by Andy Conway
‘He’s getting the tram,’ he said.
‘We’re not following him, are we?’
‘Why not?’
She felt scared. Wandering around 1912 Moseley was one thing, but setting out to other parts of the city, its great, sprawling, dangerous mass, made her long to be within touching distance of that gravestone in St Mary’s churchyard.
They reached the tram stop and stood a few yards away from Mr Parker, who was smoking a cigar. The tram sped towards them and screeched to a stop. Danny took her hand and stepped onto the platform at the rear. Mr Parker had gone up the open stairs so they followed him to the upper deck. It was covered but the sides were open. They sat a few seats behind him, the smell of his cigar thick in their faces despite the absence of windows. The tram set off again and inched through the Brighton Road crossroads, with its strange turreted building standing guard like a watchtower. Rachel gazed out and noticed the street change character. It was as if, in crossing the Brighton Road, they’d not only crossed over from genteel Moseley into roughshod Balsall Heath, from the suburbs into the city, but also from respectability into debauchery. She’d studied the history of the two neighbourhoods and their dramatic differences, which survived to the present. How Balsall Heath had always been the poor relation, defecting to the city twenty years before Moseley, which had always tried to stay aloof, and how its red light reputation had existed up until the 1990s, when its growing Muslim population had driven it out. As the tram sailed down the Moseley Road, she could see it was nothing but a boulevard of gin houses and brothels. A few stops further on they reached Highgate, and Balsall Heath suddenly seemed genteel. It was a dingy slum with not even gin houses and brothels to give it some respectability. At this point Mr Parker stood up and walked down the stairs. Rachel and Danny looked at each other with amazement.
‘We have to,’ said Danny.
Rachel groaned and followed him down the steep stairs. They stepped off the tram after Mr Parker, who strode off, still puffing on his cigar. It was night now and Rachel could feel the danger of the place; it had a physical quality and seemed to pollute the air. It was dirty and smelly and the streets were crowded with shawled women carrying jugs of ale, men reeking of booze and sweat, wearing shabby clothes and scuffed boots, hanging around on corners glaring at them with glassy eyes, and dirty barefoot children who wore rags that could barely be called clothes. Mr Parker looked out of place striding through it, and so did they. He turned into a shop and they both sighed with relief. When they reached it they realised it was a pharmacy.
‘Should we go inside?’ asked Rachel.
‘He’d notice us. And I’ve no idea what to ask for.’
‘I don’t like it out here.’
‘Me neither.’
They scanned the surroundings for a safe haven. There was a pub on the opposite corner but it looked like a hell hole: drinkers had piled out into the street outside, roaring, smoking, swearing, fighting. A young woman in a shawl came and pleaded with a man to come home, tried to drag him away, only to be punched and sent on her way with a farewell kick, which seemed to amuse the other men there who all cheered him on.
Rachel stared with horror. A few of the drinkers had started to notice them, glowering across the street. Some of them exchanged words and glanced back at them.
‘I don’t like this,’ said Danny.
They goaded one of the young drinkers on and pushed him into the street. He made his way across to them, a glint in his eye. They both knew this meant trouble and that they might stay rooted to the spot and let it all happen out of politeness rather than risk hurting his feelings by running away. But before he could reach them, Danny snatched her hand and dragged her inside the shop, the bell ringing as they stepped inside. They heard a disappointed Aaaaah! rise up from the drinkers and knew they had just escaped a beating.
There were a handful of people inside the pharmacy and a hush of respectability. The walls were lined with jars of potions and an elderly, balding man behind the counter seemed to be the pharmacist. He was ushering Mr Parker through a door. They caught a glimpse of them both walking up a flight of stairs before the door closed behind them with its brass notice marked Private. The pharmacist’s assistant, a younger gentleman in a white smock, had taken over counter duty and was dispensing medicines in small vials and neatly wrapped paper parcels. They shuffled uncertainly as the customers were dealt with and left the shop one by one. Rachel peered out through the window through the gaps in the elegant bottles of blue and red liquid on display, and saw that the drinkers across the road had forgotten about them, more interested in the fist fight that was taking place in their midst.
She browsed the cabinets and displays and marvelled at the array of remedies: Venos Lightning Cough Cure, Radium Hand Cleanser, Pettingill’s Kidney-Wort Tablets, John Melrose Southern Counties Cream, which was confusingly from Edinburgh, Dr Blumer’s Camphorated Oil, Puretest Tincture Iodine, Watson’s Linseed Lozenges, California Syrup of Figs, eucalyptus gums, Glauber salts, Price’s Epsom Salts, Beecham’s Pills, sulphur tablets, Owbridges Lung Tonic, Hudson’s Cherry Lincture. The last customer was served and the assistant turned to Danny.
‘Yes, sir. How can I help you?’
Danny stammered. Rachel could see he had frozen and had no idea what to say.
‘I have a terrible headache,’ said Rachel, putting the back of her hand to her temple, a touch melodramatically. ‘In fact, I feel quite faint.’
She swooned to her left, as close as possible to the wooden chair. Danny caught her, real shock on his face, and let her sink onto it. The assistant rushed around to help her.
‘I’m sorry, please forgive me, it’s nothing.’
‘You stay there, Miss,’ said the assistant. ‘What is it you feel?’
‘Just a tremendous headache,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I felt faint. I think it’s just a bit hot in here.’
The assistant rushed behind the counter to a sink to pour a glass of water. Danny leaned in close to her. ‘Are you okay?’ he said.
‘Of course I am,’ she whispered. ‘We just need some time.’
The assistant returned with the water and she gulped it down. The glass tumbler was heavy in her hand. She’d never felt a glass that thick.
‘Now, for your headache, Miss,’ he said.
‘She’ll be fine with some aspirin,’ said Danny.
The assistant frowned. ‘I could add some powder to the water,’ he said. ‘But I think some Pinkham’s Compound would be better.’
Rachel shot Danny a warning glare.
‘Well, yes, I suppose so,’ he said. ‘If you say so.’
The assistant went to one of the cabinets, which he opened with a key, and brought back a small bottle with brown liquid inside. He took out the cork stopper and offered it to Rachel. She looked at it uncertainly.
‘Just take a small swig, Miss.’
She knocked some of it back and winced at the sharp taste of aniseed, the thick syrup coating her throat. The assistant handed the bottle to Danny, who glanced at the mass of small type on the label and only made out Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vegetable Compound and for Prolapsus Uteri and lower down Female Weaknesses.
‘Thank you,’ gasped Rachel.
The door marked Private opened suddenly and Mr Parker came out, followed by the pharmacist. Danny bent himself close over Rachel to hide both their faces as he passed them and left the shop, the bell above the door ringing.
‘I feel much better now,’ said Rachel.
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Danny.
‘I won’t wrap the bottle now you’ve opened it,’ said the assistant, walking back behind the counter. ‘That’ll be fourpence, please sir.’
Danny fiddled with a handful of coins for an age before handing over the right money. He pocketed the bottle, tipped his hat and said goodbye, taking Rachel outside. They walked off briskly up the road, following Mr Parker, who was a good hundred yards ahead.
‘Come on,’ said Danny. ‘
He might get the tram back and we need to be on it.’
They marched down the gaslit street as fast as they could, ready to break into a run at the first sign of attention from the locals. As they emerged on the Moseley Road, the tram pulled up and Mr Parker stepped onto it. They ran the last few yards and jumped onto the rear platform as it pulled away. Danny was about to climb the stairs but Rachel pulled him into the lower deck.
‘We can see when he gets off from here,’ she said.
He followed her to a seat and they fell into it with relief as the tram roared away from Highgate and headed back to civilisation. But unfortunately, before they could reach it, Mr Parker stepped off the tram in Balsall Heath.
— 21 —
They jumped off after him and followed at a distance as he seemed to be walking the rest of the way home. Rachel found herself thinking of Doctor Jekyll and Mr Hyde, which seemed appropriate, seeing as they were following a man in a top hat down a gaslit street that was an explosion of gin bars and brothels. Music and rowdiness bellowed out from every single door that Mr Parker walked by. There were prostitutes hanging around outside every one. It was obvious they were prostitutes because they were all scantily dressed and calling out to Mr Parker, asking him if he fancied some fun.
‘Oh my god,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s rougher than it is now!’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Danny. He was looking quite uncomfortable at running the gauntlet of so much blatant solicitation and she felt his arm grip a little more tightly on her hand.
‘I can’t believe that guy earlier thought I looked like a tart. I’m practically in a burka compared to this lot.’
In Moseley it had seemed that the chief forms of communication were the tipped hat and the handshake. Here it was more the shout of abuse and the punch up. They passed three fights taking place outside bars that no one else seemed to notice, and two of them were between rival whores. Much to their surprise, Mr Parker turned into one of the bars, a cluster of cloth-capped young scarfaces stepping apart respectfully as he entered.
‘He’s gone in that bar,’ said Danny. ‘I can’t believe it. It looks so rough.’
‘Come on then. It’s your round.’
‘Do you think we should? I don’t mind admitting it, but I’m actually a bit scared.’
Rachel was enjoying this. Danny was so posh, he had no idea how to handle this. She had no idea either, but felt it should be more her element.
‘We’ve got a murder to solve,’ she said, pretending to be fearless. ‘We’re not going to find out anything here.’
They walked to the door and the gang of youths outside parted to let them through. Inside, it was an eclectic mixture of both roughs and toffs seated at scores of tables. The air was thick with smoke and there was a cabaret taking place on a stage, but no one could hear it. A singer was going through the motions but her song was drowned out by the shouts and screams and laughter of the customers. They hovered uncertainly, not knowing what to do. Mr Parker had somehow found a table to himself. A waiter who looked about fifteen breezed up to them.
‘Evening, sir. I can fit you in stageside if you like?’
‘Er, yeah. I mean, yes, thank you.’
The Waiter led them through the crowd to the empty table next to Mr Parker’s. They sat and nodded to him. Mr Parker rose slightly from his seat for Rachel’s benefit and tipped his hat.
‘What’ll it be, sir?’ said the waiter.
‘Er… Two V and T’s?’ said Danny.
‘You what?’
Danny looked uncertain. He glanced around to see what other people were drinking but they all had bottles he didn’t recognise.
‘The same as those,’ he said.
‘Gin spesh for two. Right away, sir.’
He rushed off. A different waiter, younger than their own, rushed over to Mr Parker and left a bottle, pouring something ruby red into the glass. A fight broke out on the other side of the bar between two tarts. They got pushed out onto the street, a screaming ball of hair and rouge. All the men around them laughed riotously.
‘I thought chavs were a new invention as well,’ said Rachel.
Their Waiter came back with a bottle and two glasses. ‘Here you are, sir. It’s a bit quiet tonight, I’m afraid.’ They looked at him aghast while he poured the gin for them. ‘That’s a florin, sir.’
Danny shuffled through the coins in his palm and handed him one. The waiter stayed with his hand held out.
‘Oh yes,’ said Danny, handing him another coin graciously. ‘This is for you.’
The waiter looked at it like he’d spat in his palm.
‘Your fortune went down with the Titanic, then?’
He marched off, shaking his head.
‘Danny Pearce, you cheapskate,’ Rachel laughed.
‘That’ll be worth a tenner in a hundred years.’
They didn’t notice the waiter go back to his bar and say something to a couple of shabby genteel men propped up against it. They looked over and checked out the new arrivals. One of them was the drunk from the cemetery, glassy-eyed, trying to focus. Another fight broke out: two men punching the sweat off each other to general laughter.
‘Okay, I admit it,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m scared too.’
Danny looked over at Mr Parker, who was watching the stage, seemingly oblivious to the carnage all around. ‘Good evening, sir,’ he said.
Mr Parker looked at him blankly but said nothing.
‘It’s quite a lively place,’ said Danny with a nervous laugh.
Mr Parker seemed to think about it, then said, ‘Lively. Live. As surely as I live, I will do to her the very things I heard you say.’
Danny stared, not sure how to respond. He took a shot of his drink and any response he could think of would have been lost as he gasped for air. Rachel did the same and her eyes bulged. Danny coughed and recovered, thumping his chest.
‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘You live close by?’
He almost groaned as it came out of his mouth, because it was such an utterly useless line of enquiry. Mr Parker leaned in close and fixed Danny with an intense, crazed gaze.
‘Numbers fourteen eighteen,’ he said. ‘That’s why she will be punished. For my sin.’
They stared at him. He looked away, completely normal again. Over by the bar, the drunk collected himself and clenched his fists, staring with glassy venom at Danny. A prostitute walked over and whispered in Mr Parker’s ear. He got up from his chair, she picked up his bottle and glass, and he followed her through the crowd and out of a side door. They caught a glimpse of him ascending the stairs with her before the door closed again.
‘I think we better go now,’ said Danny.
‘But we still don’t know if he’s the one who kills her.’
‘Oh, come on, Rachel. He’s insane. Of course he kills her.’
‘I’ll kill you.’
They looked up and both groaned as they recognised the drunk, towering over them.
‘Get up,’ he snarled.
‘I’m all right here, thank you,’ said Danny.
‘Get up!’
He swung a punch at Danny, who ducked in his seat. The drunk wheeled round, carried by the momentum of his enormous fist, which smacked into the nearest sot.
‘Oy!’ he shouted.
The sot lamped the drunk and sent him flying against a crowd of people. Almost instantly the whole bar was fighting, tables and bottles flying.
‘Let’s go!’ shouted Rachel.
Danny grabbed her hand and tried to push through to the door but the drunk pulled him back. ‘Where d’you think you’re going!’
He threw a punch. Danny ducked and threw his own punch with his eyes closed. His fist hit the drunk in the neck and sent him flying sideways, taking several fighters with him. They were free, almost near the door. He turned, ready to run out of there, but another great big hand grabbed hold of him. It belonged to a great big police sergeant.
‘You’ll do!’ he boomed. ‘Come on!’
/> Danny’s feet barely scraped the ground as the bear of a man carted him outside and threw him into the back of a wagon. Rachel watched helplessly as other policemen stormed in. They took a handful of fighters and threw them in the van with Danny, brushing off the screaming prostitutes. She wanted to shout out, like them, but her throat was paralysed by fear. The sergeant slapped the lock on the wagon and it jolted off into the night. Danny was arrested.
— 22 —
The flash blinded him for a moment.
‘You’ve got to let me go!’ he shouted. ‘She’s in danger!’
The police station was a riot of swearing drunks all being processed and photographed. Rachel rushed into the reception area just in time to see him shoved to one side and marched towards the cells by one of the policemen. The grizzled sergeant held up a hand and growled, ‘Who’s in danger, sir?’
The policeman stopped, holding Danny tight. This was his last chance to convince them to let him go.
‘Amy Parker,’ he said. ‘Her father’s going to kill her on Saturday.’
The sergeant didn’t seem surprised by this. ‘And how do you know all this?’
‘I’m from the future.’
Rachel winced. Everyone laughed but the sergeant.
‘In you go,’ he said.
The constable pushed Danny into the cell and locked the door. He slumped onto a bench, defeated, and they continued processing the others, chalking their name and a number on a slate, making them hold it to their chests, flashing them, and marching them into the same cell as Danny.
Rachel walked up to the sergeant’s desk. He was already writing out his report.
‘Excuse me, sergeant,’ she said. ‘I’m with him.’
He looked up and held her gaze with such authority that she lost her voice for a moment and just croaked.
‘Oh yes?’ he said. ‘And are you from the future as well?’
