Paul Finch - Strangers

Barney didn’t know for sure, even though he’d driven them both here in his uncle’s shuddery old van. The truth was he didn’t even think this area of wasteland had a name. As far as he could recall from his daylight travels, it was a patch of emptiness lying just east of the B5237.

He shrugged, helpless to answer.

‘A shit-tip where nobody lives,’ Kev said irritably. ‘Where you’d be lucky to find rats, because rats are generally not that fucking stupid. Nobody wants this place. So not only is no one likely to see us … why should it matter if anyone does?’

Even to Barney – who was a bigger, heavier lad than Kev, but tended by instinct to defer to his lifelong mate on all matters where complex thought was required – the answer to this one was more than obvious.

‘Because it’s public land and fly-tipping’s illegal.’

Kev snorted. ‘But it was alright to dig coal mines out here, wasn’t it? And dump mountains of slag?’

‘I’m just saying,’ Barney cautioned. ‘Let’s be careful.

‘We’ll be careful. But for fuck’s sake, don’t let these bastards guilt-trip you.’

‘These bastards’ was Kev’s signature phrase, and his catch-all term for anyone he perceived to have higher control than himself, be they employers, bailiffs, police officers, the local authority, central Government itself, or anyone at all who qualified in his mind as part of the establishment.

‘Hypocrites, the lot of ’em,’ he ranted on. ‘If they wanted a rubbish tip out here they’d soon okay it …’

‘I said alright!’ Barney didn’t normally interrupt his mate in mid-flow, but of the two of them, he, ultimately, had most reason to be nervous.

They’d spent the whole of that dreary Sunday clearing out Kev and Lorna’s new flat, which the couple were about to move into at mates’ rates because its owner was Lorna’s brother-in-law. He’d offered to lower the asking price even more if they disposed of the pile of rubbish that the previous tenants, a bunch of art students at the local Technical College, had left behind. There were boxes of broken brushes, paint pots, turps bottles, easels, torn canvases, along with the ruined carpet from the main lounge, the festering contents of several bins, two mattresses, and even the bedding as well.

It had been a lot more work than the two lads had expected, taking them several hours to bring it all downstairs and load it into the back of Barney’s uncle’s van, which ensured that all the municipal recycling centres were closed by the time it came to dump the stuff. Having opted – at Kev’s insistence – for this other, simpler solution, it now looked as if they’d be at least another hour out here, on a one-time colliery wasteland which it had been quite a challenge just to access. They’d prowled its edges for half an hour or so, both driver and passenger tensing every time another vehicle drove past, before locating a track of sorts. This was little more than a ribbon of rutted, rubbly ground, but at least it was driveable and it led away from the B5237 in a straight line, running a couple of hundred yards before terminating in front of what looked like a burned-out Portakabin.

They halted here, and even though it was a desolate spot, the undefined outlines of rocks and stunted vegetation standing left and right, the pale flood of their headlights picked out a muddy footpath on the other side of the ruin. Barney was glad they were at least away from the road. He switched his headlights off and climbed out, glancing around and listening, before walking to the rear and opening the van doors.

Kev went with him, saying nothing as he dug into the mountain of refuse inside, hefting out a box filled with bric-a-brac, and strutting away through the gutted shell of the Portakabin. Almost by unspoken agreement, they’d decided to chuck the stuff somewhere on the far side of it, using the broken structure as a final shield between themselves and the road. But as Kev vanished along the meandering path beyond it, Barney thought he heard something.

He spun around.

A clacking, or clicking.

Most likely it had been branches rattling in a gust of wind.

There wasn’t much starlight penetrating the cloud-cover, but his eyes were finally adjusting to what little there was. Scrub-like thorn breaks were clumped to either side of the track, interspersed here and there by the odd stunted tree; the sort of charmless, twisted vegetation you saw so often on former coal-tips like this but rarely anywhere else. His vision didn’t spear very far into it – a few yards, but that was sufficient to show nothing moving.

Barney shuddered as he zipped his fleece. This desolation was the last place he wanted to be in right now. It was ten o’clock at night, and the nearest habitation – either Bickershaw or Leigh – were both miles away.

‘You’re one to talk about guilt-trips,’ Barney mumbled as he humped a roll of heavy, stinky lino onto his shoulder and stumbled through the Portakabin, following the same route as Kev. ‘Reminding me I owed you a few quid from when I was short, and calling this an opportunity to pay you back. It was only a few quid, lad.’

Naked bushes clawed at him as he pressed along the path beyond the ruin. Some sixty yards later, it opened out onto a flatter, harder surface – what had once been the concrete floor to another industrial unit.

‘This’ll do, here,’ Kev said from just ahead, as he dumped his load in a kind of unofficial centre-spot. Barney followed suit. They stood there, breathless, glancing round.

The B5237 was about three hundred yards behind them. The streetlights over the top of it were just barely visible, but their own vehicle was concealed by the trees and undergrowth.

‘Tell you what,’ Kev said in a “go on, I’ll humour you” kind of tone. ‘If it’s really bothering you, why don’t we build it all up into a bommy? I mean, it’s Bonfire Night in a couple of weeks. If some copper comes wandering around here, he’ll probably just think its kids. Won’t cock a snook at it.’

‘If you say so,’ Barney said, not feeling convinced.

‘There’ll be bommies everywhere this time next week. We’ll completely fox the bastards.’

Barney nodded again, before noticing that Kev was watching him – and only belatedly realising that this meant it was going to be his job to construct said bommy. While Kev lurched back along the path towards the van, he got to work, piling the rubbish together, and then looking for spare bits of timber with which he could form that distinctive pyramid shape.

A few minutes later, job done, Barney was also on his way back to the van. They passed each other in the process, Kev’s arms wrapped around a bulging bin-liner. They passed each other again a short time later, Barney this time hefting a couple of armfuls. And so it went on, the two of them working in relays until Barney was headed back to the van for what seemed like the fifth and surely final time – only to stop dead when he came in sight of it.

Because another vehicle was now parked at its rear.

Blocking it in.

The only conclusion – the only conclusion possible – was coppers.

For half a second, Barney’s world collapsed. He felt his bowels shrivel inside him. It wasn’t a serious offence, fly-tipping … except that he was currently on probation for pinching lead off a church roof. And he had no idea how much another conviction, even a minor one, might damage his chances of staying out of jail.

But now, slowly, he began to notice things that reassured him a little.

In the dimness, he couldn’t distinguish much about the car parked behind his van – he could only see the offside of it, and he certainly couldn’t identify its make or colour. But there were no Battenberg flashes down its flanks. Nor was there any kind of beacon or visi-flasher on top of it. That didn’t necessarily mean it wasn’t a police car, but its engine had been switched off and there were no headlights showing. Surely, if they were coppers, they’d still be sitting inside, waiting for the miscreants to come back?