“Pissed! Got to be. Let’s give him a pull.”
“Like pronto, Tonto,” muttered his driver.
The patrol car eased out from its hiding place, gleaming white bonnet with its red stripe like the snout of some great shark, the two shadowy faces of the crew, cold eyes in search of prey. The officers were surprised to find the Astra parked a couple of hundred yards further on facing the sea, the driver still in his seat.
Moe was talking when they tapped on his window. Moe wound it down and the two officers exchanged glances. Rat-arsed or raving.
“Yes officer … sorry – officers. Can I help you?”
The driver leaned in and sniffed Moe’s breath. Smelling nothing alcoholic, he scanned the interior then hauled back to study Moe hard.
“I reckon you must be on a trip.”
“How did you guess? As a matter of fact I am.”
“What do you use?”
“Four star premium when I can get it.”
The operator looked at the driver. “Petrol sniffer.”
Moe smiled from one to the other. This was surreal. But he could never resist a wind-up.
“Listen to me. I’m firing on all cylinders.”
“Wipe that smirk off your face. It’s no laughing matter – a man of your age. We heard you just now – yelling like some madman. Now we find you jabbering to yourself.”
“I was talking to my parents.”
“Oh yes?” the driver peered in again, “and where might they be?”
“With the angels, if there’s any justice in this world.”
“Now look here pal…” The operator was reaching for the door. Moe produced his warrant card quickly. It was time to be sensible.
“I’ve just driven in from London … to see to my father’s funeral. I wanted to come here first, a favourite place from when I was a kid – a long time ago.” He was rewarded with silence and hurried on. “They used to bring me here with them. I used to lean out of the car and shout…”
The operator finished it for him, grinning widely. “Hi-Yo Silver and away!”
“Right.”
His warrant card was handed back.
They gazed at him. Then to his amazement, they snapped up very passable Fred Scuttle salutes and were gone. As their car screeched into a U-turn, he heard them calling out “HI-YO SILVER AND AWAY!”
Moe experienced an unfamiliar warmth towards the two provincial plods. They had been remarkably understanding, if a bit weird. He stared out into the night. Who would have thought it?
Inside the departing patrol car the wireless operator shook the raindrops from his cap, breathed on the peak and gave it a quick wipe with his lottery ticket.
“Who would have thought it?” He glanced over at the driver.
The latter snorted. “Me, that’s who! Directly I saw that Met. warrant card I thought it. And not what you’re thinking either. Tallest tellers of tall tales this side of the Moon. Take my advice and avoid those buggers at all costs.”
…………………………
Badger’s Bay Holiday Park lay a few miles beyond Baytown, Just off the coast road that led on to the quaint little fishing port of Lamplight. Tucked beneath the grassy hill that had been home to generations of brocks, the park had been a part of Baytown’s holiday scenery since Hitler’s war.
Moe had come upon it one long-ago hot summer afternoon when he had been nine and was eagerly exploring the coast path towards Lamplight. Separated from the sea by the railway line that took holidaymakers to the end of the line at Mackerel Quay, and snug in a small cleft in the hills that ran right down to the sea, he had thought it quite wonderful. There and then, he had sworn that one day he too would have his very own caravan there. Oh yes. And sure enough, he had eventually kept that promise to himself.
But by then, the boy had long been a man. The dream realised, the old magic had lingered on for a while; but more and more often, Moe had found himself spending less and less time at Badger’s Bay.
Maurice and Hilda Moe had tried their very best not to show the disappointment they surely felt. They had been so thrilled when their son had bought his caravan, expecting to see him far more frequently. But Moe had come to see that in the meantime, by some hidden osmosis, he had become a Londoner. His career, such as it was, was in London; his friends and his lovers, such as they were, were in London. And the big city throbbed with a life that was in another league altogether. Baytown was nowheretown in comparison. Moe had finally understood that life was not only what you made it, but where you made it – and for him, that was London.
Then his mother had fallen ill … suddenly, fatally. He had returned every week – week after week – until the end came one spring afternoon. After that, he tried to be there when he could for his father, helping him as best he could to survive the numbing grief. Maurice Moe had carried on living, but he was never the same man.
The rain had eased to a faint mist by the time Moe pointed the Astra down the short road into the holiday park. A mulch of autumn leaves spewed from beneath the wheels as he steered to a standstill beside the high bank beyond which could be seen the first neat rows of caravans on site. He let the engine run.
Here and there, both near and in the near distance, a light glowed faintly, announcing the presence of an occupier even at that last hurrah of the season. Sturdy souls determined to get their money’s worth before the place closed for the season at the end of the month.
Across the bay, on the headland far beyond the shimmering haze of Lamplight, the Juniper Head Lighthouse flashed out its warning. Moe counted, out of old habit. One … two … three. It gleamed again.
He let his gaze drift a few degrees to the left, to the vague shape of Badger’s Knoll, the grassy outcrop above the park on which his boy self had sat enthralled all those years before as that day of discovery had dimmed to dusk, the dusk to dark. It had been almost ten o’clock before he had reached home, to find his panicking parents about to summon the police, worried out of their wits for their only child. Life had been carefree then … but how careless.
But he had always been a solitary soul, going his own way. That was why joining the police appealed. And London promised individual freedom and the extended family of a vast supportive organisation. A man might be alone on a deserted street at three in the morning yet reassured by the realisation that on call was all the ‘back-up’ and bravery one could want in time of need. Occasionally, he had been glad to summon them to his side, and felt enormous pride in the knowledge that all the hustle and bustle, all the bright flashing lights, the eager barking dogs and their willing handlers, all were there at his bidding. And the feeling had scarcely diminished down the years. On his own … but never alone.
Now, it seemed that he had come full circle. Cruel fate had returned him to Baytown … to the empty caravan beneath Badger’s Knoll. He was back. And for the first time in his life, Moe knew what it was like to be really and truly alone.
CHAPTER THREE
Moe contemplated the dog mess on one shiny shoe and considered his options. The cellophane wrapped around the flowers he held was one, but he dismissed it respectfully, if regretfully.
The rain still reigned. It hadn’t shown much sign of abdicating since his arrival and now an unforgiving wind was courting it on its way, hard and virtually horizontal.
Initially, Moe had been inclined towards invective but the serried ranks of headstones admonished him silently, seeming to stretch, rather appropriately, into infinity. No sign of life there, but Moe wasn’t one to tempt providence. He would keep his peace and they could keep theirs.
Besides, Moe didn’t have anything against dogs. On the contrary, he had been grateful to them on more than one occasion in the past, and remembered with an affection undimmed by the passage of time, one particularly large and wholly admirable Alsatian that had entered enthusiastically into a violent struggle between Moe and a burglar who had no intention whatsoever of going quietly. Moe had relished – and still did –
the shriek of surprised pain and the expression of anguish on the man’s face when the dog’s jaws had exerted maximum pounds per square inch on his raised buttocks. But it was only justice. After all, the crook was on top and the part of his anatomy usually sought by a well-trained police dog – the arm – was otherwise engaged in throttling Moe. The dog just did what dogs will sometimes do, occasionally with messy and unpleasant consequences.
And that, Moe reflected glumly, was a fact, as he proceeded to hop from one foot to the other like some demented disco dancer in a vain attempt to dislodge the smelly goo. With a grunt of relief, he saw the small shrubbery enclosed alcove that promised a water tap. Moe hopped towards it, managing to drop the flowers in the process. Never mind, they should be safe enough while he rescued his shoe from the invader.
Moe knew that his dad wouldn’t have wanted a showy send-off. That wasn’t his style. Maurice Moe would have been quite happy with one or two to send him on his way to his beloved Hilda, and judging from the service earlier that day, that was just what he got.
But it had been a nice service, with a charming young lady of the cloth - Moe had pondered her title: a priestess? - doing the departed proud. Moe wondered whether his dad would have recognised himself in her glowing eulogy, but one old man in a front pew nodded frequently and vigorously in agreement and Moe had been content.
After the service, while Moe was waiting to arrange interment of the ashes, the old man from the front pew had approached him. Studying Moe closely for long seconds, he had eventually stuck out one hand.
“You’ll be his son, I’ll wager. He was a grand man, your father, a grand man. I shall miss him.” Quickly shaking Moe’s hand, he had turned before Moe could reply, his hand now barely raised in a farewell wave to Moe – and perhaps his dad, leaving the younger man touched and grateful.
There had been another man, a burly individual who looked like a policeman. And Moe knew his coppers. Moving towards Moe, he appeared to change his mind and instead nodded sympathetically before walking briskly away in the direction of the car park.
Returning to his Astra later, Moe had found the business card with its legend “Det. Sgt. Swift – Baytown CID” fixed firmly under one wiper blade. There was a scribbled note beside a telephone number, asking Moe to make contact regarding items of his dad’s property. Discreet and considerate, not wishing to intrude in person on private grief. Moe was impressed. As for any personal belongings, he hadn’t got around to thinking of them. Of course! A sudden death in what was, for all intents and purposes, a public place at the time would involve police – up to, and possibly carrying on from the time that the cause of death was established and a certificate issued. In the absence of next of kin, police responsibility included the safekeeping of the property of the departed. Moe had come to prefer ‘departed’ to ‘deceased.’
He gave his shoe a last shake and tightened the tap. There had been a letter on his dad’s sideboard, addressed to ‘Mr Moe’ and he had put it with the rest of the paperwork, intending to go through it in due course. He now appreciated that the CID man was swift in deed as well as name.
A high-pitched squeal of laughter from the other side of the alcove intruded rudely. At an inch over six feet in height, Moe didn’t have far to unwind to see over the top of the plant life and he wasn’t too impressed with what he saw.
Some yards away from where he stood, a pimply faced youth of seventeen or so was offering Moe’s bunch of flowers to a pretty girl of about the same age, her pneumatic charms protruding pointedly from a coat that flapped open provocatively in spite of the elements.
“Oi! Flower!” Moe’s angry roar rang out round the tombstones, even startling Moe himself. If hot air could divest a body of its clothing, the startled pimply youth came close to losing his pants. His girl screamed at the dribbling apparition that rose at them from the greenery. Grabbing frantically at the youth’s arm, making him drop the flowers, she dragged him with her towards the distant exit gate, the mud and grass spattering up in their wake. Neither looked back. Like Moe, they didn’t believe in tempting providence. Moe let them go and seethed.
Was nothing sacred? Stealing flowers in a cemetery! What next? Moe had heard of enterprising florists appropriating wreaths after funerals and re-cycling them for future occasions – and doing very nicely, thank you. Waste not, want not, appeared to be their creed. But this was different. Nicking his own chosen tribute – that was getting personal. It was bad enough that Moe had forgotten them at the service when it mattered; he didn’t need the indignity of losing them to some randy young cemetery Casanova whose ardour even the lashing rain couldn’t dampen. That would have been too much to bear. Maurice Moe may not have worried but his wife would certainly have taken exception. Hilda Moe would surely have wanted them decorating their last resting place together. She always did love her blooms.
The battered bouquet lay like a trophy of war awaiting the victor. Moe went over and bent down to retrieve it. The cellophane wrap and decorative ribbon (Moe hadn’t explained the purpose of his selection and the sweet-natured girl in the shop had insisted on adding it) were a bit muddy, but the contents were still intact. Moe breathed a sigh of relief.
A fresh mound of earth marked the latest interment in the Moe family plot. Reaching it, Moe leaned over and read the newly carved inscription that marked his dad’s resting place. Then he loosened his tribute from its confinement and trimming the stems to suit, he arranged then neatly in the metal vase towards the foot of the grave. The deed done, Moe stood there in a silence that was broken only by the rain smacking on a thousand headstones and the wind keeping it company.
He imagined his parents as they had been in their salad days, in lives that were gone from him forever. Now, he was the only remaining member of the small family Moe. He gazed at their names and saw their faces smiling back at him.
‘All right for you two,’ he muttered uncharitably.
After a few words of silent prayer, Moe left them to it. Pneumonia and his own early demise, he didn’t need. He hadn’t gone far when his ears picked up strange signals of activity from the near distance.
There was a sound that hadn’t registered before, one that he couldn’t place at that moment. An eerie rasping noise seemed to come from just beyond an old yew tree that stood some yards from the path.
Moe stopped to listen, trying to divorce it from the wind and rain. There it was again. Mystified and unsettled, Moe moved slowly in its direction. It grew louder with each of his steps … a breathless, sucking sort of sound, marked at intervals by a sibilant hiss.
Moe felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand of their own accord. And as if to emphasise the other-wordly nature of what he heard, what was left of the afternoon light began to recede rapidly.
The great gnarled trunk of the old yew provided Moe with cover as the source of the sound came nearer. The raspings and hissings now acquired a ghastly sub-human quality and Moe found himself listening to an execrable rendition of a song called ‘I’ll be seeing you’. He winced and considered the attractions of being born tone-deaf. But it was a nice song and somehow …. right … in all the circumstances.
Moe peered between a thick mass of branches. trying to identify the awful affliction with its red soil accent adding to the difficulty. “I’ll be seeing you …” – Moe caught on and took it up.
Instantly, a gargoyle of a face flew up into view, as if from the earth itself. The body that followed, covered with the detritus of a freshly dug grave, established that the earth was indeed where it had come from. Moe recoiled momentarily, repelled by the vision, the words fading on his lips. The filthy face mouthed gruesomely at him.
“No … no … WRONG! It were ‘in a small cafe, a park across the way’.” The accent corrected Moe impatiently, its tones free from any trace of good humour. A muddy arm was raised, the forefinger of the hand jabbing somewhere to the side of where Moe stood noting how ‘I’ rhymed with boy. “And uz that furk, wud ’ee.”
> No ‘please’, Moe noted. But he lined up the jabbing finger with a fork that leant against the tree trunk. Moe reached the tool in a couple of paces, aware of the other man watching him from the grave he had been digging. The gargoyle grimaced. In much younger days, Moe might have made himself scarce but the adult Moe merely felt distaste. The gravedigger’s face cracked into a lopsided gap-toothed grin. It wasn’t an improvement. The head jerked impatiently at Moe.
“C’mon, pal. I ain’t got all day.” The gormless grin was having trouble disguising its owner’s disposition. Moe wasn’t keen on pal. He moved towards the gravedigger and handed the fork across, letting it slip just as the latter went to grab at it. It was rewarding to witness the muddied oaf lurch backwards in alarm, arms flailing as he sought to maintain his balance. The mask of a grin vanished at once, accompanied by a vile oath that tainted the surroundings.
“Oy, watch it!” There was an instant change in tone to bullish belligerence. Moe was unimpressed. Serve him right.
“Sorry … pal,” Moe lingered on the word, “I thought you had hold of it.” He smiled an easy ‘who me?’ sort of smile at the other man. There was a grunt but the look that went with it was short on belief and something about that look rang bells in Moe’s memory and sent it flying back well over thirty years to his wild teenage self when he had fallen foul of the evil-tempered Carter, the Baytown cemetery keeper of those days.
They had sparred on and off until one memorable mist-filled autumn afternoon when Moe had crept up out of the dusk behind an unsuspecting Carter. The old man – Moe had always thought of him that way, though he couldn’t have been much over fifty – had shouted in shocked surprise, breaking wind with a report like a cannon shot. From then on, he had been ‘Farter’ Carter for Moe and that had made him meaner than ever.
November Uniform or the Wagers of Sin Page 2
