Top Hard

by Stephen Booth

  "Don't let them see you. Let them think they're clean away. Then make sure you disappear before the cops arrive."

  "No problem, Stones. The Sierra's half way down the road. No lights. He'll hit the roundabout in one minute. I'm off now."

  "Cheers, mate."

  I dialled a new number. I could hear the Sierra's engine now, getting nearer, and very distantly the first wail of a police siren. The ram raiders would aim to clear the roundabout and be into the middle of the estate before the cops came over the hill and got a sight of them. They were going to make the roundabout, but I didn't intend them to reach the estate.

  Just in time, I heard the sound of another, larger engine. From my vantage point, I could see a pair of powerful headlights spring to life as a car transporter began to back out of the garage by the roundabout. It immediately blocked the near side of the road and rapidly narrowed the gap on the far side, where the wall of the chip shop stuck out towards the corner.

  The brakes of the Sierra screamed as it came into the roundabout and found no way onto the estate. As the driver swung the wheel to the right he saw, dead ahead, the back gates of the old pit site. They stood invitingly open, some vandal having sheared off the lock earlier that night. Beyond the gates was a vast, dark expanse of steep slopes and dusty roadways where they could surely abandon the car and make a run for it. It was either that or go back round the roundabout and meet the cops coming the other way. No contest.

  With only a second to make his decision, the driver went for it. The Sierra skidded through the gates and vanished into darkness. The driver of the transporter braked, revved his vehicle back up into the garage and thoughtfully locked the pit gates behind the Sierra. Then he, too, disappeared into the night.

  I watched the car plough its way over the rise and down the other side, moving cautiously now as it lost the street lights and the driver had to search for a roadway. They got to a nice flat stretch where the road curved behind a heap of rubble. Down in the village, a police vehicle went by, lights blazing, and vanished into the estate. Its siren masked the funny popping noise made by the Sierra's tyres as they burst on the sharpened nails buried in the roadway. Those vandals again.

  The car bounced on for a few more yards before it stopped, with its wheel rims starting to dig into the dust. The driver got out, cursing like anything, and didn't see me as I stepped out of the shadows. I grabbed him as he bent down to look at the tyres and flattened him across his own bonnet. A moment later, Doncaster Dave had hold of the other two blokes.

  "Do you need some help, sir?" I said. "To our members, we're the fourth emergency service. We're the AA, you know. 'Ard Arseholes."

  * * * *

  The winding engine house is still standing there on the remains of Medensworth pit. Do I need to tell you that they plan to restore it one day? The money will come from the government, the European Union, or the National Lottery, or wherever. One day. But at the moment it's occupied only be the pigeons that roost on the spattered window ledges.

  The only people who come to look at the winding house and the headstocks are the miners who used to work here. The cage that lies jammed just underground is the one that took them down into the earth every day to work. It isn't heritage for them. Not yet.

  They've put up a steel security fence around the site to deter intruders. Otherwise the kids would be in here, smoking and shooting up and having sex. Inside the fence sit the concrete and brick walls of the winding house, with its arched windows. There are huge vents, two feet across, and skips full of rubbish waiting to be taken away. A boiler about twelve feet high lies abandoned, leaning at a drunken angle. When you look at the winding gear itself, it's amazing to think that men's lives hung from those wheels on two steel cables no more than an inch thick.

  These wheels are the most distinctive markers on the landscape. They tell us we're in coal mining country. Like two big blue bicycle wheels, they sit at the top of the headstocks and can be seen for miles. The modern superpits hid them inside concrete towers, but they're still there. As pits have closed, a use has been found for some of these wheels. A couple even decorate the front of the Wonderland Pleasure Park. I kid you not.

  But maybe this is better than the sad fate of the old headstocks at Brinsley, which are abandoned in the middle of a field, like some unexplained megalith, a twentieth century Stonehenge. In the future, people will wonder about them. What did anyone do here? What strange rituals did they go through under this mysterious structure?

  At the top of the engine house are two narrow slits, where you can step out onto the diagonal girders supporting the wheels. There are handrails to help you walk up the girders - because that's what they had to do to keep the winding gear maintained. A ladder takes you from the girders to the platform around the wheels. Below you then are four concrete pillars, with two cables hanging between them, and the cage just visible in the hole in the ground.

  A few new industrial units have been built by the road, and some of the old pit offices and store rooms are still standing, their yards full of bits of old cars and junk so useless that no one can be bothered to nick it. The rest of the site is grassed over, awaiting development. But the grass has that peculiar brown look that tells you it's growing on something other than soil. Here and there a birch or a clump of bracken is trying to re-colonise the area. At the entrance, a sign says the pit site has been designated under the New Deal for Nottinghamshire programme. The sign is starting to look old.

  The site of this old pit is probably one of the most barren places in the country now. It has been levelled into a plateau, but great grey mounds of rubble have been left, mountains of dust and shattered lumps of concrete, broken drainage pipes and bricks. Around them still lie the piles of black spoil and dusty roadways carved out by heavy-wheeled vehicles. The ruts they've left fill up with evil black mud in the winter. Here and there rusty metal rods protrude from the flattened earth. Lumps of iron with no apparent purpose lie abandoned among the slag and stone and the scrubby plants.

  A sign says 'Warning to children and parents - building sites BITE'. But there's no building going on here, no work of any kind. The bulldozers have done their job and left. The rails and sleepers have been pulled up from the old mineral lines, though the signals are still there, and even a little signal box up the line. The shaft itself is well filled in, and sealed over tight with concrete. No memories here. The whole thing has been obliterated.

  In the middle of the devastation, some joker has planted a red flag. Its fluttering is the only movement, apart from the pigeons and the occasional rabbit scuttling towards the scrubby undergrowth.

  Well, that's during the day. At night, it's nowhere near so pretty.

  It's quiet up here on the plateau, only the sound of birds and the traffic going by on the back road under the old rail bridges. The gates are well blocked with heaps of spoil to stop vehicles getting on, but to those in the know the new roads give easy access to the pit site across the bridge. Then you drive between the mountains of debris and you find yourself in a dip, a little hollow hidden by great clumps of bramble and bracken. No one can see you here. No one can even see a thirty-foot truck down here.

  I had the Subaru parked up behind the winding gear house. To the east, a faint glimmer of light was coming up over the hills near the M1. If I strained my eyes hard, I thought I might see the outline of Hardwick Hall.

  Slow Kid and Metal pulled up in the Astra, and Metal wound down the window.

  "We could have got that Jap car away while the cops weren't looking, Stones. There was hardly any damage."

  "You're kidding."

  "There's a bloke in Holland just can't get enough of them four wheel drives."

  "Not now, Metal."

  In the back of the Sierra were two figures slumped low on the seat, and between them a great hulk of something that looked a bit like Doncaster Dave. Come to think of it, it was Doncaster Dave, but he looked a lot more handsome than usual, because he was wearing a stocking
stretched over his head. Lovely. Look no further for the Face of the New Millennium.

  I opened the gate in the steel fence and the two cars pulled in behind the winding gear house. Slow parked the Astra in the shadow of the derelict boiler, and they all got out. The two lads in the Sierra needed a bit of help, as their legs seemed to have gone wobbly. But Dave was quite willing to give them a hand. It must have been a bit like being helped across the road by Godzilla. When the four of us had gathered round them, they were looking definitely nervous.

  The lads weren't much to look at, typical weedy scruffs from the council estates in Mansfield or Ashfield. Neither of them would make the meat in a sandwich for Doncaster Dave. They were scared already, not know what was going on. It's like that when things go wrong unexpectedly. It's the unknown that does it. Of course, this makes it easier for us.

  Metal and Slow tied the lads' hands behind their backs with some blackened rope and fastened it to one of the steel cables that held the cage suspended from the winding wheel. We all looked down, and the lads looked too. There was a big black hole down there below the cage that looked as though it went down into the earth for miles. Well, it did once. But now it's only a few feet down to the concrete cap they used to seal the shaft. I was betting these lads didn't know that, though.

  "Right, lads. Sorry to leave you hanging around like this. But if you don't tell me everything you know, you're going to feel really let down. Know what I mean?"

  "We're working for a bloke called Rawlings," said one lad straightaway.

  "That's a good start, youth."

  It didn't take long to find out what we needed to know. They were only amateurs, well out of their depth. They opened up beautifully.

  Afterwards, we dropped the kids off on the edge of Mansfield and left the Sierra in a lay-by on the A60, minus its most valuable contents. Maybe the car's owner would get it back after all, if somebody else didn't nick it first.

  On the way back to Medensworth, Dave had a question. For once, it wasn't about where we were going to eat.

  "Stones," he said, trying out the sound of his voice.

  "Yeah, Donc?"

  "These ram raids, like."

  "What about 'em?"

  "I was just wonderin'. What do they need all these rams for anyway?"

  "I dunno, Donc. Maybe they use them to baa-ter for drugs."

  "Maybe," he said, not convinced.

  I didn't think it was funny either. But right now I was fresh out of sheep jokes.

  17

  "Parish registers, electoral rolls, estate records, court proceedings." Lisa had chosen Saturday morning to give me a bit of an insight into researching someone's family tree.

  "Court proceedings? Not relatives of Mr bleedin' Cavendish, surely?"

  "They would have been sitting on the bench perhaps, in his case."

  "Right."

  "It's fascinating what you can dig up once you start trying," said Lisa dreamily. "All it needs is a bit of time and someone who knows where to look."

  "That's you, of course."

  "Well, I think so."

  "I'm glad you've got so much time."

  "Well, the Hardwick Hall job is only part-time, you know."

  "Yeah. And there's nothing else for you to do with yourself, so obviously you need Cavendish and his little job to occupy you. I understand."

  "Come on. Get those numbers filled in."

  "I can't think of any."

  "You don't have to think of any, they're printed on the cards for you. You just have to cross a few off."

  "It's hard. It's too much like maths."

  "The numbers only run from one to forty-nine. Surely you can add up that far?"

  "Not necessarily," I said. "I can see you never did Differential Calculus."

  "If you don't stop messing about and fill those numbers in, we'll miss the draw."

  I can't really see the point of the National Lottery. Let's face it, all we're doing is rushing like lemmings to pour our money into the pockets of a load of fat cats. Okay, so someone has to win a few million now and then. But it won't be you or me, I guarantee it. I've never been one for gambling. I prefer a safe bet. Life itself is too much of a gamble as it is. Sometimes it seems like we spend our entire lives queuing up with all the other mugs in Peter Vardi's 24-hour superstore and video hire, clutching our lottery tickets and hoping that one day some big glittery finger will come down out of the sky and make the whole bleedin' thing worth while. But then one day our number really does come up, and it's bingo! Sorry, is that the wrong game?

  No use saying this to Lisa, though. She's the sort who reads the horoscopes in six newspapers and ten magazines every week - and believes them all without blinking. She has a lucky teddy bear and a lucky pixie on her key ring and won't open the door to a tall dark stranger if there's a 'p' in the month. When it comes to the lottery, she naturally picks her numbers using the birthdays of her mum, dad, sister, boyfriend and dog. Then she sticks with them every week, for God's sake. This is a disaster. It's exactly what they want you to do. Because you can't miss a week then, can you? You're obsessed with the fear that your numbers will come up the week you don't bother. It's a prospect too terrible to contemplate. Awful. What would become of you? Well, actually, you'd be in exactly the same position you were before - except a few pounds better off from the money you didn't spend on lottery tickets.

  "Have you done it yet?"

  "Oh, er... can I have 12 six times?"

  "You're in an awkward mood today, aren't you?"

  "Is that 'no'?"

  "Are you jealous of Michael Cavendish?"

  "Don't forget his hyphens. His name might fall apart without them."

  "You are, aren't you? That's what all that business was about at Rufford yesterday. I thought at first you were just being obnoxious as usual."

  "Thanks."

  "I'm only working for him, you know. Nothing more."

  "Sure. Helping him to make a family."

  "Helping him to find a family. Silly pillock."

  "He is, duck, I agree. I'm glad you've seen through him."

  "I meant you."

  "It's no use trying to talk me round. Let me get on with my lottery numbers. What's two and two?"

  "In your case, whatever you decide to make it."

  "That'll do, then. Two hundred and thirty seven million, nine hundred and twelve thousand, four hundred and sixty."

  "What?"

  "Two. Three. Seven. Nine. Twelve. And Forty-six."

  "Oh."

  "Are we off now?"

  "Did you hear what I was telling you, Stones?"

  "Yeah, yeah."

  "I'll be upset if you keep this up."

  Lisa thought she really had my number, but she was wrong. She was just acting out her part. Have you noticed how women are like that? I don't want to sound sexist or anything, but it's true. Some women seem to accept whatever role is forced on them, as if they're in some kind of play and have no choice. That's okay if you get a good part. But sometimes the Great Director in the Sky says to you: "All right - here's your part, kid. You're going to be a bloody martyr for the rest of your life. Everyone's going to shit on you from a great height, and you'll just have to lump it." A bloke, now, would be likely to say: "Stuff that, mate. I'd rather have a part where I can knock about with the lads a bit, watch some football on Saturday, go to the pub, you know? I'm not bothered if it's a small part, as long as I can have a bit of fun." But women? They go along with it, play the role to the hilt as if they're going for a bleedin' Oscar. Year's Best Portrayal of a Martyr or something. 'And I'd like to thank my dear old mother, for whom nothing I ever did was good enough, and my dad who really wanted a boy, and of course my husband who put himself about all over the county for years, got drunk every night and beat me black and blue. Not forgetting my kids, who walked all over me without a word of thanks. I couldn't have done it without them.'

  But to me they always seem to ham it up too much, overdo the melodrama. If I
was a critic, I'd give most of 'em a two-star rating. You'd only go and see it if the tickets are free and there's nothing on the telly except Blind Date.

  Personally, if I wanted a bit of dodgy method acting I'd go and watch some old Marlon Brando films. At least you can get back out into the real world after a couple of hours. And you don't get those long-suffering looks when you eat your popcorn either.

  * * * *

  We walked down to Vardi's to get our lottery tickets. I don't know what my stars said I had in store, but I knew my luck wasn't in, not this week.

  I hung about outside the shop while Lisa went in to queue for the tickets. Idly, I read the postcards in the window. Most of them were offering second hand Sega Megadrives and unused baby buggies. There were several adverts for homeworkers, promising earnings of up to three hundred pounds a week. For some reason, all the companies seemed to be based in Birmingham.

  From here, I could see the health centre down Yew Tree Avenue and the roof of the junior school. Just past the shops was the alleyway that led to the old people's bungalows with their concrete fencing and postage stamp gardens. The path was decorated with Walkers crisp packets and small heaps of dog muck. A couple of blokes carrying snooker cues in leather cases walked past on their way to the Welfare. A dog was barking somewhere as usual, and behind me I could hear stirrings in the Bombay Duck takeaway as they got ready for the lunchtime trade. This week, their window posters were promoting a special offer on doner kebabs and naan bread. The Duck was the only shop in the parade not to have steel shutters on its windows. Who'd want to nick some chicken curry?

  I was thinking about this when I noticed a car parked past the Bombay Duck, outside the little motor spares shop. It was pulled into the kerb, with its boot towards me, but I noticed it because its brake lights were on. If somebody sits with their brake lights on while they're stationary, it tends to make you think they're ready for a quick getaway.

  The car was a dark blue saloon, a German job with alloy wheels. And it made me think. It made me remember the car that had followed us the other night from the Dog and Ferret, the one that Slow Kid had managed to lose on the heath. There was a figure in the driving seat, and I decided it would be interesting to see who he was. I started to walk up the pavement and almost bumped into another bloke who came out of the spares shop. He had a carrier bag in his hand and looked to be in a hurry.