Authors: Chris Simms
‘Right girl,' said Jayne. 'When he next rings, put your phone on call-wrap-up in case another call comes through and deletes his identity. We'll get his number off Brian and ask Davis to find out where he's calling from.'
Clare smiled, 'Cheers you three, that would let me sleep better at night.'
Chapter 51
The thin, keening noise floated into his bedroom again. His bloodshot eyes snapped open in the dark. As he stared up, the sound gradually died away, its whereabouts now a maddening torment. He threw back the covers, walked to his bedroom window and lifted the corner of the curtain. Strong moonlight bathed his back garden, creating shadows behind the pale shrubs. On his lawn he could make out a line of small footprints where a cat had patrolled the damp grass. He looked up at the night sky and watched the ghostlike form of a cloud floating silently across the heavens. The wind picked up again, and with it the noise.
But this time, fully awake and standing up, he was able to discern that it was originating from somewhere on the other side of his house. Silently, he entered the spare bedroom, standing in the dark and awaiting its return. After a couple of minutes he heard a moaning under the eaves as a gust of wind gathered strength. With it came the high-pitched note. Only now he was sure it was coming from outside the bedroom window.
Whatever or whoever was making it, was probably standing on his front lawn. He stepped up to the curtains and flung them apart. The square of grass was empty, the cul-de-sac beyond it deserted. Yet still the needle-like noise was there, filling the air around his head, lancing his very brain.
His wild eyes roved around in their sockets and suddenly the mystery was revealed. The answer was, literally, under his very nose. The lightly crumpled teacake wrapper was sitting on the polished tiles of the windowsill. As the gust of wind pressed against the glass it caused a draught to seep in around the old wooden window frame that was just strong enough to push the foil wrapper fractionally forwards. The same note began to emanate from it as Eric stared malevolently at the object. It squatted on four points of foil, its upper surface peaked by two glinting horns. The wind changed direction and the wrapper slid slightly to the side, defiantly shrieking at him again. The fingers of Eric's hand shot out and he snatched it up.
He crushed it then, raising his other hand, began rolling it around and around between his palms, compacting it into a smaller and smaller ball. As he did so, tiny creases in the metallic surface left a web of angry red lines across his skin. He held the object that had caused him so much distress before his face. Still it hadn't been punished enough; he would use his teeth to grind it. He shoved the object to the back of his mouth and bit down on it with his molars. Instantly the foil connected with his fillings and a jarring pain shot through his head. His mouth opened in a silent howl and, as the saliva-coated wrapper fell onto his bare foot, tears of rage were squeezed from his tightly closed eyes.
Yawning loudly, Clare opened her bedroom door and shuffled, barefoot, across the living room to the tiny hallway. The clunk of the letterbox had finally roused her from her bed and there on the mat was a single letter. She bent down, picked it up and stepped back into the room.
Drawing the curtains, she flooded the sofa with sunlight and Zoe immediately raised a hand over her eyes. Empty cans and a full ashtray littered the coffee table. In the kitchen Clare flicked the kettle on and finally spoke. 'Brew?'
'Cheers mate, beautiful,' said Zoe, sitting upright and blinking groggily at the wall. The sound of paper ripping was audible from the kitchen and Clare appeared in the doorway.
'Lovely,' she said sarcastically. 'An official "get out of the flat" note from the housing department. We've got until midday tomorrow, then the cleaners come in and bin everything still here.'
'Great,' said Zoe, rubbing her eyes and yawning at the same time.
Still sitting in her sleeping bag, she used the remote to turn the radio on, just catching the end of the 11 o'clock news on Radio One.
In his kitchen Eric sat hunched over a cup of tea, staring at nothing. Feelings of nausea prevented him from eating anything, yet his acute nervousness compounded the empty feeling in his stomach. The piece of paper with Rubble's number on it was still on his desk, but now, in the cold light of day, he decided against calling it. He hadn't left the house for two days, ignoring several calls from the university about whether he could attend various end of term events. He looked around the room, suddenly aware of the blank expanse of wall around him. Standing, he stared out of the window, but the row of fir trees and roof of the house beyond only added to his sense of confinement.
Acting on impulse, he poured his half-finished cup of tea down the sink and opened the side door to his garage. One of the gardening gloves had slipped off the shelf and it lay on the garage floor, one forefinger pointing towards the garage door and beyond.
‘So,' said Clare, looking flustered as she slipped the library books into her bag. The cans had been cleared away and the window was open.
'The greengrocer's round the corner has cardboard boxes by the tills. You're alright packing up the kitchen stuff?'
Zoe looked around, ‘Yeah. I'll make a start in here, too. Aside from the CDs and lava lamp, what else is yours?'
'The video is mine. TV was here already.'
'And what about the posters?' asked Zoe smiling.
‘Yeah - pack them ...' She noticed her friend's expression. 'They're really studenty, aren't they? OK, let's leave them.'
'Thank God you said that,' said Zoe.
'If we're getting a flat together we can buy some nice prints from Ikea or somewhere. Don't worry - they'll be on me. When I get this job we're going to live in a decent place.'
'Oh God!' said Clare. 'I'd totally forgotten. The interview's at four o'clock isn't it? Don't worry about packing the flat, you get ready to wow them.'
Zoe waved her hand. 'I'm prepared Clare, don't worry about it.'
'Well, if you're sure. I'll only be a couple of hours. I've just got to return these books and clear out a few things from my locker in the department.'
'Stop flapping and just go will you? I can manage.'
'Right. See you later then.' The front door shut with a bang and Zoe let out a sigh before flopping down on the sofa.
He took the M62 away from Manchester and towards Liverpool, coming off at the junction for St Helens. Soon he was driving along a winding country road that led him through fields of wheat, their surfaces occasionally ruffling as the light breeze shifted. He wound down the window and poked an elbow out of the car, enjoying the tickle of air going up his sleeve as he cruised along the empty road.
Looking at the countryside around him he found it strange to think that no visible indication remained of the myriad tunnels lacing the ground thousands of feet below. When he was younger the whole area was dotted with collieries, their headgears jutting up out of the landscape, pit wheels slowly revolving. A mixture of nostalgia and regret seized him and he wasn't sure if it was the wind blowing or his emotions that made a tear spring up in the corner of his eye.
Soon, he passed a couple of deserted rugby pitches, their posts standing forlorn and rusting. Immediately after, he entered the village where he had grown up. He slowed the car to stare at the narrow terraces of houses, all built to accommodate the families of men who toiled their away lives in a place never touched by sunlight. He passed the post office, almost unchanged, plate glass windows giving him a glimpse of the austere interior. As usual it was closed.
At the next corner was a Chinese takeaway and Eric almost grinned when he imagined the reaction such a place would have caused if it had opened here when he was a lad. Turning right at the village green he noticed with interest the new play area added at one edge - bright, primary coloured tubes of metal making up a collection of slides, see-saws and climbing frames. Three young boys watched his passing from the top of a space ship, all blank faces and idly swinging legs. He reached the street where his parents used to live. His chest tightened as he parked at the top of the road and started the walk to his childhood home.
Though the few cars dotted along the street were all different to the ones when he was younger, the houses themselves hadn't changed much. The passage of time had taken its toll on many, balding pebble-dash exteriors and flaking wooden windowsills common to most. Hardly able to look, he reached number forty-three and saw with a shock the overgrown front yard and boarded-up ground floor windows. Glancing reluctantly up to his old bedroom he realised the curtains were missing. An aching despair filled him, and looking back down, he saw the
For Sale
sign lying where it had fallen, almost hidden in the long weeds.
The house was empty, deserted since the last occupants moved out. The council were obviously unable to find a new tenant. Hearing footsteps to his side, he turned to see an old man approaching. Eric raised his eyebrows, ready to say hello as soon as the person looked up. He wondered whether they might recognise each other. But the person kept his eyes on the pavement, shuffling wordlessly past with mouth shut tight, a loaf of economy white bread hanging from one hand.
Memories of when the street felt like it was inhabited by one big family forced their way into his mind. Though life was hard, they were all in it together. Front doors were left open, the young and old cared for by everyone alike. Gritting his teeth to stop the tears, he walked on, heading for the colliery site, wondering whether the buildings had finally been renovated and put to some use. Reaching the end of the road he looked out across an empty space. It had been turned into park area, gritted paths leading up landscaped slopes. A notice board stood just beyond a gate that had been designed only to let pedestrians through. The logo at the top read,
Transforming places, changing lives. Below that a plaque read, 'This outstanding leisure resource was opened in 1992 by Councillor Sidney Bold. Local partners: European Union, British Coal, National Power, Burton Oak Miners Welfare
.' Squeezed into the space at the bottom someone had scrawled in orange pen, Robbie Rules. LFC.
Eric remembered when the announcement came that, not only was the old colliery being nationalised, a power station was being built next to it too. As news shot around the village of the amount of money being invested on the government project, he had run down the road with the other children, laughing and shrieking, rolling around on the village green, unsure why all the adults were celebrating. Headgears were soon raised over the additional shafts, and a brand new main building constructed. He could still picture the functional white lettering lining its side,
National Coal Board. Burton Oak Colliery
. And behind the low building the cooling towers slowly rose up, truck after truck of concrete arriving every day for weeks on end. By the time he was walking across the fields to secondary school in the next village, the mine was one of Britain's most productive, churning out over 700,000 tons of coal each year.
His mind moved forward to the day when he stood on this spot and watched as the crackling series of explosions collapsed the cluster of five towers, their bases blowing out and the massive structures folding in on themselves like pots of wet clay. Once again, he heard the grinding screech as the cables round the pit headgears snapped tight and the metal structures slowly keeled over, like giant animals being dragged to the ground. Now through the gate, he trudged up the reddish-coloured path.
Examining the edges where the grass hadn't quite grown over, he saw the pieces of crushed concrete and realised he was walking on the remains of those mighty towers. He felt like he was treading on a grave. The path led him up to its crest, allowing him to look out over an area laced with paths and dotted with small hillocks, shallow lakes and copses of young trees. Birds were singing everywhere, poppies gathered in red clusters and rabbits lolloped slowly towards their holes. He stood still and heard the faint sounds of children's voices, a barking dog and a moped, or maybe a chainsaw, being carried to him from he didn't know where. The area didn't feel natural - there was a man-made quality to it that Eric imagined would never quite be shaken off.
Leaving the path, he climbed the grassy slope still higher, aware of the bumps pushing through the thin turf under his feet. At the top he sat down and looked back at the little village. He thought about his reluctant return after the mine was shut down. Having to sit by the bed trying to meet his father's haunted eyes. The thought of ending up like that had plagued him all his adult life, and now it made him dizzy with fear. Flung onto the scrap heap and left to die. As if to steady himself, he thrust his hands into the grass, fingers grasping for a grip in the soil. It crumbled too easily and, looking at his nails, he suddenly realised what the unnaturally regular hillocks before him were made of - spoil tips generated by the power station. He peered between the blades of grass at his feet and realised he was sitting on the biggest one of all. Jumping up he fled down the slope, desperate to be away from the place and its atmosphere of a slaughter that had been covered up and greened over.
He got to his car and set off back to the city; there was nothing for him out here. The department was what he'd built his life around and whoever knew what he had done would have to do more than call him scum if they wanted to drive him from the job he clung to. He resolved to go back in to the department and try to carry on as normal: act like he'd done nothing wrong. At the least it would force his tormentor into taking further action, and by doing that they might even reveal themselves to him.
In his house Eric buckled up his satchel with fingers that felt clumsy and weak. Another headache was coming on so he agitatedly swilled two paracetamol around in a glass, impatient to get the cycle to his department over.