Salt of Their Blood Read online

  Salt of their Blood

  Gerald Wixey

  Copyright © 2011 Gerald Wixey

  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

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  concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park

  Kibworth Beauchamp­

  Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  To Gwen - all my love

  and thanks for everything

  Chapter 1

  1960

  I heard someone die.

  It was a steaming, oppressive night as I lay sleepless in bed. The window wide open and my bedroom filled with smells of honeysuckle and cut grass. Night time noises too. Not the typical rural sounds, not the hoot of an owl, or a farm dog barking in the distance. We live next door to the bus garage and it was the clang of a big spanner bouncing onto a reinforced concrete floor. Or the rhythm of an engine throbbing away. The distinct smell of diesel would alert the hard of hearing to the fact that engines ran unfettered for hour after hour, as the mechanic tweaked and calibrated its fuel pump. Sometimes he just used the engine to mask the fact that he was getting an hour’s sleep.

  Unlike me, unable to sleep in my over-heated, febrile state. In this restless condition I found myself on the cusp of a dream-induced catastrophe.

  Then I heard someone die.

  There can be no doubt about that. The bus garage doors were wide open and the building acted like an enormous speaker. The words hurried across the car park, crashed through my window and bounced around inside my head, like a lunatic in a padded cell. So loud and piercing they sent an iced stiletto of horror ripping through my hot body.

  ‘What are you doing. Noooooooooo!’

  Followed by a noise. A brief metal-crunching, weld-rending, rivet-popping sound as a heavy weight’s brief journey arrested abruptly against something unforgiving. I sat bolt upright and listened to an ensuing silence so loud that I just sat there and shivered. After a few moments I climbed out of bed and walked to the window. I saw the shadow of someone scuttling across the garage forecourt. But the way the streetlights were positioned meant it could just as easily have been someone taking a late night wander home. I stared and listened and the doubts began to encroach.

  Was it a dream? Just a hot summer’s night-induced nightmare?

  I shivered again, then crept back to bed. I went through the five words over and over.

  What. Are. You. Doing. Nooooooooo.

  Over and over, until they had the same effect as the endless counting of sheep.

  Four weeks later the coroner said it was an accident.

  Nobody seemed bothered by the verdict. There was little time to discuss it anyway, because the next day my best friend disappeared. Declan vanished from the face of my small world.

  There we were, rampaging around our pastoral idyll, running wild across meadows and wading through brooks. One minute he was with me and the next second – gone. I heard my old man and his customers whispering about a lunatic out on the loose. I listened to their murmurings and I knew that it was the end. My old man told me that Declan would turn up, he always did.

  Eventually.

  But I knew he wouldn’t this time.

  Declan vanished and hours later I watched the police swarm all over our pub, our garden and the adjacent allotment, fanning out to cover the whole town and the surrounding fields. They even walked up the railway line where Declan got so badly hurt a few weeks before. Then my old man rounded his customers up into some sort of intemperate, midnight posse. He became the sheriff, albeit a half-drunk one. And they wandered aimlessly across meadows and blundered through the moon shadows.

  Nothing.

  The next evening, Tommy Doyle slumped against the bar, taking the weight on his elbows as he gazed down at the cheap, pre-formed ashtray a few inches from his nose. His daughter perched on a stool alongside. Apart from the vast amounts of beer that he drank, Declan’s twin sister was the only thing left in this world that Tommy truly loved.

  We all watched as he twisted and took the weight on one elbow, picked his pint up and stared at it. Tommy dragged his cigarette smoke down to his boots and took a half-pint gulp of beer at the same time. Then he gazed at the dartboard and rubbed his stubbly chin, like it was glass paper and he was trying to smooth the many calluses from his fingers. Tommy swung his stare my way. His eyes bulged, pressurised like they were about to burst.

  He shouted at me. ‘Where the fuck is he?’

  Tommy barked this every few minutes and every time I jumped like I’d just sat on a cattle prod. While I flinched, Kathy sat coolly, unmoved by his temper. Sometimes she rested her hand on the back of Tommy’s. It comforted him and had the same effect a good shepherd’s voice has on a restless border collie. Tommy loved only one thing in this world and she was perched up on a barstool, sat alongside him.

  Despite a terrifying twenty four hours, I stared at her the way any eleven year-old boy stared at a beautiful girl. You never really knew why. Just attracted by her attractiveness I suppose. She must have been aware of my gaze, but Kathy’s expression remained as closed as the tightest vault, her focus remained on Tommy. I gazed on and drank in her shortish black hair, the high cheekbones and green eyes.

  Tommy used her as some sort of conduit for his many moods. Kathy had taken on the responsibility for guiding her father through the choppy waters of his unpredictable disposition. Towing him towards a safe harbour.

  In between bouts of unbearable silence, Tommy kept snapping the same question my way.

  ‘You’re supposed to be his friend. Where is he?’

  Chapter 2

  1972

  The frost clung on, hard enough to bind the car park gravel into small knots. A nasty wind sighed across the allotments, a cold dry blow straight down from the north. I shivered, happy to get behind the counter and watch the fires at both ends of the long public bar begin to draw nicely. I glanced out of the window as the sun glistened on the rime still clinging onto the elm tree’s branches. My thoughts drifted towards their customary focus. Mostly Declan, occasionally the mechanic, or more recently, Kathy.

  ‘Wake up dreamer.’ Three soft words broke into my fixation.

  I turned my gaze towards Jack the Scribe, thoughtful, considerate and at times a touch dull. The owner of the local newspaper would be mortified if he realised anyone thought that he was anything other than witty and the fount of all knowledge in our little world.

  Before I could answer, I heard the sound of an empty glass sliding across a polished counter, accompanied by a harsh Ulster voice. ‘Hurry up yer dozy sod, a drinking man could die of thirst here.’

  I watched my other customer closely. Tommy sat hunched in his customary Saturday lunchtime parking space. His cigarette smoke’s pernicious column spiralled upwards for its appropriate coming together with the nicotine-stained ceiling
. He never said much, just sat there in that glorious silent world reserved for the heavy drinker. All the time, he had this soundless conversation going on with Declan, like he was still alive and sat alongside. Tommy did this more and more as he got older. And in a way I played the game too. I imagined Declan sat next to Tommy as well, having a drink with his dad. I wondered whether he would have had his harelip fixed. Or his glasses, come to that, forever twisted with one lens covering his good eye, the other somewhere between his eyebrow and his hairline.

  Tommy’s vacant gaze drifted into mine. His head jolted away. He knew that I was thinking much the same as him. He swore under his breath, lit a cigarette, then swilled some beer down his throat, slammed the palm of his hand onto the counter and hissed at me, ‘What are you fucken staring at? And turn that rubbish off while you’re at it.’Paul Simon’s wholly inappropriate lyrics came crackling out of the radio.

  ‘Nothing but the dead and dying

  Back in my little town.

  Nothing but the dead…’

  I threw the switch and shrugged. Time to put the TV on for the afternoon’s racing anyway. I was about to ask Tommy if he had much work on, when the door’s familiar squeak jolted me away from my unpredictable patron. An unlikely looking threesome walked through; the most gorgeous woman in town and just to balance the equation, the two most despicable men. One mean and ugly, the other just mean. Son and father, with the daughter-in-law making the point of the triangle. The men ignored me and I watched as they walked over to the far corner of the room and sat down. In silence, Ron inverted the box of dominos and Kenny shuffled them. Two poor mime artists going through a well-rehearsed routine.

  I smiled as Kathy gestured to me, a drinking motion with her right hand.

  I said, ‘You expect waiter service?’

  We both laughed and I hoped Kenny might think that we were laughing at him, sat there with his petulant mouth and the shroud of misery that forever cloaked around him. Kenny never looked my way and I smiled to myself; that’s the place to sit, as far away from me as possible.

  I nodded towards Kenny and whispered to Tommy. ‘Why don’t you go and join your son-in-law then?’

  His haunted eyes met mine and he said, ‘Why don’t you just…’

  He trailed off as he sensed Kathy’s presence. She pulled a spare stool across and sat alongside Tommy. She always appeared secure enough in the company of mainly middle-aged drinkers. I wanted to look at the effect generated by a short skirt and a tall stool, but her eyes were locked onto mine. I smiled at her. It balanced nicely. Kathy always made me smile and Kenny induced nothing but scowls and grimaces. I tried not to appear like a falcon viewing a shrew as she settled on the stool.

  Things had simmered and simmered between us for years. Well, she teased and teased and I did all of the simmering. Until a couple of months ago, that is. Now we both played a dangerous game; she had a violent husband and I was spinning headlong out of control. Sometimes I asked myself, did I do it because I hated her husband? Maybe, but Kathy had burrowed deep inside my head from the very beginning and as I stared at her I couldn’t help raising my eyebrows. She did look out of this world. So confident, her appearance exactly as she wanted it. Clear, intelligent green eyes, immaculate jet-black hair in a short, tight bob. Never anything less than perfect; her clothes chic, and all finished off by a delicate, gold crucifix at the base of her throat.

  I watched as she put her arm around Tommy’s shoulder, kissed him on the cheek and then beamed divinely, ‘How are you?’

  Tommy’s eyes flashed around the bar and softened as soon as he looked into his daughter’s eyes. He smiled, shrugged and lit a cigarette.

  Kathy glanced my way, ‘Get him one.’ Then she nodded at my other customer, ‘Jack, another?’

  Jack shook his head, ‘No thanks, big game this afternoon.’

  No, Jack didn’t play football; he reported on the town’s matches, and the way they played depended, it seemed, on how much he had to drink. Two pints, they were average, three good, four pints and they became world-beaters. Tommy, on the other hand, didn’t feel inhibited when an offer came along. We all thought that he was trying to drink himself into an early grave and sleep in peace alongside his long-lost son. He drained the best part of a third of a pint and Kathy passed his empty glass over to me.

  She turned back to Tommy and said, ‘Have you talked to him today? How is he?’

  Everyone in the street knew that Tommy talked to Declan, but Kathy was the only one allowed to mention it. Declan and his gorgeous sister made the unlikeliest pair of twins. Ugly Declan and beautiful Kathy. Declan had copped everything at home, while Kathy got away with murder; metaphorically speaking. I looked over at Ron, he was the only one in here who had actually got away with murder. Or maybe it was Kenny. I had got this into my head twelve years ago and couldn’t shift it. I always believed that these two were responsible for what happened to Declan. My obsession would never end. I glanced towards Kenny; he had married the other compulsion in my life.

  ‘Stuart – wake up, dreamer.’ Kathy raised her eyebrows as she spoke. ‘Can we have some service please?’

  ‘Sorry.’ I stared into her green eyes. ‘Didn’t know you played dominoes.’

  ‘Don’t be clever.’ Kathy snorted my way, ‘I’m just here to see him.’ She nodded at Tommy, then smiled back at me. ‘I’m off shopping in a few minutes.’ Kathy held a pound note out, ‘God you’re so slow, three pints and a vodka. How long does it take?’

  A long time, when someone that strikingly good-looking is teasing away. I counted her change for the third time and said, ‘When are you moving?’

  She said nothing, just leaned in close and whispered, ‘What time do you close?’ She never gave me a chance to answer, ‘Bridget’s away for the weekend. I’ve got to feed her cat – fancy a coffee about three-ish?’

  Bridget was her closest friend. Her absence offered us a chance too good to miss.

  We both kept our faces as closed as the tightest of tombs. As I kept telling myself, this was a hazardous game to play.

  I asked the same question, louder this time. ‘When do you move?’

  ‘Wednesday – can’t wait.’

  ‘I’ll miss you.’

  She took her change and frowned at me. ‘Wish I could say the same.’ She held my gaze for a minute and then Kathy smiled. My heart hammered so hard into my ribs that I thought the whole room would hear.

  Nothing changes.

  I said, ‘Off you go – go and watch the dominos.’

  Kathy tipped her head a touch, the tip of her pink tongue momentarily exposed. She winked at me, ‘Must I?’

  With that, she slid down from the stool and I watched her short-skirted walk back across to her husband. Narrow hips, twisting and teasing away.

  I felt Tommy’s eyes boring my way. He nodded at me, but said nothing. Tommy guessed how I felt about his pride and joy; he carried on staring at me and then went off on one, ‘Hot skinny, black-haired bitches – won’t leave you alone – you know the type, suck ten years off a hard working man, nothing but trouble.’

  I held his glare – oh yes, I pondered, I know all right. I have a deep and intimate understanding of your daughter. Tommy’s fierce eyes blazed away and I finally I lowered mine, unsure what had started Tommy’s rage or whether it was inclusive of Kathy or not.

  Finally I said, ‘What are you on about Tommy?’

  ‘You know what I’m fucken on about.’ He turned and nodded towards Kenny. ‘I know what you think about him, but she’s happy enough. Just leave her alone.’

  But I knew that wasn’t true. Kathy had a tormented streak running through her that almost matched mine. I said nothing however and just stared back at Tommy. You had to say that about him – he managed to switch moods more easily than most other people can throw a light switch. He did it again; looking back to his pint, he shook his head and then laughed.

  ‘She’s out spending money
this afternoon. Her way of saying a fond farewell to this piss-hole of a town.’

  I knew well enough that Kathy wasn’t going near a shop. I took a sneaky look over. Not sneaky enough; Kathy stared back my way and then smiled.

  Tommy was drunk most of the time and I certainly didn’t think that he realised what was going on. I watched him stand up and shake his head as he said, ‘I’d better do my fucken duty – won’t be five minutes.’

  Then he jerked his head in the direction of the domino players.

  I said, ‘Off you go. Take it like a man.’

  Jack laughed, which only produced the usual battery of curses from Tommy.

  ‘Not a language the clergy would understand.’ Jack stared at me. ‘Is that faraway look focused on the two domino players? Or would it be the gorgeous one?’

  ‘Domino players.’ I corrected Jack, ‘Don’t you meant crooks?’

  I shook my head. Sometimes I wasn’t sure myself. I obsessed about both, albeit for very different reasons. Jack read me better than most. Perhaps he could help me out. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think it’s about time you forget all three. Revenge destroys you and unrequited love – or lust in your case – just drives you mad. If it is unrequited, of course?’

  He stared unblinking, I ignored the implicit question. ‘I’ll miss Kathy,’ I said, ‘but if it means that I won’t have to stare at his ugly face any more…’

  I left it hanging in the air, reluctant to saddle up my hobbyhorse. It turned Jack off, after all I’d ridden it past him enough times. He patted his jacket pockets for cigarettes, sighing at the same time. We often talked the afternoon away – well, Jack did. I listened as he told me all the gossip from the magistrates’ court. Not today. He stared at the head of his beer, located his cigarettes and decided to indulge me.

  ‘How are things between you and Kenny these days?’ Jack spoke with just the merest hint of a smile on his face.

  ‘Same as always.’ I shook my head, ‘We skirt around one another. You know how it is, how I feel about him – unfinished business as far as I’m concerned.’