The Murder Pit. Mick Finlay
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‘Dogs!’ cried the man. They stopped for a moment, then started up again. The man picked up a stone from a pile as lay by the door and hurled it at them. They jumped back, whining.
‘We’ve come all the way from London,’ said the guvnor. ‘It really is most important we talk to her.’
‘You’re to do it through Mr Outhwaite.’
‘We cannot do that, sir,’ said the guvnor, trying on his kindest smile. ‘We’ve no choice but to return until we see her.’
‘You don’t want to become a nuisance, old chap.’
The guvnor thought for a moment, then said, ‘I’m going to be honest with you, Mr Ockwell. We aren’t lawyers. Birdie’s parents sent us. They’re worried she hasn’t answered their letters. They wanted us to talk to her, to make sure she’s content. All we need is five minutes with her and then we’ll never come again.’
‘So there’s no inheritance?’ asked Godwin, lifting his hand to wipe away some spit from the droopy side of his mouth.
‘I’m afraid not. I said we were on legal business, that was all. Miss Ockwell assumed we were lawyers. I’m afraid I didn’t correct her.’
‘Three rail fares that cost us.’
The guvnor fished in his purse and pulled out a shilling and a sixpence. ‘I’m sorry for the trouble, sir.’
Godwin took the coins. ‘Now bugger off, and don’t come back or you’ll taste my shot.’
‘Just five minutes, Mr Ockwell. Please.’
‘Tell her parents she’s happy as a lark,’ said Godwin, and slammed shut the door.
The guvnor cursed. He looked up at the windows then around the yard, at the wretched buildings and farm rubbish strewn all over the place. At the corner of the house he spied a rusty iron rod. He hurried over to collect it, then, making sure he was out of range of the dogs, began hammering on a milk urn as stood by the door.
‘Birdie!’ he cried with each blow. ‘Birdie! Birdie!’
The hounds became frantic, tearing and pulling at their ropes.
‘Come along, Barnett!’
I took up a stone and started beating an old tin bath as was half-filled with water, shouting Birdie’s name along with the guvnor.
We’d been whacking away for a minute or two, when suddenly the guvnor stopped.
‘Up there,’ he whispered, stepping away from the house so he could see better.
In a window above the parlour was a ghostly face. It was the same window the feather was thrown from the first time we visited.
‘Is that you, Birdie?’ called the guvnor gently.
The face moved towards the glass.
It was her. The glass was grimy and uneven, but it was her all right. She gave a quick smile, then looked behind her into the room. We could see her head, her hair covered in a dark scarf, her shoulders. Her mouth hung open. She raised her bandaged hand as if to wave, but held it there like she wanted us to see it.
‘Open the window!’ called the guvnor.
She bent her head below the ledge and came up again, fiddling with something on her lap. Then she pressed the open page of a magazine to the glass, showing us a picture.
‘What is it, Barnett?’ asked the guvnor.
‘I think it’s the Royal Pavilion. In Brighton.’
‘Open the window, Birdie!’ called the guvnor once more. ‘Talk to us!’
As he spoke, the front door opened. It was Godwin again.
‘I warned you, Arrowood,’ he said softly. In his good hand was a shotgun.
He raised the gun at us, the butt planted on his belly. He was panting, his face red: there was something unhinged in his eyes as told me he’d lost control of himself.
I stepped back, pulling Arrowood with me.
There was a roar and smoke was all around us. It caught in my throat, making me choke; my ears were ringing. As I tried to get hold of my senses, Godwin quickly turned the shotgun around and lashed out at me with the butt.
It cracked me in the side of the head, sending me staggering towards the raging dogs. I just caught myself in time, jumping back out of their reach while Godwin swung out at me again with the shotgun. This time he missed.
‘The next shot’s in your shoulder, Arrowood,’ he hissed, his eyes burning. He thrust the shotgun barrel in the guvnor’s chest. His finger was on the trigger; his shoulders jerked compulsively. ‘Leave us alone!’ he bellowed.
The boss was pale.
‘C-calm, sir,’ he stammered, pulling me back by my arm. ‘W-we’re l-leaving.’
We quickly backed away, along the side of the house, past the barn. Ockwell watched us all the way, his shotgun following our movement. When we’d turned the corner and were out of sight, we ran.
We only slowed when we reached the lane. The guvnor was short of breath, his steps quick, his ankles weak. He looked back at the farm buildings again, then stepped up on a fence to see the fields running along the road. Behind us, in the stock sheds, a ruckus of pig squealing started up. We walked on, down the hill.
‘What now?’ I asked as we reached the bottom and started back up the other side.
He clutched my arm as we climbed the slope. He was puffing hard. ‘I think we’ll pay the parson a visit. They usually know everybody’s business. Perhaps he can talk to Birdie.’
We’d just got to the brow when we heard the sound of a horse and cart behind. It was Godwin, whipping his horse, hurtling up the hill towards us.
‘Christ,’ I said.
The horse was galloping, its head tossing, its eyes bulging. The lane was banked high on either side with hedgerow: there was no way off, nowhere to hide.
‘Has he got his gun?’ asked the guvnor, moving behind me.
‘I can’t see. It’s not in his hands.’
In moments the horse and cart reached the brow and came flying toward us. We pressed ourselves against the wet thorns of the bank, trying to get out of the way. Godwin clutched the reins tight, a scarf wrapped round his mouth, a cap low over his eyes. He stared straight ahead like we weren’t there, a grimace on his face, his long jaw jutting forward like a Brixton tram. The cart passed inches from our feet.
And then he was ahead, charging towards town and disappearing around the corner.
It was almost dark when we reached the village. As we passed the pub, we spied a fellow leaning against a woman in the dark of the side alley. Night was falling and we couldn’t make them out too clear, but we heard him murmur something in her ear and she laughed in a loose, half-cut way. The guvnor stopped to have a better look. There was a shuffling as the bloke pulled her skirt up over her knees, then he started to thrust up against her. She let out a squeal, holding her bonnet to her head with one hand and gripping his shoulder with the other. He grunted; his cap jerked to the floor. His limp arm hung by his side.
I pulled the guvnor away.
‘Well, well,’ he said when we were further down the road. ‘Clubbing you must have excited him. I hazard that wasn’t his wife he was wooing.’
We walked along the side of the green, the grass silver with frost in the fading light. A gravedigger was working alone on the far side of the churchyard, swinging a pick at the frozen turf. The old bloke looked