EDDIE: ESCAPE FUNDS

This is a draft of part of a longer story and a planned collection of stories. Tell me what you think. Thanks

As Frank pulls me a pint I want to know some numbers.

“There’s about 3 dozen I reckon.”

That isn’t bad. I have a hundred quid bet with McGill already and some of these blokes will give me odds. A quid or a fiver each. Better than nothing. Jacko’s in fine fettle and I’ve given him drink this morning but I haven’t fed him. Makes him that bit keener. He’s one of the best I’ve ever had. Farm life’s just about bearable with a dog. And he’s a good one. He sits there looking at me as I swig half my pint and his little stub wags as I clink change of half a crown into my pocket. I’ve got a hundred in ten bob and pound notes in my wallet and I’m feeling good.

Cyril Lightowler comes over and asks if I’m ready.

“Course I am,” I tell him. “And look at him.”

“Some beauties out there,” Cyril tells me and he lights that fucking pipe of his. Chugs out smoke like 7.30 to Leeds.

Frank chips in with a comment about Billy Williams. “He’s been out and about doing his business all week.”

Now Billy’s an engineer over at Butterfield’s. As well as keeping machines turning he has the job of looking after vermin. And in a mill there’s always loads behind the bales where it’s cosy, in the roof where it’s warm and there’s always bits and pieces for them to gnaw. There’s mice an’ all but we’re not interested in them this afternoon.

“He heard about an infestation round the brewery,” Frank tells us.

“Pissed were they?”

“Nay,” says Frank. “But Billy reckons he got a couple o’ pints reward.”

He’s well-known is Billy. And inventive. He has ferrets for most of his work and he’s devised snares that catch but don’t kill. So for us, his fuzzy friends chase rats into his traps and he transfers them to these bigger containers Frank and Cyril use every couple of months. These have a mesh top to them so everyone can inspect and count what’s inside. And they have a trapdoor for quick release. Well you don’t want the buggers holding back. Time is of the essence.

Course, the ferrets sometimes get a reward as well.

Anyhow, I’ve just got a Woodbine going and here’s Earl Fisher with Clem, his fox terrier. Good little dogs, foxies and Clem’s a particularly good one. I’ve watched him in action. Earl’s not a farmer but he knows his dogs.

“How do, Earl,” I say. “Let me get you one in.”

“Very kind,” he says. “Won’t buy you no favours though.”

I tell him I’m not after favours. “All above board, as you well know.”

Now, Frank, being the pub landlord, refrains from all adjudication. Cyril keeps time with his fancy stopwatch. He’s the referee and his word is final. He’s known to all and sundry. He’s a bit of a coach, y’see. Local rugby team and athletics in summer. All the practicalities of our sport is up to Billy. Frank collects money, that’s all. Plus he has useful contacts for, shall we say, other enterprises.

The dogs sniff each other, everybody downs their ale and we go outside. There’s easy thirty blokes milling about. I recognise some but not all. Our game might not last long but it’s popular around here. Some enjoy the spectacle, some compare their dogs with ours and might feel a bit of envy. Everyone likes a flutter. And we’re far enough out not to cause any kind of stir. For some it’ll be enough to treat the wife and kids to fish and chips, for others it could mean a day off work. For me, to be honest, I’m looking to weigh in a bit bigger. Add to my escape funds. Hence the big bet with McGill. I’ve a couple more irons in the fire and it will be a nice boost.

There’s not a breath of wind and it’s a cloudy kind of day. But a fug of cig and pipe smoke hangs around the yard. The door into the dark of the outhouse is open and there’s Billy lugging a box inside. There’s a buzz of talk. And Willie Holmes waves his half full glass at us.

“‘Ere they come,” he shouts. “The gladiators.”

“I see your pissed again,” I tell him.

Holmes has rolled his shirt sleeves though he still wears a waistcoat. Well, it is Sunday. His jacket’ll be inside somewhere.

The other men peer at the dogs and comment on their shape and bearing.

“”Ow’s Jacko?” one man calls.

“Champion,” I call back. “Eatin’ well and keen.”

“Wha’ abou’ yon, Earl? Clem’s OK is he?”

Earl sniffs. “Look at ‘im,” he says. “He’s in fine fettle.”

Frank arrives and shakes an old shortbread tin. “Don’t forget yer fees, lads. Bob apiece. Winner takes half.”

As coins rattle into the tin, there’s more talk about the two dogs. They both look nervously alert. Clem scratches at his haunches but Jacko stands solid by my right boot.

“Let t’ dog see t’ rabbit then,” Willie Holmes.

“Rabbit?” Frank sneers. “No rabbits this aft.”

“Plenty down t’glen,” says Billy. “I’ve a couple ‘angin’ ready for t’ pot.”

There follows some talk of snares, traps and guns. “Trouble wi’ shot is it buggers yer teeth if yer not careful.”

There’s some laughter at this, then Billy mentions the ease of snaring rabbits. “It’s like they’re givin’ ’em selves up. Mind you,” he chuckles, “my ferrets chased ’em out of their hole.”

“Good meat on a rabbit,” says Willie Holmes.

“More’n on you any road,” shouts some wag.

All the men guffaw and pointed at Willie who, to his credit, laughs along.

“Hey, lads, look up there.”

All faces turn skywards where a buzzard circles. It swoops at the tree line and, as a second hawk follows, we all hear the mew of their call. One of the men says it sounds like his cat.

“Cats,” says Frank and he gobs on the ground. “Creepy fucking things.”

The buzzard draws the men’s attention for a while longer. They shade their eyes as the bird adorns the air.

“He’s not paid to watch has he?”

“Probably she,” says Billy. “And that’ll be her young ‘un.”

“Oh shut the fuck up,” someone I don’t know says. “You sound like a school teacher.”

The hawk wheels and lingers as though waiting for events to begin. Its call seems to beckon prey from burrow or lair.

“Ne’er mind the bird,” Frank says.

“Yeah,” says Billy. “Come and look at these purlers inside.”

Everyone tramps inside. Billy’s lit a few carbide lamps that he’s ‘borrowed’ from somewhere probably. There’s two boxes the size of old school desks. As usual a smell of earthy damp fills the gloom. Frank strides past bales of hay arranged round a pit and lights some more lanterns. The light they cast reveals a space about ten feet square, flat at the bottom, the sides built up with a plywood pallisade and inward facing ledge so they can’t jump out. Again, no doubt, courtesy of Butterworth’s maintenance set up. The men arrange themselves on the bales and watch the preparations. There are two boxes at the far side of the pit.

“There’s allus a smell of onions when ‘e puts yon lamps on.”

“Not onion,” Billy observes. “It’s like wild garlic in t’ woods.”

Through the wire lids, you can see rats squirm and slide over each other. Their fur shines even in this dim light and their tails are pinkish. Nasty fucking things. From time to time one raises itself and sniffs the air, then gnaws the wire that imprisons it.. There’s an occasional squeak and I can hear Clem growl. Jacko sniffs but stays quiet. His eyes glare at the box and I do feel the leash tense.

“Fuckin’ things.”

“Greasy bastards.”

“They only have two teeth.”

“Four — two up and two down.”

“Never looked.”

Frank interrupts. “Big healthy fuckers these though. Waddya say.”

“Big as our cat.”

Frank glares around. “What did I say about fucking cats. Shut the fuck up about bastard cats.”

There are murmurs of agreement. Somebody picks out one particular creature and says it could do damage to a ratter’s face.

“Aye,” Frank says. “An’ think on wotsisname. Y’know. Clarkson. A rat bit ‘im and he wa’ nivver t’ same.”

“Wrong in t’ ‘ead to begin wi’ wa’ Clarkson.” Willie Holmes sniffs.

Frank stands up to his full height. “‘Appen,” he says. “Bu’ he wa’ fuckin’ bonkers after that rat bite.”

All the men go quiet as they think of Clarkson. A couple clench their teeth at the thought of what happened to the poor lad. Me? I think Clarkson was fucking stupid to do what he did. Imagine betting you can catch a rat in your teeth. Serves him right. I have little patience.

“Shall we get on, or what?”

Billy and Frank lift one of the boxes and stand it at one end of the arena. Me and Earl follow, dogs now straining. The atmosphere’s got to them too. Frank shoves the big door shut, turns and wags a finger. “Think on lads. No smokin’ in ‘ere. Burn down in a minute.”

He bustles around

“Remember fellas, judge’s decision is final. Each dog’ll have a go at a dozen rats. Fastest wins. Oh — and no gambling.”

The men look at each other and titter.

Frank grins round the space. “Don’t want the long arm of the law spoiling our fun,” he says. “Do we?”

And that’s right, but we all know the truth. Well, there’s always a bit of money does change hands. Main thing is, I know the dog’ll do the business. He’s the champ. Best there is.

There’s a rap on the door. Everyone falls silent. It’s quiet enough to hear the movement and scratching of the rats against sides of the chests. There’s also the hiss of the carbide torches. The two dogs’ ears prick up.

The knock repeats. It’s kind of secretive, the sound, not a loud bang that might come from some figure of authority. Still the room holds its breath. Then a shade moves across a slat of light. Frank raises a finger to his lips and creeps to the door. He puts the side of his head to the wood, raises a hand and waggles his fingers. Several seconds of silence passed. All the men and dogs are quiet but the rats slither and squeak. A third strike, louder this time, followed and a man’s voice. “Come on. I know you’re in there.”

“Who is it?” asks Frank.

“Fuck off, Frankie. You know it’s me.”

Frank stands straight. “Who’s me?”

“Duke o’ fuckin’ York,” the man says. “Who do think it is?”

Frank cracks open the door. “We were just about to start,” he says as Dusty Laine steps inside.

“Oh good,” breathes Laine. “I ant missed owt.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Dusty. Why can you not get here on time?”

Laine pulls a face. “Hello, Eddie,” he says to me. “How you doing?”

He crouches and runs his hand all down Jacko’s back.

Everyone calms down and Cyril spins a coin. Earl calls heads. It is heads. Earl points to me.

“Jacko’s first in,” shouts Frank.

Cyril asks which box I want and I choose left. The spectators all mutter and mumble and I hear someone holler, “Come on Jacko.” I uncouple the lead, lift Jacko into the arena. At the other end, Billy and Cyril have lowered the wooden contraption to the floor. They nod at me. I hold Jacko’s collar and I can feel him pull and growl. He’s got the scent all right.

“He’s a smashin’ dog is that,” said Willie Holmes.

There is agreement that sounds like buzzing bees.

Cyril holds his silver stop watch above his head. There is some shushing and soon silence. The rats in the cages scrit and scrat. Billy crouches, his hand on the handle of the trapdoor.

“On the count of three, the rats will be released, Eddie will also let Jacko loose and I will start the stopwatch. I will stop the watch when all the rats have been killed.” He pauses and I feel as though every person in the space is turned to stone. The space is still. Completely motionless. Jacko feels like an elastic band before you ping it away. Out of the corner of my eye I see someone twitch cap on his head.

Cyril looks at Billy who looks at Cyril whose lips are tubed as though ready to whistle. He looks at me and Jacko, raises his hand and calls out.

“ONE.”

Above the stillness I hear a murmur. “Gerron lad.”

Then the only sound is the sizzle of the lamps. “TWO,” calls Cyril. All the pressure of the silence seems poised on Cyril’s thumb poised above the start button. The tinny smell of carbide intensifies. I can feel the tension in Jacko’s quivering poise. The dog focusses on the writhing quarry that he senses but cannot see.

“GO!”

Dog, rats and men release growls, squeals and twitching animation. A rip and panic of commotion spatters in the shallow light. White, grey and some red flashes. Tails lash. Jacko dashes dishcloth bodies to left and right. Soon Cyril shouts “Stop” above the cacophony of men.

Cyril holds the watch aloft again. He brings it closer to his eyes. “Forty seven point six seconds,” he calls.

I hold the dog’s collar, pat its shoulder and stroke the velvet ears. The dog whimpers. “Good lad,” I say, even though I’ve known him do better. Then I see the blood and the gash under the dog’s eye. Frank throws sawdust on the floor. Billy picks up floppy carcasses and thuds them in a bucket. He’s wearing rubber gauntlets. The two of them shovel stained powder into the pail. There’ll be food for buzzards later. Or a cremation.