Murder By Illusion

One

OneA FEW YEARS AGO

The Promenade, Whitburn on Sea

I see the bad moon rising, I see trouble on the way.

DESOLATE SEAGULLS WHIRL AIMLESSLY AGAINST STEEL GREY AUTUMNAL SKY, damp and drizzly; it has been raining on and off all day, an insistent rain, not heavy but relentlessly miserable. A chill wind blows in from the dull grey sea, the colours of sea and sky so closely match it is hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.

It is midafternoon in late September, but the darkening iron-hewed sky presages the oncoming evening sooner than the clocks might suggest. Daylight is fading, if the miserable grey murk could ever be considered as daylight. Grey and damp, Whitburn on Sea, huddled on the Yorkshire coast between Scarborough and Whitby is at best, on a bright summer's day, unprepossessing. On this day at the end of season, damp and grey, it is not even second or third cousin to the smarter, more successful seaside towns along the coast. Smart sophisticated Scarborough with its North and South bays, roughhewn Whitby with its Abbey, fishing fleet, the best fish and chips in the land and its Dracula connection, sensible Bridlington, genteel Filey, they all far outshine Whitburn on Sea as desirable east coast seaside holiday destinations.

The beaches are cold and windswept, all but deserted as lines of curling whitecaps march across the bay; a lone surfer in a black and red wetsuit out on the grey foam flecked waters of Whitburn Bay briefly rides a jagged curling wave before falling off – wipeout - and an elderly gentleman, well wrapped up, slowly walks back and forth with a metal detector in his gloved hand, searching for coins dropped by holiday makers. He gets a beeping signal, bends down to find his treasure and throws whatever he has found aside in disgust and moves on again. A few yards further on he gets anther beep and finds a ten pence piece, his total haul for four hours of cold and miserable metallic beach combing, fifty-seven pence, not much, but when you have to live on a state pension, every penny counts.

One or two hardy souls huddle into deckchairs on the promenade, determined to get their money's worth, whatever the weather, or maybe they have nowhere else to go, being unfortunate boarders at a seafront bed and breakfast where guests must vacate their rooms by ten and cannot return until five.

The bandstand in the meagre strip of grass and thin weedy flowerbeds that passes for the seafront park, (although there is a crazy golf course) is empty apart from a sodden heap of wind strewn rubbish, soft drink cans, three used condoms of assorted colours and a discarded syringe. Residents at the Oakleaf Retirement Home for the Elderly opposite the park on the seafront might recall the last time a brass band actually played in in the band stand, but it was surely many years ago – and probably out of tune.

The beach huts, paint peeling and sandblasted are all shut up, left to huddle together against the sea wall. Further along the promenade, a few amusement arcades are still open, a bingo caller half-heartedly calling out his numbers to the 10 or 11 women still hoping to land a win, 'Number 15 young and keen, and we all know what that means in nine months' time, don't we ladies? Number 44 droopy drawers; number 69 either way up; number 34 ask for more; number 3 cup of tea and we have a winner.'

Slot machines swallow endless coins and refuse to pay out, the crane claw grab drops but does not pick up a fluffy bunny, the mechanical clown in his glass cage still sways and laughs with an evil glint of eye, the money changer in her cubicle yawns and scratches her armpits, business was as dull as the weather outside.

Whirling screeching seagulls squabbling over a fallen chip; scraps of paper, a discarded crisp packet skitters along the pavement. The whelk stalls, kiss me quick hats and bucket and spade stalls, pink tooth rotting rock and candy floss stalls and hot dog stalls are all mostly still open, shutters raised, the stall holders wrapped in coats and scarves hoping to squeeze a last pound or two from the desultory holiday makers scurrying along the front to avoid a sudden sharp squall before the season finally crawls to an undignified halt.

Gypsy Rose Colangelo, (real name Martha Smith) Fortune Teller to the Stars, is still open for business, but her crystal ball obviously failed to advise that she would have no customers that day. Harry's Fish and Chip is still open, serving chips, cod and haddock, battered sausages, chicken pies, steak pies, kebabs and pickled onions but custom is slow. The Mayflower Tea Room is open, with tea and scones, cucumber sandwiches, Danish pastries and iced tea cakes on offer but apart from two old ladies who have spent more than an hour over one pot of tea with scones and strawberry jam, the café is empty.

Whitburn on Sea is dying on its feet and nobody gives a damn. No, it is already dead but nobody can be bothered to tell it so.

There are few cars parked on the promenade, nobody is going to the beach today and anyway there is nothing to look at out to sea apart from greyness and rain. A grey Ford Focus, an appropriate colour, is parked a bit further down the promenade. A young family from Leeds, the Elliott's on a day trip to the seaside are inside, Denise and Alan Elliott, sit in front eating fish and chips( from Harry's) directly from the paper, the air redolent with fish and vinegar, the car will stink for days afterwards. Behind, them Wayne and Beverly, aged 7 and 5 with a bag of chips between them. argue and bicker, pushing and shoving at each other, each claiming that the other started it, 'Mum, Wayne's got more chips than me,' 'Dad, Beverly kicked me,' 'Mum, Wayne pinched me,' 'Wayne…,' 'Dad, Beverly…,' 'Mum…Dad…'

Mum and Dad aren't talking to each other either, the atmosphere is frigid and brittle, and the outing has been a disaster. Alan didn't want to come in the first place but Denise insisted; he was out of work again and they could not now afford a new television set and so the kids had been placated with a trip to the seaside. Which everyone had hated.

In the distance fairground lights, a multi coloured coruscation, brighten the heavy leaden sky and faint snatches of a carousal organ drift across the choppy waves and the wooden pier, a relic of a Victorian golden age that never happened stretches out into the grey curling wind-flecked seas as heavy swells roll around the posts and cross bracing of the timber supports.

Irritated by all the arguing and squabbling Alan bundles up his chip papers into a ball, opens his window and throws it out, startling a wandering seagull, which squawks in indignation and flaps away. 'Alan,' Denise snaps, 'don't throw your chip papers out like that, it's littering, what if you were seen, you could get fined and how can we afford that, eh, get out and pick it up. Put it in a bin. Go on.'

'Aagh, f**k off, woman. Do it yourself'

'Mum, Dad said a rude word,' Beverly shouts, smirking, not quite sure why 'f**k' was a rude word, knowing only that it was.

'You can shut your trap an' all.' Alan snarls, he is in a foul temper, to think he gave up an afternoon in front of the (old) television for this f*****g nightmare, racing from Kempton Park was on and he could have a bet, he fancied Blue Mountain Prince in the 3 o'clock race, odds at 7/ 1, not carrying too much weight, soft going, should be a walk up. Could have had a bet at a bookies here of course, but Denise wouldn't hear of it, I know you, once you get into a bookies you'll be there all afternoon, besides we got no money for betting,' but he had a fiver tucked away she didn't know about, a fiver on Blue Mountain Prince at 7/1, that's 35 quid, more than enough for a few drinks and another bet or two. f**k! (As it turned out, Blue Mountain Prince finished fifth, several lengths behind the favourite, Moonshine Retreat at 4/1 on. He lost his fiver a few days later when a sure fire accumulator failed to produce a single winner.)

Reaching over, Alan switches on the car radio, turning the volume up high to shut out the sound of bickering and fighting from behind. 'And our classic blast from the past' a DJ announces in a bad imitation of an American accent, is Credence Clearwater Revival and, 'Bad Moon Rising' which made number one, back in 1969.'

The song echoes out from the open window of the car, to be snatched away by the wind to mingle with the raucous shrieks of the seagulls.