Heartland (27 page)

He had been half-asleep, on the edge of a dream, when he heard the first news report; it felt like he'd imagined it into being. He swung his legs off the end of the bed and turned up the volume, stood up to watch the pictures.

There was a moment when he waited for them to say his younger brother's name, to flash his picture up on the screen. He would be seventeen now. When they showed the boys' faces, he didn't know them – but it was as if he did. He might have known them had he stayed. They were younger than him. They'd have been the younger brothers and cousins of someone at the taxi office, maybe. He flipped channels to see other reports. They were guilty already, it had been decided. The reporters wanted to know how these boys from the English Midlands could end up in Afghanistan behind al-Qaeda lines.

He laughed and looked around the room. How did you end up anywhere? he thought.

Jim and Bill were putting up election posters on lampposts.
They should've been up weeks before, really, but there was only so much you could do with two of you. Jim hadn't intended being out this late, but Pauline said there was ten pounds missing from her purse and she thought Michael had taken it. He'd been answering back a lot lately and spending too long in the shower but that hadn't turned him into a thief. Pauline reckoned it had happened a couple of times but Jim thought it just as likely to be the new Saturday girl in the salon so they'd had an argument in lowered voices, eating bacon sandwiches in the conservatory. Then Jim started having it out with Michael, which was never very successful.

Michael, you didn't pick any money up yesterday, did yer?

Eh?

Yow ay picked any money up that was lying around have yer or maybe bin in yer mom's purse for any, have yer?

Bin dahn me mother's purse?

Well, yer know, yer might o needed it for summat.

Bin dahn me mother's purse like some sorta crackhead?

Michael was shaking his head, helping himself to some juice from the fridge.

Michael, love. I was just sayin to yer dad that I had thirty pounds in me purse an now I've onny got twenty. I wondered if you'd had to use it for summat.

What would I goo dahn yer purse for?

All right, if yer didn't take it, son, wim sorry. Iss just happened a coupla times lately an we want yer to say if yer need any extra money. We know yome gerrin older an maybe wanna goo out the house a bit more.

Accusin me o stealin. Michael was muttering.

Sorry, son, all right. Come an have yer bacon sandwich with us, eh? We can all sit together.

I'm gooin upstairs.

Come on, son, five minutes an we can have a chat.

I'm busy.

With that Michael had gone thumping up the stairs.

I cor say a word to him, Jim said to Pauline.

I'll try an have a word with him, while yome out.

That made Jim feel worse. You should be able to have a conversation with your own son, even if he was changing and a teenager now.

What dyer reckon he's busy doin up there? Jim asked, trying to make a joke.

Pauline smiled but he could see tears come in her eyes. He just couldn't speak to him.

He couldn't remember Rob being like it. Maybe he should talk to Kathleen, ask her what it was she used to do with him. Rob had his football, Jim supposed, when he
wasn't at school he'd be out playing, if not for a side then up and down on the grass outside the flats or over the park, even if he was just on his own banging a football back and forth against the wall. They should get Michael into something, anything, karate with Mark Stanley, even the army cadets, something, instead of sitting in that bedroom looking at the computer screen or, even more worrying now, shuffling out the house to God-knows-where.

Jim was heavy and ungainly on the ladders. He'd meant to ask Rob if he could come and help him. There was meant to be a system through the constituency party for getting posters up but it had gone to pot – or Trevor had got so annoyed with him he'd taken him at his word, left him to his own devices.

Two men were walking on the pavement towards Jim while he stood on the stepladders waiting for Bill to pass him some more cable ties from the car boot. The bigger one, the one with the leather jacket, Jim had nodded hello to in the Lion on a Sunday. The bloke lurched towards the steps with an exaggerated stride. As he did it, Jim thought he was going to knock the ladders from underneath him and, despite himself, threw his arms around the lamppost. The man swaggered away from the steps.

Watch yerself, he said, and he and his mate looked up and grinned. He spat in the gutter and turned away mumbling. The only bit Jim caught was, Fuckin council.

In the past Jim would've been down and after him. In the past it might not have happened. In the past Jim would've been after him, big bloke or not, and would have had him up against the wall of the baker's. Say that again an yow'll have another bad eye to worry abaht. Or saying nothing, just straight in and at him, putting him on the floor with his nose or his teeth in his hand. You had to stick up for yourself.

Instead, Jim found himself clinging to the lamppost, his
feet not quite steady on the step, not able to say anything because his mouth had gone dry and his heart was pounding. The two blokes went down the road, laughing; the one in the leather jacket looked back, stuck his fingers up. Jim shook his head, finally righted himself. Bill turned back from messing with the cable ties in the car boot, oblivious, whistling a Robbie Williams tune.

All right? he asked Jim. Yer wanna break in a minute?

No, fine, mate, fine.

Some time later, towards the other end of Dudley Road, nearer the mosque on the rise of the hill, looking back towards the works and Juniper Close, Jim could make out figures moving from house to house. There were two or three of them criss-crossing the road and the green where the children were playing. He saw a door open and a man with a big bare belly standing talking to the one in the blue suit with blond hair. That was Bailey himself, out canvassing. Even from this distance, half a mile nearly, you could see they were laughing. The fat man clapped Bailey on the shoulder and then Bailey walked away, still smiling, towards the end of the street. You could see the whiteness of his shirt from here, and the sheen from whatever he'd got on his hair. There were two others with him, in shirts and ties with short hair but not as glowing as him. They looked like Jehovah's Witnesses. Then, as Jim watched, with his poster half-attached to the lamppost, they walked towards the dip, towards Pauline's salon, and Jim could see through the trees that the van Bailey bent down and got into was a council works van with the logo clear on the side.

Woss gooin on here?! Jim shouted and jumped off the steps. He nearly turned his ankle on the kerb. Quick. Get in the car!

Woss the matter now? Bill turned as Jim was already clattering the steps into the boot, half-fixed poster swinging
from the post above them. You couldn't see back into the estate from pavement level.

Bailey, Jim said, fumbling with the keys. Canvassing up Juniper Close in a council van!

There were cheers, people banging tables, when the board went up to bring Batistuta off.
It was almost a carnival now, almost enjoyable. Crespo was coming on. The ball came to Sheringham again, another volley. This time he nearly kicked it to Korea.

They wanna be a bit steadier here.

Calm it down, his Uncle Jim shouted at the screen.

Rob leaned back, enjoying it for a minute. England would win the World Cup. Everything was going to be OK.

Nicky Butt took the ball off Aimar.

Nicky Butt, bloody brilliant, Jim announced.

There'd been a spell where they were murdering them. Glenn went down the left this time, outside his man, got the beating of them all, stopped it a yard in from the corner flag, beat the same man again, put a cross in with his right foot this time.

If Rob had kept running he would've got on the end of it, should've kept running, they needed one from somewhere. It was Paul Hill who'd gone in there, got his head down and onto it, looping in the air, over the keeper, dropping in, until Zubair appeared inside the post – he'd been lagging and keeping them onside – and headed it off the line.

Their heads dropped a little bit, like it was never going in. You needed a bit of luck. Next minute Twiglet tried to lay it back from midfield to Rob, and was miles short, Tayub was onto it. He swerved round Rob, who was back-pedalling, but was never going to get anywhere near him. Carl Jones was across but Tayub was away from him,
those red boots taunting them again, and he was through and that would be it, at two-nil, the league would be gone.

Carl Jones kept at him this time. Nibbled at his heels. Big Chris stood up. Tayub hit it off his shoulder, the ball came loose and Chris fell on top of it.

There was clapping again.

Chris was up quickly, bowled the ball out to Rob's feet.

By the time they'd turned the car around, Jim guessed that the van might have gone.
There was part of him, suddenly, waiting at the pedestrian lights, that thought it might be best not to run across the van at all. Still, you had to stand up for what was right. Chauffeuring candidates around in council vans wasn't right. He'd never been one for conspiracy theories but thoughts had crept in lately, that there were darker forces at work.

He drove the back way, to the canal end of Juniper Close, the direction in which the van had been pointed. There were a couple of little lanes here that ran through brambles into the works site, never really sealed off properly. You heard of all sorts going on down here. A man was stood with a dog on a lead waiting for it to finish a shit against a fence post, looking at them as Jim peered up the alleyways that led onto the works site.

All this place is good for these days, Bill said drily. In his free hand the man was holding a Tesco carrier bag, ready for the dog to finish.

I ay shekkin his ond, Jim said quietly to Bill, and then wound the window down.

Yow ay sin a council van drive up and down here, mate? Man and dog seemed to think carefully for a moment and then the man shook his head.

A council van? Yer woh see them fuckers dahn here, our kid. They knock off at twelve on a Saturday, any road. If they bother at all.

This left them to drive the length of Juniper Close, which Jim was never thrilled about at the best of times. A group of boys were playing football on the green in between the houses. There was no one else around apart from three little girls sitting on the wall where he'd seen Bailey walking from house to house. The window still down, Jim leaned out.

Hello, girls. Did yer see a man in a suit get into a van just here?

The eldest of the girls, seven or eight, holding an electronic game in her hand that she'd been showing to the other two, looked at him vacantly.

Did a van drive down here just now, girls?

The girl took a step nearer the car. Out of the corner of his eye Jim became aware that the football had stopped. A boy walked towards him, he was wearing a Cinderheath Juniors training top.

Stop talking to me sister, yer fuckin nonce.

The boy put his arm across the girl and stood looking into the car. A crowd of ten or so kids from the green walked down towards him.

I doh wanna hear that sorta language. I'm looking for a council van. I think one just drove up here and I need to find it, mate.

What, am yer pretendin to be a copper now, yer fuckin paedo? Fuck off.

Oi, I've tode yer to watch yer language, son. I'm askin yer a simple question.

The crowd of kids had now gathered around the car.

Who dyer think yome fuckin talking to? The boy's face had twisted. Two minutes before he'd been playing a nice game of football that Jim hadn't wanted to interrupt. Now there were muscles bulging out of his neck.

I think I should be sayin that to yow, son. Jim felt the urge to get out of the car, grab this foul-mouthed little lad
by the ear and go banging on his front door. A woman came out of the gate behind the kids, she walked towards them with her arms folded.

Woss gooin on? She spoke to the boy, not to Jim.

This one here. Stopped his car and started talking to our Leanne. Now he's pretendin to be some sort of copper after a council van or summat.

The woman was young, in her twenties, pale. Her hair was tied back but it fell out in strands on to her blue T-shirt. Jim didn't know her although she looked familiar.

Sorry, love. He tried a friendly tone but the tension came through in his voice. I'm lookin for a council van that come up here abaht five minutes agoo. There was people come rahnd canvassing, banging on doors, for the BNP, I think. I'm Jim Bayliss, yer councillor, yer might've sin me on the leaflets that come through the door.

What yer askin them for?

Eh?

What yer askin them for? They ay sin nothing. They ay speakin to strangers.

I ay a stranger. They was out playing when the van come up here. I just wanted to know.

Less leave this, eh, Jim. Bill spoke quietly.

What dyer mean yow ay a stranger. Do I know yer? Her face had pulled into the same expression as the boy's. Do I know yer? Her eyes were bulging.

I doh know if yer do but I've served this area for twenty-three years an bloody lived here all me life. I'm bloody President o that club whose training top he's wearin. If yer wanna know who I know, the Woodhouses at 18 and 21, Billy Smith dahn the end theer I went to school with. I onny live up the road meself, for Christ's sake, I doh have to justify meself to yow.

He was going short of breath.

I'm a Woodhouse. I doh know yer. Her voice had softened
a bit with recognition. She'd put her arm around her little girl. We doh have nuthin to do with the council.

Look, I'm onny askin if anybody ud sin a council van. I sid the bloke get in it just here, abaht five minutes agoo.

Did yer see anything? Again, to the boy.