by Mark White
The last thing Sam Railton saw before losing all consciousness was his sister hovering above him; a sad, tearful look on her face. As he drifted away, he heard her say the words:
You have to run away, Sam. He’s coming to get you.
And then there was nothing.
PART TWO: ENTER THE DEAD
CHAPTER ONE
There was a time, admittedly many, many, moons ago, when young men, (actually, scrap the young), when men of all ages would openly stop and stare whenever Janice Spratt walked into a room. Long auburn hair, emerald green eyes, elegant lines…yep, she was a beauty alright, and boy did she know it. The unfortunate thing about beauty, however, is that it almost always comes at a price. For Janice Spratt, that price was intelligence, or rather a blatant lack of it.
It wasn’t that she was academically stupid, having graduated from high school with respectable grades in nearly every subject, but rather that she was severely lacking in common sense. Nowhere was this more apparent than in her love life; the expression treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen was undoubtedly coined with Janice in mind. The meaner they were, the keener she was, which probably explained why she ended up falling head over heels in love with a good-for-nothing dropout called William Railton.
William Railton, or Billy, as he was more commonly known, was not an easy man to like. He was the kind of man who automatically saw the bad in everything, the kind of man who was convinced that the world was out to get him. Indeed, such was the size of the chip on his shoulder that it was surprising to most folk in Cranston that he could even manage to walk down the street without falling over.
Billy Railton certainly had his demons, but he also had charisma in spades. He could charm the birds down from the trees when he had a mind to, although they never hung around for long once they got to know him. Not that he gave a damn…he never cared for most of them anyway. Besides, usually by the time they saw the light and headed for the hills, he’d taken from them all that he wanted, namely a chance to feel himself between their thighs. You’d be forgiven for thinking that with all his practice he’d be a pretty impressive lover, above average at least, but you’d be wrong. Why? Because Billy Railton had never made love to anyone in his life, including his own hand, when sober. In fact, since turning thirteen he’d accomplished next to nothing when not under the influence of some kind of stimulant. This was also the case with many of his so-called friends who, along with Billy, formed the violent gang known as The Knuckle Dusters.
Back in the seventies there weren’t many gangs in Cranston: the small, industrial shithole from where Janice and Billy and the boys from The Knuckle Dusters hailed. Aside from the lesser known and short lived Black Hoods, The Dusters, as they later became known, was the gang around town. You fucked with The Dusters at your peril, although in reality they were nothing more than a drunken posse of small town jerk-offs. Billy was the leader. Not because he was the smartest, but because he was the craziest. He was feared for his psychopathic tendency to lash out without thinking; a trait that had on more than one occasion landed him a night in the cells.
Ironically, it was the day after one of those very nights (December 11th, 1974 – to be precise) that he first kissed Janice. The Dusters had been trawling the streets in the hope of some action, when Janice emerged screaming from Dell’s Bar, hotly pursued by Gregg Andrews, her boyfriend at the time. Even fearless Billy Railton was taken aback by the expression of blind rage on Gregg’s face as he caught up with Janice and threw her against the shutters of Grelend’s Hardware Store. She groaned as her head struck the shutter face-first, her nose exploding on impact, leaving behind a curious design of blood on the corrugated metal as she slid to the ground.
‘You fuckin’ bitch!’ Gregg screamed, moving in for a second round. ‘You fuckin’ cheatin’ whore. I’m gonna rip your fuckin’ tits off!’ Janice wasn’t in a position to resist; instead she just lay there, powerless to fend off the bastard with whom she’d shared a bed for just shy of six months. Treat ‘em mean to keep ‘em keen, Janice. Isn’t that the way you like them? Don’t all pretty girls love a bad boy?
Fortunately for her, The Dusters had been standing ringside to witness Gregg’s handiwork, and the boys smelled blood.
‘Hey Gregg,’ Billy said, coming to the front of the gang. ‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you that only a coward hits a woman?’
‘Fuck you, Railton,’ Gregg replied. ‘You stay out of this, or I’ll do the same to you as I’m gonna do to this bitch.’
‘Like fuck you will, you fuckin’ prick!’ Billy shouted, the red mist descending. ‘I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!’
With that, Billy leapt across behind Gregg and slammed him into the wall. Gregg grunted in agony but kept to his feet and turned to face his assailant. The two boys glowered at each other like a pair of rutting stags. Gregg knew he had to hold his nerve: if he could get the better of Billy then the other Dusters would back down as well. Once the shepherd was beaten, the flock would disperse. But first he had to deal with Billy, and that wasn’t going to be easy, especially given the look in his eyes.
Seizing the initiative, Gregg was first to move, launching himself at Billy and lashing out in blind fury. Billy reacted immediately with the same venom; both boys going at each other with a lack of skill and finesse that would’ve been classed as comical had it not been so violent and raw. The Dusters watched on like bloodthirsty voyeurs, hollering their support for their leader, while all the time paying no attention to the helpless girl collapsed crying in a heap by the hardware store. Blow by blow, it soon became apparent that Billy was getting the better of his opponent, although from the cuts to his own face it was clear that he was taking his fair share of the pain. Eventually he managed to roll Gregg over onto his back and straddle him, pinning him to the ground and going to work on his face like a boxer pummelling a punch bag. Gregg knew he was in trouble. He also knew he was powerless to do anything about it. He’d dished out his fair share of medicine in his time… it was his turn to swallow a dose.
The beating was relentless, Billy’s hands moulding Gregg’s face into a mash of pulp and bone. If it hadn’t been for the fortuitous arrival of Sergeant Brian Jennings…well, it would’ve been a brave man who’d have gambled on Gregg surviving. Gripping Billy by the back of his shirt collar, Sergeant Jennings yanked him off Andrews and threw him onto the pavement. Almost immediately, Billy was back on his feet and going in again for the kill, seemingly oblivious to the presence of a uniformed officer.
‘Back off, Railton,’ Jennings said, moving between the two fighters like a referee. Billy looked up and studied the sergeant’s face, his chest heaving as he gradually came to his senses.
‘It’s over, Billy,’ Jennings said. ‘You’re under arrest.’ Jennings undid a clasp on his belt and withdrew a radio, placing it to his mouth. ‘PC Trent, are you receiving me?’ Loud and clear, sir. ‘I need an ambulance sent immediately to the junction of Middle Street and Salvation Street. Two casualties, one serious. And I need you to send backup, is that clear?’ Affirmative, sir. ‘Good. And make sure we’ve got a cell ready…we’re going to need it. Over and out.’
Billy was released the following morning with a warning not to leave town, not that he’d had any intention of doing so. People like him never strayed far from home; the big wide world held limited appeal for their uninquisitive, uneducated minds. Instead, he’d made for the nearest watering hole, intent on numbing the pain of his battle scars and sharing his heroic account of the previous evening with anyone who’d care to listen. Not once did the welfare of Gregg Andrews cross his mind. If truth be told, Billy’s sole regret from the entire evening was that he’d been wearing his brand new suit at the time. He must’ve shovelled a hundred tonnes of coal down at the mine to pay for that shiny grey zoot suit - the symbol back in 1974 of the man about town – and now it was torn and tattered and stained with the dried blood of two men.
Feeling downright sorry for his predicament, Billy rounded the corner
of Victoria Street and headed to The Turf bar. As he was about to enter, a voice called out behind him: ‘Hey Billy…you forgot something.’
Billy spun around to find Janice Spratt standing there, a pair of sunglasses and a strip of adhesive bandage across her nose hiding the worst of the damage. She was holding a brown hat in her hands and smiling at him, and even with all her bruises and bandages, Billy thought she was the most beautiful girl he’d ever laid eyes on.
‘I believe this is yours?’ she said, moving closer towards him and offering him the hat. ‘I’m afraid it’s looking a little worse for wear.’
For once, Billy was lost for words. His eyes moved dumbly from the hat to Janice and then back to the hat again. Eventually he spoke: ‘Thanks,’ he said, accepting the hat and placing it on his head. ‘I must look like a tramp.’
‘Not really,’ she lied, and even in Billy’s bruised and hungover state he sensed she was flirting with him.
‘You didn’t have to come looking for me just to give me the hat,’ he said.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Well, why did you?’
‘I wanted to say thank you, for last night and everything.’
‘No need to thank me. That bastard had it comin’.’
‘He might have killed me if you hadn’t have been there to stop him.’
‘Probably would’ve. Anyway, how are you feelin’?’
‘Me? Oh, I’m fine. Slightly sore, but I’ll live.’
‘Fine enough for me to buy you a drink?’
‘What…now?’
‘Why not? Unless you had somethin’ better planned?’ He winked at her and gave her his most seductive smile; a smile he’d used on many an occasion with many a girl, often with considerable success.’
‘Okay,’ she said, returning the smile with equal panache. ‘But I might as well warn you right now, Billy Railton - I’m looking for more than just a drink.’
She didn’t resist as Billy took her by the hand and pulled her to him. She didn’t flinch or even look away as he removed her sunglasses and stared at her blackened eye before gently kissing it, slowly tracing his mouth down her face until their lips met and their tongues introduced themselves.
And so, on the morning of December 12th, 1974, as she stood there tingling with lust and excitement, little did Janice Spratt know that she was about to make the biggest mistake of her life.
CHAPTER TWO
‘Where am I?’
‘York Hospital.’
‘What? How-’
‘Don’t try to get up, Mr Railton. You need to rest.’
‘But…what happened? Why am I here?’
‘You were attacked this morning at York train station. You were brought here by ambulance and admitted at 12.15pm, approximately four hours ago.’
‘Four hours?’
‘Afraid so. You were in quite a state when you arrived. We’ve given you some painkillers and patched you up as best we can, however I’m afraid you’ll be a guest of ours for some time yet. My name is Doctor Graham. I’ll be in charge of your care until you’re discharged.’
‘My chest…what’s wrong with me? Why am I in so much pain?’
‘You’ve a small crack in one of your ribs, hence why you need to lie back and keep still. You’re also suffering from moderate concussion and bruising to the head. There’s also some damage to your back and thighs, but that’s mostly superficial.’
‘My lips…they feel bloated. And why is there this huge lump on my forehead?’
‘That’s just the swelling; it’ll settle down in a day or two. Fortunately there doesn’t appear to be anything seriously wrong with you. All the same, we’ll need to keep an eye on you until you’re well enough to go home.’
‘I live in London; I can’t stay all the way up here. I need to see my family.’
‘Yes, we’re aware of that. One of the nurses has telephoned your wife and told her what’s happened.’
‘Sarah? You’ve spoken to Sarah?’
‘Yes. The good news is she’s coming up to see you, but not until tomorrow morning.’
‘Why tomorrow? Why can’t I see her sooner?’
‘Doctor’s orders. You need to rest, Mr Railton. You’ve been heavily medicated to ease the pain, and pretty soon you’ll be out like a light again. Trust me; it’ll be better for both you and your wife if you have a good night’s sleep.’
‘If you’re sure-’
‘I’m positive. Now, if you don’t mind I’m needed elsewhere. I’ll check on you later before I leave. In the meantime, press this buzzer if you need anything and a nurse will be with you as soon as possible. You’re a lucky man, Mr Railton. It could have been a lot worse.’
‘I don’t feel particularly lucky.’
‘Sshh…rest now. There’ll be somebody coming from North Yorkshire Police tomorrow morning. You’ll be able to give a full statement then, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Good. Just one further question before I go. One of the nurses told me that you kept saying the name Lucy in your sleep. Obviously that’s not your wife’s name, and our records show you don’t have a daughter. Is there a Lucy you need us to contact for you? The nurse said you appeared rather anxious whenever you mentioned her, so I thought-’
‘I don’t know anyone called Lucy,’ Sam said, cutting the doctor off and closing his eyes. ‘I don’t know who you mean.’
‘Very well. I thought I’d better ask in case you needed to speak to her. Get some rest, Mr Railton.’
CHAPTER THREE
‘Good morning, Mr Railton. I trust you slept well?’
‘Huh? Oh…yes, not too bad.’
‘Good. Someone will be along with your breakfast any time now. You’ll feel much better with some proper food inside you.’
Sam looked up at the badge on the man’s uniform. Dr H Graham – Consultant. ‘What does the H stand for?’ he asked, relieved to be feeling marginally better than yesterday. A pretty Filipino nurse stood next to the doctor, her jet-black hair drawn tightly back into a neat bun. She didn’t look away when Sam stared directly at her, evidently used to unwanted attention from her male patients.
‘Henry,’ replied Dr Graham. ‘It stands for Henry. It should actually read Dr H T Graham, but apparently they forgot to print the T onto the badge.
Sam didn’t ask what the T stood for, reckoning that Dr Graham would have told him had he so wished.
‘So,’ Dr Graham said, finished with the small-talk. ‘How are we feeling today?’
‘Sore. It hurts every time I try to move. And the inside of my head is pounding like a jackhammer.’
‘That’s to be expected. It’s similar to waking up the morning after a bout of strenuous exercise: your muscles ache as they work overtime to repair themselves. Bruising’s no different, I’m afraid. And we’ve replaced the Morphine with Tramadol, as you can expect to feel uncomfortable for a few days yet. The good news is that your vital signs are all more or less where they ought to be, so no matter how much discomfort you are in, you needn’t worry. You’ll be relieved to know that your organs are in perfectly good shape.’
‘It doesn’t feel like it.’
‘All the same, you’re on the mend and that’s all that matters. Now, are you ready for your first visitor?’
‘Eh? Is Sarah here already?’
‘No, not Sarah. There’s a Sergeant Calloway from North Yorkshire Police here to see you. He wants to ask you a few questions about yesterday. He’s promised me that he won’t pester you for too long.’
‘Can’t it wait? I just want to rest.’
‘Apparently not. He wanted to see you yesterday but I informed him that you weren’t ready for visitors. Anyway, he’s been waiting patiently in the corridor for the past thirty minutes, so if you don’t mind…’
‘Fine. Send him in.’
Doctor Graham nodded and glanced at the nurse, who returned the gesture and headed out into the corridor to fetch the police officer. She returned ten seconds later ac
companied by a short, stocky man in a pristine uniform. As they neared the bed, the officer removed his helmet as if he were about to pay his last respects to someone, and for a second the thought crossed Sam’s mind that maybe this was all a sick dream and maybe he wasn’t in hospital at all. Maybe he was dead or trapped in some kind of living nightmare. He might have been physically injured, but his memory of what happened to him yesterday morning on that bridge was as fresh in his mind as a cool glass of gin and tonic; especially that gut-wrenching feeling he’d had of some unnatural thing being forced down his throat into his stomach. Not that he was willing to share the details with the man approaching him. How could he? Being a patient in this place was bad enough, but surely it was preferable to spending time locked up in a mental asylum.
‘Sam,’ Dr Graham said, making the introductions. ‘This is Sergeant Calloway from North Yorkshire Police. Sergeant Calloway, this is Mr Sam Railton. He’s ready to try and help you with your investigation. If you don’t mind, Nurse Sanchez and I need to proceed with our ward round. We’ll draw the curtain so you can have some privacy.’
When the two men were alone, Sergeant Calloway grinned at Sam and motioned with his hand to a chair next to the bed. ‘May I?’
‘Be my guest.’
‘Thanks.’ He sat down and withdrew a small notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. ‘Doctor Graham tells me you’re on the mend.’
