by Simon Clark
David let his gaze roam over the motley collection of buildings. Colonel Leppington might have brought prosperity to the town in the shape of the abattoir and cannery; he hadn’t brought style.
The abattoir itself backed onto the station. In fact the tracks ended at the vast brick wall of the abattoir building, which was big enough to cast a permanent shadow over the station and a good-sized chunk of the town, too. Before the rail track reached the station a spur line ran off behind the station buildings and disappeared through a vast set of doors in the looming exterior wall of the abattoir. No doubt goods trains would be backed into there to be loaded with tens of thousands of crates of canned mutton and beef ready for dispatch throughout the country. How many thousands of cows and sheep had gone into the mincing machine in there?
‘Never a taxi when you want one, is there?’
It was the same old man who’d nearly had his face mashed by the thug on the train.
‘You know,’ the old man continued, ‘when you don’t need a taxi, you’ll see them queuing up round the square. Today? None. None at all. No buses to speak of Grubby things. Driven by impudent ignoramuses.’
Dear God, David Leppington thought, heart sinking. Button-holed by the town bore. He was liking the town less and less by the minute.
‘Going far?’ the old man inquired, looking David up and down.
‘No. Just to the hotel across there.’
‘Ah, the Station Hotel? Not bad. Not bad. Though not as good as the old days when Bill Charnwood had the place. His daughter’s done her best since … but you know what young girls are like these days. Young people don’t want to work. They don’t know about graft and sweat. Don’t recollect your face, young man. Are you visiting?’
‘Ah…yes.’ Don’t tell him anything. He’ll stand here all day interrogating you.
‘Short trip,’ David added.
‘Family?’
‘Yes.’ David picked up his suitcase, ready to push on to the hotel. It looked like rain. Nice one, he thought, seizing on the notion. ‘Ah, it looks like rain.’ He hoped the old man would agree and go in search of a taxi.
‘Oh, that old bruiser?’ The man nodded up at the cloud. ‘This time of year it always bubbles up like that from the tops. Never brings rain, though.’
Damn. That’s one escape route closed.
‘You know, you remind me of someone.’ The old man nipped his bottom lip between thumb and forefinger. ‘Let me see.’
Arnold Schwarzenegger? Denzel Washington? Sharon Stone? The temptation to be flippant to the point of rudeness strained to surface.
The old man looked at him closely. ‘Yes…yes. You’ve got a very familiar face, young man. Think it must be around the eyes. And your height. Very distinguished you look for a young man. Police force?’
‘No…a doctor.’
‘A doctor? Damn good profession.’
Oh God, damn and hellfire. David maintained a polite smile. The man was going to stay there all day and winkle out every detail of his personal life.
(I wet-shave using Bic razors, my favourite films are Flight of the Phoenix (Jimmy Stewart is the bee’s knees), Lust For Life and Tim Burton’s Ed Wood; no, I hate soap operas set in hospitals — the doctors look phony. I love food that is bad for me — cheesecake, Indian takeaways, chocolate, and for bed I wear nothing but rubber, furs and a lecherous smile…Uh oh, stop the flippant comments, Doc.)
David held the false smile, but he realized he’d missed a question. ‘My name?’
‘Yes, I didn’t quite catch it.’ The old man pried.
‘Leppington.’
The old man gave a sudden blink of surprise. For the first time he was speechless. He’d not even been rendered speechless when it looked as if the young thug would batter him bloody and senseless.
Now the old man stepped back, his mouth open; he gave that surprised blink again.
David thought: Oh, hell, that’s torn it; maybe I did let something flippant out. Maybe that bit about sleeping in rubber and furs…that’ll teach you, my boy…
‘Ahm…sorry, I don’t think I heard you right. I thought you said…ahm…Leppington?’
‘Yes,’ David said brightly. ‘Leppington. The same as the town. I suppose it’s —’
He didn’t have time to finish. The old man mumbled some words — one might have been ‘Taxi’ — and walked quickly towards the town. Every so often he shot a look back at David that seemed nothing short of hostile.
Are you sure you didn’t let something flippant slip, David?
At least it did the trick. The man was gone.
Up above, the great black crow gave a piercing cry. It floated directly overhead, wings outstretched, now unflapping. Again, David had the strongest feeling he was being watched.
2
With the time nudging midday, the old man gone, David Leppington realized he was hungry. When he’d booked into the hotel he’d been told the earliest check-in time was one in the afternoon, so with an hour to kill he headed for a door in the station that bore the sign STATION TEA ROOM.
The idea of scaring off the old man by simply giving his name amused him.
Go on, he thought, walk into the tea room and announce: My name is Leppington. See if the same trick works twice. Smiling, he headed for the door, imagining the mention of his name would have the old ladies in the tea room squealing for fear as they ran for the door.
Lock up your daughters, Leppington’s back in town!
Grinning now, he walked into the empty cafe. Killed the grin with an effort, ordered a cheese salad sandwich, Bakewell tart and coffee and sat down to eat.
CHAPTER 3
Sky bruised all brown and green. Cruddy buildings. Big one with pointed towers like a castle. The town meant nothing to him. He hated it. He hated the stupid old git on the train who had complained like shit. All he’d done was grab a well-earned smoke.
No one told him what to do.
No one told him what to say.
No one told him what to eat.
He’d had a gutful of that in jail. Twelve months for sticking some weasel who’d grassed him up. They’d treated the guy in the outpatients’; he never even got his runty little arse on a hospital bed. But the cops were waiting for him to put a foot wrong, lying bastards. He wished some little rubber-necked cop would just walk out of the cafe there in the station. He’d wade in — wap! wap! wap! The cop would crash back into the wall, blood spewing out of his rubber lips.
Hasta la vista, baby.
He thought about waiting for the old faggot who’d whined about the smoke. Wait for him outside the station.
Wap! Wap! Wap!
He’d love to see the old guy fall croaking on the floor, bits of false teeth coming out onto the floor like broken biscuits. Then WA-RRPP! Plant a kick in his soft-as-shit stomach.
Over and out, grandad.
Got your wings, got your harp. Goodnight, sweetheart.
What was he doing in this tossing town, anyway? Leppington. He’d never even heard of it until last week. He’d been drifting ever since prison. Pulled a few wallets from drunks in some public shithouse. Walked out of a supermarket or two, cool as a cuke, with a bottle of vodka in each hand — had to wap the store detective in Hull with one. Wap. Smash. Tinkle. Left the bastard in a pool of blood and vodka.
Then he’d heard the name Leppington. It stuck in his mind.
Leppington. Leppington. Leppington. Leppington. Leppington.
Fucking name went round and around, like it was a fly stuck inside his skull or something…Leppington. Leppington. Leppington.
Couldn’t sleep.
Leppington. Leppington.
He’d seen a mouse in a pissoir in Goole. He’d stamped on the little fucker. ‘Leppington! Leppington! Lepp —’ it’d squealed before his big boot came crunching down to flatten its head.
So why Leppington?
Why had the name stuck?
Why was he here?
Fuck knew.
It w
as just a place. And he had to be in some place, right? You can’t just jump out of the fucking universe and leave a fucking hole, for Chrissakes. Leppington was a place, so he might as well cool his heels here for a while.
He walked away from the station, through the market stalls, brushing aside biddies like they were moths. But he didn’t so much walk as strut. When he walked that way he believed he could walk at a wall and bust right through, like he was a tank; bricks, mortar dust blasting aside, and he’d go right on through — unstoppable, a machine. He was big, he was glorious, he had muscles in his spit; his hair was shaved down to the skin, displaying to the world the scars he’d collected for twenty-two years. The first one he’d got — the one that ran from his left eye to his ear lobe, looking like it had been drawn there in red felt-tip
— had come his way when he was a week old, just a fucking little baby
— that was his best; that made people look twice at him — he was the fucking Frankenstein monster: scarred and beautiful and terrible; so get out of my fucking way or I’ll crush you to shit.
OK…this is Leppington.
He was going to make a start. He’d make this shit town his own. It would be like a big fat tit to suck on. He’d suck the thing dry of milk, then…
Then, like he’d done before, he’d move on, leaving the tit dry, empty.
‘Tit!’ He spat the word at an old man in a cap. The man looked startled.
‘Tit!’
Was it the same old sod who’d grumbled at him on the train?
Maybe a quick wap! wap! Leave him puking and pissing his baggy old-bloke trousers in the street.
Nah!
He’d work to do. He started at the pubs, looking for some people. He didn’t mince in all timid. He strutted into the bars. Looked round — looked people dead in the eye. When he realized they weren’t who he was looking for he walked — no, strutted — out —
— One day I won’t use the fucking door; I’ll go through the fucking wall —
— He tried the cafes; street corners. He wasn’t looking for individuals he knew, only a type he knew. When he found them, he’d know; like alligators know their own kind.
He found them on a piece of wasteland behind the church. Four losers were kicking a can at each other. They were well traced up — probably glue or solvents — they were hooting in stupid voices.
— Like the faggots in C block. He’d got one in the showers one day. Faggot’s eyes had lit up. Mebbe kissy-kissy with tattooed gorilla with muscles like spuds beneath his skin.
Mebbe you reckon wrong, fag-boy. He’d bounced the faggot off the wall so hard he’d cracked a dozen tiles. Water hissed from the showers, diluting the blood on the floor, so the clots looked like red roses that gave off this beautiful, beautiful smoky pink. Then, slowly, the wonderful reds had blossomed there around his bare feet, leaving him standing in a pool of water that misted with pinks and scarlets and crimsons: they looked fantastic; like something from a dream.
Today, in Leppington, he stared at the kids kicking the can. They were maybe late teens.
‘Who the fuck are you looking at?’
They’d said that, or words to that effect as he’d walked forward. The first went down holding his busted nose, the second hit the ground like he was dead — the uppercut all but broke his neck — the third tried to throw a punch
…but he moved in slow motion; why do people move in slow motion?
Wap! Wap!
Blubbing his heart out, the third one folded up.
The fourth pulled a knife; shit, even a machine-gun wouldn’t have saved him. The headbutt floored the kid.
Tempting to follow through with a kick in the face, but he hadn’t come all this way to Leppington to kill.
No. He was here to teach.
CHAPTER 4
1
Bernice Mochardi took her lunch break in the farmhouse kitchen where she worked. Although lunch today was nothing more than a slice of toast and a cup of Earl Grey Tea.
She pretended to herself that too many meals at the Peking Garden, Leppington’s only Chinese restaurant, were leaving their mark on her waistline. But the real reason was that she had little appetite these days; in fact, her figure was equal to that of any catwalk model.
And the real reason for that is the videos, she told herself. They prey on your mind, don’t they, Bernice?
She put the kettle smartly down on the hob and lit the gas.
You can’t get the man from the video out of your mind, can you? He has (had?) such a nice face; the voice turned her skin to gooseflesh. What had happened to him in the basement?
Bernice dropped a tea bag into her mug.
He was grazed; he was screaming even though no sound came from his mouth. His face was horrible, a leer of fright.
I should take that video, drop it in one of those market-place dumpsters. Squirt lighter fuel over it and burn the stupid thing. That tape is taking possession of your soul. And then forget the name Mike Stroud. Forget it completely. It’s not as if you’d ever met him in person.
‘Don’t frown at the milk like that, luvvie, you’ll sour it.’
‘Oh, Mavis. I was just making tea.’ Bernice snapped free of her morbid thoughts. ‘Like one?’
‘Only if you haven’t turned the milk with that face of yours,’ Mavis said good-naturedly. She was around sixty, with a plump face and pink-rimmed glasses. ‘I’ll put the milk in the cups, you raid the biscuit tin.’
‘I’m having a slice of lemon. Don’t worry, I’ll cut it.’
‘A slice of lemon in your tea? Oh, you and your fancy city ways.’
Mavis was only gently teasing. She liked to play the country bumpkin with Bernice, goggling at her clothes before she donned the overalls that made all the workers in the farm look like hospital theatre staff. ‘Ooh,’ she’d coo, ‘that blouse is real silk, isn’t it? And blue nail varnish. Mr Thomas won’t be able to keep his hands off of you.’
‘I painted them specially for Mr Thomas.’ Bernice had grinned wickedly. ‘I want to ravish his senses.’
They’d both broken off into peals of laughter. Mr Thomas, the owner, was seventy if he was a day, and a dour Methodist at that. Once he’d sent one of the packers home after dryly proclaiming he could smell beer on the man’s breath, and would swear the truth of the statement to Heaven on the Book itself.
Now they moved about the farmhouse kitchen — a clinical-looking place that gleamed with white tiles and silvery stainless steel — making their lunches; Mavis pulled a microwave hot-pot from its box.
When Bernice Mochardi had told her friends that she had found work on a farm they’d been amazed.
As they’d sat in a pizzeria on Canal Street in Manchester they had fired questions at her, clearly imagining her slopping through the farmhouse muck all day, wearing a checked shirt, with a piece of straw jammed in her mouth, and perhaps occasionally slapping some chubby sow on the rump while announcing, ‘Now which little piggy’s going to market, then?’
When she told them what kind of farm they couldn’t believe their ears.
‘Leeches?’
‘Yes, a farm that produces leeches.’
‘But what on Earth do they grow leeches for?’ Bernice’s friends had asked, horrified.
‘Well, what do you think those black things are on your pizza?’
They’d shrieked. Rita had spat her mouthful into a serviette. Ariel had swallowed half a glass of beer in one go.
Bernice had laughed. ‘Those are black olives, you nitwits. Leeches
are the latest big thing in medicine. They’re used to prevent wounds becoming infected, help circulation, that kind of thing.’
‘But leeches?’
‘But leeches,’ she mimicked. ‘Well, it’s better than working for peanuts in that cafe. If I cook one more all-day breakfast I’ll go nuts.’
The conversation had turned to boys but Ariel and Rita said they were full and moved quickly on to the ice cream.
Bernice
had been at the leech farm for two months. She liked it. Her job mainly involved packing the leeches up into their moist little travel boxes for dispatch to hospitals throughout the country. If a patient had crappy circulation in a finger or a toe or some other extremity, particularly after an operation, the leech, which is a close cousin to the common earthworm, would be applied to the affected area. There it would use its three tiny jaws to chew — painlessly, thank God — through the skin; then it would happily suck out the sluggish blood and quicken the blood flow, and so bring an influx of fresh, oxygen-rich blood to the flagging tissues. Best of all she liked the big Amazonian leeches. They looked like giant caterpillars and enjoyed having their softly flabby backs stroked. She was surprised to find she wasn’t squeamish at all.
And she liked Mavis, who today was happily chatting about a trip to the travel agent. ‘I’ve booked Pete and myself on that Florida tour — we’re doing the works: Disneyland, Orlando, Space Centre, Miami.’
As she talked, Bernice found herself being drawn back to the video tape. What had happened to the man? What had he seen in the hotel corridor?
Mr Morrow with no eyes and graveyard lips…
She closed off that train of thought. No, he’d seen something; it had snatched him from the room. She’d seen him on television struggling frantically with…with what?
And who had filmed the fight?
Then a surprising thought struck her.
After work tonight, I’m going back to the hotel and I ‘m going to go down into the basement and see what’s really there.
