'We'll all be dead if we don’t get a bloody move on,' said Walter, cautiously picking at the rubble jammed between him and Longden.
'Can I help?' asked Darnley.
'Aye, but tek it steady. We don't want the whole lot coming in.'
For an hour they worked slowly and with great care until Walter grabbed Darnley's wrist. 'Stop! Hold on a minute. We're gonna have to shift this big un next,' he explained. He struck a match. A conglomeration of broken brickwork, about the size and thickness of an armchair cushion, still blocked the escape hole they were excavating.
Darnley shook his head doubtfully. 'We can't do that, the whole lot will come down.'
Walter did not agree. 'Look. See that?' He pointed to a shaped block of stone sticking out above the blockage. 'I reckon that's one end of a stone lintel or a door step. That's what's supporting this lot, not them bricks. I think we can pull them out and scroam through.'
Both men studied the rubble until the match burned Walter's fingers and darkness engulfed them again. Darnley said nothing. Walter wriggled the cushion sized block, and gradually worked it free. 'It's coming. Gi' us a hand. Come on pull. It's coming out.'
Darnley helped to drag it aside, exposing a hole big enough to scramble though. The pair waited for signs of a collapse, almost too scared to move, or even breath. After a moment, Darnley spoke and blew a sigh of relief. 'Well done, old chap. I think you've done it.'
Walter shouted into the hole. 'Does it look alreight at thar side?'
A match flared at the far end of the short tunnel. 'It seems OK,' Longden answered, 'but you'd better be dashed careful.'
Walter immediately passed his accordion through the hole, and followed it as quickly as he could, trying not to disturb the rubble. Grunting and wheezing Darnley followed. Walter turned and pulled him through a second before the lot caved in, filling the air with dust.
'Thanks old boy. That was a damn close shave, what?'
Someone struck a match. 'Darnley! Good to see you. Thank heavens you're safe,' said Longden, his moustachioed face gurning in the match light. 'And you too, old boy. Well done.' He handed Walter his dusty accordion. 'Here you'd better have this back. I enjoyed your playing,' he told Walter. 'Bloody rude of Gerry to interrupt you like that – what?'
A woman's voice broke in from the darkness, like a headmistress stilling a noisy assembly. 'I've found it! It's down here. I can feel fresh air coming in.'
Longden lurched towards the sound of the woman’s voice. ‘Clarry darling, thank God you’re safe. I’ve been looking for you.’
Everyone began moving towards the the snooty voice. Walter struck another match and glanced back the way he and Darnley had come. The walls supporting the cellar's steel beamed ceiling had collapsed on three sides. It sloped crazily, bearing down on the heap of rubble through which they had crawled. He noticed Darnley was staring at it, terror on his face. 'That'll go any second. We'd better get a move on,' he told him.
They caught up to the woman who had called them. She was crouched beside the escape hole she had found. It was in a wall whose masonry was quite unlike the rest of the cellar. She beckoned them excitedly. Walter could not see her face. She had a scarf wrapped around her mouth and nose as protection against the dust. Soot and dust covered her hair and clothes.
Longden helped her to widen the hole, pulling out stones and clearing them away. He stopped suddenly. 'Listen,' he said.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and cocked an ear.
'I can't hear anything,' said Darnley. 'What did you hear, Longden?'
'The screaming's stopped.'
For a moment the little group were silent and thoughtful. A man with a silk paisley scarf wrapped around his face suddenly burst into action. He scrambled up to the hole in the wall and vanished into it. After a few seconds he reappeared. 'It's perfectly clear in here,' he said. 'It's a tunnel. I can't tell how far it goes, but it looks absolutely clear and as solid as a rock.'
'Follow it for a bit and come and tell us,' Darnley instructed without reticence.
'OK. Shan't be a mo.'
As he watched him go Walter heard a faint sound from the direction they had come. He thought it sounded like a woman's cry. 'D'you hear that?' He struck another match, and paused, listening.
Darnley glared at him crossly. 'One thing at a time, old boy,' he snapped. 'Let's be sure we can save ourselves before we start digging others out.'
'It sounds like a woman,' said Walter, poking fiercely at his still whistling ears. 'I'll go back and see if we can help her.'
'No, stop! You can't do anything,' cried Darnley. 'There are dozens trapped back there. We'll be overrun. We can't help them all.' He grabbed Walter's shoulder and pushed him towards their escape route. 'Come along, this way. Get through there. If we find a way out we can send the firemen back this way. They're the ones to give help, not you. What the hell are going to do anyway - sing to them?'
Walter angrily shrugged free of him. He faced up to the much taller man. 'Ayupp, who's tha think tha 'rt shoving, pal? I'm not thee skivvy tha knows. I can please me sen who I help, and whether tha likes it or not, I'm going back to help that lass.' He shouldered Darnley aside, picked up his accordion and set off back the way he had come. After a few steps, he turned and faced Darnley again in the flickering match light. 'And I'll tell thee sommat else, if all I can do for her is play her a song, then that's worral do.' He glared at Darnley for a second, his chin jutting pugnaciously, then headed off into the blackness.
Darnley shrugged and climbed through the hole in the wall. The others followed him.
Walter found a young woman trapped by a fallen beam. He struck a match. She had tried to work herself free, but, like an alligator's jaw, a large crack in the beam held her leg in its bite. Blood sprayed from the wound.
'Alreight, love. Hang on. Let's see what we can do.' Walter tried lifting the beam. She screamed in agony. He stopped and struck another match. Her leg was a mess of mangled flesh and splintered bone. He stripped off his necktie, wrapped it around her thigh as a tourniquet to stem the pulsing fountain of blood. It seemed to make no difference. She sobbed as he tried to tighten it. He took off his jacket, ripped off his shirt and bound her leg hoping that would staunch the flow. 'Hold on tight, love. Press on the bandage. We've got to stop thee bleeding. '
The match flame burned his finger. In the darkness, the woman found his hand. He gripped it warmly and felt her die. For a while he sat in the darkness, holding her dead hand. Unseeing he straightened her clothes as best he could and covered her face with his blood sodden shirt. He patted around to find his jacket and accordion then made his way back to join the others.
Though he shouted them and even heard the distant sounds of their reply, he never saw them again. He stumbled blindly through a maze of tunnels for what seemed an age. Eventually he happened on a narrow padlocked gate where the tunnel fed into a dimly lit room crowded with boxes and sacks. It smelled of food, like a pantry. He peered inside, and guessed it must a storeroom beneath Castle Market, a large indoor market hall built on the site of the old castle. The gate was sturdily built of timber and chain link mesh. Its hinges and lock had rusted solid. Shouldering and kicking it made no impression. It was obvious the others could not have come this way.
'Stand back!' The voice belonged to a steel helmeted fire-fighter. He came barging through the storeroom's bales and boxes, and took a swing at the gate with an axe. The blow ripped away chain-link mesh. Walter bent it aside and passed his accordion through the gap. The fire-fighter grabbed it cheerfully and helped him squeeze through after it. 'Ayup what's all this then? Are tha doing requests? I'll have a chorus o' Nellie Dean.' He helped Walter into the storage cellar and sat him down on a wooden crate. 'Are tha wi' thee sen? Thart lucky I saw thee. I were just going back up into t'market.’
'A woman, but she's dead,' said Walter. 'There are some others an' all, about four or five on 'em. I was with 'em, but they must've gone out another way.'
; 'Come on, mi owd. I'll show thee weer tha can gerra cuppa. Tharz earned it.'
0o0o0
Chapter Fourteen
Bang on six-o-clock, PC Needham rapped on the Perk's back door. Frank Perks let him in, his greeting stiff with concern.
'Would you like a cup of tea, constable?' asked Missis Perks, her head appearing in the kitchen doorway.
'Call me John. John Needham. You'll know my mother, I expect - in Industry Street?'
'May Needham? Oh yes, I've known May for years,' said Marion Perks. 'We worked together on the hotplate at the University Refec.'
'Oh aye, she loved that job. She's had to retire though, bad ankles.'
'What’s this all about?' asked Frank Perks, a touch impatient. 'We've had the police round already, talking bloody nonsense about our Billy.'
Marion Perks shot her husband a critical glare. 'He's hopeless. He was shouting at 'em. I had to stop him. Another minute and they'd have arrested him, never mind our Billy.'
Frank gestured for John to take an armchair, and moved to the settee to sit facing him. Marion Perks handed the constable a cup of tea and offered him her best cut glass sugar basin. The constable stirred two teaspoonfuls of sugar into his cup, and looked around the little room. 'It's nice,' he said. 'I've never been in any of these houses.'
Frank sniffed. 'It's too small. There's only this room and that kitchen – no wider than a passage. We've just the one bedroom. Our Billy sleeps in the attic.'
Marion joined them and the three sat facing each other – a triumvirate of concern. John sipped his tea as an awkward silence enveloped them. Frank Perks spoke first: 'What're the coppers doing? They just kept saying the same rubbish. Billy had nowt to do wi' it. All this biscuit barrel burglar stuff, it's bloody nonsense. Even they seemed embarrassed to be accusing him. I'm wondering if it's owt to do with that telling off Billy got from that Flood bloke, Chief Superintendent or whatever he is. Did yer know about that?'
Needham nodded. He had not been officially informed, but had heard enough from Billy and others to fill in the blanks.
'Why try to scare a little lad like that?' Frank asked. 'He warned him not to play detectives, as though he's some sort of criminal. I was livid when I heard. I would've gone down there, but for that young doctor. He persuaded me to leave it.'
'He went off like a roman candle,' said Marion Perks. 'I couldn't have stopped him on my own. Thank goodness it was Doctor Hadfield telling us. He calmed him down. If he hadn't done they'd both be in trouble, father and son. How would that look to the neighbours?'
'Where is Billy?' John asked.
'I sent him upstairs. I was puzzled why you'd asked to talk to us. I thought it sounded – well - I don't know what I thought. Did you want him here an' all?'
The constable shook his head, frowning. 'You decide,' he said. 'I don't know. You see, I think somebody is trying to make life difficult for your Billy. First, he's had that telling off, and speaking off the record, I agree with you about that. It wasn't right.'
'Doctor Hadfield told us not to worry. I wasn't happy about it, but he seemed to think it made sense, though it was misguided. The way he put it, the chief superintendent was only trying to protect the kids.'
PC Needham sipped his tea. 'Maybe, but this business about the burglaries is stupid. It makes no sense at all, and it's definitely not right.' He put his cup aside and sat forward in his chair. 'You see, I've grown to like your Billy, and I think I'm getting to know him – you know, how he ticks. I had a little brother. He died when I was fifteen, appendicitis.' He looked around the room as if gathering his thoughts. 'Your Billy's a bright lad, and he's a good lad an' all. There's no way he'd be nicking stuff, nor his pals neither. They're all good kids. I know all the families.'
Frank Perks lowered his gaze. 'Well thanks, John. I appreciate that.'
'I remember your Eddie,' said Missis Perks sadly. 'He was a smashing little lad, all smiley and full of life.' She looked into her teacup for a moment. 'It's funny, but when our Billie got his first pair of glasses he reminded me of your Eddie.'
Needham laughed softly. 'Aye, I see flashes of Eddie in him all the time. They even sound the same - well – I mean they would if …' He blew a sigh and rotated his police helmet in his hands. 'They say they can cure it now, you know, appendicitis. Well peritonitis really. They give 'em lots of that Penicillin.' He stood up and edged towards the door. 'Anyway, what I wanted to say is that I think Billy is being watched, or maybe even targeted by somebody. Probably some brown-noser on Flood’s staff.’ He looked at the Perks’ concerned faces. ‘Try not to worry. This biscuit-barrel-burglar will be caught soon, but until then we must make sure we don’t give 'em a chance to pin it on Billy, or his friends. There's a rumour they've got some evidence against him. I don't know what, but we'll need to be careful. Did they look at his room?'
'Aye, I took 'em upstairs, said Marion. 'They just looked under the bed. They didn't find anything - not even fluff. I clean up there every week …'
John frowned. 'No, but did they plant owt there?'
Marion gasped and looked to her husband. 'They'd never do that, would they?'
'I hope not,' Needham said. 'I'm probably overreacting, but we have to be careful. It only takes one person to be a rotten apple in the barrel. Flood's not liked. He's crafty and conniving. I've heard that most of our senior officers don’t like him or his methods.' He blew a sigh, puffing out his cheeks. 'You see, your Billy made the police look a bit stupid last year. Some officers, including Flood were dragged over the coals after that. Maybe he's still smarting.'
Marion Perks looked worried. 'We'll have to search that attic from top to bottom, Frank.'
'It won't do any harm,' said John. 'You don't want them coming back for another look round and miraculously finding sommat incriminating.'
'I can't believe it.' Marion dabbed her eyes.
'If they do come back, ask 'em if they’ve got a search warrant. They most likely won’t have, and I don't think they'll try to get one either. That should stop 'em in their tracks.' He got up and started towards the door.
Frank Perks rose and stood facing him. 'What do you think's going on? I mean. How can a little lad be so important?'
'Good question, I wish I knew,’ he said reaching out for the doorknob.
Mister and Missis Perks followed him. 'Thanks, John. I appreciate this,' said Frank Perks. 'If owt happens, I'll let you know.'
Billy crept back upstairs to his bedroom. He had been hiding behind the door at the foot of the stairs and had heard every word. It had not cleared up anything for him. He was just as puzzled as his parents.
Billy's mam and dad searched his attic bedroom. His mother stripped the bed while his dad peered underneath it. Billy and Ruff watched as even the bit of the old carpet the dog slept on was given a thorough shake before being shoved back under the bed. Ruff reclaimed it with an indignant growl.
They found nothing.
Frank Perks scratched his head, a puzzled frown on his face. 'Well there's nowt here. Have they been in that greenhouse of yours?' he asked Billy.
'No, it's secret. Nobody knows about it.'
'Well I do, don't I? I just asked thee about it.'
'Don't thee-and-thou, Frank,' said Missis Perks sharply. 'How can you expect him to talk nicely if you keep theeing-and-thouing?'
'Sorry, love.'
Billy smiled secretly at his father's faked remorse. 'I meant that I don’t think they know about the greenhouse,' Billy explained. 'But even if they do there's nowt for 'em to find only old seed trays and plant pots.'
'Well your friend John Needham seems sure they'll try some dirty tricks, so you'd better be on your guard.'
*
The following morning Billy was up early, determined to be first at the greenhouse. Clutching his day clothes, he ran downstairs to the kitchen, and splashed his face and arms with cold water. He wanted to get out before his mother woke and stopped him going.
He heard her start to move a
bout upstairs and knew that she'd be down any minute.
'Billy, is that you? Are you up already? What are doing?' she called down the stairs.
'It's OK, mam. Ruff's been sick,' he lied. His mam hated mess, dog vomit in particular. She could become quite ill at the mere thought of it. Billy knew he'd played a trump card.
Ruff looked up at him adoringly, wagging his tail in response to hearing his name. 'I'm cleaning it up,' Billy called up to her. 'There's no need to come down. I'd better take him out. He looks like he's gonna do it again.' Half dressed, he cut and spread a slice of bread with pork dripping, meaty with brown jelly, and dashed outside. Ecstatic, the little dog preceded him.
Despite the early hour, he was not the first at the greenhouse. Harry Clegg was waiting for him. He looked tired and scruffy. Instead of his customary camel overcoat, silk paisley scarf and brown trilby hat, he was almost unrecognizable in army dungarees, wellingtons and an old tweed cap. He peered out furtively as he closed the door behind Billy. 'Did anybody follow you?'
'What's up with you? You look awful.'
'Has anything happened to you – anything strange, or weird like?'
'Yeah, I met this scruffy bloke in the greenhouse, acting all puddled. What's going on?'
'Never mind, just listen and do exactly what I say. You're in danger …'
'I know about the burglary thing, if it's that. It's all in hand. We're ready for 'em.'
Clegg looked at him blankly. 'What burglary thing? What're you babbling about?'
'They're trying to frame me for a burglary. We think they're going to plant some evidence so they can pretend to find it and blame it on me.'
Harry Clegg chewed his cheek thoughtfully. 'Police, you say? Hum, it's probably that idiot Flood. He must think you know something – something special. He's scared of you. It's worse than I thought. He’s involved somehow, but I don’t know how.' He slowly paced the greenhouse's dusty aisle. He was frowning, deep in thought. Suddenly he stopped and fixed Billy with a steely gaze. ‘They want to shut you up, me too. Somebody’s been sending my editor poison pen letters about me. They never sign ‘em of course – bloody cowards. I’m taking a few weeks off until it all blows over. The wife’s got me painting the bedroom.’
Dance Floor Drowning Page 12
