for a while had improved the flavour no end.
What he didnât realize â but very soon would â was that in so many ways, he was like a prisoner already kneeling before the execution block, yet still convinced that a last-minute reprieve would come through. And when the axe fell â as it was about to â it would come as a complete surprise.
Ten
T he building site was on the corner where the road into town and the road to Preston intersected. It had been a large, old-fashioned cinema, which in its heyday had shown the biggest and best of the Hollywood epics, but in its later years had survived mainly by screening ânaturistâ films for the delectation of sniggering schoolboys and dirty old men. And when even this had failed â when, some evenings, the staff outnumbered the customers â the owners had finally decided that they could no longer compete with that evil little monster, the television set, and had sold up.
The space had been bought â much to the consternation of several local small businesses â by a large retail chain. Soon, in place of the old decrepit cinema, there would be a brand spanking new supermarket, offering cut prices, trading stamps and free gifts. For the moment, however, there was little more than a steel skeleton, surrounded by a chain-link fence and guarded, at night, by Harry âBone Crusherâ Turner, who had once been the most formidable prop forward ever to have played for Whitebridge Rugby Football Club.
If Harry â who time had turned into a somewhat cantankerous old-age pensioner â had had a dog with him as he went on his rounds, that particular site would probably never have been chosen for the events of the evening.
But he hadnât â and it was.
Turner had, in fact, asked for a dog on his first day on the job, and had gone into a second-childhood sulk when his request had been immediately â and somewhat ungraciously â turned down.
âBut I
need
a dog, if Iâm to do the job properly,â heâd protested to the young site manager, who went by the name of Wickshaw.
âItâs not the crown jewels youâre guarding here, you know, Harry,â the site manager had replied. âThereâs no gang of international building material thieves planning to swoop down on the site in the dead of night, and make off with a couple of thousand Accrington bricks.â
âI know that, but â¦â
âThe Secret Cement Cartel isnât just waiting for our guard to be down before they have it away with a dozen bags of Portland Finest.â
The site manager was too much of a smart-alec for his own good, the night-watchman thought. He was little more than a lad, still wet behind the ears â but because he had his City and Guilds Certificate, he thought he knew everything there was to know.
âWhat about the machinery?â Turner had grumbled. âItâs very valuable, is that machinery, Mr Wickshaw.â
âSo it is,â the site manager had agreed. âBut itâs also virtually impossible to nick.â
âIâm not so sure about that.â
âYouâre not? So tell me, howâs anybody going to steal a crane or a digger? Drive it away?â
âThey could.â
âTalk sense, Harry! Heavy plantâs not exactly built with a speedy getaway in mind, you know. A bobby on a push-bike could catch up with it, if he pedalled hard enough.â
âSo if thereâs no risk of anythinâ valuable beinâ stolen, what am I goinâ to be doinâ here, night after night?â the watchman had wondered.
âIâll tell what youâre doing here, Harry,â the site manager had said, his patience almost at an end. âYouâre here so that some chap living just down the road â who happens to be in need of a couple of concrete flag-stones â wonât be tempted to just walk in and help
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