The Needle House

by Robin Leslie Roughley

  'We went up to Horwich.'

  Lasser raised an eyebrow in surprise. 'I bet you were surprised when you found they had grass there that you couldn't smoke.'

  'Fuck off taking the piss.'

  Lasser ignored him. 'So, come on, what were you doing in the great outdoors?'

  Connelly shrugged, 'Just having a laugh.'

  'And what time did you drop Billy off?'

  Emptying the can, Connelly tossed it towards the bin, it hit the side before clattering to the flags. The scruffy dog eyed the container and then hobbled over for a sniff.

  'We didn't drop him off,' he paused, 'we lost him.'

  'What do mean you ''lost him''?'

  'He did a runner.'

  'And why would he do that when he was miles from home?'

  Kyle turned, his face a parody of innocence. 'No idea.'

  Lasser flicked ash onto the floor. 'So, who else was on this little outing?'

  'Just a couple of mates, that's all.'

  'You do surprise me; I didn't think you had any.'

  'Twat!'

  'Names, Kyle?'

  Connelly looked at the floor for a few seconds and then mumbled three names.

  'The usual suspects then?'

  A frown creased the boy's forehead. 'What're you on about?'

  'Never mind.'

  Connelly glanced over Lasser's shoulder and, just for a second, his eyes widened in surprise, or was it fear?

  Donald Fletcher was striding out of Spar. Some of Lasser's uniformed colleagues had nicknamed him the human pit bull. Fletcher was a fully-fledged meathead, who liked to paint the town blood red. If his Saturday night didn't end with a mass brawl, then he considered the night a dismal failure.

  'Right, thanks for the information, Kyle, you've been very helpful!' he saw panic bloom in Connelly's eyes.

  Lasser turned away, almost colliding with Fletcher. 'Bloody hell, Donald, this is a coincidence, we were just talking about you.'

  The crease on Fletcher's slab of a forehead turned into a deep furrow.

  'Catch up with you later, Kyle, and thanks again for the heads-up.'

  He headed for the car but couldn't resist a quick peek over his shoulder. Fletcher was heading for Connelly like a faulty Exocet Missile. Kyle backed off with his hands raised, a couple of seconds later the young hoodie turned and made a break for it. At nearly eighteen stone, running was never going to be Donald's forte, besides he didn't need to bother, he knew where Connelly lived.

  Lasser began to whistle as he headed for the car; maybe today wasn't going to be so bad after all.

  3

  Jenna sighed as the bus juddered to a halt; a woman struggled on board, a buggy in one hand a screaming baby in the other. The journey home from college was taking forever, to make matters worse the man squashed at her side smelled like the inside of a charity shop. Every time the bus went around a corner, he pressed his leg against hers and grunted. As they reached the town centre, he lumbered to his feet and headed for the doors. Jenna breathed a sigh of relief and placed her rucksack on the empty seat.

  She looked at her fellow passengers; the bus seemed full of people with sour expressions. Somewhere near the front, the baby began to cry again, a girl on the opposite side was listening to her iPod, tapping her feet to the tinny rhythm and punching a text message into her phone. A toddler munched on a packet of sour fruits; every time he popped one into his mouth his face would screw up in shock.

  By the time the bus left the town centre, Jenna was the only passenger left. She relaxed as the houses vanished and open fields took over, the cloying despair of the run-down streets slowly evaporating like a filthy mirage. Fifteen minutes later, she saw her stop approaching; pressing the bell, she made her way down the narrow walkway. The doors hissed open and she jumped to the pavement, breathing in deeply the familiar scent of rapeseed blossom sweetening the stifling air.

  Coughing a cloud of diesel fumes into her face, the bus rumbled away up the hill until the only sound was the chirp of grasshoppers and the drone of bees as they busied themselves in the hedgerow.

  Having to attend college was unavoidable and most of the time it was just about bearable.

  An image of Tina Sheldon flashed into her mind, seventeen and four months pregnant, swaggering around the campus with her bump on display, a real woman surrounded by immature kids, yeah right.

  Climbing the wooden stile, she paused for a moment to adjust the backpack and then leapt down into the field before making her way along the well-worn path.

  Girls like Sheldon drove her mad, but the boys were worse. Morons, who spent their time making comments about the size of your tits or the shape of your arse, or which lucky girl they'd shagged the night before. Popping a stick of gum into her mouth, she chewed furiously.

  If she'd had her way she wouldn't have gone in today, though her parents had made it clear that skiving off wasn't an option.

  She quickened her pace; the last few weeks had been spent in a state of nervous tension that had little to do with exams. With any luck, Patrick Fossey had spent the day on her parents' farm, whilst she'd been stuck in a classroom that reeked of cheap perfume and testosterone, trying to concentrate on an English exam.

  In the distance, she could see the familiar site of the tractor ploughing the top field. Seagulls shone white against a bank of threatening clouds, the colour of weathered gravestones.

  As she rounded a curve in the field, the house came into view, Jenna broke into an awkward run, the rucksack – heavy with books – slammed back and forth on her slim shoulders.

  At least the exam had been a breeze. She'd done the revision, spending endless nights cocooned in her bedroom just like a teenage hermit.

  Yet during the two-hour test, she'd found herself distracted by Fossey's visit, playing various scenarios over in her head, lost in the tantalising possibilities.

  That was until the tutor had informed the class that the first hour had passed.

  Her eyes had refocused on the page like a junkie coming out of a bad trip and for a few seconds she'd panicked at the lack of words that lay before her. For the last hour, she'd written in a kind of blind frenzy, desperate to get all her points down onto paper.

  All that stress, all that strain, who needed it?

  Although she would never admit it, in many ways her parents were cool. Though missing an exam just for the sake of meeting some 'weirdo writer' as her father had so infuriatingly insisted on calling Fossey, was a definite no, no.

  'But who's going to show him around, who's going to fill him in on all the important background stuff?' she had been standing at the kitchen table, her hands locked together in mounting frustration.

  Her dad had smiled in that annoying way that fathers seemed to specialise in. 'What about your grandad, why can't he…?'

  'You're joking, right?'

  'Well, Poppet, it's either him or I'm afraid we'll have to cancel. I mean, I can't spare the time and before you ask, neither can your mother.'

  Her face had flushed in anger at the use of her pet childhood name.

  It made her sound like one of those spoiled brats who always seemed to be popping up on some naff cable channel showing the sixteen-year-old girls who got a Ferrari for their birthday.

  'But, Dad, he can't…'

  'Just stop and think about it, your grandad knows more about this place than anyone else and if you prime him with the questions you want answering,' he treated Jenna to a big grin, 'then everyone's happy.'

  Yeah right. She loved her grandad, no question about that, but over the last couple of years he had been getting forgetful, a fact she pointed out as tactfully as she could.

  The smile had vanished in an instant. 'Take it or leave it, it's up to you. But it's the best offer you're going to get.'

  Jenna knew from bitter experience that it would be fruitless to push for more concessions. Her father had that look in his eyes and you did not mess with 'the look'.

  4

  Lass
er waited until the queue died down before nipping into the chippy.

  Frank smiled as he entered, his comb-over appeared to be held in place by chip fat, his moustache thick and wiry like some seventies porno star, the apron – stained white with batter – only adding to the illusion.

  'Now, Mr Lasser, how are you keeping?'

  'I'm getting tired of this heat, Frank.'

  'You should try working behind here when the fryer's on full blast,' he started to shovel chips into a polystyrene tray. 'Takes bloody years off you, it does.'

  'Much like the food you serve.'

  Frank grinned, showing an uneven set of yellowing dentures. 'I saw you giving Connelly a grilling.'

  'I was just having a quiet word.'

  'He's a little bastard that one.' Frank reached in and pulled a battered fish from the oven before slapping it down on top of the chips. 'Salt and vinegar?'

  'Plenty of vinegar, easy on the salt.'

  'I don't know why he can't get a job and do summat with his life. I mean, that bugger's been hanging about out there for over ten years.'

  It sounded preposterous, but Frank was probably right.

  'He never went to school, he spent all day kicking a ball against the wall. I used to chase the little sod off.' Frank shook his head sadly as he wrapped the greasy bundle. 'Course you can't do it now, not unless you want your windows put in.'

  'I don't know why you don't call it a day, Frank? I mean, you must have a few quid tucked away by now?'

  Frank looked affronted at the mere suggestion. 'I wouldn't know what do to with my time. I mean, you remember old George who had the newsagents?'

  'The guy with the wooden leg?'

  'Aye well, they found him dead last week, sat at the breakfast table with his face in a bowl of Sugar Puffs.' Frank picked up a chip and popped it into his mouth. 'That's what retirement does for you.'

  'I'm sorry to hear that, he was a nice bloke.'

  'He said he was going to take up golf, now look at him.'

  Lasser slid a tenner across the counter. 'So, what does Connelly do all day?'

  The note vanished whippet-quick, Frank rang the ancient till, rummaging around inside for change.

  'Probably does the same as his old man, deals drugs.'

  Lasser sighed; it was hardly earth-shattering news.

  'I tell you, I used to get on the blower to you lot, but I don't bother no more,' he sniffed.

  'Why's that?'

  Frank plonked the change into Lasser's cupped hand.

  'Because bugger all gets done, I mean, Connelly stands there for hours on end. When the kids come out of school they're round him like flies round shit. I tell you; it used to be the ice-cream man they ran to, now it's that hooligan, dishing out his little bags of God knows what.'

  'Don't worry, Frank; I've got my eye on Mr Connelly.'

  Frank looked unimpressed and in truth, Lasser didn't blame him, a slap on the wrist and then back on the streets the same day. A perpetual cycle of Kyle Connelly's. It was as if they were cloned in some secret science facility. Churned out like some sort of retribution to a society that got what it deserved.

  'You don't know a Billy Jones, do you?' Lasser asked.

  Frank wiped his hands on a paper towel before tossing it into the bin. 'Aye, I know him, little runt of a lad.'

  'He hangs around the shops then?'

  'Yeah, he knocks about with Connelly and his mates.'

  'Doing what exactly?'

  Frank shrugged. 'He's their errand boy, you know if they want owt from the shop he has to go and get it. I caught him a few weeks ago trying to get to my till.'

  'He was trying to steal from you?'

  'Oh aye, at one time it happened on a regular basis, but not so much since I got Mandy.'

  Frank whistled a single tuneless note and the biggest Rottweiler Lasser had ever seen popped up from behind the counter, all mangled ears and old battle scars.

  'This bloke I know was getting shut of her, so I said I'd take her off his hands.'

  'Bonny dog, Frank.'

  'I tell you, it's a good job he didn't get all the way over the counter. Mandy would have eaten him alive,' he smiled fondly, as if it was a cherished memory. 'Of course, the others found it hilarious, sick buggers.'

  The dog eyed Lasser and licked its lips before sinking slowly back below the counter.

  'So, I take it the older boys knew about the dog?'

  'Oh aye, they did it for a laugh. I mean, the kid was white as a sheet when he ran off, but like I said, they don't give a toss.'

  Lasser picked up the bundle of fish and chips, the grease already seeping through like blotting paper.

  'Right well, I'll see you soon, Frank.'

  'Aye, you take care, son, and watch your back.'

  Lasser smiled over his shoulder. 'I always do.'

  He wandered around the corner and slid behind the wheel, before dropping the chips onto the passenger seat.

  Five minutes later, he pulled onto the Three Sisters car park; a local beauty spot consisting of a small lake littered with empty plastic bottles and used condoms. A pair of swans glided through the debris. Pulling under the shade of an overhanging willow, he pushed the door open.

  A council worker fired up a leaf blower and began to blow the leaves around the car park.

  What Frank had said about Billy was hardly surprising; a young kid hanging around with older teenagers was guaranteed to get all the crappy jobs. His life would consist of doing whatever the others demanded, like some rite of passage, leading to a life of petty crime and drug abuse. It seemed strange though, normally Billy went everywhere with his older brother Michael, and he didn't seem like the kind of lad who'd let them get away with picking on his kid brother. Lasser picked up a chip and popped it into his mouth.

  When Connelly had given him the three names, he had never mentioned Michael; perhaps it would be worth calling back at the Jones's house, maybe the brother could fill him in on the details.

  His stomach rumbled as he ate, he watched as a magpie flew past the front of the car and crapped on the windscreen, typical.

  5

  Jenna let herself into the house, hurriedly kicking off her shoes in the hallway before shouldering her way into the lounge.

  The smell of baking bread, as familiar to her as cut grass and damp straw, drifted in from the kitchen. Tossing her bag onto the sofa, she sprinted across the room, banging open the door and arriving in the kitchen as if jet-propelled.

  Her mother stood at the sink peeling veg.

  Jenna had often thought it would be nice to nip into town for the occasional McDonald's like any normal family. Though the last time she'd broached the subject her mum had like totally overreacted, backing away from her as if she were the antichrist and making the sign of the cross with a couple of home-grown carrots.

  Susan turned from the sink, blowing a strand of ash-blonde hair out of her eyes. 'Hi, sweetheart, how did the exam go?'

  'It went OK, did he come?'

  Her mother tilted her head slightly, her face serious. 'Did who come?'

  Jenna treated her to a look of cool contempt, refusing to respond to such infantile behaviour.

  Susan smiled. 'OK, yes he did.'

  Jenna did a little jig on the spot, aware that she probably looked like a ten-year-old kid at a Morris-dancing parade. 'Oh, wow! I can't believe he actually turned up, what was he like?'

  'To be honest, Jenna, I was pleasantly surprised.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'Well, he seemed like a nice guy.'

  'And why should that be a surprise?' Jenna felt the old frustrations beginning to build. Why did parents always have to play their little mind games?

  'He was a lot younger than I was expecting,' Susan paused for maximum affect. 'In fact, he was quite dishy.'

  'Quite dishy!'

  Susan turned back to the sink, hiding a smile. 'If you want to know all the details then you'll find your grandad out back feeding the hens.'
r />   Jenna headed to the door, sliding her mother a withering glance as she passed. For a couple of seconds, she contemplated slamming the back door behind her, but decided it would make her appear petulant and childish. Closing it quietly she pulled on her ever-present wellies and headed outside.

  Ronnie flipped the bucket over and placed it on the ground before scratching his chin as if in deep thought. 'Well, Jenna, he was a funny kind of fella.'

  She'd found him in the chicken pen, shaking grain into one of the low metal troughs, the sound reminiscent of hailstone on a barn roof. 'But you told him about the old house, didn't you?'

  'Oh aye, in fact we even had a ride up there.'

  'So, he was definitely interested then?'

  He pulled the mangled stump of a cigarette from his top pocket and began rolling it between his fingers.

  'He seemed to be; in fact, he said he was going to give you a ring later, to go over a few things.'

  Jenna thrust her hands into her pockets and kept her feet rooted to the ground, one show of childish behaviour was enough for one day. 'This is seriously cool.'

  'Is it?' Ronnie grunted.

  She gazed at her grandad with a look of benign pity. 'Honestly, Grandad, you have no idea. Patrick Fossey is an expert.'

  'He went in tha' knows.'

  Jenna's eyes widened in surprise. 'He actually went into the house!'

  'Aye.'

  'Did you go with him?'

  Ronnie lowered himself onto the upturned bucket, a chicken approached and pecked at the dust around his feet. 'No, love, I didn't. I would have done, but he said he preferred to go in alone. Just him and this little terrier he had with him.'

  'So, come on, Grandad, what did he say when he came out?'

  'To be honest, he didn't say much.'

  'But he must have said something?'

  The old man cleared his throat. 'Well, by the time he came out, it was getting late and I had to get back here to feed these buggers.'

  She could imagine how the day had unfolded. Patrick Fossey asking loads of important questions and her grandad grunting one-word answers. This was exactly the kind of thing she had been worried about.