Stolen. Paul Finch
left down Tottington Road, Milly toddling at his side. Everything along here was as it should be: cars in driveways, front lawns scattered with children’s toys and occasional bits of garden furniture; typical end-of-summer scenery.
He looked back over his shoulder. The road was deserted.
Daft, he chided himself. If that had been some idiot waiting to jump him, he’d have done it back at the crossroads. Why would he be following?
Harry turned right onto Langtree Brow, and then right again into a ginnel. Here he halted, tall hedges on either side, as Milly squatted to do her business. After she was finished, he got a poop bag from his pocket, scooped it all up and tied the bag in a knot. More by instinct than design, he again glanced behind him. He was halfway along the ginnel, which ran for about seventy yards before crossing a narrow footbridge over the Manchester-to-Southport railway. The gap where it opened into Langtree Brow was empty, though why he’d thought it might not be eluded him.
He strode on, turning up his overcoat collar against the chill, depositing the poop bag in the next bin. Milly seemed happy, sniffing under the hedges, nothing troubling her.
They crossed the footbridge together, the railway cutting a strip of blackness beneath them. They were now at the furthest point from home, and Harry was ready to head back, his legs getting tired. Walking south along Rampton Road, he crossed the railway line again and then followed alongside it. The only sound was Milly’s gentle panting and the clicking of Harry’s leather soles on the damp pavement. Occasional gusts of wind whispered through the leafage in the gardens or moaned among the electric cables down in the cutting.
It was easy to feel alone at moments like this. And vulnerable.
He passed another couple of street-entrances on his right. The first led into Hopwood Lane, the second into Delamere Avenue. Again, no one was around, though, as it happened, halfway down Delamere a black van was parked up on the right.
Harry forced a chuckle, reminding himself that there was nothing unusual about that. He hadn’t seen the van before and he’d walked past here a dozen times this last month alone, but that meant nothing.
He turned left onto Rose Street, now well on his way home, though this was always the least comforting part of the journey, because though there were houses on the left, Hollister Park stood to the right. It was nothing really – a miniature green space provided by the estate’s original builders so the local kids would have somewhere to hang out. It had a playground, and lots of grass for football. Even so, it probably occupied no more than a handful of acres – though at this time of night it was an unlit void. There’d been some problems here during the summer, with teenagers gathering late on, drinking and shouting. But the police had been called, and that had been it.
Of course, that didn’t mean there wasn’t somebody there now, maybe just beyond the outer fringe of trees, keeping a silent, steady pace with Harry. Not that Harry knew what any would-be mugger would have to gain. It wasn’t like he carried money when he was walking the dog, or wore an expensive watch, or even had a mobile phone (despite his daughter Janet’s endless badgering that he acquire one). Again, he was vexed with himself for even thinking this way. This was his home neighbourhood, the place he’d lived all his life. He’d seen whole families come and go, he’d seen houses come and go, hell … he’d seen the pit come and go.
And he was frightened? Seriously?
Even so, he crossed to the other side of the road, so that the wet, leafy blackness of the park wasn’t directly at his shoulder. That wasn’t a sign that he was scared, he told himself; it was simple common sense. But he was still relieved to come to the end of the road and turn down Bradley Way. When a quick backward glance showed a clump of thickets on the edge of the park shuddering as though someone concealed among them was moving, Harry forced another chuckle.
‘Bloody breeze,’ he mumbled.
There was a breeze. He wasn’t making that up.
On Bradley Way, there was a minor incident when Harry glanced back and saw the headlights of a slow-moving vehicle only twenty yards to his rear.
He stumbled to a startled halt, at which point the vehicle, a large estate car, swung into the kerb to park. Harry continued to watch it even as he lurched on, until he blundered into a lamp-post. To the accompaniment of a faint, broken, rasping sound – what might have been muffled snickering laughter, though in truth was probably another breeze rattling the wet bushes – he hurried on, turning right into Malvern Avenue and then right again into Deerwood Close, where he stopped to get his breath and dab his forehead with a handkerchief.
It was okay, he told himself. He’d be home in a couple of minutes. He was almost there.
He glanced down at Milly, who’d craned her neck up to regard him curiously.
Even the bloody dog was wondering what was up with him.
Grim-faced, he crossed the road and turned onto Lodge Lane, and a few minutes later entered Atkinson Row at its bottom end. Harry could only feel relief as he wheezed his way along the pavement to his yellow front door. He inserted the key, looked to either side one last time – no one was anywhere in sight – and turned it. The door opened, and he stepped inside, Milly jumping over the step next to him. He wasn’t telling anyone down the bookies about this, that was for sure: how he’d become unaccountably afraid while walking the dog.
No … ‘afraid’ was the wrong word. He’d been nervous, that was all. A tad nervous. And why wouldn’t he be? Like it or not, he wasn’t a young bucko any more. And there were bad things going on. It might be a thought to take their evening stroll a little earlier from now on.
Harry closed the door, threw the bolt and applied the safety-chain. He unfastened the dog’s lead, and she trotted down the hall, turning into the living room, where the lights were still on and the television playing to itself.
Harry pulled his gloves off and took off his hat and coat, draping them over the newel post at the bottom of the banister. Milly meanwhile re-emerged from the living room and went through to the kitchen, which lay in darkness.
‘What’s up, lass … need a drink?’ Harry followed her in, switching the light on.
As always, the kitchen was impeccably clean, everything put away, the linoleum floor swept, the worktops sparkling. The mug Harry had left beside the kettle before he’d gone out still waited for him. It contained a teabag, one and a half spoonfuls of sugar and the spoon itself, and only required him to flip the kettle on, which he now did.
Then he noticed that Milly hadn’t touched her water-bowl. Instead, she stood with rigid spine, staring at the back door.
‘Something bothering you, lass?’ he asked.
He leaned over the sink and looked out through the kitchen window. He had a light in the back garden, but it was motion-sensitive, and at present was off. That was a positive thing, because it meant there was no one trespassing. But it also meant that he couldn’t see anything. Milly whimpered and pawed at the door.
‘Nothing out there, lass … what is it, a cat?’
It couldn’t have been that. If it had been, the light would have come on.
Harry leaned closer to the window, straining his eyes.
Gradually, the streetlighting seeping over the tops of the houses revealed the garden’s basic dimensions. It wasn’t large, about fifteen yards by ten, and mostly turfed, with the exception of a crazy-paved path running down the middle. To the right, where the coal-bunker had once stood, there was a brick-built dais – all Harry’s own work – with stone vases on top, containing plants. He could see that much. He could also see the potting shed standing to the left of his back gate, which, painted canary-yellow like the front door, was also clearly visible.
But now that he was looking hard, there was something else.
The top of a tall vehicle stood on the other side of his gate.
Harry felt a stab of confusion – that thing hadn’t