By Mandy
By L. E. Hinson Sr.
By John Rigg
Day one
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People were still arriving, shaking themselves to throw off the early morning cold, pushing through the rows of chairs to positions chosen apparently at random. Old Jack stood on the stage peering at them with the wry look life had carved into his features. He looked over to a man who stood nearby, the man nodded his head. Jack started off the proceedings in the only way he knew how... with a story. -As you all know, I live just down the road from here. You can see my house, if you stretch your necks a bit, from the steps outside this hall. I’m not particularly proud of the place so don’t start rushing out for a look. It’s no palace...but that house is dear to my heart. We moved in not long after the war. I’ve lived in that little hutch for going on forty years. You get fond of a place after all that time. I reckon it’ll be strange to leave the place and I’m not happy at the prospect. The missus now, she’d like to go in one of those homes where everything is done for you. I don’t like the idea at all. It’d be just like going back to school from what I hear. Hell, I had some good times at school but they had nothing to do with set up of the place. It’s down on Cuthbert street, round the corner from the factory most of us has worked at... I worked there something like forty years. That’s a place I’m not sorry to see the back of and I’m not kidding any of you there. Anyhow, I was talking about that home, wasn’t I? No, no...school...the only good thing about school was taking off for the day and running down to the marshes but I’m a little too old for gallivanting around down there these days. My heart wouldn’t be in a game of cops and robbers, which puts me in mind of our favourite game, Jack the Ripper. We’d get one of the girls to come with us. We’d tell her she could play doctors and nurses or something. Once she was there, deep into the marshes, we’d set about scaring her with tales of the mad and terrible man that wandered lost in the marshes. Next we’d run off in all directions and leave the poor thing standing there peeing herself. Ha. Ha. It was a good jape. We’d watch her from our hiding places then one of us, usually it’d be old Henry because he was the tallest and he had a very deep voice for his age, would suddenly come loping out into the open. He’d be dressed up in his dad’s old work clothes, sometimes we’d give him a hump or he3d wave an old carving knife in the air, just for the effect. The girl would see him and he’d let out a bellow like some stupid monster in one of those kids’ tales. The girl’d take a few seconds to start screaming and all the crazy antics women go through when they’ve got the wind up. Then the daft little things would run all the way home to their mothers crying and carrying on about the terrible man in the marshes that they’d seen. You see, they weren’t exactly sharp, the girls. I don’t need reminding what with the wife. Anyway, their mothers’d immediately start at them wanting to know what they were doing down in the marshes in the first place and they’d be in a whole lot of trouble. We, meanwhile, would be rolling around in the marshes splitting our sides so hard it was painful: It wasn’t long before the tales of the wretched creature of the marshes took on a legendary status in the town. We were never caught. What with the girls always running off as fast as their legs would carry them. There was another strange thing we learnt and that was the fear in our parents. They being too frightened to go out and catch the evil monster. The police sent a bloke a couple of times to see if there was anyone down there but he never stayed long. The five of us followed him round but he never cottoned on to us. He’d go down to the edge of the marshes, stamp his feet a bit, stretch his neck, take a few paces into the marshes, rub his hands together. Reckon he was a comic the way he had of twisting round on the spot down there. That lot took him round about thirty seconds and he’d be off back to the safety of the station. God knows what he put in his reports. Mrs Sullivan is moving around in her seat and can’t contain herself a moment longer. -That’s my husband you’re slandering. He went right into those awful marshes. He told me so himself and he never lied to me. Never. Jack hunched forward to see who was speaking. -Goodness...are you still alive, Mrs Sullivan? -Yes, I am! So you’ll have to keep to the truth, won’t you. I’m sure that’ll prove nigh impossible for you. Jack let it go he had little choice, the chairman had arrived on the stage and was looking at him. This was Bodey, the landlord of the local round the corner. He had been chosen as chairman for his undoubted abilities to keep the peace on fiery evenings. He was looking at him in a way Jack knew only too well from nights down the pub after one drink too many and a tale too fanciful. Bodey came to the centre of the stage, a large and imposing presence, looked down at Mrs Sullivan and around at others, next glanced sideways at Jack, everybody following the path of his gaze, everyone understanding what he was about to say before he had even opened his mouth. He wasn’t about to have any bickering going on. Everyone, and he meant everyone, had better keep themselves in check. Bodey took his seat. Jack continued. -Whatever you say Bodey. Yeh.. The police said that it was possibly a tramp that had been passing through. In the end it was impossible to argue any of the girls into coming with us because they were all terrified: We ran out of victims. It must have stuck to Henry somehow because he changes after we stopped. He became silent and was always keeping to himself. His parents moved south not long after and we never really heard much of him until it was spread out all over the Sundays. It was a terrible scandal. The women queuing up to kill him or at least tear at him with their claws. They were like animals. Hell! I’m not defending what he did to those other women. It was awful, disgusting... I suppose we all felt a little guilty about it. We were trying to remember whose idea the game had been, but the only person we all agreed didn’t think of it was him. He never had any ideas for games. He was the type who just hung around, hanging on to the rest of us. I guess it all just stayed with him somehow. He must have grown to like it so much; he couldn’t give it up. At any rate, I know we all felt in part like we should have been up there with him on that stand or, at least, to have explained it was all just a jolly jape. But those women’s bodies lay mutilated between us and him. That had never been part of the game. Where did he.. how did he come up with that? Jesus! Mutilating the bodies! Jesus Christ!! He’s dead now so you ladies can feel quite safe. Yes. He’s long gone. Though I have heard stories of a more recent nature and apparently a couple who were down there, down in the marshes, god knows for what purpose I’m sure, but they came running into town, gasping for breath as they entered the pub, and told young Bodey here that they’d seen some young fellow down there. He was wearing clothes that didn’t fit too well and waving an old and rusty carving knife. He certainly put the wind up them. That’s right, isn’t it, Bodey? -Certainly is. Certainly is. Bodey agreed. -So...you’d all better be careful when you go down that way cos old Henry’s come back to haunt them old marshes. You’d best keep your young ones away and your women folk, too. His taste, so they say, is for an older type of victim these days. He likes them ripe for the plucking, though some of you are so over ripe you’d stick in his gullet. Ha. Ha.
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The city lay quiet under the dull, afternoon sun. An anonymous grey hell where people found holes to hide themselves. The Priest was out on the street. He was feeling uneasy, felt eyes following his movements. He looked over his shoulder. He saw Freddy, they called him King Freddy though no-one could say why, making his way toward him, his short legs carrying him forward faster than seemed right. The Priest watched his rocking gait wondering how he stayed upright, how he managed to keep from falling into the road. He felt like grabbing the guy and keeping him far from the curb, but just watched as poor Freddy stumbled, tripping over the paving, watched him catch himself just in time to pull his body up and come on, faster than ever, down the street. -Where you running to Freddy? -You, Alex. Need to talk. The Priest looked down at this slight frame in front of him as it gasped for air. -You have a need, you have to pay. -I pay, don't I? When didn't I pay? -Last time. You didn't pay the last time. -I'm here right now to see about that. The money's all here in my pocket. You want to see it here and now? He reached inside his jacket but the Priest stopped him and motioned for him to follow. Where could they go? This kind of deal had to be carried out with care and it didn't matter how much was involved, one slip and the boys in blue would take him in with smiles on their faces and satisfaction in their minds. Gerry's place was near but to go there would end up being more expensive than this deal was worth. Gerry had a way of looking at you that let you know what he wanted and made it difficult to refuse him. Something difficult to explain in that but he just had a knack. Joints would get rolled, lines of white powder disappear. That was out. Pretty boy James was ideal but he was out of town that day, he would have stood by with those big empty eyes of his and somehow just not see anything of what went on. He was living in another dimension, that's how the Priest rationalised it. Then it came to him. Rocco's bar. He had rooms up above and wouldn't give them any shit as he'd be too busy with business himself. Rocco was a good pal, type that met you with a smile, a Humphrey Bogart kind of smile, through his cigarette stained teeth. He'd come up to you and throw a hand on your shoulder and ask how things were. He had the sharpness of the Italian blood that flowed through his veins and beat allcomers to the draw. The Priest led the way with Freddy moving around sort of itchy at his side.
* Rocco watched them come in and his eyes narrowed. The Priest was looking for the smile to spread out and give them the big welcome but there was nothing doing. Rocco was looking down, keeping his eyes on the glasses he was setting out on the shelves, but he was taking too long over it. The Priest looked around the bar. No-one. Nothing in sight. -you're not overcome at seeing me, Rocco? Why would that be? Rocco looked up, his eyes held something tight within, he gave out a hard, brittle smile of greeting that was worse than his silence before it. -Can we go upstairs? Rocco shrugged and then said okay with a jerk of his head in the direction of the stairs. The Priest couldn't figure him out. The contempt in that sudden jerk of the head fighting for dominance with an equally violent sneer. Something was eating our Rocco and that was for sure. His silence had been eloquent, but the Priest hated this mystery stuff and went for people who were more in the habit of being plain, using words, revolutionary stuff like that. They got up into the rooms and Freddy let out a deep breath, looking at the Priest with wondering eyes and getting ignored not for the first time. He took out his money and laid it down one note at a time on the table. Then he watched as the Priest took out the stuff. -You don't use it here. Understand. You take it some place. Freddy looked at him hard, thought some thoughts, then thought better of sharing them. He was going when the Priest stopped him. -You're okay, Freddy. It's nothing to do with you. Okay. -Sure. Thanks and all that. Ill leave you to your friend. With that Freddy cleared out of there and left the Priest to sit down and look round Rocco's flat. The place wasn't much. The Priest's thoughts were torn from this desperate conclusion by the sounds of steps slowly mounting the stairs. He could hear the tiredness in that slow and painful progress, waiting patiently, noting the pauses, staying quiet in himself. So someone was coming up the stairs, some guy, that was for sure. So this guy was standing now just back from the door. He was okay, simple and clean, where he was. No sudden panic from him. He was getting a smile ready, an openhearted gesture for allcomers. But then he knew it was Rocco standing out there breathing heavy. He could always be wrong but what would that change? Where would that put him? Whoever it was, wasn't hiding. The Priest heard a match being struck, then a stream of smoke came through the door, billowing out. Rocco came in through it, the cigarette in his mouth, the packet in his hand. -Smoke? The Priest looked him close in the eye, his look meeting nothing as Rocco moved round the room, looking elsewhere, looking for something. Suddenly, he shot the Priest a questioning look to which the Priest slowly shook his head. The Priest knew it was no good speaking, just had to let him move around, let him be till he came to rest. He was like a wild animal, try and touch him, even with a smile, and he'd take off. The Priest was sort of surprised all this time, tried looking away to figure it out, nothing came from that. Rocco was up in flames. -I best be going. -You a friend or what? -I'm a friend. The Priest was taken back by the challenge, saw now that he was safe. -You want to talk about it or what? -He don't want to talk to no-one. The Priest swung round to take in the shape of a creep hanging in the doorway, a guy dressed in a new suit a couple of sizes too big for him, a guy trying to talk tough and not making it. -Do you Rocco, baby? You don't need to talk to anyone ever again. Right? The Priest kept his eyes tight on the creep, here was a creature he didn't like too much. Then he asked Rocco: -This a friend of yours? Rocco didn't get a chance to answer, the new guy was taking all the leads. -We're big buddies, we are. One big happy family. Rocco broke away and made for the stairs. He wasn't saying anything, just leaving them a back to stare at. The Priest turned to stare cold and long at the creep. The creep introduced himself. -Name's Cophlan. Wanted to see your face, nice of you to drop by. The Priest didn't talk to strangers and just let the hint of a smile touch his mouth as he walked for the stairs. -You think you're cute. Right. The Priest didn't even bother to look round when the guy suddenly raised his voice. -Hey! No more using this place for your deals. You hear me. The Priest reached the bar where Rocco was busy behind the counter, keeping himself to himself, and just kept right on going for the door. Rocco looked up for a moment, something like hurt in his eyes. The Priest kept his eyes on him just long enough to see his friend shrug. Hey! What was there to do? * The Priest felt his day taking on a truly heavy air as he hit the streets again. He was a dealer of hard drugs with a select group of customers, King Freddy a needy exception who he chose to keep happy. They were mostly friends from way back with a few newcomers who had got introduced and could be trusted. He made a living out of it but he was the one who always took the risks and he never got greedy. It wasn't a complex operation. He had a connection nearby who supplied all their needs, the Priest was little more than a delivery boy. The connection's name was Browning, a respectable looking guy with a terribly nice accent. He made regular visits to Northern Italy under the guise of stamp collector, attended stamp fairs, auctions, or just visited shops, even bought and sold a little to satisfy the curious. He brought the stuff through himself, travelling by car or train, never by air. He said he was afraid of flying. Browning was a lucky find but not easy to get on with, a recluse with strange ways about him. The Priest disliked his visits to the man's flat. He had a visit scheduled that day. * A metallic clicking signalled the door's unlocking and the Priest pushed his way into the building. He hesitated there on the threshold trying to throw off the weakness in his heart. To confront this man and complete the transaction would cost very little to either party, it was the meeting, the coming together that grated so. And so be it. This man lived on the top floor out of five, there was no lift, and any visitor was bound to be weakened with the climb, and many felt that Browning's motive in choosing his abode. The Priest stood before the door, catching at his breath, listening to his heart pound, shuddering involuntarily at having the sensation of something in flight, above, through, him. The door opened and Browning stood smiling, the eyebrows raised above his dull staring eyes that had caught all of the Priest's discomfort. -You look somewhat discomposed old chap. Please come in. -Thanks. The Priest had learned to be silent. There had been a time when he had lived in almost continuous silence, looking on but knowing better than to speak. Silence was a habit so easy to fall into and yet so dangerous. -If looks could kill, eh? Old man. Browning was amused. He had a talent for irony; though, of course, he was not communicating with others but with himself. In fact, as the Priest was now discovering, his amusement was even more disturbing than his habitual curtness. The Priest felt stranded as he followed his man down the corridor and into his study. Each look cast upon him from within that enveloped being seemed to screech with laughter at the sight taken in. -We can assume the usual, I suppose. -That's it. Browning turned a questioning look in his direction and the Priest was forced to nod anxiously, his words having been inadequate to communicate his agreement. He followed the other's hawkish movements about the room without thought or movement. Finally he lifted his garments and undid a few buttons of his shirt so as to take off his money belt. Pulling it round his body he felt it snag somewhere and pulled harder. The belt came free but left him, his clothes, in complete disarray which Browning had the good taste to note and dismiss almost instantaneously, though refusing to touch the belt hastily offered to him. -Perhaps you could liberate the lucre, old sport, soiled it may be, but surely not... He cut himself off in mid sentence, the words floating away as though said loud and clear but to another audience. The Priest looked upon his connection as he wrote down the details of the transaction in a ledger, his thin arms bent over the task, fragile, skeletal in their birdlike movements. As he watched he felt his heart pound again, breathed deeply, noisily, but only felt worse. He placed the money on the desk near the ledger? Browning clucked and took it up in his hands, counting quickly, and then placed it in a drawer. -Just for the moment. -Give me the stuff? I'm not about to rob you. -You're always in such a hurry, my friend. Besides, people talk, don't you? The Priest felt it better to keep his silence rather than allow this monster to press its claws into his mind, seeking as always to wound, draw blood. He understood that much about Browning. Browning in his turn hated the Priest for his hypocrisy, his silent condemnation of himself, his feigned horror at any contact between them. He might disdain to touch some garment, some underclothing of this man, but he would at least enter into polite discourse. What was the basis for this man's self-righteousness? Were they not in the same depraved business, one and all feeding on the weakness of others? What made this 'priest', the word filling his mind with a sneered shout of incredulity, better than him? Watching him as he hid the drugs he would sell about his person, secreted in the most surprising places, Browning had the most disturbing inclination to kiss, felt the desire well up within, grow and grow, till it reached and swelled his lips. If only the Priest knew, he thought, as he showed him to the door and silently closed him out.
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