“No, I just want Medensworth.”
“Medensworth? Oh.” She looked doubtful. “I think there was one they brought out a few years ago. Let me have a look in the back.”
Yes, the street map of Medensworth was produced by the Chamber of Trade. It carries adverts promoting the delights of Bernard’s Quality Pork Butcher’s and the Curl Up and Dye hair salon. I don’t know how the tourists can bear to stay away. It doesn’t have the Forest Estate on it, though. You won’t find it on this, or any other map. This is because it’s not really called the Forest Estate. Not officially. Not by the council or the Royal Mail, or anybody like that. But with streets like Birch Avenue, Oak Crescent and Chestnut Close, what else would it be?
The map is also a bit out of date now. It still shows the pit for a start, though it closed in 1992. Remember the fuss at the time? No? That old Tory Heseltine wielded the axe on the pits, just like Dr Beeching did on the railways thirty years earlier.
But the writing had been on the wall since the 1984-85 strike that left the miners’ union exhausted, defeated, and split in two. They hadn’t the strength left to fight the closures when they came. And everyone knew that privatisation was planned. Now British Coal itself is long gone, and the pits left over belong to a private company. This doesn’t stop them closing, of course — if they’re not making enough profit.
There are plans to turn our derelict pit site into an alternative technology park, all solar panels and water power and battery-driven cars. Anything but coal, in fact. That’s old technology, ancient history.
One thing that made me laugh on this map was the claim that its publication has been supported by Neighbourhood Liaison. This is some sort of token organisation run part-time by a copper and an office boy from the county council, which is supposed to sort out problems in the most deprived areas of the county.
In some places, like Newstead, they have the Corner House, a mini community centre where a corner shop used to be. When the pit closed, so did the shop. But at least they’ve got some advice on the doorstep. And what have we got here in Medensworth? Neighbourhood Liaison. What neighbourhood’s that, then? You might well ask. It’s not in the neighbourhood of the Forest Estate, that’s for sure. The office is conveniently located somewhere in the depths of Sherwood Lodge Police headquarters. This nestles in its wonderful leafy isolation in Burntstump Country Park, where coppers can escape from all the stress of big city crime fighting. As far as Medensworth folk are concerned, it might as well be on a satellite orbiting Jupiter.
When I’d got my map from Betty, I marked a spot on it with a red felt tip pen and dreamed a bit. Either this was going to work, or I was totally up shit creek. Lisa’s safety was in my hands, not to mention my own future if they should drive me into doing something really stupid.
But for this part I needed Lisa’s co-operation. Everyone knows how well my charm works with women, but I was going to have put myself out a bit to soften her up for this one. I might even have to pay a bit of attention to all those things that women think are important, like having a shave every day and not leaving the toilet seat up. That’s the desperate situation I’d been driven to.
There are moments when we’re all amenable to a bit of gentle persuasion. When you’re lying naked and fully satisfied in bed is usually one of them. So that afternoon I waited until I reckoned Lisa was looking sufficiently flushed and softened up before I explained the idea to her. And, blow me, she didn’t like it.
“You only need to make one phone call, love.”
“Only one phone call? But I’d have to tell a lie, Stones.”
“It’s in a good cause, honest.”
“But you say you can’t tell me what that cause is.”
“It’s important to my business.”
“And you won’t tell me what that is either.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
Lisa propped herself up on one elbow and looked at me hard. Her breasts swung round and aimed themselves towards me like a pair of ouija board pointers picking out the person the spirits want to communicate with. A message was about to come through, in duplicate.
“Well?” I asked.
She was taking an uncomfortably long time to answer such a simple question. I could practically see the whole of our relationship passing through her mind, incident by incident, promise by broken promise. My face was starting to ache with the effort of trying to look sincere, but still she said nothing. Was she thinking about those little incidents with Cavendish? I might have embarrassed her a bit. But, come on, it was all justified. Was she thinking about the little fib I’d told her about the gas leak in my house? I’d explained about that, though, hadn’t I? Or was she thinking about all the evasions she’d got when she asked me questions about what, exactly, I did for a living? That was for her benefit, though. The less she knew, the better. So what was so difficult about the question? I’m about the most trustworthy person anyone could hope to meet in Medensworth. Well, unless you happen to be a rich git. Or a Frog or a Kraut. Or a member of Nottinghamshire Constabulary. Or one of Eddie Craig’s boys. Or Welsh Border. Or... well, for God’s sake, you can’t be trustworthy all the time.
“I suppose so,” said Lisa.
“Of course you do.” That was better. She’s a good girl, is Lisa.
She sighed. “I’m a fool though, really.”
“By the way, you have, er... you have nearly finished that little job that you’ve been doing, haven’t you?”
“For Michael Cavendish? Yes, nearly finished.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“Well, it’s...”
“Because, if you like, we can talk about it later. After I’ve explained exactly what I want you to do.”
“Stones...?”
“Yes, love?”
“Did I ever tell you you’re a pillock?”
“I knew you’d find a use for it,” said Metal. “It’s a great motor, ain’t it?”
Ironically, since Metal Jacket had actually bought the Morris Traveller, it was the only legal set of wheels we had access to at the moment, apart from the Impreza — and I had a reluctance to risk the bodywork on that.
“Have you heard that noise it makes when you throttle down?” said Metal. “It’s just like someone’s farted. No kidding. You’ve got to hear it.”
“I can’t wait.”
“Some daft buggers pay good money just so they can hear that, you know. This thing’ll be worth a fortune when I’ve done it up. A real collector’s item.”
“Metal, are you thinking about going straight or something?”
“Eh?”
“All this car restoration and collector’s stuff. It sounds almost legit to me.”
“Nah. It’s just... cars, you know, Stones? A get a right buzz out of ’em. This one — well, somehow I wanted it, but I didn’t want to nick it. Do you know what I mean?” he appealed.
“Yeah, it’s called ownership, Metal. The desire for property. It’s an old story.”
He looked a bit crestfallen. And I hadn’t told him yet that he wasn’t going to be driving the Morris himself.
“Anyway, have you heard the saying ‘Property is theft’?”
“Sounds all right to me,” he said.
“All right? It’s what the world is based on, mate.”
Slow Kid had found us a couple of ancient sports jackets and flat caps.
“They were my granddad’s,” he said. “Mum never chucks things out.”
“Brilliant. They’re just the job. Metal, I want you to drive the van.”
“What, the Telecom van? But it’s hot. Somebody might have seen it last night.”