admonished, puppy dog eyes. As pitiful looks went, it was a winner.
‘Sorry, sir. I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘I don’t think you were thinking at all.’ Suddenly, Sergeant Kramer clicked his fingers. ‘You’re the kid who survived the attack in the old school house! I knew I
recognised the name. That headmaster who went loopy, right?’
Dougie’s mask of misery slipped at the mention of Red Brook House. He made headline news that day in autumn, locally and nationally. He’d ridden that tide of celebrity in the
following days and weeks, but time had moved on. For many, it was already a dim and distant memory, but it had clearly struck a chord with Sergeant Kramer, who turned to Mr Hancock as he was led
into the hall.
‘You know, you might want to look into this,’ he said, voice low. ‘Crazy business what went on at that school house. And to think, the headmaster was behind it? I’m no
psychologist but daft calls like what your boy’s been up to can be a cry for help. Perhaps there’s a shrink he can speak to. Maybe he has issues that have driven him to this,
eh?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Mr Hancock, opening the front door. ‘You may well be on to something there. We’ll be sure to arrange for a doctor’s appointment at the soonest
and talk about that very thing.’
‘Just keep an eye on the lad, yeah?’ said Kramer. ‘You’re his dad. If anyone can spot when something’s not right, it should be you.’
The door closed and the latch clunked into place. Dougie and I stood at the window, watching the police car head off. That had taken some explaining, and thankfully Dougie made a good blagger
when circumstances demanded. Sergeant Kramer had answered an emergency call, arriving pumped up and braced for violence. When a teenage boy had calmly answered the door, the poor chap had looked
rather crestfallen, the energy escaping his tense frame like guff from a whoopee cushion. There had been no domestic, just an apologetic son and an embarrassed father.
‘Yeah,’ said Dougie, rolling his eyes as his father returned. ‘You’ll keep watch over me, won’t you, Dad?’
‘Sorry about that,’ said Mr Hancock, standing over his chair and its creased cushions. He scratched his jaw before joining Dougie at the window. He squinted, flinching like a Morlock
seeing daylight for the first time. ‘Thanks for taking the rap there.’
‘It’s the only one I will take, Dad. Now might be a good time for you to explain everything that’s happened. Remind me why I’m not turning you into the police for the
part you played in Will’s murder.’
I was taken aback by the choice of words, and so was Dougie’s father.
‘Hang about, Douglas. Murder’s a bit strong!’
‘Is it? What happened?’
Mr Hancock turned his back on the bright window. He dropped his head, chin resting on chest, his haggard face lost in shadow. ‘I remember it being deathly cold.’
I shivered, the irony of the phrase not lost on me, as Dougie’s dad continued.
‘I hadn’t been expecting a call from him. I’d been playing dominoes with the lads at the social club. When the phone rang there was no avoiding him; you don’t dodge
Bradbury. It’s just not done. So I took the call and did I as I was told. He needed picking up from a business appointment at the snooker hall.’
‘Which one?’ asked Dougie.
‘Behind the rugby club.’
I knew the place well, and so did Dougie, the two of us sharing a look. We knew
not
to go there. It was in a rough part of town, a well known hangout for bad lads. Most of the pubs and
nightclubs in town hired their bouncers from that snooker hall, a breeding ground for knuckle-dragging Neanderthals.
‘That place is always in the news,’ said Dougie. ‘Somebody’s always getting beaten up there.’
‘That night was no different,’ said Mr Hancock. ‘Turns out the business Bradbury had there was a spot of retribution.’
‘Retribution?’
‘Aye. Some deal
‘Sorry, sir. I don’t know what I was thinking.’
‘I don’t think you were thinking at all.’ Suddenly, Sergeant Kramer clicked his fingers. ‘You’re the kid who survived the attack in the old school house! I knew I
recognised the name. That headmaster who went loopy, right?’
Dougie’s mask of misery slipped at the mention of Red Brook House. He made headline news that day in autumn, locally and nationally. He’d ridden that tide of celebrity in the
following days and weeks, but time had moved on. For many, it was already a dim and distant memory, but it had clearly struck a chord with Sergeant Kramer, who turned to Mr Hancock as he was led
into the hall.
‘You know, you might want to look into this,’ he said, voice low. ‘Crazy business what went on at that school house. And to think, the headmaster was behind it? I’m no
psychologist but daft calls like what your boy’s been up to can be a cry for help. Perhaps there’s a shrink he can speak to. Maybe he has issues that have driven him to this,
eh?’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ said Mr Hancock, opening the front door. ‘You may well be on to something there. We’ll be sure to arrange for a doctor’s appointment at the soonest
and talk about that very thing.’
‘Just keep an eye on the lad, yeah?’ said Kramer. ‘You’re his dad. If anyone can spot when something’s not right, it should be you.’
The door closed and the latch clunked into place. Dougie and I stood at the window, watching the police car head off. That had taken some explaining, and thankfully Dougie made a good blagger
when circumstances demanded. Sergeant Kramer had answered an emergency call, arriving pumped up and braced for violence. When a teenage boy had calmly answered the door, the poor chap had looked
rather crestfallen, the energy escaping his tense frame like guff from a whoopee cushion. There had been no domestic, just an apologetic son and an embarrassed father.
‘Yeah,’ said Dougie, rolling his eyes as his father returned. ‘You’ll keep watch over me, won’t you, Dad?’
‘Sorry about that,’ said Mr Hancock, standing over his chair and its creased cushions. He scratched his jaw before joining Dougie at the window. He squinted, flinching like a Morlock
seeing daylight for the first time. ‘Thanks for taking the rap there.’
‘It’s the only one I will take, Dad. Now might be a good time for you to explain everything that’s happened. Remind me why I’m not turning you into the police for the
part you played in Will’s murder.’
I was taken aback by the choice of words, and so was Dougie’s father.
‘Hang about, Douglas. Murder’s a bit strong!’
‘Is it? What happened?’
Mr Hancock turned his back on the bright window. He dropped his head, chin resting on chest, his haggard face lost in shadow. ‘I remember it being deathly cold.’
I shivered, the irony of the phrase not lost on me, as Dougie’s dad continued.
‘I hadn’t been expecting a call from him. I’d been playing dominoes with the lads at the social club. When the phone rang there was no avoiding him; you don’t dodge
Bradbury. It’s just not done. So I took the call and did I as I was told. He needed picking up from a business appointment at the snooker hall.’
‘Which one?’ asked Dougie.
‘Behind the rugby club.’
I knew the place well, and so did Dougie, the two of us sharing a look. We knew
not
to go there. It was in a rough part of town, a well known hangout for bad lads. Most of the pubs and
nightclubs in town hired their bouncers from that snooker hall, a breeding ground for knuckle-dragging Neanderthals.
‘That place is always in the news,’ said Dougie. ‘Somebody’s always getting beaten up there.’
‘That night was no different,’ said Mr Hancock. ‘Turns out the business Bradbury had there was a spot of retribution.’
‘Retribution?’
‘Aye. Some deal
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