Fallen Idols

by Neil White

  It was the jolt she had been waiting for, but when it came, it took her by surprise. Her light changed to green but she still sat there, rooted. Just as the lights were about to change again, she slammed her foot hard onto the accelerator and then turned around to drive back through town.

  She didn’t know where she was headed at first, so she just drove through tight streets, some cobbled, some not, with wedge-end corners and sash windows. It was when she found herself passing the high school that she realised where she was going. Just at the edge of town, before streets became fields, it sat big and brown, sixties in style, dated modernism, flat-roofed prefab, the windows now all in darkness. She stopped the car for a while, let the silence and all those memories drift back in through the open window. She felt the prickle of tears.

  She put the car back into gear and turned down a lane running along the side of an old church, the route made narrow by walls covered in moss, the green bright against the grey stones. When she came out of the lane, she saw Pendle Hill in front of her, standing as a dark, giant shadow, the threat over the bright green of the playing fields before it.

  She came to a stop, her tyres crunching, the occasional rumble of a distant car the only thing she could hear when she stepped out. Although the voices rushed back in, they were cheering her on, willing her to keep going.

  She was by a park. It seemed pathetically small now. Flowerbeds ran up the grass slopes, with a tarmac path running around the top in a crescent. She looked up the hill and felt her stomach tumble. It was there, right at the top, the edges picked out by shadow. The aviary, or so the locals called it. It hadn’t housed birds for a long time, the local kids too cruel now, but the name had stuck. It was a local landmark but it was really nothing more than a brick shelter on a concrete base. There was a cenotaph at the bottom of the park, with the names of war dead chiselled into the base, somewhere to sit and reflect. The kids used the aviary at the top of the park to smoke and take girlfriends, making sleazy memories there.

  It looked like so much of nothing, but she knew what it meant, what it stood for. She could feel midges dance around her face, felt the season, sensed the dreams of perfect summers.

  She stepped onto the grass, felt it sink beneath her feet. She turned in a circle as she walked, letting the surroundings swirl around her, allowing Turners Fold to fade into streaks as the earth began to rise. She slowed down, felt nervous, sick, wanted to turn around and run away, but she had to keep going. This was why she had come, to remind herself.

  She stepped onto the path, the edge of the park, and the sudden noise of her footfall was like an electric shock. She looked ahead and saw the aviary, dark, still in shadow. Her breath shortened, a sudden rush of nausea made her sway. She turned around and looked over the town. She could see it all from here: the mill chimneys, the strips of housing, the double-glazed tangle of a new estate eating into fields.

  Then she saw someone there, just a shape, standing by the railings, watching her. Her breath caught. She recognised the face, like a distant memory, an old photo, a sunshine smile. A voice whispered at her, a light hiss.

  She smiled at the figure and the voice faded. She felt the darkness surround her, the air suddenly cold.

  The path was about to run out in front of her so she stopped. She looked down at her shoes, saw the concrete base by her toes. She knew where she was but she felt like she was on the edge of a crevasse, her feet stuck but her body lurching forward. Her head was light, her mouth dry. She looked back to the stars. They were bright and far away.

  She took a deep breath, steadied herself, and then stepped forward.

  The path gave way to concrete, cold hardness under her feet, and when she refocused she was inside the aviary. She could smell drink and old cigarettes. She looked down. She thought she could see a stain, or were they scuffs in the stone? She looked back and tried again to make out the figure by the railings, but she couldn’t focus. She thought she could hear screams, echoes from ten years ago, and they made her clamp her hands over her ears, made the stone shift and move. Shadows fell over the park, blocking out the moon, crushing the sound, until all that was left was the sound of her heartbeat.

  She didn’t know how long she stayed there. She looked around, realised she could see through the shadows, remembered where she was. She put a hand to her cheeks. They were wet. She looked back to the railing and tried to see who was there. She couldn’t see anyone, but she thought she could hear whispers.

  She stepped back, stumbling. She looked over to the railings again, her pace quickening. There was no one there.

  She wiped her cheeks and ran to her car. She could hear someone laughing, loud and insistent. She jumped in and sped off, her tyres spewing dust, her lights coming on as she approached the top of the lane. Her engine broke the silence until her lights disappeared into the distance as she headed out of town, leaving the park in a growing dusk, the dust from her departure settling again.

  FIFTEEN

  The next day started like many others, with a cold sun, but I still remember it like it was today.

  It started for me in the Sunshine Cafe, looking for my father. He’d eaten there for years, soaking up cholesterol like it was a delicacy. He was by the window, the empty breakfast plate in front of him, a cup of coffee flicking steam into the air. I patted him on the shoulder and sat down. When he looked round he smiled. I was looking for an edge, something not right. I couldn’t see anything.

  ‘Hi, Jack. Bit early for you, isn’t it?’

  ‘I’ve got myself some good habits since I went to London,’ I said, and waved an order for coffee at the waitress and then turned back to him. ‘Did you have a good night?’

  I didn’t get the answer I expected. When it’s warm like this, the true smile of summer, the hoods get artistic or horny, and both mean trouble.

  He shook his head, the tiredness showing around his eyes. ‘Nothing much going on. I’ve spent the night driving around.’ He drank some coffee. ‘What about you? Did you get much done?’ He looked down as he asked the question.

  ‘Yeah, not so bad. I have a few contacts for interviews, and I’m going to speak with David’s agent later. I’ll fill it with tales from the Fold, make it sound like a great place, and then just try and get a good interview with him.’

  He looked relieved somehow, although I didn’t know why.

  ‘How was Alice?’ he asked.

  I found myself smiling. Alice had flirted and teased out Watts’s titbits and ridden her brush with big-time journalism as hard as she could. I’d tried to tell her that the big city wasn’t like that, how every day was a catfight, a nonstop hustle for the best story, but she hadn’t cared.

  I caught my smile quickly, replaced it with a quiet nod and concentrated on my coffee. ‘She did okay.’

  ‘She’s a pretty girl.’

  That surprised me. I felt caught out, but when I looked at my dad I saw a mischievous twinkle behind the lines around his eyes.

  Then he smiled, the twinkle replaced by something I couldn’t fathom. Maybe sadness. He drained his coffee. ‘Time for me to go. Are you staying out? You look like you’ve got some reading to do.’

  I looked down to the newspapers I had in my hand, all of the national dailies. I wanted to see what they were saying about the shootings. The television had done most of that already – Dumas and Nixon weren’t friends, had no connections together, had never played on the same team – but I was a newspaper man, so I wanted to read words, not hear them. I had skimmed the papers on the walk over and they seemed to be saying the same thing. There was talk of Far Eastern gambling syndicates, but that was just rumour. Nixon was old-style, too blood and thunder to throw a game, and Dumas won too many to be a candidate for that.

  ‘I’m checking out the Post archive once I’ve read these, and then I’ve got a couple of interviews. Do you want me to stay away?’

  ‘No, but I need to sleep. Do what you need to do, but keep the volume down.’

  I agr
eed to that, and then watched as he stepped off his stool, moving slower than I thought he might, just showing the traces of the old man that was waiting for him a few years along. When he went, waving his goodbye to the waitress, I felt alone in there.

  She felt the dew rise through her toes as she walked on the grass in front of her house, a glass of juice in her hand. Summer mornings that started like this always turned out to be the best of days. This was the day after Manchester and she hadn’t expected it to feel like this, so free, so right. Her hand brushed the damp strands of a willow tree, and she closed her eyes as the leaves trickled over her fingers. The breeze tickled her hair, light and fresh.

  She felt herself relax, just for a moment, but then just as fast, like a reminder, her eyes opened, quick and darting. The sounds around her were like soft bliss, but she felt like someone balancing feathers, one quick movement and the calm would all be gone.

  She took another drink. She noticed the faint scars on her forearm, like old memories she would rather forget. But she couldn’t forget. She remembered well the nights when she was on her own, wrapped up in memories and hurt, dancing the knife across her skin.

  She put her glass down and flexed her fingers once more. She had a memory of leaving Manchester, but it was scrambled, like staccato bursts of light and noise, driven by pure adrenalin. It was only when she’d got back home that things became clear again. But she knew the peace in her head wouldn’t last.

  The grass ran out and she walked up the steps to the house, to the front porch, dark stone framed by trailing roses. She turned and looked down the fields in front of her. They stretched out long and sloped, meadow grass dotted by buttercups, running down to the river a quarter of a mile away. Beyond that lay trees, a buffer between herself and the rest of the county, green as far as she could see. The road through her land snaked up from a stream, a potholed dust-trap running over a metal cattle-grid, her own personal alarm. She always knew when she had visitors because the rumble of tyres over the grid carried along the currents.

  She drained her drink and looked down to the old wooden seat, painted soft blue. She saw her phone and her nerves crept back in. That’s why she was outside: trying to stay calm for the next part of the plan, the crucial part.

  Her eyes caught a movement, a dark shadow moving across the porch. She looked over quickly, but whoever was there was gone. She turned round at a voice, just a light whisper, but there was no one there.

  She took a deep breath and turned back into the shade of the porch. Now was the time. She’d planned it this way. Now was the time.

  She reached down and picked up the phone. She felt suddenly nauseous, the phone hot and heavy in her hand. She held it against her chest, heavy breaths, trying to stop her hands from shaking. She looked around. There was still no one there, but she thought she heard movement, saw petals move, a soft brush like a whisper.

  She took one last deep breath, looked down at the handset, and then pressed a key to activate a stored number. As she put the phone to her ear, she heard the steady ring. She imagined it ringing in London. It rang four times before the answer machine kicked in.

  ‘Hello, you’re through to David Watts. Please leave your message and I’ll get back to you. Thank you.’

  She clicked the phone off quickly, almost dropping it. Her breaths came fast again and she sat down hard on the floor.

  She sat like that for a while, her chest tight, her hands clammy, looking at the floor. She tried to listen to the countryside, to drown out his voice. She opened her eyes to check the sky. She saw birds just circling over the river.

  Eventually, calmness returned. And with it came fresh determination.

  She pressed redial.

  Same as before. Four rings. Answer machine. The tone.

  She let the silence fill the earpiece, and then put a small electronic box over the mouthpiece. It was a microphone that distorted her voice, picked up from a gadget shop. After a few seconds, she spoke.

  ‘Hi, David.’ She said it cold, like it would freeze him the second he heard it. The microphone took the rest of any emotion out, her voice coming out as electronic distortion. ‘It’s me.’

  David was in his apartment, trying to relax after his breakfast. The shooting of Johnny Nixon was still playing with his thoughts: who was doing this?

  The telephone rang. He looked over and then decided to ignore it. He had dealt with enough press queries the previous day and he had nothing else to add.

  He lay back on the sofa, a cushion over his face. The darkness felt good, silent, the only clear noise his breathing, steady and warm.

  The answer machine clicked off and he relaxed. Perhaps if he stayed like that it would all go away?

  The telephone rang again. He ignored it again until the answer machine clicked on.

  ‘Hi, David. It’s me.’

  He paused, the voice strange, electronic distortion.

  ‘Do you recognise my voice?’

  He sat up.

  ‘C’mon, David, you must recognise it.’

  He was bemused. A new silk to her voice distracted him, soft seduction despite the electronics.

  ‘Think back to your last night in Turners Fold, the last night before you left to be a star.’

  His face froze. His mind hurtled back through the last ten years, back to a balmy night in Lancashire, a mosaic of sad goodbyes, prolonged best wishes.

  ‘Do you, David? Do you remember me?’

  His face went pale, his mouth went dry. The room around him shrank away. The only thing he could hear was the machine, which came at him clear and crisp, cutting through the sound of a thousand bad dreams rushing at him.

  ‘Perhaps if I sobbed, David, you’d remember.’ The words were beginning to snap out. ‘Do you want me to scream? Would that work? Beg for my life?’

  He felt his stomach turn over. A cold sweat prickled his lips. His chest became tight. He stood over the machine, wanting to pick up the receiver.

  The voice continued, softer now.

  ‘Do you still go down to the old school, throw a few memories around? Do you think about how you hurt me? Do you remember how I looked when you left me, my scarf pulled tight around my neck?’

  He could hear his mind screaming at him to turn it off, but he couldn’t. All he could do was stand and listen, his jaw clenched firm, his mouth set hard so that his lips turned pale.

  ‘Do you ever, David, when you’re alone in the dark, just you and your conscience? Have you ever thought about me?’

  He felt powerless, transfixed.

  ‘No, you haven’t, David. I know that, because you didn’t even look back.’

  He looked at the ceiling, and it seemed to swirl at him.

  ‘Enough reminiscing, David, it’s time to come clean.’

  The snap of anger was back. David looked down at the answer machine.

  ‘Get on the TV, David. Tell them what you did. Tell them everything you did.’

  His hand was over his mouth, shocked, confused.

  ‘If you do it right, I stop shooting.’

  He went pale and sat down hard, felt himself go dizzy.

  ‘That’s right, David, it’s me. I’m the one doing it, and I’m doing it all for you.’

  There was a laugh, but it sounded cold.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ he gasped. ‘Jesus fucking Christ.’ His eyes were wide and his face was drawn and grey.

  ‘But this is the rub, David. You get on the TV and tell everybody what you did. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You do it right and no more footballers die. But, if you don’t do it right, if you try to get yourself out of this jam, I keep on shooting, until the only person left to shoot in football is you.’

  David looked back at the machine, numb now, unable to speak.

  He put his hand over his face and slumped backwards. The sound of the voice was the only thing in the room now, filling the spaces between the walls so that it felt like they were all coming in on themselves.

/>   ‘You could tell the police, David. That would stop it. But if they catch me, I’ll tell them everything. Would you want that?’

  His fingers clenched around his hair.

  ‘This call is being recorded, David, so everyone will know you had a chance to stop it. Any which way, you’re finished. So just do it, David, and you might get lucky.’

  The message ended. The silence in the room felt like it was loaded, a barrier, not a gap.

  He looked at the machine, and then down at his hands. He was shaking.

  When she clicked off the phone she felt the swish of the willow tree replace the dead air of London. She looked back to the house and saw a figure leaning against the wall.

  She dropped the phone and clenched her fists, her palms damp, trembling. She felt the sky spin, the earth turn beneath her feet. Her breaths were coming fast and her hands covered her face, her cheeks wet with tears. She thought she felt raindrops on the back of her neck, but when she looked up it was still a bright day. She raised her hand to her eyes to shield the sun, but when the glare was gone, so was the figure, blown away like dust.

  She fell to her knees and began to sob, her face buried in the grass, the sounds of summer gone.

  SIXTEEN

  The Post didn’t seem quite as welcoming as it had the day before. I had been a novelty then. Now I was just a distraction, most people barely raising their heads over their monitors.

  Tony had stuck me in the old smokers’ room, now empty after they were relegated to the canal towpath that ran behind the building, but the smell of stale tobacco still clung to the walls.

  The Post’s back issues were kept in a windowless room a few doors down from where I was, the metal shelves stacked to the ceiling, filled with large brown binders, one for each month, organised in years.

  I wasn’t being allowed into that room. Instead, Tony had brought me some computer disks containing scanned images of old stories about David Watts.

  ‘We get a few enquiries,’ he said, ‘so the paper put everything onto disk. You can take them, provided you don’t reproduce them without permission.’