Backstabbers - Chapter 2
“OLD MAN DIES!”
Backstabbers is my first novel, a 1979-based comedy murder-mystery about aspirations for fame and dreams unfulfilled.
The story so far: Eighteen-year-old Stuart Ostridge has finished his exams but his hopes for a glorious future already feel doomed to failure due to the fears which rule his life. His would-be girlfriend Harriet has walked off into the sunset with his childhood-enemy Christopher Gothard, and his own family’s lack of faith in him smothers his home-life. Meanwhile, embittered critic and failed playwright Hartley Rumbelow lays dying, trapped in his own basement and circling thoughts of regret.
The days of Stuart Ostridge played out with cosy predictability.
The morning paper round: A daily excuse to loiter outside Harriet’s house in the hope of Juliet calling from her bedroom window for her Romeo.
Feed his elderly neighbour’s cat: A ginger tom named Saville. Emptying a tin of cat food into a bowl never failed to churn his stomach, as Saville would hiss for Stu to hurry the hell up.
Thursday night: Top of the Pops. The latest Top 40 chart releases, drowned out by his Dad’s disapproval. Strangely, the ridiculing magically ceased at the appearance of Legs and Co.
Friday night. Cinema or watching his best friend Alan’s band perform at a deafening pub gig.
Saturday: A short trip on a smoky 247 bus to his Nan’s maisonette. She lived alone since Stu’s Grandad died in ’73. Stu would dust and hoover, then stroll to the bakery for a crusty bloomer.
Saturday afternoon: Spend money from his Nan on new singles. Travel home on a crowded bus, ensuring the coolest purchases were most visible, especially after being ribbed by a nasally-congested punk for purchasing Racey’s ‘Lay Your Love on Me’.
Sunday: Record the UK top forty off the radio (illegally, as his brother would always goad him - “If they catch you, you’ll end up in prison. And you won’t last two seconds in there.”), followed by a soak in an avocado green bath listening to the edited highlights, with milliseconds of Simon Bates book-ending each chart hit.
There was no lock on the louvred bathroom door, meaning Jeffrey was free to do his business. Thrusting his pants and trousers to the floor, Jeffrey plonked down on the toilet with gusto; smiling at his brother. Stu cried to his Mum in distress, which only amused his brother even more.
‘Oh don’t cry. Throw me that towel. Don’t want you bogging at me. You’ll put me off.’
Stu threw a towel at Jeffrey, a little harder than intended. Jeffrey raised a warning finger, giving him the penetrating stare once again. Towel over his head, Jeffrey got down to business. After some straining, Jeffrey continued his gleeful torment. ‘Dad’s got you an interview on Monday. You’re gonna wee-wee-wee all the way home!’
Dread instantly knotted Stu’s guts. What did Jeffrey know that he didn’t? Stu glanced at a bottle of Matey, smiling back from the corner of the bath.
A slapped fish in a suit, Stu perched on a wooden stool surrounded by oily paperwork, car parts and stained coffee mugs containing floating cigarette ends. He counted five Page Three calendars on the walls. Tinny sounds of What a Waste by Ian Dury and The Blockheads on a transistor radio held together with gaffer tape. A smudged mechanic gave Stu’s C.V. the once over with little effort.
‘Yeah, I’m not much of a reader if I’m honest with ya. Listen. Have you got a fag?’ Stu meekly shook his head as the mechanic rifled through clattering draws, finding a cigarette. He lit up, leaning back in his chair. ‘You don't want this job, do ya? Says ‘ere you write stories “For fun.”
‘I don’t… I’ve given up on all that,’ smiled Stu, unconvincingly.
‘Ah, good. I was looking for someone who gives up,’ chuckled the mechanic, before skimming the C.V. back at Stu. ‘Listen son. Follow your dreams, not a pay packet.’
The pressure to settle into a career intensified. An appointment with an insincere careers guidance counsellor (who looked like they should speak with a careers guidance counsellor) proved fruitless. Stu and his Mum frowned at the six million dollar question: What job can you actually do?
‘He’s a good boy,’ said his Mum, irrelevantly defended to avoid the awkward fact of her son being pretty much useless.
‘I’m sure he is,’ replied the bad facsimile of a snaggle-toothed Open University Presenter. ‘But what are you good at?’ Stu knew the answer: Watching television.
According to his Dad, there were only so many episodes of Little House on The Prairie you could watch. But Stu would happily spend the rest of his life on the sofa, watching Carrie Ingalls fall flat on her face.
SOUND & VISION - Proprietor G. Hastings
A muddled mix of Captain Caveman at a rodeo, Hairy Jim listlessly restocked the shelves of the music shop, gently nodding along with Art for Art’s Sake on the looming speakers. Laden with boxes of Steve Hackett’s Spectral Mornings, hairy cornflake Graham Hastings stomped across the shop floor, halting to re-arrange Jim’s filing.
At the counter, Stu off-loaded his career woes to a sympathetic ear: Alan Gould, a drain pipe-limbed young man with a Phil Lynott afro, hangdog eyes and the confidence to wear a T-shirt stating Nurses do it better.
‘I just don’t know what everyone expects from me, y’know?’ bemoaned Stu.
‘Mate, you’re talking to someone who left school to tour with a band called Gonad’. How should I know what you should do with your life?’ said Alan.
Alan left school when he was fifteen and had been in thirty-seven bands since then. Success always sneaked out the fire escape whenever things were going too well, yet Stu had complete admiration for Alan’s optimism. He was proud to have a friend destined for greatness.
A bright idea dawned on Stu. ‘Get me a job here. Put a word in with Graham, will ya?’
‘Yeah… I don’t see that working out. Graham hates you,’ replied Alan. Stu looked up from the counter with confused hurt. Alan consoled his friend. ‘Graham hates everyone. Nothing personal.’
Graham dumped the box of records between them, peering over his orange-tinted glasses at Alan. ‘Get these priced up.’ Graham headed for the storeroom, addressing Stu on the way.
‘And you. Piss off if you aint buying anything.’
Alan raised a knowing eyebrow of ‘I told you so’. Stu shrugged off with a few singles in his hand and pootled towards the exit. Struck by a sudden recall, Alan called out.
‘Oh! I got tickets to Knebworth. August. A certain Mr. Ledward Zeppelin! You in?’
On his way out of the door, Stu turned, raising a half-hearted rock fist.
The bus journey home from the record shop was a shoulder-to-shoulder, steamy-windowed affair. The passenger next to Stu flapped pages of a newspaper, abandoning it as he got off. Snatching up the Falking Advertiser before anyone could claim it, Stu read the headline:
Falking Hells Bells! - Local church bell stolen by Satanic Thieves - Report by Brookes Manders
Resembling a surly bulldog, Brookes had a jowly face and a shaggy mullet, complemented by a receding hairline. Stu flicked through the slim pickings. An advert caught his eye:
Creating Drama with legendary performer Ivan Stroud
A suitably intense photo of Ivan accompanied the ad. Stu could now add starey-eyed maniacs to his list of fears. It should have already been on the list considering he shared a house with one. The penny dropped. Stu recognised Ivan from a variety of roles; Blake's 7, Doctor Who, The Sweeney, and Space: 1999. The man was a legend in his own walk-on part, usually as a shifty sidekick who sold out the hero before meeting a much-deserved comeuppance. Why was somebody so famous (to Stu, anyway) appearing locally? Excitement fizzed. Ivan Stroud was his only hope.
The Cockpit Theatre prided itself on being the edge of Fringe theatre. Stu took a seat on the shrouded boundary of a tiny performance space. He warily glanced at the sparse audience. Pretentious types and oddball loners. The lights dimmed. A spotlight glowed centre stage.
In loose black clothing and a hood, Ivan Stroud clutched his head. Without reason, Ivan revealed his theatrically masked face, explosively roaring. A few bookish audience members fled as Ivan stomped, kicking over chairs before curling into a ball on the floor. A vague trickle of applause was cut short as Ivan bellowed from his foetal position. ‘SHUT. UP!’
The praise immediately ceased. Ivan stood, removing the mask to reveal bulging, hypnotic eyes. What followed was a dizzy avant-garde mix of frothy-mouthed ranting (a few rogue globs impacted on Stu’s eyeballs). An escaped lunatic locked in an eerie conversation with himself, conveying the definition of drama with decadent arm-waving.
After forty-five minutes of the unpredictable and unnerving, Ivan snapped his heels together, and the lights cut to black. The house lights faded up. The baffled audience looked at each other.
During the interval, senses thoroughly assaulted, remnants of the stunned audience watchfully conferred with drinks and hushed tones. Stu lurked in the corner of the boxy foyer, aimlessly eyeing advertising for up ‘n coming shows. Photographs of actors re-enacting dramatic or hilarious scenes with overpronounced poses. A single, unavoidable voice held court in the foyer.
An innocent-looking man of below-average height. With hands in his pockets like a child, he appeared even smaller, yet he spoke with calm superiority to those surrounding him.
‘Ivan’s work is a masterpiece of heightened physical theatre. A diatribe in punk Shakespearean verse, if you will…’
Someone piped up behind Stu, in a deliberately pronounced drawl. ‘Who’s this prat?’ Stu looked to the source of the insult to see a young man with Ian Dury wet-look curls and a red and black striped Adidas t-shirt lit a cigarette. His amused glare was fixed upon Stu, who feigned invisibility.
The insulted man removed his hands from his pockets, addressing his derider. ‘And you are?’
‘Gary Blenny,’ replied the young punk, blowing cigarette smoke.
‘Max Monteith. You may have seen some of my plays.’
‘Yeah? Any good?’ replied Gary with fake interest.
‘My latest production Busty Dusters is currently touring the midlands,’ said Max.
Gary exhaled smoke in puffs of laughter. ‘Busty bloody Dusters!’
Max bestowed his wisdom to his fan club, leading them back into the performance space. ‘Professionals always remember the unprofessional.’
Gary called out, determined to get the final word. ‘There’s one ‘r’ in Gary and two ‘n’s in ‘Blenny’, if you wanna stick that in your little black book of careers to destroy!’
A voice over the tannoy punctured the tension, advising the audience to return to their seats.
Moments later, Stu returned to his seat, finding Gary had made himself at home in Stu’s seat, sideways slumped and feet up. Gary fake-yawned. ‘Fetch me a blanket, will ya?’
The audience lights dimmed. Ivan stalked across the stage, accompanied by a fanfare of madness. Stu quickly sat in a vacant seat next to Gary, who sat up with eager relish. ‘Oh, here we go. More flob in yer face.’
Ivan prowled the spotlight with his trademark maniacal stare. ‘Shock! Controversy! Push the boundaries. Embrace the grotesque. Misery. Suffering. Pain. It is power. It motivates. For now, you suffer the same invisible tragedy.’
Max raised a hand, interrupting. ‘Max Monteith. Professional writer. How do you deal with the critics?’
‘Kill the critics! Not just those petty columnists that no one reads. Yer mum. Yer dad. Teachers who told you to work in a bank. You don’t fit their pathetic vision of how things should be. Creativity mutates the weakest turd into a rampaging Hulk,’ barked Ivan.
Gary murmured to Stu. ‘The bloke’s nuts. Brill!’
Ivan picked up on the smirking lads, closing in on them. ‘The greatest sin is to stand by, silent and indifferent.’ Ivan glared Stu and Gary into passive jellies before flinging his arm wide open.
‘Dramatic glockenspiel aaaaand CURTAIN!’
The room plunged into pitch-black darkness. From the black, Ivan’s voice softly spoke. ‘Ttt. Clap, then!’ An uncertain trickle of applause leaked from the audience.
In the foyer of the Cockpit Theatre, zipping up his coat, Stu carefully passed Max and his fan club. Cigarette jutting from the corner of his mouth, Gary cut in front of Stu, jabbering away to himself.
‘The bloke’s barking. Half expected the men in white coats to show up ‘n cart him off,’ said Gary, pausing for breath before continuing. ‘Off over the road. Fancy a pint?’
Stu halted, uncertain if Gary was addressing him. Gary glanced back over his shoulder at Stu with exaggerated eye contact. ‘Would-you-like-a-drink? I’ll keep me hands where you can see ‘em, promise.’
If there was one thing Falking Hill excelled in, it was flea-pit pubs with graffiti-walled toilets, blocked toilet pans and the humid stench of urine flowing downwind each time the toilet door slammed open. Inside The Mangled Welly pub, fag perched on his lip, Gary selected Take Me I’m Yours by Squeeze at the jukebox. He swaggered back to Stu, a pint in each hand. Slumping sideways into a chair, Gary probed Stu with his sardonic glares. ‘So am I in the presence of the next Barbara Cartland? What are you into?’
Stu never liked being asked questions like this for fear of sounding like a tosspot. ‘Human issues, loss and grief. Social meaning,’ said Stu, tosspot status completed. He tempered his words with a shrug of self-deprecation. ‘Everyone else thinks I write comedy.’
‘Do you feel a renewed sense of empowerment after tonight’s informal presentation?’ asked Gary, but before Stu could respond, Gary continued. ‘I used to wanna be an actor. Until I discovered I hated theatre. Stand there, do that. I should be the one calling the shots. I’m an agent of chaos. Diversionary tactics. Do the thing people least expect. Soon as they have you sussed, you’ve lost. S’long as people don’t understand me, I’m holding all the cards.’
It didn’t take long to realise Gary Blenny’s favourite point of discussion was Gary Blenny. Opinionated, fiery and gabbing a mile a minute, Gary’s aggressive pontificating was entertaining. When Gary wasn’t shooting things down, he spoke of his profession: Part-time Cinema Usher, part-time record promoter. Employed by an independent record company, Gary traipsed around record shops, buying multiple copies of new releases to secure a decent chart position.
Manipulating the charts and influencing the music-buying public was the best part. Stu naturally assumed Gary would know of his favourite record shop, Sound & Vision.
‘Yeah, I know the bushy old git who owns the shop. Graham,’ said Gary, wryly.
‘You must know Alan Gould, then?’
‘Oh, sure. He’s more or less my best mate,’ said Gary.
If he said so. Hairy Jim was a closer friend to Alan than Gary ever was. It occurred to Stu that Gary didn’t have many friends, and he could understand why.
Alerted, Gary locked sights across the rickety pub: Ivan Stroud, drinking alone at the bar. ‘Good mind to mug him for my three quid. The second half of that show was barely a minute long…’
The lads watched Ivan lumber over to the gents’ toilets. Gary elbowed Stu conspiratorially.
‘I’d complain if I were you.’
Stu wondered if this was a fateful moment to be grasped. Stepping gingerly to the rancid Gents' toilet, Stu stood beside Ivan at the urinals. Formulating an introduction in his mind, Stu nervously took a succession of hurried peeks in Ivan’s direction, inadvertently gaining Ivan’s attention.
‘You want the poofs’ pub down the road, son,’ said Ivan.
Stu sputtered words. ‘Your ad in the paper said about creating drama. All you did was shout at us.’
Ivan smirked to himself with displeased predictability. ‘Let me guess. A writer? Write me something now.’
Stu didn’t understand. Ivan turned to face him, unzipped and exposed. ‘What’s the matter? No lead in your pencil? Look at you. Closeted. Soft around the belly. No life experience. Only once the student is ready will the mentor appear.’
‘What... should I write about?’ asked Stu.
Ivan stepped closer, speaking in a threatening hush. ‘Will He live or will He die?’
Ivan zipped up, startling Stu.
Wired, Stu hurried back to Gary, sliding into his chair and downing his pint of lager in one to steady his nerves.
Cigarette in hand, Gary gestured for an update. ‘He told me to write a play. Difficult to recall. He had his chopper out the entire conversation,’ said Stu. ‘I don’t know the first thing about writing plays.’
Prompted by Stu’s words, Gary rummaged in his jacket pocket, eventually producing a screwed-up piece of paper. Flattening the leaflet on the table, Gary jabbed at it with a sharp finger.
‘There’s a show coming up. Come along and take the piss with me. Trust me. After, you’ll believe you could write the next War and Peace.’
Stu hoisted a delivery bag over his shoulder as twelve-year-old paperboys huddled over a smutty top-shelf magazine, guffawing and excitedly pointing. Stu seethed at the contemptuous urchins. Especially after the time they stashed editions of Strident Bitch in Stu’s paper bag for a laugh.
The shop owner - Mr Westacott - called out to Stu as he waddled towards the door. ‘Make sure you knock on Mr Rumbelow’s house. Tell him he won’t get any more papers until he pays up! Don’t forget! Make sure you knock!’
Stu replied with a bored tone. ‘I won’t forget…’
Mr Westacott barked loudly as Stu lumbered out the door. ‘Well you bleedin’ forgot the other ten times I reminded ya. Cloth-eared git…’
The edge of town. The final delivery: Mr Rumbelow. A lengthy dirt track flanked by fields and woodland led to a gloomy, unkempt homestead that would make Charles Bronson think twice.
Stu’s back tyre spun out to a halt, cautiously approaching the rundown house on foot. The letterbox was jammed with old mail and newspapers.
Stu repeatedly knocked, to the point where it was annoying him. Stu cupped his eyes, squinting through the flaky windows. He gently called out. ‘Mr. Rumbelow? You alright? Through the single-glazed window, the television was audible.
Cycling to the nearest phone box, Stu’s jittery fingers spun the rotary dial. Fudging the number, he re-dialled. Ten minutes later, Alan finally showed up in his rust-box car, looking unimpressed.
‘Right. What. Y’know, you woke my mum and dad up, phoning so bloody early.’
‘Rumbelow. He might be dead. Look. He’s not picked up any post for days,’ said Stu.
‘And? You should see my house. Probably gone on his holidays,’ said Alan.
‘The telly’s on.’
Alan’s patience stretched to breaking point. ‘Why am I here?’
‘If I go in on my own, I might never be seen again,’ said Stu.
‘I s’pose it’s fine for the pair of us to never be seen again? Thanks a bleedin’ bunch.’
Stu walked around the side of the house, calling out in a hushed voice. ‘Just keep watch. If you hear anything—’
‘Like a chainsaw?’ retorted Alan with a huff.
Stu hushed him with a cross face, disappearing out of sight. Stu’s search led him to a flimsy conservatory. Stu tugged on the handle of a sliding door. It wasn’t budging.
Alan appeared beside Stu, startling him. Alan had a rusty spade in his hand and jimmied it under the base of the sliding door. ‘Learnt this trick from Hairy Jim. He was always getting locked out of his Dad’s house. Ding dong… Avon calling…’ With a sharp crank, the spade handle snapped as the sliding door jolted loose from the runners. The door comically staggered towards Stu, narrowly missing him as it shattered on the patio.
‘Hairy Jim must get through a lot of sliding doors,’ said Stu, staring in disbelief at Alan’s handiwork. Feeling unappreciated, Alan cast the broken spade handle aside. ‘Worked, didn’t it?’
They guardedly entered the sitting room. The television displayed The Spirit of Dark and lonely water advert. Sensing Stu’s increasing fear, Alan switched it off, sniffing the stale air.
‘What’s that… It’s an elderly smell. Smells like puked-up cat food.’
Stu scanned the floor. A lap tray. Half-eaten, mouldy toast. Old cup of tea. Alan inspected framed newspaper reviews that covered the walls, written by Hartley Rumbelow. Alan read aloud.
“Foul Play! The only mystery here is what would possess anyone to endure such a pointless exercise in drudgery.” Doesn’t mince his words, does he? Look at him. Like a psychotic Frank Muir.’
Stu browsed an array of cutting reviews to a sideboard messily stacked with over-stuffed shoeboxes full of ancient correspondence.
Poking through the papers, Stu came across a cache of party invitations. “Dress in white”. Old faded photos featuring the same theatrical gang in their 20s.
‘He used to be a writer,’ said Stu.
‘Don’t ask him for any tips on how to maintain a successful career. Look at this dump. Innit marvellous? Acres of rolling fields ‘n he lives like Albert Steptoe.’
Stood at a rickety upright piano, Alan played the low staccato notes of The Shape Stalks Laurie
(from John Carpenter’s Halloween):
DUN. DUN-DUN. DUN. DUN-DUN. DUN. DUN-DUN…
Then the right hand played the high notes with a piercing
DIN-DIN-DIN-DIN-DIN-DIN-DIN!
‘Oi! Put a grid on, will ya,’ snapped Stu.
Hands up, Alan backed off; apologetic. Stu paused at a centralised framed newspaper article showing a mid-fifties Rumbelow accepting a large cheque; all pipe in mouth and arrogant sneer.
‘He’s rich. He won the pools. Look,’ said Stu. Alan moved in to inspect the newspaper cutting. ‘If I had his money, this place would be wall-to-wall Parisian Maids and Bentleys parked in the swimming pool. Some people don’t know they’re alive,’ mused Alan.
Stu found a torch on a tea trolley, flicking it on and off. Alan roared ghoulishly; a weeping face theatrical mask held to his face. Stu narrowed his eyes with contempt at Alan’s lark; muttering his grievance as he walked on.
Mouths and noses cupped, they trailed the stench downstairs to a basement door. Stu froze at the deafening eruption from Alan’s backside. ‘Creaky stairs,’ said Alan with a little embarrassment. Stu reeled in disgust. ‘Bleedin’ ‘eck, Alan. Sounded like you’d stepped on a duck!’
Alan urged Stu to focus. Stu directed the torch at the cellar door.
‘Kick it in,’ said Alan. Stu replied sharply. ‘You kick it in.’
Stu shone the torch on the lock, where he found a key. Turning it, Stu nudged the door open. A putrid smell lugged them in the guts. Alan repeatedly wretched, lurching wildly as he retreated back up the “creaky stairs”. Shielding his mouth and nose with his forearm, Stu trod cautiously into the scene of ruin inside the basement. The torch light shone fleetingly upon fallen bookshelves and scattered sheets of paper inside the cellar.
Dull shafts of sunlight filtered through a narrow, ceiling-height shattered window, illuminating Hartley Rumbelow in the devastation. Stumbling backwards in wide-eyed fright, Stu stumbled and slipped on the discarded boxes and papers, falling to the floor. Legs thrusting furiously, Stu propelled himself away from the body until he could feel his back against the wall.
There was an overwhelming compulsion to lift his eyes from the paper-strewn cobbled floor. Stu wished he hadn’t.
Hartley Rumbelow’s face of death stared back with a slackened jaw and haunting eyes.
Stu looked away, eyes screwed shut. But slowly they opened once more, observing a small, tarry puddle of blood trailing from a wound to Rumbelow’s head. Rumbelow’s wrinkled, bony hand was outstretched; his index finger smeared with blood and resting on a solitary piece of paper.
Stu slid a yellowed sheet of paper from under the dead man’s hand, inspecting it. A page from an old play which presumably had fallen from a storage box when the shelving had collapsed onto Rumbelow, pinning him to the uneven cobbles. On the sheet, daubed in red, were two jagged, crudely scrawled letters: H H.
Stu mournfully watched the emergency services tend to the scene. His sympathy tempered with pity. To die alone… He shuddered at the thought. The local Bobby took a statement from Alan with world-weary bluntness. ‘I’m P.C. Nesbit. Who are you, then?’
‘Alan. Alan Gould.’
P.C. Nesbit gestured to Alan’s car. ‘Bit much for a paper round.’ Alan took a second to grasp what the officer was saying. ‘Oh. No, my mate Stu’s the paperboy.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
‘Nothing better to do,’ said Alan.
‘At seven in the morning?’
‘Apparently not,’ mumbled Alan, dryly.
‘Enough of the lip, sonny,’ said P.C. Nesbit with a warning finger. Alan tried to explain himself, but the officer wasn’t having any of it. ‘A young black youth breaking into an old man’s house? I’d start being a bit more compliant, wouldn’t you agree?’ snarled P.C. Nesbit.
At the police cordon, a camera flash dazzled Stu out of his trance. The beer-bellied, slovenly photographer aggressively chewed gum as he flashed his press ID with a sniff of authority. His cheap suit told a different story. ‘Brookes Manders. Journalist for the Falking Advertiser.’
Stu accepted a stained, homemade business card from the hangdog ambulance chaser, recognising the name. ‘You wrote that article about the satanic bell ringers.’
‘Yeah, turns out it wasn’t Satanists. Rag ‘n bone man,’ said Brookes with awkward indignation. ‘So, you found the old grapper? Was it bad? Any blood? D’you think there’s more to it than the police are letting on?’ Poised with his pen and notepad, Brookes eagerly awaited the scoop.
‘I need to get back to work,’ said Stu with a distracted look.
But Brookes was letting him get away easily. ‘Paper round, eh? At your age? Can’t go around bob-a-jobbing the rest of yer life. I can make you famous around here. You rub my back, I’ll tickle your balls. Know what I mean?’ Stu didn’t and grimaced at the idea. But then a thought occurred.
‘I could write down what I saw. A report on the plight of the elderly,’ said Stu.
‘Leave it to the professional, eh?’ winked Brookes, ducking under the police tape only to be caught in the act by P.C. Nesbit.
‘Oi! Fatty!’ Brookes held up his hands, busted. Brookes sucked his pouted lips to stifle his anger, retreating from the cordon. ‘Y’know what, don’t need to see it. Already know what happened.’
Brookes tapped himself on the head, implying that genius was only one made-up story away. As Brookes paced away, he passed an approaching policeman; both regarding each other with wary looks.
The policeman patted Stu on the shoulder with praise. ‘I supposed thanks are in order. Well done, son. Good lad.’ The Copper stuffed a pound note into Stu’s hand. ‘If you remember anything else, call the station and ask for P.C. Davenport.’
The policeman ducked under the tape to speak with a colleague, as Alan appeared at Stu’s side, having witnessed the reward.
The injustice was plain to Alan. ‘You get a quid for being a good boy. I get the third degree and the threat of being nicked.’ Stu offered the money to Alan, which only affronted him more. ‘Keep it,’ said Alan, trudging back to his car.
Jemima ironed clothes to the sounds of Buddy Holly’s Doesn’t Matter Anymore. Slippered feet up, Godfrey tucked into a bowl of shredded wheat. Stu returned home, breathlessly animated relaying his busy morning to his parents. ‘I found a dead body.’
The lack of any response irritated Stu. Before he could repeat himself—
‘That’s what I was going to tell you the other day, Godfrey,’ said Jemima. ‘You know old Harold Monk? He died. In the Wavy Line. Whilst buying luncheon meat. Just keeled over.’
‘You think that’s bad,’ replied Godfrey. ‘A bloke at work said he knew someone who died. Only fifty-two. Crushed by Lucozade falling off the back of the truck. He was nicking it at the time, but still...’
Stu tried to get the focus back on his exciting, unfinished anecdote. ‘I was interviewed by the Falking Advertiser. I’m going to be in the paper ‘n everything.’
Finishing his breakfast, Godfrey rifled through the daily newspaper.
‘Remember Kenny’s son. He was in the paper. Got run over by a milk float. After that, he was forever known as the boy who was run over by a milk float.’ Godfrey glared up at his son, stomping out any embers thrills or fanciful notions.
‘Fame is a dangerous game.’
Sensing that the discussion with his parents was over, Stu retreated to his bedroom upstairs. He removed something from the back pocket of his jeans. Unfolding it, he held the crumpled sheet of paper to the light. The one taken from under Rumbelow’s hand. Stu studied the letters, scribed in the blood of a dead man.
For a brief moment, he considered returning it to the police station, but they wouldn't take stealing evidence from a crime scene too lightly. He chastised himself for taking it in the first place. He could be holding a vital clue which solves the murder of a defenceless old man.
Perhaps I could solve the case, thought Stu.
His mind saw all the angles and threats of exposure in an instant, concluding that any arrest would always come back to that piece of paper written in Rumbelow's blood. Thoughts of being arrested plagued him, as if the paper was burning his fingertips. Stu did the only thing which would give him a decent night's sleep: he screwed the sheet into a tight ball, and discreetly placed it in the kitchen bin.
Compelled to attend Rumbelow’s funeral, Stu paid the price with an awkward conversation with the Reverend Norman Greene, father of his lifelong nemesis Christopher Gothard. The Rev was a tea and cucumber sandwich-And-Did-Those-Feet-in-Ancient-Times farcical-comedy man of the cloth who clung to the misconception that his son and Stu were best friends.
Even for a man of God, the Reverend Greene must have had an inkling as to what his son was really like. Stu baulked at the Rev’s suggestion of “hanging out with Christopher”.
The Reverend Greene played the church organ with gusto - an instrumental piece which sounded remarkably like the theme tune to Crown Court. In the front pew, Stu gazed around, uncomfortable in every sense.
A mourner stood at the back of the church. A veiled woman in matching yellow trousers and jacket and black shawl, resembling a wasp.
Thoughts of Rumbelow dead in a dank cellar churned like self-propelled lawnmower blades, grinding into his soul. The uneasy sense that something wasn’t right came into clarity.
The key was in the door. The cellar was locked from the outside.
The hymn drew to a close, by which time the other mourner had departed.
Brookes Manders gorged on a hotdog from a fast food van in the bustling Falking Hill market. Stu’s posture pleaded, but Brookes was more interested in his polystyrene cup of coffee.
‘We’ve already run the story. You can buy a copy if you like. Thanks for the grub.’
Stu paced after Brookes. ‘Don’t you get it? Somebody locked Rumbelow in the cellar.’
Brookes silenced Stu with the known facts. ‘Rumbelow was trapped under a fallen bookcase. Didn’t have the oomph to save himself. He was, what, ninety years old or something? No foul play. Case closed. No one liked him, anyway.’
‘That’s my point. The door was locked from the outside. The key was in the lock. The poor sod was probably trying to climb out when the bookshelf fell on him,’ said Stu.
Brookes paused at this revelation. ‘Locked from the outside? Did you tell the copper this?’
‘I… didn’t think. Look, I’d just seen my first murder victim,’ stammered Stu.
‘Murder? Pfft. Go tell the rozzers if you like. They’ll file it in the bin. Don’t want the agg. Trust me. Crime is on the rise. This town’s reputation is in the balance as it is. They won’t wanna know,’ said Brookes.
Shoving the final bite of food into his mouth, Brookes blurred into the meandering shoppers.
Copyright © Andrew Wright 2022