The Complete Pratt (97 page)

‘He’s a monster from outer space,’ explained Angela Groyne in a whisper. ‘From some strange planet or summat. ’e ’as these incredible powers, like ’e can jump across t’ Rundle.’

‘They’ve built this special spring,’ whispered Bill Holliday. ‘They’ve tried it four times. He’s landed in bloody river each time.’

‘OK. We’re going for a take,’ shouted an assistant director. ‘OK. Absolute hush, everybody.’

‘337, take 5,’ shouted the clapper-boy.

A special-effects man operated the spring. The green-tentacled monster leapt into the air, and landed in the middle of the river.

‘Bugger,’ shouted the director.

‘OK. Lunch. Back at 2.23,’ shouted the assistant director.

‘Does tha fancy a pint?’ said Bill Holliday.

‘Not in the Navigation. I’m banned from there,’ said Henry proudly.

‘Not in my company, tha’s not,’ said Bill Holliday, and Henry shuddered at the man’s power.

And so Cecil E. Jenkinson was forced to serve Henry with a pint of bitter, and Henry was forced to drink it in the company of a man who was probably trying to kill him.

‘What are you doing here?’ he asked, trying to sound casual.

‘Angie’s in it,’ said Bill Holliday proudly.

‘Oh! What do you play?’ he asked.

‘A corpse,’ said Bill Holliday. ‘She plays a corpse.’

Henry shuddered, in that tiny snug heaving with film folk.

‘Well, it’s mainly corpses, really,’ said Angela Groyne. ‘There’s this deadly gas or summat, so nobody can go out, but I was out already so I’m dead.’

‘Two bloody great monsters turn her over and examine her,’ said Bill Holliday. ‘First monster says “Hey up, she’s copped it,” or words to that effect. Second monster says “Aye, and it’s a right shame an’ all because she looks a right tasty piece at that,” or words to that effect.’

Henry wished they wouldn’t go on and on about death.

‘There’s a long lingering close-up of her dead,’ said Bill Holliday.

‘You might think it’s dead easy just to lie there dead, but it’s not, it’s dead difficult,’ said Angela Groyne. ‘You have to be right careful not to breathe in or out or owt.’

Henry managed to turn away and talk to an assistant to the design assistant, who said, ‘Fabulous area, this.’

‘You like it?’ said Henry. ‘Great. I was born here.’

‘Fabulous,’ said the assistant to the design assistant. ‘We needed a grimy, wretched, dying earth, and a noxious outer space full of dust, swirling fog and poisonous gases. We’ve found every location we need within a mile of here.’

Henry bought drinks for Bill Holliday and Angela Groyne. His bladder was getting full, but he didn’t dare go, for fear Bill Holliday would spike his drink.

The stuntman came in. He’d removed his head, but still created quite a stir with his tentacles and green body. His name
was
Freddie Bentley, he came from Wath-on-Dearne, and Henry knew that he’d got his story. South Yorkshire stuntman jumps to stardom. As he interviewed him, Henry began to feel that he’d met him somewhere before. Freddie Bentley became wary, and denied it with unnecessary fervour. And Henry remembered. Of course! Freddie Bentley must have been driving the lorry for Bill Holliday! And now here he was, in front of Bill Holliday, talking of seeing Freddie Bentley before! He might as well sign his own death warrant. Another drink appeared. Was it spiked? ‘Drink up,’ said Bill Holliday. Nervously, he drank up. His bladder was aching. He’d have to go.

Bill Holliday followed him. If Henry felt relieved that Bill Holliday couldn’t be slipping anything into his drink, he didn’t feel relieved to be relieving himself beside Bill Holliday in an otherwise deserted urinal. He half expected to feel a knife twisting in his stomach. Nothing happened. He felt a trickle of returning courage. He decided to fight back. As they returned to the crowded bar, he said, ‘Seen any good trusses lately?’

Bill Holliday went pale. ‘How did you guess?’ he said.

‘It was obvious,’ said Henry.

The trade gap widened to £103.6 million. The government increased local rates in order to give councils more freedom of choice over expenditure on education, child care, fire brigades and health. The unemployment figures had increased to 382,605.

On Tuesday, February 12th, Henry interviewed Mr Gibbins for ‘Proud Sons of Thurmarsh’. Mr Gibbins had completely forgotten that, eleven Februaries ago, in his classroom, Henry had been the author of a phenomenal amount of wind. Henry had mixed emotions of relief and hurt pride.

The head offices of Joyce and Sons had no record of drivers named Freddie Bentley or Dave Nasenby. Henry must have been mistaken about his old friends.

That evening, shortly before nine o’clock, the doorbell rang loudly, insistently, aggressively. He hurried out with pumping heart. Was it Bill Holliday? Or Stan Holliday? Or Fred Hathersage? Or all three?

Ginny hurried downstairs, in blue slacks and an off-white shirt stretched tight over her large breasts.

‘Who is it?’ he called, anxiously.

‘Police.’

They looked at each other. He opened the door. There were two officers.

‘Henry Pratt?’

‘Yes.’

‘We’ve found the driver of the Standard Eight. Do you think you’ll be able to identify him?’

He had to try. Ginny insisted on coming, to lend him moral support. How could he tell her that they might not be real policemen, they could be Bill Holliday’s boys? Besides, if they were, a young woman of her build might be distinctly useful.

They weren’t Bill Holliday’s boys. They drove to York Road Police Station.

Ginny sat in the waiting-room beside a large, square, stony-faced woman with a pile of copies of the
Watchtower
. She looked like a sculpture on which naughty boys had painted a moustache.

An officer led Henry towards a dark grey door. At the door he said, ‘There’s six people lined up in there. Walk up and down the line carefully. Take your time. Make absolutely sure. Say nowt unless you can positively identify the man. In which case, when you’re sure, point at him very clearly, so there’s no possibility of mistake, and say “That’s ’im. The third one from my right.”’

‘What?’ said Henry.

‘That was just an example,’ said the officer hastily. ‘I’m not saying that’s where he’ll be. He could be fourth from your left or owt.’

‘Fourth from the left is the same as third from the right,’ said Henry.

The officer worked it out.

‘Oh aye, so it is,’ he said.

Henry felt nervous. It isn’t easy to come face to face with a man who’s tried to murder you. He took a deep breath, stepped through the grey door, approached the line of people, looked up and found himself staring straight into the impassive face of Terry Skipton.

Terry Skipton? Could it be? Until Friday he’d believed that
Terry
Skipton didn’t like him, but … until Friday! If Terry Skipton had tried to kill him, and had wondered if Henry’d seen him, that might account for his sudden change of attitude. He remembered that rather hunched, almost deformed impression the driver had made on him. Terry Skipton! But he couldn’t identify him positively. And they never put the suspect on the end, did they? Better move on. He hoped none of these thoughts were visible to Terry Skipton.

He moved on. He found himself gazing into an evil, guilty face. He could hardly spend less time looking at any of them than he’d spent looking at Terry Skipton, so he had to continue to look at the man long after he knew it wasn’t him.

With pumping heart he looked at the man who was third from the right and fourth from the left. Had the officer been hinting? Another evil, guilty face, certainly, but no, it wasn’t him.

He moved on. Another evil, guilty face. Did all men look evil and guilty when placed in a police line-up? Would St Francis of Assissi have looked like a flasher, in an identification parade?

He moved on again, and looked into the face of the man who’d tried to murder him. A shiver ran right through him. His certainty was total. That slightly twisted neck, the white face set at a slight angle, hunched into a mass of knobbly shoulder. The sense that the man was in the car, driving straight for him, was so strong that he had to force himself not to jump out of the way.

Even though he was absolutely certain, he felt obliged to move on and examine the sixth suspect. If a man gave up his time, during licensing hours, to stand in an identification parade, it was only polite that you should take the trouble to stare suspiciously at him through narrowed eyes for thirty seconds.

He returned to the second man from the left, and again he knew. And the man knew that he knew.

‘That’s the man,’ he said, pointing. ‘The second one from my left.’

They led Henry back, out of the bare cold room into the warmer parts of the building.

‘Thank you,’ said the officer. ‘You picked the right man. You thought I were hinting before, didn’t you?’

‘Well … I … er …’

‘It’s just that I’m thick.’

‘Well … I … er …’

‘Now, are you absolutely sure? ’cos in court they’ll say you didn’t have time to see him properly.’

‘Absolutely sure. The horror of it’s etched in my mind.’

‘Good man.’

The officer led him into the waiting-room, where Terry Skipton was standing beside the moustachioed lady with the
Watchtowers
.

‘My wife Violet,’ he said gruffly.

Henry’s legs began to wobble. He sat down hurriedly.

‘Are you all right?’ said the officer.

‘Oh yes,’ said Henry. ‘It’s just a bit of a shock gazing into the face of the man who tried to murder you.’

‘Well, not murder
you
,’ said the officer. ‘Murder Dennis Lacey.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t see any harm in telling you. We’re arresting him. He was Marie Chadwick’s boyfriend. She ditched him. Apparently she’s a right tasty … er …’ He looked at Terry and Violet Skipton, and the pile of
Watchtowers
, and stopped. ‘Apparently he drove past there day after day, waiting for a chance to get him without getting her.’

‘By ’eck, Henry,’ said Terry Skipton. ‘The way you stared at me, I thought you thought
I’d
done it.’

Ginny and Violet and the officer laughed.

‘You?’ said Henry. ‘You?? No!! No, I just thought … you being the first … if I didn’t give you a pretty long, dirty look it might look a bit odd when I gave the others long, dirty looks. Me think you’d done it? That’s a good one!’

The police were very grateful, but not so grateful as to provide a car home. Henry and Ginny trudged up York Road and Winstanley Road. Henry ran his hand gently over her buttocks as she walked, and then he put his arm round her. He felt very sexy after everything he’d been through. He thought of Hilary, in Durham. And, in the cold, sterile hall of their house, he gave Ginny a chaste kiss on the cheek and said, ‘Thanks for coming with me.’ She sighed and said, ‘Pleasure.’ They went to their separate beds.

As he undressed, and cleaned his teeth, and clambered into his
clammy
bed, Henry was thinking hard. The Standard Eight had not been driven at him. The gangs had not been waiting to beat him up. Of course the crate of surgical trusses could still have been meant for him, but logic now seemed to demand that it had been an accident also. After all, as he realized now, there’d been no way anyone could have known that he’d walk past, under that crane. He hadn’t known it himself. Believing that it had been a murder attempt meant believing that there were large numbers of people, stationed all over Thurmarsh, waiting for a chance to kill him. In view of later events, this seemed unlikely.

And yet … if Bill Holliday wasn’t trying to murder him, why should he have gone pale at the mention of trusses?

Henry longed for the relief of knowing that nobody was trying to kill him.

And yet … he also felt that he’d be a little disappointed, even hurt, if nobody thought him important enough to rub off the face of the earth.

On Wednesday, February 13th, the government announced that the Quantocks had been designated Britain’s first ‘area of outstanding natural beauty’, and that the British Megaton Bomb, capable of destroying many Quantocks, would be ready soon.

Howard Lewthwaite walked to the Midland Hotel for lunch with his prospective son-in-law.

‘Have whatever you like,’ he said, ‘though personally I’ll stick to the
table d’hôte
.’

The weather had turned colder and a brief burst of hail pattered against the windows, disturbing the hushed serenity of that temple of starched linen.

‘I’ve made some discreet inquiries into that crane driver,’ said Howard Lewthwaite. ‘He doesn’t sound like a potential assassin to me.’

The waiter approached. He had new shoes, which squeaked.

‘What is the
potage
?’ said Howard Lewthwaite.

‘Mock turtle, sir,’ said the waiter.

‘I’ll have that, and I like the sound of that ham omelette,’ said Howard Lewthwaite.

‘Soup for me, too,’ said Henry. ‘And what’s the
daube d’Irlande
?’