by Maggie Ford
Tomorrow evening, on stage in front of everyone – he’d decided at last that it would be better that way, appearing more as an accident – his worries would be over. He would choose the second performance, so that the police would not disrupt the theatre too much when the accident was discovered.
Flicking the half-smoked cigarette from him, he adjusted his scarf, pulled the collar of his warm ulster further up around his neck and moved leisurely off. He’d go to the main road tonight then turn into the road to his apartment. He felt more at ease with himself than he had been for days.
Soon, life would be sweet again. Once Amelia had got over the shock of Martin’s death, and with his gentle help finally put her grieving aside as all must do in getting on with life, yes, everything would be sweet again.
Some way ahead lay Charing Cross Road with its lights and distant din, making this street all the more dark and lonely – too lonely. An sixth sense of something not being as right it ought to be sent a shudder through his body and he quickened his step a fraction.
With the light from the busy main thoroughfare plainly silhouetting his figure, behind him a silent shadow began to move forward, stealthily but swiftly narrowing the gap between itself and its quarry.
For two evenings Ben had watched Theodore Barrington. Hanging around outside the splendid, three-storey apartment block where he and Emma lived, in a fine street off the Charing Cross Road, he thought of the poverty that lay hidden just behind this finery – grubby streets, dirty yards, as degrading as anything in the East End if not so extensive, people living hand to mouth.
Behind every fine façade such pockets of poverty lived cheek by jowl with the rich – a place to ambush a bloke, if he could get him to go down just one of those streets. Hoping for a sight of his quarry and buoyed up by more than just a pint of porter, Ben agreed with himself that the whole bloody lot wanted knocking down, clearing away, got rid of. Maybe one day it would be. Wealth hiding squalor, it was like that Charles Dickens bloke wrote about around fifty years ago. Not that he’d read any of it, but Emma had, and had told him. She was the clever one, but look where that had got her – in the bed of some rich geezer who had abused her, put a kid in her and then made her get rid of it. Ben prided himself that he wasn’t a forgiving man and he could champion someone like his own sister when in trouble.
This was the third night he’d hung around here, wondering how the hell he could waylay a geezer who was always with other people. He had decided against enlisting help – if he couldn’t do this on his own, he was no sort of bloke! But this was getting bloody boring. Perhaps Barrington never went out alone. When he did appear it was with Emma and this other bloke she’d taken a fancy to. They’d come down the steps to the street, Barrington holding her by the aim as if frightened to let go, the other man following. The first night it had been to get into a taxicab, and last night it had been a fine-looking motorcar with a chauffeur.
That first night Barrington had come out on his own after coming back from the theatre he was playing at Ben was on the point of leaving, it being an overcast night with a nasty bit of drizzle and very uncomfortable, when he saw Barrington descending the few broad steps to the street. He saw the man look up at the sky before going back up the steps again to disappear. Last night he’d gone a few yards along the street away from Charing Cross Road, walking slowly, but just as Ben made to seize his chance, had turned and hurried back.
This evening while they were at the theatre, he’d whiled away the time in a nearby pub with a couple of nips of gin and a couple of pints of beer to lessen the growing chill of a frosty night. But though he was still steady on his feet by the time the theatres turned out, he was seeing this waiting lark as a sheer bloody waste of time. And he wanted a pee. Lolling behind the public letterbox across the road from the apartment house, waiting for them to appear, made trying to hold his water none the easier. A few pints did that to a bloke.
Bursting by the time they’d gone inside, he went up against one of the red sides of the old-fashioned pillar-box. Another pee not long after, and a movement across the road caught his eye – someone coming down the steps.
Ben moved hastily back behind the fouled pillar-box, recognising the figure of Barrington. He was alone. Unable to believe his luck, Ben curled his large hands into even larger fists, aware of his biceps bunching beneath his jacket. But how far would the bleeder go before turning back? Ben felt he had just about had enough.
Barrington turned away from the main road, was walking slowly and leisurely towards the turning that led to the darker back streets. This time he did not retrace his steps. It couldn’t be more perfect, an opportunity not to be missed; the man would be sorry he ever left home tonight.
Ben tweaked the peak of his cap, pulling it low over his eyes. Lurching forward, he was instantly aware of not being as steady on his pins as he’d have liked to be. One glass of beer too many, stupid sod, when he knew he needed to keep a cool head for the job in front of him. But he wasn’t exactly drunk, just slightly unsteady. Following at a distance, stopping when his quarry stopped, slipping into the shadows when he turned to gaze up at the frost-brilliant stars, Ben slowly began to gain on Barrington.
The streets the man was walking formed a block, dark, with only the glimmer from a spluttering gas lamp on a bracket at the first corner. Ben grinned.
If Barrington were to turn back now, he’d leap out, block his path, bring his fists into play and when the man was down, get the boots going. That bugger wouldn’t get up again for a long time.
If Barrington carried on round the block that would eventually lead him to the brighter main road, he’d put a spurt on, catch him up before he got there. Then, bash, wallop! Pummel that face to a pulp. No need for a cudgel – he could use his fists to deadly effect when he wanted, drunk or sober. And again the boot, leaving him bleeding in the gutter for someone to find in the morning if he hadn’t dragged himself back home, a long way for anyone in the state he’d be in to drag themselves.
Lurking in the shadows, he saw the brief flare of a match, the flame extinguished as it was tossed into the gutter, the small brief glow from the gasper as Barrington drew on it. Then he saw him turn towards the main road. He’d have to act now or be too late.
Ben had been as silent and stealthy as several pints allowed, but like a lion provoked into action by its fleeing prey, he leaped forward to narrow the gap, to catch him up before the man was aware of him.
Barrington saw him too late. Ben saw him raise his hand to defend his head, his hat flying off. Ben let out a roar, took a wild swing. The man ducked, more athletic for someone his size than Ben had imagined. In the ring he’d have anticipated such a move, but in the dark … And he was a bit drunk.
Enraged at having missed, Ben let out another roar of fury, but before his huge, boxer’s fists could find their target, the man was already running for his life towards the safety of the bright main thoroughfare. Made furious by his failure, Ben pounded after him, bent only on avenging his sister.
There was a pain in Theodore’s chest, but he kept going. If he could reach the safety of the busy major road and make it across to the far side, his unseen assailant, whoever he was, wouldn’t dare to follow him.
Running blindly onwards, he burst out into the safety of bright street lighting, bright shop windows, people passing to and fro, and the glorious rumble of traffic. Certain he could feel his attacker’s hands grabbing at his shoulders, he bounded across the road. He didn’t hear the man yell out to him. Nor did he see the motor omnibus.
Emma alighted from Theo’s handsome, shiny black Austin York Landaulette and stood in the warm August sunshine gazing at his country mansion, still as forlorn as ever, for all the work that had gone into it. Soon it would be sold. The money it would bring would buy something far more cosy.
Nearly six months since Theo’s accident. She remembered how she’d felt when the police came in the small hours, waking with a start to their knocking on the apartment door
. Realising Theo wasn’t beside her, she had flung on her robe and staggered to answer the door, seeing Martin coming from his room, he too awakened by the knocking. Stunned by what the bobby was saying, unable to take it in, she remembered reaching out to Martin.
It was August now. The day planned for her wedding to Theo had long since passed. And now she gazed at his country manor before smiling up at the man whose arm she held.
‘I don’t think I could have borne to live there, ever,’ she said fervently.
‘I know how you feel,’ came the reply. ‘We’ll find something nearer London so that you can see your mother more easily. In fact, she must have a house of her own and let’s hope she won’t be plagued with your brother any more, as he has his own place now and can live as slovenly as he wishes.’
Emma hugged the protective arm. How things had changed since the accident. Ben had confessed to her, only to her, what he’d been about to do. The law had no idea of the hand he’d played in it. But Ben had been well shaken. He would never change, but he’d certainly changed her life for her that night.
‘I think he will always be a problem,’ she smiled wryly, still gazing at the empty windows of Theo’s mansion.
‘He’ll be all right,’ replied Martin. ‘With the money you’ve promised him he’ll have something he’s always wanted, his own boxing booth. That should be enough to give him a sense of responsibility. And he’s married now too.’
She felt Martin gently squeeze her arm, the gesture full of love. ‘Just as we will soon be, darling.’
As she cuddled against him, her smile faded a little. ‘I hope it will be with your family’s blessing. I know they don’t approve of me.’
He was looking reflectively into the far distance. ‘It’ll take time. My father desperately wanted me back in the business and I told him that so long as I’ve got you why should I want to go elsewhere.’ Martin gave a little chuckle. ‘OK, call it a bit of blackmail, but I think it hit its mark.’
Listening to him, Emma was sure he was right. They were doing all the proper things. She was back living with her mother, Ben and Clara having found a flat of their own. Martin was back with his parents. She and he met a couple of times a week and at weekends, like proper courting couples do. All was above board and respectable and as he said, it was only a matter of time before he talked his family round to accepting her. And even if they didn’t, he would marry her anyway.
Her life had changed so abruptly and though she did feel sad at the terrible way it had, what would her life have been like if it hadn’t? Visions of leaving Theo and Theo coming after her still caused bad dreams despite the knowledge that she was free of him for ever. It would always play at the back of her mind. She needed to cling to Martin to dispel it, but would he be there for her if she told him the truth about herself?
That also constantly played on her mind, that she was still unable to bring herself to tell him about the baby. She tried to convince herself that with Theo gone and the threat of exposure gone with him, she would never need to tell him.
For the benefit of appearances, she had affected to put on a brave face regarding Theo’s untimely death. His act, of course, had come to an abrupt end. Shocked at a gifted and famous figure being torn from them by such a tragedy, crowds had attended his funeral while she, feeling hypocritical at having to hide an overwhelming sense of relief, had made a great show of honouring him by generously giving him the best funeral money could buy, able to afford to be generous, as he had left everything to her, fully believing they would soon be mamed.
Yet there still remained her secret. There was no Theo any more threatening to expose her, but might she one day expose herself, say a wrong thing, utter a thoughtless word?
The vision of Martin’s face as it all came out, maybe in years to come when they had a family of their own, haunted her. She must tell him, tell him now. Yet what if he looked at her, appalled? She could see herself running frantically after him as he walked away. But though the man she’d come to know wouldn’t do that, the look on his face would haunt her for ever. To tell him would prove the hardest thing she could ever imagine doing.
She turned from the cheerless house, at the same time pushing away the moment that had nearly occurred and glanced up at him.
‘I don’t think I really need to look around it,’ she said, which they had first intended to do, to see if there was anything that needed to be taken prior to the sale. ‘Let it stay as it is.’
Let everything stay as it is, came the thought. ‘Perhaps the people buying it will throw out what’s left, cheer it up and bring it back to life.’
‘Maybe what’s left needs to be thrown out,’ Martin mused, and spoke one more single word. ‘Sad.’
He shook his head, then brightened. ‘Come on, darling, let’s go.’ He put a hand over hers. ‘Leave it to itself. We have a life to look forward to.’
Emma couldn’t laugh with him. It hit her that she couldn’t do this, couldn’t live a lie with him for the rest of her life. Whether she lost him or not, she must speak. But oh, dear God, she didn’t want to lose him! He looked so happy and she was about to destroy his world, both their worlds.
‘Martin.’ She pulled back as he turned towards the car. Her tone made him pause. He frowned. ‘What is it, my sweet?’
‘I’ve something to tell you. I have to tell you now. Something you must know about me. Something you have to know.’
Giving him no time to interrupt the way she was gabbling, she forged on, the words falling from her lips giving the true reason, the whole reason, for her faint on stage. When she’d finished, he stood looking at her, unsmiling, and she felt sick. She had lost him.
When he spoke, his voice was low-pitched and steady. ‘I had a feeling something like that had happened,’ he said slowly. ‘I never said anything. I felt I had to wait for you to say it and I’m glad you did.’
There was another pause that drew itself out until she wanted to cry out to him, asking what he intended to do about it. But he spoke first, again very slowly, almost proudly. ‘It must have taken a lot of courage to tell me.’
She was looking at him through a film of tears that made him seem as though he was floating in water as he continued. ‘And now we can put it all behind us.’
He glanced past her at the grim edifice. ‘Just like that house, and all that it represented. Come on, darling.’ He took her arm again and began leading her towards the Austin.
Without a word, he settled her in the passenger seat. Walking round to the driver’s side, he got in and pressed the starter button.
As the engine roared into life, the brake and the gear stick released, he briefly laid a comforting hand on her knee under its heavy skirt, giving her a broad smile before transferring his gaze back to the road they were about to take.
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Ebury
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First published by Ebury Press in 2021
Copyright © Maggie Ford 2021
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover design: headdesign.co.uk
ISBN: 978-1-473-57324-6
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
