Beck le Street

by Tony McHale

  BECK LE STREET

  Tony McHale

  Copyright © 2019 Tony McHale

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador®

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  ISBN 978 1789019 612

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

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  To Jan for unwavering support and loyalty

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  She never heard him approach. Her head was so full of the argument they’d just had that she wasn’t aware of anything. She wasn’t even aware there was another person on the road. She wasn’t aware that a light rain had just started to fall. And she wasn’t aware that the moon was in its third quarter and was bright enough to light her way home. Her feet crunched on the gravel path that led off the road and through the small wooded area that edged the stone brick cottage. But he didn’t even wait for her to enter the woods, where the foliage would have hidden his actions. If she was mad, he was madder. He grabbed her by her hair, yanking her backwards. She felt the jarring as her neck snapped back and the pain on her scalp as the roots of her hair strained with the force of his grasp. He’d pulled her hair before, he’d hurt her before, but this was a new degree of viciousness. This action was designed to hurt, designed to make her suffer. She fell trying to grasp at his hand that held tightly onto her hair, her body turning, twisting, arching, trying to break free. But he didn’t loosen his grip until she hit the ground, hard, winding her. Before she could regain her breath he was on her, kneeling on her, his knees on her shoulders, pinning her to the ground, his right hand wrapped round her throat. Only a week ago a policeman had come to their school and given them instructions about what to do if they were attacked. They had to scream at the top of their voice and continue to make as much noise as possible. But Belinda didn’t seem to be able to utter a sound. She just looked up at his face, her eyes pleading with him to stop, but deep inside she knew he’d crossed a line, a line he couldn’t return from. There was no stopping him.

  She managed to utter two words before he viciously raped her: “Please … don’t.”

  * * * * *

  He knew he had no choice. Once he’d crossed the line, there was no going back. Once he’d raped her … but he didn’t like that word – ‘rape’ … it made it sound sordid. It wasn’t sordid. He was in love with her and he knew deep inside, she was in love with him. Once he’d consummated their relationship, then that was it, he knew nothing would ever be the same again. She lay on the ground; her face turned away from him, not looking at him, the tears of humiliation clearly visible on her cheeks. Her shirt had been torn open and her small white bra yanked up under her chin. Her school skirt was bunched round her waist and her white knickers down round her ankles. He stood up and she in some vain effort, tried to cover herself. For a moment he turned away from her and looked at the village lights not that far away. He could try and explain. After all everybody knew how close they were. He could say that she was compliant and complicit in the act; some of them would believe him … surely. It would be his word against hers. Or he could ask her not to say anything, not tell anybody, let it be their secret. Now that was a plan. In time she would realise that she had enjoyed the experience and would more than probably want to experience it again. Then they’d be as he’d always wanted them to be – together as one.

  “Can this be our secret,” he heard himself saying.

  Belinda looked at him as she haltingly pulled up her knickers, then she gave a little nod. But he knew she was lying. He knew so easily when she was lying. Occasionally she could get away with it, but not this time, this was never going to be their secret. So he still had a problem.

  Belinda started to sit up. He looked down at her and smiled.

  “Sorry,” he said as he picked up a large stone that was lying there and brought it down on the front of her skull just above her left eye. The forehead split open like an eggshell being hit with a hammer. He stared at the gaping wound as it oozed blood and matter that dribbled into her eye. She flopped backwards and he hit her again and again and again … Afterwards he told himself that this was just to make sure she was dead, but in his more truthful moments he knew he’d done it out of anger. Why didn’t she want to share the moment with him? Why didn’t she just accept what she’d known was inevitable? It could have been great. But she had to pretend that she wouldn’t say anything, she had to pretend she would keep quiet and worst of all she had to preten
d that she didn’t enjoy it. What a bitch! What a lying bitch!

  The river dropped away steeply once it had run through the village and there was a section where the water got sucked down as it swirled over the rocks, creating a surging whirlpool … locals called it Dark Waters. Nobody claimed to know for sure how deep the river was at Dark Waters, but in the past various dare devils had tried to cross at this point, lost their footing and been swiftly sucked under only to surface weeks later way down river. He stood over the Dark Waters holding Belinda in his arms. In death she was quite heavy, she was a dead weight … He even smiled for a second at his own thought. But the smile soon faded and gave way to the conflicted feeling he was trying to hold in check. He felt betrayed, he felt angry, he felt annoyed and he felt disappointed. What he didn’t feel was guilty.

  He tossed her body into the Dark Waters and watched as the water seemed to play with her, whirling her round and round like a defiant spider being washed down the drain of a kitchen sink. Dark Waters wasn’t going to perform. She was going to be just lodged there in perpetual motion. She was going to remain there forever, for all to see. Then with an almost crude regurgitation noise, Dark Waters just took the body and sucked it into its vortex. In seconds she was gone.

  He stood staring for a few moments and then scratching his head he turned to leave.

  CHAPTER ONE

  “This isn’t necessary. The body’s already been identified.”

  Charlie didn’t really take in what the woman had just said. He knew she’d spoken, but they were just sounds. Without replying he kept walking down the tiled corridor. He knew she was a woman, but that’s all he knew. A woman who was talking.

  He wasn’t even sure why he wanted to see the body, just something inside him said he had to.

  At the end of the corridor was a wooden door and beside it was a man who obviously knew they were coming. Dark suit, neat hair, pallid complexion, funny how he noticed the man’s complexion … A mortician - must be.

  The mortician man pushed the door open as Charlie and the woman approached. For a moment Charlie hesitated, then taking an involuntary breath he stepped into the room. He expected there’d be some sort of putrid smell, but there wasn’t. There was no smell at all … just air. The mortician man ushered the woman in closing the door silently behind them. Charlie stared straight ahead at a plain wall with purple drapes in the centre.

  “Are you ready?” asked the woman.

  Ready? Could anybody ever be ready for this?

  Still, despite his thoughts, Charlie nodded and the woman in turn nodded to the Mortician Man who moved to the purple drapes, slid his hand behind them, grasped the sash that was hidden there and slowly opened the curtains.

  The reveal was unhurried and accompanied only by the sound of the curtain runners moving along the track. Charlie wasn’t sure what to expect, but he thought it would be something dramatic … something overwhelming. The reality was like looking at some weird work of art. There was a window and behind that window laid out, was the dead body of his mother. His mother whom he hadn’t seen for sixteen years. And despite the remoteness of the experience he wanted to scream out that he was sorry … he wanted to wind back time … he wanted to be anywhere but there. Then instinctively he started to speak, almost inaudibly, “I want to know what happened … I need to know what happened.”

  Then he turned and stared straight into the brown eyes of the dark haired, pale-faced policewoman.

  * * * * *

  Three hours earlier Charlie Ashton had driven his Range Rover into Beck le Street, a small village nestled in the North Yorkshire moors. It was sixteen years since he’d last visited this hamlet, which also happened to be his birthplace and the place where his parents had remained. His intention was to make his visit as short as was respectably possible. The reason for his trip he believed was pretty straightforward, if unpleasant. Charlie’s girlfriend, Devika, had woken him the previous morning by thrusting a cordless phone in his face and making the shock announcement, “It’s your father.”

  “Who?” was Charlie’s groggy reply.

  “Your father,” Devika repeated, “remember - the man you told me was dead.”

  Charlie’s struggle to engage with the day suddenly gained momentum. She was right. He had told her his father was dead, he remembered doing it over some alcohol-fuelled supper, but he hadn’t meant it literally. He was meaning that their relationship was dead, their friendship was dead, their father and son bond was dead. But as he’d never explained it to her in so many words, he understood why she had taken it on face value.

  Charlie took the phone from her and watched as Devika walked away wearing nothing but one of his tee shirts. It was a habit of hers, wearing his tee shirts or shirts and nothing else. He never objected - he just enjoyed the view.

  “Hello …?” Charlie spoke tentatively into the phone. This could easily be some weird caller. He got them pretty regularly. It came with the job. People don’t trust paparazzi photographers; some would go so far as to say they despised and hated paparazzi photographers.

  “How dare they go around invading people’s privacy … look what happened to Diana … They’re the scum of the earth,” was a pretty typical reaction when someone discovered what Charlie did for a living.

  Of course they all knew his photos and even though they would rarely admit it, they all liked to get a snap shot of the rich and famous caught in compromising situations or even just liked to see which nipple revealing dress they’d managed to scrounge off some famous designer for some unheard of awards ceremony. The Western world hypocrisy was Charlie’s take on these priests of moral justice. They didn’t worry him - he thrived off of them. Without these hypocrites he would be out of a job.

  In truth Charlie didn’t actually class himself as a ‘pap photographer.’ He didn’t go chasing around on a scooter, he wore Armani suits, not a grubby anorak, he was often paid to take photographs of celebs and he always prided himself in the composition of his subjects. He occupied a unique position in the world of celebrity photographers; he was an opportunist who was often invited in. He liked his position.

  “It’s me … your dad.”

  It wasn’t a weirdo; it was his father. Charlie recognised Jed’s Northern accent from the first syllable. He’d grown up with that voice telling him what he could and couldn’t do, how he should or shouldn’t behave and what he was doing right and what he was doing wrong. He didn’t dislike the accent or the quality of the voice; he just wasn’t keen on the person that owned it.

  “Is something wrong?” Charlie knew there must be, otherwise why would he have rung.

  “It’s your mum … it’s … she’s dead.” Then as if he wanted to make sure his son understood, he reiterated: “She’s dead. ”

  Charlie thought he detected a slight break in his father’s voice.

  “I thought you should know,” his father continued with a bluntness that Charlie recognised instantly, even after sixteen years. It meant that although something had definitely gone wrong, it wasn’t going to affect Jed. Jed would continue as if nothing had happened – that’s how you got through, or more accurately that’s how he got through.

  It was Devika, after Charlie had explained to her what he meant when he told her his father was dead, that persuaded him to go up to Beck le Street. His father had given him no details of his mother’s death, which didn’t surprise Charlie, he was never very forthcoming on any subject and on personal matters he was practically mute. But as Devika said, “This is your mother … you have to go.”

  On the long drive from his luxury apartment in St George’s Wharf where he could constantly see Battersea Power Station and on a clear day have a perfect view of Tower Bridge, his mind ran through various possibilities for his mother’s sudden demise. He assumed it was sudden, he couldn’t believe his mother wouldn’t have told him if she had known she
had a terminal illness. Although they spoke rarely, their relationship was nowhere near as fractured as his and his father’s.

  By the time Charlie pulled into Beck le Street’s main thoroughfare with its one general store, its dozen or so houses, its 16th Century Church and its one pub, it was after three in the afternoon. All he wanted to do was to offer up a few platitudes and then hit the road back, probably grabbing a few hours sleep at a Travelodge on the return journey. If Devika had have been with him he would have chosen some nice country hotel, but by himself there was no point. What he wasn’t going to do was stay in Beck le Street, because the only possible lodgings was the Black Dog, his parents pub, the place where he spent the first sixteen years of his life and he’d vowed he’d never spend another night.

  Nostalgia is a peculiar feeling. Part warm, part chilling and part frustrating. As he approached The Black Dog he was struck with a sensation that he had when he left sixteen years ago. This gnawing sensation would have been the same for him if he’d been stuck in some ghettoised tower block or some chic city suburb. This wasn’t just about Beck le Street, it was about people’s inertia, their desire to remain static and safe. Not wanting to move out of their comfort zone and Beck le Street epitomised that malingering torpor. From a very early age Charlie knew there was a bigger and more exciting world out there. Something that needed to be explored. He loathed the lack of aspiration, the small mindedness and the desire to stifle any progress on a social, mental or occupational level. He didn’t despise the small population of Beck le Street, but he didn’t want to be like them and he didn’t want to spend time with them. But here he was and there was no turning back.

  As he climbed out of his Range Rover one of just three cars parked in the pub car park, it was immediately evident he’d attracted quite a bit of attention already. A passing couple, which he sort of recognised couldn’t hide their curiosity and from behind various curtains eyes were seen peering at the new stranger in the village. The other thing he couldn’t fail to notice was the police car parked outside the front of The Black Dog. Certainly as a kid, police on the streets of Beck le Street was a rare sight. Perhaps things had changed. Charlie took a deep breath and pushed open the large, well-worn, verging on shabby pub door.