For the fifth of November, a Guy Fawkes themed short story by Peter Bartram. This is a Crampton of the Chronicle short story, for all you fans of Headline Murder...

 

When you’re a crime reporter, you have to find stories for your paper.

But, just sometimes, the story finds you.

It happened while I was buying a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin.

I was in old Fred Cartland’s off-licence on the corner of Dyke Road and Chatham Place. It was grey day, the first Thursday in November.

Fred didn’t get a lot of customers. He was a wizened old bloke, who walked with a stoop. All of his hair had fallen out except for one lanky strand which he wrapped round his bald pate in ever decreasing circles. It made his head look like a walnut whip. His false teeth squeaked when he talked. And he tended to dribble. So there were usually damp patches on his shirt.

Not surprisingly, a lot of people found this combination of visual and aural handicaps a bit of challenge to cope with the first time they went into the shop. Not many came back a second time.

I wouldn’t have bothered making the uphill hike from the Chronicle offices myself if it wasn’t for the fact that Fred traded in something other than gin.

He’d had an ill-spent youth that had extended well into middle-age. Which meant he knew most of the wrong people in Brighton. He picked up a lot of the gossip about who was supposed to be planning the next crime of the century.

Actually, the people Fred knew never were. But sometimes he’d hear a nugget of useful intelligence. He’d slipped me the odd useful snippet of information with my gin from time to time.

Anyway, Fred had just handed me the Bombay Sapphire and was telling me about a new crew who were planning a betting scam up at the racecourse when the shop bell tinkled. I turned round.

The figure framed in the doorway looked like an all-in wrestler. He was six feet tall with broad shoulders and the kind of chunky torso that would run to fat before he was fifty. He was wearing a grey checked sports jacket over stained jeans.

And a balaclava knitted out of brown wool.

And he was carrying a baseball bat.

“He’s not here for a packet of pork scratchings,” I whispered to Fred. A bead of sweat had broken out on his top lip.

Balaclava Man glanced up and down the street, then swaggered into the shop. He slammed the door. Strode menacingly towards Fred. Thumped the baseball bat on the counter with a force which sent a cloud of dust into the air.

He pointed at Fred: “Open the till and give me the takings. The lot.” He had a basso profundo voice that was muffled by the balaclava so that he sounded like a bear with laryngitis.

I glanced at Fred. Sweat was now trickling down his temples. His lower lip was quivering. He tried to speak but somehow his false teeth had become unhinged and he let out a high-pitched squeak like a mouse trapped in a hole.

Fred never had any cash to speak of in the till. When he’d accumulated a couple of quid, he’d be up the street to the bookies to lose it on some three-legged nag at Kempton Park.

So I said: “Better do as he says.”

Balaclava Man swivelled round. “Shut it. When I want your help, I’ll ask for it.”

The till went kerrching and Fred rummaged in the cash drawer. His hands shook as he handed over the cash. One pound seven and nine pence.

“Where’s the rest?” Balaclava Man didn’t look like the sort who’d be easily satisfied.

Fred quivered like a feather. His teeth squeaked again. He jabbered something incomprehensible.

“I think he’s telling you that’s all the money on the premises,” I said.

Balaclava Man pointed the baseball bat at me. “I told you to keep it shut,”

He swung back to Fred. “Now give me the rest or your mouthy pal gets a beating  – then I’ll finish you, grandpa.”

Balaclava Man waved his baseball bat and jabbed it twice into my chest. I staggered back.

“That’s just a taster of what’s coming,” he said.

(Oh, I know, it's a terrible place to stop, but if you want to find out what happens next, you can read the rest of the story on Peter's website, for free. www.colincrampton.com )

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