The Drowners (4 page)

Out on the Levels a group of men converged on the village of Woolavington, arriving by car at intervals until all six of them were settled in a private room at the back of the Royal Arms pub. The landlord served them in person before retiring discreetly to make sure he was seen by his more regular customers in the bar. Times were hard, he reflected, and he needed the money, but he was not entirely happy about the arrangement. Pulling himself a half he tried to put it out of his mind and began a round of greeting and jokes in an attempt to lighten the sombre mood in the bar. The death of
Micky had cast gloom over customers and staff alike and rumours his drowning was being investigated by the police had done nothing to help business, as the more nervous drinkers (or those with nervous and vocal wives, he thought) were staying away. Add in the damn Carnival dragging people from one end of the county to another and he’d be lucky to make the wages bill this month. He nodded to his wife, on standby near the kitchen just in case there was a call for food from his guests. Responding with a scowl she retreated from view wiping her hands on her apron as she went. Another problem, he thought glumly. Somehow he had to tell her there was likely to be more ‘bookings’ for the top room and he’d already agreed to them.

Upstairs an arrangement was being hammered out by representatives of five groups, all from different areas but with common interests.

’Tis no point us all fighting each other,’ said a man at the head of the long table. ‘We got a great opportunity here, not likely to be coming again soon. With Derek gone and young Newt banged up they is like headless chickens and all that business is open for the taking.’

A tall, blond man in his early thirties rose and addressed the group. ‘I agree. Tom here knows the Levels far better than we do but we all know how useful this area can be. With the Johns gang out of the way we can open it up and use our contacts, make a safe base for operations. I’m in and I suggest you all join us. What about you Mark?’

His companion, an older man with thin brown hair and piercing green eyes nodded slowly. ‘Reckon you may be right,’ he said. ‘We got to sort out a few things first though. I’m not so sure about this new stuff.’

Several heads bobbed in agreement, mainly from the older men around the table. ‘Right,’ said a heavy-set man with a short, grey beard and a crooked nose. ‘There’s plenty of return from baccy and such. Don’t see we need to be
branching
out into this new stuff. What’s in it that’s worth the risk then, Geoff?’

The blond man nodded at the speaker. ‘We all respect Walter’s experience,’ he said smoothly. ‘He’s been operating in Exeter longer than some of us have been born and no-one knows the business better.’

There was an appreciative murmur around the table and Walter dipped his head in acknowledgement.

‘Still,’ Geoff continued, ‘things change and if we want to keep ahead we need to change with them. There was a time when you could only take about twenty quid abroad with you and there was a market for anything fancy and foreign but now with this Common Market it’s only worth bothering with smokes and booze. And booze is a problem what with the weight and breakages. Lot of breakages we seem to be getting round about Christmas Jimmy.’ He gave the man opposite him a hard stare.

Jimmy shrugged, affecting indifference. He was middling height, average build and with mousy hair. There wasn’t one single distinguishing characteristic about him which made his life very easy. No-one gave him a second look, not even the police hunting for the transport boss who was running trucks loaded with a fortune in smuggled alcohol and perfume.

‘Stuff gets knocked around,’ he said softly. ‘Sometimes we need to take a bit of an off-road path so a few bottles might get damaged. I hope you’re not suggesting my lads are on the dip?’

When he turned his head to stare back at Geoff there was nothing ordinary about his face. Suddenly it had hardened, his pale hazel eyes gleaming as he radiated anger at his opposite number in the ports. Geoff met his gaze and for a moment the table fell silent as the two men squared up to each other. The tension was broken by Tom at the other end of the table, his voice calm as he said, ‘Now then lads, we’m all businessmen here and I hope we can all respect each other. See the problems from our colleagues’ point of view. En’t no need for none of that.’

Despite his soft words there was a ring of authority in his voice and the two men shifted in their chairs. The last
member of the group leaned forwards and raised his hand. He was the youngest of the six men, short and stocky with a brawler’s build and crude tattoos on his knuckles. The group looked at him curiously as the only stranger amongst them.

‘Yes Max,’ said Tom, nodding in his direction.

‘I’m runnin’ Bristol now,’ said Max, his eyes darting from one to another as if expecting a challenge to this boast. When none came he hurried on. ‘Seems we got most of what we need here – what with the ports,’ a nod to Geoff, ‘decent transport network,’ another to Jimmy, ‘and all of us in good places for sellin’ on and such like. Just, I reckon we forgot one thing. Maybe they Johns gang is out of the way but that don’t mean we got a free run at it. All the baccy, that weren’t never run by the Johns lads. That’s them didicoys an’ I don’t see them lettin’ us walk in and take it off ’un.’

Tom stared at the little punk, his face still and
expressionless
, though inside he was seething. He’d not wanted to include Max Long but the new gang lord had expanded his range of interests and field of operations too fast for him to be ignored. After a lot of thought he’d decided to trust to the old adage, ‘Keep your friends close but your enemies closer’. The brat had put his finger right on the one flaw in the whole scheme, a difficulty he hoped to deal with if and when it arose. He became aware of the other men watching him, wondering how he was going to deal with this. There was a grin on Max’s face, a sneery, mocking look and the man tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows, challenging him for an answer. Keeping his voice soft and his tone light he looked straight back and said, ‘Just leave that to me. ’Tis on my patch an’ I’ll fix it.’

Max gave a short, harsh laugh. ‘That so is it? An’ we just accept it?’ He looked around the group, an expression of disbelief on his face. ‘Now why should we all do that?’

Walter was on his feet before Tom could open his mouth. ‘Because his word is enough,’ he said, leaning forward over the table. ‘Tom Monarch was running goods through the
Levels before you learned to piss in a pot and if he says it’s fixed then ’tis fixed.’

The two men glared at one another, eyes locked as neither dared back down and risk losing face before the rest of them. They were similar in build and height but next to Walter’s grizzled menace Max’s gang tattoos and prison muscle looked as convincing as a fake tan. After an agonizing minute during which several of the group tried to cast around looking for a weapon without seeming to move, Max gave his laugh again and shrugged as he turned away.

‘Well, if you say so, old man,’ he said. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’ He gestured to the other young men and Jimmy rose to join him, followed after a moment by Geoff.

Mark let out his breath in a heavy sigh as the door swung closed behind the trio.

‘I hope I didn’t speak out of turn,’ Walter said, and Tom shook his head.

‘No, no and thank you for the support.’ He gazed at the closed door for a moment. ‘Reckon we might have our work cut out with them lads. Times is changing but I don’t know I care for it sometimes.’

‘Young Geoff en’t so bad,’ said Mark. ‘I worked with him last year, and his Dad afore that. They’s sound. Young Jimmy, he’s a bit of a hot-head but knows his business. ’Tis Max Long I en’t so happy about.’

‘Well, he’s got the market right? Up there in Bristol, they’s mad for stuff. Not so much call down my way, ‘cept maybe at the university in Exeter,’ said Walter.

‘Well,’ said Tom, pouring the last of the beer from a bottle into his glass, ‘was not such a bad start. We got the route in.’ He nodded to Mark. ‘We got the means with Geoff and Jimmy, and we ship north with bloody Max Long and south with you.’ He nodded to Walter. ‘So let’s just see how it goes eh?’

They raised their glasses and toasted the new enterprise, each one smiling and nodding as they hid their private reservations.

‘Reckon this is alright for meeting though,’ said Mark, glancing approvingly around the room. ‘Nice and private, side door so we don’t have to go through the rabble
downstairs
and old Phil Watson, I’ve known him years and he understands business. Not likely to be bubblin’ away to the wrong person.’

After a series of warm farewells and hearty handshakes they slipped through the side door into the night, leaving the landlord to face his wife’s disapproval. Hidden eyes followed them as they drove off in their cars, each heading in a
different
direction but each with a home to go to, somewhere familiar and sheltered and warm. As the last of the taillights disappeared into the night the watcher stepped out from the shadows of the overhanging trees and stared at the bright lights of the pub spilling forth from the lead-paned windows. Behind the glass, figures moved in easy companionship from one table to another and the flickering of a log fire could be seen in the background.

He watched as the lights went off in the top room, then flashed to signal ‘last orders’ in the bar. Stepping back into the gloom, he waited until the last customers were ushered out and bolts were pushed home on the main doors. Only then could he slip out into the last of the moonlight and cross the road in safety to seek shelter in the cold dampness of the beer cellar. He’d need to move on soon, he thought, curling up on a low table in the centre of the room. Wouldn’t be long before Phil discovered the hasp on the latch had been
tampered
with and he didn’t want to be around when that
happened
. Tomorrow he would resume his search for somewhere more permanent, at least for the coldest part of the winter. Breathing in the smell of the beer as it mingled with the dampness of the earthen floor, he slept.

Iris Johns looked in the mirror and frowned, tucking a stray strand of hair neatly behind one ear. She was dressed soberly, as befitted one so recently widowed, and she was struck by how old she looked. Her roots needed doing again, she thought, but then she paused to reconsider. For years, all the long years since her eldest son’s birth, she’d added a touch of auburn to her hair. Just a hint of brightness at first but over the years she’d grown used to the routine of colouring and shading. Now she was free of the whole messy business if she chose. She could go back to her natural colour, for Derek was gone and there was no-one to pass comment or, more
importantly
, ask awkward questions. She bent her head forwards and pulled at the parting across the crown of her head. For the first time she saw the tell-tale signs of grey streaks and she snapped her head up again, feeling a flash of anger. It was too late. Derek had taken her innocence, her youth and one of her sons. Now it seemed he’d taken her looks too. Her beautiful golden hair was gone and she was damned if she was going to turn into a bottle-blonde. All her life it seemed she’d had
to swap one lie for another – well, not any more. She picked up her bag and gave her reflection one final glare before heading out into the early morning light to catch the bus into town. She had a long difficult journey ahead of her and there would be plenty of time for brooding on the train down to Newton Abbot.

‘This is just bloody stupid,’ muttered Alex through gritted teeth.

Sue fixed her with a steely glare then turned her back and opened the door to call down the stairs. ‘She’s in bed and she’s to stay there.’ She turned back with a deceptively sweet smile and added, ‘I’ve told her not to listen, however hard you plead and whine. Like that film about the gremlins – you’re not getting up, you’re not going out and you’re not having any more coffee until the doctor says so.’

She swept from the room leaving Alex torn between resentment and exhaustion. Sue had been furious when, on her return from work, she had found Alex collapsed half in and half out of bed, coffee spilling over the bedside table. She had also been rather less than sympathetic when the caffeine rush from even the little Alex had managed to drink brought on a migraine headache of monstrous proportions. Alex had spent the weekend flopped like a broken doll in bed with the curtains closed. She had also had to suffer her friend’s cooking – or what passed for cooking. Sue was not interested in food unless it arrived fully prepared and garnished on a plate in front of her. Privately, Alex was surprised she even knew how to turn the cooker on and was half expecting the house to go up in a gas explosion by Sunday. She had
comforted
herself with the thought that at least Sue had to go back to work on Monday and she could drag herself down to the kitchen and find something edible, but she had
underestimated
her flat mate.

At half past eight that morning, the doorbell had rung and there had been the sound of voices from the hall below. Alex was feeling well enough to be bored but not really well
enough to do anything about it, so she lay with her eyes closed dreaming of the rare delicacies awaiting her – crisps, bread and jam, even cornflakes were beginning to seem appealing. Then the bedroom door had opened and Sue had stepped in to announce she had set up a rota and Alex would have someone in the house at all times until the evening.

Alex leaned back on her pillows, closed her eyes and wished, not for the first time in the past week, she was dead.

The train to Newton Abbot was stuffy and crowded and Iris sat in a corner seat, book held before her like a shield. Despite all her efforts she could not concentrate on the deathless prose of her popular novel and finally she stopped trying and spent the time tuning in to the conversations around her. She wondered how many others were going to Dartmoor, making the long and difficult journey to the prison that floated, adrift in the middle of the bleak moors. Doubtless she’d find out when they all queued up for the bus to Princetown, the village that had grown up around the jail, hugging its walls like a fungus. Gradually the voices faded from her consciousness as she gazed out of the window at the flickering scenery and wondered just what she was going to say to her son.

She felt a tremendous weariness as she lined up to present her visiting order, to be searched and to hear the same tedious litany of rules and regulations standing between her and the only family she had left. Finally the door was unlocked and she was hustled through to the visiting room in the company of a dozen other nervous, anxious and, in several cases,
downright
tearful people. The women – they were overwhelmingly women with a sprinkling of small children – scattered around the room and seated themselves at the tables, all facing the barred door at the far end. She selected a seat as far away from the women with children as possible and sank into a chair, her heart sinking at the horrid familiarity of the whole routine. How often had she sat in rooms like this waiting to see her husband, she wondered. First him and now her son – would it never end? She closed her eyes for an instant, opening them at
the sound of the prison door being unlocked. There was a rush of male bodies, all clad in blue trousers, striped shirts and grey jumpers, all smelling of that unmistakable prison odour compounded from sweat, testosterone and cheap tobacco smoke overlaid with the scent from prison-issue soap.

As she smelt that she was transported back to an earlier time, a time before Derek Johns and her life as a person in her own right. On leaving school she had been sent to the local DHSS office to work as a filing clerk. ‘The Misery of Stealth and Total Obscurity’, they had called it, but it was her only real job and for a few short months she had revelled in the freedom, the feeling of having her own money and the heady idea that she might have a future in the Civil Service. The Ministry had some strange ways and one of the strangest was the regular issue of a clean towel and a bar of soap to each employee. The same soap used in prisons, but then she didn’t know that at the time.

There was a rattle as the chair in front of her was pulled out and her remaining son dropped into it. She studied his face, searching for the boy she had lost on the day he was sentenced, her heart squeezing inside her as she saw the tightness around his mouth, the lines already forming at the corners of his eyes. He was harder than she remembered, shaped by anger and grief and the necessity of survival in this grim, horrible place.

‘Got any fags, Mum?’ he said by way of greeting. She rummaged in her bag and pulled out a packet, passing him one and lighting it for him under the watchful eyes of the warder who had stationed himself by the wall next to them. Iris looked at him, puzzled for a moment by his presence, but Newt shrugged and tapped his jumper, a vivid red and yellow garment that stood out like a flag amongst the uniform blue and grey of his fellows.

‘Escaper,’ he said shortly before leaning over the table and smiling at her. ‘Good to see you,’ he said softly. ‘Was it bad, the journey down?’

Iris shook her head and smiled in return, touched by his concern. Derek would never have thought to ask. It would
not have occurred to him that the visits could be hard – expensive, long and so lonely sometimes. He was a much better man, her Billy, and she was going to do everything she could to keep that spark of goodness alive, to nurture it and protect him until finally he had the chance to grow into the man his father never became.

‘I was wondering,’ began Newt awkwardly, ‘about Dad – about a funeral or something. Did they … I mean, has there been any news or anything?’

This was the moment Iris had been dreading. For an instant her mind went totally blank as she struggled to decide whether to tell her son the truth or not. Weeks of indecision roiled around in her head as she sought the right words. Then in a moment of clarity she realized this was not the time. Not here, in this heartless place surrounded by hard, watchful eyes and listening ears. Keeping her voice low she said, ‘They’s not yet found a body. Not surprising though, what with the flood water behind the gates and the tide pulling out to sea …’

She stopped, surprised at her own emotions. Derek had rarely been kind and in the last year of his life he had acted like a madman, killing and mutilating those he saw as his enemies, yet there was still a trace of sorrow for the brash, good looking young man who had swept her off her feet so many years ago. She recovered her composure and continued.

‘I was thinking of arranging a service though. Like a memorial for all those as knew him. Reckon we need something to mark his passing, set it all to rest.’

Newt nodded, his face solemn. ‘Would be fitting,’ he said. ‘Maybe they’d let me out for that, so I can pay my respects. Though …’ his voice trailed off and he tugged absently at the jumper, ‘… maybe they won’t. Don’t know till we ask.’ He gave her another of his smiles and held out his hand. ‘Any chance of another fag?’

Sue struggled to concentrate in the Monday morning
meeting
. True, she often found it hard to focus as Garry dragged and mumbled his way through the ever-increasing flood of
directives, bulletins and regulations that threatened to engulf the service – what she and Alex privately referred to as the ‘rising tide of idiocy’. In fact she was well on her way to developing the ability to doze with her eyes open, a bright, attentive smile on her face. This morning, however, things went a little differently. First there was the formal
introduction
of the new officer, Ricky Peddlar, who was taking over from Alex. Even leaving aside the fact Alex was very popular amongst most of the officers and staff, the newcomer had not made a good impression. He seemed eager to please, almost too eager as he trotted forward to join in conversations, add his point of view or make a silly remark, always accompanied by a slightly self-conscious little laugh or a self-deprecating shrug. He hung around in the staff room at break times, his pale eyes flicking from one speaker to the next, nodding along in agreement to everything said. Sue decided to ignore him and simply treated him as if he was not there, but Lauren had taken an active dislike to him.

‘Weasley,’ she said, summing up all his bad qualities in one short, sharp word. ‘Something not trustworthy I reckon.’ Out of Pauline’s earshot she added, ‘Don’t know what Garry’s thinking of, though I suspects maybe he’s not at the moment.’

Privately, Sue agreed with her on both counts. Her first impressions of Ricky had been clouded by the unfortunate circumstances of his arrival, relayed with some relish by Lauren. It was difficult to get the image of his thin, rumpled figure tapping persistently but ineffectually at the door and she instinctively felt he was grubby, dirty around the edges. She watched Ricky from behind her stack of memos, trying to separate her professional judgement from the resentment she felt on behalf of her friend. After all the ridiculing of Alex as an incomer, all the bullying and sneering at her coming from London, which he persisted in doing, Garry had appointed this scruffy, inexperienced and weak-looking specimen. Ricky sensed her gaze and looked up, catching her eye with a slightly arch smile and she looked away hurriedly.

She was startled into attention by Garry slamming his folder down on the table. The sound was like a slap and all heads turned in his direction. Opposite him Eddie was
getting
quite agitated, his face flushed and his normal good humour entirely absent.

‘Due respect Garry but …’

Garry leapt to his feet, pounding the table with his fists and shouting across at Eddie. ‘But it’s not is it? Due respect – every time you say that you mean the exact opposite. No respect! I have no respect from any of you. Well, you can think again because times are changing and you are all going to have to change with them. I’ve seen some of new ideas arriving at headquarters and there is a big shake-up coming. So you can all make your minds up – you can get on board or you can
go
somewhere else and
do
something else.’

Shoving the table aside as he went, Garry slammed his way out of the room leaving the entire team staring after him in astonishment.

‘Bit over the top, if you ask me,’ said Eddie.

Sue was a little more forthright. ‘What the fuck was that about?’ she asked blinking as she looked around the room.

A few tight smiles accompanied this remark as people shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Gordon cleared his throat and stood, holding up his hand to attract attention. ‘Perhaps in the interim we could decide on the new court rota?’ he suggested in his calm, soft voice. ‘No.’ He gestured as Eddie made to stand up, ‘I think I will go to see Garry on my own. Could you organize the next few weeks ready for his approval? And our new colleague here,’ he nodded towards Ricky Peddlar, who was sitting back in his chair looking distinctly alarmed by events, ‘could
undoubtedly
benefit from some constructive advice on local ways.’

There was silence for a moment after he’d left the room and then Sue said, ‘Seriously – what’s going on?’

Eddie shook his head in disgust. ‘Don’t you ever pay attention,’ he snapped, scowling at her.

Sue looked at him in surprise. ‘Not if I can possibly help it,’ she said. ‘Does anybody?’

Margaret sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Well, perhaps we could have some of your valuable attention now to help sort out matters for the next few months. There is rather a large gap in our provision, in case you haven’t noticed, especially due to the loss of Alex. We’ve the day centre to run with more and more orders coming through and, no offence,’ – she gave Ricky a vague smile – ‘but we are an experienced officer short.’

Eddie shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well I can carry on with the workshop until Alex gets back,’ he said. ‘Do we know how long that is likely to be?’

He raised his eyebrows at Sue who shrugged back. ‘For ever if she doesn’t do as she’s told,’ she said. ‘I’m trying to make sure there’s someone with her during the day, to make her rest, but it’s not easy finding people who are willing to give up some leave to baby-sit her. Let’s face it, she’s not the easiest person to help at the best of times.’