Читать книгу Specials: Based on the BBC TV Drama Series: The complete novels in one volume - Brian Degas - Страница 19

The mother of the abandoned children had regained control of herself and made tea for them all on her spotless stove. Back in charge of her nerves, she was explaining to Viv – and incidentally to Miss Brownlow, who had doubtless heard the whole story – the series of misfortunes that had led to the near-disaster.

‘Sid – that’s my husband – was working in Wales. He couldn’t get a job around here, you see.’ Viv could surely understand that fact of life. ‘Anyway, he had an accident on the building site. His ankle got broke. It wasn’t all that bad, but I got a message saying it was serious.’

She paused to recall the worried state of her mind at that turning point, then continued. ‘Well, my Mum’s up in Carlisle, so Sid said his sister, Rosie – she stays with us – that Rosie could look after the kids.’

Her expression hardened after mentioning the name of her sister-in-law. ‘She’s back now. The Police picked her up at Birmingham Airport.’

Viv couldn’t help shaking her head in disgust. ‘She needs locking up, you know that. Where is she?’

‘Rosie?’ the children’s mother called out. After waiting for an answer, she called again. ‘Rosie?’

Across the room a door opened slightly and remained ajar. Soon a shadowy face peered through the gap. Presumably Rosie.

‘What d’you want?’ she asked sullenly.

The young mother spoke to her sister-in-law in a stern tenor. ‘There are people wanting to see you. So get in here.’

The door opened wider, and Rosie slouched into their presence, hugging herself, perhaps holding herself together in one piece. She looked as if she had fallen down a mine-shaft. In fact, she was the slattern Viv had expected to see when the children’s mother first opened the door.

Rosie must have taken note of Viv staring at her lumps, bumps and bruises. ‘I walked into a door,’ she scowled in non-explanation.

Unimpressed, Viv went straight after her. ‘Why’d you do it? Leave two small kids in a supermarket?’ She still couldn’t believe anyone would do something so stupidly dangerous, let along idiotic.

Rosie shrugged lackadaisically, absolving herself of any responsibility or blame. ‘I thought they’d be all right. Lots of people to look after them.’ Abruptly her vindication became vindictive. ‘How was I to know not one bugger would lift a finger? Bloody nice that is!’ The rest of the world was at fault, not her.

Viv was speechless, although her mouth was open. She kept staring as if Rosie were a zombie from outer space.

‘It’s all very well you looking at me like you was the Virgin Mary, but what would you have done?’ she asked Viv rhetorically.

‘What would I have done if what?’

‘If you’d been offered a free trip to Torremolinos with the likes of Bill Braddock …’

Confused, Viv couldn’t quite understand what Torremolinos or one Bill Braddock had to do with anything germane to their discussion. Perhaps Rosie would clarify her statement.

‘You could wait a thousand years to meet a man with a body like that!’

Oh, thought Viv, so that was the reason she deserted the children. And worse, she was serious …

The expensive drilling bit had been returned to the Byron-Newman engineering works, and the manager had agreed to talk with Special Constable Anjali Shah. They met outside the entrance.

‘I don’t know how you did it,’ he shook his head back and forth. ‘And I’m not asking why.’

‘You got your property back?’ she asked him to confirm.

‘Late this afternoon,’ the manager acknowledged.

Anjali reflected before going on, speaking slowly, impersonally, unapologetically. ‘What about charges?’

The manager gave her a searching look before conceding to her terms. ‘I won’t be pressing any.’ Yet he didn’t drop his judgmental gaze, and she realized he was trying to relate to her on some deeper level.

‘I suppose you have to look after your own. And far be it from me to damage race relations,’ he went on. Sadly, Anjali could sense the signals that he was about to deliver the same tired old sermon. ‘But listen, I’ve been to India. On holiday, Taj Mahal and all that guff. I know India.’ And how naively, casually, baldly he revealed that he knew nothing of the land at all. ‘Whether I press charges or not, it won’t make any difference. You know that. I know that.’ As if she were his co-conspirator in keeping the bloody wogs under control – and as if it were a privilege for one of her kind to be taken into his confidence.

As smart as they might be, some people would never learn. What he had assumed he had won, yet had just as surely lost, was her respect, though unnoticed and obviously of no importance to him.

Freddy Calder was chatting with two young Specials as a group of them were returning from duty to the Division ‘S’ entrance later in the evening. One of them had a lead on a place that could be ideal for him.

‘… Nothing fantastic, mind. Just a small bachelor flat,’ Freddy coaxed them, envisioning this private paradise in his daydreams, and, best of all, not envisioning his mother living there with him. ‘If you see anything, give us a bell, huh?’

Spotting Loach just inside the building, Freddy shifted into overdrive and accelerated into the station. ‘Bob …?’

Meanwhile, Viv Smith caught up with the two young Specials Freddy had left behind. ‘Forget it. He’s always looking for a place. He never ever follows any of them up.’ This function also fell under the heading of duty: educating the new recruits.

Hearing Freddy’s cry, Loach halted at the door to the parade room, where Freddy buttonholed him with a wink and a grin.

‘Going up to the 4th?’ Freddy inquired.

‘Sure. After I’ve seen the troops in.’ Only then did Loach think to question Calder’s motives. ‘Why?’

Freddy sidled up to Loach and spoke to him in the stage whisper reserved for confidential consultation. ‘Well … I have a sensational announcement of a sexual nature to impart.’

His hand always quicker than the beholder’s eye, Freddy whisked MacFoxy the puppet out of his pocket. The old furball, inspired by his master’s hand, undulated in the most highly suggestive manner to relay his not-so-subtle message.

‘It’ll make your pants dance, Loach.’

A conniving wink, and Freddy was off.

‘What? Now just hold it a sec, Freddy?’

Before Loach could stop him, Freddy had already disappeared deeper into the inner labyrinths of the building.

A few minutes later up at the Pub on 4th, Loach was keeping an eye out for Freddy and his puppet companion while sipping on a well-earned pint. Looking around to check the door, he saw Sergeant McAllister moving toward him with a tall fellow in tow. Just behind them were Anjali Shah and Toby Armstrong.

McAllister walked up to Loach’s table and presented his guest. Loach stood up to meet them.

‘John Redwood – this is Section Officer Bob Loach.’ Andy turned to Loach. ‘Mr Redwood is a budding Special, Bob. Could be under your wing any day now. Isn’t that right, John?’ When his gaze returned to Loach, he raised an eyebrow, disclosing a fly in the ointment. ‘’Course, that depends on whether he reaches the very high standards needed to join your merry men.’

Disregarding his irony, Loach couldn’t fail to notice that Redwood certainly had the physical framework to handle the job his monicker implied, resembling nothing less than a giant sequoia from California.

‘You’ll get a friendly reception here,’ Loach offered, shaking his hand firmly, eager to get started on the right foot.

‘You bet,’ McAllister agreed, motioning them to be seated. ‘We’re so understaffed we’d accept trained penguins.’

Loach and McAllister chuckled among themselves at that one. Only a trace of an amused smile crossed Redwood’s stiff upper lip, putting a dampener on McAllister’s jovial mood. In its place appeared a passing cloud, and he hesitated before giving Bob the weather report.

‘However, Bob … that’s not the reason I brought John up here.’

No? Loach silently asked, lifting an eyebrow at the trepidation in Andy’s official announcement.

‘No, I should’ve told you that Mr Redwood’s also a solicitor …’

‘Really?’ Loach didn’t have a clue as to what the sergeant was getting at or where he was heading.

‘Aye …’ There was no escape, so Andy might as well give it to him straight. ‘He’s handling the defence for Big Jess.’

For a moment, Loach didn’t quite comprehend what was being said or where the reference to Big Jess was coming from. The confusion must have registered on his face, as McAllister tried to humour him.

‘Joke, isn’t it? A prostitute on Legal Aid.’

Loach stared at John Redwood, solicitor and would-be blooming Special. He appeared to be the strong silent type. Again McAllister was compelled to blunder into the silence between them.

‘I did tell him that on one thing we are agreed. Big Jess is one hundred per cent guilty.’

Evidently that was not precisely Solicitor Redwood’s conclusion. Nonetheless, he stated his case, and minority opinion, quietly.

‘I believe that my client suffered a contusion of the jaw.’

That was it for Loach. The giant sequoia had outlived his prehistoric purpose. To make his point short and sweet, Loach showed the solicitor his bandaged thumb, feigning a thrust that might just accidentally stick it up his nose.

‘And I didn’t have a bust thumb before I met Big Jess.’

Redwood seemed unperturbed, merely formed the hollow smile of the bureaucrat’s mask. ‘Well, I hope you agree that everyone should have his or her day in court.’

McAllister almost blew a gasket. ‘Even when it’s a waste of the taxpayer’s money?’ He couldn’t conceal his contempt, nor his bewilderment.

Loach was getting ready to stick his still healthy and unfractured other thumb in the solicitor’s face when suddenly there was a commotion over by the piano. Momentarily, all eyes were distracted from ongoing business to find out what the fuss was all about.

Sure enough, it was Freddy Calder, trumpeting his grand entrance onstage. ‘Ta-ra!’

Scattered applause, laughter, hissing and heckling greeted Freddy’s fanfare for the common man, as he turned to wave a prearranged signal to Briggsy the barman. Briggsy then moved to a nearby panel of switches and instantly the entire pub was plunged into darkness.

Above the sudden gasps and surprised shrieks sang the stentorian tones of Freddy Calder, Master of Ceremonies. ‘For your delectation, ladies and gentlemen – the very latest from North Korea –’ he held their breath ‘– bra and panties that glow in the dark!’

Somewhere in the darkness where he was standing, Freddy removed his coat, revealing fluorescent glowing pink knickers and brassiere. By somehow wiggling his middle, the shocking pink lingerie was dancing in the dark.

In spite of the laughter and uproar, the mighty voice of thunder drowned out every other sound.

‘MR CALDER!’

The raucous noise was instantly reduced to hushed murmurs. After a short delay, the lights were switched on again.

Freddy was wearing the pink knickers and bra over his trousers and shirt, and that sight brought the house down in renewed laughter. Trapped as the fool with the house-lights on and the curtain still up, he looked in vain for the tyrant with the thunderous voice.

Sneaking up behind him, Sergeant McAllister, cloud-busting Zeus in the flesh, lowered his voice so that only Freddy could hear.

‘A word in your ear … darling.’