‘Nobody can catch him,’ Babs said, the words deformed by a giggle.
‘Catch him, Miss Schofield? Very few see him. He probably breaks the sound barrier when he’s on the run. His real owner lives two counties away from Murma’s old stable. He’s a bay with a very slender and crooked white flash on his nose, so he’s recognizable when fairly still and fairly close, which is seldom. He covered Murdoch’s mother, and photographs were taken by the stable manager; that was the sole proof of our foal’s rather mixed pedigree. Mr Crawford bought the foal and the dam, because he’s soft-hearted. And luckily, we became accidental owners of a very fine animal.’
Sally crept in. ‘The horse came in the house,’ she gasped.
‘We noticed,’ Mr Macey said, ‘and if he continues to eat Miss Schofield’s hair, we may be obliged to provide her with a wig.’
‘I’ll buy a few,’ Babs said, winking cheekily at the seated gentleman. ‘I could have a change of colour whenever I fancied.’
Mr Macey laughed.
‘Sal?’ Babs turned in her seat. ‘Just run up and see if Mr Crawford needs anything. The doctor has him on bed rest.’
Sally left the kitchen. She could see that the man at the table was special and that an important meeting was taking place.
Negotiations continued. ‘My name’s Philip,’ he said, ‘but friends call me Lippy.’
‘Barbara – usually Babs.’
‘Right you are, Usually Babs. Don and I will organize lessons. You will go eventually with Murdoch and Hourigan to showjumping arenas just to get used to the rhythm of hurdles. Before that, I have gentler horses for you to ride. Once ready, you will ride Murdoch on my land, which has plenty of fences and hedges.’
‘He’ll be jealous if I ride other horses,’ she warned him.
‘Tough,’ was the reply. ‘Once you graduate to Murdoch’s level, you will learn when to stand in the stirrups with your seat away from the saddle. Don will not allow the whip to be over-used, so you must become accustomed to stroking the horse with it. It will take time, but we have plenty of that, because Murdoch is far too young for the race. The younger mounts have speed, but little stamina. We have five years at least to achieve the right standard. And, of course, you will run in other steeplechases first. Also, remember that Murdoch is a secret; we don’t want the racing community to take an interest for a while. The odds for the National will be short enough once he starts winning elsewhere, so we mustn’t tempt fate.’
Babs pursed her lips when the soliloquy reached its end. ‘So Mr Crawford is an animal-lover?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he’s happy to see Murdoch shot if there’s a pile-up at one of those horrible fences? Does he know how many horses die or get injured? Does he know how many get too winded to breathe without help and that the Aintree course is five times more lethal than any other steeplechase?’
Lippy nodded. ‘He also knows that Murdoch can make it. Babs, it’s about spirit and bravery and love for the rider. Do you have any idea how many jockeys run that race on an animal they scarcely know? Murdoch with you on his back will be carrying a jockey he treasures. He will see you almost every day. Hourigan has always had his mind set on the National, but Don wasn’t sure until he learned about you having been chosen by Murdoch. Spirit, love, a good ribcage, great lungs, strong legs, combative attitude – Murdoch has them all. He will win. You will win. We are going to win. You, my dear, will be the first woman to finish first.’
Babs Schofield drummed her fingers on the table. ‘I’ve been reading about it,’ she said. ‘It’s a death trap for the horses, but we’ll need to wait for a few more dead or crippled jockeys before the damned race gets stopped. If my horse dies, you will answer for it.’
The corners of his mouth twitched. ‘Your horse?’
Babs nodded vigorously. ‘Yes, mine. It’s nothing to do with money or ownership – you just said so. He chooses me, so he’s mine. I belong to him.’
‘And he to you?’
‘Yes. Anyway, I might be no good at it. No need to jump Becher’s till we get there, eh?’ She stood up. ‘And remember – I’m only a woman. I’ll just get our stuff from the van before Eve throws a purple fit with custard.’
‘Eve?’ he asked.
‘She’s just our driver.’ Smiling to herself, Babs went out to get the luggage. From this day, that’s all Eve would be – the woman who ferried passengers and luggage. Babs had met a gentleman, a real gentleman who was going to improve life no end. And she had a horse of her own, a champion in the making who loved her to bits, just the way she loved him.
Murdoch followed Babs to the van. Eve had deposited the girls’ bags on the gravel drive and was safely back behind the steering wheel.
‘Thanks, Eve,’ Babs said through the open window on the driver’s side. ‘For everything.’ Until this moment, the younger woman hadn’t realized that she quite liked Eve.
Eve’s jaw dropped. What was little Miss Trouble up to now?
‘I mean it.’ God, this falling in love with a horse was a strange business. Babs was softening, even towards people she’d never liked. ‘Bets are off, Eve. I don’t want to gamble with a man’s life, so get my five hundred back off Kate, yes?’
Eve managed to speak. ‘Right you are.’
‘Open me a bank account at the Trustee, will you? Just send me the bank book here. Me and this lunatic breathing down me neck are going to have adventures. Don’t say anything, because I’m still shocked about it, too.’
Eve frowned. ‘Are you all right, Babs?’
‘Never been better.’
‘Well, good luck to you and Sally. You’ll be missed, especially by Belle.’
‘But not by you, eh?’
‘That loony horse is eating your hair.’
‘Yes, he does that.’
‘Ta-ra then, Babs. No hard feelings, eh?’
‘None at all. Ta-ra, Eve.’
The younger woman stood with her horse and watched as Eve reversed through the open gates. The new chapter had begun, and a real gent was in charge. Sorted. Again.
*
BODY OF LIVERPOOL BOY IDENTIFIED
The body found yesterday evening in the Halewood district of Liverpool has been identified as that of Roy Foley, aged 18, from Seaforth. A post mortem examination will be performed today. A local woman whose dog unearthed the body during a walk has been taken to stay with family members in London. She is said to be requiring medical treatment due to shock and anxiety.
Buildings close to the burial site have been cordoned off, though police have given no reason for this action. According to a local businessman, a cottage, a barn and some dilapidated sheds are now under police guard. As far as we know, there has been no arrest and no one is being questioned at this time.
It took a while for Bill Tyler to read the column before he folded the newspaper and left the house. Everybody was out, so he had no explaining to do and no one to help with the reading, though he’d got the gist of the article. He shoved the paper into the saddlebag before mounting his bike; it wasn’t strictly his, because it was shared between him and two brothers, but this was an emergency. If somebody else needed it – tough luck. The shock hadn’t yet sunk in properly, and he was reacting as sensibly as he could manage.
The other boys. They were in a shed with a load of drugs belonging to a chap called Boss. Roy had been working for him and Roy was dead. Murdered, probably. ‘I have to go now,’ he mumbled, ‘because I’m working tomorrow.’ Poor Roy. Poor, clever, stupid Roy was dead. He’d had brains enough for English, maths and science, but not enough sense to keep himself safe. In Roy, there had been scarcely any fear, so he’d copped it in his teens. ‘Is it right or left here?’ Bill mouthed. Roy would have known . . . Roy wasn’t available; he would never enjoy another day on earth. It was all so bloody wrong, but more lives were at stake, and only Bill Tyler could save them, as long as . . .
He swallowed, his throat painfully dry. As long as they weren’t already d
ead.
According to the Echo, there had been no arrests made, so the buildings mentioned in the article had probably been abandoned in a hurry. If Boss and his gang were in need of money, they’d be going for the stash in the hut.
He swallowed again, wishing he’d brought some water or pop. Any killing was one too many, but this time it was Roy Foley, Bill’s best mate, so his fury was strangely hot and cold at the same time. The icy bit sat in his stomach like a lump of lead, but his overtaxed brain burned furiously.
They’d been at nursery together. They’d gone through infants and juniors as an unlikely pair, and had graduated to seniors, shoplifting and burglary in each other’s company. ‘Stay away from that boy,’ Dad had yelled almost daily. ‘He’s a wrong bugger, just you mark my words.’
Oh well, all the proof Dad needed was now in a saddlebag on the back of a shared bike, and it was on its way to a shed in a field in a deserted part of . . . of where? Hadn’t Boss mentioned Knowsley? Wherever, Bill had to find the place, because those boys mattered. He pedalled till his feet were sore, his legs ached and his backside was numb. A field and a hut. He had to find the three lads. Roy was dead, and more people might need saving.
Stopping at a newsagent’s shop, he spent his last few coppers on a bottle of sarsaparilla. Nothing in his life thus far had tasted better. With his terrible thirst finally slaked, he sat on a wall to have a think. They’d approached the place from Halewood that first night with Boss, but he should remember the route from the hut to Seaforth, because they’d been given a lift home, and he was doing the same in reverse, wasn’t he? It had been dark and . . . oh, what if he was too late?
Bill and Roy had been to the scout hut only once, on the night when all the cannabis had been sold to Boss. The big man had needed to hide another stash, and it was stored with three teenagers in a smelly, hot building in the back of beyond. Roy and Bill had been commandeered to help transfer their own stuff from the condemned house to Halewood, then to help shift surplus from Halewood or Hunt’s Cross to . . . to where? They’d gone along in the second of two vans, the first having been used to carry cannabis and so forth. The so forth was the real worry, as it might be worth a bomb, while boys were clearly of little value to Boss, since they were replaceable. ‘We know where you are; we’ll know where to find your families . . .’
Again, he stopped pedalling and sat on a grass verge. Where was he? Where were the lads? Bill glanced to his left and saw red. A phone box. 999. He needed Roy, but there was no Roy. He could be . . . what was the word? Amonymous? It was something like that. Jesus, his heart was going like a train with no brakes, and his brain was on fire. Think, think. Remember the details. There were tents and stuff belonging to scouts; the drugs were under that lot. The place had just one big window and one door. It was a single door, not a double like garages had.
He opened another single door; it was bright red with rectangles of glass in it. ‘I don’t need money,’ he whispered. Which was just as well, since he had none left. 999. His hand shook as he pulled the dial all the way round three times. ‘Police,’ he said to the operator, his voice high-pitched and girlish. O God, O God.
It poured out of him as soon as a cop answered. ‘Don’t ask for me name, cos I can’t say it in case they get me mam and dad.’
‘Calm down, son.’
‘I can’t; I’m too scared.’
‘All right. Where are you?’
‘In a phone box and I don’t know where I am. It’s about them what killed that lad down Halewood. There’s three more in a hut—’
‘Three more boys?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are they dead?’
‘No. Er . . . I don’t know. There’s drugs under tents and all that, cos it used to be a scouts’ clubhouse. One window, one door, it has. The lads is them what run away from that school a few weeks back. I think the nearest place is Knowsley, but I’m not sure. There’s a bloke called Boss. He’s tall and a bit fat and he smokes cigars. He’s from Halewood, I think.’
There was a slight pause. ‘Anything else?’
‘They’d kill me if they knew I’d grassed ’em up, like.’
‘Can you find your way home?’
‘I think so.’ Bill slammed down the receiver, left the box and picked up the bike. His legs shook, and his hands didn’t seem to be working well either. He couldn’t get his knees to support him, so he sat down again next to the bike. At the age of eighteen, after mucking about for years, he was starting proper work with his dad. He had to be grown up now. Yet he sobbed like a baby, tears storming down his face, vision distorted, heart going like the clappers again.
Although he didn’t realize at the time, Bill Tyler became a man that night. He would always be slow when it came to reading and remembering, but his long walk on the wild side had finally ended. The law would never again be broken by him. In a sense, Roy Foley’s death had been a blessing, since it gave Bill a push in the right direction. He finally found the way homeward, got back and listened to a big row about the bike and a spoilt meal.
Without saying a word, he allowed his brothers to rant on. When he gave them the Echo opened at Roy’s page, they quietened. He stared at them blankly, turned and went to bed, taking with him the remains of his sarsaparilla. Nothing mattered now except for two things: he hoped the lads in the hut were safe and that he wouldn’t let his dad down at work tomorrow.
In the absence of Babs and Sal, Ian, Phil and John the Stam had accepted Belle Horrocks as their new champion. When she banged and shouted at the door one evening, they didn’t hesitate to open it. ‘Get out now,’ she told them, ‘and put as much space as you can between here and yourselves. I have to go back before I’m missed. Now, run as fast as you can.’ She shoved a bit of paper into Ian’s hand. ‘Get gone. There’s police everywhere.’ She fled into the gathering dusk.
The lads grabbed their running bags; all three had been ready to escape almost since their arrival here. ‘S-s-stay together,’ John begged as they left their shelter. They could hear the bells on police cars driving through the lanes. As the sounds grew louder, panic beat hard in the breasts of the fugitives.
‘Come on,’ Ian urged. He had been on a recce one night while his fellow escapees had slept. The scout motto Be Prepared seemed to be rubbing off on him – it was the only vaguely decorative item in the shed. ‘Coal cellar under the brothel,’ he managed on what felt like his last breath. They fought their way through trees and bushes, running down the side of the farmhouse until they reached the rear expanse of garden. ‘In here.’ He lifted the grating and held it while his two companions jumped into blackness and onto sharp lumps of coal.
‘Are you not coming with us?’ Phil asked.
‘No. Cover yourselves in coal dust and hide. Climb into the coal if you can. I’ll be back.’
Don’t l-leave us,’ John pleaded. ‘I’m s-scared.’
‘Hide,’ Ian snapped. With no idea of his destination, he ran blindly towards another field. It was almost time to give up; they had made their point, they were nearly fifteen, and they all stank to high heaven for want of a decent bath. Did police stations have baths in them? He doubted that. Where could he get clean enough to give himself up and betray his friends? They stank, too . . .
Ian ran until he could run no more. When he was beyond exhausted, he stopped and listened; silence, blessed silence. ‘I should have brought the bike,’ he mumbled while crouching in a ditch. He had to act quickly, as his mates had very little food and water in their packs, since escape equipment needed to be lightweight. It was time to talk. He might go through the Echo if the beans needed spilling; the paper would have an exclusive, and deservedly so, because it had been on the side of the runaways since day one. Yes, let the journalists arrange for a meeting with the cops.
He would sleep on it. Where could he sleep? Should he carry on moving in the hope of finding shelter? It wasn’t cold, wasn’t raining, and he suddenly felt too exhausted to move. There was another point to b
e considered. If he, Phil and John left it too long before giving themselves up, the public might forget them and the abuse inflicted by the brothers.
The ditch was dry, so he might as well stay where he was. Tomorrow morning, he would reach a decision. He wrapped himself in his coat . . .
A sound woke him. It was a whistle, a police whistle. God, had they found the other two in the cellar? He peeped over the rim of the ditch and saw that the cops were walking away, flashlights directed westward, so they were going back across the fields in the direction of the scout hut. Reminding himself to breathe, he lowered his head and lay flat. God, he was still holding the piece of paper Belle had given him! He pushed it into a pocket and tried to relax. The police would not come back tonight; some would stay to guard the shed, though.
Meadowbank Farm was in a state bordering on the chaotic. Cynthia had been entertaining a person of importance, so he was collected by Eve and taken out to his car in a state of near-undress. Belle, who had no client, returned from her foray to the scout hut and followed Kate round the house, turning pictures so that erotica became bunches of flowers or scenes of pretty little cottages with smoke emerging from chimneys.
Angela Whiplash shifted anything that was mobile and hung curtains and sheets over fixed items. Nothing much could be done with ceiling mirrors and the like, but in all rooms, purple and red bed linens and covers were hidden under pastel blankets or plain sheets. The girls dressed themselves in ‘normal’ clothes, scraped off makeup and gathered in the kitchen. Meadowbank was now a hostel for homeless girls and women.
Eve ran round the house as fast as her weight would allow; she was catching men. After bundling them all into the van, she drove like the clappers down the uneven lane until she reached the East Lancashire Road. Once on the main highway, she slowed down to normal speed. She was possibly about to lose her little empire, but she was determined to hang on to her driving licence.
Midnight on Lime Street Page 14
