FOUR
Along with the camp bed, an electric heater, a ratty old armchair and a microwave she’d recently replaced with a flashier model, Stacey had been generous enough to let Barry bring their old portable TV down to the basement.
So at least he had something to watch while he ate his ready meals, or lay awake wondering how exactly his life had gone so spectacularly down the pan.
Home from home, if he didn’t think about it too much.
He dropped the remains of his Lidl Deluxe Premium Cottage Pie for One into a plastic bag, lifted Ruby up on to his lap and stared at the small, dusty TV screen.
He half-watched the end of The Chase – an easy win for the Governess – then tried not to get overly depressed at a string of adverts for holi-days and distracted himself by compiling a mental list of the pros and cons vis-à-vis his current domestic situation.
Pros: Ruby. Nothing obvious to worry about, health-wise.
Cons: Everything else.
‘A murder investigation has begun following the discovery of a body in Claremont Park early this morning. It’s believed that the victim, whose body was removed from the lake, has now been identified, though police are refusing to release any details until next of kin have been informed.’
Barry sat up so suddenly that the dog jumped from his lap and scampered into the corner.
‘Sorry,’ he said. He pointed helplessly at the television, but the newsreader had moved on to another story, already talking about the drunken reveller who was in a stable condition after falling from a roller coaster at the Pleasure Beach while attempting to display his penis to fellow thrill-seekers.
Ever the consummate professional, the newsreader somehow managed to keep a straight face, despite the fact that the roller coaster in question was called the Big One.
A murder investigation?
‘But I just pushed him,’ Barry said aloud. ‘I mean, I didn’t even push him, not deliberately. It was an accident.’ He held his arms out and stared at the dog, as though expecting a response. ‘Come on, Rubes, you were there, you saw what happened.’
The dog stretched out her paws, then laid her head down on them.
‘Obviously I’m sorry that he couldn’t swim, but that’s hardly my fault, is it?
’ He sat back and sighed, closing his eyes.
A tight knot was forming in his stomach and he could feel the sweat, clammy around his neck.
‘Giving it Charlie Big Potatoes and waving a knife around like he was a hard man, and the stupid sod couldn’t even doggy-paddle his way out of a chuffing lake. Christ on a bike, the luck I’m having.’
Barry sat there, half-frozen and panting.
The luck …
It had already become blindingly obvious to Barry that from now on, when it came to luck, he was only ever going to be on the receiving end of the wrong sort.
That his would always be the shitty end of the stick.
It hadn’t always been like this: he’d had his fair share, same as everyone else, but now he knew he’d used up his quota of good luck years ago, back in Afghanistan and Iraq.
He’d wriggled out of a fair few scrapes over there, and unlike plenty he’d known – more than a few mates, in fact – he’d come back in one piece.
He supposed that was about as lucky as anyone could wish for.
He’d counted his blessings back then, thanked God and anyone else he could think of for his good fortune. How could he have known that would be his lot?
Murder, though?
No bloody chance. He’d done some things he wasn’t particularly proud of when he was in uniform, and he’d known a few nutjobs who’d skirted close to the edge of legality when it came to the rules of engagement, but he’d always tried to do what he believed was right.
He was not and could never be a murderer.
‘Not got it in me, have I, Rubes?’
The dog didn’t argue, which was oddly reassuring, but Barry knew that he needed to talk about this to someone who might actually respond.
Someone he could have a proper conversation with.
A friend would be the ideal choice, but he’d been right about Ruby being the closest thing to one of those that he’d got, so he’d have to settle for second best.
As far as Barry could remember, Lance Corporal Neil Battersby hadn’t been anyone’s friend back then.
He was a bit of a loner: one of the nutjobs, truth be told, and every unit had at least one.
They’d had each other’s backs when it mattered, because that was what you did, but Barry couldn’t recall a single conversation with Neil Battersby about anything remotely serious or significant.
Football and women, that was about the long and short of it.
The rucks he’d had following Man United up and down the country and the women he’d given a good seeing-to.
There’d been plenty of them, if Battersby was to be believed; ‘lively sorts’ from Morecambe to Southport who were always ‘up for it’.
It would be fair to say that the man had not been a deep thinker.
They’d met up once or twice since coming home, but it was obvious almost immediately that Battersby’s experiences in the army had only exacerbated his frankly antisocial tendencies.
To be fair, the man was clearly suffering with serious PTSD, and Barry sympathised, being prone to a somewhat milder form himself, but it had been clear that, beyond a few war stories, they had little in common.
Certainly nothing like enough to cement any kind of friendship.
Beggars could not be choosers, though, and Barry needed to talk to someone. He picked up the phone, looked across at Ruby and shrugged.
‘Cheesy, you great, gormless twat! What can I do you for?’
Barry had expected little else by way of greeting. ‘Nice to talk to you too, Neil. How’re you doing?’
‘Who am I doing, more like.’ There was a hacking cough and then a low chuckle. ‘I’m knackered, mate, I swear, the amount of action I’ve been getting.’
Same old Battersby. ‘Listen, Neil—’
‘There’s this one lass I’ve been seeing, Nikki … she’s a dancer in one of them shows at the Winter Gardens. I’m telling you, mate, she goes like a bat in a biscuit tin. Not just me, neither, she doesn’t much care who she takes home. I can give you her number if you like.’
‘Well, thanks for the offer, but—’
‘Honest, she’ll go with anybody. She’s been rogered more often than a copper’s radio—’
‘I’ve got a problem, Neil.’
‘Oh … right.’
‘I need your advice.’
Barry could sense the change in Battersby’s attitude immediately; could imagine him standing to attention. An old -comrade-in-arms in need of his help – especially one whose orders he’d once had to follow – evidently trumped any number of horizontal adventures. ‘So, let’s have it, then.’
Barry told him everything, from the moment he and Ruby had entered Claremont Park to the announcement on the news. He tried not to sound as scared as he really was.
Battersby took his time. He lit a cigarette, then sniffed and said, ‘Sounds like the little gobshite got what he deserved.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ Barry said.
‘Course he bloody did. He threatened to stab you, didn’t he?’
‘To stab me up.’
‘Well, that sounds even worse. You should be proud of yourself, mate.’
‘But I didn’t actually do anything,’ Barry said.
‘One less druggie to worry about.’
‘You think?’
‘Course he was. They all are. I’m telling you, Cheesy, this town’s gone to the sodding dogs.
Sometimes I reckon we were better off in Kandahar, do you know that?
Fine, so you couldn’t get a decent meat pie and some of the locals were trying to kill you, but at least you knew where you were.
These kids round here, though, with their spice and spliffs and horse tranquillisers and what have you …
it’s getting ridiculous. Like the bloody wild west out there. ’
‘So what’s the best thing to do, then?’
‘I’d bring back National Service, simple as. Ten weeks’ basic training, that’ll sort the little beggars out. Then a tour of Afghan, get a few IEDs up their druggie arses—’
‘Best thing for me, I mean.’ Now Barry didn’t much care if he sounded scared or not. ‘You think I should go to the police?’
Battersby thought about it. ‘Did anyone else see you in the park?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’
‘Don’t talk daft, then. Just keep your head down.’
‘But I didn’t do anything, did I? So I’ve got nothing to worry about. I can just go to the police, tell them what happened and it’ll be fine.’
‘You think?’
‘Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?’
Battersby chuckled again, low and dark. ‘There he is. “Brightside” Barry. And I thought I was the one who came back with my head messed up.’