PAUL BALLOW HAD ASSUMED THAT being a pest control officer was, at the very least, a conversation starter. He was, after all, killing things for a living.
He’d shaved off the Mohican and didn’t miss it. The band had accused him of selling out, but Lucy said he looked like Midge Ure, so it was worth the sacrifice.
Paul liked his job, and the other lads. Even liked his boss, Charlie Flint.
‘Have you been to Marlowe’s before?’ Charlie asked, as he drove the van through green and gold countryside.
‘No,’ said Paul. It was the largest scrapyard in the region, and he wondered where such an ugly blot could hide.
‘Then you’re in for a treat.’
They turned into a country lane that Paul would have completely missed if he’d been driving. The trees gave way to reveal tall wrought-iron gates.
‘Bloody hell and bugger me,’ Paul murmured in awe.
Charlie grinned. ‘I told you!’
Marlowe & Son Breakers Yard was a vast, unhallowed kingdom – both a mass grave and a hollow town for scorched and smashed metal. Its streets were lined with bent, rent columns of battered vehicles. Chrome grilles were rictus grins in steel skulls; windscreens were either absent or cracked into webbed cataracts. Dissected for parts, only the rejected corpses of countless vans, lorries, family cars and trophy machines remained.
Paul couldn’t help but think of the irony: only a few miles away, in Longbridge, cars were built glistening with new paint and polish. Here, a saurapodic crane clutched wrecks in its giant claw and swung them into the roaring crusher or shredder.
Men’s laughter boomed from the open door of the farmhouse. As Charlie and Paul approached, the tallest man Paul had ever seen stepped out. He greeted Charlie warmly then regarded Paul with intense curiosity. Charlie made brief introductions and Nick Marlowe extended his hand. Paul shook it: the man’s hand was the size of a grizzly’s paw. Marlowe towered over Paul, with biceps like melons strapped to his arms. His thick forearms were covered in fresh and healing scratches and bruises. Marlowe’s weathered face was flanked by Dickensian sideburns. Lucy would think he was ‘dishy’. Paul thought he was a man you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of.
‘Have a quick cup of char and a bacon cob,’ Marlowe said. His voice wasn’t posh, but Paul heard money in it.
They followed him into the farmhouse. Inside, the place was grubby, with Page 3 girlie pictures curling against their pin restraints on the wall above the cluttered desk; the stench of body odour, dog and lard beneath the veneer of fried bacon. Tim and Minty were in the kitchen, frying breakfast and buttering bread rolls. At their feet sat two dogs, at first sight both German Shepherds, but of a type Paul had never seen before. One was white and very elderly, and the other was grey and very pregnant. Both were big-boned, big-headed and dense with presence.
‘Sit down,’ said Marlowe as he retrieved extra chairs from the office then snapped the kettle on. ‘Don’t mind Luna and Asta – they won’t bite unless you do.’
Paul sat, and Luna shuffled to him, placing her head in his hands and looking up into his face with her odd eyes: one hazel, one blue. ‘That’s Luna,’ said Nick. ‘She likes you.’
‘How’s your Nathaniel, then, Nick?’ asked Charlie. Tim and Minty glanced at each other.
‘He’s working,’ said Marlowe after a short pause.
Charlie shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen your lad since he had his accident last year. He needed surgery for his head injury didn’t he?’ He turned to Paul. ‘Nick’s son was hit by the crane claw. He almost bloody died.’
‘He almost did. He’s all right now,’ said Marlowe. ‘He’s doing well in school and he earns all his own cash, so . . . I don’t see him much these days.’
‘So, what d’you need doing?’ Charlie asked.
‘The house and the meat store,’ said Marlowe. ‘Asta’s pups are due and I want her in, but the rats are getting brave and setting up in the attic. We’d have your terriers in but they’d disturb our lot. Better the traps, yes?’
‘I’d say so,’ said Charlie as mugs of tea were placed before them at the kitchen table. ‘We’ll be done by mid-morning, and you should be clear by tomorrow morning at least.’ Tim handed him a plate of bacon, egg and sausage buns.
When offered a breakfast cob, Paul shook his head. ‘It’s why he’s so skinny,’ Charlie lamented, and winked at Paul. ‘Why don’t you have a quick look round whilst you’re waiting for me?’
‘He should know about the dogs first, boss,’ said Minty.
Nick nodded, disappeared into the hall, and returned with a sheepskin jacket, and a yellow hard hat. He handed them to Paul. ‘This jacket’s covered in my scent. And you need the hard hat anyway.’ Paul put them on. Nick treated the young man to a rough saccade. ‘The dogs are trained but you don’t fuck about. If they confront you, walk backwards, eyes down and do not run. Yes?’ Paul nodded, suddenly under siege. Nick saw his apprehension and grinned. ‘My son’s out there and they’ll always be where he is.’
‘And mind the dog shit,’ said Tim. ‘It’s like landmines – you won’t know you’re in it till you’re in it. Seriously, they shit like fucking elephants.’
Outside, Paul shucked further into the man’s jacket and began exploring the twisted avenues of Marlowe’s scrapyard. Around him, dogs barked and howled together, making the hairs stand up on his nape. The wind whizzed through the metal shells in pulsing intervals, as if following him.
He stopped at a barn and peered in: tyre piles, headlamps and tail lights, broken combustion engines, exhaust pipes. A couple of charabanc buses slumped against each other in companionable obsolescence. Beyond the barn, an old Ferris wheel arched in falling, its spokes cankered, and the few gondolas remaining were flecked green with mould.
Paul strolled around enjoying the sculptures rendered unintentionally in the twisted ugliness, the roar of the crane claw and shredder a constant background noise, as unpretty as punk music but just as invigorating. He kept his distance from the crane, which swung the old wrecks into the crushing maw.
It was only when he looked at his watch, then around him, that he realised he was lost.
He’d ambled into a shaded cul-de-sac of tangled machines. The damp air was cold, closer to autumn dusk than summer dawn. Then, when he took a step back to retrace his path, he heard a low growl.
There were dogs – on the roofs and under carriages. They glared at him with pitiless eyes, electric green in the dingy light. They assembled as if they were the jury of a makeshift court and he was the offender in the dock. Like the house dogs, these were not German Shepherds: they were too tall, too heavy; and wild. Like Luna, some were pure white, their coats an ethereal contrast against the dull scrap.
Paul stared.
The dogs stared back.
His primeval brain screamed at him to run but he knew that, if he ran, it would be the last thing he’d ever do. His breathing was rapid; his heart thundered until his pulse points hurt. Suddenly, he felt entirely unsubstantial, certainly not a member of an apex species at the top of its game. A caveman without weapons facing a pack of wolves.
He stepped back.
The beasts growled: a rhythmic rumble, like a chorus of engines revving then falling away. Their muzzles corrugated and their lips ruched to reveal merciless teeth. They snapped as they snarled: ears flat against their heads; hackles spiked. The noise was tremendous, their barks echoing in the metal arena. They dipped their heads below their shoulder blades and he could have sworn he felt the tremors from their displeasure ripple through the ground beneath his feet.
Paul took another step back. In unison, they stepped forward. Panic was setting in. He wanted to run and sod the consequences. But instead he kept . . . stepping . . . backwards. They were still in sight and there was no corner to hide behind and it was then, just as he was sure the dogs were about to charge, that he saw the boy.
Or, rather, a young man. The figure materialised from the fur and metal of his surrounds. Taller than Paul but younger, with auburn hair and mismatched eyes.
Then, the youth growled, and the animals fell silent.
He wore a welding apron over a grey boiler suit. No yellow hard hat. It wasn’t hard to see the family resemblance: this was Nick Marlowe’s son.
Paul recognised him as the delivery boy who rode a massive, customised bike and trailer. The teenager tipped his head to one side as if to study Paul, revealing a scar along his temple. The youth made another sound – not quite a whistle, more like a whine – and the dogs poured from their perches and huddled close to his legs. The boy walked forward with peculiar, fluid grace, and they moved with him.
With an elegant sweep of their master’s hand, the dogs immediately swarmed Paul – swirling round him, sniffing him thoroughly – and he kept still, not daring to move, staring at the ground.
‘We’ll take you back,’ said the boy, with no trace of emotion.
‘All right,’ said Paul. ‘Thanks.’ No introductions, no handshake.
The dogs were relaxed now, totally different from the vicious, snapping beasts just moments before, reacting merrily to the Marlowe boy’s occasional growls and whines. There was no conversation with his human companion, and the chilly silence ensured the hairs on Paul’s nape remained standing, warning him to remain absolutely vigilant.
Paul cleared his throat and said, ‘Mate, what’s with the Ferris wheel, then?’
The boy smiled. ‘A fairground went bust and sold it as scrap,’ he said.
Paul counted seventeen dogs in total. ‘Your dogs scared the crap out of me, I can’t lie.’
He watched the boy pull further ahead and then spotted Charlie waving at him. Paul waved back and jogged ahead. He turned to thank the boy but both he and the dogs were gone; disappeared into the scrapyard, as if they had never been.