Stench

by AB Morgan

  Rory followed for a few strides.

  ‘I’ve reported her as a missing person so if you have information then I’m sure the police would appreciate a call, and her parents are flying over from Spain because they’re worried about her.’

  The plastic covered GP halted next to a threshing machine exhibit. Her husband stood by, anxiously picking at stray ash as it landed on his Fair Isle tank-top. The man, who resembled a turtle without a shell, failed to notice the urgency in Rory’s manner, however Dr Dalby regarded him warily.

  ‘You’re very insistent. What is it you want exactly?’

  Rory placed both hands on his hips, slowed his breathing and managed with great self-control not to swear and not to use Anna’s name in public.

  ‘I am trying to find out whether the person I phoned you about is in receipt of NHS mental health services or not. She has been displaying frank symptoms of psychosis, has a diagnosis, no follow-up, is relapsing and has a significant risk history. She has recently assaulted a relative who is now in hospital. I am doing this because I care about what happens to people with mental health problems who cannot act in their own best interests because they lack the capacity to do so. Is that a clear enough intention for you? Or don’t you care?’

  Sarcasm had the better of him.

  ‘I’ve done what I can.’ Janice Dalby made as if to walk off.

  ‘Answer me this simple question and I’ll go away. Did you receive a request to take part in a Mental Health Act Assessment on Friday or yesterday? Yes or no.’

  24

  He’s Not Nice

  ‘Roll up, roll up. See the Wall of Death, Europe’s greatest motorcycle stunt show starring the famous Hell Riders. Here for this weekend only. Roll up! Roll up!’ The invitation boomed out over the crowds and Rory didn’t hesitate. He approached the smiling lady in the kiosk and paid her. She thanked him with gentle courtesy and he made his way to the steep stairs leading to the enclosed viewing platform at the top of the high wooden circular wall. The tent above cast warm glowing red and yellow colours onto the waiting crowds and down the inside of the huge wooden barrel into the arena over thirty feet below.

  The motorcycles started their engines, sending fumes and noise upwards. When each rider took their turn to ride the wall, defying gravity by circling horizontally around and around, the wooden structure rumbled and swayed.

  The delighted faces of the children were equally matched by those of their parents as the crowd watched, entranced at the risk.

  For a short while it took Rory’s mind far away from the frustration of the obtuse Dr Dalby and her refusal to confirm or deny involvement in an assessment under the Mental Health Act. It distracted him from thinking about Anna Chamberlain. When he exited the Wall of Death and trotted down the wooden stairs behind the other spectators, his concerns became redundant. ‘Halle-bloody-lujah,’ he said as he caught sight of Anna Chamberlain mingling with the crowds at the merry-go-round. The steam organ was playing its whistling tunes as the painted horses rose and fell on their gilded barley-twist poles.

  He assumed she was continuing her mission to spy on Leonard Fewtrell and the rally was the ideal place to find him. Without thinking of the consequences he barged through the crowds.

  ‘Anna! Anna wait,’ he called. He could see her handing out leaflets, but she didn’t hear him. Only when she turned to place a flyer into the hands of an elderly gentleman, did he realise that it wasn’t Anna at all - it was her cousin Gemma.

  He halted, uncertain whether to proceed or not. Having adjusted his assessment of the situation, he presumed the leaflets were about Anna being missing and only for that reason did he make himself known.

  ‘Can I help to give some of those out?’

  ‘You again. Haven’t you done enough damage?’ Coldly, she snubbed him.

  ‘Forget I asked, but whatever you think, I don’t deserve to be treated like some sort of perverted stalker.’ After momentarily stepping away, he paused. ‘I hope you find her, by the way. You might want to ask that woman over there, the one wearing the mac and the wellies, that’s your cousin’s GP. Just like you, she won’t talk to me but you never know your luck.’

  Somewhat vexed, Rory went in search of more beer, muttering. ‘Bollocks to you, stupid cow.’ He was finally resigned to giving up his search for Anna Chamberlain. What was the point?

  The bar was four deep with thirsty beer drinkers waiting patiently to be served from the rows of barrels which sat on trestles, tapped and ready to be poured from. Rory waited his turn. There was a noisy crowd towards the far end. Raucous, lecherous jeering that had a recognisable rough quality, caught his ear. Pints of beer were being passed over the heads of the men in an organised distribution system. Bank notes were passed back and handed to the hard-pressed bar staff.

  ‘Right you geezers, back to the fairground, we ’ave women to find. I’m as horny as a goat and I’m not minded to wait much longer. Tits. Big tits that I can bury my head in. Those are my orders. The bigger the better.’ The distasteful words were spoken by a colossal bearded man in a top hat who wore a leather waistcoat, and whose trousers were held in place by a thick brown leather belt. He had an aura of the malevolent giant about him as he exited from the tent with a lolloping stride, followed in disorderly fashion by a collective of unkempt, foul-mouthed men.

  Once he had reached the bar to be served, Rory scooped three pints up into his outstretched fingers and, carrying them before him, deliberately left through the nearest tent flap. He wasn’t comfortable in crowds and breathed deep to recover his composure before taking beer replenishments to Barney and Annette. They were standing next to Tinkerbell the tractor, second place rosette on display, engaged in conversation with Gemma Waterford, discussing the contents of the flyer she had given them.

  Before he could retrace his steps and wait for Gemma to disappear, Annette spotted Rory heading their way. She waved and beckoned him to hurry. He had no way of avoiding another meeting with the prickly woman who had taken an instant dislike to him.

  ‘This young lady has been looking for Anna as well.’

  ‘I know, we’ve met.’

  Gemma barely glanced in his direction.

  ‘Any luck with the drippy doctor?’ Rory asked.

  ‘No. She was worse than useless and she doesn’t speak highly of you either. Apparently, you have been harassing her, which you seem to make a habit of doing.’

  ‘Yes. It’s true. I spend my days seeking out women and following them around making a bloody nuisance of myself out of a strange compulsion to irritate the hell out of them.’ Rory turned up the mocking tone. ‘Not to worry, just to please you, I’ve decided to cease all pestering and mind my own business from now on.’

  He passed a beer to Barney and made his way to the tractor where he climbed on to the seat, ignoring the mystified looks from his friends.

  ‘Who else have you spoken to?’ Annette enquired of Gemma.

  ‘All I’ve managed to do is work out that no one has seen Anna since Thursday. Anna’s neighbour Dawn was quite helpful in the end, once I managed to chip away at her hard-outer casing, but even she drew a blank. Then last night I went through everything in the house to piece together what I could but it didn’t make sense - other than to indicate her state of mind. She’d written pages and pages of stuff about a man called Fewtrell. She spoke to me about him on the phone as if he were some gangster. Do you know anything about him?’

  Rory looked down at Barney who in turn looked at Annette.

  ‘I take it that’s a yes,’ Gemma concluded. ‘She seems to be obsessed with the idea that he’s holding foreign workers captive, runs a stable of sex slaves, and if they fail to meet his requirements he dissolves them in acid tanks. I couldn’t get onto her laptop, so goodness knows what rubbish she’s been emailing to people. Thank God she doesn’t do social media. Where can I find this Leonard Fewtrell?’

  Barney interjected. ‘Please don’t go looking for trouble. He’s a predatory sex pest wh
en it comes to women. I would seriously recommend that you take your findings to the local nick and let them deal with the Fewtrells.’

  ‘There’s more than one of them?’

  ‘There are dozens and without exception they are unpleasant human beings.’ Barney’s shoulders sagged. ‘Bugger it. Try not to make any sudden moves, but there is your man now, Mad Leo Fewtrell with his henchmen, coming this way as they head back to the beer tent, I would think.’

  Rory watched Gemma’s face as reality sunk in. ‘I see what you mean.’ She took a step closer to Annette as Leo Fewtrell approached.

  ‘Where’s that mother of yours?’ he asked, aiming his question at Rory over the heads of the others.

  ‘She’s left for the day.’

  ‘Too bad. I want to offer ’er the chance to come out to Marbella with me next month. I should like to get to know ’er better.’

  Leo Fewtrell turned his attention to Gemma. ‘One of those for me?’ he asked, holding out his hand for a flyer. She pulled one from the pile in her arms and gingerly passed it to Leo, withdrawing her fingers before he could make a grab for her. He didn’t look at the paper. Instead, he ogled her while aiming a finger at Rory.

  ‘When my neighbour doesn’t do it for you, give me a call. I ’ave parts others can only dream about.’ His hands dropped to his crotch and, cupping his genitals, he thrust them forward. Dylan, standing next to him, sniggered. ‘Yeah, ’e’ll make you squeal and beg for more, girlie. When he was younger the women couldn’t get enough.’

  ‘Bollocks. They still can’t.’

  Gemma didn’t move away, but her distaste was evident as the corners of her mouth headed downward.

  ‘Thanks for the advice. Enjoy the rest of your day.’ Rory barked from his high ground on the tractor.

  ‘Anytime, neighbour. Got to go, need a piss. Going to siphon the extraordinary python.’ Leo gave a guttural laugh as he swaggered towards the back of the beer tent to relieve himself in the bushes instead of using the toilet block nearby.

  ‘Neighbour?’ Gemma sneered at Rory. ‘You live next door to that horrible man? You’re unbelievable.’

  Gemma had a waspish edge to her voice.

  ‘I didn’t see Anna go anywhere near the gates to his place, if that’s what you’re thinking. Anyway, he doesn’t live in a house as such, well he does, but it’s in a scrapyard with a factory unit and some caravans parked around the back. Anna was warned not to go near. No woman in their right mind would go in there on her own.’

  Gemma glowered back at him. ‘You said it.’

  25

  A Number of Unmanageable Factors

  The morning could not come soon enough for Rory. Despite topping up his alcohol intake with another evening in the pub, he failed to obtain sufficient sleep for his needs even though the infuriating scraping noises downstairs had ceased. On the Sunday evening he had noticed it more because the noises carried through the pipes into the upstairs bedroom - part of the reason he was forced to de-camp to the smaller second bedroom, away from the rowdy drunken rabble in the yard outside.

  Over the weekend, the number of Leo Fewtrell’s friends and relatives had swelled. Added to the head count on Sunday night were half-a-dozen scantily clad women who, it appeared, had been guided drunk and willing from the rally, loaded into a pickup truck and driven to Quarry Farm Lane for a night of debauchery.

  He couldn’t help himself; peering out of the window, standing in the dark excited by the rutting and fresh air fornication was mesmerising. The security lights lit up the yard like a stage and in the centre was the prerequisite bonfire around which men and women sat on upturned cans, on shabby chairs, on tree trunks and drank themselves to dangerous oblivion. Away from the fireside a sexual frenzy was taking place against vehicles, on an ancient sofa and - for one lucky couple - up against the wall of the factory unit.

  The guilt of watching finally compelled Rory to move and he washed off his sins in the shower before resigning himself to a sleepless few hours in a single bed. He lay there mulling over the frustrations of the past few days and began to wonder why Gemma Waterford continued to be so frosty towards him.

  Although he’d seen Gemma at the rally on the Bank Holiday Monday, he avoided speaking to her. Instead, he watched her from a distance as she badgered passers-by for information about her missing cousin. She approached a group of youths standing next to the rifle range where Wayne Fewtrell had just finished remonstrating loudly with the proprietor for refusing to hand over a prize. The stallholder had the measure of him and sent him away without showing any sign of weakness. ‘Fuck off, young Fewtrell. A gentleman like your grandfather would never question a decision made by a man holding a gun, and neither should you.’

  The similarity in Wayne’s demeanour to that of his grandfather occurred to Rory again. Although only seventeen, the youngster had a menacing physical presence and an adolescent lack of control that made him unpredictable, but on this occasion he and his three friends had sauntered off in good humour.

  On seeing Gemma, they surrounded her, feigning interest in what she had to say. It seemed to Rory that Wayne was emulating his grandfather when it came to preying on women and his reaction to Gemma was therefore of no surprise.

  She, on the other hand, seemed to trust his wide smile and moved closer to him when he asked to see what the leaflets were about. He manoeuvred his arm to place it casually across her shoulders as she explained her search for her missing cousin. Rory made his way from the rear of the rifle range stall to peer at the scene from one corner. He couldn’t afford to be recognised by Wayne but, equally, he couldn’t leave Gemma to fend for herself. The group of young men had corralled her against the side of another stall. Over the sounds of competing music, of bells ting, ting, tinging and air rifles being fired, Rory barely caught what was being said.

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘Maybe. She looks a bit like you.’

  Gemma looked up into Wayne’s intense dark eyes. ‘Yes, she does. Do you recognise her?’

  ‘I think so. I just need to check.’

  He slipped his hand from Gemma’s shoulder and gripped the back of her neck as he forced his mouth onto hers. Rory watched her try to pull back but the youth took his chance and his left hand pawed at her breasts before she raised her knee towards his groin in panic. He released his grip.

  ‘Bad girl. Don’t you ’ave no fuckin’ manners? Say thank you for the kiss and we’ll say no more.’

  Gemma spat at the ground. ‘Piss off, and don’t touch me again or I’ll report you to the police.’

  ‘Look love, you tried to assault me. All I did was kiss ya. What’s so wrong with that? Fuckin’ cockteaser, that’s what you are.’

  Gemma had nowhere to retreat to as Wayne made a lunge for her hips with both hands outstretched.

  ‘Ah, Wayne, I was hoping to catch you,’ Rory shouted as he took great, meaningful strides towards the group of young men. ‘Your grandfather had a word with me and, much against my better judgement, persuaded me to book you in for your CBT again.’ As he voiced this improvised announcement he also made certain to maintain eye contact with Wayne, and only fleetingly did he acknowledge the gang of posturing, gangly mates. ‘All right lads?’

  ‘What do you want?’ A sullen response from Wayne.

  ‘Just asking, to make certain you have your licence.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t got it yet.’

  ‘That’s a shame. Let me know when it arrives and we’ll book you in. Hello, Gemma, these lads giving you trouble?’

  She was rooted to the spot, staring at Rory, her eyes begging for help.

  Rory grabbed her arm. ‘Everything okay? Fancy some lunch? Great. Excuse us, boys. See you around, Wayne.’

  ‘Yeah. Whatever … wanker.’

  Taking his chances that the lad had finished showing off and had gone too far in sexually harassing Gemma, Rory herded her away from the fairground and towards the safety of the vintage tractors.

  ‘Wha
t did you do that for? I was handling the situation perfectly well on my own. I didn’t need you to come barging in. That bloke said he recognised Anna and he was going to take me to her.’

  Gemma was pulling away from the grip Rory had around the top of her right arm as he dragged her through the crowds, in much the same way that he had done to his mother the day before.

  ‘Not even you are desperate enough to fall for that. You were warned to stay away from the Fewtrell family. They tend to hunt in packs.’

  ‘He’s a Fewtrell? I didn’t realise.’ Gemma’s unsteady gait and tremulous hands hinted at how relieved she’d actually been at Rory’s intervention.

  ‘Well now you do, so I suggest you steer clear of the fairground and the beer tent from now on.’

  Gemma dug her heels in and skidded to a halt. He looked down at her incredulous expression as she asked, ‘were you following me again?’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself.’

  With approval from Barney, Annette had been thoughtful enough to share sandwiches, cake and drinks with Gemma to help her recover from her ordeal before suggesting that she return to the relative safety of Anna’s house.

  ‘She’s going back to Lensham. I think her little run-in with Wayne shook her up a bit and in all the chaos she lost her mobile phone, so she’s in a state about that.’

  ‘Good.’ Rory was unsympathetic.

  Annette seemed to ignore the comment. ‘The police aren’t taking Anna’s disappearance seriously, so she’s going to the papers tomorrow. From what Gemma said, Anna’s parents are flying in from Spain to help with the search and Brenda is hassling whoever she can from the confines of her hospital bed. This includes the vicar who has press-ganged some of his more mobile parishioners into tramping the local public footpaths in an effort to appease her.’

  Before continuing with her update, Annette rounded on Rory. ‘On the subject of worry, what’s eating you today? You deliberately avoided speaking to Gemma. I saw you. What are you afraid of? Affection? I would suggest you find a strategy for changing her opinion about you. She used the words “miserable” and “pillock” to describe your good self.’