“We have been out today, haven’t we Mum?” Will said.
Relieved, I relaxed in my chair a little.
“Yes, we had a picnic at the park, and then took a long walk back up the drove,” Mum said.
“Alright for some! Long walks! Some of us have to work for a living.”
“Shut up and eat your dinner,” Mum said.
“Okay, okay, just teasing you. Miserable bloody lot you are.”
Mum threw a tea towel at Dad and he let it rest on his face. He shovelled potato onto his fork and tried to put it into his mouth, pretending not to know the tea towel was there. I never knew what to expect from him, and didn’t know if I preferred him when he was just in a grumpy mood or when he was trying to be funny, because when he was acting funny he could easily catch us off guard and suddenly turn the other way and me and Will could get into all sorts of trouble.
Dad seemed to be in a good mood, and it looked like it was going to stay that way. He even said that we’d be allowed to put the football on downstairs instead of sending us up to our room to watch it. “We had a job to do first,” he said, and as if he was psychic, we heard a car horn beep from the yard outside.
“Come on, boys,” Dad said, and went outside. Will followed quickly behind him, and I was a distant third.
Standing by his car was Uncle Rodney. He had one hand on his hip, and he was wearing a huge pair of gloves.
Dad peered into the back of the car. “Where are they then?”
“Ta-da!” said Uncle Rodney, and he opened the boot of the car, to the sound of clucking. A sea of brown feathers rippled inside, and then heads started to emerge, looking for the source of light. One seemed to rise above the rest, its wings sticking out and its feet looking for something to grab hold of. Quickly it was standing on top of another chicken, and then it jumped, landed in the dust, and started strutting towards me.
“Grab ‘er,” Dad said.
I waited until she was close and then pounced, but she darted out of reach. Meanwhile, Uncle Rodney was grabbing chickens by a leg, turning then upside down, and passing them to Will and Dad in groups of three in each hand.
After a couple of trips to the car they’d moved all of their chickens, and I’d managed to corner my one. I reached a hand towards her and she had nowhere to go. She moved low to the ground and I was able to reach out with both hands and grab her by the body. Proudly I held her out and walked towards the coop, but then she started to flap her wings and I had to hold her further away from me.
“That’s no way to hold a bird,” Dad said, and I could feel her squirming away from me.
Uncle Rodney was beside me in an instant and it seemed to calm her down. He took her from me and tucked her under his arm. He placed her into the coop. “And that makes thirteen,” he said as he closed the door.
“Can we go and watch the football now?” asked Will.
“You can,” Dad said. “As Tom was slacking off while we were doing all of the work, I think he should help your uncle tidy out the back of his car.
We all looked that way. Inside were so many feathers, and it looked like a fair bit of chicken poop too.
I trudged towards it. The blue rope in the back was peppered with downy feathers. For some reason there were also a couple of loose Panini World Cup football stickers, one of them was the shiny world cup trophy sticker.
“Let the boy watch his football,” said Uncle Rodney, and he pushed the boot down with one of his massive hands. “I need to give the car a good clean out anyway.”
I wanted to ask for the sticker, but Dad said, “Goo on then boy,” and I hurried inside.
I was worried that England was going to get thumped because Holland were the European Champions, and last time they played Holland, they lost 3-1 and Van Basten got a hat-trick. The commentators were saying that England were using a ‘sweeper system’ which is something they use in other countries like Italy and Germany rather than England so I thought it might not work and Holland would end up winning, but England played some really good football. It was quite an even first half though and Holland didn’t have too many chances to score so I was surprised because people were always saying how good an attacking team there were.
England got even better in the second half and they even scored two goals, but both of the goals were ruled out. First Gary Lineker scored, but it didn’t count because the ball had bounced up to hit his hand before he kicked it into the net. Then, right at the last minute, England got a free kick and Stuart Pearce scored directly from the free kick, but the referee said it didn’t count either.
“Why doesn’t it count?” I said.
“I don’t bloody well know,” Dad said.
“It was obstruction,” Will said.
“What was obstruction?”
“The free kick. It was for obstruction, which means an indirect free kick.”
“So?”
“So, if it’s an indirect free kick you’re now allowed to score from it. It has to touch another player first.”
“Well that’s not fair.”
“It’s time you two went to bed,” Dad said, and that was another thing we didn’t think was fair either.
NOW
The closer I get to Little Mosswick, the more familiar it seems until I know every bend and dip in the road. As I round the corner, I can make out some familiar farmhouses, though there are some new housing estates blocking the view across the whole village. I feel almost glad that I can no longer see all the way across the land to my old home.
As I take the slip road into Little Mosswick I see another police car. Or, who knows, it could even be the same one. A police officer stands in the road, urging me pull over. After I stop, I wind down the window, ready for his approach. He’s older than me by at least twenty years, I’d guess based upon the plethora of grey hairs in his beard. I don’t recognise him but wonder if he was around back in 1990. He crouches down to look into the car. “Good afternoon,” he says. “What’s your business in Little Mosswick?”
“Visiting family,” I say, the word sticking in my throat.
The police officer pulls out a photograph and holds it up for me to look at. “Do you recognise the child?”
It’s John. The dimple in the chin, those blue eyes, the cluster of three moles on the left cheek.
“Sir?” Says the police officer. “Do you recognise this girl?”
I look at the picture again. It’s nothing like John. Yes, she has the chin dimple and the moles, but she also has pigtails.
“Would you mind stepping out of the car?” says the police officer. He steps back from the car and speaks into his walkie-talkie.
“Dad,” says Charlie. “What’s going on?”
I shrug. I glance at the police officer and quickly realise that I don’t have time to waste. I climb out of the car.
“Would you mind opening your boot for me?”
I hurry around to the back of the car and open the boot revealing the two bags I’d packed for Charlie and me.
The police officer bends down to look. He lifts the bags, one at a time, and feels underneath them.
“Where were you this morning between nine and eleven?”
“Miles away. We left our home in Oxfordshire at around ten o’ clock.”
“Can I take your name?”
“Certainly. It’s Thomas Tilbrook. What’s all of this about?”
“We’re looking for a young girl. The girl in the picture.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name’s Jessica. She’s a resident of Little Mosswick. She was sent to the post office for some milk and hasn’t been seen since.”
“Have you spoken to my dad?” I say, almost screaming at the man. “Have you spoken to Trevor Tilbrook?”
Sunday 17th June 1990
Our fishing trip would be a good opportunity to check out some of the other paths out of the village. I wondered if John might have decided to go fishing as none of us were about. We’d been fishing together a
couple of times. He had to borrow one Will’s old rods first time, but then his parents bought him a new carbon fibre one. He didn’t really like fishing that much – he was never fond of putting maggots on hooks, and this one time when he caught a ruffe he couldn’t get the hook out of its mouth and pulled it a bit too hard and blood went everywhere. That was all he caught, but Will and I have both caught some big roach there. One Monday he came in and told us he’d gone down there with his dad and they’d caught a massive pike that he claimed was bigger than the one on the cover to the Angling Times that was in the post office that week, but he’d never told us about anything he’d done with his dad before, so it made my chin itch. But maybe he did go fishing on his own. Not only that, it would give us the chance to see if the police were still searching around that area.
Granddad came around at eight. It was way too early for a Sunday.
“Time for breakfast before you go, boys?” asked Mum.
“Only if you’ve got plenty for me too,” Granddad said.
“More than enough.”
Granddad hadn’t combed his hair (or maybe he had, and it was deliberate) so his hair was wild, like a crazy white mane. When it was like that, he reminded me of Aslan. Granddad was wise and strong and full of wisdom. I sometimes wondered if he was magic.
After breakfast we set off to collect Liam and Andy. They were eating their breakfast, and Granddad tucked away another bacon sandwich. We stopped off back at Granddad’s house to pick up the fishing rods from his garage which had this smell like sawdust and engine oil, and because the windows were covered in a thick, green, mossy film everything inside looked distorted and other-worldly. There was a new smell today, over-powering the smell of oil, an animal stink.
Will tugged on my sleeve and then pointed behind me.
I turned to see three dead pheasants not more than a metre from my head. They had hooks through their beaks and were hanging from them limply. Once I could see them the smell was worse than ever, and I couldn’t help but put a hand to my mouth.
“Don’t you worry none about my pheasants,” Granddad said. “Leave them to hang for a couple of three or four days and they’ll be right tasty.” He wasn’t looking as he picked his tackle box from a shelf, and a heavy chain snaked off behind it, clattered to the floor, and coiled there.
“I’ll pick it up later,” he muttered. Looking at all of the other debris on the floor ‘later’ was not going to be any time soon.
We were walking towards the end of the village which didn’t seem to be the quickest way to the river. Liam had been tasked with carrying the rods, and even though they’d been taken apart, so they weren’t that long he kept turning to look into the ditches and clobbering Andy in the side of the head.
“Tom should carry the rods,” Andy said.
I was already struggling with Granddad’s fold-up chair. “Why me?”
“Because they’re like Donatello’s staff, and he’s Donatello.”
“We’re not the turtles, Andy,” Will said. He was having no trouble at all carrying the tackle box.
“We are the turtles.”
Granddad stopped and turned to look at us. “Turtles? Whatever in merry Hell are you blathering on about? Of course, you’re not turtles.”
“We’re the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”
“Well that makes a whole lot more sense,” Granddad said, scratching his head. “Anyway, I know you’re not a turtle.” He said as he ruffled Andy’s hair.
“How come?”
“Because you’re a money box.” Granddad pulled a twenty-pence coin from behind Andy’s ear.
Liam gasped and it made me smile too.
Andy muttered, “I am a turtle,” with his bottom lip jutting out.
“Well, I ain’t never seen a turtle in the river, but there have been terrapins dragged out of it.”
“Really?” I said. I could see Will was shaking his head.
“Oh yeah, dozens of them. You boys aren’t old enough to remember it, but I took your dad and your mum there when they were little. You know that big old house as you go around the bend on the approach to Ely?”
We all nodded, apart from Will who decided to overtake us and walk a little further ahead.
“The family that used to own that house, many years ago, they had a menagerie. Used to be the Duke of somewhere or other, I forget, who had the house and before my time they had lions and tigers and ostriches there. When I went, they only had a few of the smaller cats left; pumas, lynxes, stuff like that. What they did still have though was a tank full of terrapins. Only when they found out that the Duke’s great grandson or great, great grandson had been diddling his taxes for years and had blown all of the family money they were going to lock him up. With no one to look after the animal he let what was left of them go, and the terrapins bred in the waters.”
“What about the cats?” asked Liam.
“That’s a story for another day. We’re here now.”
We were standing outside the entrance to old Mr Barnham’s farm. Will had marched on fifty metres or so down the road and Granddad had to summon him back.
“What’re we going in there for?” asked Andy.
Andy hadn’t been fishing with us before, so he didn’t know that this was the best place to get bait in the village.
As we wandered in through the gates the door to the shed, which had recently been painted black, swung open.
“Aye up, Teddy,” Granddad said.
“Norm. Taking your lads for a spot of fishin’?” said Teddy. He must have been quite tall if he stood up straight, as he was almost as tall as Granddad Norman with his back bent and buckled like it was. His nose was long and pointed and the skin saggy and loose on his face. He led us into the shed where there was a counter, an ancient till, and several empty tubs. The smell was revolting. It was a sweet sickliness and the dust seemed to cling to the inside of your nose.
“What’s it to be then boys? Worms or maggots?”
Andy’s mouth dropped open.
“Well it’s this little fella’s first time,” Granddad ruffled Andy’s hair, “so I think we ought to have a pot of each.”
“Worms and maggots? What a treat,” said Teddy. “I normally do this out back, but as it’s your first time…” Teddy opened the door behind him and grabbed a larger plastic container. He took off the lid and the sickly smell engulfed the room. He tilted the tub towards Andy so he could see the hundreds, maybe thousands, of tiny yellow maggots writhing around in there.
“Gross!” Andy said.
“You won’t catch fish without bait.” Teddy said. He thrust his long fingers into the container and picked up a handful of the maggots. He dropped most into one of the smaller containers but left a couple to wriggle out around on his hand to show Andy who looked away. “How would you like to pick out the worms yourself, young man?” Teddy laughed with his mouth wide open, showing the enormous gaps between his teeth.
Andy shook his head. “Granddad,” he said, “can I wait outside?”
We left Granddad in there with Teddy Barnham. Andy still had a sickened look on his face, but Liam was grinning. “Hold these,” he said, and pushed the fishing rods against Andy. He reached into his back-pocket and pulled out his wad of Top Trumps cards, both sets collected together and bound with an elastic band. He flicked through them and picked out The Sorcerer, an old man with long, pointed fingers, a huge nose and a cavernous mouth, almost devoid of teeth.
We were still chuckling about it when Granddad came out. “What are you boys laughing at?”
“Nothing,” we said together.
“Well come on then. These fish aren’t gonna catch themselves, are they?”
“How big can maggots get, Granddad?” Liam said as he looked into the pot full of them.
“Not much longer than your thumbnail. They hatch out into flies, see.”
Liam was clearly thinking about The Maggot card from his Top Trumps. With a Fear Factor of only 66 it wasn’t among the most fri
ghtening cards in the pack. The picture made it look huge though. Its head was twice as big as the human head which it was scratching with claws. I peered into the pot and watched them writhing.
“They don’t even have limbs, or faces, or anything,” I said. The monster version probably wasn’t a maggot at all. Maybe it looked like one in some other way, but also had mammal features.
“Did you know,” Granddad said, before setting his rod down to take up a more comfortable position, “that they sometimes put maggots on wounds to help clean them up.”
“Urgh,” Liam said, and shivered.
Andy shrank into himself.
Will cast his line into the water.
“Why would they do that?” I asked (after overcoming a slight shudder).
“They eat the dead flesh, which helps the rest of the wound to heal up quicker.”
“That’s gross,” Liam said. “I wouldn’t let them do that to me.”
“Not even if it was the only way of saving your life? You might get blood poisoning without it.”
But what it the maggot burrowed in too deep and got into your brain? Then you might turn out like The Maggot. I don’t know if I’d want to live as a monster.
We’d only caught one fish when we came to stop for lunch, and that was a small perch on Granddad’s rod.
“After we’ve had a bite, how about we go up a little further? Might have a bit more luck there,” Granddad said.
I looked at Liam and he nodded back at me. It would be a good opportunity to scope out a different area.
“I know what you boys are thinking,” Granddad said.
“We ain’t thinking nothing,” Liam said and started to go slightly pink.
“Your friend that went missing or run away. He might have come this way?”
“There’s no harm looking,” I said.
Will tossed a rock into the water.
“Well no one saw him walking along the main road. If he did come this way, then no one much would have seen him down this drove. Old Teddy Barnham has his fields left fallow. His boy doesn’t want to farm it.”
Dead Branches Page 8
