Chicken Feed - Sample Chapter
Chicken Feed
Ellen Ghyll (author)
Reg, the market manager, leaned idly against the serving hatch of the long “Food in the Groove” burger van. His lack-lustre gaze wandered up the early morning market, past the shanty-town of half constructed stalls and rusting traders vans until, finally, coming to rest on a line of disinterested men trudging along in fluorescent yellow jackets.
‘It can’t be much of a life, can it?’ he asked, his distinct Blackburn accent out of place in the small Cumbrian market town. ‘You know, being in prison and all that?’ Searching through the pockets of his leather-patched tweed jacket, Reg successfully located a blister pack of pink pills. He struggled to remove one from its protective bubble; forehead creasing in annoyance as a nearby trader hammered his clanging metal stall bars together. Popping the pill into his mouth, his attention returned to the prison working party and their dreary, litter-picking progress along the market. ‘Just imagine what it must feel like, being locked up all the time.’ He shuddered at the thought of it, ‘must be awful.’ He peered up at last into the unlit, shiny red and white trailer at the tall, morose figure only just visible behind the griddle, ‘I’ll have a cup of tea and a bacon butty, please.’
Inside the burger van, Paul grabbed a grimy pair of stainless steel tongs and lifted two, part cooked, rashers over to the hot centre of the griddle; then took a polystyrene cup from the dispenser on his right before smoothly crossing over to the large cylindrical water boiler steaming away on the back wall of the trailer.
‘They’re not though, are they?’ he observed over his shoulder, dropping a round tea bag in Reg’s cup and adding the boiling water.
‘Not what?’
‘They’re not locked up. They’re out here with the rest of us.’ Paul stirred the brew, fished out the teabag with a stained spoon and dropped it in the red plastic kitchen waste bin at his feet.
‘Well, no. Not right now at this minute they’re not,’ conceded Reg, crunching the pill distastefully, ‘but they will be, once they get back.’
‘They spend most of their time in the pub, from what I hear.’ Muttered Paul, turning back and handing the steaming cup to Reg, ‘Here you go; the bacon won’t be long.’
‘Thanks.’ Reg took a tentative sip of the scalding liquid, winced, and reached for the milk jug. ‘Who said they go to the pub?’
‘Wilf, off the car boot.’
Reg slopped milk into his tea, and stared up at Paul’s lanky form in disbelief.
‘And how would he know?’
‘Dunno,’ said Paul, shrugging his shoulders, ‘he just does.’
Shaking his head, Reg’s attention was caught again by the prisoners, who had by now reached the blue painted, corrugated iron cattle shed at the bottom end of the market, but instead of going in, had turned around and were heading slowly back the way they had come.
‘What do they think they’re playing at?’ he spluttered, ‘they’ve already done that bit, they’re supposed to do the car boot next.’
‘Wilf told me those perverts’ll only get in the car boot over his dead body.’
‘Oh God.’ Reg set his cup on the counter. Removing his heavy, gold-rimmed glasses, he pinched the bridge of his nose; his head ached dully. ‘They’re not perverts,’ he sighed, ‘they’re just prisoners.’ He pressed the palm of his hand against his lined forehead and momentarily closed his eyes, running his fingers through his greying hair as if to massage away the increasing pain.
‘Some of them are perverts,’ said Paul, ‘Wilf says so.’
‘I don’t care what Wilf says,’ snapped Reg. ‘He’s just a car-booter, after all! He thinks he runs this market, him and his mates; well they don’t! They’re all round the twist, anyway!’ He replaced his specs, and reached for his cup, ‘You know what they do, don’t you?’ he glared up at Paul, his pale blue eyes popping in frustration. ‘They get here at four o’clock in the freezing morning, dump their stuff in the best pitches, to claim them, and then, instead of setting up, they all congregate together with their flasks and butties and watch telly!’ He got his breath back and took a sip of tea, ‘Then,’ he added, with renewed vigour, as a further thought occurred to him, ‘they have a go at me because they say it stinks in there! What do they expect?’ his voice increased in pitch, ‘it’s a cattle auction, not a church hall!’ Reg sipped his tea, bristling with annoyance and recalled yet another thorn in his flesh. ‘And you know that Bob Elliott?’
Paul raised his dark eyebrows questioningly.
Reg waved an impatient hand in the air.
‘You know, that crony of Wilf’s; stocky bloke with the shaved head?’
Paul nodded and Reg continued.
‘Well, I’m supposed to be sorting him out today. Sheena’s given him his final warning but he’s still storing masses of junk here in the car boot instead of taking it home with him at the end of the day.’ He groaned, ‘She’ll ban him if he doesn’t get it all cleared out soon.’ He sipped at his tea and tried to breathe slowly and deeply; all this excitement was bound to play havoc with his blood pressure. ‘Anyway,’ he went on in a calmer, more hopeful manner, ‘it’s Sheena who deals with the prison; it’s up to her to sort out the litter picking, not me.’ He thought for a moment then added, ‘And she can sort that Bob Elliott out as well.’
Absolved of responsibility, for the time being at least, he turned the conversation to what he hoped would be less troubled waters.
‘So,’ he inquired in a lighter tone, ‘how’s the wife?’
‘Eh? Oh she’s chucked me out. I’m living in the wagon.’ Paul bent down to check that the gas burners under the griddle were still lit. ‘Someone told her about Roxi.’
Reg stared at the top of Paul’s dishevelled head, noticing enviously that the younger man still sported a full crop of brown, wavy hair.
‘Roxi?’
‘Her I’ve been knocking off on Mondays – you know.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s gone out! I think the bottle must be empty,’ said Paul, standing up and reaching for the tongs, ‘Good job you don’t like your bacon crispy, eh?’ He lifted the warm, anaemic mass onto half a bun, added a generous gloop of red sauce, slapped on the top half and thrust it towards Reg. ‘Here, ‘scuse fingers.’
Reg sighed. He was sure he was coming down with something. His brow furrowed as he struggled to gather his thoughts.
‘I thought she was called Kelly or something like that,’ he sipped his tea and then nodded decisively, ‘in fact yes,
I’m sure that’s what you told me her name was.’
‘Nah, try and keep up! Kelly’s the one on Wednesdays, the missus hasn’t found out about her – yet.’
‘Oh.’ Reg felt old. The rigid view of marriage instilled into him, admittedly by his domineering mother and worn-down father, seemed to belong to a different world. Whatever happened to traditional family values? These days, he thought, that phrase was more of a joke, dredged up now and again by politicians in their never-ending quest for greater and more insidious control over the populace.
The grease from the under-cooked bacon began to solidify where it had dribbled onto Reg’s fingers. It whispered to him of cholesterol and heart attacks. He eyed it warily.
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Well, I’m going to see Roxi tonight and Kelly on Wednesday.’
There was a short silence.
‘No,’ said Reg. ‘No, I mean, what are you going to do to try and sort things out at home, with your wife?
Um...what’s her name?’
‘Eileen.’
‘Yes, with Eileen.’ Reg went to take a bite of his butty but wrinkled his nose and changed direction towards the cup in his other hand. He sipped his tea, ‘you really ought to sit down together and talk it through, you know.’
Paul shrugged.
‘Well, that’s a bit tricky, what with me only being home now and then, and her working nightshift all week at Morrisons.’ He wiped his greasy hands on his once-white apron, ‘I haven’t actually seen her in a while, but I’ve been mulling it over and I’ve decided that if she doesn’t know when she’s well off, she can see what it’s like living on her own for a bit.’ Paul scratched his stubbly chin. ‘Give her chance to see what it’s like, not having a man about the place.’ He slouched towards the door of the burger van. ‘Just got to change the gas over.’
After a couple of un-enthusiastic bites, Reg took the opportunity of disposing of his breakfast under Paul’s trailer. He felt tired and sick and so, not unnaturally, his thoughts turned to his boss Sheena McKinley, owner, since her divorce, of McKinley’s Markets.
These markets were held every day in a number of little towns across the county in the auction marts of Cumbrian Cattle Sales Ltd. who, since foot-and-mouth disease had famously crippled the area, were suffering hard times and were glad of the rents Sheena paid. Reg sighed. It had never been the same since she took over, he thought. Fair enough, the wages were good and living with his aged mother made for an inexpensive lifestyle; Cumbria was okay too, once you got used to all the fields. It was just that when Frank McKinley had been in charge, the market had been a happier place, that’s all. For one thing, there had been no McKinley’s Market Rulebook. Reg shuddered at the thought of the thick, well-thumbed, photocopied volume, residing on a shelf in the market office. That was Sheena’s own invention.
He remembered one occasion, when he’d got really fed up and tried to get work doing something less stressful. He’d gone along to Sheena and asked for a reference, only to be told, “It isn’t company policy to give references!” and that had been the end of that. She wasn’t the sort of woman you could argue with. He sighed. At his age, it was hard enough finding a job he had any chance of getting. It was bloody impossible to even get an interview without the benefit of a few kind words from your present employer!
Reg looked down to where a small brown and white Jack Russell terrier was snuffling hopefully around at his feet.
‘Hello dog,’ he said dismally, ‘don’t come too close. You might catch whatever it is I’ve got.’ He reached into his pocket for another pill, ‘and believe me, you don’t want it.’
‘I like dogs,’ said Paul, re-appearing at the serving hatch. Here dog, catch!’ Paul threw a sausage. It landed on Reg’s right boot.
‘Oh thanks very much,’ said Reg, shaking the sausage onto the ground and grimacing at the greasy splodge it had left on his brown leather hiking boot. ‘I’ll have all the dogs of the day round me now!’
The Jack Russell sniffed doubtfully at the warm, half cooked, grey lump of mechanically recovered meat and re-hydrated rusk.
Paul leaned down over the griddle towards Reg, his red-rimmed eyes gleaming wickedly.
‘Might do you some good, a bit of the other!’ he said. ‘Might be just what you need, an old dog – get it?’ He smirked at the look of horror on Reg’s face and continued. ‘You should try getting off with that Linda; she’s the biggest dog on the market, maybe she’ll come sniffing round!’
‘If I wanted a lady friend – which I don’t,’ spluttered Reg, ‘I’d choose someone with a bit of class at least.’ He wiped his boot on the back of his dark green, corduroy trouser leg. ‘Not the kind of “market bike” you always end up with, anyway.’
Finding no appeal in Paul’s culinary offering, the little dog trotted away leaving the sausage where it had fallen.
‘Ungrateful little sod,’ said Paul, retiring into the steamy interior of his trailer.
Reg watched as the dog made its way across to the brightly lit butcher’s wagon with the blue and white slogan, “Matt’s Meats are Marvellous” emblazoned across the front. A speculative yap won it a scrap of raw beef, which it devoured on the spot. When no more treats were forthcoming it trotted further down the market, making a beeline for Grant’s army surplus stall.
Reg drained the dregs of his tepid tea and returned his gaze to the dog as it sniffed excitedly round the piles of camouflage trousers, heavy-looking boots, rucksacks, steel helmets and other less easily identifiable items on display there. He smiled to himself, happy at the little dog’s pleasure; but it turned out to be short-lived. Just as the terrier had decided to mark Grant’s pitch as part of its territory, a shout from the back of the stall and a well aimed missile brought home to it the wisdom of returning to its master.
It fled, with more speed than grace, past the neighbouring stalls and through the big double gates bearing the worn banner, “Car Boot.”
The car boot sale was held in a large draughty enclosure with a corrugated roof and holes where there should have been windows. It was sectioned off in eight-foot squares by a grid of heavy, tubular steel gates designed as holding pens for sheep and cattle on auction days.
On market days the pens contained, as well as pasting tables and cardboard boxes full of life’s detritus, a unique assortment of generally cheerful individuals of all ages, dressed in what might appear to the casual observer to be anything warm and cheap they had come across whilst foraging on each other’s stalls.
Bob Elliott huffed and puffed his way towards Wilf Graham’s pen. Looking around the side of the heavy box he was carrying, he could see Wilf directing some newcomers to an un-occupied stall. Wilf, now in his sixties, had been doing the car boots for longer than anyone could remember and he radiated an indefinable air of control, albeit un-official, which earned him the respect of almost everyone in the business.
Bob dumped the bulging cardboard box on the floor of the pen. He brushed a cobweb from the front of his mucky green and white striped t-shirt, transferred it with an idle wipe to his baggy blue jeans and looked around, wrinkling his nose in disgust.
‘You’d think they’d give this place a bit of a swill out, wouldn’t you? It stinks in here!’
Wilf grunted agreement, nodding his wizened head in the direction of the slurry-spattered area at the far end of the building.
‘Aye. I’ve had a word with Reg and he says a cattle wagon broke down and the beasts had to stay in all night.’ He pulled a packet of cigarettes from the top pocket of his khaki ex-army overalls, ‘The auction lads’ll have it cleaned up by the end of the day.’
Bob grinned, his teeth gleaming in sharp contrast to his dark five o’clock shadow, as Wilf fought to ignite a fluorescent green plastic lighter that he’d picked up from a boxful on his stall.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you - the whole place might go up!’
‘Good thing too, if you ask me,’ replied Wilf, puffing away triumphantly. He replaced the lighter – someone would buy it later.
Bob pointed at the box he’d just brought in.
‘I’ve got another lot the same if you’re interested. Got them off a lad I know who works in a canteen.’
Wilf bent down and poked, with nicotine stained fingers, expertly around at the contents of the box. Casting a searching glance over at the newcomers who were standing chatting and hadn’t brought any stock in yet, he nodded at Bob.
‘Aye, okay. I’ll come over and get them now if you like.’
They made their way across to the other side of the car boot, carefully negotiating the deep drainage channels set into the rough concrete floor and cheerily acknowledging other early arrivals on the way. You had to get there first thing if you wanted to lay claim to the best pens and have a look around before the punters arrived.
Professional traders, Bob and Wilf earned a living from the sale of whatever they could buy cheap at the weekly house clearance auctions in neighbouring towns and from casual car booters on the day – those innocents who turned up now and then to sell unsuspected treasures for fifty pence a shot. The rush to reach them before the competition did was often undignified but never unrewarding. As soon as the newcomers had ferried their stock in from the car, Bob and Wilf would be there, opening boxes, unwrapping ornaments, automatically turning them over, looking for collectable maker’s marks; they had no scruples. If fifty pence was the asking price they’d beat them down to twenty and then sell the item on for a fiver – often right under the nose of the former owner.
The two men entered the offshoot that Bob had claimed for himself. It was the biggest pitch in the car boot, dry and cosy with its own exit out to the market proper. Bob’s stock lined the walls on both sides, piled high.
Wilf shook his head.
‘You’ve got more stuff here than the rest of us put together! Don’t tell me you can get all this in that Transit of yours.’
Bob hooked his thumbs through the stretchy red braces that held his faded jeans in place and surveyed with pride his collection of old wardrobes, dilapidated fridge-freezers, tables of all shapes and sizes, books, board games and ornaments.
‘What I don’t sell today I’ll leave here, then bring more to add to it,’ he said. ‘The more you’ve got, the more you sell and it’s not doing anyone any harm. The auction lads don’t use this bit at the moment, so it’s not like it’s in the way or anything.’
He nodded towards the far end where there was a tatty box, which had once held a microwave oven.
‘That’s your stuff there, Wilf, I’ll just get it.’
Bob strode towards the box, turning up the volume of a grubby, black and white portable television, as he passed.
The Border TV newsreader was trying, without much success, to soften her hard, Cumbrian vowels in imitation of the supposedly more refined accents of the South.
“Police in West Cumbria are trying to discover the whereabouts of Norman Watson who absconded yesterday evening, from HMP Langrigg,” she announced.
Wilf puffed at his cigarette and warmed his scraggy backside in front of Bob’s glowing Halogen-heater.
The report went on.
“Watson, the second paedophile to abscond from the prison this month, was jailed indefinitely two years ago for raping a thirteen year-old girl at knifepoint, and was scheduled for release in two months time. He was moved to the open prison as part of the government’s sex offenders rehabilitation scheme.”
Wilf’s shrewd eyes narrowed as he stared thoughtfully at the screen.
The reporter hurried on.
“Local people are calling for the cessation of the scheme but David Malkinshaw, operations manager for the Prison Service in Cumbria, is adamant. He issued a statement yesterday evening saying, ‘The prisoners do valuable, unpaid work in the local community, the monetary savings from which, far outweigh any foreseeable risk.’ Parents have been warned to keep a close eye on their children and told not to approach Watson, as he could be dangerous. The weather today will remain unsettled with a risk of high winds, possibly reaching gale force in the West.”
Bob passed Wilf the heavy box and turned over to Channel 5’s “Quizcall”.
Wilf grunted and shifted the box to a more comfortable position on his bony hip.
‘It’s never been the same round here since they built that place up the road and let those perverts run free,’ he said. ‘Keep the kids indoors while the criminals come and go as they please? Ha! I’ve got a granddaughter and I don’t mind telling you, I’m not happy. That place isn’t what I’d call a prison. They’re always sneaking off to the Fox and Hounds – it’s getting so decent folks don’t like to drink there any more!’
‘Aye, it’s bad enough having a jail round here at all,’ said Bob, ‘without them trying to make the inmates part of the community. Sheena even has them doing the litter picking here on the market now.’
‘I know. Anything to save a couple o’ quid! Both those blokes who’ve gone missing worked on here.’ said Wilf.
‘It’s a bloody disgrace. It all goes to prove what I’ve always said.’ He took a few steps and then turned, fixing Bob with an eagle eyed stare, ‘If you want something doing in this country – you’ve got to do it yourself, ‘cos them lot in so called authority couldn’t give a monkeys!’
‘Aye, you’re right, there.’
‘See you later.’ Wilf staggered back to his cattle pen with his box of out of date cans of Corned Beef. He’d knock them out at two for a quid and make a killing!
Sheena McKinley drove the shiny red Land Rover Discovery through the gates of the auction mart and pulled up outside the tiny room she and Reg used as the market office. She slid with practiced ease from the firm leather seat - a long drop for a lady of diminutive stature - and stood for a moment, keys in hand; no make-up, no jewellery, no nonsense. Her curly red hair was tucked into the blue woolly bobble hat which she was hardly ever seen without; her well-worn jeans and brown leather flying jacket were good quality but unflattering.
Sheena’s cold gaze took in the un-enthusiastic way the market traders were setting up the metal framework of their stalls. High winds had been forecast and they were reluctant to make a start. She pressed the magic button that locked the car doors and set the alarm.
‘Where’s Reg?’ Walking briskly in the direction indicated, and ignoring the ill-concealed hostility of those around her, she glanced critically up at the sky and made a mental note to tell Reg to collect the rents early today – the market might have to be called off and she had no intention of losing money. She found him beside Paul’s burger van, wiping his nose with a paper tissue and looking as enthused as a late night checkout operator.
‘Reg.’ It was a statement, not a greeting.
Reg nodded and shoved the hanky back in his pocket.
‘Forecast’s bad.’ another statement delivered in the crisp Scottish brogue.
Sheena raised her eyebrows and opened her steely eyes wide.
Reg straightened his shoulders; obviously something more than a nod was expected this time.
‘Yes. Um, forty-five mile an hour gusts, arriving before lunchtime, I heard. The traders aren’t happy.’
‘The traders, Reg, are never happy. It’s in their very nature to be un-happy.’ Sheena’s eyes rested for a moment on Reg’s lugubrious features, ‘And, while we’re on the subject, you don’t look to be on top form yourself today.’
Her lips curled in distaste, ‘See to it in future that you stay off the drink the night before a market.’
‘I don’t! I d-didn’t…’ stammered Reg, outraged. ‘I haven’t touched alcohol for months!’
‘Aye, so you say.’ said Sheena. She turned to Paul, ‘Tea please.’
Reg dug his hands in his pockets and felt the reassuring shape of the packet of pills. He wished they would start having an effect; it was ages until finishing time.
He watched as Sheena poured milk into her tea. Paul operated a self-serve system with milk and sugar, with the inevitable result that the sugar was usually a solid mass and the milk full of crumbs and other less identifiable bits. However, it was still early in the day and, as yet, Sheena had no cause for complaint. She wrapped her hands around the flimsy cup, glad of its warmth in the early morning chill and got straight down to the most pressing issue of the day.
‘Has Bob Elliott moved all that stuff out yet?’
Opposite, and no more than a dozen steps to the right of the burger van, Owen the egg man was preparing for a day’s trade. His wiry build made him, at a distance, seem taller than he actually was. Beak-nosed and just over twenty-seven years of age, he was becoming resigned to bachelorhood and a life alone, in the middle of nowhere, with five hundred chickens and his housebound father. Owen drank Newcastle Brown before breakfast, smelt vaguely of ammonia and had a sprinkling of feathers and sawdust in his untidy auburn hair.
He was happily transferring trays of eggs from his van to the sturdy table that served as his stall when Brendan McKeown, Irish purveyor of fake designer gear and anything else he could turn a profit on, strolled along from the stall next door.
‘Morning Owen. Cup o’ tea?’
‘No thanks.’ Owen pointed at a half empty beer bottle, ‘I’m fine.’
Brendan’s blue eyes twinkled beneath pale eyebrows and well-trimmed fair hair.
‘Don’t let her majesty see you with that,’ he chuckled, ‘she’ll go berserk.’
Owen and Brendan glanced over to where Reg and Sheena stood in deep conversation.
‘Now what’s all that about, do you think?’ Brendan rested his backside on the edge of Owen’s table and lit an illegally-imported cigarette.
The egg man paused from his labours and perched beside him.
‘Looks like a council of war. Wonder who she’s picking on this time?’
‘So long as it’s not me, I’m not too bothered,’ said Brendan. He brushed a small piece of ash from his Nike sweatshirt and went on, ‘She’s been having a go at Bob in the car boot lately though. There was that row last week – the air was blue.’
‘I’ve bought a few bits and pieces off Bob, in the past,’ said Owen. ‘He’s a decent lad.’
Brendan and Owen both looked in opposite directions, each apparently engrossed in something else, as Reg and Sheena passed by. When the coast was clear, their eyes turned towards them once again. Brendan took a long drag of his cigarette, and Owen a refreshing gulp of ale. Reg and Sheena headed towards the car boot entrance leading to Bob’s stall.
‘Here we go,’ said Brendan.
‘Light the blue touch paper and stand well back,’ agreed Owen.
‘You’re banned.’ Sheena stood in front of Bob, hands on hips. ‘You’ve had three verbal warnings and one written warning. I told you last week that if all this junk,’ she waved an arm at Bob’s mountain of jumble, ‘wasn’t moved by today I would class it as rubbish and dispose of it myself.’
Car-booters from the main room began to gather at a safe distance. They knew that whatever happened here would inevitably affect all of them; Sheena would make sure of it.
Wilf leaned calmly against the far wall, arms folded.
‘One of these days, lass,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘you’re gonna go too far.’
Sheena spotted Bob’s chattering TV and brightly lit heater, marched towards them and dragged the plugs out of the sockets. The orange glow died in the ensuing silence.
‘We do not supply electricity to traders!’
Reg stood a little to one side and shifted uncomfortably. He hated confrontation. When Frank had run the market, any problems had been easily sorted out over a cup of tea and a biscuit.
Bob looked uncertainly at Reg, as though he couldn’t believe this was really happening.
Sheena picked up a loaded tray of pottery from one of the tables and thrust it towards Reg.
‘Throw this in the skip.’
Reg stared at the tray in his hands. Gaudy little ornaments with grubby white price stickers smiled trustingly up at him as they clinked together.
Sheena grabbed a cardboard box full of tubes of buttons and zips and strode towards the walk-in skip, just outside the door and directly opposite Brendan’s stall.
Following her with the tray, Reg was aware of Bob moving towards them quickly, shouting something about a misunderstanding and him clearing it all out today.
Sheena reached the skip first and heaved the box inside. Buttons of all shapes and colours made a crazy mosaic amongst the accumulated rubbish on the floor.
Reg tossed the tray of ornaments after them, cringing and feeling dreadful as he heard them smash.
Sheena laughed out loud and headed back for more.
Reg turned and saw that a group of market traders had stopped setting up and were watching the conflict in solemn-eyed silence. He felt their disgust at Sheena and himself and, looking away quickly, he dragged the bubble pack out of his pocket to take another pill.
Back inside the building Sheena had grabbed a box of crockery.
‘No, not that!’ Bob tried to wrestle it away from her. ‘That cost me thirty quid at the auction. I’ve a bloke coming to give me sixty for it today!’
Sheena snatched the box back, staggering under its weight.
‘You lay one finger on me and you’ll be up at court for assault!’ She jerked her head towards the watching car-booters, ‘I’ve got witnesses!’ Heads began to turn away, the crowd shifting uneasily. She ran to the skip and heaved the dinner service in.
Reg winced at the crash and tossed a handful of paperback books after it, just to show willing.
Sheena dashed back to claim the next load, but Bob was standing in her way.
‘Can’t we just talk about it?’
‘Too late.’ Pushing him roughly to one side, she glanced briefly up into his face and then yelled for Reg to follow her as she headed again for the heavily laden tables.
Bob, shaken as much by the gleeful expression on Sheena’s face as by the wanton destruction of his property, watched in gathering anger. She’s actually enjoying this, he thought, looking around for some sign of support from his fellow car booters. Nothing there; none dared stand against Sheena – she’d make them suffer if they tried. Even now she was heading towards the skip with a microwave oven in her arms and Bob knew she wasn’t going to stop until she’d destroyed everything he had.
Reg scurried past him with an oil lamp in one hand and a Vaseline Glass vase in the other. Bob’s hand closed around a hammer, on display amongst some worn out wood saws and open boxes of nails. He’d had enough.
Returning from the skip, Reg saw a blazing-eyed maniac heading towards him. His frightened gaze flickered from Bob’s furious expression to the weapon he carried and he acted instinctively. Grabbing Sheena unceremoniously round the waist, he hurled her through the entrance as hard as he could. She sprawled in a heap on the tarmac, cursing as Reg hauled on the heavy, sliding door of the cattle shed. It slammed shut and Reg held on for dear life.
‘Run, you stupid woman!’ he screamed at Sheena, ‘He’s going to kill us both!’
Sheena scrambled to her feet, poised for flight and breathing rapidly. She looked at Reg, still holding the door shut, and then turned her head wildly only to see Owen and Brendan smirking as they lounged against the egg stall. The sound of frantic hammering echoed across the market. Her startled expression turned to one of fury as she realised what the traders had grasped seconds before. Bob Elliot was barricading himself inside the car boot.
Feigning un-concern and ignoring the muffled laughter of the market traders, Reg picked up a mechanical gripper and bin bag from beside the skip and started searching round for litter to pick up. He moved slowly but steadily away from Sheena, hoping she wouldn’t notice his defection.
‘Don’t go too far,’ she snapped, covering the mouthpiece of her mobile phone. ‘When the police get here, they’ll need to speak to you too.’
Lunchtime came and went, as did the punters: young women with pushchairs, retired couples in expensive four-by-fours and unemployed teenagers on the lookout for unguarded goods. It was a morning market, the traders always said, with nothing much happening in the afternoon.
Owen the egg man took Brendan a cup of tea from Paul’s trailer. ‘Here you go, nice and strong, two sugars.’
‘Thanks, you’re a grand man.’
‘Had a good day?’
‘Not too bad,’ replied Brendan taking a drink. ‘I nearly had a heart attack though when the boys in blue turned up - and there’s me with six thousand smuggled ciggies in the back of the van,’ He scratched his receding hairline, ‘not to mention the fake Nike shirts.’
‘Did they find anything?’
‘Nah, they didn’t even look. They had their hands full negotiating a peace settlement between Bob and her majesty. Apparently he’s got until noon tomorrow to move everything out and he’s banned from trading on all her markets as of today.’
‘That’s a bit harsh. He’s got a wife and kid hasn’t he?’
‘Dunno,’ Brendan gulped at his tea, ‘her majesty won’t care about that though, and I’ll tell you something else for nothing,’ Brendan drained his cup and tossed it under his stall, ‘If she finds out about my ciggies and your drink, we’ll be the next ones to go!’
Owen took a swig from the bottle in his hand and nodded agreement.
Reg and Sheena walked slowly past Matt’s Meats, heading for the market office.
Reg attempted diplomacy.
‘I mean couldn’t we just make him move his stuff out and still let him come back so long as he doesn’t mess the place up again?’
‘He was warned, Reg, he knew what would happen.’
‘Yes but we’re taking his livelihood away from him. They say his wife walked out on him a couple of months ago, and he has to pay maintenance for the kid – he’s having a hard time.’
‘I don’t know anything about that and I don’t care. I can’t have him acting as though the place is his own! Before you know it, everyone will be doing the same.’ She pulled her hat firmly down over her ears, ‘I caught three more car booters with heaters in the cattle pens, you know – it all costs money, and now I’ve got to pay for repairs to the door!’
‘It is very cold in there,’ said Reg, ‘Wilf wants to know if we can put plastic sheets up at the open sides like Frank used to, to keep the rain out.’
‘No we can’t,’ snapped Sheena, ‘they’ll all just have to wrap up warm.’
‘They said their stock gets rained on and spoilt,’ muttered Reg.
‘Then they should invest in a covered stall, join the market proper, and pay full market rents!’
Sheena stopped in her tracks and glared at Reg. ‘You know, it sounds to me like you’re getting soft with those car-booters.’
‘No, no,’ Reg assured her, nervously fiddling with his pills inside his jacket pocket, ‘it’s just that some of them are getting on a bit, you know? They feel the cold.’
Sheena shrugged indifferently.
‘Well they should stay at home by the fire then.’
‘People like them don’t have fires.’
‘What?’
‘Not any more,’ said Reg, ‘only the well-off have real fires, now. Poor people have central heating, which they can’t afford to switch on. Time was,’ he continued reminiscently, ‘when they could get warm just by burning their rubbish,’ he shook his head, ‘but not these days.’
‘No,’ said Sheena grimly, ‘now, they bring it all here and sell it instead!’
Matt the butcher watched them pass by, his large face registering no emotion. He caught sight of Bob, staggering in the opposite direction, weighed down by a pile of heavy boxes and, as a gesture of solidarity, called out over his microphone.
‘Hey lad, I’ve got some bones for your dog, if you want them!’
‘Thanks Matt, I’ll see you later, I’ve got to take this lot to Grant!’
Bob entered Grant’s Army Surplus stall and headed into the gloom. It was like walking into a jungle, he thought, dark green and malodorous. His head bumped against an object hanging from the roof and something snake-like coiled itself heavily around his shoulders. He yelped, dropped the boxes he was carrying, dragged the thing off and flung it on to a heap of camouflage netting in the corner. The rope lay still, offering no resistance.
Feeling foolish, Bob looked around quickly, to see if anyone had witnessed his fright, and he laughed shakily.
‘Grant?’ He left the boxes where they had fallen and peered around. ‘You there mate?’
‘Over here.’
He followed the voice to the back of the stall. Grant, dressed in black army boots, camouflage trousers and an olive green jumper, was testing the balance of a curved, jungle machete, which he quickly dropped back in its sheath as Bob approached, resting it down on a nearby box.
‘Hello Bob,’ said Grant, ‘what are you after then?’
Bob stared, his attention caught by the thing towering behind Grant’s tall, muscular figure.
‘What the…?’ A large, shiny silver suit hung from a hook at the back of the stall.
Grant grinned, lifted it down and held it out.
‘Good eh?’
Taking hold of it, Bob had a closer look. It had built in gloves and shoes and there was a large hood sealed with a darkly tinted visor.
‘It looks like it should have come out of Apollo Thirteen!’
Grant chuckled, his face shining with childlike enthusiasm.
‘It’s a flash suit.’
Bob looked again.
‘Nah, you’d have no end of trouble flashing in a thing like that!’ he quipped, much to Grant’s amusement. ‘Mind you,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘if you had that on, your own mother wouldn’t recognise you, would she?’
‘It’s for firemen. You know, in case they have to rescue someone where there’s a risk of explosion.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘They cost a bomb new, but I got a job lot cheap. Something went wrong in manufacture and it turns out they’re highly flammable,’ Grant thought for a second, ‘or is it inflammable…. I’m not sure which.’
Both men looked thoughtfully at the suit.
Bob broke the silence.
‘Not a lot of use really then, either way.’
‘Suppose not.’
‘How many have you got?’
‘Twenty seven.’
Bob gave himself a mental shake and got down to more serious matters.
‘I’ve got to move all my stuff out of the car boot,’ he explained, to a sympathetic looking Grant, ‘so I’ve brought these boxes of balaclavas if you want them, and I’ve got another four boxes of assorted stuff you might be interested in as well.’
‘Yes, I’ll have them all, but I can’t fit them in the van tonight.’ He had an idea, and fumbled in his trouser pocket, throwing out a few old sweet wrappers before finally producing a bunch of keys. He searched through them and struggled to separate one from the rest. ‘I don’t suppose you’d be able to drop them off at my mum’s old place, sometime today or tomorrow, could you?’
‘Aye, I can do that, I know where it is.’ said Bob.
‘Take this then,’ said Grant as he handed over a well-worn key. ‘It’s my only spare, so don’t lose it.’
‘No problem, I’ll put the stuff in the van now.’
Reg folded his arms on the drop-down shelf of Paul’s serving hatch and rested his aching forehead on them. He wanted to sleep but every time he closed his eyes the world started to spin.
Paul batted him sharply on the back of his balding head with something hot.
‘Oi! You’ll get hairs all over the sausages if you do that.’
Reg took a step back staggering slightly.
‘Sorry. Black coffee please.’
Paul picked Reg’s hair off the old wallpaper scraper he used to clean the griddle and grabbed a cup. He moved towards the gas boiler and the catering pack of Nescafe.
‘Has she gone then? he asked.’
‘Yes, thank goodness,’ sighed Reg, ‘I suppose you’ve heard what happened.’
‘You know what markets are like for gossip,’ said Paul, passing him the steaming coffee.
Reg looked glumly at the grease spots floating on the surface.
‘It wasn’t me who wanted him banned, you know,’ he said, ‘but I’ll get the blame. They’ll all hate me now.
Nobody likes me.’ He popped a pink pill into his mouth and washed it down with a gulp of scalding coffee.
‘Aargh! That was hot!’
Paul shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well you just saw me make it, didn’t you? You’d soon twine if it was cold.’
Reg looked hurt.
‘Even you don’t like me.’ He turned his back on Paul and stared balefully across at Owen who was packing away the few trays of eggs that hadn’t sold. A late shopper appeared and the egg man spied her. He flapped his elbows and started clucking, capering around, knees bent, backside jutting.
‘Squawk! Would you like to buy some eggs, madam? Cluck, cluck! Only a pound a tray at the end of the day?’
The woman fumbled with her purse and Reg smiled to himself as she hurried away with the eggs. He wondered if she’d really wanted them or had just been too terrified to refuse. Market traders are a weird lot, thought Reg, as he took another sip of his coffee; it seared down his already burnt throat. He winced again and continued his sullen observations.
Matt, in a blue and white striped butcher’s coat, climbed backwards down the steps from the meat wagon, straightened his blood stained, white, trilby-style hat and lumbered over to where Owen was standing. Money changed hands and Owen was soon dragging half a dozen large Hessian sacks, one at a time, from the wagon and over to his stall. Reg could make out the words, ‘Chicken Feed’ printed in red on one of the sacks. Owen opened it and popped a pellet into his mouth, nodding in approval.
‘Fancy buying chicken feed from a butcher,’ said Paul, pausing in mid-scrape, his apron now a greasy mess from the day’s activity. ‘Doesn’t seem right somehow. Chickens are vegetarian, aren’t they?’
‘I expect he got a job-lot, cheap.’ Reg giggled uncontrollably, ‘Cheap! Cheap! He probably got a job-lot CHEEP!’
Paul shook his head and went back to his scraping.
Bob Elliott, a black bin bag full of heaven knows what under his left arm, collected the promised bones from Matt’s wagon and joined Owen beside the assembled feed sacks.
Reg, hilarity forgotten, stared into his cup and tried to be inconspicuous. He didn’t need another run-in with Bob today. He raised his eyes cautiously to see Owen pointing at the sacks and Bob nodding in agreement. Then Owen pulled a scrap of paper from his cash belt, wrote something on it, and handed it to Bob. Reg heard the jingle of keys and the sound of laughter at a joke shared between friends. It must be nice to have friends, he thought, self pityingly, friends to laugh with. He frowned; friends to do anything with would be a start. Absorbed in the fickleness of a fate that had decreed he live un-wed and un-inspired, he forgot to be circumspect and, as
Bob turned, their eyes met and Reg knew there was no escape.
Bob strode purposefully towards him and stood uncomfortably close.
‘Just so you know, she says I’ve got until tomorrow dinnertime to get all my stuff moved.’
Reg felt everyone’s eyes watching him.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘I’ve made a list of everything that’s there and if anything goes missing, I’m going straight to the police.’
‘Yes, okay.’
Bob pushed his face up to Reg’s and growled.
‘I could do you in right here and now, and nobody would do anything to stop me. You know that, don’t you?’
Reg swallowed. He could imagine the traders turning a blind eye, swearing on oath that they’d not witnessed his lifeless body being thrown into the skip on top of Bob’s broken possessions. He said nothing.
Bob laughed harshly, the sound grated on Reg’s fragile nerves.
‘But I’m not going to do that because you’re not worth the effort.’
Reg watched Bob walk away and he breathed again. His hand shook as he raised the cup to his lips and fumbling in his pocket, he located the pink pills. It had been a dreadful day and he really didn’t feel well at all.
The sun sank behind the cattle sheds and the wind grew stronger as Reg collected the last of the traders’ rubbish from the deserted market. All the punters, car-booters and traders had gone home now and he was alone, apart from the gulls which swooped in to feast on scattered chips, ends of hot dogs and, no doubt, somewhere, his own discarded bacon roll.
He leaned against the side of the skip and lit a cigarette. He’d stopped smoking regularly years ago but still felt the need when under stress, and right now his whole body felt like it had been run over by a steamroller. His head thundered and it didn’t matter how many pills he took; they obviously weren’t doing any good. He thought perhaps he’d better give them back to his mother and ask her if they might have been prescribed for something other than flu. Reg grimaced. It would be just his luck for them to be her HRT pills. Surely his mother must be too old for HRT? He inhaled deeply and half shut his eyes. How old did a woman have to be before the doctors reckoned she wasn’t worth the prescription any more? Whatever age it was, Reg was sure his mother must be well past it – at least he hoped she was. What effect would HRT pills have on him anyway?
Pondering this unlikely question, Reg began to flatten the pile of empty cardboard boxes left by the traders. It was cold now the watery sun had gone and the wind was blowing heavy clouds in from the sea. He stepped into the skip and started stacking the cardboard at the far end, crunching broken pottery underfoot as he went.
The wind howled through the rusty holes in the corners of the skip, producing a wailing cacophony, which more than once made Reg look over his shoulder. Dark clouds boiled over the deserted market and Reg shivered as heavy raindrops splattered against the metal door, which rattled and creaked on its un-oiled hinges.
He worked methodically, packing the last of the cardboard neatly. Thanks to his efforts there was room for another few day’s rubbish in the skip and that would save Sheena a quid or two, no doubt. Peering out into the wild darkness, he decided to stay put for a while. He lit another cigarette and arranged some of the squashed boxes into a makeshift seat. There was no point in getting drenched, things would probably calm down in a minute or two.
Reg liked the feeling of being alone in the comparative warmth and dryness of the skip while the storm raged outside. There was no one to threaten him, no one to pressurise him into doing things he didn’t want to do; even his mobile phone was at home plugged into the charger. He relaxed for the first time in days and, at peace with himself and the world, he closed his eyes and leaned back into the cushioned softness; he felt the tension slowly, slowly ebbing away. The blue waters of his imagination beckoned and he began a long, lazy spiral downwards.
A blinding white light wrenched him back to an unfamiliar reality. He squinted, shading his eyes as best he could with a trembling hand as his heart raced and stuttered. The light seemed to alter and shift and then a terrifying, luminous figure shone before him. Wild thoughts of aliens and space ships raced across his mind; they had come for him! The shimmering god-like figure raised its fist to the heavens; Reg gibbered and laughed as everything went black and he sank senseless to the floor.
