Maggie's Boy

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘He ought to have his bloody head bashed in,’ Mark said. He was full of aggressive anger, his face dark with it.

  ‘We got to find him first,’ Morgan pointed out. ‘We don’t know where he is. He could be anywhere.’

  ‘Somebody must know where he lives,’ Greg said, peering out of the window at the passing traffic. ‘His car registration number would give that away, surely.’

  ‘She didn’t see the car.’

  ‘Crafty sod hid it, I’ll bet,’ Andy said.

  ‘First things first,’ Mark told them. ‘We shall have to watch over her for the next week or two in case he comes back. Would she go to Guildford with you, for a few days?’

  ‘Wouldn’t hear of it,’ Morgan said.

  ‘That’s shock,’ Andy explained. ‘Give her time to get over the worst of it and she might feel differently. I wish you could get her to go to a doctor.’

  ‘She won’t. I told you.’

  ‘What if you called one in?’

  Greg suddenly sat up and stared out of the window. ‘Hold everything!’ he said. ‘Guess who’s walking along the promenade.’

  ‘Never!’ Mark said. ‘He’s not.’

  ‘I’d know that strut anywhere,’ Greg said.

  They crowded against the leaded window, a face to a pane. Sure enough it was Rigg, walking briskly towards the pier on the other side of the road.

  For a second all three brothers were nonplussed. It’s one thing to sound off against an enemy, quite another to see him before you, there, in the hated flesh.

  But Morgan had no doubts. Hunting was his profession.

  ‘Stay there!’ he instructed, already on his feet. ‘I’ll follow the bugger. Give me twenty yards, then you can follow me. If we’re goin’ to sort him out, we got to get him where he can’t run.’

  ‘Somewhere quiet,’ Mark called as Morgan left the pub, ‘so’s I can kick his head in.’

  ‘Fetch the car, Greg,’ Morgan said at the door. ‘He could have his wheels.’

  It was growing dark, but even in the half light Rigg was easy to track. He walked with a purpose as if he was going to meet someone, his head silhouetted against the rows of winking lights that beaded the pier.

  Senses fully alert, Morgan followed at a discreet distance. There were several people at the pier entrance – mostly couples or groups going in to play the fruit machines. A gang of boys thumped one another and leapt about, all flailing limbs and barking voices. A gang of girls sauced the boys and giggled, all bright mouths and tossing hair. But waiting in the entrance there was a solitary man in a leather jacket, smoking a cigarette. That’ll be the one, Morgan thought. And it was.

  The two men met, shook hands, talked, and began to stroll back along the promenade. Morgan took a quick look behind him to where Greg’s car was turning slowly into the promenade. Then he insinuated himself into a group of people browsing through the postcards on the carousel outside the tobacconist. The little revolving stand allowed him a kaleidoscopic view of his quarry. Rigg and his companion were heading west along the promenade, deep in conversation, and easy to follow. Then, to Morgan’s annoyance, they climbed over the railings that edged the prom and crunched across the shingle and headed for the nearest breakwater.

  Damn, Morgan thought. If they’re down there, they’ll see us up here on the prom. We’ll have to go round them. Where’s Greg?

  He was waiting in a parking space opposite the pier with Mark standing by the car keeping watch. As soon as they saw Morgan beckoning, they drove to the tobacconist and picked him up.

  ‘They’re on the beach,’ Morgan said. ‘Down there, see? Is there somewhere you can park a bit further along? We need to get the other side a’ that breakwater, so that they’re below us and they can’t see us.’

  They parked; they walked back along the empty beach, not saying a word; they sat in silence on the higher western side of the breakwater with Rigg and his friend on the beach below them; and they listened.

  ‘I thought you bought that flat for your wife,’ the friend was saying. ‘Your wife and kids, you always said.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me about her? Rigg complained. ‘You’ve no idea what she’s done to me, Norman. My life’s been absolute hell these last eight years. Nag, nag, nag. How could I keep my mind on business with that going on all the time? It’s no wonder things got mislaid. And then of course you get creditors down on your neck, threatening legal action because some piffling bill hasn’t been paid.’

  Norman made a commiserating noise. The three brothers stiffened with anger.

  ‘And then, the minute I turn my back, she’s off with some toy boy. I ask you Norman, is that fair? A toy boy. I’ve had to leave my work and come down here to sort him out. And that’s not all. Oh no! She sold my shop. Three shops I had and she actually sold my last remaining outlet while I was away in Spain and couldn’t do anything about it. Cut the ground from under my feet. What do you think of that?’

  ‘That’s tough,’ Norman’s voice said. ‘Women are all the same.’

  ‘Course if it hadn’t been for her, I’d have been a millionaire by now. I had it all lined up. Three outlets – two jewellers and a video store – good car – BMW actually – second home – nice little flat out in Marbella. And now it’s all got to go.’

  ‘I’m not sure I want a flat in Spain, you know Rigg.’

  ‘It’s a snip,’ Rigg said. ‘Just the thing. It’s a smashing place. Very free and easy, the Spaniards. And the women! You’d never believe what the women get up to. They’re all over you the minute you get off the plane. You’d love it. What do you say?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘But you’re interested.’

  ‘Well … I might be. Let’s put it that way, I might be.’

  ‘The thing is, Norman, this is such a hot property, I’ve got one or two other people after it. That’s why I thought we’d meet on the beach. I’m holding them off, naturally, seeing as it’s you, but I can’t hold them off for ever.’

  ‘Perhaps they’d better have it then, because I’m really not sure. It’s a lot of money.’

  ‘No. I won’t do that, Norman. I’m nothing if not fair. When I met up with you again, I thought there’s old Norman. That flat is just right for old Norman. Old school pal and all that. I ought to give him first refusal. So I tell you what I’ll do. If you’ll pay me a deposit by the end of the month – say five grand – it’s yours with no more to pay until the New Year. I can’t say fairer than that, now can I?’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘It’s a snip,’ Rigg urged. ‘And don’t say you can’t lay your hands on five grand. You must be coining it with that cattery of yours.’

  ‘Let’s go up the Trafalgar and have a few jars,’ Norman said. ‘I’m getting parky sitting here.’

  The listeners above them heard the shingle being crunched underfoot. Then a head appeared over the top of the breakwater and their cover was blown.

  ‘Right you bastard!’ Mark said, springing off the top of the breakwater and landing at Rigg’s feet. ‘We’ve got you!’

  ‘I’d hop it if I were you, mate,’ Morgan said to Norman. ‘The flat’s not for sale, like. He’s connin’ you. Belongs to his creditors, see.’

  The man was already moving away, half running, his fag stuck to his lower lip. ‘Thanks mate. Cheers.’

  Rigg was being crowded against the breakwater.

  ‘So it’s all her fault, is it?’ Mark said, pushing his face right up against Rigg’s. ‘She sold your shop, did she? You bloody, sodding, lying hound!’

  ‘It was a sales pitch,’ Rigg said, trying to edge away. ‘That’s all fellers. You know how it is. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘I suppose you didn’t mean to knock her to a pulp either,’ Andy mocked, seizing Rigg by the front of his jersey and pushing him against the nearest upright.

  ‘She took a knife to me,’ Rigg struggled. ‘It was self-defence. Honestly fellers, you don’t know what she’s like.’

&nbs
p; ‘I’ve seen her,’ Andy said, thumping him on the chest, ‘I know exactly what she’s like. A punch bag. That’s what she’s like. I’ve seen Emma too. Did she take a knife to you, poor little kid?’

  Rigg looked to left and right, frantically searching for someone to help him, but the promenade was deserted and the beach was empty except for one other man – a vaguely familiar man – who was standing by the breakwater, watching them. Rigg narrowed his eyes in surprise and partial recognition. ‘Hello!’ he said. ‘I know you, don’t I. Come and tell these boys they’re makin’ a mistake.’

  ‘Oh I don’t think they’re makin’ a mistake,’ Morgan said, bruising into the circle. ‘But then I’m prejudiced, see. I’m the toy boy.’

  ‘What?’ Oh Christ, what’s he talking about?

  ‘Alison’s toy boy. The one you were on about just now. The one you had to come home to sort out. Remember?’

  ‘Oh Christ!’ Rigg said, trying to edge away from them. ‘Look. It was a joke.’

  ‘Very funny!’ Morgan growled, following him, fists clenched.

  ‘Now what?’ Greg asked.

  ‘We beat him to a pulp,’ Mark said, punching Rigg’s chest. ‘That’s only fair, isn’t it Rigg?’

  Rigg made a stand in the only way he knew. ‘OK then,’ he said, lifting his head and sticking out his chin. ‘Beat me up. See if I care.’ It was the technique he’d used to outface the bullies when they descended on him at his prep school and his tone of careless bravado was the same as it had been then.

  It took the brothers off guard.

  ‘See how you like a taste of your own medicine,’ Andy threatened, but he didn’t start punching. And neither did the others. They circled their enemy, prowling and scowling, but they didn’t attack.

  ‘Grab his legs,’ Morgan said to Greg. ‘We won’t hurt him. Don’t want to make a martyr of him like. We’ll just clean him up a bit.’ And he looked at the sea.

  Greg took his meaning at once and seized the leg nearest to him. Within seconds Rigg was being borne aloft, spreadeagled between the four of them, as they carried him bodily down the beach. ‘Steady on fellers! I can’t swim.’

  ‘You should ha’ thought a’ that,’ Mark said as they waded into the sea. It was battleship grey and icy cold. Just the right punishment for a wife beater. ‘Heave!’

  They threw him as far as they could, watching his body as it tumbled through the darkening air to splash down in a confusion of white foam and frantic limbs. They cheered and mocked as he struggled to get up again and was knocked sideways by the oncoming waves.

  Finally he scrambled to his feet, coughing and protesting. ‘For Chrissake!’ But what with the pressure of the water against his legs and the weight of his wet clothes dragging him down, he couldn’t escape them, try as he might. As soon as he waded out they caught him and threw him out to sea again, taunting and roaring abuse.

  ‘How d’you like being on the receiving end, Rigg?’

  ‘Not so good, is it, you bastard.’

  ‘D’you want any more, wife beater?’

  ‘Come on fellers!’ he begged, still trying to turn their wrath. ‘Play the game!’

  ‘Serve you bloody well right,’ Mark said as they splashed after him for the third time and pulled him down, like hounds, into the water.

  Rigg’s teeth were chattering with cold. ‘What do you want me to do?’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll do anything, honest – only let me out.’

  ‘Keep away from Ali,’ Mark yelled at him.

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  ‘Tell us your address,’ Morgan said.

  ‘Haven’t got one. Really. On my life.’

  ‘Bloody liar!’

  ‘I haven’t!’

  They splashed after him, caught him and threw him in for a fourth time. Now he was too weary to get up but sat where he fell, with the water up to his chest.

  By this time, attracted by the sound of splashing and shouting, a crowd had gathered. They lined the railings on the promenade, to watch the theatre being played out at the edge of the sea, cheering when Rigg was thrown in, applauding when he staggered out again. It was better than a Punch and Judy show – and very similar.

  ‘What’s it about?’ a newcomer asked.

  ‘Yobs,’ her neighbour told her. ‘They keep chucking that one in the sea.’

  ‘You won’t come out till you tell us,’ Mark shouted.

  ‘Go on boy!’ someone in the crowd yelled. ‘Tell him! I should.’

  Rigg rubbed the sea water out of his eyes. There’s nothing for it, he thought, I’ll have to find some address or they’ll keep me here all night. ‘All right! All right!’ he called. ‘I’ll tell you. It’s 10 Riverside, Allingham Avenue.’

  ‘Where’s that?’ Morgan asked as he wrote it down.

  ‘Littlehampton. Now can I come out?’

  To the disappointment of the watching crowd, they let him run along the water’s edge, scramble up the shingle and stagger on to the promenade. Once there, he ran as fast as he could, partly to put a distance between himself and their wrath, partly to avoid the crowd, some of whom came in happy pursuit.

  Down on the shingle, Morgan and the three brothers were loud with triumph and residual anger.

  ‘“Play the game”, I ask you!’ Mark mocked, watching until Rigg was out of sight. ‘D’you ever hear such rubbish?’

  ‘He won’t forget this in a hurry,’ Greg said. Always the least aggressive of the three brothers, he’d surprised himself by his capacity for violence.

  ‘He thought we were gonna drown him,’ Andy gloated.

  ‘Serve him right,’ Morgan growled. ‘He had it comin’ to him.’

  ‘Wait till we tell the girls!’ Mark said.

  They congratulated one another all the way back to Elsie’s house, where they told their tale to the five womenfolk and were applauded and congratulated all over again.

  Only Alison took the story calmly. She didn’t laugh, or praise, or question or comment. She just sat on the sofa, listening and saying nothing. Whatever they’d done down there on the beach, it wouldn’t alter her life in the least. The debts still had to be paid, she and the kids were still bruised and aching … they were still a welfare family. Even when Morgan told her they’d bullied Rigg’s address out of him, she didn’t react.

  ‘You’ll be able to divorce him now,’ Morgan said, trying to cheer her. ‘You’ll be able to serve the papers on him, won’t you, cariad, now you know where he lives.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I suppose I will.’

  But she couldn’t respond to anything. Ever since her beating, she’d suffered from a terrible, unfeeling lethargy, cutting her off from the world. The kids wet their beds every night and had nightmares that needed a lot of comforting. She did what had to be done, cuddling away their fears, washing their wet sheets and pyjamas automatically and with a curious lack of attention, as though they were simply chores like washing up or cleaning her teeth. She went to work and did her job quietly, keeping her head down. It didn’t matter what anybody said, she knew she was lost. She was a battered wife. He could come back and beat her any time he wanted and nobody would stop him because the law was on his side. He could run away and refuse to tell anyone where he was and she couldn’t do anything. She had to stay where she was. She had kids to look after, to feed and clothe and take to school. It didn’t matter where she went, Rigg would find her. There was nothing she could do to protect herself. She listened to the excited predictions going on all round her and she didn’t believe a word.

  ‘You won’t see him again for a very long time,’ Mark was saying to her. ‘If ever. I think you could say we’ve seen him off, wouldn’t you Greg?’

  ‘If I’m any judge,’ Greg said, beaming at their success, ‘he’ll be half way to London by now.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Margaret Toan was having an early night. She planned to go up to Harrods in the morning and she needed a nice long beauty sleep for a trip like that. She’d eaten what littl
e supper she needed, taken a bath, put her hair in rollers and treated herself to a revitalising face-pack. Her cigarette case was full, there was plenty of gin in the cabinet and a good film on the box, so all her most pressing needs were taken care of. Now she was settled for the evening, with five pillows behind her head, a glass of G and T in one hand and the remote control in the other. And some fool rang the doorbell.

  She ignored it – naturally – even though it rang three more times. It would only be some wretched door-to-door salesman or Jehovah’s Witnesses or something like that. Well they could jolly well go away and leave her in peace.

  She was very annoyed when whoever it was started throwing gravel at her bedroom window. She watched as the little stones scratched down the glass and pattered on to the tiles below.

  ‘Really!’ she said to herself. ‘This is too bad.’ She climbed out of bed and went over to the window. And it was Rigby, standing on the garden path, looking very handsome and rather wet.

  Margaret opened the window and leaned out.

  ‘Rigby darling!’ she said. ‘What have you been doing?

  You look as if you’ve been swimming in your clothes.’

  ‘Something like that,’ he said.

  ‘What a boy you are!’ she said admiringly. ‘Always up to tricks.’

  Rigg wasn’t interested in her admiration. ‘Are you going to let me in?’ he said.

  ‘I’ll be right down,’ his mother said. And when she’d opened the door and he’d squelched into the hall, ‘My word, you are wet and no mistake. Have you got any dry clothes to change into? You’re making a damp patch on my carpet.’

  He took off his shoes and socks and put them out on the doorstep. ‘I’ll change,’ he said. ‘Were you in bed?’

  ‘I thought I’d have an early night.’

  ‘I’ll come in and see you when I’m not so wet,’ he said, heading for the bathroom.

  She followed his dirty feet up the stairs. ‘I suppose you want to stay the night, is that it?’ she said. ‘You’ll have to make your own bed.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said rather tetchily. ‘That’s all right. You go back to your telly. I can manage.’