Midnight on Lime Street

by Ruth Hamilton

  Eddie nodded wisely. If Roy Foley had owned a tenth of this lad’s guts and determination, he would have remained alive . . .

  The door knocker clattered. Belle rose shakily to her feet and walked unsteadily into the hall. Her new husband was back, and her parents would be with him. Oh, God. They should have done it Tom’s way with a proper wedding and her family involved. What would Mam and Dad have to say about all this? And Lisa, little Lisa . . .

  She opened the door. Just two people stood there, and both jaws travelled south as soon as they saw their daughter. ‘Belle?’ Frankie put a hand to her open mouth. ‘He said he’d married somebody who didn’t know the area well, and—’

  ‘And we’re the welcoming committee,’ Sam finished for his wife. ‘What the hell are you playing at, girl?’

  Belle blinked several times before answering. ‘I didn’t want a fuss. Come in,’ she said, before leading her parents into the front room. ‘So Tom didn’t mention me.’ This was not a question. ‘It’s my fault. I didn’t fancy banns and a church wedding and all that messing about, because . . .’ She couldn’t tell them the because, since it involved her fear of people who patronized Meadowbank. ‘After I lost my job, I didn’t feel fit to organize stuff, so we just went for it.’

  ‘But we would have helped.’ Frankie sounded hurt.

  ‘I’ve been looking for work. As things stand, I’m going to learn to drive and do collections, returns and paperwork for Tom.’

  The visitors sat together on the sofa. ‘You don’t know him,’ Sam accused her, glancing sideways at his wife.

  Frankie nodded her agreement.

  ‘I do. I did. We’d come across each other a few times in the past while I had the job. Then when I stayed at yours, we recognized each other and . . . well, we fell in love. And don’t tell me off about that, because you two fell for one another as soon as you met outside a butcher’s shop when you were teenagers. You got three lamb chops and a husband, Mam, and Dad got six pork sausages and a wife, so don’t kick off on me.’

  ‘And we got married in church with our families there,’ Frankie snapped.

  ‘Tom’s divorced,’ was Belle’s reply to that.

  A short, awkward silence followed. ‘What about Lisa?’ Sam asked eventually. ‘How does she fit into all this?’

  Belle shrugged. ‘We’ll work it out. She’ll probably work it out, and we’re only three doors away from each other. Lisa doesn’t need to lose anybody, and none of us will have to lose her.’ She paused. ‘Can’t you be happy for me, and for Tom? He’s a lovely bloke, as you already know. I love him. Like he says, even from a practical point of view, three hands are better than one and a hook.’ She watched while her dad squashed a smile.

  Frankie was mellowing. ‘I suppose we’ll just be a bigger family, Sam. And Tom is a smashing fellow. He’ll look after our girls, I’m sure.’

  ‘Where is my new husband?’

  ‘He’s babysitting Lisa, of course.’

  Belle smiled. He’d planned it this way so that nobody would be inhibited by his presence. There was a lot more to Tom Duffield than bright blue eyes, a handsome face, a mop of dark hair and a missing hand; he was clever. Moreover, he cared about people, because he went about in his spare time helping other amputees to come to terms with the loss of body parts. ‘We’re not a mistake,’ she told them, repeating Tom’s words. ‘And we need each other.’

  Sam stood. ‘Then we’d better let him come back home if you need each other.’ He put his arms round his only child. ‘God bless you.’ His voice was hoarse. ‘He’s a good man, but I hope you’re sure that what you’ve done is right.’

  ‘I am sure, Dad.’ Belle’s words were thickened by unshed tears.

  Frankie rose to her feet. ‘Come here, Belle.’

  Both parents put their arms round the daughter they loved. And in that moment, Belle knew that everything was going to be all right.

  So having been blessed by her family, Belle sat down and waited for Tom’s return. The wedding cake could keep till tomorrow, and Lisa could help with the first cut. What a day, she thought, before falling asleep in her chair.

  If you remember, it’s a while since I spoke about this even to you, my conscience, my spirit or whatever you are. It all started off with that greasy chair. This is my last night at Stanley Road’s version of the Dorchester in a room with no view due to filthy windows (I cleaned the inside, but no improvement was achieved), and well . . . well . . . oh, give me a minute.

  My heart’s all over the place, going like the clappers, then slowing down to a steady thud, thud, thud like one of those things they use to tamp down bits of tarmac on a pathway. I had to get out. I peeled myself off the mucky chair, but the brown paper I was sitting on stayed where it was, as if glued. And I thought look, it’s a nice evening, so I’ll go for a walk, perhaps have a half in a pub – anything to get out of the dump.

  Just like earlier when I went to the farm and saw Angela in the kitchen with the others, her hair loose and flowing, ordinary blue blouse, her mouth open rather than set in a cruel line . . . Where was I? Oh yes, exactly like then, my feet moved towards the river, and I followed them, which is compulsory, as they’re permanently attached to me. Was that a joke? I don’t often do joking. What I mean is that I had no more control over my body than I had earlier over my old bicycle.

  I don’t even remember putting the wire in my pocket before setting off for my walk. I do remember her voice, though. She offered me business, quoted her list of prices for various functions. Her language was a mixture of filth and guttural Scouse, and she had lipstick on her teeth. At first, I thought it might be blood and wondered whether I ought to have brought some garlic flowers and a crucifix . . .

  She smiled, and as I stared at her the flesh appeared to melt from her ugly face until I could see only bleached bone and bad teeth. I seemed to stand back and watch myself ridding the world of the hideous sight. The wire cut my hands. I must wrap some of it round one of my cardboard packing boxes and tell Joseph I hurt myself while doing that.

  She wasn’t small, but she dropped eventually, and I looked at her for a while. No longer just a skull, her face and its features were distorted, eyes bulging, the whites discoloured by red threads where blood vessels had begun to burst. Her hands clawed at me, but failed to touch me. An unhealthy, coated tongue protruded as she fought for oxygen, and the noise from her throat sounded like someone trying to vomit. I hated her. She bled slightly where the wire had dug into her throat. Then her pupils glazed over, and the bleeding slowed all the way to a full stop. Her heart was no longer working; she was dead.

  So here I am, back in my luxurious apartment with its lard-encrusted cooker, filthy curtains and sticky floor. I just made my second kill. Not my third, because Dolly Pearson was a mistake. After all, I’m only human. I hope Jesus is pleased. Judas is a mischief-maker, I think, so I’ve nothing to say to him.

  Nine

  Don, after a great deal of thought, had finally arrived at a decision. ‘I’ve made up my mind, though somewhat reluctantly,’ he announced through a mouthful of scrambled egg and toast. After his long rest, he felt better, though not up for much. ‘You see, I need to—’

  ‘You need to stop talking with your gob full of food,’ Babs chided, glaring hard at him.

  He swallowed the last bite of breakfast and washed it down with tea. ‘It’s not that I don’t love both of you, but you can have your own room from tonight.’

  Babs hit him with a clean pillowcase. ‘Have you gone mental as well as physical? What are you jangling on about? It’s getting so as me and her don’t know whether we’re coming or going – and no, I’m not being rude. Well?’

  He rubbed his arm where the pillowcase had touched him. ‘Hey, if you’re thinking of going Angela Whiplash on me, you can think again. I’ve a dicky ticker, you know.’

  ‘Explain yourself,’ Babs insisted. He was making no sense.

  ‘Shut up. My health’s not too bad at the minute, only I th
ink I need to have a bit less excitement. So you can choose your own room, run the house, cook, medicate me, help me get a bath, and I’ll shout if I want any extras. I can’t promise to be a good boy forever, can I?’ He winked. ‘So remain prepared to be pounced on from time to time when I lose self-control.’

  Sally sagged with relief, because she hated sleeping with him. Babs, older and wiser, was cynical. ‘By the way, I mean it. Don’t talk with your mouth full, Don. It’s not just about manners; it’s in case you breathe food in and get pneumonia. We’ll be right next door, and you can have a bell – there’s one in the kitchen. Go and get it, Sally – it’s a little brass thing with a wooden handle. I think it’s on the mantelpiece at the window end.’

  Sally left the room.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Babs asked as soon as they were alone. She knew the man well; he needed sexual entertainment as badly as a starving person craved food and almost as frequently as a baby wanted milk. Although often impotent, he continued to enjoy the company of petite women in lieu of little girls. In a sense, Babs admired him, because he had resolutely worked to find a way of defying and overcoming his true inclinations.

  He gulped down the final dregs of his tea. ‘I want to see you win, Miss Barbara Schofield. I want to live long enough to be there when you and Murdoch cross that finish line with a lot of fresh air between you two and the rest of the field. Lippy and I will be waiting in the winner’s enclosure with all the digs and the would-be digs—’

  ‘What’s the digs?’

  ‘Dignitaries, my love. People with wallets bigger than their brains. Oh, and Lippy and I will give you a one third share in Murdoch.’

  ‘Oh.’ Babs took his tray and sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Thanks so much for the share, Don, but five years?’ Would Don last five years? ‘Murdoch’s still a baby, still learning and as daft as a brush, playful and naughty. He ate half a loaf yesterday when we forgot to put it away. And he’s taken up football – Gordy’s thinking of getting him a trial as goalie for Liverpool. Then, when it comes to me, I could do with L-plates front and back, because I know next to nothing and I get sore – my arse needs to toughen up. I may not be suitable for the job.’

  The old man had an answer, as usual. ‘Use rubbing alcohol like you do on me when I’m bed-bound. He adores you, Babs. That animal hates most people – it must be genetic from his wild Arab sire. Any gentleness he has comes from Murma, God love her. But above everything and everyone, Murdoch chose you. That’s why he’ll win, why he’ll focus. The horse is determined and talented, one hundred per cent instinct and a thousand per cent love. Only you and Gordy have ever ridden him without being thrown. He tolerates Gordy Hourigan; you, he treasures.’ He paused before changing the subject. ‘By the way, how are those poor boys getting on this morning?’

  ‘They’re very quiet,’ she replied. ‘I did them eggs, bacon, mushrooms and toast, but they’re exhausted, so I hope they’ve eaten it. Mr Macey’s coming to see them soon. He’s talking to lawyers and welfare people and the cops.’

  Don lay back on heaped pillows. ‘You see, I’ve always felt drawn to little girls. I was even told by a head teacher to stay away from parks and playgrounds because mothers reported me for staring, though I never touched a child except for measuring feet and trying on shoes in the shop. I looked at them, but that was all. Those monks want killing. They’ll do it again, you see. Once they start, they can’t stop. The answer is not to start.’

  ‘Mr Macey will make sure the lads are all right, I’m sure. They’re the ones who matter, Don. Let the devil deal with the monks, eh?’

  Don grinned. ‘Lippy Macey? Oh yes, he’ll sort something out. Babs?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Were the poor souls raped, baby?’

  Babs shrugged; was it her business to tell?

  ‘I need to know. They deserve help, so I must have the truth, the details. They might shut down later and refuse to divulge what happened to them.’

  She nodded, her expression suddenly sad. ‘Ian was raped. He was left bleeding, and he led what he called the revolution. But it’s his secret to tell you if he wants to, Don. Don’t let him know I told you. He’s a bright lad with plenty of pride. I’m not sure about the other two, but I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘And Ian’s the one in Dove Cottage with Gordy?’

  ‘Yes. He’s the leader. We’ve got John and Phil. John’s clever, too, if he can only get past that stammer. By the way, he plays the piano a bit, and sings. When he sings, he never stammers.’

  He grasped her hand. ‘Look after them, darling. Give them plenty to eat.’

  ‘I will.’ She kissed his forehead.

  Sally returned with the bell and a face like thunder. ‘It was in the hall.’

  ‘The bell?’ Babs asked. ‘I’d swear it was in the kitchen.’

  ‘No, the bloody horse was in the hall. I know, I know, it’s a he. So I told him to bugger off, and he went in the wotsit – drawing room. He was sniffing at the books on the far wall. Some of them books is leather-backed. And he’s dribbled on the piano lid.’

  ‘Where is he now?’ Don asked.

  Sally shook her head. ‘He’s in the hall again, bottom of the stairs, blowing and snuffling. I think he’s trying to work out how to get to Babs. Just out of interest – can horses do stairs?’

  Babs sighed heavily. ‘Can they do stairs?’ she asked Don.

  Don pondered the question. ‘Depends on the horse and the slope of the flight. My stairs aren’t steep, and the treads are deep enough. You’ll have to start shutting the kitchen door to keep him out of the carpeted areas.’

  Babs laughed. ‘You are joking, aren’t you? He can open doors whether they go outward or come inward. If we bolt the back door, he turns round and knocks with a rear hoof; we’re losing paint and bits of wood. As for the paddock – well, he clears that gate twice a day, floats over like a big feather. Oh Lord, here he comes now.’

  Sally sat down suddenly in the bedside chair. What next? she wondered.

  All three remained stock still and listened while the horse made a determined effort to achieve a more elevated position in life. After a few seconds, a beautiful red-bay face insinuated itself into the bedroom. Murdoch whinnied and grinned, obviously pleased with himself.

  Babs and Don stared open-mouthed at each other.

  ‘Do you believe your eyes?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen his like before. What a pest.’

  The animal strolled in as if he owned the whole Fylde coast. Babs bridled, arms folded, head shaking. ‘Don’t come running to me if you break your leg on the way down, you soft sod. What the hell on a butty are you doing up here anyway? We might need the roof off and the fire brigade to get a crane and winch you out.’

  ‘God, he’s naughty,’ Sally breathed.

  ‘Or a builder might manage it,’ Don speculated. ‘They have big machinery. Babs, go down and he’ll follow you. I’ll stay with his back end.’ He leapt out of bed with more agility than some men half his age. ‘Take his head, Babs. Keep him steady – we don’t want any accidents.’

  For a reason she failed to analyse fully, Sally found herself laughing uncontrollably. Don had just told Babs to take Murdoch’s head, but Murdoch had buried his nose in Babs’s mop of thick, long hair. It was almost like being at a circus in which she, Sally and Don were clowns put there to be taunted by a horse who thought he was ringmaster.

  Don glared at Sally. ‘Doesn’t take much to make you laugh, does it?’

  ‘What’s up with you now?’ Babs snapped. ‘Don’t start with the hystericals, Sal, because we’ve half a ton of horseflesh to shift. You’re at the front with me.’

  Sally sobered immediately. ‘What if he falls?’

  ‘We all die and get used for dog meat,’ was the older girl’s swift reply.

  On the landing, Murdoch studied the situation while the three bipods fussed and pushed and argued among themselves. After deciding that humanity had
no idea where to start, he left his rear legs on the landing while the two forelimbs stepped one at a time onto the first, then the second stair. So far, so good. He put forward his right fore, then his left fore onto the third step before jumping with both back legs in order to catch up within two stairs of his frontage. There was nothing to it. Once he had judged the distance between his back and front ends, which became three clear stairs after a while, he was away.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Babs grumbled, ‘we can expect a daily visitor upstairs now. He’s stubborn; must have learned that from your donkeys. This has to be dealt with.’ She was a bit sad, because she loved the horse’s arrogance and mischief.

  Sally sank to the floor, tears of laughter flowing down her face. ‘Talk about hop, skip and jump,’ she howled.

  ‘He rules our lives, Don.’ Babs watched the equine lunatic as he reached the end of the staircase. ‘Isn’t he brilliant?’

  ‘He certainly is. I wonder what Wordsworth would have made of him? Or Coleridge?’

  Babs tutted. ‘Coleridge wrote about an albatross. Yes, I’ve been looking at your poetry books. Maybe a horse is the cross we have to bear. Still, as long as we keep him alive, we won’t have to wear him round our necks like that poor old sailor had to do with the bird. Oh, sweet Jesus, look.’

  Murdoch decided to practise and perfect his new skill. After travelling up and down twice more, he lost interest and made for the kitchen, where he found his carrot and two apples, one for himself, the other for Nicholas Nye. He would return later for his bread with the scrape of jam, because the two-legged were still fussing upstairs. Sometimes, his blind donkey friend made more sense than those who were supposedly in charge.

  The three people on the landing composed themselves. ‘See?’ Don said. ‘There’s nothing he wouldn’t do to get to you, Babs. But I’m afraid my beautiful house is about to become his second stable.’

  ‘No, it won’t,’ replied the soon-to-be trainee National Hunt jockey. ‘Discipline. He has to learn what Gordy calls his boundaries. Sally’s right when she says he’s naughty. There’s a streak in him and yes, it’s all the fault of that dad of his who’s streaking about like lightning all over Ireland. It’s not going to be easy, because he’s so lovable, but me and Gordy are going to have to start talking tough. He can race blinkered, but he can’t spend his life in blinkers, can he? He’s too easily distracted, Gordy says.’