please can you record a message on my answerphone? All I need you to say is Hi, this is Matt, sorry I can’t take your call, please leave a message and I’ll call you back.’

  My plan works, the man will do anything to get away from me, I dial into voicemail and select the option to record a personal greeting, I then thrust the phone back into his face.

  ‘Hi, this is Matt, sorry I can’t take your call, please leave a message and I’ll call you back.’

  I thank him, then dash back into the pub.

  I fold the piece of paper that contains my fake travel plans and Matt’s mobile number and make my way back upstairs, I throw it on my bedroom floor and kick it so it’s just under the bed but still visible, as if it has fallen out of my pocket.