Trespassers Will Be Persecuted
Spliff and Warner watched the two men unloading the last of the newcomer's furniture. A gust of chilly wind set dust and litter dancing in a spiral over the rubble of the damaged wall in front of the steel-shuttered newsagent's, and a splatter of rain forced them back into the boarded doorway of what used to be the community centre, before the fire
The view was as unprepossessing as Spliff and Warner themselves. The concrete tower block was a dismal grey, cheerless and graffiti covered at the lower levels. The brick of the walk-up flats should have been a mellow dark red, but had lapsed into a gloomy brown and the whole estate oozed an air of despondent neglect. Grass grew between the flagstones, but was gone from round the broken and stunted trees; half the flats were empty and boarded and everywhere there was litter and dog dirt.
The only thoughts in Spliff's dull brain revolved around whether the newcomer had anything 'nickable' and how easy or otherwise it would be to get into the flat to nick it. It must not be thought, by the way, that Spliff was 'dull' in the sense of unintelligent, because he wasn't - more 'unimaginative'. The situation of the two did not encourage a wider vision than weighing up the possibilities offered by the arrival of a new resident.
The ground floor flat had been spruced up a bit - there was a new door and the outside had been painted nicely. Spliff thought out loud that his name would look good in foot high lettering on that cleaned up wall. It wouldn't have to compete with other names and slogans to be seen. Not for a day or two, anyway.
As they watched, one of the two men got into the van and drove off, while the door closed behind the other. Spliff wandered over with Warner trailing after him. Spliff was sizing up the wall when he noticed a metal box by the door, forty centimetres high, twenty centimetres wide and twenty centimeters deep and painted grey.
"Bet I can boot that tin box as far as the grass," he said to Warner.
"Bet you can't."
Spliff aimed a mighty kick at it. In his trainers it was like stubbing his toe against a concrete waste bin: the box was more solid and much heavier that it looked. As he jumped around, holding his foot and close to tears, the door opened.
"Oh, that's useful," said a voice, "Can you give me a hand?"
Before either of them really had time to realise what was happening, Spliff was holding the metal box against the inside of the front door, while the tenant bolted it in place.
"My own design," explained the bearded newcomer, "Letters drop onto this grid halfway down and slide out via this flap, but petrol or anything like that drops through the grid, into in the fireproof box. It isn't absolutely proof against fire raisers, but it ought to slow them down a bit."
Spliff thought it would, especially as the door itself was metal lined. New and nice looking, but almost certainly hardwood with a metal lining.
"Now I just have to slip this wrought iron grid in place in front of the door and we're through." said the newcomer with an air of satisfaction.
Spliff watched the decorative, black, wrought-iron grid being slotted into its hinges. There were no locks that he could see, just a simple catch.
"That won't keep anyone out," he said, more to himself than anyone else.
The new resident looked Spliff over with some interest.
"It isn't meant to," the stranger said and pointed to a notice screwed onto the wall.
Spliff was not the World's best reader. The sign said:
'CAUTION - TRESPASSERS WILL BE PERSECUTED BY THE GUARDIAN'
Spliff didn't think it made sense.
"The point of the grid is to keep the guardian in," explained the newcomer. "Anyone who breaks in has to open the gate, and they can't do that accidentally, so they'll only have themselves to blame for anything that happens."
Spliff wondered what 'persecuted' meant. Probably something like 'prosecuted', and that was usually just an empty threat. Warner wondered what they'd only have themselves to blame for.
The new bloke appeared to be in his early forties, but his appearance was distinctly odd. He had a rather pointed beard, a completely shaved, bald head and a slightly mocking smile, that was not entirely nice. He reached into the pocket of his red cord trousers and took out a two-pound coin.
"For helping," he said, offering it to Spliff.
Spliff took the coin and the stranger went inside.
The money pocketed, Spliff slouched back towards the empty shell of the Community Centre, Warner trailing after.
The latter was marginally better read than the former, though that didn't say a lot, and was still puzzling over the notice.
"Persecuted means, sort of, followed and got at all the time," Warner said, "Kind of like 'bullied'. Why would anyone do that?"
"I'd do that if somebody nicked my stuff and I knew who it was," admitted Spliff. "But it's just a threat. Anyway," he added, "How would he know who to perse ... perse ... bully?"
"Not him, the guardian."
"What's a guardian?"
"A bloke what guards something, I suppose," Warner answered.
Spliff shook his head slowly.
"Got any money?" he asked. "This won't quite buy ten cigs." He tossed the coin given him by red-cords.
Warner shook his head.
"I think I'll go over the place and see if there's anything worth nicking," said Spliff, thinking out loud.
Warner wasn't quite sure. He didn't say anything, but the notice made him feel just a little uneasy, and the odd appearance of the newcomer wasn't helping.
"I wonder if that guardian bloke is there all the time?" Warner wondered out loud. "The bloke said that grid was to keep the guardian in."
Spliff thought about it. "It's just to try and keep you out," he said at last. "Nobody would stay in all the time and how can he know who nicked the stuff if he doesn't?"
"Maybe there's a video camera or a big dog."
"I'll ring the bell and see if a dog barks and if there's a camera I'll nick it," said Spliff getting bolder. "It'll be worth a few quid," he added.
For some reason Warner still wasn't quite sure but for lack of any definite ideas, he allowed himself to be persuaded by Spliff's enthusiasm.
As they stood huddled in the doorway of the burnt-out Community Centre, the newcomer came out, wearing a wide brimmed black hat on his bald head. The flat door slammed and the man firmly shut the wrought iron grid. He picked up the shopping bag and strode off in the direction of the main road rather that the local shop. Spliff watched him go and thought he'd have time to 'do over' the flat before the bloke came back.
"Right," he said.
There was, as Spliff had observed in the earlier conversation, no lock of the wrought iron grid. It opened easily and, in spite of what red-cords had said, it appeared to be just decoration.
"I told him it wouldn't keep anybody out," he remarked.
"And he told you it wasn't supposed to," Warner pointed out.
Spliff looked again at the notice. It still didn't seem to make any sense. How would the guardian know who to bully? According to baldy, the grid was supposed to keep the guardian in. Spliff shook his head. Perhaps there was somebody in the flat, in which case he'd better ring the bell first, just in case. He pressed the button, waited a few moments and, when there was no sound other than the distant bell, tried the door. It was locked, of course.
"Shut up about the guardian and the grill," said Spliff, unaccountably irritated by Warner's remark. "This is a pretty tough lock in a metal plated door and we've nothing to force it. We'll have to break one of the windows at the side of the door. Get me a brick or something."
The wall in front of the newsagent's was a handy source of material, and Warner had no trouble prising loose a brick.
Spliff did not even look around to see whether anyone was watching as he first smashed a hole in the glass and then enlarged the hole until he could reach his arm through and reach the lock. The door was held on a locking catch, but there was no mortice deadlock.
&n
bsp; "Wait outside and ring the bell if you see him coming," said Spliff, opening both door and grill to let himself in. Spliff closed the door. Warner closed the grill and walked to the corner where he had a better view.
Inside Spliff looked around. He was in a small hall, the floor of which was tiled in ceramic tiles. It was unadorned except for a large mirror, which was screwed to the wall and looked rather heavy to carry far, even if he had come armed with a screwdriver. In any case he didn't quite like anyone watching, even if it was only his own reflection.
Spliff wandered into the living room and was surprised at what he saw. The floor was carpeted and there was a three-piece suite, the settee incorporating a bed but, instead of the music centre or the video and TV he expected to find, there were endless bookcases all round the room. Some of the bookcases were already full, while more books were packed into boxes stacked neatly on the floor. Spliff was not a reader and the idea that anyone should waste money on so many books was baffling. The only thing interesting was a carved wooden box, and all that contained was a large glass ball, wrapped up in a black cloth.
Disappointed, Spliff walked into the kitchen. There was a whistling kettle on the stove, but no sign of an electric kettle, much less a microwave or even a toaster. Even more disappointed he walked into the bedroom.
He was even more surprised by the bedroom than the living room. It was empty. There was new lino on the floor and heavy red curtains but, apart from a box with a cloth over it and couple of candles, which stood in the centre of the room, and a plain wardrobe against one wall, there was no furniture. He took the cloth off the box to see if there was anything it - there wasn't. He checked the wardrobe - nothing but coloured dressing gowns, or something similar to them.
Puzzled, Spliff returned to the living room and looked around again. There was absolutely nothing worth nicking and he hadn't any spray paint or a felt marker with him, and there was nothing like that in the flat.
Frustrated, he swept his arm along one of the shelves, sending the books crashing to the floor. Then he noticed a slight panting noise, like a large dog. There was nothing in evidence. He shrugged and was about to send another shelf of books crashing when the bell rang.
'Warner's signal,' he thought, grabbing the carved wooden box and rushing to the door.
He was already turning the catch and opening the door, when he noticed an arm in a blue uniform through the broken window.
'My God!' he thought. 'The fuzz.' It wasn't: it was the post.
"Parcel for Mr. Brainridge," said the woman, holding out a package about twenty by forty centimetres by ten or twelve centimetres thick.
"Oh, er, yeah," muttered a slightly stunned Spliff.
"And a letter as well," added the woman, and Spliff took both the letter and parcel.
"Hardly moved in and I see you've had visitors already," said the woman sociably, pointing at the hole in the glass. "Pretty depressing place to live with all the louts and thieves round this estate. Bye."
She walked on and Spliff waited until she rounded the corner before he breathed a sigh of relief and exiting quickly, slamming the door behind him. He left the wrought iron gate swinging open and almost ran over to where Warner was waiting.
"I didn't know she was going to ring the bell," Warner apologised. "What's in the parcel?"
"No idea," Spliff. "Let's take it back to my place and find out."
"What else did you get."
"There was bugger all else worth lifting," growled Spliff.
"What's that with the parcel?" asked Warner, taking the letter. "Why has it got your name on it? Did you bring it with you?" he demanded.
Spliff snatched it back. "Don't be daft. I just got it with that parcel," he snapped.
He stared at the name and address for a disbelieving moment. "Nobody 'cept the head teacher every called me Anthony," he said rather weakly.
He tore open the envelope and pulled out a singly sheet of paper. In rough letter, done in capitals in what looked like red felt pen, it said quite simply, 'TRESPASSERS WILL BE PERSECUTED.
II
Spliff threw the carved wooden box carelessly onto his bed and began to examine the parcel. He wondered out loud about the contents.
"Open it and see," Warner suggested.
Spliff peeled off the heavy tape and ripped open the cardboard.
"A book!" he said disgustedly. "A bloody book. He's got hundreds already."
Warner idly picked up the invoice and whistled in surprise.
"Phew," he said, "According to this, that book's worth over three thousand two hundred pounds."
"Go on," said Spliff. "No book's worth that."
"Anything's worth what somebody will pay," Warner observed sagely.
Spliff made no comment, but clearly thought over the remark before putting the book more carefully on the bed and picking up the wooden box.
"We could take it to Dobbie and see if he wants it for his boot fare stall, like we usually do with stuff," Warner continued. "Even if he doesn't want it himself, he would know how to get rid of it," he added, examining the postmark on the letter to Spliff. The latter opened the box and took out the crystal ball.
"How did anyone know to send this letter so that it arrived just as you were in the flat?" asked Warner, re-reading the letter itself.
"How do I know?" snarled Spliff.
"Perhaps he used that crystal ball?" joked Warner.
"Well he can't use it now, 'cause I've got it. How do you use one of these things, anyway?"
"You gaze into it," said Warner absently, looking at the postmark on the envelope again. "Today's the twenty-fifth, isn't it?"
"Yes. Why?"
"He posted this letter two days ago, before he even knew you existed. He must've used that crystal ball.
Warner took the crystal from Spliff, who put the stand on the table near the window and took the ball back from Warner to place it in the stand.
"All right," said Spliff, "Now I'm going to gaze into it."
Warner didn't think that just looking was likely to do anything and nor, to judge from the tone of his voice, did Spliff. He simply stared at the ball.
The ball reflected the view from the window and the curtainless window itself, but upside down and slightly distorted, of course. It was perhaps sixteen or eighteen centimetres in diameter, and the outline of the window, if you stood back, was a square of rainbow light.
Spliff moved closer. A dog took shape. A large dog, like some sort of terrier but large, grey and vicious looking. Spliff was shaken for a moment, then he noticed a dog walking past the house with its owner. It wasn't grey and it wasn't quite the same shape as the one he'd seen in the crystal, but he seized on the conclusion that this phenomenon was due the distortion. That was much the safest conclusion.
"I told you I wouldn't see anything," he said, which wasn't exactly true, since he hadn't expressed and opinion directly.
"Let's go and see Dobbie," Warner suggested.
Spliff nodded and put the ball back in the box. Warner picked up the invoice and the book and they went out.
Dobbie was a well-built man with a beer belly and thinning hair, cut very short to try and disguise the fact. He was genuinely good-humoured but unscrupulous and dishonest. He looked at the book and the invoice and then thoughtfully at Spliff.
"You've got yourselves a right little time bomb there," he said at length. "If anyone tried to sell this, the buyer would want to know where it came from and all about it, and they'd probably check up too. I don't want it and I don't want anything to do with it."
Spliff thought he was bartering. "I know I won't get anything like its real value, but make me an offer."
Dobbie kept his good humour, but said with a seriousness that seeped even into Spliff's brain, "Look. I said I didn't want anything to do with it. I'll bet there just two or three of them in the country. If one of them's missing and you've got it, you'll get well and truly nailed. I haven't seen it. You haven't offered it to me. I don't wa
nt it. I wouldn't touch it with a barge pole. Now, get lost before I look after my own hide and turn you in myself. Come back with something I can handle."
While Spliff was slowly taking in the dreadful reality, Warner cottoned on to the facts.
"Like nicking a well known painting?" he asked.
"Exactly," nodded Dobbie. "No use nicking this kind of thing unless you've got a buyer lined up. Take it back. Put it in the bin. Leave it on somebody's doorstep. Take it to the police and say you found it. Do anything but get rid of it."
The pair turned to go. Spliff was distraught. "I've never had my hands on this much money before and I can't do anything with it," he said.
"You could take it to the rozzers, say you found it and claim a reward or the book if nobody came for it. That way would be yours and you could sell it legally."
"No," said Spliff, turning down the side of the apology for a park. "They'd ask too many questions and my prints are all over that card where I signed for the parcel."
"This isn't the way back to your place," Warner remarked, as they headed towards the flat they had broken into earlier. Spliff prised a brick loose from the remains of the wall by the newsagent's.
"Hello," said Spliff. "He's repaired the hole in the glass by the door already."
The smashed pane of glass next to the door had indeed been repaired.
"Let's smash another for him," he said.
Spliff put down the book and hurled a brick at one of the other windows in the ground floor flat. It smashed with a satisfying crash, but they had to scarper as red trousers came out. He went straight to where Spliff had put down the book. He picked it up and carried it back to the front door, where he spoke, as one might talk to a dog, but softly.
He said, "He's still got the crystal and there's another window. Go and worry him a bit tonight, boy."
There was a very soft panting noise and something padded softly away. Red trousers went inside, shutting first the gate and then the door.
III
Spliff had a bit of a headache when he went to bed that night and the air felt rather oppressive, like a thunderstorm, though the weather wasn't the least thundery. For some reason he felt better with the light on as he lay listening to the radio, but the music bored him. This was not unusual but, when he turned off the radio, the silence was incredibly loud. His mother was out with her latest boyfriend and there was no telling whether or what time she'd be back. He picked out the faint sounds of traffic on the main road, and a couple of blokes walked past the maisonette arguing. When they'd gone the silence was even more deafening. Then he thought he heard it.
What exactly he thought he heard, Spliff couldn't have said. There are all kinds of noises in an empty house - timbers and stonework cooling when heating is switched off, doors or windows creaking or rattling in the draught of a chilly wind, pattering rain, the slight sounds of neighbours moving around. Being alone can make noises seem louder and more mysterious, not that Spliff, as has been observed already, was very imaginative.
Whether or not he was asleep and dreaming is a matter unclear to Spliff himself afterwards, but he thought he heard a large animal padding up the stairs. He thought it padded up to the bedroom door and sniffed loudly at the crack below it. He buried his head under the covers, possibly to shut out sight and sound but just when he was thinking that 'it' couldn't get at him through the door, 'it' jumped up onto the bed. 'It ' had weight and its breath smelled foul: sort of like rot and decay. 'It' stood on the bed, panting and growling. Spliff sat bolt upright in bed screaming.
The light was still on and, in the glare of the unshaded bulb, he saw that words TRESSPASSERS WILL BE PERSECUTED had appeared on his bedroom wall, written with a thick, red felt pen. He was certainly wide-awake by now.
"Perhaps you wrote it yourself," suggested Warner next morning. "You know, in your sleep or something."
Spliff wondered whether such a thing was possible.
In the cold light of day, a dream about a big dog and some writing on the wall with red felt pen didn't seem very scary.
"Have you got a red felt marker?" Warner asked.
Spliff thought about it.
"I don't think so," he answered at last. "Anyway, not a thick one and not new enough to run like that," he added.
Warner looked at the writing more carefully.
"I don't think it is felt pen," he said. "It's more like thick poster paint. Like the paints we used to use at school, but not with much water."
Spliff examined the writing carefully too.
"Or blood," added Warner as a joke.
"Don't be stupid," Spliff snapped, but he had to admit to himself that it did look more like paint than pen. Or more like blood, but he didn't like to think of the implications of that.
"Why don't you just take the stuff back and ask the bloke to call off his guardian?" asked Warner.
Daylight was making Spliff bolder and his terror of the night before had faded.
"Don't be stupid," he said again. "I 'm going to persecute him back."
"Well," said Warner, "It's you he's hounding, if you'll pardon the expression ..." Spliff glared at him. "But, if it was me I'd give in sharpish. I know when I'm beat."
"You give in too easily."
"But I sleep at night and I don't have bad dreams. Still, suit yourself. What do you think you're going to do?"
"I'll start by smashing his windows."
"I hope you don't mind," said Warner carefully, "but I don't think I'll have anything to do with it. Anyway, you broke his windows yesterday."
"Coward!" Spliff accused, to which Warner said nothing. "And you're superstitious."
Again Warner said nothing.
"Look," he said finally, "I've done over lots of places with you. We're old friends. The thing is, we always agreed when a job was too risky, that way we never got caught. I think this bloke has some kind of security system we can't beat and I don't want to risk it."
"Rubbish," answered Spliff. He half agreed with Warner, but he felt he would lose face if he backed down now and anyway the other, more violent, side to him wanted revenge for making him feel a fool. In daylight, at least, he felt bold enough to battle it out.
"I'm going to sort him out and if you won't help, I'll do it on my own." He felt angry in general, though his anger was not really against Warner.
Warner watched as Spliff went down the side of the 'park' - a small square of dirt and scrubby grass with a few sorry looking trees, all surrounded by rusting railings. The railings were, oddly enough, complete and for that reason it was used by dog owners to exercise those animals supposed to be kept muzzled and on a leash in public. In fact, its frequent use for that purpose was probably responsible for the railings being left intact - dogs tend to be like their owners and it is unwise for most people to tangle with a pit-bull or a rotweiler or its owner. Warner was not given to philosophical thought, but something like that might have been going through his brain as he shook his head reflectively, dodged the two muzzled dogs and their owner barging past him into the park, and went in search of other pastimes.
Spliff was armed with a can of spray paint and a stout piece of wood wrenched off an armchair someone had dumped. He strode purposefully up to the newcomer's flat. First he took out the can and decorated the wall with a couple of abusive but unimaginative remarks and his name, which he sprayed in foot and a half high letters.
Then he turned to the stick - and noticed that the broken window had been repaired again.
"That's quick," he muttered, and attacked the glass with the stick. The new glass shattered with a really satisfying crash and he opened the iron grid in front of the door.
"Still not locked," he muttered. "Never learns."
He didn't notice the slight padding noise, as if a large dog had come out, because he was busy attacking the panels at the side of the door. Finally he wrenched out the grid and threw it on the ground.
He was still admiring his handiwork when a van drew up, so he retre
ated to a safe distance to watch. On the side of the van it said 'WILSONS GLAZIERS -all types of glass repairs'
A bloke got out, went up to the front door and rang the bell. It was opened by the same bald but bearded man in red cord trousers who had paid Spliff the day before.
"I've come to fit the glass you ordered. Two windows and two toughened panels for the doorway," the glazier said.
Spliff couldn't believe his eyes as he watched glazier bloke unload. It must have been ordered long before he went on the rampage. The glazier started to work on the window, while red trousers reappeared carrying a brush and a can of paint. He put the can down and picked up the wrought iron grid, which slipped back into its hinges. He looked across at Spliff and smiled, though it was a slightly mocking and somehow rather unpleasant smile.
"Enjoy your last few minutes," he said.
"Are you threatening me?" demanded Spliff belligerently.
Red trousers was still smiling. "I don't threaten," he said. "The notice about opening the gate was a warning you ignored, not a threat. This time I'm merely predicting your demise."
Spliff didn't know what a 'demise' was, but he inferred from the way the word was used that he didn't need one. A cold shiver ran up and down his spine. He gave red trousers what he thought a superior look, snorted what he thought was derisively and began to stroll away. Then he heard the padding feet and panting of a big dog.
Spliff looked around anxiously, but there was nothing to see. He began to run and the padding paws began to run as well.
Close to panic, he vaulted over the railings into the park in an attempt to shake off his invisible pursuer. There was a savage growling and Spliff fell awkwardly, an arm raised in self-defence as his foot twisted and one leg folded underneath him. He lay very still, his head at an unlikely angle.
The man with the two pit bull terriers was still exercising them and, though this was a 'public place' within the meaning of the dangerous dogs act, the dogs were off the lead, though they still had their muzzles on. By the time the horrified owner left the friend he'd been chatting to and crossed the patch of tatty grass that passed as a park, Spliff was in an untidy heap on the ground, his head at the same unlikely angle, with one of the two dogs sniffing at him. It seemed to be expressing no more than a general doggy interest. It did a little wee on the body and then wandered off.
By the time red trousers walked across to the park, the friend had gone to call an ambulance and the owner was examining Spliff.
"I wouldn't waste time on him," said red cords. "He's dead already."
"Nothing to do with my dogs," said the owner, worried about what the police would say. "I didn't see what happened, but they've had their muzzles on all the time. Anyway, they're always so placid since they've been neutered."
"I saw it all from a distance," nodded red trousers. "They weren't anywhere near him when the other dog jumped over the fence after him." He shook his head sadly at Spliff.
The dog owner looked around. "I didn't see any other dog and seems to have gone now."
"I saw it," said red trousers. "A really big, shaggy thing. Dog like that ought to be kept behind a good high iron gate with a warning notice. I'll be finishing my painting if the police want to speak to me."
He strolled back to his flat and held the gate open as if for somebody - or something - to enter. Then he closed the decorative grid, picked up the paint and brush and began to repaint the wall, obliterating Spliff's name.
By the time the ambulance arrived for Spliff's body, all trace of his name was gone and, it may be supposed, there was little remembrance of it either.