by Sam Michaels
The door opened, and the old man asked who was there.
‘Billy Wilcox.’
‘Hello, son, how’s ya father?’
‘He’s fine, Mr Burt.’
‘What can I do for you, Billy?’
‘I’m going to make sure you don’t get hurt.’
‘What ya on about, son?’ the old man asked as he held on to the doorframe for support.
‘It’s my new business, specially set up for the people on this street. You give me money and I make sure nothing bad happens to you.’
‘Don’t be daft, Billy, you’re just a bit of a kid, and anyway, your dad would be bloody pissed off if any outsiders caused problems round here.’
Billy stepped forward and slyly kicked the man’s shin. Mr Burt yelped, then asked, ‘What did you do that for?’
‘I was showing you what I mean. See, if you’d given me some money instead of mouthing off about my dad, that would never have happened. Do you get it now?’
‘Yeah, I get it, Billy, but wait ’til your dad hears about this.’
‘He won’t hear about it, will he, Mr Burt,’ Billy said and kicked the man’s other shin, harder this time.
‘You’re a little shit, Billy Wilcox – your father would be ashamed of you.’
Billy threw his head back and laughed. ‘He’d be proud of me for thinking for myself. Now, are you gonna cough up or what?’
Mr Burt shook his head as he walked off muttering to Billy to stay there and he’d get what he had. Billy turned to his friends, and looking smug, he said, ‘Easy, ain’t it. Now we can get ourselves some smokes.’
He noticed Malc and Sid exchange a glance, and neither looked impressed. ‘What?’ he asked, thinking his mates had turned yellow-bellied.
‘I don’t know, Billy, it don’t seem right, picking on a blind old man,’ Sid answered meekly.
‘Fuck you, this is how the strong get stronger and the weak get weaker. If you don’t like it, you know what you can do.’
‘Sorry, Billy, you’re right,’ Sid answered.
Mr Burt came back to the front door and handed over some coins.
‘Is this all you’ve got?’ Billy asked, looking at the measly amount with disgust.
‘Yes, if I had more, I’d give it to you.’
‘Fine, but I want more than this next week.’ He stuffed the money in his pocket and said farewell to the old man.
‘Who do you reckon we should visit next?’
‘I don’t know, Billy,’ Sid answered.
‘What about the Mipples?’ from Malc.
‘Nah, they ain’t got a pot to piss in,’ Billy answered, thinking of bigger fish to fry.
And so it began: Billy Wilcox’s new enterprise.
Part 3
Georgina Garrett’s pain
18
December 1929. Six years later.
George stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom and looked at her developing chest. She ran her hand gently over one firm, pert breast and felt a tingling sensation. As her nipple hardened, she watched in fascination. When naked, she couldn’t hide the fact that she was now a young woman, though she managed to hide it well when dressed. She pulled a tight vest over her head and wore a loose shirt. Her attire hid her blossoming bosoms, but there wasn’t much she could do to disguise her voice.
Billy Wilcox had spread rumours about her being female, but if people knew, they never said anything to her, except on one occasion when a young man had dared to taunt her. He lived at the end of her street and as she’d walked past him, he’d made a lurid remark about her tits. She’d punched him in the mouth, which had quickly shut him up. Since then, she’d never heard anyone else comment, though she was sure they probably did behind her back.
George, now dressed in her usual masculine clothes, checked her reflection again. She liked what she saw. Her broad shoulders and toned arms could throw a good punch. She knew she was different, but her look earned her respect. Unlike most of the women in her neighbourhood, George could look after herself and wasn’t afraid of anyone. Not even Billy Wilcox, though she preferred to stay out of his way. The man had no scruples and that unnerved her. She’d run in to him a few times over the years, but since she matched his height and strength, he’d kept a healthy distance away from her. She preferred it that way but had never forgotten how he’d degraded her as a child. The disgraceful memory was burnt onto her mind and nightmares of the shameful event still sometimes disturbed her sleep.
Her gran’s voice broke her thoughts, calling up the stairs, ‘George, be a love. Pop to the shop and get me a packet of Lambert and Butler.’
George left her room and as she walked down the stairs, replied, ‘Oh, Gran, you know my dad doesn’t like you smoking.’
‘Well, he’s in Manchester, and what he don’t know, won’t hurt. Go on, I’ll treat ya.’
‘All right, but if he finds out, you’d better not tell him I bought them for you.’
‘I won’t, it’ll be our secret,’ Dulcie said.
George wrapped herself up in a woolly hat that her gran had just about managed to knit and pulled on her oversized utility coat.
With her head down against the biting Northerly winds, she shoved her hands in the pockets and headed to the local corner shop. It was one of the few shops that she refrained from robbing. Not that there was much else locally worth stealing from. Most of them sold second-hand goods. When she walked in, Mr Peterson wasn’t behind the counter and the bell above the door hadn’t chimed. George could have quickly opened the till and pinched the takings, or lifted some luxury Christmas goodies from the shelves, but her father’s words rang in her ears, ‘Never nick off your own.’
‘Mr Peterson… customer,’ George yelled, assuming the man must be in his storeroom.
When there was no response, George approached the counter and leaned over, trying to get a glimpse through the curtained opening that led to the back. ‘Mr Peterson… are you in there?’ That’s when she noticed the till drawer was open. ‘Mr Peterson,’ she called again, beginning to worry.
She jumped over the highly polished wooden top and ran through the curtain. ‘Mr Peterson, are you all right?’ She saw a door to her left, and pushed it open, again calling to the old man. There was still no answer, so she walked in, finding herself in the storeroom, and to her horror, she saw Mr Peterson laid face down on the floor. With her heart thumping, she dashed to his side, and silently prayed that the old man was alive. She crouched down next to him, but leaning in closer, she could see his eyes were closed, and noticed at the back of his head, his grey hair was caked in blood. ‘Mr Peterson, it’s me, George. Mr Peterson, can you hear me?’
The old man groaned, filling George with relief. Thank God. He was alive.
‘Don’t move, I’ll get help,’ she said urgently.
‘Bi… Bi… Billy…’
George moved her face closer to Mr Peterson’s. ‘What did you say?’
‘Billy… Billy Wilcox.’
His words left her stunned. She could hardly believe what she’d heard. ‘Are you saying Billy Wilcox did this to you?’
‘Yes, I didn’t pay him and…’
‘Don’t worry about that now, I’m going to get help. You’ll be all right, Mr Peterson, just sit tight. I’ll be as quick as I can.’
George gently patted the old man’s hand, quickly took off her coat and placed it over him, then ran from the room and through the shop. As she rushed out of the door, another customer was coming in, but with no time to spare, George ran straight past the woman and along several streets until she came to the doctor’s house. She hammered on the door, but no-one answered.
In a panic, she started running back towards the shop, worried that Mr Peterson was all alone. As she dashed round the corner, she found herself confronted by four policemen, who on seeing her, blew their whistles and ran towards her.
‘There he is,’ one of them shouted. ‘Get him.’
‘George Garrett… STOP… POLICE,’
another yelled.
George didn’t have to stop. Shocked, she already had. Two of the officers grabbed her, one on each arm, whilst another stood in front. ‘George Garrett, I’m arresting you for the murder of Mr Peterson…’
‘No… he’s not dead… I didn’t kill him… I found him and went to get help… he was alive.’ She could feel herself being dragged along the street, and continued to plead, ‘You don’t understand… it wasn’t me… I’d never hurt the old man… I didn’t do it.’
The policemen were ignoring her protests of innocence, and people were beginning to gather on their doorsteps, shaking their heads in disgust and eyeing her up and down with contempt.
‘It wasn’t me,’ George cried again, but held back from telling them who the real culprit was. She hated Billy Wilcox, but she knew what his father was capable of. Whatever the law did to her, it would be nothing compared to what Norman Wilcox would do if he found out she’d grassed on his son.
*
By lunchtime that day, news had spread, and gossip was rife. Fanny wrapped a bunch of holly in newspaper and passed it to her waiting customer. ‘I don’t believe it. I know George Garrett – he’d never do something so heinous.’
‘It’s true, but then I’d expect nothing less from her. I mean, look at her father. He’s not what you’d call a good example. I’ve known the family since before the child was born. He was a thief then, and he still is now. Fancy pretending she’s a boy. No wonder she’s confused. I was next door the day the child was born so I know full well that George Garrett is a girl. She’ll swing for this, and God will be her final judge.’
‘I’m sorry, Miss Capstone, but I hope you’re wrong. The Garretts are a kind and generous family. Good day to you.’
Fanny saw the haughty look on Miss Capstone’s face before she turned her back on the woman. So much for being a good Christian. The woman was mean, and Fanny wished she could afford to decline her business.
She chewed her thumbnail as she digested what Miss Capstone had told her. It couldn’t be true, it just couldn’t be. Yes, George was tough, some would say hard, but she was her daughter’s best friend and Fanny thought a lot of the girl, though George preferred to be referred to as a boy. She’d always looked out for Molly and was kind to Ethel. Granted, she was a damn good thief, but Fanny felt she knew George well and didn’t believe she could have attacked Mr Peterson. It wasn’t George’s style, but it stank of Billy Wilcox.
Fanny offered up a silent prayer, ‘Please, Lord, don’t let George hang for Billy’s crime.’
*
‘No way, not George,’ Oppo protested to his customer.
The woman had heard the news about Mr Peterson’s murder and as Oppo had wrapped her potatoes in newspaper, she’d relayed the gossip.
‘I’m only telling you what I was told. You’re friends with him, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I am… er, sorry, excuse me, I’ve got to go,’ Oppo said as the information began to sink in.
He whipped off his apron and shouted to his boss, ‘Something’s come up, I have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow Mr Kavanagh.’
As he dashed out of the door, he heard Mr Kavanagh call back, ‘No you won’t! You cheeky so and so!’
It sounded like Oppo had lost his job, not that he was bothered. His main concern was George. He had to get to the police station! As he ran, his disabled leg swung out sideways in a semi-circle fashion. People stared, some laughed, but he didn’t care how ridiculous he looked.
He was soon at the station, and panting to catch his breath, he begged the desk sergeant to allow him to see his best friend. The man flatly refused and sent him away.
Oppo, realising no amount of charm would persuade the police officer to change his mind, reluctantly left the station feeling frustrated. He stood outside, wondering what to do next. Dulcie! If she’d heard what had happened, he knew the woman would be worried sick. He had no doubt that George hadn’t committed the crime but there was nothing he could do for her here, so headed off to check on the old girl. The Garretts were like family to him, and what hurt them, hurt him too.
*
George was thrown into a cold, concrete basement cell. There was one small barred window high above that allowed in a glimmer of light, and highlighted the faeces daubed on the walls. She shivered and wished she still had her coat. Her nose wrinkled at the overbearing smell of urine.
‘Please… will someone listen to me! I’m innocent.’ Her desperate cries echoed through the police station holding area, but no-one came to her aid.
George brushed off the silverfish crawling on the wooden bench attached to the damp wall and curled herself up in the foetal position. It was hopeless. How could she prove her innocence without naming Billy Wilcox?
She felt she’d lain there for what seemed like hours. The light was beginning to fade, and the temperature in the cell was rapidly dropping. Then she heard clanging, keys jangling and low voices. She sat up and dabbed her wet cheeks. It wouldn’t do to be seen crying.
As she heard footsteps approaching, George ran towards the cell door and grabbed hold of the metal bars. ‘Oi, you there, listen to me… I didn’t kill the old man,’ she shouted.
Three coppers came to stand on the other side of the bars, and one pushed his truncheon through. ‘Stand back, Garrett,’ he warned.
George stepped back, hoping they were going to unlock the gate. ‘You’d better have come to let me out of this shithole ’cos I ain’t done nothing wrong!’
‘Well, so you say, but we have a credible witness who is willing to testify that she saw you running away from the murder scene.’
‘For fuck’s sake, how many times have I got to tell you? Yes, I was seen running away ’cos I went to get the doctor.’
‘A likely excuse,’ the youngest of the officers remarked sarcastically.
George felt as though she was banging her head against the filthy cell wall. Why wouldn’t anyone believe her? ‘What happens to you lot when you join the force? Do you put that poncey uniform on and turn into idiots? Or do you have to be as ignorant as pig shit to become a copper in the first place? If you had a brain between you, you’d soon work out who the real killer is.’
‘You’ve got a lot of lip, Garrett, but who’s the idiot here, eh? You’re the one behind bars and it won’t be long before you’re found guilty and end up six feet under.’
‘If I killed Peterson, why would I take the time to cover him with my coat?’
‘Guilty conscience, hiding what you did.’
‘I ain’t as stupid as you lot,’ George sneered and looked down her nose. ‘If I had of killed the old man, I wouldn’t have been caught.’
‘Or maybe you’re not as clever as you think you are. The witness also claims that you’re a female. Georgina, not George. Is this true?’
George gulped, unsure of how to answer. Her mind raced as she considered if she’d be better treated if she admitted the truth.
‘Well? Are you one of them pretty boys or just a freak of nature?’
Before George could answer, the young copper unlocked the cell door, and all three came towards her. George backed away as she noticed a sickening look in their eyes.
‘Considering the information we’ve been given, we were wondering what to do with you,’ one of them said. ‘We can’t work out if you should be in the men’s or women’s block. You look like a man, but we need to check for ourselves.’
George was terrified, and nervously edged further back. As her heart hammered, her eyes darted from one copper to the next. She wanted to speak out and tell them she was a woman, but then they might beat her like she’d heard they’d done to the Suffragettes. No, she’d stand and fight her ground, like a man would, like her dad would expect of her.
‘Strip.’
‘W… w… what?’ she stuttered, confused and hardly believing her ears. She’d been brought up to not trust the police, and this couldn’t be right. Surely they couldn’t make her take her clothes off? Georg
e clenched her fists, ready to use them. They couldn’t make her stand naked and if they tried, she’d give them all a thick lip!
‘I said, STRIP,’ the policeman repeated, spitting the word as he leaned forward so his nose was almost touching hers.
The impact of the copper’s order suddenly made George panic. It was like a repeat of what had happened when she was a child with Billy Wilcox. ‘No… no… you can’t do this to me,’ she frantically yelled, and backed away until she felt the bench on the rear of her legs. The policemen moved towards her and George screamed. She hadn’t meant to, but she couldn’t help herself. The shrill noise echoed through the cold basement.
‘She screams like a girl… Hold her,’ one of them ordered.
George had to escape! She couldn’t allow this to happen, not again, not after the embarrassing experience of her childhood. She went to make a run for it, but they had her cornered, so she screamed louder and tried to fight them off. Her arms flayed as she punched out, and as they grappled to retain her, she tried to gouge out one of the copper’s eyes.
‘Hold the cunt, it’s going for my eyes,’ the policeman screeched.
George fought with all her might but was no match for three burly coppers. It was all happening so quickly, and before she knew it, she felt herself being dragged backwards and was then aware of being pinned down to the bench.
‘I’ll have you for this,’ she shouted. ‘You’re filth, dirty fucking filth!’
Her words had no effect and to her horror, she realised they were pulling down her trousers. ‘NO,’ she shrieked, and furiously kicked. Her boot connected with a policeman’s chin, which sent him reeling backwards, but the other two still had her pinned. The injured policeman rubbed his face where George had booted him, then she saw him raise his hand. She watched, terrified, as he brought it down hard across her face.
‘Wanker,’ he snapped as searing hot pain burnt her cheek. George could taste the distinctive metallic flavour of blood in her mouth, then spat in the policeman’s face. She glared at him with contempt as he wiped her bloodied saliva away with a look of disgust.
