The Liverpool Trilogy (20 page)

For several moments, he knew how Moira must feel on a good day. There was no pain in him, but he didn’t trust his arms and legs to take any orders he might try to deliver. This little tart had his life in her steadier hands. Purple nail polish, yellow hair, skin that looked a great deal worse in the clarity of daylight. ‘Right,’ he managed. ‘What do you want of me?’

‘I told you – I’m a patient patient. I don’t want nothing. Yet. Well, not much, anyway.’

He stared hard at her. She had discovered his rather substantial Achilles heel and was enjoying herself thoroughly. ‘What do you want?’ he repeated.

‘All this.’ She swept both purple-tipped hands outwards. ‘A ton a week will do for now, but only for now. I’m not quite as patient as I’d like to be.’

‘And?’

‘When she dies, I fancy being a doctor’s wife. I asked your nurse, like. About what sort of man you were, about your family and all that. So she told me about the MS and said Mrs Turner’s not a bit well. Shame.’

He felt as if someone had hit him with a house brick. This cheap little tart could never fill that role.

‘We’re good in bed,’ she announced.

‘Keep your voice down – the waiting room’s just—’

‘Empty,’ she snapped. ‘And you’d better keep an eye out in future, see if you’ve any new patients, like, because if I can do this, any of your past bits on the side could have a similar idea. I want you. I want your life. If you’d looked on your computer, or in the filing cabinet, you’d have known I was on your list. But you can’t be bothered, can you?’

Richard pulled himself together. He took out his wallet and passed its contents across the desk. ‘I’ll give you the rest tonight,’ he said. ‘There’s about seventy here.’

Lexi snatched up the notes and rose to her feet. ‘Oh. And don’t be getting any ideas about insulin – I seen it on the telly where people what’s not diabetic gets murdered that way. And I am diabetic, so no overdoses, right? My friend’ll blow your cover if anything happens to me. And remember the flavoured condoms, hon. We have to make sure you get your money’s worth. I’ll buy the squirty cream and the chocolate spread, because I get a discount.’

She left, then came back. ‘I’ll bet you that’s what happened to Marilyn Monroe,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Insulin, needle shoved up her back passage where it wouldn’t show.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve always felt close to her spirit – know what I mean?’ The door closed behind her, and he heard the stiletto heels ruining the parquet as she stepped through the hall.

Richard Turner went to the window and watched Alexandra Phillips tottering down the street. The shoes, like the nail polish, were a lurid shade of purple. No way could she be considered wife material. She was clever in a streetwise sense, but she would never manage to carry herself as Moira had before the illness had started to—Moira. There were now two reasons for keeping Moira alive. He loved her, and he didn’t want to be lumbered with a pathetic imitation of womanhood whose main concerns in life seemed to be visible panty line and dark roots in her hair.

‘I’m stupid,’ he said to himself. Lexi was smarter than he had been led to believe. DVD? Internet? She could have him ruined by the end of the week. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid.’ Moira had been right, as usual. He should confine his adventures to the level of society that understood; he should have chosen someone like Lucy to turn to in times of great need.

But he had a recovering pneumonia on Tithebarn Road and a baby with croup on Rosedale Avenue. Life, as they said, had to go on. He needed time, needed to pretend to cooperate with Lexi Phillips. There had to be a way. There was always a way.

Carol Makin was swilling Lucy’s steps when Litherland Lexi staggered out of the doctor’s surgery. Bloody hell. Some folk were hard to leave behind – like bad smells and warfare, they spread too far for anyone’s good. What the hell was she doing up here, anyway? Ideas above her station, or what? Perhaps she’d moved again. Perhaps another set of neighbours had got fed up with her carryings-on. Anyway, didn’t she work on the checkout in a Waterloo supermarket these days? Or was she still servicing Scandinavian sailors whenever their ships docked?

The woman was reputed to have suffered from every sexually transmitted problem from crabs right through to gonorrhoea. ‘Could be something worse these days,’ Carol muttered under her breath. ‘Walking bloody disaster, that one.’ Well, she was nearly walking. She’d have made a better stab if she’d worn shoes that didn’t come with an oxygen mask and a government health warning. Who did she think she was? A blinking teenager? And if she wore that skirt a fraction shorter, the daft tart would get stopped for behaviour likely to cause a breach of the peace.

It was always sad to see mutton dressed as lamb, but it was also hard to feel sorry for Lexi. In her early thirties, she looked a lot older than she was. If she’d owned even a grain of sense, the woman would have dressed herself better, because she shouldn’t be classed as mutton, not at her age. Oh well, there were steps to finish.

Dr Richard Turner came out, and he looked harassed and angry. The cleaner wasn’t surprised, because most folk who came in contact with Litherland Lexi looked a bit the worse for wear after the encounter. ‘Morning,’ she called cheerily. ‘I’ll pop in and see your missus later. Lucy says she likes visitors.’

‘Thank you,’ he answered rather curtly.

Carol watched as he drove away. She wondered anew whether his less than happy countenance might be connected in any way with Lexi. If he’d read her notes, he would have plenty to think about. There’d been talk about abortions, and a few beatings when she’d wound up her clients to the point of abuse, but some of it was hearsay. The Legend of Litherland Lexi was a tale that had been much embellished while travelling through the area, but it was based in a great deal of truth.

She emptied her bucket and walked back into the house. There had been no sound from the top storey, so she guessed that Lucy’s boys, along with most of their generation, were gifted when it came to sleeping. The girl wasn’t like that, but females tended to be faster off the mark than mere men. They had to keep moving to get the males on their toes – perhaps women were created for that purpose.

After a small lunch of tinned salmon and salad, Carol made her way to the doctor’s house. She would take her full lunch hour, but she intended to dedicate it to the poor soul next door who had MS. Carol knew all about MS, because her sister was a sufferer. Beryl ruled with a rod of iron, and she did it from a wheelchair. No one could work out how or why, but Beryl could freeze an escaping teenager from forty paces. She was brilliant with kids, and should have been a teacher or a probation officer, since she was far more effective than an ASBO.

Having made sure that Lucy’s sulky cat was safe, Carol went to visit Moira. She’d been told to walk in and shout, so she did.

‘I’m stuck,’ came the answer.

‘Where?’

‘In here,’ Moira yelled.

‘But which here, love? There’s a lot of heres and theres and everywheres in these houses.’

‘I’m on the loo in the downstairs bathroom, back of the house.’

Carol entered the bathroom. ‘Bloody hell, girl. You’re in a state worse than Russia – you’re not on the lav, you’re halfway down it.’

‘I know. It’s a talent I’ve developed over the years – I’m just refining it until I get it right.’

Carol heaved the woman up, fastened the nappy, pulled up pants and trousers, then pushed her into the wheelchair.

‘You’ve done that before,’ Moira accused her.

‘I have. Sister. Our Beryl. MS. Looks after me daughter’s kids and rules the whole flaming street like the Queen of Sheba. I’m telling you now, love, if they found a cure, she’d be bloody dangerous. She had a burglar once – just the once. Wheeled herself up behind him and inflicted grievous bodily harm with the Sacred Heart.’

‘With what?’

‘A statue of our Lord with his heart on the outside of his frock. Have you never been in a Catholic church?’

‘No.’

‘There you go, then. You’ve had some luck in your life. You get the Immaculate Conception – that’s Mary in a white frock and a blue shawl. Then there’s the Sacred Heart bleeding down his white nightshirt. Stations of the Cross with Christ struggling his way up the hill of Calvary all round the walls, and always a little fellow with a collection plate. You’ve missed nothing.’

When Moira was settled, her visitor bustled off to make cups of tea. Then she sat down and proceeded to regale Moira with the terrible tale of Litherland Lexi. ‘I nearly fell down the steps when I seen her tottering out of your husband’s surgery. She looked like the last one off the Liverpool night bus on a Sunday morning, all spindly heels, smudged make-up and a hangover bigger than Birkenhead. What’s she doing round here?’

‘No idea.’ Moira was enjoying herself. Collecting people was so much easier when they came to her. Getting out, even in the scooter she named ‘my trolley-along’, wasn’t as easy as it had been. ‘Perhaps she’s had a disagreement with her doctor and needed a new one.’

But Carol was motoring on. Information tumbled from her in huge blocks of words, some colliding with others, vernacular mixed with unexpectedly perceptive statements, all delivered with wit and humour from a brain that had never been adequately utilized. Carol was a clever woman. She spoke about the bouncer who got done for cocaine possession, and it was all Lexi’s fault. A senior policeman’s wife had created a stir about Lexi’s relationship with her husband, the inspector. ‘Mind, she looked better in them days. Almost human, you might say. That cop nearly lost his job over her.’

‘Was she a prostitute?’ Moira asked with feigned innocence.

‘Was she a prozzie? Give over, Moira. She’s the human equivalent of the Mersey tunnels – both of them. On top of that, there’s her shoplifting, handling – and not just men – drugs, fights with neighbours, or blokes she brought home, or cops, or her family – the list goes on.’

‘Quite a character, then.’

Carol nodded vigorously. ‘Just wait till your feller comes in from surgery one day all white-faced and shaky. When he reads her notes, he’ll have a fit with his leg up.’

Moira smiled. ‘A fit with his leg up’ was definitely Dinglish. ‘Well, someone’s got to look after her, Carol.’

‘She’s had all them diseases what nobody can spell. When we lived by her, we counted ten different men on one day. I was ill in bed, so I saw the buggers. It’s a wonder she didn’t go bandy-legged after spreading herself out that many times in a few hours. Thank God she’s had no kids so far. Mind, she’s only in her thirties.’

Moira was thrilled to bits. Gems like Carol Makin were few and far between. She imagined that this woman had appealed to Lucy because she, too, liked quirky characters and oddities. ‘Your daughter’s working with you, isn’t she?’

Carol delivered her daughter for the umpteenth time. ‘Thin as a bloody rake, but it was a terrible birth. They kept telling me to push, and I kept telling him to push off. Me husband, I mean. Not that he was there, like, but I decided during labour that unless he tied a knot in it, he could bog off. He was always pissed, anyway. I sold him on to a woman from Seffy Park. He thought it was his idea, but that’s the only way to handle men. Let them think they run the world, and they’re happy. Five more kids, he had with her.’ She grinned. Every time she gave an account of her husband’s disappearance the tale altered. ‘Or he could be with Barbie Bow-legs from next door. Who knows?’

Moira developed a photograph in her mind. She saw a harassed mother from Sefton Park, five children clinging to her skirts, a man trying to escape the noise and trouble that were his own creation.

‘So there she is, our Dee – Deirdre’s her proper name. I tell you now, there’s more flesh on a wire coat hanger than there is on her. And she popped out her kids like bullets from a well-oiled revolver. Mind, she didn’t empty every chamber in her six-shooter, because Harry fell off his ladder after number four. Died on the spot, like.’

Moira lost control and started laughing. Again, Carol knew exactly what to do. She separated her hostess from the teacup, mopped up the spillages and carried on as if nothing had happened.

‘Thanks,’ said Moira, feeling lucky to have got a word in.

Carol continued. ‘She’s having her wisdom teeth done, and she looks like a hamster collecting for its larder. Been a martyr to her teeth, has my Dee. The number of times I’ve told her to get them out and have a nice set of falsies, but will she listen? Will she buggery. I suppose she’s old enough to please herself, like, but they never stop being your baby, do they? Especially when there’s just the one. Anyway, our Beryl’s looking after her, so it’s all warm salt water, rinse and spit. Great believer in salt water, our Beryl. If the kids get a graze, she’s there with her Saxa and jug, no mercy. The screams are heartbreaking.’ She grinned. ‘But it makes them more careful, because they can put up with cuts, but not with our Beryl and the salt water.’

Moira wondered, not for the first time, why women like Carol didn’t have great careers. Here she was, cleaning houses for a living, yet she had brains to spare, enough life in her for ten or more people, and a sense of humour that spoke volumes about talents she had failed to hide.

When Carol had left, the room seemed bare. It wasn’t just the size of her body that had filled the space; it was also her personality, the humour, the innate generosity of a woman whose heart embraced life totally in good times and in bad. Moira had met Carol just once, yet she missed her as she might miss a lifelong friend. Being alive was certainly worthwhile. And she had every intention of meeting Our Beryl.

Lizzie looked through the glass panel in the door. Her father was once more attached to several items that were plugged into the mains, and he had fluids dripping into him from a bag on a stand. He was very thin, which was possibly a good thing, since he had been a big man for as long as Lizzie could remember. But he didn’t look like Daddy, didn’t look right.

She swallowed. If this was a man ‘doing well’, what about those who weren’t? Were they in the morgue, all lined up in a queue for the undertakers? A nurse tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Are you Mr Henshaw’s daughter?’