by Limey Lady
‘No, he's got an excellent memory. Better than anyone else I know.’
‘But a bump could have affected his memory.’
‘He remembers absolutely everything, Doctor. I’d have noticed if that had changed.’
‘No inexplicable cuts and bruises, then?’
‘Absolutely not; I can swear to it.’
‘And his memory hasn't slipped at all lately?’
‘No, I really would have noticed . . . Doctor, is it a stroke?’
‘No,’ Dr Brown said, ‘it's not a stroke.’
Penny nodded, smiled thinly and carried on looking worried. Geoff watched the GP take a long metal rod out of his black bag. On closer inspection, he saw that the rod tapered to a blunt point at one end and was attached to a thick-ish disc at the other. He only realized it was a hammer when Dr Brown put it to use; up until then he would have expected a medical hammer to be like the small silver one his grandma had used to break toffee.
As Dr Brown tapped away at his elbows and wrists, knees and ankles Geoff’s unease grew. He could feel each gentle tap but there was no jerky reflex whatever. Keeping a poker face, the doctor asked if he would mind lying on the settee for more tests. Geoff didn't mind but was alarmed to discover he couldn't get out of the armchair. In the end Penny had to fetch Jamie who, with a little assistance from the doctor, transferred him onto the couch.
Dr Brown's tests were a more systematic and exhaustive version of Penny's. Starting with the feet, he quickly established what Geoff could and could not do with every section of his limbs. And the number of things he could not do was terrifying. Never mind being suddenly unable to wiggle his toes, a lot of parts no longer seemed able to do anything.
‘I wanted to try a few walking tests,’ Dr Brown said, once they had helped him back into his chair, ‘but it's clear you aren't walking anywhere in the near future. I've also seen as much as I need to see. Would it upset you too much if I recommended hospital now, without further delay?’
‘No it wouldn't,’ Geoff said, ‘I've got used to the idea. The nurse said if you didn't send me, I had to admit myself to Airedale straightaway.’
Dr Brown frowned. ‘What nurse?’
‘The one who rushed to help me this morning; when I fell in The Headrow.’
‘She was a clever nurse then. Else she's seen this before. Normally, living where you live, I'd send you into Bradford. But on this occasion, I am actually going to go for Airedale. There is a neurologist there who has treated this condition more than once.’
‘A neurologist,’ Penny echoed. ‘Doctor, for Goodness' sake, what is it? Please tell us. Even if it's MS, we have to know.’
‘I'm not really in a position to say,’ the doctor replied. ‘I can tell you for certain that it's not a stroke. And it's highly unlikely to be MS or Motor Neuron . . .’
Motor Neuron! Geoff thought in horror. That's what killed Don Revie! How could I have got anything like that?
‘I can’t eliminate possibility of an unnoticed knock to the head,’ Dr Brown continued, ‘and I’m not ruling out a tumour. However, everything I've seen points to a condition that's quite rare but nowhere nearly as serious. If it is what I suspect it is we should be able to sort it out nearly as quickly as it's brought Geoff down.’
‘But what is it?’ Penny insisted.
‘I have to leave that for the neurologist to diagnose. In the meantime, let’s just say it looks like an adverse reaction within the body. Geoff has probably had an infection that triggered it, most likely a cough or cold.’ Dr Brown glanced at his watch. ‘If you don't mind I'll make a call, before everyone at the hospital disappears for the weekend. Hopefully I can set the ball rolling now rather than Monday. Then we can decide how best to get him on there.’
Chapter Ten
(Saturday 5th April 2008)
Pat parked his Jeep on The Busfeild Arms car park and escorted DeeDee the hundred yards to her late mother's house, a roll of black plastic bin-liners in his free hand, both of them walking purposefully. Their visit yesterday had been a scouting mission; today they meant business.
He held the gate open for Dee and let her lead the way up the garden path. It was eleven o’clock and not only sunny but warm for the time of year; warm enough for the neighbours to be sitting out. He gave them a friendly nod in passing then hesitated. He didn't know the old guy, but the ginormous youngster looked familiar.
‘Hello, Jamie,’ he said. ‘What brings you up here?’
‘Hi, Mr McGuire,’ Jamie Rodgers replied, grinning at him.
‘Call me Pat, please. You're making me feel even older than I am.’
‘Hi then, Pat,’ said Jamie. ‘I'm visiting Granddad Cliff. Keeping him posted about my old man.’
DeeDee had already unlocked the kitchen door and was sending a lot of meaningful glances in Pat's direction. He made his apologies and followed her inside. Two minutes later he was busily stuffing Dianne Dwyer's old clothes into bin liners and, in no time at all, he had a mountain of bulging black bags ready to go. DeeDee confirmed this first load was for the charity shop and, ominously, said she would make sure the next load was too.
‘How many loads are there going to be?’
‘I don't know.’ She smiled brightly. ‘There will be three or four, maybe more. If I pack and you remove, we'll soon be done. Then I can start on her books. Better get another roll of bin liners on your way back.’
‘There are fifty of them on that roll.’
‘I know; that's why I said get another roll. No, make it two rolls.’
Pat nodded to Jamie and Granddad Cliff as he returned to the Jeep. If there were sixteen bags per load that meant Dee was thinking about possibly a hundred bags . . . plus the books. And her mum had loads of books.
Still, he wasn’t going to let the side down by moaning. In fact he was never going to let Dee down about anything. Not ever.
When he went back through the gate Jamie stopped him, volunteering his help in exchange for a lift down into Bingley. Pat agreed without pausing for thought. Jamie was a good lad (couldn’t half bounce ‘em on a rugby pitch) and he could do with the company. Not that quarter of an hour away from Dee was going to make him go all withdrawn or anything.
By sheer chance, as they loaded the final bags, the landlord opened the pub doors and stood there in the sunshine, smiling cheerily out at the world. Looking incredibly like the cartoon landlord in old Taylor’s beer adverts.
‘Morning, gents,’ he said. ‘Been waiting long?’
As a car park user Pat felt obliged to go inside and try a drink. Leastways, that was how he explained the sudden thirst to his conscience. Jamie joined him and they were soon provided with frothing pints of Speckled Hen. Pat noticed the landlord frowning as he sorted out the change but didn't even begin to suspect why. Whenever he'd seen the youngster at the rugby club he’d always had a pint in his hand.
‘You're Geoff's lad, aren't you?’ the landlord said. ‘I remember you from Hilary’s funeral the other year. You can't possibly be eighteen yet.’
Pat expected Jamie to react indignantly and was surprised when he only shrugged.
‘Yeah,’ the youngster said, ‘it's a fair cop.’
‘I'm bloody good, me.’ The landlord beamed. ‘Or I've been in this trade too long. It has to be one or t’other.’ Chuckling to himself, he carried on filling water jugs as though nothing had happened.
Jamie looked at Pat and shrugged again. When they finished their drinks the landlord was there for them immediately: ‘Two more, gents?’
He refilled the glasses while Jamie pulled out a fistful of coins and started to scramble the right money together. Suddenly Pat was a teenager again, skint as always, wondering how he was going get through the weekend, never mind the rest of next week.
‘Put it away,’ he said quietly, laying a tenner on the bar top.
Jamie grinned at him and did as he was told.
‘I thought you were a regular in the Seconds?’ Pat asked as they started on t
heir new pints.
‘Not yet. I’m still cementing a place in the Colts.’
‘My arse; I’ve seen you in the Seconds for . . . well, ages now. Not just once or twice, either.’
‘I’m big for my age, the Seconds sort of call on me when they need fresh legs.’ Jamie grinned even wider. ‘I think they like the way I run and tackle. It gives some of the old geezers chance to catch their breath and be creative.’
‘Colts,’ said Pat, shaking his head. ‘Best years of my life. Give me my time again and I’d be a colt forever.’
‘I thought you were in the Firsts for about seventy years.’
‘I retired after sixty-five,’ Pat said, laughing. Then: ‘Sixth form is it?’
‘After summer, assuming I get the GCSE results I'm supposed to get. Then it's the Army for me. I can't wait.’
‘Why don’t you join up straightaway? You can study while you’re in nowadays, can’t you?’
Jamie pulled a face. ‘It's a deal I have with my dad. He reckons I wouldn't take the studying seriously if I joined up now. He's probably right, too. Studying would take second place to soldiering.’
‘You could learn a trade, though.’
‘I don’t want to learn a trade. I want to be a proper soldier, like my Uncle Rick. And I’ll be properly soldiering until they don’t need me anymore. If all goes to plan, I’ll be forty by the time I come out. That’s when I’ll need the A-levels; when I’m far too old for studying.’
‘Rick Rodgers . . .’ Pat thought a moment. ‘Would he be about thirty-seven or thirty-eight?’
‘That's him. The hardest kid ever at Bingley Grammar, I've been told.’
‘I remember him beating up older kids; kids more my age than his. And I once had to drag my mate away before Rick did him some serious damage. I seem to remember he wasn't bad with the oval ball as well. What's he been doing in the Army? Blowing up bridges and demolishing things?’
‘Things like that, yeah.’
As he drove into Bingley Pat asked if Jamie was going to the big match that afternoon.
‘Probably not,’ Jamie sighed. ‘I’m due my allowance from Dad, but he was rushed into hospital. Mum’ll be on there, visiting, so I'll not see her until too late. And we've still got to debate a short-term loan from the other night. It's complicated. With any luck I’ll sort something before my match in the morning. Today’s not going to happen though.’
‘Dad's in hospital, is he? Nothing too serious, I hope.’
‘We don't know for certain, but the doc says he knows what it is and how to fix it. To me that makes it inconvenient, not serious.’
Pat laughed again. ‘I'll lend you something if you want, so you can go cheer along the boys. Seeing as I'm not likely to make it myself.’
‘Thanks for the offer but I can't accept. I'm great at borrowing, crap at paying back. What I need is a job.’ Jamie paused. ‘You run that car place on Whitley Street, don't you? Is the anything going part-time? I’ll be driving as soon as I’m seventeen.’
‘You’re confident of passing, eh?’
‘Yeah, I’ve been driving off-road for years. I’ll sail through the test.’
Pat was hit with that teenage nostalgia again. Oh to be young and so sure of yourself! Then the reality sank in. ‘There’s nothing going,’ he said regretfully. ‘The only part-timer is Donna, and she's far too pretty to sack. I’ll let you know if anything comes up. But don’t hold your breath.’
‘No worries. I'll go home and rehearse my sob story for Mum.’
Pat glanced in the rear-view mirror, seeing a back window almost obscured with bulging black bags and an idea came to him.
‘I'm looking at quite a few more trips with loads like this,’ he said. ‘I think if there were two of us, really pushing it, keeping out of pubs and that, we could crack it before half two. Then we could both go see the match. And have a few jars afterwards. What would you say to twenty quid for giving me a hand?’
Jamie grinned widely: ‘I'd say Count me in, Twenty Quid.’
*****
Darkness had fallen. The killer was completely relaxed as he left the road and slipped into position behind an unlit business unit. His black, full length leather jacket made him invisible against the cladded wall and invisibility only added to his powers. He drew in air through his nostrils, marvelling at the way everything smelt fine tonight.
This whole patch of land had been flattened years ago and slowly rebuilt. Smart industrial buildings, offices and trading outlets covered all but this final corner plot. By day the area was bustling, with buyers and sellers coming and going, deliveries and collections happening all the time. It had to be one of the busiest parts of Shipley. Now though, close to ten on a Saturday night, it was deserted. The killer hadn't seen a soul as he walked on here and that didn't change in the five minutes he stood acclimatizing.
By Christ or the other fella, it’s good to be back.
The corner plot was big enough for two or maybe even three more units. For some reason building hadn’t started there yet and it was a mess. Boulders had been placed along its boundary at intervals of two feet but they weren't really needed to keep travellers off; the very nature of the plot itself would have done that. Instead of clearing away rubble the demolition team had left it in untidy heaps which had now overgrown into large, unstable hummocks. It was dangerous enough trying to walk on there. Any vehicle other than a tank wouldn't get five yards.
A camp fire was burning far back, about halfway along the plot, close to a wall that shielded the drop to the Leeds-Skipton railway line. The killer stayed where he was for another ten minutes then, taking a small, suppressed automatic from his jacket, started towards the flames.
Even excellence can be improved on. That Beretta was way too powerful. It nearly spoiled all the fun.
He picked his way along an unofficial, foot-worn path between the overgrown mounds, moving slowly to minimize noise, eyes taking in everything. He had scouted this out twice before in person and had run through the kill in his mind a thousand times. There would be two men beside that fire, no doubt guzzling super-strong cider, assuming they'd had another good day doing fuck all. His duty was just to exterminate them like the vermin they were. Show this town who really was top dog.
Soon he was within a few yards of the fire, which was housed in a very professional-looking surround. Some idle twat with too much time on his hands had dug a load of bricks out of one of the hummocks, interlacing them into a circle three courses high. He’d even been clever enough to make a couple of air vents to keep the wood blazing.
Who’s the handyman, Dumb or Dumber?
The two down-and-outs had obviously had a very good day doing fuck all. They were crashed out between the fire and the wall, surrounded by a sea of empty cans and bottles. And, judging from the supplies stacked against the wall, so far they’d hardly scraped the surface. Still untouched, there were three twenty-four packs of special brew lager, at least two dozen three-litre bottles of Frosty Jack and ten one-litre bottles of Vladivar. Whatever fuck all they’d been up to today had been rewarding, that was for sure.
The killer had a closer look at his sleeping victims-in-waiting. They were in their late twenties and, from their build, could have been labourers of some sort before fate threw them on this scrapheap. Not that either of them was in any danger of starving to death. Even seen through their multiple layers of filthy clothing, they were clearly two fairly fat tramps.
The nearest had curly ginger hair and a piggy face. He was clasping an unopened bottle of cider in his meaty right hand, holding it about an inch from his stubby nose. The other was lying flat on his back, snoring for England as he cuddled his Vladivar. His hair was very dark and he had thick eyebrows that met in the middle of his forehead. He looked like a chubby werewolf.
The killer couldn't resist taking Ginger out first. He took careful aim then shot at the bottle, which exploded magnificently, shards of plastic and angrily frothing cider star-bursting in all dir
ections. Ginger roared and sat up, trying to claw Frosty Jack out of his eyes before suddenly realizing he’d lost three fingers. As he gaped at the blood spouting from the stumps on his hand the killer shot again, hitting him once in the leg and twice in the belly, keeping him down.
Ginger's initial roar had disturbed Wolfman, who’d raised himself onto one elbow and was staring blearily around. The killer calmly shot Wolfman's elbow from under him before giving him two in the guts. He’d put the gun back in his pocket and was reaching for the gags when he heard a scuffling noise off to his right.
Halt, he thought coolly, who goes there?
