Just Getting Out Of The Rain
By
Doug Hilditch
"I've never been up here
before," Nat looked at some of the huge houses they were passing as they
walked along the tree-lined avenue.
"I
came home from the Club this way about two weeks ago," informed Malcolm,
"I drove through here first a couple of days before, test drivin' a new
head gasket job. I used to go all the way around but this way saves us quite a
bit of time."
"Look
at the size of some of these places, wouldn't you like to own one of
these?"
"I'd
like to be able to afford one of
these. If I could, I wouldn't buy one though, I'd bugger off back to Trinidad and live in luxury." He cackled loudly and
slapped his friend on the back.
"Careful
man, I nearly dropped the beer." Nat held the carrier bag up, to remind
his friend that he was still carrying their booze.
The
two friends were returning home from the Pineapple Club, a local watering hole
catering mainly for the large West Indian population in the neighbourhood, where
they had been celebrating the fiftieth birthday of Granville, the club's owner.
Now they were making their way home, trying out a short cut that Malcolm had
discovered.
"Oh
shit, it's started to rain. That's all we need," moaned Malcolm.
Great
blobs of water fell from the sky at an ever-increasing rate and within a minute
it was lashing down. The two men looked up at the pitch-black sky but there
seemed no way this rain was going to ease off for a while. They trudged on in
silence, getting more soaked with every step.
Fifty
yards further on Nat tugged at Malcolm's sleeve.
"That
house there," he pointed to a large double-fronted, half-timbered house
set back from a short gravel drive. "It's got a carport."
Looking
around cautiously, the two men quickened their step as they walked up the drive
to take refuge from the downpour.
The
carport, was about twelve yards long, open at each end and the gravel drive
swept through and out the other side leading to a very large garage built in
the same style as the house.
"It
looks like this is in for the duration," Nat stared out at the huge
raindrops pouring out of the sky, sparkling like jewels as they reflected the
orange light of the street lamps.
"Well
the weather forecast said that we was goin' to have a few light showers before it cleared up completely. I don't call this a
light shower nor can I see any sign of it clearing up."
"Huh.
Weather forecasters. What do they know?"
"You
know, my ole dad used to say that weather forecasters couldn't forecast a good
crap if the whole world had got a dose of the squitters."
Nat
laughed loudly at this.
"Oh
man that's great, I must remember that."
"Shhhhh,
man. You'll wake the whole neighbourhood."
Nat
brought his laughter under control and wandered up to the other end of the
carport to look out over the back garden.
There
was a side door to the house, which opened out onto the carport so Malcolm sat
down on the step and took out a packet of cigarettes.
"Hey,
Mal. They've got a tennis court out here," Nat spoke in a sort of stage
whisper, "and a swimmin’ pool."
"Neither
of them are much use with the crap weather you got in this country. Now if we
was in Trinidad . . ."
Nat
turned and looked at the silhouette of his friend as he lit his cigarette. He
would miss Malcolm if ever his friend did decide to sell up and move back to
the West Indies. Despite the fact the Malcolm
was fourteen years his senior, they got on extremely well. He got on well with
the whole family; in fact it was Malcolm's wife, Marlene who introduced Nat to
her baby-sitter, Veronica.
Nat
smiled as he thought of his fiancée. Only three weeks to go before he and
Veronica walked down the aisle. That’s what they called it anyway. They were,
in fact, getting married in a registry office as they were saving their money
and didn't like the thought of shelling out so much money for a church wedding.
Nat had asked Veronica if she would like a white wedding but she made him laugh
by saying that she didn't know enough white people to make it worth while.
The
owner of the hotel where Nat worked was organising the wedding reception for
them and giving them a substantial discount.
Nat
really enjoyed his job; it was all he had ever wanted to do. So, on leaving
school, he enrolled at catering college, much to his mother's dismay. She
thought it was a dead-end job, long hours, low pay, and so it was to start off
with. Now she was really proud of her son, and rightly so. He had been the only
black pupil in his year at college and had graduated with the top marks. Now he
was Assistant Chef at the Devonish Hotel, one of the poshest and most expensive
hotels in the area.
Pulling
his jacket around him, to keep out the cold breeze that had just got up, Nat
leaned against the wall and looked back out into the garden.
"Hey,
there's a bungalow or something at the other end of the garden. It looks like
it's made of wood."
Malcolm
drew on his cigarette and flicked the butt out onto the drive where the rain
extinguished it instantly.
"It's
probably a summerhouse," he said, and rising to his feet, walked over to
join his friend.
"I
wonder if it's open," said Nat.
"Why?"
"Well
it'd be a damn sight warmer and dryer than standing here."
"Well
run down and find out," laughed Mal.
"Are
you coming too?"
"You
think I'm getting soaked runnin' down there just to find that it's locked? You
go if you want, you can come back and tell me."
"That
means I'll get soaked twice."
Nat
looked at Malcolm's face and smiled too.
"If
it's open I'll flick my lighter a couple of times," he grinned then, doing
the zipper up on his jacket, he held his carrier-bag tightly to his chest with
both hands and dashed out into the garden.
About
forty seconds later Malcolm saw the small yellow glow of Nat's lighter before
it was blown out by the wind.
"Jesus,"
he muttered and ran as fast as he could towards the summerhouse where Nat stood
with the door open.
As
soon as he was in, Nat closed the door behind him and the cold breeze and the
noise of the torrential rain were shut out.
Suddenly
the room lit up as Nat flicked his lighter once more. In the dim glow of the
flame they could make out some wicker furniture and a low glass-top table.
There was also a table-tennis table folded up against the back wall and what
looked like a small refrigerator.
Malcolm
walked over to the fridge and opened the door. The light inside the fridge
immediately floodlighted the room.
"Jesus,
close that up," hissed Nat, "somebody might see us from the
house."
"Maybe,
but I doubt it," remarked Malcolm. "The windows don't face the house,
they face the sun."
He
crouched down and peered into the fridge.
"Hey,
we should put the beer in here. This fridge is empty," he said, reaching
into the bag and helping himself to two bottles. "There's a bottle opener
on top, that's handy. Must have known we was comin'."
Malcolm
removed the bottle tops and place the bottles on the table while Nat moved two
loungers over so they could sit and look out of the windows. Malcolm put the
remaining beers in the fridge and closed the fridge door up but not fully shut,
he left a gap of about an inch so that they still had a small amount of light
shining into the room.
They
settled back into the loungers and picked up the beer.
"Cheers,"
they said simultaneously and laughed as they sipped the ice-cold liquid.
"That's
good," Malcolm wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"I
know something that would make it a little bit better," grinned Nat.
He
reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a battered-looking cigarette
packet.
"Ganja,"
he said, gleefully, "Always keep them in an ordinary packet, then if you
get stopped they think it's ordinary cigarettes."
"God,
man. I haven't smoked any of that for a long time."
"Well
make the most of it, I've got six left," he handed Malcolm one of the homemade
cigarettes.
Taking
a long drag of the sweet-smelling smoke they held their breaths for a few
seconds to help the drug get into their bloodstreams.
Exhaling
a huge cloud of smoke, Malcolm turned to his friend and grinned.
"Man,
you know that tastes so good," he took another drag. "Did I ever tell
you I got busted for this stuff once?"
"No,"
laughed Nat, "what happened?"
"We
was comin' home from watchin' the cricket, West Indies v England at the Oval,
1975. We was in my mate's car, four of us. We had all been drinkin' to
celebrate the thrashin' we gave the Brits, and we gets stopped by the police,
half a mile from the ground. A friend of mine had given me a joint as we were
gettin' in the car; I'd only just got the damn thing alight. Talk about bad luck,
I was too pissed to realise what was goin' on and this copper puts his head in
through the open window and once he takes a sniff, man he went apeshit. Two
hundred pound I was fined, for possession. Was a lot of money in them days, you
know? Bloody criminal."
Nat
looked at him, surprised at this revelation, then burst out laughing.
"Is
all right for you to laugh, man, you weren't the one who had to go home and
face Marlene."
Nat
laughed even harder and soon Malcolm had to join in.
They
sat silently for a few minutes, listening to the rain hammering onto the roof
of the summerhouse.
"You
know," said Nat, taking another sip of his beer, "I've never been in
trouble with the police."
"Well
I've only been in trouble twice. Once for the possession and once for handlin'
stolen goods."
"Stolen
goods?" Nat sat up in his chair and looked at his friend.
"Yeah,
and I knew nothin' about it until the police raided my garage."
"What
happened?"
"It
was that thievin' bastard, Ricky Brillo. He comes to me one day and says he's
been thrown out of his flat and asks me if I could look after some of his
things, just until he gets himself fixed up, you know. Well I don't like the
little crook, but you don't like kick a man when he's down, do you? So like a
prize chump, I says yes and he puts two large boxes and a suitcase at the back
of the workshop. Three days later the police come pourin' in through the door,
slams me up against the wall and held me there until they've searched the
place. 'Course they soon find it and it turns out that the boxes are full of
stolen cigarettes and there were eleven car radios in the suitcase along with
various other knocked off bits and pieces."
"What
did they do?"
"They
took me down the station and held me there for twelve hours. I kept tellin'
them I knew nothin' about it but they wouldn't believe me. I got a six-month
suspended sentence. Marlene, man, I tell you, she went ba-llistic. I tell you
man, there ain't no justice in this country and that's a fact. If a man can get
a suspended sentence just for trying to do someone a good turn it's a poor
thing."
"What
happened to Ricky Brillo?"
"He
got eighteen months but got let out after twelve for good behaviour, then spent
the next three months with both his arms in plaster," Malcolm took another
big drag on his reefer.
They
looked at each other in the faint light and burst out laughing again.
"I
hope this weather brightens up for me weddin'," Nat looked at the
rain-streaked windows."
"Yeah,
three weeks to go until you learn what livin' hell is like."
"Marriage
ain't that bad is it?" Nat looked at his friend, a cautious look in his
eye.
"No,"
laughed Malcolm, "only pullin' your leg. I got no regrets. Marlene
probably has a few though."
"What
do you mean?"
"Well,
you know. Life has not exactly been a bed of roses for us. When we first got
married we had to really struggle. The flat we had was a dump, the landlord was
a crook and I lost my job about a month after we got married."
"God,
that was tough shit."
"You
tellin' me, man. I was on the dole for about three months with only Marlene's
money she got from the nursery comin' in to the house. Then I had a lucky
break. I got a job workin' for a real nice guy called Leon Rosen, Jewish guy,
he owned a garage up on Wattlin'
Road, not there now, they pulled it down and built
a new Tesco or somethin' on it. Anyway, I worked for him for seven years."
Malcolm took a gulp of his beer then, reaching behind him; he opened the fridge
door and helped himself to two more.
"Nice
beer this," he said handing a bottle to Nat.
Nat
drained his first bottle and leaned forward to place it on the table.
"Hey
what's that?" he got up and walked to the window. On the windowsill lay a
man's wristwatch. He brought it over to the table and sat down and, holding it
down to the light of the fridge, studied it.
"Christ,
it looks like real gold. And those look like diamonds where the numbers usually
are."
"Let
me see."
He
handed it to his friend.
"It's
a Rolex, man. It is real gold and those are real diamonds. Do you have any idea
how much this is worth?"
"Two
or three hundred pounds at least, I should think."
"You're
jokin', man. Five or six thousand more like. Jesus, what sort of person would
leave somethin' like this just lyin' around for anybody to just pick up?"
"A
rich one," Nat took the watch back and studied it once more. "Just
think what you could do with that sort of money. I could buy a car or put a
deposit on a house, or Veronica and me could blow it all on a round-the-world
trip for our honeymoon."
"If
I had that sort of money I could pay for the extension to the workshop, that's
if I ever get the damn plannin' permission."
"You
still not got that then?"
"No,"
Malcolm let out a huge sigh. He had struggled to build up his small car repair
business and his long-standing fight with the local authority planning
department was beginning to wear him down.
"The
planners keep puttin' obstacles in the way. Apparently one of the local
residents has objected 'cos they don't want more cars blockin' up the street,
but the whole point of the extension is to get the cars off the street and into
the workshop. I'd be doin' the prat a favour. I want to build a workshop behind
the garage and turn the existin' workshop into another garage space so I don't
have to park the cars in the damn road. I tell you man, I am almost at the
point of sellin' up, I've just about had enough."
"You
can't do that, man. Not after all the work you've put into the business."
"I
know, but it's really demoralising, you know? All I wants to do is run my
business and give my family a comfortable home and all I get is hassle and
discrimination from a bunch of stuck-up old tossers on the council. I bet none
of them even lives in the town."
"Here,
this will cheer you up." Nat handed him another reefer.
"Thanks
mate," he grinned.
They
sat in silence for a while, enjoying their beers and cigarettes. The only
sounds they could hear were the lashing of the rain against the summerhouse and
the wind rushing through the trees that surrounded the garden. The continuous
noise of the elements masked from their ears the smash, as one of the small
Georgian-style panes of glass in the French windows of the house was broken by
an unseen hand. Nor did they hear, ten minutes later, the same person burst from
the French windows and run full speed the length of the garden. They did,
however, hear something as the person crashed through the shrubbery next to the
summerhouse.
"What
in Christ's name was that," Nat jumped up and slammed the fridge door shut
to cut out the light, nearly knocking over his beer in the process.
Both
men peered hard out of the window but could see nothing in the blackness. Any
other sounds were still masked by the rain, which had eased slightly.
"I
don't know," murmured Malcolm, "probably a cat."
"It
was much to big to be a cat."
"A
fox then, or a badger."
"A
fox!" scoffed Nat.
"I
tell you man, I was readin' this article the other day and it says there are
hundreds of foxes livin' around these parts. They calls them Urban Foxes 'cos
they live in the towns. They set up home in peoples gardens, probably big
gardens like this so they can hide easier, and they eat all the crap out of
people’s dustbins and things. Why you tink all the bin bags is all torn apart
when you gets up in the mornin'? It's damn foxes lookin' for somethin' to
eat."
"Well
whatever it was it scared the shit out of me," Nat laughed and finished
off his beer.
They
sat in the dark for another five minutes staring out into the garden.
At
last the rain abated to a fine drizzle so they decided it was time to leave
their cosy bolthole and brave the elements once more.
Malcolm
picked up the Rolex and flicked on his lighter.
"Christ,
it's half past one. We been sittin' here for an hour and a half, Marlene's
goin' to be like a bear with a sore arse when I gets in."
"Keep
your fingers crossed she's asleep then."
"One
thing you got to learn about women is that when you go out enjoyin' yourself
they can't sleep until you get back and they've put you in a bad mood again. You’ll
find out in three weeks," He laughed and putting the Rolex back on the
table, opened the door and stepped out into the cold fresh night.
"Don't
forget the beer," he laughed.
"You've
got to be joking," laughed Nat as he followed his friend out of the
summerhouse, "we drank it all."
They
both laughed and started to walk up the garden again.
They
had only gone a few yards when Nat kicked something hard.
"What
was that," he exclaimed and, bending down he picked up a large kitchen
knife. "Who in their right mind would leave this lying around outside?
Christ, it's a bloody Sabatier cook’s knife, don't they know that it's got a
carbon steel blade, it'll rust like hell if it's wet? Some people shouldn't be
allowed to have things if they don't know how to look after them. I'll leave it
on the doorstep."
He
wiped the blade of the knife on the leg of his jeans to dry it.
"Oh
shit, it's already started to rust. Look I've got a mark all down my
trousers."
"Your
own fault," laughed Malcolm as they continued up the garden, "that's
what you get for tryin' to do someone a favour."
They
rounded the corner of the garage and it was then that they noticed the blue
flashing lights, several of them.
They
stopped dead in their tracks as the headlights of a police car illuminated the
carport and most of the garden. Standing like tailor’s dummies they watched as
two armed police officers in bullet-proof vests braced themselves against the
open doors of the car and another, with a large, snarling German Shepherd
walked up the drive.
"Just
stand perfectly still and throw the knife over towards the steps," shouted
one of the policemen. About eight more officers appeared around the side of the
house.
Nat
did as instructed and looked at his friend.
"What's
goin' on?" asked Malcolm, his voice shaking.
"Just
shut up and lay down on the ground, face down and put your hands above your
head. Nice and slowly, we don't like sudden movements. People get hurt that
way."
Malcolm
dropped to his knees, his hands high in the air, Nat followed suit. As soon as
they were facedown on the gravel the two armed officers stood up. Cautiously
they approached the two prostrate figures. One stood at their heads, his gun
still trained on them, the other holstered his gun and taking his handcuffs from
the clip on his belt, pulled Nat's arms down, behind his back and snapped the
cuffs shut. With one hand the other policeman unclipped his handcuffs and threw
them to his colleague who secured Malcolm's hands in the same way.
"You,
stand up," the policeman with the gun pointed to Malcolm.
Nat
also started to rise but a large size eleven boot came down heavily on his
back.
"Not
you, Sunshine. Stay where you are."
Other
policemen joined their colleagues and first Malcolm and then Nat were searched
to make sure they were not longer armed.
"Please
officer, can you tell us what's goin' on?" asked Malcolm again.
"You
know very well what's going on," one of the officers with braiding around
his hat stepped forward. Several of the other policemen went around the back of
the house.
"We
didn't mean no harm," Nat tried to explain, "we was just getting out
of the rain."
"Take
them down to the station," the senior officer ordered, "you can read
them their rights and charge them down there."
"Charge
us? With what, man?" Malcolm exclaimed. "We never done nothin'."
"Get
them out of my sight. The forensic boys will be here soon, is that the murder
weapon?"
The
officer looked down at the knife lying on the gravel.
The
two armed policemen were just bundling the two friends into the back of the
police car when Nat turned to Malcolm, his eyes wide with terror.
"Murder?
Did he just say murder?" Then turning to the policemen, "we ain't
murdered no one. We was just sitting in the summerhouse that's all. You gotta
believe us!"
"Just
shut your mouth until we get to the nick, okay. I'm not interested in whatever
you have to say. Just keep your mouth shut or I'll shut it for you."
"But
we didn't . . ."
The
officer's fist moved so fast that Nat didn't have time to see it coming.
"You
witnessed that did you Mike?" asked the policeman.
"Certainly
did, the prisoner received a blow to the jaw whilst resisting arrest," he
grinned, climbed into the car and started to reverse the vehicle out of the
drive.
Nat
hung his head, tears of rage in his eyes and a trickle of blood running down
his chin where his teeth had gone into his lips. As the car pulled away from
the house, an ambulance arrived followed by a white van.
"Scene
of Crime squad got here quick," remarked Mike, "must be a personal
best."
The
two friends looked at each other in silence as the two policemen in front of
them laughed.
Two
months later . . .
The atmosphere in the Pineapple Club
had been very subdued over the last two months. Granville, the owner, had not
noticed a drop in trade but there was a distinct drop in the noise level as
people talked in hushed tones instead of the raucous laughter he was used to.
The dominoes and backgammon players played in silence as they sipped their
lunchtime pints. The radio on the bar was on softly and as the news came on
someone turned the sound up and every head turned to listen.
". . . In the case of the
murder of Sir Bernard Skipton, the court has been hearing that the body of the
seventy-three-year-old, former Conservative MP, was discovered, only minutes
after the attack, by his grand-daughter, Miss Rachel Skipton, who was staying
with her grandfather in his luxury home in Clifton Heights. Sir David Markham,
for the Prosecution, said that Sir Bernard, a well-known collector of antique
silver, was a member of the planning committee of the local borough council and
that one of the accused, Malcolm Wendall, had had several heated arguments with
the planning committee regarding an extension to his garage.
Forty-two-year-old Wendall and
twenty-eight-year-old Nathanial Revell, assistant chef at the Devonish Hotel in
Ridgely, broke into the house at approximately 01.00am on the night of 22nd
May, after consuming a cocktail of drugs and alcohol in Sir Bernard's
summerhouse.
They entered the premises after
breaking a rear window and during the robbery Sir Bernard, who was in bed
reading, heard a noise and went to investigate. He was attacked, by one of the
defendants, with one of his own kitchen knives, and died from stab-wounds to
the heart. Miss Skipton was awakened by the noise of the attack and reached the
top of the stairs in time to see a young black man run through the hall. She
was, however, unable to identify either of the defendants.
Mrs Janice Burn, a close neighbour of
Sir Bernard's, told the court that, twice in the previous two weeks, she had
seen Wendall walking past Sir Bernard's house, both times at night.
Wendall, who has a police record for
drugs and robbery offences, told the court that he and Revell were sheltering
from the rain in the summerhouse and knew nothing about the murder. However,
both men's fingerprints were found on Sir Bernard's gold Rolex wristwatch,
which was later found in the summerhouse. At the time of the arrest, Revell had
the murder weapon in his possession and blood-stains on his clothing matched
those of the murder victim.
Both defendants pleaded 'not guilty'
and have refused to name a third man, the police believe was with them and who
subsequently escaped with approximately twenty thousand pounds worth of silver,
including some of Sir Bernard's collection of Victorian snuff boxes.
The
case continues . . ."
Two
weeks later . . .
"In the Crown Court today the
jury in the Clifton Heights Murder case have found Malcolm Robert Wendall and
Nathanial Winston Revell guilty on all counts.
Before passing sentence, Mr Justice
Marshall said that this was a cruel and callous murder of a fine man. He said
that Wendall had planned the robbery to get even with Sir Bernard after his
thwarted attempts to extend his struggling car repair business. Unfortunately,
the plan went horribly wrong, resulting in Sir Bernard's death.
He said that Revell, who had thrown
away a promising career as a chef and who had planned to get married only three
weeks after the night of the murder, had never been in trouble with the police
and had obviously been led on by Wendall.
Mr Justice Marshall said that the
seriousness of their crime and their refusal to name the third person who took
part in the robbery meant that he had no choice but to impose the maximum
sentence, life imprisonment, with a recommendation that they each serve a
minimum of twenty-five years . . ."
Postscript
Cutting taken from the Ridgley Echo Wednesday 27 November 2006
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