by Phil Rickman
‘I just don’t believe this, Gomer. When’s the last you heard of it?’
‘By yere? Thirty year ago, sure t’be. Used to be a reg’lar cocking fraternity, kind o’ thing. Don’t mean it en’t been goin’ on ever since, on and off. Just means it’s more underground, kind o’ thing. Under cover of gamefowl breeders’ clubs.’ Gomer nodded at the dead bird. ‘Weren’t so terrible bright o’ that feller, just dumpin’ him in a bin.’
‘He offered him to Barry. For the kitchen.’
‘That weren’t bright.’
‘He was drunk.’
Jane turned away from the table, her eyes filling up. She heard Gomer putting the cock back into the bin liner, and felt suddenly heartsick.
‘You seem to know… like… a lot about it, Gomer.’ She turned back as he tied up the sack. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Uncle,’ Gomer said. ‘When I was a boy, I had this uncle bred gamecocks. He’d’ve died when I was mabbe eight or nine. I remember goin’ with my ma to clean out his house, and we finds all these photies. One’s the ole feller with his prize bird and another cock, dead, what the prize cock killed. And here’s my Uncle Gwyn, great big beam all over his face.’
Gomer shrugged.
‘Thing is, he never seen it as cruel, do he? Gamecocks, they had a real good life, long as it lasted. Spoonful of porridge, spoonful of treacle… eggs, barley… nothin’ but the best ’fore a big fight. And when you thinks of all these poor bloody battery chickens, fattened on drugs, never loosed out in the fresh air and then they dies on a conveyor belt…’
‘Yeah, that totally stinks, but it doesn’t…’
‘No,’ Gomer said. ‘It don’t. A cock don’t even have to die in the ring, see, but it’s like with them ole… what you calls them ole Roman fellers?’
‘Gladiators?’
‘One o’ them, he gets the thumbs-down – curtains, ennit? Specially if he en’t put up much of a fight. En’t the same for the crowd, see, if both of ’em struts out at the end.’
‘It’s sick.’
Gomer puffed awhile, watching the sun.
‘This that Savitch?’
‘Cornel was one of his clients… guests. I mean it’s bad enough they think they can go round just shooting anything, but… You think Savitch is actually staging cockfights?’
Gomer lowered the sack to the grass.
‘He can’t be that daft, can he? What you wanner do with this ole boy?’
‘Isn’t it evidence?’
‘You gonner be a witness, girl?’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘In court? Against the kind o’ lawyer this banker feller’s gonner hire? That’s even if it went that far. One dead cock is all you got. We don’t really know where he died or how. En’t nothin’ there for certain to say he went in the ring. Hell, Janey, I might be wrong…’
‘You wouldn’t’ve told me if you thought for one minute you were wrong. What about Barry? He saw it.’
‘All he seen was a dead fowl in a bin bag. He’s been around, that boy, but it don’t mean he’s ever seen a cockfight.’
‘Yeah.’ Jane shook her head gloomily. ‘And like is he going to want to tear up his meal ticket? And the cops couldn’t give a toss about rural petty crime. Apparently.’ She looked up. ‘There just has to be a connection with Savitch. It’s the kind of thing he’d do, give the city guys a little extra thrill. Show them how hard people are in the sticks.’
‘This banker feller… don’t seem likely he owned the cock, do it?’
‘He said it was rubbish.’
‘Mabbe he had money on it.’
‘Brought him back… the loser… to eat? Because it had let him down?’
‘This other feller…’
Twin brownish suns in Gomer’s bottle glasses. Pretty savvy for an old guy who, Mum reckoned, had rarely been north of Leominster or south of Ross the whole of his life.
‘I didn’t really see him and I didn’t recognize his voice.’
‘You figure they was both at the cockfight, Janey?’
‘Sounded like it. He was sneering at Cornel. This was before he hit him. He said it was about manhood. He said Cornel wasn’t ready. I have no idea what he meant. What do we do, Gomer? How about the RSPCA, the League Against Cruel Sports?’
‘Mabbe I’ll talk to a few folks,’ Gomer said. ‘See what I can find out.’
‘You know people who might be involved?’
‘Gotter get their fowls from somewhere. Mating season now, ennit? Cocks is well up for a fight.’
Gomer tapped the sack with the edge of his trainer, looked at Jane.
‘Bury him, proper?’
Jane nodded. The sun had sunk terminally into cloud, and the air smelled sour. She watched Gomer pick up the black bin sack with its sad bundle of feathers. Her fingers were curling tight.
28
Like the Poet
With Jane, it was always more than body language. She could give off fury like smoke.
When Merrily ran into her, where Church Street met the square, she was still in the school clothes she normally couldn’t wait to shed, and she looked starkly monochrome against the vivid pink sky.
Or maybe everyone would look like that tonight. Merrily shook herself.
‘Sorry, flower, had to go to Jim’s. We were clean out of bread. You weren’t looking for me, were you?’
‘No, I… yeah.’
No, there was something wrong. But Jane turned it around.
‘What’s happened? You OK?’
‘Bit of a shock, that’s all. Syd Spicer, who was vicar of Wychehill, in the Malverns?’
‘OK.’
‘He’s dead. He was found this afternoon on the side of Credenhill. Where the earth-steps are. Where we walked that time. Apparently he’d gone for a run on the hill. Might’ve fallen, hit his head. I don’t know.’
‘I’m sorry. That’s awful. Was he still a mate?’
‘Kind of.’
They walked out onto the square under a brushing of rain.
‘Life’s very often crap,’ Jane said. ‘Have you noticed?’
And she might well have gone on to explain if Barry, in his black suit, with his polished shoes, hadn’t come briskly down the steps of the Swan, striding across the cobbles, asking Merrily if she could spare him a minute.
If you could call that asking.
Barry’s office was behind the reception desk, a small, woody, windowless space with nothing at all to say about the Swan’s Jacobean origins. It had a strip light that turned Barry’s face blue-white.
‘Now I’m nervous.’ He shut the door, pointed Merrily to his leather chair. ‘You come in here last night, asking me what might frighten a man trained not to be frightened of anything, and next day he’s bleedin’ topped himself.’
‘Barry, nobody’s saying that. Probably natural causes, maybe an accident.’
‘Accidents like that don’t happen to men like Syd. Besides, that would hardly’ve caused what you might call a small tremor in the ranks.’
‘What’s that mean?’
Merrily instinctively pulled the cigarettes from her bag, then shoved the packet back. Barry waved a hand.
‘Nah, light one, you want. This ain’t public space.’
‘It’s OK.’ She closed her bag. ‘Who told you?’
‘These things get round. You were with Fiona?’
‘Yes.’
‘One in a million, that woman. She understands. Better than both mine did, anyway.’
He stood over her, waiting. Merrily lowered her bag to the floor.
‘All right, what happened, I was asked to talk to a group of clergy on a deliverance training course last Friday night, and Syd turned up, with something on his mind. Which he wouldn’t talk about. Not to us, so we assumed it was SAS-related.’
‘Who’s us?’
‘Huw Owen. My spiritual director.’ Looking steadily up at him. ‘You knew Syd well, didn’t you? Well enough to know his wife, obviously.’
‘I
served with him.’
‘He was a friend?’
‘For a time, yeah.’
‘For a time?’
‘We didn’t fall out or nothing. I saw him a couple of years ago. He seemed OK. You can usually tell when they’re not. I heard he was in full kit when they found him.’
‘He had a Bergen, that’s all. A lot of weight in there, including a very big family Bible. This… has kind of knocked me sideways, Barry.’
Merrily’s right hand was shaking and she placed her left hand over it. Barry pulled out the other chair, sat down opposite her.
‘I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to sound like I was interrogating you.’
‘Huw was convinced Syd needed help.’
‘Kind of help?’
‘He didn’t tell us, did he? Some people are embarrassed by the… anomalous. Especially the clergy. He sat in the shadows and he listened to what we had to say in the chapel. Like he had to deal with it himself, get it out of the way.’
‘You had dealings with him before though.’
‘Yeah. He consulted me about something he either didn’t believe or wanted nothing to do with. He told me, more than once, that he didn’t like that kind of thing. He wanted me to deal with it. This time… I can only assume this was something he did believe in, however reluctantly. Or that it was personal.’
Even in here, you could hear the plink, plink of the pool table in the public bar. No voices, no laughter, just cue on ball. It sounded random, directionless. Lonely, somehow.
‘Frank Collins,’ Barry said, ‘not long before he died, he became chaplain to twenty-three SAS – the reservists. So not as close as Syd. Only, when his book came out, it hadn’t been cleared by the MoD, and he had to resign. Got very depressed about that. Looking at it from the other side, maybe it was the Church what done for Frank Collins.’
‘It’s true that when things get difficult you don’t always get the support you might expect from the Church. The Church can be… strangely cold.’
‘Could be none of this applies. Regiment suicides are mainly blokes who only ever went inside a church for a mate’s funeral. Some of it’s post-traumatic stress, some of it’s because you get altered, and normal life don’t seem like life at all and ain’t worth holding on to.’
Merrily thought for a moment, listening to the pool game.
‘Barry, can I hang a name on you?’ And then, before he could reply, she came out with it. ‘Byron Jones?’
His eyes went blank.
‘Like the poet,’ he said.
Merrily had quickly Googled Byron Jones before she came out. Not much at all, really. He was certainly an author, but not exactly a best-seller. Or not any more – the most recent reference was 2007.
‘Actually,’ Barry said, ‘he was a poet.’
He sat waiting for a reason to continue.
‘Syd had one of his books on the shelf,’ Merrily said. ‘ Caradog, a novel for older kids about the Roman invasion of Britain.’
‘Yeah. I did hear he was writing books. A number of them have a go at that, as you may’ve noticed. But there was only one Bravo Two Zero . Not many millionaires among the rest.’
‘ You ever read anything by Byron Jones, Barry?’
‘Lost interest when I heard they weren’t about the Regiment. Anything about the Regiment we tend to collect, for various reasons. It was for kids, anyway.’
‘Most of them are written under pseudonyms… Andy McNab, et cetera. Is he…?’
‘His name is Jones. Byron – I was actually there the night he got that. We were due to fly out to… somewhere or other. About a dozen of us in the Paludrin.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The social club at the camp. Valentine’s Day coming up and one of the boys, he’s got a card for his girlfriend what he’s leaving for a mate to post, and he’s trying to compose a verse to write in it. We’re all helping. As you do. He’s sitting there, this boy, with his notepad, getting nowhere – specially with our suggestions. “Some men sniff their armpits, others tubes of glue”… I won’t go on, but you get the level. Then this person we’re discussing…’
‘Byron.’
‘He looks up from his Sun, and he goes – never forgotten this, it was so unexpected. He looks up, very slowly, and he goes, in this dreamy sort of voice, “ Some men win at snooker and some at poker, too… but only one who dares can really win a girl like you ”.’
Merrily smiled.
‘Get it?’ Barry said. ‘Who Dares Wins? Big cheer goes up, and somebody goes, This lad’s a regular Byron. And so, for ever after… He still didn’t look the type, but how many of us did?’
‘What type was he?’
‘Spare one for me?’ Barry nodding at Merrily’s bag. ‘Fag?’
She pulled the bag onto her knees, found the packet and the Zippo. Barry extracted a Silk Cut and lit up.
‘So Syd was back in touch with Byron, was he?’
‘I don’t know. I’m just telling you his book was on the shelf.’
‘And you just happened to notice it.’
She said nothing.
‘Byron Jones.’ Barry blew out smoke, thoughtful. ‘I dunno about this, Merrily.’
‘Is he a real writer? I mean, some of these guys, they have somebody to do it for them. But I suppose he’d need to be famous for that.’
‘He’s not famous.’
‘And the poetry…’
‘Like I said, that was a joke.’
‘I mean was he interested in poetry? Or was Syd? Wordsworth, that kind of thing? Byron Jones’s book was next to a book of Wordsworth’s poetry.’
‘Not that I know of. Byron was into history. He joined a local history club, and they’d do these field trips.’
‘What… with local people?’
‘Maybe. I dunno.’
‘What did they do?’
‘You know, just… poking round. Looking for bits of history. Archaeological remains. In the countryside. Around Stirling Lines back then, in Hereford.’
‘Was Syd in this history club?’
‘Probably.’
‘So he and Byron were mates.’
‘ Mates…’ Barry’s smile was tight ‘… I have to say is not a word you’d readily apply to Byron.’
‘He wasn’t friendly?’
‘Not being funny…’ Barry straightened his black tie, folded his arms. ‘Look, I never knew him well enough to say too much. He was very single-minded. On exercises, very competitive. I put this down to him being a bit nearer the end of his army career than the rest of us and no promotion. Like he had something to prove. I… I really don’t know about this.’
‘Not going to be filing a report on it, Barry. It’s just I can’t help feeling I let Syd down. Even though he didn’t want to talk to me.’
Barry inspected his cigarette like he couldn’t believe he’d already smoked half of it.
‘Byron was… I mean, ruthless was not a word we used, seeing as how we all needed to live there sometimes. But Byron was less inclined to take prisoners, you know what I mean? You’re aware that I’m telling you this…’
‘In total confidence.’
‘And if there are defence issues?’
‘Doesn’t worry me a lot.’
‘Blimey.’
‘You think, if I get too close to something embarrassing, I might get waterboarded?’
‘I think you should not take the piss out of these people, frankly. And you didn’t just see Byron’s book on the shelf, did you?’
‘It… was pointed out to me. But no explanation was given. I didn’t know anything about Byron Jones until now. Is he still around? I mean here?’
‘He was. I know where he was, ’cause his wife’s there. Ex-wife. Ran into her on a tourist-board beano last year. She’s doing B and B in the Golden Valley.’
‘Another failed marriage, then.’
‘Actually, the marriage survived quite a long time. Mostly through absence, I suspect. Yeah, OK, that’s not a bad idea. If
you want to know about Byron, you should to talk to Liz. Big Liz. I expect there’s things she could tell you. If she was minded to. And I never said that.’
‘Why wouldn’t I just talk to Byron himself?’
‘Not advisable.’
Merrily raised her eyebrows. Barry leaned back.
‘I could give her a call, if you like, tell her you’re all right.’
‘That sounds like you want me to talk to her.’
‘I don’t want you to talk to anybody, but if you’re determined to open this can of worms…’
‘I’m trying to work this out. You think there’s something I should know, but you don’t think you should be the one to tell me? Or you can’t tell me?’
Barry looked worried. He didn’t often look worried.
‘I wasn’t expecting you to toss Byron Jones into the mix. If you get an approach from anybody, we haven’t had this chat and it wasn’t me put you on to Liz. All right?’
‘Sure.’
‘And Byron, I might’ve made him sound funny – the poetry and everything. He wasn’t, do you know what I mean? He isn’t.’
Merrily searched for anything in Barry’s eyes, but it was like they’d been switched off, and she wondered if the evil from Syd’s past finally had a name.
29
Impaler
There were security lights on stockade poles at either side of the entrance. The sign had a Roman helmet on it.
Karen Dowell was sitting in the passenger seat, arms folded over her seat belt. Apprehensive.
‘You haven’t told her, have you?’
‘No reason to,’ Bliss said. ‘This is my inquiry.’
‘Which just happens to overlap her inquiry.’
‘Norra problem.’
Occasionally, he wished he could come clean to Karen about him and Annie. She’d be shocked rigid, but no way would she blab. And if she ever found out some other way she’d never trust him again, and that would be very bad. But he couldn’t. There wasn’t anybody in or outside of Gaol Street he could tell, and it was hard to imagine a situation where there ever would be.
‘Was there really a Roman town here, Karen?’
‘I think the actual site’s about half a mile away. I remember we had this school outing there once. Of course, absolutely nothing to see but empty fields. One kid burst into tears. He was expecting something like the Colosseum. Always remember that.’
