STANDPOINT a gripping thriller full of suspense (10 page)

“Look Thomas, don’t take this the wrong way, right, but I can’t hang around you for a while. My parents want me home straight after school, what with the attack.” Then Ajit lowered his voice. “Listen, right, I don’t know if it were you or it weren’t you. I don’t want to know. I’m grateful — he got what was coming to him. But that’s an end to it. That’s all I’m saying.”

Three weeks later, Ajit returned to Photography Club; the pack leader never came back to school. Rumour was that the family had moved away, fearing a vendetta.

The breeze stirred and he touched the side of his face. It was turning cooler. Odd really that he’d ended up working for the government and Ajit had become a police officer — something for a psychologist to chew over.

* * *

Saturday was market day and his mother was in her element, showing off her
visiting
son to every shopkeeper she knew. Then tea and a bap at the new Victorian tearooms — a contradiction that only he found amusing. He sacrificed Saturday afternoon on the altar of television, sat there with his father watching every sport known to man.

It all unravelled after dinner — he should have seen it coming. Leeds had dropped points for no good reason and he’d made the
mistake
of bringing in a bottle of whisky as a peace offering. By the time he’d got back from seeing Pat and the kids — with Gordon still playing the invisible husband — the bottle was half-empty; or half-full, if you happened to be an optimist. Either way, it didn’t take long for old resentments to surface, on both sides.

“What right do you have to judge me, eh? You swan about up here when you feel like it, like some great conquering hero. And you look at us like we’re the shit off your shoe. You know your trouble, eh? You’re a bloody snob. Ever since the day you met that London tart and you abandoned us.”

Twelve years had added weight to the grudge. It was all calculated, of course, in the expectation that Thomas would stand no criticism of Miranda or her family. So he withdrew into himself, waiting for his father to implode. Silence had always been his weapon of choice and he’d honed it like a sabre.

His father crossed no-man’s land to deliver another volley. “When we stood shoulder to shoulder . . .”

Thomas winced.
Here we go again . . .

“. . . Shoulder to shoulder as they closed pit after pit — the working man were at war. Months we stood together, while that daughter of the antichrist laid this country to waste. Neighbours — begging for ’andouts, looking in supermarket skips for food.”

Tears of bitterness rained down; he wiped them away with a fist. The other hand stayed tightly on the glass. “And when I heard you’d got a job wi’ ‘The Government,’ the very people all working-class folk had been at war with, I were bloody ashamed.”

There it was: the cold truth.

“You’ve betrayed your own class, Thomas; turned your back on your roots. I mean, who are you? Who the bloody hell
are
you?”

Thomas looked to his mother, sat quietly, staring at the carpet. He wondered if she felt the same way. He headed for bed. It wasn’t even nine o’clock, but he was exhausted. The whisky had been manipulative; he knew that. But you have to know where the bleeding comes from before you can cauterise it.

He read for a while, too agitated to sleep. Once Sherlock Holmes had resolved
The Eligible Bachelor
, he sent two texts. One to Miranda, which read:
Can I come home now?
And tried to tell himself he was joking. And one to Ajit, to try and arrange a meet-up. Then he turned out the light and sank into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

He woke early on Sunday to the sound of sparrows scrapping on the roof outside. His eyes felt tight against his skin; he’d been crying in his sleep — hadn’t done that for some time. He rubbed his face as if he could disguise the evidence.

Tiptoeing around the house reminded him of stolen weekends on the moors. A note left on the table — back on Sunday — and two days of absolute freedom. Ajit’s dad would drive them over; sometimes there’d be three or four of them, the car jammed to the gills.

Time check: seven thirty. He crept out quietly. It was a fair distance but he didn’t mind the walk; the exercise was good for him, it made him feel grounded.

Ajit was late finishing his shift. Thomas waited in the foyer, sipping machine coffee. The notice board was a library of misery: rabies, terrorism, drug abuse, domestic violence — he read that one twice — and HIV. He figured if you read all that for too long, you’d never want to leave the police station.

The desk sergeant picked up a telephone, nodded to whatever he was hearing and cleared his throat. “Ajit will be out in a bit. You the one from London?”

Thomas smiled grimly, primed for the put-down.

“It’s a bit different up ’ere — more sense of community, like. I dare say you’ve noticed that.”

He didn’t bother mentioning he was a Yorkshireman by birth; his accent would have made it sound like a mockery.
Sense of community?
Easy words.

The secure door buzzed and clicked — just like the gun club. Then Ajit sprang the door wide with one large hand. He had a smile to match. “Thomas, my man!”

They did a round of macho handshakes and shoulder slaps, until the sergeant asked them if they wanted to be alone together.

“How long you up here for?”

“Heading back tomorrow.”

Ajit led him out to the car. “You could have stayed with me and Geena.”

“What? And miss playing Happy Families?” He turned abruptly and saw a brown car waiting at the junction. There was no traffic at all. “Could you call it in for me?” He felt the blood draining from his face.

“What’s got into you, Thomas? Are you in some sort of trouble?”

“Can you just call in a PNC check — as a favour to me?”

Ajit reached for the radio. Thomas had already pulled out a small pair of binoculars and started reciting the number plate. Ajit stared, open-mouthed. “Bird watching,” he explained.

The check back came quickly. “’s all right, Thomas, it’s one of ours! Out of town CID. I wonder what they’re doing, coming over the borders!” Ajit peered at Thomas closely, as if he could see past his defences. “Right then, ’ave you got time for a walk in the wilds? ’Cause by the look of it, the town don’t agree with you.”

Thomas brightened. “Aye, that’d be great. Mind if I drive — it makes a change from London.”

“You never did take to being a passenger.”

Too true.

* * *

Ajit filled the passenger seat; he looked as if he’d been poured into the car. It was a different story at school, but a growth spurt at the end of his teens had provided a Sunday rugby side with a formidable prop forward. Now, when he laughed, the whole car seemed to shake. Although, Thomas thought, that could just be the suspension.

Thomas began to relax in his friend’s company. When he’d decided to leave Leeds and go with Miranda to the brighter lights of London, Ajit had been the first person he’d told. It was the kind of easy friendship moulded by years, that doesn’t require regular phone calls; where a missed birthday or a late Christmas or Diwali card is no big deal. Now, driving out across the North York Moors, they were like teenagers again.

“Did tha hear about the Hasselblad on sale at auction, down in London?” Ajit was as excited about the camera as a virgin on a first date.

“Hear about it, I went to view it at Sotheby’s!”

“Yer jammy bastard!” The car rocked again.

They parked up on Ferndale moor and raced up the ridge like children. Thomas was light on his feet, but Ajit powered past him like a steam engine. From the ridge, the land swept out towards Rudland Rigg. Thomas half wished he’d brought a kite.

“So, come on then, London boy, what sort o’ bother are you in?” Ajit made a playful jab at Thomas, which he fended off with a slap.

“You know I work in the Civil Service . . .”

“Aye. Patents or summat?”

“Well, I transferred; I’m a photographer now.”

“You lucky beggar. Is it leaflets and that, or something more exciting?”

Thomas took a long breath. “Outdoor work, mainly.”

“Nice — buildings or forestry?”

So much for the ‘trail of breadcrumbs’ approach. “Mainly people; the sort who don’t know they’re being watched.”

“By heck, Thomas Bladen, you’re a dark horse.”

Thomas caught the way that Ajit’s face froze for an instant; maybe he was remembering a time that he’d rather have forgotten.

“Are you allowed to tell me who you work for, then?”

He blew a dandelion head and watched as the spores drifted at the mercy of the breeze. “SSU — Surveillance Support Unit.”

“Blimey, who’d a’ thought it; one of them coverts. I won’t say owt, obviously.” Ajit gave a wink the size of Catterick. “Still durn’t explain your bit of bother though.”

Thomas pushed the binoculars to his face and said nothing.

Ajit seemed to take the hint. “Give us a go, then,” he swung wide towards Rosedale Abbey. “Buzzards are out — Geena and I come up here regularly.”

“I thought the suspension was a bit worn out.”

“Give over!” Ajit gave him a shove and continued tracking the buzzards. “You know I’d help you, Thomas, as much as I can of course,” his voice warbled with concern.

Thomas smiled for about a second. Even now Ajit believed in the letter of the law; he admired that in a way. “Thanks Aj; I’ll let you know if I need you.”

They stood side by side for a long time, gazing out across the rich moorland; neither one spoke. Then Thomas sighed and the spell was broken. He wanted to tell Ajit that it was good to be back, despite everything, but there was no need.

“Right then, me little Cockney Sparra, let’s get you back to the bosom of your family.”

“And you back to Geena’s.”

“I’ll bet that sort of wit goes down a storm in London.”

“I have to ration the tickets to keep the crowds down.”

Ajit contorted himself into the driver’s seat. “Don’t give up your day job.”

No chance of that now, not when it’s getting so interesting.

* * *

Ajit declined the offer to come in and say hello to the folks, but he asked after Pat and wished her well. Back in the mists of time, he had gone out with her for a short while. After Thomas had left for Leeds, of course.

“Is that you, Thomas?” his mother cooed. She knew perfectly well it was; she’d been standing at the curtains when the car pulled up. “Door’s on the latch. Come in, kettle’s already on.”

He grinned; one day, scientists would research the psychic ability of mothers to know when to make tea. “Is he up yet?”

“Well . . . your father’s not feeling too great. He’s asked if you’d like to go over Fylingdale this afternoon . . .” she waited, hands apart in nervous tension, clapping them together triumphantly at the answer she’d hoped for.

Afternoon. Wow; must be a hell of a hangover this time.

“He doesn’t mean it, Thomas, you know that. You’re his only son when all’s said and done and he just wishes you were back here; we all do. Oh, I know too much has happened for you to want that — you’ve got your own life now — I’m not stupid. But it doesn’t stop us wishing.”

Thomas slid an arm around her waist. “You’re a very wise woman.”

She looked him up and down. “Wise enough to know not to bring a bottle of whisky into the house. He can’t ’andle his drink — never could, lets all the demons out. I think you did it on purpose,” she gave him a mock slap on the arm. “Come on, sit yourself down — I’ll make your favourite breakfast. I’ve got in smoked bacon and eggs.”

His father didn’t surface until after one, announced by a groan; he couldn’t tell if it was the door or his dad. James nodded carefully, acknowledging them both in one sorry movement. On the table was a steaming mug of tea and a paracetamol. He lowered himself to the chair as if it was a hot bath and took his medication. “I’ll be right as rain in a bit.” He looked as if he’d slept in the rain.

Thomas put the newspaper down and enjoyed the spectacle of his dad trying to tackle some toast. It might have been his imagination, but his mother seemed to have made it extra crunchy.

* * *

Eventually, they made it out to Fylingdale; Thomas ended up doing the driving, as his father didn’t feel up to it. He pulled in by the side of the road so that the wind buffeted the windows and gently rocked the car. When he was a kid, Thomas had been told that this was the Weatherman helping him to sleep.

Despite the wind, Thomas left his jacket open, enjoying it against his skin. He closed his eyes, lost to the elements and swallowed by the moors. And his first thought — the only one that came to mind — was wishing Miranda could feel this now, beside him.

His father tapped his arm. “Remember that old bunker we found on’t moor? They’ve opened it up to the public — I’ll show you.”

‘We found.’ Close enough; Thomas and Ajit had uncovered the hatch in a thicket, running around like crazed puppies. His father had shouted, ‘give it a rest or go play somewhere else.’ And so they had. Ah, hangover weekends, such a staple of childhood memories.