Twenty-Three
It was a mark of just how seriously erstwhile Lance Corporal Neil Battersby was taking it all that he hadn’t once tried to crowbar in some crack about his love life. There was no hint of a sleazy innuendo, no bluster or brag about the insane amount of action he was getting: nothing.
He just listened.
When Cheshire had finished telling the story – the scream and the body in his front garden, then an understandably personal take on the story Miller had told him – Battersby said nothing for nearly half a minute.
Even then, all he could do to convey his shock and indignation was mutter a grammatically dubious but nonetheless effective mish-mash of swear words.
‘That’s how I felt,’ Cheshire said. ‘How I’m still feeling, if I’m honest.’
‘It’s unbelievable, Cheesy.’
‘I had trouble believing it myself, Neil.’
‘And he’s positive that’s what was going on, is he? This copper. He’s sure it was you they were after?’
‘Oh, yeah. DS Miller says it’s the only explanation that makes any sense. Even though it doesn’t, if you see what I mean. He’s had dealings with these people in the past, so I think he knows what he’s talking about.’
Battersby swore again, though this time it wasn’t quite as creative.
‘It’s not like I’ve never had a target on my back before.’ Cheshire shushed Ruby, who was scampering around at his feet and barking because she was being ignored. ‘We both have, right?’
‘Oh, one hundred per cent, mate,’ Battersby said. ‘One hundred and ten per cent, but this is not the same. It’s not even close. At least you knew who your enemy was over there. You see what I’m saying? You knew who they were and you knew why they were trying to kill you. This is way different.’
‘Well, not really,’ Cheshire said.
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I mean, as far as what happened the other night goes, I know exactly who was trying to kill me.’
Battersby took a few seconds. ‘Oh, right, yeah … whoever this Cutler woman sent.’
‘And I know why.’
‘The dead drug dealer in the lake. Got it.’
‘So, not actually different at all.’
‘Sorry, mate, I’m just a bit all over the place …
trying to process this, you know?’ Battersby let rip with the swearing again and now there was real anger in it.
‘It’s an outrage, is what it is … them coming after you like that.
Look, I’m not going to pretend I’m remotely sorry the bloke your missus was shagging got what was coming to him, but still, it’s the only word for it. A proper outrage!’
Cheshire shushed Ruby again, then immediately leaned down to reassure her that he was not really cross with her.
He’d cooked some chicken for her tea and, ever the optimist, the little dog was now mithering him incessantly, hoping there might be seconds on offer.
Cheshire lifted her on to his lap and put the phone on speaker.
‘I’m happy you called me,’ Battersby said. ‘That you feel you can talk to me about stuff like this. Old comrades in arms, like. I’ve still got your back, you know that, right? I always will, after what you did.’
‘Cheers, mate. I appreciate it.’ In point of fact, Cheshire was not overly thrilled at the prospect of Neil Battersby having any part of him, but it still felt as though calling him hadn’t been an altogether daft thing to do.
He’d been bang on about what would happen when Cheshire handed himself in at the cop shop, after all.
No, he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was a decent enough sounding board and it wasn’t as if Cheshire had a host of other sounding boards to choose from. ‘So … thoughts?’
‘I told you, it’s an outrage.’
‘Aside from that.’
‘Well, I’ll need to have a bit of a think,’ Battersby said. ‘Sleep on it or whatever. That copper reckons you’re safe now though, does he?’
‘Oh yeah, for definite. He says that once this Cutler woman knows they’re on to her, she’ll wind her neck in. Back off, you know?’
‘Good, cos that’s the main thing.’
‘He still thinks I should be staying in a safe house, but—’
‘Whoa! He thinks what?’
‘No, it’s fine, honest. Just not taking any chances, he said.’
‘Listen, mate … now’s not the time for any of your Brightside Barry nonsense.’ Battersby lowered his voice to a whisper, as though concerned that the conversation might be being recorded. ‘You need me to come over there and keep you company, it’s not a problem.’
‘Thanks, that’s good to know.’
‘I mean it. You were there for me when it really counted and I won’t ever forget that. You saved my bacon, big time. So just say the word and I’ll be there in a heartbeat, and I’ve still got a few … bits and pieces I could bring with me, you know what I’m saying?’
Cheshire knew exactly what he was saying.
Battersby was one of those who’d brought one or two souvenirs home with him: weapons he’d liberated from captured troops in Afghanistan and Iraq, smuggled back and stashed away, despite the regulations explicitly forbidding such practice.
A sniper rifle and several pistols; a ceremonial sword he definitely wasn’t using to open his mail.
‘Thanks. I’ll let you know if I’m feeling lonely. ’
He thought about something else Miller had said.
You get to sleep in your own bed again.
Cheshire knew that, hard as it was for anyone else to understand, he would be doing no such thing.
Not for a while, anyway. He needed the odd confinement of that basement; had grown used to it.
He could see why Miller had found it strange, but he’d begun to feel comfortable down there and, ironically, he also felt safe.
After all, if he hadn’t been asleep in the cellar when someone who’d come to kill him had knocked, it would have been him answering the door to the man with the knife.
After a few more well-meaning, if slightly disturbing, offers of help from Battersby – who mentioned that he actually had an Iraqi grenade knocking around somewhere – Cheshire ended the call and gathered stuff together for the last walk of the day.
Ruby’s lead and quilted jacket, poop bags and chews.
He’d take her across to Claremont Park, which remained their favourite and, more importantly, where there was no longer much chance of running into a nutjob with vicious dogs.
He hadn’t been happy about what had happened to Ezra Simmons. He still wasn’t, not really. Equally, despite what he’d said during his police interview, he wasn’t quite as thrilled about Darren Grant’s death as Neil Battersby appeared to be.
Even when appearances suggested otherwise, Barry Cheshire did not believe that anyone was entirely evil, any more than they could be entirely good. All the same, one less drug dealer could hardly be any bad thing.