‘DROP OUTS’
By Alice Haro
Smashwords Edition
The right of Alice Haro to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patent Act 1988.
Copyright 2011 Alice Haro
Book Cover Design: Nick Brown
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Table of Contents
Josh was a stinking, scruffy tramp. But, under the grime of years of sleeping-rough, he wasn’t a bad-looking bloke. Very few people would agree with that opinion on meeting him, or would risk getting close enough to test the premise. His father always said Josh was a no-good layabout and would amount to nothing, and he was right because he looked worthless, felt worthless, and was worth nothing. Josh achieved the required passes to scrape-through University, but that was still not enough for his successful father. Nothing ever was. He was a failure in his father’s eyes, and he let Josh know that with tedious and hurtful regularity. So, he decided to leave his father's home and drop out of a high-society life that he knew so well, and hated so much. His planning was minimal, but he knew he wanted to leave everything of any material worth behind as befitted his worthless status. He also wanted to hurt his father, but Josh doubted any action on his part could reach his steel-clad emotions.
When the time came, he dumped his car, which his father reluctantly bought him for his twenty-first birthday, under the cover of darkness in a car park by the beach at Whitby. The seaside resort held fond memories for him, as a boy, before his mother became ill. He hoped his significant choice of location, in full sight of the hotel they frequented, thawed his father’s frozen heart sufficiently to cause him pain; if only a taste of what he dished out to Josh and his mother. He folded his clothing on the back seat; he wasn't sure why, habit probably. He dressed again in an outfit from a charity shop, which he purchased specifically for the occasion, but he’d splashed out on a new pair of trainers of decent quality, as he knew he would be on his feet a lot. Then he locked the car, threw the keys underneath and walked away. Josh hadn’t called home, then or since, some seven years ago now. He saw no point in making contact, as only his mother would have been interested, but she died shortly after Josh graduated from Liverpool University. He achieved a disappointing second-class degree. His mother was thrilled, but of course, his father wasn’t. His father showed no grief when his wife died; it was business as usual, chop, chop, let's not have any of that emotional outpouring, it is so undignified. One thing did change however; Mr Fredrickson's rare and strained conversations with his son became non-existent.
Josh steered clear of his hometown of Leeds, and after visiting a few cities, he settled for Newcastle as his base. But now, he felt forced to leave the city due to a recent spate of vicious street fights amongst the homeless and others who used the streets for their own purposes. Newcastle was great during daylight hours, and he’d made a few trustworthy friends over the years, but after dark, when ‘normal’ people left the streets to the homeless, prostitutes, drug addicts, criminals and, of course, the police it became a decidedly different place; a place where going to sleep in the wrong place at the wrong time, could mean you didn’t make it to the morning. The latest and nastiest turf war was linked to the new ‘cash for bottles and cans’ project. A ginnel behind a pub or nightclub became a battleground where only the strong triumphed and any upstart who tried to muscle-in got a beating at best, or knifed if the heavies were involved. Two old tramps, who had lived on the streets for years, tried to get a few empties, but they were so badly beaten and cut-up that they died at the scene.
This mayhem and death probably didn't reach the ears of the rosy-faced, do-goody, Newcastle University student who campaigned for the scheme to be implemented. Josh knew the type well from his days at University. The successful gangs, cashed-up in the morning and then got drugged and pissed-up all day. So, fewer bottles and cans on the streets, but the price was high for some; and he doubted this ‘blue-sky thinking’ took into account that most of the proceeds were going straight into the pockets of the drug dealers and thugs. The increased violence caused a strong-arm reaction from the law so Josh, and a few of the more-harmless bums, rarely got a full night’s sleep as they were repeatedly hauled down to the cop shop for questioning, moved on or just generally harassed. It seemed to Josh that, in the absence of a successful arrest of any genuine perpetrators, the police were attempting to look proactive by hassling anyone who crossed their path from the under classes.
As the train pulled into Davenside, Josh felt excited about the prospect of living in the countryside for a while. Standing on the platform moments later he immediately noticed how quiet it was. The station was clean and tidy, apart from this scruffy tramp who was standing gazing around him like some loon. Amazing, he thought, that this village was only four stops on the train out of Newcastle; what a contrast, it was like another planet. Josh had an address for a drop-in Centre that would give him a bed for the night if he were desperate, and he was. He hadn’t slept properly for weeks. Also, most of the toilets he used for washing himself were shut after dark, due to the recent unrest, as well as an increase in their use for nefarious purposes and general vandalism. So, another part of his routine was messed-up, and it was seriously getting him down. Replacement daytime ablutions were met with hostility from the general public, or he was reported to the police for indecent exposure; both of which resulted in unpleasant consequences.
He spotted public toilets near the station, which were open despite being extremely late. Josh decided to clean up a little just in case they were a bit fussy about whom they gave succour to in this smart-looking village. He was pleased to note that the place was well stocked with soap and paper towels. Like the Ritz, he chuckled to himself, when he thought about some of the putrid-smelling toilets he frequented in Newcastle. He dropped his clothes on the floor and washed himself, leaving his underpants on for a bit of dignity and to protect any unwary visitors to the facilities from seeing his privates. He reluctantly put his stinking clothing back on; they felt stiff and uncomfortable. He shrugged a few times to settle them onto his body and took a slug of whisky to dull his senses against the itching and smell.
Looking in the mirror, he saw the wreck of the man he’d become. His once handsome face had become the haunted and gaunt look of drunk. His skin was sallow and dull. He wondered what his dead mother would make of it all. He knew his father would be delighted that he was right; his only son was a pathetic layabout, an embarrassment and a complete failure. He ticked all the boxes on his father’s expectation list, so he could feel proud of that if nothing else. At the age of just thirty-two years, he was a washed-up, no good, drunken vagrant. He pulled his bottom eyelid down and examined the bloodshot white of his eye. A girlfriend once said he had beautiful, dark brown eyes and a sexy smile, but she found another undergraduate a lot more alluring once she heard about his whopping inheritance. It didn’t help that she knew about the fractious relationship Josh had with his father, and, therefore, a threat to his potential wealth. This girl, Josh thought at the time, had a balanced head on her shoulders. Why go for a dodgy prospect when you could have the gold-plated, real deal? Josh’s father was a wealthy man, but his rival’s family fortune trumped his legacy several times over. His chocolate-button brown eyes and sexy smile were obviously not enough to compensate for any uncertainty, and possible shortfall in the ‘lucre’ department.
Slipping his feet into his well-worn trainers, he left the toilets. He’d cleaned the sink as best he could, given that the thick tidemark he had left around the sides was so greasy it clung on despite the steaming-hot water. Back out on the street, he pulled out the slip of paper with his destination address and detailed directions and felt a surge of gratitude for the train fare, and the opportunity it gave him to get out of the City for a bit. There are still some decent people out there, he thought. He didn’t have far to walk before he came to a brightly painted building with the words ‘Davenside Drop-In Centre’ on a huge sign, and ‘Welcome One and All’ over the door. Josh walked into a sealed entrance lobby and rung the night bell. He was looking forward to a comfortable bed and a proper, hot, shower, and hoped they would have a few old clothes they could spare so he could change out of the rags he stood up in. He felt optimistic and happy; not a feeling he experienced often, but he relished it and smiled warmly at the friendly man who opened the door and welcomed him.
Ten days later, Josh was brutally tortured and murdered.
“Good morning, Vicar,” Wayne Sleeter called out. He was glad to see the old boy back at the church, meeting and greeting the congregation as they left the morning service. It made him realise how badly he missed Chris whilst he was on sick leave. This was now Wayne’s second parish as a Curate; the first being a bit of a disaster and nearly resulted in him leaving the church, but here it was remarkably different. Chris was an inspiration, someone to look up to, learn from and admire, but more importantly he was not a judgemental type of chap. The Vicar was a bit of a legend too. The dog collar hid a secret only a few people knew about; Chris Stepson was a former detective in the Northumbria Police Force. He was a brilliant investigator who successfully cracked one of the biggest drug rings in the country, and was responsible for bringing two high-profile killers to justice. He left all that behind to become a born again Christian, and after training, a well-respected Vicar. But once a copper, always a copper, most would say, and Wayne saw evidence of this when Chris asked one too many questions of his parishioners. It certainly worked to their advantage running the parish, as they knew who, why, what and when and used that ‘inside’ information to head-off a few unpleasant situations before they grew into something less manageable.
Chris Stepson was proud of his parish; he worked hard to make a success of it. He also liked the fact that it was in a sleepy backwater with a low-crime rate. There was the odd domestic and a few yobs created a nuisance from time to time, but the local plods were more than up to keeping the peace. The biggest crime he knew about since he arrived, some ten years ago, was when a rapist was on the loose. Fortunately, the rapist was not a particularly intelligent man and soon got caught, but Chris remembered the old pull of the job and couldn’t resist visiting the local police station to give his probably unwelcome expert advice. Country Coppers didn’t like big ‘I ams’ from the city, even if they were now the mild-mannered local Vicar.
“Now Wayne, what brings you to the church on your day off? I have everything under control. I was just about to join the coffee morning in the Church Hall. Coming?”
“As long as I don’t have to suffer the homemade cakes of Mrs Grainger; I swear they have cement in them, and I don’t want to have any more emergency fillings.”
Laughing conspiratorially they headed to the hall; the stronghold and jousting arena of the Women’s Guild Baking Circle every Sunday morning. They entered the chattering, laughing throng and were immediately assaulted by the smell of freshly baked goods mingled with the pungent aroma of instant coffee. If Wayne wanted his fair share of the goodies, the best spot was right by the Vicar’s side. He knew he was a poor second when it came to the Women's Guild as they only had eyes for Chris, who he admitted was still a handsome man. He was upright and confident and had a firm handshake together with a warm approachable manner. Coupled with his ready laugh and laughing blues eyes, he was what people would call an attractive older man. He seemed to exude dynamism and a 'can-do' attitude that the ladies obviously found very attractive. They did not have to wait long before they were surrounded by plates loaded with all-manner of homemade fare held by smiling cooks; smiles that often hid a fierce and sometimes nasty, competitive streak.
“Excuse me Vicar?”
A small woman with neatly cropped, steely-grey hair approached them silently; so quietly, in fact, that her sudden appearance made them jump a little. Chris responded with a beaming smile, expecting another plate of something to be proffered, but it wasn’t. She nervously requested a moment of his time, that was, of course, if it wasn’t too much trouble. As they talked, a thickset man approached Wayne and without any preamble launched into a one-sided conversation as though his life depended on getting everything he wanted to say said before anyone interrupted him.
“I hope my wife is not troubling the Vicar unduly, she is desperate that our project is a success and tends to forget it’s not everyone’s priority.” He continued without pause, so Wayne could only nod in acknowledgement unless he was prepared to shout the man down, which he wasn't in the habit of doing. “We run the Davenside Drop-in Centre on Kings Road, and things are getting so tight financially, we may have to shut down.” Wayne knew about the Centre, and assumed the local council funded it, so was puzzled by any financial hardship. The man wrung his hands and was clearly very agitated, which didn't seem to suit his bear-like stature. What could be so serious that it made this man-mountain look so on edge? He looked as though he could take life and all it's woes by the scruff of the neck and shake it until he got the results he wanted.
Peter Archer suddenly apologised for forgetting to introduce himself, did so, and then without waiting for a response, launched into chapter and verse about the Centre. Wayne wondered when he would pause to take a breath. To a get a word in sideways would be an achievement, but Wayne had given up trying after a few attempts at interjecting. The crux of the matter was that charitable donations were the mainstay in supporting the place, but as the recession deepened, altruism was drying-up too. He looked in askance of Wayne, as though wondering why the Curate was just smiling and nodding.
“We will certainly put your request forward at the next Parish Meeting,” the Vicar said concluding his conversation with Peter’s worried-looking wife.
Finally, Wayne felt able to interject. “It seems your wife has made progress,” Wayne said warmly to Peter. “Let’s hope we can get you the assistance you need. Your Centre is clearly a beacon of light and hope for so many unfortunates. I jolly-well wish there were more people like you in the world.” Wayne smiled encouragingly.
Peter's hands dropped to his sides and he stared at Wayne as though seeing him for the first time. Wayne smiled again hesitantly in response, feeling extremely awkward by the sudden and complete change in Peter’s demeanour. Peter lowered his eyes, looked Wayne up and down, grunted a low-level and insincere ‘thanks’ and abruptly turned away grabbing his wife by the arm lest she should hesitate in walking away.
“What happened there, Chris, he was all over me like a rash one moment and then after I spoke he looked at though he was about to punch me in the face? In fact, I felt sure he would as he looked at me with such dislike. ”
“As they say, Wayne, 'there is nowt as queer as folk'. Some people have funny ways, and we don't always understand them.” Chris offered.
Wayne wasn’t convinced that there was such an easy explanation. Peter had radically changed his behaviour towards him once he opened his mouth. He knew instinctively that his ‘public school boy’ accent had irritated Peter, because it wasn’t the first time Wayne had experienced that reaction. He found it disappointing though, as Wayne liked Peter and his enthusiasm. A little neurotic, but then the man was clearly in a state of stress. There was not a lot he could do about the way he spoke, so Wayne shrugged in resignation and carried on chatting to some of the parishioners who were busily enjoying the cake bonanza.
As they walked back to the Vicarage, Chris and Wayne exchanged notes on their favourite cakes and biscuits. They both knew their appetites were ruined, but it would be a brave man who admitted to being anything less than starving on arrival at Betty’s table on a Sunday. The Vicar’s wife expected appreciative diners who asked for second helpings. They would find the table set, the glorious smell of a Sunday roast and Betty all of a flurry in the kitchen. Wayne loved every bit of it. It was like a home from home, and he felt like an important part of their little family.
Wayne and Betty chatted amiably over dinner and were laughing about the recent 'Look North Survey, in which Davenside was credited with being famous for absolutely nothing. But, it was all going over Chris's head as he was deep in thought about his conversation with Sarah Archer from the Drop-In Centre. He knew the Centre offered an invaluable service to the homeless, battered women and others who fell through the cracks of society, and its loss would be a blow to the community, not just locally as it served Upper Davenside and several small villages too. Laughing at a joke Wayne had cracked, Betty broke into his thoughts and asked Chris his opinion on the topic being discussed, but he hadn’t heard a word so stared without comprehension at his smiling wife. Betty's smile drained from her face leaving her looking angry and disappointed. Wayne quickly responded knowing Chris was floundering, adding a few more funny facts about their non-dynamic town. Betty saw through the rescue, smiled with gratitude at Wayne, downed her knife and fork and stormed out of the room. Chris closed his eyes, took a deep, weary breath, laid down his cutlery with exaggerated care and followed her. Wayne hastily ate his dinner and then headed to his own quarters at the top of the house, gladly leaving them to yet another row. Their arguments were more and more frequent these days. A Sunday that started with such promise in the Vicarage was spoilt now he thought, and he was getting fed up with the whole situation. He wished Chris didn't get so obsessed with things sometimes to the exclusion of everything else. It was probably what made him a first-rate detective, but he needed to be a bit more laid back as a Vicar or he would drive himself into an early grave.
**********
Maggie was irritated by the Vicar’s incredulous reaction. “I am hardly likely to fabricate such a thing, Vicar, now am I”? She had serious doubts about the whole set-up at the Vicarage. The Vicar and his wife were not what one might call 'typical'; he an ex-detective, and her, well, there was a mixed-up woman, if ever there was one. But Maggie liked Betty despite that fact and had met her from time to time for a coffee and a chat. Then there was the Curate that looked like Friar Tuck with his chubby looks and rosy-red face. Wayne, a ridiculous name, she thought, but he had breeding and that at least redeemed him a little in Maggie’s book. “Yes, I am quite sure, Vicar. It is not as though we find dead bodies in Davenside every day, now is it?” she said acerbically. I thought you should provide comfort and support.”
Irked by the woman’s interference, Chris accepted she was right to let him know, but to tell him where his duties lay was too much. He immediately chided himself for his uncharitable thoughts, took a deep and steadying breath and put on his best 'vicar-voice'.
“Well, thank you for telling me,” he said, pleasantly. “This is of course a police matter, but as you quite rightly say, I may be able to offer some assistance.”
“Yes, of course you can, or I would not have wasted my valuable time making this call. I suggest you make all due haste and get down there, of course that is unless you have something more important to do like eat your Sunday lunch,” she bit back. She ended the phone call with a curt goodbye and without waiting for a reply. Maggie was having a dreadful day altogether, so she could have done without making that call, but she promised her friend Samantha she would and she was a woman that kept her word, always. Her husband, poor, old, sad fool that he was, was being particularly annoying too. Virtually stone-deaf he once again had the radio on full-blast. She could barely hear herself think. She was still irritated by that buffoon of a Vicar questioning the veracity of her message when she was abundantly clear on the phone. So, she marched across the lounge to the radio full of purpose and annoyance, turned the volume down, and then glared at her unseeing husband who had inconsiderately dropped off to sleep leaving the damn thing blaring. She let out a long sigh of exasperation and then took herself back to the kitchen to complete the preparations for her séance that evening.
Her husband opened his eyes at the sudden loss of sound, leaned forward and turned the volume back up again, thinking that there was a fault. No sooner had he rested back against the chair, than his wife rushed back into the room, threw his hearing aid at him and told him in no uncertain terms to shove it in his ear or he would find his beloved radio thrown out the back door. He did as he was told but smiled mischievously at her back as she left the room. He knew it wound her up, him continually forgetting his hearing aid, but he loved it when she was in full swing; loved everything about her, really. She was his childhood sweetheart, and she had always been feisty. However, he thought he should be careful, as he’d overheard her talking to her friend, Samantha, about nursing homes. She thought he was weeding the vegetable patch, but he came into to visit the toilet, yet again. He accepted the day would come eventually, but not yet. He still had the full use of all his faculties, except his weak bladder, and whilst he still had his wits, he wanted to stay in his own home and potter. He achieved quite a bit in his own way and at his own speed, even decorated two bedrooms without any assistance. He was slower, but then why did that matter when you were retired?
Maggie beat the eggs with an energy born of annoyance. Stupid, useless people all around me, she thought belligerently. It could be said that Maggie loved to be angry to let off steam. She felt lots of things were amiss with the world and she had a right to have an opinion about that, and she did, frequently. It was a contradiction in many ways because she considered herself to be a bit of a hippy, at one with the world, its energies and natural forces. But she also liked things to be 'right' as she put it. She was delighted when a Conservative candidate was voted in at the last local election, as she thought it would bring significant changes; a clean-up of the village streets, together with the removal of the dossers and young vandals who chose to deface it with their presence and graffiti. She may be a hippy, and a seeker of deeper meanings and values. She would never apologise for wearing cheesecloth, burning incense or even indulging in the smoking of marijuana. However, she would never accept the grubby, grungy image that some people attached to her way of life. No, she thought, never! You didn't need to live a grimy, grotty life and be a layabout to be at one with your world and its surroundings. That, she decided was just a cop-out.
Maggie thought about what Samantha had told her about the incident at the Drop-In Centre; Drop-In Centre, she fumed. Drop-out Centre more like. The man had probably drunk himself to death. She would give them ‘what for’ if she had her way. Those no-good, lazy layabouts needed a short, sharp shock and to understand and appreciate that it was people like her and Derek who worked all their lives to support their worthless lives. She scraped the cake mixture into her perfectly greased and floured cake tin feeling confident it would be up to her usual high standard. There was a jar of her homemade strawberry jam, made from the strawberries from the garden no less, to put on the scones that were already cooling on the wire rack. And, of course, some clotted cream in the fridge to dollop on top. No one could beat her when it came to scones, whatever that self- appointed 'best cake-maker' said at the Women's Guild. She prepared soup for Derek and put it on the table in the conservatory. He enjoyed his tomato soup; made from the tomatoes he had grown himself, with her homemade bread. She loved the silly old sod, despite his annoying ways, and wanted him to feel comfortable in his retirement, but not to laze around; she really could not abide idle people. So she cared for him whilst she chivvied and chided him. The results were satisfactory. He kept busy in the garden and produced fresh fruit and vegetables for the table, and she ensured everything else ticked over. Their life was harmonious for the most part, but she did get a little more stressed-out these days. She wasn't sure why, she thought perhaps it was her age or perhaps she needed to meditate more often. She used to meditate every day once upon a time, but now she was lucky if she had time to indulge twice a month.
They would need to sell this house, when the time was right. Maggie wanted to follow her children to Australia, but she knew that Derek didn’t like change or any kind of disruption to their usual way of life, so she hadn’t confided in him; she just made her plans in secret. It was possibly one of the reasons why she was a little more stressed than usual. Maggie was confident that it was the right thing to do for them both, after-all she was a physic medium, and if she didn’t know what their future held, well, no one did. She was saving hard so that, as well as the money from the sale of the house, they would have enough to settle down nicely in their new life down-under. The money she got from her private psychic readings and séance meetings were a significant boost to their pensions. She didn’t have to declare it all to the taxman as people paid in cash usually. Her friend Samantha passed her that little tax dodge. She didn't feel guilty about it at all. They had both contributed to the UK economy for all their working lives. The paltry pension they received hardly reflected that, so this was their way of redressing the balance a little. When she thought of those greedy, grabbing bankers with their huge bonuses, paid despite their total mismanagement of the financial crisis, she felt more than justified. The cake was ready. Perfect, as she knew it would be. Now, the room needed preparing. I must have the right atmosphere. Must relax, she told herself, as she was feeling far too wound-up.
Maggie only allowed a few select individuals to attend her fortnightly séance. It was essential that she felt relaxed and at one with the spirit world during the session, so all attendees needed to be agreeable to her personally and be of a compliant nature. She couldn't have anyone that was stroppy, disruptive or sceptical as it interfered with her personal harmony and relaxation, and that sent the wrong messages to those that would seek to speak through her to the assembled. Every so often she would allow a newcomer to join the group, but it was rare, and, even then, she had to meet them prior to the meeting so she could psych them out. On the whole, the sessions went off without a hitch and her attendees left convinced that they had communicated with the other side. It was a positive and satisfying occupation. Maggie felt that she was doing good work, as on the whole she made people happy. She knew that often she couldn't get 'in the zone' and she made things up, but sometimes she was quite surprised by the atmosphere and vibrancy of the room when she went very deep into a trance. Something, or someone, seemed to take over, and she felt as though she was as much in the thrall of the unfolding events as were her clients. When she had given messages in this deep and meaningful state, they had been very significant, and she was as shocked as her attendees by the things she foretold and the messages she received. It had frightened her on occasions as she had felt out of control, but she had probably imagined that, because of course she was in full control, of course she was. On two consecutive meetings, a woman who was new to the group had got quite hysterical saying she could see her dead mother sitting next to Maggie. She didn't allow her to attend again as it freaked Maggie out too much. Then Derek had ruined a few sessions by crashing about in the kitchen with a bright torch. He knew it was crucial for her to have total darkness, apart from the small flickering candle in the Centre of the table, as well as absolute silence. The kitchen light leaked through the cracks in the serving hatch, and so he was forbidden to turn it on. The agreement, well her instructions, were that he was to get whatever he needed from the kitchen before the séance got under way and then wait until he heard her guests leaving before he came down the stairs. But, of course, instead of doing as he was told, his thirst or hunger got the better of him and out came his flipping torch and his mischievous streak. She sighed at her difficult life and carried on with her jobs with her usual air of martyrdom and resignation.
Mick Long was shaking with shock and repulsion. He had seen a lot of nasty stuff since living rough, but nothing like this. He met Josh only one week ago, and now he was dead; he died in terrible agony if the injuries he could see were anything to go by. Whoever did this was exceptionally strong, as Josh was still a young bloke and had some decent muscle on his arms. Or maybe the bastard caught him unawares. Mick didn’t know, and he decided he didn’t want to know any more than he had already gathered for himself. He suddenly felt sick again and promptly threw-up splattering vomit on his shoes and trousers. Now he stunk of vomit, whisky and a sweaty night in the sack. He knew that the police were on their way. He hadn’t had the courage to make the call himself. He just yelled his head off, and one of the Centre staff had come running out to see what the all the commotion was about. He felt very unlucky that he was the early morning smoker who found the poor fella. Never had a fag tasted so bitter in his mouth, but he needed the nicotine more than ever now. To come across such a god-awful scene before being fully awake and before he had the nicotine in his body to cope, was the worst experience of his life to date. Mick wondered why the killer inflicted such wounds on Josh. It was clear he hadn't just killed him. It looked like torture. What had Josh done in his past life to deserve such a vicious attack, he wondered? He shivered and glanced around him. Maybe the man was still around lurking in the shadows and ready to strike again. He shook with the cool of the early morning and the onset of shock. Being a tramp suddenly felt extremely dangerous if there was some nutter out there who would inflict this on someone as nice as Josh, who as far as Mick knew had done nothing wrong in his life, unless being a bum qualified. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Mick’s head hurt. He had drunk himself to sleep last night, which was no mean feat as the Drop-In Centre had strict rules about bringing alcohol onto the premises, but he was pretty adept at hiding it.
Sarah, one of the Centre Managers, brought him a cup of tea. He needed something a lot stronger, but he thought it was kind of her to bother, so he accepted it gratefully. “Come in, Pet, there is nothing you can do here,” she said gently.
“I feel so sick I'm worried that I'll throw up in the Centre although, to be honest, I am totally freaked-out being so close to a dead body. Strange, isn't it? He was Josh a few hours ago and now he is a scary dead body. Wonder why death scares us so much?”
Sarah just shook her head slowly and sadly. She'd been crying; that much was obvious, probably because she had taken a particular liking to Josh, and was trying very hard to get him back on his feet and reconciled with his family. It looked as though she was succeeding too before this tragedy. He didn’t know the full details as the staff tended to be extremely hush hush about other residents, but, Mick knew a lot about Josh though from the group rehab sessions, and the private chats they had, or he thought he did.
“I wish I could put a blanket over him,” Sarah said sniffing and then she blew and wiped her already red nose. “It is all so undignified him laying there naked and so exposed to the elements. But we can't, as the police said we must touch nothing, as it may be the scene of a crime. May be?” She said, her voice rising hysterically.
Mick had a strong urge to give her a cuddle. She needed it, but he knew better than to put his arm around her shoulders. He was once a normal bloke, whose arm would have been welcome around many a woman's shoulders, but now he was a dirty dosser. Not actually filthy right then, a bit sweaty maybe and then there was the vomit. They insisted on regular showers whilst in residence but however clean he was or he wasn't, he knew the rules, no touching the staff in any way at all. You were not even allowed to invade what they called their 'personal space'. Mick kept the rules to the letter. His harsh Irish upbringing left him with the almost automatic response to obey the rules and not step over the line. He had trouble as a young boy identifying the 'lines' people referred to so stepped over them without realising it pretty frequently, and usually got walloped for these so called misdemeanours; more often by a nun who was doing it for his own good. But, he knew that keeping the rules was the way you stayed out of trouble where Mick came from, and he got good at that. Nothing like a few beatings to knock that into your head, he thought remembering some of his worst beatings. Mick felt less nauseous after sipping his tea, so he agreed to walk back into the Centre with Sarah.
“Bye Josh, mate. So sorry it ended so badly for you.” Mick found himself crying as he finished his little farewell speech. Sarah put her hand on his arm and cried with him. They both felt a sense of hopelessness that there was nothing more anyone could do for him now.
Sarah’s angry husband, Peter, met them at the door. What the hell are you two doing out here? You are not supposed to disturb a crime scene you know?”
Sarah muttered something about not being totally stupid and that she had taken Mick a cup of tea.
“Oh, why don’t we set up tables out here and invite everyone out for a picnic?”
Sarah ignored his sarcasm and went through their private quarters, giving Mick's arm a final squeeze and a sad smile. Mick thought the bloke was being a fecker in his humble opinion, but he said nothing and made his way past him to the Centre’s Common Room to await the arrival of the Razzers. Peter stood rooted to the spot and followed Mick's every step glaring at him. Unnerved, Mick dropped his gaze to the floor, until he got to the door and then gratefully closed it behind him. Peter was still staring through the glazed panel, so Mick sat down on the nearest chair out of his sight line and waited. If that Eejit, Peter, wanted to set him up for this, he didn’t doubt he could do it. He knew his alibi was weak. He shared a bunk with Josh, and they both went to bed at about the same time last night. He’d heard Josh turning the pages of a book above him as he swigged his illegal whisky. That was until an alcohol-fuelled blackout took him into a deep sleep. So, he was the last one to see Josh alive, and he found him dead this morning. That would not look good on any witness statement; not good at all. He started to get nervous, especially the way Peter was looking at him just now. Tramps were not top of the popular people list when it came to the law, so that put him at a disadvantage at the outset. A sudden urge was telling him to get out of there, run for it; get right away. He couldn't bring Josh back by hanging around. He didn't kill him, so he shouldn't feel guilty. Then again, if he ran, they would see it as guilt. He was stuffed, any, which way it seemed. He knew how to disappear, leave no trail, he had done it before. Peter was now with Sarah, so the coast was clear. Spurred into action, he walked swiftly through to the dormitories, grabbed his rucksack and stuffed his few possessions inside. He got as far as the front door and met the police coming in the other way.
“We are going somewhere in rather a hurry, are we not, Sir?” the large one said all jolly and amenable. Mick didn’t get the chance to respond before the Manager’s apartment door opened, and Sarah and Peter were on the scene.
Peter immediately grabbed his arm. “You are not going anywhere, mate. Chief.............…….witness you are.”
Mick heard the hesitation, and it confirmed his suspicion that he was about to be set-up. Why had he been so stupid and not done a runner before? There was no perimeter fence out the back of the Centre, just a hedge, which he was sure he could have found a gap somewhere. He could have just melted away. What a fool.
“Leave him be, Peter,” Sarah barked uncharacteristically.
Mick was surprised to see the big man's wounded reaction to her ticking-off, but he rallied quickly.
“Another one of your favourites, Pet”, he said nastily.
Sarah threw an eye-locking warning at her husband as she showed the police officers through to their private quarters, politely asking Mick to join them. Peter trailed behind looking decidedly sheepish. Strange fella thought Mick. He looks like he could lay out his tiny wife with one swipe, but one word from her and he cringes like a little kid. He had never had any particular problem with him before, but some of the other residents didn't like him, Josh for one. The flip-side of the coin was that most people in the place sung his praises from on high saying he was a top bloke that really cared about the people that passed through here. Peter put himself out to really help people get off the drink and drugs and back to normal life. Mick acknowledged that he had been pretty decent to him up to now. Maybe he really thought Mick had killed Josh. It didn't look good, that was for sure.
They were advised that Detective Hannah Oliver, who would be in charge of the investigation, would join them. Sarah was then asked to ensure that no one left the building until everyone had been questioned individually and even then only when they had been given specific clearance. She left the room to ensure the instructions were carried out and then rejoined them. Mick started to relay his version of events, admitting to smuggling a drop of the hard-stuff onto the premises, so he was very drunk and couldn't remember much. He produced the bottle of whisky as evidence.
“If you could wait until we start the official interviews, Sir,” one of the policemen advised him.
Mick fell quiet, hating the wait. He wanted to talk now, talk it all through, and get it off his chest. Peter saw his agitation and asked him how he could prove he was too drunk to remember anything and suggested that the proffered bottle could be an old empty. Luckily, Mick had his receipt in his pocket dated the night before and waved it in the air triumphantly. Mick rambled on about how Josh was a friendly sort of bloke who appeared to get on with everyone at the Centre. Peter expressed doubt about his overall popularity, and to Mick's surprise, Sarah agreed with her husband on this occasion. Sarah detailed an incident when a young woman, who was a known prostitute, lambasted Josh after he lectured her on using her body like she did.
“Just a bit too ‘high and mighty’,” Peter added with derision looking meaningfully at the two policemen, “given his own position in life.”
“Peter,” Sarah whispered angrily, “have some respect.”
Peter stumbled out an apology and asked to be excused for his outburst explaining lamely that everyone was upset by the incident. Mick thought again what a fecker Peter was. Josh was barely cold, and he was slagging the poor guy off because he cared enough to advise a prozzie that she was better than that. He could have advised Josh not to bother as the girl earned a huge wad from her activities and she wasn't likely to get that much in a regular job, but Josh seemed to be on a mission. Mick had found in his life that money was a big incentive and that people did some pretty dire stuff for money, and he didn't just mean sell their bodies.
“As I said, to the gentleman, save it all for the interview, if you don't mind.”
“We are just talking officer. Mick here has just had a terrible shock. It helps him to be able to talk,” Sarah said.
“It is best if you save it, Madam. Interviews of this nature are best done individually,” he said in a bored tone of voice, clearly a message he had delivered on many occasions.
At that moment, the promised female detective entered the room and apologised for the delay.” I understand you found the body, Sir?” she said looking at Mick. Mick nodded, fear mounting now, as it would get serious “If you don't mind, I would like to interview this gentleman first, Mick, isn't it?” she said, “then we can get everyone in here one at a time. In the meantime, can you get me a list of current and recent residents going back, say four weeks, at this stage? Sarah nodded energetically. I have taken a brief look at the murder scene, but I don't want anyone to use that area at all, not even at the edges for a quick smoke, which is what has just happened. I will also need my own key, so I can access the back of the building when needed.
“Assuming it is murder already then?” Peter said with a sneer.
“I think I can be confident that we are looking at a murder scene. People don't generally, strip naked, abuse their own bodies, murder themselves and then fall in a ditch. That is of course unless you have other information, Mr Archer?” Hannah responded, her voice heavy with sarcasm.
Sarah raised her eyes up to the ceiling in disbelief at her husband's comment, stared at him with menace and then gave Hannah the key to back door of the building, which was now officially the scene of a grisly murder. Peter went red having been made to look pretty foolish and glared with dislike at the detective. She in turn, fully aware of his attempted put down, completely ignored him and busied herself with the various arrangements that needed to be put into place. Hannah requested the use of the phone, and Sarah nearly fell over herself to try and pass it to her when it was only a few feet away on the table in front of them. Peter scowled at her eagerness. She responded by ushering him off his chair and towards the door, telling him urgently that the police needed privacy to make their calls and do their interviews. Hannah smiled in great amusement as his pint-sized wife forcibly ejected the very irate bulky body of Peter from the room.
“It's our bloody apartment,” he snapped at her, and shoved her hand off his arm.
“Peter, Pet, just leave, you have said quite enough.”
“I haven't even been asked anything, pet,” he growled “But then, I am only the bloody manager in this place after all.”
The sound of his grumbling and objections about being overlooked as more important than anyone else slowly faded away as Sarah hassled and reprimanded him all the way across the reception area and into the Common Room. She didn't want any more gaffs out of him, she assured him very firmly. There had been a murder on their premises, she reminded him again, and they would cooperate fully with the law.
Mick gave a full statement, and then left with a policeman for a blood test to check for the level of alcohol in his blood. He knew he was innocent but felt so guilty for some reason. He was a known drunk, so his story stacked-up, but the lady detective decided he must have a blood test anyway, just to dot the i's and cross the t's she said. He was unhappy about it all, but what could he do. He had no doubt he was a suspect as Peter Archer had hemmed and hawed all through his recollection of events, making him out to be a liar at every turn. The policemen had looked as though they were ignoring the interaction before he was officially interviewed, but he had no doubt the essence of it would be relayed to the detective in charge. Peter didn't actually say anything against Mick but his grunting and the clearing of his throat meaningfully shouted murderer to a very nervous Mick. No amount of angry whispering 'Peter!' from Sarah made him desist.
Hannah liked the personable Irish man. He was just an unlucky bloke that had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, she reckoned, but she meant to do everything by the book. This was her first serious case since moving to this area, and she didn't want to be found wanting on procedure.
**********
Chris was sickened to his stomach by what he saw, literally. He sincerely wished he hadn't had breakfast as he was having trouble keeping it down. The violence perpetrated against the young man, who was lying spread-eagled in a ditch a mere stones throw from the back entrance of the Centre, was considerable. He expected a body; he was prepared for that; but this, it was too awful. He had hoped Peter would accompany him just for a bit of moral support. He didn't ask exactly, and they would have assumed that, as an ex-cop, he was hardened to such sights, but he hung around in reception for longer than was needed hoping Peter or Sarah would offer. Well, once he was a hard-nosed cop, but not nowadays. He had got soft. He now wished he’d accepted Wayne’s offer to take his place, but he brushed-off his offer with a display of bravado and 'can-do' attitude. When did he become so squeamish, he wondered? Old age is creeping up on me, no doubt about it. Chris asked the policeman standing guard at the edge of the exclusion area if he could say a few prayers over the body, but he knew he would refuse. His background as a detective was saying one thing, but as a Vicar entirely another. It was of course a crime scene, and until forensics had done their work, nothing must be disturbed. To pray over the body, Chris would have had to get in a lot closer. So, he bowed his head where he stood and said a few silent prayers. He noticed the officer bowed his head too. The poor man had to stand there in full view of that horrific scene, so Chris was not surprised he entered into the prayer with him. He could do nothing more for the victim, so smiled reassuringly at the reluctant guard and then went inside the Centre to see if anyone was in need of his ministrations. Several of the residents were in the dining room having breakfast, and as would be expected, a hushed atmosphere prevailed. Very little in the way of food was actually being consumed either. A member of staff pushed a hot cup of tea in his hand and invited him to sit and rest a while. He sat and sipped the hot brew mulling over the scene in his mind. Such violence, man against man; it was one of the things that finally drove him out of the Police Force. A thoughtful member of staff put on a classic music tape, rather than the usual upbeat local radio station. It was far more fitting in the circumstances, and Chris felt pleased that some one had the decency to think of it. One-by-one the occupants of the dining room were ushered into the Managers’ rooms and questioned. Chris knew the local police would have a problem confirming the identity of the residents, as most of them wouldn’t have a permanent address.
Wayne finally arrived at the Centre to see if Chris needed any assistance. He was genuinely worried that it would all be too much for the Vicar as he was still officially on ‘light duties’ after his brain haemorrhage. He had convalesced for three months, taking it really easy, and then eased back into the job. Wayne thought that wasn't enough. A bleed in the brain, now that was serious stuff and stress was often part of the cause, if his research on Google was anything to go by. Chris was more than happy to see his Curate. He would have taken all this in his stride years ago, but he became agitated and troubled about things these days. He wasn't sure if the haemorrhage could be blamed. He had a gimpy foot directly after he got out of hospital, so it had done some damage in there. Also, his memory wasn't what it was, and the heightened levels of anxiety was expected for a while the medics had told him. Otherwise he felt fine and wanted to get back to normal as soon as possible. They said just to take things easy for a bit, and then he was good to get back to how he lived his life before it happened. Well, he was at that stage, and now he intended to just get on with it. He was also more valuable than he was before the procedure that was performed to seal his aneurysm. He now had a platinum coil in his brain. Betty and he laughed about that. She dearly wanted a platinum ring, but he got his brain treasure before Chris could do the deed with the ring. He intended to put that right on their next wedding anniversary. He was hoping it might just improve their relationship a little as Betty set great store by gift giving.
“The council have been on the Phone, Chris. They are furious that a murder has taken place at one of their funded projects and are seriously considering pulling the plug on the grant.”
“That should help the situation,” Chris scoffed derisively. “As if these people don’t have enough to contend with, running a place like this, without the council running scared on them.” Chris knew it was a small town reaction, as every government-funded project in Newcastle would have lost its backing if they took that approach up there. He planned to use his influence and calm troubled waters at Upper Davenside Council. He knew a few influential people in high places.
“I’ll deal with that later, Wayne. We are needed here right now. This is a terrible situation, and everyone is very upset indeed.” Chris put a reassuring hand on Wayne’s shoulder as he relayed the awful details of what he had seen. The physical contact was as much to comfort himself as his Curate. Wayne looked suitably shocked as the gory details emerged, but Chris noted with some surprise that he recovered remarkably fast and started chatting about other matters in quite a light-hearted manner. He desperately wanted Wayne to take over for him, so he could go back to the Vicarage and rest for a while, but Chris felt Wayne’s rather upbeat behaviour would not be appropriate in the circumstances. Reluctantly, Chris advised Wayne to return to the Vicarage and leave him to finish-up at the Centre. It bothered Chris that Wayne seemed relatively unaffected by what was a terrible event, but decided people have different ways of dealing with such matters, and so put it out of his mind and went back to the murder scene. He had been advised that the detective in charge, wanted to see him. Chris suddenly felt terribly tired and very old, and he could have done with his afternoon nap; he felt the day had been a particularly long one already.
Hannah Oliver welcomed Chris like a colleague rather than the local Vicar and immediately asked him his opinion. Chris was surprised at being taken into her confidence so quickly, as the local police had always kept him at arm's length. Slightly flustered, he advised her that he didn’t have anything concrete, but he did feel utter disgust at what had been perpetrated against the victim. Hannah then went through the preliminary findings, informing Chris that the man had been slashed across his face, chest and abdomen and something metal had been forced down his throat. He forgot how tired he was and became fully engaged with the situation. He forgot he was a Vicar too. The feeling he was 'back on the job' gave him the boost he needed. Chris inspected the victim a little closer. “For what it’s worth, I would say the metal object is what killed him. If you look at the dried vomit and blood that are at the sides of his mouth and on his chest, there is a considerable amount, and certainly enough to choke him.” It was done once he was in the ditch too, as there are no signs of any vomit on the ground where he fell. Hannah was impressed with the speed at which Chris had summed up the crime scene. He still had it, she thought as she looked at the top of his balding head leaning over the ditch, all business and efficiency.