Blind to the Bones Page 42
That was the only thought that gave her any reassurance. He surely wouldn’t know how to use the shotgun.
Michael Dearden took the shotgun from the chair and held it in front of him like a shield. The position felt wrong. He tried to remember the way he had seen the shooters carrying their guns when they went up after the grouse. He thought they carried them in the crook of their arm, with the barrels pointing downwards for safety. He tried that, but it still didn’t feel right. If the gun were to go off accidentally while he was walking with it, he would shoot his foot off, surely.
Dearden settled for holding the shotgun clutched across his chest at an awkward angle, with the barrels pointing upwards. An accidental shot would now go through the ceiling of the kitchen into the bedroom above. He thought of Gail lying in bed immediately above him, and he put the gun down hastily. But then he remembered that the gun wasn’t even loaded, and he felt ridiculous and useless.
What sort of a man was he that he had no idea how to hold a gun? Boys were supposed to pick it up by instinct, turning any handy bit of wood into an imaginary rifle to play at shooting people. He hoped it was just a matter of getting used to the thing. Maybe he ought to practise firing it. Dearden glanced up at the ceiling again. Perhaps when Gail was out.
Ben Cooper waited in by his phone that night. He was nervous about the call he was expecting from Angie Fry. He had decided what he was going to say to Angie, but couldn’t quite settle on the words he would use.
He poured himself a beer while he waited, sat down in an armchair, got up again, turned on the TV and used the remote to reduce the volume. Randy put his head round the door from the kitchen, hoping that Cooper might be in a suitable position for settling down with for the evening. But the cat seemed to sniff the air suspiciously, turned away and went back towards the conservatory to sleep by the central-heating boiler instead.
When the phone rang, Cooper jumped as if it had been completely unexpected. He grabbed for the remote, remembered the volume was already down, and reluctantly picked up the receiver.
‘What have you decided?’ said Angie’s voice.
‘I’m not going to do it.’
She let out a long breath that sighed intimately down the phone into his ear. ‘Ben, don’t you care about what happens to Diane?’
‘Yes, I do. And that’s the reason I won’t do it. You’ve picked the wrong person, Angie.’
‘There wasn’t anyone else,’ she said. And Cooper thought she could barely keep the disdain from her voice, hardly disguise the unspoken inference that she would rather have been dealing with anybody in the world but Ben Cooper. ‘There was no one else I could find who might be called her friend.’
‘I can’t help that.’
‘The only people back in the West Midlands she keeps in touch with are our old foster parents in Warley, and I can hardly go and talk to them.’
‘It would be a bit of a shock for them,’ said Cooper.
‘Diane hasn’t kept in contact with any of her old colleagues in the West Midlands. I can’t understand it.’
‘Maybe she just wanted to put that part of her life behind her,’ said Cooper. And he listened to the silence at the other end of the phone, picturing Angie Fry screwing her face, figuring out how she should respond.
‘I’m going to have to come and see you again,’ she replied.
‘No.’
‘I have to, Ben.’
‘I don’t want you coming here again. I’m serious. You know I can cause trouble if I have to.’
Angie sighed. ‘Where then? Name a time and place, so I can talk to you properly.’
‘I’m busy this weekend. It’ll have to be Monday, when I’m off duty.’
For a few seconds, the sound of her breathing went away from the phone. Cooper pictured Angie silently consulting someone, and wondered if his conversation was being listened in to.
‘And not here in Edendale,’ he said. ‘I’m not having you at my home again. Or anywhere where I’m known.’
‘OK,’ she said. ‘But where, then?’
‘If you come out of Sheffield on the A616 past Stocksbridge, there’s a village called Midhopestones. You can catch a bus.’
‘Right.’
Cooper almost laughed. No doubt she had no intention of catching a bus, but would be getting a lift in the dark blue BMW.
‘There’s a pub at Midhopestones called the Pepper Pot,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick you up there at two o’clock, and we can go somewhere quiet to talk.’
‘Ben, you’re not planning to do anything silly, are you? It would be a mistake, you know.’
‘It’s entirely up to you,’ he said. ‘Don’t come if you don’t want to. I’m not really bothered.’
‘All right, all right. I’ll be there. No problem.’
Cooper put the phone down and shook his head sadly. It seemed that Angie Fry hadn’t changed her low opinion of him, even now.
34
Saturday
Tommy was killed by eleven-thirty on Saturday morning, which was a little later than planned. But on the Edendale Day of Dance, nothing ever got done on time.
Tommy died in the Market Square, just outside the Wheatsheaf Inn, with the sweet smell of Bank’s Best Bitter drifting from the doorway of the pub, and the setts underneath him still damp from the morning’s showers. He lay curled in a foetal position, with his arms clutched across his chest and his legs pulled up into his stomach.
The small crowd that had gathered on the pavement stood and stared at him for a while. They had been attracted by the noise, but had been expecting more excitement, perhaps a little more blood. When nothing else interesting happened, they gradually began to drift away, hoping to find something to look at in the shop windows in Nick i’ th’ Tor and Nimble John’s Gate.
As always when he was dead, Tommy went into his method-acting mode. You could practically see his limbs stiffening with rigor mortis and the blood draining into the parts of his body that were in contact with the ground. He was so convincing that a few flies were beginning to gather. Some of them landed on his sleeve, sniffing with interest at the beer stains and a lingering trace of chicken biryani. In a moment, they would be clustering in his available orifices, eager to lay their eggs while he was still warm.
‘Where’s the chuffin’ Doctor?’ he muttered through clenched teeth.
‘Get up,’ said one of his friends standing nearby.
‘I can’t. I’m dead.’
‘Get up.’
‘Not until the Doctor’s cured me.’
‘The Doctor isn’t here.’
‘He has to cure me with the virgin, and all that.’
‘He isn’t here. We think he’s in the pub.’
‘Is he looking for a virgin?’
‘No. Just getting pissed.’
‘Bastard.’
The morris dancer playing Tommy in the mummers’ play rolled over and sat up stiffly. The flies buzzed off him angrily.
‘It’s coming to something when you can’t trust the Doctor,’ he said.
‘That’s the NHS for you. Maybe you should go private.’
‘These cobbles get harder every time.’
A mummer helped him up off the street.
‘I could have died for real down there, and nobody would have noticed,’ he said.
‘We had quite a good crowd, but they’ve buggered off now.’
‘Did anybody get round with the hat for the money?’
‘No, we didn’t have a chance.’
‘Bastard.’
Diane Fry stood quite still as the beast came towards her. Its progress was unsteady, and there was no way of knowing which direction she should dodge to avoid it. It veered from side to side as it stumbled across the cobbles, lowering its head and snapping its jaws. Red and yellow ribbons fluttered from its neck. It lunged towards a small girl, who flinched away with her hand covering her eyes. When the beast was within a couple of feet, it darted towards Fry, its mouth gaping and red.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘We’re looking for the Border Rats.’
The voice that answered her was muffled, because it came from somewhere deep inside the canvas frame.
‘Piss off,’ it said. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy?’
‘What time do you finish, then?’
‘When these prancing buggers get tired.’
The beast staggered away, roared half-heartedly at some teenage girls, and veered back towards the team of morris dancers.
‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen Mr Fox?’ said Gavin Murfin.
Diane Fry stared at the retreating hobbyhorse.
‘Who?’
‘They’re a group from Langsett, just over the hills from Withens. I saw them about two years ago.’
‘Two years? Is that real time or Renshaw time?’ said Fry, who wasn’t really listening.
‘They all dress up in hooded cloaks and fox masks, and they only perform at night, by torchlight,’ said Murfin. ‘And when I say torchlight, I don’t mean things powered by Ever Ready batteries, I mean flaming torches. You never quite know where they’ll turn up.’
‘Fox masks? If they turn up here, I’ll set the hunt on them.’
‘Isn’t fox hunting illegal yet?’
‘I don’t care whether it is or not.’
A group called Betty Lupton’s Ladle Laikers were taking their turn to perform in the market square, while dancers from the Norwich Shitwitches looked on. Outside the Red Lion, Fry could see yet more ribbons and bells, where Boggart’s Breakfast and Treacle Eater were taking a beer break.
‘When we were young, our dad used to tell us that morris dancers were to blame for the spread of VD,’ said Murfin.
‘Why?’ said Fry.
‘Oh, we never thought it was right. We knew it was to do with not taking precautions when you had it off with a bird, like. You know, you could catch it if your johnny burst or something. We could never quite see where bells and hankies came into it.’
‘How old were you at this time, Gavin? Thirty-two?’
‘Give over. I was very mature for my age. I had my first proper girlfriend when I was fourteen.’
‘I don’t think I want to know any more.’
‘Sharon was two years older than me. She worked on the checkout at Tesco’s, so she had strong fingers. She got free food, too – stuff that was going to be chucked out because it was past its sell-by date. But the trouble was, she wouldn’t go all the way. She was scared to death of getting pregnant, the way some of her mates at school had done.’
‘I didn’t know there was a Tesco’s in Edendale,’ said Fry.
‘Not any more. They had to pull out, too,’ said Murfin gloomily.
They had parked the car partly on the pavement, nudging a yellow ‘no parking’ cone out of the way. Edendale town centre was solid with vehicles today.
‘Anyway, it was the sort of thing Dad said to us,’ said Murfin. ‘I reckon it was his way of saying morris dancers were a set of soft jessies. These days, he reckons they’re responsible for AIDS.’
Fry locked the car and looked back at him. ‘Are you coming, or are you happy just reminiscing about your vanished childhood?’
‘These morris dancers,’ said Murfin. ‘I don’t suppose they’re actually gay. Most of them have beards, don’t they?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
A little bit of sun was out. That meant people would be crowding the garden centres and nurseries, buying up bedding plants that would be killed by frost within a week. In the car park behind the market square, a girl in a converted Bedford van was selling ice cream.
‘Don’t think I’m obsessed or anything,’ said Murfin. ‘It’s just that Mr Hitchens had me helping with those enquiries into the gay community when he found out about Neil Granger. I think it might have turned me a bit funny, like.’
The venues chosen for the dance groups were all within a couple of minutes’ walk of each other. As a result, it was possible to hear several different kinds of music at once, all coming from different directions. Over there, towards the river, was a country and western line-dancing tune coming from a portable speaker. Behind the shops, in one of the cobbled courtyards, someone was playing ‘Zorba’s Dance’ on a CD, and probably just getting to the stage where they all tried to dance too fast and trod on each other’s feet.
From the market square came the sound of melodeons and a banjo, where one of the border morris teams was performing. That was definitely live. Fry could almost smell the sweat.
There were extra officers on duty in Edendale today, too – not to control the morris dancers, but because Stoke City football fans were in town, passing through on their way to Sheffield for a match. Traditionally, they called at Bakewell, on the A6, to tank up on beer in the local pubs, which they always left wrecked. But last year, the pub landlords in Bakewell had shut their doors for an hour or two until the Stoke contingent had moved on. This year, the fans had chosen to come to Edendale instead. And their arrival had coincided with the Day of Dance.
Fry found a grey-haired morris dancer taking a rest on a bench. He was dressed in white shirt and trousers in the Cotswold style, with ribbons tied to his wrists and ankles and a colourful baldrick across his chest. He was using his handkerchief to wipe some of the sweat from his face.
‘The Border Rats? They’re down in that little courtyard by the river, I think,’ he said. ‘What have they done?’
‘Nothing. We just want to talk to them,’ said Fry.
‘Well, it’s no use talking to the Squire. He’s an Oxley. You might as well talk to that lamp post.’
‘Have you got a better idea?’
‘Aye, their Bagman. He’s the one that has the brain cell.’
‘Bagman?’
‘Secretary, if you like. The organizer, the admin man. He has to make sure everyone gets to the right place at the right time and knows what they’re supposed to be doing. That’s no mean task with that lot, I can tell you. I’d rather try to herd a pack of wild dogs.’
‘And what’s this Bagman’s name?’
‘Neil Granger. You might have a bit of luck there, I suppose.’
‘I’m afraid Neil Granger’s dead, sir.’
‘Is he? Well, I didn’t know him so well. I just remember him from last year. The Border Rats raided one of our sets.’
‘Thanks a lot, sir. You’ve been very helpful.’
‘Well, don’t tell anybody that. I’ll get kicked out.’
Ben Cooper had already found the right place by following the noise. The courtyard was a new development enclosed by shops and paved to match the original setts. The design amplified the sound of the Border Rats band, which included a melodeon, concertina, drum, recorder and fiddle. Cooper didn’t recognize any of the musicians, even allowing for the costumes and make-up. Presumably, these were some of the Hey Bridge contingent. But Scott and Ryan Oxley were there, with their rag coats, top hats and blacked-up faces, along with Sean and Glen, and even little Jake, blacked up and with his own stick, almost as tall as himself.
There was no sign of Lucas Oxley. But the old man, Eric, stepped forward from the band and addressed the crowd to introduce the group and the first performance.
Then the music began – melodeon and concertina playing in a minor key, with the drum beating time for the striking of the sticks. Six of the dancers stood up straight, crossed over once, then twice, turned and clashed their stick together. A double clash, then another turn and they advanced again, with the sun flashing off their mirrored sunglasses and the black make-up on their faces glistening with sweat.
Instinctively, the audience began to draw back, shuffling their feet uneasily as the dancers moved towards them. The Border Rats marched proudly, almost swaggered, their sticks over their shoulders and heads held hi
gh, confident that no one would get in their way. In contrast, their spectators began to resemble a small flock of sheep, huddling closer together and shying nervously as they clutched at their hot dogs and cameras. One small child seemed momentarily paralysed. His fingers lost their grip, and his ice cream landed on the flags with a crunch and a splatter of white.
The dancers did an about-turn and advanced towards the crowd on the far side. Then they spun through ninety degrees and did the same to left and right, with the crowd backing away from them each time, until they had cleared sufficient space in the middle.
The music paused, then started again, much faster. The dancers had established their territory, and now they were going to perform their ritual.
In the enclosed courtyard, the simultaneous clash of the sticks was so loud and at such a pitch that it was painful on the ears. The Border Rats were building up a head of steam and really going for it in a dance called Much Wenlock. Then Eric Oxley announced that the next was a fighting dance. This turned out to involve charging, screaming and clashing. Some of the tourists in the audience were starting to look a bit scared. They were backed up against the shop windows and had no escape route when the sticks started flying and the boots came trampling near their sandals and trainers.
A dance called Brimfield looked positively obscene, with the dancers holding their sticks thrust into their groins as blatant phallic symbols. But then they started throwing the sticks instead. They passed high overhead, but were caught each time before they landed among the audience. Cooper wondered whether their public liability insurance was up to date.
Cooper spotted his new neighbour, Peggy Check, across the crowd, and he worked his way round to speak to her. She gave the impression of being a small oasis of good humour and normality in a widening desert of irrationality, and that was what he needed at the moment.