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  The man’s face, with its broad forehead below a receding hairline, was unpleasantly large. An angry-looking boil stood right in the middle of the forehead. His complexion was a strange shade of red-purple – as if he was about to have a heart attack.

  The man laughed, a loud bark which caused heads to turn in the bar. A chorus of cheers rose from an unseen group around the corner. They obviously recognized the laugh.

  ‘Shut up, bison bonce!’ someone shouted.

  ‘Sefton,’ the man said at last, in answer to the question when the laughter had died down. ‘Ed Sefton. Funny how we both chose East Lancashire place names, though. Chris Liverpool and Ed Manchester wouldn’t have sounded right would they?’

  ‘The place has got to have a slightly familiar ring to it,’ Chris said, ‘but it shouldn’t be too well known. Chris Wigan or Ed St Helens wouldn’t have sounded right either.’

  ‘I notice you kept your first name too. Wise touch that. Easier to change the second name, yeh? You might drop your guard but at least you don’t worry about getting the first name wrong.’

  They both laughed and took a swig of their drinks.

  ‘Well, Mr Ed Sefton,’ Chris said. ‘Thanks for saving my bacon. It was well cooked and sizzling away up there.’

  ‘You’re mixing your metaphors, mate,’ Ed said in a mock Geordie accent. ‘You cook gooses and you fuck while the bacon fries, man. Though I suppose you could goose while the bacon fries if you wanted.’ He gave Chris a sly look. ‘Aw shucks, pardner,’ he drawled, a cowboy now. ‘It was nuthin.’ He looked at Chris. ‘I wouldn’t mind having a go at that climbing lark. I know all about it, you know. I’ve seen Cliffhanger.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yeah, you knock spikes into the rock with your fists.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ve seen them doing all that free climbing stuff when we were on holiday in Majorca. And I’ve seen all those videos of fellers falling off on You Tube. And the one that shows the babe soloing in nothing but a tight white body suit. Better than a porn video that. I’ve always wanted to do something like that. Risk everything. It would be like committing a crime. Stealing money. Killing someone. Not that I’ve ever actually done anything like that. Come on, Chris. Giz a go!’

  ‘I’m not holding your rope with that cocky’s hut of yours.’

  ‘That?’ Ed patted the belly. ‘What are they called, firkins? This is my fuel tank. Too many pub lunches and take-aways, I’m afraid.’ He looked Chris up and down. ‘You look like you could do with feeding up yourself.’

  Chris smiled. He was of average height and build; five foot eight and ten stone. Even when you added in the mop of curly hair. But then he would look little and thin compared to someone as big as Ed.

  ‘So what business are you in then?’ Chris said.

  ‘Ah!’ Ed pointed a finger at Chris. ‘No names, no pack drill. Tell me what you do first.’

  ‘Well.’ Chris thought for a moment. ‘I think you’ve got a fair idea of what I do. You were watching me at Snug as a Bug weren’t you?’

  Ed whistled and put his hands together to make an imaginary cross which he held up to Chris. ‘Get right to the point, don’t you?’

  ‘Not really. There’s no problem if you’ve got nothing to hide is there? So go on - what business are you in?’

  Ed grinned.

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know? So why were you watching who went in and out and taking photos?’

  ‘Just checking on things.’

  ‘Cops?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who then?’

  ‘We work as contractors for some people.’

  ‘Well I work for myself. Problem is, it’s on the skids, what with the tax man, the VAT man, Batman and all the rest of the bloodsuckers.’ He shrugged. ‘Seriously, Chris, all I ever wanted out of life was to build up a firm. Create something. And help a few people along the way. Create some jobs and stuff. What’s wrong with that in this day and age? Everyone seems to want to destroy things. Tear them down, not build them up.’

  He looked at Chris as he spoke, as if he was trying to read his thoughts. He laughed.

  ‘Yep,’ he continued. ‘I love creating things, building up a business. But, as usual, women let you down. The wife spent every penny I had. Took the shirt off my back and still wanted more. Dirty, little, damp-knickered tart! God, I could kill her. I really could.’

  He spoke the last few words from low in his chest.

  ‘Take my advice, mate,’ Ed said, the amiable buffoon again. ‘Don’t let yourself get pussy whipped. In fact…’ His voice rose to a shout, now in the cod Geordie accent. ‘As the philosopher said, “When you go ter yer woman, do-an’t forget yer whip!” Are you hitched?’

  Chris shook his head.

  ‘Best keep it that way, mate,’ Ed said, tapping on the table with his fingers. ‘They’re all a waste of time. Hey, remember when we used to catch the bus out to Crow Wood? Making dens and collecting birds’ eggs? You climbed that big oak tree to the crow’s nest. I thought you were going to fall off and kill yourself but you managed to get down with an egg in your gob.’

  Chris did not reply.

  ‘No?’ Ed said. ‘Well what about the time we whipped that car and went camping? Weren’t those the best years of our lives?’

  Chris shrugged.

  ‘Come on,’ Ed said. ‘Remember when we got the bus out to Whitby? Nearly got ourselves killed climbing down the sea cliffs to get gulls’ eggs. Remember that farmer who let us camp in his field, but forgot to tell us about the bull? I went out in the middle of the night for a slash, and was attacked by what I thought was an enormous monster in the dark. I dropped down and played dead, but the bull trampled the tent with you in it.’

  ‘Yeah. I remember.’

  ‘We were lucky to escape,’ Ed said. ‘Do you remember Doggy? All those terraced houses packed together like sardines? Back alleys paved with blue bricks made from waste slag.’

  ‘Each night the light show,’ Chris said. ‘Lying in your bed, you could taste the hellfire in your nose and the back of your mouth.’

  ‘And the grammar school. We were the only three working class lads in our year, weren’t we? Always fighting and falling out. Yet coming together again simply because of circumstances. To fight the common foe.’

  ‘Remember that English teacher, Masterman?’

  ‘With the grinning face like Heinrich Himmler? Those round glasses. He didn’t look human. Used to hold up your homework book between thumb and forefinger as if it was a lump of shit and then drop it in the waste-paper basket. Remember when he used to read your homework out in that sarcastic voice?’

  ‘I used to spend hours on those English homeworks but there were hardly any books at home, no encyclopaedias or reference books, just a few dog-eared westerns and war novels. Back copies of the Reader’s Digest and the Daily Express. He made me lose interest in English. Up to then I had loved it.’

  ‘Remember when he did that thing about who had the best car?’

  ‘Do I? He went round the room. Everyone had Jaguars, Volvos, Citroens, Mercs. He finished up with us three, didn’t he?’

  ‘Mine was a Ford Cortina,’ Ed said. ‘What did the cunt say? “The working man’s Rolls-Royce? I bet you were conceived in the back of it, McPherson.”’

  ‘They had a good laugh at that, didn’t they?’

  ‘What was Porky’s?’

  ‘A Hillman Imp. The ice-cream van. Drive it faster than thirty miles an hour and the engine melts.’

  ‘The rest of the class were rolling on the floor at that one.’

  ‘And then he finished up with you,’ Ed said. “What sort of car does your father drive, Paterson?”’

  ‘My dad couldn’t afford a car.’

  ‘I know. It was great when we ambushed him, though, wasn’t it? Dragged him into the changing rooms, put a towel over his head and kicked seven shades of shite out of him. Exactly what the cunt deserved.’

  Twen
ty years later in the busy pub, Chris could taste the sweet, fresh smell of the grass. The groundsmen had mowed the playing fields that day. The smell was everywhere and, combined with the bright spring weather, it had given Chris the feeling of endless possibilities in the future.

  ‘Do you remember the next morning when the headmaster rose to address the assembly?’ said Ed.

  ‘Do I? You could hear a pin drop. Everyone knew. Masterman was in hospital. Broken jaw, arm and leg.’

  ‘The thing is we broke a taboo. Touched a teacher. You just don’t do that at fifteen.’

  ‘Porky’s name was the only one called out, though wasn’t it? He was the only one who had been recognized.’

  ‘Then half an hour later we were called to the headmaster’s office,’ Ed said. ‘I was shitting myself.’

  ‘They called us in one at a time, didn’t they? The usual technique for getting kids to talk. The boss was sitting behind his huge desk with another man seated at one side – a copper. The boss tore me to shreds; using the old technique of claiming that you and Porky had both confessed. We would be expelled and taken to court for assault. And a Youth Custody Centre as our likely destination. I confessed.’

  ‘It was Porky who grassed first. He was all in favour while we were planning it.’

  ‘What was he shouting, while we were laying into Masterman?’ “Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, cunt!”’

  ‘And “Shove that up your arse and absorb it!”’

  ‘Masterman must have recognized the voice.’

  ‘And you said that one day you’d kill me,’ Ed said.

  Chris stared at him.

  ‘It’s OK,’ said Ed. ‘I’ve got my own mark of Cain now.’ He pointed to the boil in the middle of his forehead. ‘What goes around, comes around. It’s karma isn’t it?’

  He held out his hand.

  ‘No hard feelings?’

  Chris shook the hand and glanced out of the window. It was getting late.

  ‘I’ll have to go,’ he said. He drained his pint.

  ‘I’d hang on a bit if I were you, Chris.’ Ed pronounced the word “Chris” as if there was something funny about it. ‘It’s a long walk back to your van. I’ll give you a lift.’

  Chris sat down. He had forgotten that Ed had the keys. He suddenly felt tired.

  ‘OK,’ Ed said. ‘If I tell my story first will you promise to tell me yours?’

  FOUR

  ‘Did you ever read the Day of the Jackal? Ed said . ‘Yeh? Brilliant book. The film is good but the book’s better. It’s got all the details the film glossed over.’

  He looked at Chris and laughed. He took a long swallow of lager. Chris took a sip of his pint. Cheshire Cat Bitter. The pub was getting busier and they both had to speak louder to be heard over the buzz of conversation. Chris could feel his head spinning.

  When Ed leaned over, the strong body odour and bad breath hit Chris full in the face. Too close, invading his personal space with his big body and huge head.

  ‘That’s how I did it,’ Ed said. ‘After the er...incident in question…’

  No change in his expression. As if what he had done all those years ago had never happened.

  ‘I bummed around for a long time,’ Ed said. ‘Sleeping rough, wondering when the cops were going to catch up with me. But after six months of that I thought: I’ve got to do something or I’ll end up in the gutter with the down-and-outs. The best thing seemed to be to get a new identity. But I didn’t go to a village like the Jackal did – you know, to get a name from a gravestone; I just used the big city where I happened to be. Manchester, actually. A very good place to be anonymous. Back then there were lots of run down areas – terraced houses with lots of cafes and shops on the main roads. I worked in a Smokey Joe’s café. You know the kind of place. Greasy spoon, don’t eat the food yourself or use the toilets.’

  He laughed, deep in his chest, before continuing:

  ‘Manchester then was just like Liverpool but with ALL the windows put through. There was a documentary on the box recently about Eton, and this toffee-nosed kid said that if he didn’t do well in his exams he might end up in a place – and he thought for a while before he spoke – like Manchester. Most of the best bits are gone now but I still like it. It was a great place to meet people. Lots of drop-outs, loners, alkies, druggies. Lots of people my age – sixteen or so and on drugs; popping off with no relatives. Just go to the funerals the council arranges for down-and-outs and you’ll see it. Makes you weep. All those lonely people. But I went one better than the Jackal. I went to one of those funerals, and chose a common name. It’s amazing how many people have the same name. You can’t imagine how many Dave Roberts there are, for instance. I’ve changed the surname since by deed poll several times – Sefton’s just the latest – but I always keep the Christian name. And the thing is, Chris, in the end I found something that I really liked doing. You can’t beat it. Building up a business. Better than working for some slave driver or wasting your life in the steel-works like my dad. Everyone needs to create something.’

  Ed stopped talking. He looked at Chris.

  ‘So what’s the matter?’ Ed said. ‘Come on, share it with the group.’

  ‘Well,’ Chris said. ‘The Day of the Jackal’s set in the sixties. There were no computers then. The cops have got wise to all that kind of changing your identity stuff now.’

  ‘That’s mebbe so. But they haven’t caught up with me yet. As you say, Chris, the DHSS and the Revenue and the Customs and Excise and all the rest of those parasite quangos have started cross-referencing their databases. I kept having to change the name and the company. I’ve done all sorts. Double glazing.’ He shrugged as Chris made a face. ‘Artificial stone cladding. Conservatories. But it’s got more and more difficult to just deal in cash. And now I’m involved in something else.’ He grinned at Chris. ‘I told you, no holds barred. I’m telling you everything. Because I know you won’t split on me. Got to go for a leak.’

  He took a swig of his beer, and sauntered off to the toilet.

  Chris remembered now that there was a back way out of the pub. Through a little beer garden and an alley which came out on the street. He decided to give it a go.

  ‘OK,’ a voice said in his ear.

  Startled, Chris turned to be confronted by Ed’s big, grinning face. Ed lifted a hand and waved the keys to Chris’s van in his face.

  ‘OK, what?’ Chris said.

  ‘OK, it’s your turn.’

  ‘My method of hiding away was similar to yours, actually,’ Chris said. ‘But instead of taking over an identity, I invented one, or rather created one. Someone who didn’t exist. Or rather hadn’t existed up to the point when I thought of it. I managed to get to Leeds...’ He didn’t mention that he’d taken a handful of notes from the bag of stolen money. Which had paid for the bus fare. ‘When I got there it was sleeping rough. Once I was given a bed for the night in a railway carriage on some sidings by a kindly old railwayman. I was woken in the night by the old gent trying to toss me off. I had to fight to get free and spent the night shivering under a bush.’

  ‘I hope you gave him a good kick in the knackers.’

  ‘I certainly should have done. I had the usual casual, cash-in-hand jobs under assumed names. In cafes like you, but also in a warehouse and a factory. Lied about my age. Said I was seventeen. Like kids used to do to join the army. Then I finished up in Liverpool. I kept a low profile…’ He paused for a moment. Ed appeared to be taking everything in. ‘Anyway, at the age of eighteen, I decided to settle down. I started to read serious books, catching up on my education. I picked up computer skills, starting with a training course. I learned so quickly that it was almost ridiculously easy for me. Then I used the skills to hack into company databases via e-mails. I created a new identity, complete with university degrees, work history, DHSS number, Birth Registry: the lot.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘But the greatest irony of all was that I got a job at a
firm of forensic auditors on the strength of a false CV and references. I filled in the gaps by saying that I’d been abroad. And after a year I moved on. So that my recent work history was now on file; easier to accept than to check. Finally, a year ago I moved to this present job with Safe n’ Secure in Liverpool. A great job, apart from the difficult boss, Simon. Sticks his nose into everything. Paranoid. Always getting the wrong end of the stick. He’s such a bully. The staff hate him.’

  ‘Go on,’ Ed said.

  ‘When Simon asked for references, I intercepted the requests. Even listened in to phone calls to and from him. I had to avoid photos and publicity so I tended to gravitate towards the mundane, back-room stuff in the firm – though I clearly had a talent for the work. Publicity is the way to get caught. The problem with a manufactured life history is that there are some inevitable anomalies and discrepancies which might come out or be noticed in the end. And there is the constant fear that someone will check up. I’ve had the obvious problems with relationships. I can’t afford to get drawn in.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘It’s interesting, creating a new person. Dealing with Somerset House and the Birth and Death Registry. Getting the DHSS and the National Insurance numbers. The key thing is that huge bureaucracies like the DHSS often have big staff shortages and a high turnover of staff, so once something is in the database it’s never checked, it’s accepted as a fact. When a journalist writes a story he usually doesn’t go to the primary source, he goes to the cuttings. So, when I hacked into a particular computer system, I built up a database. Attendance on college courses for qualifications, an income tax record, passport, credit cards, driving licence. I had a bit of a problem with hospital and dental records.’

  ‘They’re tough.’

  ‘Right. But the important thing was that, after the age of eighteen or so, most of it was real records anyway. I even created a dummy parking fine from five years ago. It’s a bit like when you are being followed by a police car; you don’t drive at exactly thirty miles an hour, do you? That would arouse suspicion. Most law-abiding citizens drive at between thirty and thirty five miles an hour. In the same way, it would be suspicious if you’d never done anything wrong.’