Martindale, had called him back from the bar, into the doorway. Why did he allow the swearing, cursing, drink-talk? Because without these people they'd be at the wall, tramping to the bankruptcy hearing, that was why. She'd gone back upstairs to the flat over the bar.
The till rang again. They were the only customers he'd have in that night: everyone else was in the hall.
Vince said, 'What I'm reckoning, if the bastard's still here when summer comes, the season starts, we can kiss goodbye to visitors.'
Gussie capped him.
'No bloody visitors. No money. Need the visitors.'
Donna said, 'Something's got to be done, some bugger's got to have the balls to do something.'
It was all the custom he had, and all he was likely to have if the visitors stayed away because armed police were combing the village. Who'd let kids run round? Who'd sit on the green with a picnic or go walking on the beach? Most important, who'd sit on the bench outside the pub with a warm pint and crisps for the kids? Who'd be there if the village, when the season came, was a gun camp? He'd be finished if there were no visitors, and the others with him.
Gussie shouted, 'They got to know they're not wanted, got to know it straight and they're going to.'
Vince wanted a plate of chips.
Martindale left the bar and went upstairs to ask his wife to make a plate of chips. He could charge a pound for a plate of chips. He apologized to her, but they needed each pound going into the till. He'd told her, when they'd started in the pub, that it would be a money trail, and now he was grateful for the money earned by a plate of chips. He went back down to the bar and Gussie wasn't there. He thought Gussie had gone to piss, and his glass, half full, was on the bar counter. He seemed not to hear the complaining whine across the bar. The bank's letter was in his mind, and the letter from the brewery that stated he was under-performing.
Martindale saw Gussie through the front window, crossing the car-park and weaving. He was carrying a light plank, one of those the builders had left when he'd said he couldn't afford for them to complete the work on the outside lavatories. Martindale watched him lurching away into the darkness, beyond the reach of the lights, the plank on his shoulder.
He held her. Meryl had his promise, and the tension of her muscles ebbed. She lay soft against him. He heard the brief triple ring of the bell, then Blake's voice and Davies's wishing him a good night. Davies said, Frank heard it, that the 'bloody place was quiet as a grave'. He heard Blake settle in the dining room, and check the machine-gun they shared. If he hadn't given his promise, she would have taken down the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, and left.
He had been stifled in the house. Ahead of him was a meal alone in a pub, then the suffocation of the room in the bed-and-breakfast.
Bill Davies walked past his car. He had to think, had to be alone. There was no escape from the need to call home. There were enough of them gossiping in his section for him to know the talk of a marriage going down. Some said that, actually, they felt the better for it when it was over. A few said, in a bar with drink, that when it was over the loneliest time in their lives began. He had to steel himself to talk with Lily in the hope that she would let him chat to Donald and Brian. It would probably be like the last time, silences and refusal, then the challenge as to when he was coming home, to which he had no answer, then the purr of the cut call. He had to think, had to walk, had to know what he would say.
The rain lashed down.
The road in front of him, towards the hall's lights and the pub's bright windows, was empty.
There was a shadow of movement at the side of the road, beyond the throw of the lights from the hail and he thought it would be one of the old idiots who took their dogs out, sunshine or rain, and was sheltering against a tree or a hedge.
He wrapped his heavy coat closer round him. His shoes and the trousers at his ankles were already soaked.
He would say, 'I love you. I love my boy's, our boys. I want to be with you. I want to share my life with you… I am a policeman, I carry a Glock pistol, I protect people who are under threat… I cannot change. I can't go back to chasing thieves, seeing kids across roads. I have to live with it, you have to live with it. Living with it, Lily, is better for both of us than splitting. Splitting is death. Death for me, death for you, death for Donald and Brian. Anything is better than us meeting on the doorstep on Saturday mornings, if I'm not working, and you looking at me like I'm dirt, and letting the kids out with me for four hours, a football match and a McDonald's. Give it another chance…'
The words jangled in his mind, and he was so tired. He had been sitting for twelve hours in the dining room of the house with his flask of coffee and his sandwiches, with his Glock and his machine-gun, with his newspaper, and listening to them. He was trying to put Lily forefront in his mind, and his boys and they were second best to Meryl Perry. Lily wouldn't understand about Meryl Perry, wouldn't… The shot blasted out.
He froze. There was no pain, no numbness and he was standing. The shot had missed.
He spun but they didn't do pitch-darkness practice at Lippitts Hill. They did daytime firing or were under the arc-lights in the shooting gallery.
He was reaching under the heavy coat, under his jacket, for the Glock. He had it out of the holster. He was turning, aiming into the blackness in front of him.
He was screaming for control, for dominance.
'Armed police! Throw your weapon down! Show yourself!'
But he was in the light, and the rain was in his eyes, and couldn't see a target. If there had been anything to aim at he would have fired, not shouted. Finger on the trigger guard, like they taught -where was the bastard?
'Get forward, to me, crawl, or I shoot I fucking shoot. Weapon first, then you! Move.'
Bill Davies had never had his gun out before, never drawn it for real. Now he saw the movement… His finger slipped from the guard to the trigger. Not simunition in Hogan's Alley, not on the range. His finger locked on the trigger, and he began to squeeze. He blinked, tried to focus on the aim into the darkness.
A plank fell towards him, bounced twice, and came to rest at his feet. There was a whimpering in front of him, and an identifiable movement. He had the aim on it, and his finger was tightening.
'Come out! Come out or I shoot!' Davies bellowed at the blackness.
The shadow came, with it a whining cry. The young man crawled on his knees and elbows towards the light.
Davies knew it was over. He had been so shit scared and it made him angry. He saw the slack mouth of the young man and the terror in his eyes. He had seen him in the pub. They used planks in Ireland kids and women used to stand in darkness, put their weight on a plank end, wait for a patrol to pass then heave up the other end of it to let it smash down on tarmac or paving, its sound the replica of a bullet firing. They did it to wind up the soldiers. It was sport. He had been at the edge of firing… It was unnecessary but he caught the collar of the young man and dragged him across the road, out into the street-light. He threw him flat on his stomach, drove the barrel of the Glock into his neck, put a knee into the small of his back and, one-handed, frisked him. He could smell old beer and new piss. He had been at the edge of killing a drunk who'd played a game. He stood high over him and used his foot to turn him over. He saw the big stain where the young man had wet himself and the scratches on his face from being dragged over the road surface. The man made little noises of terror, and Davies realized he still covered him with the gun.
He shouldn't have, but he kicked the young man hard in the wall of the stomach.
'Go on, get back to your mammy. Tell your mammy why you pissed your trousers. Ever try it again, you're dead.'
The young man scrambled to his knees, then to his feet, then lurched away sobbing. Davies watched him as he ran towards the hall and the pub's lit windows.
He walked back to his car outside the house and slumped in the seat. He didn't know why he hadn't made the final squeeze on the trigger that would have killed the kid, and his whole body shook. He knew he would make no phone call that night.
'… wildlife is a jewel we are fortunate to see. The brightest of the jewels, making the incredible journey to a~d from west Africa each year, coming back to us, to our place, each spring, is the marsh harrier. We are a privileged people. Thank you.'
The applause burst around Dr. Julian Marks. The lights came on.
