Midnight on Lime Street (35 page)

‘Ah. Well, as long as you’re comfortable.’

Neil shrugged. ‘I was more comfortable here at home, before all this started.’

‘All what?’ she asked.

‘Me being disturbed. It’s my mother’s fault, because she always was a monster, and I began to get dreams.’ He was quiet for a moment. ‘They’ve stopped. I
don’t have them any more.’ She wanted him to go away quietly; she stared so hard at him that he felt forced to lower his gaze. Laura had breasts. Her waist was small, her hips slightly
flared, and her face had changed completely. The shoes were black patent, and they narrowed to a point at the toe. Did they have stiletto heels?

‘Go,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m asking you to.’

‘No,’ was his swift reply. He could tell she was frightened of him. Why? He’d never been abusive towards her or the children, had seldom raised his voice, let alone a hand.
‘I’ll sleep in Matt’s bed. Joseph’s at home tonight.’

Laura rubbed her forehead as if searching for an elusive thought. ‘No, you won’t. This may be the house you bought, Neil, but it’s my home and the children’s, too. You
left.’

‘You ordered me out,’’ he answered angrily.

‘Because you were screaming and moaning in your sleep. Because you weren’t a husband or a father any more. You can’t come in here.’

‘Why not? I pay my way.’ He knew why not; she didn’t want him near her any more, and she had no shield apart from the older man inside. The children weren’t here, so she
couldn’t plead their need for quiet while sleeping. ‘Do you think I’d hurt you?’

‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘I don’t know you any more.’

‘But you know and trust your jeweller? Oh yes, I know who he is – people have told me. You’re being talked about, Laura.’ What was the man’s name? Had he forgotten
it, or had he never known it?

She remained outwardly calm. ‘He’s just a friend. Tonight, he’ll sleep on the sofa or in one of the children’s rooms, and this will be the first time he’s stayed
over. He will stay to protect me from you, since I can no longer believe in you. Neil, you’re not the man I married.’

‘I’m back to normal. I’ve changed.’

‘Have you?’

Neil gritted his teeth; he must not, would not explode. It was a Saturday night, and people were still coming home from pubs and clubs. ‘Are you afraid of me, Laura?’

Again, twin spots of colour darkened her cheeks. ‘Yes,’ she muttered.

‘Why?’

They were now eye to eye again. ‘Where did you get the gold cross?’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. It had initials on the other side, didn’t it?’

‘Did it?’

She nodded just once. ‘You know it did. You must have seen them.’

‘I told you. I bought it second hand from a junk shop.’

She closed her eyes for a moment. He noticed again how bright they were when she opened them. What was she thinking? What did she suspect? Was she intending to talk to the police about the cross
and chain? ‘I’ve no idea where the cross came from before it was sold to the shop.’

‘Which shop?’

He stood his ground, though his ground was uncertain, as if there was a sudden shift just below its crust, a realignment of strata. ‘Actually, it was a stall on Paddy’s,’ he
mumbled.

‘And what were the initials, Neil? The initials on the plain side?’

‘Er . . . I can’t remember.’ JD, JD, JD. Jean Davenport, such an untidy corpse, like a broken marionette, legs splayed, mouth open, head lolling to one side, and a partial
denture resting on the lower lip . . . ‘I sold it back to him for a much reduced price, because I decided to get you a real crucifix, probably silver.’

‘Right.’ She took a small step in his direction. ‘I shall stay with the Bramwells at weekends from now on, because I’m not putting up with you any more. I want a decent,
normal, ordinary life.’ She turned her head and shouted, ‘Andy? Would you mind coming here, please?’

The stranger arrived and stood by Laura’s side. ‘You called?’ He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. A definite for Neil’s list?

‘Yes. Will you take me back to the chip shop, please? I’ll just grab some things from my room.’ She ran upstairs.

Neil stared at the man, who returned the favour with compound interest, causing the would-be intruder to lower his eyes. The jeweller was handsome, taller than Neil, and very well presented:
shiny shoes, a good suit, a trilby in one hand. And he wasn’t exactly old, probably early fifties. So Laura dressed up for this man, used makeup for him. What else was she doing for him? Were
they lovers? She came downstairs with a small bag. ‘I want to leave now, Andy,’ she said. After glaring at Neil for a few seconds, she approached him. He caught a whiff of perfume, good
perfume; no Californian Poppy for her.

Neil backed away to allow them access to the short path, the gate, the pavement and the car. Her shoes did have small stiletto heels. The couple drove off. He watched as they rang the
shop’s bell, saw lights being switched on, stood where he was until Laura was inside and Jewellery Andy disappeared in his car. They were punishing him, making a fool of him by acting out
this little scenario while he could only stand and watch.

His heart was beating madly, like a kettledrum doing overtime. Sickness threatened his throat, and he gulped back its evil taste. She knew something. But she had a poor memory for detail and
seldom read a paper or listened to the news. All the same, he might be in danger.

‘She suspects but has no proof,’ Neil muttered under his breath. Female intuition? Could he kill her to save himself? Was he capable of wiping out a girl he’d loved since his
teenage years? Confusion, confusion.

Neil remembered, just about, how grounded he had been, how determined and hardworking. He’d mended furniture, made second hand look like new, had bought her every labour-saving device
known to man. He’d been a good husband, a beloved father . . .

‘Would you like anything else, sir?’ the waitress asked, pulling him back into the here and now.

Neil blinked. ‘Sorry,’ he replied. ‘I was lost in thought.’

‘Yes, we noticed that. Are you all right?’

He nodded. ‘Another coffee and a buttered Eccles cake, please. And, thanks for letting me think. I needed the chance.’

‘You’re welcome.’ She was nice. But there could be no nice women for him, because he’d found another way. Gonorrhoea. It was perhaps as well that Laura had turned him
away that night, because he might have infected her. Instead, he could play pass the parcel and spread the disorder like wildfire through the prostitutes of Liverpool and their clients. He had been
granted an easier way of killing, and it might live on long after his death.

Henry VIII. He remembered reading somewhere that the evil, self-promoted primate of Christianity had suffered from syphilis, and that his daughter had not dared to wed because she had been born
with it. Catholic propaganda? He had no idea. He had no idea about much, really, kept forgetting names of people, of streets, of all kinds of things. Many of the apostles and disciples had
suffered. He was one of them, and it was his turn to feel the pain.

When Eccles cake and coffee had been consumed, he wandered off to pick up his bike. Joseph was at home with Maude, so Neil Carson had the privilege of time on his hands. Although he knew he
should seek medical help, he opted for a different tack; he would spread the filth he carried, and he knew exactly what to do.

As he cycled along, he went through a list. There was Belle Horrocks. She had corrupted a man with only one hand. She had left Meadow— What? Meadow what? The farm. Yes, she’d run off
to grab at a normal life. Normal? What did she know about normal? Fat Mamma was another, though her death was imminent anyway. She had made no effort to conceal her antipathy whenever she saw him.
He was pleased that their names were coming back to him.

Who else? The jeweller. Name? Then Trevor Burns, butcher. Laura? Could he, should he? No, no, he needed to take a chance there, had to hope she wouldn’t sound off about that wretched
cross, because the children must not become orphans. Though they might get adopted by decent people . . . So it wasn’t a long list, but he needed to begin his research. Er . . . was Joseph
with Maude? Yes, yes, he was. Maude was his adoptive mother, not the real one. He liked Maude, didn’t want to kill her.

People had patterns. They worked, slept, ate and played, but they all did it in their own way. So he did remember some things, then. Wavertree. Oh yes, he recalled that one. A female child ran
from one house to another, so relatives of Belle . . . he would remember her surname again in a minute, must live nearby. They were probably the child’s grandparents, while the little girl
was likely to be a bastard. Did that disease – what was its name? – did it damage the brain? If it did, such damage must surely take a while to kick in. Syphilis did. Yes, he’d
recollected that from God alone knew where or when. Henry . . . a king. He’d suffered from that. Hadn’t he?

He stopped outside a newsagent’s and bought an exercise book and a Biro pen. When he remembered something, he would make a note of it.

‘Writing your memoirs?’ the shopkeeper asked jovially.

‘Just a few notes,’ was Neil’s reply.

Returning to the bike, he stopped and pondered. Wavertree. Cecil Avenue or Street, Carlisle – was there a Carlisle Street? Albert Road, Cambridge Street? There was an Earle Road. He closed
his eyes and was mentally sorting letters at work, but they were all jumbled up. Newcastle Road? Yes, it was there, or near there.

Oh, God, his head was cloudy. A black door, then two houses, then a dark green door. Picton Road. The Picton Library was in town, not in this part of the city, not on Picton Road. Gonorrhoea. He
wrote furiously in his new notebook. Plant pots. They might have moved them, because bedding plants would be past their best. Both houses had plant pots, one house had a green door, and the other
was black. He was falling apart. Somewhere behind all the nonsense, he knew he was losing his grip. Laura was no longer a good mother, because she had brought another man into the children’s
lives. But he couldn’t, no, he couldn’t . . .

Kill her. Couldn’t. He was probably tired because he never stopped thinking. Even asleep, he thought. Jesus came back in dreams and told him everything was going to be fine, but they were
just dreams. Meadowbank, that was the name of the farm. He scribbled it quickly.

OK, he would take his time. Deliberately slow, he followed his nose towards the southern end. Ah, yes, he had the right street. Numbers 42 and 48 were here. Plantpots present and correct,
contents rather frazzled, and lights were on inside both houses. Count, count, and go round the back. A convenient knot hole in the gate, nobody about, a good chance to—

Oh, look at them
. The man was peering through a glass on a stand, and she stood behind him. It was a beautiful picture of something Neil had never known. She was stroking his hair, and
he was turning to look at her. Were they redeemed, then? Tears burned his eyes.
I am ill, and they are well. Did I get the message wrong? Perhaps not, because they are inside rather than on the
streets. I can’t, I can’t do any more. There’s the little girl climbing onto his lap. Lucy, oh, Lucy. My boy Matt, my lovely boy. The streets. Jesus said the streets. I must write
that down later. I must not put these people on my list; I mustn’t kill unnecessarily.

He rode all the way back to Joseph’s house and parked the bike round the back. Removing his bicycle clips, he entered the scullery and found Joseph there in tears. For a reason he
couldn’t identify, Neil felt embarrassed. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

‘Mother’s gone.’

Neil allowed a few taps of time to pass. ‘Gone? Gone where? Into hospital?’

The grieving man shook his head. ‘She asked for half a grapefruit, which I spoon-fed her, then she wanted me to wash her hands and face. I was washing her when she thanked me and asked me
to thank you, too. Then a weird thing happened; she closed her eyes, opened them wide again, as if she was getting better, and she said, “Neil must stop.” After that, she went. Just
went.’

Neil swallowed, his throat dry enough to cause pain. ‘Is she . . . is she still in her room, Joseph?’ She was in heaven and, during her passing, she’d picked up a message from
Jesus. Neil tried to clear his throat. ‘She must have meant she wants me to stay here with you. Well? Is she still in the front room?’

Joseph finished drying his eyes. ‘No. Doctor did a death certificate, pneumonia and heart something or other—’ He sobbed. ‘Congested heart failure, I think. The McManus
Funeral Parlour has her. Oh, Neil.’

Neil wrapped his arms round his friend. ‘Let it out, Joseph.’

The man was crying like a baby, shaking from head to foot and pouring his grief onto Neil’s shoulder.

Neil patted his friend’s back. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said.

‘I used to . . . when I was younger . . . used to resent her. No life of my own, you see.’ He pulled away and tried to calm himself, mopping his face with a handkerchief.
‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Er . . . library, a cafe, a ride round the city.’ He remembered all that well enough. ‘Joseph, if I’d known—’

‘You can call me Joe now. Mother wouldn’t let anybody call me Joe. My dad was Joe, so I had to be Joseph.’

‘All right, Joe. And I’ll live here as long as you want me to.’

‘Thanks. I have to get funeral money from her policy. And a black suit.’

‘We’ll get dark navy,’ Neil said. ‘They won’t be wasted.’

‘OK. Will you be a coffin bearer, Neil?’

Neil marked a few seconds before replying. Could he carry a woman who’d told him to stop? She’d gone towards a light, probably, and peeped through into wherever . . . and she’d
ordered him to stop. Stop killing? Stop here with her son? ‘Yes, of course I will, Joseph.’

‘It’s Joe.’

‘All right, Joe.’ He sat on a stool.

Joe stared at him. ‘Will you do something else for me?’

‘You know I will. What?’

‘Strip her bed.’ These three syllables arrived on a whisper.

‘I will.’ The lodger stood and walked through the living room and into the empty bedroom/parlour. There remained a dip in the top pillow, a depression where Maude’s head had
rested. ‘Bye, Mother,’ he whispered. He could smell her scent, lavender with a hint of lilac. She’d used Johnson’s baby powder too, and the whole melange made him feel at
home. Wright’s Coal Tar soap sat in a dish by her bed next to surgical spirit and the ointment used for her pressure sores when they appeared.