by G H Mockford
Once he was happy Edward was as stable as he could be, Stephen resumed his hunt for the missing phone. He swept his head torch over the ground in wide sweeping lines. The phone could have been knocked away and landed anywhere.
Stephen was about to give up and head up to the road in the hope that someone might pass over the bridge when he spotted something pale under the ramp. He moved closer. It was the grubby, pale blue outer casing of the phone. It must have been kicked there during the struggle.
Stephen reached under the curved steel and his fingertips brushed against the phone. It spun on its back and whirled around. A surge of panic filled him as he feared all he’d achieved was knocking the phone further away, trapping it forever under the ramp. Instead, it spun into his hand. Snatching the phone before it could escape, Stephen scrambled to his feet. True to its hardy reputation, the Nokia was undamaged.
He dialed 999.
Once he’d provided the operator with the information she needed, he went back to check on his patient.
‘Come on, Edward. Open your eyes. Talk to me. Give me a sign,’ Stephen said, taking off his coat and draping it over the older man. He then leant back against the ramp, the smooth curve lifting him up so he could see Edward.
And waited.
Three
SUNDAY 10:24 A.M.
Stephen awoke to the sound of the CD playing in his alarm clock. It had been set for 9:00 a.m. He’d slept through it and he wasn’t the least bit surprised.
Once the ambulance arrived and he’d been questioned by a police officer called PC Yates, he’d not got home much before four o’clock. Even then, he’d not got much sleep. His body ached and his mind raced.
Stephen kept his eyes closed and listened to The Black Eyed Peas singing Where is the Love? He knew every word of the track. He knew every word of the album. He’d woken to the same CD for almost ten years.
If he closed his eyes, he could still picture Felicity trying to rap along and act like Fergie. His mother would get upset because she felt the songs and videos were too aggressive. As a foster parent for children who often had terrible backgrounds, his mum wanted the best possible role models around those in her care, whether they were actual people they associated with or far-off celebrities.
The deep bass of the next track started and Stephen hit the off button before Fergie started singing again. Getting out of bed, he threw open the curtains. Outside it was grey and overcast. At least it looked like the cold wind had died down.
Fresh, clean and dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt, Stephen went down to the kitchen and opened the fridge. His shelf was empty except for a piece of forgotten, waxy cheddar that was so mild it wasn’t worth eating. There was also a tube of tomato puree that had been rolled and squeezed so tightly that the metal had split and what little contents was still in it were oozing out.
Stephen turned his attention to his cupboard and managed to scrape the remains of the freeze dried coffee from the bottom of the jar. Along with some of his housemate’s milk, which he ‘borrowed’, Stephen made himself a drink. He would tell David, the housemate, later. The I.T. technician had only lived in the house for a few months, but Stephen got on well with him and they had an understanding. Sometimes Stephen did his ironing or David’s share of the communal chores in exchange for some groceries. Not that any of the four people that lived in the house did many chores. Ever.
The hot beverage soon went to work on Stephen’s fatigued mind. He dived back into the cupboard and pulled out the only other thing in it – a bag of potatoes. Of the two that were left, one had gone soft and mushy. Both were covered in roots. Stephen threw the first in the bin, picked the roots off the second, stabbed it a few times with a fork, and put it in the microwave.
While he waited for his food to cook, Stephen’s mind turned to the night before. It made no sense. Why would someone want to attack, possibly with the intention to killing, Edward? There was plenty of time to go back down the arches and see what he could find out before he started work.
Once brunch was finished – spruced up with some of David’s butter and salad cream, and the tiny heart of what was left of the waxy cheese – Stephen mounted his bike and headed off.
It was Sunday and the wider of the two tunnels was awash with skateboarders. They rolled and stunted over the undulating waves of the ramps, pipes and grind rails. The sound of their clattering wheels was somehow softened by their after echoes.
Stephen wondered if they knew what happened here last night. If they did, they didn’t seem that bothered.
Stephen had once been a street surfer, or skateboard trendy as they were known at his old school in Wollaton. He’d once been many things. He could have been many more.
Then Felicity went missing.
Stephen pushed his bike towards the spray painted tunnel entrance. Most of the graffiti was art. Some was merely tagging. With his bike left propped against a giant painting of the superhero Storm in all her electrifying beauty, Stephen walked down the length of the tunnel. Most of the teenagers ignored him. They were either busy doing stunts, chatting, listening to their iPods, or in the case of one acne ridden lad, removing a can from an open backpack so he could spray-paint the wall.
When Stephen reached the other end of the tunnel, he began to replay the events of last night through his mind. It was odd to think that this busy place, so full of life, was almost the scene of a lonely death.
A skateboarder, a girl with purple streaked hair, three-quarter length trousers and a strappy top with a fist giving the finger emblazoned upon it, waited at the top of the ramp. It was at least eight feet up and underneath there was a space large enough for his attacker to have hidden in. It would explain how he appeared from nowhere and crept up on him.
‘You another cop?’
Stephen stopped and looked back at Finger-Girl. ‘Do I look like one?’
‘No, but they don’t always wear suits anymore, like that woman who was sniffin’ around earlier. She was a right ‘ard nosed bitch.’
‘Cops come down here a lot?’
‘No. Some people from the Youth Centre came down once and gave out free condoms and stuff. Bored us with talk about chlamydia. They wanted us to sign up for something called C-Card. On the plus side, they got a local artist to come down and help up decorate,’ she paused and pointed at Storm and the other paintings. ‘But even that was some lame attempt to warn us about gangs. Why are you hanging around?’
‘I used to board,’ Stephen said, but he could tell by the look on her face that she wasn’t convinced. ‘But mostly because a man was attacked down here last night. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Hamster!’ Finger-Girl shouted, stepping back from the safety rail she was leaning on. ‘You’ve just come out the donut shop. I knew you were sketchy.’
‘No. I told you, I’m not a cop.’ Stephen looked across at where he’d found Edward. ‘He was my… friend.’
‘Hey, Ryan,’ she called down to a tall lad who had come up behind Stephen. ‘Old school here is gonna show us his steeze.’
‘Well hang on, I said I used to board, I never said I was going to do a demo. It’s been years. I–’
‘You a pusher, then?’ said Ryan.
‘I’m not a pusher. It’s just half my life’s gone by since I was last on one of these things.’
‘You’re a chode, man,’ Ryan said and turned his back on Stephen.
‘Wait. If you want to see my steeze, I’ll give it a go,’ Stephen said, deliberately using boarder lingo and feeling slightly uncomfortable about it.
Ryan turned back. ‘Well come on then, dude.’
Stephen gave a crooked smile and looked up at Finger-Girl. ‘In return, you’ll talk to me about the man I’m looking for, even if I mess up?’
‘Sure, I just wanted to see if you had any,’ she answered. ‘Heads up!’
Stephen reached up and took the girl’s skateboard before she dropped it on his head.
He was thirty-three years old, an
d although he felt some ridiculous reason to prove himself to these skaters, he wasn’t about to make a fool of himself. Stephen placed the end of the board on the flat surface and spun it with his fingers. The gathered crowd let out a sarcastic cheer. Several others, who had been leaning against the walls drinking cans of Monster and listening to their iPods, came over, including the lad Stephen had seen spray-painting.
Stephen let go of the board and caught its tail with his toes before it slammed onto the surface. Then, without wasting a second, he got on the board, pushed the tail down, bent his knees, jumped, slid his other foot towards the nose and performed an ollie.
Slow, patronizing applause echoed down the tunnel.
Ignoring it, Stephen performed another ollie and felt his confidence building. ‘Like riding a bike,’ he called as he pushed away. Next, he performed a kick-flip. His landing was awkward and the crowd cheered, no doubt in the hope he would fall.
‘You go, granddad,’ someone called.
Enough was enough.
Stephen tipped the board up and rotated and then, after gathering some speed, finished off with a nose manual and rolled up to Ryan.
‘Enjoy the show?’ Stephen asked Ryan, but looked up at Finger-Girl.
‘You really not done that for twenty years?’ Ryan asked.
‘I said half my life — I’m not forty. I’ve jumped through your hoops, now answer my questions.’
‘He’s mad,’ Finger-Girl called down as the teenagers began to disperse.
‘Who? Ryan?’ Stephen smiled.
‘Very funny. Your friend.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know, cuckoo. Nuts. Deranged. Everyone knows most of these tramps are.’
Stephen ignored the comment. He would have loved to educate them, but he didn’t have the time or the patience. ‘Does he stay here a lot?’
‘He comes and goes like they all do,’ Finger-Girl answered.
Stephen nodded. ‘Seen him with other people?’
‘Sure.’
‘Can you tell me anything about them?’
‘Look, I’d like to help, but we just don’t take any notice of them. They stay away from us, and we keep away from them.’
‘Thanks, you’ve been very helpful,’ Stephen said, trying and failing to hide his disappointment.
‘No problem, man. Hope you find you friend.’
‘So do I,’ Stephen answered.
Finger-Girl turned, rolled away and revealed the wall on the other side of the tunnel. Someone had painted five in tally marks alongside a swirling dragon that had a curled tail.
The tail pointed up.
Four
Stephen collected his bike and checked the smaller tunnel just in case Edward, or any of his fellow urban campers, were there.
They weren’t.
If he was right, the dragon was a message. If he was wrong, it was just a piece of street art. He’d nothing to lose either way.
Stephen looked up the length of the river bank in case anyone new was coming and then pushed his bike up to the bridge. He began to cross and then stopped where he figured the arrow was pointing even though he didn’t expect the teen to be so literal.
While he waited, Stephen reached into the bike’s pannier and withdrew an iced bottle of water. The condensation on the outside felt good against his warm, anxious skin. Stephen had sipped two-thirds of the way through the bottle when the familiar sound of an approaching skateboard rumbled and clattered over the joints of the paving slabs.
The artist, backpack slung over his shoulder, stopped and stamped on the heel of his board.
And fumbled the catch.
Stephen bent down and picked it up for him.
‘Thanks,’ muttered the spotty teenager.
‘No, thank you. I got your message. Do you have something to tell me?’
The artist looked over his shoulder. ‘Not here.’
‘Then where?’
‘You could be anyone. Somewhere public.’
‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Stephen smiled. The kid wasn’t just nervous. He was streetwise too.
‘I’m supposed to believe you?’
‘Fair enough. How old are you?’ Stephen regretted asking as soon as he said it. The teenager moved away, completely misunderstanding his request.
‘Fifteen, why?’
‘Too young to drink, but old enough to go to a pub. You know The Manor?’
‘I’m from Lady Bay. Mum doesn’t let me go over there,’ he pointed to Manor Park on the far side of the river.
‘Don’t believe all you hear about the place. The Manor’s easy to find. Follow this road. Turn left at the graveyard. I work there; I can get you free Coke and some food.’
The teenager’s face brightened a little at the sound of the offer. Stephen put the bottle of water away, grabbed his bike and said, ‘Follow me, okay?’
When the artist didn’t reply, Stephen pushed off and headed towards the pub. He didn’t have enough money to buy the boy the promised, but Cliff, the landlord, usually gave him a free meal as part of his contract.
Stephen didn’t look back to see if the artist was following. He didn’t need to. The steady clack, thump, clack, thump, he could hear told him the boy was following.
Stephen swung into what passed as The Manor’s beer garden, swerved around the pothole in the tarmac that Cliff had been meaning to repair for years and pulled up next to the kitchen window.
A moment later there came a loud, sharp cry.
Stephen turned and looked over at the teenager. He was sat on the tarmac, his left knee clamped between his hands.
‘You should wear pads,’ Stephen said, and immediately knew it wasn’t the helpful comment he’d intended.
‘You think?’ the boy replied, ‘I’ve got enough problems already without being called a loser.’
‘Let me take a look,’ Stephen said, stepping closer.
‘I’m fine, no thanks to you. You could have warned me about that f’kin’ hole.’
‘Sorry,’ Stephen said. ‘I go past it most days. I guess I take it for granted.’ Stephen held out his hand, and to his surprise, the artist took it. Once the teenager was back on his feet, Stephen picked up the skateboard and gave it to him.
‘Oh, man!’
‘What?’ Stephen asked.
‘You’ve broken my trucks,’ the teen said, searching for the missing wheel. It was lodged in the crumbling tarmac of the pothole, the sheared off end of the spoke bright and sharp.
‘I’m sorry. I guess I definitely owe you a meal now.’
‘What about my board? It’s useless. Oh, hell. This is just my luck. You know what else? My mother’s going to kill me.’
‘We’ll sort something out. What’s your name?’
‘It’s Michael,’ he answered. A moment later, panic flashed across his face like he’d given away some great secret.
‘I’m Stephen.’ He thrust out his hand, which Michael tentatively took. Stephen smiled and said, ‘Let’s get you some food and we’ll have a chat.’
Stephen led the boy round to the front of the pub and through the main entrance.
The Manor was a large, double fronted building. Centuries ago it had been a coaching inn back when there were a manor and a park. It was in need of some modernization, but it was a proper pub, complete with wooden beams, small windows, and thick walls. St Ann’s, one of Manor Park’s neighbors, didn’t even have any pubs anymore just branches of Bargain Drinks and Cigs, News & Booze.
The bar sat like an island in the middle of the huge open plan area. A sanctuary for revelers, men and women who wanted to escape their family, as well as the hopelessly addicted. At the rear of the pub, there was a snug that led to the outdoor smoking area. There were booths down the sides, their seating in desperate need of reupholstering.
Stephen swept his eyes over the large, empty space looking for Cliff or his wife, Annie. It was only just twelve o’clock and the pub was deserted, even by its own meagre s
tandards.
Stephen showed Michael to a booth. The teenager slid into the seat, ignoring the dust that flew out of its cushioned base, and placed the broken board on the table. Once the boy was comfortable and busy studying his damaged possession, Stephen went to the bar.
‘You’re early,’ a rotund woman with a large misshapen tattoo on her arm called as she came through the door that led to the flat above. Her tone was as derisive and angry as the look on her face. She might as well have told him off for being late. ‘Well, it’s a good job you’re here. Cliff’s gone to the cash and carry and…’
‘Do you need me behind the bar?’ Stephen said.
‘No, but the smell of bacon is putting off what little customers we do have.’
‘Trev burnt the food again?’ Stephen asked, confused.
‘No, but that useless prick who calls himself a chef will kill off what little customers we have, I’m sure. That’s not the bacon I meant. I was about to ring you. There’s a policewoman here to see you.’
Five
Stephen glanced back at Michael. The teenager was already jittery enough without him being frightened off by a police officer. ‘Where is she?’ Stephen asked.
‘She’s round the other side, in a booth. I told her I was going to call you, so she won’t be expecting you yet.’
‘I better see what she wants.’ Stephen followed the bar round and searched for the unfamiliar person who would stand out. It should be easy. The pub was empty after all, but police officers, or so he’d often heard, were supposed to have a certain look about them. The uniform gave them away too.
Only this officer of the law wasn’t in uniform.
She was sat with her elbows propped on the table. The tail of the French plait in her blonde hair gently rolled over her shoulder as she lifted her wrist to check the time.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘I’m Stephen Bridges. I believe you wanted to talk to me, Detective…’
She stood up straight without saying a word. Her movements were slow and deliberate. She was tall. Stephen was six foot three and most women only came up to his chest. She came up to his nose.
