The Bothy E-Book

Trevor Mark Thomas

• Herausgeber: Salt
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Tom is grieving for his girlfriend. Her powerful family, convinced he is responsible for her death, place a bounty on his head. On the run, Tom seeks refuge in the Bothy, a dilapidated moorland pub run by ageing gangster Frank. Tom tries to keep the bounty a secret, but news travels fast, even in the middle of nowhere. Trevor Mark Thomas's first novel is a tense, violent drama involving desperate characters with little to lose apart from their lives. Amid moments of black humour and rare tenderness, buried fears and rivalries rise to the surface, creating an atmosphere of claustrophobia that builds to almost unbearable levels.

Leseprobe

THE BOTHY

by

Trevor Mark Thomas

SYNOPSIS

Tom is grieving for his girlfriend. Her powerful family, convinced he is responsible for her death, place a bounty on his head. On the run, Tom seeks refuge in the Bothy, a dilapidated moorland pub run by ageing gangster Frank. Tom tries to keep the bounty a secret, but news travels fast, even in the middle of nowhere.

Trevor Mark Thomas’s first novel is a tense, violent drama involving desperate characters with little to lose apart from their lives. Amid moments of black humour and rare tenderness, buried fears and rivalries rise to the surface, creating an atmosphere of claustrophobia that builds to almost unbearable levels.

PRAISE FOR THIS BOOK

‘An absorbing debut – delightfully taut – a tender, gruesome villain at its heart.’ —Joe Stretch

The Bothy

Trevor Mark Thomaswas born in Manchester in 1976. He lives with his girlfriend. He has a dog called Columbo.

Published by Salt Publishing Ltd

12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX

All rights reserved

Copyright © Trevor Mark Thomas,2019

The right ofTrevor Mark Thomasto be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.

Salt Publishing 2019

Created by Salt Publishing Ltd

This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out,or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN 978-1-78463-161-1 electronic

To my Mum and Dad

CHAPTER ONE

Someone had warnedTom to stay away from Stephanie’s funeral. Bricks had been thrown through his window, threats daubed on his front door. He sat on the edge of his bed looking at a picture of her. It had been taken the year before on a fine spring morning. They had gone up the Galata Tower. Stephanie was smiling, with the vast city rolling out behind her towards the Bosphorus. On the back of the photo she had drawn a heart in blue biro.

There was a knock at the door. Gary came into the room. He scratched at his beard and looked at the four paintings on the wall. He touched the cracked framing glass and asked, ‘Are these hers?’

‘Yeah,’ said Tom.

Gary looked closely at one of the paintings. ‘Is that a bird?’

‘They’re all birds.’

Gary stepped back and squinted. ‘Was she any good?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I can’t tell with this modern stuff.’

Tom put the photo of Stephanie back in his wallet. He lay down and put his head on the pillow. He could still smell her hair. Apricots and perspiration.

‘We need to leave,’ said Gary. ‘They might be here soon.’

‘I know.’

‘We go now we can miss the traffic from Sheffield.’

Tom took his watch from the bedside table and fastened the plastic strap. ‘Are you sure he’ll be able to help?’

‘He’s a good guy. Lives in the middle of nowhere. In an old pub. No-one goes there. It’ll be quiet.’

‘What does he get out of it?’

‘I told him you’re a good worker. How you can pull a good pint. Decent man to have around. He’ll keep you nice and busy. It’ll give me time to talk with Stephanie’s parents. Make sure common sense prevails.’

‘They won’t see sense.’

‘They will. In time.’

‘How long?’

‘They’ll cool down eventually.’

‘Two months?’

‘Tops.’ Gary patted Tom’s knee. ‘Get packed. We’ll be up there by the time it gets dark.’

Tom got off the bed and packed underpants and socks. A few T-shirts. Some jeans. Thick jumpers. He put on his shoes and coat.

‘That everything?’

Tom nodded, lifted up the rucksack on to his shoulder, and followed Gary out of the house. Before he closed the door, he looked back at his lounge, his kitchen.

They walked out on to the street. Litter in the gutters. Distant police sirens. Gary’s white car was parked on a single yellow line. The windscreen was streaked with grime and the front licence plate was secured with tape. One of the wing mirrors had been snapped off.

Tom saw an old lady walking a terrier that wore a red knitted coat. The wool was wet and splashed with mud. Gary smiled at the dog and the old lady tugged down at the purple beret on her head.

‘It’s supposed to snow,’ she said.

‘Too warm for that,’ replied Gary.

‘Off out somewhere nice?’

Gary nodded. ‘Camping.’

She looked up at the sky and frowned. Her dog barked at a crisp packet and started to bite the lead. She scolded it and walked on down the street.

Gary drove them away from the house. Narrow, dirty roads. Streets lined with boarded-up shops and thriving tanning salons, their needle-tipped neon signs shimmering in the rain. They passed by garages and depots fenced off by metal pickets looped with rusting barbed wire. Further on, there were locksmiths and bookies, pound shops and takeaways. Pubs with frosted windows. The pavements covered with cigarette butts and blackened ovals of gum. Smashed up bus shelters and rows of steel-shuttered shops. Towering above the grey streets, old mills and factories appeared black against the sky and small red lights flashed on the top of brick chimneys and yellow metal cranes.

Tom saw a school surrounded by chainlink fences. Prefab classrooms and empty playgrounds. Netball courts marked out with dirty white paint. A solitary child walking across muddy playing fields. Further out from the city, they drove past a business park. The glass and steel offices were separated by wide avenues and faded green lawns. A broken fountain was wrapped in hazard tape.

They were held up by a bad accident on a slip road. Two overturned cars. Dazed commuters milled about on the hard shoulder and watched a team of paramedics attempting to resuscitate a man in a torn grey suit.

A light rain drummed on the roof of the car. Tom wiped away the condensation from the window and looked out as they left the grey city behind. Soon, they reached the hills and the roads narrowed. They passed by signs warning of the number of incidents. The number of deaths.

The red sun dipped below the hills and distant quarries were covered by a veil of blue shadow. A couple of stray sheep ate grass on the side of the road. Tom saw a sign welcoming them to Lancashire.

‘Pagan country now,’ said Gary, smiling. ‘Story I heard is when Frank first moved up here, he actually had his men move that sign a couple of miles up the road so he could say his pub was in Yorkshire.’

Tom looked over at the valleys and cloughs covered with gorse and heather. The concealed and vibrant life of upland flushes. Woods of pine and birch. Gritstone ridges ran through the peat moorlands and acres of brown heather. The outline of rocks resembled bad teeth and jutting bones. The weather cleared. Clouds parted and a pale moon hung low in the sky. Ahead, the hills were fringed with the orange glow of sodium lights. The source of the light was a single building by the roadside that sat between two hills.

Gary nodded at it. ‘There it is. The Bothy.’

‘Let’s turn back.’

‘Tom. You can’t go back. It’s too dangerous.’

‘They’re right to want me dead, aren’t they?’

‘Tom—’

‘I did it. Didn’t I? I killed her.’

Gary stopped the car on a grass verge a couple of hundred metres away from the Bothy. He turned off the engine and tapped the steering wheel with his fingers. Tom wiped tears from his eyes.

‘It’s okay, mate,’ said Gary. ‘None of this is easy. But you have to stop thinking like this.’

‘I can’t.’

‘You must. Listen: no-one will come looking for you up here. Up here belongs to Frank. This is his fucking world.’

Tom looked at the Bothy and dried his eyes with the heel of his hand.

‘Do you trust him?’ asked Tom.

‘Tough but fair,’ nodded Gary. ‘That’s what we always used to say about him.’

‘You spoke to him though? The other day?’

‘Nice to hear the old bastard’s voice again. It’s been a while.’

‘I’m not sure about this, Gary.’

‘You’ve got no choice,’ said Gary. ‘Listen: you keep quiet about what happened with Stephanie. Okay?’

‘What do I say?’

‘Make something up. Tell them you’re in trouble with the police.’

‘The police?’

‘He’ll always side against the law. And I know he’s helped out other people in the past. Most of them on the run. Some desperate. But he helps them. Do right by him and I know he’ll do right by you.’

‘Is he dangerous?’

‘Just do as you’re told and you’ll be okay,’ said Gary. ‘Here. Did you bring any gloves with you?’

‘No.’

Gary reached into his pockets and handed him a pair of suede gloves. They both got out of the car and stood for a moment in the cold. Tom gazed upwards at a sky frosted with stars and hitched up his rucksack. He put on the gloves.

‘Anything changes, I’ll call Frank,’ said Gary. ‘I’ll call you.’

‘Okay.’

‘And send my regards to Mandy.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘Frank’s wife. You’ll like her.’

Gary got back in the car, tooted his horn, and drove away.

The Bothy was large and squat. A chimney coughed out thick, rubber-smelling smoke. The site was surrounded by stone walls, rough picket fences, and sheets of corrugated iron seven feet high. A red pickup truck was parked around the side of the building. He could smell sewage.

An old Christmas tree lay on its side near the front entrance to the pub. Tom looked up at the sign above the door. Gold lettering flaked away from the wooden board. He entered the bar through a small lobby. There was a smell of peat and damp. The low ceiling was supported by black-painted beams, each decorated with horse brasses. A specials board hung on the far wall and it was covered in profanities written with blue and green chalk.

Near the front window, two men sat on a long wooden bench varnished the colour of treacle. The men sipped at their beers, watching him carefully as he approached the bar. One of the men had jaundiced skin. His eyes were slightly crossed, as if he’d been hit over the head a few too many times. The other man wore a blue anorak. A piece of gauze plugged his right ear.

A short man with a cold sore on his bottom lip stood behind the bar reading a newspaper. He wore an apron that was a little small for him. He had tucked the frayed strings into his pockets

Three beer pumps were loosely bolted to the counter. A collection box for mountain rescue sat on the counter. There was a rickety shelf stocked with spirits. Next to it, a cork board was covered in faded postcards and rested against the back wall.

‘What do you want?’ asked the barman.

Tom put his rucksack down and took off his gloves. ‘Are you Frank?’

‘Who the fuck are you?’

‘Tom. Tom Staten.’

‘Don’t know the name.’

‘Gary told you.’

‘Don’t know the name.’

‘It’s about a job,’ said Tom.

‘No jobs up here, mate.’

‘I was told to speak to Frank.’

The barman washed his hands in the sink at the back. He dried his hands on a tea towel.

‘Is Frank here?’

‘If you want to speak with him,’ said the barman over his shoulder, ‘you’ll have to wait.’

‘Will he be long?’

‘Yes, he will be fucking long.’

The two men in the corner smirked and sipped their drinks.

‘Buy a drink or something,’ he said.

Tom rubbed his forehead. ‘Right. I’ll have – I’ll have beer then. What do you have?’

‘Bitter. Pilsner. Heavy.’

‘Heavy?’

‘Porter,’ said the barman.

‘A bitter, please.’

‘Bitter’s off.’

‘Pilsner?’

‘Fuck off with that.’ He poured a pint of porter and took Tom’s ten pound note and put it in the old cash register. Tom was not given any change.

‘Is there a bathroom?’ asked Tom.

‘You taking a shit?’

‘No.’

‘Back there.’

The barman pointed towards the fireplace. Beyond it, there was a metal door. It was chained shut. Tom walked past a pool table. A cue lay on the torn red baize. The cue ball was marked with flecks of blue chalk. He reached another door which led through to a bathroom. Its floor was covered with tattered off-white linoleum patterned with fern leaves. There was a stainless steel urinal. Just above it, a framed black-and-white photograph hung from the wall. It was a naked woman from the 1920s. She wore pearls and had a Louise Brooks haircut. He had a piss and then washed his hands with a cracked disc of soap.

Tom returned to his seat and sipped his porter. It caught the back of his throat. He looked outside, through the bullseye glass. The Christmas tree had moved. It had been blown about by the wind. He took out his mobile phone and checked it. There was no signal. He heard a noise from the floor above. A slammed door. A creaking floorboard.

The man with gauze in his ear rose out of his seat and walked towards Tom. The blue anorak strained over his gut. Tom caught the bad smell of tobacco and unwashed clothes.

‘What’s your name, mate?’

‘Tom.’

‘You buying me a drink, Tom?’ asked the man. ‘You should buy me a drink. Ken? Tucker? Tom’s buying.’

Ken – the barman – shook his head and went back to cleaning glasses.

‘Ask him if he’s got any ciggies, Braudy,’ said Tucker, scratching his chin with fingernails stained with nicotine. He stared at him with his crossed eyes.

‘Bring any cigarettes with you?’

‘No,’ replied Tom.

Braudy unzipped his anorak and hung it over the back of a chair. Tom pulled out another ten pound note from his wallet. The photograph of Stephanie slipped out. Braudy picked it up and smiled.

‘Who’s this?’

Tom snatched back the photo. ‘No-one,’ he said.

‘Who was it?’ asked Tucker.

‘A girl.’

‘She your bit of stuff?’

Tom put the photo back into his wallet and handed over the money. No change was given. Braudy got his pint and sat opposite Tom. He turned his good ear towards him, and asked, ‘You come far?’

‘Leeds.’

‘Thought you were a Manc.’

‘You guys come drinking here often?’

Braudy laughed. ‘No cunt comes drinking up here.’

There was shouting from upstairs. Braudy picked up one of the suede gloves. ‘These yours?’

‘A mate’s.’

He touched the material. ‘Nice. Expensive?’

‘You’d have to ask my mate.’

The noise above stopped. Braudy gazed at the ceiling and said, ‘So you’re here to work?’

‘Yeah.’

‘If you needed work you could find it in Leeds. Plenty of jobs there.’

‘I wanted to come here.’

‘No-one wants to come here,’ he said. ‘What’s the real reason?’

Upstairs, there were slammed doors. Then silence. Braudy adjusted the gauze and gulped back his drink.

Tom sighed. ‘There’s been – there’s been trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Police, mostly.’

‘Police mostly. What else?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘If you’re in trouble with police mostly, you’re in trouble with something else too.’

‘I’d rather talk about this with Frank.’

‘You work up here, you’ll be taking bread out of our fucking mouths. So tell us.’

Tom looked down at his pint and shook his head gently. Braudy glared at him and picked up his drink and his anorak. He put the glass on the bar. He signalled to Tucker and the two of them left through a wooden door. Tom took another mouthful of beer and swallowed it back. It was starting to taste better.

Ken carefully polished a set of shot glasses. The wooden door squeaked open. A figure stood there in shadow. The door closed again and Ken put his cloth on one of the beer pumps.

‘You’re up,’ he said. ‘Leave your rucksack here. Go through to the office.’

Tom got up and pushed through the wooden door. He entered a murky room. It looked more like a workshop than an office. There was a heavy smell of sweat and alcohol. A green angle-poise lamp sat on a filing cabinet and illuminated scores of out-of-date calendars hanging on the walls. Some of them were dated from the early 1980s. They all featured naked women posing on beaches. Big hair. On their knees. Glossy and unconvincing smiles. The floor was laid with fuzzy carpet tiles. Some were stained with damp, others had gone mouldy. A circular saw sat on a wooden workbench and three electric drills were laid out on a desk. In the corner, several board games sat on a shelf. A steel-plated cribbage board and a number of colourful pegs stored in a small plastic bag. Two battered packs of cards, a Spirograph, a Mahjong set, and a copy of a game called Pit. Beneath the shelf, a box of old magazines sat on top of a VHS machine.

A middle-aged man sat at a plastic table. He had a bottle of whisky in front of him and held a bag of frozen peas over his right eye. His nose was bulbous and mottled. He wore brown corduroy trousers held up by braces the colour of fresh lemons. His white shirt was open at the neck, the sleeves rolled up.

‘I’m Tom.’

‘I know who you are.’ Frank took the frozen peas away and blinked. The skin around his eye was red. He opened the bottle of whisky. ‘Glasses in the sideboard behind you.’

‘Nothing for me.’

‘Glass, then.’

Tom handed him a glass, and watched him pour a double for himself. The face of Frank’s chunky gold watch was scratched and the second hand was jammed halfway round. Frank knocked back the whisky and lit a cigarette with a gold Dupont lighter. He stared at Tom for a few moments. He was unsmiling. Deep in thought. ‘So Gary sent you,’ he said. ‘Not seen him for years. You work for him?’

‘At his snooker hall. He sends his regards. To you and – Mandy, is it?’

Frank blew out a plume of smoke and said, ‘We don’t see too much of Mandy these days.’

‘Oh. No. Sorry.’

‘She left under a bit of a cloud.’

‘I didn’t think. I heard—’

‘Arguing? That was Cora.’ He sniffed and pushed the glass into the middle of the table. ‘Why are you here, Tom?’

‘Did Gary say anything?’

‘I want to hear it from you.’

‘Gary told me to keep quiet.’

‘We can keep it between ourselves. But I need to know,’ he said. ‘So. Come on. Out with it.’

‘My girlfriend died.’ He paused. ‘It was a car accident.’

‘So?’

‘Her family don’t believe in accidents.’

‘Catholic?’

‘They just want me dead.’

Frank pushed at the bag of frozen peas and asked, ‘Would I know who they are? The family?’

‘They’re involved in all sorts. Whatever makes them money.’

‘Surname?’

‘Conway.’

‘Yeah. I know him. Big house near Preston. Likes his women young, doesn’t he?’ Frank picked at his teeth. ‘Clever man. Not to be tangled with.’

‘He’s put out a contract on me,’ said Tom.

‘How much?’

‘Don’t know. But want to keep the thing quiet if I can. Just in case. This kind of news can carry.’

Frank thought for a moment. ‘Here’s what we’ll do. I’ll tell the boys you’ve been caught stealing some money.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘You feel guilty though?’

‘I try to think what I could have done differently.’

‘Aye. That’s called guilt. Best get used to that feeling, Tom. It won’t go away,’ said Frank, looking into his glass. ‘Besides, the boys won’t believe you’ve done nothing wrong. Better to tell stories sometimes.’

‘I don’t want to cause trouble.’

‘You got caught stealing. Right?’ He clicked his fingers, searching for the words. ‘Because you needed money for your mum’s operation.’

‘I don’t have a mum.’

‘Her funeral, then.’ Frank put his glass down and straightened his shirt. He lifted the braces back on to his shoulders. ‘Come with me.’

Tom followed Frank from the small room, and back into the warmth of the bar. Frank picked up the cue lying on the pool table. He looked down the shaft to see if it was true or not. He pulled a face and hung the cue on the brass rack screwed to the wall.

‘Need some money,’ said Frank.

‘Notes?’

‘Nah.’

Ken opened the cash register and handed Frank a plastic bag of pound coins.

‘Take Tom out to the caravan. Make sure he has what he needs.’

Tom picked up his rucksack.

‘That’s a small bag,’ said Ken.

‘Didn’t think I’d be staying for long.’

Ken took off his apron, and threw it over the bar. He did up the top button of his shirt and put on a dirty green Puffa jacket. Tom followed Ken out to the small hallway where the bathroom was. There was a white cupboard in the corner. Ken opened it and handed Tom bedding and a red towel.

‘There are more blankets here if you need them.’

‘Okay if I have one more?’

‘Help yourself.’

Tom took out a tartan blanket and folded it up. Ken unchained the back door and stepped out into the yard. A security light clicked on. There were two caravans. One was practically in ruins. The other was not and looked like a newer model. Amongst the skips there were piles of bricks, cans of creosote. Bags of hardened cement.

Ken led Tom towards the newer caravan. Its wheels were up on bricks. He opened the door, stepped inside, and switched on the light. Tom climbed in after him and ducked beneath the ceiling. Beige curtains covered the windows, and the walls were decorated with wood chip painted the shade of mustard powder. There was a kitchen area. A kettle, a refrigerator. A jar of hot chocolate, a couple of mugs. Some dead flies, a box of pink condoms.

At the back of the caravan, a fold-out dining table was held in place with a length of bungee cord. At the front, a sweat-stained mattress lay on the Formica floor. A crack in the window was covered with duct tape and cardboard.

‘There’s a heater,’ said Ken. ‘Put it on now and you won’t wake up with ice in your hair.’

‘Okay.’

Ken opened the fridge. There was an old packet of salt beef and squares of processed cheese slices. He picked up an open carton of milk and sniffed it. ‘Might be on the turn. Give it a huff before you try it. Been there for a while. Other than that, everything’s catered for.’

‘When do you need me tomorrow?’ asked Tom.

‘Make it before ten,’ said Ken, walking towards the door. ‘Oh, and when the weather’s like this, always wear two pairs of underpants. And a hat. A deerstalker. Frank told me some cunt lost their ears from the cold.’

‘I don’t have a hat.’

‘Find one then.’

Ken left the caravan. He walked back into the main building, blowing into his cupped hands. The security light clicked off. Tom closed the door and put down his rucksack. The bedding was old. The duvet was dark blue. Moth-eaten. The pillows were marked with brown sweat stains. He made himself some hot chocolate and switched on the heater. The three bars turned from grey, to yellow, to cherry. Slowly, the caravan was infused with heat and the smell of dust.

CHAPTER TWO

Tom awoke tothe sound of rain pattering on the roof of the caravan. A draught blew in through the crack in the window. He checked his watch. It was nine. He reached over to the electric heater and flicked it on. As it warmed up, he tried to think of other things. Work. Routine. The day ahead. He licked his dry lips. His breath smelled bad. He got out of bed and wondered if he should wear two pairs of underpants, unsure whether or not Ken was joking. He dressed in jeans and a jumper. Plenty of layers would do the trick.

In the bar, there was a smell of fresh coffee and stale tobacco. Embers in the fireplace glowed red. Standing on the hearth was an ornate brass fireguard shaped like a fan. Frank was behind the bar. He was writing in a thick ledger with a blue fountain pen. Ken was sitting at a table, reading an old issue of National Geographic.

Sitting on the counter was an old coffee machine. The carafe was full. There was an open can of condensed milk and a few mugs and tea spoons. Tom looked at the cork board filled with faded postcards from around the world. A few were sent from Spanish resorts and featured women posing in bikinis. A couple had been sent from Corsica.

Frank’s bruise from the night before had come out as a faint blue mark beneath his right eye. He was wearing an old polo shirt. It was faded orange and the neck was pulled out of shape. His canvas trousers were black and there was brick dust on the knees and thighs. He had a full ashtray in front of him. A drop of ink fell from the nib of the pen and splashed on one of the pages. He tore out the blotted page, screwed it up, and threw it in the fire. He lit a cigarette and said to Ken, ‘Get Tom a coffee.’

Ken nodded and folded the page he was reading. Tom could see his clothes were creased. There was a smell of sour milk. Ken poured coffee into a red mug. He stirred in some condensed milk and added a few spoonfuls of white sugar. Then he filled a fresh cup and pushed it towards Tom.

‘Milk is there if you want it,’ he said.

Tom sipped the coffee. It tasted strange. He noticed an old television in the corner. A makeshift aerial had been fashioned from a coat hanger, stretched out into a vague diamond shape. Near the front door, there was a wooden shelf of small sporting trophies. Three of the trophies were for golf. One was for darts. The golf trophies had a faux marble plinth and were topped with tiny figures made from silver-coloured plastic. One of the figures had lost its head. The darts trophy consisted of a single metal dart. The red plastic flight was chipped.

Frank went back to his ledger and added a few numbers into a column. The handwriting was flowing and exact. He did not look up, and said, ‘Ken will take you around the grounds. He can give you a few jobs to do.’

Tom finished his drink and Ken put on a black wool coat. He did up the shiny buttons, picked out a blue cagoule from the lobby, and handed it to Tom. The cagoule was too big. He left it unzipped and they went outside. It was still raining. The wind was cold. Ken walked over to the red pickup truck. Rust flecked the bodywork and the radiator grilles were bent and twisted. A filthy teddy bear had been tied to the bumper with metal wire. Its eyes had fallen off and it had no mouth. Ken patted the bonnet.

‘Any good with cars?’ he asked.

‘Not really.’

Ken shook his head. ‘This one has a hundred thousand miles on the clock. Still runs okay.’

‘Had it long?’

‘Five years,’ he said, kicking at the tires. ‘I service it. Keep it ticking over. Never failed an MOT yet. Can you drive?’

‘Yeah.’

Tom noticed the Christmas tree he had seen the night before. Its branches were snagged on the barbed wire fence.

‘Go and pick up that tree,’ said Ken, hawking up some phlegm.

Tom dragged the tree away from the fence, leaving a trail of brown pine needles in his wake. He looked back at the building. A few windows were boarded up. Black paint peeled from the window frames and the eaves. The roof was covered in moss and the gutters were choked with dead leaves and the failed nests of birds.

‘You still get customers coming up here?’ asked Tom.

‘Lost hikers, mostly. They don’t stay long.’

‘Shame. It could be a nice spot.’

‘His wife had run a couple of pubs before.’

‘Mandy?’

He shielded his eyes from the sun. ‘How do you know about her?’

‘My mate Gary told me.’

‘And how did he know her?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Wouldn’t say her name to Frank if I were you.’

They wandered over to a large metal shed. The corrugated iron roof had pieces of steel bolted on to conceal the holes. Ken unlocked the wooden door and Tom saw shelves of tools lining the walls. Screws and nails, all sorted into boxes according to type and size. A row of orange-handled screwdrivers hung from a steel pegboard. Propped up against the wall there were offcuts of wood and plasterboard and an outboard motor. The starter cord was wrapped around the propeller. Ken moved a barbecue out of the way. He lifted up a bag of old paint brushes. They were still wet with white paint. He put the bag aside and put two cartons of oil on the work surface.

‘Frank said you’ve had a bit of trouble with police.’

‘A little bit, yeah.’

‘He said something about your mum being sick.’

Tom paused for a moment, trying to remember the lie Frank had wanted him to tell. Was it about his sick mother or his dead mother?

‘Law never fucking care about things like that,’ said Ken. ‘Sick parents. Sick children. Makes no difference to them.’

He locked the door. Tom followed him around to the side of the shed. There was a chopping block on the ground. It was a thick chunk of wood bound by a car tyre. A large stack of cut logs were covered by tarpaulin. Tom added the tree to the wood pile and brushed the brown needles from his hands.

Ken reached under the tarp and brought out an axe. The blade was very sharp. He reached over and picked up the Christmas tree. ‘You chop off the branches. Use it as kindling. Then you cut the trunk into foot-long sections. No more, no less. Same with any kind of wood. It burns more efficiently that way.’

‘Foot-long sections. Okay.’

‘Make sure you get it right,’ said Ken, putting the axe back on the pile. He replaced the tarp. ‘Frank is a real stickler for this kind of thing.’

At the back of the yard Tom saw a small fishing boat sitting on a steel trailer. The bow rails were nearly black with dirt and the stern was covered with faded green canvas. There were holes in the fibreglass hull and birds had nested in the cockpit. The name of the boat had been scratched off.

‘We used to take this out to the coast,’ he said. ‘Like fishing, Tom?’

‘Tried it a couple of times. On the canal.’

‘Carp?’

‘Pike.’

‘Fishing’s better at sea. More fun.’

Ken stopped by the caravan Tom had slept in. He ran his finger across the side of the caravan, leaving a white mark in the dirt. He bent down, picked up a crushed tin can, and tossed it in a skip. Nearby, there were a few wheelie bins. Numbers had been daubed on the sides in white paint. 802. 401. 123. Bottles poked out from the grey lids. Ken opened a bin and picked out a brown bottle.

‘Good one, this. IPA. From Manchester.’ He dropped the bottle back in the bin and walked on past the other caravan. Part of the roof had perished and filthy curtains hung out of the cracked windows. A battered door hung from rusting hinges. The interior walls were slimy with algae and something had built a nest in the kitchen sink.

Tom saw a tall metal frame sticking out of a concrete foundation. A loose strip of hazard tape was attached to one of the struts. Here and there, plastic sheeting poked through the cracks. Ken went over and kicked at the frame. He bent down and ran his fingers over the concrete. The surface crumbled away in his fingers. He tutted. ‘Braudy put too much fucking sand in the mix.’

‘What is it?’

‘Climbing frame and swings. We were going to build a little playground and beer garden. Get more families up here. That’s where the money is.’

A small animal had walked beneath the metal structure while the concrete had still been wet. Its tracks were still visible. Ken scuffed his feet on the ground. ‘Septic tank under here too. Four thousand litres of shit. When full.’

‘Is it?’

‘Need to get it drained in a couple of months.’ Ken strolled past a plastic bathtub lying on its side. Long strands of dirty hair hung from the plughole. He walked up to some gas canisters and a large green oil tank. Puddles of brown water glistened with bands of colour.