When Peter had left with the pup, Olga examined Vera. Bleeding had slowed, but the skull was possibly fractured. As an amateur when it came to medical matters, she simply sat on the floor and held Vera’s hand. The woman was still breathing, so hope remained.
The other article on the floor opened its eyes. Olga rose to her feet, took two paces and towered over him. ‘Touch her again, you dead,’ she advised. ‘In Russia, we are making our women strong. We are needing no axe, no gun, no knife.’ She paused, remembering how her beloved Batya had employed a man to teach her self-defence, since all connected with the Romanovs were about to die.
‘She’s my sodding wife,’ he cursed.
‘My sodding customer and friend,’ she spat back. ‘You not own her. She belong herself.’
Two terrified boys entered the house. These were wild ones, yet they were weeping. ‘He done it,’ said the taller of the two. ‘He hit Mam with the round end of the axe.’ With his right arm, he supported the sobbing younger brother. ‘Is she dead?’
Olga shook her head. ‘Bleeding slower now. Try not worry.’
Peter returned and took the lads and Leo into the front room.
Thankful that Corcoran had not used the cutting edge of the axe, Olga sat and waited. After ten minutes, the ambulance and police cars arrived. She nodded her head. ‘Now, you go to jail,’ she whispered, ‘and I pray you die in there.’
Four
By the time they reached Penny Lane after their zoological adventure in Waterloo, Martin, Nellie, Dan and Alice were ready for a rest, but there appeared to be not the slightest chance of that. Neighbours milled about talking to each other, while police in uniform and plain clothes were in and out of the Quigley household in a constant stream. Alice frowned. She had new lino, a carpet in the front room, and two good rugs in the kitchen. And there they were, the heavy-footed coppers with size twelve feet and no idea of the purpose served by a doormat. She began to simmer. What the heck was going on, and was anybody hurt? Even Frank felt her tension, jumping up from a recumbent position on the back seat of the car to look through the window.
‘What the hell’s been happening?’ was Dan’s reaction to the chaos. ‘Can we not go out for a couple of hours without the place turning into a circus?’ Alice made an effort to calm down before replying. She had a disabled husband who needed settling for the night, and her beautiful house was crawling with police. In the seat in front, Nellie was dumbstruck and shaky; her husband took hold of her hand. ‘Try not to get upset, love. It’s more than likely something and nothing.’
Alice got out of the car.
Fortunately, the ambulance had left, though two police vehicles remained. ‘There’s been some trouble,’ Alice was informed by an officer who stood guard at their front gate. ‘No one from your household was hurt, and you haven’t been burgled, but you can’t go in just yet, sorry. It’s procedure, you see. We have to follow the guidelines.’
Alice took a step closer to the representative of law and order. Although he stood head and shoulders above her, it was clear that she considered herself to be in charge of the whole strange situation. Her eyes moved down then up, as if assessing his suitability for the job in hand. His response was to straighten his shoulders and stand tall. Liverpool women could be . . . difficult.
‘Ma’am?’ the policeman enquired in response to her deep frown.
Refused entry to her own home, Alice was immediately on her high horse; from the invisible saddle, she had words with the uniformed person. ‘We live here, by the way,’ she told him sharply, ‘so we’ve every right to go inside. It’s procedure, you see. When you own a house, it’s yours, and you can come and go as you please, so them’s my guidelines. Right, tell me what’s happened. Is Peter all right? Peter Atherton?’
‘He is. But this is a crime scene, Mrs er . . .’
‘Quigley,’ she snapped. Folding her arms, she began to tap a foot.
‘She’s tapping,’ Nellie whispered.
Dan laughed. ‘We’d better pray for that poor man.’
‘You’re right there,’ was Martin’s reply.
‘Listen, officer,’ Alice continued, her voice dangerously quiet. ‘It’s them two next door again, isn’t it?’ She nodded vigorously. ‘I’ve heard her screaming more than once – he should be shot at dawn for treating his wife like a slave. Well, just you listen to me, because my feller is crippled after two strokes. He was clearing up munitions to send back to the arsenal when the second one happened. The war had just finished when he copped it. So, are you going to leave a sick man out here?’ She turned. ‘Martin, take this one’s details; I want him out of a job by tomorrow.’ Alice looked the constable up and down once more. ‘As much use as a concrete jelly,’ was her final barb.
The front room window was pushed wide, and Peter stuck his head through the gap. ‘Nay, don’t report him,’ he said in his best Boltonese. ‘The man’s only doing as he’s told. Harry-next-door’s just come home – go in there. Vera’s in hospital; so is her owld feller. It’s been a bloody shock, I can tell you that for no money. Harry will be annoyed, cos he was out while it happened, and I’ve got Vera’s lads and Olga in here with me. We’re getting interviewed.’
‘Damn,’ she cursed under her breath.
‘Behave,’ Dan ordered from the car’s open window.
Alice scratched her head. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had a day out except for hanging somebody’s new curtains. ‘I go to our Marie’s just once in a blue moon, and something happens. What’s he done to her this time? And why did they end up in our house? They’ve no right to use my house for killing each other, not without permission.’
‘I can’t tell you owt yet – me and Olga and the two lads are witnesses, like I said.’ Peter spotted Frank. ‘And Olga’s got a dog like him,’ he added.
Alice was about to ask what Olga’s new dog had to do with anything, but Peter closed the window. ‘Go home,’ she advised Nellie and Martin. ‘You’ll have the morning papers to deal with, so try to get some sleep. But, before you do drive off, Martin, just help Dan into next door, will you?’ She pointed to Harry’s house.
When her husband had been parked safely on Harry’s couch in the front room with Frank in charge, Alice said goodbye to her sister and brother-in-law before seeking out the owner of the house. She found him eventually in a back bedroom. He was sitting on a wicker chair, head in hands and crying like a baby. ‘Harry? What’s the matter?’
‘Go away, love.’ He tried to dry his eyes on a sleeve.
‘Why?’ she asked, her tone gentle.
‘Well, I should have been here, shouldn’t I? There’s a cop round the back, a lad I was at school with, and he told me that bastard hit Vera with an axe.’ More sobs choked any further words he might have wanted to deliver.
Alice dropped onto the edge of a bed. ‘No.’
‘Yes. And Olga Kostalot knocked him out.’
‘Konstantinov, Harry.’
‘All right – Olga Russian lady.’ He inhaled deeply. ‘She broke his metacarpals, whatever they are. I hope they’re private bits. But an axe, Alice? On her little head? I went for a pint and a game of arrows, that’s all. And it kicked off while I was out, so I wasn’t much use to her, was I?’ His voice quietened to a whisper. ‘She could die, Alice.’
‘It’s not your fault.’
He raised his head. ‘I tried to get your house when the Carters moved out, but it had already been allocated to you.’
She crossed the room and stood next to him. ‘Look, even if you’d lived next door to her, you might have been out. Nobody can be in the house all the time, Harry.’ She placed a hand on his shoulder for just an instant. A shock travelled up her arm, and she stood back. They weren’t alone in here. Whatever was keeping company with them belonged to neither occupant of the room, though it owned . . . What did it own? Both of them? Was she having a moment of otherness?
He was staring at her. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes,’ sh
e replied. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘I’m not sure.’ He stared hard at her; she was clearly in shock. ‘And I’m not sure you are all right,’ he said.
Neither was she, and she decided that changing the subject might be a good idea. ‘We’re not allowed to go in our own house. Dan’s downstairs with Frank. Olga and Peter are in our front room with Vera’s kids. Peter says they’re witnesses to what happened.’
He nodded. She was beautiful, and he was no longer weeping.
‘So we had to come in yours, because our house and Vera’s are crime scenes, I think.’ She managed a smile. ‘You loved her.’
He shrugged. ‘I did. A long time ago. I think she’s more like a sister now. We’ve both changed, I suppose. I feel pity for her and hatred for him.’
‘They say pity’s akin to love.’
‘No,’ he whispered. ‘When love knocks at the door, I know it.’
Alice told herself to breathe. The way he was looking at her, as if she were a painting or a sculpture . . . ‘Dan will be wondering where we are,’ she mumbled.
‘I’m wondering where we are,’ was his answer.
So was she, but she said nothing.
‘Alice, I––’ He cut himself off. She had a husband downstairs, a man who had suffered two strokes, a decent bloke who probably couldn’t manage the act of love. So, was Harry Thompson trying to step in and service her? Was this just physical? Was it bloody hell. Alice was delightful, lively, funny, cheeky, adorable. She was also very desirable. And he needed new curtains. ‘I need new curtains.’
Alice blinked. ‘Where do curtains come into it, then?’
‘They cover windows, love. You make them; I need them.’
She felt the heat in her face; this was not a good time to start blushing.
For several seconds, each stood as if riveted, eyes locked somewhere in the small area that separated them. It was as if some invisible chain bonded them together. He turned to the window, and the chain slackened.
She was the first to move out to the landing. What had all that been about? Huh, as if she didn’t know. A little poem entered her stupefied mind – Dan’s your man; don’t tarry with Harry. This was a mad situation, and she’d seen enough of mad with Muth. Anyway, happily married women didn’t go about falling in love with next door neighbours, did they? Some might take a fancy to a film star, but that was different, because film stars were miles away. Harry was a danger zone, and that zone was just that little bit too close for comfort.
He followed her downstairs and spoke to Dan while Alice rattled about in the kitchen – kettle on, cups on saucers, teaspoons clattering. ‘Well, this is a bloody mess,’ he said. ‘The one night we were all out, too. I was at the pub for a pint and a game of darts.’
Dan agreed. ‘We were at Alice’s sister’s s-house, so we don’t s-even know what happened.’
So Harry told him.
‘A woman did s-that?’ Dan asked. ‘I know she’s tall, but––’
‘But she did. Knocked him spark out on the floor, or so I was told. You’ve met her – she visits you. Olga Kan’t Stand Enough,’ he said, straight-faced.
‘Konstantinov,’ shouted the oracle from the kitchen.
Dan rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘She’s off,’ he stated. ‘Always has s-to stick her oar in, does my Alice. So Olga Konstantinov had a go at s-Jimmy Corcoran?’
Harry sat in an armchair. ‘Olga Whoeverinov certainly did. But I don’t care what happens to Jimmy Corcoran. He went for Vera with an axe, so he deserves a noose.’
‘Bloody hell.’
‘That would describe your kitchen floor, Dan. I’ve a mate in the force, and he told me what happened, more or less.’
‘Alice’ll go s-mad about Vera. There again, it might not be a s-long journey for my s-Alice. Has she told you about her s-otherness? She had one of her turns today, ended up in Africa for five minutes with s-lions and zebras. Shut your mouth, Harry, there’s a bus s-coming.’
Harry allowed himself a grin. Dan was attaching fewer s’s before his words. ‘That speech therapy’s doing you good, Dan.’
‘S-sometimes. But I s-think the shock’s made me s-stammer.’
Alice entered bearing tea. ‘I’ve made us all a nice cuppa,’ she said. ‘Harry, stop looking at me as if I’ve grown another head. I’m not the only one in the world with a bit of second sight. Seventh child of a seventh child, that’s me. Some bloody use it was when we got bombed, though. I can’t control it. If I could, I’d have stayed at home today. Oh, Vera.’ She sighed heavily. ‘What gets me is the bloody law about not interfering with domestic fights. They leave it till somebody’s murdered, and I can’t see the sense of it.’
Harry agreed. ‘This was always going to happen, Alice. Looks like she’s got a fractured skull according to my friend in the force. If she survives, she might not be the full quid. And he’ll be done for attempted murder if she lives; if she doesn’t, he’ll be on nodding terms with the hangman.’
They drank their tea in silence. Harry remembered the girl he’d loved, her humour, her naughtiness, the shine on the bouncy, curly, russet hair. That Vera didn’t exist any more; Jimmy Corcoran had reduced her to a shadow of her former self. Had he killed her? Or had he dulled her sharp brain? Oh God, oh God.
Frank sniffed. It was the sort of sound that reminded Alice and Dan that there were biscuits in the room, as was a starving and neglected canine.
The boxer, presented with a bowl of milk and water, slurped greedily. When the rich tea biscuits were passed round, he won a couple just because he looked so sad. ‘He’ll end up with an arse the size of your s-Nellie’s,’ Dan mused.
‘Cheeky bugger. She’s my lovely big sister, so behave.’
He behaved. Although he wasn’t a visionary, Dan Quigley had spent extended periods in hospital, a few weeks here, a month there, sedation for high blood pressure, broken bones setting after the second stroke, a bout of pneumonia, arrhythmia – the list was endless. His heart had been tested, and it was being tested at this very moment, because Dan had learned to be astute, had become a people-watcher. Alice and Harry weren’t looking at each other.
Harry’s brain was shifting like the Flying Scotsman. Two women. One was in hospital fighting for her life; the other sat here, and she was possibly fighting for her soul. The attraction was shared; he knew that instinctively. He had loved two women in his life, and both were in trouble. Perhaps he was a bringer of bad luck, though he scarcely believed in karma, destiny, or good or bad luck. Mankind had free will, though attraction seemed to come from the animal within; it was nothing to do with picking and choosing.
Alice was in a different place. There were flowers, scented blooms. Their aroma was typical of freesia, sweet peas, or something very similar, and the place had panelled walls on which paintings or framed photographs were hung. People stood in lines, though she recognized none of them. Frank was in a vestibule with another little dog, also a boxer. Olga Konstantinov wore a violet gown; in contrast, a huge green pendant nestled in the dip at the base of her throat, while matching earrings were fastened to her lobes. Purple and green together – Alice must remember how well they looked. It was a wedding. Whose wedding? Olga’s? Alice’s? But Alice was already married, and the scene was returning to sepia smoke . . .
She was whisked back to the present day; her tea was still in her hand, still hot, and not a drop had spilled during the otherness. For the second time today, she had seen the future, and she clutched at her husband’s hand. If she was going to remarry, that meant that Dan had to die. He mustn’t die. No woman could love two men, surely? And she continued to avoid the eyes of Harry Thompson.
Meetings of the Penny Lane Traders’ Association took place on a more or less monthly basis, sometimes in a local pub, occasionally in living quarters attached to businesses, and, on dry summer evenings, the shopkeepers might meet in a park where they would take thrown-together picnics with beer for the men, sweet cider for the women and pop for the children.<
br />
This was a summer evening, but Olga decided to invite people to her flat above the shop. It was her turn, and she wanted Leo to become used to people, since he needed to learn manners as a shop dog. Still in training and leaving puddles here and there, he was doing his best to be a big, grown-up dog in order to please his kind owner.
As things turned out, Olga’s Monday night meeting scarcely happened. Just the butcher and a greengrocer turned up, because the lane was buzzing with tales relating to the previous day. Vera Corcoran’s life was hanging by a thread, while her husband and attacker, whose fingers had been broken, was now in plaster and in a holding cell. ‘Where he belongs,’ concluded Matt Gibson, who was flowers, fruit and vegetables.
Terry Openshaw, butcher, agreed wholeheartedly. ‘Is it true, Olga, that you threw him across the room like a bag of bones?’
‘He is bag of bones,’ she answered, ‘but no. I lift him up with one hand and hit him with other after I make him drop axe. Bad man. He very bad man. What he did to Vera was nasty. She lost a lot of blood and her head was broken into her brain. She still asleep, I am thinking. I pray she wakes up from this sleep a mended and happy woman, and that her attacker stays in jail.’
‘You broke his fingers, girl.’ Terry was grinning. ‘If they ever need help down the slaughterhouse, I’ll tell them to come for you.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘I can fight a person, but cannot hurt animals. This one, he is Leo. He will go to Alice’s sister’s husband, a dog doctor, so he not chase lady dogs. Operation. I feel terrible doing this to Leo, but too many unwanted creatures in the world. So.’ She sat down. ‘How are we? The Co-operative Society is taking business from us still?’
Terry the butcher sighed heavily. ‘They give divi; that’s short for dividends.’
Olga had been thinking about this. ‘Christmas,’ she began.
‘What?’ Matt interrupted. ‘We haven’t done with summer yet.’
Daughters of Penny Lane Page 7
