‘Yes. That’s why I don’t want the police involved, not until after tomorrow anyway. Then Charlie will get his money and both he and I will be out of your way.’
‘Can you hear yourself? You think you and him are going to go off and live some dreamy life on some ill-gotten gains? He’s a crook. You’ve fallen for a grubby little criminal,’ Harry said. ‘You expect me to put my sister’s life at risk for some fairy tale. Christ.’
‘I’m seeing sense. You think I want to stay married to someone like you?’
She stood up and turned herself to face him, while he sat on the bed looking up at her.
‘But what about our baby?’
‘It’s Charlie’s, you idiot. Charlie is the father.’
There was the sound of feet on the stairs.
‘Harry, what’s going on? Are we going to find Jean?’ Frank’s voice called.
Harry looked down at his watch, at the two hands imperceptibly moving and the second hand, which slid smoothly around the face of the clock. It usually calmed him to see the time, giving him a sense of being rooted, but now his head was throbbing. He tried to respond to Frank and at first only managed a sound which was half way between wait and yes.
‘Give me five minutes Frank,’ he said, finally.
His fuddled mind threw his body into a manic dance and he was, in a matter of seconds, opening the bedroom door, shutting it again, sitting back on the bed, going to the wall, looking at his watch when finally his eyes came to rest on the painting above the bed and the picture of a man’s back which stared serenely at him. Harry wondered, not for the first time, what the man on the beach was thinking about and what he looked like from the front. Often he had figured it to be some version of himself and even went as far as to imagine another man standing beside him, but the reality of the painting was always there; it was the cross above his bed, reminding him all at once of his sin and his joy and ultimately of a future lived alone.
‘The baby isn’t mine?’ he said.
‘No.’
‘But how can you be sure of that?’ he said.
‘I’m not that far gone and we haven’t slept together for two or three months. I’ve been with Charlie a dozen times since then.’
Harry looked accusingly at her belly. He could not work out why he was so angry. Surely this was what he wanted to hear. Her treachery was absolute. He owed her nothing and now he could walk away with a clean heart, but the weight of her betrayal was overwhelming and he moved towards her as though he might attack her. Instead, he found that his hand had taken hold of her wrist.
‘You are a liar.’
She pulled her hand away.
‘For God’s sake let me have a chance to make a life for myself and my baby, one that actually means something to me. I don’t want this.’
‘I’m going to tell the police everything,’ he said.
‘Why? What’s gotten into you? I’m saying you and I can go our separate ways. You can do whatever you want. Sleep with whoever you choose.’
‘Newman’s floosy. Charlie’s floosy. You really are the same as those murdered girls. Nothing but a common east end tart.’
She slapped him hard across the face. The sharpness of it and the look of deep hurt on Phyllis’s face were almost pleasurable. It was good to know that he was capable of hurting her. She moved away to the far side of the bed and spoke with her back to him.
‘If you want me to take you to Jean you won’t say anything to anyone. You know how bad those men are? They’re responsible for those two murdered women. I knew them. They used to work for Newman. He’s roughed up a couple of other girls too, so if you want Jean back safely, we’ll do things my way. That’s an end to it.’
Harry drew a deep breath.
‘Where will you go?’ he asked.
‘Somewhere else.’
‘What am I supposed to tell Jean? When I see her?’
‘That is entirely up to you.’
Phyllis took her bag once more and approached the door. Harry knew that she would never come back once she left the house. The rooms, the hallway and stairs suddenly felt rotten to him, the wood and brick struck through with disease. The house seemed to exhale in long slow breaths, a drowsy sound, which faded into a deathly silence.
The air downstairs was fuggy with the smoke of Frank’s pipe. Frank stood immobile in the hall, the pipe clenched in his jaw, looking up at Harry and Phyllis as they descended the stairs. Harry could see that his brother-in-law was a man on the edge of hysteria and, for the first time in his life, Harry felt genuine pity for him. They were both facing desertion by their respective wives, but Harry tried desperately to differentiate their situations. He reminded himself that Frank was entirely responsible for his own misfortune because he was a man only capable of possessing women, who saw them strictly as a wife and mother. The trouble was Harry found it difficult to distinguish his own behaviour from that of Frank’s. He too felt like his wife owed him something. As Harry reached the bottom of the stairs his feelings made him aware of how callous he’d been towards Freddie. He found solace in the fact that Freddie had loved him and still loved him deeply.
‘I’m glad you are safe and sound,’ Frank said, taking Phyllis’s hand.
‘Yes, well let’s find your wife and then we can stop all this worrying,’ she replied.
There was a sharp knock at the door. Frank looked to Harry, but Harry was still lost in his thoughts so Frank turned to open it, but he was stopped by the sound of someone’s voice.
‘All right officer?’
‘And who are you?’
There was the sound of a thud as something large hit the door.
‘Open the door,’ shouted the policeman. ‘Open the bloody door.’
It was followed by a strangled noise of choking and the crash of feet. Phyllis pulled Frank by the arm and they moved away from the door and stood motionless in the hall, their gaze fixated on the door and their hearts pounding high in their chests as they tried to figure out what was happening on the other side of it. After a moment there was silence and then came the sound of knocking again. Frank turned to Phyllis and Harry, and Harry made a motion of his finger up towards his mouth to warn Frank not to speak. Phyllis turned and walked down the hall towards the kitchen at the back. Harry and Frank followed and when they were all in the kitchen Harry shut the door.
‘We need to go now, out the back,’ Phyllis whispered.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Frank said.
The knocks on the door became more insistent.
‘We’ll explain when we get out of here,’ Phyllis said. ‘Harry, we need to go.’
Harry nodded, his hand reaching automatically for a hammer that sat with a set of screwdrivers and other odd tools which he kept in a cupboard under the sink.
‘What are you going to do with that?’ Frank asked.
The knocking on the door stopped. Phyllis opened the back door onto the yard, but as she did all the lights went out.
‘Bloody hell, what are you playing at?’ Frank almost shouted.
‘Shut up,’ Harry said. ‘They’ve cut the electric.’
‘Quick,’ Phyllis said, pulling at Harry.
They moved outside and up a set of metal steps into a small garden. They held onto each other and edged their way along the grass. It was impossible to see more than a few feet in front of them, but Harry was glad of the fog and the protection it afforded. As long as they remained quiet he could negotiate his way to the gate at the far side, which exited onto the street. He listened for the sound of men but he could only make out the sound of his own breath. They reached the gate but as they did they heard the sound of footsteps coming along the street. Harry pushed Frank and Phyllis back and they stood waiting. Harry could feel the weight of the hammer in his right hand and he loosened his grip a little. He gave it a little swing, getting the measure of how he would use it. It was hard to think of bringing it down on someone’s skull but that seemed the most logical plac
e to hit. He might only get one go at it and what if they had a gun? Perhaps he could aim for an arm or the chest. Someone was pushing at the gate and Harry remembered that he had put a bolt on it the previous summer not so much against the prospect of thieves but rather from a general sense of needing to feel as though he could lock himself away from the outside world. He heard whispering and the sound of someone heaving themselves over the gate. Phyllis nudged him, as though she wanted him to get on and attack the intruder but it only made him more anxious.
Harry heard noise coming from inside the house. There were two of them then. One had already gotten in the front door. The intruder at the back lowered himself into the garden. Harry could hear him breathing, no more than ten feet away, but completely invisible in the smog. His hand tightened around the hammer. If he was going to do it he better do it now, he thought but he couldn’t justify it to himself, to attack someone who had as yet made no attack on him. The intruder moved forwards toward the house and when Harry heard his feet on the metal steps he moved forward to the gate. Phyllis and Frank were close behind him. Harry reached up for the bolt and began to work it loose, but with the cold and damp it was almost impossible to shift it. He tried his best not to make a noise by the metal bolt squeaked as he tried desperately to free it. Then they all heard a crash from inside the house.
‘Hurry up Harry,’ Phyllis shouted.
‘It’s stuck.’
‘Let me do it,’ Frank said, pushing Harry aside.
‘Let’s just climb over,’ Phyllis said.
Harry gave Phyllis a leg up and she scrabbled onto the fence.
‘Frank, leave it for Christ’s sake,’ Harry said, lifting himself over the gate.
There was the sound of someone coming out of the house and onto the steps.
‘Come on.’
Phyllis dropped down onto the street.
‘They’re out here,’ called a voice.
Harry was already climbing down onto the street. He reached out to give Frank a hand, but Frank let out a yelp.
‘Get the fuck off me,’ he shouted.
The intruder pulled at Frank’s legs and Frank kicked hard. Harry grabbed hold of Frank’s jacket but the two intruders had too strong a grip on him and pulled Frank back into the garden.
‘Frank,’ Harry shouted, but Phyllis was pulling at him.
‘We’ll call the police,’ she shouted.
There was the sound of punching and then a head appeared above the fence. It was the man who’d chased him from the pub.
‘She’s here Moss. Phyllis is here,’ he said, and reached out with one hand but Harry swung the hammer hard and brought it firmly against the man’s other hand which was holding onto the fence. The man let out a cry and fell back into the garden.
‘Frank. Frank,’ Harry called out, but all he got by way of an answer was someone kicking at the gate.
‘Run,’ shouted Phyllis. ‘They’ll kill us.’
The gate began to give way. Hating himself, Harry turned on his heels and he and Phyllis ran off into the street.
ELEVEN
Jean held onto the banister and tried to stop the tremor running through her body. She watched as Charlie came back through the hall, pushing the wheelbarrow and trying to angle it around the living room door. He gave up on it, went to the front door, opened it and pushed the wheelbarrow onto the street. A blast of cold air smacked Jean in the face.
‘What are you doing with that?’
He didn’t answer. He wheeled the barrow into the living room.
‘Arthur, give us a hand,’ Charlie said.
Jean could hear Arthur whimpering.
‘Arthur.’
‘No.’
Jean pulled herself off the stairs and went into the living room once more. She tried not to look at Jack directly. She could see the mass of his body from the corner of her eye. He was still in the same position, lying with his head twisted towards the ceiling while the rest of his body sprawled out awkwardly across the floor. He was breathing, but barely conscious and making a terrible gurgling noise. Charlie worked his arms around Jack’s shoulders and lifted him up.
‘Charlie for God’s sake, let’s call an ambulance,’ she said.
Charlie ignored her and pulled Jack up as best he could, but the boy’s head was drooping and his arms and legs seemed to have a life of their own. Charlie looked at Arthur for help but his brother wanted nothing to do with it and so Charlie struggled alone. He finally managed to grip the boy’s arms and drag him first onto a chair, where he looked almost comfortable, and then onto the wheelbarrow. It was only then that Jean could bring himself to have a proper look at him. She went over and cleared away some of the blood from his face and tried to push his hair into some semblance of neatness. She wanted to test him for a pulse, but Charlie pushed her hand away.
‘Will you stop crying,’ Charlie said to Arthur, as he went to put his jacket on.
Arthur followed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands and doing his best to stop crying.
‘I’ll be back shortly,’ Charlie said, taking hold of the barrow.
‘Charlie, you don’t have to do this.’
Jean stood in his way.
‘Move.’
‘What do you intend to do?’
‘What do you think?’
‘We have to get him some help.’
‘I’ve had enough of you telling me what I should and shouldn’t do. You see this streak of piss? He works for Newman and that means trouble for me, for you and for all of us if I don’t get rid of him.’
‘Then why the hell didn’t you control yourself? You’re a mad fool if you think Phyllis is worth this kind of trouble. She’s playing you and Harry for all she can get. I can see it as plain as anything.’
‘You have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Charlie said.
Jean stood firm.
‘Move. I won’t say it again.’
‘No-one deserves to be thrown out on the street like that. You’ll kill him. You’ll be responsible for his death.’
Arthur pulled Jean aside.
‘Get him out of here Charlie,’ Arthur said.
Charlie shifted the wheelbarrow onto the street and disappeared into the fog.
‘Charlie,’ Jean called, but she did not have the will to follow him.
She should have gone and phoned the police but something held her back. She felt almost complicit in what had happened, an accomplice. She returned inside and looked around the mess that was the living room. Charlie’s mother was half asleep in the chair, her head nodding up and down.
‘We should get her into bed,’ Jean said.
‘Mother,’ Arthur said, shaking her arm gently.
The old woman opened one eye and chewed her lips.
‘You got blood on you,’ she said, staring at Jean’s hands.
Jean looked at them and they were indeed covered in Jack’s blood, which was already crusting on her skin, dark as clay. She went to the kitchen, turned on the tap and began to pick her hands clean. The blood had gotten right under her nails and she had to work carefully to remove it. To her right on the counter the head of the pig stared back at her accusingly from a set of unnervingly feminine eyes. She turned away from it but at the same moment felt something crawling along her leg. Almost jumping she flicked her hands free of the water and pulled up the hem of her dress to see what it was. A thick droplet of brown blood trickled down the inside of her thigh. She wiped it away with her hand and looked about the floor confused, wondering if she was cut anywhere. Perhaps Charlie or Jack had caught her with the bottle as they fought, or perhaps she had scratched herself by accident. She felt another slight trickle and she looked again at her thigh and then it dawned on her and she could feel the dampness high between her legs. She turned off the tap and ran quickly to a door at the back of the kitchen and found a grubby lavatory. Slamming the door shut, she pulled up her dress and pulled down her underwear. Compared to the blo
od on Jack there was barely any, perhaps a teaspoon’s worth at most, but it was enough to soak the saddle of her underwear. She sat on the toilet and tore a couple of sheets of newspaper from a pile which had been left on the floor. She was confused. The doctor had told her that she would not begin her menstruation for at least five weeks after the birth and yet barely three weeks had passed since she went into labour. She recalled how the birth had begun easily enough, the doctor at her side with his stethoscope, looking confident with how things were progressing. But then something shifted, the doctor’s face darkened and all at once he was calling for an ambulance. She heard something about haemorrhaging but that was all she remembered until she awoke in hospital several days later.
She sat on the loo for a long time, staring blankly in front of her at the door. This new bleeding frightened her. Was she still in danger? But she did not feel unwell and had little in the way of cramps. The doctor mentioned there may be bleeding and this thought calmed her slightly. Perhaps her body was preparing to come to life again. In the distance she could hear the sound of Charlie banging and clattering the wheelbarrow, but it made the stillness around her more immediate, as though the lavatory possessed a holy serenity. After a while her eyes began to focus on two spiders that were nestled on one of the door hinges, one delicate and thin legged, the other shorter but stockier.
Jean pulled her knickers free from her legs and peered down at the blood. She began to cry. She put her hand over her mouth and tried to stop herself from making too much noise. She imagined herself back in the bed, a dead child in her arms and the violent rage of love and despair as she looked down at its silent grey face, eyes shut to the world and oblivious to the misery it carried.
The bleeding stopped and she cleaned herself up as best she could. She walked back into the living room and unpegged the socks and pants from the string line. Arthur was seated in a chair watching his mother, anxiously.
‘Where has Charlie gone?’
Arthur shrugged.
‘We should tidy this place up. It’s no good for your mother to be living like this,’ she said.
The Smog (A Jean Clarke Mystery Book 1) Page 18
