Phil Rickman - The man in the moss

'Right.' Milly's eyes went still. 'That's enough. I'll not have this occasion spoiled. Am I getting through?'

'Now, Millicent,' Ernie said, knowing from experience what might happen if she got riled. But Shaw Horridge startled them all. 'It's quite all right, Miss Gill.'

He smiled icily at Young Frank. 'Yes, it is a per-Porsche.' Held up his glass. 'Yes, it is vodka. Yes, it's mer-made in Sheffield by a s-subsidiary of Gannons Ales.'

He straightened up, taller than Frank now, his voice gaining in strength. 'Gannons Ales. Without whom, yes, I wouldn't have a Porsche."

And, stepping around Millie, he poked Young Frank in the chest with a thin but rigid forefinger. 'And without whom you wouldn't have a job… Mr Manifold.'

Ernie saw several men tense, ready to hold Young Frank back, but Frank didn't move. His eyes widened and his grip on the tankard slackened. Lad's as astonished as me, Ernie thought, at Shaw Horridge coming out with half a dozen almost fully coherent sentences one after the other.

The red sun shone into Shaw's eyes; he didn't blink.

The selling of the brewery was probably the worst thing that had happened to Bridelow this century. But not, apparently, the worst thing that had happened to Shaw Horridge.

He lowered his forefinger. 'Just remember that, please,' he said.

Looking rather commanding, where he used to look shyly hunched. And this remarkable confidence, as though somebody had turned his lights on. Letting them all see him – smiling and relaxed – after perpetrating the sale of the brewery, Bridelow's crime of the century. And indirectly causing a death.

Took some nerve, this did, from stuttering Shaw.

Arthur's lad at last. Maybe.

'Excuse me,' Shaw said dismissively. 'I have to meet someone.'

He turned his back on Young Frank Manifold and walked away, no quicker than he needed to, the sun turning the bald spot on the crown of his head into a bright golden coin.

'By 'eck,' Ernie Dawber said, but he noticed that Milly Gill was looking worried.

And she wasn't alone. 'Now then, Ernest. Wha's tha make of that, then?'

He hadn't noticed her edging up behind him, although he'd known she must be here somewhere. She was a Presence.

Just a little old woman in a pale blue woollen beret, an old grey cardigan and a lumpy brown woollen skirt.

'Well,' Ernie Dawber said, 'Arthur might have been mortified at what he's done with the brewery, but I think he'd be quite gratified at the way he stood up for himself there. Don't you?'

'Aye,' said Ma Wagstaff grimly. 'I'm sure his father'd be right pleased.'

Ernie looked curiously into the rubbery old features. Anybody who thought this was just a little old woman hadn't been long in Bridelow. He took a modest swallow from his half of Black. 'What's wrong then, Ma?'

'Everything.' Ma sighed. 'All coming apart.'

'Oh?' said Ernie. 'Nice night, though. Look at that sun.'

'Aye,' said Ma Wagstaff pessimistically. 'Going down, int it?'

'Well, yes.' Ernie straightened his glasses. 'It usually does this time of night.'

Ma Wagstaff nodded at his glass. 'What's that ale like now it's Gannons?'

'Nowt wrong with it as I can taste.' This wasn't true; it didn't seem to have quite the same brackish bite – or was that his imagination?

Ma looked up and speared him with her fierce little eyes. 'Got summat to tell me, Ernest Dawber?'

Ernie coughed. 'Not as I can think of.' She was making him uneasy.

'Anythin' in the post today?'

'This and that, Ma, this and that.'

'Like one of them big squashy envelopes, for instance?'

'A jiffy-bag, you mean?'

'Aye,' said Ma Wagstaff. 'Wi' British Museum stamped on it.'

Ernie fumed. You couldn't keep anything bloody private in this place. 'Time that Millicent kept her damn nose out!'

'Never mind that, lad, what's it say?'

'Now, look…' Ernie backed away, pulling at his waistcoat. 'In my capacity as local historian, I was able to provide Dr Hall and the British Museum with a considerable amount of information relating to the Moss, and as a result, following their examination of the body, they've kindly given me a preview of their findings, which…'

'Thought that'd be it.' Ma Wagstaff nodded, satisfied.

'… which will be published in due course. Until which time, I'm not allowed…'

'If you know, why shouldn't we know?'

'It's not allowed, Ma. It's what's called an embargo.'

'Oh.' Ma's eyes narrowed. 'That's what it's called, is it?' Means educated fellers like you get to know what's what and us common folk…'

Common folk? Ma Wagstaff? Ernie kept backing off, looking around for friendly faces. 'Please, Ma… don't push me on this. You'll find out soon enough.'

But the nearest person was a good ten yards away, and when his back hit the wall of the pub's outside lavatory block, he realised she'd got him into a corner in more ways than one.

'Now then,' Ma said kindly. 'How's that prostate of yours these days?'

'Nowt wrong with my prostate,' Ernie replied huffily.

Ma Wagstaff's eyes glinted. 'Not yet there int.'

'This is mer-madness,' Shaw said.

'No,' said Therese, 'it's exciting.'

'You're exciting,' he mumbled. That's all.' He pushed a hand through her sleek hair, and she smiled at him, tongue gliding out between her small, ice-white teeth. He was almost crying; she had him on the edge again. He pushed his back into the car's unfamiliar upholstery and clenched both hands on the wheel.

'Shall we go, then?'

'I can't.'

'I promise you,' Therese said, 'you'll feel so much better afterwards.'

And he would, he knew this from experience. Once, not long after they'd met, she'd made him go into a chemist and steal a bottle of Chanel perfume for her. I'll buy it for you, he'd almost shrieked. But that wasn't good enough. He was rich… buying her perfume – what would that demonstrate?

So he'd done it. Stolen it. Slipped it into the pocket of his sheepskin jacket and then bought himself two bottles of the shop's most expensive aftershave as an awkward sort of atonement.

But the awkwardness had just been a phase. He remembered lying awake all that night, convinced someone had seen him and the police would be at the door. Don't worry, she'd said, it'll get easier.

Jewellery next. Antique jewellery from a showcase, while Therese had distracted the manager.

You'll feel better, she'd say.

She was right. For the first time ever he was getting whole sentences out without stammering. Although his mother hadn't said anything, it was obvious she'd noticed. And been impressed. He'd felt quite wonderful, couldn't wait to see Therese again to tell her.

His confidence had increased daily. Soon he'd found he could speak openly to groups of men in the brewery like his father used to do, instead of slinking into his office and only communicating with the workers through the manager.

And when Gannons had made their approach, he'd found it surprisingly easy to make his decision – with a little help from Therese.

'Do you want really to stay in Bridelow all your life? Couldn't bear it, myself. Couldn't live here for a week.'

And he knew it was true. She wouldn't spend any time here. If they went for a walk, it had to be up on the moors. If they went for a drink, it had to be at some pub or club in Manchester or somewhere.

He wanted desperately to show her off, to show that stuttering Shaw Horridge could get himself a really beautiful girlfriend. But she seemed to find Bridelow beneath her.

'Dismal little place,' she said. 'Don't you think? I like lights and noise and people.'

So it hadn't been difficult, the decision to let Gannons have the brewery. Biggest thing he'd ever done and all over in a couple of weeks. All over before anyone in the village knew about it. Fait accompli.