EQMM, March-April 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "What the hell is going on?” demanded Neil Woodville, leading the way swiftly to the bar. He felt something moist underfoot and came to a halt. “Jesus!"

  A string of expletives followed and even Peter Rayment, normally so restrained, gave vent to some foul language. The whole of the bar was awash with beer. Someone had opened the taps on every barrel and the alcohol had poured out in a series of small rivulets. Not only was the bar in an appalling state—its carpet sodden, the legs of its furniture inch-deep in brown sludge—but there would be no draught beer for those coming to Shelton Rugby Football Club that evening. It was nothing short of disaster. Training sessions were extremely hard. Players worked up a healthy thirst.

  "I blame Doug for this,” decided Woodville.

  "That's ridiculous."

  "He forgot to check the taps last thing on Saturday."

  "Doug would never do that,” said Rayment, defensively. “You blame him for everything, Neil, and it's not fair. He does his job well."

  "Not in my book."

  "You tried to stop us hiring him in the first place."

  "And now you can see why,” said Woodville with a gesture that took in the whole of the room. “Look around—he's ruined the place with his incompetence."

  "This is not a case of incompetence—it's sabotage."

  "Then you can bet that Doug Lomas is behind it."

  Neil Woodville was a chunky man in his forties, a former prop whose weight had gone up dramatically since he stopped playing. A sly punch off the ball had left him with a broken nose that gave his face a sort of crumpled dignity. Peter Rayment, by contrast, was a tall, thin, bespectacled man in his late thirties with a diffident manner. As club secretary, he was a tireless workhorse, handling all the paperwork and doing a dozen other important jobs behind the scenes. By profession, Rayment was an accountant. Woodville, the waddling vice-chairman of the club, ran his own scrap-metal business.

  "I'll call the police,” said Woodville, taking out his mobile phone.

  "Wait for Martin."

  "Why?"

  "It's his decision,” warned Rayment.

  "Well, I'm taking it instead of him. This is a crime scene. We need to report the fact straightaway. Wait for Martin!” he said with contempt. “What bloody use will he be in an emergency like this? The last thing we need right now is a man in a wheelchair. Besides,” he added, his lip curling, “it was Martin who foisted Doug Lomas onto us. Our chairman has a lot to answer for."

  * * * *

  Martin Hewlett knew at once that there was something wrong. When the clubhouse came in sight, he could see no players out on the pitch. Instead of going through their routines, they were clustered in the car park. None of them had even changed into his kit.

  "What's the matter?” he said, peering through the windscreen.

  "Perhaps they can't get in,” suggested his wife, Rosie, at the steering wheel. “Maybe Neil hasn't turned up with the key."

  "Neil always turns up with the key. It's an act of faith with him. In any case, I can see his BMW. We've got problems, Rosie."

  "Then let someone else sort them out for a change."

  "But I'm the chairman."

  It was a matter of great pride to Martin Hewlett that he was chairman of a successful rugby club that ran three regular teams and a youth side. Every Saturday, sixty players took the field, wearing the colors of Shelton RFC, and they maintained the high standard of play that their many supporters had come to expect. Hewlett had been an outstanding captain of the First XV until a crash tackle had brought his playing career to a sudden end and left him paralyzed from the waist down. Others might have been disillusioned with the game as a result but Hewlett's love of rugby seemed to increase. Unable to play, he threw himself wholeheartedly into the running of the club.

  He was a big, broad-shouldered man with a ready smile and an unforced geniality. Hewlett was also very popular. When his car came to a halt, a number of players immediately came across to him. While they were helping him into his motorized wheelchair, they gave him varying accounts of what had happened. Neil Woodville pushed through the knot of players to give the newcomers a nod of welcome.

  "I've rung the boys in blue,” he said.

  "I'm more interested in the boys in blue and white,” said Hewlett, referring to the club colors. “Why aren't they training? Cup match on Saturday. We need to be at our peak."

  "They wanted to see the damage, Martin."

  "They should think about the damage to their fitness instead. Go on,” he urged, clapping his hands. “Get changed and get out there. If you work hard, I'll let you lick the carpet dry in the bar afterwards."

  After some good-natured badinage, the players drifted off to the changing rooms and left Hewlett and Rosie alone with Neil Woodville. The vice-chairman's suspicions had had time to harden into certainty.

  "I think that Doug Lomas is at the root of all this,” he said.

  "Rubbish!” exclaimed Hewlett.

  "It's his revenge because we refused to put his wages up."

  "Doug is not a vengeful sort of person."

  "No,” said Rosie, stoutly. “He works hard. He has to, now that they have a child to look after. Doug needs this job. Why would he do anything that might make him lose it?"

  "I don't trust him,” said Woodville.

  "You don't trust anyone."

  "Rosie is right,” said her husband, twisting in his wheelchair. “You never give a man the benefit of the doubt. All right, Doug Lomas is no saint. We knew that when we took him on. But my brother vouched for him and that's good enough for me."

  "Well, it's not good enough for me,” snapped Woodville. “Once a thief, always a thief. That's my feeling."

  "I can see why you didn't become a probation officer,” said Rosie.

  "Whereas my brother did,” noted Hewlett. “Adam deals with ex-cons all the time. His job is to keep them from reoffending."

  Woodville was blunt. “He slipped up badly with Doug Lomas."

  "This crime has nothing to do with him, Neil."

  "Then who did turn those taps on—the Phantom Beer Spiller?"

  "I'd have thought there were two obvious suspects."

  "Go on—surprise me."

  "First of all, there's our neighbors,” said Hewlett, pointing towards a nearby campsite. “I've lost count of the number of times the gypsies have tried to buy some of our land so that they can increase the number of permanent caravans. They've got more reason for revenge than Doug."

  "You said there were two obvious suspects."

  "We're playing the other one on Saturday."

  "Crowford?"

  "Who else?” asked Hewlett. “This is just the kind of stunt that they'd pull. We've had a terrific season, Crowford have been crap. They know we'll beat them hollow on Saturday in the elimination match. We'll kick seven barrels of shit out of them."

  "No need to be vulgar, Martin,” said his wife. “We take your point."

  "Question is—does Neil take it as well?"

  "Yes,” admitted Woodville, thinking it through, “and you may be on to something. Last time we played Crowford, someone let down the tires of my car as a joke. And we know how their team cheats like mad on the pitch. This could be down to them, Martin."

  "Or to the gypsies,” Rosie reminded him.

  "Anyone but Doug,” added Hewlett. The sound of a motorbike made him turn his head round. “Talk of the devil—here he is."

  "Late as usual,” complained Woodville.

  "Bang on time, I'd say."

  Hewlett checked his watch, then waited until the motorbike bumped its way down the rough track that led to the club. Shelton RFC was situated in a leafy corner of Warwickshire, a beautiful, isolated spot whose tranquillity was only ever shattered by occasional jet aircraft from Birmingham International Airport some four miles away. Reaching the club meant a long drive for Doug Lomas, yet he was invariably punctual. He switched off his engine, dismounted, then put his motorbike up on its stand. Pulling of
f his crash helmet, he gave them a wary grin.

  "What's this, then?” he asked. “A reception committee?"

  "You've got some explaining to do,” said Woodville aggressively.

  "Leave this to me, Neil,” said Hewlett, “and give the man time to get his breath back.” He smiled at the barman. “Hello, Doug. Looks as if you won't be pulling too many pints this evening."

  "Oh?” Fearing dismissal, the barman was cautious. “Why not?"

  "We've been attacked by our rivals—Crowford."

  "Attacked?"

  "They cut off our beer supply."

  As he propelled himself towards the clubhouse, Hewlett gave him a brief account of what had happened, then they viewed the damage for themselves. Doug Lomas was horrified when he saw the state of the bar. He took the sabotage as a personal insult.

  "I cleaned up in here on Saturday night,” he said balefully, “and left the place spotless. Then I switched on the burglar alarm and locked up. There's no sign of forced entry. How could anyone get in here to do something like this?"

  "The police will ask the same thing,” said Rosie, glancing through the window at an approaching patrol car. “Here they are. I suggest that we get out of here and let them take over."

  * * * *

  After taking statements and examining the scene of the crime for evidence, the police authorized a cleanup of the bar. Doug Lomas was the first to grab a mop. Short, stringy, and still in his twenties, he was deeply grateful to the club for giving him paid employment, even if it was only for one full day and three evenings a week. It was the start he needed after coming out of prison. Having stolen to support a drug habit, Lomas had turned his back on crime and narcotics, and was leading a much happier life now that he was sharing it with his girlfriend and baby son.

  The position at Shelton RFC was only one of five part-time jobs that he did in the course of a week, but it was his favorite. He liked rugby, got on well with the players, and ran the bar efficiently. Though he handled a large amount of money when the bar was full, not a penny had ever gone astray. With the glaring exception of Neil Woodville, everyone trusted him and he repaid that trust with total commitment to his work. While the barman mopped away, Peter Rayment moved all the furniture out of the room. Rosie Hewlett helped him, using a cloth to wipe the chairs and tables dry.

  "I can manage, Rosie,” said Peter. “You keep an eye on Martin."

  "He's fine. Martin is much better off watching the training session from the touchline and yelling at the players. Good exercise for his lungs. Anyway,” Rosie went on, grabbing another table, “this is no time to stand on ceremony. It's a case of all hands to the pumps."

  Peter had the greatest admiration for her. Rosie was a buxom woman in her thirties with a practical streak that had come to the fore since her husband had been disabled. That streak was in evidence now as she heaved the furniture about. Unlike many of the players’ wives, Rosie had an insider's knowledge of the game, having played rugby herself and represented the county in a Women's XV. The crash tackle that ended Martin Hewlett's days on a rugby field had also separated her from the sport. It was a double loss.

  "That's it,” said Rosie as the last of the chairs was moved out of the bar. “We'll give Doug a hand to mop up the beer then get that carpet out of there. It stinks to high heaven."

  "One moment,” said Rayment, a gentle hand on her arm. “There's something I think you should know. It's about Neil Woodville."

  She heaved a sigh. “It always is!"

  "I don't need to tell you how much he resents Martin."

  "Martin is the heart and soul of this club,” she said loyally. “He's put years of his life into it, on and off the field. It's about time that Neil accepted that and stopped bitching."

  "He's got friends, Rosie."

  "Friends?"

  "You know the way Neil works—buying drinks, whispering in ears, building up his own little gang of sycophants. Except that it's not so little anymore."

  "What are you trying to tell me?” she asked.

  "There's a plot to oust Martin."

  "But he was elected chairman by majority decision."

  "That majority might not still be there,” said Rayment worriedly. “Neil has been busy. I've done a quick head count and I think the vote will be close—too close, for my liking. Neil wants to call an Extraordinary General Meeting to pass a vote of no confidence in Martin."

  "That's downright cruel!"

  "The awful thing is that it might succeed."

  "We can't have Neil Woodville as chairman."

  "A lot of people think that we should."

  "He's got to be stopped."

  "That won't be easy,” he warned. “I just wanted to tip you the wink so that you can alert Martin. He can always rely on my vote."

  "Thank you, Peter. You're a real friend."

  "Neil is so ambitious. He'll stop at nothing.” He looked over his shoulder to make sure that nobody else was listening. “And that raises a strange possibility."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Well, you heard the statements we gave to the police. Neil still wants to blame our barman for the mess in there. Martin is convinced that Crowford may be the villains of the piece, and neither he nor Neil has ruled out the gypsies on our doorstep."

  "We've had trouble with them before."

  "Quite. But suppose we add another name to the list of suspects."

  "And who's that?” Rosie saw the look in his eye. “Neil?"

  "Why not?"

  She shook her head. “No, Peter. He's got a lot of faults but I don't think he'd stoop to this. Why cause damage to a club when he wants to be its chairman?"

  "Because it undermines Martin's position."

  "Martin was not responsible,” she retorted.

  "Neil will make it look as if he is. You weren't at the committee meeting when we discussed the idea of having security cameras. Neil was all for it. Martin was against because we'd already spent a fortune on a state-of-the-art burglar alarm. Honestly,” said Rayment, “I wouldn't want to sit through another meeting like that. It was a real dogfight. Talk about ‘Nature red in tooth and claw.’ Martin finally won the day, so we have no cameras. As a result—Neil will claim—we have no film of someone breaking in here to trash our bar."

  "He's got a point,” she conceded. “But hang on, Peter. Weren't you and Neil the ones who discovered what had happened? You said that he was as upset as you."

  "He certainly seemed to be upset, Rosie. But that could have been an act. The simple fact is that this serves his purpose. Neil can kill two birds with one stone—he can blame Martin for not having security cameras installed and he can point the finger at the barman.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “What price Doug's job if we have a new chairman? Neil would have him out of here in two seconds."

  It was at that precise moment that Lomas appeared, sweating profusely from his exertions but wearing a smile of triumph.

  "I've moved the empty barrels out,” he said, “and connected three full ones. The lads will be able to have their booze, after all."

  * * * *

  Martin Hewlett had an unfailing capacity to look on the bright side. Not even the horrendous injury that he had suffered could dampen his spirits. He saw it as an opportunity to direct his life to worthier goals, getting heavily involved in church and charity work. It was the same with the damage at the clubhouse. Hewlett pointed out an advantage.

  "We needed a new carpet in the bar,” he said airily. “I'll screw every penny I can get out of the insurance company and we'll be walking on luxury carpet up to our ankles.” He laughed merrily. “The rest of you will, anyway. My walking days are over."

  "How was the training session?"

  "Good. Very good—once I lit a fire under them."

  "You always could inspire a team, Martin."

  "It's not inspiration but naked fear. I frighten the buggers."

  Rosie was driving him home after the evening at the club. As usual, her husband
had downed his fair share of beer and she knew that he would be asleep soon after she put him to bed. If she needed to raise a sensitive topic, now was the time.

  "Peter had a quiet word with me earlier on,” she began.

  "Oh?"

  "He wanted to pass on a warning."

  "What about?"

  "Neil Woodville."

  Hewlett cackled. “Dear old Peter. He's been warning me about Neil for the last five years but I still haven't felt a knife between my shoulder blades. What's the latest scare?"

  "It's more than a scare, Martin,” she said. “There's a move to unseat you as chairman by passing a vote of no confidence."

  "Bollocks!"

  "And it's no good swearing. I'm telling you the truth."

  "Nobody can unseat me. I was properly elected."

  "The result could be overturned."

  "Only if an Extraordinary General Meeting is called,” he said, “and that would require twenty signatures."

  "Neil has got them, apparently."

  "Never!"

  "I'm only telling you what Peter said."

  Hewlett lapsed into a brooding silence. In the days when they had played on the same team, he and Woodville had been friends, but that had all changed. Woodville was now his implacable enemy, a man who was determined to take over the club and lift it to new heights. To that end, he had made generous donations to Shelton RFC, enabling them to buy auxiliary floodlights and to resurface the car park. In financial terms, Hewlett could never compete. Though he continued in his law firm, he was only there three days a week and was given a light workload. It was Rosie's salary as a college lecturer that really kept them afloat.

  She pulled the car up their drive and switched off the engine.

  "There is another way of looking at this,” she said.

  "Is there?"

  "Maybe what happened at the club is a sort of sign."

  "You sound like Neil,” he said bitterly. “He reckons that it's a sign that Doug must go and security cameras must be installed."

  "Being the chairman is such a strain on you, Martin."

  "Nonsense!"

  "It is. You make light of it but I know how anxious you get. There's always some new headache. Tonight's is just the latest one.” She slipped an arm around him. “Perhaps it's time to consider retirement."