by Anna King
PC Smith’s eyes narrowed. ‘Now, Agnes, I know the lad slightly. He doesn’t strike me as a thief. And anyway, why should he steal? He’s got a good job with Ted now, he doesn’t have any reason to thieve.’
Stepping nearer the trembling woman the policeman asked gruffly, ‘Look here, Agnes, you sure it was young Micky? ’Cos I just can’t see it myself.’
Agnes looked at the scepticism in the policeman’s eyes and braced herself. It was done now, there was no going back.
Assuming an injured air she drew herself up to her fullest height and replied frostily, ‘’Course I’m sure. I ain’t daft. Like I said, the boy came into the shop asking when Ellen was coming back, and while me back was turned he grabbed the parcel I’d laid out on the counter ter take home fer me supper and was gone before I could stop ’im.’
PC Smith pushed his helmet further back on his head, his eyes still sceptical. ‘All right, Agnes. I’ll see to it, but I gotta say I can’t see Micky stealing, he’s not the type.’
Her aggression coming to the fore, Agnes, feeling more in control of herself, bridled, ‘You calling me a liar, John Smith? ’Cos if yer are then say it ter me face, instead of making sly comments.’
The veteran constable stared back at the small woman, his shrewd eyes noting the furtive look in Agnes’ eyes before she dropped her gaze. ‘All right, I’ll take your word for it – for now. But I’ll tell you something, Agnes Handly, there’s something fishy about the whole business, so I hope you’re right, for your sake.’
With a curt nod the police officer strode off in the direction Micky had taken, his hobnailed boots ringing out loudly on the cobbled streets as he moved quickly after the small crowd, all of them relishing the unexpected bit of excitement.
Micky, his face streaming with sweat and fear, ran on, but he had no chance of outrunning the baying mob chasing him. Not heeding where he was going, Micky turned a comer, then stopped; he had run into a dead end. Frantically looking around for a way out Micky began to cry. And that unexpected act of weakness was the final straw for the proud young boy.
Knowing he was trapped Micky angrily wiped the tears from his cheeks and turned to the excited crowd.
‘I ain’t done nothing. I didn’t steal anything, honest. That old cow…’
A thick-set man moved forward grabbing Micky by the scruff of his neck. ‘Yeah! That’s what they all say, yer thieving little bastard. Let’s see what the coppers ’ave ter say, shall we?’
Micky struggled wildly in the vice-like grip, then a loud voice of authority rang out. ‘That’s enough, Ron. I’ll deal with this, let the boy go.’
All eyes turned to the uniformed man, their ghoulish enjoyment slipping from their faces as they realised the matter was now out of their hands.
The man called Ron, self-appointed leader of the crowd, reluctantly loosened his grip on Micky, the excitement disappearing from his fleshy features. ‘All right, keep yer hair on. I was gonna take ’im down the station. Yer’ve saved me a trip.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure you were, Ron. You certainly know the way, don’t you?’
The deliberate reference to his shady past brought a flash of anger to the man’s face, then he gave Micky a vicious push towards the stern-faced officer.
‘’Ere, take the thieving little bleeder. I’ll tell yer something else an’ all. It’s the last time I try an’ do the law any favours.’
‘Well, I’m sure the force will be able to struggle on without your help, Ron. Now, on your way, the lot of you.’
One by one the crowd dispersed, their low mutterings fading as they returned to their homes.
Left alone with the police officer Micky looked up at the familiar burly man, his eyes pleading. ‘I didn’t steal anything, Officer, honest I didn’t. She… I mean Agnes, she gave me the parcel. I offered ter pay fer it, but she said I could ’ave it fer nothing.’ The tears began to spurt again, but Micky, in his agitated state, didn’t realise he was crying. ‘Please don’t take me in, Officer. I ain’t done nothing wrong. Ellen… I mean Mrs Mitson’ll tell yer I ain’t no thief…’
The officer looked at the tear-stained face with pity. There was something very wrong here. Although he didn’t know the boy well, John Smith knew his patch, and the people on it. He had seen the young boy frequently, and knew of his friendship with the baker’s wife. There wasn’t much that went on around these streets that the veteran police officer didn’t know about. He also knew Agnes Handly, and of the two he was rather inclined to believe the boy, though why Agnes should try and get the boy arrested was beyond him. But a crime had been reported and he had to take the boy in for questioning.
His voice low and sympathetic he said kindly, ‘I’m sorry, son, I’ve got to take you down the station. But look, as soon as I’ve booked you in, I’ll go round and have a word with Ted Parker and get him to come down, unless you’d rather I fetched your parents.’
Micky’s heart leapt in fright. ‘Oh no, don’t… I mean, I ain’t got a dad, an’ me mum ain’t been well…’ Surprised at how easily the lies were tumbling from his lips Micky added, ‘I don’t want ter worry ’er, Officer. So could yer get Ted, please?’
Taking hold of the boy’s arm PC Smith led him out of the alley and into the main thoroughfare, his soothing voice erasing some of Micky’s fear. ‘Don’t you go worrying, son. Ted’ll sort this mess out, he’s a good bloke, is Ted Parker.’
Wiping his face across the sleeve of his jacket Micky nodded dumbly, his spirits rising at the kindness in the policeman’s voice. Quieter now he walked alongside the officer, his only thought being of Molly. As they entered the station in Mare Street Micky squeezed his eyes tightly shut and prayed silently: ‘Please God, let Ted come quickly and make this nightmare go away so I can get home to Molly…’
* * *
Micky sat on a damp, smelly bunk bed, his eyes never leaving the closed cell door. He was finding it hard to breathe in the small, confined space. There wasn’t even the luxury of a cell to himself, for lying on a similar bed only inches from his was a filthy, drunken tramp, whose snores were guaranteed to keep Micky awake all night. Not that he was planning on sleeping. Instead he closed his eyes, his mind saying over and over, ‘Ted will be here soon.’ He would. Ted wouldn’t let him down. But the cell door remained shut tight, and the fear that had entered his heart the moment he had been thrown into the cell was fast turning into sheer terror. His only comfort was his unwavering faith in Ted Parker. He looked over at the tramp then dropped his face into his hands.
‘Please, Ted. Hurry up. Come and get me, Ted, please. I’m so frightened. I’ve never been so scared in all me life. Please, Ted, come and get me… please.’
* * *
PC John Smith resumed his beat, his mind still on Micky Masters and the boy’s refusal to give his address for fear of upsetting his ailing mother. Of course the woman would have to be informed of her son’s arrest: he was bound by law to inform the next of kin of any prisoner. First though he would find Ted Parker. If anyone could help the young lad out of his present predicament, then Ted was the man to do it. He was only a few minutes away from Ted Parker’s house when the local pub doors opened and a pile of men spilled out onto the street and proceeded to brawl. Sighing loudly, PC Smith waded into the fight. Luckily for him, two of his colleagues were soon on the scene and between them they managed to break up the fight, arresting four men in the process. With his hands full, the kindly police officer forgot all about young Micky. He only remembered when he returned to the station some hours later to sign off his shift. Guilt stricken, he raced to find Ted, praying that the man would be at home. His prayers were answered. Not a man to waste words, the officer, a friend of Ted’s for over ten years, quickly explained the situation.
Within 20 minutes Ted was at the station, and with John Smith backing him up, the duty sergeant agreed to let Micky out on bail, providing that Ted, in the absence of a parent present, took full responsibility for the boy, and the charge levelled against him
until the case came to court.
When Micky emerged from the cell, cowed and shivering, his handsome face blotched and swollen with tears, it took all of Ted’s willpower not to sweep the stricken boy up into his arms. Then Micky looked up at him and, like a small child, ran towards the man he had come to love and threw himself against the strong, safe body. It was then that Ted, with a low groan of pity, picked Micky up and held him tight against his chest. And as he carried him from the police station, his voice softly whispering against Micky’s ear, a feeling of rage against Agnes Handly and her foul accusations threatened to overwhelm him. Forcing himself to keep his emotions in check Ted took the still shivering boy to his home, vowing that, come tomorrow he would find Agnes and, if need be, shake the truth out of the lying, spiteful bitch.
The trauma of the past few hours had taken its toll on Micky, but not enough for him to have forgotten about his sister.
Wrapped in a warm blanket, with Nora Parker bustling around him and plying him with food and drink, it was difficult to get a word in as the irate woman continued to vent her anger against Agnes who had been the instigator in the whole sorry business.
Finally, conscious of the time and unable to keep quiet any longer, Micky caught hold of Nora’s hand and, looking up at her beseechingly, he stuttered, ‘Me sister. I’ve gotta get home ter me sister. She’ll be so afraid… She’s on— only eight. An’… an’ there’s a man after ’er. A bad man. He… he wants ter… ter…’ His trembling voice trailed off, not able to speak of the vile intentions Kenneth Wells harboured against his little sister.
Ted and Nora exchanged glances, then Ted, drawing up a chair next to Micky, said quietly, ‘You ain’t got any mother, have yer, Micky?’
Fresh tears spilled from Micky’s eyes as he shook his bowed head, ashamed to look Ted in the eye.
Glancing first at the startled Nora, Ted drew a deep breath and said kindly, ‘I think yer’ve got some explaining ter do, mate.’
And Micky, too tired and scared to lie any longer, started to talk, his voice rising with agitation as he imagined Molly, alone, terrified out of her wits, wondering what had happened to him. But what really turned Micky’s blood cold was the thought of Kenneth Wells getting his hands on the vulnerable child.
Before Micky had finished talking, Ted already had his coat on, his face grim. ‘Come on, then. You’d better show me where you’ve been living. And after we’ve got Molly safely back here, there’s gonna be some serious talking to be done.’
Micky lowered his gaze, thinking that Ted was angry with him for lying for so long. Then his chin was being pulled upwards, and Ted was smiling.
‘Take that miserable look off yer face. You should ’ave told me what was going on from the start, but I suppose in your shoes I’d’ve done the same. Anyway, we know the truth now, and yer don’t have ter worry anymore. We’ll sort it out… won’t we, Mum?’ He turned to look at the hovering Nora.
Her eyes misty, the normally stalwart woman flapped her hands at them crying, ‘Of course we will, yer daft sod. Now go an’ fetch that poor little mite. She must be scared ter death by now.’
Outside the house Micky tentatively caught hold of Ted’s hand, a gesture he wouldn’t have dreamed of a few hours earlier. But he needed comfort, needed to feel safe, and Ted made him feel safe. His throat tightening, Ted gave a loud cough before saying briskly, ‘Well, come on then, let’s go and get this sister of yours.’
As it was dark and nobody could see, Micky kept a tight hold of Ted’s hand, as if he was afraid the man beside him would suddenly disappear. Twenty minutes later they were standing inside the derelict building and while Micky called out for his sister Ted looked around the filthy ruin in horror. The thought of two children living in these conditions for so long brought a lump of sadness coupled with anger to Ted’s throat. His eyes sweeping the darkness he vowed silently that if it lay with him, Micky and his sister would never again have to live in such appalling conditions.
Micky climbed up the rope whispering, ‘Moll, Moll, it’s me, Micky. I’m sorry I’m so late, but I got into a bit of bother.’ Silence greeted him. Screwing up his eyes he moved nearer the bed he shared with Molly, his stomach beginning to churn with fear. Blindly feeling his way towards the bed, he moved his hands over the smelly blankets expecting to come into contact with the small lump that was Molly, but the bed was empty. His eyes stretched wide in horror and disbelief as he opened his mouth and began to scream.
He’d come too late – Molly was no longer here. Someone had taken her, and he didn’t have to think hard as to who had abducted his little sister. Unable to face the horror of what had happened to Molly, Micky gave a low anguished groan. Red spots danced before his eyes – and then he was falling.
Falling into a warm, welcoming black hole where there was no feeling, no fear, just peace – lovely, wonderful peace.
Chapter Eleven
About an hour before Micky was rescued from the prison cell by Ted, Sadie North, a local prostitute was walking alongside a punter she had just picked up, chatting away nineteen to the dozen to keep the nervous man from changing his mind and making a bolt for it. She’d had a lot of men like the one shuffling awkwardly by her side, their shifty eyes darting from left to right for fear of being seen with the flamboyant prostitute. Middle-aged men who weren’t getting any loving from their worn-out wives, women who were ground down by the daily existence of living, terrified of falling for another child to feed when there was barely enough to survive on as it was. The man who had picked her up on the corner of Mare Street had just staggered out from the Nag’s Head, his courage bolstered by three pints of ale, and a small whisky; money that should have been used to feed his wife and children. Now the drink was wearing off and with it the beer-fuelled bravado.
Not for the first time Sadie wished she had somewhere local she could take her customers, instead of having to walk the streets in search of a dark alley. Her profession was sordid enough without having to perform her business down a darkened sidewalk. But her two-room flat that she was so proud of was her haven and her home, somewhere she could change out of her working clothes, and into respectable clothing and forget about her unsavoury occupation for a brief period of time. If she was lucky, a customer would offer to pay for an hour’s pleasure in any one of the dozens of boarding houses and run-down hotels that asked no questions, but usually, like tonight, it was up to her to find somewhere to ply her trade. Still, she comforted herself with the thought that this man was to be her last punter for tonight.
Tucking the man’s arm tighter to her side Sadie looked for somewhere suitable to conclude her business. Stopping outside the only building still standing among a pile of rubble that had once been a row of terraced houses, Sadie quickly pulled the man inside the pitch-black building. Safely off the streets and out of sight of any passers-by, the pot-bellied man regained his courage. Not bothering with the niceties of foreplay, the man grabbed Sadie’s large breasts, his slobbering lips sucking at her neck and face. Anxious to get the familiar routine over with as quickly as possible, Sadie averted her face and lifted her skirts as the man began to unbutton his trousers, his breathing becoming ragged and harsh. Pressed up against the crumbling wall, Sadie gazed over the man’s head, her eyes blank, her mind shutting out the act in which she was participating. Automatically murmuring encouragement to the sweating man, she urged him on, moaning and panting as if she was enjoying the experience as much as he, while her mind was wondering if she had enough food in the flat for her supper. Sadie waited impatiently for the man to finish. From experience she knew it wouldn’t be long and, moments later, she was proved right as the man gave a loud shuddering sigh, his head falling onto Sadie’s shoulder. Glad the unpleasant act was over, Sadie was about to ask for her money when a frightened scream from above their heads caused both parties to jump in fright.
Crouched on her bed, Molly, already scared and anxious at Micky’s lateness, had heard the man and woman come into the building.
She was used to tramps coming into the house, especially when it was cold and raining, but they never stayed for long, and Molly always remained as quiet as a mouse, as Micky had instructed her. But when the man had started to make loud, strange noises, and the woman had begun to moan and call out in a muffled voice, Molly, her heart beating fast, had crawled carefully over to the edge of the room. Not allowed to light her candle until Micky was home, Molly squinted into the gloom below, trying to make out the two shadowy figures in the darkness, her only source of light being a thin stream of moonlight shining through one of the many holes in the roof. But it wasn’t bright enough to light the lower part of the house. Hearing the man’s harsh breathing become louder coupled with the woman’s low screams, Molly had curled herself up into a tight ball praying for her brother to come home. The sounds became increasingly louder, and Molly, thinking the man was hurting the woman and unable to keep quiet any longer, scrambled closer to the edge and screamed wildly, ‘Stop it! Stop it! Let her go, you ’orrible man. You’re a bad man. Stop hurting the lady.’
Recovering her wits, Sadie squinted her eyes up towards the sound of the childish voice. The man, quickly taking advantage of Sadie’s distraction, rearranged his clothing and took to his heels. Hearing the sound of running footsteps, Sadie spun round, her face hardening as she realised she had been conned out of her money, bloody well-earned money at that, considering what she had to do for it. At any other time she would have given chase, but knowing there was a frightened child somewhere in the rotting building Sadie had no option but to let the man go. But it wasn’t in her nature to let the crafty bleeder off completely.
‘You stinking bastard. Don’t think yer’ve got away with fleecing me. I’ll catch up with you, you take me word. An’ when I do, I hope your poor wife’ll be with you. You won’t be so bleeding cocky then.’
