Balls

  Chris had mixed feelings. He knew he would enjoy the private dick part of the job, but the sight of PK and that idiot Rani made his blood boil. Pony tails, ethnic trousers, daft harm-not-that-fly looks on their faces, Christ, it made you want to beat them to death there and then, in public, for all the world to see. Shouldn't take more than a couple of seconds either, as they were both weak, sickly vegetarian types who'd never done a hard day's graft in their lives. They'd probably curl up in a ball and scream and cry like girls. Watching them slop along in their sandals was almost too much for his stomach to bear. If on top of that he let his mind wander back to Catherine and that night on the wasteground...... No, he had to remain calm and follow the plan. For now.

  The plan – that was a constant source of anxiety too. He was well aware that it all depended not only on their ability to coordinate their actions, but also for luck to be with them throughout. What if Danny was run over as he crossed the road in pursuit of PK? Or if Tommy got gastroenteritis just when he was most needed? Or if PK suddenly decided to go abroad for a few months? He had put in a lot of thought, had racked his brains, but he accepted his plan was only solid, not foolproof, he acknowledged his chances of success were high, but not guaranteed. For he was not an ignorant man, he had heard of 'the best laid schemes of mice and men', he even knew, unlike most, that it was by Robbie Burns. Because Chris Morton did not shun knowledge, did not believe that Education was a contagious disease. He knew about quarks and lasers and gemstones and the Tudors, he understood elementary physics, was good at mental arithmetic, knew his Impressionists from his Cubists.

  You had been led to believe that education was incompatible with intolerance, that culture was the antidote for bigotry, that knowledge was the panacea for aggression? Read on.

  The Mortons did an excellent job, staying on the beat as long as possible, noting it all down- the time, the place, the company kept. Bobby was a little slacker, and there were often gaping holes in his day when he had obviously just decided he'd had enough. Mr. Morton had tried to reprimand him, using his best ex army sergeant's attitude, but Bobby's face just went blank, as if his mind had slipped out for a fag and left his body to face the music.

  Paul it seems led a rather chaotic life with no fixed routine. He left the house at different times of the day, probably when his agenda dictated, and would usually, but not always, return for an afternoon session of spiritualism with a troupe of sect members. What he did in the evenings varied enormously, and he did not always go back to the flat to sleep, either. Nonetheless after three weeks Chris decided he had all the information he needed, and called another meeting.

  The glistening red Ford focus stood proud guard on the driveway like a modern day Beefeater. Chris entered the garage by the side door to find that Bobby Hornsby had yet another little surprise for him.

  ‘What's she doing here?’

  ‘She's with me,’

  answered Bobby.

  The girl, no more than fifteen, stared at Mr. Morton with eyes so heavily made up she resembled a raccoon. Cropped dyed blonde hair, fish net stockings, working men's boots. She was short and stocky, with little stubby fingers. Her T-shirt cum dress was provocative, especially to hormone driven adolescents. Chris sighed wearily. The girl continued to stare back, challenging him, daring him to so much as lay a finger on her.

  ‘Bobby.’

  It said: look, we've got men's work to do. She looks like a nice enough kid, and I can't say I blame you, after all, we all need a bit every so often, eh? But this is not the time or the place, Bobby. Ask her to wait for you outside, out of earshot, ok?

  ‘What?’

  Bobby wasn't his usual receptive self this evening. Chris turned to the girl.

  ‘Look love, er, what's your name?’

  ‘Shaz,’

  answered Bobby.

  ‘Right, Shaz? Sharon. Look, we've...’

  ‘Sherazade,’

  corrected the girl.

  Yeah, sure, Sherazade, of course. Wouldn't be just plain Sharon, now would it. He decided to ignore the nuance.

  ‘Look, we've got a really important thing to discuss here tonight’.

  She remained leaning against the workbench, as unreceptive as her escort.

  ‘And you're going to have to wait outside until we've finished. Right Bobby?’

  This was put a little more bluntly. It meant: Bobby, you are the boss here. Or maybe not? If you asked her to go, would she? Or has she got you wrapped around her little finger? Show me.

  Bobby jerked his head. Sherazade looked disappointed, but obeyed. She tugged her dress down a little lower over her thighs, handed her man the packet of cigarettes she had been toying with throughout, and sauntered out into the street. She stopped about twenty metres off and leant against a lamppost. There she would remain until her lover rescued her.

  Chris felt like giving them all a lecture. Did they fully understand the seriousness of the task in hand? Did they not realise that they could all go to prison for a very long time if it all went wrong, if the police got wind of their plans? They had to be discreet, secretive, meticulous. But what was the point? He was sure Danny was safe enough. Tommy? Too young probably, but still, a controllable risk as long as they kept an eye on him. That left Bobby Hornsby. He sighed and closed the garage doors.

  They stood around a camping table he'd set up in the middle of the garage. The notebooks were stacked neatly in one corner. A map of Burton was open in the centre of the table. He had their attention, or as much of it as they could muster. Now here's the plan.

  Daphne placed her empty tea cup carefully back onto the tray.

  ‘Ronald? Do you know who Catherine Prior is?’

  Carlton did. He beat a hasty retreat.

  Ron smiled. A challenge, eh? The name certainly rang a bell. Now let me think.

  ‘An actress?’

  ‘Actor,’

  corrected Daphne.

  This was something Ron could not come to terms with. Why on earth had they done away with the word actress? Why would women want to use the same word as men? It was like doing away with queen and calling all monarchs kings. It was strange but true that in other countries, namely Spain, they were doing the exact opposite under the same feminist banner. There, women actively sought feminine nouns to counter the masculine form – doctora as opposed to doctor, jueza as opposed to juez (judge). Meanwhile in English women did their best to de-sex the language, so that mothers were just parents, wives were converted into partners, and women themselves became merely persons. How long before they banned He and She and we all became It? He looked at Daphne; her hairstyle, her dress, her tights, her dainty slippers with gold embroidery. This person was his partner. Vive la diference!

  ‘No. She is the woman who was raped and half killed in Burton the night your father disappeared.’

  Carlton should have stayed if only for the chance to see Ronald Kavanagh dumbstruck. He didn't drop his teacup, or slump to the floor. Instead he seemed to have been frozen, or turned into stone. He was in a state of shock, as if Daphne had said that she was really a man trapped in a woman's body and wanted an operation. Or even worse, was pregnant.

  Ron was reeling. He was trying not to be buried alive under the rubble of a thousand memories that crashed around him like flimsy buildings in an earthquake. Headlines, accusations, Dad, denials, Mum, his brothers, the police, his classmates. Prior. Miss Catherine Prior. It was no longer a bell that rang, but a huge gong that reverberated through his whole being bringing with it pain, fear, melancholy and anxiety. He turned to Daphne and she was surprised to see his eyes full of tears.

  He gulped, sniffed, and asked her 'why?' with his damp eyes.

  She hadn't expected this reaction. It is true she hadn't known what to expect, but she hadn't foreseen this. She had imagined perhaps an elusive response, a nonchalant response, a surly response. But not tears. Emotional. How uncomfortable. He would need a few seconds to recover, so she remained silent for a minute or s
o. When she judged he would be able to listen to a little more without falling to pieces, she continued.

  ‘I asked Quigley to find out a little about... about... the incident. He gave me her name. I thought it best we try and get to the bottom of all this once and for all, it is obviously all tied up with Paul, with Ken, with the knifing.’

  She stopped in case he wanted to make a comment, but he was otherwise engaged caressing the crease in his trousers. Daphne straightened her back, filled her lungs, and took the plunge.

  ‘I think we ought to go and see her. I understand she is reluctant, and we can't blame her for that, but I think we ought to go and see her and hear what she has to say.’

  She had decided against mentioning the letter requesting an appointment. It was more advisable to just plough on. Ron did not reply.

  ‘For the record. For our peace of mind.’

  Ron spoke to his shoes. He sounded like he had learnt his lines only minutes before and had not had time to work out the intonation, the delivery.

  ‘She has nothing to do with us. She has nothing to do with us. Nothing at all.’

  He paused for a moment before carrying on.

  ‘My Dad disappeared. He is not a rapist. It was pure coincidence. He is my father, for heaven's sake. She has nothing to do with us, nothing. Nothing.’

  ‘I am not suggesting for one second that your father had anything to do with the rape of this poor woman. You should know that by now. But we feel that somehow it has all got, been, well, confused and mixed up. We should speak to her. I'll go if you like, you don't have to come. But I thought you needed to know, ought to know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Again this was said tonelessly so it was difficult to tell if it was sarcastic or sincere.

  ‘Because I am going to see her, Ronald, and talk to her, and get her version, and get to the bottom of this before it destroys us all. Because I can take only so much, only so much, and if talking to this woman helps, even if it helps just a bit, then I'm going to do it. Ronald?’

  ‘She has nothing to do with us.’

  Daphne stood up. There was no time for tears, petulance, inaction. Something had to be done. She placed Quigley’s dossier on the arm of her husband's chair.

  ‘Maybe you should have a look at this. Maybe it's time to to ask yourself just who your father was. Or is. Because I don't know, dear, I don't know what to think any more. I'll be in my offic.’

  Ron heard her leave. Somewhere deep down he heard a voice complain 'your study? That again? Since when?', but he was too stunned to pay it any attention. The dossier. Did he want to read it? Did he dare open it? Would he perhaps discover things he would much rather not have discovered? He saw the name Samuel Kavanagh out of the corner of his eye. Damn you, Dad.

  She had called him Albert. Just as his mother had done all those years ago. She had said that she couldn't be saying Dr. Flynch this and Dr. Flynch that all the time, and had asked him for his first name. Albert, he had replied apologetically. Jill had smiled gently - Albert, she liked it. And the way she pronounced it had sent a thrill through his whole body.

  At school he had been known by his few friends as Bertie, it was more in keeping with his unhealthy body with imagination to match than Al, which sounded too tough, too streetwise. But ever since he had gained the title Doctor he had become no more than that - forename Doctor, surname Flynch. Where was mummy's bespectacled little boy now? Or the teased and taunted schoolboy? He was dead. He had been suffocated, and his body had been buried in the garden. Or electrocuted in the bath, his veins cut so that his blood would drain away leaving a pale, limp cadaver to be sliced into manageable chunks and burnt in the furnace. Murdered and forgotten by the adult he had become.

  He was musing, and as usual his thoughts eventually turned to darkness, to sordid detail and rotting corpses. He couldn't help it, it had always been that way. He snapped out of it.

  He was unsure what to do next. That Prior woman refusing to speak to him had been a bit of a dead end, a cul-de-sac. Only to be expected, of course, but frustrating nonetheless. How to proceed?

  He sorely needed to help Jill. Swan's killer had to be found so that Ken could be freed. He realised this may mean a reunion, but so be it. She had called him Albert, he had been touched, moved. Then he had been forced to sever all links with her. He owed it to her.

  He quickly recapped. His original hunch had been correct, and Paul Kavanagh had indeed turned out to be the son of Sam Kavanagh. So far it all tied in nicely enough. Now there was the stabbing. It would appear at first sight to have no relationship with the original affair, that is the rape and disappearance. There could be any number of reasons why somebody would want to kill Mr. Swan. Jealousy perhaps, or some financial wheeling and dealing. Mistaken identity. Anything was possible.

  But it was too much of a coincidence, and Albert Flynch's mind didn't like coincidences. Maybe it was all part of an elaborate plan to get Ken put away, a frame up? But why? By whom?

  He ran his hand over his bald patch (he removed the toupee when alone). The TV was on, but only for companionship, it helped him think.

  Enough. He needed a plan of action. The only lead he had at the moment was Catherine Prior. She refused to speak. But maybe one of her family would be prepared to spare him a few minutes? Her sister clearly not, she was a rather unstable character, but her brother-in-law? Very often the male was more forthcoming, more level headed, less emotional. Or one of her nephews? They would be quite grown up by now. It was worth a try. He'd have a word with the neighbours and see if they could orientate him as to who to approach. For Jill.

  Chris Morton paced up and down nervously and checked his watch once more. Where on earth had they got to? They should have been there over ten minutes ago. He stole a glance at Tommy who was trying to act cool but gave himself away by continually fiddling with the zip of his jacket and biting the inside of his lower lip. They'd have to turn up soon or the whole mission would have to be postponed. Come on, come on.

  Then he saw it. A small white van lurched into the street and pulled up beside him with a screech. This was not what he had expected. For some reason he had envisaged a larger type, a transit or something similar. Still, this was a van too, in a way, and it would do. Bobby was at the wheel, Danny co-pilot. They looked flushed, exhilarated, high on the adrenalin buzz of theft and daredevilry. Danny leapt out. He wanted to tell his Dad how they had nicked the van, how they had managed to get it started, how they had roared away before anybody could suspect a thing. They had been professional and effective.

  But father Morton was not impressed. They were more than ten minutes late. No, never mind the excuses, it's too late now. Let's just get on with it and hope it's not too late. Danny hated his Dad sometimes.

  ‘Right, move over. I'll drive from now on.’

  Bobby turned slowly and glared at Chris. By all means, if you are prepared to drag me out of here into the street and bludgeon me to death. If not, shut up and get in.

  Another challenge, another loss of face. This Bobby was costing him dear. But on second thoughts, maybe it was not such a bad idea. He laughed, shook his head as if to say, 'that's the spirit', and climbed in the passenger seat. Danny could have hugged Bobby for that.

  The young Mortons climbed in the back where they were surrounded by beautiful women. Long lashes and pouting lips greeted them, blondes and brunettes posing in sensual robes draped over soft yet firm flesh. They giggled and touched the photos and cardboard cutouts lasciviously. The owner of the vanette it would appear made a living out of advertising cosmetic firms.

  ‘Let's go. Not too fast, ok, we don't want to be pulled over.’

  They drove to Jill's street and parked a few hundred metres down the street from her house. Paul should arrive any minute now if their surveillance was correct.

  Chris handed out the balaclavas. He had got Tommy to steal them a few days earlier so as not to leave any tracks. He imagined a fool buying them with a credit ca
rd and getting caught with the receipt in his back pocket. Someone like Bobby. Luckily he was there to take care of these minor yet all important details.

  So far so good. He reckoned he had a good enough head start with the theft of the van. By the time the owner realised it'd been pinched and had got round to reporting it to the police it'd all be done and dusted. They settled down in silence and wait.

  ‘Here he is!’

  Hissed Bobby. And sure enough there he was, right on schedule. Mad Paul Kavanagh and his cohort. As always there was a short pause, then Paul entered and his hippy escort sauntered off.