Pecking Order, page 13
At that moment an empty coke can was thrown from a car. It bounced off a placard and clattered to the pavement. 'Wankers!' someone shouted.
The man took a massive bite out of his burger as he and his friend began to walk away.
'Um, let's get through the gates,' said Clare uneasily, and they all moved quickly towards the entrance. 'Professor, are you coming with us?' asked Clare, trying to give Eric a dignified way out.
Eric stood rooted to the spot. 'No,' he answered softly. 'No, don't mind me. I must be elsewhere.' Without saying goodbye, he strode off back in the direction they had just come.
Chapter 23
Eric walked angrily along the campus perimeter. A short distance behind him, the university grounds opened into a small area of parkland, on the other side of which were a few halls of residence.
During the day it was the domain of students and drunks, often both. At night the atmosphere changed, despite the globe-shaped lamps lighting the pathways. A series of rapes a few years before and regular reports of students being jumped by local lads ensured most people skirted round the park once it was dark. Deciding he needed to sit down for a while, Eric slipped through the next gap in the fence and, looking for a bench, set off along a footpath that lead between the rhododendron bushes. Soon he heard some slurred mumbling and as he entered a small clearing, he saw the beggar he'd noticed during the march, slumped on a bench. A three-litre bottle of cider was clutched between his knees. Empty cans of Tennent's Super lay at his feet. Despite the warm weather he wore a threadbare blazer, woollen jumper and grey trousers, shiny at the knees.
Eric hesitated, wondering whether to turn back or stick to his side of the clearing and creep past. But the man's head lolled round and he said, "ternoon to you, sir.' A hand went up to his temple and he flicked a feeble salute.
Eric realised he knew him. When he was a social worker, the man's wife had been one of his cases. She had developed senile dementia and it was Eric's responsibility to arrange home help and, eventually, a permanent bed for her in a care home. Her husband's inability to assist in anyway had infuriated him.
The man was ex-armed forces, a paratrooper, if his memory served him correctly. That in itself was enough to provoke Eric's disdain, but the husband also seemed incapable (or unwilling as Eric suspected) of cooking or cleaning. Meals-on-wheels ended up providing for them both. All the man wanted to do was drink.
After his wife died he went further downhill, frequently turning up at the soup caravan Eric used to work in as a volunteer during the evenings. As the junkies used to descend from their shooting gallery on the top of a nearby multi-storey car park, he would come lurching down the road. Barely able to spoon the food into his own mouth, he was frequently sick on the kerb.
'Mr Aldy, how are you?'
The man fought to get himself upright, squinting hard and trying to make out who he was talking to. 'It's Eric, from the soup run.'
The old man's eyes narrowed even further as he grinned. Four teeth left in his head, lips curling inwards over bare gums. 'G' bless you, Eric. Have a seat, here.' He went to pat the bench by his side but missed. He began keeling over and Eric had to move fast to push him back upright.
'How are you Bert? Having a celebration?'
The man's chin had sunk on to his chest and he was staring at the ground beyond his splayed feet. "bration, indeed.' He suddenly realised he was still holding a bottle of cider. 'Drink?' He struggled upright and lifted the bottle from his lap. It swayed in front of Eric.
'No thanks Bert,' said Eric, guiding it back between the grey flannel knees. 'And how are you keeping?'
The rumble came from far back in the his throat, 'Ooooooh not so bad, 'kyou.'
Eric searched the ground around the bench. 'Where's your beret Bert?' he asked loudly.
'Uh?'
'Your beret, from the paratroopers.'
'Kids. Kids have taken it. Taken the lot. Jus' my clothes lef now. 'roken the door in. Can't even lock it.'
After Bert's wife had died, Eric arranged for him to be moved to a smaller council flat. It had been burgled repeatedly. First the electrical goods. Then other small items, including his medals. Next time the furniture and kitchenware. And now, it seemed, anything that could be worth a few pounds.
The man's eyes had closed and his breathing had begun to deepen. Eric looked at the folds hanging beneath his chin, hanging over his collar, top button done up. He couldn't stop himself asking, 'Still in the same flat, Bert?'
The old man didn't reply.
Eric leaned a little closer, 'Still in 50 Wood Road?'
"ty woo droad,' he mumbled.
'That's still your present address?'
‘Mmmmmm.'
Unsure if that was a yes or a no, Eric asked, 'Is that where you live now Bert?'
In reply the man let out a pig-like snore.
Frustrated, Eric got quietly to his feet, leaving the man to his drunken slumber.
Chapter 24
'It was absolutely, ab-so-Iute-Iy, hideous,' sobbed Clare, writhing on her back, a cushion over her face.
In the armchair next to her, tears were coursing down Zoe's cheeks. 'Nine? Only nine of you?' She burst into a fresh fit of laughter. 'Oh my God. What did the policeman say again? Go on, tell me.'
She could hear Clare's muffled shouts of, No, no, no! coming from beneath the cushion, so she leaned forwards and dragged it off her friend's face. 'Tell me!'
Clare got a grip on herself, sat upright and took a deep breath. 'He...' her voice was barely under control, '...he said, is that it?'
They both fell back in their seats and began howling at the ceiling once again.
'Nightmare,' said Zoe, reaching for the half-burned joint in the ashtray. She sparked it up again and took a long drag. From the sofa Clare put on a local accent and said, 'I've missed my fare you pricks!'
Smoke erupted from Zoe’s nose and mouth in a series of little clouds. 'Bitch!' she spluttered, flinging the joint at her friend and doubling over in a coughing fit.
Clare quickly fished it out of her lap and took a couple of drags herself. She rolled her eyes up and said, 'It must be top three for my most cringeworthy experiences ever. It's up there with the apple in the fishpond outburst.'
'God, it sounds it,' said Zoe, wiping the tears from her eyes. 'And half the people only signed because they though it was a £10 a week increase? That's hilarious.'
Clare looked round the flat, suddenly serious. 'I know. Can you believe how cheap this place is? I felt such a fucking fraud.' She handed the joint back to her friend.
'Don't think that. You did what you've got to do. If organising that march helps you get a job in the department next year, it was well worth it. And you said Patricia saw you outside the Union building beforehand?'
‘Yeah, she even signed the petition.'
'There you go then - it was definitely worth it for that.'
'I suppose so,' replied Clare. 'But that was the first and last I ever organise. It was horrible. Anyway,' her voice picked up, 'how's your job hunt going?' She lifted the local paper off the table.
'Not bad. I've got three to call back on Monday to arrange times for going in with my portfolio.'
Clare looked at her friend, conscious that Zoe was avoiding her eyes. Clare thought back to when she'd failed her maths 'A' level. She believed the world had come to an end, and it was Zoe who had picked her back up. All summer they'd crammed for it together and, when she retook it, she had passed. Determined to provide the same sort of support for her friend she said, 'That's excellent. They won't be able to resist you, you'll see.'
Zoe smiled, looking steadily at the telly even though it was switched off. 'Yeah well, fingers crossed.'
'They're slow aren't they? About getting back to you with an interview date?'
Zoe continued looking at the telly. 'Yeah, but most of these places are run pretty haphazardly. It's just a question of the studio manager finding a free half-hour to look through your stuff.'
'Oh,' said Clare, looking at her friend's profile. She glanced back at the paper, noticing it was well over a week old.
Chapter 25
The sudden buzzing made Rubble jump. He looked around him, unsure of where the sound was coming from. Then it repeated itself and he knew it was the phone in the cupboard behind him. He knelt down and opened the door. It lay on the top shelf, waiting to be answered.
Carefully, as if it was a new born chick, he lifted it out. Following the instructions he'd been given, he pressed the green 'OK' button and waited for something to happen. The tiny diode by the handset's aerial blinked twice before Rubble remembered he should place the phone to his ear.
'Hello?'
'Agent White?'
'Yes - it's me.'
'Agent Orange here. I have a job for you tonight. Are you available? '
'Yes Sir!'
'Good. Be ready for a 1:45 A.M. pick up.'
Agent Orange hung up and Rubble looked at the phone. The display read 02 once again. He placed it back inside the cupboard and gently shut the door. Kneeling there, he drummed his fingers on his thighs while he thought. Balaclava, black jumper and hunting knife would do - he should go properly dressed. For stealth and secrecy.
He went into his bedroom and removed the items from the tiny wardrobe built into the corner. Glancing at the small clock by his bed he saw the digital numbers read 10:43 P.M. He turned out all the caravan's lights and, back at his table, parted the curtain slightly to look out into the blackness beyond. Everything was quiet as he sat back in his seat to wait, the side of his face lit by the softly-glowing monitor.
After what seemed like half the night a pair of dipped headlights turned into the top of his track. He watched as the lights passed along behind the trunks of the beech trees before the vehicle crept round the bend in the track and stopped about twenty metres away. The lights suddenly died, but the engine kept running. Rubble gathered up his stuff and left the caravan. Outside the night was thick and heavy, the air perfectly still around him.
As he neared the car he could see Agent Orange's marble white fingers curled around the steering wheel. They seemed so smooth and thin. A hand lifted, gesturing him towards the passenger door. He walked round the front of the car. In the bottom right-hand corner of the windscreen, above the tax disc, was a small sticker. Rubble noted, with some surprise, that it was marked with the same crest that he'd seen at the top of the Official Secrets Act document.
He opened the door and looked in.
'Good evening, Agent White. Get in please.'
He climbed inside, the car creaking slightly on its wheels as he did so. Agent Orange reached up to turn on the interior light. As he did so Rubble realised he was wearing latex gloves. That's why his hands had looked so white through the windscreen.
'What are those?' Agent Orange asked, pointing to the balaclava, jumper and knife on Rubble's lap.
'For stealth,' answered Rubble, holding the items up.
Agent Orange quickly replied, 'No balaclava and no knife. You're to look like any normal person. Maybe someone walking home from their girlfriend's. The jumper is OK.'
Rubble mumbled an apology, opened the door and threw the balaclava and weapon out.
Once the door was shut, Agent Orange handed him a pair of latex gloves and announced, 'Tonight's subject is an elderly woman. She lives alone in a flat and called us last week for our services. She's left her key by the backdoor under the third pot on the left. Normally she sleeps in her wheelchair, or in a bed in the sitting room. But it's a four room ground-floor flat, so you shouldn't have any trouble finding her.'
Once Rubble's gloves were properly on, Eric turned the interior light off and the headlights back on. They reversed backwards, rear of the car wreathed in a soft red glow, purple foxgloves hanging from the crimson hedge. Back on the main road the car headed straight for the motorway, where its speed picked up. They drove in silence until the pooled lights of the city became visible.
'Never been here before,' Rubble suddenly stated.
'To Manchester?' asked Agent Orange.
'Yeah.'
Eric pondered over this new piece of information, worried that the complicated network of streets might confuse and unsettle him. 'Are you bothered about built-up areas?' he asked.
'Nope,' replied Rubble. 'Got maps for lots of them. Stalingrad, Berlin, Kosovo, Kabul.'
Shortly after, they were driving down the main road he'd parked on earlier. Now it was completely deserted, the take-away shops empty. Rubble looked at the neon signs, watching them flash on and off. Up ahead a black cat ghosted across the road and both men watched it avidly: right up until the moment it vanished beneath a gate. Eric turned down a side street and drove to the T-junction at the end. As he swung the car slowly to the right, he nodded at the cluster of bungalows opposite. 'The subject lives in number five, far right-hand corner.’
As they passed the bungalow itself he added, 'That's her garden fence, go down the side alley there and round to the back door.' Eric drove to the end of the road and pulled up in an empty layby in front of some locked-up shops. Everything was black and silent. He reached under the seat and removed the syringe, then handed it with gloved fingers to Rubble. 'Remember, the key is under the third pot to the left of the door. Once you've completed the job, put the key back, return to this spot and wait for me behind those shops. I've got another agent to drop back home on the other side of town, so I'll be about twenty-five minutes.'
'Yes Sir, Agent Orange,' Rubble replied. Climbing from the car, he gently pushed the door shut, imagining he was a spy dropped behind enemy lines on a mission. Hands in pockets, he loped off up the pavement as Eric pulled away to find a parking space on a nearby street.
Chapter 26
Blank windows looked down at him from all around. Rubble glanced excitedly towards several, noticing the curtains drawn tightly together on the other side of the glass. Soon, he was at the small complex of bungalows. He headed straight for the corner property, passing quietly down the side alley and into the back garden. The first window he came to looked into the kitchen. The blinds were only half down and he stooped forwards to peer under the lowest slat. A simple kitchen. In the middle of a small table a teapot sat safely encased in a knitted cosy.
He stepped carefully past the back door to the next window. His view through this one was obstructed by a drawn pair of curtains. He moved to the centre of the glass where the material didn't quite meet, stood on tiptoe and looked through the gap.
On the bedside table a night-light shed its yellow glow about the room. He was just able to make out the figure of the old woman asleep in her wheelchair. She was sat facing the wall, hair tied back in a bun. Rubble crept up to the back door and tipped up the third pot along from the step. Underneath it a key gleamed. He picked it up, carefully inserted it into the keyhole and unlocked the door. It opened with a gentle click and Rubble slipped into the kitchen, closing the door behind him.
Silence.
He tiptoed across the lino floor, the soles of his boots making a small clicking sound as he went. Then he was on the carpet in the hallway and confidently approaching the front room.
He walked in and began to look around. On a small chest of drawers by the door stood a collection of china figures. A young boy in a nightshirt holding aloft a candle. A shepherdess clutching a lamb to her breast. Women in 1920s dresses frozen in the middle of dance steps. On the bedside table was a cluster of pill bottles, the labels indecipherable to him. Over on the mantle-piece an assortment of silver framed photos jostled for prominence. Black and white snaps of two babies, then colour ones of a girl and boy. Both dressed in knitted cardigans, one pink, one blue. A terry-towelling nappy bulky beneath the boy's shorts. A woman snuggled up to a man on a picnic blanket. The girl and boy, older now and in school uniform. Awkward smiles and knock-knees. A young man, undoubtedly the boy of a few years before, proudly brandishing a rolled-up certificate, mortarboard on his head.
His attention turned to the old woman: still he couldn't make out any signs of breathing. Only when he was kneeling at her feet, softly folding back the blanket draped across her lap was he able to make out the light sigh of her breath. His eyes kept returning to check her face as he turned the blanket right down, revealing two thin arms. One hand cupped the back of the other, so the underside of both forearms were exposed to his view. He removed the protective cap of the syringe and picked out a particularly plump vein just below the papery skin.
Slowly the tip of the needle punctured her flesh and entered the vein. As he began to press the plunger in, the old lady's other hand suddenly clamped over his wrist. He froze. Then, when nothing else happened, he looked fearfully up at her face.
White and rheumy eyes stared down at him, a faint smile on the bloodless lips.
Confused, Rubble continued looking back at her, unsure if she was actually awake. Or if she could even see. Her lips shut, but the smile remained there, as did the gentle, encouraging pressure on his wrist. With an imperceptible shrug Rubble emptied the syringe into her arm, watching as her eyelids slowly drooped shut and her hand slid off his wrist and back onto her lap. After extracting the needle he recapped the empty syringe and returned it to his pocket. Then, still kneeling there, he gently folded the blanket back up around her.
At the row of shops he slipped into the dark shadows behind an industrial size wheelie bin. Crouching amongst the urine-soaked rubbish, he waited for Eric to return.
Ten minutes later he heard a vehicle pull up on the road in front.
He peeped round the corner and saw Eric's car idling there. Quickly he emerged, crossed the pavement and got in.
'Mission completed?' asked Eric as he began to pull away.
'Sleeping like a baby,' said Rubble, face flushed with pride.
