‘Well, I suppose there are far worse things you could be doing. It’s not for me to pass moral judgement.’
‘But you don’t approve.’
I shrugged. ‘It’s not that. I just have a little trouble comprehending. I suppose we all have our own individual forms of escape. With me it’s jazz, booze and fags.’
‘Are you going to tell Sandra?’
‘She is my client …’
‘And my behaviour would certainly give her grounds for divorce. She’d have great fun taking me to the cleaners, emptying my bank account … not to mention the scandal. It … it would ruin me.’
An image of the hard-faced Sandra Riley, with those vicious lips and gorgon eyes flashed before me. I could easily picture her playing the distraught wife in the witness box, dabbing the imaginary tears away with a lace handkerchief: a cunning performance full of gestures and sobs. A starring role, in fact.
‘Well,’ I said reflectively, ‘she did ask me to find out if you were seeing another woman, not if you were changing into one. I suppose I wouldn’t be lying if I told her that adultery has never been committed nor even contemplated.’
Riley smiled for the first time since I’d met him. He looked rather odd and somewhat pathetic in that obvious blonde wig and heavy make-up, clownish rather than alluring. He didn’t make a convincing woman.
‘As long as you don’t tell her that the other woman in my life … is me.’ Now he chuckled. It was a robust manly chuckle. His false chest rose and fell in a disconcerting fashion.
I smiled back indulgently. Walter/Wilma might have escaped the plotting of Sandra this time, but my instinct told me that she was not a lady to give up easily. ‘I reckon you’ve got to stop this routine or find a way to divorce Sandra on your own terms. If you don’t, she’ll nail you in time. Another investigator may not be quite as sympathetic as me.’
‘I expect you are right. People like me are easy prey to blackmail, I know.’ The smile faded and the face sagged. ‘I really have to get my house in order. I’m glad I met you. You’ve made me realize that I cannot go on living this lie. Whatever the consequences, I have to start being me.’
I nodded. ‘I reckon you’ll be happier in the end.’ I wondered why I didn’t fully believe him. Walter came over as rather a sad character, but somehow I felt I wasn’t seeing the full picture. I was sure there was an element of steel in his nature that he was doing his best to disguise.
My companion gave a wry grin. ‘You have been very kind. I must pay you for your trouble.’
I shook my head. ‘No need. Sandra has paid my expenses. She hired me. I have come up with the answers to her enquiry; they may not be the ones she wants to hear but I still get paid.’
‘OK. I suppose it still comes out of my wallet anyway.’
We both laughed.
‘Let me get you another drink at least. Indulge yourself in one of your escapes, eh?’ said Wilma as she rose unsteadily to her feet and then tottered in her high heels to the bar.
I stayed another half an hour in the club chatting amiably to my new, strange girlfriend and then suddenly I felt the need for some fresh air and the sad, stale taint of normality. As I rose to leave, so did Wilma. ‘I’m not in the mood for socializing tonight,’ she said, brushing back her blonde curls and looking nervously over her shoulder as though she expected someone to be standing there. ‘After what’s happened, I think I’d better get home. I’ve a lot of sorting out to do.’
Just as we were leaving, a figure emerged from the smoky gloom and led Wilma aside. It was a tall elegant creature in a long evening gown. I presumed it was a man, but he made a very convincing woman. The face was expertly made-up to emphasize the narrow features, high cheekbones and a pair of lustrous eyes. Had I not been in this particular establishment, I would have been taken in completely. Even with this knowledge, as I stared at her, I felt my libido stirring. Steady, Johnny, I told myself. This place is messing with your brain.
The two of them slipped immediately into a heated discussion. They were too far away for me to hear what they were talking about, but the expression on the beautiful stranger’s face told me that she was incandescent with rage. At one point she grabbed hold of Wilma’s shoulders and shook her. Wilma pulled away, issued some kind of warning with a wagging finger and then joined me on the stairs.
I raised my eyebrows in silent query.
‘Just another jealous bitch,’ was all Wilma said.
As we emerged on to the pavement together, the October breeze had stiffened. I buttoned my raincoat but to little avail as the creeping cold still penetrated the thin material, chilling me to the marrow.
Wilma held out her hand. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
‘The best of luck,’ I said sincerely, thinking that he certainly would need it with Sandra. I watched him walk back in the direction of the hotel, looking as though he was stepping on hot coals. Size ten male feet are really not suitable for high heels. They must have been killing him, I thought, as I lit up a cigarette. I was just about to head homewards when I saw a black Wolseley screech to a halt by the kerb just in front of Riley. The side street was quiet with no other pedestrians about. The driver jumped out of the car and ran towards Riley who had stopped in his tracks, frozen with surprise.
I felt the hairs on the back of my head begin to prickle. Something was not right here. The driver was not asking for directions, or a light, or the time of day. His demeanour was threatening. Sensing danger, I started to walk briskly towards the two characters. I saw the man tug at Riley’s handbag, trying to snatch it from him. Voices were raised, but Riley clung on to the bag. Then his assailant pulled back and drew a gun from his overcoat pocket. There was a sharp crack and Riley staggered backwards, uttering a strangled, guttural croak, before crashing down onto the pavement. The gunman scooped up the bag and within seconds was back in the car and speeding away down the street. By the time I got there, the Wolseley was already disappearing into the darkness of the night.
I knelt down by Riley. He had been shot in the chest and blood was seeping through the thin material of his dress.
‘Walter, it’s me Johnny Hawke,’ I said cradling his head.
He turned his face in my direction, his eyes already misting over with the opaque veil of death.
‘That was no way to treat a lady,’ he said softly, and then his head fell to one side, his eyes remaining open in a glassy stare. All Walter and Wilma’s troubles were now over.
TWO
‘He’s coming now!’
Tom Bates’s unpleasant chubby features creased into a vicious grin and his eyes bulged with dark pleasure. His companion, Brian Harker, a thin weedy boy with an unusually large Adam’s apple, emitted a nervous giggle at the news. They had been waiting in the bushes at the back of the school for almost fifteen minutes for their victim and had almost given up hope. ‘He must have gone home another way,’ Brian had suggested only a minute earlier. Tom Bates did not want to admit that Brian was right – after all he was boss and had planned the ambush – but he had begun to share the same doubts as his confederate until the door had opened and a narrow rectangle of light had revealed Peter Blake as he emerged from the school building into the gloom.
He had been kept behind to do 500 lines by Miss Forbush for not paying attention in class. Miss Forbush, a thin bird-like woman in her late sixties, dragged unwillingly out of retirement because of the teacher shortage, had taken an instant dislike to Peter when he was shoehorned into her already overcrowded class mid-term. She had learned that he was a runaway with rather a seedy past who had been evacuated from London. Peter had become her victim. She took delight on picking on the quiet boy with the pale features and enigmatic eyes. And the class had taken her lead in this, victimizing him in the playground and isolating him in lessons. None more so than Tom Bates, whose size and belligerent nature ensured he always got his own way. Most children were afraid of him and were deferential in his company or avoided him altogether. To Bates, Pete
r was the ideal victim: the easy target for the punch in the back, the tripping up along the corridor, the ink stain in the exercise book, the ripped jacket pocket.
Though thoroughly miserable, Peter bore this torment with fortitude. He didn’t complain or retaliate for he knew this would only bring him further misery. It seemed to him that Miss Forbush turned a blind eye to all his torment as though she approved of it. One thing that kept Peter going was the thought of the Christmas holidays when he hoped he could visit London again and see Johnny. Johnny Hawke – the only person who seemed to understand him.
The boys waiting for him in the darkness thrilled with excitement as Peter approached the bush in which they were hiding. As he did so, they jumped out onto the path emitting vicious shrieks. Because Peter had been deep in thought he was not as shocked or frightened by this sudden confrontation as they had hoped. He simply stopped in his tracks and gazed at them with a puzzled expression.
‘Where you going, cockneyboy?’ challenged Bates, puffing out his chest and taking a step forward. He towered over the wiry Peter.
‘I’m going home.’
‘Home? Hear that Bri. The cockney bastard’s going back to London.’
‘Good riddance I say,’ squeaked Brian from the shadows.
Peter attempted to pass them but Bates blocked his way.
‘No so fast, cockneyboy,’ Bates drawled, mimicking the cowboy films he’d seen at the pictures. And then he pushed Peter hard in the chest.
Peter’s pulse began to race. He had been slow to realize that he was in danger, but now he knew all too clearly that these two lads meant him harm. They had caught him alone and in the dark. Suddenly he felt very frightened. What were they going to do to him?
‘Let me go,’ he cried, with as much confidence as he could muster, his mouth suddenly becoming very dry.
Bates replied by smashing Peter in the face with his fist. He was blinded for a moment and then with a stifled cry, he fell backward onto the wet path, jarring his elbow on the hard surface. As he sprawled out on the ground, his school cap flying off, he felt the gush of warm blood from his nose.
Now that their victim was down on the floor, Brian Harker felt brave enough to step forward. With a tight smirk, he kicked Peter hard in the shins. ‘We don’t like your type round here, cockneyboy. Bugger off to where you come from.’
Peter struggled to get up, but Bates jumped astride his body, his heavy bulk pinning him down. ‘It’s no good wriggling, I’ve got you,’ he grinned and spat in Peter’s face. ‘No point in rushing off, is there? You’ve got no mam or dad to go to have you, orphan bastard!’
These words incensed Peter and uttering a wild inarticulate cry he thrust his body upwards in a desperate effort to dislodge Bates, but the boy was well built and determined. He remained put.
Bates stared down at his prisoner with maniacal hatred. For one frantic moment, Peter wondered if they were going to kill him. Why were they like this? What had he done to them for them to hate him so much?
‘Please, let me go,’ he said quietly, with as much dignity as he could muster.
Bates replied by hitting him hard in the face again. ‘Shut up, orphan bastard, or you’ll get more.’ Turning his head to his confederate he hissed, ‘Get the shit.’
Like an obedient robot, Brian Harker retreated to the bushes, returning moments later with a small rusty bucket.
At the sight of it Tom Bates giggled obscenely. ‘We’ve bought you a going away present, cockneyboy,’ he grinned, pushing his face into Peter’s.
‘Poo, this stuff don’t half stink,’ observed Brian Harker, wrinkling up his whole face in disgust.
‘That’s the whole idea, stupid,’ Bates crowed, jumping up. ‘Real cow muck. Great stuff.’
With a swift movement, he jumped up and stood well back, allowing his confederate a clear field. ‘OK, let him have it.’
Before Peter knew what was happening, Brian Harker had thrown the entire contents of the bucket over him as he lay prone on the ground. It splashed in his face and smothered his raincoat and ran down the sides of his legs. He gagged at the smell of it and droplets fell into his mouth. He retched, his stomach heaving and he was sick.
His tormentors were delighted with this bonus as vomit sprayed their victim’s already contaminated clothes and they burst into fits of uncontrollable laugher. Tom Bates in particular was highly amused. He raised his fat face to the moon and barked with hilarity like a mad dog.
Tears of humiliation and misery ran down Peter’s face as he struggled to his feet. Then in a sudden burst of anger he picked up the empty bucket and hurled it at the two bullies but his aim was wide and it landed harmlessly somewhere in the bushes.
‘Get back to where you belong, you cockney bastard orphan … or there’ll be more shit for you,’ bellowed Tom Bates, as he turned on his heel and strode away, triumphant.
‘Yeah,’ agreed Brian Harker before joining his pal. Within seconds they had been swallowed up by the darkness leaving Peter standing covered in cow dung and vomit and shivering in pain and self-disgust.
Peter attempted to wash his coat in the stream not far from the farm where he was billeted hoping to cleanse it of its foul coating, but the excrement seemed impervious to icy water. After a time, with tears streaming down his face, he let the garment go, allowing it to be caught by the current and carried to God knows where. It was ruined anyway. He could never contemplate ever wearing the cursed thing again. It would only remind him of his humiliation. After swilling his face and hands in the stream, he sat shivering on a tree stump staring at the moon.
God, how he hated it here. Devon was nowhere. Mr and Mrs Booth were all right, he supposed, well, she was, but he never felt as though he was really wanted. He was an imposition. There were other evacuee children in the village, but they were mainly from Exeter and so they fitted in. They had the same accent and most of them had parents. He was the odd one out. A London boy with no one to call his own. He began to cry properly this time. Great huge sobs shook his young frame. What on earth was he to do?
‘Where the heck have you been, boy?’ Arthur Booth dropped his paper and rose from the armchair by the fire. ‘Do you know what time it is?’
Peter shook his head slightly. He felt incapable of speech.
‘And look at the state of you. What on earth have you been doing? And where’s your coat?’
As the interrogation grew, Peter became more incapable of speech. He curled up within himself, his mind in a foetal position, hoping all this would go away.
‘Come on, answer me, boy. You’ve got a tongue in your head.’
Rose Booth bustled in from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her paisley apron. At the sight of the bedraggled Peter she gave out a sharp cry. ‘Heaven’s above, what’s happened to you, Peter? You look as though you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’ She knelt down by him so that her face was on a level with his and took his hand in hers. This gesture of kindness was too much for his fragile heart and he burst into tears. She hugged him tight. ‘What is it?’ she said softly in his ear. ‘What is it?’
‘Never mind hugging the boy. Ask him where his bloody coat is. It cost me good money that did.’
‘Oh, shut up Arthur. Can’t you see the boy’s upset.’
Arthur Booth grunted, snatched up his newspaper and resumed his seat by the fire. ‘Upset. I’ll give him upset. He’s nothing but a bloody nuisance.’
‘You take no notice, Peter. Come on upstairs. Let’s get you out of your damp clothes and into the bath and then we’ll see about getting you some supper.’
Later that night, Peter lay awake in his little bedroom staring at the ceiling, wishing he were dead. He thought he’d been miserable living with his uncaring mother but this life was much worse: trapped with strangers in an alien world, far away from the streets of London which he knew and loved and being targeted by bullies. He knew the incident with the cow muck was only the beginning of a serious campaign of torment. Up to now Bate
s and his crony had been comparatively subtle in their attacks on him, the sly punch, the casual dig in the ribs, knocking his packed lunch on the ground professing that it was an accident. He could cope with these, but now there was no subterfuge, no pretence. The hatred was out in the open. As his stomach knotted in pain, he realized that this would give licence for others to join in. And he knew he couldn’t tell anyone. That would only make things worse. Miss Forbush wouldn’t care; Mr Booth would only tell him to stick up for himself before returning to reading his paper, and while Mrs Booth would be sympathetic, she could do nothing to stop it. Complaining to the school would do no good.
While he was having supper that night, Mrs Booth had tried to find out where he had been after school, why he was so late home and what had happened to his coat. He knew it was pointless telling her the truth. He had made up some tale of trying a new way home from school through the woods and he’d fallen in a stream. Then when he’d taken his coat off to try and shake it dry, it had dropped in the stream and had been carried away by the current before he could snatch it back. He could see from Mrs Booth’s eyes that she didn’t believe him but she didn’t question him further. She knew that it was safer not to.
As he emerged from the bathroom before going to bed he heard the Booths arguing downstairs. Snatched phrases came to his ears. It was clear that Mrs Booth was trying to placate her angry husband while he maintained that ‘the boy was nothing but trouble’ and ‘a bloody nuisance’. So here he was again; alone in the dark – unloved and unwanted. He shivered at the awful realization of his situation.
Above him he heard the drone of a lone aircraft. The sound temporarily diverted his thoughts from his own troubles. He wondered if it were a Nazi plane on its way to bomb London. He hoped not. He thought of Johnny in his little flat. The image of his strange one-eyed friend and the scruffy little room where he stayed the night Johnny found him sleeping in a doorway made him tingle. An idea crept into his mind that made him sit up in bed. Suddenly, he knew what he had to do. He’d done it before when he’d been very unhappy. He would run away. He would leave this terrible inhospitable place and make his way to London. He would go to Johnny; he was sure that he would make everything all right.
Without Conscience Page 2
