Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 50, No. 1. Whole No. 284, July 1967

Something to Get at Quick by Guy Cullingford

Guy Cullingford’s “Something To Get At Quick” is a winner of one of the five Second Prizes awarded in the EQMM-CWA (Crime Writers Association) short-story contest. It is a story of juvenile delinquency in London, and it is told with great understanding and compassion. It moved us, and we hope you will be moved too...

All of us carried knives. You want something you can get at quick if another gang starts in with the rough stuff, and brass knucks and bicycle chains are out. They count against you just as bad and you can’t get rid of ’em in a hurry. An empty milk bottle’s fine but not always there when you need it.

No, knives are best. All the same, if it came to a showdown, we never did more than nick a bit of skin here and there, just the same as they did to us. We never meant to use ’em to hurt anyone real bad. It was more for the look of it if you know what I mean. Until that night...

We’d been round the pubs and we’d all had a few beers — well, you know what, it was Saturday night and we were flush; and when we came out of The Grapes, we were feeling larky and there were these two girls who’d been hanging around for what they could get — so I reckon it was our turn. It was dark up that end of the street and we’d got them in the middle of us and started to poke at them a bit — nothing rough really — and then someone went a bit further and one of these Judies began to scream as if no one had ever touched her before.

All of a sudden there was this chap turned up from nowhere ready to put on a gallant rescue act. The first we knew, he’d hurled himself at us and was pummeling and kicking as if he was half a dozen and bawling at the top of his voice for help. Being as we had our backs to him and weren’t expecting it, we went down like a bunch of skittles, girls and all, and there we were in a great sprawling heap with this chap somewhere on the top. The Judies screeched in earnest, there was a lot of heavy breathing, and then someone yelled, “Stick him! Stick the interfering son-of-a—”

Then just as soon it was all over. We sorted ourselves out and scrambled up somehow, including the girls. Except him. He was down on his knees with his back humped over and his head on the road. At least, that’s what it looked like by the shape; you couldn’t see him that clear, though every door of the pub was open and light was streaming out — and so were the jerks from inside. Someone blew a whistle — the landlord I shouldn’t wonder — and Flip called out, “Scarper, you nits, and ditch the hardware!” and set off running like hell towards home.

So I got off too — we’d always planned to scatter in case of an emergency — and didn’t stop to see what happened to the others. My way home was the same as Flip’s but I didn’t catch up with him as I wasn’t going straight there. Far as I know there was no one after me, but I ran as if there was, and my idea was to make for the river and do what Flip had always said to do. All those streets are badly lighted with patches of dark between one lamppost and the next, but they weren’t like places I’d never been in and I ran like a streak not thinking of anything except the nearest way to the bridge.

I got a stitch in my side like a kid, but I didn’t stop for that. Lucky there was no one about. Saturday night all the people who lived in those rows of houses were either out somewhere or stuck round the telly. But I might have met up with a pair of flatties on the beat or a squad car rushing up Zuppt to the scene of the... well, where it had been happening.

When I came to the bridge I stopped to catch my breath, looked round to see if I was alone, and then let the knife slip over the side to keep company with the fishes. Then I began to wonder what the others had done with theirs, and other things besides. I wondered if we shouldn’t have stayed put to see if the chap was hurt bad. Or maybe—

Funny, but you get into the way of doing what Flip says without any argument — he was always the one to have his say even at school. It was too late to do different, so I went on home, and when I opened the sitting-room door, it was like it always was with the pair of them glued by their noses to the telly and half dark in there same as it was in the streets outside. Whatever it was on the screen, even the commercials, my dad didn’t like to be interrupted, but my mum turned her head towards me and then back again before she said, “Oh, there you are, Bernie. Move round a bit, Jim, let Bernie have a look too. It’s one of those nasty thrillers you like so much, dear.”

But I’d had enough thrillers for one night, so I went up and on to bed.

On Sunday mornings we usually lie in late like the rest of the people who live round us, but a little after eight someone chucked a pebble up at my bedroom window and I went over to see who it was and found Flip looking up. I couldn’t let him into our house ’cause my dad won’t have it, but Flip knew that and he made signs for me to come on down. When I saw him close up, I saw he looked as if he’d slept about as much as I had and the first thing he said was, “He’s dead.”

“How d’you know?”

“Radio.”

So we went round to his place, only two streets away from ours but a lot more slummy, and parked ourselves in the shed in his yard which we’d done before when we wanted to be to ourselves.

When we’d lit up butts to calm our nerves, I said, “Maybe they won’t pitch on us.”

I didn’t believe it, but I was still in hopes. Where it happened wasn’t our usual stamping ground and we might have been a bit rowdy in the pub, but we hadn’t actually started anything in there.

“Haven’t you forgotten the Judies?” he asked with a sneer.

“They don’t know our names.”

“Oh, hell, Bernie, use what brains you’ve got. They may not be all that bright but they can give a description, can’t they? We’ll be picked up this morning for sure. Wonder it hasn’t happened already. I’d like to get on to the others but it’s too risky.”

“What good ’ud that be?”

“I’d tell ’em to keep their traps shut — or else. If no one blabs, no one’s going to know which of us did it, are they? Then we’ll all get the same medicine.”

My throat went dry. “God! My dad... what’ll it be, Flip?”

He shrugged. “Can’t tell. Depends on who’s dishing it out.”

But I knew that whatever happened to the rest of us, Flip would go to prison for a cert through being older and having been in trouble with the police before. He knew it too. I could see by his face. He blew out a mouthful of smoke and then he took me by the arm and twisted it just to make sure I was listening.

“Bernie, you’ve got to hold your tongue. What ever happens. Give me your solemn oath.”

He made me swear it. I tell you, you don’t argue with Flip. Sometimes he can be pretty terrifying. The most I dared do was ask a question.

“Was it you called out ‘Stick him’?”

“I don’t know who it was,” he said scowling, “And if anyone wants to know, no more do you.”

After a few minutes of talk I left him and went back home and into the kitchen where my mum was in her dressing gown and slippers making a pot of tea to take upstairs.

“Hullo, Bernie. Where’ve you sprung from? Up early, aren’t you? Well, you can get your own breakfast, I’m not doing it. You can have a fry-up if you like. There’s eggs in the pantry.”

But I didn’t feel like eggs — or a fry-up.

Flip was right, just as he always was. It was going on noon when two busies arrived in plain clothes. My dad was in his shirt sleeves with his trousers held up by his stomach. They saw him first in the front room. I could hear them talking in there from down the passage that leads to the back door. I thought of slipping out through it, but I knew it wasn’t any good. Besides, it was mostly my dad I heard as he’d begun to shout. Then he came out looking like thunder.

“Bernie!”

“Yes, Dad.”

“Come on in here.”

He hadn’t got his belt on him — that was one comfort.

“Whatever have you been up to, Bernie?” whimpered my mum, but once I was inside he slammed the door on her.

“Now then,” he said, “And I want no lies. These here are police officers. They tell me you were out with a gang of boys last night and between you, you stabbed a young feller who’s since died. Are they right, or are they wrong?”

The words wouldn’t come out. In the end I just nodded. It didn’t make sense, hut it was the best I could do. And it was good enough for him. He’s got big hands and when I nodded they dropped to his sides. Then they came up again with the thick fingers curling and he said in a growl, “By God, I’ll kill you for this.”

“Calm down, Mr. Carter,” advised the detective. “We haven’t heard the whole tale yet. And this is a case for the law, not private vengeance. Stay if you like but you’ll have to restrain yourself while I find out from your son exactly what happened last night. Notebook, Pate. No need to be scared, Bernie — that’s what they call you, isn’t it? Short for Bernard, Pate. My name’s Detective Sergeant Davis. First we want a few facts about you to put us in the picture. How old are you for a start?”

“Going on eighteen.”

“He’s seventeen and four months,” muttered my dad.

“Right. And how many jobs have you had since you left school?”

“Just the one. I’m at Wood-thorpe’s.”

“Doing what?”

“I’m in the packing shed.”

“Not much of a job for a bright boy, is it?”

“He isn’t bright,” chipped in my dad. “I got it for him and see that he keeps it. They pay him a damn sight more than he’s worth.”

“Then you’re to blame for letting him get in with a group of young hoodlums too tough for him.”

“Me! I’m always at him for hanging around with Flip Harris and that scum.”

“Dad!”

“All right, Bernie,” soothed the sergeant. “Don’t worry. He’s not giving anything away. You’re the last on the list — we’ve already rounded up the others. Soon as we’ve got one pinned down it’s child’s play to come up with the rest of the gang. Ask any local cop. It’s only a matter of identification now. You’ll have to come down to the station yourself when we’re ready to leave. Come on, lad, let’s have it. Just start at the beginning and go straight on to the end. Your own words — I shan’t hustle you.”

I couldn’t get out of it, so I had to tell him how it began with us all at the pub and I could see my dad’s face swelling with rage though he’s not above going to the boozer whenever he can tear himself away from the telly. Of course I’m under age for beer drinking, but they don’t ask for your birth certificate when you go up to the bar for a pint. I’m not big like my dad but I’m not a dwarf either, no matter what he thinks.

I told it on the level right up to the part where we had the girls in the middle teasing them and the stranger crashed in on us bringing everyone down in a heap. Then I dried up and wouldn’t go any further though I said “No” when the sergeant asked me if I was in the habit of carrying a knife. I knew all the others would say the same thing and what came next proved it.

He put on a sarcastic voice and said, “Funny. Yet the poor bloke died from a stab wound. No one admits to having a knife, but he’s stabbed to death all the same. Perhaps it’s suicide.”

“One wound, is that what you say?” asked my dad sharply.

“Well, one was enough. It finished him.”

“And no other cuts?”

“Who’s asking the questions here?” But the tone gave him away and my dad soon catches on when he wants to. He said, “Why didn’t you tell me it’s only one boy you’re after?”

“Only one boy for murder. There may be other charges.”

“But the rest of them did nothing but stand around in a ring until this fellow jumped in and they all fell down. Like the nursery game. He set on them, they never set on him.” He swung round on me and whipped out, “Who did it, eh, Bernie? Who was the one used the knife?” He had his eyes glued to me, so had the other two.

“There!” he said, pleased as punch with his own cleverness. “Did you see that, Sergeant? He knows. You leave him with me for ten minutes and I’ll have it out of him.”

“That isn’t the way we do things,” said the sergeant.

“Oh, isn’t it? It’s the way some of you do it and the best way, I’m thinking. Saves a lot of time and trouble.”

The sergeant gave him a long hard stare and then turned it on me.

“If you do know anything, my boy, better get it off your chest. It’s your duty and it’ll be to your advantage. This isn’t school where you don’t split on your friends. A sense of loyalty isn’t to be sneered at, but it doesn’t apply in this case.”

“Loyalty, my foot!” exclaimed my dad. “He isn’t loyal, he’s just scared silly of that Flip.”

“You’ll be taken care of, my boy, never fear. I’m putting the question to you straight: do you know anything we don’t know and if so, what?”

“It was too dark to see,” I muttered sulkily. By now I had a clear picture of Flip’s face as I’d seen it last in the shed this morning. It was this morning though it seemed years and years ago.

“If you could see the gals, you could see a knife,” said my dad.

“All depends where he was when they went down,” put in the constable with the notebook. The sergeant didn’t thank him for this help. The constable got back to his pothooks and the detective swung off in another direction.

“What were you wearing last night, Bernie?”

“Same as I’ve got on now.”

He asked my dad, “Is that right?”

My dad shrugged. “Ask his mum. She takes more notice. He ain’t got a whole row of suits on hangers, but he might have another jacket.”

“It’s cold at night still. Didn’t you have on some sort of a coat, Bernie?”

“I got a leather jacket. Well, imitation...”

“Pate, just go and ask Mrs. Carter for the rest of the boy’s outdoor clothing, will you? Oh, and a pair of pajamas and some washing things. He’ll be staying the night with us. Now, don’t frighten the poor woman — she’s got enough to put up with already.”

After his mate had gone he relaxed a bit and said to my dad sort of man to man. “Nasty job this. I don’t get a kick out of it. But we have to sort it out. A poor young chap’s dead who never did anyone a stroke of harm. I’m sorry your boy’s involved.”

“He got in with bad company,” said my dad, fumbling for his pipe.

“Yeah. You’ll have to put yourself out — take a bit more trouble.”

“I pay the rent and the rates. I do a hard day’s work with overtime. A bloke’s got to have some time to get what he can out of this stinking life.”

“You shouldn’t take on responsibility if you can’t handle it,” said the sergeant.

“I give him plenty of strap.”

“You don’t get comfort out of strap,” said the sergeant.

They never said any more after that, just sat there sunk in their own thoughts as if I didn’t exist. But when Pate returned with my clothes in the tatty suitcase I use when we go away, the sergeant brisked up and said, “Well, come along, Bernie, we’ll get down to the station to join your pals. I don’t suppose you’ll be away too long but you might as well say goodbye to your mum. Far as I know they’ll be charged and brought before the magistrate tomorrow,” he told my dad in an aside. “You’d better be there, chum.”

“Oh, Bernie!” said my mum. She’d got herself dressed but didn’t look as if she’d washed or done her hair properly. I could smell the Sunday joint cooking in the oven.

“Can’t he stay for his dinner?” she said.

“No, ma’am, I’m afraid not. I’ll see he has something down there, so don’t worry.”

Even the smell made me feel sick. I couldn’t have eaten a bite.

“Well, goodbye, mum.”

I never liked kissing her, but this time I got wet on my mouth as I pecked at her cheek. She looked pasty as if she never got enough fresh air, though she went out to work and earned enough to keep herself going at Bingo.

They had the car parked outside, just a small car like any other, and I went in the back with the sergeant while the constable drove. The sergeant didn’t even put his hand on me while I was getting in. My mum and dad didn’t come out on the pavement to see me off but I did see the curtain move.

It didn’t take us more than five minutes to get down there and after we’d seen the chap at the desk I was put by myself in a small room — well, I suppose it was a cell really, though it didn’t look much different from my bedroom at home, only cleaner. I didn’t see any of the others, but I supposed they were somewhere nearby.

Soon after, a cop in uniform brought me a tray with two sandwiches and a carton of coffee from a machine.

It was a funny sort of Sunday. It was so damn quiet in there, like you were all alone in the world. The electric light was on — the window was barred and too high up in the wall to be much use. I drank some of the coffee and it was sweet and nasty. The sandwiches looked okay, but I didn’t try them.

I didn’t know what the others had said or whether they had anything to say, but even without Flip to bear down on them I guessed they wouldn’t talk. It was Flip’s gang and he’d got us well-trained. We’d heard often enough what he thought of squealers. I wondered why nothing had come up about the yell, and as I was the last to be questioned, it was pretty plain that the girls hadn’t even heard it.

I didn’t want to think about the chap who was dead but I couldn’t help it. He’d had no time for regrets; he’d gone before he’d made up his mind to anything, even before he’d had a chance to kick himself for interfering in something which wasn’t his business. And where did he get to after all that? Up in the sky along with the spacemen? Or ghosting it in the churchyard? Or just nowhere, which was what most of us would bet on. Had he got a mum and dad like mine? Or were his different? Were they upset when they heard what had happened to him? Even mine were upset. Would Flip’s be upset as well?

Seeing we all had knives and were supposed to be ready to use them, I couldn’t think why there should only be this one stab — one stab deep enough to kill. Was it because it was all such a mess and a muddle and over too quick? Or just because out of all of us there was only one chap ready to go the whole hog when it came to it? Out of that whole bunch of toughies, only one who was genuinely dangerous.

I thought a long while about Flip — whether he was good or bad, or just a mix-up of the two. I wondered how he’d get on in prison when what he couldn’t stand was being shut in and made to do what he didn’t like. If he’d been the one to lead me wrong, he’d been the first person to make me feel I was as good as the rest and not just a nobody who came into the house after a day’s sweat and looked at the telly and then went up to bed. I owed him a debt for that and for the fun we’d had together, but I couldn’t go on forever doing what Flip told me to do. He wasn’t going to like it, but he’d made something of me that had to go out on its own and do what it had decided for itself.

I’d been going over it for a long time, yet there seemed to be ages to wait until the chap came in for my tray. He raised his eyebrows when he saw the two sandwiches still on the plate.

Then I said “Is Sergeant Davis about?”

“He’s about all right,” he said, “grim as you like.”

“Then tell him I want to see him right away.”

He raised his eyebrows again before he went out of the door without speaking.

I sat there trying to kid myself that I’d feel better when I’d got it over, that Flip would forgive me for coming clean.

You see, I knew all along who’d done it. Me.