The Students of Barrenmoor Ridge Page 7
For Mark and Benny, the day was not as straightforward and nowhere near as homely. Having outstayed their welcome at the Pot Hole, Julie ejected them, saying they were taking the piss and she needed to get away as she was training with the rescue team that evening. They trudged back to Mark’s ground-floor bedsit behind the hotel and spent the day waiting. The phone had only rung once, and that had been a threatening call from a more accomplished petty criminal who operated in Hornby and to whom Mark owed a few hundred pounds. The one-way conversation left Mark in no doubt what was riding on his deal, and he had made sure he, not Benny, carried the goods safely disguised in his rucksack until he’d hidden it in its usual hiding place at the bottom of the wardrobe.
It was late afternoon when the call finally came that his contact was ready to meet and would be in the village in twenty minutes.
‘About fucking time,’ he grumbled after he had made sure the call was ended. ‘Right, Benny, I’ll go on me own. I don’t want anything to go wrong.’
‘Oh, okay. But I’ll still get my cut for being the donkey, right?’
‘You’ll get what’s owing,’ Mark said. ‘But it’s a mule, and all you did was come with me.’
‘Still, took a risk, didn’t I?’
‘Not when you’re working with me.’ Mark heaved his overweight frame from the pile of stuffing which had once been an Argos special offer and searched for his trainers.
‘How much?’ Benny was eating cold baked beans from a tin and squinting at a portable television that had once belonged to someone else. It wasn’t one of his more successful burglaries as the sound didn’t work, but when he had suggested they take it back and complain, Mark had given him a thick ear and told him not to be so soft in the head.
‘For you? Couple of hundred.’
For Mark, the deal was worth a few thousand and included more than the cocaine. The bag contained tabs of E and a stash of ketamine, his biggest haul so far. The men he was selling on to would make ten times what he was giving it away for, but there was little chance he would sell so much on his patch, and it was safer to get rid of it wholesale than to encroach on someone else’s turf in Lancaster or further south. He had learned early and painfully that greed didn’t pay, and a small, gradual income stream was less risky than going for the one big deal.
Benny was more than happy with his cut and had already started spending it online by the time Mark was ready to leave, the backpack slung over his shoulder.
‘Right,’ he said at the door. ‘I’m off to the climbing centre if anyone asks. Be about half an hour. Don’t do anything stupid.’
‘I got to be home for my tea while six,’ Benny said.
‘For fuck’s sake, Benny, you’re twenty-five!’
‘I know, but you know what me mam’s like if I’m late.’
‘Fair point. Later.’
Dusk in Inglestone was a depressing time in the winter. Lights glimmered behind other people’s curtains, and the glow from shops suggested warmth in sharp contrast to the temperature of the rain-spattered pavements. Those who worked nine to five had already left for home, and the few cars that passed drove with intent, their occupants determined to be inside and safe before darkness landed. Stone houses stood stoic and solid against the falling night, and the streetlamps did little to cheer the view as Mark’s footsteps echoed through deserted streets. Taking the backway running parallel to the main street, he passed behind the café and the alley where he’d bottled the queer climber from Barrenmoor. That had been a couple of years ago, and led to Gary Taylor ruining his life.
His criminal ways had been petty then. The occasional burglary when he knew it was safe, a few radios from cars when he wanted another fix, some handbag delving when women left them in the bar as they gossiped at another table, and the occasional carrying for older, more experienced runners who taught him his trade. Since that time up the fell, when a southern queer called Richard had coerced Gary into taking nude photographs and jerking off for a video, Mark had learned his lessons. Never trust an out-of-towner, never shit in your own back yard, and never trust Gary Taylor to do favours. The two hadn’t spoken since then, though they often saw each other; the village was too small to avoid chance meetings. Thanks to Gary’s rising stardom in the local climbing centre, and the unnatural way Sergeant Betty mothered him and the older guy up at the ridge, Mark had stayed well away. Keeping below Betty’s radar was easy. She was only one of two police officers at the local station and usually busy with mountain business, and by pretending to work at Geoff’s repair shop on the edge of town, Mark was able to keep his reputation gleaming in her eyes, whereas it was actually horribly tarnished.
Grinning to himself at how easy it was to pull the peaked cap over the eyes of the police, he rounded the corner of Edge Road and approached the back ginnel behind the oldest cottages. The road was a dead-end with backyards and insecure lockups on one side, and a brick retaining wall for a tree-cluttered embankment on the other. A lone streetlamp offered little more than a gloomy suggestion of light, but he had his phone to see by, and there were plenty of dark recesses between garages to hide in while he waited for the soft purr of a BMW to announce his contact’s arrival.
He didn’t have to wait long, and he was grateful because the wind was biting his toes through his knackered trainers, and his army jacket had more holes in it than the pullover he wore beneath. Headlights only lit the unmade road for a second before they were cut, and the black shape of the car crept closer to the ginnel. Mark slipped from one shadow to the next and further down the alley, checking to make sure there was no-one in the back rooms of the cottages either side. All their lights were out. Hardly surprising as one of the properties was abandoned, and the other lived in by an ancient old hag who couldn’t manage the stairs, and he slung the rucksack to the ground so he could have it opened and ready when he met his contact.
The bag made a strange clattering sound as it hit the damp ground, and for a moment he wondered what Benny had stolen from the café when he hadn’t been looking. Having undone the back clips and thrown open the top in readiness, he rested the backpack between his feet, and waited.
The clunk of a car door followed by the soft crunch of gravel alerted him to a presence, and he glanced to the end of the ginnel. A shape approached, tall with wide shoulders, moving with stealthy confidence, and Mark’s pulse kicked up a beat, aware that this guy was no joke. Rumour had it he’d been let down on a deal last month and cheated out of five hundred quid. Not a lot of money, in fact, loose change to a man like this, but still enough to ensure the runner doing the up-selling had become a victim found floating face down in Malham Tarn with fingers missing.
Mark took a deep breath and coughed quietly into his hand to clear his throat.
‘Put your light out.’
The voice grated and was weighted with a rough, southern accent, and Mark did as instructed. He could find the stash in the dark, it was at the bottom right of the rucksack in one plastic bag, heavily disguised within a rolled jumper, beneath a heap of other clothes and a couple of old ropes on top for good measure. The best way to hide something was in plain sight, he’d been told, and if anyone had stopped him on his journey back from Lancaster yesterday, a quick glance would have been enough to prove he was a climber, not a runner.
A scent of expensive aftershave arrived first, quickly followed by the man’s shadow cast from the streetlamp, chilling Mark’s blood further. His pulse refused to obey his mind, and he was worried his voice might crack, or he would pant loudly and give away his fear.
‘Alright?’ he whispered as the figure came closer.
‘I ain’t here to chat.’
Feet ground to a stop, and the ginnel fell silent.
‘It’s here,’ Mark said crouching to reach into the bag. ‘Got the money?’
The man said nothing, reinforcing Mark’s
amateurishness. Usually, on these occasions, he would know the other bloke, and they’d have a matey, though coded, chat as if they were two friends meeting by chance. This guy wasn’t interested in any of that and was keen to get moving, but Mark needed to know he had the cash.
‘Well?’ he prompted. ‘Have you?’
The man turned on his heels and started to walk away.
‘Okay, okay, I trust you.’
The looming shadow returned, and Mark dug his hands into the rucksack to delve deep for the stash.
‘What the…?’
His knuckles scraped on something metallic, and he whipped his hand free, thinking he had cut himself. At first, he imagined that Benny had slipped in a knife, and he didn’t want the contact to think he’d come tooled up, but a slower, more cautious grope at the top of the bag told him the situation was worse. His fingers found a round tin, and then another, and beside them, the unmistakable shape of a campus stove. Moving his hand around, he touched water bottles, a couple of packets, and lower still, clothes. They might have been his, it was impossible to tell in the dark, but the absence of ropes and, worse, no plastic bag, left no doubt.
His heart stopped beating, and he tasted bile in his throat.
‘We doing this or what?’ the faceless voice growled.
‘Aye, sure, hang on.’
The rucksack had travelled with him yesterday morning, pre-packed and only missing the drugs. He had worn it all day, done the deal, repacked the bag, and then it had stayed on his back until the train where he kept it between his feet. From there, he’d carried it home and straight to the wardrobe. Benny had gone his own way, so he hadn’t meddled with it. This morning, Mark had checked it, which was unnecessary as he lived alone, and carried it himself to the café where he’d placed it disguised in plain sight among the other…
‘Oh, fuck.’
‘I’m not waiting, mate,’ the voice said. ‘You’ve got ten seconds or my boss back there’s going to want a word with you.’
‘It was here,’ Mark stammered. ‘Honestly, mate.’ Another panicked search confirmed his worst fears. ‘I’ve been robbed.’
‘And we’ve been had.’
A hand gripped his collar and hauled him to his feet. Before Mark could protest, he was being dragged towards the lane.
‘No, wait.’
‘Shut it.’
‘I can get it.’
‘Not the arrangement. We don’t take kindly to being called out for some kid what don’t keep his word. You got some begging to do, son.’
‘I can explain.’
‘Save it.’
Mark could only think of one reason he had the wrong bag, and he desperately tried to remember who had been in the Pot Hole that morning.
The hand twisted his collar, choking him as they approached the car, and he realised he was still dragging the rucksack. He let it go.
‘There were these two kids,’ he said, but the man wasn’t interested.
It was the only thing he could think of. Every climber who used the Pot Hole, in fact, any climber worth the title, would recognise their own rucksack. What they kept inside them made the difference between life and death, and no-one ever took anyone else’s by mistake, let alone on purpose. Not unless they were idiots completely out of their depth, amateurs, bungling twats who had no idea what they were doing. In other words, people like him.
Having been manhandled to the car, he was thrown against it and told to stand still. His legs barely supported him, and he thought he was going to wet himself as the image of a fingerless body floating in a lake flashed through his mind.
The car’s back window descended, rubbing against his belly and he expected to feel the hot stab of a blade through his jacket, but the calm whirring sound ended with a dull thud, and no knife came. He was yanked away from the window and forced to his knees.
‘Please, mate,’ he babbled. ‘There’s been a mistake. I’m sorry…’
He hit the ground and tasted blood in his mouth, but before he could work out what had happened, was kneeling again, and being forced to look up.
‘Explain.’ A different voice, well-spoken and almost comforting.
‘Someone picked up me bag,’ Mark said. ‘I didn’t know. I…’
‘Leave him one good eye,’ the quiet voice instructed. ‘Make no noise.’
The window was rising when Mark blurted out, ‘But I know where it is,’ and the window stopped. ‘I can get it,’ he panted. ‘Honest. Give me a day…’
‘On second thoughts, take both so he can’t again waste anyone’s time.’
‘No! Please,’ Mark begged. ‘I know where it is. I know where they went. I can get it for you tomorrow.’
His head connected with the dirt for a second time and a foot kept it pressed there. Voices spoke in the darkness, deciding his fate as he forced out the fear and clawed at the memory.
The dark-haired kid, one of the queers, had told him where they were going, and better still, had told him the places they would be staying. If they’d kept to their plan, they’d be on Fellborough.
If he pushed himself, Mark could go up at first light, swap the bags and be back by midday. If the queers had found his stash and gone to the police, he’d have heard by now. The chances were, they wouldn’t find it until they set up camp by which time it would be too late to descend. He might meet them on the way down in the morning, and if they caused trouble, they were no match for him and Benny.
The situation could be salvaged. He only needed eighteen hours, and he could put things straight.
The script had only just formed in his head when he was forced to his feet, slammed against the boot of the car, and spun around.
‘Six o’clock,’ the guy said. ‘Or we pay you a visit.’
That was okay. Mark could easily get up and down by six the next night, and if anything went wrong, they didn’t know where he lived.
‘Yeah, I know what you’re thinking.’ The smell of aftershave had turned to rank breath so close to Mark’s face that spittle transferred to his cheek. ‘We know who you are.’
‘I’ll be here,’ Mark gasped, cowering. ‘Come back tomorrow night, and you’ll have your stuff. It’s good stuff too…’
‘Not tomorrow night, runt. We’re busy people. Six tomorrow morning or you’re dead. And don’t think about running, Mark Stephen Ward, 27A, Thorpe Lane. Get me? Do you, son?’
‘Yes, Sir.’ Mark’s mind was already sifting through the route and what he would need. ‘Please, I need to move fast, I have to go.’
‘I’ll give you a kick start.’
The man meant it literally.
He wrenched Mark away from the car and kicked him so hard in the back he staggered across the lane and smacked into the brick wall. He was still on the ground, winded, when the car turned, and he had to roll from its path to avoid being run over.
Seething among the mud, he used his anger to fuel his resolve.
A long climb lay ahead, and it was a difficult one in the dark, but he’d been on the moors at night before. He knew the path, and he had the right gear.
By the time he lurched wet and filthy through his front door, his anger had turned to revenge.
Seven
Euphoric at reaching the summit, Liam and Casper ran back to collect their bags. Their progress across the plateau was aided by the wind which nearly pushed them over the edge, and they skidded down the slope laughing and stumbling until they arrived breathless at the boulder.
‘Bloody marvellous,’ Casper beamed, red-faced and gasping. ‘But so cold.’ Throwing his rucksack onto his back, he connected the straps and waited while Liam did the same. ‘Now what?’
‘Drop down a little way, find that sheltered spot and put up the tent.’ Liam checked the time. ‘I
t’ll be dark soon. Better get the shelter organised first, then set up the stove and get something to eat before it rains.’
‘Lay on, Macduff.’
‘You’re learning.’
Having noted the pitch on their way up, Liam knew exactly where to go, but was surprised to find that the place they had seen was closer to the summit than it first appeared. On the ascent, it had taken ages to get from where he thought best for the tent to the first of the two plateaux, but descending, they arrived there surprisingly quickly. It was still a scramble as the area was off the path, but it was as sheltered as he hoped.
‘Reminds me of a set from a Roger Corman,’ he said. ‘Looks specially made.’
An area of flat, grassy ground stood among random boulders with the side of the mountain a near-vertical cliff behind providing a natural windbreak. The area was surrounded on two other sides by rocks as if they were a corral of wagons in a cowboy film, not high, but enough to give some shelter if the wind changed direction. They would also offer privacy should either of them need to ‘dig a hole’ as Casper put it, and the only open view was to the east, across the patchwork of ever-darkening lower moor.
‘Entrance at this end,’ Liam said, marking out the ground and testing it with his heel.
‘Into the wind?’
‘Towards the cliff, yeah. The water channel is over there and down, so any runoff will go that way, the rocks are giving shelter, and the sun won’t wake us up too early. What do you think?’
‘Whatever you say,’ Casper grinned as he put his bag aside and helped Liam off with his. ‘You think the pegs will work?’
‘Plenty of rocks if they don’t.’
They set about erecting the tent, first unclipping it from where it hung beneath Liam’s rucksack, dragging it from its bag and rolling it out. When Liam had first suggested the trip, his dad had said it was a great idea and didn’t mind missing his son’s eighteenth, reckoning that the trip was more beneficial than a night at a pub. He’d used phrases like, ‘Make a man of you’, and ‘Right of passage’ which Liam thought mildly patronising, but they came with the offer of decent equipment and some money to spend while away, so he couldn’t complain.