family?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Look, I may as well tell you: nobody expects anything to come out of this. They shifted me out here because I’m used to undercover work and because they wanted me away from London
for a while.’
The girl wondered if she should tell him she had heard of his reputation as a jinx, and decided not to; if he wanted her to know, he would tell her in his own time. At this stage, it might make
their working relationship even more awkward. ‘Like I said, a tiny incident, isolated though it may seem, can often lead to something bigger.’
‘Sorry, I don’t buy that. There’s something you still haven’t told me.’
‘All right, I was getting to it. It may have no bearing on what happened here – in fact, it probably hasn’t but we have to be sure.’
‘Go on.’
‘Five days ago, an A-10 from the NATO base at Bentwaters went down in the North Sea.’
‘I haven’t seen any news on it.’
‘You won’t – the authorities are keeping it quiet. Officially, the reason for the crash has been put down to engine malfunction. Unofficially, the pilot went berserk and aimed
it into the blue.’
‘Berserk?’
‘He tripped out. Freaked. He was on a mind-bender, a bad one.’
Kelso shook his head in disbelief.
‘They recovered the plane and found the dead pilot floating in the sea two days ago – he must have ejected before the aircraft hit the sea. When they opened him up they found enough
lysergic acid still in his system to kill ten men.’
April, 1953
He’d put his bloody boot through the wireless set if he heard Guy Mitchell belting out ‘She Wears Red Feathers’ once more. Didn’t people know there were
other, nicer songs around? That Frankie Laine did a nice tune. Made old Moaning Minnie – Johnny Ray – sound like a bad case of asthma. Nice bit of crooning he liked; old Bing and Perry
were favourites for that. He stuck a Player’s into the corner of his mouth and tore a strip off his Daily Sketch. He leaned forward with a grunt and shoved the paper into the
fire’s dying embers, then lit his cigarette with the flame.
Sammy Fish stretched his limbs, letting the newspaper slide onto the lino floor. He removed his wire-framed National Health spectacles and huffed on them, wiping away the vapour mist on the
lenses with his sleeve. Family Favourites. Must be nine o’clock. Time to do his rounds. Get away from fucking ‘Red Feathers’. He’d have to send off a record request
for himself one day – at least he’d choose something tasty. Bit of Lita Roza.
He stood and scratched his grizzled chin, then pulled the folds of his baggy trousers out of the crease of his buttocks. Don’t know why I’ve got to look after the bloody little
baskits, he grumbled to himself. And that’s what a lot of them were – real little baskits, no dads, some with no mums, even. His job was to look after the boiler and do the odd
jobs around the home, not play nanny to all those miserable bleeders. With a back like his, he shouldn’t have to work at all.
He cursed the principal, Mr Bailey. And his staff. Lazy lot of fuckers. Oh, couldn’t do enough for the kids, but ask any of them to give him a hand lifting or mending and they didn’t
want to know. Scared now, though, weren’t they? Frightened the LCC was going to close the orphanage. All run off to the Council meeting tonight, didn’t they? Serve the buggers right if
the Council did close the place. Mind you, he’d be out of a job for a start. Bugger that.
He shuffled across the kitchen, the cigarette never leaving his lips for a moment. They were saying now that fags could kill you, but it was all bollocks. They’d ban them if they really
could.
Sammy Fish had worked in the orphanage for eight years, joining it just after the war. Unemployment was the order of the day and he considered himself lucky to have a job; there had been a lot
of younger men, all freshly demobbed, looking for work. He had been all right
‘Precisely.’
‘Look, I may as well tell you: nobody expects anything to come out of this. They shifted me out here because I’m used to undercover work and because they wanted me away from London
for a while.’
The girl wondered if she should tell him she had heard of his reputation as a jinx, and decided not to; if he wanted her to know, he would tell her in his own time. At this stage, it might make
their working relationship even more awkward. ‘Like I said, a tiny incident, isolated though it may seem, can often lead to something bigger.’
‘Sorry, I don’t buy that. There’s something you still haven’t told me.’
‘All right, I was getting to it. It may have no bearing on what happened here – in fact, it probably hasn’t but we have to be sure.’
‘Go on.’
‘Five days ago, an A-10 from the NATO base at Bentwaters went down in the North Sea.’
‘I haven’t seen any news on it.’
‘You won’t – the authorities are keeping it quiet. Officially, the reason for the crash has been put down to engine malfunction. Unofficially, the pilot went berserk and aimed
it into the blue.’
‘Berserk?’
‘He tripped out. Freaked. He was on a mind-bender, a bad one.’
Kelso shook his head in disbelief.
‘They recovered the plane and found the dead pilot floating in the sea two days ago – he must have ejected before the aircraft hit the sea. When they opened him up they found enough
lysergic acid still in his system to kill ten men.’
April, 1953
He’d put his bloody boot through the wireless set if he heard Guy Mitchell belting out ‘She Wears Red Feathers’ once more. Didn’t people know there were
other, nicer songs around? That Frankie Laine did a nice tune. Made old Moaning Minnie – Johnny Ray – sound like a bad case of asthma. Nice bit of crooning he liked; old Bing and Perry
were favourites for that. He stuck a Player’s into the corner of his mouth and tore a strip off his Daily Sketch. He leaned forward with a grunt and shoved the paper into the
fire’s dying embers, then lit his cigarette with the flame.
Sammy Fish stretched his limbs, letting the newspaper slide onto the lino floor. He removed his wire-framed National Health spectacles and huffed on them, wiping away the vapour mist on the
lenses with his sleeve. Family Favourites. Must be nine o’clock. Time to do his rounds. Get away from fucking ‘Red Feathers’. He’d have to send off a record request
for himself one day – at least he’d choose something tasty. Bit of Lita Roza.
He stood and scratched his grizzled chin, then pulled the folds of his baggy trousers out of the crease of his buttocks. Don’t know why I’ve got to look after the bloody little
baskits, he grumbled to himself. And that’s what a lot of them were – real little baskits, no dads, some with no mums, even. His job was to look after the boiler and do the odd
jobs around the home, not play nanny to all those miserable bleeders. With a back like his, he shouldn’t have to work at all.
He cursed the principal, Mr Bailey. And his staff. Lazy lot of fuckers. Oh, couldn’t do enough for the kids, but ask any of them to give him a hand lifting or mending and they didn’t
want to know. Scared now, though, weren’t they? Frightened the LCC was going to close the orphanage. All run off to the Council meeting tonight, didn’t they? Serve the buggers right if
the Council did close the place. Mind you, he’d be out of a job for a start. Bugger that.
He shuffled across the kitchen, the cigarette never leaving his lips for a moment. They were saying now that fags could kill you, but it was all bollocks. They’d ban them if they really
could.
Sammy Fish had worked in the orphanage for eight years, joining it just after the war. Unemployment was the order of the day and he considered himself lucky to have a job; there had been a lot
of younger men, all freshly demobbed, looking for work. He had been all right
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