Shining Lights Page 7

  ‘Saves me worrying about what I’ll get for tea,’ said Eric, laughing. His bitterness vanished like an unpleasant smell. ‘Your mum is epic, Isaac. I wish I had one like her.’ He winked at me. ‘I might even let her live.’

  Isaac glanced at me for an explanation. I raised my eyes and shrugged.

  Just Eric.

  Chapter 13

  I slip out the next morning to buy a newspaper, but, finding not a single shop open, I’m obliged to resort to the digital version of the Blackpool Gazette. There is nothing about the two casualties of last night, which surprises me. If that happened in Sefton, it would be the banner headline. I go immediately into conspiracy theory mode.

  I decide to phone the hospital to check. It takes some time and a lot of back and forth before I’m finally put through to somebody who, I’m assured, will answer my questions.

  ‘I’m enquiring about a couple of guys who came in last night. About ten o’clock, at a guess. An ambulance picked them up from the street near Gynn Square.’

  There’s a silence, a clearing of a throat, and then a man’s voice.

  ‘Who is this speaking?’ he asks.

  I introduce myself and listen to him clear his throat again. I wonder if he’s displaying Covid symptoms and instinctively turn the phone onto loudspeaker and move my face away.

  ‘Are you a relation?’ he asks.

  ‘No. I was there when the ambulance picked them up. I’m just a concerned citizen, nothing more.’

  The pauses which precede everything he says are getting on my nerves. I can feel a tick in my cheek pulse.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing I can tell you, Mr Tyler,’ he says at last.

  I decide to try my press credentials, but that does no good, either. In fact, it makes things worse.

  ‘I’m sorry, but we’re not in a position to make any comment at present,’ he tells me. ‘The families of the two men have requested privacy.’

  This is getting stranger and stranger.

  ‘Can you confirm one man died at the scene?’

  He spends another ten seconds weighing his words.

  ‘I can neither confirm nor deny any such rumours,’ he says at last.

  ‘It’s hardly a rumour yet,’ I mutter. ‘Even Twitter hasn’t got hold of it.’ Then, in a moment of folly, I add, ‘Of course, that could change quickly.’

  I hear a woman’s voice saying something urgent in his ear, then nothing. Just silence. I reckon he’s covered the mouthpiece with his hand while they confer. Then the silence lifts and the second voice takes over.

  ‘They both died, Mr Tyler,’ she says. ‘It was a hit and run. An unpleasant accident. We will release their names as soon as we’ve informed the families. I have your number here. If you wish, I can call you back.’

  ‘Is this the same families who requested privacy?’ I ask. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to believe that, do you?’

  ‘I don’t care if you believe it or not, Mr Tyler. It is the truth, and the hospital and the families will confirm it. I doubt even Twitter will have anything but a passing interest.’

  The line goes dead.

  The uneasy feeling I’ve been carrying like a stomach full of elvers is growing. I give the matter about ten seconds’ thought and then do what comes most naturally to me. I write an article which details the strange occurrence at Gynn Square, Blackpool, and conclude with my newspaper’s Twitter and Facebook links, requesting further information. I send it to Jon, who’ll post it in the online edition of the paper and send a link to the Blackpool Gazette. I reckon if there’s something weird going on, they’ll have the means to investigate. If there’s nothing more to report, well, no harm done. It’ll be just a quirky tale of what can befall a journalist locked down in an alien municipality.

  I get an email back from Jon within half an hour. By then, he’s proofread the article, posted it online, forwarded a copy to the evening edition of the Gazette and had a cup of tea and a sandwich. That’s Jon for you. He has the look of a man built for comfort rather than speed but, provided he can do it from a seated position, he’s as sharp as a cut-throat razor and as fast as a whiplash.

  There’s a second part to his email.

  ‘I checked out that name you gave me. Lingard. It was just like you said. Boring, boring, boring. So, I got a friend who knows about these things to dig a little on the dark web, just in case. You need to see what he found. But take a stiff drink first.’

  He’s added an attachment with a reference to a site called Lingard-Red, along with helpful instructions on how to download a browser to access the dark web, and then how to get to Lingard-Red. I imagine it will be like finding my way round Tianjin with a torn street map written in Mandarin, but he says it’s pretty straightforward and he’s written his instructions like an idiot’s guide. He knows me well.

  ‘It’s scary,’ he adds. ‘The sort of site you should only look at it if you want a sleepless night. I don’t know where it’s based, but I hope it has locked doors and straitjackets. My contact says he’ll try to find out who’s behind it, but he says don’t hold your breath. Sites like this aren’t on the dark web for nothing. I’ll get back to you if he finds anything, but just pray it’s not linked to what you’re doing.’

  It isn’t a message designed to fill me full of joy. It’s more likely to induce an unpleasant bowel movement. Still, I take a deep breath and, step by step, follow his instructions. Eventually I find the site and read the welcome page.

  ‘Welcome’ is perhaps not the word I’d choose to describe my feelings. After I read half a page, I can feel sweat break out on my forehead, and my hands trembling. I’m glad I’m sitting down. After a few more minutes, I pick up the phone and break Nina’s rules again.

  ‘Bloody Hell, Jon,’ I say.

  ‘Bloody Hell, indeed,’ he replies. ‘How far did you get?’

  ‘The welcome page, and ten minutes into the rest of the site. Some articles… I mean… and the photographs…’

  ‘Yeah. I managed half an hour before nausea made me give up. There’s only so much of that stuff a normal person can take. Who the hell are these people? Who let them out of their cages?’

  ‘Did you see how many followers they have on the site? I mean, there were thousands. Who the hell would follow shit like that?’

  ‘Let’s hope they’re not all activists.’ He hesitates, for obvious reasons. ‘If this has anything to do with what you’re investigating, it’s time for a hasty withdrawal, Phil. I mean, this is like something you’d find on the outer fringes of the craziest right-wing groups in the US. We don’t have those sorts of extremes in the UK, do we? I always picture the UK as having just a handful of nutters who think they can save the world by hating everyone.’

  ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this, Jon. Really bad.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Jon says. ‘Not another bad feeling. Is there anything I can do to avert the disaster you foresee?’

  I ignore his sarcasm.

  ‘I’ve another name for you to check out for me, if you have time. Sandra Buchan. Can you look into what she’s been up to since she left Sefton Grammar School? She was there at the same time as me.’

  ‘Another school friend? This is becoming a habit.’

  ‘Yeah, and we ran into each other last night, at the Gynn Square incident. She was watching.’

  ‘That’s one hell of a coincidence to add to your list of hellish coincidences. It’s looking like you’re attending a convention of Sefton Grammar School alumni.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought.’

  ‘Anything else I can do?’

  ‘Just make damned sure Wendy doesn’t know about Lingard-Red. And don’t tell her about my bad feeling. I don’t want her worried for nothing. My bad feelings don’t always turn out to be justified.’

  Our conversation ends with warnings and advice on both sides.

  ‘Be careful, Phil,’ Jon concludes. ‘Even I’m having bad feelings.’

  Chapter 14


  I’m seriously sick of walking down Blackpool Promenade every night. The previous nights, to be fair, provided a certain amount of excitement, and gave me something to think about. But to wander miles in darkness during a pandemic has little to recommend it. The prospect of another night and another walk doesn’t have me chortling with excitement. To make matters worse, I can also feel a familiar sense of anxiety. What can I expect next?

  My days are better. Initially empty, they are now filled with questions that demand answers and don’t get them, and puzzles that require solutions that aren’t forthcoming. I’m busy, though, and I can feel that familiar buzz as I dig deeper. And the flat is warm and comfortable.

  That’s probably what it comes down to. I like warm, comfortable and busy, and I don’t like cold and boring. I’m getting hacked off with Isaac, too. Where the hell is he? How long am I expected to undertake this uncomfortable nightly ritual?

  To take my mind off the impending walk, I prepare myself a particularly appetising mushroom stroganoff concoction, and indulge in a couple of warming brandies from the minibar. Then, suitably fortified, I gird my loins, figuratively speaking, and prepare for my nightly foray onto the gloomy promenade.

  It’s high tide when I set out and the spray rises over the lower promenade and cascades down. No-one is there but me, and it’s dark and eerily quiet. But the evening is not unpleasant, apart from the brisk westerly, and it’s refreshing to get out of the flat. When I reach Bispham, a sudden squall bustles in from the sea, and a wave covers the lower promenade, so I decide to leave the loneliness of the grassy cliff top and walk, for a change, on the footpath beside the houses and small hotels. I head to the low gate, which leads over the tram track. No trams tonight, either. They’re locked down too, I think.

  There’s still no-one about. Just the occasional lonely vehicle trundling along. Even the dog walkers have given up, and the lovers I’ve seen on previous nights are probably fearful of contamination. I suppose it’s hard to be loving at a socially acceptable distance of two metres, even for the most ambitious.

  It’s only as I glance back to check the road that I notice a solitary figure some way behind me. He’s on the other side of the tram track, and slouches along, his hands deep in his pockets, a hood pulled low over his head. As I cross the road, he crosses the track and follows me, about fifty yards back. He walks with a stumbling, unbalanced gait. His clothes under the dull streetlights look ragged and worn, and he runs a hand across his face as if to drive away unwelcome thoughts. As he gains on me, I hear him mutter to himself. Every few minutes, he beats the air before him as if it’s a threat.

  I decide to slow down and allow him to pass me and hope to hell he doesn’t want to talk. He’s just some poor homeless guy not entirely in his right mind, but he doesn’t look the sort to adhere to Covid rules, and I can imagine him getting right inside my personal space to share some rambling incoherence.

  As he approaches, he flaps his hands and swears loudly. ‘Put them out! The bastards! Put them out!’ His head sinks low on his chest. ‘Bastards! All of them. Bastards! See me. See me.’ He stops beside me, just as I feared, and far too close for comfort, then turns to face me. He taps me on the chest. ‘Watch them,’ he mutters from beneath the hood, then strangely, ‘Lingard! Mossbank! Mossbank! Trust no-one. Watch everyone. Watch them.’

  He looks up and, momentarily, his hood falls back to reveal a begrimed face, strangely bright eyes and familiar, chiselled features. A hand grabs mine.

  ‘Isaac,’ I stammer.

  ‘A piece of him,’ he mutters. Only Isaac can quote Shakespeare at a moment like this. ‘Hello, Phil.’

  In the distance, the headlights of a car approach, the first I’ve seen for ten minutes or more. It speeds up and, with a scream of tyre on tarmac, passes us, mounts the pavement, and stops. Two men climb out. They head towards us, like men with a purpose, and not a benign one at that.

  Isaac shouts. ‘Run!’

  He propels me towards a side street, pushing my back so firmly I stumble and nearly fall.

  ‘Run!’ he yells again. ‘Don’t look back. Just go!’

  I don’t need telling twice. I duck down the street, and then I run about forty yards until I reach the corner of another street. When I pause and glance back, nobody is following me. On the road, beneath a streetlight, one assailant lies unconscious, and Isaac is fighting off another two. From the distance, it’s hard to make them out, but they have a foreign look. Eastern European, maybe. It’s hard to tell. Before I have time to form a reliable opinion, a second car screeches to a halt. Its doors fly open, and someone steps out. A tall guy, heavily built, pale skinned. I hear a gunshot—I’m sure I hear a gunshot—from somewhere behind him. Someone else from the car, I guess.

  Isaac’s assailants step back, leaving him on the pavement, and turn to face these new adversaries. I see two men step forward and stand in front of the second car. The bigger guy leans forward, grabs Isaac and helps him clamber to his feet. The other directs a handgun towards his attackers, keeping them at bay. They stand impassively, but to me they resemble a pack of baying wolves, frothing at the mouth, after blood.

  I turn to run back and help, although god alone knows what I think I can contribute in circumstances like these. This is way out of my league. My comfort zone ended about five miles back, in my nice, cosy flat. I don’t run very far before reality takes a hold and I hesitate and stop, close to a couple of bins.

  I’m too late, anyway. They bundle Isaac into the back of the car, and the big guy squeezes himself into the driver’s seat. The passenger, gun still raised, steps back towards the car door and feels his way into the seat. Crouched behind the bins, I’m close enough to hear his voice.

  ‘What about the other guy who was with him?’ he asks.

  The big guy is monosyllabic.

  ‘Gone.’

  Not an accent I recognise, even from my evenings spent watching crime thriller movies. German, maybe? Or Australian? Or Welsh?

  Yeah, I really am that bad at accents.

  ‘Shit! They won’t be pleased he got away,’ I hear the passenger say. ‘We’d better circle round the streets and try to pick him up.’

  The window closes, the car turns, and it accelerates away, leaving the dark street to Isaac’s initial attackers, who dust themselves down and make an angry and disconsolate escape. I hear lots of foreign mutterings and figure I’ve got the gist of what they’re threatening. They’re not people I want to meet.

  I turn back again and, head down, scamper along the side street, then an alleyway, then I turn along another street and then another. I’m about to congratulate myself on my clean getaway when I see car headlights at the junction ahead of me, so I hop over a wall and lie still. No point taking chances. The vehicle turns the corner and heads towards me, cruising slowly. A dog barks from inside the house. A cat leaps onto an adjacent wall and disappears.

  The car moves on.

  A little voice inside my head speaks.

  They’re looking for you.

  Thanks for that.

  All of them. The guys who took Isaac and the other ones, too. You’ll never get away.

  Shut up, will you? I need to think.

  They’ve got Isaac. There’s nothing to think about except staying alive.

  I know, I know.

  One of them had a gun.

  You don’t need to remind me. That fact is etched on my brain.

  What are we going to do?

  We’re going to run away. What did you think we’d do?

  I wait a few minutes, then zigzag down even more streets and alleyways until I’m sure I’ve lost them. I’ve lost myself, too, by this time, what with the darkness, the twists and turns, and the streets and alleyways. So I decide to make a rough guess as to the direction of the sea and the promenade, and head there.

  And then I run, and boy, do I run. It’s been a long time since I’ve run that far and that fast. At the first sight of anything that resembles car headlights,
I’m over the nearest wall, tucked behind the nearest shelter, or crouched behind the nearest car.

  Their car passes me twice to my certain knowledge, cruising slowly, faces looking to left and right, windows open. But for the wind which blows in from the sea, they would surely hear me gasping for air. My heart beats some weird, frenzied rhythm, way too loud.

  Then they’re gone, and after another sprint along the tram track towards Anchorsholme, I slow down and rest before I make my way back to the flat. I reckon they’ve given up. I hope they’ve given up.

  I’m more than relieved when I find no-one waiting for me when I get back.

  I pause outside my flat door and glance at the door to Flat 3. It’s eleven o’clock, a time when most ageing ninjas tuck themselves up in a nice cosy bed, sit drinking a cup of hot cocoa, or read a gentle mystery.

  I knock on Nina’s door.

  Chapter 15

  Nina looks me up and down.

  ‘What in god’s name have you rolled in?’ she demands, wrinkling her nose.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  I lean against the door frame, and I’m pretty close to collapsing, so I haven’t time for slurs about my personal hygiene. I’ve been sweating. You do that when you’re fleeing for your life. I’ve more important things on my mind, like imminent cardiac arrest.

  ‘They’ve got Tillerman.’

  ‘You’re still not coming into my flat smelling like that,’ Nina snaps. ‘You stink of cat shit. Get a shower and come back. Pyjamas and a dressing gown are fine. I’m not fussy.’

  The door closes.

  One glance at my clothing and one focused inhalation combine to confirm my worst fears. I’ve managed, in one garden where I hid, to smear myself in one of the foulest substances known to man. I shudder and head directly to my en-suite, where I shower fully clothed, and I don’t undress until I’m sure, absolutely sure, that every vestige of the offending substance has gone. Then I strip and shower until I’ve washed away the very thought of it. That takes a lot longer.