The Ghost in the Electric Blue Suit (20 page)

“We’re looking for a place called Black Bank,” Colin said.

We’d been driving for maybe an hour, and after crawling through the village we found Black Bank. About half a mile from the village a field on the embankment of a hill had an area fenced off with steel-wire mesh. A sign hung lopsided from a single screw:
DANGER: DEEP SHAFT, NO ADMITTANCE
. Colin parked and switched off the lights.

“What is this place?”

“Old coal mine. They’re capping it over. If anyone comes,” he said, “we just pretend we’re queers.”

“What?”

“There’s two bags in the back behind you. And there’s another three bags in the boot.”

“What’s in the bags?”

“We’re slinging ’em down that shaft.”

“Why?”

He looked at me like I was simple, a half smile on his face. “Jus’ fuckin’ do it, all right?” He opened his door and got out.

My mouth was dry. I got out of the car and looked across the field. Someone had already peeled back the steel-wire mesh to get to the shaft. I don’t know what had been dumped down the shaft but there was a pile of hard-core rubble outside the protected area and a lot of building materials—sand and gravel—plus industrial drums inside the fence. There was a five-bar farmer’s gate leading onto the land. Colin went up to the gate and gave it a shake. It was padlocked.

“We have to carry it. I’ll help you wiv it over the gate. If anyone comes while you’re up there I’ll drive away, turn around, and come back. You just keep low.”

Colin went back to the car and opened the back door. He started wrestling with a black bin liner that was in the foot-well. It looked heavy. “Come on.”

I went over to help him. The bin liner was tied at the top so I couldn’t see what was in it, but I could smell it. It was the source of the odor that had been bothering me. When we got the first heavy bin liner out, I knew what was inside. “Look, what’s in it?” I said again, pointedly.

“Condemned meat,” he said matter-of-factly. “We’re dumping it.”

“Why?”

“Questions fuckin’ questions. Get it over the gate.”

The bags were heavy. We dumped two from the back of the car over the gate, and then we carried the other three from the boot and dropped those over the gate.

“You’re gonna have to take them up there and drop ’em over the edge. I’ll sit ’ere.”

“Why can’t you help me?”

“Told you. I’ll drive away if anyone comes. Get on with it.” Carrying the bags on my own was difficult. I started shaking again and the strength drained out of me. But I half dragged the first bag along the parched and baked clay, stirring up dust. I managed to maneuver the bag through the broken fence and right up to the edge of the shaft.

There were more than a dozen metal drums near the shaft, all stamped with biohazard symbols. The shaft was no more than a shadow in the ground. It had been shored up with wooden planking on three sides and had a rough derrick structure straddled across it. I dropped the bag on the dry earth and looked back at Colin in the car. He was some distance away, and he had the courtesy light on and appeared to be studying the map. I was sure he couldn’t see me in the dark. While I could see his shape behind the wheel I knew that at least he wasn’t planning to shove me down the shaft. Not until I’d disposed of the bags, at least.

I tore open the bag and sure enough I found raw meat. I had no way of knowing what kind of meat it was. It smelled worse now that I’d opened the bag. I thought about the other four. I was trying to calculate how much meat there was in each bag. More than would comprise one human being, I was certain. More like two people, at least.

I put the toe of my trainer against the bag and tried to push it in but I couldn’t put enough force behind my foot. I was also afraid of getting too close to the edge, maybe losing my footing and going down with it. I needed Colin to help
but there was no way I was going to invite him up there with me. I found a plank of wood and managed to lever the bag of meat closer to the edge. At last it went tumbling over the edge and into the gaping black hole. I didn’t hear it hit the bottom.

I stared after it. My shoulders were shaking. I looked down at the car. Colin had gotten out to see what was holding me up so I made my way back down to collect a second bag.

“Whassup?” he said.

“Heavy.”

“Pussy.”

I took the second bag up to the shaft. This time I dropped it on the end of the plank of wood, so that all I had to do was to lever the plank. The second bag dropped without a sound. I took a deep breath and went back for the third bag. Colin saw me coming and got back into the car. I dumped the third bag and by the time I got the fourth up to the shaft I saw headlights coming toward me along the unlit country lane. Colin moved off in the Hillman Minx. I left the bag next to the shaft, slipped through the mesh fence, and ran to the edge of the field, keeping in the shadows. The car approached and cruised by. After it had gone I went back to the shaft.

Colin hadn’t yet returned. Something sharp was pressuring the black plastic of the fourth bin liner. I had a moment or two before Colin came back so I tried to see what it was. In the darkness I saw the longish fingernails of a human hand. I tried to tear open the plastic, but this one was made of very thick, durable stuff. Colin still hadn’t come back.

I found a rusty nail in a piece of scrap wood and with shaking hands I worked it out so that I could use the nail to tear at the black vinyl. I was hyperventilating trying to get it
open. When it did pop the sharp thing I’d taken to be human fingers pushed through the plastic.

It was a pig’s trotter.

I was drenched in sweat. My breath started to come back. I staggered out through the wire mesh, went down to the gate, and fetched the final bag. I dragged it along in the dust, took it up to the shaft, and placed it on the end of my plank. As I levered the bag down the shaft, Colin cruised back into position by the gate and killed his lights. I tossed the plank down the shaft after the bags and made my way back to the car.

“All done and dusted?” Colin said, when I got in beside him.

“Done.”

He started up the engine and flicked his headlights on again. “Look at the state of you! Worked up a bit of a sweat, son.”

“Yeh.”

He smiled. “Fuckin’ stooodunts.”

On the way back he told me “they”—and he didn’t say who “they” were—had been caught selling condemned meat. It was slaughterhouse waste they were repackaging. When I asked him why he couldn’t dump it anywhere, like in the sea, he said that it was legal evidence. It had been confiscated by the authorities, stamped, and frozen to be exhibited in a court of law. “They” had had to steal it back. Colin said he wanted to dump it where no one could find it. If there was no evidence, there was no case.

I sat in the car feeling cold and with my sweat chilling on my skin, wondering whether to believe him. I tried to speak a few times and then finally got up the courage to say, “By the way, I haven’t seen Terri for a while.”

His jaw set. He fixed his eyes on the road ahead.

“You still want me to keep an eye on her, right?”

“You know what?” he said. “I was wrong about that fucking Italian geezer.”

“Oh?”

“It wasn’t him.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t you worry about Terri no more.”

“Why is that?”

“I told you: Don’t you worry about Terri no more.”

That was his last word on the matter.

When we got back to the resort he shoved something in my breast pocket.

“What’s that?”

“I’m looking after you, ain’t I?”

It was about three thirty when I got out of the car. He drove off. I pulled three ten-pound notes out of my breast pocket.

16

ZEN AND THE ART OF IGNORING ARCHERY

Next morning I was assigned to archery on the football field. Whereas I was hoping to work with Nikki again, I was given Nobby instead. I understood that the previous week Nobby had cocked up the Whist Drive resulting in a silver-haired uprising, so Nikki had been drafted in to pacify the octogenarian rebels and run it instead. Nobby, along with me, was presumably trusted not to cause too much upset with the bow and arrow.

We walked together from the theater and he was in high spirits already, even though he’d been given a formal warning that if he didn’t buck up his ideas he’d be out of a job. He claimed no one would tell him why.

“But I know why,” he said as we approached the white-painted shed where the straw clouts and archery equipment were locked away. “I know fuckin’ well why: Someone busted Sheik Ben-Gaza’s sword cabinet, that’s fuckin’ why, and then cleverly got the finger pointed at me.”

I unlocked the shed and started the job of carrying out
the target stands and the clouts. They were heavy and Nobby showed no signs of helping, though he did keep pace with me to continue his cheerful prattle. As I was setting the first clout in the middle of the field, he told me, “They won’t say that’s what it is, but it
is
what it is, and I
know
what it is. Do you know what it is? Do you know anything about it?”

I shook my head and pretended to look puzzled by the unfolding of the A-stands for the straw clouts. I’d got my own mysteries to figure out. My sleep-deprived brain was clacking like beads back and forth on an abacus but without ever adding up to anything. I was running events over and over in my mind. Like the fact that Colin had worn a pair of gloves while we were dumping the meat. Which of course meant that were there any fingerprints on those plastic bags, they would be all mine.

I was a bit short with him. “I’ve got my own problems, Nobby.”

Nobby wrinkled his brow at that and followed me back to the shed in a unique silence. When we got to the shed he pushed me inside and closed the door behind him.

“Sit down,” he said. “Go on, sit down.” I sat on one of the straw clouts and so did he. He whisked a tobacco tin from his jacket pocket and from it withdrew three cigarettes papers. “Now listen to Uncle Nobby, because he understands and he has what you need and what we all need and what everyone needs, and in fact he’s not here just to be a figure of fun oh no he’s here to help and that’s Nobby’s mantra if you can be of help be of help, right, this is the answer which comes from the ting-ting!” During the course of this prattle he licked the gummed edge of the papers, rapidly skinned up a joint,
took from his other pocket a bag of grass, crumbled it into the tobacco, rolled it, lit up, and blew a big cloud of smoke into my face. It took him maybe seven seconds. Then he took another drag and passed the joint to me.

I looked at it. “I don’t,” I said.

“Ah, resistance! The mind is moving. But you must still the mind before the mind can move. This is the answer that comes to us from the ting-ting!”

When he said “ting-ting” he floated a finger toward heaven. “What?” I said.

“Just fuckin’ smoke it and your problem will be as smoke. Trust old Uncle Nobby, who is here to help.”

Well, I needed something. I accepted the joint, took a drag, and inhaled. As a nonsmoker I was determined not to let it make me cough. I held the smoke back in my lungs and immediately felt light-headed, probably from the effects of the tobacco rather than from the grass.

He nodded encouragement for me to take another drag. “Which is a medicament of Oriental persuasion, yes, a beneficial herb, derived from the many-splendored alternatives to a reality check. Now be a good chap and let Nobby have the joint back because what you’re doing is called in hipster terminology bogarting the joint otherwise known in Manchester as please pass the fuckin’ duchy.”

I took this to mean he wanted me to give the thing back to him, which I did and he received it magnanimously, as if I’d been the one to provide it in the first place. We shared the joint until it was finished, then tumbled out of the shed, probably along with a great belch of smoke. Meanwhile the
children waited patiently, with their mums and dads, for us to finish setting up.

When the setup was complete I ordered Nobby to stand at the side of the targets to make sure no one wandered behind. Still talking, he did as instructed, mainly because it required no effort. Then I flung myself into advising and helping the holidaymakers, offering the bit of technique that had been shown to me. I even tossed in a joke about not aiming an arrow at Nobby unless they were certain they could hit him. I got distracted for a moment when I was rather taken by the depth of hue of the brilliant red, white, and blue targets, but largely the grass had done its job of relaxing me. Meanwhile a little girl decided she wanted to stand next to me and hold my hand throughout the event.

After a while I called a halt to collect arrows and Nobby used this opportunity to wander over and tell me how he planned to give Sheik Ben-Gaza—which of course was his name for Abdul-Shazam aka Tony—a piece of his mind if anything else was said. “You know why they don’t like me, don’t you? You know that? Eh? Eh?”

“ ’Coz you don’t do any work?”

“No, you lout. It’s because I’m the only one who has called them on their evil politics, that’s why. It’s like history didn’t happen with this mob, they’ve got collective amnesia; they all wanna get dressed up in buckles and boots and eagles and leather and and and the whole Nazi regalia and if you have anything to say about it you’re stuffed. What if we were to tell all these holidaymakers their entertainments program was being run by the Nazi Party? Eh? Eh? What would they make
of that? How about that? Ladies and gentlemen, the Junior Bathing Belle is brought to you today courtesy of the Panzer Division of the Skegness Reich? Eh?” Then he laughed. Quite seamlessly and with no pause for breath in the middle of this tirade he said to me, “Are you tapping that Nikki?”