CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: THREE IN A BED

 

 

AT AROUND THE same time as Sean was receiving Rapler’s phone call, Will staggered out of a rapeseed field just south of Stockton Heath and flagged down the first of the early morning buses into town. He had just enough change on him for the short journey and huddled in the seat at the back, enjoying the heat of the engine and ignoring the distasteful glances his fellow passengers shot him. His arm was stiff and sore but it did not feel as though he had suffered major damage.

The meal he had eaten the previous day was a distant memory. He was finding it hard to consider anything beyond the simple desire for food, yet this was good, he reasoned. It meant that, guilty though it made him, it was easier not to wallow over the fate of Elisabeth and Sadie. All he could hope for was that they had been collected safely by the police and were now being looked after. Any of the other alternatives he wouldn’t entertain for a second.

It was less cold in the centre of town than in the fields, but he felt it more now, as he hopped from the bus, because he was no longer pushing himself. He was tired and hungry. The despair he felt at having no money to buy breakfast was compounded by the hostility with which he was greeted when he tried to ask the way to Sloe Heath.

In the public toilet, he did his best to wash the grime from his clothes. He soaped his hair and face and rinsed them clean. He polished his boots as best he could, ignoring the looks of the men who came to use the urinals. When Superdrug opened, he sprayed himself with a little tester aftershave to mask the sweat that was permeating his clothes. One of the shop assistants smiled at him.

He ordered breakfast at a small café, wolfed it, and ran away without paying for his meal when the waitress left the dining area. At the bus depot he talked to a driver who showed him on a map where Sloe Heath was. He didn’t have enough for a bus out there, but he reckoned he could walk it in an hour or so. He thanked the driver, who said something in return, a concerned look on his face. But Will didn’t hear him. The driver was retreating down a tunnel. Will reached out to grab hold of him so that he wouldn’t disappear, and the driver dropped his timetables. The sound was deafening as Will fell against him. Will was unconscious before he hit the floor.

 

 

GOALPOSTS WITHOUT NETS, the sound of metal studs clacking on concrete, the smell of wintergreen and cold, wet earth. Sean left the changing rooms and their stale tang of exertion for the wintry field. His breath hung around his face as he checked the half-dozen pitches to see where his team mates were warming up. He saw them in a distant corner, making half-hearted attempts at stretching and jogging, seven heavy men in red shirts that were a size too small for them and black shorts that enhanced the lard-white horror of their legs.

He trotted gently over to the pitch, where he was greeted by a stocky man with a goatee and gel in his hair. The man was rubbing his hands together and hopping from foot to foot like an overly enthusiastic games teacher.

“Hi,” he said, breathily, and jutted his hand towards Sean, who shook it. “Danny Chant,” he said. “I’m the unlucky bugger who loses all blow-job privileges as of tomorrow.”

“Sean Redman,” Sean said, smiling. He winked at Nicky Preece, who crossed him off a checklist that was fastened to a clipboard. Jamie Marshall, the guy who had joined the demolition squad on the same day as Sean, was stretching on the touchline. He lifted a hand in greeting. Robbie Deakin looked the part, lean and agile, running in short bursts and violently changing direction.

“Ignore Robbie,” Nicky said. “He does triathlete stuff, so he doesn’t count. Everyone will be knackered after ten minutes. He can run after the ball when it goes out. Drinks like a fucking jessie. He might last an hour on the park, but he’ll be the first one home tonight.”

Nicky introduced him to others whose names would be little more than a vomit-coated gargle by the end of the day. He paid scant attention to the Johns and Steves and Trevors, nodding and smiling and shaking hands. As they were taking up their positions on the pitch, Sean having been asked to utilise his “sweet left foot” in midfield, he saw Tim Enever sloping across the park, in danger of being swept away with the gusty wind, like the crisp packets and the dead leaves. He was dressed in a huge coat with a hood that, if it was deployed, would completely envelop his head. His legs were stork-like beneath the bottom of the coat, wrapped in the usual skin-tight black denim.

The football match lasted for as long as the fair weather. In that time, Sean managed to make a few impressive passes and tackles and his team went a goal up. He was starting to enjoy himself when the light failed quickly. Sopping from a cloudburst after about a quarter of an hour, Danny Chant called out, “Cocks to this, boys!” and legged it towards the changing rooms.

Back inside, socks downed, lolling on the benches as the steam from the showers mingled with the smoke from the gaspers, Sean gratefully accepted a bottle of Grolsch from a coolbox. Naked, misshapen men drifted through the steam, swearing and laughing, necking beer. One of them looked straight at Sean, swearing as he told some staggish tale of find ’em, fuck ’em, forget ’em, and then disappeared into the befogged showers. But the face lingered.

“Shit,” Sean said, softly. He knew the face but he couldn’t place it. He leaned over and put his face in his hands. A name suggested itself to him. Futcher. Was that right? Eddie Futcher.

Sean righted himself, and took another swig from his bottle. Had he, Sean, changed much, since coming up north? A haircut, the loss of a few pounds, a bit more pink to his cheeks? He hoped so. He hoped there was enough of an alteration to prevent Eddie Futcher – the first person Sean arrested during his stint in the police force – from recognising him.