4 Bones Sleeping (Small Town Trilogy) Page 6

  The only other light came from the two fires at each end of the bar. Casting a carroty softness over the customers and the walls, turning the nicotine browned coloured ceiling into an orange sunrise. A relaxed, yet sombre setting and I was feeling agitated about a young girl’s death. It seemed that I was the only one showing any concern. A fragrant darkness and I watched Stuart as he worked away in the gloom.

  ‘Has Patrick said anything?’

  ‘You’re joking.’ He shook his head, ‘Quiet, the police will pull him in if…’

  Stuart trailed off, I finished the sentence for him. ‘What if they knew he was fucking a fifteen year-old girl?’

  I rarely swore, Stuart blinked a couple of times and then stared at me for a few seconds. ‘Something like that.’

  I shut my eyes, sleeping with someone had a much softer, less threatening sound to it. Is that why I used a vulgarity to describe the situation? An underage girl getting fucked gave the whole thing an imbalance that my idealised mind needed. I whispered, ‘Something like that. What can you tell me?’

  Stuart raised his eyebrows, ‘Not much really. Don’s driving lessons, that’s about it.’

  He wasn’t going to mention what his mate got up to with the girl. Fifteen and grown men sleeping with her. One nearly old enough to be her grandfather. The other twice her age. I listened to the piano and the steady murmur of conversation. This suited me fine, blue music, a good pianist and a calm end to a tumultuous day. A chance to reflect on the day’s events.

  I picked my glass up, threw some beer down my throat and glanced at Harry. Still the argumentative nose that glowed before any confrontation. Still the hair-trigger temper, still the awesome power. But with that package, comes the health warning that he was too slow and his hands too brittle. I’d made sure he was always close by in those post-war years. The years when I was suffering some sort of shell-shock and needed his protective cloak around me.

  I watched Harry and Tommy sat on bar stools resting their elbows on the counter and smoking. Stuart stood opposite the pair and they formed an irregular triangle, son, father and father in law. Hardly the holy trinity, but entertaining if nothing else. Stuart wore his status as licensee like a military campaign ribbon. Comfortable with the little scandals, arguments, brushes with the law that seem to go hand in hand with the pub trade.

  Stuart’s gaze settled on Tommy. ‘Someone falls out of a window and the police have three men on scaffolding as witnesses.’

  Tommy’s eyes flicked around the bar, a muscle ticked away in his vacant cheek, finally he smiled, but said nothing. Harry punched his son on bicep and said, ‘It’s amazing, three men working a few feet from a window, some girl hurls herself out and they see fuck all.’ Harry turned towards me and said it again. ‘They see nothing, what do you make of it all Jack.’

  ‘Three wise monkeys – the difference is that all three say nothing. They all saw what happened though.’ I stared at Tommy who gazed steadfastly into his beer.

  Nothing for me here.

  ‘Where’s your brother?’

  Harry snorted towards the other bar, ‘Where do you think?’

  Stupid question, I sighed, turned and wandered through to the Smoke Room. Wyn beamed my way and Shirley stared down at the floor. Wyn’s right hand rested insouciantly in the expensive sports jacket pocket, the left elbow rested against the mantle shelf. He took his look away from me and stared down at the fire for a minute.

  He had become the perfect combination of discretion and seediness. A connoisseur of good looking women that, to some at any rate, made him even more interesting. Perhaps his age had added just a touch of vulnerability. Wyn absent mindedly fingered the scar that ran diagonally down his broad cheek, like a railway embankment viewed from a hot air balloon. A permanent testament to a singularly, violent act of retribution. Aside from this startling feature, his face reflected pious corruption somehow I thought. Old fashioned manners, serious expression, matinee idol’s moustache.

  Never beaten, plenty of reversals – but he always won the war. He’d dropped the epithet of the Major after our escape from London all of those years ago.

  I said, ‘Nasty business.’

  Wyn nodded before saying, ‘Nasty, young girl too.’

  I glanced at Shirley, preparing to leave it seemed, putting her cigarettes into her handbag. Dragging her kid-skinned gloves on. She stared at Wyn as she spoke, ‘I heard that she liked older men.’

  Wyn glanced back over towards Shirley and said. ‘Well I wouldn’t take much notice of anything he says at the moment.’

  Who says?

  I stared at her, she met my gaze comfortably. Nothing new in that, Shirley intimidated me and she knew it. Everyone knew it; perhaps our antipathy towards one another caused Wyn to change the subject. ‘I’m thinking of selling up – what do you think?’

  The George Hotel had made Wyn a steady living for many years, I couldn’t see him giving that up. I said, ‘Why?’

  I smiled and Shirley brought her gaze towards Wyn and her nose flared, a frown firmly in place. ‘Yes… and what would you do? You’d be bored witless in a few days and waste most your money in the bookmakers.’

  Shirley’s fingers drummed away on the table in front of her, she nodded silently, the sound of the piano from the public bar drifted through like morning mist over the canal bank. All followed by the heartening burst of shouting from Harry, mingled with a regular curse from Tommy. They looked at each other and smiled. But they were both preoccupied I thought. Shirley’s immaculately applied make up inferred a pending encounter. I might have known her for thirty five years, but I hadn’t trusted her for a single minute of that time.

  I listened.

  Wyn said. ‘I could just sell it all, get the solicitor’s moving, sell up, make a lot of money and take things easy.’

  I watched Wyn as he glanced back at Shirley, with her thick blonde hair, blue eyes and those cultured cheekbones. Wyn smiled and no wonder, in her mid-fifties and not a grey hair in sight.

  Shirley uncrossed her legs and pressed the knees demurely together. ‘You need to stay busy and you’re better off watching all those gorgeous young women you employ – have you thought about that?’

  ‘All those young women?’ Wyn moved away from the fire and stood directly in front of her. ‘At my age.’

  Shirley lit a cigarette and stared at Wyn for a few seconds, ‘They all love you.’ Shirley glanced my way, raised her eyebrows, ‘They keep you young.’ She shook her head, glanced at her watch, a touch impatient I felt, ‘I have to go soon.’

  ‘Are you going to have another one?’ He nodded towards her empty glass.

  Shirley sighed and stood, brushed her skirt down and then smiled up at Wyn, ‘Early night, things to sort out.’ She buttoned her long raincoat and picked her hand bag up. Wyn walked the short distance to the door and opened it for her.

  Shirley rested her elegant fingers on the back of Wyn’s hand. ‘Old friends.’

  She stared my way and raised her eyebrows again. Shirley kissed him on the cheek and closed the door behind her.

  ‘Old friends.’ Wyn said this as though he was the only person in the room.

  I shook my head, I didn’t ask him what was going on. He’d tell me soon enough. We stared at each other, his soft, brown eyes sparkled my way, first time I’d seen that for a couple of months. ‘I’ve asked Shirley to come down to Cornwall for a few days.’

  I smiled at him. ‘Lucky man.’

  He laughed, ‘You’re always the lucky one.’ Then Wyn frowned and his lips turned down, he sighed and I watched as his hand came my way and it gently gripped my bicep. How many years has he been doing that? I felt warm and shivered at the same time. Wyn’s soothing words drifted my way. ‘Listen… Shirley’s life’s a bit complicated at the moment, she needs to get away and let things calm down here.’

  With that he turned and walked into the other bar. I stood and thought about Shirley’s complicated life style and didn’t know whether to s
mile or grimace. She copes well enough, but then she’s had forty years practice. I opened the front door and carefully sniffed the air. A smoker’s always cautious when he walks from a hot room and outside into the cold air. With lungs already ruined by thousands of cigarettes, the shock of ice cold air was enough to cause the heart to stall. I let the frosty air filter in through my nose rather like a cautious foot soldier sniffing the air after a mustard gas attack. I glanced up the hill and then down the other way.

  That’s when I saw them, walking away from me, hips together and arms linked. Shirley’s walking slowly alongside a bulky figure that was so familiar. They walked around the back of the terrace. I hurried after them, I knew the place so well, I knew it would be library quiet, bathed in soft street lights and solitude. Immaculately clean, steps recently scrubbed, a couple of cats were sat uncomfortably close about to argue over possession of what would be the early morning sun trap. Ears back and staring, distracted by two people wandering along at this god forsaken hour, the smaller cat broke off and scuttled away.

  The couple stopped in front of number six, the man looked down at his watch as Shirley slid the key into the door. He pulled the kitchen door up behind him. I crept close, watching through the un-curtained kitchen door window. She leaned forward and they kissed and walked towards the small living room as they kissed. A room that didn’t reflect either her personality, or the way she dressed I thought. Everything neatly understated, a dark coloured sofa, one soft table lamp. No television, music coming from somewhere bathing the room with some sort of soft soul music. Shirley always banked the fire right up, a fierce heat, disproportionate to the small hearth would envelope the man in its redness. He was about to be enveloped by a hot fire and a red hot woman.

  He wouldn’t notice the carriage clock, or the small brass ornaments either side on mantelpiece. Never realise that there were no photographs of her late husband. Perhaps he might glance at the solitary photograph. One of Peggy, Harry, Stuart and Shirley stood behind the bar with their arms around one another, broad smiles from all four. Taken just about the time Stuart started messing about with Shirley’s daughter-in-law, no wonder he looked so happy.

  I sighed, turned away and walked back up Grove Street; reflections of Shirley muscled their way into my mind. What’s better I wondered, images of a compromised Shirley or images of a compromised policeman?

  It wasn’t the two lovers that stuck in my mind though, as they writhed and twisted all over the living room floor. Don had no principles and seemingly, no preference about the age of his women, fifteen up to fifty five was a generous tolerance by anyone’s standards. Although the bottom limit was as yet unproven, if it ever could be now.

  *****

  I slept the profound sleep of the wicked until the alarm clock smashed its way into my head.

  No!

  Just me, alone as I fumbled for the clock and as the erotica fuelled dream receded, the same thought pulsed through me. Her words from thirty five years ago, as her hot breath tingled against my ears and she whispered. ‘I had you down as a queer – I’m not usually wrong.’

  I gave up and my head went back against the pillow and my mouth hung open, surrender.

  Do what you like.

  Not that I was an expert, but it’s how I imagined a lover felt when seduced, overpowered by an overpowering lover. Was this how the young girl felt? Out of control, out of her mind because of her uncontrollable feelings for her lover?

  I frowned, annoyed at being distracted by a woman I’d known for so long. Distracted by a policeman that I hated, angry that three men I’d known for years had closed ranks and cut me off completely. Patrick would be the key, the unspeaking Patrick. How do you encourage him to talk? Only one man could do that and Stuart would become my interpreter, my key.

  You see I didn’t want Patrick to be implicated, I wanted to nail Don, I’d convinced myself that he had become the catalyst in all of this. I shrugged, even if he wasn’t, he deserved some sort of comeuppance. One thing was for sure, perhaps he didn’t realise it now, becoming involved with Shirley was a hazardous game.

  He was about to find that out.

  Teddy - 1980

  ‘Bernard.’

  Her voice, but not HER voice.

  ‘It’s not your fault. It was no-one’s fault.’

  He shook his head, rubbed his eyes and stared at her. ‘I can’t sleep, what am I going to do now?’

  He watched, she slowly shook her head, then tried half a dozen times to open the packet. He waited until she’d got the cigarette to her lips and fired the lighter up.

  ‘Don’t smoke in here.’

  She held the unlit cigarette between her heavily made up lips. Sighed deeply and then tried slide it back into the packet. Her fumbling fingers caused the cigarette to break; she threw the tip towards Teddy. It fell on the bed halfway between the two of them.

  ‘Jesus, what’s happening between us?’

  ‘Perhaps she just took after her mum?’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  Teddy sat up and pointed at her, ‘Supposed to take after their mother’s aren’t they?’

  ‘I’ve done nothing to feel ashamed about, perhaps you should look at yourself first.’

  Teddy’s lips compressed first, then his forehead tightened. He slid down the bed and turned on his side, away from her. She should think herself lucky he thought, not so long ago …

  Women! Mothers, daughters – fuck them all.

  No, he didn’t mean that. Teddy never moved, held his breath as she walked past the bed and went out through the door. He waited until the door was gently pulled shut. Waited for her to go down the stairs. Teddy heard the radio burst into life, she turned the volume up, she always did that, her little act of rebellion.

  Christ, Teddy thought.

  The words battered their way up the stairs and through the closed door.

  “Call me immature

  Call me a poser

  I'd love to spread manure in your bed of roses.

  Don't want to be rich,

  Don't want to be famous,

  But I'd really hate to have the same name as you.”

  Teddy clamped the heel of each hand over his ears, then he started to sob. The song title repeating over and over.

  “Too much. Too young”

  Over and bloody over

  He rushed out of the door, up and into his dark room. He threw photographs everywhere until he found the letter. It had lost its perfume years ago but never its emotion. He looked at the date, the 27th of August. The year wasn’t there, but it was engraved on his heart well enough.

  My dear, darling Teddy …

  His breathing slowed and then, the racking sobs stopped as well.

  He sighed.

  My dear, darling Teddy …

  7

  Jack - 1945

  Teddy came in the next night, with his short sighted brother this time. Eyeless immediately ordered drinks and then refused to pay. Wyn signalled the barman to stand down. Teddy stared at me, I looked away, felt my eyes go back towards Teddy’s icy gaze. I looked away again like a scolded dog avoids his vicious master’s stare. But like the dog, my eyes went back to Teddy. All the time I wondered where Harry was. Adrift as I was, bobbing around in a minefield without my minesweeper.

  Teddy didn’t swagger so much, as glide over and he towered over Wyn, never held his hand out and I wondered if Wyn would have shaken it anyway. Teddy nodded and looked around the busy club, Caesar meets the Kaiser. Wyn never moved, apart from his eyebrows stretching a touch, nothing. Impressive I felt, perhaps his heart hadn’t stopped like mine.

  Peggy played some Cole Porter, ‘I’ve got my eyes on you.’ Just as Harry hove into sight, his frown clicked into place and over he came. Levered himself in between Wyn and myself and gazed at the gazer. Mexican standoff and the world stood still. People moved past us, all out of focus. Blurred movements past the two men facing us.

  Harry broke the spell, ‘What do y
ou want?’

  Teddy’s gaze measured, us, the distance between us, my shoes, my jacket. I shivered and waited for someone to make a move.

  ‘Nice place.’ Teddy’s voice inflected a little tension, perhaps he didn’t get the deference he expected from the brothers stood either side of me. I could sense their breathing, Wyn’s calm and even, Harry’s short and rapid. One at ease with life, the other expected world war three to break out at any second. Eyeless had his hand in his jacket pocket, wrapped around a blade of some sorts no doubt.

  Wyn stared at Teddy and in his calmest delivery said, ‘And what can I do for you? Drink? Cigar maybe?’

  ‘Get any trouble?’ Teddy answered the question himself, ‘Not yet by the look of it.’

  Then his deadpan face abruptly loosened and turned into a question mark as he stared at me again. ‘Jack – slumming it a bit aren’t you? What brings you in here?’

  I stared frantically around.

  Where’s Shirley? What do I say?

  ‘I only live fifty yards away.’ Which not only sounded lame, it practically gave him my address. I watched Teddy write it down in the back of his head.

  ‘Got an office?’

  Wyn nodded, ‘Of course, shall I bring anything?’

  A nice looking girl?

  Teddy pointed at Harry, ‘He stays here.’

  Wyn nodded, ‘That’s ok, Harry will wait outside the door though.’ Then he gestured my way and said, ‘My press secretary will be with us though.’

  Press secretary!

  Does he mean me?

  Teddy looked around the office, huge oak table. Walnut inlay, table tennis size. Pictures on the wall of boxers and racehorses, cigar case on the table, the smell of fresh coffee, bowl of fresh fruit. One wall hidden by dozens of crates, hundreds of bottles of single malt whisky. Teddy raised his eyebrows, his thoughts transparent enough, Wyn did have contacts. Teddy stared as Wyn sat back in his chair, half-smoked cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth. Hands clasped behind his head and his brown eyes twinkled Teddy’s way.