The Burning Man Page 10

  Ever the willing lass, Shelley had signed up for the unveiling without hesitation, even though she’d never heard of Terry Bayber. Reflecting her recent TV success, the money would be marginally better than it used to be for events for this, though it still wasn’t up to much. But, on the positive side, it wouldn’t take long and would be easy enough work. All she had to do was pull some cord and a sheet would fall down, and if it was a little bit demeaning that yet again she’d be posing and preening while wearing next to nothing in the midst of goggling spectators, well … that was Shelley’s stock-in-trade.

  So she was there bang on time at the Town Hall that damp Thursday night of April 5, and, suited and booted, found herself ushered out into the middle of the Plaza, where, swathed in a heavy blue cloak, she was confronted by a lively crowd, mainly male, milling around behind the red velvet ropes and, though easily marshalled by a handful of uniformed bobbies in hi-vis doublets, so eager for the unveiling to commence – the unveiling of Shelley Harper as much as the unveiling of the statue – that they were shouting and hooting with impatience.

  The mayoral party lined up alongside her in their overcoats and waterproofs, though Bradburn’s actual Mayor, Councillor Jim Croakwell, who was currently at the microphone making a rather ponderous speech, was wearing his robes and chain of office, plus his tricorn, which, given his porcine shape, triple chins, roseate cheeks and gruff northern voice, made him look like some kind of Victorian beadle.

  At least he isn’t standing next to me any more, Shelley thought.

  Several times already that evening he’d allowed his arm to steal around her waist under the pretence of fatherly protectiveness.

  It wasn’t very respectful, but there was nothing new in it.

  In truth, she was under no illusions about her status here: she was no real VIP, and everyone in the Plaza knew it. She was little more than a bit-part actress and wannabe model. Shelley’s glorious looks and figure and her flowing blonde hair were all for real. She was a natural-born stunner. But a variety of ill-advised career moves had served to limit her life’s ambitions at an early stage. For example, an appearance on Page Three back when she was nineteen had led on to a much more explicit role as a centrefold in a less than classy girlie mag a couple of years later, and even if both those adventures had paid her well at the time, they’d detracted from her marketability in later years. So, on approaching her late twenties and fearing her star was waning, she’d embarked on several well-publicised affairs with other, somewhat less minor celebrities from the Northwest – one a locally born TV writer, whose married life was subsequently ruined, the other a Premiership footballer whose fabulous wealth had ensured that his wasn’t – none of which had done her long-term reputation any good. This had been her career’s last gasp, or so she’d thought at the time – fame for all the wrong reasons – yet now, ten years later (after doing a few other things she was even more ashamed of, though thankfully they remained private), she was suddenly in the midst of a personal renaissance thanks to Bond or Break, a satellite TV talent show in which the Z-list contestants had to endure extreme hardships as they trekked through the Amazon jungle, cooking their own food, sleeping under canvas and only able to bathe in rivers, lakes and waterfalls.

  This latter aspect was where Shelley had come good, mainly because of the teeny string bikini she’d fortunately remembered to take along with her, and the fact that she was still in terrific shape. It didn’t win her the contest, but it won her the hearts of male viewers, while her bubbly personality and determination to do well in the face of private accusations from one rival contestant that she was a ‘cutie-pie airhead’ won the admiration of women. She didn’t cop off with anyone on the show either, which the dailies suggested meant that Shelley Harper had finally grown up and earned her widespread approval.

  Of course her career hadn’t exactly been relaunched. No sooner was she being talked about again than images from that infamous top-shelfer reappeared on the internet. But Shelley wasn’t too concerned. This was, she understood, a brief second throw of the dice, which would get her back into the gossip columns for a short time, grant her a few unexpected earners here and there, and, if nothing else, make her ‘Bayber’s Babe’ for 2017.

  And why the hell not? She might be in her late thirties by now, but she was still the whole package. As eight o’clock came, she peeled off her cloak – to much ribald cheering from the crowd – and sashayed forward to stand alongside the veiled statue and its dangling cord. She boasted an impressive 36-24-36 figure, which fitted snugly into her sexy little showgirl outfit (the ‘Our Mavis Special’, as the organisers had referred to it). It was a bright-blue minidress, with a thigh-high hem and plunging neckline, and, trimmed with white tassels, it perfectly complemented her white fishnets and high-heeled white leather ankle boots. Shelley’s flowing blonde mane shone to dazzling effect in the explosion of flash-bulbs.

  Fleetingly, the attention switched away from her as she yanked the cord and the sheet rustled to the ground, exposing the glittering bronze form of Bradburn’s very own cheeky chappie, standing in the guise of his personal favourite character, Wing Commander Porkins, complete with bomber jacket, flying helmet and monocle.

  This was the moment when Shelley had to go that extra yard to win back the onlookers’ attention. Because after all, if they weren’t looking at her, what was the point in her being here? So she held her ground boldly, poised, pert, waving to the crowd, smiling gorgeously, throwing enormous kisses, shamelessly upstaging one of the grand old men of suggestive comedy, until gradually she became the focus again, everyone shouting and gesticulating back, and if some of those gestures were a little crude, and some of the comments a tad on the coarse side, what did it really matter if they desired her too?

  The main thing was that she was back where she’d always wanted to be, in front of a mob of people who adored her. Whatever their preference, whatever their kink, adoration was the bottom line. They wanted her.

  They idolised her.

  They loved her.

  Every single one of them.

  Chapter 12

  Heck felt no emotions as he stood on the corner of Shadwell Road and looked up at the grimy red-brick façade of The Coal Hole. Or perhaps he was just holding them in check, subconsciously restraining them. His dad’s old local, the Hole had barely changed: the familiar image of a pithead flywheel framed on a cloudy sky still adorned the shield over the door; the two front windows were still frosted to half their depth, the words FINE ALES printed in an arch over the top of each; it was still basically an end-terrace, though now an end-terrace on the edge of a post-demolition wasteland.

  How the Hole had avoided the wrecker’s ball, Heck couldn’t imagine, but somehow it had – a bewildering stroke of fortune, which might, under ordinary circumstances, have brought a tear to his eye. He’d lost count of the Sunday lunchtimes as a small boy, when he’d sat on the hostelry’s back-step in his rugby scarf and bob-cap, listening to the jovial shouts from inside, smelling the mingled fragrances of alcohol and cigarette smoke, waiting with infinite patience for his dad to finally emerge, a clutch of workmates around him, so they could all set off to the match together. Or the Sunday afternoons afterwards, when the landlord would open the back door and allow the kids to come in with their dads and granddads. While the elders would drink and discuss the game, young Mark would spend endless happy hours clacking balls around on the snooker table, or sitting quietly at the back of the vault, a glass of lemonade and a bag of salted peanuts keeping him company while he carefully built armies out of dominoes.

  Heck shoved the car keys into the pocket of his jeans, and went inside.

  There was only a handful of people present now, most dotted at tables around the main taproom. The vault, which was accessible through an open arch at the far end, was empty, but a pool table now occupied the place where the snooker table had once stood. Otherwise, everything else was the same. The décor perfectly matched Heck’s memories: coats of ar
ms, sports trophies, sepia-toned photographs.

  Heck ambled to the bar. When he got there, the pub landlord was a familiar face. Harry Philbert, a professional rugby league star of the 1980s, and apparently still content in his role as licensee of The Coal Hole, was silver-haired these days and paunchy. In his silk shirt and club tie, he looked hale, hearty and every inch ‘mine host’, but when he saw Heck he stiffened.

  ‘Pint of Best, please,’ Heck said, producing his wallet.

  Philbert hesitated to pull the pint.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Heck asked.

  ‘No, no.’ Philbert blustered. ‘Just … didn’t expect you round here again.’

  ‘I’ve been back once or twice.’

  ‘First I’ve seen of you.’

  ‘Well, funnily enough, Harry, you weren’t number one on my catch-up list. Wonder why that might’ve been?’

  Philbert reddened, clearly remembering that night all those years ago when he’d refused to serve the young off-duty bobby, telling him that he wasn’t welcome in The Coal Hole any more. He cleared his throat as he drew the beer. ‘Keeping you busy, is it? Your job.’

  Heck shrugged, pushing his money across the bar.

  ‘So busy you couldn’t even attend your mum and dad’s funerals?’

  ‘Well, you know what, Harry … here’s a funny thing. No one told me they were dead until they were underground.’

  Even Philbert had the good grace to look shocked by that. ‘Surely, your Dana …?’

  ‘Apparently not.’

  ‘Your Uncle Pat …?’

  ‘I found it harder to believe in his case, but I’d imagine he was acting on the wishes of the recently departed.’

  Philbert pondered this for some time, then, apparently finding it understandable, maybe even appropriate, nodded and pushed the brimming pint across the counter. Heck grabbed it and walked away. Not particularly looking for company, he avoided the tables where other customers were sat, and strode into the vault. He stood contemplating the pool table, wondering if he had the interest and/or patience to play a couple of sets. He supposed there was nothing else to do – it was anyone’s guess how long it would be before his uncle came in, if he appeared at all. He placed his pint down and took a cue from the rack.

  ‘Now, stranger,’ a voice said. ‘You not talking?’

  Heck glanced sideways, surprised. He hadn’t heard the woman approach. A minute ago she’d been seated in a quiet corner, drinking from a tall glass of coke while busying herself on a laptop. She’d caught his eye fleetingly: denim-clad and wearing a Motorhead T-shirt, but shapely with it, her thick dark hair hanging past her shoulders. He hadn’t recognised her though.

  Now however, up close, he did.

  She was older than he recollected, obviously, his own age, but there was no mistaking that natural tan, those strong, even features. The mischievous smile settled all doubt. Kayla Green had been the apple of so many young lads’ eyes during their school days, and a lass Heck had once known very well indeed – intimately well, as it transpired. Captain of both the school netball and hockey teams, she’d been, by turns, sporty, intelligent, spirited and wily, but at the same time funny, pretty and always flirtatious.

  ‘Kayla …’ he said slowly.

  ‘Long time no see, Mark.’

  For the first time in he couldn’t remember when, Heck was tongue-tied. The coltish schoolgirl of his memory – his natural opposite number at the time, he having captained the school rugby league team – had been widely fancied, not just for her looks, but for her confident sexiness. Inevitably now, in her late thirties, she’d changed somewhat: she was curvier and less athletic looking, but, judging from her rock-chick attire and wild, raven-black tresses, her rebellious nature was as much to the fore as ever, and those entrancing violet eyes of hers hadn’t lost an nth of their lustre.

  ‘What’re you doing here?’ she asked, apparently fascinated to see him.

  ‘Well …’ He shrugged. ‘I used to come in a lot.’

  ‘I mean what are you doing here now? Don’t you live in London?’

  ‘Actually … I’m here to see my uncle.’ That wasn’t untrue, of course, but this didn’t feel like the time to mention his job.

  ‘Father Pat?’ Kayla said.

  ‘Yeah.’ Heck was bemused. She knew his uncle?

  ‘He’ll be in soon,’ she said. ‘He’s out on his rounds.’

  ‘So I heard … is that common knowledge these days?’

  Her mouth crooked into an impish smile. ‘Meaning how does a wayward lass like me from the Blackhall, who regularly drank you and the rest of the guys under the table, who finally led you astray one hot summer night and no doubt is still bad to the core, know anything about the comings and goings of the parish priest of St Nat’s?’

  Heck smiled too – probably for the first time all day. ‘Something like that, I suppose.’

  ‘Well … a lot’s changed.’ She cut a consciously prim pose. ‘I’m a Eucharistic minister now.’

  ‘You are?’

  ‘Hey!’ She gave his shoulder a playful slap. ‘Don’t sound too surprised.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean –’

  ‘You are surprised though, aren’t you?’

  ‘Seriously, would you expect me not to be, a self-confessed villainess like you?’

  It was strangely easy slipping back into the banter he’d once shared with her. They hadn’t seen each other for twenty years or more, and yet it felt as if they’d barely been apart.

  ‘Nah, I don’t blame you,’ she said. ‘But listen, Mark – you going to grab a pew, or keep standing here like a spare prick at the wedding?’

  Spare prick at the wedding? And she’s now a Eucharistic minister!

  It took all sorts, he supposed, following her to her table, where she pulled up a chair for him.

  As he sat down, Kayla closed her laptop and moved it, allowing him room for his pint. She took another quick sip of cola, watching him carefully, almost expectantly. There’d always been an intense latent energy about Kayla Green, a lively schoolgirl allure that most of the boys in their year had found irresistible; she was much older now, but she still effervesced with it.

  ‘Last I heard, you were …’ Heck shrugged again, awkwardly. ‘Well, to be honest, I didn’t hear anything.’ In truth, he had no clue how they’d left things between them. For all that it didn’t feel as if they’d ever been apart, he couldn’t pinpoint the last time they’d actually spoken.

  She smiled again. ‘Exactly what I expected.’

  ‘I’ve lost touch, Kayla. Not just with you – with everyone, the whole town.’

  ‘You’ve been back here now and then, though, haven’t you – surely?’

  ‘Only for flying visits. Sometimes on business. Couple of times to see Dana and Sarah. Don’t suppose you know where they are, by the way? There’s no one at home.’

  ‘Could they be over at the Plaza? There’s something going on in town. They’re unveiling a statue – some old-time comedian, or something.’

  ‘Can’t think that’d be Dana’s scene.’

  ‘Not sure then. Your uncle should be able to tell you.’

  ‘Yeah. On that matter …’ Heck was still struggling to get his head round this idea that Kayla had found God. The girl he’d known had been a tigress in so many ways. She’d sink her claws into any guy she fancied and, without preamble, yank him out of line – whether he liked it or not (though he usually did).

  ‘You’re with him, Uncle Pat?’ Heck said. ‘I mean, not with him, but it’s St Nat’s where you’re helping out at Communion?’

  ‘Correct.’ Still that mischievous smile.

  He sat back. ‘I can’t believe it. I don’t mean that in a negative way. It’s not a condemnation of your former self –’

  ‘Thank God for small mercies.’

  ‘– but I can’t believe it. Seriously. I mean, you’re a modern girl, you’re free-spirited, you –’ he nodded at the brutal war-pig logo visible und
er her Wrangler jacket ‘– you still like metal.’

  She looked amused. ‘Ah, yes … the Devil’s music?’

  ‘I didn’t quite say that.’

  ‘The hell you didn’t.’ She grinned. ‘Anyway, Father Pat’s still a big Zeppelin fan, so if you’re going to tackle me about it, you’ve got to tackle him too. But yeah, I like to think I’m an independent woman. I do my own thing.’

  For some reason, he noticed there was no wedding ring on her finger. Not that this particularly meant anything in the modern age.

  ‘But every so often bad things happen,’ she was saying, still in a light and airy tone, though briefly Heck thought he detected a hint of seriousness underneath, ‘and, well … people find different ways to deal with it.’

  He nodded, wondering what that might mean exactly. Whatever this bad thing was, it must have been a doozy to turn the Kayla he’d known towards religion, especially in an age when faith registered on so few people’s radars.

  ‘Whatever works for you, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘And what works for you, Mark?’

  ‘Ohhh, hell, I don’t know. I was raised a Catholic, just like you were. But I always … look, I just need something firmer to get hold of.’

  ‘Ooh.’ She sipped more cola. ‘Is that me on a promise?’

  He smiled. Still the same sassy Kayla, whatever her new religious convictions. Suddenly, he was tempted to ask if she was seeing anyone. Just come out with it, just be blatant. But even as a copper you didn’t blunder straight in with unsubtle enquiries of that sort.

  ‘What do you do with yourself?’ he asked. ‘I mean aside from helping out at the church.’