Dark Side of the Street

'Until I get the right telephone call. Could be tomorrow. The day after at the latest. But don't worry. You're safe enough here. We're miles from anywhere.'

'And where exactly would that be?' Chavasse asked.

Crowther gave him a sly grin. 'That would be telling, now wouldn't it, Mr. Drummond? No, I couldn't do that. I've got myself to protect. You gents come down when you're ready. There'll be food on the table.'

The door closed behind him and Youngblood took off his jacket and draped it over a chair. 'What do you think?'

'I wouldn't trust him out of my sight for very long.' Chavasse moved to the window and peered outside. 'This place is like a bad film set for Wuthering Heights.'

Youngblood poured water from a large jug into a cracked basin and swilled his face and neck. 'I know one thing,' he said as he towelled himself briskly. 'He only has to make one wrong move and I'll break his bloody neck.'

Chavasse took off his raincoat and moved across to the basin. 'I've a feeling that might not be so easy where our boy Billy's concerned.'

'You've got a point there, but why cross bridges?' Youngblood grinned. 'Right now I'm more interested in ham and eggs. I'll see you downstairs.'

The door closed softly behind him and Chavasse stood frowning into the cracked mirror above the washstand. There was something wrong here, he had never been more certain of anything in his life. It spoke aloud in the girl's silence, in the slyness in Crowther's eyes when he glanced sideways, in the great shambling imbecile that was his shadow. But if something sinister was intended, what could it be? Crowther was no fool, that was obvious and must realise that together, Chavasse and Youngblood presented a formidable combination. Separated on the other hand … With a sudden exclamation, he hurled the towel from him, wrenched open the door and hurried downstairs.

When Youngblood went into the parlour there was no one there and he moved along the passage and entered the kitchen. Molly was standing at the stove in an old cotton dress that was a size too small so that the skirt seams had split in several places. She wore no stockings and when she turned to look at him he realised, with considerable disappointment, that the moon had lied. She was at best plain and with her high cheekbones, olive skin and overfull lips, many people would have considered her ugly.

'It's almost ready,' she said in that strange, dead voice of hers and smoothed her hands over her thighs. 'I'm just going out to the shed to get some more wood for the stove.'

She took a lantern down from a hook above the sink, lit it and moved towards the back door. Youngblood was there before her. 'Here, I'll take that,' he said. 'You could probably do with some help.'

She hesitated, gazing up at him, a strange uncertain expression in her eyes and then she handed him the lamp. 'All right. It's across the yard.'

The cobbles were damp in the night air and treacherous underfoot and Youngblood picked his way carefully, cursing when he stepped into a puddle and water slopped into one of his shoes. When the girl opened the door of the shed, he could smell mouldy hay, old leather and wood shavings and damp where the stars gleamed through a hole in the roof.

'Over here,' she said.

He went towards her, lantern raised and paused. A trick of the lamplight, he knew that, but for a moment she looked exactly as she had done down there on the road in the moonlight-as old as Eve and more beautiful than he had thought any woman could be.

She turned, leaning over the woodpile, one knee forward so that the old cotton dress tightened across her thighs like a second skin.

Five years. Five long years. Youngblood moved forward, reaching out to touch and she turned to face him. It was there in her eyes, the sudden shock, the knowing. For a moment they stayed that way and then she seemed to sway towards him.

From somewhere in the house Chavasse called, 'Harry, where are you?'

Youngblood smiled, reached forward and gently stroked her face with the back of one hand. 'Some other time perhaps? You take the lantern. I'll carry the wood.'

She moved back clutching the lantern in both hands, the knuckles gleaming white, betraying her inner tension. Youngblood piled half a dozen logs in the crook of one arm and led the way out.

As they crossed the yard Chavasse appeared in the kitchen doorway. 'So there you are? There didn't seem to be anyone around. I got worried.'

'Just helping with the chores.' Youngblood turned to Molly. 'Where's your father got to?'

'Here I am, Mr. Youngblood.' Crowther moved out of the shadows on the other side of the yard. 'Just settling the animals.'

'Where's Billy?'

'Never you mind about him. He sleeps in the barn. Best place for him. Are we all ready then?' He turned to the girl, rubbing his hands together and said jovially, 'By gum, I don't know what you've got for us, lass, but I could eat a horse.'

It was a good hour later when Billy shambled out of the darkness across the yard and approached the rear door. He opened it carefully and moved inside.

Crowther was sitting at the kitchen table smoking his pipe and reading a newspaper. He looked up and nodded calmly. 'There you are then, Billy.'

He went to a cupboard under the sink and came back with a ten-pound hammer. 'You know what to do?'

Billy gripped the hammer tightly in his right hand and nodded eagerly, saliva glistened on his chin.

'Good lad. Best get started then.'

Crowther opened the door, led the way along the passageway and mounted the stairs to the landing. He paused outside the end door, a finger on his lips and tried the knob gently. The door remained immovable and he turned calmly and pushed Billy back along the corridor.

At the bottom of the steps he paused and put a hand on the big man's shoulders. 'Never mind, Billy, there's always tomorrow,' he said.

In the bedroom, Chavasse and Youngblood stood in silence watching the door knob turn. When the soft footsteps had faded along the passageway, Youngblood's breath left his body in a long sigh.

'My God, I'm glad you're here,' he said to Chavasse. 'I feel like a ten-year-old kid that's looking for a bogie in every cupboard.'

'In this house you'd probably find one. Still, there's one good thing.'

'What's that?'

Chavasse grinned. 'It's nice to know I'm wanted.'

7

Something Nasty in the Woodshed

Rain drifted against the window with the dismal pattering and Chavasse looked out across the farmyard morosely. In the grey light of early morning, it presented an unlovely picture. Great potholes in the cobbles filled with stagnant water, archaic, rusting machinery and a profusion of rubbish everywhere.

'Have you ever seen anything like it?' Youngblood asked in disgust. 'Talk about Cannery Row.'

Chavasse went to the table and poured himself another cup of tea. 'What time is it?'

'Just coming up to nine forty-five.'

'And Crowther said the funeral was at ten. They should be back here by half past.' He nodded at the table. 'Had enough to eat?'

'Yes-you fry a good egg.'

Chavasse opened the kitchen door and looked up at the hill on the other side of the yard. There was a small grey stone hut on top and a scattering of grimy looking sheep.

'Think I'll take a walk-see what I can see.'