Last Out From Roaring Water Bay (4 page)

“I appreciate that, Tim. I’d gotten quite attached to the old fellow recently.”

“I’m going over later today. I’ll ring you when I know more.”

“Okay, Tim. Take care.”

“You’ll be at his funeral, won’t you Shacks? He’d want you there.”

I hate funerals; they’re morbid, depressing and give a false image that there’s something to look forward to on the other side. “I’ll be there, Tim.”

The call ended.

I pressed the off button on my mobile. I realized I was still trembling slightly. I cured the hypertension with swift straight dark rum, gulped down in one, poured another and wandered aimlessly to the sofa where I slumped down and slouched back dejectedly. I stared blankly up at the ceiling, trawling the term tragic accident back and forth through my mind. My eyelids went heavy and weary. I closed them. I tried to blank Tommy’s death from my thoughts but I couldn’t. By the time I’d finished churning everything inside my head I was as far away from Tommy’s death being an accident as I could ever be. Tommy didn’t strike me as being that stupid to have fallen in a tank of shit. He always had a careful aptitude when running his farm; a stickler towards safe farming; everything fenced off properly; things in their rightful places. I saw all that for myself firsthand. And Benny, well he’d confirmed that Tommy never scaled the slurry tank because of his bad knee. That knowledge in itself made the theory of an accident vulnerably weak.

I sighed. Tommy would be sadly missed. I finished the second rum and found myself twirling the glass through my fingers, thinking how Tommy could have climbed onto the gantry in the first place? What had attracted him to make the mammoth effort? Those were the questions the police should be asking, not skulking around with their heads stuck up their arses taking the easy option of an accident. The police should be listening to the people who knew Tommy instead of relying totally on their professional opinions which most of the time is guesswork and probably nowhere near the truth.

The insides of my stomach knotted the more I delved into his death. I’m not psychic, nor do I ever pretend to be, but I had this awful feeling that somewhere, other developments were mounting. There’s a saying: things happen in three’s. That worried me immensely. I was suddenly connecting the events at the farm with other imaginable contenders.

The two men from the MDP, who had pestered me earlier making idle threats, were back in contention. Perhaps I’d misjudged their seriousness. I wondered how much they knew about Tommy’s death because I’d gotten the impression they’d been at the farm to question Tommy about the plane wreck. And what an idiot I’d been. I had failed to double check or verify their credentials before allowing them access. Come to think of it, Scar-face didn’t even show any credentials and neither did he reveal his name. Perhaps they had contributed to Tommy’s fall into the slurry tank? There was only Tommy who knew I’d been at the farm. Perhaps they threatened him into revealing the location of the reconnaissance camera after dragging him up onto the gantry to scare him? Perhaps a titanic struggle had occurred and Tommy had struggled too much and had fallen in. Or maybe the MDP officers had pushed him? Or was I perhaps searching for truths that weren’t there to be found. It wasn’t exactly difficult to concoct a number of storylines to fit my inquisitive questions. I was desperate for any excuse.

What I could confidently conclude was the two ministry policemen knew the reconnaissance camera had gone from the wreck. So what importance did the camera have that it was the sole subject of conversation with me? Historic military archives came to mind, exactly what I thought when I pinched the frigging thing. Yet if they were genuine MDP eager to retrieve government property, and they were confident that I had it, then why did they leave me alone so easily without making more of a fuss? They could have called the local constabulary and had me arrested on suspicion of theft, but they didn’t.

I was just getting more and more confused and giving myself an almighty headache. And then to my horror it clicked. Why indeed did they leave so easily? Because…?

I sat upright and opened my eyes in sheer terror. My eyes flicked in the direction of the study. I remembered Scar-face was messing around with my belongings, being too nosey. It was shortly after that when they left in a hurry and without a threatening word from either.

I jumped up from the sofa, put the glass down on the coffee table and dashed to the study where I ran a careful eye over everything that Scar-face had mooched through or displaced. I checked the moveable items and various papers that he had disturbed. I checked the bureau and scanned the book shelves. I did notice he had shifted the telephone to a different angle.

The telephone!

I realized there was something missing that I’d left next to the telephone.

The sad bastard had stolen my pad of telephone numbers and addresses.

Why bother?

To check names and addresses obviously…names and addresses? I suddenly had visions of the photography shop where I’d left the camera. My heart raced as I thought of the dreadful possibility that I may have put Lens’s life in jeopardy. I snatched the phone from its cradle and pressed in a set of numbers; waited impatiently as the ringing tone searched for a connection. I suddenly became clammy. I’d palpitations.

My anxiety eased when Lens finally raised the receiver and went through the motions of announcing the name of his business in his laid back Barbadian voice.

“Larry’s photographic agency-”

I burst into his rehearsed announcement before he had time to finish and asked him if he was alright. My enquiry must have confused him because it’s not something I would normally ask him. For an eerie few seconds he didn’t answer. I could hear him breathing down the line. My anxiety was back again.

His reluctance to speak angered me. Lens was about to witness a different side of me. “Frigging hell, speak to me you dumb bastard!”

“Hey Shacks, man!” his voice finally drifted through. “Stay cool. Hard to take in, man, cos I didn’t realize you’d a heart.”

I pushed on. “Listen to me! Has anyone come asking about the camera I gave you?”

Another pause didn’t help matters though I imagined his wide eyes rolling in their sockets in sheer panic. He didn’t care for dishonest activities, especially mine.

“Shacks, is the damn thing hot?”

“No! If you remember I told you I dug it from the ground.”

“Yeah, man, but whose ground? No, don’t say, man, I’d only have bad illusions of being thrown in piss smelling prison, served sloppy dinners and have nasty shit stabbers molesting my cute arse.”

“Lens, you’re avoiding my question! Has anybody asked about the camera? Think Lens. It’s important!”

“Nobody asked. Why?”

“You’re sure? No phone calls or anything out of the ordinary?”

“Yeah, I’m sure, man; you’re the only one asking.”

I puffed out my cheeks, the weight of anxiety lifting from my shoulders knowing Lens was safe.

Lens said, “By the way, Shacks. This lump of rust you brought in is a complete bag of mutilated crap.”

“I wasn’t considering displaying the thing, Lens. Did you manage to retrieve anything worthwhile from it or not?”

“Scrap, that’s what I got. In a thousand twisted pieces now. I had to go in with the surgical expertise of a brain surgeon to remove the film. Rubber gloves, dissecting tool, pliers, the works, man!”

“Stop pissing around, Lens!”

“Okay man!” he finally conceded and raced through his findings. “Found four pictures which I masterly extracted. Damned lucky I got that many. The rest of the film roll, I’m afraid, is a complete waste of my effort; the film’s watermarked beyond recognition.”

“Lens, I’m amazed you found any at all.”

“Shacks, you know me and the miracles I can do. I’ve put the pictures and negatives in the post this morning. What do you want me to do with the scrap pieces and watermarked negatives that are left?”

“Dump them, Lens.” It was pointless keeping hold of the evidence.”

“Consider it done, Shacks.”

“What do I owe you?”

“The usual fee, Shacks: a Chinese meal and plenty of beer to swill down the food. Throw in a few loose woman and we’ll call it straight.”

“Don’t want much then,” I quipped.

“I’m a healthy guy, Shacks. Oh! Did I mention a night in the West End too; with spending money?” he added cheekily. “There’s a new nightclub I’d like to boogie on down to and strut my stuff.”

He always reminded me of a jelly man when he danced, he was that flexible.

I’d began to open my mouth and ready to give him a slice of verbal abuse concerning his exuberant fee when I heard something else echo in the receiver that took me a moment to register what it was. What I’d clearly heard was the chink of the photography shop doorbell interfering with Len’s voice. Then Lens hurriedly said, “Got to go, Shacks, paying customers,” and after a low whistle, he added, “Hell man, what a couple of weirdoes. Last time I saw a pair like these I was watching wild life in Africa and they were devouring the carcass of some half eaten Lion spoils.”

I then heard him speak to whoever had entered the shop before his voice faded away from the receiver.

At first I wondered what the frigging hell Lens meant when he mentioned
Africa
and
Lion spoils,
until my brain registered. By then Lens had already replaced his receiver and I was shouting into a tunnel of emptiness. “Lens, Lens! Get out of there!”

I pressed the shop’s telephone numbers into the handset frantically. It rang a few times and then I was cut off. My heart rate accelerated. I pressed the same numbers again, whispering the words, “pick up the phone, Lens, pick up the phone!”, as I waited. All I received was the tinny echo of a discontinued line.

I threw the receiver down and sprinted for my car keys and was out of the house. I roared the Roadster into life and began driving hard and furious, breaking every road rule in the book. I didn’t frigging care how dangerous I drove. I just hoped no police car would try to halt my progress because I was in no mood to stop.

I slammed down the accelerator pedal to the floor, the engine growling as I crashed through the gears. I tore down street after street, road after road, dangerously overtaking, tyres screeching as I negotiated tight bends, ignoring blaring car-horns and the probable and deserved fingered gestures. But I wasn’t looking who I passed on the road. I was too focused driving like a man possessed to save a friends life.

On reaching Lambeth Road I maddened because the traffic was at a standstill. I could see a police roadblock ahead. In the distance I saw the large plume of black smoke rising above the buildings. Fire engines had just arrived at the scene and were in immediate action; more fire engines were on the way with a police escort to get the engines through the traffic. I pulled the Roadster into the side of the road, got out and began running between vehicles in the direction of the fire. My frantic running had me gasping for breath. My lungs hurt and the taste of acrid smoke tainted my mouth. When I neared the row of shops and my final destination my stride stiffened and I grinded to a halt, in disbelief. It was Lens’s photography shop that was on fire.

The initial shock had me gob smacked. I could only stare at the spectacle I was witnessing and my mouth was dry as if it had been swabbed with blotting paper. I mustered enough spit and shouted out, “Lens!”, and then I continued running towards the building and slap bang into a policeman’s huge hand in my chest that brought my progress to an abrupt halt.

“Sorry sir! He advised me assertively. “You must step back. There’s danger of an explosion ahead.”

His prediction came true and a muffled bang blew out one of the photography shop windows. Shattered glass forced the fire-fighters to cower as they aimed their hoses into the flames and the mushroom of orange and black smoke whooshing into the air. The policeman and I ducked instinctively, even though the debris never reached us. The flames were horrendously hot even at the proposed safe distance. And I noticed that the westerly breeze was spreading the flames to other premises along the road.

The explosion only served to make me fearless and more determined to push on towards the building. I had to find Lens. I made another attempt to pass my holder and get closer to the burning premises. The policeman held me back, almost wrestling me to the ground. I was shouting out Lens’s name. Two, three times I called, still grappling with the policeman. I never went to ground. Some inner strength kept me on my feet as I pushed hard, struggling for freedom from the policeman’s powerful grip.

The policeman suddenly had his face in front of mine. “Is there someone still inside the building?” he quickly asked, shaking me to get me focused on what he was asking, staring into my eyes for a definite answer. “Listen to me, please sir! Is there still someone inside?”

“Larry Lazerow, the proprietor. It’s his shop on fire! He got out, didn’t he? He’s a coloured guy, medium height. Tell me he’s okay?”

My heart sank somewhere inside my bowel as I watched the policeman’s expression of uncertainty before he confirmed the inevitable. “We-I-er-thought everybody was accounted for, sir. Are you sure he was still inside the shop?”

“I spoke to him not twenty minutes ago on the telephone,” I said frantically. “The line went dead. I thought something was wrong, so I came straight here. You must have seen him?”

I didn’t think it was due to the heat of the fire when I noticed the beads of sweat leak from beneath the policeman’s helmet and trickle down the sides of his face. It was the defining moment when I knew Lens was still trapped inside his photography shop, trapped in the inferno. Lens was probably dead, engulfed by the flames. I always thought I was a strong person in such tragic circumstances and that I could handle terrible moments. I was wrong. Inside I fell to pieces. Uncontrollably my legs quivered and buckled. I found myself sitting on the kerbside with my head in my hands listening to the policeman shouting across to the chief fire officer that there might be a casualty inside the building. I knew then it was too late. The damage was done. Not even the Devil himself could have survived the ferocious flames that lit-up the smoke filled street.