Authors: Elizabeth Oldfield
I pointed up. ‘Activity.’
William had walked out onto the balcony. He was smiling. ‘Row over. Everyone’s happy. All quiet now. Time to disperse, folks,’ he called in a cheery tone and flapped a hand. ‘Shoo, shoo.’
‘Let us see Ernest,’ someone shouted.
‘Yes, we want to see him,’ another voice called.
‘Right now,’ a third person stipulated.
‘Er-nest, Er-nest,’ the white-bearded man started to chant, as if he was a supporter at a football match, and, within seconds, the entire crowd had taken up the refrain.
‘Er-nest, Er-nest.’
Gripping his hands tight around the top of the iron railing, William scowled down. The cheeriness of a moment ago had vanished and his look was hostile. ‘Sod off!’ he snarled.
‘Er-nest, Er-nest.’ The refrain continued. Grew in volume. ‘Er-nest, Er-nest. We want Ernest.’
‘Shut it!’ William shouted. Bending, he took hold of a plant pot and aimed it into the midst of the crowd. ‘Shut the fuck up!’
There was a general gasp – some of it doubtless at the f-word – and a mass cringing back as the pot hurtled down. I watched in frozen dismay. Although William had not targeted any person in particular – he did not appear to focus on individuals, rather he saw the crowd as a mass, an infuriating mass – someone seemed destined to be hit. Hit and maybe knocked out cold or seriously injured… or killed? Thud! The missile landed between two gossiping women who, simultaneously, had each stepped aside to speak to other residents. The terra cotta pot broke into pieces, depositing a heap of black soil strewn with yellow pansies.
‘Phew, that was lucky,’ Steve said.
‘Very lucky,’ agreed my father. ‘If you’ll excuse me I’d better get back to Marie. Don’t want her to be scared.’
I nodded. ‘On you go.’
He went off and there was a minute or two of silence while the wheelchairs were moved and everyone retreated into safer positions, then the chant restarted. This time, it was even louder.
‘Er-nest, Er-nest.’
William folded his arms and glared down.
In houses beyond the fenced boundary of the Bridgemont gardens, people came to peer curiously through bedroom windows. A trio of gum-chewing teenage boys ambled in off the street to find out the reason for the noise.
‘Okay, you want to see the ugly old fart and you shall,’ William bellowed, his voice furious. He disappeared through the French windows, only to emerge several moments later propelling Ernest, who was forced to walk backwards, in front of him. ‘Here he is.’
‘Christ!’ Steve exclaimed.
William had one hand clamped on the old man’s shoulder, while the other held a knife directed at his throat. A sharp-pointed stiletto, which glinted in the evening sun. Steering his victim to the balcony rail, William thrust him roughly against it, bending him back. One struggle for freedom, a cough or a shiver, and the knife could pierce Ernest’s flesh. I frowned. It was a predicament which echoed others from a long time ago. A predicament which rang loud bells of identity. Alarming bells.
As I turned to Steve, he turned to me.
‘Billy the Bridge,’ we said, in mutual recognition.
Steve took his mobile from his jacket pocket. ‘The police need to be here. Now.’
‘It’s okay,’ Gillian intervened, before he could press out the number. She had come up alongside. ‘I’ve just spoken to them again and they’re on their way.’
‘You explained it was urgent?’ Steve demanded. ‘Extremely urgent?’
‘I did.’ She cast an anxious look at the crisis above. ‘I wish they’d hurry.’
‘Likewise,’ I said.
Back in the Seventies, William Langsdon – then known as Billy – had been a petty thief with a vicious streak. Growing up as a street kid meant he knew all the back alleyways to escape along, storage yards where he could hide, the crowded markets to vanish into. He had operated in the suburbs of South London and his method was to smash the windows of parked cars and snatch handbags, briefcases, anything of any value which had been left inside. Then run like the wind.
When he had broken into an expensive, much-loved sports car and been disturbed by its owner, a young athlete, he had fled, clutching a travel bag which he had found. But the athlete, who had won medals for hurdling, had gone after him. He had chased Billy from the quiet mews where the sports car had been parked and along residential streets. Chased him at speed. At intervals, when he could catch his breath, he had shouted ‘stop thief!’, but it was a Sunday morning and few people were around. No one came to his aid.
As they approached a railway bridge which crossed the narrow road, Billy had vaulted over a wall and started to scramble up the overgrown embankment. The athlete had followed, forcing his way through brambles and stinging nettles. By the time they reached the gravelled railway tracks at the top, he was only a yard behind. Sensing capture, Billy had dropped the travel bag and spun round, a knife in his hand. Pressing the point to the young man’s shirted chest, he had forced him back against the low fretted metal bridge.
Now people began to take notice. First a cyclist had stopped on the road below to put a hand to his eyes and peer up. A couple of cars halted and their drivers got out. Children playing in a garden alerted their parents, who alerted the neighbours on both sides. Someone dialled 999. The athlete was recognised and soon the road was jammed. A local resident who worked in television notified his station. A police car arrived and, calling up, the policemen appealed to Billy to release his victim. He was not receptive.
‘Come any closer and I’ll stab him,’ he had threatened, as the officers had clambered laboriously over the wall to scale the embankment.
There was a stand-off. A television crew appeared and began to film. Time passed and, also recognising him, Billy started to exchange comments with the athlete, who remained remarkably composed, and with the crowd. Jovial comments. Witty comments. He was playing to his audience, soaking up the attention. Eventually, as the police contingent swelled, Billy threw away the knife and surrendered.
I knew all this because I had interviewed the athlete and several of the spectators. And, as one in a team of reporters, I had covered some days of the trial. The young ‘Billy the Bridge’ as the tabloids dubbed him, had had dark curls, a baby face and looked so innocent. The jury and judge had been swayed by his teary-eyed remorse and insistence that he would never have used the knife, and given him the benefit of the doubt – and a laughably short sentence.
On his release, he met with the athlete and apologised. The apology took place in a television studio. The athlete hoped to become a sports commentator when he retired from hurdling, so any publicity was welcome. And Billy, who had been, he declared, ‘a mixed-up kid’, but was now ‘strictly on the straight and narrow’ had loved the fuss. Pieces about him appeared in papers and magazines, people bought him drinks in pubs, the athlete suggested he could be a useful runner if he trained – though the hard graft of training didn’t appeal – but, inevitably, the spotlight had soon swung elsewhere.
Little more than a year later Billy had snatched a handbag from another car, been chased by its irate female owner and hightailed it up onto another suburban railway bridge. Yet again, a crowd had gathered, the police were summoned and Billy had basked in the furore. A television crew had skidded up. But whereas the athlete had kept his cool, the young woman was both frightened and stroppy. She had begged her captor to release her and, when he didn’t, informed him he was a no-good piece of scum. That he should work for a living, not steal. Billy lost his temper.
‘Shut it!’ he had ordered, biting on the t’s.
‘Threatening a defenceless girl with a knife, aren’t you the brave boy?’ she had taunted.
‘Belt up, slag!’ he had barked.
Recognising a wildness in his eyes, her belligerence had collapsed into fear. ‘I didn’t mean it, truly,’ she had yammered, but it was too late.
Billy had slashed the knife down her cheek, scarring her for life, then stabbed her viciously in the shoulder. This time he ran off along the railway track, but was caught the next day and arrested. This time, his sentence was far more severe. However, it seemed he must have learned his lesson, because he had not come to the notice of the media again.
Until now.
‘You’re over-reacting, old chap,’ called the man in the baseball cap.
Gillian walked forward. ‘Please don’t do anything silly,’ she implored.
Leaning menacingly over an ashen-faced Ernest, William ignored them. But the bally-hoo continued.
‘Threatening a bloke in his seventies is pathetic,’ someone shouted.
‘For the weak-kneed,’ declared another voice. ‘You’re just a coward.’
‘Real lily-livered,’ ridiculed a woman, who had the voice and disdain of Nora Batty, ‘and not going to look so clever when the newspapers get to hear about it.’
‘The newspapers have heard,’ Steve murmured.
I nodded. ‘You have another scoop.’
‘No, you have the scoop.’
‘
We
have the scoop,’ I said.
A man pointed a condemning finger. ‘You deserve a jolly good thrashing,’ he proclaimed.
‘Bring back hanging,’ called another.
William glowered down. ‘Another fat-arsed remark and –’ He readjusted his hold on the knife, positioning the point above Ernest’s Adam’s apple ‘– he gets it!’
Once again ‘Billy the Bridge’ seemed to be deriving a twisted satisfaction from the crowd he had drawn and the uproar he was causing. But what about his victim? The continuing strain had to be bad for his heart… and could be fatal.
‘Keep quiet, everyone,’ Gillian appealed. She swung a worried look over the Bridgemont residents. ‘Not another word, I beg of you. Not one word.’
‘Do you have a key for Dilys’s flat?’ Steve asked, as she came back to where we were standing, beneath the shade of a tree.
She nodded. ‘I have a master key which gives entry to all the flats. It’s here.’ She produced a key from her cardigan pocket.
‘So I can get in,’ he said, ‘and distract William which, hopefully, will allow Ernest to escape.’
Gillian frowned. ‘Don’t you think we should wait until the police arrive and let them –’
‘Waiting is too risky,’ he cut in. ‘The guy could lose it big time at any minute.’
‘Maybe Dilys will come onto the balcony and calm her son down,’ she said desperately.
Steve shook his head. ‘If she hasn’t tried to cool things this far, she’s not going to act as pacifier now.’
‘You’re right,’ the house manager agreed, and gave him the key. ‘Dilys’s flat is number 33. It’s the second one along the corridor, on the left exiting from the lift.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ I told Steve.
‘No way,’ he said. ‘It could be dangerous.’
‘I’m coming,’ I repeated. ‘When William sounded off at my father, Dilys took William’s side so – strange as it seems – she may be cheering him on now. When you go into her flat, she could try to stop you and to warn him, so I’ll look after her, while you deal with William.’
I had no idea how I would – or even if I could – ‘look after’ Dilys. All I knew was that Steve must not go up there alone.
His brow furrowed. ‘But –’
‘Makes sense,’ I insisted. ‘If Dilys proves troublesome, you can’t deal with two.’
‘I guess not,’ he conceded, though he still looked doubtful.
‘So let’s hoof it.’