Chapter 21

I ran to the entrance and peered around the edge. Three sets of headlights illuminated the main building and the chimney stack. I could hear voices on the wind, three men, probably four. Their silhouettes shifted from one vehicle to another. One walked over to my truck and peered into the driver’s window. There were more words exchanged, some in Welsh, but not all. Then there was an angry exchange, raised voices, finger pointing, angry aggressive tones and then a punch was thrown. As one man fell onto the shingle, another made to help him while the others tried to kick him while he was down. More angry voices and finger pointing and then the two attackers seemed to calm down momentarily. They chatted and argued for a few seconds and then they looked towards the buildings. I needed them in the cutting shed. I wasn’t sure what I would do when they were there, but I knew something would come to me. I took the lid off the petrol canister and poured half the contents onto the huge pile of rotten wood which only minutes ago was the office. Taking a disposable lighter from the bag of shotgun cartridges, I set fire to the wood. The flames jumped quickly from one piece to the next and as the fire met a petrol soaked section, it ignited it with a resounding whoosh. The wood crackled and pieces of burning embers shot into the air. Smoke began to fill the vaulted roof space as the flames climbed higher towards the ancient roof beams.

I ran back to the arched entrance and looked over the loading platform. The niners were three hundred yards away and I knew that they couldn’t see the entrance to the cutting shed from their position, but they would see the glow from the flames. They turned and ran to their vehicles. I could hear some of their words drifting to me. I heard ‘bat’ and ‘hammer’ and then their headlights were switched off. They were coming; four men carrying weapons of varying descriptions. I ducked low and ran up the incline away from the cutting shed. Crouching as I ran, I hid behind the side of the building where I could see them approach but they couldn’t see me. As I watched them, something important sprang into my messed up brain. How would I know which one was Gaskin?

As I watched them walking across the shingle turning space, I tried to decipher as much information as I could. Two of them held torches. One of them was much taller than the others and he was well built. He was carrying a baseball bat. The man next to him had a screwdriver; a very big one and his nose was bleeding. He didn’t look comfortable at all, in fact, he looked like he was shitting his pants. One held a claw hammer in his right hand and a carving knife in his left. They all had beer bellies that pushed against the material of their coats. I envisioned their guts hanging over their pants like droopy muffin tops. I guessed that the man with the nose bleed was Hughes, purely because I’d told Gaskin he was a grass but I didn’t see which one had hit him and to be honest it didn’t matter. I couldn’t afford to kill anyone until I knew who Gaskin was. The four men walked in silence and rounded the bend at the top of the incline. They looked at each other as they saw the flames inside the cutting shed.

“Harris!” The tall man shouted. The others looked at him again for guidance. “Harris!” He called again.

“Let’s take a look inside,” nose bleed man suggested. “He might be hurt.”

“Shut your mouth, Hughes,” the tall man snarled. He waved the bat close to his face. “If he’s right and you have blabbed to the police, I’ll shove this bat up your arse and set fire to it. Do you understand?”

“I haven’t told the police anything,” Hughes replied angrily although he looked very frightened. “Harris is a fucking liar. He always has been!”

Bingo. Now I knew who was who. Or so I thought. It wasn’t the first time I’d been wrong.