Strangers by Paul Finch Page A

on the other side of the ruin. Barney was glad they were at least away from the road. He switched his headlights off and climbed out, glancing around and listening, before walking to the rear and opening the van doors.
    Kev went with him, saying nothing as he dug into the mountain of refuse inside, hefting out a box filled with bric-a-brac, and strutting away through the gutted shell of the Portakabin. Almost by unspoken agreement, they’d decided to chuck the stuff somewhere on the far side of it, using the broken structure as a final shield between themselves and the road. But as Kev vanished along the meandering path beyond it, Barney thought he heard something.
    He spun around.
    A clacking, or clicking.
    Most likely it had been branches rattling in a gust of wind.
    There wasn’t much starlight penetrating the cloud-cover, but his eyes were finally adjusting to what little there was. Scrub-like thorn breaks were clumped to either side of the track, interspersed here and there by the odd stunted tree; the sort of charmless, twisted vegetation you saw so often on former coal-tips like this but rarely anywhere else. His vision didn’t spear very far into it – a few yards, but that was sufficient to show nothing moving.

    Barney shuddered as he zipped his fleece. This desolation was the last place he wanted to be in right now. It was ten o’clock at night, and the nearest habitation – either Bickershaw or Leigh – were both miles away.
    ‘You’re one to talk about guilt-trips,’ Barney mumbled as he humped a roll of heavy, stinky lino onto his shoulder and stumbled through the Portakabin, following the same route as Kev. ‘Reminding me I owed you a few quid from when I was short, and calling this an opportunity to pay you back. It was only a few quid, lad.’
    Naked bushes clawed at him as he pressed along the path beyond the ruin. Some sixty yards later, it opened out onto a flatter, harder surface – what had once been the concrete floor to another industrial unit.
    ‘This’ll do, here,’ Kev said from just ahead, as he dumped his load in a kind of unofficial centre-spot. Barney followed suit. They stood there, breathless, glancing round.
    The B5237 was about three hundred yards behind them. The streetlights over the top of it were just barely visible, but their own vehicle was concealed by the trees and undergrowth.
    ‘Tell you what,’ Kev said in a “go on, I’ll humour you” kind of tone. ‘If it’s really bothering you, why don’t we build it all up into a bommy? I mean, it’s Bonfire Night in a couple of weeks. If some copper comes wandering around here, he’ll probably just think its kids. Won’t cock a snook at it.’
    ‘If you say so,’ Barney said, not feeling convinced.
    ‘There’ll be bommies everywhere this time next week. We’ll completely fox the bastards.’
    Barney nodded again, before noticing that Kev was watching him – and only belatedly realising that this meant it was going to be his job to construct said bommy. While Kev lurched back along the path towards the van, he got to work, piling the rubbish together, and then looking for spare bits of timber with which he could form that distinctive pyramid shape.

    A few minutes later, job done, Barney was also on his way back to the van. They passed each other in the process, Kev’s arms wrapped around a bulging bin-liner. They passed each other again a short time later, Barney this time hefting a couple of armfuls. And so it went on, the two of them working in relays until Barney was headed back to the van for what seemed like the fifth and surely final time – only to stop dead when he came in sight of it.
    Because another vehicle was now parked at its rear.
    Blocking it in.
    The only conclusion – the only conclusion possible – was coppers.
    For half a second, Barney’s world collapsed. He felt his bowels shrivel inside him. It wasn’t a serious offence, fly-tipping … except that he was currently on probation for