. . . . of Hope and Glory

  As he walked along a white car sloped into the kerb at the periphery of his vision and he became partially aware of slamming doors.

  "Can we have a word sir?"

  He turned to face two uniformed police constables advancing on him purposefully. This sight of authority descending on him caused Chris Carter to falter in alarm. Fifteen years in HMP Norwich had that effect.

  "What's the problem?" He asked warily, a wild notion that his release on licence had been a mistake and that they were coming to return him to his six by eight cell not so stupid.

  The pair stepped in close, one to either side of him as if afraid that he were about to flee up the High Street. The eldest, a sergeant in his fifties, did the speaking. The young one, still green and clueless, concentrated on looking mean.

  "We've had reports from some mothers outside the school gates that a man matching your description was seen loitering there. Was that you sir?"

  Chris registered the curious stares of passers-bye at the little tableau presented, felt his cheeks colouring with embarrassment.

  "Yeah, I was there a short while ago. So what?"

  "Why would you be there?" Noticeably the 'sir' had been dropped.

  "Just walking about town, haven't been here for a while. Is there a law against that then?"

  "Depends. So you thought you'd go and watch the kids did you?"

  "No, I went to have a look at the school itself, used to go there when I was a nipper."

  "When the little 'uns are due out, aye?"

  "Co-incidence is all. Sorry if I worried the ladies."

  "Been in trouble before?"

  "I'm not in trouble now."

  "You say you are a local, but I haven't seen you around before. A big lad like you I'm bound to have noticed."

  "Been away for some years, only got back last night."

  "'Been away'? Name?" The sergeant demanded, suspicion gaining momentum now.

  "Carter, Chris Carter." Chris stared directly back into the older man's face, held his breath, saw the spark of recollection in his widened eyes and the grim set of his thin lipped mouth. Knew what was coming.

  When the policeman snapped back a reply, there was real venom there. "So they've gone and let you out have they? Jesus, there's no justice in this world anymore."

  The younger PC looked both intrigued and taken aback at his colleagues reaction. "Kiddie fiddler is he sarge'? Done a bit of time and now back to his old tricks?"

  The sergeant shook his head angrily, eyes smouldering now, fixed upon Chris Carter. "No, no, Steve son. What we have here is a local celebrity. That right Carter?"

  Chris shrugged his shoulders, automatically bracing himself for a punch to the kidneys; a rueful memory of past interrogations. The PC Steve, peered at him curiously, leaning slightly forward like he was studying an exhibit at a wax-works.

  "Well who is he then, spit it out Neil?"

  "Mr. Chris Carter here, of this parish, is a convicted cop-killer. That's who he is!" The sergeant spat out.

  ******

  TWO

  The George and Dragon hardly lived up to its heroic reference. Or Chris Carter's youthful memories when this now dusty, forlorn drinking house had throbbed with disco music, where the opposite sex hunted the opposite sex, round after round of foreign lagers were passed around and the occasional fisticuffs would produced a bloodied nose.

  Now in the grey light of a normal work day, austerity and sad thoughts, the place appeared to have deteriorated into a haunt of the tired old, the lonely, and social rejects, hunched on favoured bar stools or squirreling into dark corners, nursing their everlasting pints whilst the world stumbled on blindly outside.

  The street door swung shut behind him, unnaturally loud in that soulless void, as he crossed the matted, multi-coloured carpet he could have sworn he recognised from those far off heady days of his youth. From behind him a voice called out, harsh and reproachful in a mocking way, clearly aimed at him.

  "You don't write, you don't phone…"

  He turned around, a frown on his face and focussed on a bulky figure slouched in a bay window seat, a half drunk pint on the chipped, varnished table before him.

  "Barry? Blimey!" He took a step forward, a silly grin on his face. "It's good to see you mate. I did wonder if you were still around."

  "That so? Refused to let me visit you though."

  "I was worried for you Barry." He winked. "Once they had you inside those walls I doubted if they'd ever let you out again."

  "Huh. And you couldn't even bother to let anybody know you were being released?"

  "Couldn't quite believe it myself until they slammed those bloody great doors behind me. Besides, what did you want me to do, put an ad' in the classifieds?"

  Suddenly aware that the whole bar were agog at their not so private conversation, Chris held up a restraining hand and turned back to the bar, bought two pints and joined the other man on the window seat, sliding the fresh drink in front of him as a peace offering.

  Barry Wells was a tad over six foot tall, rapidly gone to seed, a flabby, flushed face a testament to excessive drink and problems. Though a year younger than Chris Carter, he looked older, care-worn, and he had never served a life sentence in a stinking prison. Something of that irony glimmered through as he studied his friend through bagged eyes.

  "Your grandpa kept me up to speed. He's a diamond that old boy. Didn't think to bring him out with you for a celebration drink then?"

  "Done that last night, got the head-ache to remind me thank you very much. I've come out for fresh air and a hair of the dog. Grandpa's off down to the Legion Hall, preparing for his biggest day of the year."

  "Yeah, why not? It's only Remembrance Sunday Parade that keeps the old boy going year after year I reckon. You want to see him, his chest all puffed out, medals shined up, marching through the High Street leading the parade from the church to the war memorial."

  Chris blinked hard, took a long pull on his beer, gave himself time to get a grip. So much he had missed. "I'll be here to cheer him on this Sunday, and for many others. He ain't going anywhere for a while.

  "Mind you, it nearly didn't happen. Got waylaid by a couple of boys in blue on the way here. Had me down as some stinking paedo-perv after I went to see the old school. Mothers there nigh on lynched me. They shouldn't have to be so nervous for their kids. What's going on these days?

  "Anyhow, the plod forgot all about that when I told them who I was, got quite shirty I was still living and breathing."

  "Understandable after what you did to one of theirs." Barry Wells pointed out reasonably.

  "Suppose so. They've marked my card well and truly. I'm going to have to tread real daintily around this town Barry. First chance they get I'll be in the first meat-wagon back to Norwich."

  "They can't just off you back there Chris for no good reason. You did your time. Due processes of law and all that."

  "Oh yeah? Tell that to Derek Bentley's family. Besides, it's not quite so clear cut as that, but I won't bore you with the technicalities right now."

  "Right." Barry drained his glass, picked up the full one just bought for him, sipped it delicately. "Did they give you a hard time in the nick? You hear all these stories."

  "The cons didn't. Had myself a celebrity status when I first went in and a legend to the younger intake after I'd been there a while. Bit naff I know but had its advantages. It was the Screws I had to watch.

  "What about you Barry, you never joined up like we all agreed to?"

  Barry Wells averted his eyes, found something interesting on the nicotine stained ceiling to gaze at. "Went for the initial selection but couldn't crack the academic tests first go, never mind the Potential Royal Marine Course. How clever do you have to be to shoot some bastard?

  "Anyhow, before I got a second crack at it I'd collected a couple of minor convictions. Actual Bodily Harm, Criminal Damage, small stuff really. Not laying out blame or excuses here, but I sort of jumped the rails a bit after what hap
pened to you and your folks. Seemed the world had all turned upside down, know what I mean?"

  "I certainly do Barry." Chris agreed ruefully. He studied his friend's ravaged features, the hang-dog demeanour. "Drink?"

  "Mostly. I also collected a fine for possession on top. The only time I got tempted with drugs, hadn't even used it. Don't know why I bought it, hate all that stuff. Give me a pint and a whisky chaser any time. The worst effects are a hang-over and another resolution never to do it again."

  Carter rubbed at his eyes. "I know what you mean all right. So how do you earn your daily crust?"

  "Got trained as a plumber when the big firms still took on trainees. Not CORGI registered or anything clever like that. Just general stuff, fit bathrooms, fix leaky taps, put in new radiators. Bread and butter stuff."

  "Going well is it?"

  "Not going at all anymore. The Polish lads came over in their droves, undercut me and all the other local tradesmen. They've got no commitments to pay for. Sleep ten to a room in filthy doss-houses, work cash in hand only, on the black. Let's face it, most of 'em come from shit-holes, happy to live in shit, and earn shit.

  "Well I can't compete, what with a mortgage and a wife and kids to support."

  "Hey, you didn't mention that!"

  "Sore point. They've gone now. When I crashed the house went back to greasy bankers and the wife went back to her mother's, took the kids with her. Keeps asking for a divorce but I'm dodging that one. I'm sure it'll come all right one day."

  "Sorry to hear that mate. So what do you do now?"

  Barry looked embarrassed. "On the old rock-'n-roll right now ain't I?"

  "Wha……. Oh, the dole." Chris squeezed his elbow. "Something will come along, you'll see."

  "Something did Chris. I got a start stacking shelves in that Indian minimarket and off-licence, end of the High Street, sweeping floors and things. Me, a tradesman. Then that got fire-bombed last month, totalled. Somebody don't like Sikhs or alcohol, whatever."

  "Shit!"

  "What's strange is that he's not the only one. A Jewish Delicatessen got done the same way in the summer after the proprietor got a right kicking out the back by masked men."

  "All sounds a bit naughty. Got some storm-troopers on the march you think?"

  "Don't think so. I'd have heard something on the football terraces if there were. Nothing to indicate that they were even white boys, but tell that to the media. There are all kinds of rumours and accusations flying around. The whole town is getting a bit tetchy. But nobody dare say what they think.

  "Things have changed in this country since you went inside Chris. The elephant ain't just in the room, it's stamping all over us and still we daren't mention it.

  "There was a TV news report awhile back. CCTV footage showing a late night mugging by five shit-bags. Four of the little tykes were white and the fifth had his face blurred out deliberately. Only they forgot to black out his black hands! What's that all about, mind control?"

  "What about 'Sid Sandwich'? I suppose he gave up on our schoolboy pledge. The Three Musketeers, to join the army and save the world from the bad guys."

  Barry twitched with a sudden realisation in his seat, slopping beer from his near full glass. "You haven't heard then?" His brow creased with consternation.

  "Heard what? He's won X Factor or something?"

  "Nooo. Sid did join up, straight after you went inside. Royal Marine Commandos, breezed right through the selection course the flash git." Barry looked positively jealous. "Came back here to see us all after his thirty-two week training and passing out parade. Walked in here all shiny black boots and green beret. Private Sydique Sahni, our 'Sid Sandwich' was Cock O' the Walk. Bought everybody a drink he did, the local hero. Even made out that night with that Betty Hunt.

  "Remember her, that one that worked at the Town Hall? Big tits, blond hair, had a squint in one eye? Would never look at any of us before."

  "She might have. You'd never tell with that dodgy peeper of hers. So, Sid still in uniform or has he retired to the shires to write his memoirs? Diary of A Lone Musketeer?"

  Barry's expression turned grim, morose even, took refuge for a moment in his drink. Couldn't put it off any longer.

  "No, not retired exactly. Sid got himself blown up in Afghanistan a year ago. One of those bloody IED's. Came home missing a leg, half an arm, partially blinded. They flew him back for treatment at the new military hospital in Birmingham.

  "They managed to keep him alive against all the odds. Then he was transferred to one of those rehabilitation centres where you get fitted with false legs, and taught to walk again."

  Chris had turned an ashen grey, put his pint down suddenly as if it had turned to vinegar. "Can we visit there?"

  "No need, Sid is determined to live an independent life, though he is still under both hospitals and goes back for further treatment on occasion."

  "So where is he then?"

  "Here, in Holtingham. The council have adapted one of those OAP warden assisted bungalows, Squires Court, back of the sports fields. You know, put in ramps for his wheel chair, wall bars, wide doors. Though he is getting about more on his new leg now."

  "Wheelchair? Bastards! He's almost one of their own."

  Barry shook his head emphatically. "Sid Sandwich cum Sydique Sahni ain't exactly a practising Muslim. Never was."

  ***

  There had not been much else that they could talk about after that shock revelation, trivia would have been disrespectful to their friend. Or was that just an excuse for little else to talk about. For Chris, his old friends had existed half a lifetime away, they had all been barely adults, faint memories calling through the choking smog of more recent bad experience.

  Barry sensed the fruitless direction of their reminiscences, made his excuses to go, save it for another day perhaps. "Got to go mate. Sorry I can't reciprocate with another drink Chris. My money will be through in a couple of days. I stand a pint or two then if that's okay."

  Chris made tacit agreement for getting together at the end of the week with bleak enthusiasm. Their friend's predicament it seemed to him a telling omen for his homecoming.

  Should he have considered, no risked, coming back here at all? He hadn't really needed to. His dead parents' estate had been put in trust for him, as and when he became a free man again. With their savings, general assets and the sale of the family home, he was wealthy enough to set himself up anew anywhere in the country, abroad even. He could construct a new life and future without the local stigma and resentment his home town would present, once the solicitors had processed the paperwork and passed on the money to him.

  But grandpa was here, he would never leave this town. Chris Carter would never leave his grandpa, his only family, all he needed.

  He suddenly felt drained, listless, not solely the effects of too much rum the night before, slumped in this rat hole of a pub. But he had to motivate himself for another item on his to do soonest agenda that day. The most important and heartfelt task that he had to force himself to face.

  ***

  The warm old stone and flint of St. Athelstan, the weathered courses of red brick in the wall that wrapped around the church and graveyard, exuded a welcome and compassion he had not felt in a long time. A place of sanctity from all the gritty and abrasive twists and turns to his relatively young life.

  But still he had to force himself through the grey oak gate and direct his feet along the narrow gravel path that skirted the building, branching off at intervals to access the rows of headstones of parishioners past. Some worn and lichen covered, some polished modern granite, some simple wood crosses erected at 'pauper' burials at the periphery of the grassed resting place.

  His grandfather had given him directions to the spot, yet still he stopped with a jolt of shock when his searching eyes settled on the black marble and gold inscriptions of his parents' joint grave.

  "Jesus…..!" Tears threatened to embarrass him as he read the inscriptions, a sombre and civ
ilised account of their sudden passing.

  'Here lie the remains in eternal death of loving husband and wife Phillip and Ivy Carter taken too soon in tragic circumstances on 15th March 1997'

  He had not been allowed out of remand prison to attend their funeral, grandpa had brought him a photograph of the grave that he had displayed on his cell wall all these years.

  "He is always with you Chris."

  Chris Carter spun on his heel, startled by the voice from nowhere, saw a young vicar standing on the path behind, watching him. He had a prematurely greying shock of curly hair that sat on his round head like a furry halo. His plump hands were clasped tightly against his black cassock as if in prayer.

  "Er, excuse me?" Chris replied eventually, sure now that the churchman had been speaking to him. There was no-one else about.

  "Jesus. You just called to him." The vicar smiled wanly. "We all need to on occasion."

  "Yeah? Well he's a few years late in showing up to help me, thought I'd come and fetch him." Chris was strangely in a mood to be provocative, standing before his parents' last resting place. "You know my name?"

  "I do indeed. Your Grandfather told me this morning that you'd most likely show up here sooner than later to ….. see your parents."

  "My grandpa was here was he? For a family get together, this one's a bit disjointed wouldn't you agree vicar, ah…?"

  "Just call me Lionel won't you. Henry and I had some details to discuss regarding the Remembrance Day service on Sunday. This will be my first in this parish and your grandfather felt he needed to ah, walk me through it."

  "That sounds about right, Lionel."

  "He didn't tell you he'd be coming?"

  "Grandpa is a force of nature. He doesn't pre-warn you of his intentions, or where, when, how or even if."

  The clergyman took a step closer, lowered his voice and looked him directly in the eyes. "As I said, I am relatively new here Chris, but I have been informed of what happened to yourselves," His eyes flicked down to the headstone before Chris. " … and what you did. Second or third hand testimonies do not make a good witness.

  "So if you feel that you need to talk, unburden yourself of the past, assuage your guilt, please do not hesitate to come to me. Anytime at all."