Too Many Heroes

by Jan Turk Petrie

  Something’s amiss. Once she’s pulled the first lot of pints, she’ll check out the back, see if it’s all looking okay.

  Paying for his half of mild, Charlie takes hold of her hand and pats it like you might reassure some elderly relative. ‘He’ll be back with his tail between his legs before long.’ Though he means well, the man’s sympathy is worse than the others’ scorn.

  More early birds stroll in demanding cider and stout and who knows what else. Pouring the stout is a slow business. She glances up to the clock – coming up to half past and still no sign of Frank. When someone asks for a gin, she notices the label on this new bottle is a tad skewwhiff.

  It’s a good ten minutes before she gets the chance to check the stores and the side entrance. The door to the yard is still securely locked and the new combination padlock on the yard door is firmly shut with no sign it’s been tampered with. She gives it a rattle and it holds well enough.

  Graces hurries back to the bar and the impatience that’s built up in her brief absence.

  She’s working at full whack when a commotion in the passageway draws her attention away. As bold as bloody brass, Johnny Davidson and Cyril Lloyd come strolling out of her kitchen. ‘Bye, Dennis,’ Cyril calls behind him. He raises his fancy hat to her. ‘Evening, Grace.’

  She rushes through to block their exit. ‘Who the hell let you two in?’

  ‘We could see you were rushed off your feet in there, couldn’t we, Johnny? Didn’t want to disturb you when we only needed to pop in and have a quick word with your hubby.’ Lloyd’s voice is all smarm. ‘Glad to see your better half is on the mend after that nasty fall of his.’

  Davidson slides past her. ‘Didn’t that good-looking barman of yours mention we were going to call round? He promised he would but I ’spect he forgot. Must have had other things on his mind.’ She feels her colour rising. He doffs his hat, blatantly mocking her. ‘I see you’ve got customers to serve; we really mustn’t detain you any longer, Mrs Stevenson. Good evening to you.’

  Both men have such an air of smugness about them; if she had a man’s strength, she’d knock those stupid smirks right off their cocksure faces.

  Around eight o’clock, Thin Harry comes in for his usual. Still in his working clothes, he stands there uncharacteristically quiet. ‘I haven’t had a chance to thank you for everything you did,’ she tells him. ‘We – Dennis and me that is – we really appreciate all your help.’ Lowering her voice, she adds: ‘I can’t think what would have happened if you hadn’t come along.’

  He puts his hand up like a traffic policeman to stop her saying more. ‘Anyone would have done the same.’ Grace tells him his pint is on the house, but he insists on paying. After taking a long sip of bitter he says, ‘No Frank tonight then?’

  ‘No. I’m afraid he hasn’t showed up for some reason.’

  ‘Right.’ Harry manages to give that single word any number of possible meanings.

  She leans across the counter. ‘Look, I really ought to go and check on Dennis; would you do me a favour Harry and hold the fort here – just for five minutes?’

  Before he answers, he takes his time shaking out a Woodbine and lighting it. ‘How d’you know I won’t make off with all the takin’s once yer back’s turned?’

  She pats the sleeve of his shirt. ‘Because I trust you, Harry.’

  He blows a plume of smoke down towards his boots. ‘Well don’t go trusting me too far.’

  She finds Dennis fully dressed and sitting at the kitchen table. His face is all manner of lurid colours; the fiery ginger stubble doesn’t help.

  ‘You’re up then.’ She’s pleased to see his bad eye has opened a fraction more than it had this morning.

  ‘Ah well, I couldn’t abide lyin’ in that ruddy bed any longer. Had a bit of a struggle gettin’ down the stairs but, as you see, I made it all right.’ His attempt at a smile brings on a wince and a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘What did Cyril and Johnny want that was so flamin’ urgent it couldn’t wait?’

  He won’t meet her eye. ‘Just a spot of financial advice. As a matter of fact, it was very helpful; very good of them to go out of their way like they did.’

  She plants herself in front of him. ‘What sort of financial advice?’

  Dennis looks away.

  ‘Couldn’t it have waited a couple of days?’

  He continues to act like he hasn’t heard. ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘What was it then – a dead cert at Cheltenham?’

  ‘Nothin’ like that, woman.’ To stand up he’s forced to lean on the table. ‘I’m goin’ upstairs to watch the television. That alright with you, is it?’

  When she tries to help him, he stays her hand. ‘I can manage by meself.’ He hesitates at the foot of the stairs. ‘Oh, and by the way, Cheltenham’s not on again till November.’

  Back in the bar, she’s still fuming; it’s all she can do not to bite the customers’ heads off, especially when they keep asking her where Frank’s got to. ‘How should I know?’ she tells the lot of them. At least no one asks about Dennis.

  The evening drags on, but she does her best to plaster on a smile and say a few words to each punter. She can’t help but look over their heads because any second she’s expecting Frank to come in through the door. And then there was that business of him hiding the fact that he’d gone and saved that little boy from drowning. Could he have scarpered for good?

  Grace sighs as she slides the last bolt across. Where the hell can Frank have got to? With her emotions all over the place, it’s hard to feel any satisfaction that she managed the whole shift by herself. Thursdays are always reasonably quiet but tomorrow night – Friday night – will be a different kettle of fish altogether. Though close to tears, she forces herself to consider the practicalities. If Frank’s still AWOL by the end of the afternoon shift, she’ll have to get someone else to help. Young Jack is only good for a bit of pot washing and such like. ’Praps her friend Dot might be persuaded to help out, just over the weekend. But surely it won’t come to that.

  When she’s finished in the pub, she unties her pinny and goes through into their private quarters.

  Grace is dismayed to see Dennis’s hat and jacket are missing from the peg. She rushes to the street door hoping to catch sight of him, but she’s left calling his name out in the dark and empty street.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The light slowly fades until the room is swallowed up by darkness. Determined not to sit on the chair, Frank has no other option but to lie down on the dusty, hard floor. There’s no chance of him sleeping; to pass the time he looks up through the high window hoping to glimpse a few stars in the tiny section of night sky he’s able to see.

  At the sound of approaching footsteps, Frank scrabbles to his feet. He’s blinded for a second when the overhead light is switched on from outside. He waits to hear the key turn in the lock, gets himself ready to rush at whoever is about to come in.

  He runs headfirst straight into someone’s flabby stomach but doesn’t get more than a yard or more before others are tackling him. Between them, they drag him back into the room and pin him down in the chair.

  The one he’s winded takes his time straightening up and then comes towards him. He recognises him as the same fat git who’d wedged him into the back seat of the car. With his sleeves rolled up, the man’s mermaid tattoo is fully exposed – too delicate a creature to decorate this lump of a man. The bastard takes his time as he checks that he’s fully restrained before he plunges his fist straight into Frank’s gut. The blow is well aimed – he can’t draw breath, can’t even double up pinned back like he is.

  ‘Well now, what’s goin’ on in here, lads?’ The voice belongs to Jack Dawson.

  The man himself comes strolling in dressed in a jacket and tie like a toff about to go out on the town. A smile is tightening on the man’s lips.

  Frank forces air into his lungs as Dawson comes forward to stand directly in front of him; the man’s crotch only inches
from his face. He lifts up Frank’s chin. ‘No need for violence, I’m sure you’d agree, Mr Danby – that’s what you’re calling yourself these days, I believe.’ Dawson steps back and nods to the two behind to release Frank. This outnumbered, there’s no point in even thinking about fighting them. Glad to have his arms back, he rubs at each shoulder in turn and then rotates his neck.

  ‘I think you’ve made a mistake,’ he tells Dawson. He needs to be patient, bide his time until the odds are more in his favour. ‘You’ve seen me yerself in the Eight Bells. I’m just an ordinary barman goin’ about my business an’ not interested in any bugger else’s.’ He looks the man in the eye. ‘You’re mistaken if you think I’m a threat to any of you lot.’

  ‘Is that right?’ A nod of his head is the signal to bring a second chair into the room; this one is more comfortable by far.

  Dawson sits down on it, curls up his long legs and then starts swivelling the thing this way and that. He takes a while longer to adjust his cufflinks one at a time.

  Finally, he speaks: ‘Look at me.’ He waits for Frank to oblige. ‘That’s better. Now then, tell me – do I seem to you like the sort of man who makes mistakes?’

  The threat is clear enough. Frank shakes his head.

  ‘Good. So now we understand each other a bit better. Don’t you go pullin’ on my chain, son, or you’ll make me angry. You may be just a barman these days, as you put it, but I make it my business to find out about the people who move into my patch an’ you, Frankie boy, are sellin’ yourself short.’

  The chair creaks as he leans back into the leather. ‘For starters, I know you were goin’ by the name of Walton back in forty-three – not long after you went AWOL, was it?’

  He checks over his manicured fingernails one at a time. ‘Got yourself a ten-bob boxin’ license and even made a few quid at it. Despite you bein’ a coward an’ a ruddy deserter. Heard you was quite the hard man in the ring back then, though I can see you’ve gone a bit soft since.’

  Behind Dawson, Fatty is grinning all over his face, enjoying the show. Out of shape like that, he has to be the weakest link, the one to go for when the chance comes.

  ‘But then it all went horribly wrong, didn’t it, Frankie boy? You got carried away one night – hit some poor bugger too hard.’

  ‘It wasn’t –’

  Dawson springs from his chair, clamps Frank’s chin in his hand and peers down at him eyeball to eyeball. ‘Don’t want to hear it, son – makes no flamin’ odds to me whether it was a fair fight or not.

  ‘However,’ he releases his grip, ‘you won’t be surprised to learn, Frankie, that there’s a few blokes up in White City who still bear a grudge to this day about what happened. Blokes who are dyin’ – if you excuse my pun – to know the whereabouts of the man responsible for turnin’ their little brother into a droolin’ idiot.’

  Regaining his composure, the man starts to pace back and forth in front of him. Frank looks beyond Dawson to where Fatty’s standing with legs apart at roughly the midway point between him and the door. He can see a light shining down the stairwell. They’re several stories up here – is it worth the risk of a beating if he makes a run for it and fails? It’s unlikely the rest of the building will be empty; big place like this could be used for all manner of activities.

  ‘No need for you to look so worried, sunshine – I had you brought here tonight just so we can have this friendly chat.’ Dawson sits back down. His laugh is far from genuine. ‘I bin hearin’ how you’re quite the ladies’ man.’

  Leaning forward, he peers at Frank’s face – those ice blue eyes inspect one side and then the other. ‘I must say, I don’t know how he’s managed to keep his good looks. All that boxin’ an’ there’s hardly a mark on him, is there, lads?’

  The men say nothing. ‘I’m sure our friend ’ere would prefer it stays that way. Well, you’ll be pleased to know I’m not plannin’ on roughin’ you up no more, Frankie, not unless you was to disappoint me.’

  He shakes his head. ‘That bint of a landlady you’ve been knockin’ off might not look at you twice at you if we was to rearrange those oh so handsome features of yours.’ Dawson brushes at his trousers, picks off a piece of lint and drops it. ‘Well now, Mr Danby, you and I will be doin’ a bit of business together – somethin’ that will be mutually beneficial to us both. I have a job that wants doin’ and let’s just say I’d rather it was done by someone not connected to me – if you follow my drift?’

  ‘What sort of job?’

  Dawson looks down at his gold watch. ‘’Fraid I haven’t got time to go into the details right now. Don’t like to keep a lady waitin’ for too long – never a good idea as I’m sure you’d agree. We’ll just leave it at that for the time bein’.’

  Leaning on the chair arms, he gets to his feet. ‘Let’s give you a few more hours to enjoy our hospitality – just to seal the deal, as it were.’

  Halfway to the door he spins round, ‘Don’t forget my chair, lads, we don’t want our new friend ’ere gettin’ too comfortable, do we?’ His eyes linger on Frank’s face. ‘We’ll talk again later.’

  The rest of them follow behind their master and the door is pulled to. Before Frank can react, he hears the lock turn and the next second the overhead light is switched off, leaving him in the dark.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Friday 27th June

  On the other side of the door, Grace can hear someone padding down the hallway. Heavy breathing and then the lock turning. Poking her head around the door, Dot’s mum is still in her non-too-clean dressing gown; the back of her grey-brown hair sticking up in every direction. ‘Hello, Grace,’ she says. ‘Not seen you in ages – how are you?’

  ‘Fine ta. Really sorry to disturb you so early, Mrs Weston, I just wanted to catch your Dorothy before she goes off to work.’

  The woman’s interest is aroused, her brown eyes trained on Grace with undisguised curiosity. She opens the door wide. ‘Dorothy!’ she calls behind her. ‘Get yourself on down here; Grace is at the door wanting to speak to ya.’

  ‘Don’t stand there on ceremony, come in.’ Waddling on through, she asks, ‘Cup a tea?’

  Grace wishes she couldn’t smell the woman’s body odour. ‘Just had a drink at home, ta all the same.’

  ‘Come through to the kitchen, love. Mind, Ralf may not have his shirt on yet – though I dare say you’ve seen worse.’

  The small room is in its usual state – stuff piled up on every surface and last night’s tea things a tower climbing out of the sink. Smells like they had liver and onions. The curtains are still pulled tight giving everything such a peculiar red glow, as though they’re all inside the belly of a giant beast.

  At least Ralf is fully dressed and standing next to the table eating a piece of toast. ‘Mornin’, Gracie,’ he says, his smile exposing those missing front teeth. ‘They’re sayin’ on the wireless it’s gonna be another scorcher.’

  Mrs Weston aims another shout at the ceiling: ‘Dorothy!’ They busy themselves, trying to hide their curiosity as they wait for their daughter to appear.

  ‘What the hell – you’re up an’ about early,’ her friend says, buttoning up her blouse as she walks in. ‘Nothin’ bad’s happened, ’as it?’

  ‘Not really, at least I don’t think so.’ Grace moves a pile of clothes aside so she can sit down on a chair. The other three remain standing, each staring down at her.

  ‘Dennis went out last night an’ he hasn’t come back; least not yet anyway.’ She decides not to mention the beating he’d taken before that. ‘He’s done the same thing a couple of times in the past but not since I got back from Brighton. On top of that, Frank – our barman – has gone an’ taken himself off somewhere without so much as a by your leave. I’ll be on me own in the pub tonight. Being it’s a Friday, I’ll likely be rushed off me feet an’ I’ve got no bugger to help me.’

  She draws herself in, tries not to give in to the tears that are pricking the corners of her eyes. ‘Anyway,
I was wonderin’ if you could give me a hand this evening, Dot? Otherwise I don’t know what the hell I’m goin’ to do.’ It’s a struggle to keeping her voice steady. ‘I know you’ll have bin to work an’ you’re bound to be tired an’ all that. I can manage by meself till half six, or seven even, at a push. It would only be from then till eleven. I’d do all the clearing up meself.’

  ‘My word, them men have left you in a pretty state, you poor love.’ Dot’s mum pours out a cup of tea and pushes it in front of Grace. ‘Get that down ya, girl.’

  ‘Tea’s hardly gonna help,’ Ralf says. ‘Would you care for a drop of Pusser’s rum in that?’

  Moved by their kindness, Grace shakes her head. ‘No ta – honestly I’m fine, just a bit worried about everything.’

  Dot takes hold of her hand and sits down beside her. ‘Of course you’re not fine an’ course I’ll help you out. Anytime – you only had to ask.’ Dot swings her arm, pulling hers with it like they used to when they were kids. ‘Mind you, I’ll be wantin’ the goin’ rate for the job.’

  ‘Will you look at the ruddy time,’ Mrs Weston shrieks. ’We’ll all be late if we don’t get a move on.’ She starts to run a brush through her hair.

  ‘Fancy the two of ’em just buggerin’ off an’ leavin’ you to it.’ Ralf shakes his head. ‘You’d never Adam and Eve it.’

  His wife is determined to yank that brush on through a tangled strand of hair. ‘Bloody men, eh.’

  ‘Don’t you go tarring us all with the same brush, Lottie Weston.’ Having finished his breakfast, Ralf starts to roll a cigarette, licking the edge of the paper and then pausing to pull a strand of stray tobacco from his tongue. ‘Maybe the two of ’em have gone off somewhere together?’ He twists the end. ‘Have you thought of that?’

  Grace catches the stern look his wife gives him. ‘Don’t go talkin’ so soft, you old fool.’ She waddles towards the stairs clearly intending to get dressed at last. ‘I ’spect they’ll both be back soon enough an’ spinnin’ all kinds of yarns to cover their misdeeds.’