by Roland Moore
Henry felt the colour drain from his cheeks. “What?”
“She don’t belong here, does she? All this fine china and doilies. She’s a kid from the streets, like me.”
Henry couldn’t disagree. Maybe it would be better if she did go. Maybe that would be easier than trying to find some common ground; rubbing each other up the wrong way. No, he loved her. Despite everything, he loved her. Didn’t he?
“Has-has she said she’s going?” Henry stammered.
“I made the offer. She’s thinking about it.” Vince closed his eyes and exhaled, feeling slightly nauseous from too much drink and too little food.
With Vince’s eyes temporarily shut, Henry reached out a hand, slowly and silently. His fingers were a few inches from the pistol. Nearer and nearer, until his forefinger could feel the monogrammed handle. But then Vince placed a large meaty hand over the barrel. Henry pulled back and silently cursed his hesitation. He should have just snatched it up. Vince started to stir. Henry moved backwards, as quickly and fluidly as he could – towards the kitchen.
Vince licked his lips and blinked open his eyes.
He was shocked to find himself staring down the barrels of a shotgun.
Quickly, instinctively, he went to pick up the pistol from his lap, but Henry used one hand to bat the gun away onto the floor, all the while keeping the shotgun trained on Vince’s face with the other hand. Henry steadied himself and got both hands back on the shotgun. It was five inches from Vince’s face. The big man glanced to his left, to the salvation of the pistol lying by the skirting board. But it was nearly three feet away and he was stuck in an armchair.
“You won’t get there in time,” Henry said.
“Just calm down, Reverend,” Vince replied as softly as he could manage.
“I’m calm,” Henry lied. “I’m calm. Now I want you to leave.”
“Don’t want to kill me, then?”
“Not unless I have to.”
“Even if I take your Connie with me?”
“Don’t test me,” spat Henry.
“We were talking about the old days earlier. The times we’d dance through London.”
“I’m warning you.”
“And I’m so scared,” Vince said, fixing Henry with a cold, ruthless stare. Henry’s left eyelid started to twitch, the pressure of the confrontation getting to him. Vince could see the fear on the man’s face, the desperate doubt in his eyes. He wasn’t a killer. He knew the last thing Henry wanted to do was to shoot him. But he also knew that the gun might go off by accident, if he made a sudden movement. That was a bigger risk for Vince, facing someone who didn’t know how to handle a shotgun. So Vince kept his voice soft, calm and as hypnotic as he could manage.
“Sorry. There you go. I’m sorry. Now put the gun down. We can talk about this.”
Henry shook his head and kept the shotgun level, both hands holding it mere inches from Vince’s face. “Now, get up, slowly.” Henry moved back a couple of steps to allow him out of the chair. Vince hauled himself up, keeping every move as slow as he could, not wanting to spook Henry into firing the shotgun. Henry waved the gun barrel to indicate for Vince to move to the hallway. Henry had seen James Cagney do this in the movies.
“Just be calm,” Vince said.
“I am. Get out.” And then a moment of insecurity. “Did you really talk to Connie about the old days?”
Vince nodded slowly, keen not to rile the reverend. “But we’re bound to talk about the past, aren’t we?”
“And you want her to go with you?”
“She don’t really belong here, does she?”
Henry pushed the twin barrels against Vince’s arms, an admonishment for his comment.
“The worm’s turned, ain’t it?” Vince said as he moved slowly forwards. “You’re the big man now, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t antagonise me at this precise moment in time.”
But unfortunately, also at that precise moment in time, Connie Carter was walking up the path. She had spent a few minutes in the square, wondering about whether to follow Margaret. But she’d drawn a blank. Maybe Henry would know.
She opened the front door, surprised to find Vince standing in the hallway with his meaty hands raised in surrender as Henry moved him at gun point. Connie couldn’t help but react with shock at this incongruous sight. “Henry?!”
She would regret doing this.
The Reverend Henry Jameson momentarily took his eyes off Vince. In a flash, Vince used that distraction to his advantage, pushing the gun barrels down to the floor and towards him with all his might. The shotgun flew out of Henry’s hands, and Vince twisted it round, in a fluid motion, pinning Henry against his chest and holding the shotgun as a baton tight against the Reverend’s neck. He felt the air leaving Henry’s lungs as the man choked.
“You dare point this thing at me. You vermin!”
“Leave him, Vince, please!” Connie pleaded. But Vince was enraged, fired up and coursing with adrenaline from his near-death experience. From the humiliation he felt.
“You dare do that!” Vince pulled harder on the barrel, pulling Henry backwards up off his feet, until Henry started to cough and gasp for air, his hands clawing at the barrel to get it away from his neck. His eyes were bulging. “You dare do that!” Vince spat angrily, pulling Henry around like a rag doll.
Connie had to make him stop.
“I’ll do it!” Connie shouted. “The key! I’ll get it.”
Vince stopped the pressure. He released one hand from the gun barrel, letting Henry slump to the floor, like a sack of potatoes. The vicar was gasping and coughing and clawing at his throat.
“I’ll go to London to get the key,” Connie said.
“And then you’ll come away with me?”
“I’ll get the key,” Connie said.
Connie bent down to her husband’s side and helped him slowly up to his feet. Like a newborn lamb, his legs scrambled for a purchase on the carpet as he got up. Connie held him under the arms and led him to the armchair and sat him down. A dark red line was visible on Henry’s neck. Connie asked if he was all right. Did he need a doctor? Henry couldn’t find his voice, but nodded he was okay, still gasping for air as he started to recover.
Vince took the shotgun and stomped up the stairs to his room.
With Vince out of earshot, Connie bent to Henry’s side.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Make him go,” Henry gasped, starting to cough.
“I’ll go to London. Get his key. And then he’ll go and we’ll be together again, yeah?”
Henry, nursing his bruised windpipe, looked at Connie; his eyes etched with sadness. He was sniffing, on the edge of tears; snot and heartache were pouring out of him. “I don’t know if we can do this.”
“Course we can. We’re strong,” Connie pleaded.
“It’s twice now.”
Connie strained to catch his words. What had he said? She looked questioningly at him.
“It’s twice you’ve brought someone –”
“I never brought no one –”
“He came. Danny came before him.” And now Henry was angry, even though his voice was barely more than a gasp. That made it worse somehow, the sounds of a pained animal. Before they had struggled with their differences as they tried to find a shared path in marital life. Then the biggest question was could Connie fit in? Could she shrug off the self-doubt that stopped her embracing her life ahead? Oh for those easy problems. She stared numbly at her husband. Here he was rasping his words while he sat on the floor, a broken man. “Even if we get rid of him. Who else will come?”
“No one, I promise.”
“That’s what you said last – time.” Henry coughed and winced.
Connie put out her hand to help him up. She was grateful that he took it and she helped him to his feet. But as soon as he was up, he let go as if he’d been burnt. His face was filled with remorse. “I’m sorry, Connie. I really am.”
“Well, don’t make a decision then.” Connie could hear the desperation in her own voice. She didn’t know how to save this; how to stop the inevitability of what she knew was coming. She hoped against hope that he wouldn’t say the words she feared most. But instead, he spoke about what was really troubling him.
“It’s not about Vince. Or Danny. Or whoever else might come.” He sighed, finding this hard. “It’s about the fact that I don’t know you, do I?” Henry kissed her on the forehead. Connie felt bereft. She couldn’t find any words, aware that she was making laboured little snorts of disbelief. Was her marriage ending? Was it ending just like that?
“I’ll get rid of him,” she said, a desperate offer. But Henry was already leaving the room.
A wave of self-hatred washed over Connie. The little voices jabbered away. Mrs Gulliver and the other harpies who had said she wasn’t good enough. Who did she think she was marrying their lovely vicar? Connie didn’t have the strength to think any positive thoughts. At that moment she felt that her whole happy ending had suddenly turned to dust.
Chapter 13
The next day, as a sullen woman named Connie Carter made the convoluted, lengthy and episodic journey to London, the blue and white-walled corridors of Fernley East Hospital echoed with the sound of coughing. Moved to a small room away from the rest of the ward, Glory Wayland sat on her bed. She finished pulling her blouse over her head. Her body still showed the faded bruising from Amos Ackley’s thugs; a yellowing road map of best-forgotten pain. As her blouse had been blood-stained from the bullet wound, one of the nurses had taken it home and washed it as best as she could. Now the white blouse bore some dark, indelible marks but nothing more. But Glory had no other clothing so she had to put up with it. She felt the padded bandage on her neck, secured with lengths of medical tape. It was still sore and sensitive to the touch.
The nurse who had washed the blouse entered the room. Although she was smiling, it wasn’t hard to see in her eyes that she was sad to see Glory leaving.
“All set, then?” the nurse said, trying to be as jolly as possible.
Glory nodded, putting on her jacket, a small rip across one shoulder from the fight on Barnes Common.
They both knew the desperate truth: the seventeen-year-old girl had nowhere to go. She’d be sleeping on the streets tonight, begging for coins and taking her chances from now on. The nurse handed her something. Glory saw it was a small notebook and a pencil. “Just until you find your voice,” the nurse said. Glory wrote thank you on a page and handed it over. It seemed a fitting first message to write.
As the nurse checked that Glory had everything, they were both surprised when the doctor ran up in the corridor.
“Thank heavens I’ve caught you,” he said, somewhat breathless. “Someone has come to pick you up.”
The nurse looked pleased at this news. How wonderful that someone had come to look after the young girl.
But Glory just looked confused.
“He said he was your uncle?” the doctor continued, wondering why she was looking baffled. Such news didn’t usually earn a furrowed brow. But he didn’t have time to worry about it. “Anyway, he’s waiting in the foyer downstairs for you. Good luck for the future, young lady.”
And after shaking her hand, the doctor set off towards the ward. The nurse said her goodbyes and followed. Suddenly Glory Wayland was alone. She wondered, with mounting apprehension, about the man waiting in the foyer. She had no uncle – not that she knew about, anyway, and certainly none that might know she was in this hospital. So whoever had said they were her uncle was lying. But what if it was some member of her family? What if it was a real uncle who had found her – somehow – and now wanted to reunite and – no, stop it! Deep down, Glory knew who was waiting for her: and that man wouldn’t lead to any violin-and-roses family reunion. She snapped out of her inactivity, clutched her handbag tightly and looked around for some other way out of the hospital. Nearby there were some metal stairs with a sign at the top stating “Maintenance Exit”.
The resourceful Glory Wayland clattered down the stairs, her mouth dry with panic. As she neared the last flight, she took a deep breath. She opened the door at the bottom, her hand slippery on the brass handle, half expecting Amos to be on the other side. Her breathing was fast and shallow as she peered through the crack.
He wasn’t there.
The relief caused Glory Wayland to feel giddy. She took a second to compose herself and then she scanned the corridor beyond. One way led to the foyer: a place she desperately wanted to avoid, while the other led to the rear of the hospital.
Glory walked quietly and purposefully towards the back exit, scarcely daring to look behind her. With each step, she expected a hand to grab her shoulder and pull her back or a man’s voice to yell out for her to stop. But nothing happened.
Daylight was streaming in from outside as Glory approached the glass exit doors. Salvation. A man coughed, making Glory startle. But it was only an orderly leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette. Glory put her hand towards the glass doors. It was now or never. But would anyone be waiting on the other side?
Glory pushed them with all her might and ran out into the back alley, aiming to disorientate anyone waiting. But again, there was no one there. She slowed and composed herself. Then, as calmly and inconspicuously as she could manage, she made her way down the alley. Thoughts turned to where she would go. She knew she couldn’t go back to Vince’s room, not yet at least, as Amos Ackley would probably be watching the place.
Lost in thought, Glory was only dimly aware of the maroon-and-black liveried car parked ahead in the alley. A man in a trilby hat was fiddling with the oil cap, his back to her. Glory went to walk past when the rear door of the car flew open in front of her, blocking her way. She turned to find herself looking at the face of Amos Ackley, sitting on the back seat. All of a sudden, the man in the trilby hat seemed to forget about his oil problems and he pushed Glory into the back of the car. She tried to scream. No sound came out. Forcing her inside, Trilby Man slammed the door behind her. Then, checking that no one had seen, he casually walked around to the driver’s side and got in.
In the back of the car, Glory sat face to face with the one man she hoped she’d never see again. He was nursing a blackened cheek bone. “Usually I’d worry about people screaming for help.” Amos smirked. “But your doctor says that you’re not making much noise these days.”
Glory flashed angry eyes at him. But this just seemed to make him more amused.
“Save your voice,” he said. “I’ll do the talking. It’s a simple question. Where is that maggot of a boyfriend of yours?”
Glory shook her head. But Ackley continued regardless.
“See, I can’t let Vince get away. He’s cost me – not just money, but face. Do you understand what I mean by that? He swans around and gets one over on me and suddenly every other cockroach south of the river thinks they can be smart with me. So I need to know where he’s gone. Make him pay.”
Glory shrugged. Hastily she wrote in her pad that she didn’t have a clue where Vince would have gone.
Amos processed this information, scanning the girl’s face for any sign of a lie. Then he prodded a signet-ring-clad finger at her pad. “Think harder. Otherwise you’re no use to me.”
Amos smiled at his driver. Trilby Man nodded back in the rear-view mirror.
Glory looked at the blank page. What could she write that would convince him?
“Now, my own theory, Bernard –” Amos announced to his driver. “- Is that he’s gone to ground in the country. Or he’s managed to find that wretch Connie Carter and they’ve gone off to the moon together!”
Glory’s eyes glanced up from the paper at the mention of Connie. It always irked her when the name was mentioned – not least because Vince was always berating her about how much better Connie was at the various scams. To Glory, it always seemed that Vince had feelings for Connie. Feelings that would always get in the way of anything happen
ing between the two of them.
She finished writing in the pad and tore off the page, holding it face down.
Amos smiled at her. He took it from her and turned it over. Inside were the scrawled words:
“Get lost and leave me alone!”
As he spun to react, Glory pushed him as hard as she could in the ribs with her elbow. Then she popped open the door and ran hell for leather up the alleyway, her shoes falling away as she went. Trilby Hat was quick to follow, but Amos called him back. A smile played on Ackley’s face as he watched the spirited Glory running gazelle-like on her long legs off into the distance.
“Get in the car. Let’s see where she goes,” he muttered.
Back in Helmstead, Henry and Vince were like uneasy bedfellows as they tried to exist without the balancing force of Connie being present. For his part, Henry was keeping a low profile – talking if he was spoken to, cooking meals for Vince but otherwise not interacting at all if he could possibly help it. Henry was still angry. But he felt bad for having spoken to Connie the way he had. He’d been hurt and upset from having a gun barrel rammed across his throat. Surely she wouldn’t believe everything he’d said? It was such a mess.
And Henry felt emasculated that he hadn’t been able to make the thug leave – and yet he felt oddly relieved that he had at least tried. Even the failed attempt had boosted his confidence. It was a case of knowing that at least he had attempted to face him down, confronting his own fear of such situations as much as the actual fear of bodily harm. He had crossed the line, even if crossing it had ended in failure.
Vince mopped up the gravy on his plate with a slice of bread. Henry had made a dumpling stew with gravy. Vince was licking the tips of his fingers in approval. Henry grunted that he was going to see Dr Beauchamp near Gorley Woods. Vince nodded, hauled himself away from the dining table and slumped heavily down in the fireside chair. It looked like a nap was very much on the cards. As Henry put on his coat and affixed his bicycle clips, he supposed that Vince would still be slumped, dozing in that armchair when he returned from his mission of mercy.
