GUILT

---

GUILT - book excerpt

Prologue

The river, the mysterious peat-brown being that descended from the high moors was, from the earliest times, a powerful presence in the valley. Before the Romans came the Celtic tribes of the north considered its waters to be sacred. So it was for later settlers who understood its many moods. They thought of the river as a living creature to be respected, not to be abused or taken for granted. Over the centuries this awareness was not entirely lost. There were still a few who kept in touch with the spirit of the river. They read the signs and watched for the warnings when the water began to flex its muscles and rip bankside trees from their moorings. These were the folk who knew when disaster might happen…

* * *

No one could ignore the river for long. There were times when it ran, tranquil and slow, through the town that lay in the bottom of the valley. At such times it receded into the backs of people's minds. But no one could quite forget it. Shopkeepers and housewives, who rarely went far from their businesses and doorsteps in the early 1960s, found themselves thinking about the river as soon as storm clouds appeared on the surrounding moorland skylines.

"Eyup, Tommy." Ralph Parnaby, the newsagent, greeted one of his regulars - the legendary Tommy Page, master pike fisherman. "Gonna be a spot of rain. Best keep an eye on the river."

"Right enough." Tommy paid for his paper. "Land's that wet already more rain'll run straight off."

"And that means floods, Tommy."

"I'll take a look tonight. Fish'll tell us, for sure."

The river was never far from anyone's thoughts. In times of storm it became an obsession.

At such periods the river was transformed from a benign and soothing presence to a mythical monster. Anxious eyes would glance skywards.

"Here it comes!" The housewives nodded to each other in the corner shops. "They'll be sandbagging down at Wade's."

"That Noah – you know, that old fella from Genesis – happen he were born at bottom of Water Lane!"

Old photographs testified that in past generations it was common for small groups of onlookers to gather on the town's bridge to watch the river. These groups were mainly composed of retired locals and laid-off seasonal labourers. Books on local history stated that the younger men deferred to the wisdom of their elders, who would duly pronounce on the rising waters: if it would be a short-lived affair, or something potentially serious.

Many times the river had flooded the works' yards at the bottom of the valley: the bone mill, the slaughterhouse, the local brewery. Employees kept a spare pair of wellington boots in the staff changing rooms to avoid being caught out.

Occasionally the town's bridge would become impassable to all but council trucks and tractors. The river would rage like a demented thing against the bridge piers, carrying a battering ram of swirling liquid down from the storm-swept moors. As well as uprooted trees, drowned cattle and sheep - and, in winter, large blocks of discoloured ice - would be swept along in the churning current.

No one could remember anything like the floods of 1962. Half a century later aging locals looked back on that year with awe. The sudden inundations of April and July were quite simply apocalyptic. Those who remembered the year's events would say – to anyone with a long enough attention span to listen – that they even had the potential to change lives.

* * *

It had snowed heavily in January and February, then the torrential rains in March and early April had set off a rapid thaw. The melted snow had poured down from the hills in one big rush – and the river had been transformed.

Thunder had clattered and rumbled ominously for days. The steep grassy slopes of the valley sides were shimmering sheets of water. Streams overspilled their banks to become instant torrents which poured headlong into the river.

By dawn the river had darkened to the colour of bog oak and the town bridge was ankle deep in scummy peat-thickened liquid. The booming voice of the waters mingled with the thunder and observers had to shout to make themselves heard. Goat willows and hazels on the banks thrashed like crazed things in the violent wind. Chimney stacks and roof slates succumbed to the storm, littering the town's streets with debris.

Early risers drew back their curtains to see sheets of rain obliterating the valley slopes. Even the younger working men and women knew this was a big one. To the older generations it was nothing short of cataclysmic.

A sense of unease gripped the town. And still it went on raining.

* * *

Michael Shackleton, the local gamekeeper, set up his summer camp on rising ground in the woods as usual. Each day he watched the water level rise, until he wondered if his camp might be cut off, an event that had never happened before. But the floods would put a stop to poaching, unless the more enterprising local rogues decided to come by canoe.

When a worried farmer asked his opinion of the weather the gamekeeper enquired if he cared more for the earth than he did for money. The farmer said yes, of course. "Then you've no need to ask me," the gamekeeper smiled shrewdly. "The earth has all the answers you need."

Florrie Gaunt, the mysterious old woman who some called a witch, predicted doom and disaster for all who wouldn't take heed. When clients called for a Tarot reading she would tell them to pay attention. They shook their heads in puzzlement. Attention to what? If you don't pay attention you'll never know, was her cryptic reply.

When Tommy Page went down to the rising river to consult with the fish he got the shock of his life. His friends asked him what he'd found out, but he stared at them like a madman.

"No fish," he said, in a voice hushed with awe.

"No fish?" the enquirers echoed.

"They're all on the bottom hiding in the mud."

The flood of April 1962 affected much of northern England and was the worst the town had experienced. But the one in the following July was, some said, even bigger.

To many they seemed like warnings, but of what the townsfolk were unsure. Was it their greed and pettiness? Was this punishment for serious moral flaws? Self-examination continued until the floods receded and normality lulled them back to sleep.

To a few unsuspecting souls they were more than warnings: the floods of that year were like lessons carved in stone.

Chapter 1

Young Red, christened Ronnie Patterson, a big youth of fifteen with ginger hair, woke as usual at fifteen minutes to six. It had been raining when he went to bed and a glance through the curtains told him nothing had changed.

"Shit!" he muttered under his breath. Rain always made his work more difficult.

Ten minutes later, in donkey jacket and jeans, he wheeled his Carlton racer from the backs into Victoria Road, an empty newspaper bag slung over his shoulder. He was half way down the street when Nancy, his mother, a still-attractive though careworn brunette, rushed from the front door of the big 1890s' semi with a raincoat across her arm.

"Ronnie – your mac!"

Red ignored her, cycling steadily away through the rain.

At 7.15 a.m., by St Margaret's church clock on the hill above the town, he was riding through puddle-filled streets of drab terraced houses, stopping occasionally to thrust the last of his damp newspapers through letterboxes.

On a gable-end hoarding large posters proclaimed Mr Acker Bilk's Stranger on the Shore and CND's annual march ALDERMASTON TO LONDON – EASTER 1962.

Red pulled a face at the posters – he wasn't concerned about either.

Two council trucks roared past, filled with men and sandbags. Red watched the trucks with sudden interest. Then he made the connection.

"Jesus!"

He pedalled quickly away.

Dismounting below the church clock, he wheeled his racer through the gate into the graveyard. Leaning the Carlton against a tall headstone he ran to a wall of moss-covered sandstone at the far side. He leaped onto the wall and looked down.

The rain had eased and a watery sun was struggling out through colossal mounds of storm cloud. He screwed up his eyes, dazzled by gleams of sunlight flashing from what looked like a plain of glass, just beyond the town where the river had been the day before.

Then, because it was Saturday, he let out a wild yell, remounted his bike at a run like a rider in Wells Fargo and hurtled from the churchyard.

* * *

Behind the closed gates of the Dykes's scrapyard a huge and nameless black guard dog on a chain sniffed the air suspiciously. Beyond the dog dilapidated outbuildings were almost hidden by piles of scrap metal. A shabby two storey brick-built house stood to one side of the yard.

Sam Dykes was a small wiry man of mixed indigenous traveller and diddicoy blood. He stood on top of the heap in work clothes shiny with grime, tugging at a length of lead pipe. Deborah, his wife, dark and attractive, with a ghost of the pure kaulo ratti in her features,chopped bundles of kindling in a lean-to by the house. Their swarthy fifteen-year-old son Len, nicknamed Mouth, worked in a nearby shed, laboriously stripping paint from a solid oak chest of drawers. His empty newspaper bag hung on a nail by the door.

Red skidded to a stop outside the gates. The guard dog erupted into furious barking.

Mouth stepped from the shed. He was dressed in dirty blue jeans and an old grey woollen jacket. He waved at Red then returned to the shed, to re-emerge pushing an old Raleigh Tourer. He glanced warily at his father.

Sam stopped hauling at the lead pipe. "Shut that bloody dog up!"

Mouth flung a stone at the dog. "Pack it in! He's a mate!"

The dog stopped barking and whined.

"Mouth, it's flooded!" Red yelled, unable to contain his excitement a split second longer.

Mouth approached the gates, wheeling his Raleigh. His rubber mask of a face broke into a malevolent grin.

"I know. I've seen it."

Sam freed the lead pipe and tossed it into an empty oil drum. "Back at twelve, you hear, boy? Load coming in from Donny."

Deborah stopped chopping and straightened up. "It's Sat'day, Sam. Let him have a bit of time with his mates."

"Keep to your own business, woman!" Sam snarled.

"But, Sam –

"Shut it!"

Deborah turned away, her eyes betraying her years of silent pain. She resumed her chopping.

Mouth spat savagely and glared at his father – a look of such venom Red was shocked. The relationship was more poisonous than he had realised.

Mouth opened the gate. "C'mon, Red, let's get outta this fucking dump."

The two friends cycled quickly away.

* * *

Water had flooded the works' yards by the river: the woolgrowers, the bone mill, the brewery, the feed merchants. Council workmen unloaded sandbags from the trucks Red had seen earlier. The 8 a.m. male workforce, on foot or pushbikes, struggled through the flood at factory gates.

The largest building by far stood at right-angles to the river. One long wall of dull orange-red brick bore the words WADE'S POTATOES in large black capital letters.

To the right of the letters was the logo of a giant, in green on a buttercup-yellow background, clasping a brown sack of potatoes on his shoulder. His free hand juggled three large potatoes and his face bore a demoniacal grin. Several vans in the yard, axle-deep in water, bore the same logo.

The workers began sandbagging doorways and pumping water from ancillary buildings. It was the usual ritual. Red and Mouth stood with their bikes, watching the activity from the edge of the flood.