CHAPTER 1: Reaching Fingers

August 27th 1982

The stagnated water of the disused, overgrown section of the Montgomery Canal hides a copious amount of debris. The grime and silt floating on the surface shrouds tyres, bicycles, traffic cones, plastic moulded chairs and various unwanted household junk. Yet, during the summer’s heatwave, the gradual evaporation had exposed the Canal’s mysteries; its hidden underbelly, the manifestation of the wasteful nature of humanity, its weakness so prudent in the phrase, ‘out of sight, out of mind’. The stretch of waterway between Llanymynech on the Welsh border and Maesbury Marsh had been ear marked for potential restoration, and the job of decluttering the canal was the responsibility of James ‘Jimbo’ Keeling and Kev Crawford. After three months, they had only reached Crickheath, a town not even half way to Maesbury Marsh. This was partly because of the unpredictable and arduous nature of the work and, in Jimbo’s mind, Kev’s work-shy ethic and general jobsworth attitude also did not help matters. Even though Jimbo considered Kev to be a lazy bastard, he could not blame him entirely; it was a filthy and unpleasant job. 

Every once in a while they would drag an object from the sediment ridden waterway with more to recount than the average scrap of refuse. Yesterday, they had found Harriet Bentley’s cat. Jimbo recalled the missing cat posters tied to every lamp post around Upton Waters. That was eighteen months ago, still, he thought, a mystery solved. The ginger tom was barely recognisable as such, more a lifeless lump of clag with four stubby legs and a tail, but Truffles’ name tag, regardless of it being covered in slime, was still readable when swilled with the dregs of his flat lemonade. 

Today it was a three seater couch. Jimbo was certain it used to belong to Martha Woodley because, after he had wiped away the mud from the cushions, it still maintained its garish, seventies panache with its flower and waterwheel print. When Kev asked if he was certain, Jimbo regaled him with childhood memories of going to The Waterview Bed and Breakfast. It was owned by Martha Woodley or Auntie Martha as he used to call her, even though she was not a blood relation. His mother dragged him along during the school holidays and he had to wait in the lounge area while she assisted with the breakfasts and the cleaning of the rooms. This couch in particular, with its wooden armrests and wire frame cushions, was forever etched into his memory due to its ectothermic nature. Fifteen minutes of the sun beating through the bay window was all it took to turn the cushions into a virtual hotplate that, if he was unlucky enough to be wearing shorts, would scald his pink legs. 

It was an embellished tale of course. He only went to Martha Woodley’s a couple of times during the summer holidays. Under normal circumstances, he would stay at a friend or neighbour’s house, or anyone his mother could find who was willing to babysit him for that matter, even Mrs Beaver. Telling the story helped the working day pass quicker. With today being the hottest of the year, time was dragging and their usual love of seasonal assignments was being tested. The nature of the task was also undesirable. A whole summer working on the canal was an attractive proposition in April, an easy sell from their boss. By June, tedium had set in and now, at the end of August with temperatures remaining high, it was on the brink of being unendurable. The stench of the foul water, the swarms of gnats and bluebottles hovering above the mud and algae made clearing the dross a repulsive task. Granted, they were both given boat hooks to avoid going near to any dangerous areas, but, when it came to dragging Martha Woodley’s couch from the filth, they both had to don their waders and improvise. 

“I’m sure Mrs Woodley bought some new couches last year,” said Jimbo as he slid the latch into place, locking the back of the truck.

“No idea,” said Kev, “I’ve never been to that B&B, never wanted to go.”

“You don’t suppose it was before the new tip opened?”

“What was?”

“Mrs Woodley buying new furniture.”

“Who cares?” said Kev. “Either way, cheeky cow dumping her crap all the way out here. I bet her nephew did it, he’s got a van.”

“I’m sure the council would’ve collected it if she’d called them.”

“But she didn’t did she, lazy mare. I should report her for tipping.”

Jimbo smirked to himself. “If she had contacted the council, they’d have sent us to collect it anyway, which, ironically, is sort of what we’ve just done…albeit from the bottom of a canal.”

Kev remained stone faced. “Just get in.” He slipped off his waders and stepped up until he was behind the wheel.

Jimbo climbed into the other side of the cab and pulled open a can of cola. He offered Kev a swig who retorted with revulsion.

“Warm pop? Fuckin’ disgusting. Keep it. On second thoughts, go on.” Kev took the can, raised it to his lips and, with his mouth practically covering the top, gulped a mouthful. “Vile.” He handed the can back to Jimbo. “The new supermarket sells bags of ice, and it has two fridges of drinks. Couldn’t you have gone there?”

“I didn’t think.” Jimbo surreptitiously wiped Kev’s saliva from the top of the can and drank the leftover dregs. “Over thirty degrees again today.”

“Fuckin’ feels like it,” spat Kev, who turned over the truck’s engine and then recoiled when he touched the scorching steering wheel. “Jesus, it’s as hot as Bo Derek’s tits.” Reversing the truck on to the single track road, Kev applied the brake before going over the bridge. “Where next?”

Jimbo grabbed the clipboard from the foot-well. “Myddlewood Bridge about a mile down the road, no details.” 

Kev pulled away from the verge. “I hope there’s not too much crap to fish out. After Woodley’s couch, there’s not a lot of room on the back.”

Jimbo switched on the radio. The thin, trebled tones of an interview with Mike Yarwood crackled through the cheap speaker.

“And you can fuckin’ turn him off an’ all,” said Kev.

“I like him.”

“Who? Fuckin’ Yarwood? I’ve heard more convincing impressions coming from my arse in the mornings. I mean, listen to the prick, who’s he supposed to be now, cause it isn’t anyone I know?”

“That’s his own voice, it’s an interview, you idiot.”

“Impressionists on the radio, what a waste of fuckin’ time. It’s not far from that fucking magician they had on last week. A magician on the fuckin’ radio, do me a lemon. It’s all shit, mate.”

Jimbo sighed, turned the volume until it clicked to silence and wondered why he bothered to switch it on in the first place.

Parking near Myddlewood Bridge, Kev slid from the cab, unzipped the upper part of his overalls, slipped his arms out of the sleeves and tied them around his waist. “The sweat’s rolling down my crack,” he complained, and pulled off his t-shirt giving his upper body a chance to cool.

Jimbo turned in disgust. “Put it away.”

“What?”

“Your gut.”

Kev proudly rubbed his rounded stomach. “It’s taken years to get it like this.”

“Come on, let’s get on with it,” said Jimbo, and he walked to the arch of the stone, humped back bridge. Glancing over the side, he observed the towpath. Although untended in places, thanks to the regular jaunts of dog walkers and ramblers, it was relatively clear of shrubbery and weeds. The waterway was similar to every other section of the canal they had visited during the hot weather. The water level was low and its ambience dismal from the muddy water emitting a foul stink in the heat of the afternoon. On the opposite side of the towpath, overgrown bushes and foot-tall grasses reached and over the edge. Sagging trees drooped over the foul canal, their leaves and branches muddied where they once lay in the water until the heatwave had lowered the waterline. 

Near the towpath, Jimbo spotted a submerged frame of a bicycle, its pedals protruding from the murky water. That’ll be four now, he counted in his head. He then glimpsed the silver frame and grey wheels of an upturned shopping trolley. “First one, Kev.”

“One what?”

“Shopping trolley.”

“Where?”

Jimbo pointed. “In the middle, you should be able to see the wheels.”

Kev used a palm to shield his eyes from the sun and squinted. “Jesus Christ, it didn’t take long for the kids to drag one all this way. It must be five miles at least.”

“Is the boathook long enough to pull it in?” asked Jimbo.

“I doubt it, besides, it’ll be stuck in the mud.” Kev tutted to himself, ambled back to the truck, took the boathook from the back and scrambled down the short, overgrown embankment to the towpath. Kneeling, he reached into the water and splashed silt under his pits. “Refreshing.”

“You animal,” shouted Jimbo.

After Kev had lifted out the rusted, weed twisted bike frame, he fished at the shopping trolley. Holding the boat hook as near to the end as possible, he used the whole of his reach in hope the hook would snag on the metal frame. “It’s too far,” he complained, throwing the boathook onto the embankment. “You’re going to have to go in and drag it out.”

“Why me?” Jimbo protested.

“Because you’re still wearing your waders.”

“Bollocks, you put yours back on.”

“Piss off, I went in first after that couch, remember.”

Jimbo swore to himself and, with his head dipped, sauntered from the bridge to the towpath. 

“The boathook wouldn’t have done any good anyway,” said Kev.

“Why?”

“It’s probably stuck in the sludge on the bottom. It’ll require more leverage.”

Jimbo stared at the surface of the water and mused. “How deep is it do you reckon?” He was already aware of how deep it was, he was simply delaying having to enter the canal.

“The height of a shopping trolley, obviously,” said Kev.

Jimbo leered back. Sitting on the stone edge, he dipped his feet into the water, their outline vanishing inches from the surface. Holding up his arms, Kev approached from behind, grabbed them and eased him into the cold, muddy trench. A pang of comfort blanketed Jimbo. In the stifling heat, the cool sensation of stagnant water against his waders was not unpleasant especially as it reached above his belly button. Concerned he only had six inches grace before water could flow over the top of his waders, he stepped mindfully and gingerly away from the towpath and towards the trolley.

Beneath his feet he could detect stones, bricks or pieces of the bridge fallen into the water due to natural erosion and decay. He stepped on something soft, a type of plant, or at least he hoped it was a plant. He had reached half way when his foot collided with an object. He stumbled, his feet constantly stepping on stones and rocks. After cursing, he eventually stepped on flat ground and steadied himself. In his effort to regain his balance, the tepid, foul water splashed across his face and into his mouth. He recoiled in disgust, violently spitting several times before calming. “Some of it’s gone down my waders.”

Kev chuckled at his colleague’s misfortune. “Don’t panic. You’re nearly there.”

“Stop laughing, you prick,” snapped Jimbo, before continuing to take tentative steps.

“Just fucking get on with it then.”

Reaching the trolley’s frame, he spun one of the wheels. He found it amusing how it was still operational after spending however many months underwater, especially if you compare it to the uncontrollable steel carts currently parked outside the supermarket. The frame was littered with stones and a couple of half bricks which he cleared to reduce the weight. When he pulled at the trolley, it would not budge. Kev’s hunch of it being stuck in the mud was correct. Not wanting to be defeated, Jimbo jerked the trolley several times. The rocking motion yielded a modicum of give. “It’s coming loose,” he said, and snatched it hard towards himself. The trolley came free from its restriction toppling Jimbo, causing him to step back. As he reaffirmed his grip, he gazed into the metal basket. A pale, ghostly, lifeless face emerged; its barren expression, mottled skin and half eaten eyes chilled his core.

Jimbo panicked and fell backwards, his whole body plunging into the filthy water. He surfaced seconds later, thrashing his arms, gasping for breath. Rushing to the towpath he spat water at Kev, who was pointing and laughing at his sodden colleague.

Jimbo pulled himself onto the canal side and snapped at Kev. “Shut the fuck up.” 

“That was so fucking funny.”

“There’s something down there.”

“What? Your balls?” Kev continued to snort but stopped when, in the middle of the canal through the rusted frame of the shopping trolley, he glimpsed reaching fingers looming through the metal cage.