Holiday of the Dead Read online

  Soon, everyone would be dark inside …

  THE END

  SQUAWK

  By

  Remy Porter

  I could taste dirt and blood in my mouth, sprawled out and face down. Always the clumsy boy. Back on my feet I picked up the sound of my brother Daz’s bellow ahead somewhere, ‘Where the fuck are you, Conrad?’

  I ran for the centre of the field, brushing the high grass away from my face. It was dark; the only light, a quarter moon, lost in a cloudy sky. Stumbling, I found the silhouette of Daz’s broad back. There he was, driving a wheelbarrow forward in wild, weaving steps. Heaped in it was a stolen generator and some copper pipe; metal clanking on metal. ‘I’m here,’ I hissed and took hold of one handle.

  I shot a glance back at the farmhouse. A cacophony of voices, farmer and farmer’s sons I guessed. Blinding spot lights shot over the field like lasers, illuminating the woodlands, the fields and fences. Our transit van was suddenly no longer in the shadows, but stuck out like a white blinding beacon.

  The throaty roar of a tractor engine started behind us. ‘Let’s leave it here, Daz.’ Moonlight caught my brother’s incredulous look – like I was the crazy one. We pushed forward, the balls of our trainers slipping and churning in the mud. Miscellaneous metals fell out either side of the barrow. ‘Come on will you!’ pleaded Daz.

  ‘Trying.’

  Forty feet from the van the back doors sprang open. There he was, the stick thin nicotine-stained midget that was our Dad beckoning to us. He was in his favourite Magic Johnson athletic top that was a good size too big for him. A lifetime of grime, from his wig, all the way down to his Doc Martin boots. He was green blood Irish gypsy stock, and he once chewed a man’s ear off. He was proud of that. A yellowing scar bisected his nose, a keeper from a 70’s knife fight. A family dispute settled the old way.

  ‘You two eejits ne’er learn. Not a clever bone in either one of yous.’

  The tractor ripped across the field for us, people shouting over the din, ‘We’re coming, you fucking gypos.’ Inbred pig farmers for sure.

  Me, Dad and Daz had our hands on the heavy gennie, sliding it into the back of the van. Something like this was pure gold dust to us. Transient folk had one hundred and one uses for these units. It would be a big fist of cash, no questions asked.

  Something sharp brushed over my hair, a black shape zooming past my peripheral vision. ‘What the hell was that?’ Daz said, looking up with me.

  ‘Lads, we don’t have the time for star gazing,’ Dad shouted and scuttled back into the driver’s cab.

  A new noise, a raw ‘SQUAWK’. A crow hit the metal roof of the transit with enough force to leave a dent. It stood up proud and stared down at me and Daz like some pagan god. There was enough light around to see black marble eyes. Intelligent. Watching. What the fuck?

  ‘Fucking have your wings in a satay sauce,’ Daz shouted, jumping in the van. I could tell he was spooked; the tell-tale tremor in his voice gave it away.

  I looked back to the field. The farmers in their tractor were still a hundred metres away. It seemed every light in the farmhouse was on now. Women and children were stood in the yard watching and throwing half-heard abuse our way. Trust Dad to go and find us the bloody Waltons to go and rob.

  As I went to jump in the passenger door, the crow reached its black head down from on top of the roof. It was no more than an inch from my face when it clacked its beak together, a sharp metallic sound. Another ear-piercing screech. I couldn’t get past. I threw my hand up to brush it away and its talons raked over my forearm; an angry bloodied line through my rose tattoo. ‘You bastard.’ The crow retreated two steps. It seemed to be laughing at me.

  ‘Have you got a clean shot?’ I clearly heard one of the farmers say.

  I looked at Daz and Dad, ‘Floor it, floor it now!’ The transit wheels spun in the clay mud and I was hanging half in, half out of the passenger door. The van found purchase and shot forward over a cattle grid. Daz grimaced as he held me by both armpits, his grip tearing at my skin. A shot rang out and shotgun pellets clanged into the van’s metal side panels.

  ‘They can’t do that to us,’ our Dad shouted over wild engine revs. ‘That’s god damn criminal!’

  I finally got my feet inside and closed the door. I nodded at him and watched the black woods blur by. Two posts marked the end of the farmer’s drive and we lurched back onto tarmac and open country road.

  ‘Are you shot, Conrad?’ Daz asked me, holding my arm up for inspection under the cab light.

  ‘The crow got me good,’ I told him. I looked up at the quarter moon and clouds and wondered if that fucker was up there watching. Next time it’d get a noose around its oily neck.

  The steady tappeting engine had sent me to sleep on the motorway somewhere north of Bradford. I woke to see us back on the small roads between Kendal and Penrith. Daz’s heavy head was leaning on my shoulder, squeaking-snores coming from his nose like a congested door mouse. I gave him a nudge and he awoke with a start.

  To most people who didn’t know my brother he was basically a bruiser. In a certain light you could see Dad’s pinched, ferreting face, but instead of skin and bone Daz was all meat. He had big veined, sausage-fingered hands. His build was pure bulk, muscle all the way apart from a protruding pot belly. He would have made the perfect gypsy bare fisted brawler if he hadn’t been a bit of a coward when it came to risking his own neck.

  Dad had tried his best to push him into fighting in the early days, but Daz quickly learned the art of playing dead. Put him in a ring, with even a boy half his size, and if his first punch missed he could curl up in a ball quicker than a hedgehog on a croquet lawn. In the end Dad let him be. He knew when he was onto a loser.

  I looked away from Daz and over at the neat pine tree forest lining one side of the road. The orange glow of sunrise was peeping into view. The road was straight and undulating, and almost empty. No more than a metre from the front bumper sat a small silver sedan. This was one of Dad’s favourite games. I’d seen him play it many times. ‘Look at those two fuckers. Can you see them, Conrad?’

  Dad used the overtaking lane and pulled alongside. I looked down into the slightly worried faces of a bearded middle-aged man in the driver’s seat and his presumed wife next to him. To Dad this was like a red rag to a bull. It made no sense of course, and there was no explanation. They were there to be toyed with, like a cat and a canary. The bearded man threw another scared glance up. I could see his white knuckles on the steering wheel. My face was stony – it gave nothing away to him.

  Daz was getting excited, leaning over me. ‘Pull over, pull over,’ he shouted down to the driver. Already he was reaching for his iron bar. ‘You are a sick puppy,’ I said. I couldn’t help but smile, just a little. My brother was mental and I loved him for it. He never knew any better.

  Dad kept pace with the sedan driver, constantly making the transit do little swerves their way. He wasn’t trying to hit them, that would be far too messy. Finally, the sedan did as expected and came to a complete stop. It always seemed the safest thing to do given the circumstances – who wouldn’t stop when three crazy men in a van were trying to run you off the road?

  I could see the wife fumbling for her phone, no doubt ringing the police. The bearded man was shouting to her. I couldn’t make it out. We felt quite safe; the number plates on our van were stolen. The van itself belonged to a very distant relative. It would be a quagmire for any officer of the law to plough through. Anyway, we weren’t going to hang around to get caught that was for sure.

  Daz couldn’t help himself. He leaned over me and out of the passenger window holding out his iron bar. With a quick swipe he sent the sedan’s wing mirror fifteen metres into the trees. He followed up on the windscreen, sending a spider web of cracks shooting across it. ‘Good shot there Daz, my son,’ Dad said. ‘Can’t let those beards get away with anything.’

  Our wheels span and we left the couple behind. Dad soon had us off the main drag
and onto a dizzying set of single lanes. A half hour later I spotted the sign for Appleby. This would be our holiday; the biggest gypsy horse fair in Europe.

  ‘Are you sure you’re a proper gypsy?’ Daz said to Dad, tipping me the wink. This was another of our little games – see how wound up we could get Dad.

  ‘Are you taking the fucking piss, Daz? I have pure Romany in these veins.’ He slapped his chest with a fist, getting slightly red-faced now. ‘My olds rode a horse and tented cart all through Romania and those Carpathians. Purest gypsy through and through, no word of a lie.’

  ‘I thought our great grandparents were Irish potato farmers. Perhaps they just went to the Carpathians on holidays?’ I said.

  ‘Are you reaching for a slap?’ Dad’s head was a beetroot. ‘Your great grandparents were wrong ’uns in a fine line of gypsy stock. They fell in love with growing those stupid, boring vegetables. Lived in a house; bricks and mortar. They sold out. Thank God my ma and da saw the light and took to the road again.’

  ‘But we own a house, Dad,’ I said, hiding a smile. ‘Doesn’t that make us just as bad as potato farmers?’

  ‘Yes I have one. Yes I may even like it. But I have this too. We are out on the road; we are keeping the travellers’ trades alive. Stealing, robbing and selling; we are living the life.’

  ‘Fair dues,’ I said. ‘But isn’t it time you bought your own caravan. Why do we always have to borrow Uncle Fester’s old one. It leaks and it’s full of rabbit shit. It smells worse than Daz’s wank towel.’

  ‘That caravan is a bargain. And don’t be so rude about your uncle. He was just born fat and bald …’ Dad stopped speaking. There was a policeman in the road ahead, waving us to stop. Behind him was a patrol car, its blue light flashing. No siren. ‘You do the talking, Conrad,’ Dad said, giving Daz a stern look.

  The police officer made a motion with his hand to roll the window down. The copper wasn’t exactly in the spring of youth. He had a grey face and eyes that looked wrinkled and baggy from too many late shifts. I guessed this fella wasn’t far from a retirement of model train building and gardening, or whatever the fuck these country folk did in their spare time.

  Close up I could make out individual stains on his fluorescent jacket; blood on the collar, oil on the sleeves. ‘And where might three fine folk such as yourselves be heading now?’ he asked, looking past us and into the van. Too dark back there to see and the stolen generator was covered in a blanket.

  ‘How are you doing there, officer?’ I said. ‘Is there anything we can help you with?’ Never give a straightforward answer to a copper; that was the rule.

  The policeman sighed. A faint dabble of voices could be heard from his ear piece. He pressed the button on the radio clipped to his jacket. ‘Roger; received that.’ I thought the game was up.

  ‘You know after twenty five years in this job I know you lads have something back there you don’t want me to see. You in the middle look more nervous than a nun at a Hells Angels’ Christmas party,’ he said, looking at Daz. Daz squirmed in his seat next to me. ‘But you know what, I don’t care. I’m an hour past the time I should be at home with my feet up and having a beer. Finding something on you guys just doesn’t do it for me, I’m afraid. Now listen, round the next corner is a wreck. A caravan went over on its side, quite the mess. One of your pals, I think.’ He waved us on.

  ‘Thank you sir,’ my Dad chirped in, crunching his way into first gear. Driving forward, Dad looked at us, a wide grin on his face. ‘Dodged a bullet there. Nearly lost our holiday stuck down the cop shop. We’ll shift the gennie in Appleby fast like.’

  ‘Why do you reckon he didn’t know about the car we smashed?’ Daz asked.

  ‘Maybe he did. Maybe he just doesn’t care anymore. Bored of the game,’ Dad said.

  Around the corner sure enough there was a caravan on its side. It was coned off and blocked one lane of the road. Debris ranging from smashed crockery to stripy socks covered the tarmac. Two young men stood at the side of the road with an older man and woman. They all seemed to be gesticulating and angry with each other; the blame game. Alongside them was a red Range Rover with its front end folded around a thick oak tree.

  The Maldoon family saw us and stopped their bickering, staring at us idling past. Dad hit his horn and waved at them. ‘Spot of bother, I see,’ he shouted out of the window. Jimmy Maldoon, a wiry red-head and the youngest there, picked up a handful of gravel off the road surface and launched it at the van. ‘Touchy,’ Dad said and picked up speed again.

  For as long as I can remember, the Maldoons and the Beeches hated each other. They hated my Dad, Frankie Beech most of all, ever since he’d bitten the ear off the now deceased Arthur ‘Tiny’ Maldoon during a particularly dirty bare fist fight back in 1978. It also didn’t help that Dad was prone to loudly retelling the story in public when drunk, adding little embellishments such as how he kept Tiny’s ear in a pickle jar on his mantel-piece at home. This is, of course, a complete lie as we don’t even have a fireplace. Ever since we were kids Daz and I have had nightmares of being pinned down and having our ears chewed off. I wondered if the Maldoon children ever had the same dreams? I’d never dared ask them.

  Dad steadily drove the last few miles to Appleby, through the winding country roads, woods and fields that surrounded the area. I knew we were getting close when the road snaked across a barren hill side, with nothing but nonchalant sheep watching us as we rumbled past. A signpost read, ‘One Mile to the Historic Town of Appleby-in-Westmorland.’

  Traffic began getting heavier, and we found ourselves behind a long line of expensive campervans and caravans being pulled by glossy 4x4 vehicles. ‘Look at those show-offs,’ Dad mumbled. ‘You’re just renting them. You’re not fooling anyone there.’ It was fair to say that Dad didn’t buy into the general gypsy consensus of trying to appear ten times more affluent than you actually were. That is why we rattled around in an old Ford transit van, and borrowed Uncle Fester’s caravan year after year.

  ‘Isn’t it about time you upgraded, Dad? I mean you can’t keep repairing the engine with nylon tights and bribing Dodgy Dave at Auto Hot Bodies with a bottle of whisky every time it needs an MOT certificate,’ Daz said.

  ‘You are not exactly renowned for making a good point, but you might have something there. Maybe we do a swap with something in your uncle’s fleet,’ Dad said.

  Daz and I just groaned. Uncle Fester’s fleet amounted to a frightening range of chopped and shopped vehicles, mostly stolen, and all dubiously incapable of ending any journey without evacuation of fuel, oil or water, or sometimes all three.

  ‘You should’ve kept your mouth shut, brainiac,’ I hissed to Daz.

  The first thing you notice about Appleby is it’s really quite small. There’s just not much to it when it comes to buildings. Just a criss-cross of roads lined with Victorian terraced houses, small and a little bit poky. A wide, shallow river runs through the heart of the place, giving the town a little more dynamism than it deserves.

  We snailed our way past the first of a number of tin-pot pubs that littered the centre. Small places, not big enough to swing a cat in. It was midday and already our fellow travelling folk were outside, spilling through the pub tables and filling the curb-side. A group of forty plus men played and bet on the coin game – a simple but addictive gamble where you would bet on a head or tail throw of a coin. Daley, a gypsy with the gift of the gab orchestrated the game from the middle of the crush. I saw him taking wads of cash from gypsies prepared to throw hundreds of pounds on the flip of a coin. ‘We should get down here,’ Daz said. He loved the game, seemed to have a gift for it.

  ‘Later,’ Dad said, driving on. ‘Let’s find your uncle. Get settled.’ Daz pulled a disapproving face and sulked in silence.

  Driving over the bridge we looked down and saw horses being washed in the river. Great, gleaming stallions being readied for barter and sale. Other travellers waited patiently on the banks with their mounts, waiting for a turn in t
he level, crystal waters. On the left was the community centre, out of bounds for the likes of us. It was the feeding point for the dozens of police in their black riot gear under their fluorescent jackets, and the dreaded animal squad, the RSPCA who would look for the slightest infringement to justify confiscating an animal from its owner. If you walked a bleeding animal down into the town it was as good as gone.

  More police lined the long dragging hill up to the campsites and show grounds. Dad pushed the van into first gear as we followed a restless horse and its bare-back rider. I saw three kids no more than ten years old clinging to the back of a motor home driving down the hill with the driver oblivious. Two police officers on a junction reacted and started shouting at them. Deftly, the three boys scattered and vanished back into the crowds of people walking up and down the road.

  ‘Look at the talent,’ Dad said. ‘Some pretty lasses for you boys to chase the tails of this year.’ He meant the teenagers in the bright oranges and greens, luminescent colours on their tiny skirts and crop tops, which were meant to signify they were available. Ready for courtship and marriage and all those things that came with it. Our women came colour coded, and whereas Daz looked forward mainly to the gambling and the boozing, my own desire was always to become acquainted with the prettiest ‘day-glo girl’ I could find.

  At the top of the hill, more jaded looking policemen beckoned us under the bridge leading to the huge gypsy fields. We followed the horse all the way, the stupid nag. I’d never bought into all the horse stuff, the riding and trotting endlessly up and down the Appleby hill, and the carriage racing up here on the heights. I just found it nice that we were all here with our people, proud of our heritage.

  Dad took the van right through the gate and paid the toll – fifty notes straight off the bat to old gypsy Cyrus in his hunting jacket. He owned the field, and was rich they said, but still liked to take the money personal-like; feel the fresh notes in his hand.