Midnight on Lime Street (32 page)

A terrified Kate arrived eventually, and she was not alone. Behind her trotted Mo, Judy, Cynthia and Angela. Good God, they’d formed a posse, or maybe they were a wagon train, she thought
as they surrounded the bed. They looked concerned for her, but nowhere did she find a trace of pity. Her girls were grounded, and they took life with all its vagaries in their stride.

Cynthia donated a smile. ‘They don’t normally let five people in at once, but you’re a difficult patient, so here we are. We’ve got clean knickers and stuff.’

Eve spoke to Angela. ‘I thought you’d be packing your bags.’

Miss Whiplash blinked. ‘If you think I’m leaving Kate to cope with you on her own, even with the help of this motley lot, you can think again. And if you don’t behave,
I’ll be there to batter you. OK?’

‘You’re staying?’

‘Yes, for a while. My sister will keep the flat for me. I’ve told her my friend’s very ill.’

They pulled the curtains round and dressed her carefully. Tears threatened, but Eve held back the storm. This was what she wanted – her own kind, her own girls around her. Yes, there would
be pain, but these women would fight to keep her free of it. ‘Does Mannix know I’m discharging myself?’

‘Yes,’ Mo replied, ‘and he’s hopping mad, like a frog with a moustache.’

‘So am I, but with a smaller muzzy. I should have refused to get in the ambulance in the first place.’

‘You were in too much pain to care,’ Cynthia reminded her. ‘They’ve given Kate medication for that. If it gets worse, you’ll be on morphine.’ As ever, Cynthia
didn’t bother to dress up the information.

‘I know. I’ve lived this nightmare from your side of the fence, and it’s not easy. But bless you all for hanging in with me.’

Angela blinked again. No way was she going to start crying here in front of everybody. ‘Where else would we be, Eve?’

Eve closed her eyes. Yes. Where else would they be? Even Angela Whiplash cared. This was an illustration of true female solidarity, a natural unity men often failed to understand.
‘Marching as to war,’ Eve quoted.

Kate smiled sadly; the hymn was on Eve’s list of funeral instructions.

Mo helped Eve with stockings and shoes. ‘Right, you’ll do,’ she said.

‘Belle and Tom are waiting for you with that lovely dog called Max,’ Kate said. ‘And I’ve got painkillers for you. Sally and Babs are coming for a visit soon. People do
care, Evie.’

‘I know. I’m grateful. Now, get me out of this morgue.’

They got her out. The farm van was parked at the front of the building, and the girls helped her into the front passenger seat. ‘Who’s driving?’ she asked.

‘Angela,’ was the chorused answer.

‘Can you drive?’ Eve wanted to know.

‘You’ll soon find out. Climb in the back, you lot.’

Alone in the cabin with the boss, the dominatrix spoke to Eve, and this time she didn’t try to stop herself sounding emotional. ‘It’s been hard for you, Eve. Let’s see if
we can make what’s left as easy as humanly possible.’

‘It’s appreciated, Angela.’

‘It’s deserved. Right. Which one of these thingies is the clutch?’

Sally Hayes was in a bit of a quandary. She liked Ian, who was only fifteen, but she liked Bill Tyler, too. He was sweet and funny and sometimes quite magical, especially when
his face was alight with mischief. ‘I must be desperate,’ she told herself frequently. ‘I fancy anybody young, anybody not old enough to be him.’
Him
.
Him
was her mother’s second husband, and Sally’s nemesis. ‘Stop thinking about the rat,’ she ordered herself in a whisper. She had the kitchen to clean and Mr Crawford’s
teatime snack to make. But she kept on thinking about Ian and Bill, Bill and Ian – she was a mess.

She knew why, of course. It was because neither of these young men frightened her, and the relationship between her and Babs had taught her that physical love didn’t have to involve pain,
so she was almost ready to take the next step towards what might be judged a normal, acceptable life. Yet a few shards of fear remained embedded, probably because her mother had not protected her
from the monster, and trust did not come easily to Sally.

Don Crawford’s needs were easily satisfied because, as Babs often said, he would have trouble penetrating tissue paper, let alone a girl, but Sally still felt sick in his presence. Babs
protected her from him some of the time, but Babs wasn’t always here these days, and the old man was unpredictable, to say the least. Although the girls now had their own room, he still came
in to look at them, to watch while they slept or gossiped or argued. Babs was forever reminding Sally that this man provided for them, fed and clothed them, and had even included them in his will,
but Sally continued to have a problem with trust. Oh, and he made her flesh crawl . . .

One of Sally’s jobs was to keep Bill’s room clean and tidy while he was off out learning plastering. He liked plastering, said it was an art form and that he intended to be its most
devoted student. ‘I’m going to sign my work once I can get the bloody stuff to stop falling off the walls,’ he had told her. He intended to be known as Master Plaster. He came
home each evening covered in the stuff, but he was always wreathed in smiles. Today, he arrived at Wordsworth House early. ‘I done a ceiling,’ he announced. Most of it was all right,
but a bit fell off on the boss’s head, so he chased me with a shovel.’

‘Did he catch you?’ Sally asked.

‘Yes, but he never hit me cos that’s how his last apprentice died.’

‘He
is
joking?’

‘All the bloody time, Sally. There’s no peace. He sent the lad learning carpentry for a box of bent nails. The boy asked why, and the boss said, “You bend the buggers anyway,
so I thought I’d save you the bother
.
” Then we found him with two tins of paint, one blue, one yellow. He said he was inventing striped gloss.’

‘Why?’ she asked.

Billy shrugged. ‘No flaming idea.’

‘He must be mad as a hatter,’ Sally concluded.

‘That’s what we said, but he wanted to know why the hell he shouldn’t have striped paint. Really, he was making an exclusive shade of lime green for his own front door and
windowsills. He’s mad. I like him.’

When she’d stopped laughing, Sally asked, ‘Is he pleased with you overall, though?’

‘We have to provide our own overalls.’

‘Now you’re the one acting soft.’

He winked and shrugged. ‘I think I’ve caught the boss’s illness.’

‘Glad it’s that boss and not Boss boss from Halewood or wherever. I wish they’d catch him, Bill. Somebody must be hiding him, because he’s supposed to be six foot four in
his socks and as broad as he’s tall.’

‘The Met’s looking for him as well, you know.’

‘The which?’

‘Scotland Yard. Hiding in London has to be easier. I’m going for a bath.’ He picked up a towel and stared hard at her. ‘Can you read? I mean read proper – like fast
and without pictures?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will you teach me? I can read some, but not proper like Roy could.’

‘I’ll help you.’

‘Thanks.’ Wearing disgraceful overalls and a broad smile, he left his bedroom.

She finished straightening the room, went into the kitchen, washed her hands and made Mr Crawford’s sandwich and tea. She would clean this room later. Bill couldn’t read? He’d
got to eighteen without learning to read properly? A grin spread itself across her face. ‘He told me,’ she murmured. ‘He asked me, so he trusts me.’ Perhaps that trust might
work both ways? Perhaps she could trust him. She needed someone who would look after her, keep her safe from . . . from stuff she didn’t want to think about.

Don Crawford was in frisky mode, and Babs wasn’t here to take the front line when trouble started, because Babs was out learning about horse riding and something called tack and how to get
a horse to prepare for a nearby obstacle. For Sally, that was mostly Greek. She was no longer terrified of Murdoch, but she wasn’t a devotee like Babs.

When the old man put his hand up Sally’s skirt, she reacted with a fury of which she had never before been aware, slapping his arm quite hard.

He was stroking her bare thigh when she turned on him. ‘Listen, you dirty old man – if I leave here, so will Babs, and that bloody horse will get nowhere. You know the score; your
heart’s not great, and I can make it a damned sight worse.’

‘I paid for you,’ he said. ‘And Babs is too fond of her horse to leave me.’

‘I wasn’t for sale. Now, Babs is used to you, and I’m not. I’ve put up with you leering at us when we’re in bed, but don’t ever touch me when Babs isn’t
here, or I’ll make sure you have the big heart attack a bit earlier than you might have expected. Babs quite likes you; I don’t. Get used to it. She’s your real baby girl, anyway.
I’m just like a spare part.’

She flounced towards the landing, catching a last glimpse of him as she turned to close the door. ‘I can soon tell Mr Macey about you; he thinks Babs and I are nurses and cleaners, cooks
and bottle-washers. He’ll get us somewhere decent to live when he finds out what a shit you are.’ She smiled. His jaw hung slack and loose; she could do it! She could tell older men to
piss off, and it worked.

Although unaware of the details, this was the day on which Sally took hold of her own power. Layer upon layer of resentment and anger had piled high inside her for many years and, on this
afternoon, those layers finally melded together and became both armour and weaponry. At last, she was growing up.

Right, what next? Ah yes, she had a kitchen to clean and a meal to make for four hungry lads . . . Just now, she liked Bill best.

*

I think I already mentioned Trevor Burns, who was our family butcher when we were still a family. He was the one who got me into Meadowbank where I met Angela, who is going to
move soon to East Prescot Road in Knotty Ash. She punishes me, and I know I need her to carry on doing just that, because I’m bad. Going with a whore is wicked . . . But it’s part of
the job, or so I keep trying to convince myself.

Well, I’ve been out on collections a few times lately. I like the autonomy of that; I like being alone but among people who stay away from me. And I was dragging letters out of a pillar
box on Bold Street and shoving them in the bag when he tapped me on the shoulder. My heart jumped a bit, because postmen do get robbed, but when I turned, it was Fatso with his purple nose, red
cheeks and ginger hair. He looks like something created by one of these modern artists, all clashing colours and odd shapes. ‘Oh, hello,’ I managed. My God, he is ugly; his wife’s
no oil painting either, but she has a lovely smile and a kind heart, always gave me an extra couple of pork sausages for the kids when I did the shopping. ‘Hello, Trevor,’ I said,
forcing my mouth to widen into an imitation of a smile. ‘Did you want something?’

The butcher got right to the point. ‘Eve Mellor’s very ill and refusing treatment,’ he told me. ‘They say it could be cancer, but they’re waiting for
results.’ He stood back a pace, clearly waiting for my reaction.

‘And?’ I asked, trying to appear composed and unimpressed.

He shrugged. ‘I doubt they’ll be opening up again in the near future.’

I thought about that. ‘Makes no difference to me, Trevor. My girl’s moving out anyway, because she’s got her own place in Knotty Ash.’

‘Angela Dyson?’ he asked. ‘The one with all the equipment?’

‘Yes.’

A wicked gleam appeared in the butcher’s eyes. ‘Rather you than me, mate, when it comes to getting whipped. Anyway, I phoned and spoke to Kate about what was going on.’

‘Oh yes?’ By this time, he looked almost gleeful, and I felt angry.

‘And they’re all staying to help with the nursing of Eve.’

This news rocked me slightly, though I’m sure I didn’t let it show. ‘I thought you’d stopped going anyway,’ I said. ‘So what’s it to you?’

‘I’m just cutting down,’ was his reply. ‘We’re saving up to go on holiday next year. I thought we might try the Costa Brava.’ He paused, staring hard at me.
‘Your wife’s looking better,’ he said, ‘like a flower that’s just found the sunlight – that’s the way my Em puts it. Mrs Carson seems to be feeling and
looking a lot better since you buggered off. I wonder why?’

‘No idea. Excuse me, but I have to get this mail back for sorting.’ I turned my back on him and carried on with the job. No way was I going to let this overweight freak disturb
me.

‘Rumour has it that she works Saturday nights in the chip shop and your children stay over with the Bramwell twins while Andrew Martindale takes your missus home. He’s a jeweller and
a widower.’

I won’t forget the gleam of triumph in his bloodshot eyes when I turned to look at him. ‘Listen, Porky,’ I said quietly. ‘I’ve nothing left to lose, but you have.
It’ll be the Costa Lot, not the Costa Brava, if I talk to Em.’

‘You wouldn’t do that,’ he blustered.

‘Wouldn’t I?’ I stared at him until he walked away.

Goodness, I seem to be making a list. Belle Horrocks, Trevor Burns, my own wife, somebody called Martindale – who’ll be next? There was supposed to be no personal involvement beyond
ridding the streets of whores. I locked the box, shouldered my burden and returned to the van. He was still standing there on the opposite side of the street as I drove away.

I did Shirley Evans – have I already told you? I used her and garrotted her. She was stronger than she looked. There was a nice, dark and narrow alley behind businesses closed for the
night, and I thought I’d have some fun first. Well, I miss Angela. So I had her on the pavement and she asked for money while pulling her drawers up. She smelled like that cheap perfume
called Californian Poppy – it was all women could get during the war years. It was that or Midnight in Paris, and picture houses stank of either or both in a constantly failing effort to
cover the smell of urine and sweat.

She clawed at my hair and clothes while I separated her from her breath. I went through her purse and found fifteen quid, just pennies short of my weekly wage. This one was a particularly ugly
corpse; she died with her eyes slightly open, peering at me through slits. I remember shivering, because I imagined for a moment that she had been entered by one of Lucifer’s minions, a
junior devil created to jump into a corpse, collect its soul and take it below to the white-hot furnace of inner hell.