Tales Of Old Buile Hill

Chapter Two: Empty Sheds

Chapter Two: Empty Sheds

Deputy Director Caulfield, Melia’s boss, was having trouble with his new friends.

"You cannot expect me to climb that fence," he told them.

It was five o'clock in the morning in Buile Hill park, several hours after Melia had left the scene, and it was the other side of the Manor House, an area that might have been

the stables when the place was occupied. In recent years it had been a Council Depot, active even when the big house had been boarded up and abandoned. Salford Council found a need for the old buildings, mainly using them

to house their street sweepers and other practical vehicles, like the sit-on grass cutters that kept the parks of the city neat and tidy. There were a range of buildings in the compound, different shapes and sizes, including

a little house that was used as offices, but then, suddenly and abruptly, this part of the old Buile Hill was given up too. The workers moved out, the vehicles moved elsewhere and a big padlock was put on the gate. The only

visitors from then on were the local vandals, mostly young people, who had an interest in wrecking the place.

Like Mr Caulfield's gang.

They were there to 'state their case', they told him. To 'make a point'. The Council weren't listening to them, they said, so they would 'have to show them'.

It didn't impress Caulfield. It was lawlessness, and, strictly speaking, he was an Officer of the Law. He hadn't told them that. He hadn't told them much about himself. He wasn't used to sharing.

Perhaps it was simply that he wasn't used to being in the position of having 'friends'. He had spent most of his middle-aged life knowing that most of the world hated him,

and he had learned to live with that. He realised that he was happiest with himself when he could look in the mirror and know he was well dressed, in a smart suit, probably Italian, a flamboyant shirt and impressive tie. He

liked himself like that. He didn't care what anyone else thought. He had reached middle-age with the belief that he didn't need other people, so he simply made sure he had the best haircut available, flicked back his

hair and carried himself like a military man. Deep down he knew, although he wouldn't admit it, that all he really wanted in the world was to be Captain Gibson, the actual Director of the Unit, and deep down he feared

- and it was a constant irritant - that he might never get to that height.

What did he do wrong, now? How did he get in this position?

He had made the mistake of moving house.

For years, ever since he moved to Britain from Australia, he had lived in a succession of nondescript flats, anonymous apartments that he preferred to be already furnished, so that

he didn't even have to bother to think about what there was to sit on, or sleep on, or eat his breakfast on. But then Mickey had bought a house in North Salford, and he seemed so happy with it, gazing out of his front

window onto the playing fields of Northumberland Street, up near Bury New Road. Caulfield realised that, since he was not in the habit of spending money unnecessarily, he had enough savings for a deposit on just such a suburban

dwelling, and he strolled into a local Estate Agent and asked them what they had available to buy that day. He was directed to Strike Island.

It was an area he wasn't familiar with. Down by the river, on the opposite side to the University, the neighbourhood consisted mostly of what was once called 'Council Houses'.

Built in the 1970s on land that had once been occupied by meagre terraced streets, with small houses, cheek by jowl, no gardens but a lively community atmosphere, the area had been completely cleared by Salford Council and

replaced by smart new brick houses with tiny gardens at the front and back and room to park your car. Then, a decade later, the government of Mrs Thatcher had made the decision to make such rented property available for sale

and slowly, house by house, street by street, the previous community spirit was whittled away and replaced by a more 'go-getter' attitude. The residents had been encouraged to show rugged individualism, and they took

up the challenge in a rather aggressive way.

Caulfield encountered this tendency the first day he moved into his freshly painted house in Strike Island. There was a knock on the door and he opened up to find a number of his new

neighbours standing there. In more amenable parts of the city, they might have presented him with a basket of fruit and a cheery smile. There were no smiles. They simply told him his presence was required at 'Dan's

house', somewhat further along the street. Now.

Mr Caulfield made gentle efforts to demur, but his objections were swept aside. Thus, he found himself sitting in the corner of a rather threadbare sofa, offered a can of rather suspect

lager beer, and forced to listen to a tirade against the supposed enemy, Salford Council. What had they done - apart from sell up their 'Social Housing', at the behest of central government in London?

They had caused the floods.

Caulfield rested his elbow on the side of the settee and found a place to rest his can beside it, on top of a pile of cardboard boxes, stacked full of more beer. So, these people had

a hobby then, he reasoned, (and it wasn’t healthy).

It meant they weren't that bothered about their own health, he could see. No, none of them were wearing masks, despite the fact that the pandemic was still running rife. They laughed

in the face of a real threat to their health, it seemed, but appeared to be wound up about a supposed threat to their property from an overflowing River Irwell, just on their doorstep. They talked about a 'hundred year

event', which should have meant any bad flood would only happen once in a hundred years, but it had happened last Christmas, they told him, and it might happen again.

When it did, several weeks later, Caulfield was unprepared.

He was roused from his bed by loud shouting from outside and banging on his door. He staggered downstairs in his dressing gown and was told to 'wrap up warm and grab a shovel'.

Warmer clothes he had, a spade he didn't.

A few minutes later he was following the crowd to the end of the street, where he was astonished to see the river, lapping against the end house. That wasn't right! Water belonged

in the river, not in people's houses.

"Grab those sandbags!" he was told, and the well-turned out and spruced up Mr Caulfield found himself part of a human chain, desperately trying to make a barrier against

the rising tide.

This didn't seem right, he was thinking. Sure, it had been raining during the day, but seemingly no more than a usual Salford autumnal day. Where had all these flood-waters come

from? More importantly, where were they going? Caulfield had read in a local newspaper that a new Flood Basin had been opened in this part of the city. The plan was that anything untoward coming down the river from Bolton

or Bury would be diverted into it, (the old racecourse). It seemed like a foolproof plan to the Deputy Director.

Seemingly, it wasn't working?

In one of the short breaks allowed, when another neighbour from further up the street towards the landward side appeared with a tray of hot drinks, Caulfield tried to quiz the inhabitants.

What had gone wrong with the anti-flood precautions?

"You heard the siren?" one replied. "That's it. An early warning. That's the best they can give us."

Caulfield shook his head. There had been lots of sirens - there always was in this part of town. Which one in particular?

Later still, when they moved to the property next door and started adding sandbags to this next house in the line, Caulfield noticed some metal plates leaning against the wall, next

to the front door. They seemed to be rusting.

When he enquired politely what they were for, the householder reacted angrily.

"They're meant to stop the water!" he snarled, and showed the Deputy Director how the thick metal was meant to slot into slides either side of the door and form a waterproof

seal. It didn't work. The slider on one side was bent inwards.

How did that happen?

"The kids - " the man said vaguely.

So, the residents had been provided with some protection, but it wasn't maintained.

One of the other 'helpers', a tall man with reserved manners, pulled him to one side.

"After the last inundation," he whispered, trying not to be overheard, "I changed my front door. It's waterproof up to a metre and a half of water. Doesn't come

cheap, mind. None of the rest of them would pay for such a thing."

No, Caulfield reflected, back in the cold and damp of an autumn morning, the sun not yet up. These people would rather join the 'Blame Culture' and choose somebody - in this

case, the Council - or anybody, rather than admit that their future was in their own hands. It was more fun to have an enemy, he was thinking, knowing that he fulfilled that role for many of his colleagues down at Regional

Office. He wasn't the 'Most Popular Man' in the Service.

"You don't have to climb the fence," a man in a mask announced, back in the present. "I've cut a hole in it."

The protesters piled through and spread out around the site to explore. The buildings were on a slope, down towards another fence, near the tennis courts. Some people went left and

right, but Caulfield was drawn to a phalanx of the mob moving south, away from the gate. There, furthest point from the entrance, were the remains of several large greenhouses. The glass was long gone, but the timber frames

were still standing, even though grass and weeds had grown from the floor to waist height.

"It's wood," one masked invader said, thrilled. "It will burn lovely."

Caulfield was outraged. The glasshouses were historic. They were well-made and would last another lifetime, if they could be restored. Why destroy them now? Just to upset the Councillors?

What a total waste!

He leapt forward, about to argue his case, but a new development changed the need for that.

"Someone's coming!" someone shouted from the gate.

The interlopers sneaked back up the slope, keeping to the shadows, so as to not be seen. They bent over, trying to keep out of sight. What was going on? Caulfield heard the distinct

sound of a diesel engine, revving hard.

Looking out through the fence, Caulfield was astonished to see a fuel tanker pull up to their left, towards the Manor House. It must have come into the park, passed them, gone down

towards the Conference Centre and turned around. Now it was parked up, at the extreme left of the Depot. The driver leapt from his cab and started fussing with what looked like a derelict wooden cupboard on the wall. He opened

the lid and revealed several large spigots.

"He's pumping gas!" somebody whispered, unnecessarily.

"I queued an hour to fill my car last week," another man said.

It was true. There had been a national shortage of petrol and diesel at filling stations in the last month. There had been a 'shortage of drivers', the television News told

them. So what was this? The government could spare a few thousand gallons for an empty Depot? Where were the vehicles that needed to be filled?

Luckily the pumps of the tanker made sufficient noise to mask anything the fired-up residents were saying. It was certainly odd, Caulfield had to agree. The filling process went on

and on. There must be a huge underground tank, he was thinking.

He felt a tap on his shoulder. Looking round, one of the most vocal of the contingent was beckoning him.

"Dave has got into one of the sheds," the man whispered, over his shoulder. "You need to look at this."

'Dave' had indeed broken a padlock and pulled back the door of a large building. It opened smoothly on a surprisingly well-oiled hinge. There was just enough light to make

out a shape.

"It's a tank," Dave said.

Technically speaking, it's an armoured personnel carrier, Caulfield was thinking, but he didn't say.

"What's it doing here?" the two men asked, almost in unison.

Caulfield was appalled. Why was he the one who was expected to know? Had they guessed who he was?

Okay, he was employed by British Security, but looking at this - this thing - he had to admit, verbally and in his own head, he really had no idea what it was 'doing there'.

No. He didn't have a clue.