The Liverpool Trilogy (110 page)

Oh, well. He would get a bath later, as a lot of dirty stuff needed shifting first. Finbar and Michael. Old Ernie Avago. Wedding wreckage. Above all, he needed to look after his own wife,
because he knew she was terrified.

They travelled in the van and left it in an alley behind Ernie’s house. It was better this way; they wanted to attract no attention during this very early morning visit. As expected by
Kev, the old man was out in the relative cool of morning. He didn’t exist in a tin box that held in yesterday’s heat during summer, yesterday’s cold in winter, so he lived the
more temperate and sensible life when it came to weather. Nevertheless, he always wore a hat, because the sun was not just a friend; it was also a deadly enemy. A slender whippet, older now, lay in
a basket under the ferrets’ cage.

The visitors entered the garden. The smell of roses was almost overpowering, and Ernie was dead-heading some of his prize-winning bushes.

Paddy was the first to address him. ‘Ernie? Still got the ten-gallon hat, I see. You look great, but.’

He half closed aged eyes and peered at her. ‘Paddy? Oh, I am pleased to see you.’ He gazed over her shoulder. ‘Kev. Well, we’d have nearly a full set if the lads had
stayed.’

Paddy’s stomach lurched. ‘They’ve gone already?’

Ernie nodded. ‘It was after two in the morning by the time they scarpered. It looked to me like the boys were waiting for the car, because though they climbed the stairs, they never went
to sleep. I was restless meself, what with the heat and me not being used to visitors. At my age, you don’t need a lot of sleep. So I saw it coming with its headlights on, though they were
switched off when it got here. I saw Fin and Mike jumping into it. And they were gone, just like that.’ He tried to click his fingers, remembered the arthritis and gave up.

‘Where?’ Kev asked. ‘Where’ve they buggered off to, Ernie? They weren’t here more than a few hours.’

The old chap shrugged stiffly. ‘No idea. They never said nothing about it. But they spent ages writing letters. One left an envelope for his mam and dad, and the other wrote to you two.
Oh, and they left me ten quid. Nice lads.’ He paused for a few seconds. ‘But what’s the matter, Kev? They were jumpy as a couple of fleas the whole day and most of the evening
– couldn’t eat a crumb. Every time there was a noise in the street, they went white and sat down.’

Kevin answered. ‘No idea what’s going on. But we need to get you somewhere safe for a couple of weeks. Blackpool, I thought. You might enjoy a fortnight on the sands.’

Ernie laughed. ‘Look, I can’t travel – I’m an old cripple, as you can see for yourselves. Even a short journey would kill me. Neighbours do the shopping and cleaning,
then me granddaughter does the laundry and the ironing, cooks some meals and washes the pots. I can’t be buggering off to Blackpool. Here’s where I have to stay, but thanks for the
offer, it’s appreciated. You still living in that sardine tin?’

‘We are,’ the pair chorused.

‘Oh well. Come in for a cuppa, and read your letter. You can take your Maureen’s with you, give it to her when you get back home. Nice to have visitors.’

Kev patted his wife’s shoulder. ‘Do you want to read it first?’

She shook her head. ‘Together. We do this together.’

Ernie Avago was asleep within minutes. He drank his tea, then slipped into that happy place so well deserved by those who have spent decades toiling and sweating for a pittance. A child of the
Victorian era, the dock worker had to be approaching eighty. There were no budgies. Paddy gazed down at the old man. His dog was on its last legs, his birds were dead, and she had no idea about the
state of the ferrets, as they were to be avoided at all costs. ‘Life gets taken away a bit at a time,’ she said, mostly to herself. ‘It’s not just the big bang at the end;
it’s all the bits that drop off beforehand.’ She knew he wouldn’t replace his dog when it left him. She knew he was preparing for his own departure. ‘Cruel world,’ she
muttered.

‘He’s Ernie Simpson,’ Kev whispered. ‘See, here it is on an envelope. All these years, and we never knew.’ The man’s bed was under the stairs, and a commode
stood close by. Bless him; he was not fit to travel. ‘He has to be all right, Pads. One of the best blokes ever. I hope he just slips away when his time comes.’

But Paddy had picked up another letter, one addressed to herself and Granda. Her hand tingled like pins and needles. It was as if the contents tried to reach her via some osmotic process, so she
passed the problem to her husband. It was a problem. Bad news had travelled up her arm and into her chest. ‘Jesus mercy, Mary help,’ she mumbled. She didn’t want him to open it,
but he must.

‘Sit down,’ he said gravely after tearing open the envelope and reading the first couple of lines. ‘Now, I want you to try to stay calm. Sit down, Paddy,’ he said
again.

She sat. They were supposed to be doing this together, but she couldn’t quite manage to look. There was a dead weight in her stomach; this morning’s toast seemed to have turned to
lead.

Kevin reached for her hand. ‘Your brother Peter died of a heart attack,’ he said carefully. ‘But Callum was removed.’

Paddy swallowed. ‘Removed to where?’

Kev scanned another line. ‘Probably Epping Forest.’

Her face blanched. ‘They were older than me,’ she whispered. ‘I was just the oldest girl. So somebody murdered my big brother? He was too old to be a real threat to
anyone.’

‘I’m so sorry, love.’

She closed her eyes and travelled back once more in time and space, saw Callum running through trees in the orchard back at Ganga’s house. Callum liked trees, loved to climb and hide. He
was now buried under trees. There was nothing she could do but accept the news square and straight, as Kev had termed it. Then she heard an unfamiliar sound; her husband was weeping. Paddy’s
eyelids raised themselves quickly. ‘Kev? Kevin?’ His head was in his hands. ‘Martin and Jack?’ she asked softly. ‘Our sons, Kevin? Are they . . . ?’

He nodded.

‘Both of them?’

Again, he inclined his head.

An invisible knife pierced her abdomen. Martin was ripping his way into the world, and what a world it had been. In a cellar dwelling with a filthy, ancient midwife as sole company, Paddy had
birthed her son. The almost exclusively Irish slum had teemed with unwashed bodies, wildlife and the stench of effluent. And Kevin had got them out.

John, usually named Jack, had been born into better circumstances. Their home had become a flat in Sefton Park, a place whose non-resident owner refused to give space to Irish immigrants. So
Paddy had kept her mouth shut for the most part, while Kev, a first generation Scouser born of Dublin parents, had been forced to do all the talking. And he’d worked so hard, had got them out
again . . .

‘Paddy?’

She snapped out of her reverie. ‘Removed?’

‘Yes.’

She inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. ‘So Finbar and Michael are next on the list?’

‘It would seem so, yes.’ He dried his eyes. ‘Our sons are in Epping Forest, too. They got above themselves, tried to start their own business. Business? Beating up shopkeepers
and pub landlords who won’t pay protection? It seems they were all in on the plan. Or perhaps the older ones were removed as a warning to these two boys.’

‘They were still our sons and my brothers, Kev.’ Peter and Callum, Martin and Jack, three murders and one natural death. Or had Peter died of fear?

‘I know who they were, love.’

‘If Finbar and Michael had never gone to London with the boxing club—’

‘I know that, too.’

‘They’d never have been sought out by their elders. Do they say where they are?’ Inside, she burned. Was it fury, was it grief? She was unable to separate the two emotions. She
wanted to kill; at the same time, she needed to weep a river of tears. Whatever Martin and Jack had become, they had been her babies, hers and Kev’s.

He swallowed audibly. ‘I don’t know what it says further down. Like you, I’m busy mourning two sons. We should go home, love. We’ll read the whole thing together, then
deal with poor Maureen and Tom. Remember, she has two sons missing and two brothers dead. And you know how she is.’

They left Ernie Avago-Simpson asleep in his chair. Outside, they were assailed yet again by the deep, cloying fragrance owned only by roses. Some of the blooms were so dark in colour that they
appeared almost black. Ernie had worked for years on the dark side, but only in his garden. His search for a black or navy rose had occupied his whole retirement. ‘Keep him safe,’ Paddy
ordered the Almighty. She was beyond begging, beyond prayer. It was time the big boss got told what to do, because He had clearly been getting it all wrong. Was anger with God forgivable? Why, why
was He allowing all those terrible things to happen to people who tried their very best in this vale of tears?

In the van, she asked Kevin not to start the engine. She wanted to arrive home prepared, because Maureen would probably throw a fit, and full knowledge was the best armour. ‘Let’s
see it now,’ she said. ‘Because I’d sooner know what’s what before facing Maureen.’ She took the letter and read it aloud, omitting only the first few lines. That was
the bit she and Kev already knew about, and it was, she hoped, the heaviest part.

Both occupants of the car sat in silence for a while. Paddy, who had scarcely acknowledged the existence of her brothers, who had seldom spoken of her sons, felt close to breaking point. She had
always expressed the belief that work kept a person going, that the ordinary, everyday routine helped to keep folk sane. The idea of cooking and clattering about in Scouse Alley’s kitchen did
not appeal. Her usual stand-in was Maureen, her last remaining child. Even Maureen didn’t have the complete recipe. On those rare occasions when Paddy became ill, her daughter was given a
packet of herbs and told to do her best, but Maureen’s best was unlikely to be achievable today.

Kev broke into his wife’s thoughts yet again. ‘Give me the herbs, and I’ll make it. I know it won’t be like yours, but I’ve done it before a couple of times and
nobody complained.’

‘How do you do that? How do you climb inside my head?’

‘Practice.’

She sighed heavily. ‘You can help, but I want things to look normal. Our son-in-law killed three men last night, and I refuse to endanger him.’ A thought struck. ‘And we may
have to give up the faith. Because we’d need to tell what we know in Confession. Anything withheld could be sacrilege, and we know about killings. A priest can’t intercede for murder or
manslaughter until or unless the police are involved. The same with theft. Restitution or a donation to charity is required for theft before a blessing can be given.’

Kev agreed up to a point. Outsiders believed that Roman Catholics could do as they liked and get their souls cleansed every week. This was far from the truth. The bigger sins against society
needed to be dealt with by society before absolution could be granted, yet he and Paddy could not hand Tom over to the law. ‘But we didn’t commit murder, Pads. Neither did Tom, because
he saved many lives. If there is a sin, it’s his to tell. Ask our priest without actually telling him—’

‘Give it up, Kev. If you asked that one his name, he’d need to look for his birth certificate. He’s more pickled than a jar of silverskin onions. I’ll find a sober priest
in another church.’

They drove home slowly, as if they didn’t really want to go there. Both blinked back tears; both wondered whether they might have failed Martin and Jack. Had they worked too hard at making
a living and climbing the steep rungs of the housing ladder? Had their sons suffered as a result? Maureen had turned out well, but girls were sturdier and more resilient than boys. And even Maureen
had her limits. There was the terrible singing when she was in drink; there was also a temper hot enough to boil falling snow before it reached the ground. Paddy voiced her one positive thought.
‘Seamus won’t go to London, because he’ll have no one there.’