The Jonah (19 page)

With one glance back at the house, Kelso ran forward, keeping his body bent almost double, and dropped down the riverbank. Fortunately, the bank was not too steep and, although one sneakered
foot sank into the river, he was able to cling to the earth above the waterline. The bank was almost four feet high in parts and, by crouching, he was able to work himself along without being seen
by anyone emerging from the boathouse or coming from the manor house itself. Here and there, where the bank level dipped or was impassable, he was forced to wade through the water, the mud
threatening to suck off his soft shoes. He hardly felt the cold, for his concentration was intent on the building ahead; drizzling rain soaked and matted his hair, running down his face and falling
from his unshaved chin.

The earth bank ran out, to be replaced by a straight concrete wall. Kelso cautiously raised his head to see how far he had come; the yawning opening to the boathouse was nearby, to his left, but
he could not see the cruiser from that angle. He listened, but still heard no sounds coming from the interior. The building couldn’t possibly be empty. Unless . . .

Kelso pulled himself over the edge, risking being seen from the house in the distance but having no other choice; he rolled over and came up in a crouching run, making for the side of the
grey-stoned building. He smacked into the wall at the side, the palms of his hands cushioning the impact and noise; he stood there frozen, waiting for the sounds of running footsteps or alarmed
voices. Nothing happened.

Surprisingly, the boathouse had no windows, which must have made the interior into a huge, black cavern. He eased himself around the corner and crept towards the waterway entrance, hoping no one
would emerge as he drew nearer, listening at every step. Narrow walkways were at each side of the large square-shaped entrance, both edged with stiffened rubber to prevent the cruiser’s hull
being scraped, and serving as alternative access for anyone not wishing to use the door at the rear of the building. Kelso knelt so that his head would not be at eye level, then took a quick look
inside, immediately drawing back. His second look was more lingering for, gloomy though the interior was, it was evident that the boathouse was empty. He was puzzled. There was no one on the boat
– he would have heard some sound if they were below decks – and the back exit had not been used during the time he had watched. Even if they had emerged while he was making his way down
towards the river he would have seen them walking back up to the house. There had to be another exit. And it could only be underground. Kelso wondered if it was a part of the estate’s
history, or newly built; and if newly built, for what reason?

He stepped inside, his wet sneakers squelching on the concrete.

The motor cruiser gently rocked with the current and it looked even bigger close up. Kelso slushed further into the shadowy interior, his eyes quickly becoming used to the gloom. He scanned the
walls but could find nothing that should not be in a boathouse – as far as he knew, at any rate. Pieces of machinery, an inflatable mounted on its side on one wall, a small crane-like affair,
obviously used for lifting engines, a long workbench, a generator of some kind, and even a rack of fishing rods. A wall-phone was by the rear exit. He wondered what chaos would be caused if he
picked it up and asked for room service.

Although the boathouse was cluttered with various equipment, there appeared to be a clear area towards the back. As Kelso approached, a rectangular black shape became more visible and suddenly
he was smiling with grim satisfaction. The black shape was a hole in the concrete floor, and there were steps leading down. He peered into the depths, but could not make out too much. The hole was
deep, the stairs stretching down to a distance that must have been well beyond the boathouse’s rear wall. For one brief moment he wanted to turn back – the blackness below looked
uninviting – but it would have been pointless at that stage. Yes, sir, I believe Sir Anthony Slauden is up to some skulduggery. Why, sir? Because he’s got a hole in his boathouse. No,
sir, that’s not all, sir. He just may have had someone try and kill me and Miss Shepherd, sir. No, sir, I’m not sure he did. What else, sir? Well, I just don’t like him.
He’s too perfect. No, sir, I wouldn’t like to go back on the beat.

Kelso bent low and tried to see more, but it was useless. He descended a few steps, then reached into a pocket for a match. The small flame flickered as a draught from somewhere disturbed it,
but it gave off enough light for him to see what was below. There was a door, and from where he was perched, it looked as though it was made of metal. He climbed down a few more steps and the flame
grew stronger as it moved below ground level. There seemed to be little gap between the door and its frame and Kelso could guess the reason why: that part of the country was prone to floods and if
the river rose above the banks, then water would have cascaded down those steps and swamped whatever lay beyond the door. He felt pretty sure there would be flanges at the back which would seal the
door tight.

So what was beyond? Sitting there like a half-drowned rat was no way to find out. Hot pain seared his thumb and finger and he dropped the match. Grey light from above quickly filtered through
his temporary blindness and he fumbled for the matches once more. He struck one and breathed a sigh of relief; he hated dark, claustrophobic spaces. Always had.

Sticking two spare matches between his teeth for next time, he went down, the sound of his own breathing seeming to echo off the confining walls around him. He was near the bottom when the door
swung open.

And when he turned to run back up the stairs, something was blocking out the light from above.

He had been feeling bad all night. He always did when he’d had a row with the old man. And that was pretty frequent nowadays.

But Christ, it was
his
life! He had a right to choose for himself.

Giggles made him turn towards the small rostrum which served as a stage, where the group were packing away their gear, only the drum kit having a life of its own once the plugs had been pulled.
Several girls stood around them, trying to chat up the musicians who kidded themselves that their regular gig in the Downbeat, a hall above a pub at Manor House, was just a stepping stone towards
Shea Stadium. Even the fact that both the bass player and the drummer were into their thirties – the latter was already washing his hair three times a week to disguise its thinness –
did not dampen their ambition. If the lead guitarist would start playing more like Eric Clapton than Hank Marvin, they knew they’d be made. If the lead singer stopped trying to be Buddy Holly
their image might improve, too –
Heard It on the Grapevine
didn’t exactly go with the Holly style.

‘You coming, Jim?’

Two of his friends were making their way through the crowd shuffling towards the only exit. One was pulling on a shortie raincoat, while the other was tying a slim, tartan scarf around his neck.
His wire-framed glasses and long flowing hair endeavoured to make him look like John Lennon, but the padded shoulders of his three-button jacket and his Harry Fenton shirt spoilt the illusion.

‘Where you off to?’ Kelso asked, swaying slightly from the booze consumed throughout the evening in the downstairs bar.

‘Up the Royal. There’s nothing here.’

Max, the one who had just spoken, pulled up the collar of his raincoat, then adjusted his kipper tie. He had a secondhand Ford Anglia parked around the corner and the idea was to drive up to
Tottenham where a larger assortment of girls would soon be leaving the big dance hall there; it was usually easy to pull some birds if you had a car and it was raining – none of them liked
getting their Vidal Sassoons wet waiting for buses.

‘No, I don’t think so, not tonight. Think I’ve had enough.’

Max shrugged; he and his companion, Tony, were used to Kelso poodling off on his own. It usually meant he had a dolly lined up, but tonight they hadn’t even seen him dance, let alone set
up a lumber.

‘Come on, Jim,’ Tony urged. ‘It’s only eleven. You’ve just turned nineteen – you’re a big boy now, for fuck’s sake.’ He, too, was swaying
slightly from the drink. He liked to kid people that he was high on weed, but the truth was he’d never tried the stuff, and didn’t even know where to get it. And the old bennies were
becoming a bit pricey.

‘You two go on. I’ve had it for tonight,’ Kelso told them.

‘Suit yourself, Jimbo, but I’m telling you now, we’re going to score tonight.’ Tony grinned, his eyes almost slits behind the glasses.

‘Yeah, yeah, don’t you always?’ Kelso mocked. ‘Just don’t go baby-snatching.’

Tony looked offended and Max laughed. ‘What else would fancy an ugly git like him? Boppers and grannies, that’s about his mark.’

‘Don’t forget the occasional sheep,’ Tony replied without rancour.

‘Yeah, even then you don’t get a good-looking one.’

Tony feinted a left hook and Max raised his guard. Neither allowed their horseplay to become over-exuberant, for local heavies in the club did not respond kindly to silly sods from outside their
manor. Kelso, Max and Tony were from Shore-ditch, alien territory.

‘See you later then, Jim.’ Max waved a hand, later meaning anything from a couple of days to a week, and he and Tony jostled their way back through the crowd, careful not to nudge
the wrong people.

Kelso sat on one of the chairs surrounding the dance floor, waiting for the crowd to diminish. A girl sitting opposite, sporting an old-fashioned beehive hairstyle and a nose that was doing its
best to touch her chin, stared balefully at him. He gave his best impression of a smile, then turned away. Tony would love you, he thought. She crossed her legs, which weren’t too bad,
catching his attention again. There was a girl who would hang on to mini skirts for ever – it took a lot of attention away from her conk. He couldn’t decide whether her expression,
aimed directly across the room at him, was a smile or a sneer. Whichever, it wasn’t too enhancing.

The girl was joined by three others, who had been chatting to the band. She said something and they all looked slyly over at him. Oh shit, he thought. She thinks I sat opposite on purpose; she
thinks I’m trying to pull it. No chance. He stood and felt all four pairs of eyes on him as he made towards the door. One of them giggled and his ears became hot.

Once outside the club, he whipped off his tie, rolled it up, and stuck it in his jacket pocket. He felt a little light-headed and the fresh air wasn’t helping to keep down the pints of
beer he’d consumed. He hiccuped.

The bus was waiting at the traffic lights, the large road junction busy at that time of night. Kelso saw the amber signal light up and he quickly weaved through the clutter of young people who,
despite the thin drizzle, were reluctant to end the evening, the pavement outside the club both their debating platform and sexual showcase.

Kelso just made the bus as it was moving off. He hung on to the hand-bar, his chest heaving with the sudden exertion and more hiccups. He saw the beehive girl emerging from the club with her
three friends, and her nose pointed at him like a zapgun. He climbed the stairs to the upper deck, not having the nerve to blow her a kiss, nor wanting to shrivel up under her gaze. The air was
thick with smoke upstairs, a condition he contributed to by lighting up himself. The cloudy inhalation helped his hiccups. Pulling at his shirt collar so that the pointed tips rested on top of his
jacket lapels, he relaxed into a seat and looked down at the bright shopfronts as the bus bullied its way through the late-night traffic. His thoughts returned to the old man.

He liked his dad – his stepfather, to be precise – and their disagreements were few. But the same old topic had arisen between them once more and, as usual, both their tempers had
flared. He always regretted the upsets, knew it wasn’t good for the old man, but he couldn’t fulfil another man’s ambitions, not even when that man had taken him in as a kid and
brought him up as if he were his natural son. Edward Kelso had been a policeman – a good one too, by all accounts – and although he’d never got beyond the rank of sergeant in the
uniformed branch, he loved the service almost as much as he loved his wife and the little orphan he’d made his son.

Angina had forced his career to a premature halt, but he still kept in close contact with the Force, still swapped gossip on the latest blags with his old cronies. He could have stayed on,
working at a more relaxed pace behind the scenes, but that wasn’t his style: he liked to be up front, right there in the action. And Nellie didn’t want him to risk even the desk job
anyway. His early-retirement pension from the Force was fair, and she had taken night-time work in the local children’s hospital to make things manageable. He hated her working nights, though
– said the streets weren’t safe for her to be coming home that late. He usually went to meet her and they’d walk home from the hospital, her arm linked through his, like a
courting couple out for an evening stroll. Some nights he did not feel well enough to go out, but those occasions were rare, and he would sit and worry until Nellie walked through the front door.
Then one night – and, it seemed, almost inevitably because of the old man’s fears – she failed to come home.