The Drowners (16 page)

The water was high but not flooding and there was no sign of the mud normally left by winter overspill so Derek headed upstream, skirting Westhay and ploughing doggedly on as the sun sank behind him and the Tor of Glastonbury rose against the orange sky, guiding him home. As the light faded he decided he’d better find somewhere to spend the night. Despite his long day walking he was still too far north for most of the abandoned pill boxes, the majority of which were
strung along the old defensive line known as the “Taunton Stop Line”. He cursed quietly as he realized he would need to trek several miles to find shelter if he relied on the
fortifications
. Despite the rising moon it was getting very dark and Derek was only too aware of the dangers surrounding him, both natural and man-made. Picking a safe route around the rhynes, over ever-shifting marsh subject to sudden floods and unexpected enclosure was almost impossible. He cast around, peering into the gathering gloom. He had wanted to get to the Wastes, an area that was perfectly summed up by its name, consisting of treacherous stretches of liquid mud, a maze of narrow channels and a few forgotten drover roads. Dotted around this area were a few old machine gun posts and the remains of several failed farms. Derek had expected to find shelter and a base for his campaign in this forgotten patch of the Levels. Now he faced an extremely uncomfortable night in the open unless he sneaked into a barn or risked venturing in to Westhay or Meare in search of an open outbuilding.

Suddenly he saw a single flash of light in the distance, over the river and towards Shapwick. Immediately, Derek was rooted to the spot, his whole body still as he waited for some further sign. Around him the air was still as though the Levels were holding their breath and waiting with him. In the
distance
was the sound of an animal, an otter perhaps, sliding into the water of the river to his left. Ignoring the tiny rustles and ripples as they rose around him, Derek held still until, away in the distance, came the mutter of voices, hastily stilled. Like a predatory animal, Derek moved swiftly but silently towards the river, crossing on a tiny footbridge made from a concrete post laid across from one bank to another. Once safely across, he placed his bag of belongings on the ground, slipping a carving knife out of the side pocket and into his belt so that it was within easy reach. He checked the position of the bridge and his belongings Then, keeping his head low, he skirted a solitary farm and headed towards the source of the voices. Someone was out on his patch and he wanted to know who – and why.

He slowed even further as he approached the old peat works, keeping off the ancient tracks that still ran from the cuttings to newer paths and eventually on to the roads used to transport bags of rich earth to the stations and ports of the area. The area boasted a few, rare wooded patches and Derek slipped under the cover of the stunted trees, wincing as the willow branches whipped at his face and legs. Sinking down on to his knees he waited and finally his patience was rewarded. Voices floated towards him, startlingly close in the night air, and he froze in his hiding place as he heard footsteps coming his way. Moving very slowly he eased his knife out from his belt, feeling a twinge of regret at the loss of his beautiful and versatile Normark, lost on the canal bank when he had almost drowned last year.

Two shadowy figures passed just in front of his hiding place, closely followed by a third. The leading figure turned and in the pale moonlight Derek recognized the craggy features of Tom Monarch, self-styled ‘King of Somerset’. His eyes glittering with anger and his heart full of hatred, Derek forced himself to stay where he was. He wanted nothing more than to plunge his knife into his old rival’s throat but Tom had his henchmen around him and Derek had not come so far and suffered so much to commit suicide through a moment’s rashness.

‘Now then, you got them tools you was talkin’ about?’ said Tom softly, and the last man in line grunted, swinging a small workman’s bag from his shoulder.

‘No problem,’ he said softly. ‘Is right here. Where is it you’m wanting this entrance then?’

A light shone out from a torch and Derek blinked in
surprise
. Outlined in the glow was a metal fence, matt black in colour and about three feet high, sealing off the peat
excavations
. Now what the bloody hell was that all about, he wondered. He leaned forwards hoping to get a better look and there was a rustling of leaves as his heavy frame disturbed the overhanging branches. Tom’s head whipped round and Derek froze as those hard, dark eyes hunted through the
darkness. Finally, Tom relaxed and turned back to the fence.

‘Just the breeze,’ he said. ‘How’s it coming then?’

‘Nearly there,’ the workman said, and at that moment there was a clank and a section of the fence swung free, tipping in to the deep trench on the inside of the enclosure. The noise seemed shockingly loud, echoing off the rusting iron sheets of the remaining buildings to the left. It landed with a splash, disappearing from Derek’s view.

‘Watch what you’m doing!’ Tom hissed as the workman leaned forwards and tried to haul the section up out of the water.

‘Sorry,’ gasped the man. ‘I wasn’t expecting it to just go like that.’ He was panting with the effort as he fished for the railings.

‘Just get in there and lift it up will you,’ snapped Tom. He looked around anxiously. ‘Reckon that’ll bring anyone on the Levels out, the racket you’s making.’

‘Is all full of water!’ protested the workman. ‘Look, ’tis all flooded and ’ent no idea how deep it is. We was told to keep clear, not set foot off this here path when we was fittin’ this here fence.’

‘Keep your voice down!’ hissed Tom. ‘I’ll not be telling you again. Get in there and pass that out – now.’

The workman slid over the edge and gradually lowered himself in to the mud at the bottom of the cutting, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Tom and his associate leaned over to watch as the man’s legs disappeared up to his knees before he hit the bottom.

‘Ah – is bloody freezing!’ he complained, but Tom snapped his fingers impatiently, gesturing to his henchman to grab the end of the fence as it slid up over the edge. Derek watched as the man struggled out onto the bank, thick mud plastering his legs.

‘’Bout time – now fix it back using these,’ ordered Tom, ignoring the man’s discomfort. He held out a small box that rattled as the workman opened it and tipped out fresh bolts
and a tube of lampblack. Swiftly the barrier was repaired and the bright steel of the new fixings were smeared with the blacking to blend them in with the framework. Tom stepped forwards and examined the section carefully, leaning over to inspect the back before nodding.

‘Right, get that bit cleaned off,’ he said grinning broadly. ‘Looks right mucky compared to the rest. Don’t want to be too obvious now, do we?’ Derek stayed motionless, his legs beginning to cramp and his back aching, as the men finished up and checked around to make sure they had not left
anything
lying around.

‘Hurry up, damn you,’ Derek muttered as the pain in his cramped body built up until he felt he had to move – or shout in agony. At last, Tom was satisfied and the group moved off through the night leaving Derek alone. He waited until they were out of sight before allowing himself the luxury of tilting over slowly on to his hands, a soft groan the only sound he made. As his cramped knees began to spasm he rolled over on to his side and lay there, panting softly. After a few minutes the pain began to ease a little and he was able to sit up, looking around to make sure he was still alone, before hauling himself to his feet. He moved out from the shelter of the trees, pins and needles in his feet making him clumsy. The iron railings were now clearly visible in the moonlight and he examined them carefully. Most sections were fixed with smooth-headed bolts, the backs firmly locked into place by some sort of covered fastening. Unless he had seen Tom Monarch’s men in action he would not have noticed one section was secured by
traditional
bolts, so well were they camouflaged. Derek leaned over the fence and peered into the darkness beneath. Water, mud, more water – what was Tom up to, he wondered. Why go to all this trouble for an old, deserted peat working?

There was a scuffling sound behind him and Derek spun round, poised and ready for any danger. Suddenly a torch shone through the darkness, dazzling him as a voice called out.

‘Oih – you there – what you’m doing then?’

Instinctively, Derek turned away, raising his arm to shield his eyes from the glare. There was the sound of footsteps and the voice was closer this time.

‘Yeah, you – this is private property. Is dangerous too. How did you get over here anyway?’

It was too late to flee. The intruder had probably seen his face by now and although he might not have been recognized yet, Derek knew the scars on his face were too distinctive. If this clown reported him to the police, someone would identify him and that could not happen. Who would have expected a watchman out this far anyway? He hesitated for a second, his back turned to the light whilst he felt with his left hand, checking the carving knife was still in his belt. Then he leaned a little way over the rail and made gurgling noises, spitting in to the water below.

‘Oh bloody hell, stop that now,’ said the watchman. He shifted his torch to his left hand and moved closer.

Just a little more, Derek thought. People were so stupid, so easily fooled. Just dying to help, without a thought for the consequences. He let his body slump a little further, struggling to suppress a giggle. Just dying to help …

As the watchman reached out for him, Derek swung round and smashed a fist into his face. The man staggered
backwards
and Derek grabbed the heavy torch, twisting it out of his grasp. The watchman raised his hands to ward off the blow, trying to escape from his assailant. He got in one desperate hit before Derek brought the torch down on his head. The watchman collapsed with a groan, the air leaving his body as he tumbled to the ground. Derek waited for a moment, standing back and listening but there was no sign of life. The light had gone off in the struggle and Derek shook it, knocking the front impatiently. He felt a sharp pain in his hand as a sliver of glass from the broken lens cut into his palm.

He cursed and shook his injured hand before turning his attention to his victim. Leaning over he grabbed the man by his collar, trying to haul him up off the ground. Suddenly the
body came to life, striking out wildly and clawing frantically at his face as the watchman fought for his life. Derek stumbled backwards, hitting the fence before recovering from the shock.

‘You bastard!’ he hissed as he felt the watchman’s fingers make contact with an eye socket. He swung the torch, bringing it down on the man’s head once more. There was a crunching sound and the watchman collapsed like an empty sack. Derek stepped back and waited but this time it was all over. Derek felt around his eye gingerly, flinching as he touched the swollen flesh.

‘Bastard!’ he said again, and vented some of his fury on the corpse at his feet, kicking and stamping on the dead man’s chest. After a moment he came to his senses and stopped, panting from the exertion. ‘Is your own fault,’ he muttered, looking down at the body. ‘What the bloody hell is you doin’ out here anyway?’

Desperately tired, he leaned against the railings for support and waited until his breathing returned to normal before casting around for a place to dispose of the body. Eyeing the rusty buildings surrounding the peat cutting, he considered leaving the man inside one of them. The idea had its merits – Tom Monarch was obviously planning to use the site for something criminal and the presence of a dead body would seriously inconvenience him. Still, Derek had his eyes on the abandoned cider factory down the road about half a mile. It was well placed, off the main road and with a number of separate buildings round a paved courtyard. He had used it in the past as a hideout for colleagues wanted by the police as well as a handy base for smuggling tobacco, and he didn’t want to attract too much attention to the immediate area. There was nothing for it, the watchman was going in the river.

For a skinny bloke the guard was heavy and Derek was sweating and trembling by the time he got him down the track and away from the peat factory. Dropping his burden onto the soft ground, he bent over, hands on his knees as he
tried to calm his pounding heart. When he straightened up, his head began to swim and he realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day. For a moment he was tempted to walk away, leaving the dead watchman by the side of the track, but the thought of the cider factory and the security it offered spurred him on again. The torch was digging into his back where he’d shoved it into his belt and Derek considered discarding it but decided it was too useful to abandon and so, with gritted teeth, he resumed his long, slow trek to the banks of the Brue.

Just as he prepared to roll the body into the slow-flowing water he had a thought. Exactly what
was
a night watchman doing out on the Levels? He opened the man’s jacket and rifled through the pockets, pulling out a small notebook and a wallet containing several pound notes and a fiver. Derek stuffed the money in his own pocket and, shielding the torch with his body, opened the notebook. Names, addresses and – bingo – dates and shifts worked. According to the list, he was watching the half-built nature reserve at Shapwick. Thieves came out at night and building materials were always popular – a bit heavy and difficult to move sometimes but very easy to sell on, in Derek’s experience. There was a glint of reflected light from the watchman’s chest and Derek peered at it in the torch light. A metal badge with a barred gate and ‘Tor Security’ stamped on it was pinned to his pullover. Derek removed it and held it in his hand for a moment, wondering if he might be able to use it to his advantage, but the memory of his ruined face made him drop it in disgust. He was never going to pass in a crowd again so the stupid thing was of no use to him.

Hunting through the trouser pockets Derek unearthed a handful of coins that joined the notes in his pocket and a large iron key. He took the key as well – very useful things, keys. You never knew when they might just open a door in a time of crisis. He felt in the back pocket and came up with a small photo album, pictures of a rather tired, dusty looking woman and two teenage children with identical crooked smiles. Derek thought of his own boys, the talented, handsome Newt
and his burly younger brother, Biff. He dropped the pictures into the mud next to the badge, turned off the torch and knelt beside the body, tucking the arms together to minimize the noise as it rolled in to the river. There was a splash and for an instant he thought the man moved, one arm rising to the surface as if appealing for mercy before the river took the body and it began to drift downstream. Derek stood up, picked up the torch and walked away without a backwards look. His bag was still where he had left it and he shoved the torch inside, pulled out a broken biscuit and resumed his tramp to the cider factory, munching away as he stepped out along the tiny footpath.