The granite blade of Castle Hill loomed above us, like the bow of a submarine breaching through the valley floor, casting everything around it into shadow. On the other side of the bridge, I took a left, skirting the twisted cobbled streets and heading for the post-war beige-and-grey sprawl of Cowskillin.
Where are we
I m not letting you interview anyone like that: you ll scare the serial killers. Up ahead the City Stadium dominated the surrounding housing estate like a big metal BDSM mistress. Trust me, I know what ll sort you out.
The Renault bumped over the rutted dirt of the parking lot. About half a dozen morons were marching in a little circle outside the main entrance to the Westing, each one carrying placards
with things like GAMBLING IS SATAN S PATH!, HE THAT HASTETH TO BE RICH HATH AN EVIL EYE!, and JESUS WILL SAVE US FROM OUR SINS!!! Breath streaming out behind them.
From the front, the Westing had all the bland grey-and-blue-painted-corrugated-iron charm of a cash-and-carry on a rundown industrial estate. Six-foot-high plastic letters were mounted above a little recessed opening: The Westing, and the silhouette of a sprinting greyhound, bordered with blue and red neon. As if anyone didn t know what this place was. Or who owned it.
I parked next to a dented minibus with PaedoPopeMobile in spray-paint graffiti along the side, then climbed out into the cold afternoon.
The greyhound track sat on the edge of a sprawling Fifties housing development. A couple of pubs lurked on the other side of the road along with a minicab office, and a newsagents, the shiny modern bulk of the City Stadium looming in the background.
A stray beam of sunshine carved its way through the heavy clouds, glittering off Bad Bill s Burger Bar a jury-rigged Transit van that scented the air with the dark, savoury smell of frying onions and mystery meat.
The man himself lounged in a folding chair in front of the van, sunbathing and smoking a cigarette and scratching himself. His pale hairy stomach bulged out between a pair of fraying jeans and a pink short-sleeved shirt. Arms thick as cabers, tattoos snaking about beneath the fur.
He looked around, squinted at me, then jerked his chin in the air, setting everything wobbling. Nodded towards his van. He pinged his cigarette butt off into the shadows, levered himself out of the chair, stomped to the back doors, and clambered inside. The Transit rocked on its springs.
Dr McDonald shifted her feet. Are you it s not exactly the most hygienic-looking of places. I m sure it s got its own rustic charm, but I can t Ash?
I was already walking.
Great, now I get alcohol poisoning and food poisoning.
By the time we d reached the serving hatch Bill was tying an apron around his swollen middle, the rumble of a kettle filling the van s interior with steam. A radio burbled out mass-produced plastic pop, fighting against the hiss and crackle of onions on a flat greasy griddle.
You believe these pricks? Bill jerked a thumb at the protesters. Like that s going to make a pube s worth of difference.
I sniffed at the menu chalked up on the side of the van where the paint was matt, like a blackboard. Two teas: white, sausage buttie, and a hangover special.
Dr McDonald tugged at my sleeve. But I don t
Like I said: trust me.
Bill took the stainless-steel lid off a deep-fat fryer and dumped six sausages into the hot oil. A handful of streaky bacon rashers went in after them, popping and crackling. He scratched himself with a pair of tongs. These religious types get right on my moobs.
The song faded out on an autotuned harmony. And we ll be playing the other three semi-finalists songs after the break, but first here s Doug with the news and weather. What do you think, Doug, who you backing?
Sophie for Britain s Next Big Star, definitely, Mike. Anyway, here s the headlines at half-past twelve this morning. The head of Oldcastle City Council says he won t be resigning after allegations surfaced earlier this week
The little circle of protesters started singing: a ragged sound that favoured volume over talent. ROCK OF AGES, CLEFT FOR ME, LET ME HIDE MYSELF IN THEE! Pumping their placards up and down like the world s dreariest merry-go-round.
Holier-than-thou bawbags. Bill curled his lip.
People go to the Westing, they re no looking for spiritual awakening, are they? He produced two floury white rolls from beneath the counter, tore them open, and slathered both sides with butter. Nah, folks are looking for a wee thrill. Want to escape the grinding shite of the old day-to-day.
BE OF SIN THE DOUBLE CURE, SAVE FROM WRATH AND MAKE ME PURE!
unavailable for comment. Oldcastle Police have refused to confirm or deny that local girl Megan Taylor missing since last night has been snatched by the serial killer known as The Birthday Boy. We spoke to Assistant Chief Constable Gary Drummond
So much for the you re all mute talk.
