Cut to the Chase (28 page)

He emerged into heavy rain as the tunnel portal passed over him and then receded astern. He felt a great load go from his mind. The weather was overcast when he emerged, and it was tending to become very dull, the time now was about 6.00 pm. An industrial barge was about to make its way in.

‘Watch the water in the middle, it's coming down heavily,' Wallace called, and the red jacketed man in jeans at the tiller raised a hand in acknowledgment.

As happens so often to all of us when we sit and dread having to take a course of action, or lie in bed before a day starts and consider almost impossible tasks ahead with a sinking feeling, Wallace realised that despite his initial fears he had negotiated the tunnel without mishap, as he had done with the two tunnels further south. He wondered what on earth he had been worrying about.

There was a pub around the next bend, or so the guidebook said. It was in the middle of the industrial conurbation of the Midlands, and several factory chimneys could be seen releasing smoke into the air as the boat moved slowly on. He studied the map in the book and confirmed he was in the right spot. There was a landing stage, with some steps leading up the side of the cutting and there was a cluster of boats around it. One of them he recognised as belonging to Fred Hackett, and another looked like the one that belonged to his friend named Bert who had passed by as they had been saying their farewells.

Wallace moored the boat, had a brief meal on board and then decided to head up the steps for a pint, he decided to go dressed as he was and not bother to change. A quick glance at the assembled boats indicated that Fred Hackett and his friend were still in the vicinity, most likely at the pub.

Wallace didn't feel like swilling too much ale, so he left it fairly late before climbing the steps, it was approaching 9.30 pm and presumably close to closing time, just enough time for one pint. There was still a hint of rain in the air and he wandered along the road that ran alongside the canal to the small pub that could be seen on the corner on the other side of the street.

Two men emerged from the pub as Wallace approached; they paused by the door, and then headed in his direction, walking slowly along on the opposite side of the street chatting to each other. Wallace could see that one of them was Fred Hackett as they passed under a street light. He passed behind a stationary van parked by the kerb, and prepared to cross the street to give Fred a hail, but was quite unprepared for what happened next.

A gang of youths had suddenly emerged from the shadows and descended upon Fred and his companion. They confronted them initially, then closed aggressively around them and then a brawl started, five youths started kicking and punching the two men mercilessly. For a moment Wallace was paralysed with horror, the street was not well lit but the fracas was near enough to a nearby street lamp to see what was going on.

Wallace did not profess to be a brave man, like many he had often wondered how he would react should he see an occurrence such as this. But there was one unpredictable factor. Wallace was on a short fuse. After all he had been through in the last two weeks anything that reeked of unprovoked violence or attacks had the effect of making him fighting mad. There was a short piece of wood lying in the gutter, it had either fallen from a passing truck or else it had strayed from the building site over the road where some renovations were being carried out. Either way, the result was the same. It was what is loosely described in building circles and police bulletins as a piece of 3 x 2!

Wallace snatched it up, gave a roar and bounded across the road. Despite his war cry the youths were so deeply engrossed in their cowardly attack that they were unaware of the presence of another party until he landed amongst them and hit the nearest assailant across the back of the head, Wallace was in no mood for niceties. His victim was a black youth, as were two of the other attackers; he gave a loud cry of pain and fell to the ground. Wallace's next hit was across the back of the knees of a crop headed white youth attacking Fred Hackett, he fell over backwards and Wallace hit him in the stomach with the end of the piece of wood. The third one saw him coming and held up his hands in self defence, but such was the force of Wallace's blow that it burst through his hands and hit him across the left ear and he reeled against the wall clutching his head. Fred's companion, presumably his friend Bert, took advantage of the respite to hit home with his boot. Wallace's fourth intended victim managed to seize hold of the wood, the time of reckoning could well have caught up with him at that stage but Fred Hackett swung into action and his fist connected with the side of the youth's head.

Then there was a shout from the pub on the corner. A man had come out, seen what was going on, had retreated back into the bar room to summon assistance by shouting through the open doorway, then he and four or five other men piled out and there was a pounding of feet as they all came running in the direction of the fracas. The gang fled, two of them clutching their heads and one of them running with a pronounced limp.

Fred Hackett and his companion clambered slowly to their feet.

‘Weer did yo' spring frum?' was Hackett's first question.

‘I was coming for a pint,' Wallace answered. ‘I saw your boat down below so I decided to give the pub a try.'

‘Fuckin' good job you did!' said his companion, who was holding his head and Wallace assumed this was Bert. He was bleeding from a cut on the head and his shirt was ripped, he'd probably have a shiner the next day.

‘What the fuck was going on?' panted one of the newcomers as he arrived. ‘Is everyone all right?'

‘Ah, we'm aright,' said Fred, rubbing his wrist. ‘But we wun't 'ave bin if it wor for 'im.'

More people began to emerge from the pub and Wallace started to become uneasy. Before he knew what was happening he found himself being treated as a hero. This was a worry. This could get his picture into the papers if he wasn't careful, and in turn could put either the hounds or the police onto his trail.

‘It was nothing,' he protested. ‘Look it was nothing…!'

But clearly the pub denizens didn't think it was nothing, he received several slaps on the back which nearly precipitated him into the gutter.

‘Come in and have a drink, mate…on the ‘ouse!' said one man who was clearly mine host and Wallace found he was being swept into the bar-room of the pub by an enthusiastic crowd. A pint pot was thrust into his hand and he was clearly expected to drink it; he had no objections to that. He knocked it back with relish, and then he went cold with alarm.

‘Well done, mate,' the landlord said. ‘I've sent for the cops, they should be here any minute.'

Wallace downed the pint pot and it was refilled, he found Fred Hackett at his elbow.

‘I've got to go Fred,' he said desperately. ‘How do I get out of here?'

‘Ay yo waitin' for the coppers?'

‘I can't Fred, I have to go.'

Hackett looked at Wallace quizzically, his eyes bored into his. A simple boatman he may have been, but in those eyes was a depth of wisdom and experience of life.

‘Gents toilet out the back, through that doo-er theer,' he indicated a door at the rear of the bar-room. ‘Then over the fence, get into the street at the back, then round the corner on the right and then cross the street out the front here, and down the bank to the cut.'

‘All right…just listen. Say you've no idea who I was…I can't stay. Look, I'll explain later…OK?'

‘Never sid yo' afore…too dark to see…big blowk…over six foot… right?'

Again his eyes held Wallace's, who nodded.

‘Yo'd best be a-gooin'!' he said and jerked his head towards the front, they could both hear sirens. ‘See yo' at the next lock, aright?'

Wallace nodded again.

‘I'll just go then, see you later.'

Wallace took several mouthfuls from the second pint and then made his escape, encountering a few handshakes and back slaps on the way, and made his way out at the rear. He clambered over the fence and found himself in a street at the rear. He ran to the right, turned right again and after a quick look left and right ran across the street where he had broken up the fight. He dived down the bank and as he did so a police vehicle was already drawing up outside the pub.

He stumbled down the bank, untied the mooring rope and climbed aboard. He pushed off from the bank and started the engine.

In a television thriller, especially those emanating from Hollywood, it appears to be standard verbiage for the hero to say ‘I'm wanted by the police but I've been framed!' Whereupon everyone accepts it at its face value and the gospel truth, and they all rally around to assist the fugitive and mislead the police. In real life to make such a statement would be quite unrealistic. The oblique reference given to Fred Hackett was enough for him after Wallace had rescued him from a gang of thugs, but Wallace could see that he had a problem. He was reticent about saying: ‘I'm wanted for murder,' even to a man like Fred, whatever favours Wallace had done him and however grateful Hackett may be.

It was well after dawn before they finally met up again. Wallace had taken it slowly after pulling away from the vicinity of the pub and he had halted further up the canal. He realised that Fred must have overtaken him during the night because as he approached the lock Fred had already passed through it and was patiently sitting on the wall at the far end smoking his pipe.

He emptied the lock for Wallace and he steered into it, Fred closed the gates and it slowly filled. He was watching Wallace closely most of the time, probably assessing his capabilities as a boatman as well as being curious.

‘Bit of a scrap!' Wallace said brightly as he alighted and they shook hands.

‘Good job yo' wuz theer,' was Fred's laconic reply.

Wallace sat on the wall next to him and there was silence. Finally Fred broke it.

‘Yo' in trouble?'

Wallace nodded.

‘Yo' wanna say what?'

Wallace shook his head.

‘A'right, it's your business,' he said and relit his pipe.

‘I'd like to tell you, Fred, but you're better off not knowing… for the present anyway.'

‘Arright!' he said and puffed clouds of tobacco smoke into the air. ‘But thanks for lending us an 'and, they wuz too many for me and Bert.'

‘Who were they?'

‘Dunno…but they'm everywheer. Bloody gangs of young 'ooli-gans who attack ordinary blokes like thee and me. Not the fust time it's 'appened round 'ere.'

‘How's Bert?' Wallace asked.

‘'E's arright…'e says to say 'allo and thanks. He 'ad to go early, but 'e won't forget neither.'

‘Where are you heading?' Wallace asked to change the subject.

Hackett told him. He had to unload down the canal, or ‘cut' as he called it and then had another load for Stourport. Then back up to Stourbridge, through Birmingham and back down the Grand Union to London. They chatted on for about an hour and then solemnly shook hands and bade each other farewell.

He gave Wallace a wave as his boat got under way and set off. Wallace watched him go regretfully as he slowly receded into the distance. He had longed to take Fred into his confidence, but with a murder charge hanging over him it was quite impracticable.

Wallace hoped that one day he would meet him again, during the short acquaintance he had begun to feel quite a regard for him. Fred gave a final wave as he passed under a bridge, Wallace returned it and then he vanished from view.

As Wallace fended off the bank he considered his next move. Maybe it would be best to head for the Stourbridge arm of the canal and then look for Murray Craddock's abode. If Wallace was able to take a few shots of him he could take his leave and concentrate upon threading his way around the canal system. Maybe a further call to McKay would be in order to see if he had found out anything.

It would probably be a good idea to call in the Stourbridge Post Office; McKay had mentioned that he would drop him a line Poste Restante there, in the name of Bramble.

W
allace circled the house several times, it was on a corner and he examined every car in sight after the bus dropped him at the end of the road. He could see nothing that aroused suspicion; no car was occupied by any sinister men in slouch hats so he devoted his attention to the undergrowth. He became aware of three small boys eyeing him with interest as he peered through one gate into a solid bush behind it; he hastily cleared his throat and moved on. Then he realised he had walked past Craddock's house and had to run the gauntlet back through the small boys once more.

He knocked at the door, being still unsure of his motives for embarking upon a friendship with Murray Craddock alias Adam Morris. The original plan had been to disappear within England until matters regarding Ravindran's murder had been sorted out, using a mode of transport that would not attract too much attention. Taking a ‘part-time' job in snapping an expatriate Australian to ascertain whether he was the missing Murray Craddock, at a distance, to check that he was who he said he was or wasn't, or to note any minor changes in appearance to enable McKay and his blasted ASIO friends to keep their files up to date, had not been on his agenda.