Nick Oldham - Bad Tidings

‘On duty cops,’ Henry said.

‘Bollocks.’ To his son he said, ‘You know what I want.’

‘Oh yeah.’ He turned away muttering, ‘Burying in your own graveyard.’

‘My hearing’s good,’ his father said, tapping the discreet hearing aid curled behind his right ear. ‘And this thing’s turned right up.’

Bateson junior walked away, still muttering, his head rocking from side to side as though he was having an animated conversation with his father.

‘Gay, you know,’ the old man said. ‘Well, not married. . makes you wonder. My wife’s dead, by the way.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Henry said.

‘Don’t be. She was an ultra-bitch.’

Henry chuckled and shook his head.

‘Whaddya want, guys?’

‘I just thought you might be a good port of call for some gossip, maybe.’ Henry started to explain why he was here, but before he’d even got into telling the story, the old man held up a gnarled hand.

‘Let me stop you there. Funny, I always wondered if there’d be any future repercussions. Just a feeling. . you’re right, I was the vicar for that school and to be honest I found that Belthorn itself was a hive of nefarious activity, shall we say? A mass of secrets. . adultery, inbreeding, abuse and violence. . satanic worship. . oh, yes. . but mostly behind closed doors. It’s a place with many dark secrets, or was. Just like anywhere else, I suppose. Probably not the same now, because it’s more like a little town than a village these days. And I think I can guess what you’re going to talk about — or at least, who.’

He stopped talking as his son shouldered his way into the conservatory bearing a tray with two mugs on it, a plate of chocolate biscuits and a glass containing a large whisky. He set it down on the coffee table and rubbed his hands.

‘OK — bog off,’ his dad said.

He turned, left without a sound.

‘Names,’ the old man said. ‘Cromer, Peters, Blackshaw, Milner and some others. But they were the main ones. All kids from school. And like kids, very, very cruel to each other. And the cruellest of them all. . Terry Cromer. . and the main object of his cruelty, his slightly younger brother, Freddy. Just because they were brothers, it didn’t mean they loved each other, quite the opposite. Now hand me that whisky.’

Christmas Eve.

On this special day, the last day of term, the school closed at 1.30 p.m. after the turkey dinner and Brussels sprouts. The children, excited and keyed up for the day after and the holiday ahead, rushed out on the bell. They poured into the playground, screaming and shouting. All thirty of them.

Strolling casually out behind them all was Terry Cromer and his little band of cronies: David Peters, Christine Blackshaw and Ella Milner. These were the kids who ruled the school when the teacher wasn’t looking — and only when Terry deigned to attend. His truancy was already legend.

Freddy Cromer had run out ahead with the bulk of the other children, about twenty-five of them. But although he was with them, he was alone because of his difference. His size, his low intellect, his weirdness, his unpredictability.

Most of the kids dispersed and Freddy stayed at the school gate, waiting to go home with Terry.

He and his gang were still in the playground, huddled together, discussing something. The huddle broke up and they started walking towards Freddy.

‘You comin’, Tel, or what?’ Freddy called to Terry.

‘Do you want to come with us?’ Terry responded secretively.

‘Why, why, where you going, Terry?’

‘Come with us, we’ll show you. . it’s a secret.’

Doubt crossed Freddy’s face. ‘But where?’

‘You like kittens, don’t you?’

Freddy’s face brightened. ‘You know I do. I love kittens. . why, Terry?’

‘Want to see some?’ The words could have been spoken by a stereotypical child molester. Terry didn’t really know what a child molester was back then, but he understood the temptation behind the words, the lure of expectation. . the trap.

‘Where are they, Terry, where are they?’ Freddy jumped up and down. He loved little animals so much.

He was fourteen months younger than Terry, who was eleven then. But there was something about him that hadn’t quite developed, something missing that ensured he wasn’t just right and stayed more childish than he should have been, even at that age.

‘Follow us.’

They dashed across the quiet, narrow road in front of the school and vaulted the stone wall with Freddy following, so excited he wanted to pee. And he did so, cringing as he ran, unable to stop himself, hoping the others wouldn’t notice the stain on his short trousers.

They were on land owned by a farmer called Jacques. Grazing land for sheep and cattle, although none were present that cold afternoon as flecks of snow started to drift in the air and dark clouds scudded across the sky from the east. The famer didn’t really mind kids on his land. These were the days when health and safety legislation, or at least its implementation, was just a pipe dream and kids on farms, doing dangerous things, were not unusual.

Led by Terry, the gang raced across the large, wet field, mud splashing.

The field dropped steeply towards a perimeter wall and soon they were out of sight and hearing of the road, the farm buildings and nearby houses, in a secret world of their own with no witnesses.

A place that had been carefully prepared by Terry. At the age of eleven he was already a villain — like his father — who terrorized local old people, openly stealing from them and promising violent retribution should they grass on him. His criminal planning was quite advanced.

Beckoning them on, he knew he was taking them to a disused chicken coop on the edge of the farmer’s land. It was a place they’d hung out on many occasions and used as a den. Although virtually abandoned by the farmer it was structurally still quite sound, a warm place to go and have a secret cigarette, or get a girl to show her fanny. Some hens still roosted there and laid eggs fertilized by the huge rooster that strutted around the farm.

Terry had found some eggs in the coop that he had hidden and cared for, kept warm in a cardboard box packed with straw. They had hatched into healthy chicks.

In another part of the coop — quite a large, sectioned off building — a feral cat had given birth to a litter of four kittens, away from the chickens.

It was to these newborns that Terry led his little gang — and his brother. His stupid, hated brother.

‘Come on, come on,’ he urged them all.

Terry had stolen a padlock and key from elsewhere on the farm and had used it to keep the coop secure. He opened the door to let everyone in ahead of him and they crowded in excitedly, having to almost crawl because of the low roof.

With a flourish, Terry revealed the chicks in their box. He had rigged up a lamp to hang over them to provide extra warmth. They were only days old, chirping healthily, gorgeous little creatures, tiny, frail, easily broken or crushed.

The girl Christine made motherly noises.

David Peters sneered, not taken in by them at all. He preferred action men and cars.

But Freddy was entranced, dropping to his knees and gently scooping one of them up, feeling its warm fluffy body in the cupped palm of his big hand. He was mesmerized. ‘Ahh, baby hens.’

Terry tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Over here. Look at these.’

Freddy replaced the chick carefully and followed his brother, who slid open a hatch to reveal his next treasures. Four mewing kittens, bundles of fur, big eyes, only weeks old.

Freddy gasped in wonderment and reached for one of the tiny cats. This time he could feel the delicate bones throughout its body, its shoulder blades and rib cage. He lifted it gently and started to stroke it.