The bothy, p.11
The Bothy, page 11
‘Is the snow thick?’ he asked.
‘Two inches.’
Ken tipped the remaining crisps into his mouth and licked his fingers. ‘Looked like a nice motor, that. Good to drive?’
‘I guess.’
‘Roomy, I bet. Lots of power.’
Tom sat near the window and rubbed his hands together. He looked down at his feet and saw spots of blood on the carpet where Galloway had fallen.
‘Did you tie down the tarpaulin?’ asked Ken.
‘Weighed it down with bricks.’
‘Bricks? That all?’
‘Yeah,’ said Tom.
‘You didn’t secure it with rope?’
‘Didn’t see any rope.’
‘The tarp will blow away without rope. Bricks won’t do it. Not in weather like this.’
‘You’re welcome to go and sort it out if you like, Ken.’
‘Tarp’s probably halfway to Sheffield by now.’
They opened a couple of bottles of beer and drank them in silence. Tom kept looking over his shoulder, sure someone else was waiting outside. Ken went to the kitchen and returned wearing a fresh pair of socks. He had a small tool kit with him, which he set down on the table. He clicked open the catches, and lifted the lid. Inside there were cans of spray and oil. Files, pipe-cleaners. A silk cloth. He took out his pistol from the waistband of his trousers, and released the magazine. Then he pulled back the slide, removed the barrel, and ran a silk tow through the shaft until it was clean.
Tom stood by the window. Snow continued to fall. He looked further west and saw the distant flash of headlights sweep across the landscape. ‘Someone’s coming.’
‘Bollocks,’ said Ken.
‘There are headlights.’
Ken looked out. ‘I don’t see it.’
‘There. It’s not Wayne, is it?’
‘Nah. Wayne would come the other way.’
They listened. Burning logs popped in the fire. Ken hiccuped. Over the wind, they heard the familiar roar of Frank’s truck. A crunching gear change.
‘Should have gritted the bloody yard,’ said Ken. ‘Did you see any? In the store? Near the trellis panels?’
‘Grit? No.’
They watched Frank’s truck move slowly along the road and drive into the yard. Frank got out of the truck. He wiped his feet and entered the Bothy. His cheeks were red and stiff from the cold. There was snow on his shoulders.
Braudy came in, shivering. His lips were nearly blue and he wore ear defenders over a black beanie hat.
‘Braudy. Get back out there,’ said Frank. ‘Sort out the fucking truck like I asked you to.’
‘Can I get warm first?’
‘You can get warm once you’ve checked the truck. Top up the antifreeze,’ he said. ‘Oil. All of that.’
‘We’re not going anywhere tonight, are we?’
‘Just do it.’
Braudy nodded and went back out to the truck.
Frank hung up his cagoule. His jumper and jeans were soaking wet. ‘Are the phones down?’
‘Have been since it started snowing.’
‘Fuck sake. We got stuck over on the moor. Braudy drove us into a fucking drift. Had to dig our way out.’ He crossed over to the bar and saw the bloodied towels. He saw the broken trophies. The plastic figures. The hole in the television. He sniffed the air. ‘What the fuck happened here?’
‘We had a visitor. Galloway.’
Frank saw the bruises on Tom’s face and neck.
‘Where’s Cora?’
‘She’s upstairs,’ said Ken. ‘A bit shaken.’
‘But not hurt?’
‘No.’
Tom looked out of the window. Braudy had lifted the bonnet and was pouring bright blue antifreeze into the radiator. Tucker stood next to him holding a torch. He rested a large bottle of engine oil on the carburettor.
Frank sat hunched in his chair. He picked wax from his ear and said, ‘Get me a brandy, Ken.’
Ken picked up a stained pony glass from the shelf. ‘Cognac? Or the Tesco stuff?’
‘Tesco will do.’
‘Tesco it is. Ice?’
‘Just give me the fucking drink, Ken.’
Tom took out the photo of Stephanie and put it in front of Frank. ‘Galloway had this with him.’
Frank picked up the picture and looked at it. He bit his thumbnail and swore under his breath. ‘Is this the only copy?’
‘Should be a blue heart on the back.’
Frank turned the picture over and nodded. ‘Mind if I keep this for a little while?’
‘Sure.’
Frank put the picture in his trouser pocket and stared out of the window.
Outside, Braudy slammed the bonnet shut, and took off his ear defenders. Tucker opened the driver’s door and pulled out a large black sleeping bag from the back of the truck. It was heavy. The two men struggled to pull it across the yard. The bag moved. Something was inside it.
The front door opened and there was a gust of cold air. The sleeping bag was hauled into the middle of the room and Tucker kicked at it again. He smiled and then saw Tom standing by the pool table. He went pale.
Frank smiled broadly and slapped Tucker on the back. ‘All okay?’
Tucker wiped at his mouth and gave a faint nod.
‘Braudy. All finished?’
‘Done the best I can.’ He looked around the room, unnerved by the silence.
‘Why don’t you get yourself a drink?’
Braudy took the plaster off his right ear. He took out the cotton wool and sniffed it. He picked up a glass and went behind the bar. ‘Anyone else want a pint?’
‘You carry on,’ said Frank.
‘Who’s in the bag?’ asked Ken.
‘Open it up, Tucker.’
Tucker crouched and unzipped the bag. Inside, there was an unconscious man. He had fuzzy hair and a soul patch. He had been badly beaten. The welts and wounds were raw. Frank knelt down and touched the man’s face almost tenderly. ‘We were wrong to bring him.’
Braudy put down his beer. ‘Wrong?’
‘We don’t need him.’
‘Hang on. We moved heaven and earth to get this fucker.’
‘Don’t need him,’ said Frank. ‘Finish your beer and take him out to the yard. Weigh down the bag. Cold will do the rest.’
‘Want me to help?’ asked Tucker.
‘Oh no. Not you.’ Frank held Tucker by the shoulders. ‘You come with me for a chat. Tom. Ken. You come along too.’
The wind moaned outside. Tucker caught sight of the blood-stained towels on the pool table and looked over at Braudy who shrugged. Frank opened the door to the office. Tucker and Ken went through. Tom followed them and closed the door behind him.
In the corner of the office, the angle-poise lamp shone brightly and cast shadows on the wall. Tom heard the building creak. There was another sound. Something pained and desperate. Tucker looked around at Frank, who smiled and pushed him forward. In the corridor, the sound grew louder as they approached the safe room. Ken took out his keys and unlocked the metal door.
Frank smiled. ‘In you go, Tucker.’
Tucker entered the room and saw the hog-tied figure of Galloway lying on the floor. Blood was spattered on the plastic sheets. Galloway cried out and tried to crawl away into the corner. Ken kicked him hard in the testicles and stamped down on his ankle.
‘Recognise him?’ asked Frank.
Tucker shrugged.
Frank reached down and lifted Galloway’s head. ‘Come on, mate. Don’t insult my fucking intelligence.’
Tucker nodded.
‘Speak up,’ said Frank.
‘It’s Galloway.’
Frank let go of Galloway’s head. ‘Funny he’s up here, isn’t it? Away from his friends.’
‘Maybe he was just passing.’
‘On a day like this? Bit fucking risky, isn’t it? Knowing what’d happen if I saw him. After all the shit him and Wayne have put me through.’
‘Frank—’
‘Did you invite him up here?’
‘No,’ said Tucker.
‘Sure?’
Unable to stomach Galloway’s groans or the stink of his distress, Tom turned to leave. Frank pushed him up against the wall. ‘You stay unless I say otherwise. Okay?’
Tom closed his eyes. Frank turned back to Tucker and gave him a menacing smile. Ken walked over to the trestle table and picked up one of the kettles. He filled it with water from the tap in the corner, and switched it on.
‘Remember earlier? Over breakfast?’ asked Frank. ‘The bad weather. The ice. The threat of snow. I wanted to delay going. Didn’t I? But you insisted we go. Remember that?’
Tucker tried to smile. ‘Trying to do right by you.’
‘Lucky for Galloway, wasn’t it? You insisting us not being here.’
Tucker put his hands up. Palms out. ‘I don’t know anything.’
‘Yeah. You do. But it’s okay.’ Frank glanced over at Galloway. ‘We can always ask your mate what happened.’
‘This is bullshit,’ said Tucker.
The kettle started to hiss. Frank held up the photograph of Stephanie. Tucker put a shaking hand over one of his eyes so he could focus on the picture. His eyes flickered to the door. He licked his trembling lips.
‘You told me you’d fucking burnt this.’
‘It’s a copy.’
Frank grabbed Tucker’s hair and bounced his head off the side of the metal door, and then kicked at his knees. He fell to the floor and Frank picked him up again.
‘You lied to me, you fucking cunt.’
Tucker looked up at Tom. ‘You’ve got the wrong man, Frank.’
‘Have I?’
Tom could hear the water in the kettle boil. Steam came out of the spout. Frank grabbed hold of Tucker and told Tom to stand back. Ken threw the boiling water at Tucker. It hit his chest and he screamed in pain and fell to the ground. Frank kicked him again and Ken filled the kettle up with more water.
Tucker clutched at his scalded chest and pointed at Tom. ‘Him. It’s him. Playing tricks on you. It was him who planted that picture on Galloway.’
Frank kicked him in the ribs and put his foot on Tucker’s throat. He handed the photo back to Tom.
‘We have a lot to talk about, sunshine,’ said Frank, clicking his fingers. ‘Tom. Ken. Bind him.’
Ken rummaged through the red toolbox. He pulled out a length of rope and said, ‘Tom. Hold him down, there’s a good lad.’
Tucker thrashed around. Frank kicked him in the head.
‘Come on, Tom. Get stuck in. Hold him still.’
Tom knelt down quickly and held Tucker’s legs while Ken tied them up. The metal door creaked open and Braudy stepped into the room. He looked at the two men lying on the floor. Tom got up quickly and left the room. The awful smell and the agonised cries followed him down the corridor.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tom lay in the darkness listening to the sounds coming from the safe room. The bruises on his face ached. He got up and switched on the bath taps to drown out the noise. He buried his head under his pillow. It was not until dawn that the moans and shouts of suffering relented. He switched off the bath taps and got dressed. After making sure he had Stephanie’s picture on him, he left his room, and went through to the bar.
All the lights were on. A single log smouldered in the fire. There was a smell of pencil shavings. The surface of the pool table was wet. He looked up and saw a dark stain on the ceiling. An iron bucket caught the water that dripped through the cracks in the plaster. The turquoise towels had been removed from the counter. A few bloodied pieces of kitchen paper had been screwed up and thrown into the bin.
Tom switched on the coffee machine and sat at the bar. He looked over towards the corner of the room and noticed the smashed television was no longer there. Only a tangle of wires remained. He went over to the wall and saw a bullet hole in the plaster.
Tom tried the phone. It was still dead. He stood at the front door. The cold air was sharp and a smell of rendered fat hung in the air. The snow had frozen overnight. Clinging to the underside of the eaves, a row of icicles shone brilliantly in the sunlight. Plump drops of water fell from the tips and landed rhythmically on the rotten woodwork. He looked up and saw black smoke rising into the clear sky.
After his coffee, he put on his shoes and crossed the yard. He saw the black sleeping bag was folded up outside the coal shed. He reached the woodpile and selected a mossy branch and picked up the axe. He checked it was sharp enough and rested the wood on the chopping block. He brought the axe down hard. It took four blows to cut through the trunk. He chopped the wood into foot-long segments, took the pieces back indoors, and threw them on to the fire. Then, he took the tape measure, the notebook of oil level measurements, and returned outside. He passed Galloway’s car. The tarpaulin was covered in snow. He weighed down the corners with another couple of bricks and went around the back of the building past the caravans and the climbing frame. The smashed television sat in one of the skips amongst paint cans, bricks, and torn bin bags. He saw the mounds of rubbish and tried to imagine how the yard might smell during the summer.
The oil tank was topped with wet snow. He climbed up and took a reading. The level was at seventeen inches. He cleaned off the tape measure and wrote down the measurement in the notebook.
Back indoors, he warmed himself by the fire. It was past midday and he was hungry. In the corridor, pipes hummed, and water flowed. He walked past the safe room quickly and entered the kitchen. The only thing he could hear were the refrigerators and the boiler. He switched on the kettle and sat down at the table. The scratched surface was marked with coffee rings and dried smears of brown sauce. He picked up the old menu covers and stacked them on top of the old microwave. He wiped the table clean with a blue cloth. Then he looked for something he could eat. In one of the cupboards, he found a packet of dried noodles that had gone out of date the previous March. He boiled a little water, tipped in the noodles, and waited until they were soft and grey.
After he washed up his bowl, he walked past the safe room, trying to ignore the shouts. It was warm in the bar and the fire burned fiercely. Frank was standing by the window, smoking a cigarette. He held a creased handkerchief in his left hand.
‘Coffee there,’ said Frank.
‘I’ve had some.’
‘Have some more.’
Tom took the carafe from the machine and poured himself a cup. He saw Braudy was outside, clearing snow with a shovel.
‘Braudy’s wearing my gloves,’ said Tom.
Frank blew his nose. ‘Power cut again last night.’
‘I didn’t notice.’
‘Did you sleep?’
‘Yeah. A little.’
‘No noise?’
‘A bit.’
‘That room’s supposed to be soundproof. I have my doubts.’
For a little while, they watched Braudy slowly digging a shallow trench near the front wall. He was red faced and out of breath. He stopped and touched the base of his spine.
Frank put out his cigarette. ‘Always too slow that one. Still thinks Tucker’s innocent. Despite the evidence.’
‘I don’t know what I would say if it was my friend,’ said Tom.
Frank took out his handkerchief and folded it over. Tom saw a red monogram stitched into the corner. ‘F. L. G.’
Tom swirled the coffee grounds around in his cup.
‘I have to thank you, Tom,’ he said, ‘for what you did. Takes a lot of courage to take on Galloway. You’d be dead by now. If he’d taken you back.’
‘Don’t think the Conways are people interested in quick deaths.’
Frank smiled at him and said, ‘Stick with me, Tom. I’ll make sure those cunts won’t get near you.’
‘Is Cora okay?’
Frank dabbed his forehead with the handkerchief and then wiped his nose. ‘So stubborn, that girl. Like her father. She ever tell you about him?’
‘No.’
‘Headstrong. It’s what got him in trouble.’ Frank tapped his watch and listened to it. ‘She went for a walk. Half an hour ago. In a bloody huff about something.’
‘Want me to get her back?’
‘You don’t need to do that, Tom.’
‘I don’t mind.’
Frank watched the icicles outside the window. ‘It’d save me a bit of bother,’ he said.
‘I know.’
Frank checked his watch again. ‘I have more to do with Galloway and Tucker. And she’s in a bad mood. You know how it is sometimes.’
Tom found a pair of red wellingtons in the lobby which were roughly his size. He put on the jacket Ken had worn the day before. A pair of mittens were stuffed into the pockets. He stepped outside into the icy breeze and looked up at black smoke rising from the chimney. A crow carrying a pebble in its beak hopped across the snow. It spread its wings and flew away.
Tom crossed the road and reached a fence. He climbed over it and followed Cora’s footprints up the hill. When he reached the crest he stopped to catch his breath. He looked back at the Bothy. The snow concealed the joins between the mismatched extensions and adjuncts. Only the pall of black smoke blotted the scene. He turned, and saw Cora in the distance. She wore an orange coat and a bobble hat.
‘Cora!’
The figure stopped, waved and then carried on. Tom started down the hill. After a few minutes he saw her stop, and walk back towards him. She had mirrored sunglasses on and a Manchester City scarf tied in a half-bow knot. They met up near an upturned trough and she smiled at him. Her cheeks were red and soft from the cold.
‘It’s very quiet, isn’t it?’ asked Tom.
‘You out here for the day, or have you been sent out on an errand?’
‘Frank wants you to come back.’
