Voices of the Morning

by June Gadsby

  Laura often slipped him a sixpence from her purse rather than put it in the collection plate in the church. And she turned a blind eye when his sister baked extra pies and cakes and left them on the kitchen windowsill for him to collect, together with bags of fruit and vegetables. Her parents would have been appalled to think that their daughter was mixing with the likes of Billy. Only her grandfather would have understood, and approved. Like Laura, he was very fond of the little lad who had survived against all odds. He had an air about him that you couldn’t ignore. A certain charisma that made him special.

  But the news Mr Flynn was back in Felling wasn’t the kind of thing she wanted to hear. The man had a black reputation that made everyone shudder the moment his name was mentioned. Her grandfather claimed he was surprised the fellow wasn’t in gaol long before now and warned Laura about him.

  ‘He’s an evil bastard,’ Albert Robinson said when she whispered what Billy had told her as they sat in church, the whole family in a line on their own special pew. ‘God forgive me for swearing in His house.’

  ‘But what did he do, Granddad?’ Laura asked curiously, for she was aware that the memory of how he nearly suffocated his newborn son wasn’t the only terrible crime the big Irishman was connected with.

  Albert thought about her question, probably weighing up whether or not she was old enough or mature enough to be given a truthful answer. The congregation was asked to rise in order to sing The Lord’s Prayer and on the line ...in presence of His foes... he leaned heavily against her, his mouth pressed against her ear, and whispered so that nobody else could hear him.

  ‘They say that he was responsible for the death of his wife’s half-brother, though the police said it was an accident. They worked in the slaughterhouse together and William Graham ended up with one of them meat hooks through his neck. Somebody must have seen it happen, but nobody would come forward. Too scared they are of him. He’s a dangerous man is Patrick Flynn, so you keep an eye open for him. Just be thankful he left when Billy was born. Happen he’ll have forgotten it was you that said he put a pillow over the poor little mite’s face.’

  Laura felt a cold chill creeping through her as if her blood was turning to ice, starting in her extremities and ending up in her heart. Only her grandfather would be so honest with her. He was the only one who believed, finally, what she had told of that day more than ten years ago. Not many people would believe the fanciful tales of an eight-year-old girl, but he had.

  She opened her mouth, listening to the introductory chords of the organ, but found she couldn’t sing a note. The thought of what might become of her if Mr Flynn took it into his mind to seek revenge made her feel physically sick. Suddenly, her knees gave way and she sat down on the shiny, wooden pew with a thud, frightening her mother, who thought she was ill.

  ‘Come along, Laura,’ Elizabeth Caldwell said as the church emptied and she moved on ahead, pushing her husband in his wheelchair. ‘Stop lagging behind. Maureen will have the dinner ready and you know how we all hate cold roast beef and gravy. Not to mention soggy roast potatoes.’

  Laura no longer had an appetite. She slowed her pace even more and looked frantically around her, searching the faces of the congregation. Billy wasn’t there and neither, thank goodness, was Mr Flynn.

  * * *

  It was on Good Friday of that year that Colleen had the misfortune to bump into Patrick. She had been so careful, hiding behind the locked doors of her house, scurrying like a shadow up and down dark back lanes and alleyways rather than be seen by the one man who had ever frightened her, though she would never admit it to anyone, least of all to Patrick himself.

  She should never have taken the short cut past the Slakes, but it was late and she was tired. The shipyard workers were long finished their toil for the day and were ensconced in the nearest riverside pubs, drinking their overtime pay and putting the world to rights.

  It was an eerie world after dark, especially when there was no moon. Only the breathy swish of the tide coming or going made any sound, apart from the slap of Colleen’s feet on the wet, sandy mud flats. The silently watching trees and rocks the size and shape of great bears that seemed to rear up, appeared ugly and threatening.

  Colleen veered to the left where the path wound itself between flats and quarry. When it rained the water formed deep pools here where the ground had been blasted and dug away, or just eroded by the swirling eddies of the tidal river. There were pools deep enough for a child to drown in, which was why children were warned to keep well away from the place, and most of them did.

  Colleen quickened her pace as much as was possible in that place where the mud threatened to suck her down. In the distance she could see tiny pinpricks of light as she neared the first streets of the town. Over and above the sound of her own steps, there was, suddenly, a heavier splat, splat, splat. A quick glance over her shoulder showed her nothing. The darkness was too dense and a thick mist was rolling in from the invisible sea. She prayed to God it was only a stray dog, but she didn’t allow herself to slow up and plodded on breathlessly.

  The other footsteps were gaining on her, overtaking her. She rounded one of the bigger boulders and suppressed a scream as a figure appeared before her. The figure, too, gave a sharp gasp of surprise, and then she recognized the childish giggle that was tinged with nervous tension.

  ‘Billy Flynn, what the blazes are you doing down here at this time of night, eh?’

  Billy wiped his nose on his sleeve and glanced all around him nervously, though there was nothing to be seen.

  ‘Me mam sent me to find me da,’ he told her. ‘He didn’t come home th’ night and his supper’s goin’ dry in the oven...and burnt black too probably.’

  ‘Serves him right, then,’ Colleen told him with a short, sharp nod then she reached out and patted his cold cheek. ‘Come on home, pet. He’s not here. He’s probably down at the pub or...’ She was about to say that Patrick was more likely than not comforting himself with one of the local women, but refrained. ‘Come on, hinny. It’s not good to hang about here.’

  Everybody knew how the place was the haunt of tramps and perverts. Sometimes the gypsies hung out there and there were tales of children being abducted and never seen again.

  ‘I promised me mam I’d not go home without him,’ Billy said, his blue eyes shining like bright sapphires in a stray shaft of light as the moon peeped momentarily from behind a black cloud. ‘I’m off to The Fiddlers to see if he’s there. It’s Friday night and he’s supposed to be bringing us some fish and chips.’

  ‘What about his supper in the oven, then?’

  Billy grinned. ‘Nah. It always burns. Me mam’s not a very good cook. She gets drunk and forgets what she’s at.’

  ‘Well, all right, but you be quick and come back the long way round. It’s safer than this hellhole.’

  Colleen watched as Billy trotted away from her, thinking that she would have been well advised to take her own advice about going the long way round, but she was almost home now, so it didn’t matter. Thankfully, it was only a few hundred yards to the bottom of her street. In fact, she could see the flickering, yellowish glow and the halos from the gas lamps.

  And that’s when she sensed, yet again, that she wasn’t alone. Her mouth went dry as she turned and saw that it wasn’t Billy who had decided to come with her after all.

  ‘Hello Colleen, darlin’. I’ve been hopin’ to catch up wi’ ye.’ Patrick Flynn stepped out of the shadows, the mud making foul slurping noises beneath his boots. ‘I’ve got something for ye...’

  Colleen’s blood ran cold, and then her whole body stiffened with absolute fear. The moment she had dreaded for as many years as she could remember had finally come. She knew it and so did he. It had been foolish of her to think that she could avoid him forever.

  Patrick Flynn took no prisoners when the mood for revenge was upon him. And no person, male or female, had the guts to bring him to justice. He was careful, aye, and a clever man, despite his illit
eracy. He could strike and leave no clue, no witnesses, or none that would be believed, even if they could summon up the courage to shop him to the authorities. She had seen it happen before, on more than one occasion. Colleen was tough and no coward, despite her small stature. However, she knew well that common prostitutes had no legal rights. This, and the fact that she had a daughter to protect, always prevented her from coming forward with damning evidence.

  She threatened Patrick with the police the last time she had seen him, the day he did his best to put an end to the life of his newborn son. And she might have exposed him then, had he not disappeared without trace. Every day she prayed for retribution, though she was not a devoutly religious woman by any means. The prayers had not worked. He turned up once more, when least expected. Alive, filled with hate and twice as repulsive.

  ‘Let me come by, Patrick,’ she said, her voice quivering nervously in her throat. ‘You can’t afford to make a mistake at your time of life.’

  ‘I’m not about to make any mistakes, Colleen,’ he snarled at her like a rabid dog, ignoring the run of slimy saliva that dripped from his loose mouth. ‘I’ve only ever made three mistakes in my life. The first was to get myself tied to Maggie, that useless, scrawny bitch,. The second was to let that puny bastard of hers live when even the priest hisself thought it was God’s will to let him die.’

  ‘Aye, well even God makes mistakes. That little Billy was no mistake though. The bairn is worth ten of you, Patrick Flynn, and always will be.’

  ‘Not for long, he won’t, when I gets me hands on ‘im, thievin’ little good-for-nowt.’

  ‘If he steals, it’s to put food on the table,’ Colleen said, sticking out her chin with a surge of stubborn audacity. ‘And speaking of thievin’, where did you get them boots you’re wearing, eh? I seem to remember that I gave them to young Billy, and right proud he was of them, too.’

  ‘Too good for the likes of him. Let him gan barefoot, like the rest of the bastards around here.’

  Colleen shook her head in disbelief that any man could be so uncaring for children, whether they were his or anybody else’s. Thinking that a more gentle tack might work better with him, she softened her voice.

  ‘Aw, come on, Patrick, let bygones be bygones.’

  She might have known that he wouldn’t be fooled.

  ‘Ach, is that what you think we should do, Colleen, me darlin’?’ He was standing before her, legs splayed, fists punched into his thick waist, though ready to fly into action if she made any hasty move. ‘How’s about a kiss or two for your old pal, Patrick, eh? For old time’s sake.’

  Colleen’s throat went peculiarly tight at the thought. She tried to swallow and ended up giving a choking cough that resounded in her ears. This was the most dangerous place of all, where the mud flats merged with the quarry ponds. People had died here. Children, tramps, drunkards. And prostitutes.

  She backed away, scared now, as Patrick pressed his odorous body close, but he had her cornered, for there was nothing but a wall of sandstone behind her.

  ‘Patrick, be sensible,’ she mumbled with difficulty as one hand clamped tightly around her chin, forcing her head back until she felt her scalp graze the rock. ‘At least let’s find somewhere a bit more comfortable, eh? Come on, man!’

  ‘What makes you think I want us to be comfortable, Colleen? You were all set, ten years ago, to see me in prison. I was a fool to run away, but me head was all confused.’

  ‘That was a long time ago. If I’d been going to do anything, I would have done it long before now.’ Colleen squirmed feebly as his fingers squeezed her flesh and his pelvis ground hard into her, making it impossible to move. ‘Don’t do this, Patrick. You’ll not get away with it this time.’

  A shower of dust and stones rained down upon their heads. Colleen cast her eyes up in time to see a movement, a small white face illuminated in a shaft of moonlight before it pulled back out of sight. Patrick looked up too, but she wasn’t sure that he had seen Billy. She hoped to God he had not, for it would be the death of that poor little lad.

  ‘Patrick, Patrick!’ She tried to scream out his name to divert his attention, but the noise that emitted from lips that were already turning blue because of the pressure of Patrick’s hands now around her throat, was no louder than the squeak of a frightened mouse.

  He pressed into her even more, pushing her down, scouring the rock with her body until she was lying flat and he was on top of her, pressing her into the sludge. She couldn’t fight him off, couldn’t move her arms or her legs. She couldn’t even feel them anymore. All she could feel was the tightening of his hands as he strangled the life out of her. As her head seemed to grow and explode under the pressure of his iron fingers she saw floating before her the faces of her darling Bridget and Billy, and she feared for them.

  Then the darkness became full of blinding stars and even Patrick Flynn’s foetid breath was gone, together with all his weight and she was floating, like a feather in the wind and sinking in the dark mire until, one by one, the stars faded and total blackness took over.

  Chapter Six

  Albert Robinson sat in his son-in-law’s front room staring morosely out of the window. The newspaper he had been reading fell from his hand, the pages scattering at his feet. It was a terrible world, he thought, when people were murdered in a quiet, peaceable little town like Jarrow.

  Of course, there were skeletons in most family cupboards, but they were usually kept locked away, brushed under the carpet. God knows, there were plenty in his family, but you just didn’t talk about them. Nobody did.

  The squeak of his son-in-law’s wheelchair announced John’s arrival. Albert stirred himself and bent quickly to gather together the pages he had dropped, but his rheumatism stopped him short and he gripped his back with a groan and straightened stiffly. He heard a familiar sound. The small click of his daughter’s tongue on the roof of her mouth, Elizabeth was so like her mother it was uncanny. It was also very wearing for the old man, who had been looking forward to enjoying the rest of his days in peace and tranquillity, having finally retired from his beloved family business.

  ‘Oh, Father! Really!’ Elizabeth “clucked” again and stopped to retrieve the newspaper sheets, which she attempted to put in order, but she was in too much of a hurry, as usual, and got impatient.

  ‘I’ll do that,’ John said, reaching out and taking the pages from her. ‘I’m sure you must have something more important to do, my dear.’

  Elizabeth’s nostrils flared as her patience ran out and anger set in. It was bad enough that she was married to a cripple without having him make sarcastic remarks about how she spent her time. There wasn’t a moment when she wasn’t working. Even with the help of Maureen Flynn, there were never sufficient hours in the day to keep this great mausoleum of a house clean and tidy.

  ‘Give the paper back to me, John,’ she said, her lips tightening as she held out a demanding hand. ‘I’ll go and put it in the bin.’

  ‘I can do that, Elizabeth,’ John said quietly. ‘Besides, I haven’t read it yet.’

  Albert looked from one to the other of them and headed for the door.

  ‘There’s nothing worth reading these days. And half of what you read you can’t believe. Them journalists! They’re all a load of...’

  ‘Father!’

  ‘Ach!’ Albert threw his hands in the air and shook his head as he marched out into the hall with a slight, limping gait. ‘I’m away off up to the allotments.’

  Elizabeth sighed loudly, her exasperation with her father more than a little evident. She was fond of him, to a point, but they had never really got along too well. It had been a mistake to take him in after her mother had died. He hadn’t been in favour of the arrangement, but she had talked him into it. John told her later that she had bullied the old man into doing what she wanted, just like her mother before her had been in the habit of doing. Well, the deed was done now and they had to live with it. All of them.

  She pulled fre
tfully at her hands then rubbed at a twitch that was attacking her right cheek. The iron tonic the doctor was giving her wasn’t doing her nerves any good. All it had succeeded in doing so far was rotting her teeth.

  She wasn’t sure whether or not John had made a sound as his eyes focussed on the front page of the Gateshead Gazette he was holding, having carefully put the pages in order. Had he actually groaned? Had he called out in some agonized fashion? Elizabeth dragged herself out of the depths of her own misery to look enquiringly at her husband.

  John’s face had gone deathly pale. His eyes looked glazed at first then they glistened with moisture. She bent and looked more closely at him and saw his mouth and chin quiver with emotion.

  ‘John?’ She touched his shoulder momentarily then quickly removed her hand. ‘What’s wrong? Are you ill?’

  The muscles in his gaunt cheeks became tense, and then he shook his head vigorously, more as if he were trying to rid himself of his thoughts than giving a sign of negation.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said in a croaking whisper as he crumpled the newspaper into a ball. ‘Just a twinge. Nothing for you to worry yourself about, Elizabeth.’

  But Elizabeth wasn’t convinced. They might not have a marriage any longer, but she knew her husband. She knew his every expression, could read his every thought. And John was more emotionally moved right then than she had ever seen him. And it had something to do with what he had read in the Gazette.

  She retrieved the paper and smoothed it out so that the page he had stared at with such intensity was once again readable. And then she saw what the cause of his distress was and the implication she read into the signs made her feel unclean. Not to mention afraid of the consequences.

  ‘It’s her, isn’t it?’ she said, thrusting the paper at him, so that the photograph of the murdered prostitute rested squarely in his sickened gaze. ‘That woman...a common whore. Well, she got what she deserved, if you ask me.’