“So, ’ow’s life in London?” his father relented.
“It’s okay.” Hardly the response of the year, but anything too enthusiastic or dismissive would invite further discussion. And we wouldn’t want to use up all that sparkling banter on the first day, now would we?
After tea, his father tried again. Rugby — Malton & Norton’s season compared with York then football — Leeds United getting robbed again in the final minutes. Thomas didn’t bother to remind him that he’d lost interest in sport years ago, not counting the odd West Ham game.
Everything had settled by the time Pat’s key rattled in the door. “It’s only me.” It sounded like she’d brought the little ones as well.
Thomas tried to recall when he’d last seen them and reached into his pocket for some guilt money.
“There he is!” Pat pushed the door to, beaming as if she’d just won the lottery. He eased out of the chair and opened his arms. She squeezed against him, the way a limpet fights against the tide. “It’s really good to see you,” she whispered, sniffing back tears.
Gordon. That little shit. One of these days he’d get through to him, using Gordon’s head for Morse code.
The kids kept their distance at first, hardly surprising as he rarely saw them. All it took was a few words of encouragement from Pat and a few silly noises from him. Pound coins helped as well.
“I thought we could all have tea together,” Pat suggested. “Me and Thomas could walk down to the chippie.”
He nodded, seduced by the thought of getting out of the house. Fish & chips — a feast for the prodigal son.
“Here,” his father held out some notes, “If you eat at my table, you’re my guests.”
And that about summed it up for Thomas; he was a guest. As soon as they shut the door behind them, leaving the kids hammering on the old piano, Thomas blew out a breath like an over-inflated balloon.
Pat laughed and grabbed his arm, winching him in close. “I have missed you though. You should come up more often.”
“So I hear.”
She looked away and pulled him towards the gate, still arm in arm. There had always been an easy peace between them, despite their differences. Pat had moved four streets away, settled down and continued the family line. Whereas Thomas, he’d abandoned them all, changed his accent and become a stranger. Pat never questioned that — she understood his reasons.
She waited until they were stuck in the queue outside the fish & chip shop. “How’s Miranda?”
“Still single,” he paused, reading between the lines. “As am I.”
She shook her head faintly, as if she didn’t believe any of it; sisters — too clever by half.
He waited until she’d paid for everything and stopped her at the door. “I’ll pay for this lot. Give Dad his change, no need for him to know. I’m sure Mam can use a little extra.”
She gave him a playful punch and he doubled up in mock agony. “You always were a silly beggar! Come on, I’m famished.”
* * *
It was a typical family scene, three generations eating together; adults with plates on knees, but children up at the table; a bottle of ketchup passed around and hot, sweet tea to wash it all down. Except, for Thomas, it was as alien now as that terrible weekend he’d shared with Christine Gerrard and her parents. It wasn’t that Pickering was smaller — no, it grew bigger with each infrequent visit. But the house, rooms and inhabitants alike — they all seemed narrower.
He walked Pat and the children home afterwards, doing a stint as Uncle Piggy-back. He didn’t go inside though, not if Gordon might be around. It was Pat’s life after all, and lamping someone rarely solved anything. As he wandered back the long way home, a police car blared in the distance. He smiled broadly for the first time that day; he’d make time to see Ajit before Monday.
Ajit was the only school friend he’d bothered to stay in touch with. They had two things in common: a love of photography and a secret they’d never discussed.
No one cared much when Ajit joined the class in 1988, except the throwbacks — and every school had them. It was racism all right, but with a twist. It wasn’t the fact that Ajit was Asian, just that he’d come from Lancashire. Or so they said. School life was a proving ground for every would-be alpha-male fuckwit. Thomas had experienced a little of that himself when they moved to Pickering, after Maggie Thatcher broke the miners in two. But any son of a miner was hailed as a hero, even though all he’d done was stand in the street in York, collecting money for them.
Day after day, Thomas had watched Ajit run the gauntlet; watched as the gang formed into a leader and four lieutenants. Thomas knew it wasn’t his fight. He and Ajit were both members of Photography Club and shared a few laughs, but that was about it. Still, wrong is wrong, when all’s said and done.
Originally, he’d only meant to scare off the main bully, give him a bit of a thump to show him what it felt like. That was how it started, anyway. But it developed a life of its own. He followed the ringleader, and trailed the group to where they smoked and drank cider after school. He bided his time, did nothing while the shoving and the tripping up and the sly punches on the arm continued; just stood and watched. He and Ajit even fell out over it. ‘Some friend you are!’ Ajit had snapped. Some friend indeed.
On that final, momentous night, he’d gone out fully prepared: black jacket, gloves and balaclava. That Friday, he’d waited in the shadows; even pissed in a bottle to avoid leaving evidence, and chucked it over the wall into the fields. Over an hour, sitting there in the dark, watching. And the more he waited, the stronger he felt. Like he was invincible.
The lad had ambled right past, half-cut on cider. He’d crept up behind with the speed of a cat, swiped him across the head and kneed him in the back, almost climbing on top of him with the momentum. Then, as the boy went down screaming, Thomas scrambled over him and legged it.
The screaming followed him as he’d crossed the road; not that it troubled him any. He scuttled into the first alleyway, pulled off the balaclava and folded it carefully into his pocket. He heard a front door slam and somebody call out in panic, but he kept on walking; he walked tall. A few streets on and he heard sirens; ambulance or police, could have been both. It didn’t matter; for the first time in his life, he’d seen justice.
When he came home, his mother was watching television. His dad was still down the pub — nothing new there. “Cup of tea?” he said it in a quiet voice and his mother obediently scuttled to the kitchen, leaving whatever she’d been watching.
He opened the stove door and carefully placed the balaclava inside, as if it were a funeral pyre. Then he knelt and watched as they burned, feeling the heat against his face. When his mother returned, the smouldering embers were still visible on top of the coal. She didn’t ask; mothers never do.
He’d stayed up later than usual even though he was tired. Pat was over at a friend’s; she tended to do that on Fridays. She was a smarter girl back then. His father came back after closing time, reeking of beer and resentment.
Things escalated quickly, and this time Thomas stood between his parents, blocking his dad’s approach as he swayed around the room — big mistake. The slap caught him unawares and knocked him to the floor. He sat there in a daze, unable to hear what was being said for the roar in his ears. His mother was a statue, no help there.
He remembered getting up and readying his fist. Even though he’d likely get a good belting afterwards, this time he was going down fighting. But his mother intervened, grabbing him roughly by the shoulders to move him to one side. Children hitting their parents back, that was crossing the line.
“Go to bed, James,” she’d seethed and his dad had meekly complied.
Thomas had watched with a mixture of amazement and contempt.
“You shouldn’t interfere,” she’d scolded, as she checked his face for injury.
“Someone should.”
“You watch your tongue. He’s still your father when all’s said and done.
” Then she sat down to watch the television, as if nothing had happened. “He doesn’t mean it, you know,” she’d said later without looking at him. “It’s just, sometimes . . . the drink brings it out o’him. His dad were the same.”
Thomas didn’t reply. He rubbed his cheek until the side of his face was sore. Hopefully he’d have a bruise there next day; either way, he’d never forget.
Saturday’s local paper ran a front page about a violent attack that had left a boy in hospital. Suspected skull fracture, facial abrasions; cracked ribs. Not quite what Thomas had bargained for, but he wouldn’t lose any sleep. On the Monday, a policeman came to school assembly to talk about personal safety.
No one messed Ajit about any more. Nothing proven of course, and the rest of the bullies were hardly likely to speak to the police. On the Wednesday, Ajit didn’t come to Photography Club after school. And on the Thursday he caught up with Thomas, alone.
“Look Thomas, don’t take this the wrong way, right, but I can’t hang around you for a while. My parents want me home straight after school, what with the attack.” Then Ajit lowered his voice. “Listen, right, I don’t know if it were you or it weren’t you. I don’t want to know. I’m grateful — he got what was coming to him. But that’s an end to it. That’s all I’m saying.”
Three weeks later, Ajit returned to Photography Club; the pack leader never came back to school. Rumour was that the family had moved away, fearing a vendetta.
The breeze stirred and he touched the side of his face. It was turning cooler. Odd really that he’d ended up working for the government and Ajit had become a police officer — something for a psychologist to chew over.
* * *
Saturday was market day and his mother was in her element, showing off her visiting son to every shopkeeper she knew. Then tea and a bap at the new Victorian tearooms — a contradiction that only he found amusing. He sacrificed Saturday afternoon on the altar of television, sat there with his father watching every sport known to man.
It all unravelled after dinner — he should have seen it coming. Leeds had dropped points for no good reason and he’d made the mistake of bringing in a bottle of whisky as a peace offering. By the time he’d got back from seeing Pat and the kids — with Gordon still playing the invisible husband — the bottle was half-empty; or half-full, if you happened to be an optimist. Either way, it didn’t take long for old resentments to surface, on both sides.
“What right do you have to judge me, eh? You swan about up here when you feel like it, like some great conquering hero. And you look at us like we’re the shit off your shoe. You know your trouble, eh? You’re a bloody snob. Ever since the day you met that London tart and you abandoned us.”
Twelve years had added weight to the grudge. It was all calculated, of course, in the expectation that Thomas would stand no criticism of Miranda or her family. So he withdrew into himself, waiting for his father to implode. Silence had always been his weapon of choice and he’d honed it like a sabre.
His father crossed no-man’s land to deliver another volley. “When we stood shoulder to shoulder . . .”
Thomas winced. Here we go again . . .
“. . . Shoulder to shoulder as they closed pit after pit — the working man were at war. Months we stood together, while that daughter of the antichrist laid this country to waste. Neighbours — begging for ’andouts, looking in supermarket skips for food.”
Tears of bitterness rained down; he wiped them away with a fist. The other hand stayed tightly on the glass. “And when I heard you’d got a job wi’ ‘The Government,’ the very people all working-class folk had been at war with, I were bloody ashamed.”
There it was: the cold truth.
“You’ve betrayed your own class, Thomas; turned your back on your roots. I mean, who are you? Who the bloody hell are you?”
Thomas looked to his mother, sat quietly, staring at the carpet. He wondered if she felt the same way. He headed for bed. It wasn’t even nine o’clock, but he was exhausted. The whisky had been manipulative; he knew that. But you have to know where the bleeding comes from before you can cauterise it.
He read for a while, too agitated to sleep. Once Sherlock Holmes had resolved The Eligible Bachelor, he sent two texts. One to Miranda, which read: Can I come home now? And tried to tell himself he was joking. And one to Ajit, to try and arrange a meet-up. Then he turned out the light and sank into a dreamless sleep.
* * *
He woke early on Sunday to the sound of sparrows scrapping on the roof outside. His eyes felt tight against his skin; he’d been crying in his sleep — hadn’t done that for some time. He rubbed his face as if he could disguise the evidence.
Tiptoeing around the house reminded him of stolen weekends on the moors. A note left on the table — back on Sunday — and two days of absolute freedom. Ajit’s dad would drive them over; sometimes there’d be three or four of them, the car jammed to the gills.
Time check: seven thirty. He crept out quietly. It was a fair distance but he didn’t mind the walk; the exercise was good for him, it made him feel grounded.
Ajit was late finishing his shift. Thomas waited in the foyer, sipping machine coffee. The notice board was a library of misery: rabies, terrorism, drug abuse, domestic violence — he read that one twice — and HIV. He figured if you read all that for too long, you’d never want to leave the police station.
The desk sergeant picked up a telephone, nodded to whatever he was hearing and cleared his throat. “Ajit will be out in a bit. You the one from London?”
Thomas smiled grimly, primed for the put-down.
“It’s a bit different up ’ere — more sense of community, like. I dare say you’ve noticed that.”
He didn’t bother mentioning he was a Yorkshireman by birth; his accent would have made it sound like a mockery. Sense of community? Easy words.
The secure door buzzed and clicked — just like the gun club. Then Ajit sprang the door wide with one large hand. He had a smile to match. “Thomas, my man!”
They did a round of macho handshakes and shoulder slaps, until the sergeant asked them if they wanted to be alone together.
“How long you up here for?”
“Heading back tomorrow.”
Ajit led him out to the car. “You could have stayed with me and Geena.”
“What? And miss playing Happy Families?” He turned abruptly and saw a brown car waiting at the junction. There was no traffic at all. “Could you call it in for me?” He felt the blood draining from his face.
“What’s got into you, Thomas? Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“Can you just call in a PNC check — as a favour to me?”
Ajit reached for the radio. Thomas had already pulled out a small pair of binoculars and started reciting the number plate. Ajit stared, open-mouthed. “Bird watching,” he explained.
The check back came quickly. “’s all right, Thomas, it’s one of ours! Out of town CID. I wonder what they’re doing, coming over the borders!” Ajit peered at Thomas closely, as if he could see past his defences. “Right then, ’ave you got time for a walk in the wilds? ’Cause by the look of it, the town don’t agree with you.”
Thomas brightened. “Aye, that’d be great. Mind if I drive — it makes a change from London.”
“You never did take to being a passenger.”
Too true.
* * *
Ajit filled the passenger seat; he looked as if he’d been poured into the car. It was a different story at school, but a growth spurt at the end of his teens had provided a Sunday rugby side with a formidable prop forward. Now, when he laughed, the whole car seemed to shake. Although, Thomas thought, that could just be the suspension.
Thomas began to relax in his friend’s company. When he’d decided to leave Leeds and go with Miranda to the brighter lights of London, Ajit had been the first person he’d told. It was the kind of easy friendship moulded by years, that doesn’t require regular phone calls; where a mis
sed birthday or a late Christmas or Diwali card is no big deal. Now, driving out across the North York Moors, they were like teenagers again.
“Did tha hear about the Hasselblad on sale at auction, down in London?” Ajit was as excited about the camera as a virgin on a first date.
“Hear about it, I went to view it at Sotheby’s!”
“Yer jammy bastard!” The car rocked again.
They parked up on Ferndale moor and raced up the ridge like children. Thomas was light on his feet, but Ajit powered past him like a steam engine. From the ridge, the land swept out towards Rudland Rigg. Thomas half wished he’d brought a kite.
“So, come on then, London boy, what sort o’ bother are you in?” Ajit made a playful jab at Thomas, which he fended off with a slap.
“You know I work in the Civil Service . . .”
“Aye. Patents or summat?”
“Well, I transferred; I’m a photographer now.”
“You lucky beggar. Is it leaflets and that, or something more exciting?”
Thomas took a long breath. “Outdoor work, mainly.”
“Nice — buildings or forestry?”
So much for the ‘trail of breadcrumbs’ approach. “Mainly people; the sort who don’t know they’re being watched.”
“By heck, Thomas Bladen, you’re a dark horse.”
Thomas caught the way that Ajit’s face froze for an instant; maybe he was remembering a time that he’d rather have forgotten.
“Are you allowed to tell me who you work for, then?”
He blew a dandelion head and watched as the spores drifted at the mercy of the breeze. “SSU — Surveillance Support Unit.”
“Blimey, who’d a’ thought it; one of them coverts. I won’t say owt, obviously.” Ajit gave a wink the size of Catterick. “Still durn’t explain your bit of bother though.”
Thomas pushed the binoculars to his face and said nothing.
Ajit seemed to take the hint. “Give us a go, then,” he swung wide towards Rosedale Abbey. “Buzzards are out — Geena and I come up here regularly.”
STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense Page 9
