Midnight on Lime Street

by Ruth Hamilton

  Brother Williams, a calm and gentle man, led the class out into the corridor. ‘Be still and quiet,’ he advised. ‘This will be dealt with.’ He returned to the classroom and closed the door carefully. Ian crossed the fingers of his left hand – the right was too sore. ‘Release us, God,’ he prayed inwardly.

  To keep his mind further occupied, he listed the names and addresses he intended to use. The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh, Buckingham Palace, London. The Archbishop of Liverpool, Archbishop’s House, Liverpool. The boss of Liverpool Corporation, the Welfare Department, Liverpool. Dr Masefield, Heathfield Close, Hunt’s Cross. Ian’s own mam, who lived in a refuge somewhere in West Derby, and— Oh, God. He probably wouldn’t be cleaning the office today, so paper, envelopes and stamps might be unattainable.

  He sent the whisper down the line. ‘If you clean the office, get stamps, paper, pens and envelopes. Leave them behind a milk crate on the steps.’ He hadn’t thought things through properly, had he? If he was the brains of the outfit, God help them all.

  The whole class stood for what felt like at least an hour.

  Although they listened, they heard not a word from the classroom.

  ‘P-please, God,’ John prayed. ‘Get these bastards for us.’

  ‘Amen,’ breathed the rest of them.

  ‘I’ve been on this bloody beat for eighteen months now, and I demand a recount.’ Constable Eddie Barnes was not in the best of moods. Quick Mick was snoring in a stall in the gents’ toilets. ‘I wouldn’t care, but he smells worse than the urinals. I wonder when he last had a wash or a bath?’

  Dave Earnshaw shrugged. ‘About 1947 when he left the orphanage. It’s your turn, anyway. You’ll have to climb over and get the bugger out.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yes, he might be doing that, too.’

  ‘They should give us protective clothing for jobs like this,’ Eddie moaned. ‘He could have fleas, scabies, dry rot, rising bloody damp – hey, if he bites me again, I want a tetanus jab.’

  Dave couldn’t help himself; he burst out laughing. ‘Listen, you go in there, lad, and I’ll get you swilled down by the fire brigade after we’ve done here. Anyway, I’ve got to shift Smelly Nellie, so you’re not the only one with a problem.’

  ‘She’s not shut in the lavs, is she? You don’t have to throw your leg over a door and split your difference if you slip.’

  Dave shrugged. ‘Like I said, it’s your turn – simple as that.’ He walked towards a slight, stooped old woman at the other end of Lime Street Station’s public area. Constable Earnshaw had a soft spot for poor old Nellie. She wasn’t the most fragrant companion, but there was a strange dignity about her. Well spoken and gentle, Nellie was something of a mystery. Her whole life was contained in a coach-built Silver Cross pram whose undercarriage had been replaced many times by her associates, one of whose number was currently comatose in the gents’ lavatory.

  ‘Hello, Nellie. How are you doing, girl?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you, which is more than can be said for Mick. Has Constable Barnes found him?’

  He nodded. ‘He’s locked himself in one of the lavs, and he’s snoring, so we know there’s life in him. I think we’ll have to take him in before he does himself a mischief. How does he manage to get hold of the booze, Nellie?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  They were a clan, and he knew it. Solid as a brick wall, they stood together, one for all and all for one, secrets buried deep inside, locked away in minds that refused to open to authorities. How many welfare workers had the ‘family’ chewed up and spat out? Yet Dave tried once more. ‘Where do they go during the day?’ he asked. ‘We see you and a couple of others out and about, but what about Quick Mick and the rest of them?’

  ‘They sleep here and there,’ Nellie said.

  ‘And they burgle at night?’

  The old woman cocked her head to one side. ‘You know I can’t answer these questions, constable. We live how we live because life let us down, or we let ourselves down. And we serve a purpose, as you very well know.’

  He had to agree, though he did it silently. The Lime Street Gang, labelled such by the police, had rescued many a runaway who had landed at train or coach station. The latest had been returned to her home only to disappear again within hours, probably to London. London was the Other Place, and few returned from there. But he didn’t tell Nellie, because she took these things very seriously. ‘Have the ladies been out tonight, Nellie?’

  ‘They have.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘I didn’t count them. Look, Constable Dave, they do what they do, and don’t judge them. Some have children to feed, clothe and shelter, and for others, it’s the only way of life they’ve known. They are a necessity.’

  He pondered for a few moments. ‘Where did you get all that wisdom?’

  She smiled at him.

  ‘Where did you go to school, Nellie?’

  ‘If I told you, you wouldn’t believe me. Look, there’s Eddie with Mick. Look after him. He’s no longer Quick Mick since the fall, so be gentle.’ She took the handle of her pram and began to steer it through the station. When she reached her prostrate friend, she lifted something from one of her many pockets before placing a hand on his head.

  Dave watched as she turned into Lime Street. How old was she? Where had she been born and raised – where had any of them come from? And he felt almost certain that Nellie had just put holy water on Mick’s head. She was a mystery, as were many of the other rootless souls who haunted the station.

  Ah well, poor Eddie would get some relief, since Mick was literally legless. Eddie could radio through for a jam butty, as police cars were named in this city. And God help the poor lads in the vehicle, because they might well be gassed. Quick Mick was now slow since his accident. He was pickled in booze, almost ready to shuffle off into the afterlife, and he stank like an open sewer. It would take an age to get him into the police car, and another age to get him out.

  Dave joined his colleague. ‘You stink,’ he said, ‘and I think an ambulance might be better. He’s very yellow, isn’t he?’

  ‘There’s blood in his vomit,’ Eddie said. ‘I think he’s finally blown his liver to kingdom come. And I have sent for an ambulance.’

  Two young men in uniform stood in the station’s entrance. Behind them lay a dying man who was probably under forty years of age. ‘Why do they do it, Eddie?’ Dave asked.

  ‘No sodding idea, but I wish they’d die on somebody else’s watch.’ He turned and wiped a tear from his face. Sometimes, he hated this job.

  ‘You all right?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Something in me eye. Mucky places, these stations.’

  ‘You’re right there, lad. Enough to break your heart sometimes.’

  See, I’m the only one who knows that Jesus forgave Judas. Yes, I realize I’m talking to myself, but who can I tell? Not Laura, not Joseph at work. Nobody.

  They came to me that night a couple of weeks back. My kids, Lucy and Matt, were asleep in their beds, as was Laura, my kind and gentle wife. I went downstairs after kissing all three, and I grabbed a beer: it had been a long shift sorting mail at the post office; it’s a boring job.

  I was sitting there thinking about Joseph Turton, who is probably my only true friend. He still lives with his mother, and she needs looking after. He and I enjoy a pint or two with the rest of the two-till-ten shift, though we usually chat just to each other. He’s a good man, paying folk to see to his mam while he’s at work, sitting with her when he can, seeing to her medicines and her bedsores and all the rest of it.

  And there they stood in front of the fireplace. Jesus was in a long, white robe, and Judas was dressed in something similar, but he had a necklace made of silver coins all linked together. Yes, he wears the thirty pieces, and his sins are carried round his neck. He reminded me of Jacob Marley, the first ghost to visit Scrooge; Marley dragged his sins behind him in heavy chains.

  The good Lord raised a hand and
blessed first Judas, then me. And He spoke. To me. Jesus spoke to me! He told me about Mary Magdalene and her repentance; then He spoke about those who stain the streets with their bad behaviour. ‘They sell their bodies,’ He said, ‘and the streets must be cleansed.’

  So I’m special.

  I don’t know who drank the beer; the bottle was empty when they disappeared, but now that I think about it, there was a glint in Judas’s eye. I hope he enjoyed it. I had to smile, because he’s still up to his tricks, right?

  Chosen by Our Lord, I will come to no harm. I am above and beyond the reach of men’s laws, as I am directed by the Son of God to do His work. No one will catch me. Like Judas, I will link my deeds together, every one connected to the rest, because I am guided by divine hands.

  This is my job, my task. Of course, I’ll carry on at the post office – I have a family to support. If I’m on a day or an afternoon-till-evening shift, Laura will think I’m out bowling or having a drink with the lads after work. We’re happy. We love each other and go to church every Sunday and teach our kids good manners.

  I will bury no bodies. I’ll leave them in plain view so that others can see them displayed as vessels of sin. Each link will hark back to a previous removal. Judas’s chain of coins gave me the idea. It was the necklace that helped me know who he was. So I’m here with my first. She made no noise while I used the garrotte. Her head’s at a funny angle, and her skirt’s too short for modesty.

  She’s got bright red lips and cheap plastic earrings. I’ve taken the cross and chain she wore round her neck – that’s link one. The next one will wear it. Laura’s making shepherd’s pie for tea. She’ll have saved some and I’ll have it for my supper.

  Nobody here on the coastal road. Not that it matters; I won’t get caught. I’m special, see?

  Two

  Babs was reading an article in a magazine. It was a piece quoted from Women Objectified, a book by some London doctor called Alexandra Sefton-Hope. ‘More like Sefton-bleeding-Hopeless round here,’ the reader muttered. She turned the page and read on. This author insisted that females ought to stand up and be counted in the workplace – equal pay, no sexual harassment, and the same opportunities for advancement as men. ‘She should look at this workplace,’ Babs whispered, ‘because we don’t stand up to be counted; we lie down most of the time and have to let men think they’re in charge.’

  But were men truly in charge here? ‘No, they’re not. They’re as much in charge as a nail under the hammer.’ She placed the magazine on her windowsill. No, men definitely didn’t run Meadowbank; they came here because no other women out there wanted them, so they had to pay. This was one place where females held the power. Each girl had an alarm button and permission to refuse to serve an abusive client, while Eve was definitely female and absolutely in charge. She did the counting, but she sat down to do it.

  Eve Mellor had invested real money in the farmhouse. Three large attic rooms were now made over to Belle and her massage, Judy with her reflexology (I’ll get you going, lad, because I know which part of your foot to stimulate) and Angela Whiplash’s chamber of horrors. Oh yes, it was all very well thought out and beautifully appointed. Eve went so far as to bring in part-timers whenever one of the girls had her monthly ‘problem’. ‘She’s efficient, I’ll give her that,’ Babs muttered. ‘And while she’s being efficient, my lifespan is getting shorter and I’m bored. Can a person die of boredom?’

  The whole place apart from the kitchen was red, black, white and gold, all subdued lighting and erotic prints on the walls. Men arrived here looking tense, probably afraid of their wives, their neighbours, their colleagues and their own shadows. They parted with good money, and left in a happier state. Cynthia, Mo, Babs and Sally serviced clients in their bedrooms, and that wasn’t fair, but neither was life. ‘Yes, I have to get away, because there’s chances out there. This is a rut, and I want to get miles from it. Bloody pink – I’ve had enough.’ If Don had anything pink in his house, she would give the article a decent funeral.

  Right, it was time to go downstairs; she was tired of the smell of sex and stale sweat, bored by constant bed-making and sheet-changing, fed up to the back teeth of a life over which she had little control. Eating in the place where she entertained customers was not pleasant, so she must return to the kitchen and face the music. No. To hell with facing it; she would write the score and the bloody lyrics.

  She picked up a hairbrush and raked through her tangles. Several plots were hatching under her mop of long brown hair; she could do better than this, a bloody sight better. It was time to face the congregation, and Babs intended to conduct the orchestra and manage the auditorium too. This was her way of standing up to be counted, she supposed.

  She dressed slowly, donning jeans, a blouse and flat shoes before capturing her abundant tresses in a pony tail. Let the rest of the girls settle round the table before she put in an appearance. Satisfied eventually with the way she looked, Babs descended the stairs.

  Several differing points of view hovered in the air above the gathering as Eve’s girls sat to eat dinner/brunch two days after the transaction between Eve and Donald. They had talked, of course, but Baby Girl was expected to join them today, so their conversation was confined to matters mundane until they worked out the lie of the land.

  Babs stood in the hall and listened; nothing of interest reached her ears. She had eaten in her hated room for two days, delivering a close imitation of life only for clients, as she’d had a great deal of thinking to do. But at last, having given Eve time to spread the news, she joined the other girls.

  An uncomfortable and sudden silence accompanied her entry into the arena, but she was ready. Babs made no effort to communicate as she walked in and took her place at the enormous table; it was up to them to speak first, she decided. She knew exactly who would be jealous and who among her fellows would take the news on their chins. The trouble with women was that they usually held an opinion, and they clung to it even when they were wrong. On the occasions when they knew nothing about a subject, they became polarized in spite of or perhaps because of their lack of knowledge.

  Belle was an expert in massage; Cynthia would do anything if the price seemed right. Angela used aggressive implements on men of seriously flawed character and Judy knew all there was to know about feet. Babs glanced from one to another, remaining determinedly silent.

  Sally Hayes, seventeen and learning the trade, realized that she would probably be expected to take Babs Schofield’s place, and she felt uneasy. Still at the age when hope burgeons without nourishment, still waiting to be swept off her feet by a client who loved her enough to ignore her past, she now faced a future filled by men who wanted little girls, and she needed to talk to Babs in private, if that could be arranged. For the first time since coming to the farm, she felt afraid. An escapee from an abusive stepfather, Sally had been happier to get paid for her favours here at the farm, but now, she felt . . . ? Mixed up, that was how she felt, so she kept quiet for the time being and ate as much as she could manage of the meal.

  Belle Horrocks, who offered massage with additional privileges, was thirty-five, pretty, and almost past caring. If one of the girls found a cushy number with a stupid old man, all power to her. Like Eve in years past, Belle was saving and saving for a deposit on a place in town, because she had ten years at best to carry on as a night owl, and she wanted what she termed the ordinary life. She had a daughter who lived with grandparents, and Belle wanted to get off the game before Lisa reached her mid-teens. The child understood that her mother worked away, but beyond that nobody was aware of anything approaching the truth.

  Cynthia Greenhalgh, at twenty-six, served men who needed extras from a whore with no limits, and since she was capable of managing the bizarre and the twisted she received a higher share of the takings than the other girls and great tips from her clients. Nothing fazed her, as she had become inured to the unusual during her eight years here at the upmarket brothel designed by Eve M
ellor. Meadowbank would never be raided – of that Cynthia was reasonably certain.

  But Angela Dyson was ambitious. A classically beautiful dominatrix in her early forties, she collared clients, hit them with an assortment of implements, and made them pay in pain as well as in cash for her attentions. She continued to be well groomed and attractive, and was now annoyed. ‘We can all wear baby clothes and be pwetty for our pwoud daddies. God, what wouldn’t I give to get out of here? Babs, if you don’t want to do it, I will.’ She looked daggers at Baby Babs; it wasn’t fair.

  Babs simply smiled. ‘I’m still thinking about it.’ She hadn’t mentioned her hope of featuring in his will, kept to herself the knowledge about his valuable property and his half of a promising racehorse.

  ‘Let us know when you’ve decided,’ Angela snapped.

  Mo Thompson felt the same way as Angela. She was twenty-four, a bubbly, shapely, dark-haired woman. Like Babs, she didn’t tolerate the unusual, though she might have been able to act the baby for a man who was almost impotent. ‘It’ll be a walk in the park, not like here where we have to keep having baths or all-over washes before the next lot arrives. She keeps us at it, doesn’t she?’

  Babs shrugged. ‘Don’s two butties short of a picnic,’ she announced. ‘I have to take a nurse’s uniform to Southport and feed him and give him his medicines. So no, it won’t be a walk in the park at all. And he wants me, says I’m the love of his life.’

  ‘You’re turned thirty, Babs,’ was young Sally’s belated contribution. ‘I’m seventeen, so I should be the baby.’

  ‘You will be,’ Babs replied. ‘You’ll have my pink room.’

  ‘I don’t really want it,’ Sally whispered mournfully, ‘but I’d like the chance to get out for a while even though I don’t like dirty old men. Mr Crawford always smiles at me; he seems kinder than some of the others. Here, I’ll have loads of them, but you’ll have just him, Babs. I wish I could go to Southport.’

  The rest of the girls giggled.