A darkly humorous tale set in the unlikely world of market stalls and car boot sales.
Sheena McKinley rules her market with an iron fist. When she allows prisoners from the local open prison to pick up the litter, there are rumblings of discontent amongst the regular traders; particularly the car-booters.
Prisoners start to go missing; Reg, the market manager thinks he's been abducted by aliens; Matt, the butcher, starts selling chicken feed; and the Burger Man's indiscretions come home to roost!
A tale of passion, intrigue and little brown hens.
Excerpt
Reg, the market manager, leaned idly against the serving hatch of the long “Food in the Groove” burger van. His lack-lustre gaze wandered up the early morning market, past the shanty-town of half constructed stalls and rusting traders vans until, finally, coming to rest on a line of disinterested men trudging along in fluorescent yellow jackets.
‘It can’t be much of a life, can it?’ he asked, his distinct Blackburn accent out of place in the small Cumbrian market town. ‘You know, being in prison and all that?’ Searching through the pockets of his leather-patched tweed jacket, Reg successfully located a blister pack of pink pills. He struggled to remove one from its protective bubble; forehead creasing in annoyance as a nearby trader hammered his clanging metal stall bars together. Popping the pill into his mouth, his attention returned to the prison working party and their dreary, litter-picking progress along the market. ‘Just imagine what it must feel like, being locked up all the time.’ He shuddered at the thought of it, ‘must be awful.’ He peered up at last into the unlit, shiny red and white trailer at the tall, morose figure only just visible behind the griddle, ‘I’ll have a cup of tea and a bacon butty, please.’
Inside the burger van, Paul grabbed a grimy pair of stainless steel tongs and lifted two, part cooked, rashers over to the hot centre of the griddle; then took a polystyrene cup from the dispenser on his right before smoothly crossing over to the large cylindrical water boiler steaming away on the back wall of the trailer.
‘They’re not though, are they?’ he observed over his shoulder, dropping a round tea bag in Reg’s cup and adding the boiling water.
‘Not what?’
‘They’re not locked up. They’re out here with the rest of us.’ Paul stirred the brew, fished out the teabag with a brown stained spoon and dropped it in the red plastic kitchen waste bin at his feet.
‘Well, no. Not right now at this minute they’re not,’ conceded Reg, crunching the pill distastefully, ‘but they will be, once they get back.’
‘They spend most of their time in the pub, from what I hear.’ Muttered Paul, turning back and handing the steaming cup to Reg, ‘Here you go; the bacon won’t be long.’
‘Thanks.’ Reg took a tentative sip of the scalding liquid, winced, and reached for the milk jug. ‘Who said they go to the pub?’
‘Wilf, off the car boot.’
Reg slopped milk into his tea, and stared up at Paul’s lanky form in disbelief.
‘And how would he know?’
‘Dunno,’ said Paul, shrugging his shoulders, ‘he just does.’
Shaking his head, Reg’s attention was caught again by the prisoners, who had by now reached the blue painted, corrugated iron cattle shed at the bottom end of the market, but instead of going in, had turned around and were heading slowly back the way they had come.
‘What do they think they’re playing at?’ he spluttered, ‘they’ve already done that bit, they’re supposed to do the car boot next.’
‘Wilf told me those perverts’ll only get in the car boot over his dead body.’
‘Oh God.’ Reg set his cup on the counter. Removing his heavy, gold-rimmed glasses, he pinched the bridge of his nose; his head ached dully. ‘They’re not perverts,’ he sighed, ‘they’re just prisoners.’ He pressed the palm of his hand against his lined forehead and momentarily closed his eyes, running his fingers through his greying hair as if to massage away the increasing pain.
‘Some of them are perverts,’ said Paul, ‘Wilf says so.’
‘I don’t care what Wilf says,’ snapped Reg. ‘He’s just a car-booter, after all! He thinks he runs this market, him and his mates; well they don’t! They’re all round the twist, anyway!’ He replaced his specs, and reached for his cup, ‘You know what they do, don’t you?’ he glared up at Paul, his pale blue eyes popping in frustration, ‘They get here at four o’clock in the freezing morning, dump their stuff in the best pitches, to claim them, and then, instead of setting up, they all congregate together with their flasks and butties and watch telly!’ He got his breath back and took a sip of tea, ‘Then,’ he added, with renewed vigour, as a further thought occurred to him, ‘they have a go at me because they say it stinks in there! What do they expect?’ his voice increased in pitch, ‘it’s a cattle auction, not a church hall!’ Reg sipped his tea, bristling with annoyance and recalled yet another thorn in his flesh. ‘And you know that Bob Elliott?’
Paul raised his dark eyebrows questioningly.
Reg waved an impatient hand in the air, ‘You know, that crony of Wilf’s; stocky bloke with the shaved head?’
Paul nodded and Reg continued, ‘Well, I’m supposed to be sorting him out today. Sheena’s given him his final warning but he’s still storing masses of junk here in the car boot instead of taking it home with him at the end of the day.’ He groaned, ‘She’ll ban him if he doesn’t get it all cleared out soon.’ He sipped at his tea and tried to breathe slowly and deeply; all this excitement was bound to play havoc with his blood pressure. ‘Anyway,’ he went on in a calmer, more hopeful manner, ‘it’s Sheena who deals with the prison; it’s up to her to sort out the litter picking, not me.’ He thought for a moment then added, ‘And she can sort that Bob Elliott out as well.’
Absolved of responsibility, for the time being at least, he turned the conversation to what he hoped would be less troubled waters. ‘So,’ he inquired in a lighter tone, ‘how’s the wife?’
‘Eh? Oh she’s chucked me out. I’m living in the wagon.’ Paul bent down to check that the gas burners under the griddle were still lit. ‘Someone told her about Roxi.’
Reg stared at the top of Paul’s dishevelled head, noticing enviously that the younger man still sported a full crop of brown, wavy hair.
‘Roxi?’
‘Her I’ve been knocking off on Mondays – you know.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s gone out! I think the bottle must be empty,’ said Paul, standing up and reaching for the tongs, ‘Good job you don’t like your bacon crispy, eh?’ He lifted the warm, anaemic mass onto half a bun, added a generous gloop of red sauce, slapped on the top half and thrust it towards Reg. ‘Here, ‘scuse fingers.’
Reg sighed. He was sure he was coming down with something. His brow furrowed as he struggled to gather his thoughts.
‘I thought she was called Kelly or something like that,’ he sipped his tea and then nodded decisively, ‘in fact yes, I’m sure that’s what you told me her name was.’
‘Nah, try and keep up! Kelly’s the one on Wednesdays, the missus hasn’t found out about her – yet.’
‘Oh.’ Reg felt old. The rigid view of marriage instilled into him, admittedly by his domineering mother and worn-down father, seemed to belong to a different world. Whatever happened to traditional family values? These days, he thought, that phrase was more of a joke, dredged up now and again by politicians in their never-ending quest for greater and more insidious control over the populace. The grease from the under-cooked bacon began to solidify where it had dribbled onto Reg’s fingers. It whispered to him of cholesterol and heart attacks. He eyed it warily. ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Well, I’m going to see Roxi tonight and Kelly on Wednesday.’ There was a short silence.
‘No,’ said Reg. ‘No, I mean, what are you going to do to try and sort things out at home, with your wife? Um...what’s her name?’
‘Eileen.’
‘Yes, with Eileen.’ Reg went to take a bite of his butty but wrinkled his nose and changed direction towards the cup in his other hand. He sipped his tea, ‘you really ought to sit down together and talk it through, you know.’
Paul shrugged.
‘Well, that’s a bit tricky, what with me only being home now and then, and her working nightshift all week at Morrisons.’ He wiped his greasy hands on his once-white apron, ‘I haven’t actually seen her in a while, but I’ve been mulling it over and I’ve decided that if she doesn’t know when she’s well off, she can see what it’s like living on her own for a bit.’ Paul scratched his stubbly chin. ‘Give her chance to see what it’s like, not having a man about the place.’ He slouched towards the door of the burger van. ‘Just got to change the gas over.’
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