Paul Finch - Stolen

It was just after ten o’clock when Harry closed this handsome door behind him, the lock catching. Milly, his small Pekingese, waited patiently. She was thirteen now, tubby, grey at the jowls and bandy-legged. But she was an affectionate little soul who liked nothing better than an idle wander with her master. Harry buttoned up his overcoat, tugged his trilby down at the front and drew on his fingerless gloves. It was September, and the searing heat of August had noticeably diminished. Nights were cool, and there was an edge to the breeze.

They set off up the road together, Milly snuffling at the base of every streetlight, lapping at the occasional puddle left over from the afternoon rain, despite Harry’s gruff admonitions. They turned right at the top of the road, following their usual route.

Though it wasn’t terribly late, it was midweek, so each street they came to was bare of life: Candlemaker Avenue, Rotherwood Drive, Hornby Crescent, Billington Grove. They even sounded suburban, and they certainly looked the part: more of those manicured front gardens, rockeries, shrubbery. It was a far cry from the narrow terraced streets of Harry’s day. But in general, he had to concede that things tended to change for the better. It was too easy to get dewy-eyed about the past, especially if you hadn’t been part of it.

Most windows were now curtained, only soft lamplight filtering through, though now and then he passed an open bedroom window, and heard music playing or what sounded like a TV programme. That was something that had not changed for the better, in Harry’s opinion: kids having all that kit in their bedrooms when they should be out, running around. Not that he would really have expected that at this late hour, of course.

And not when there was that other thing supposedly keeping them indoors.

The black van.

By instinct, Harry tightened his grip on the lead, drawing Milly closer. The old girl wasn’t too worried. She didn’t exactly scurry these days.

The black van, though …

Harry didn’t know if it was one of these so-called urban legends. But if it was, he’d only heard about it recently. It had been down at the bookies a couple of weeks ago.

‘Whenever you’re walking your Milly, Harry … keep your eye out for this black transit van. It’s touring the neighbourhoods late at night. I’m not sure what it’s supposed to be up to … but you can guarantee it’ll be no good.’

‘Well, if you don’t know what it’s up to, how do you know it’s no good?’ Harry had responded, puzzled.

A helpless shrug. ‘I dunno, pal. People are just saying it.’

‘Oh … must be true then.’

But now that he was out here on the road alone, and it was past ten o’clock, Harry didn’t feel quite so scathing. He was sure the black van thing was a myth. Good God, there were black vans all over. But though certain parts of Crowley, like this, had been prettified in recent years, he couldn’t deny that life wasn’t as tranquil overall as it once had seemed. Not even in the shopping district where you saw homeless folk everywhere. That was a sad story, but it was a nuisance too. Some of them had mental health problems, some of them were drug addicts, and nearly all of them were beggars. That had been almost unknown during his youth, even though everyone had been considerably poorer back then.

Equally unknown had been this new level of nasty criminality. Harry had always fancied himself a rough customer, but he wouldn’t go anywhere near the town centre pubs on a Friday or Saturday night, not these days. He much preferred The Horsehoe at the top end of the estate, even if it did have a reputation for being an old fellas’ pub. Harry didn’t mind. Anything was better than someone smashing a bottle over your head because you’d looked at them the wrong way, and then kicking your face as you lay on the floor. And it wasn’t just the town centre either. There were plenty of housing estates around Crowley that were just as bad; run-down neighbourhoods like Hatchwood Green for example. Nearly everyone in those miserable districts was unemployed, which didn’t help of course, though to Harry’s mind it didn’t excuse the wife-battering, the drunks sitting on doorsteps, the needles and condoms left in playground sandpits.

Harry knew all this went on because he knew men and women of his own age who were unfortunate enough to live in these areas, and they reported it every time he met them. But even the Hollinbrook wasn’t as safe as it might appear. Not these days. It had been idyllic once, but slowly and subtly things had been changing as the villains had started to notice it. There were burglaries here now and occasional vehicle thefts. Prowlers had been reported, even some pets had allegedly gone missing.

And then, as he pondered this, he heard the scuff of what sounded like boot leather.

He glanced up and caught someone stepping out of sight.

Just ahead of him, on the other side of the road.

Harry faltered in his stride.

He almost stopped – before pressing on, grumbling to himself.

Highly likely his imagination had been running wild thanks to those worrying reflections. But he was now approaching the crossroads between Billington Grove and Bucks Lane, and it really had looked as if someone had just scampered away around the left-hand corner.

Big deal, he told himself. Was it an offence to walk home?

But actually it hadn’t looked as if he’d just glimpsed someone walking home. It had looked as if they’d been standing watching him, and then had ducked away to avoid being seen. When he came level with Bucks Lane, he glanced left, not sure what he expected. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he saw nothing and no one – though that didn’t mean there was nobody there, as whoever it was could have gone to ground in any one of the front gardens.

‘Bloody hell, lad,’ he muttered. ‘You’re letting these daft stories get to you.’

He trudged on past the junction, and only after a hundred yards glanced back, to ensure that no one was behind him.

No one was. At least, no one who was close by. But was that dark, diminutive shape back at the crossroads a figure? Standing there motionless? Staring after him?

Harry squinted. Perhaps it was another dog-walker? That wouldn’t be unusual. Or some other innocent resident standing outside their house having a smoke? But if so, why did they seem so interested in him?

Unless they weren’t. Unless there was no one there at all.

Harry couldn’t be certain. Most likely, he was seeing things. Fading eyesight and substandard streetlighting were the probable explanation. But, determined to show that he wasn’t concerned either way, he ambled casually on, turning left down Tottington Road, Milly toddling at his side. Everything along here was as it should be: cars in driveways, front lawns scattered with children’s toys and occasional bits of garden furniture; typical end-of-summer scenery.

He looked back over his shoulder. The road was deserted.

Daft, he chided himself. If that had been some idiot waiting to jump him, he’d have done it back at the crossroads. Why would he be following?

Harry turned right onto Langtree Brow, and then right again into a ginnel. Here he halted, tall hedges on either side, as Milly squatted to do her business. After she was finished, he got a poop bag from his pocket, scooped it all up and tied the bag in a knot. More by instinct than design, he again glanced behind him. He was halfway along the ginnel, which ran for about seventy yards before crossing a narrow footbridge over the Manchester-to-Southport railway. The gap where it opened into Langtree Brow was empty, though why he’d thought it might not be eluded him.

He strode on, turning up his overcoat collar against the chill, depositing the poop bag in the next bin. Milly seemed happy, sniffing under the hedges, nothing troubling her.