‘You are questioning my character, and I don’t like that. Roy didn’t kill anyone, and I didn’t kill anyone. We have been friends for about twenty years. In case you haven’t noticed – which wouldn’t surprise me in the least – Roy has a bad limp. He’s not steady enough on his leg to break anybody’s neck. His hip’s been affected by the way he’s forced to walk – don’t you people notice anything? He’s not supple. Phil and I looked after him at school while others mocked him.’ She leaned forward. ‘Should Roy and I decide to become a couple, we’ll be sure to send the two of you invitations to the wedding, but don’t start holding your breath in anticipation.’
The two officers rose to their feet. ‘Thank you,’ said the male half of the inquisition. ‘If we need you again, we’ll let you know.’
As Rosh emerged from Interview Two, Roy came out of One. She followed him into the desk sergeant’s area where Mother was having another go at the poor man. Through the half-open door, the sounds of an uninhibited and unrehearsed choir attacked the ears of everyone in the station.
‘Our neighbours,’ Anna said when she was close enough to shout in her daughter’s ear. ‘I fetched them to make a stand for Roy. But they all know different songs, so they’re all singing different songs.’ She walked to the door and opened it wide. The noise stopped. ‘They don’t appreciate good music in here, people. Away to your homes, as these policemen are threatening to read the Riot Act.’
Outside, Rosh clung to Roy’s arm. ‘You all right?’
‘They believe me now, though they started asking had I finished him off while you were at the phone box. But you left the front door wide open, and Mimi Atkinson was passing, so she’s witness to the fact that I didn’t break his neck. You hadn’t even reached the first corner when Mimi got there, so I hadn’t time for murder. Anyway, there would have been different marks on his body. So, how did you go on?’
She shrugged. ‘I think we’re in the clear. Our stories probably matched, but not too closely, not as if they were rehearsed. Mother says they’re doing a post-mortem at the hospital, because they think he was already dead before his neck broke. Heart attack, probably.’
‘Thanks for being there, Rosh.’
‘I’ll always be there. Phil and I were there for you, and you were there for us. Nothing’s changed, except we’re missing Phil. You come to us for Christmas and New Year, if you can put up with Mother, that is.’
‘She’s magnificent, Rosh. I’ve never met anyone like her.’
‘Aren’t you the lucky one?’
Anna joined them on the walk home. She was quieter, but she muttered under her breath about the stupidity of the police, the freezing cold, the price of capons, turkeys and bacon, the need to get to work tonight, since she hadn’t as good an excuse as she’d had yesterday.
‘Mother?’
‘What?’
‘Shut up.’
Several of the neighbours approached them, some stopping to shake Roy’s hand. In spite of all the interruptions, the three eventually reached Lawton Road and entered the Allen house. Roy walked in without hesitation. His own place was the scene of a sudden, violent death, and he would be sleeping on Rosh’s sofa until further notice. He picked up a small case containing the few personal belongings he had been allowed to remove from his bedroom across the road.
In Rosh’s bathroom, he stared at his reflection in a mirror above the washbasin. He heard his long-dead mother telling him he looked like nobody owned him. It was true. Numbed to the bone, he didn’t know how to feel. There was no joy, no relief, no sadness. He was empty. But he could manage a shave, surely? The face in the glass looked like that of a tramp who hadn’t bathed in a month.
He was halfway through soaping his face when a small person arrived by his side. She carried with her a wooden duckboard, and she placed this next to him before climbing on to its surface. ‘Hello, Alice,’ he said.
The child took the brush from him and slathered white froth all over her cheeks, chin and neck. ‘Ready, steady, go,’ she told him. ‘Do it.’
While he used the razor, Alice employed the handle of her toothbrush. Every time he flicked his harvest into the bowl, she followed suit. ‘Not on clothes,’ she ordered. They shared a towel to wipe their faces before Alice returned the duckboard to its rightful place beside the bath. ‘All done,’ she said.
‘All done,’ he repeated.
She disappeared, only to come back immediately with Winston. The animal was so big that he should have carried the child. ‘Winston,’ she explained breathlessly. ‘He is good for me; Gran says that.’ She dropped the cat, who seemed displeased. After two flicks of an angry tail, he left the scene, followed by Alice.
Roy crammed all his stuff into his toiletries bag. His eyes stung, and he scarcely knew why. ‘Oh, Phil,’ he mumbled. For some reason beyond his comprehension, the death of his father prompted the mourning of Phil, his best friend. Alice had played her part, of course.
He managed to reach the front downstairs room without any further encounters. Ready to burst into tears, he sat on the sofa and tried to compose himself. A few seconds passed before he realized that he was not alone. Ah, it was the wild, invisible one, the dark destroyer, the killer of birds. Purring like the engine of a small car, Lucy-Furr joined him, rubbing her side along his left arm. This cat was reputed to deal with grief. On her first day in the Allen house, she had comforted Rosh.
He didn’t cry. Instead, he sat with the knowledgeable cat, stroking jet-coloured fur and listening to her expression of contentment.
Rosh entered with a cup of tea. ‘Ah, there she is. I’ve been looking for her. She owes me a pair of stockings in sandalwood, Marks and Spencer. And one of Alice’s headbands seems to have gone for a walk.’
‘Alice had a shave with me,’ he said.
Rosh dropped into an armchair. ‘She used to do that with her dad.’
‘I guessed as much. And she talked to me.’
‘Yes. She even talks to me now. And there’s a bit of cheek in her these days. She’s been using my make-up, staggering round in heels, pinching the perfume Phil bought me. That’s why I think she’s nearer normal than she used to be. It’s supposed to be incurable, but Alice has a good brain, and she’s not completely locked inside herself. She’ll surprise us all.’
Roy drank his tea. If he stayed at Rosh’s for much longer, Alice might get used to him. There was something about the little girl that tugged hard at his heartstrings. There was something about the little girl’s mother, too …
‘What’s the matter, Roy?’
She could read him like an open book. Phil had often complained about her ability to know what he was thinking, where he’d been, what he’d done. ‘My wife is psychic,’ he used to say.
‘Roy?’
‘I think I should stay somewhere else. Alice seems to be getting used to me. Who will she shave with when I’ve gone?’
‘My mother? She does have a healthy moustache. No, I’m joking. While Alice hates change, I’ve noticed just lately that she’s beginning to adjust more quickly. When Phil died, she looked for him all the time. Then she stopped. She’ll hang on to Kieran, and she’ll survive, Roy. Why don’t you start thinking about yourself for a change? Plan a holiday, finish the house, buy a record player and listen to music.’
Was it going to be that simple? A week alone in Paris or Rome, a lifetime alone with Mozart and Beethoven, Jerry Lee Lewis for a bit of light relief? ‘I feel numb,’ he said.
‘You lost your dad. Whatever he was, the man was your father.’
Roy cleared his throat. ‘When you came to the house and I went upstairs to him … well … I told him to feel free to fall down the stairs. It was as if I summoned demons and wished it on him. Yes, I know what he was and yes, I’ve long wanted him gone, but—’
‘Stop this. Stop it now, Roy Baxter. Remember what he did to your mother. Remember the broken child that poor woman became. He wouldn’t even feed her when she was on her deathbed. And if
Mother and I come to the funeral, it will be to support you. Until the police let you back in your house, you stay here. That’s an order.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She stood up. ‘There’s a meal on the table in the kitchen. We put it in the oven on a low light before going to the police station. You’d better eat before our queen bee decides to come through and spoon-feed you. If you think I’m tough, you should see her when she’s riled.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘And stop saying that.’
‘Yes, Rosh.’
She glared at him. ‘Get in that kitchen now. You’ve a funeral to plan. My mother’s good at funerals. She’s in her element when picking hymns.’
In that moment, Roy made a decision. He wouldn’t sell the house. He couldn’t sell the house. He had to be near Rosh and her family; he had to carry on with the old pain in his heart.
As the months had drifted by, the newspapers had ceased to print reports about three dead men, a burnt-out car and the efforts of police to find the perpetrators. Presses raged on instead about the effects of thalidomide, de Gaulle being elected President of France, Prime Minister Macmillan opening the first of Britain’s motorways. Three fewer London racketeers might well be a source of relief for the country’s police. London’s East End, caught now in the grip of several feuding gangs, was no longer a place in which to begin a new business; the protection game was being run by hard players whose eyes were beginning to fix on the West End, too.
When Christmas loomed on the horizon, Scouse Alley began preparations for an annual event to which many lone pensioners were invited. Each year, women helpers cooked poultry at home, while the rest of the meal was prepared on site, in the large kitchen. Even young Seamus and his friends played a part by setting tables and making paper chains. This was the business’s way of repaying the regulars; the dockers who ate here chose the old people who would be fed, while Paddy O’Neil paid not just for the meals, but also for coaches in which the diners would be transported from their homes to Scouse Alley, and returned to their own firesides once the meal was over.
Maureen was late again. So fraught was she these days that little was expected when it came to timekeeping. She dragged her mother to the outer door. ‘Can’t find him,’ she whispered. ‘And I don’t know how much longer I can carry on, because he’s driving me mad. I’ll be as bad as him any day now. I think mental illness is catching, because I’m all of a tremble.’
Paddy, Kevin, Maureen and the stalwarts who had helped on that fateful wedding night had begun to relax slightly, but Maureen’s Tom had entered a state worse than Russia. He sat for much of the time in his chair, though he no longer rested. Instead, he rocked back and forth, sometimes muttering under his breath, often falling into an exhausted sleep after the constant movement. He ate seldom, refused to communicate, and was fast becoming a problem that could not be contained for much longer, since he had started to wander off from time to time. He had lost his job, his family life and his mind.
Paddy touched her daughter’s arm. ‘I blame all our lads for getting involved down in London. It’s not Tom’s fault, and thank God your boys gave you the gun. I thought I’d never have to say such words, but I must, because your man saved us all. And look how he’s repaid for his heroism.’
‘Well, he’s not here at the moment,’ Maureen said. ‘I’ve found him a few times near the shed. He … he killed them from there. I suppose it’s what you might call the scene of the crime.’
Paddy tutted. ‘Finding Seamus full of bullets would have been a crime. I mean, what was Tom supposed to do? Let them kill every person at the wedding? He’s lost his ability to reason with himself, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes.’ Maureen nodded furiously. ‘And if I can’t find him, I can’t help him get his brain back, can I?’
‘You’re exhausted, but.’ Paddy glanced furtively over her shoulder. ‘Do you think he’s running round telling folk what he’s done?’
‘He doesn’t talk.’
‘He doesn’t talk to us, but he may talk when we’re not there, and we’ve no way of knowing, because we aren’t there.’
‘True, though you’re talking Irish again. Have you enough help here? And can you keep an eye on Seamus?’
‘Yes, yes. You go.’ The diners were beginning to arrive for their small glass of sherry. The pattern was always the same; sherry, soup, main course with wine or beer, followed by Christmas pudding and a tot of brandy before they went home. It was a tradition Paddy had no intention of neglecting. But it was beginning to look as if Tom, her well-loved son-in-law, might get everyone in trouble very soon. ‘Did he see the Christmas cards?’ she asked.
‘I showed them to him, but I don’t know whether he actually saw them. I’m worn out, Mam.’
‘Find him and get a doctor. This has to be dealt with.’
‘And if he tells the doctor what happened on our Reen’s wedding day?’
Paddy shrugged. ‘Doctors take that hippo-critical vow, don’t they? Like priests, they can’t say a word.’ Internally, Paddy was still struggling with the Christmas cards, two from Michael, two from Finbar. The stamps had been franked in a town not far from Liverpool—
‘I think you’re wanted, Mam.’
‘Yes. Good luck, so.’ Paddy pinned a radiant smile to the lower half of her face. She greeted new people, took care not to ask after those who had failed to arrive. Ernie Avago wasn’t here, of course. Ernie, God rest his bones, had been one of the very best.
The Christmas king and queen were chosen and given crowns and white-trimmed scarlet cloaks. These were the two whose birthdays fell closest to Christmas, and they took their place at the centre of one of the large tables. A pianist played soft music, soup arrived, and the party was under way.
When the meal was over, a small choir came to sing for the diners. These children had been plucked from the ranks of a local Catholic school, and they sounded like angels. Paddy stood for a while and gazed at the scene. In this room, the vulnerable smiled, sang and clapped. These were the bookends of life, the overture and the finale. How well they treated each other; how each group rejoiced in the company of the other. She wanted to weep, but she wouldn’t. Paddy and Kevin O’Neil were the backbone of the family, a family that had lost four members, while two others were at large and possibly not too far away. Emotion was best hidden. Only at home did Paddy and Kevin weep and support each other.
She offered up a silent prayer for her sons and her brothers, attaching a postscript for Finbar and Michael, her grandsons. Maureen also got a mention, because Maureen was going through hell. Her brothers and uncles were dead, two of her sons were missing, and her husband was showing few signs of returning to the real world. Poor Maureen and Seamus were about to have a very sad Christmas. ‘And God help our Tom,’ she concluded.
He’d seemed to be all right at first. Never comfortable about what he had been forced to do, Tom Walsh had pushed it all to the back of his mind, where it had festered, grown caustic and burned its way through to his consciousness. No matter what anyone said, he insisted that he was a murderer. Lately, he didn’t even listen properly, and he never replied.
But Paddy could do nothing about any of it. As daylight began to fade, she waved off the coaches before joining in the big clean-up. While they scrubbed, Paddy and her helpers found two lower jaw dentures, six pairs of spectacles, three gloves, all odd, a scarf, a wallet and four purses. ‘All we’re short of is five gold rings and a partridge in a pear tree,’ she told the company. The collection was about par for the course, and all items were locked away securely. Next week, dock workers would arrive with descriptions of missing items, and all would be returned.
Meanwhile, Maureen was trudging her way through the streets of Liverpool. By no means the biggest city in England, it seemed sizeable on one of the last shopping days before Christmas, especially when a searcher went into every pub and every alleyway. She fought her way past many bodies, sometimes separating man from wife or mot
her from child, so high was her level of anxiety.
Exhausted beyond measure, she gave up and went to look for a bus. He would probably be at home when she finally got back, since his inner compass still seemed to be in working order. Oh, God. How was she going to get through to him? It was like trying to communicate with someone who had suddenly lost the ability to see, hear or feel. And her feet were giving her hell.
Then she spotted him. He stood where thousands of Liverpudlians had lingered over the years, arms on the railings, eyes staring out to the steely grey and angry river. He was at the Pier Head. How many had come here for a good think, for a bit of space away from family, for a place in which problems might be thought through without interruption by spouse or by children? Often, there would be up to a dozen or so gazing out at the river and towards the Irish Sea.
Maureen held back. There was something different about him. And it wasn’t just that he wasn’t rocking in that blinking chair. She couldn’t see his face, yet she knew he had changed. Was he worse, was he better? Was he thinking about jumping into that seething mass of water?
A man close by was talking to Tom. What were they discussing? Maureen’s heart jumped before picking up speed. Surely Tom wouldn’t unburden himself to a stranger? The unknown man displayed a limp when he moved, and one of his feet was in a built-up shoe. Oh, God, please don’t let my Tom place himself in the hands of the law. Why can’t he talk to me? I’m his bloody wife, you know. Sometimes, I wonder whose side you’re on, God. Just lately, you’re not looking after us.
The two men were shaking hands, and Tom was talking. So you can talk to him, but not to me, eh? Wait till I get you home, you great big bundle of washing. Because that’s what you’ve become, just a pile of shirts to be laundered and ironed. As a husband, you’re as much use as a guard dog with dentures. Right. Time I sorted you out. Mentally, she pushed up her sleeves and prepared for battle.
The stranger limped away a few seconds before Maureen’s arrival at the railings. She stood in silence next to Tom for a while.
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 93
