The curse resounded around him, and he heard a tiny rattle of claws and high-pitched squeals somewhere in the darkness. He stopped, swallowed the sob in his throat and tried to hold his breath against the stench. When he pressed the switch on his chrome torch, the bulb flickered and went out.
‘Shit!’ He shook the torch hard. It suddenly lit, filling the culvert with a harsh yellow beam. And then went out. In his frustration he banged it on the side of the metal tunnel. The dull thud was followed by the tinkle of glass and a sudden pain in his thumb. ‘Shit,’ he muttered again, sucking at the skin. He tasted blood.
The smell of the tunnel, the dampness seeping into his clothes, the sharp pain, and the darkness prevented him moving forwards. In that moment, the self-pity, the hatred gnawing at his insides was overwhelming. He covered his head with the blankets and howled.
The noise stilled him. He crouched, knees under his chin, waiting for any sense of courage to return. Eventually, gagging, he scrambled up, avoiding the slow moving slime under his arms and knees. Taking short breaths through his mouth helped to shut off the stink.
It took a long time. The rats’ squeaks stayed just ahead of him, stopping every time he did. The tunnel was wide but it was long and he struggled against the instinctive panic of being trapped.
At last, he felt a change in the air. Wedging his knees against the sides of the culvert he pulled himself upwards, laughing with relief. Hooking his fingers around the edge, he fell out onto the ground.
He stood for a moment gulping in the fresh air. Then he bent over and retched, vomit splashing over his boots.
Trembling, he waited until the heaving subsided before feeling his way around the crumbling brick walls that enclosed the duct.
Years ago, the first time he found his way into the camp, just to have a nose around after a long session in the Crown, he’d realised this small building housed some sort of drainage system. There were channels leading to other culverts covered by metal grids and bits of pipes. Frank used to say the hospital was like a warren, full of places where he and the other guards could stash beer for the long boring night shifts. From the sight of the dusty old broken bottles scattered around, this was obviously one of them.
Relying on the pale moon to find his way, George slowly crossed a narrow path towards the hospital and felt down the side of the building until he came to some steps leading up to a small door. He fumbled in his pocket for matches. In the small pool of light he moved cautiously along the dark corridors. The air was fetid. He’d seen rats here as well, before now.
The flame crept along the match. Spitting on his fingers he turned it and held onto the blackened end until that too burned. He’d need to be careful and limit his cigarettes; he only had the one box of matches.
The boiler room felt damp when he forced open the heavy door. And cold. There was little light from the air vents near the ceiling.
He threw the blankets on the floor and knelt down to rummage blindly inside his duffle bag for a bottle of beer. There was enough food filched from home to last a few days but the beer had been his first thought.
‘Fuckin’ shithole. Fuckin’ Ma. Fuckin’ Brown. Fuckin’ Howarths.’
Because of them he was stuck here. Because of them he would have to run, to hide somewhere where no one knew him.
But sooner or later he’d make sure they were sorry they’d ever crossed him.
Chapter 67
‘Have you been to the doctor’s yet?’
‘No, there’s no need. I’m fit and healthy.’ Mary was making a pastry crust for the meat and potato pie that was cooling on the table. ‘A bit like you these days. It’s good to see you getting more like your old self.’ She studied Ellen. ‘You’re feeling better?’
‘I’m sleeping better, not having as many nightmares,’ Ellen said, ‘and I don’t get as tired so quickly.’
‘Good, I’m glad.’ Mary smiled. She shook the last of the flour through the sieve and banged it on the side of the mixing bowl. ‘Look, there’s something I need to say, well, ask really.’ She rested her hands flat on the table. She hadn’t slept well herself over the last week. However she lay, she couldn’t get comfortable and she couldn’t stop the fears for the future. Now, knowing what depended on Ellen’s answer, she felt sick. ‘And be honest, love. Do you think you could manage on your own now? Without me being here?’
‘No! Why are you asking that?’ Her voice rose immediately. ‘I don’t. I can’t.’
‘You don’t mind my staying on here, at least for the time being?’
‘This is as much your house as mine, Mary. Mam left it to us all.’ Ellen sat forward on the edge of her chair and rested her arms on the table.
‘But it’s your home,’ Mary insisted. ‘I know at Christmas Ted said I could stay, but I have been here quite a while now and I’m not helping moneywise at all.’
‘You brought your ration books.’ Ellen put her hand over Mary’s. ‘Don’t go.’
‘It’s just that Ted’s been so quiet lately. I wondered if he thought I was in the way?’
‘Don’t be daft. No, he says he feels guilty he doesn’t miss his mother.’
‘Is that what it is?’ Relieved Mary slid her fingers from under Ellen’s and straightened up to rub at the ache in the small of her back. ‘His mother? I’d be surprised if either of you thought twice about his mother, knowing how vile she was to you.’
‘She was a nasty cow.’ Ellen’s gaze slid towards the bottom of the stairs. ‘She did her best to split us up. And I think Ted’s glad she’s gone. But he feels guilty…’ Mary waited. ‘That and the shop. He worries when he can’t get stuff for the shop. He’s struggled to get decent flour this last month.’ Ellen wafted that worry away. ‘We have talked about it … you and the baby.’
‘What’s he said?’
‘Nothing. Except to suggest I do a bit more round the house.’ Despite the ache spreading further up her back Mary smiled. Her sister couldn’t have sounded more disgruntled if she’d tried. ‘We want you to stay. And the children love having you here, especially Linda. She worships the ground you walk on, you know that.’
‘And I love her … and William.’
‘So that’s settled? You’ll stay?’ Ellen unwrapped the greaseproof paper off the square of lard next to the mixing bowl. ‘Here you are.’
‘Thanks. I just wanted to make sure, you know. With the baby and everything.’ The relief made Mary’s fingers shake. She cut the fat into small pieces, narrowly missing the top of her thumb.
‘We’ll manage,’ Ellen said. ‘Do you know how far on you are?’
‘About six months, I think.’ It was that long since Ted’s telephone call; the night her whole world came crashing down around her head.
‘Have you told Peter?’
‘No, and you won’t either.’ In her weekly telephone calls Gwyneth insisted on telling her what Peter was doing, how unhappy he seemed. Her voice was becoming more and more anxious, her questions more probing. To hide the shaking, Mary dipped her hands into the flour, feeling the fat slide through her fingertips, separating and combining to turn it all into bread-like crumbs.
‘Will you ever forgive him?’
‘No, he lied to me.’ Mary slapped her palms together, shaking off the last of the mixture. ‘And I don’t want to talk about it.’ She could feel panic rising.
‘But…’
‘But nothing.’
‘Okay.’ Ellen watched Mary drip cold water from a jug into the bowl and work the mixture with her hands until it formed into a pale smooth lump. ‘I was just thinking, with you talking to Gwyneth, won’t he find out anyway? And then what will you do?’
A trickle of trepidation ran down Mary’s arms to her fingers at the same time as a stab of pain in her groin caused her to gasp.
‘Mary?’ Ellen jumped up and, putting her arms around her, lowered Mary onto a chair.
‘I’m fine.’ Mary held her breath until the pain receded. She swallowed. ‘I’m fine, it’s
gone.’
‘You’ve gone deathly white.’ Ellen stood back, frowning. ‘I think a day in bed wouldn’t do any harm.’ She paused. ‘And, as our Mam would say, it’s time I picked up the reins again and stopped leaving everything to you.’
Chapter 68
George scratched his itchy head. He lifted his arm and sniffed. He stank. He’d have to go into Bradlow, if he could sneak on the train, to see if he could find a way into the public baths for a wash and brush up without paying.
Standing behind the gates of the camp he stared past the sycamores at the allotments across the road. He wondered if there was anything fit to eat over there. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. Walking from Bradlow, he’d worked up an appetite, looked forward to some of his mother’s cooking. He’d been so sure she’d have calmed down. Even surer she wouldn’t have gone to the cops. After all she’d lost one son. He scowled. He and Frank might have fought like cat and dog but he’d still been his brother. And blood’s thicker than water. Or should be. Bloody old cow.
He looked to the top of the gates. It would be easier if he could just climb over and get in and out of the camp that way. Anything would be better than that bloody awful culvert. But he was too short; there was no way he could even reach the first crossbar. Besides, all the new sodding barbed wire the Council had stuck on up there made it impossible.
What a bloody mess he was in. Howarth and his bloody meddling sister had ruined his life between them. He tried to work out how to get his own back, to wipe the whole lot of them off the face of the earth. He was too hungry to think straight.
But he’d got rid of one of the buggers. He thought back to the satisfaction of seeing Tom Howarth flying over his van bonnet. He’d do it again. If not the girl, then Howarth himself. He’d nothing to lose now; hung for a sheep as a lamb. He gave a short gulp of laughter but shivered. Pack it in, he told himself. His hands balled into tight fists at the memory of the beating he’d taken from the man.
He started at the sound of someone on the allotments shouting out and he fell back behind the stone post. Peering round he saw two men on adjoining plots. One, rolling his sleeves up, a spade propped against his waist, gazed upwards at the cloudless sky. ‘Always summat to do,’ he shouted and, grabbing hold of the handle, started to dig.
The other man gave a small uplifting movement of his head. ‘Aye, there is that.’
George was stuck now. He didn’t dare cross behind the gates in case he was seen. The old bitch might have changed her mind and grassed on him to the cops. Besides, just being seen inside the camp would bring some bugger over to see what he was doing there. He’d have to sit it out.
The sun was hot on his head. He’d left his cap with his other stuff in the basement. He pressed his fingers over his eyes. Christ, he was turning soft.
He must have fallen asleep. His neck ached as though he’d been stuck in the same position for hours. He rubbed the back of it, kneading the muscles in his shoulders and slowly, painfully, stood.
He looked for his watch before remembering he’d pawned it, then up at the sun. Late afternoon? The allotments looked empty.
His stomach rumbled reminding him he hadn’t eaten. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, searching for saliva. He was thirsty as well – he could murder a pint.
It wasn’t the only thing he could murder, given half a chance.
Slowly, limping slightly because a nail had come through the sole of his boot, George made his way across the long stretch of concrete towards the old hospital building.
Less than ten minutes later he was sliding down the banking of grass between the sycamores and climbing over the fence into the allotment. One greenhouse door was only held by a small bolt. In no time George was breathing in the warm muggy air and the smell of tomato plants. He touched the leaves, feeling the softness between his fingers, and looked around. At the far end there was a small bed of soil with a few lettuces of varying sizes. But it was a half-eaten sandwich and what looked like homemade biscuits on an old wooden chair that caught his eye. He pulled up two of the lettuces and tore off the roots. Then he sat down to eat.
A light, high-pitched laugh cut into the quiet.
George ducked down below the wooden staging and waited until a group of people passed. When he peered over the edge of the greenhouse door he saw a small chubby girl running between the allotments followed by a blonde child clutching a doll under her arm. Their voices floated towards him.
‘First one there.’
‘Wait for me.’
A bloke passed manoeuvring a big blue pram along the narrow path. Looks a right soft arse, George thought.
There was a thud and then a wail. George shuffled forward so he could see. One of the kids had fallen over. He ducked down as the man looked around.
Patrick Howarth.
George watched as Howarth left the pram and went to pick up the blonde girl who buried her face against him, crying. The other kid jigged from one foot to the other in front of them. ‘She all right? She all right?’
He’d got kids! Of course. He’d got a family. George had forgotten that. A sodding family. And here he was, on his bloody own, with nowt to look forward to. Fingering the scar on his cheek, he could almost taste the bitterness. Overwhelmed by the fierce rush of hatred, his legs gave way and he slid helplessly down until he was sitting on the dirt, struggling to take in air. Gradually the weakness subsided and he was left with just the loathing coursing through him.
He raised his head.
Howarth had put the girl down and was rubbing her knees. A few moments later they set off along the path again, the two kids holding hands, stopping at one of the other greenhouses.
He heard Howarth call out, ‘Wait here, watch the pram!’ before going inside, reappearing with a bunch of lettuce and some newspaper. Wrapping the leaves up and putting them in the tray underneath the pram, he came back along the path. ‘No running this time.’
George waited until he was sure there was no one else around. He strode over to Howarth’s greenhouse, grinning. Once inside, he ripped up all the tomato plants and lettuces, smashed the wooden staging that held pots of geraniums and emptied every tray of seedlings into the metal tub of rainwater outside the greenhouse door.
They’d know it was him, at least he hoped they would. And he hoped it would put the fear of God in Howarth, wondering what else he would do.
Chapter 69
Whitsunday
Linda prodded her last chip into the cone, searching for any grains of salt. Screwing the paper up she glanced around to check no adults were watching before she pushed the wad through the bars of the grid in the gutter. She almost wiped the grease off her hands onto her dress before remembering she was in her new Whitsuntide clothes. Mummy would go mad if she went home with them mucky.
Peeping through the door of the pub at the noisy mass of drinkers she knew she’d never get through to the backyard where the outside tap was; where her Mummy and Auntie Jean had gone to the lavvy. Damn. Mouthing the word, she relished the click of the first letter against her teeth.
Carefully holding her arms away from her side, she ducked under the elbows of the men lounging against the wall of the Crown holding their pints of beer. She pushed past the crowds waiting at the top of Newroyd Street for the next band to arrive and stood, looking around for Jacqueline.
The final notes from the outgoing band ended in a discordant jangle as the men jostled to get onto the charabanc, eager to get to as many venues as possible before the contest’s ten o’clock deadline. The old man who carried the board announcing the name of each band, Grimetown, Blackthorpe, Boarshill, tipsy after an evening of free pints, directed the bus in a haphazard fashion as it manoeuvred to reverse. He lurched away and, attempting to step onto the pavement, lifted one foot high in exaggeration above the kerb. Linda giggled.
Straining her neck to see past the charabanc steering around groups of people in the road, she heard the high-pitched, tuneless chant.
Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, turn around,
Teddy Bear, Teddy Bear, touch the ground…
Jacqueline was skipping with two other girls. Without a word she’d found someone else to play with. Her cousin had forgotten about her, left her. Dipping her head to hide her face she turned and weaved her way through the crush of spectators until, suddenly, the road held only a few stragglers and she was able to run. When she stopped she was alongside the allotments. Today there was no one working in them. Breathing heavily she flopped down on the bank of grass at the side of the road. The ground was still warm from the long day of sun, and pulling at a blade of grass she carefully stretched it between her thumbs. Putting it to her mouth she blew; the screech was satisfying.
She avoided looking along the road towards the old mill with its new barbed wire which glinted in the sun. Once upon a time, a long time ago, before she was even born, it was a prison. Linda knew this because her Mummy had told her once that it was where they’d kept Uncle Peter. Not because he’d done anything wrong, she’d said, but because a lot of men were fighting about something and it was better for Uncle Peter not to get in the way. Still, it wasn’t a nice place. When she was really little she used to imagine that the wooden platform near the big locked gates, overgrown with tall pink-flowering weeds, was hiding someone. And she still believed that the mill beyond, with its black and empty windows, was the home of ghosts. But it was all right. Being there when it was still light was all right, because everybody knew ghosts only came out at night.
A band started playing. Linda leant forward to watch the men marching past Newroyd Street into Skirm Park where the adjudicators, locked in the boating lake shed, judged their performance against the other bands. They were playing Marching Through Georgia, one of her dad’s favourites and she could see their instruments flashing in the sun even from this distance. Next year, when she was seven, she was going to start learning the cornet. One day she’d be there, helping to win the contests. And all those people lining the streets would be clapping for her.
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