Midnight on Lime Street

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Don’t worry, Eve. I’m on your side.’

  She believed him. ‘There’ll be a bacon butty when you’ve done, officer.’

  ‘Eddie.’

  ‘OK, Eddie. On your way out, ask Kate to get cooking, will you? Or there’ll be raw bacon on your bread.’

  He left the office and found three people sitting on chairs. ‘You look like a doctor’s waiting room,’ he told them. ‘Eve says Kate has to start cooking immediately, if not sooner.’

  Eddie left them where they were. After ascending two flights of stairs, he looked at the attics. This place was clearly a brothel, and his betters would want him to report it as such, but he couldn’t and wouldn’t. His brief was to search for three lads, not to comment on design and decor. After walking down the attic stairs, he poked about on the first floor. He discovered no runaways, but found plenty of hasty concealment of bed covers and other items.

  A ground-floor walkabout disclosed nothing until he came across girls at the sitting room end of the kitchen. Kate was cooking. ‘I’ll do you a butty, lad. Brown sauce or red?’

  ‘Just as it comes, thanks; no sauce,’ he replied.

  The rest of the level failed to reveal any boys. He returned to the kitchen and rattled the door to the cellar, which was locked. ‘Where’s the key?’ he asked Kate.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re not going down there in that suit, are you? You’ll be as black as a burnt pot, because it’s full of coal. We haven’t used much with it being summer, and we’ve got immersion heaters for water.’

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose you’re right. The wife would kill me, because this is my wedding suit.’ He stood still for a moment. ‘I can’t guarantee that I’ll be your only visitor, Kate.’

  ‘I know. I’ll tell Eve. Thanks for trying, though.’ At the other side of the locked door, two boys breathed again. Ian would come for them today, wouldn’t he? They were covered in coal dust, running out of crisps, chocolate and water, and they ached after sitting and lying on a hard, flagged floor. They crept away and placed themselves behind a mountain of coal. If he didn’t arrive soon, they would escape through the grille.

  Neil Carson wasn’t completely sure what to do with himself, though he was contemplating a solution of sorts. For the first time in his life, he was living in squalor. He hadn’t minded so much when Angela had been available, because he’d had a kind of compensation in his visits to the farm, but the farm was closed, and he had few distractions. Was it time to go back? Not back home, but should he start clearing the streets again? Was Jesus on his side, anyway? There’d been no second appearance, no encouragement, no praise, no criticism. He was confused, and confusion was not something he had experienced until lately. Life had been mapped out, predictable, clean and easy.

  ‘I only managed to shift one,’ he whispered. ‘I have to make sure I don’t make a mistake again.’ He could seldom get Dolly Pearson out of his thoughts. The woman had dressed crazily, but that had been her only sin. A way to make amends was open to Neil, because Joseph Turton, another postal worker and Neil’s closest friend, was looking after his elderly mother and needed assistance. The house was shabby but clean, and Neil could move in at any time and help to take care of the old lady. So far, Joseph was the only person at work allowed to know that Neil had separated from Laura.

  He sat down on his one greasy chair and looked round the cramped, smelly room. It was horrible. At Joseph’s house, Neil could have a clean bedroom and a shared kitchen. The bathroom was downstairs, since the house had just two bedrooms, and the front parlour had been made over for Mrs Turton, who could no longer manage stairs. There was a kitchen that doubled as the living room, and it adjoined a small scullery, with the bathroom tacked on as an afterthought. No rent would be required. The only payment expected would be sitting with Mrs Turton and buying some food. ‘I’ll do it,’ he said quietly. It would keep him busy and off the streets for a while.

  Having returned to the marital home just once in the middle of the night, Neil had taken his bike from the rear yard, but he would need help to move that and all his other belongings. Joseph had a van, so that was going to be useful. ‘I’ll ride the bike while he carries all my stuff,’ he whispered into the oxygen-starved bedsit. With its window nailed shut, the room hadn’t had a change of air in God alone knew how long.

  He closed his eyes. Perhaps looking after Joseph’s mum might go some way to atoning for the murder of Dolly Pearson. The woman had cared for an ancient mother for eight hours every day, so here was a chance of penance. Joseph had promised to keep the secret about the failure of Neil’s marriage, and Joseph was a Catholic, so he could be trusted. Yes, the move must be made, because this dump wasn’t fit for pigs.

  He pulled on a sweater and went for a bike ride. With autumn on its way, the evenings had cooled somewhat . . .

  On that same autumn evening, Barbara Schofield learned several things. First, she knew a man she liked – or liked a man she knew, which fact was something of a revelation. Gordy Hourigan, failed jockey and successful trainer, was showing signs of being very much her cup of tea, and he needed no sugar.

  Second, she cared on some deep level about the three poor lads who had run away from school. School was where kids were looked after and educated; it certainly wasn’t a place in which children might be used as punch bags or worse. Another surprise was the fact that posh didn’t mean snobby, because Mr Lippy Macey had a wicked sense of humour. The nickname Lippy had arrived in infancy; according to his deceased parents, he had begun talking at the age of two and had never stopped since. ‘That’s why I hover on the brink of politics,’ he explained to Babs and Gordy. ‘The council chamber’s the only place where I don’t get ordered to pipe down. Oh, and I learned the hard way that I must always allow my wife to have the last word. That’s diplomacy covered. Now, about these boys . . .’

  Babs grinned at Gordy, who grinned back at her. ‘One of the lads is called Phil,’ she told the two men. ‘I wonder if he’s lippy, too? Mind, Ian Foster seems to be the boss.’ She stared hard at the gentleman known as Lippy. Under the thick mop of white hair, mischief danced in clear blue eyes. ‘I don’t know much about education,’ she said, ‘but I do know Ian’s clever. He might be what they call university material. And he’s the angriest of the three. Poor John has a stammer, so it can be hard to tell, though he manages better when he’s not upset or worried. Ian says John reads a lot, so he could be another bright button.’ She paused. ‘What?’

  ‘Have you ever considered a future in politics?’ Lippy asked.

  She shrugged. ‘I’m Labour.’

  ‘As am I.’

  She glared at him. ‘You? Lippy Labour? Owner of racehorses and a mansion off Scarisbrick Road?’

  Lippy chortled. ‘It’s pronounced Scaresbrick,’ he said. ‘The i is silent, which is more than you are, madam.’

  Babs squared her shoulders. ‘We’ve three young lads shut down a bloody coal hole,’ she pronounced, ‘while we’re stood here like him outside Lewis’s—’

  ‘Who is naked,’ Lippy interjected.

  ‘Please yourself,’ she snapped, ‘but I’m keeping my clothes on.’

  Gordy shook his head. ‘No sense of fun whatsoever,’ he grumbled.

  She kicked him none too gently.

  ‘She’s right.’ Lippy had returned to Mr Macey mode. ‘Let’s hope Ian made it into the cellar to pick up the other two. You say he’ll be at the end of a dirt track near the A580?’

  Babs shrugged. It was all a bit complicated, and she couldn’t guarantee anything. ‘They’ll all be there,’ she said uncertainly. ‘Ian will have got them out after the sun went down if he couldn’t go to the cellar in daylight. He said on the phone he would fetch John and Phil at some stage, but it might be after dark. I can’t say any more than that, because I don’t know any more. We’d better go.’

  The horsebox idea had been dropped; if the boys stank, they stank. Anyone who worked with horses knew how to cope with malo
dorous moments, so the boys’ temporary divorce from soap and water would probably be no big deal. Instead of a horsebox, Mr Macey had brought a VW camper van with plenty of seating, much of which might soon wear a coating of coal dust, so sheets had been spread over upholstery.

  ‘Right, we’d better go,’ Gordy said. Being a short man might be useful if the worst came to the worst and someone had to search a coal cellar. ‘Have you got food, Babs?’

  She held up her basket. ‘Pasties, butties and cakes,’ she replied. ‘They’re going to need strength if they’re planning to face the music.’

  Lippy winked at her. ‘Worry not, because they can stand behind me and my lawyers.’

  The details could wait, Babs decided as they drove towards the main route between Southport and Liverpool. Before anything could happen, they needed to find Ian, Phil and John. She crossed her fingers – the boys had better be there.

  Sisters Helen and Mary hugged each other in a corridor of Magdalene House. On their way to Benediction, they stole a few moments to celebrate the capture of Albert Shuttleworth, one of the biggest distributors of drugs on both sides of the River Mersey and throughout the north-west. ‘You were close to the wind this time,’ Helen whispered. ‘You’ve been taking too many risks, Sister Mary Veronica. One of these days, you’ll—‘

  ‘I know, I know, Sister Helen Veronica. You’re beginning to sound like my mother, God rest the poor woman. I’ve even carried packets of cocaine to those lower down the animal chain. Speaking of which, we both have to continue watching Lime Street for such creatures. London or Manchester dealers might try to cash in now that the boss has gone.’

  They entered the chapel. Both found it difficult to concentrate; fortunately, the Tantum Ergo and the O Salutaris Hostia were deeply ingrained, so their delivery was automatic. At supper, they sat together. ‘We’ll have to work on the station as completely separate units until we befriend each other gradually,’ Helen said. ‘I’m Smelly Nellie, and you’re Holy Mary.’

  ‘Plus one,’ Mary said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The local police are giving us a dog. He wags his tail and growls when he smells drugs. Dogs have been used to find drugs in France since 1965, so a constable read all about it and trained up his own dog. The poor man died, and his dog needs a kind owner and a job. A bedraggled article, he is, so he will look the part. The good thing is that he doesn’t leap on a carrier of drugs, but hackles rise in time with the wagging and the growling. We’ll still be working with the police, Helen. Mother Superior has agreed to it.’

  ‘My heart overfloweth with joy.’ Sister Helen clapped a hand to her brow. ‘A dog? I know nothing about dogs.’

  ‘Joy indeed, because you’ll be adopting him. You found the poor thing wandering the streets – that’s the official line. It’s a boy, a mongrel, and his name is Nelson.’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’

  Mary nodded. ‘That’s the chap – Admiral Lord Nelson.’

  ‘Who was a tremendously clever seafaring warrior with a questionable personal life.’ Helen paused. ‘Lady Hamilton. Between them she and the admiral broke his wife’s heart.’ She stared hard at her companion. ‘What?’ she asked. ‘I can tell you’re up to something. You’ve gone red along the cheekbones.’

  Mary almost squirmed under Helen’s steady gaze. ‘He’ll be living with you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The dog. He will get to know you, and he’ll work for you.’

  ‘I smell like the bottom of a chip shop dustbin.’

  ‘Dogs don’t mind smells.’

  ‘An answer for everything, Mary, have you not? I don’t understand dogs.’

  The younger Veronica sister shrugged. ‘Holy Mary can’t have a dog, because she’s always in and out of church. When I’m Holy Mary, I’m a double agent with no dog.’

  ‘Talk to St Francis of Assisi. He took animals everywhere with him.’

  ‘No, I’ll have a word with my friend St Jude, ask him to knock some sense into you. You know that station like the back of your own hand. I have to get used to it, so you’re the leader when it comes to Lime Street, because I’ve been a roving reporter or minister without portfolio thus far. If I’m seen on Lime Street regularly, drug dealers will come to me, so I don’t need the dog.’

  They ate their meal, prayed with the rest of the sisterhood, then went downstairs to Helen’s cellar. The resident of this level made cocoa. A dog. Didn’t she have trouble enough without a dog? ‘Ah well,’ she murmured, ‘the good Lord sends these things to try us.’

  Mary rattled the biscuit barrel. ‘Have you no custard creams, Helen?’

  The older nun glanced heavenward. The Lord sent things to try her, but Sister Mary Veronica was a trial too far.

  By the time they reached the East Lancashire Road, Babs was certain that gentlemen, in the good old Victorian sense, no longer existed. Lippy Macey was discussing with Gordy the possible methods of harnessing the gas that emerged frequently from the back end of a horse. ‘One horse could possibly fuel a domestic cooker,’ he said.

  ‘And that would smell lovely with sausage and chips,’ Babs mused aloud.

  ‘It would be converted,’ Lippy said.

  ‘What to?’ she asked. ‘Catholicism, Buddhism, socialism?’

  ‘She always has either an answer or a difficult question, and she knows a couple of big words, too.’ Gordy laughed. ‘Are we nearly there?’ he asked Babs.

  She nodded. ‘We’ll have to do a you-ee, cos it’s on the other side.’

  ‘A you-ee?’ asked the gentleman at the wheel.

  ‘She means a U-turn,’ Gordy explained. ‘Turn right at the next set of lights—’

  ‘Not the next set; the ones after the next.’ She prodded Gordy’s neck. ‘I’m the navigator, not you.’

  He grinned. Little Madam would always be the navigator; in fact, she would probably draw maps to be followed through life by most within her sphere. Sometimes, he thought he liked her because she was one of the few women who were shorter than he was. But lately he had come to realize that there was a lot more to Babs than her small frame. Like Murdoch, she was a clever nuisance. Like Murdoch, she promised to alter the shape of the future. And for an ex-prostitute, she was extraordinarily bright. Gordy kept to himself the secret of her provenance; Mr Macey thought she and Sally were Don Crawford’s nurses/housekeepers, and that was fine by Gordy.

  Lippy performed the necessary manoeuvres, and they slid gently off the carriageway, coming to rest on the road’s shoulder at the end of the rough track that led to Meadowbank Farm.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ Babs said as she bent to leave the vehicle.

  ‘True,’ replied Mr Macey, ‘I doubt you’re more than five feet tall.’

  ‘Listen, Lippy Longshanks, good things come in small packets and they’re easier to wrap.’

  ‘Shouldn’t one of us go?’ Gordy asked. ‘It’s getting dark, and the—’

  ‘They know me,’ Babs snapped. ‘They’re frightened, hungry and worn out to the back of next Wednesday. I know what I’m doing.’

  ‘She says she knows what she’s doing,’ Longshanks whispered.

  ‘Perhaps she does,’ Gordy replied.

  Babs left them to chatter among themselves. She crept up the uneven path and called in a stage whisper, ‘Ian? Are you there? It’s Babs.’

  Privets moved, and she turned to her right. ‘Ian?’ she repeated.

  But bushes to her left were suddenly disturbed. ‘We’re here,’ Ian hissed.

  ‘All of you?’

  ‘Yes. Hang on a minute while we get through a hole in the hedge.’

  She looked again to her right, but all was still. There was no wind, so who the hell was hiding? Was it police, or some of Boss’s people? Boss would be keeping his distance, as would his workers if the cops were at the hut. She stepped closer to the now stilled privets. Whoever it was could sod off, because she had more serious matters to deal with.

  They arrived by her side, three young lad
s with blackened faces, hands and arms. Babs shone a torch over them. ‘Buckets of blood,’ she exclaimed, ‘who got you ready? You look like blooming chimney sweeps from about a hundred years back. And I swear you’ve all lost weight. Come on. We’ve got a van waiting for you.’

  ‘We pong a bit.’ Ian’s tone was apologetic.

  ‘So do horses and donkeys, but I got used to them.’ Knowing there was an audience, she whispered. ‘Now, let me explain. There are two men in the camper, and they’re both OK. There’s Mr Philip Macey – he’s famous for looking after folk,’ she said, winking at Phil, ‘and Mr Gordy Hourigan, an Irish trainer of racehorses. They know you had to run away from bad monks. Mr Macey will drop me and Gordy off at Wordsworth House and Dove Cottage, then you might go with Mr Macey to his house. His lawyers will talk to you tomorrow and they’ll help you to make a plan about the next move.’

  Ian cleared this throat. ‘We heard the women talking in the kitchen when I got in the cellar tonight,’ he told her, ‘and that Boss man’s been arrested in Manchester. We were worried in case he came and found us, cos we left his drugs, didn’t we? And another lad got killed. It’s scary.’

  ‘Shush,’ she warned. She felt as if she could put out her hand and touch the heat emanating from this boy, the leader, the one responsible for most decisions – including the original plan to escape the abusers. He was so taut that she could almost feel his aura as it crackled like static electricity, born of fear and hope and hunger. The lad was reaching out, but he was too tired to find the words, so he just stood there burning internally, the whites of his eyes glowing in a dirty face, his worldly possessions in a bag at his feet, two friends behind him waiting, trusting.

  Gordy and Mr Macey arrived just as Babs broke down. She never cried. Even when digging a shard of glass out of her leg at the age of seven, she’d managed to contain herself. ‘No!’ she screamed when Gordy tried to hold her. ‘I’m just furious. I’ll be all right in a minute. Get this lot in the van. There’s wet flannels and dry towels in my green shopping bag and food in the blue one. They need to clean their hands before they eat.’