Midnight on Lime Street

by Ruth Hamilton

  A few times in the evenings, I’ve caught him staring hard at the fireplace. There’s nothing remarkable about it; it’s a tiled thing with a clock and some candlesticks on the mantel and a mirror on the wall above next to the Papal Blessing of our marriage and a Palm Sunday cross. He used to discuss getting a new fireplace, but he seems so attached to it these days.

  The other night, he came home injured. I heard him groaning while he bathed his arm. Says he fell off his bike.

  I’ve asked him what’s changed, of course. He looks at me as if I’ve grown a second head. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me,’ he always says. I know shift work tires him and upsets his digestion and his sleep pattern, but . . . but there is a marked difference in him. He doesn’t touch me any more. We don’t want any more children, so we’ve always used the rhythm method since having Lucy; we keep a calendar with the safe days underlined, but he’s not interested in me. How do I say that to a priest?

  He told me he fell off his bike and his arm landed on a broken bottle. Three great big scratches, he has, as if some wild cat dragged its claws from elbow to wrist. He’s wearing a bandage till it heals. I don’t know what to do, where to turn. Perhaps I should take that job in the chip shop. It’s for just three hours on weekdays, from eleven till two. At least my mind would be occupied, and I’d be back home when the children come in from school.

  Oh, look at the state of me. I’m staring at the fireplace like Neil does, and this duster in my hand’s getting nowhere fast. The ironing’s done, and that was today’s main job. A quick flick round, and I’ll be ready for the children. The steak’s braising, and I’ll leave a plate for Neil. He’s two till ten this week. I think he’s worse when he’s two till ten . . . Dear Lord, what is going on? Oh, I’d better finish dusting.

  *

  Of course, everything happened at once. The whole crop burgeoned beautifully, and the boys weren’t ready for it. Roy Foley stood, hands on hips, mouth gaping, his breathing equipment on strike. ‘Overnight?’ he managed finally.

  ‘What are we supposed to do now?’ Bill Tyler asked.

  ‘Erm . . .’ Roy was making progress, managing to scratch his head and taking in some oxygen. ‘Get the flowers off. Well, I think so.’

  ‘I thought you’d learned all this?’

  ‘We didn’t do exams, you know. I got no certificate for being qualified in grass. We need help.’

  Bill shook his head. ‘We have to be away out of here, Roy. Them demolition blokes are getting nearer by the day, and the electric will go off soon. Get some help, and I don’t mean Ginger and Holy Mary.’

  Roy sat down and pondered. From the little he knew, he understood that this was an excellent crop. Somehow, possibly by accident, he had successfully produced a sizeable load of cannabis. The Halewood lads had a new wrinkle, too, because something called LSD was available and, if sprinkled on a joint, it gave a massive high to the smoker. ‘We’ll sell it to Halewood,’ he announced. ‘They can buy it off us, harvest it and make it fit for sale. OK, we won’t make as much as we’d like, but it’s better than ruining it, eh?’

  Bill was past caring. He wanted to get home, have a bath, a bowl of scouse and some clean clothes. Drugs were not his scene; he’d be better off being a builder’s labourer with the firm his dad worked for. ‘Go to Halewood, then,’ he suggested. ‘I promise I’ll stop here and wait for you even though I’m shit scared.’

  ‘Will you be too shit scared to get paid a few quid, then?’

  ‘No. I want compensation. It’s been like prison, but with bright lights and sweat and stinky plants. Just sell it – get rid of it, for God’s sake. When I see the back of this lot, that’ll be an end of it as far as I’m concerned.’

  ‘You won’t run and let me down when I go out now?’

  ‘On me mam’s life.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Roy went for help.

  Bill sat on a chair, on his frayed nerves and on a burgeoning temper. He wasn’t as clever as Roy, wasn’t as brave as his friend, who had just gone for a three-bus ride into the hands of professional dealers. ‘I’m not that stupid, though,’ he told a blank wall. He could feel something in his gut, and it was nothing to do with indigestion. He heard an echo of Dad telling him that Roy Foley was trouble. ‘Stay away from him,’ Dad had said countless times. ‘Do you want to serve time in Walton Jail, Billy?’

  And here he sat, waiting for the big boys, the sort who had bullied him all the way through school. They probably already had Roy under their thumbs, though Roy would never admit it. Perhaps Roy didn’t know it, because although clever enough, he didn’t seem capable of fear. How would he survive in the world of drugs if he couldn’t feel afraid enough to be careful?

  Bill stood up. ‘If I run, he’ll come after me, and he won’t be on his own. Our families won’t be safe, either. Why did I listen to him?’ He paced about aimlessly. Everybody called Bill Tyler daft, and they were probably right. But was Roy Foley any brighter? He might be able to read, write and count properly, but he was still crackers.

  Bill knew that he and Roy were locked into something from which there might be no escape, no emergency exit. ‘I don’t want to live in a secret,’ he whispered, tears pricking his eyes. But he had to. In this matter, he had no choice unless he went to the police and grassed on Roy, too. ‘I’m already in prison,’ he said.

  It was a long wait. The alarm clock that had timed the spillage of light onto plants showed ten o’clock on its luminous dial before the back door opened. In they walked, the cannabis kings of Liverpool South. Bill did as he was told, carrying plant after plant through the yard and into a parked van. Two men stood guard, one at each end of the narrow alleyway. A third helped Roy and Bill with the carrying of the crop, while a fourth sat smoking a cigar in the kitchen. That was the boss, Bill told himself. Yes, the seated man was the big boy, and this was the beginning of a journey into danger. No, it wasn’t prison; it was hell.

  Belle Horrocks was in her parents’ terraced house in Wavertree. They had moved here recently for the bigger back yard and an extra bedroom, because Lisa was now a lively three-year-old, and Belle came home whenever she could, so she needed a room, too. When Belle wasn’t here, her room might be used as a play area for Lisa.

  Sam and Frances were proud of their daughter, an auditor with a firm that travelled hither and yon to help companies account for their dealings whenever the taxman growled and showed his teeth. Belle was an expert in tax law, and she was much in demand, because she was the garlic flower and the crucifix that stayed the Civil Service’s fangs before they dripped red with company blood. ‘Have you been busy, love?’ Frances Horrocks (usually Frankie) asked her girl.

  ‘Oh, yes,’ was Belle’s ready reply. ‘We’ve been cooking books on gas mark nine, though we’re breaking no laws, of course.’

  ‘Of course,’ Sam grinned. ‘Go get ’em, Belle.’

  She chuckled. ‘Is this place costing more rent because of the third bedroom?’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ Frankie said quickly.

  Sam shook his head. ‘It needs a fair bit doing to it, plastering, carpentry, new window frames, so I said I’d fix it up if they’d buy the materials and keep the rent low for a couple of years. I’m still working part time, so we should be OK for a while. Lisa needs space to play, Belle.’

  Belle had put her daughter to bed, a privilege she enjoyed far too rarely. And for the first time, Lisa had asked for something. She’d always been easy to please, greeting colouring books, a cheap doll, a skipping rope, a box of crayons or paints with equal delight. But the move to Wavertree had brought Lisa face to face with Amelia-across-the-way, and Amelia had a child’s version of a Silver Cross coach-built pram with proper blankets and a pillow and a baby doll with nappies and clothes and everything, Mummy.

  So Mummy asked about prices, looked in her bank book and wished Mam and Dad had given Wavertree and Amelia’s pram a miss. After she’d handed over Lisa’s keep and clothes money, the sum saved towards depos
it on a flat was almost non-existent and, at the age of thirty-five, she’d be lucky to last on the game for many more years. But her baby wanted a doll’s pram, so her baby would have a bloody pram by fair means or foul.

  What to do? It would be a couple of days before she could earn money in her usual way, because this was, for her, the wrong time of the month. Mam and Dad had little to spare, and they believed she had a top job with a good firm, so they had to stay off the list.

  List? What list? Everyone she knew was in a similar situation – everyone but Eve, that was. ‘She wants that pram,’ Belle said now.

  Sam grunted. ‘We told her Christmas. We said we’d all save up and she could have it then. I’m good at making used things look new.’

  Belle glanced through the window. Although dusk had arrived, the temperature remained kind. ‘This is better pram-pushing weather. I’ll see what I can do. There’s a pram shop nearer town, so I’ll find out if they do second hand in good condition. I think I’ll go for a walk before it gets too dark. Sitting in cramped offices for a living makes me glad of fresh air.’

  When their daughter had left, Sam and Frankie stared at each other. He broke the silence. ‘What’s up with her, Frank? She seems a bit down in the mouth.’

  Frankie shrugged. ‘The job makes her tired, and she’s just realized how expensive a child can be. With our Belle, it’s all about saving for when we’re gone. This Silver Cross pram’s just the start, I suppose. Kids cost a bomb.’

  ‘I wish we could help,’ he said.

  ‘We do help, Sam. Without us, our Belle couldn’t work.’

  He nodded. ‘True. But I don’t like seeing her so worried.’

  The following afternoon, their worried girl walked through the streets of Wavertree. It was nice round here, decent houses, almost all of them pretty and cared for with clean paths and tidy little front gardens. A few hundred yards away from her parents’ house, she found a phone box.

  Kate answered. ‘Hiya, Belle. Are you and the family all right?’

  ‘Everybody’s fine, love. Is Babs with an unexpected client?’

  ‘No, not now. Eve’s on a run in an hour or so. Shall I get Babs?’

  ‘Please, Kate.’

  Belle fed the phone’s ravenous money box while waiting for Babs. Yes, there was a list, but there were just two names on it – Babs and Eve. The latter would want interest on a loan, but Babs had a soft spot for Belle.

  ‘Hello?’ Babs breathed after running downstairs.

  ‘Babs, sorry to ask, but I need a loan and I’m desperate,’ Belle said.

  ‘How much?’

  Belle breathed deeply. ‘A tenner,’ she said.

  ‘OK. You can have it, Belle. Looks like I’ve fallen on my feet, but I’ll tell you more when you’re here. Can I ask what the money’s for?’

  ‘For Lisa.’

  ‘Fair enough. I won’t be asking for it back. You keep it.’

  Tears spilled down Belle’s face. ‘How can I thank you enough?’

  ‘Stop crying, you soft cow. You can thank me by buggering off while I have a quick swill. One of the men last night stank like an old dustbin, and I can’t get the smell out of my nose. Ta-ra, queen.’

  The line went dead. Belle fished a handkerchief out of a sleeve. She’d always admired Babs’s honesty, but this was something else. The girl was enjoying good fortune, and she wouldn’t keep it all to herself. There was genuine kindness in the world, then. It wasn’t just a queue of men wanting massage plus sex plus someone to moan at about a wife who didn’t understand, a terrible job, ungrateful children and bad neighbours.

  She dried her eyes and left the phone box.

  ‘Thanks, Babs,’ she murmured into the square of cloth. ‘I won’t forget this.’ Tomorrow, she would raid her bank account and buy a pram. Mam would make covers and pillows, and Lisa already had a baby doll. Money from Babs would fill the hole in savings, and all would be well for a while.

  Beyond that, Belle knew she had a friend for life, and there was very little she wouldn’t do for Babs if called upon. Where there was trust, there was love. And vice versa.

  *

  Well, it frightened the living daylights out of me, I can tell you that much. She died quickly, went so fast that when . . . when her head nearly came off, there was no blood because her heart must have stopped with the shock. You don’t expect to decapitate somebody through strangulation with a bit of wire, but she was small, under five feet tall and thin as a reed.

  Waiting for her, I turned my bike lights off and wheeled it along the pavement. And there she came, teetering on high heels, mutton dressed as lamb, skirt too short, frilly blouse probably made for a teenager, red plastic handbag swinging from an arm. When I got close, I could see she was lathered in makeup, and it had set in all the creases on her face. She was ugly. She became a lot uglier, too, with her head hanging to one side and her legs splayed at strange angles. Like a broken marionette puppet, she was.

  She had a chiffon scarf hanging out of a pocket, so I took that. It would supposedly do for the next whore I found. There’s a herd of them in the city, but that’s a bit busy for me. Some use I’d be to Jesus and Judas if I ended up in court for murder, so I have to stick to roads that run parallel to or at an angle from the docks.

  On my way home, I tried to calm down, because Laura knows I’m not myself these days. She stares at me as if she’s going to ask questions, though she’s asked none yet apart from wondering aloud about my health and Confession and Holy Communion.

  I’ve told her I’m thinking about things.

  ‘What things?’ she enquired.

  So I made the excuse that I was worrying about the Spanish Inquisition and bad Catholics. ‘There are bad ones now,’ I said. ‘The police are looking for three young lads who ran away from some evil monks. Is it the one true faith?’

  Laura asked how I knew about the boys, so I told her about the piece in the Echo and the men who’d run away from that school. ‘The Echo has their names, though they can’t publish them, but they followed up the story, and the monks have disappeared. The runaway lads have written to the newspapers, the Queen, the government, archbishops, cardinals – even the Pope. No one knows where they are. It’s just made me wonder, Laura. Don’t get upset about it,’ I said, ‘it’ll work itself out.’

  But it isn’t working itself out, because I’m a mess. Laura wonders about the physical side, but I can scarcely touch her, because my hands have been on other women. Like that queen in a Shakespeare play, I feel that nothing on earth will clean my fingers. The old one fought, too, so I’ve had her hands raking down my arm, and I feel like a biblical leper. She had fingernails like razors.

  Worse was to come, of course. The old woman was named in the paper as Dolly Pearson, an eccentric who spent most evenings, six nights a week, with her ninety-three-year-old mother. She used to sit with her mum from six until ten, then from ten in the morning until two in the afternoon. Other family members did the rest of the shifts, but she’d been filling in for a sick brother who was in hospital because of a burst appendix. I have killed a decent person.

  Dolly Pearson was not a prostitute; she was an oddball on her way home. She was an ordinary, caring being who wore too much makeup and the wrong clothes. Her brothers and sister are heartbroken, and the healthy brother and the sister have to care for their very old mother for twelve hours each. I made a mistake. Christ could have prevented that, as I am supposed to be working under His guidance. So alone, I am. After sharing everything for ten years with my wife, I now am unable to say a single word.

  I watch the fireplace, willing them to come back, but I never see anything except her in my sleep, head and legs in impossible positions, my heart beating fast, hers stopped forever. By me . . .

  My screams probably wake the whole street. Laura tries to comfort me, but I push her away. Got rid of the chiffon scarf – it’s no use to me, is it? And if this carries on, I’ll be getting rid of my marriage, too.

  Why m
e, Jesus? Why did you pick me?

  I’m on earlies next week. Maybe I’ll settle down then.

  Ian, John and Phil were not enjoying the good life in their scout hut. The only thing on the mend was John’s stammer, and progress in that small area was sporadic, since they all lived in fear, because Ian’s letters to the high and mighty had reaped a media reaction that would result in eventual discovery, and they didn’t want to be returned to the Brothers Pastoral. ‘We’re all over every newspaper,’ Phil said after one of his forays into Knowsley.

  ‘They’ll be searching everywhere f-for us,’ John the Stam moaned. ‘I mean, you didn’t put any address on them letters, Ian, b-b-but once the cops get on your tail—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Ian growled. ‘They believe us, and that’s the main thing. It said in the Echo that three bastard teachers have gone from the school, so everybody’s on our side.’

  ‘Except for Catholics,’ Phil offered. ‘Blind as bats, the one true faith, thou art Peter and upon this rock I will build my church. Bloody churches and temples – give me a football match any day of the week. It’s all crap, religion.’ He sighed. ‘What are we going to do?’

  It was hot and stuffy. No one bothered to answer Phil’s question. Stealing food, money and clothes was exhausting work. It was a worry, too, since now it was known that even the Queen and the Pope had received letters, the hunt would definitely be on.

  They lived for the most part on cold food, as the little paraffin stove sent the temperature in the hut to an unbearable level. The only real fun they had was when they dressed up to sneak out during hours of daylight. Even then, disguised in stolen clothes, they needed eyes in the backs of their heads. Phil had managed to steal a bike, and he’d shoplifted a small tin of black paint and a brush to disguise it. There was little money left because of buying fish and chips on some evenings, and life seemed grim.

  ‘We c-could get paper rounds,’ John suggested hesitantly.

  Phil laughed, though he didn’t sound happy. ‘Which bloody fishing boat did you arrive on, soft lad? We can’t mix with people. I sometimes wonder whether you’re the full shilling. Paper rounds?’ He spat the two words. ‘Why don’t we just go to the cop shop and say we’re the missing boys?’