Midnight on Lime Street (3 page)

Eve tried to count her blessings, though she didn’t find many on this occasion, since her mind was fully occupied by speculation relating to Baby and Don. There had to be some way of
making herself and this place safe. Aside from throttling Don, Baby or both, there was no ready solution. Never mind. Kate would bring her meal soon, and Eve loved her food.

The escape committee met behind a redundant air raid shelter on the top field. Grass on the top field was left untended, so the Brothers Pastoral seldom ventured up there, as
wild and damp herbage tended to wet their long, air force blue habits.

But the boys got together not to discuss clothing; they were gathered to condemn their supposed saviours for bad behaviour. The orphaned, the abandoned and the unmanageable had been delivered
here to be fed, clothed and educated by men of the cloth in this new order set up to care for unwanted and difficult young males. The six boys who had come together today were going to travel
beyond difficult and all the way to impossible; it was about revenge, personal dignity and freedom, and the greatest of these was freedom.

‘Did any of you tell your welfare people?’ Ian asked.

‘No,’ chorused the other five.

Ian had to admit that he, too, had failed to jump that particular fence. ‘Who’s going to listen to us?’ he asked, knowing that his question was rhetorical. ‘I’ve
been done for a load of shoplifting, Pete stuck a craft knife in some bastard teacher’s arm, and the rest of you are down as bloody trainee criminals as well. So, let’s see what
we’ve got.’

Each laid down prizes. They had wire-cutters, a Swiss army knife, a crowbar pinched from the wood and metal-work room, a hammer, an axe and an assortment of food stolen from the kitchen. There
was a bag of mixed clothing, a torch, some matches and a packet of Woodbines.

Ian eyed the knife. ‘I know what I’d like to do with that,’ he said, his tone grim. ‘I’d like to cut Brother Healey’s bits off and shove them down his
throat.’ He spoke to John, who had a terrible stammer. ‘Just nod or shake your head, lad. Have we got some money? Good. Are you sure you know the way to that old scout hut? Great. Are
you sure nobody uses it no more? Brilliant. Tonight then, lads.’ He sighed. ‘I wish we could take some of the little ones, but they’re too noisy.

‘Now, we need paper and pens or pencils, some envelopes and some stamps, because we’re going to tell people what’s been done to us. It’ll be easier in writing. I’ll
get that stuff while I’m cleaning Brother Bennet’s office. Remember, we all need to be shut in the basement tonight. This is the first time we’ve wanted to be locked up, and the
last time they’ll shove us in clink, I hope.’

The school bell sounded, and they dispersed, each boy changing into indoor shoes as soon as he reached the cloakroom. For what they hoped to be the final day, they dispersed and went to sit with
their fellows in two separate classrooms. The Brothers Pastoral were back from their session in chapel, where, no doubt, they had prayed for their own souls, because some of them were monsters,
while almost all believed that corporal punishment was good for the recipient. Why couldn’t they be more like Brother Williams, who was firm, but fair and always prepared to listen?

Ian Foster shook his head almost imperceptibly; these men of God were allied to the devil himself, especially Brother Healey, who taught Divinity. Divinity? What did this terrible man know about
that? How could he possibly be close to God?

The boy lowered his posterior onto a hard chair, all movements slow and careful, as he had been left bleeding last night. At the age of fourteen, he was now judged old enough to show his love
for God in the fuller sense, and the wicked so-called brother at the teacher’s desk had raped him. Ian needed to lead the other lads into trouble as soon as possible so that Healey would send
them to the dungeon.

He closed his right fist and imagined the crowbar gripped tightly in his fingers. Behind lowered eyelids, he watched himself bringing the metal down on Healey’s head until it burst open
like a ripe melon; even then, he didn’t stop raining blows, because the creature at his mercy was lower than an amoeba and must be rendered unrecognizable as human.

‘Ian?’ Healey called. ‘The seven gifts of the Holy Ghost are?’

Ian rose slowly to his feet. ‘Wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, fear of the Lord, Brother.’

‘Ah, you remembered them at last.’

‘Yes, thank you, Brother. I got no sleep last night, so I learned them.’

For a fleeting moment, a glimmer of fear showed in Healey’s eyes. ‘Sit down, Ian.’

The boy remained standing.

‘I said sit down.’

‘It hurts, Brother. Something happened to me, and I’ve been bleeding.’

Another boy rose to his feet, as did a third, a fourth a fifth, a sixth. They weren’t all on the escape committee, but each had been a victim. Usually too scared for words or actions, they
followed Ian’s lead, because Ian was a natural born genius and top of all classes in all subjects.

‘Go.’ Ian’s voice was soft.

Seven desk lids were lifted and slammed shut, lifted and slammed, lifted and—

‘Silence!’ Healey roared.

And slammed.

‘Stop!’ Ian’s voice rose above the clamour. To the tune of a well-known Christmas carol, he sang into the sudden and deathly silence, ‘We will get you, get you, ge-et
you, we will kill you, kill you, ki-ill you, we will hurt you all we-e can, evi-il, stinky-y, dirty-y man.’

White with shock, the man had remained immobile during the delivery of the song. ‘Out here now,’ he commanded loudly, his face turning purple with rage.

Almost casually, Ian approached the lectern behind which Healey sat. The teacher climbed down from his perch and grabbed a cane. Ian Foster held out his hand, never flinching throughout six
heavy strokes. Determinedly, he stared into the eyes of his tormentor. When the caning stopped, he managed to smile. ‘Thank you, Brother.’ All boys were trained to thank their betters
after punishment.

Healey was sweating and breathing hard; it was clear that the caning had excited him.

Ian continued to stand his ground. ‘Are you all right, Brother Healey?’ he asked, his tone saccharine sweet.

Four of the escape committee were in this class today. The other three members stood and walked to the front in response to Ian’s nod. They stood behind their leader, arms folded, mouths
tightly shut.

Healey panicked. He raised his weapon once more and lashed it across Ian’s face. Stammering John grabbed the cane while the others jumped on the man. They were fourteen years of age; they
were strong; they were healthy and, beyond all that, they were furious. John used the cane, slashing once at Healey’s face before lifting up the hem of his robe and beating his shins. He then
dragged the monk’s legs wide apart while the other three kicked their torturer repeatedly in the abdomen and testicles.

Ian placed his hands round the creature’s throat and began to squeeze. ‘Always remember, Brother, that there are more of us than there are of your scabby lot. Always remember that
we’ll grow up unless you kill us, and that we will talk. Oh, and we do pray. We pray to St Jude, patron of hopeless cases, because you and a couple of your mates need to die so that
we’ll be free of you dirty, mad, rotten bastards. You’re in Liverpool now, and Scousers take nothing lying down. Right, lads, that’ll do for now.’ The four of them returned
to their desks.

Brother Williams burst in. ‘I’ll get an ambulance,’ he cried when he saw the state of his colleague.

‘And fetch a doctor for me,’ Ian hissed. ‘Because that filthy swine shoved something of his up my back passage last night and I’ve been bleeding.’

Williams, a true Christian, simply stood as if riveted to the floor. ‘What?’ he managed finally. ‘And why is your face marked?’

Ian stood. ‘He caned me across the face, so we did the same to him. There’s Healey, Ellis and Moorhead. They interfere with us, Brother Williams.’ Inside, he was shaking, as
the hormone that had sustained him thus far was dispersing fast. He glanced at his three friends; they, too, were trembling. They needed to be put downstairs in clink, because the prison cells
provided the easiest escape. He hoped that the other two prospective escapees had misbehaved in their Latin class, so that they, too, would be placed down below.

‘Shall I get the police, Brother Healey?’ Williams asked.

‘No,’ groaned the felled man. ‘Remember? Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’

John jumped up. ‘J-J-Jesus said th-th-that on the c-cross. You w-w-w-will nev-v-ver be for-forgiven. E-evil f-f-fucker.’

Brother Williams, a calm and gentle man, led the class out into the corridor. ‘Be still and quiet,’ he advised. ‘This will be dealt with.’ He returned to the classroom
and closed the door carefully. Ian crossed the fingers of his left hand – the right was too sore. ‘Release us, God,’ he prayed inwardly.

To keep his mind further occupied, he listed the names and addresses he intended to use. The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh, Buckingham Palace, London. The Archbishop of Liverpool,
Archbishop’s House, Liverpool. The boss of Liverpool Corporation, the Welfare Department, Liverpool. Dr Masefield, Heathfield Close, Hunt’s Cross. Ian’s own mam, who lived in a
refuge somewhere in West Derby, and— Oh, God. He probably wouldn’t be cleaning the office today, so paper, envelopes and stamps might be unattainable.

He sent the whisper down the line. ‘If you clean the office, get stamps, paper, pens and envelopes. Leave them behind a milk crate on the steps.’ He hadn’t thought things
through properly, had he? If he was the brains of the outfit, God help them all.

The whole class stood for what felt like at least an hour.

Although they listened, they heard not a word from the classroom.

‘P-please, God,’ John prayed. ‘Get these bastards for us.’

‘Amen,’ breathed the rest of them.

‘I’ve been on this bloody beat for eighteen months now, and I demand a recount.’ Constable Eddie Barnes was not in the best of moods. Quick Mick was snoring
in a stall in the gents’ toilets. ‘I wouldn’t care, but he smells worse than the urinals. I wonder when he last had a wash or a bath?’

Dave Earnshaw shrugged. ‘About 1947 when he left the orphanage. It’s your turn, anyway. You’ll have to climb over and get the bugger out.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yes, he might be doing that, too.’

‘They should give us protective clothing for jobs like this,’ Eddie moaned. ‘He could have fleas, scabies, dry rot, rising bloody damp – hey, if he bites me again, I want
a tetanus jab.’

Dave couldn’t help himself; he burst out laughing. ‘Listen, you go in there, lad, and I’ll get you swilled down by the fire brigade after we’ve done here. Anyway,
I’ve got to shift Smelly Nellie, so you’re not the only one with a problem.’

‘She’s not shut in the lavs, is she? You don’t have to throw your leg over a door and split your difference if you slip.’

Dave shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s your turn – simple as that.’ He walked towards a slight, stooped old woman at the other end of Lime Street Station’s public area.
Constable Earnshaw had a soft spot for poor old Nellie. She wasn’t the most fragrant companion, but there was a strange dignity about her. Well spoken and gentle, Nellie was something of a
mystery. Her whole life was contained in a coach-built Silver Cross pram whose undercarriage had been replaced many times by her associates, one of whose number was currently comatose in the
gents’ lavatory.

‘Hello, Nellie. How are you doing, girl?’

‘I’m well, thank you, which is more than can be said for Mick. Has Constable Barnes found him?’

He nodded. ‘He’s locked himself in one of the lavs, and he’s snoring, so we know there’s life in him. I think we’ll have to take him in before he does himself a
mischief. How does he manage to get hold of the booze, Nellie?’

‘I have no idea.’

They were a clan, and he knew it. Solid as a brick wall, they stood together, one for all and all for one, secrets buried deep inside, locked away in minds that refused to open to authorities.
How many welfare workers had the ‘family’ chewed up and spat out? Yet Dave tried once more. ‘Where do they go during the day?’ he asked. ‘We see you and a couple of
others out and about, but what about Quick Mick and the rest of them?’

‘They sleep here and there,’ Nellie said.

‘And they burgle at night?’

The old woman cocked her head to one side. ‘You know I can’t answer these questions, constable. We live how we live because life let us down, or we let ourselves down. And we serve a
purpose, as you very well know.’

He had to agree, though he did it silently. The Lime Street Gang, labelled such by the police, had rescued many a runaway who had landed at train or coach station. The latest had been returned
to her home only to disappear again within hours, probably to London. London was the Other Place, and few returned from there. But he didn’t tell Nellie, because she took these things very
seriously. ‘Have the ladies been out tonight, Nellie?’

‘They have.’

‘How many?’

‘I didn’t count them. Look, Constable Dave, they do what they do, and don’t judge them. Some have children to feed, clothe and shelter, and for others, it’s the only way
of life they’ve known. They are a necessity.’

He pondered for a few moments. ‘Where did you get all that wisdom?’

She smiled at him.

‘Where did you go to school, Nellie?’

‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. Look, there’s Eddie with Mick. Look after him. He’s no longer Quick Mick since the fall, so be gentle.’ She took the handle
of her pram and began to steer it through the station. When she reached her prostrate friend, she lifted something from one of her many pockets before placing a hand on his head.

Dave watched as she turned into Lime Street. How old was she? Where had she been born and raised – where had any of them come from? And he felt almost certain that Nellie had just put holy
water on Mick’s head. She was a mystery, as were many of the other rootless souls who haunted the station.