Chain Reaction (16 page)

But it’s all out of his hands now. Len cannot protect his beloved son any longer.

Len heads for the chocolate fingers. The womenfolk must have gone into Preston together, shopping most likely. There’s security in numbers. Yes, they are shopping—the basket’s missing from the back of the door. When the phone rings Len regards it with apprehension before bending to pick it up. Friends rarely ring any more. He is ready with a vitriolic response to whoever might be there, getting sick kicks from hounding the Middletons.

‘Dad?’

‘Jody?’ Len shirts gears. This is a surprise. He has never rung them from prison before.

‘Dad, I have to be quick. Are you on your own?’

‘Yes, I am. The others must have gone shopping. What’s the matter, son? What’s happened?’

Jody’s voice is puffy, his breath harsh, short. Len can almost taste the fear. ‘Dad, I can’t speak for long in case they’re already monitoring your calls.
I’m out
…’

‘Out?’ Len’s eyes widen.

‘I’m on the run. Me and two others went over the wall this afternoon.’

‘But Jody, wait! Listen, you can’t—’

‘It’s done, Dad, and I’m out, but I desperately need some money.’

Lenny’s mouth goes tighter. ‘Jody, wait a minute, listen to me!’

There’s a sob in the lad’s voice this time. ‘Don’t shout, there’s no point. Just tell me, Dad—can you help me?’

Stupidly, in his confusion, Len pats his pocket as if it’s Dawn or Cindy asking for a sub. ‘I don’t think I’ve got any on me right now, son.’

‘But you could get it—out of the wall?’

Hesitation. ‘Well, yes, I could get it, but—’

‘I haven’t got long, Dad.’ He is galvanised, talking faster. ‘And I can’t stay here in the phone box. I’m sorry, but I’ve got to go. Listen, get me some money, please, please, and be at the park in half an hour, the bench nearest the cafe—you know. The old wooden cafe where we used to go with the boats. I’ve got to go now. Bye, Dad. See you…’

Dear God, this is all they need. Len stares, mesmerised, at the silent phone while his body shakes and his brow moistens. It’s all so absurd and melodramatic. It’s the shock! Not only the shock of hearing Jody so out of the blue like that, but the awful realisation that his son has done something so appallingly foolish. He has played right into the hands of his enemies and now Lenny has the choice of either aiding and abetting him in this reckless behaviour, or handing him over to the law in the kind of betrayal that might result in his being imprisoned for the rest of his young life.

He raises a tortured, anxious face, listening for his wife’s car. What would Babs’ reaction be? What is his own reaction? At the moment he only feels numb, sick and confused. Sometimes, when the family were watching
Crimewatch
together they used to ask each other what they would do if they suspected someone they loved to be guilty of one of the crimes featured on the programme. Would they give them up to the law, or would they protect them, guilty or not?

Should he feel pleased that his son is free? After all, a fair trial for Jody, after this publicity, will be out of the question. But if Len is pleased, then what is this heavy weight that presses against his heart? Running away is never the answer and yet, if he had been in Jody’s position with a chance of escaping that dismal place and that terrifying future, what would Len have done?

Jody can’t stay in hiding for ever. They’ll catch him and his mates in the end and there’ll be worse trouble.

The boy is innocent.
Innocent of the charge he faces. So perhaps Len should attempt to use the next lot of publicity—oh, those awful headlines again, shouted from street corners!—to try to convince the public of this. But how should he do this, and when? Len is so out of his depth—they all are.

High-shouldered beneath his umbrella, Len slips out of the house and into the rain. The note he leaves on the kitchen table says, quite truthfully, that he’s gone to get some money from the hole in the wall. What if he’s seen? He holds the umbrella well down. He could lose his job. He could lose his home. By the time he sets off towards the park the rain is in full force. The damp penetrates his knees and shins and trickles down his arm. A patrolling policeman passes by and Len is moved to glance at his watch, considering this a gesture of innocence. But he is a guilty man, going about bad business. Does he look as furtive as he feels? Other people pass him, ordinary people, going about the simple business of their lives. With a gasp of relief he reaches the park and lowers his umbrella when he’s under the shelter of the trees. He heads speedily for the café, his eyes watering from the strain of staring, his body shivering as his summer trousers blow against his legs.

And there is Jody, half-hiding, standing nervously beside the wall of the dilapidated café, closed at five-thirty, of course. He looks so young and frightened as he sees his father and raises a hand. That, and an incomplete smile, is the only acknowledgment of his father’s arrival.

No more hugs. No more slaps on the back. Just, ‘Thanks a lot, Dad,’ as Len hands over the five £20 notes. ‘I owe you.’

Len is nervous, twitchy. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Back there somewhere.’

‘Where will you go after this?’

‘There’s a place.’

‘A safe place?’

‘Safe enough, they say.’

‘They’re going to find you, Jody.’

‘What else could I do?’

‘Mum’s going to be so worried.’

‘Better than being inside.’

‘But Jody, this is never the answer.’

‘Dad. I’ve got to go. I’ll come home if I can. Tell Mum—’

‘Jody, no! They’ll be watching. That’s exactly where they’ll expect you to be.’

‘Or the last place.’

They both lift hands defensively as a way of saying goodbye without touching.

On his way home, trying to decide how to tell his wife—
‘it’ll be all right, Babs, it’ll be all right’—
Leonard Middleton nervously purchases a newspaper. He opens it with dread in his hands.

I
T’S ALL SUCH A
muddled mess. From now and into the foreseeable future, all Jacy’s royalties must go to pay back taxes. After Capital Gains Tax, any profit he might make from the sale of his house must go towards the legal fees he is still paying for a defamation-of-character case which was settled out of court. He called Deek the guitarist ‘a fixer’—not the most startling abuse, and far weaker language than he has used towards his former buddy in friendly banter in happier times. Jacy was referring to Deek’s shady negotiations with the recording company, Elektra, which ended with him being dumped on, and how. The papers took it to mean that Deek was an addict, which he was, but they made such a fuss about it, and the hostile publicity was so intense, that Jacy was forced to pay up and shut up.

And then there is that sorry business when he was done for drunken driving. He is still paying for that.

When the small Lancashire estate is wound up, Jacy will be left owing a little money, a petty sum hardly worth bothering about. However, in order to sort his finances out and to his great humiliation, he was dragged to court with Belle like some loser to explain humbly how he will manage to pay his debts over the next few years.

A wicked blow to his ego.

Belle’s irregular but impressive income, which she will use towards these liabilities, especially after they marry, went a long way to satisfy that uppity judge.

And now it looks as if they might be on the brink of selling The Grange.

‘Time to tie the knot,’ says Belle firmly. ‘Or have you changed your mind since your shockingly violent outbreak?’ She holds that incident over his head like a bucket of cold water. She will not leave it alone.

‘Leave it out,’ pleads Jacy, desperately wondering what marriage might do to his image. It won’t necessarily taint it, especially when you think he is marrying a top model. In fact, the publicity—if they can swing any positive publicity after all the flack they’ve taken from the press—might do his flagging career some good.

But the problem with publicity at the moment is his shameful move to Ribblestone Close. The last thing he wants is for his adoring public, who are still out there somewhere he’s certain, to discover he has sunk so low in the credibility stakes. Any publicity is
not
good publicity, not in Jacy’s experience. Naturally, there has never been a
FOR SALE
sign up at The Grange, so there’s still a chance they could call in the press, announce their marriage, and make out they are living together happily in impressive circumstances. That’s if the nosy locals can keep their mouths shut.

Belle is not immediately opposed to his idea—amazing!—but she does worry about the state of the house and how they could get it spruced up in time for any romantic announcement. ‘And then we must consider the real possibility that nobody will be interested…’

‘We could even get married here at The Grange,’ says Jacy with hope in his heart, ignoring her undermining remarks. He colours angrily but says nothing. Sometimes he thinks he’s going crazy with anger and no way to speak it out loud. The last time he tried, Belle ended up with a black eye and he’s never hit a woman before. Believe it—he was as shocked as she was. What is happening to him these days? Where has the old Jacy gone? ‘We could get a licence.’

‘We might,’ says Belle reluctantly, still only half-convinced. ‘It would cost an arm and a leg to get a firm of cleaners in, and then there’s the tatty grounds to think about. We would have to know that people were interested before we coughed up that sort of money.’

Tight as a duck’s arse as ever. Oh dear God. But all is not yet lost, thinks Jacy to himself.

‘Of course the whole idea would work much better around some positive information—say, if you were to start up another group, for instance, or if Deek and you and Rab were reconciled, or if Jip took up religion. All hypotheticals which don’t stand a hope in hell, of course.’

Belle will do anything, go through anything, shell out any amount in order to marry him. This is a dream coming true for her, and Jacy considers that he is doing her a magnanimous favour. It is right and proper that he should get something in return. ‘I wonder if any of the old group could be persuaded to join in a publicity session…’ she muses.

Jacy doesn’t need to think any further. No is the answer to that; no, they would not—and the thought is an uncomfortable one. After all, those three who are making it with the new band don’t need to, and Darcy and Cyd are coke-heads living in squalor in London squats, last time he heard anything. Darcy had been beaten up, mugged if you please and quite seriously injured according to reports, poor guy. There but for the grace of God… And anyway, Jacy would get far more pleasure from publicity created for himself alone. Christ, how his enemies would hate that… the thought of Jacy getting back on his feet again.

In those far-off and balmy days, people who hated him felt impelled to tolerate him. Not any more. Most had taken advantage of his downfall and been quite unnecessarily outspoken. ‘The main trouble with Jacy,’ said his old friend Jip, ‘is that he doesn’t love his work enough not to put money first. Now I can’t help it, but I’m totally different. I don’t happen to be one who regards money as the first and only thing in the world.’

Sanctimonious pig.

Jip love his work? That was the first time Jacy had ever heard him say that. He’d grumbled enough about it at the time.

‘It would work much better if the press thought they had dug something up by themselves,’ he says. ‘If only we could swing it. That way they’d be far more likely to turn up in numbers.’ But what might they dig up? All Jacy’s skeletons were long ago let out of the cupboard and there’s nothing interesting about him left. He does nothing. He goes nowhere. The rake has even turned monogamous and has been for almost six long, boring years. No, there’s nothing about Colin Smedley that anyone out there would want to know.

The idol has been eliminated and left with this hollow feeling of loss.

And it’s all Belle’s fault, with her two-edged love like a sword. But he will not allow his last wisps of hope to be taken away, not by her, dear God. Not by anyone.

They have to hide in the grounds today. For once it isn’t raining; the climate in this godless part of the world is always ten degrees lower than it is down south and it takes some time to adjust.

Some hairy-jacketed jerk came round last week and seemed pretty interested. Apparently he was ‘acting for clients’, or some such ridiculous notion. Today somebody even more important is coming. The agents aren’t showing them round, some solicitor from Sheffield is. It all sounds a mite shady to Jacy, who doesn’t give a damn as long as the offer is confirmed.

Four o’clock they said, so after Belle has finished the Hoovering and washed up the dishes from three days ago, the two of them set off with Jacy’s old metal detector to the quarry which Belle reckons must hide some interesting Roman remains. Jacy is always on the lookout for treasure; this is just about the only outdoor activity which he finds acceptable.

Funny how this battered old thing is still going after so many years when the expensive, luxury goods have mostly packed up and been chucked out. Jacy and his two younger brothers used to spend hours searching the beach at Bishop’s Head when they lived outside Swansea as kids. Never found anything save for the odd loose change. But you always had this burning hope, it was more like a firm belief, that one day you’d come home puffing and struggling over the dunes with a casket full of gold. You were far more likely to step on a mine but kids don’t think that way…

Even in those days Jacy went everywhere with that plastic guitar his mum got him out of her catalogue.

Belle is convinced that his working-class roots make him bitter, most of it directed at her with her ‘prattish’ middle-class background. To annoy him, and only for that reason, she has always gone on about meeting his family. As a child Jacy had struggled to better himself, always been determined to make it. His Mam had ambitions for him, too, and dragged him in front of his first audience when he was twelve years old, some corny seaside competition to discover the entertainer of the year. Being twelve and small for his age helped. He called himself Little Devil because of the peak of dark hair at his forehead. He came tenth out of over 1,000 contestants with an Elvis Presley number and won a racing bike which was too small so he gave it to his brother, Jack.