by Sam Michaels
‘You try anything like that again and I’ll knock your fucking teeth out,’ he hissed.
‘Scum,’ George answered rebelliously and continued struggling against the other two coppers.
The policeman sneered at her and then one of them tugged her legs apart. ‘Get the fuck off me,’ she screamed, hysterically writhing her body, but now her bottom half was stripped, except for her boots.
‘She’s female,’ she heard a voice say, followed by laughter.
George closed her eyes, spent, defeated and humiliated. She squirmed under their scrutiny of her private parts, but now they knew the truth, she thought they’d leave her alone.
‘You’d better check she ain’t got her cock pushed up inside her. I’ve seen her sort before, fucking perverts.’
Helpless, her head fell to one side as she felt a rough hand enter her vagina and winced in pain. She wanted to cry out but gritted her teeth. There was no way she’d give them the satisfaction of showing how much it hurt.
‘No dicks up here,’ the copper said. ‘Turn her over, make sure she ain’t got one up her arse.’
Again, there was more laughter as George was thrown onto her front. They handled her roughly, but she had no fight left, and flopped like a rag doll. She tried to blot out the discomfort of what was happening, but when they attempted to sodomise her with a truncheon the agony was so great that she screamed and almost passed out. She thought they were ripping her body in two and feared she might die. As her tears dripped onto the wooden bench, she prayed death would come soon and spare her further anguish.
George’s strength had been sapped, and as the horrific abuse continued, she saw Ruby’s sweet face, the woman who had loved her like a mother. Ruby smiled lovingly at her, which calmed her and brought some comfort through the horror of what was happening. She reached out her hand to touch Ruby’s soft skin, but she was just out of reach, and her image began to fade. ‘Take me with you,’ George whispered faintly. She’d never felt so alone and scared.
At last the assault was over, and one of the policemen threw a thin, rough blanket over her. She squeezed her eyes shut at the mocking faces of her perpetrators, then heard the cell door being locked, followed by heavy footsteps walking away and derisive sniggers. George was left sore, bleeding and utterly degraded.
Heart-breaking sobs escaped from her mouth as she yanked up her torn trousers, then she sat on the bench and hugged her knees as she pulled them into her chest. Every part of her body ached and felt bruised, and she feared they’d damaged her insides. Her shoulders shook as she drew long, juddering breaths and cried like she never had before. She wanted her gran and longed to be in the safety and security of home.
She couldn’t sleep that night as the violation left her mind tormented. She wondered if the attack would have happened if she’d been less masculine. If she looked like a woman, would they have treated her so appallingly? She risked a beating, but that would have been better than what had happened. Cuts, bruises, they’d heal, but George wasn’t sure her mind ever would. Flashbacks of the policeman’s hand inside her left her feeling dirty and she wished she had Molly’s carbolic soap to scrub herself.
Eventually, when her tears stopped flowing, her sorrow was replaced with a consuming hatred. It filled her being, and that hatred fuelled strength. When the morning sun rose, her mouth was set in a grim line, and her eyes were hard. She vowed to herself that she’d never allow another man to hurt her again.
19
Jack didn’t arrive home until early afternoon the next day, and when he did, he was met by Oppo looking deathly pale and his mother verging on hysteria. He held her shoulders, and gently shook her. ‘Slow down, Mum, I need to understand.’
After managing to draw in a deep, steadying breath, she said, ‘George… George has been arrested for killing Mr Peterson.’
‘Don’t be daft. That can’t be right.’
‘They found him with his head bashed in, and she… she was seen running from his shop.’
‘That doesn’t mean she murdered him.’
‘I know, but Oppo went to the station and they wouldn’t let him see her. They’re saying she did it! You’ve got to do something, Jack. Get her out of there!’
‘I tried, Jack, I really did,’ Oppo said as he placed his arm across Dulcie’s shoulders.
Jack couldn’t believe it. It didn’t make sense. He paced the room and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I’m going to the station to sort this out. Oppo, look after me mum,’ he called as he rushed back out of the door, still wearing his coat.
His mind twisted and turned as he ran to the police station. They refused to allow him to see his daughter, but they did confirm she was being charged with murder. She’d see the rope for this! His stomach lurched. He didn’t believe that George had killed old Peterson and needed to hear her side of the story, but without access to her, he felt helpless. There had to be something he could do, Jack thought frantically. One man’s name came to his mind – one man who had influence – a man who claimed to have the Old Bill in his pocket.
*
Norman sat in his armchair with the newspaper in his hands, but he wasn’t reading the words. His mind was on Billy. The young man had seemed jumpy the night before, and Jane had noticed blood on his trousers. When Norman had questioned him, he’d said he’d been in a scrap, and the extra money in his pockets was won on a bet. Norman wasn’t convinced. His son was a good liar, but he wasn’t so smart, and Norman had a niggling suspicion that Billy was somehow mixed up in the murder of Mr Peterson.
He heard a knock on the front door and peered through the crisp net curtains. Norman was pleased it wasn’t the police and was unsurprised to see Jack on his step. Jane answered the door and showed Jack through.
‘You’ve heard?’ the man said abruptly.
‘Yes. Did she do it?’ Norman asked. He already knew the answer, but he had to be sure.
‘Of course she fucking didn’t!’
‘All right, Jack, calm down. We’ll get this cleared up, but don’t take that tone with me again.’
‘Sorry, Norman, I’m just worried sick about her.’
‘I know you are, mate. Now go home, look after your mother and leave this to me.’
‘I can’t sit at home doing nothing. Please, Norman, let me help.’
‘There’s nothing you can do. I promise you, I’ll have her out by teatime.’
‘Are you sure? They’ll hang her for this, Norman. I have to be sure.’
‘You know me well enough to know I’m a man of my word. You’re holding me up. Just go home.’
‘OK and thanks, Norman. I really appreciate this, and I swear my George is innocent.’
‘I don’t doubt it,’ Norman replied. He too was sure that George hadn’t killed the man, but the same couldn’t be said for his own son.
*
Joan was surprised when Hefty turned up. She hadn’t been expecting to see him until the end of the week, but when he bundled her back into her room, she began to worry.
‘Get off me, you great lummox,’ she said, as she yanked her arm from his grip.
‘Sorry, Joan, but I’ve had instructions from Norman to keep this dead secret.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘Is Rob the Roach due here today?’ Hefty asked in a hushed voice.
‘Yes, you know he always shows up as regular as clockwork.’
‘Good. When Vi’s screwing him, get her to slip this in his pocket,’ Hefty said, and handed Joan a key.
‘What’s it for?’
‘It’s the shop key for Peterson’s and Norman said you have to make sure Rob don’t know he’s got it.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Hefty, what’s going on? I heard about old boy Peterson getting killed. Norman didn’t have anything to do with it, did he?’
‘Don’t be daft, you know that ain’t his style. I don’t know the ins and outs, but I do know the wrong person has been nicked for it so Norman’s putting it right. He�
�s had a word with his mate in the nick, and Rob’s gonna be lifted at half past three this afternoon on the end of this street. Stay indoors and keep your nosy beak out.’
‘But Rob ain’t a killer. He wouldn’t have done Peterson in.’
‘I know, but he’s a slimy bastard and Norman doesn’t like him. He’s as good as any to take the blame for it. Now just do as you’re told will ya, and keep your mouth shut.’
‘All right, all right, but you tell Norman that me and Vi are gonna want a good handshake for this.’
Hefty left the key with Joan, and she slipped it into her bra. She’d heard a bloke called George Garrett had done the old man in and wondered why Norman would be saving his bacon. Oh well, she thought, that’s another customer down the Swanee, but she knew Vi wouldn’t miss Rob. Hefty was right, the bloke was a slimy bastard, and he liked to do things to Vi that his wife wouldn’t allow. Good riddance to him, she thought, and patted the key against her breast.
*
George had lost count of the number of cockroaches she’d seen scuttling around the cell. She hated them – the bloody things made her skin crawl and so did policemen. She heard the familiar sound of gates opening, keys jangling, and jumped to her feet, ready to swipe the first copper to enter her cell. Never again would she allow herself to be so vilely abused. She’d be ready for them this time, and if she killed one of them, so what. She believed she was for the gallows anyway so she may as well take a copper or two with her.
As she braced herself, she heard a man shouting, ‘You filthy bastards, you can’t do this to me. I never killed the old bastard, and you fucking know it. I’ve been set up… Do you hear me? Framed!’
The tension left George’s body when she realised the police weren’t coming for her, but it sounded like some other poor bugger had been nicked for something he hadn’t done.
‘I’m fucking innocent, you wankers!’
‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s what they all say.’
George couldn’t see what was going on, but she heard a gate slam shut, and the prisoner continuing to shout about a set-up.
Next, an old-looking policeman appeared in front of her cell. George flinched and clenched her fists. She’d fashioned a shaft from a piece of the bench that had splintered and was ready to jab it into the copper’s neck. To her surprise, he opened her cell door and stood back, saying, ‘You’re free to go, Garrett.’
George wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.
‘Come on, you’re getting out of here,’ the copper said.
She didn’t need telling again, though she was cautious as she passed him and held the sharpened piece of wood in her fist, ready to use it if he touched her. She still felt pain from the attack but as she walked through the holding area she hid her discomfort well. They’d left her feeling appalled, but she had her pride. For a brief moment, she paused as she passed the cell where the other man was being held.
‘You fucking bastard,’ he shouted through the bars, then gobbed at her. ‘Wilcox has set me up for this to get you off the hook. You murdering fucking cunt… It was you who did it!’
‘Move on, Garrett,’ the copper said, then added to the man, ‘and shut it, you.’
George’s mind spun. She had no idea who the bloke was behind the bars, or how Wilcox had somehow got her out of that hell pit. She did realise he was being set up though. Billy had killed Mr Peterson; the old man had said so before he’d died.
She slipped the splintered bit of wood in her pocket and signed some papers for her release. At last, she stepped through the police station doors. It was refreshing to feel the weak sun on her face and a cold wind on her cheeks. She was free and ran into the waiting arms of her father. It was such a relief to be in his embrace and feel her fears melt away, though she held back from allowing herself to cry again. Her dad would ask what was wrong, but she could never bring herself to tell him what disgraceful act had taken place. For now, just being with her dad was enough.
20
‘Have you seen the papers, Jack?’ Dulcie asked, waving yesterday’s news in front of her son.
They were sat opposite each other in the armchairs by the hearth, and George was upstairs in her room. Jack guessed his mother was referring to Robert Harris being charged for the murder of Mr Peterson. ‘Yes, Mum, but it’s no more than he deserves.’
‘Come on, Son. We both know that poor man is innocent. He don’t deserve the death penalty, and what about his wife and kids?’
‘Leave it out, Mum. What would you prefer? Our George swinging for it?’ Jack already felt bad about Rob; he didn’t need his mother going on about it too.
‘No, of course not. I just don’t think it’s right that an innocent man should be done up for it. The real murderer should be on the end of that rope, not Rob the Roach.’
‘Yeah, well, there’s nothing I can do about that, and Norman will make sure his wife and kids are looked after.’
‘Norman bloody Wilcox. It’s always the same name. He’s left you half blind with that awful scar. That man has blood on his hands, and I wish to God you’d have nothing to do with him!’
‘Say what you like about him, but he’s saved our George twice now. I’d rather have him on my side and not as an enemy,’ Jack said.
‘Just watch yourself with him, Son. Granted, he’s helped out, but I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could spit on him.’
Jack had heard enough. If his mother wasn’t going on about Norman, then she’d be on at him about George looking like a boy and fighting the local lads. ‘I’m going for a pint. I’ll see you later.’
As he grabbed his coat from over the newel post at the bottom of the stairs, he heard his mother call out, ‘Don’t drink too much. You know you can’t hold your booze.’
Jack slammed the door behind him. Living with his mother was becoming more and more bothersome. She nagged worse than an old haggard wife. He could understand why Percy had done a disappearing act and didn’t blame the man. He’d considered it himself, but at the end of the day, she was still his mother, and someone had to look after her.
*
George lay on her bed and had been staring up at the ceiling all morning when she heard the front door close. She assumed her father had gone for a Sunday lunchtime drink and knew he’d return later, the worse for wear.
She closed her eyes and tried to think of Ruby, the beautiful face of an angel who’d come to her in the cell, but instead, the faces of the policemen flashed through her mind. She’d always remember them, sneering, and what they did to her. She’d been too ashamed to tell her family and had vowed to carry the secret to her grave. She wished the experience had left her numb, but it hadn’t. The pain and torment felt very real and though she’d tried to put it to the back of her mind, she couldn’t forget. Nor could she forgive.
She was grateful she wasn’t being hanged for Mr Peterson’s death, but knew the wrong man was going to the gallows. Billy Wilcox had caused all this. It was all his fault. He was dangerous and far worse than his father. At least Norman had morals. It seemed Billy had none.
George opened her eyes again and stared back at the ceiling. She twisted her mother’s wedding ring that she wore on her little finger, an unconscious habit she’d acquired whenever she was deep in thought. Christmas was fast approaching. She couldn’t touch Billy, not yet. She’d have to bide her time with him. But the three policemen… they didn’t deserve to enjoy the festive spirit or see in the New Year celebrations. George pictured them with their families, and the images left her with a bitter taste in her mouth. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair.
She couldn’t bring them to justice through the courts, but she could impose her own. Revenge. George suddenly sat up and threw her legs over the side of the bed. Yes, revenge. That would work. Revenge for the disgusting way they’d treated her. She’d pay them back, each one of them. Her gran would be busy cooking dinner, whilst her dad was getting drunk, which left her with the day to plan it.
At last
, for the first time since her arrest, George smiled. She could never rid herself of the awful memories, but she refused to allow them to beat her. She knew that to win, she had to defeat those who’d hurt her. It would be the only way to make her feel empowered.
21
The next day, Molly Mipple shivered in bed, and groaned out loud as she realised she was once again lying in her older sister’s urine. The girl should have stopped wetting the bed by now, but their mother had told Molly it was because her sister had bad nerves and a simple mind. Molly wasn’t surprised and blamed their father.
‘Ethel… get up… you’ve wet the bed again,’ she whispered, careful not to wake anyone else, especially their dad. He didn’t like it when Ethel had her ‘accidents’ and would take it out on their mother. Molly’s older sisters had long left home, and rarely visited, which left Molly and Ethel sharing a bed, with their six-year-old sister in the cot beside them.
‘Oh no, I’m sorry, Molly,’ Ethel sniffed.
‘It’s all right – just get up so that I can change my clothes before I go to work. Keep quiet. It’s still dark so hopefully he won’t wake up.’
Ethel quietly climbed out of the bed, and Molly followed. She’d have liked a bath, or at least a thorough wash, but there was no hot water, and boiling up pans was sure to disturb her father.
‘What shall I do about the bed?’ Ethel asked quietly.
As Ethel stood in front of the cold draught from the broken window, Molly saw her sister was trembling, and her eyes were filled with unshed tears.
‘Wait for Dad to go out, then stand the mattress up against the wall and let it air. In the meantime, help me turn it over, and get back in. You’ll have to pretend to be asleep until he buggers off.’
Ethel nodded, and between them, they lifted the heavy mattress.
‘What you doing?’ their younger sister piped up.
‘Shush, Charlotte, go back to sleep,’ Molly ordered.
