Nick Oldham - Bad Tidings

Terry stood behind him, head lowered, a terrible look on his face and a three-foot plank of wood in his hands. He gestured for the others to stand back. He needed room, an arc, and he drew back the plank, gripped it tight with both hands and smashed it across the side of Freddy’s head, sending him sprawling.

Unconscious for a short time, Freddy came to with Terry straddling him, the three other kids holding down his body and legs.

In Terry’s right fist was a handful of dirt, dust, bird shit and hen feathers that he’d scooped up off the floor of the shack. With his left hand he held Freddy’s face rigid and tried to force open his mouth. Freddy was still stunned and uncomprehending, aware only of Terry’s blazing, hate-filled eyes and the look of determination as, successfully opening Freddy’s mouth, he forced the handful of muck and feathers into it, ramming them down with the palm of his hand.

He spoke no words.

Then Freddy started to writhe and fight and he choked on the foul-smelling, germ-laden mixture, until a wave of sheer panic made him buck Terry off and break free, like a wild bear from chains, from the grip the other kids had on him.

On all fours he gasped and spat and cried and snuffled, inhaling the horrible dust and debris.

Terry bent low and spoke into his ear. ‘I hate you,’ he whispered. He jerked a come-on gesture to his mates and they left Freddy wheezing in the shack.

Once outside, Terry quietly locked the door then hurled the key across into the next field, trapping Freddy inside, although at that moment, Freddy did not realize this.

He lay there in a foetal position, sobbing massive, chest-juddering breaths. A chick walked around him. A kitten mewed in his ear. It took a few minutes for the sobbing to subside, then he sat up slowly, drawing his big knees up to his chin, rocking back and forth.

He picked up a kitten and stroked it. Then a chick. ‘You didn’t know about this, did you?’ he asked the yellow ball. Then he scooped up another kitten and posed the same question to it.

The floor of the coop was constructed of roughly hewn planks, nailed together to form floorboards. Not a great job — sturdy, as was the rest of the construction, but there were gaps of varying width in the floor, and the whole shed-like building rested on a series of breezeblocks to keep it off the cold, wet ground.

Freddy didn’t blame the animals at that moment. They were not part of the conspiracy. He held a kitten in one hand, a chick in the other, rubbing his face with their soft down and fur, feeling their vulnerability.

His anger rose at the thought of Terry.

Next moment, somehow, the kitten was dead. He dropped it onto the floor in disgust. And so was the chick, squeezed to death in his huge hands. He dropped it too and stared blankly at the two corpses.

Then he sniffed something and saw smoke curling up through the gaps in the floorboards. Freddy watched it, again not quite understanding what he was seeing.

Smoke. It rose. Then he felt heat underneath his bottom. And there was a glow and a flicker of flame, licking up through the gaps. The heat became intense. Freddy threw himself at the door, expecting it to be open, as the fire, set from below — the stuffed paper, dried straw and firelighters, all prepared in advance by Terry — quickly engulfed the chicken coop.

‘I was at the school that day. Took a short service for the kids, as it happened,’ the old man explained, as Henry and Tope sat back, stunned by the story. ‘Back then I was a bit of a twitcher, though they didn’t call birdwatchers twitchers back then, just anoraks. And, as I’d finished my work at the school, my dog collar came off, my anorak went on, with my boots, the bins went around my neck, and I went birdwatching on the moors. I wanted to see if I could clock some harriers that had been seen up there. No luck. As I trudged back I saw smoke rising from the old coop and heard Freddy banging and screaming in terror from inside. I managed to prise the door open with a bit of old piping, I think. He got some minor burns, his face and the back of his legs, I think. . but he could have died very easily.’

‘And was this reported to the police?’ Henry asked.

‘No. Hushed up.’

‘Really?’

‘It was put down as an accident. . the reality being I actually saw Terry running away from the coop with his friends and I’m convinced he tried to burn his brother to death.’ The old man looked at Henry. ‘Freddy might be the mad one, but Terry is the evil one. His family said they would deal with it. They were a criminal family even back then and Mr Cromer told me he would burn my church down if I said anything. Even a man of God can be a coward,’ he admitted. ‘But at least I saved Freddy’s life, although from what I gather, he’s not had much of one since.’

Henry exhaled. ‘Possibly explains Freddy’s more extreme behaviour. . that on top of his mental health problems. Not a good combination.’ Henry thought back to the dead animals he had found strung up and laid out in the bedroom at his aunt’s house in Rawtenstall on the day Freddy had had his first attempt at strangling Henry. A gruesome, unsettling find.

‘Would you give a statement about it now?’ Henry asked.

‘I would. Chances are I’ll have turned my toes up by the time it gets anywhere near a court anyway, so what have I to fear? Just an audience with the Lord, which I’m kind of looking forward to.’

Henry twitched his eyebrows at Tope, who said simply, ‘Revenge.’

‘Simmering for years,’ Henry agreed. ‘One thing for certain, we need to speak to Freddy properly now and make sure we pre-plan everything, see what he has to say about it. I’ll bet he’ll be an easy can of worms to pry open.’

Already Henry was mentally rubbing his hands together.

‘I’m just surprised he hasn’t gone for Terry yet.’

‘Maybe saving the best till last,’ Henry said. ‘Who knows. . let’s find out.’

Since leaving the company of the old, retired vicar in Oswaldtwistle, having listened to his astonishing story, the following days had been monstrously busy for Henry, and other than the cloud looming over him that was his hospitalized mother, he had enjoyed himself immensely.

He had been at the helm of a complex, multi-layered police operation which involved lots of doors being kicked down and gang-related arrests made, alongside various media appearances for which a range of sound bites were prepared. These appearances included an early morning visit to Media City in Salford, where by chance he had shared a sofa on the BBC breakfast show with an ageing pop star he had longed to meet and who was on a comeback tour that had hit Manchester the night before. Henry was there to talk about the Lancashire manhunt, which had captured nationwide interest, and the meeting with the old rocker had been a bonus. Henry had got the man’s autograph in his pocket notebook and had excitedly phoned Alison with the news, although she huffed at it, unimpressed. He was also given a pair of tickets for a London concert later in the week, but doubted he would be able to make it.

Despite the police activity, which was very intrusive to a lot of criminals in Lancashire, Terry Cromer remained at large, as did Freddy.

Henry knew they would come. Just a matter of time.

He was also keeping an eye on missing persons, but none who were reported seemed to fit the victim profile he was interested in. One misper did turn up floating in a reservoir, but his demise had no connection to Henry’s inquiry.

They reached New Year’s Eve without any real success and Henry’s team was dismissed to enjoy the festivities, have the next day off and come back on the second of January ready to get stuck in again.