Predisposed To Murder - Chapter Ten

CHAPTER TEN

“Not Nina?” Carol had turned a shade green.

“No, not Nina,” a grim faced Winter confirmed. “She’s a local woman apparently, someone known as ‘Gypsy’ Kate.”

“A small time drug pusher,” commented Liam Brady without showing any emotion. “She’s bad news,” he added unnecessarily.”

“Not any more, she isn’t,” Winter corrected him gruffly, “except as far as friends and family are concerned of course.”

“She didn’t have any family,” Sadie remarked. “As for friends, well…I’d be surprised.”

“How…?” Carol began.

“How did she die?” Winter grimaced. “She suffocated. Yes,” he added dourly, “she was alive when all that stuff was piled on top of her. A blow to the head indicates she was probably unconscious although whether or not she came round at any time is anyone’s guess…”

“Serves the bitch right,” said Liam with undisguised contempt. “Whatever your fix, you can bet your sweet life ‘Gypsy’ was up for it. Speed, cocaine, heroin, you name it. If you were desperate enough prepared to pay well over the odds, she was a safe bet.”

“She’s banned from this pub and most others around here,” Sadie continued. “Not that it ever made a scrap of difference.  Two of our regulars have overdosed in the last year, both under twenty-one. One died in our toilets.”

“You never told me that,” Carol glanced at her son in some surprise.

“It’s hardly the kind of thing you boast about, Mum,” said Liam. “The local press had a field day. If you visited more often you’d have read all about it.” He added pointedly. “The story ran for weeks...”

“I can’t just drop everything and pop down at the drop of a hat,” said Carol irritably.

“You’re here now,” Liam was quick to point out.

“And we’re delighted to see you both.” Sadie rose a little unsteadily to her feet. “But I, for one, am ready for bed. Junior’s had far too much excitement for one day.” She was patting her tummy and smiling broadly as she spoke while Liam, Winter couldn’t help but notice, was positively glaring in his direction. “We weren’t sure about the sleeping arrangements,” she explained, a twinkle in each eye, “but the double bed is made up in the spare room and there’s bedding in the drawers under the sofa bed where you’re sitting.”

“We bought it specially,” Liam put in with a grin.

“I’m sure Freddy will find it very comfortable,” murmured Carol, only slightly embarrassed.

Sadie bid them all goodnight.

“I think I’ll turn in too,” said Carol, went to her son and planted a kiss on his cheek, but thought better of treating Freddy Winter to the same. Liam’s manner had been increasingly prickly towards poor Freddy ever since the detective’s return from his jaunt with Mike Pritchard. Sadie had done her best to smooth things over between the two men, but had caught Carol’s eye on several occasions with a look that warned, unmistakeably, they were best left to sort out their differences by themselves. “As if I couldn’t work that one out for myself,” murmured Carol crossly, although not loud enough for anyone to hear, and made a detour into the kitchen to check on Stanley. The little dog had wasted no time in bonding with Ben, a long-time resident English setter.

“Can I get you another drink, Fred?” Liam took the detective’s empty glass and refilled it along with his own without waiting for an answer. “If you don’t mind my saying so, you could have chosen a better time to get involved with our local crime wave. Sadie’s vulnerable at the moment. Oh, she’s blooming and we’re both thrilled to bits about the baby, but…well, she ‘s no spring chicken.”

“You could have fooled me,” Winter commented but his companion wasn’t smiling.

“I’m serious Fred.”

“So am I,” Winter insisted. “But honestly Liam, you have nothing to worry about as far as I’m concerned. I’ve no intention of hanging around here a minute longer than Pritchard insists. I just thought that, since I was coming down this way anyway, it would be good for your mother to spend some time with you both as well as keeping me company. Kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.”

“One bird, at least,” Liam Brady remarked frostily.

But Fred Winter was no fool. “I can appreciate your being protective towards Sadie, Liam, but we both know she’s as tough as old boots. So suppose you tell me what’s really bugging you, eh?”

Liam hesitated then, “Well, since you ask, it’s Mum. She’s not happy about the baby for some reason, and don’t tell me I’m imagining it either. Sadie doesn’t say much, but I can tell she’s upset. What’s got into her, Fred?  I thought she’d be over the moon, we both did.”

“That’s something you’ll have to ask your mother,” Winter told the younger man, spreading his hands in a gesture of mock impotence, “I can’t speak for her. You know as well as I do that your mother is very much her own woman. You also know damn well she adores the pair of you so I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you, just give her time to get used to the idea she’s going to be a grandma. She’ll come round soon enough, you’ll see.”

“Do you really think that’s all it is, getting into a flap over her age?” Liam was more than slightly incredulous. “Mum looks fantastic, better than a lot of women half her age.”

“That’s what I keep telling her, but you know how it is with your mother. She doesn’t believe anything of anyone if she hasn’t already convinced herself. Put it down to hormones and ignore it, that’s what I do.”

“It’s probably not just the baby she’s upset about then,” returned Liam cryptically, but he was grinning again now and visibly more relaxed. 

Winter wasn’t going to waste an opportunity to do a little digging. “By the way, Carol tells me you were at university with Max Cutler?” he enquired lightly.

Liam seemed happy enough to change the subject. “That’s right. We haven’t kept in touch since, though, so if you thinking I might have some idea where he is you can forget it. And before you ask, no, I hadn’t the faintest idea he was ever in this neck of the woods. Mum’s been filling us in,” he explained. “It must have come as quite a shock finding that body and thinking it was Max…” he added sympathetically.

Winter bristled at what he saw as an implied if not unjustified criticism. “It was a big hand,” he muttered gruffly, “and could easily have belonged to a man.”

“Gypsy was a large lady,” Liam commented, “in more ways than one. She wasn’t the kind of woman you’d want to mess with either.”

However, for now at least, Winter was more interested in Max Cutler than either the physiognomy of the woman called ‘Gypsy’ or her drug dealing. Not that the latter was irrelevant, given that Cutler, possibly Nina Fox too, were cocaine users. That is, if Pip Sparrow is to be believed, he added as a silent afterthought if without quite knowing why before addressing Liam again, “Did Cutler take drugs?”

“Who doesn’t at university?” Liam flung the rhetorical question back at Winter without a second’s hesitation, “We were all at it, to one degree or another. Most of us just dabbled now and again, usually when we were pretty stressed about assignments we still hadn’t got around to even thinking about the night before they were due to be handed in,” he joked. “If Max had a problem with drugs, I can’t say that I noticed. Not that I had a lot to do with him really, although there was nothing deliberate about that on my part…” He looked slightly embarrassed and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“Why do you say that?” Winter’s ears pricked up.

“No reason, except…” Winter lifted a bushy eyebrow. “Well, he had a best mate called Ray Bannister and, frankly, some people weren’t too happy about their relationship. You’d expect better from students, wouldn’t you? But you don’t need me to tell you that people still worry about being tarred with the same brush and all that rubbish.”

“They had a homosexual relationship?”

“If they did, it wasn’t an open one. I’d say it was a pretty safe bet though. Ray wasn’t comfortable around women, unlike Max who was quite the opposite. Whether or not he swings both ways, who knows?” He shrugged. “Who cares? I don’t, for one. It’s his business, although…”

“Yes?” Winter prompted.

“Well, I do think if you’re that way inclined you should at least be up front about it with your mates.”

“Did Max have many close female friends?”

“Heaps,” Liam’s natural grin widened, “He can charm birds out of trees, can Max. All the girls fell for him in a big way, and you can be sure he fairly lapped it up. From what Mum tells me, he hasn’t changed one bit.”

“How did Bannister handle this?”

“We never talked about it. Ray was a really nice guy, but the quiet, unassuming type. He didn’t deserve to die like that. I was gutted when I heard about it. Ray may have had his problems but he was no victim. He had his own way of dealing with things, that’s all. Nathan Sparrow has a lot to answer for.”

“Do you know Sparrow?”

Liam shook his head. “By sight, yes, but that’s all. I’ve met the daughter a few times. The Sparrows and Ray were neighbours years ago. Ray threw a few parties at his house during vacations and she’d sometimes show her face. She was just a kid then, and the brother was still alive. He was a real character. He and his pal next door would try and gatecrash and Pip would come and fetch them home. A real little Miss Bossy Boots, she was. I remember thinking how she seemed to take pleasure in spoiling the boys’ fun and not liking her much. She didn’t deserve what happened to her, of course. No one deserves that.” He looked serious for a moment, and then his face lit up with the inevitable grin. “The parties were Max’s idea. His mother would never let him have one in their house. You’ve met her so you don’t need me to suggest why,” he added light-heartedly.

“Point taken,” Winter agreed and wondered if Nina Fox was aware that her ex-boyfriend was, by the look of things, bisexual. “Were Cutler and Bannister friends before university? They lived near each other I believe…”

“To be honest, I haven’t a clue. I didn’t get that impression but I could be wrong. It’s a small world. One girl there lived opposite me and we’d never so much as exchanged a passing nod. Mind you, we soon rectified that,” he said with a chuckle, “but don’t tell Sadie.” He laughed aloud, tossing Winter a conspiratorial wink. Not for the first time, the detective found himself reflecting how much he liked this young man. Like mother, like son, he reflected, and could only hope Carol would soon see sense about not letting the baby drive a wedge between them. He sighed, stifling a yawn. It had been a long day.

“Do you want any help putting up the sofa bed?”

Winter shook his head. “I’ll manage,” yawning openly this time. In the event, however, he didn’t bother. No sooner had Liam left the room than he rummaged in the drawers, pulled out a duvet, sprawled across the sofa just as it was and fell asleep.

The next morning Winter presented himself at Canterbury police station and signed a formal statement. Needless to say, Pritchard remained unimpressed.  Now and then he would say, “Is there anything you’d like to add, anything at all?” to which Winter would shake his head and the younger man crease his forehead abstractedly while noticeably abstaining from his customary dogged persistence. Had his old friend Charlie Lovell told the  sergeant to go easy on him, Winter wondered?  Several times, he asked if Lovell was available, but Pritchard merely shook his head without offering any explanation.  Finally, after Winter had signed on each dotted line, he muttered ungraciously, “My guv’nor wants to see you before you go. I dare say the two of you will enjoy a nice cosy chat.”  But if he was implying Winter would be more likely to confide in Lovell certain relevant details he’d not seen fit to tell him, Pritchard, the young sergeant was well aware that this particular interviewee was too canny a fish to take the bait. 

The two men shook hands and exchanged brief pleasantries before Winter was led away by a WPC to Lovell’s office.

“It’s good to see you Fred.”  Detective Chief Inspector Charlie Lovell leaned across an untidy desk and the two men shook hands warmly. “Sit yourself down and tell me all the gossip. I’d say a little snifter is called for, wouldn’t you, to celebrate the reunion of old friends and all that?  He produced a bottle of whiskey and two glasses from a drawer. Winter accepted, smiling and the two clinked glasses. At the same time, Winter wondered where, exactly, all this bonhomie was leading?  Nor did he have to wait long to find out.

“This friend of yours, Max Cutler…”

“I’ve already explained to Pritchard,” Winter interrupted, “He’s not a friend. I’ve never so much as set eyes on the man…”

“Ah, yes, he’s gone missing and his old mum’s asked you to find him for her. A mind like a sieve these days, me.” He laughed. “So does mummy know her son’s a junkie?”

“Is he?” Winter feigned surprise.

Lovell leaned across the table again and looked his guest in the eye. “Gypsy was a pain in the backside. She’ll be missed by no one except her junkie clients and suppliers. At the same time, her untimely death is, frankly, a bloody nuisance. We’ve been on to her for some time, but it wasn’t her we were interested in so much as certain contacts of hers, contacts she’d choose to meet at various locations along the coast, usually in the middle of the bloody night.”

“Drug smugglers…?”

Lovell nodded. “So if there’s anything you want to tell me that you haven’t already told Pritchard, speak now or, so help me Fred, I’ll have your guts for bloody garters.”

“I don’t doubt that for one minute.” Winter did not flinch from the other’s intense scrutiny. “Honestly, Charlie, I don’t know anything that could be of any possible help to you. If I did, your people would be the first to know.”

“Like we were the first to know there was a body in that shed?”

Winter shrugged. “I had no idea…”

“Of course not, you were just running an errand for a poor old mum who’s anxious about her son.”

“It’s the truth,” Winter protested. “Why won’t you believe me?”

“Probably because I know you too damn well,” Lovell growled, offered Winter the bottle of scotch and watched him pour more of the golden liquid into his glass. Briefly, he leaned back in a leather upholstered swivel chair only to lean across the desk again seconds later, so close that Winter could feel the other man’s hot breath on his face. “I’m warning you Fred. This is a big operation. You fuck it up for us, and there’ll be precious little I can do for you even if I wanted. Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely, Charlie, but you don’t have to worry. I don’t give a monkey’s balls about your operation. If anything turns up in the course of my enquiries that might be remotely of interest, I swear you’ll be the first to know. I can’t say fairer than that now, can I?”

“I suppose not,” Lovell muttered, visibly unconvinced. But he’d said his piece and made his position crystal clear. If Fred Winter chose to go ahead and do things his own way regardless, well…what else could he expect? He leaned back in the chair again, poured a little more whiskey into his glass, drained it in one gulp and replaced the bottle in its drawer without offering it to Winter a second time. “What do you know about a Klaus Wiseman?” he asked out of the blue.

Winter shrugged. “I can’t say the name rings any bells.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Oh?” Winter was curious.

“He operates big time. Drugs, diamonds, illegal refugees…you name it and it’s a safe bet our friend Klaus has a hand in it…from Afghanistan to Amsterdam to bloody Acton.”

“Acton? I thought that was Irish Republican territory?”

“You don’t think they’ve relied on funds from browbeating the faithful in the local pubs all these years, do you?”

“And now we have power sharing. Who’d have thought it?”

“The name of the game has changed, that’s all. The main thing is to keep the funds coming  in. As for where they go and what they’re used for after every Tom, Dick and Mary have taken their cut, who cares any more?”

“The good people of Northern Ireland might,” Winter pointed out.

“The good people of Northern Ireland like the good people of Iraq and good people this whole fucked-up world over, have learned to look away.”

“What the eye doesn’t see, the heart can’t grieve over, eh?”

“A lesson you could do a lot worse than bear in mind,” said Lovell, the lightness of his tome belying the severity of his expression.”

Winter grinned, if only to show he understood. Reaching into his coat pocket, he retrieved the photo of Max Cutler that he always carried about with him now and showed Lovell. “That’s Cutler. May I take it he was one of ‘Gypsy’ Kate’s regulars?”

Lovell nodded. “That and more…”

“Oh?”

“They were seen around together sometimes. Not a lot, but…Well, let’s say they seemed more than just good friends.  So you see, Fred, I have more reasons than you right now for wanting to find our mummy’s boy.”

“We’re agreed then?” said Winter, “Whoever finds him first lets the other know, yes?”

“Just be damn sure you do,” growled Lovell with a noncommittal glare. His expression softened upon accepting Winter’s outstretched hand.

“I’ll be seeing you Charlie.”

“I dare say.”

“Take care if yourself.”

“Ditto....”

Later, on his way back to The Green Man, Winter took a detour. Liam had mentioned over breakfast that ‘Gypsy’ Kate lived in a caravan parked on farmland near the village of Selling. “That’s how she got the nickname ‘Gypsy’ I guess,” Liam told him, “It’s a real old gypsy wagon too, none of your posh vans with all mod cons. Mind you, she changed fancy cars more often than she changed her underwear so she wasn’t short of a bob or two, that’s for sure.”

Winter expected to find the caravan cordoned off, a police presence at the very least. But there was no one about. He climbed the short flight of steps and was surprised to discover the door left ajar. Gently pushing it open, he looked inside.

A red-faced, uniformed police constable, securely bound and gagged, mutely pleaded to be released.

To be continued on Friday

Predisposed To Murder - Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

“What do you mean you’ve got a dead body for me?  Detective Chief Superintendent Charlie Lovell of the Kent police could hardly believe his ears. “Bloody hell, Fred, what are you up to now?”

“Do you know Waterfield Road, Whitstable?”

“Of course I know it, my sister-in-law lives there.”

“Well, I’m sitting outside number twenty-two in my car. A few minutes ago I was in the garden shed and, like I said, I found a body.”

“Oh? And whose body would that be?  What the devil are you doing in a dump like Whitstable anyway?”

“It’s not a dump. It’s a delightful old fishing village,” protested Winter in all seriousness. “Carol’s with me. Her son and his partner run The Green Man in Herne Bay as you well know…”

 “That doesn’t answer my question. Oh, never mind, you can tell me later. I’ll send Pritchard and a team right over.”

Winter grimaced. He’d had dealings with DS Pritchard in the past. “Can’t you come yourself?”

“You’re joking. I’m up to my eyes here. Besides, I’m giving a press conference in about ten minutes. I can rely on you to brief Pritchard on whatever it is you’re sniffing around these days?”

“Absolutely,” said Winter and tossed Carol a knowing wink while holding the mobile phone some distance from his ear. Both could hear Lovell threatening tar and feathers at the very least if he ever discovered at some later date that his old sparring partner had been holding out on him.

“Oh, and give Carol my regards,” Lovell added as an afterthought, “It’s high time she made an honest man of you if you ask me.”

“I’m a cop, Charlie, as honest as the day is long.”  Winter chuckled softly down the line.

“Huh” Lovell barked down the line. “There are sunny days and rainy days. In my experience, Fred, the sun doesn’t get to put its damn hat on until the last minute whenever you’re around.”

“I love you too, Charlie,” said Winter, laughing aloud, “See you soon, yeah?”

“Too damn right you will. Oh, and Fred…”

“Yes Charlie?”

“Take care, okay?” But he hung up before Winter could reply.

“Pritchard’s on his way,” Winter groaned and looked to Carol for sympathy but found none. On the contrary, her face was flushed with a mixture of anger and concern.

“Did you really find a dead body?” Winter nodded, feeling slightly nauseous as he recalled the hand sticking out from the pile of sacks as if its owner were making a last ditch effort to escape. He was, of course being overly fanciful or so he kept telling himself. The chances of the dead man having been dumped there alive were…remote, surely?

“Whose?” Carol was demanding. “Was it Max Cutler? You should never have gone in there on your own. Anything might have happened.”

“I couldn’t see his face.” Winter sighed with growing exasperation as the prospect of giving Mike Pritchard a statement loomed ever closer. They had met on another case, one that has involved Carol’s son, Liam as it happened. Winter wasn’t looking forward to the reunion. “As far as Pritchard is concerned you know nothing, okay?” he warned Carol. “You’re just cadging a lift to Herne Bay to see Liam.  Oh, and you can mention the baby, too, if you like. It will seem all the more plausible.”

“And just how much do you propose to tell him?”

“Naturally, as little as possible, and don’t look at me like that either. What do I know Carol? What do I actually know for sure? I feel like a headless chicken running around the farmyard wondering what’s missing.”

“If the cap fits,” she retorted.

Both lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Winter fretted about his reaction to finding the body. He had, after all, only assumed the hand was attached to a body. He had panicked. Am I losing my grip, for heaven’s sake? He sincerely hoped not or what chance of getting to the bottom of all this. All this…what? he kept asking himself. It was all such a muddle. Where was Nina Fox and why had she called on Carol in the middle of the night only to disappear without a word? Who was sending her threatening notes and had Max Cutler been privy to the identity of that person, especially given that the last one was written in Cutler’s own blood?  Exactly what scenario had led to his murder?  Stop speculating, Fred, and stop making assumptions. He was assuming, of course, that it was Cutler’s body he had stumbled upon in the shed. A lifetime’s experience warned Winter not to make any such assumption. Even so, basic instinct told him that it was, in all probability, Cutler’s body. Absently, he wondered how the mother would react. A surge of sympathy for the awful woman swept over him, but he could not completely obliterate from his mind’s eye the lasting image of a grotesque gargoyle engulfed in cushions.

Involuntarily, he chuckled before giving some consideration to Pip Sparrow and why that young lady appeared to have all the makings of a serial liar. Certainly, she had lied about returning to the house and finding Nina there the previous evening or Colin Fox would have seen them. He was sure, too, that Pip knew more about Max Cutler and his sudden disappearance than she was letting on. He was also ninety-nine per cent sure that she also knew why Cutler and Nina Fox had argued. There had to be more to that argument than Nina was prepared to confide. So how and where, exactly, does little Pip fit into all this?  I’m damned if I have the faintest idea.

Alternatively, had Colin Fox been lying?  Somehow, Winter doubted it. At the same time, he had the sense that Fox had not been as forthcoming as he might have been about his reasons for being back in the country.  He made a mental note to quiz Liam Brady about his association with Cutler and Ray Bannister during their time at university in the 1990s. He needed to talk to Pip again, too, and more importantly, to Nina herself as soon as possible.

Winter pursed his lips and proceeded to debate with his conscience about how much he should pass on to Detective Sergeant Pritchard.  Not a lot, if anything, he decided. After all, what did he have to go on besides a muddle of suspicion and native intuition amounting to precious little more than sheer innuendo? At the same time, he was fully aware that, in a murder enquiry, every tiny piece of information gleaned counted towards making that all-important breakthrough.  I’ll tell him as much as I think he needs to know, he coolly informed a wary alter ego, repeating word for word what he had already told Carol.

Carol, for her part, was thinking less about being party to the discovery of a murder than whether or not she could play the part of a thrilled grandma-to-be sufficiently well to convince Liam and Sadie.  I should be thrilled, she kept telling herself, so why aren’t I?  Nor had she quite believed the reasons she’d given Freddy Winter. She had never been a possessive mother. Besides, Sadie was the best thing that could have happened to Liam. She was grateful to the woman for that. As for the difference in their ages, what the hell does it matter?  Nor, she was certain, was her state of mind down to unsettled hormones. She sighed. Am I really so pathetic that I can’t stand being reminded of growing older?  The very idea made her cringe. Hadn’t she always been a realist, faced up to things, dealt with them rather than push them under the proverbial carpet?  So why, oh, why, do I have a problem with Sadie’s pregnancy?  Come on girl, pull yourself together and be happy for them, common sense told her over and over without managing to sound in the least convincing.

“Well, hello again. Long time, no see, eh?” Pritchard’s head at the car window caught both of them unawares.

Mike Pritchard proved to be far more reasonable than Winter could have imagined. He saw no problem with their driving to Herne Bay immediately and even expressed concern that Carol looked a shade pale. “This must have come as a terrible shock to you, Mrs Brady.” Carol nodded. “Splendid news about the baby, you must be over the moon.” Yet again, it was all Carol could do to manage a nod, now accompanied by a dazzling smile into which she put considerable effort. Pritchard, though, had already turned to Winter again. “I’ll pop over and see you in a while if you don’t mind? You’ll appreciate that I need to supervise things here. We can have a long chat later and you can tell me what inspired you to break into someone’s house and discover a body.”

Winter ignored the sarcasm. “I look forward to that,” he said, gritting his teeth, “and I appreciate your not detaining us any longer. As you can see, it’s all been a bit too much for poor Carol. By the way, she had no idea why I wanted to visit sunny Whitstable, I can assure you. As it is, I’m in the dog house.”

“You can say that again,” Carol exclaimed with such feeling that Pritchard looked first startled, and then faintly suspicious while even Winter was left feeling more than slightly shaken.

“Get off now, the pair of you, and I’ll see you both again soon.”

“Thanks Mike.” Winter was pleased to see the young detective wince at the use of his first name.

“My pleasure, Fred,” returned Pritchard.

Winter decided that the expression on the young sergeant’s face resembled a grimace more than a grin, displaying a set of such perfectly white teeth that he had to swallow hard on a wicked impulse to ask if they were Pritchard’s own.

“That didn’t go so badly,” Carol felt compelled to comment as they drove away. “I was expecting us to be frogmarched to the nick for interrogation.”

“Don’t be such a drama queen,” Winter told her with a grin, “and don’t count any chickens either. Pritchard will hound us until he gets his man… or woman,” he added for no reason other than a sense of fair play. “After all, who’s to say it wasn’t Pip or Nina who killed our friend Max?”

“Now you’re being plain ridiculous,” Carol snorted, produced a lipstick from her handbag and set about applying it. “If Nina’s a murderer then I’m Harry Potter. As for Pip, don’t you think that poor girl has endured enough already without you casting aspersions on her character?” she snapped, returning the glossy lipstick to a stylish handbag.

“You look fantastic,” Winter told her. “It beats me why women always want to make themselves up to the nines when there isn’t the slightest need for it.”

“Reason not the need,” replied Carol cryptically, the unspoken challenge left hanging in the air. But if Winter had recognized the quotation from Shakespeare or its aptness, he wasn’t letting on. In the meantime,  it cheered Carol up no end to keep him guessing, as he’d known it would. He knew the quote of course. Ever since Liam Brady had studied Shakespeare as part of his university course, his mother had made a point of collecting numerous quotable quotes from the Bard, invariably taken from a Dictionary of Quotations that had pride of place in her bookcase. One day, he mused wryly, he’d make Carol sit down and actually read some Shakespeare.

Their arrival at The Green Man was chaotic. There were hugs and kisses all round while Stanley, joined in with an incessant barking that began to drive everyone mad. At the same time, the little dog wagged its tail furiously and looked so bright eyed and happy to be there that no one, least of all Winter, had the heart to keep saying “Shut up!” too forcefully. But Stanley had the measure of things. Once excited greetings were over and everyone began traipsing through a busy main bar into a small but comfy sitting room, the dog took its cue and quietened considerably; so much so that Sadie reconsidered her intention to banish it to the kitchen with a bowl of water and some dog biscuits she had purchased for the occasion.

“He’s lovely!” Sadie cried, Stanley recognizing a worthy ally promptly jumped on her lap.

“Down, Stanley, down!” Winter commanded.

“It’s alright,” Sadie laughed, “He can stay where he is, at least until I get around to fixing us some grub.”

“I’ll help you with that,” Carol quickly volunteered. Sadie nodded, smiled and said nothing.

“You look blooming, absolutely blooming,” Winter observed with undisguised affection and admiration for the woman sitting opposite him.

“I feel it,” said Sadie, acknowledging the compliment with a broad grin. She was wondering why Carol seemed so…distant somehow…although distant wasn’t the word she wanted but no other sprung to mind, dismissing a feeling of unease as imagination once Liam re-entered the room bearing a tray of drinks.

“Please raise your glasses everyone,” declared Liam, looking flushed and happier that Winter had ever seen him, “for a toast to…forthcoming events.”

“Events…?” Carol pounced on the plural.

“We thought we’d do the right thing by the baby and get married,” said Sadie quietly.

“That’s fantastic!” Winter was jubilant, “Congratulations to both of you.” He went to Sadie and kissed her on the cheek, before pumping Liam’s hand.

It struck Carol that Freddy was more animated than she had seen him in ages. “Yes, wonderful news,” she found herself saying and went through the motions with another round of kisses and hugs. Stanley, on this occasion, remained oddly subdued, but submitted contentedly enough to Sadie’s constant stroking and cuddling as she sipped at a glass of soda and lime.

“To forthcoming events…!” Liam repeated and raised his glass again.

“And may everyone live happy ever after,” Winter added, with an enthusiastic show of sentiment that surprised even himself.

“Happy ever after!” everyone echoed, the toast well and truly drunk as they all but drained their glasses.

 Sadie spilled some of her drink  on Stanley’s nose. The little dog put out his tongue and tried to lick it up. Everyone roared.  A knocking at the door went unheard and a young man with curly hair put his head around it briefly. “Sorry to disturb you, folks, but there’s a DS Pritchard at the bar asking for a Fred Winter.”

“I’ll be right there,” said Winter, uncomfortably aware that neither he nor Carol had yet mentioned events in Whitstable to Liam and Sadie. “Give Pritchard whatever he’s drinking and I’ll pay for it. Just give me a jiffy, okay?” 

The head nodded and vanished. No sooner had the door clicked shut than Liam was demanding, “Okay, you two, what’s going on?”

“We called in on friends in Whitstable en route,” replied Winter, only too well aware that he was making a poor show of disingenuousness.

Liam was neither fooled nor distracted. “And what did you find that has made Mike Pritchard so anxious to see you?”

“Who said he was anxious?” murmured Carol more irritably than she intended.

“You and Pritchard have never exactly hit it off,” Liam Brady pointed out, “so it must be something pretty big if he’s prepared to go out of his way to turn up here practically the very minute you arrive. Am I right or am I right?” He did not take his eyes off Winter’s implacable expression.

“If you must know, we found a dead body,” said Carol.

Sadie visibly paled, “A body? Oh, my God! Whose body, for goodness sake?”

“We’re not sure, but we think…” Winter began only to be interrupted by Liam who had gone to stand beside his partner.

“Spare us the details, Fred. I’ll not have Sadie upset.”

“You’re right, of course.” Winter was genuinely apologetic. “I was forgetting…”

“I’m pregnant, not ill, and I’m not about to fall apart over the slightest thing.”  It was Sadie’s turn to sound irritable.

“But a dead body…” protested Liam.

“Has to be the juiciest gossip I’ve heard in ages,” Sadie interrupted with a wicked gleam in wide eyes that had always struck Winter as one of her most attractive features.

“I’d better not keep Pritchard waiting,” Winter mumbled, tossing Carol a conspiratorial wink that plainly warned her not to give too much away, and left the room. Liam’s expression disturbed him, suggesting, as it had, far more than protectiveness towards Sadie and his mother. His keen eye had interrupted a fleeting interchange of glances between mother and son that he understood only too well. Both were recalling another grim set of circumstances in which all three had become embroiled only a few years ago, Sadie too. Liam Brady was scared, not only because Winter’s presence posed a threat, but also because he was still fighting demons of his own.

The burly detective frowned. He could relate to that. The trouble with demons, he reflected grimly, was their stubborn refusal to let go, no matter what. Even so, it was Sadie Chapman’s reassuring smile that he kept in his mind’s eye as he joined DS Pritchard at the bar.

Pritchard did not waste time with small talk. “Ah, there you are, and about time too. Come on, my car’s parked outside.”

“We’re going somewhere?”

“It’s a lovely evening. I thought we could ride around the countryside. I’ll drive while you tell me what the hell you think you’re playing at.”

“Playing at?”

“You’re retired, right? That means you report any suspicions to the police and don’t follow your own damn nose any more. If you had cause to think something was wrong at that house, you should have called us right away.  As it is, I could have you arrested for breaking and entering.”

“But you won’t, will you?” Winter grinned amiably. Pritchard merely frowned and drove off.

“Tell me Fred, why did you think the body was your friend Cutler?”

“His mother hasn’t seen him for a while. That’s why I called in. The poor woman’s worried sick.”

“She’ll be relieved to know he isn’t dead then,” said Pritchard evenly, “Not as far as we know anyhow.”

“It wasn’t Cutler?” Winter could barely contain his surprise.

“No.”

“You’re sure of that, already? That was fast work, even for the electronic age.”

 “It wasn’t difficult. For a start, the corpse is female.”

“What?” Winter started violently in his seat belt.” 

“I’d have thought someone like yourself would know better than to make assumptions like that. Frankly, I’m amazed you didn’t take a closer look.” Pritchard couldn’t resist glancing smugly at his passenger before turning into a dirt track and applying the brake.

“And disturb a murder scene?” Winter pursed his lips. “Now, give me some credit, Mike.” Even so, his stomach was churning over and making noises he was sure the younger man must be able to hear. Pritchard is right of course. I should have known better.  God knows, it’s bad enough that I came over queasy, but not even to realize it was a women’s hand...I must be getting old. “So, any idea who she might be?” he asked, suspecting the sergeant would take great delight in telling him, and was not mistaken.

“Oh yes, we know who she is alright. I recognized her immediately.”

Winter’s heart sank.

To be continued on Monday

Blasphemy - Synopsis [and other news]

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

I hope those who have read any or all of my serialised novels on my fiction blog will enjoy them. Needless to say, copyright to my fiction (and poetry) remains exclusively mine.

NB  'Blasphemy' has been removed from the blog, but is now available as an e-book on Google Play, and I have taken the opportunity to correct some errors that appear in GLB print and e-editions.

https://play.google.com/store/books/details/Roger_N_Taber_Blasphemy?id=mNlsDAAAQBAJ&hl=en_GBI .  

Note: Blasphemy was first published in the US by GLB Publications, San Francisco in 2006 and distributed in the UK by Gazelle Book Services; it was originally planned as Book 1 of a gay-interest crime trilogy - Blasphemy-Sacrilege-Redemption - but by the time I had finished writing Book 2 GLB had moved the goalposts and expected a larger contribution to costs than I could afford. For various reasons, I never got around to writing Redemption; although Blasphemy and Sacrilege can be read as separate novel, I may yet complete the trilogy.  

                                   

SYNOPSIS: 

Blasphemy is the story of a middle aged gay man’s struggle to come to terms with the suicide of his lover, Harry. Breaking away from stereotypical gay fiction, the novel combines psychological and crime-adventure action; its flawed narrator and anti-hero, LAURENCE FISHER, embarks on a roller coaster ride of self-discovery, becoming inadvertently caught up in London’s seedier elements along the way.

Laurence enters into an unsatisfactory relationship with a closet gay colleague, NICK CARTER in a vain attempt to expiate guilt feelings about Harry’s death. He also goes cruising and is approached by a young rent boy, DANNY. Later, he comes across the youth badly beaten in a nearby alleyway, attended by girlfriend, POPPY.  As Danny refuses to see a doctor, Laurence reluctantly agrees to escort the couple to a medical student’s flat in Camden Town. Even more against his better judgement, Laurence then agrees to put them up in his spare room after Danny has been treated. By the next morning, however, there is neither any sign of the pair - nor Laurence’s wallet and other valuables. A few days later, Danny turns up again, this time with a wild story about Poppy having been seized by their pimp, FAT GEORGIE, and taken to a house in Battersea reserved for clients with “special needs”. Laurence and Nick Carter form and botch a rescue plan. Poppy is freed, but Laurence has to be rescued himself by PHILIP ADAMS who just ‘happens’ to be in the right place at the right time.   

           

Meanwhile, news concerning the death of his father and a conciliatory approach by both his mother and younger brother, MARC, awake in Laurence a desire to attempt re-establishing family ties.

Laurence and Philip are attracted to one another. Laurence, increasingly conscious of his age, seizes an opportunity to strike up a meaningful relationship.

Laurence’s house is ransacked. Danny and Poppy - the obvious culprits - disappear again. Philip returns Danny safe and sound, but it appears Poppy has been kidnapped by Fat Georgie, who is demanding the return of a ‘snuff’ video identifying prominent members of the English Establishment as well as the pimp himself. 

Laurence has to endure kidnap, beatings and narrowly escapes being murdered during a fast-moving course of events, the consequences of which include an untimely and violent death among some hard hitting revelations. Laurence offers Danny a home on condition that the youth finds a job and mends his ways. Danny grudgingly accepts only to disappear again. This, in turn, leads to Laurence and Nick joining forces for a new rescue bid, but this time with tragic consequences.

By the end of the novel, Laurence has confronted and learned from past mistakes and finally makes his peace with Harry. A family reconciliation is on the cards if not yet complete and a new life opens up for him.

Copyright Roger N. Taber 2005; 2016 

Postscript: A sequel - Sacrilege - was published under my own imprint in 2008, but that meant it has only been on sale in the UK although I have sold copies over the Internet. Both books achieved a small but nonetheless significant following.

Among other serials on the blog is Dog Roses, a gay novel hitherto unpublished except on the blog; it will follow Sacrilege as an e-book over the coming months as will Catching up with Murder which was published (in print form)  by Raider International in 2010 and introduces Fred Winter, a retired detective.  A second Fred Winter novel - Predisposed to Murder -  also unpublished other than on the blog) will follow. Last but not least, I will publish Like There's No Tomorrow as an e-book on Google Play.  So... watch this space. 

As with my poetry blogs, I do not post comments, but will always read them and reply to anyone who gives an email address. I have no problem with criticism so long as it is at least fairly constructive; it always helps to know why someone likes or dislikes a poem or novel. Feel free to email me any time at  rogertab@aol.com

While I am not in the best-seller category, I enjoy writing and feedback suggests I can tell a good story which is all I  can hope to do.  There are far better writers than me out there, but as a librarian working in public libraries for many years, I am also aware of far worse. Whatever, writing keeps me sane and happy. More importantly, it helps to keep my arch-enemy Depression at bay. I only hope at least some of you will enjoy the fruits of my literary labours.

Many thanks for your interest and support, both are much appreciated.

Roger

Dog Roses - Chapter One

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval systems or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior (written) permission of the author.

CHAPTER ONE

Call me Rob. Oh, but I dare say there are many young men out there who, like me, have a story to tell about having to grow up before they were quite ready in some anonymous, god-forsaken little town; that mine happened to be a dreary Outer London suburb was pure accident. Every great city has its satellite towns where ordinary people can but go about their daily lives in its shadow, all but dwarfed if not altogether crushed under the sheer weight and spread of its reputation.
     As a boy, I’d read somewhere that, in the language of flowers, the dog rose symbolizes pleasure mixed with pain. A pretty, wild thing, few of us pay it much attention. After all, it has no place in a vase or buttonhole; rather, it belongs in the shelter of a privet hedge or among a patch of weeds. During the years between realizing I’m gay and struggling to come to terms with the sudden death of my father, I developed a peculiar affinity with dog roses.
     For years I had nightmares about my father’s cremation. As the curtains close, I hear him call my name. I dive after him. As the incinerator devours us, he breaks free of the coffin’s oak trappings and hugs me before turning into a huge white bird and flies away. I am left burning up with a resentment that chokes my lungs, sears my insides.
     My dad has left me to die.
     I would lie awake for hours. In time, although these nightmares never lost the power to scare me, I saw them for what they were. I’d wake up, turn over and eventually go back to sleep. I stopped wearing pyjamas. Damp sheets did not cling to the skin in quite the same way. I felt less trapped. In this sense, my nakedness helped set me free. Besides, I had already devised an escape route - the pleasure mixed with pain (guilt?) of masturbation. It was pure escapism. I didn’t fantasize about having sex. Shaun Devlin, once my best mate, used to tell me how he’d wank over big boobs in his mother’s women’s magazines. I tried that once but it didn’t do anything for me.
     I was just fifteen when my father died. He went off to work as usual one day and never came home. At the inquest, I heard his death attributed to a fatal pulmonary embolism. It should have brought my mother, my younger brother Paul and me closer together. Only, it didn’t.  On the contrary, we drifted apart. That is to say, my mother and brother became closer, leaving me feeling at best like a stranger, at worst an intruder.
Although Dad’s life insurance paid off the mortgage, my mother still had to work all hours at various cleaning jobs to keep us well fed and clothed as well as pay for Paul to go on school trips.
     “It’s only fair Robert,” she’d say to me, “Besides, he’s just a boy, and you’re nearly a man. You’ve had your turn, and you know perfectly well your father wouldn’t have wanted Paul to miss out.”
     What about me? I wanted to scream at her. Invariably, though, I’d bite my lip and slope off to my room to play pop CDs very loud, during which time I’d not only convince myself I wasn’t sulking but also enjoy a good wank or, as my mother would have it, indulge in the ‘disgusting habit of masturbation.’
     This was Tony Blair’s Britain. New Labour was supposed to mean new beginnings. Maybe, for some, but few of my schoolmates took much heart from a political rhetoric that mostly went over our heads and was plainly designed to catch bigger fish than us.
     When I announced my intention to leave school at sixteen, my mother agreed it was for the best after only a few words of token protest. She knew it made sense. Moreover, she was anxious to put my brother through university. He was the bright one, after all. Even so, I swotted hard for good passes in my GCSEs if only to prove I could have stayed on for A-levels and gone to university had all things been equal on the Home Front.
     Paul took a sudden interest in sport. During the next few years, he became something of a hero at local events; football, cricket, tennis, whatever. He displayed a remarkable talent for all three, swimming too. My mother fretted that he was neglecting his studies, but his teachers reassured her otherwise. “You should try it sometime bro,” he would say to me, “There’s nothing like the roar of a crowd rooting for you to get the adrenalin flowing.” But I had other things on my mind.
     My mother got a job as an assistant at the local public library. This made life a whole lot easier for her; a good, regular pay packet and none of the arduous demands or hours that cleaners are required to put in. Paul took on a newspaper round to help fund his various sporting interests; the gear alone was costing a small fortune, plus trips to various championship events. I worried that he would burn himself out. Only once did I express this fear to him. He merely glared and told me to mind my own damn business.
     I left school and took a job at the ‘81’ café, just off the High Street. It was owned and run by a crusty old devil everyone called Bananas although I still think of him as the gaffer. His peculiar loathing for the fruit was a local legend. It wasn’t so much the eating as the peeling that offended his sensibilities. He couldn’t bear to catch so much as a glimpse of anyone in the act. It was only out of sheer perversity that he permitted bananas to be sold along with other fruit at the counter. More than once, though, I saw the gaffer launch himself at a customer. He would grab the banana and rip off its skin. Dangling it between finger and thumb at arm’s length and wearing a comical grimace of utter loathing, he would then drop it into the nearest waste bin. All this, performed with his eyes tightly closed.
     Although the gaffer was barely in his fifties, people frequently referred to him as ‘old’ Bananas. Some people are born old, I guess. His bark was much worse than his bite. All the same, he was a mean taskmaster and tolerated no slacking on the job. The café was spotless. It fell to me to make sure it stayed that way.
     Bananas laid down certain ground rules for the staff. These included no idle chatting to customers and no sly freebies to friends or family. Fair enough, I thought, but couldn’t help observing how he loved to gossip himself. Sometimes, too, he would let some elderly or unemployed soul have a cup of tea on the house when he thought no one was looking.
     Everyone loved Bananas, including those who would have felt the sharp end of his tongue if they happened to walk in without wiping muddy shoes on the coconut mat by the door. Nor would he tolerate anyone chatting away an octave or two higher than he thought conductive to everyone else’s comfort. He was a big, no-nonsense man. Troublemakers were barred for life. As a substitute father figure and role model of sorts, I could have found a lot worse.
     For a while, it was mostly Bananas and me having to see to everything. His wife, Hannah, known affectionately by regulars as Ma B, would sometimes help out when I took time off. Within three months, I was banking the takings and doing battle with the gaffer’s inspired bookkeeping. After a few more months of good and sometimes less good-humoured wrangling, I was rewarded for my efforts with a significant increase in my wage packet. I saw less and less of Ma B and Bananas was frequently absent. It upset me no end to watch the man’s fast decline as her cancer spread and she slipped slowly away.
     Bananas made me temporary manager and took on two part-time assistants to keep an eye on things when I was not around. One of these, Doreen, was the wife of an old friend. The other, Sarah, was a pert little thing who proved to be as competent as she was popular with the customers. By now he was spending more time at the hospital than the café and left us to our own devices. Fortunately, we made a good team so he had no worries on that score.
     Being something of a 1960s enthusiast, Bananas had covered the café walls with glossy posters and other pop memorabilia. Most of the tracks on the jukebox comprised Elvis, The Beatles, Dusty Springfield and the like. These were especially popular with a young crowd who, together with one or two down-and-outs practically filled the café most evenings until we closed around 11.0’clock.  Not much older than me, they rode motorbikes and enjoyed showing off their girlfriends. Doreen called them Hell’s Angels although they weren’t, but what does the older generation ever get right about the younger? She invariably referred to the girlfriends as ‘floozies’ - an expression guaranteed to send Sarah and me into fits of laughter every time. In well-worn leathers and customised helmets, they were a scruffy lot. Their machines, on the other hand, gleamed from hours of tender loving care.
     Occasionally, fights broke out. More often than not these were sudden flare-ups and over in seconds. None of the staff would stand for any nonsense, although we rarely banned anyone outright as Bananas probably would have done. Even pint-sized Sarah would wade in and slap a flushed cheek or two with a wet tea towel whenever tempers became frayed. It wasn’t often, though, that we’d need to get involved.
     Whenever it looked as if trouble was brewing, Billy Mack would step in and restore order.
I was more than a little in awe of Billy Mack. Two years older than me, he was a natural leader. Broad shouldered, he stood over six feet tall in his boots.  He had blond, wavy hair and a grin that was quite something; it could utterly disarm or make the blood run cold. I envied him his easy, but commanding manner. He could dissolve the slightest hint of any hassle with a look. Many a time, I’d watch him. Wide blue eyes would narrow as the full, sensual mouth pouted threateningly and long fingers flexed themselves before curling into a tight fist. Instantly, the object of his attention would visibly wilt. In the same way, any potential challenge to his leadership was extinguished on the spot.
     Billy owned a magnificent 1000cc machine that served as a more than adequate status symbol. He was neither a violent person by nature nor the sort to duck a fight if provoked. Once, a pasty-faced character with slick, greasy, hair called Nick Crolley, punched his girlfriend in the face during an argument. Before he could land a second blow, Billy Mack was at his elbow. Crolley was promptly despatched to the nearest hospital’s Accident & Emergency Department hospital with a broken arm. The girl, Liz, accompanied him, clearly torn between anger, distress, and misplaced devotion. At the door, she turned and hurled a torrent of abuse at Billy. A few people got up and left but most stayed behind, their faces glowing with approval.
Billy and I exchanged glances. His grin seemed to throw down a challenge of sorts. I looked away, confused and obscurely frightened.
     While the incident itself passed quickly enough, it changed my perception of Billy Mack. I had always admired him but only in passing. Now, my awareness of him persisted whenever I had a spare moment, and often when I didn’t. Its intensity was unnerving. I’d be clearing tables and his face would suddenly loom up at me from a plate, a spoon or an unwashed mug. I found myself looking forward to seeing him again in much the same way as I might have anticipated meeting up with a mate after work. Only, it wasn’t quite like that either. I kept telling myself I was being silly. He was only a customer, after all. But that didn’t sop me brooding. As for being mates, that was out of the question since I did not own a motorbike.
     On the whole, evenings at the ’81 passed quietly enough. Billy Mack continued to enjoy the grudging admiration of everyone and kept a tight lid on things. Charisma, charm, he had the lot. Even Doreen treated him with a distant civility that had a lot to do with the way he always took care to be polite and respectful towards her. Tongue in cheek or no, he won her over. I once heard her comment to a day customer that she thought Billy Mack had the makings of a nice lad. “Pity he’s such a lout,” she couldn’t resist adding.  A sense of outrage welled up inside me. I wanted to butt in and rush to Billy’s defence. Instead, I vented my spleen on a chunk of cheddar cheese and my doorstep sandwiches were thicker than ever all day.
     Towards the rest of Billy’s crowd, Doreen’s attitude remained on the frosty side. But she knew where to draw the line and so did they. A love-hate relationship developed between them, each taking a steady stream of banter in tolerably good sport.
     From day one, Sarah fantasized about Billy. She usually worked evening shifts and her flirty manner went down a treat with the leather jackets, especially the male variety. Poor Sarah would visibly drool and go weak at the knees whenever she had to serve Billy. In all other respects, she was competent and a real asset. Billy was her Achilles heel. He had only to set his handsome face into a cheeky grin and, like as not, she would forget to charge him for his order; invariably, two cappuccinos and a ham doorstep sandwich with lashings of brown sauce.
     Billy always shared a corner table with a flame haired girl who chewed gum. They made an odd but striking couple; Billy with his blond mane and her with tongues of fire licking face and back almost to the waist. They rarely spoke. Eye contact seemed to suffice. Whatever telepathy passed between them, it always seemed to me that Billy preened under her steady, ironic gaze. She, for her part, assumed a postured nonchalance.
     Her name was Maggie Dillon. I hated her.
     At first, Maggie and I barely acknowledged each other’s existence. Billy usually ordered for them both at the counter. Occasionally, my eyes would stray to their table and linger. She always seemed to sense this. Her shoulders would tense and she would turn her head a fraction. We would exchange glances; mine embarrassingly diffident, hers piercingly neutral. She had strikingly beautiful grey-green eyes. Yet, I never detected any warmth in them. Much as I detested her, she fascinated me. At the same time, she only had to give a single toss of her tawny head and arch but one heavily scored eyebrow to keep me firmly in a separate orbit. In my mind, I began to enjoy crossing swords with her, even went out of my way sometimes to catch her eye, taking a curious satisfaction in returning her faintly superior smile with what I hoped was a dismissive air before looking away.
     Billy would often intercept these exchanges. He’d toss me a broad grin. Was he laughing at me, I wondered? Whatever, discreetly observing the curve of his mouth and the whiteness of his teeth always gave me goose bumps. I put this down to envy, nothing more. He epitomised all aspired to, but couldn’t see myself ever achieving.
     Maggie sensed my hostility, I could tell. The glossy, provocative lips would twitch mockingly. Moreover, she had a way of undressing Billy with her eyes, as if warning off the other girls and leaving the boys in no doubt that, compared to Billy, they were trash and she despised them. I told myself it was none of my damn business. Yet, in the darker recesses of adolescent disquiet, this frank gesture of possessiveness incensed me.
     One evening, I watched with growing interest from my usual vantage point at the counter as Nick Crolley made no secret of ogling Maggie. Again, he was with the girl, Liz, although, for all the notice he took of her, they might as well have been sitting at separate tables. In spite of the way he treated her, Liz Daniels remained loyal to Crolley. Even now, she was all over him. She gave a squeal of delight when he sat her on his knee and ran nicotine-stained fingers through his greasy hair. Meanwhile, his every look, every crude gesture, told everyone watching that he wanted Maggie Dillon for himself.
     Maggie ignored him.
     If Billy was aware of the atmosphere, he gave no sign. The tension mounted. Only Liz seemed oblivious to it. Then Maggie turned her head at last. For an instant, she met Crolley’s smirking expression. Seemingly unruffled, she blew a perfect smoke ring before looking away. Crolley’s jaw dropped. Nor could he have failed to hear the subsequent sniggering.
     Meanwhile, Billy hadn’t so much as spared Crolley a sidelong glance. They were so damn sure of each other, he and Maggie, I reflected bitterly. I told myself I was being stupid, suspected I was jealous of their friendship only because I was being kept so busy at the café that I was fast losing touch with my own friends. Billy caught my steady gaze. To my horror, I found myself blushing and was relieved to be distracted by someone signalling for another coffee.
     Crolley now gave Liz his undivided attention. Sliding one hand up her short skirt, he tightened he grabbed her arm with his free hand and pulled her roughly towards him, smothering her face and neck with heave kisses.
     A few onlookers started cheering.
     Conscious of an audience, the pair proceeded with an all but pornographic display of titillation, drawing spasmodic applause and much whistling.  That is, until Doreen marched over to their table and threatened to call the police.
     “Keep your hair on, Doreen, sweetheart!” protested Crolley while continuing to caress the lobe of Liz Daniel’s left ear with his tongue and fondle her breasts, “We’re only having a friendly kiss ‘n’ cuddle. No law against that, is there?”
     “No,” Doreen placidly agreed, “But there’s one against offending public decency and you two are giving mine the shits.”
     Everyone roared.
     The café rang with good-natured laughter for several minutes. Liz wrenched herself free and went sprawling. If an exaggerated vivaciousness was meant to disguise a sudden awareness of a smudged mouth and mauled breasts all but uncovered, it fooled no one. “And talking of hair,” Doreen rounded on the poor girl, “yours is a bloody disgrace!” jerking her head emphatically towards the door marked ‘Ladies’. Plainly grateful for the cue, Liz grabbed her shoulder bag and fled to the loo in floods of tears. I noticed another girl, Lou Simmons, rise unobtrusively and go after her.  All other eyes were on Crolley and Doreen. Hands on hips, legs slightly apart, she met his sneering gaze without flinching. “You disgust me,” she said loudly.
     More laughter filled the café.
     Crolley was the first to back down. Bristling with malice, he stuck two fingers up at Doreen before turning his attention to the plate in front of him and champing noisily away at a sandwich. Doreen returned to the counter, half heartedly trying to disguise her satisfaction by wiping her hands on the apron coat she wore. A burst of applause brought a rush of colour to her face. My eyes met Billy’s.  He grinned, and nodded appreciatively towards Doreen. I grinned back. For a moment, we shared an intense, intimate rapport. It was both an exciting and disturbing experience.
     I looked away uncomfortably. By the time I risked a glance in his direction again, he was chatting animatedly to a group who had wandered across from another table. It was Maggie who intercepted my furtive look. She grimaced. Oddly enough, it did not strike me as either a warning nor even hostile expression. The glossy lipstick mouth twitched but I didn’t feel as though she was laughing at me either. It was as if we were mutually agreeing to a truce of sorts. But the moment passed as quickly as it had come and she resumed taking a piece of gum from its silver wrapper and carefully placing it on her tongue.
     I was grateful to Doreen. A comely figure in her late forties, she was a mother figure to us all. Certainly, this particular crowd would take more from her than they would from me. Oh, I could keep them in line as and when required, even entertained the notion now and then that they harboured a grudging respect for me. But I was the same generation, had attended the same local Comprehensive. Pulling rank now and also meant I had to take a lot of stick. Mostly, it was all good-humoured fun. Crolley and some of his cronies, though…Well, they could turn nasty. On this occasion, I was relieved to spot one of them, Baz Pearce, toss Doreen a cheeky wink. She bristled with mock indignation and, in turn, winked at me.
     Crolley continued, resolutely, to sulk.
     Lou Simmons finally emerged from the toilet with a friendly arm around the now smiling Liz. Both girls headed for the group talking to Billy and Maggie, careful to give Nick Crolley a wide berth.
     “Is there any chance I could get away early tonight Rob?” Doreen asked me a little later on, bright pink spots breaking out on her normally sallow cheeks.
     “For that little performance, no problem,” I readily agreed. She beamed with a child-like pleasure that should have alerted me to grounds for speculation. But I hadn’t time for any of that. Shaun Devlin caught my eye, indicating that he required as many cappuccinos as fingers raised while shifting his massive frame to make room for Lou and Liz.
     Shaun and I had been close once. He cut an imposing figure and stood out from any crowd. Tall, always smiling, he was the son of a Jamaican bus driver and his Irish wife, Nancy. Our parents had been friends for years. It always struck me as an unlikely liaison.  Nancy Devlin was something of a rough diamond, my mother a quiet, unassuming woman. But I liked Nancy; she always had time for me. Mick Drummond, Shaun’s dad, was a kindly man with a ready, infectious laugh. Shaun took after him. We had been best friends since nursery school.
     Mick and Nancy Devlin had never married. That didn’t bother me in the least although I sometimes wondered why Shaun took his mother’s surname, not is father’s. But it was none of my business and I never asked.
     Shaun was a year older than me. We had made other friends at the Comprehensive and drifted apart. His friendship with Billy Mack was almost legendary. Shaun was tall but gangling in those days and hadn’t filled out. A gang of bullies led by Vince Crolley, Nick’s older brother, had set upon him in the playground. Billy had dived in and rescued him, knocking Crolley to the ground in the process. The ensuing fight was ingrained in school folklore for countless generations to relate, embellish and enjoy.
     Shaun, an only child, adored Billy like a brother. It baffled Billy, however, that Shaun should have chosen Maggie Dillon’s friend Lou ‘Loopy’ Simmons for a girlfriend. Pigtails abandoned years since, the old nickname had stuck. She had a slow way of speaking that gave the impression she was retarded in some way. She was plain and quiet, the very opposite of Maggie, and stood a mere five feet without shoes.  Shaun dwarfed her. I often heard people refer to them as ‘the odd couple’ and no one was convinced by Maggie’s frequent assertions that there was more to Lou than met the eye.
     Needless to say, Billy Mack’s crowd accepted Lou in much the same way as they accepted Shaun, if only on Billy’s say as self-styled leader of the pack. I had the feeling that Billy looked out for them both. This not only fuelled my thoughts about Billy himself, but also intensified my feelings for him. I told myself I was jealous and should know better since Shaun and I were still good friends. Nevertheless, it provided my alter ego with as good an excuse as any for my growing obsession with Billy Mack.
     I got on well enough with Billy’s crowd, even the few Nick Crolley types he appeared to count among his entourage. I served their drinks, cut their sandwiches and cleared up their mess. It was, after all, my job. I was never one of them. Times were, though, when I envied them their brash camaraderie; times, too, when I would have given anything to share a place in Billy Mack’s affections. There was something else, something almost tangible but tantalisingly beyond my grasp. It was something about Billy himself. Not, though, the same Billy whose voice and easy laugh made my spine tingle or the Billy I so envied for his easygoing charm and undisputed leadership skills.
     There was, I sensed, another side to Billy Mack.
     Now and then I would catch him observing me. He’d wave and grin, but almost at once something or someone else would divert his attention. Yet, while the glance held, it was as if we two swam beneath the surface of things, coming together in an exhilarating secretiveness that no one else could possibly have experienced or shared. For me, such moments were sheer bliss.
     I felt closer to Billy than to anyone else in the pack he ran with, even Shaun. He could summon a baleful stare capable of nipping trouble in the bud while a wicked grin probably helped extricate him from as many sticky situations as his fists. But there was more to Billy than that, I just knew it. I had never been so intensely aware of anyone in my life before. My mouth would become dry just for noticing the way he moved, with an easy nonchalance close to grace. The vivid blue of his eyes, absorbing everything and everyone, conveyed hidden depths. I longed to plunge in and float there naked. The idea was preposterous, scary. But it haunted me night and day. Oh, I went through the motions, responding to everyone with a ready smile and a cheerful “hello” but they were just customers, barely even faces. I had a café to run and was making a damn good job of it too. But Billy Mack…It was all so different with Billy. It took a while, though, before I began to appreciate how the difference lay within me rather than with him.
     The more I thought about Billy Mack, the more sensitive I became to an increasing sense of loneliness. It was worse away from the café. I might be relaxing with a magazine, listening to a CD,   watching TV or maybe even sharing a rare moment with my mother and brother. Suddenly, Billy’s handsome, smiling face would completely fill my vision, blocking out all else. I’d get angry then. So Billy Mack had lots of mates and I was left with precious few, so what? Who needs friends of that sort? They could keep their precious bikes, their hammy leather gear and fancy mobile phones. What did I care?  But Billy was also an apprentice printer, and I little more than a skivvy in a back street café.
     Burning up with resentment, I’d go upstairs to my room and, yes, enjoy a good wank.

To be continued.

NB [16/2/17] Certain changes to Blogger and Google over a period of time have resulted in some inconsistencies in lay-out for my earlier serialised novels. I am in the process of making some corrections. Regular readers should be aware that 'Updates' do not mean any changes to story-lines.- RT