The Stranger's Field

NB: The story of, The Strangers Field, within the story does not
belong to me. It is folklore, in my words, borrowed from Brookside last
night

The Strangers Field.

Frankie Vincent was contemplating murder.

That is to say he was waiting for a break in the heavy traffic and
deciding between murder or suicide. It was only half-hearted musing, I
mean, he wasn't actually going to do anything, was he? But there was
something about the drone of the engines and the smell of exhaust fumes
that lulled him into a kind of mindlessness. Or maybe it was down to
the anonymity and apathy of the crowds. Something changed between the
thirty-two bus passing and the white metro three vehicles later.

His eyes met those of the man in the metro. Just for a second. Only a
glance. But, in that glance Frankie saw hopelessness. He knew that if a
good looking man, sitting beside a gorgeous woman, was caught in the
rat-trap of life, then what chance could there ever be for him?

He didn't think about moving. He just did it. It was that simple.
Displacement of weight, body pushed forward, easy, just walk in front
of the petrol tanker. No thought for others, no worries about what
happens next. Strange that he took that first of two steps to his
death, because he had just decided on murder.

"Wait!"

The stranger risked his own life. He had been standing on the central
reservation also waiting to cross. His hand was outstretched, his eyes
alive.

It broke the spell. Frankie became aware of the noise surrounding him.
How had he heard that single shouted word in the cacophony? Maybe he
hadn't, maybe he just lip-read the command in the stranger's
desperation. Vehicles screeched to a halt, the stranger pushed between
the cars and lorries towards Frankie. The man crossed the road, never
breaking eye contact with Frankie, as though just by staring he could
physically stop him from taking that second step.

When he reached the pavement, just a few yards away, he didn't stop.
He pushed through people to get to Frankie. He moved the executive
barriers between them, people with mobiles and briefcases, wading
through the fog of human rush-hour mud. He had his hand on Frankie's
arm, pushing him back to a safer position. Frankie didn't hear the
first words but picked up the conversation on the last two syllables of
the sentence.

"?My friend."

He was a man waking from a dream, he turned confused eyes to the
strangr, " Stupid of me. Oh, I hope you don't think I was going to?,"
but, although neither of them knew why, they both knew he was going to
step out. Frankie ran a hand through his hair to detract from the
lie.

"There is another way. There is always another way, man." The stranger
pulled a canvas bag from his shoulder and delved inside. Very carefully
he took a paper bag from it. "In this bag lies the answer to all your
problems. I was given it in my hour of need. Now, I offer it to you my
friend, but it comes with a condition. The bag is yours to open but,
only if there is no other way. Carry it with you and if you see someone
worse off than yourself, you must pass it on to them unopened. I give
this gift gladly on that proviso."

With that the man thrust the bag into Frankie's hand and before Frankie
could say anything the stranger disappeared into the crowd.

Franie moved back against a shop doorway to open the bag. It was light,
almost weightless so it couldn't be much. The top was sealed tightly
with an elastic band. People were jostling him and after two attempts
to open the bag he gave up and carried it, as though it was a goldfish
won on a side-stall, back to his hotel.

He had a train to catch. He wondered where the time had gone. He
couldn't have been standing on that pavement for more than a few
minutes and yet two hours had ticked by on the clock. What must people
have thought as he just stood there at the side of the road for over an
hour? Probably nothing, he was just one more London crazy in a world
that doesn't care.

Things hadn't changed when he got back to Tallowdale. And yet that was
wrong. That was the whole problem things had changed. What they hadn't
done was change back again while he was away. The village had been
chocolate box perfect twelve months earlier. Was still, pretty much the
same, to look at, but on the inside it was rotten. He wondered again
how one man could single-handedly ruin an entire community. That's what
Tallowdale had been, a community. People cared, true, everyone knew
everyone else's business, you expect that in small rural villages. Now
they were scared to leave their houses for fear of being yelled at by
Harvey Reece. His music played until all hours, gangs of his no-hoper
mates revving cars, ruining the grass verges, taking up half the
street. The villagers asked him politely to turn his music down and
what did they get? threats and abuse, that's what. He was a drinker
too. Most of his neighbours liked a drink, barbies on summer evenings,
social gatherings. That's all stopped now because of his attitude.
Frankie wondered if it was their fault. Were they being petty, cliquey,
elitist? Maybe they hadn't offered the hand of friendship firmly
enough. He asked himself if they had made Reece feel like an outsider.
He wasn't the only one who had doubled his efforts at first to befriend
the man, and then, later to at least find some middle ground. It seemed
so pathetic to have your life cheapened by the behaviour of one person.
In just twelve months Harvey had brought the village to its knees. When
people did meet in the street, or at the Post Office the main
conversation was about Harvey and the misery he caused. Of course the
police were called, injunctions brought, court cases heard. Harvey was
fined and given the irony of Community Service, but he flouted the law
and turned on the villagers for his revenge. Tommy Green was only
seven, he shouldn't have seen his dog killed like that. Accident,
Harvey claimed, he had been wiping blood from his spoiler at the
time.

Frankie had forgotten about the bag. He wouldn't have done if he'd
taken the time to unpack, but on his return there was a message on his
family's machine. There was a community meeting set for that night in
The Rigger. Joan, the landlady, posted a sign in the windows saying
that it was a neighbourhood watch meeting, well, it was, sort of. He
might turn up to jeer, that was okay, it would make things easier if he
did. They wouldn't have to go looking for him.

A car was sent for old Billy Hardman, a couple of the men helped him
into his seat and someone bought him a pint. Billy was one of the
oldest men in the village. He said he was ninety-three but the church
records placed him four years older. He was beginning to forget
things.

When everyone was silent Billy cleared his throat and began to speak in
his phlegmy, warbling voice.

"In the auld days we had different ways," he began. "We had our own way
of dealing with ?," he paused, picking over his words to find the right
one, "trouble? I wants to be in my bed by nine, but fust I've got a
little story to tell you. Something to ponder over your beer. It's not
my story, just a tale of Olde English Folklore going back many years.
We didn't have no fancy courts then yer see? We had the local bobbies,
but they knew when to hold their counsel and say nowt. They knew well
as anybody the ways of the villages. In those days when trouble came a
calling we sorted it ourselves. And so goes the story of the stranger's
field. The villagers would take the trouble into a field in the dead of
night and they would kill it. One by one, every adult in that village
would deal a blow either by bludgeon or knife. Turn by turn they'd take
a go at the shovel until the grave was dug. And each in their place
would fill the grave over and bury him. It was the old way and not one
person ever spoke of it once the deed was done. Lips were sealed
tighter than the ton of earth packed atop their trouble." Billy took a
deep breath and broke into a coughing fit. Nobody spoke. Each person in
that room thought of his children and fought with his conscience. "Now,
if someone would be good enough to take me home, I think I can hear my
bed callin` to me."

Billy's walking sticks tapped out a monotonous rhythm on the floor as
he moved arthritically towards the door. Jack Miller, one of the three
farmers present, was the first to break the silence. "Aye, there was a
good rain last night. The ground will be ripe for turning."

"We can't take the law into our own hands," Said George Butler," It's
not right. `sides, we'd never getaway with it. Is that what we want? To
be spendin` the rest of our lives in jail? Who wins then, eh?. It's not
worth the risk."

"String `im up `an let `im rot," shouted Mo Sailisbury before sipping
demurely at her sweet sherry. This was greeted with several shouts of
"Aye!"

"He's still a human being," said Joan quietly. Doesn't that make us as
bad as him? We can't do it. We'd never get away with it."

"No," said Maisy Graham, "but the children would."

Several of the meeting members gasped, others stared, horrified by the
idea. Unruffled and in her own quiet way, Maisy went on to outline her
plan.

Surprisingly, he didn't struggle much. Element of surprise and all
that. Charlie Warrick had a secret talent for lock-picking, well, he
had served in the police force for over twenty years. Fast asleep he
was, all snuggled up in his filthy bed and snoring without a care in
the world. That was the first deviation from the 'olde way' they didn't
do it in the dead of night. They took Reece from his bed at ten-thirty
in the morning with the sun already high in the sky. There was no
attempt to hide what they were doing. All the villagers were out in
force. It was a bit like parade day really.

Someone had provided a chair. It stood ready in Parker's field and one
of the children giggled as it sunk a few inches into the mud when Reece
was forced into it. They tied him, they had to, but only enough to hold
him in place and save him from becoming violent. There were children
present after all.

Lucy Green was the first to go up. She was nervous and looked back at
her mum for reassurance. Lucy was eight and took the responsibility of
being the first very seriously. Her mum handed something to her very
solemnly and nodded her head. Lucy took it and carried it held out in
front of her. She was very careful and concentrated hard Her tongue was
sticking out of her mouth slightly and her eyes were wide with fear.
She wanted to do it though. Reece had been cruel to her in the past, so
it was important. She carried it at arms length in front of her, not
wanting to fall over and cut herself with it.

She stood in front of Reece and smiled at him. "This is for you," she
said. "My mum made it for me and it took a long time. I've had it in my
bedroom and it makes me feel happy when someone's been unkind to me. I
hope it makes you happy too."

She put the framed cross-stitch picture of the clown at his feet and
walked away. Reece had been gagged so that he couldn't swear in front
of the children. He made some strange noises and tried to kick the
picture.

Hannah Brown was next. Reece had teased her because she was overweight.
Hannah had changed from being a bright precocious child, sure of
herself and happy with who she was, into a withdrawn and unhappy girl
who didn't like to go out anymore. "I've baked you some cookies. I hope
they don't poison you," she joked, "I'm not very good at baking, but
I've done my best for you."

One by one the children of the village lined up to present Reece with
things that were important to them.

Little Danny Goddard struggled and squirmed in his mum's arms. He
didn't understand what was going on. He accepted, as two-year-olds do,
that the bad man was tied up in the middle of a field. He saw nothing
to be upset about. He didn't know what was happening, but people were
giving gifts and that could only mean one thing. When his mum put him
down he bent and pulled the head off a daisy. His hand-eye
co-ordination wasn't that reliable yet. With his nappy weighing him
down slightly, he took his little chimp steps across the field and
squatted in front of the bad man.

Looking earnestly up at him he sang, "Appy Bert day to you," and
everyone laughed.

Frankie Vincent was the last to go to Reece. He was just weeks shy of
his eighteenth birthday and therefore, it was decided that he should
have his turn. Frankie Vincent was the two things that Reece hated more
than anything else. He was both black and gay. The lad had been born in
the village. Doctor Vincent was a well-respected man and Mrs Vincent
brought Caribbean sunshine to the village in the middle of winter with
her wonderful spicy cooking. To Reece, he was just a shirtlifting
man.

Frankie walked up, he didn't want to hate this man. His eyes reflected
not hatred but pity. He bent over Reece and whispered something to him
before laying his gift at the other man's feet.

The ceremony was over, the villagers dispersed. Things would change
now. One way or another things would change.

Reece hanged himself that same day. He was still swinging, casting a
shadow over the ripped brown paper bag at his feet when the village men
found him. They had called at his house to see if he fancied a spot of
fishing on the tarn.

This wasn't what they had wanted but they philosophically agreed it was
closure. He was clutching a scrap of paper in his hand. The medical
examiner had to take it from him at post mortem.

The paper said.

Find a way to let love into your life. If you can't live with love,
then you can't live.