Decay Inevitable

Vernon pushed a smile onto a face that didn’t welcome it. “I’m not answering anything. But while we’re at it, let’s sort us out a new rule, shall we? That rule is, you stop asking me questions. I’m trying to concentrate and you are making my shit hang sideways with this constant, cocking chat.”

He steered the four-by-four back onto Fiddlers Ferry Road. Across the St Helens Canal, Spike Island, a thick spit of mudland reaching into the Mersey, was tigered with mist, as was the Runcorn bridge, like a brontosaurus’s skeleton spanning the river. Thousands of roosting starlings made cloud formations above the bridge. Once they were across it, Vernon toed the accelerator and they moved on to the Spur Road at ninety.

“What did you tell your lassie, in the end?” Vernon asked, mischief returning to his features. “What was the wordsmith’s excuse tonight?”

“I told her that you rang me up and asked me to go out on a job with you.”

“And she said?”

“And she said, ‘Okay, fine, we’ll go out some other time.’”

Vernon seemed cheated. “Women today. No spunk in them at all.”

“Unless they’re in your films,” Sean said. That set Vernon off on a long, rich passage of laughter that turned into a hacking cough.

“Did you find us a lady? A lady who wants to be in pictures?”

“Maybe.”

Vernon thrashed the Shogun around a series of tight bends as they drove past the concrete mesas and buttes of Runcorn’s Shopping City. Up ahead loomed the urban goldfish bowl that was the Uplands. The porthole windows and token attempts at decoration were swamped by the vast edifice of cement out of which its features glared.

“You’re enjoying it though, the game, this rush?” Vernon asked. “All kinds of life is here. All kinds. Adds to your experience. Makes you more of a man. No?”

“Whatever you say, Vernon. I just wish you’d let me know what you’re doing. I thought you trusted me.”

“Time is on our side, Sean. Impatience is no help to anybody. You’re still on probation.”

Vernon parked the Shogun under a guttering streetlamp that sent shadows into his eyes as he pulled the bat from behind his seat and stuffed it into the deep inside pocket of his leather trenchcoat.

“Surely, Vernon, you don’t need that. She’s sixty-three. She’s blind for God’s sake.”

Vernon made a moue of his lips. “Her circumstances might’ve changed. She might have a big, beefy lodger. She might have bought herself a guard dog.”

They went up the graffiti-strewn stairwell, Vernon verbally ticking off each floor as he met it. On the fourth level, he ducked to his right and marched along a narrow passageway. Down below them, on a patch of grass, three boys were trying to set fire to a dead dog. A white Cosworth was up on blocks and a pair of jean-clad legs were sticking out from beneath it. A radio played Bryan Adams. A radio played Hole. A radio played Roger Whittaker.

At the door of Mrs Moulder’s flat, Vernon smoothed down his hair, adjusted his collars, and rubbed the toe of his left boot against his right calf. Then he yanked the bat out of his pocket and did for the door with one mighty swing.

“You want to be in with us on the softstrip,” Sean said. “An action like that.” An old joke now.

Filth on what remained of the carpet tried to glue Sean’s boots to the floor as they moved deeper into the flat. The kitchen was a laboratory of horrors, bad smells burping from the drains. Slicks of grease covered every surface. An ecstasy of silverfish writhed under the sink units. In the living room, dark mould spread fingers up the walls. The air was damp and reeked of piss. On the television, a gardener showed how to keep frost off a vegetable patch.

Sean listened to Vernon in the hallway, smashing a collection of tiny Wade whimsies from the MDF cabinets and wonky shelves.

“Where are you, Mrs Moulder? No point hiding, lovey. It’s not me who’s blind.”

Sean heard the click of the bathroom lock and was at the door as the handle turned and Mrs Moulder fell through the gap, her skirt around her ankles. She had hold of an emergency cord in her hands and was yanking on it.

“Jesus Christ, Vernon,” Sean said, bending to help Mrs Moulder to her feet. Her thighs were dark with waste. Her breathing was hard and shallow, her face white. “I mean, Jesus Christ, Vernon. She’s just an old woman.”

“It’s okay, Sean, I’ve got things under control now. Why don’t you go and make yourself comfy in the living room? Watch a bit of telly, and I’ll give you a call when I’m finished here, okay?”

Sean backed off, checking first that Mrs Moulder was okay and wasn’t likely to simply pitch over or succumb to a coronary. In the living room he tried to busy himself with the newspaper but the damp on the armchair was seeping into his trousers and Vernon’s voice seethed through the flat, making the ornaments shake.