The River Dark

by Nicholas Bennett

  "Bass." Rodgers watched the brown ale gush into the glass and lit himself a cigarette; a chain smoker, his fingers were jaundiced and there was a yellow tint to the peak of his fringe. Henry put the pint on the bar mat in front of Rodgers' stool. Rodgers leant on the bar, quaffed half of the pint at one go and then settled into his usual hunchbacked posture leaning on the bar. He inhaled and pulled cigarette smoke into his lungs, coughed spasmodically and looked at the group of suits gathered at the corner of the bar. Talk had stopped when he entered. He drained his pint, belched causing Henry to wince and be thankful that the missus had gone shopping with her cronies and allowed that he might as well have another drink. Henry obliged and set it in front of Rodgers' twitching fingers.

  "On me," Henry said quietly. "You must have had quite a morning."

  "Hmm," Rodgers agreed.

  John Pickering cleared his throat. "So- er- Steve. What's the crack then?"

  Rodgers stretched his bony arms in front of him, interlaced his fingers, cracked them and grinned toothily. "I'll tell you what the crack is, John, gentlemen, landlord," he began expansively. "As I have always suspected, since I landed a job at that rag you call a newspaper and moved from my native London." He paused for effect before adding: "This is one fucked up town."

  The men at the bar exchanged glances; Rodgers was a prat. With subtle unity, the men at the bar turned a shoulder away, looked in the other direction or went back to their newspapers. Rodgers was dismissed. Henry regretted buying the Londoner a drink. The outside door banged open.

  Four grizzled looking men walked in. Three of them took their usual place at the corner table while the fourth- their leader, Henry always thought- the man they all called Chris but was actually something more like Krzysztof, came up to the bar and ordered Vodka. Henry was accustomed to this and put quadruples in their glasses and the big Polish man gathered the tumblers in his gnarled hands- possibly the largest hands Henry had ever seen- after placing a crisp twenty on the bar.

  "Thank you, landlord," Krzysztof said in heavily accented Eastern European and nodded.

  Henry watched the big man sit in the heavy shouldered huddle of Poles and shook his head. They seemed like decent fellows but Christ how this town was changing. He took their custom gladly enough and even envied the camaraderie that they displayed with that easy Polish way that they all had, quick to put an arm around a shoulder or offer a hard-calloused lingering handshake. They looked as hard as nails but shared a gentle intimacy that was a contrast to the close mouthed, non-tactile manner of the locals. As Krzysztof began to talk in his native tongue, the other men listened respectfully.

  2

  Ben pressed redial tentatively. The screen lit up: Calling Tracy. The mere sight of the name gave him a sickening ache in the pit of his stomach. He held the phone to his ear, trying to look casual as he leant in the doorway to the High Street dental practice. She answered. He listened for a few seconds, told her okay and hung up. His heart began to beat faster. He caught his reflection in the polished metal plaque next to the startlingly blue door to the surgery and patted down his hair. He crossed the street carefully, desperately trying (and failing) to look casual, like an eighteen year old student heading somewhere that eighteen year old students might have to be early in the afternoon rather than going to fuck another man's wife.

  It had started three weeks before (twenty-three days, to be exact) as a result of his cousin's wedding. Kim, twelve years his senior, was tying the knot with Andy and Tracy, Kim's oldest school friend was, of course, invited too. He had known her for as long as he could remember, had seen her coming and going with Kim. As he walked down

  Henry Street, he thought about how she had looked at him over a wine glass that seemed to linger suggestively at her lips; the look of promise in her eyes was obvious but even then he told himself to stop fucking about; she was thirty he was eighteen; she was married with a young baby. How naïve had he been? Twenty-three days later, he had learnt enough about the adult world of relationships and infidelity to fully appreciate the level of his greenness. Despite her nine year marriage and fourteen month old baby boy, Tracy seemed to be entirely without conscience. At first, Ben thought that she had been carried away by the "whole wedding day thing"; women liked all that didn't they? Her husband was pissed with his mates at the bar as Tracy danced in a circle with Kim and a few others, undoubtedly reliving those eighties discos. He had stumbled into their circle on the way to the bar and had been pushed and prodded around playfully by the women, including Kim in her meringue dress to the sound of some awful New Romantic song and he felt a hand slide over his arse. That was Tracy. He had laughed it off until the stares across the function room had become obvious even to him in his naiveté. Eventually he went outside to get some air; he was fairly pissed. Tracy had duly followed. The kissing surprised him; he was conscious of Alan inside; her wandering hands excited him; later though, in the darkness between two parked cars giving him sluttish eyes in the moonlight, her husband could have sidled up close to him and asked him how he was and he would have stared blankly at him, completely stunned and oblivious to everything but what that experienced mouth could do. He was not a virgin: he'd had three girls- one of whom lasted for eight months- but nothing like Tracy. She took on the role of tutor with a willingness that comes with a true calling. Two days later she arranged to pick him up and took him to a local haunt for nature lovers (or just lovers); it was renowned for ancient druidic activity and twilight assignations between teenagers with nowhere else to go or those that perhaps should be at home with their partners and/or children. That time they did it in her car; she had straddled him in the passenger seat. Then, of course, there was Fuck Forest that Tracy seemed to know like the back of her hand. Lately, however, their bravery had grown to the point at which he would wait for hubby to go to work and then "pop 'round for a cup of tea", as Tracy put it. The idea of screwing another man's wife in their marriage bed while the baby had a "little nap" appalled him and excited him by degree. As he approached the terraced two-up-two-down, he saw the net curtains twitch and caught a glimpse of Tracy, clad in something lacy. A part of him obediently twitched in response. He swallowed hard and pushed open the gate, once more excruciatingly aware of how this looked to anyone passing in their car or the inevitable aged nosey neighbours. The door was open before he reached the front step.

  3

  Julie Pedlar’s enjoyment of Trisha- today's programme was provocatively entitled, I leave my kids alone so I can go out and get high- ended when she heard the scratching of fingernails on the frosted glass of the back door. Cursing under her breath, she heaved her fourteen stone out of the armchair and knocked the dog end jammed ashtray off the arm in the process. "Fuck," she whispered. Even annoyed she did not want to wake baby Tyler from his afternoon sleep in the carry cot in the blue gloom behind her chair; she had programmes to watch. After Tricia, Ricki was on and that day's viewing she had been reliably informed by the TV guide was about parents putting their children's health at risk. Bastards. She scrabbled around on the carpet picking up the spilled butts, grey black ash lodging under the remnants of her chewed fingernails and chased the last few ends under her armchair where –fuckit- they could stay. The scratching on the glass again. "Al- fucking- right, I'm coming!"

  She passed through the clutter of magazines, soiled baby clothes and dirty plates into the kitchen. She absently thought to herself that it was time for Shaun to do some washing-up (that morning she'd had to scrape hard leftovers off a plate and run it under the tap so she could have something to put her toast on), pushed the overflowing bin liner to one side with a slippered foot and pulled the curtain back from the back door. Behind the frosted door a squat silhouette waited patiently. The thought that it was strange that someone would come to the back of the house occurred to her briefly as she turned the key and pulled open the door.

  Eric Callaghan smiled and said: "Hello Julie! Long time, no see."

  She remembered him of course. He h
ad taught her at the High School up until she had left at the age of fifteen to have Shaun. Her defences, never truly lowered, were instantly raised. He was a teacher; she had never trusted that lot; school, for her any way, had been a daily hell of name calling and snotty looks from the "posh" girls. Slags. He was obviously here to see her about her part in the row outside the school; she'd been on the news and everything. Well, someone had to tell the truth didn't they? She'd seen all the programmes on the tele about sexual abuse by teachers and now it was happening in her own town.

  "What do you want?" She was pleased to hear the threat in her voice just like how she’d sounded on the news last night. She’d recorded it so she could watch over and over.

  "I want to have a chat with you about what's going on at the school," he said and smiled at her. She was not accustomed to people smiling at her. She stiffened.

  "I'm not changing me mind. I said everthin' I want to say to the reporters and, if Black thinks he can harass me by sending you-" she spat this out, "e's got another thing coming. Tosser." Callaghan was shaking his head, hands palm out in a peace gesture.

  "Julie, Julie, Julie, you've got it all wrong," he chuckled. "I haven't worked at the school for a long time."

  She blinked confused. "So? You all stick together you lot. You always did. I remember the way you all looked at me when I got preg-"

  "Not me, Julie. I assure you." The smile had gone. There was an earnestness about him now. "Besides, I always liked you." Julie wiped her ash filthy nails on her ski-pants, suddenly conscious of how she looked. She was wearing the clothes that she had slept in including the stained white T-shirt that Tyler had sicked up on that morning. "I always thought that you were a strong-minded girl and, I see, from last night's news that you still are." He smiled again. "Attractive too." Now he really was taking the piss.

  "Just fuck off please," she said and backed into the kitchen, feeling something mushy squelch beneath her slippered right foot. "Tell Black that I won't-"

  "Black's dead, Julie," Callaghan told her and smiled which was odd she thought but his words pushed that aside. She shook her head, confused. She could hear Trisha’s voice from the other room berating a young mother for leaving her eighteen month baby unattended so that she could go clubbing. This man, Callaghan, continued to smile that strange smile. For once, she did not know what to say. Black was dead?

  "Can I come in," he asked, eyebrows arched above his red complexion. Without understanding why, Julie let Callaghan into her house.

  4

  DI Collins didn't recognize the majority of the uniforms in the room; extra CID drafted in from Birmingham and its satellite towns milled among the dark blues, smoking, chewing, drinking coffee out of Styrofoam cups, laughing, talking loudly. He didn't like it. It seemed to him to mirror the apparent chaos that was building daily around the town; sleepy old Measton was gone. Missing persons had escalated to Homicide. He closed the door on the melee and sat at his desk. The pile of assembled notes and photographs mocked him. He rubbed his unshaven face; he hadn't been home for over twenty-four hours and suspected that he was rather ripe. He drained cold coffee, winced and picked the top paper file off the stack. Patricia Bourne. He looked at the photograph that they had taken from her mother's shaking hand – what?- a week ago?- for perhaps the five hundredth time. Patsy smiled back at him, fifteen years old and giving the glad eye to the camera man. No more of that. She was dead. They were ninety-nine per cent certain of that now and Martin Clear was almost definitely the murderer. This of course relied on the somewhat thin testimony of a man that had sat in Interview Room 1 up until a few hours before when he had gone- gratefully, it seemed- to Rennick hospital for some psychiatric evaluation.

  Thomas Saunders had given his statement in a quiet monotone that had caused Collins to ask for certain words and phrases to be repeated for the benefit of the tape as well as his as a result of his own incredulity. It was a strange story. Nevertheless, it had yielded at least one result. Phillips was obviously the long sought after cat killer. But according to Saunders his information had come from Martin Clear. The young man had allegedly strolled out of the fields last night ("He'd been down at the river somewhere, that's what he said," Saunders had intoned) and revealed the whereabouts of the sick bastard that had been crucifying pussies. Fair enough. Forensic was a formality. There were cat remains and bizarre trophies all over Phillips' lockup and an unspeakable collection of torture devices with obvious signs of recent usage. Banged to rights as they say on the tele, he thought. There was a problem though.

  When questioned about Clear, Saunders became vague. There were snatches of the details about Phillips, even gruesome details about his nighttime activities and the disposal place of his backlog of cat corpses but regarding Clear's involvement or how he came to know all of this, Saunders shook his shaggy head and looked vaguely at the table. Was Clear a part of the cruelties? Saunders was sure that he wasn't. How could he be so sure? Again, nothing.

  "So, Mr. Saunders. If Clear wasn't involved in the cat killings, how did he know so much?"

  Saunders reached for his cigarettes and lit one. "He said something like- we are aware of Mr. Clear's nighttime activities- that was all. He didn't sound like Martin at all really. It was-"

  "Go on."

  "It was just… not like Martin. He sounded- no, you'll think I'm mad. I think I'm mad."

  "Please, Mr. Saunders," Collins reasoned. "Martin may be able to help us locate Patricia Bourne. Her parents are out of their minds, I'm sure that you can appreciate that."

  Saunders nodded. "He sounded older. Better educated. Like he'd had a few elocution lessons-"

  DS Heaney coughed into his hand. Saunders stopped and looked at Collins. "I told you. It sounds stupid doesn't it?"

  It was clear, according to Saunders, that Martin knew what had become of Patsy although the wanted man had been deliberately vague on that point. Collins’ early instincts regarding Davies had been correct. The forest, the river. Davies' diving gear; tire treads full of river mud. All of this pointed to Davies' bizarre involvement without even considering his public paedophile confession but Clear was still out there too. Hiding out down by the river, calmly- and he had been calm according to Saunders- visiting his friends for illuminating chats regarding animal killers. First light, the sniffer dogs had gone along the river banks out of the infamous Fuck Forest and had yielded results within an hour. A forensic team had already found blood at the rivers edge and signs of what could have been the dragging of a reasonably heavy object. A dead body perhaps. The divers had been summoned once more. As of yet no results but that fucking river was notorious

  -the undercurrent you see

  for hiding things. Always had been.

  Collins decided to detain Saunders. He had, after all, perpetrated a serious assault on a member of the public that evening, no matter that the victim was himself a nutcase. After putting in a request for the sniffer dogs, Collins decided to call it a night. He was knackered and his leg was giving him holy hell. He had almost made it to the door when the first call came through. There had been a serious assault on a woman up at Hillside Crescent. Early details revealed that this had seemed more than a run-of-the-mill domestic. It seemed that the husband had broken in to the flat of his estranged wife, beat her, poisoned her with alcohol and then forced a broken bottle into her. Unspeakable. Incomprehensible. He had spoken to the PC at the scene, Hendricks- a fresh faced young copper that Collins had warmed to over the past few days. A doer, there was something of the old school mentality about him; an obvious integrity that was increasingly rare these days he thought. His old mentor, Pete Sandals would have liked him- taken the piss out of him- but taken to him nonetheless. The younger PC sounded shaky.

  "Yes sir," he said. "She was conscious enough to speak. It was difficult for her because- well- her injuries were so-"

  "I understand, Hendricks, go on," Collins pushed, experience telling him that brooding on the details was for later, after the dust
had settled. The perpetrator could still be close.

  "-undignified," Hendricks finished. What a word to use in this fucked-up age, Collins thought. "However, she said very clearly that the man that attacked her was her husband; a Mister Eric Callaghan."

  Collins looked at the wall in front of him. Callaghan. The younger man began to speak again. "According to the neighbours they were separated and –sir, you won't believe this-"

  "That bloody school!" Collins blurted into the handset. "He was a teacher, wasn't he? At the High School?"

  "Yes, sir." Collins recovered himself and told Hendricks that he wanted to see him and his report as soon as possible. A connection or a coincidence? Patricia, missing, presumed dead- student; Davies- teacher, probable paedophile, suspect; Callaghan- teacher, brutally assaults his ex-wife. Collins decided to go out to Hillside; he needed to get involved somehow. As he pulled out of the station car park, the news came through that Jonathan Black was dead. Murdered.

  His throat had been slashed and he had sustained multiple puncture wounds in his chest. Early forensic speculation suggested that these had been sustained after his death. He had known Black well enough from the obligatory school functions, open days and the like as well as the odd charity function. He had always seemed to be a well-driven, genuine man with an obvious belief in what he was doing with the High School- the reputation of the pace had certainly improved beyond measure in recent years under Black’s regime. Collins had noted with irony the fact that one of the school's less successful students from a far from prestigious era had put the boot in well and truly on the news. Could there be a link there? If there was the school connection, there was Callaghan to consider.