by Alan Carter
‘Nobody will help me rebuild.’
‘You can’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Over his shoulder, Latifa is taking a great interest. ‘It’d be easier all round if you moved on, mate.’
‘I’m sure it would. But life’s not always about the easiest option.’
‘Bring the form back when you’re ready and with the appropriate fee.’
He starts walking out the door.
‘Patrick?’ He turns. I’m tempted to say good luck but I remember those kids whose trust he betrayed. ‘Be careful.’
The afternoon drifts by like any other during midweek and I slip back up the valley and pack the things on Vanessa’s list. After a long hard day on the fences, Steve and Gary are stuffed and opting for an early night. We agree that being slaughtered in our beds tonight mightn’t be the worst thing that could happen. Blasé? Maybe, or plain fatalistic. It’s not easy remaining on high alert 24/7.
I’ve put a pile of Vanessa’s and Paulie’s things in an open suitcase. It feels like the end of a marriage. Hardly sudden, she’s been unhappy ever since we had to leave Sunderland. That evening, after the shit had just hit the fan.
‘That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to show for two years of cosying up to Mr Fucking Big? And now we spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders?’ Paulie followed us along the beach at Seaburn, our words mercifully whipped away by the biting winds as he chucked a ball for Buster. Vanessa shook her head. ‘What a waste.’
‘What’s done is done. We need to focus on the future.’
‘What future? Tell me what it is we have to look forward to, Nick.’
But I didn’t know then because I hadn’t been told.
And here we are now today – a headlong dive into yet more unknown. I try to imagine the practicalities of a life of separation, of custody visits with Paulie. The worry about what will happen to him when we’re dead and gone seems even more acute tonight. That rainy-day fund we’ve set up for him, which drives us to take in lodgers and scrimp and save and stick with this job when something different and lower profile would be safer. But being a cop is all I know and being a security guard or some other loser is shit money.
I think about my mad night with Marianne Keegan. What possessed me? I know I’ve pressed the self-destruct button. I’m feeling terrified and sad and out of control. But there’s something else in there too. Liberation? Excitement? Hysteria, more like.
I finish packing Vanessa’s stuff and close the case.
12
Sunderland, England. Three years earlier.
Sammy’s driving like a madman. He’s got the lad from Middlesborough trussed up in the boot. We’re in the lad’s car, a Mitsubishi Magna, and Vikram is following in Sammy’s Audi.
‘Piece of shit,’ snarls Sammy.
‘The car or him?’ chortles Marty from the front passenger seat.
‘Shut up.’ Sammy reaches down to change gears, forgetting it’s an automatic. ‘Fuck.’
I’ve never seen Sammy like this. After eighteen months I’ve begun to kid myself that he’s not that bad, and that Marty is the real vicious piece of work. And Marty is of course, but this Sammy I’m seeing tonight is the one we were warned about. The real Sammy. Dangerous and unpredictable. Looking from the back seat into the rear view I see his eyes, small and black and mad.
‘Fuck you look’n at?’ Sammy has clocked me.
‘Nothing, mate. You sure you want me along on this? I mean …’
‘Yes, I am sure.’
Marty twists his neck like a boxer entering the ring. He seems happy tonight. He reaches for the dashboard. ‘Music, Sammy?’
‘Fuck off.’
We’re heading south towards Seaham, along winding country lanes. They used to lead to the pit villages that have given way to soulless housing developments. They might have cleaned the old black beach up now that the coalmines have closed, and for coastal property it’s pretty cheap, but really it’s still as shite a place as it always was.
‘Where are we going, Sammy?’
He barks out a nasty little laugh. ‘Cunt in the back. Might be based in Middlesborough but he’s a fucken Monkeyhanger.’
Hartlepool: a bit further south. That’s where we’re going. The story goes that during the Napoleonic Wars with France, a ship got wrecked off the north-east coast and the only survivor was the ship’s monkey. The good citizens of Hartlepool, having not ever seen a monkey before, tried and hung the creature as a French spy. Daft sods. We’ve never let them forget it. I wonder if the lad in the back faces the same fate.
‘Monkeyhanger. Monkeyhouse.’ Marty can hardly contain his mirth. ‘You’ve all got something in common.’
‘Pull your head in, Marty.’ Sammy doesn’t like his old school being taken in vain. It was hardly Eton or Rugby but, to him, Monkwearmouth School is a place of character-formation and kinship. Marty starts to hum the theme tune from The Monkees. Sammy snarls again: ‘Shut it.’
We pull into a lay by. It’s dark, there’s nobody around and Sammy wants me out of the car. A cow moos in the adjacent field as Marty joins us. Sammy presses the key fob and the boot clicks open.
‘Take a look,’ says Sammy.
‘What?’
‘Take a good fucken look.’ Sammy grips the back of my neck, wrenches the boot open and presses my head down towards the bloody mess and the stench of piss and shit. Even though he’s still alive, there’s a deadness about the eyes of the Middlesborough lad. There’s no fight or spirit left in him, he’s lost the will to live. Brendan’s his name. Brendan’s face has been sliced repeatedly by Marty’s blade, and there’s so much blood on him it’s impossible to distinguish the actual wounds. All I care about right now is whether or not Brendan knows who I am. He shouldn’t, others are running him. But you never know.
‘What’s your point, Sammy? What’s this got to do with me?’
He leans in close to join me in the gore. His teeth an inch from my ear. ‘It’s a message, son. Nobody should ever take me for granted.’
‘Nobody does, Sammy. Least of all, me.’
Sammy presses my face right up to Brendan’s. I can smell the fear on the wretched lad’s rank breath. ‘This cunt did. And there’s others out there. Lining up for a pop at me.’ The grip on the back of my neck tightens. I think I can feel vertebrae fusing. He’s rubbing my nose in this poor bastard’s blood. ‘Marty reckons you should be in there with Brendan. That right, Marty?’
‘Aye, Sammy.’ Marty chuckles. He’s loving this and I realise I’ve blown it. Sammy really does not trust me any more.
‘But I like you, Nicky. You do your job, and no matter how hard we look we can’t find anything on you. That right, Marty?’
‘Aye, Sammy. So far.’
‘I love that little lad of yours, and Vanessa, she’s a canny lass, and I really can’t believe that anybody would do anything to put them in harm’s way. You wouldn’t be that stupid.’ He twists my head around so I can see him. ‘Would you?’
‘No way, Sammy. Fuck’s sake.’
Brendan’s blood-filled eyes stare back at me from point blank. As long as I’m getting the grief, he’s not.
‘As I thought.’ Sammy releases me and slams the boot lid down on Brendan. ‘We’ll just drop this lad off and then home again, home again, jiggety-jig. Fancy a Stella back at the ranch after?’ A shaky nod and smile from me. He chucks the keys to Marty. ‘You drive.’
Marty salutes. ‘Monkey see, monkey do.’ He is extra cocky tonight. Pushing his luck. Maybe he senses what we all do: the beginning of the end of Sammy Pritchard.
We leave the Mitsubishi in a car park down the sea front in Hartlepool. I breathe a sigh of relief. The lad in the back has been badly hurt but hopefully he’ll survive. Sammy’s driver Vikram takes us home.
The next day I learn that Sammy, through an intermediary, had paid some kids to set fire to the car overnight.
No survivors.
13
Thursday, and I decide to get t
he Vanessa thing over quickly. Is that what it’s become? The Vanessa Thing. She’s waiting for me as I step out of the lift on the top floor of police HQ and walk through the plain double doors that lead to the apartment suites. I hand over the suitcase of clothes and the box of books, laptop, DVDs and video games. She looks a million dollars, freed from the burden of me and my fears. There’s a grace and confidence about her I haven’t seen for a long time. She hugs me but it feels sisterly.
‘DC Ford tells me you’re staying put.’
‘Yep,’ I say.
We go into the kitchen, which is kitted out with expensive appliances and has a great view out over the port. I say yes to a coffee.
‘Is that a good idea?’
‘The coffee? Yeah, I think so. It’s my first today.’
She smiles. ‘Dickhead.’
It’s nice to see her smile. ‘I’m sick of hiding. You’re right, it’s no life for us. It’s led to this.’ My hand flaps at the space between us. ‘Us.’ I run out of words.
She looks at me sadly. ‘I think the way we are has been a long time in the making. Long before we went into hiding.’ She stirs milk into the coffees. ‘But you’re right, it didn’t help.’
‘So what now?’
‘Why’s that up to me, Nick? I haven’t a clue.’ She stands with the kitchen counter between us. She’s looking fantastic and I feel lost. ‘The DC says we can stay here for a month. We’ll get a specialist tutor in to help out with Paulie.’
‘How is he?’
‘Upset. Out of sorts. He’s at school today.’ She sees my look of alarm. ‘With minders.’ She pulls up a chair. ‘We’ll be fine for that month. After that we need to make a decision about where to go. What to do.’
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I’m not thinking anything. Maybe in the coming month you’ll have sorted this thing out. Or you’ll be dead. Either way, we’ll cross that bridge.’
She’s harder than I realised. Or maybe just pragmatic. ‘Can I call during that time?’
‘Sure. I may or may not want to talk to you but there’s no harm in trying, is there?
I’m feeling resentful now. The traffic seems all one-way and I say as much.
‘Welcome to my world, Nick.’
It’s early afternoon by the time I get back from Nelson to Havelock. There’s a package waiting on my desk. A USB drive and a handwritten compliments slip: Derek from Marina IT, apologising for the late arrival of the CCTV material. Apparently my request for footage from the twenty-four hours preceding the vandalising of McCormack’s boat was superseded by, and confused with, DI Keegan’s request a day later in connection with the discovery of Jamie Riley’s body. During his scheduled fortnightly email-tidy, Derek found my original email and promptly rectified the mistake. Where would we be without the Dereks of this world? I study the footage and, even though there are comings and goings at the marina, none of them seem related to the vandalism of Serenity II. That’s strange. How can the cameras not have caught somebody coming in with a spray can that previous night and doing their worst? Maybe it was done much earlier but not noticed, the boat being at the far end of the marina. Or maybe they kayaked in under cover of darkness on the camera’s blind side? Should I request CCTV going back further? No matter, McCormack has had his justice even if Charlie Evans and his poor animal had nothing to do with it. Let sleeping alpacas lie.
Outside across the road there’s a green and purple Jucy rental campervan parked outside the Blue Moon backpackers. A young bloke sits in the driver’s seat sipping a takeaway coffee. He notices me and lifts his cup in salute. I nod in reply. I’m twiddling my thumbs again. Maybe I should tidy my emails? No. I’m being hunted by ruthless gangsters and their hired assassins. I’ve let my marriage crash and burn. I’ve had a tempestuous one-night stand with a colleague. All in less than a week. I am not the kind of man who tidies his emails.
The rest of the afternoon is spent tidying my emails, and my desk, the filing cabinet, the office. Latifa comes to lean in the doorway and watch me. She lets me know the excitement is all too much and she’s contemplating putting in a transfer request.
Back up the valley road I drop by and let Charlie Evans know what’s happening.
‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘But Denzel’s not the one who should be getting into trouble for this.’
I shrug. ‘Que sera. Maybe he’ll dob on McCormack if things look too sticky?’
‘And we’ll be tangled up by his lawyers for the next two years.’ He shakes his head. ‘Anyway, these things all get worked out.’
That sounds suspiciously like more tit-for-tat. Sometimes the police seem an unnecessary frivolity around here. ‘How’s Mrs Evans?’
‘Beatrice? Today’s a good day. She likes to look out the window at the sunshine.’ He’s adrift, broken his moorings. ‘It’s our anniversary. Thirty-five years.’
‘Congratulations.’
‘She never wanted to come here. She’s a city girl, Christchurch. Hated it for the first two years, couldn’t make friends. She’s from a clever family. Used to talking about big stuff, you know? Politics, art, literature. Not much call for that around these parts.’ He smiles sadly. ‘I don’t know why she married me.’
‘You’re a good man, Charlie. A catch for any girl.’
‘You reckon?’ He takes off his beanie and rubs his brow. ‘She did settle though. Made the best of a bad lot.’ His eyes fill. ‘Been lucky, I guess, haven’t I?’
On up the valley there’s a lamb standing in the road, squeezed out between the wires with its mum bleating on the other side of the fence. I stop the car, hop out and try to shoo it back but it runs off in the wrong direction, even further away. I leave it to its own devices and drive off.
There’s no sign of Steve or Gary or the dogs. Somebody else has been here though and made no attempt to disguise it. The lid of the mailbox is open, the toolshed door is ajar. I unclip my Glock and go to take a look. The door creaks. It’s dim inside. I’m not the most handy of men so I can’t tell if the tools have been tampered with, although even I wouldn’t have left that many lying around on the bench. And I’m pretty sure the fishing rods were on the hooks on the wall. Now they’re on the floor. Kids? Thieves? The lawnmower is still there, and the weedeater. The big plastic storage boxes have been rummaged through, lids left askew.
Back outside. It’s still light but the sun is about to disappear behind the hill. The wind has picked up and across the river the pines are swaying like a gospel choir. The door to the cabin is also open and I peek inside. The place is a mess but I don’t know whether that’s Steve and Gary’s doing, or someone else’s. The main house is locked. When I look around inside, it seems untouched. Have some scungy campers from Butchers Flat had an opportunistic look around the place and found nothing much worth stealing? Maybe. But your average camper these days is either Gen Y or Grey Nomad, both often with more money than sense and no need to do this shit. Real low-lifes? Ten kilometres up the valley road is too much like hard work for them. Am I letting my paranoia get the better of me? Well, not really. Marty Stringfellow has paid someone to find out where I live. Fact.
Gravel crunches on the road outside. A vehicle comes to a stop. Another Jucy rental van. The window slides down.
‘Hi.’ It’s the same guy who was drinking coffee outside the backpackers this afternoon. His companion is another male about the same age.
‘Hi,’ I say.
‘Butcher Flat. Is this way, yes?’ A German accent, I think.
‘Yeah, about another five kilometres up. Can’t miss it. The road stops there.’
He waves at the scenery. ‘Beautiful here. Beautiful evening, too.’ You’re right, I’m thinking. There’s Charlie Evans down the road with his own worries and still able to reflect on how lucky he is. Maybe I could learn from him. I nod as the window whirrs back up. ‘Great,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’ The camper makes dust on the unsealed road. Mountain bikes hang from the back, they look top of the range. That�
��s Gen Y for you.
Steve and Gary pull into the driveway. ‘All this traffic. Like rush hour in Nelson,’ I say.
Steve nods at the departing dust trail. ‘Who was that?’
‘Tourists. Germans. Looking for Butchers Flat.’ The guys look tired. ‘Tough day?’
They nod. Gary lets the dogs out of the cages for a stretch. ‘Clearing a section the other side of the river, down near the hotel.’
‘Forestry?’
‘Yep.’
I tell them about the tool shed and about their digs. Is that mess theirs? Steve isn’t impressed. ‘No, mate, we learned to stay tidy in prison.’ He nods inside the cabin. ‘Somebody’s been in.’
‘Kids? Campers?’
‘They’d have to be game,’ says Gary. ‘We’ve put the word around that we’re here and they know we’re not to be messed with.’
‘But campers?’
‘They’ve usually got more money than us but you never can tell, can you?’ He summons the dogs and pats them back up onto the ute tray and into the cages.
‘Maybe we need to be a bit more on our toes tonight?’
‘Maybe,’ says Gary, pulling his dirty shirt off. ‘I’ll just have the one beer.’
There’s no light pollution up here so there’s a million stars and they’re bright as hell. Steve pointed out Scorpio, his sign, before heading off for his sleep shift. Gary has been snoring for a few hours now. So it’s me and the dogs, Sonny Boy and Richie, who give off the occasional low growl but I’m learning not to get too excited by them.
I’m parked on the front verandah with a shotgun, facing the road, lathered in insect repellent and with a thermos of coffee on the go. If anybody comes I think it’s unlikely they’ll do so from the other side, which is too steep and too hard. Unless of course they’re seasoned professional hunters and they just love that shit. But I’m also hoping the dogs will kick up a fuss whatever direction these people come from. It’s three a.m. The guys gave me the last pre-dawn shift because they figured I needed the sleep if I’m to fulfill my duty as an officer of the law, but I barely slept anyway.
