Chain Reaction (28 page)

H
IS UNTIDY HAIR HUNG
in his eyes—already it was itching, he’d left his comb at home—when he heard the car arrive about nine-thirty this morning. When Jody Middleton, fugitive from the law, Lancashire’s most wanted man, homeless drifter, when Jody saw what this guy was up to he nearly shouted out loud.

He’d come upon the old ruin last night after he left the station at Plymouth and started heading for the vast outdoors, the wild and lonely ranges of Dartmoor. Different from the last time he was down this way, on holiday with the family, all excited with buckets and spades and eager to get to the big white house at Marazion. Jody liked to spend his holiday money on the first day, on plastic boats and buckets and spades and flags and cars he could run through the tracks he dug and not worry if they got lost. Dawn, the youngest, saved hers and went home with more than she came with, and Cindy, just two years younger than he, spent the whole lot on dolls and dolls’ clothes.

Incredible, he was so unfit. A few months’ incarceration really takes it out of you. Sweat rolled off him as he pedalled along on his mountain bike, feeling like a fugitive decked out in the pair of Dad’s khaki shorts Mum made him put on before he left the Close, because, she said, khaki made him look more like anyone else in this weather. She made him leave his own gaudy cycle shorts behind.

They’d never been critical of the clothes he wore and the friends he made and the music he loved. They were the world’s best parents. Other kids used to envy him and it was always his house they went to when he and his friends had a choice. There were the difficult times, of course, like the day when he’d stripped a pear tree, risking life and limb so he could share the fruit with his two sisters. The farmer caught him at it and Dad forced him to go round and apologise, red-faced with humiliation. He’d hated Dad then, really hated him. It wasn’t until much later that he saw that Lenny was only being fair.

But sometimes Jody wished he could live up to his mother’s high opinion of him. Why couldn’t he? Was there something wrong with his head? Well, he’s finished with all that childish stuff now, hasn’t he. The shrinks will probably find out he’s mad.

Aching in every limb, weakened by his spell inside and the grey diet of tasteless food, he knew he must stop or he’d never be able to get up tomorrow. He turned down a lane which looked pretty convenient, grass growing up the centre, wild brambles and other green rubbish double-decker high on either side, dark already, hardly the sort of welcoming place any tourist would turn down, even by accident. Half a mile on and he found this ruin, more of a spindly silhouette than a building of substance and bang in the middle of nowhere, rough brown fields tilted away on all sides, rising steadily and merging in shadows until they met a rocky horizon.

He liked this sort of scenery. He’d always loved the moors at home, feeling so small standing against them—sometimes he leaned and the wind held him up. They told him how little he mattered, that he’d be dead and gone long before he could understand what they were saying. He liked that feeling. He’d heard that scientists had sent up whale sounds in the satellite headed beyond our galaxy, believing that whale language was the most likely of all to be understood by aliens. Jody was greatly moved by this; he thought he might understand it, too, better than he understands some of the batty things people say. When he thinks about this he reckons some of his music is trying to talk about ideas like this.

He fell off his bike with relief—his
bum felt raw, his sweltering back was a sea of sweat. He couldn’t imagine himself travelling much further in his new role of lone student, or birdwatcher—this was really one of Mum’s more way-out suggestions. She believes in him, she really does; she’s always gone round telling everyone that Jody is university material, that he’s so good-looking he’ll cop it some day, and won’t his dad be proud of him when he gets to play football for England. Jody wouldn’t have minded if just one of her dreams was even halfway to coming true. University—yes, he managed that one all right, or nearly did until he gave Janice Plunket a lift. That part was easy. But some of Mum’s dreams he wasn’t so sure of. Jody loved his football and cricket and he was good, he
excelled,
at both, but as far as playing for England went, he would have to disappoint her, and to disappoint Mum upset him terribly. Look at him now, he couldn’t have done a worse job, could he?

She was so OTT. She came to everything they put on at school; even when Jody had a walk-on part he could hear her cheering in the audience. Later, however he’d done it, she would call him talented. He lied once, and said he’d lost three recorders just because he couldn’t play
Greensleeves.
Sometimes he wanted to yell at her, to stop and ask her—
what if he was just ordinary?
What would she honestly think of him then? Cindy and Dawn were far more likely to make the grade than Jody was.

‘You’ve just got to have more confidence in yourself, Jody,’ Mum used to tell him. ‘Like I have.’

He wheeled his way up the tangled path, crossing a broken
FOR SALE
sign stripped of its colour by the sun and the wind. No chance. No one would risk their arm by throwing good money into this place.

Jody, alone and forlorn, had taken the risk of travelling by train from Preston to Plymouth. They’d put his bike in the luggage van along with the mail and the travelling animals. If they’d known who he was he’d have been crated up like those poor creatures. He’d been so upset when he got on the train he’d thrown caution to the winds. They might as well catch him and get it over and done with. I mean, even Mum was against him now. ‘For his own good,’ she’d said, she’d sent him away from the only place of safety he had. ‘Because we love you, son,’ said Dad.

When he thought about Dad, he wanted to cry, remembering some of the stupid old things they had done together, father and son. Like eating hot chips out of paper in the car on a freezing cold day, like when Dad ran behind him mile after mile when Jody got his first bicycle—he fell off laughing at the sound of Lenny’s puffing—like when Dad broke the model Jody had half-completed, just trying to join in and be helpful, like when Dad sat all day waiting with him for his broken arm to be set at the hospital… And now Jody’s let him down. He has let Dad down although he is innocent of the crime. He has let him down anyhow. The accusation is enough.

The thought of his two mates being arrested so quickly made Jody’s blood run cold. The police seemed to be everywhere. He added up his own chances because his only relief was to play with hope. He pretended to sleep most of the way with his face nearly stuck to the grimy window of the Inter-City train. He supposed it made sense to abandon his old haunts, to hide out down here until Mum and Dad made their move. It might only be four or five weeks, and if this warm weather held out he’d be OK. He’d manage somehow even if it meant living constantly on his wits. Lucky it wasn’t mid-winter—you could easily die out here. He’d got their new address somewhere in Cindy’s rucksack; he’d go and see if he could find it tomorrow, just for something to do. He supposed they blamed him for having to move—and they’re right. It
is
his fault, isn’t it? He should never have touched Janice Plunket.

So he’d found this abandoned shack, its name,
Hacienda,
hung on the half-rotten frame of the door, he’d eaten a couple of apples and broken into Mum’s coffee cake, not particularly hungry though because he’d had a bacon roll on the train, and he’d burnt his lip on bits of red-hot hanging tomato. He sat slouched against the dusty walls of what must once have been a kitchen watching the shadows form in the first presage of the dark. He was exhausted. With his head uncomfortably propped on the rucksack he sank into a deathlike sleep, more of a coma because the next thing he knew it was bright daylight. What time was it? He dragged his aching body into a sitting position. Thirst constricted his throat; he needed a drink badly. He’d just pulled the cap off a can of Coke, about to be overwhelmed by gloom, no fried breakfast for him then, when he heard the engine. He froze. He’d left his mountain bike in the overgrown back garden, hadn’t he, idiot—but how had the law tracked him down so quickly?

There was no escape from here. Maybe he should have considered that and staked the place out before he settled. There was no cover as far as the eye could see in any direction; it reminded him of the moors of home. Once he’d bolted from his hiding place he’d stand out like a telegraph pole.

Jody, wide-awake with fright now, scrambled up the broken staircase, brushed the rubble and old distemper that crumbled and clattered as he touched the walls and trusted his luck to the buckling floorboards. What a dump. Who would ever want to live out here? The bedroom window was missing, it was positioned so low in the bulging wall that as he crouched there on the floor he had a view of the garden. He couldn’t see his bike from here, he’d thrown it down without thinking and it must have been gobbled up in the nettles.

He heard the strange guy come in, heard him walking around downstairs with a slow, steady tread, heard him light a cigarette as he stood there silently—listening? Jody could almost hear the guy thinking. He held his breath. And then the man went back down the front path to his car again. Jody heard the car door open, and then there was this dragging sound coming towards the cottage. He lifted his body slightly so he could get a better view of the garden and saw the stranger struggling with something that must have weighed a ton; wrapped up in a red tartan rug. And it wasn’t a bag of spuds.

Jody shivered. Just some ordinary old guy, half bald, with specs and a summer blazer, should’ve been off to work, not grunting around in some pig-sty on the moor up to God knows what.

The bundle was dumped in the back garden just outside the kitchen door while the man beat a pathway towards the far right-hand corner. He seemed to know where he was going. Just about daring to lift his eyes, Jody watched as the fellow stood there peering down, then he searched the undergrowth, and picked up a broken slate. He seemed to brace himself and let the slate drop… getting down on his haunches, staring and listening for something with a dull, glum interest.

The stranger wiped his hands before returning to his burden, dragging it the last few yards and then kneeling to unwrap his weighty parcel. Jody saw an arm, you can’t mistake an arm, before he saw the shape of the woman, still with her clothes on. He couldn’t catch sight of the face, as the head was kind of flopped back. She seemed to be in a reclining position, reminding Jody of when butchers’ lorries delivered in the High Street and you had to look away because death was just too real and awful and it stank of sawdust and rusty blood. Jody flinched as if from a physical blow. He saw a white and dangling leg. It took a great deal of effort for the guy to get the body in position while insects buzzed and birds sang, and then, needing every ounce of his strength to drag the whole sagging lump up against him, he dropped it, and Jody, watching intently from above, fought the first choking sobs in his throat. At first the guy appeared to fall with it. He flopped, and sat there among the briars and brambles looking totally beaten and defeated like someone begging forgiveness in church, wiping his face with a handkerchief, even removing his glasses and wiping them too. They were probably fugged up ’cos you wouldn’t believe the effort it took.

For a second Jody got a look at his face. Without the glasses it seemed vulnerable, the eyes tired and sad. Then the man sat back on his heels meditatively and gratefully.

The British Rail bacon roll was churning away inside him. By now Jody was terrified, trapped up here with a murderer not yards away, a desperate man, mad as a hatter, probably prepared to do anything, anything it took to cover his dastardly tracks. Jody knew the feeling, but he’d done nothing compared to this. Compared to this, Jody’s ‘crime’ was like telling nursery stories to kids. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Jody eased himself over to a half-broken beam and picked up the piece of withered timber to use as a club if it came to it. He’d have to fight for his life, and he would, if necessary. The whole world, including his mum, might believe that Jody’s life wasn’t worth a light but that suddenly wasn’t Jody’s opinion.

He was innocent.
He was innocent.

After ten whole minutes of silence, but for the birds and the breeze and some distant sheep, the man in mourning rose to his feet and drove away.

OK, so what is Jody supposed to do about this? He can hardly go to the police without getting himself promptly caught, an anonymous phone call is not Jody’s style, and anyway, who is he to say that the guy is guilty of anything? They call Jody guilty when he’s not, so how can you say for sure that this guy has
bumped off some woman? Jody knows what evil tongues can do. But then again, and this is a chilling thought, what if this is some serial killer coming to his burial grounds! How many more bodies might be hidden down there in the brambles? Understandably, it’s a good half-hour later before Jody dares to leave his cobwebby hiding place and venture into the overgrown garden to take a look. Some of the brambles are almost impenetrable; it’s not a place to venture in shorts. He reaches the spot where the body seemed to mysteriously disappear—and steps back just in time. He sees the black hole which drops to nowhere—is it an old mining shaft? Or a disused well? Jody copies the interloper and drops a small stone down… Was that a sound? Hard to tell. Whatever, the bottom is some way down. A suitable place to hide a body or anything else for that matter, so long as you never wanted it back.

So what does he do now? He can’t get in touch with Mum or Dad because the phones are probably bugged. He’s no intention of going to the law and getting himself locked up again. He would like to try and contact Janice, and he would if he was
The Fugitive.
He’d give her a ring if he knew she wasn’t so crazy. All she needs to do is tell the police the truth, tell them she wanted it and that it wasn’t him who hurt her. She’s scared of her dad, that’s what’s the matter with her. Even though she’s moved out and lives on her own in the Centre, she’s still terrified of the bully. Even Jody’s solicitor can’t interview Janice on her own because she is legally classified as a minor. A minor! Her dad’s in there with her, isn’t he, every time someone tries to get at the truth. And she’ll never tell what really happened with Mr Plunket in there listening.