He devoured every syllable of one article which went into great detail regarding his crimes, which still shocked him to the core. The drink had done that. A bottle a day kept reality at bay. He had kicked a young thief and had killed a Brother Anselm. Perhaps if he’d taken the pills in the abbey, he might have acted very differently, but he had been in full withdrawal and out of control. Even so, murder was murder, and his soul was beyond retrieval. Prayer proved almost impossible for a while, though he still had the odd few words with the Almighty. Begging for forgiveness would have been a waste of time. ‘I’m a sinner, Lord, but there were mitigating circumstances, mostly the drink.’
He sighed heavily. The taking of a human life was a sin not forgivable in church law, so he had no chance of redemption. Being excommunicated bothered him more than he might have expected. He finished reading and threw down the newspaper. ‘Mammy and Daddy were Catholic and I was a priest. But I wasn’t a good one. And now, I’m dead. They were so proud of their son.’ A tear rolled down his face; he was mourning himself, yet laughing at the same time.
They’d retrieved a rosary and a half-empty bottle of Scotch, so his name had been attached to the remains, as it was believed that the dead man had been overweight and a drinker. ‘But I am a shadow of my former self, idiots.’ Fitter than he had been in years, he suddenly had the chance of never being discovered. The nomad lifestyle suited him perfectly, though he was no longer dependent on it; he could now come and go as he liked, because he was completely free at last. Had his own mother been alive, she would scarcely have known him.
He was dead! ‘Death makes life a lot easier,’ he said to himself. Many itinerants were without papers like birth certificates and passports. They worked for low pay, gave no tax to the government, and were usually well received by builders or farmers, who were pleased to find a way of working sites or land using cheap manpower.
Physically and mentally, Eugene Brennan had changed in many ways. There was something about labouring that satisfied him and kept him away from the bottle during hours of daylight, when he was given good, home-cooked meals as part of his pay. He still drank in the evening, continuing to consume a little more than was clinically acceptable, but working in the fields seemed to help burn off the effects of alcohol. After all, he was a descendant of a heavy-drinking farming clan, so he needed no training, since he already possessed the necessary abilities to drink and to farm. As for the strength he had lacked during priesthood, it came back quickly and with some discomfort, though the pains were not as intense as he might have expected.
Well, he could move on to the southern part of Cheshire now. By the time he got to Liverpool, he would be someone else altogether. Did he need to go there? Yes, he did. All he had of Daddy was the watch, and the only bit that remained of Mammy was a faded picture in a silver frame, and he nursed over-sentimental and half-imagined memories of his parents. Then there was his money. He’d left over a hundred pounds behind, which now represented the total extent of his personal wealth, as the rest was in a bank account he dared not touch, dead or alive.
Also, he’d managed to hang on to the key to St Columba’s presbytery, although it would still be necessary to break in, or to make the place look as if someone had broken in. Other items should disappear; if he removed just his own things, Eugene Brennan might be resurrected. But above all, he wanted to walk among them like the invisible man, to see the child, Father Christopher Foley, Frank Charleson and the rest. He would see them, but they would never notice him.
Being dead became very satisfying as time passed. His confidence grew daily, and he was able to spend his wages on a few items of clothing and some decent drink. A bottle lasted at least two days, so he was definitely on the mend. He chatted in shops, played darts in pubs, and found that the nightmares were finally leaving him. Dead men couldn’t dream and, as he was safely defunct, he had no need to worry about Billy Blunt or Brother Anselm, since he had a different name, a changed body and a thinner, bearded face. This promised to be a brand new and promising beginning.
The name was easy. He took his surname, changed an N to a D, and became Brendan. It was an effeminate moniker, but it served a purpose. Surname? Mammy’s maiden name had been Halloran, so he chopped it down to Hall, and there he was, a new man, a phoenix reborn not in fire, but in a pub with a glass of Irish in one hand and the stub of a cheroot in the other.
Oh, this was the life. The priest was dead, and the new man should now seek a woman. A woman would make him more normal, just one man in a crowd with a partner by his side. Did he want a woman? He had no idea. In his fifties, the only fleshly torment he endured was the need for whiskey.
How did a man get a woman? He wasn’t handsome, but he was less ugly than he had been at his heaviest. Muscle had begun to replace flab and he was nicely tanned from working outdoors, while the trimmed beard disguised a weak chin. Although declared dead, he would feel even safer in the company of a female. And he’d nothing to lose at this stage. Compared to murder, intercourse with a female, should it be required, seemed a very poor relation in the extended family of sin.
So, it was a case of onward and upward as he made his leisurely way through the country towards the county of Cheshire. He was given rides by gypsies, by people in lorries, even by a deliverer of bread and a seller of coal. Conversation was possible at last, though he remained a poor, orphaned Irishman who had been passed from pillar to post, from orphanage to foster homes, never loved, never cared for. ‘So I invaded England to get away from all that,’ was the last sentence in his well-worn monologue.
In the south-eastern portion of Cheshire, he landed on his feet. Away from the main farmhouse, where he found himself, stood a caravan, and this was to be his home during harvest and for longer if he stayed on. He could take a bath in the main house as long as he gave notice, while the outside lavatory in a brick building was all his, and he could wash his hands at the outdoor tap in the farmyard. Oh, life was improving, indeed.
He had a home. Reassured by the farmer’s wife that he would not be asked to share his caravan with another labourer, Brendan Hall settled in immediately. There was electricity wired in from the house, a good bed with clean sheets, a sink, a cooker, a table and a padded bench. After a couple of months on the road, this was the life of Riley.
Mrs Acton, the farmer’s wife, had taken his word when it came to his list of skills, but he had told no lies. He could milk, he could churn, he could bring home a herd. Ploughing, planting and harvesting he had learned as a child. Root crops and top crops were all the same to him; he was capable of retrieving anything. ‘But I can foretell neither rain nor sun, Mrs Acton. Over those two extremes, only God holds sway.’
‘I’m Gladys,’ she said.
‘Then I’m Brendan. Pleased to make your acquaintance, and thanks for the job and the caravan. I’m grateful to you, so.’
He worked twelve hours a day every day. As well as helping locals to bring the harvest home, he swilled the yard, mended farm machinery, unblocked drains, fed pigs and hens, even slept with a shotgun by his side in case foxes should approach chicken coops in the night. Mrs Acton came to depend on him, and there was no sign of her husband. She pretended he’d gone away to a series of stock auctions, but one of the casual farmhands put that right. He’d buggered off.
‘He buggered off,’ said Paul Cropper casually as he sat in the yard with Brendan over soup and sandwiches one sunny lunchtime. ‘Went with a younger woman from the stables over to Beresford’s Drift. Play your cards right, and you could be in with old Gladys. It’s her farm, not his. Well, it’s her dad’s. He still lives upstairs, bad health, getting on in years. She’s a nice woman and you’re a good worker who knows what he’s doing. It’s a match made in heaven, because you’re about the same age.’
‘Children?’ Brendan asked casually.
‘No.’ Paul swallowed the last of his tea, belched and stood up. ‘She couldn’t have them, and she’s past the age now, about fifty, I think. I’ve work
ed here on and off since I was a lad, and looking back, remembering what my mother said, Mrs Acton was heartbroken over it. He wasn’t bothered, but she was. When it came to adoption, he didn’t believe in it. Anyway, I reckon she’s better off without him. Take my advice, Don. Get your feet under her table, treat her well, and you’ll be out of that caravan in quick sticks.’
Like most people, Paul Cropper called his co-worker Don rather than Dan, which represented the second syllable of the chosen name. Perhaps it was as well, since Dan Hall rubbed close shoulders with damn all. As they left the barn, Don looked over his shoulder. It was a fine house and a valuable farm. Oh, and she was a good cook.
The paperwork was done and dusted, seals set, ribbons tied, deposit paid, and the searches and surveys were all finally completed. This was the end, and Elaine Lewis was in the dumps. She wanted Frank Charleson and, for as long as she remembered, she’d found little difficulty when it came to achieving her own way. He looked at her sometimes with what she imagined to be desire in his eyes. He looked, but he never touched. As this was to be her biggest effort so far, she had dressed to ensnare him. She was graceful, beautiful and perfectly packaged.
She had the keys to the Rice Lane property, and this was probably the last occasion on which she would have a legal and practical reason for seeing Frank. Today, Aladdin took possession of his cave or his lamp, depending on which name he chose to adopt. He would do well. Although not an overbearing man, he owned a quiet strength and the sort of dedication that said a great deal about his character.
They were meeting for an early lunch, because as from noon the shop and the living accommodation were legally his, and she would hand over the keys. She had been wrong about him, since his entrepreneurial skills were going to become legendary. This was husband material after all. So it was possible to marry for love, then. Because insofar as Elaine Lewis was capable of concentrating on someone other than herself, she had formed an attachment to the man.
He had taken seriously none of her attempts to entrap him. After the meeting in the Liver pub, there’d been a dinner in a crowded restaurant, then an evening in the communal sitting room at his Bootle bed-and-breakfast place, and today was to be their last supper. Yes, it was only lunch, but there seemed to be a finality stapled to it. Reasons for meeting him had been used up; from now on, she could be no more than a customer in his shop.
A shadow loomed over her desk. She didn’t need to look up. ‘Hello, Bob,’ she said, patience etched deeply into the words. ‘And how are you today? Overworked again?’
‘Those aren’t your usual work clothes,’ he accused her. ‘You look ready for a wedding party or a visit to Buckingham Palace.’
‘That’s because this is fiesta time,’ she replied. ‘My childhood friend moves today, so his mother, my mother, he and I are going out to celebrate at lunchtime.’ The lies slid out so easily.
‘Ah. Might you bring a friend?’
She laughed.
‘Well?’ he asked.
‘No, I think not. It’s a landmark in our lives, so no one outside our circle would appreciate its significance. Frank and I have always been close to our mothers. And our mothers will now look after each other all the time.’
A clock on the wall ticked. ‘Why? Are you moving away from home, too?’
‘Soon.’ She had scarcely considered it, but it might be a good idea. ‘Finding somewhere decent for the right price could be a long job,’ she said.
‘I could help. You’d have no trouble getting a mortgage. I shall keep my eyes open.’
‘Thank you.’ She looked back at their dinner date. He had chosen the wines and had even ordered her food along with his own. But she had stopped the waiter in his tracks and asked to see the menu for herself. Bob needed a great deal of training, it seemed. Could she really be bothered to teach this man that a woman had a mind of her own, that the days of male superiority had ended a few decades after the death of Victoria?
‘That’s a beautiful dress,’ Bob said. ‘The colour suits you very well.’
‘Thank you. It’s one of my favourites, too.’
He stared through the window at the Liver Building, saw the river glistening behind it. ‘Will you marry him?’
‘Er . . . no. Have you heard of familiarity and contempt?’
He nodded. ‘And I’ve noticed the glow on your skin when you’re going to meet him.’
‘It’s makeup.’
‘Ah. Will you marry at all?’
She was getting just a little bored with the inquisition. ‘No idea. But if I do, I shall be with a man who recognizes that a woman is born free. He will be clever enough to know he’s with a clever female.’
‘So you’re clever?’
‘Oh, definitely. Oxford at seventeen, here by the age of twenty-two, first-class honours, now law. There’s nothing average about me, Bob. I can read menus and make my own choices. I am in control of my own life, so I don’t really require a husband, since I want no children.’
He took a few seconds off, as he needed a rest. Elaine was desirable, but she was also hard work. ‘Ah,’ he said eventually, ‘so you’re the boss?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, boss, your bra strap’s on display at the top of your left arm.’ He stalked back to his own office. It was time to give up on her for a little while.
The fury that rose in her throat was not commensurate with his remark about a bra strap. She seethed. He was a dolt, and she hated him immediately. The fact that he’d walked away without being dismissed was annoying enough, but a bra strap? He might be a partner, but he should keep questions and opinions to himself. She could get a job anywhere in this city, anywhere in the country.
In the powder room, she sorted out her strap, checked stockings and shoes, repaired her makeup. It was a beautiful dress, in a gentle turquoise shade, made in lace on top of silk of a similar, though subtly different colour. There was no silk on the arms, where flesh without bra strap now showed through the openwork. At her throat, a darker turquoise hung from a silver chain; this was echoed in a bracelet, though her earrings were plain silver studs. She was stylish; she was perfect, and she was probably looking for another job.
Meanwhile, Frank Charleson leaned casually against a wall outside the newly opened bistro in which he would buy lunch. It was a place that served meals representing many countries, and the novelty made it popular with younger moneyed folk. At this end of town, close to the business sector, a restaurant like this should thrive.
He was waiting for Elaine Lewis for what he hoped was going to be the last time. She was fashionably late, as usual, and he was running out of patience. There was something dangerous about her, an occasional flash of fury in displeased eyes, a sudden straightening of the spine, the tapping of perfectly manicured nails on a hard surface, a frown deep enough to interfere with faultless good looks.
But Frank had arrived armed to the teeth on this occasion. Today was Nurse Linda’s day off, which she usually spent with her mother, but she was standing in for Polly through the midday period. Polly, inside the bistro, studied the menu while Frank waited for his lawyer. All she knew was that Elaine Lewis was a manhunter who simply wouldn’t give up on Frank, and she accepted the fact with equanimity, because he was gorgeous and the poor woman could scarcely be blamed.
Elaine arrived. She was stunning, and her attire was immaculate.
As ever, Frank admired her beauty. She was like a perfect statue into which breath had been pushed by a force that was not benign. ‘Ah, good,’ he said. ‘Are you going on somewhere afterwards?’
‘No. I wore this just to please you. I know you appreciate pretty things.’
‘Delightful.’ He led her into the bistro and to their table. ‘Elaine Lewis, this is Polly Kennedy, my fiancée.’ Polly was beautiful inside and out. Her personality shone from her face, because she had never been a statue. She smiled expectantly at the vision before her. ‘Hello, pleased to meet you at last,’ she said. ‘Thank you for all you
’ve done for us.’
Although Elaine often congratulated herself on her sangfroid, she didn’t realize that her immediate reactions gave her away to people who looked closely. For us? She had done nothing for this young woman. Her eyes narrowed slightly, and the smile she offered resembled a silent snarl from a member of the cat family. She shook Polly’s hand, placed Frank’s keys on the table, and remembered another appointment back at the office. ‘So sorry about this,’ she said rather quickly. ‘It slipped my mind completely until I was on my way here. I mustn’t lose a client.’
Polly closed her gaping mouth and watched the woman rushing out into the street. ‘There’s something wrong with that one,’ was her delivered opinion. ‘Beautiful, but not quite with us.’
‘I know. She’s unreal. There’s a creepy side to her. What are you having?’ he asked, seamlessly altering the direction of their conversation.
‘That stringy stuff looks interesting. See that woman over there sucking it up? I’ll have string.’
He grinned. ‘You’ll need knitting needles with that, Pol. Or a crochet hook.’
She shook her head. ‘It’s spaghetti, I think.’
‘Have you had it before?’
‘Only out of a tin with tomato sauce. But there has to be a first time for everything.’
He studied his darling girl. She wore a simple pink and white summer dress with a tiny bolero. Apart from a bit of lipstick, she appeared to be free of makeup. Polly wasn’t one for spending hours on her appearance, though he might have bet his last quid on Elaine Lewis staring for an age at the reflection of the person she loved most of all.
‘She dressed up for you, Frank.’
‘I know. She always has done, so she must have noticed my perfect good looks before we met. I know she recognized me from the start when she stopped me in the street, but her mother does work at Brookside five days a week.’
A Mersey Mile Page 21
