Edward took that moment to open the kitchen drawer and take out the carving knife. ‘Satisfied, are you? You bloody satisfied, you bastard?’ He was hysterical, shaking, holding the knife like a dagger. Alex was the one to move towards his brother to try and take the knife, but Rex ran to him and he tripped over the dog, sprawled on to the floor. Freedom’s face terrified Edward, the mask in place, no expression, the eyes black . . . He kept moving, coming closer and closer, unafraid, menacing, daring Edward to use the knife.
Evelyne was out in the street. Police and firemen were everywhere, clearing the debris. She screamed. ‘Dear God, stop them, someone stop them!’
Freedom reached out to grip his son by the hair, and Edward brought the knife down in one single, stabbing thrust. Freedom remained standing. He looked into his son’s face, his mask dropped, and his eyes full of anguish. Edward stepped back, stared first at his empty hand, then back at his father. Freedom made no attempt to remove the knife. He lifted his arms as if to embrace his son, then he fell forward, fell on to the knife, pushing it further into his heart.
There was a terrible silence in the room. No one moved. The colour drained from Edward’s face and he swayed. Alex still held Rex’s collar as the dog howled, trying to get to Freedom. Two policemen rushed in, kicking the door wide open, and took the situation in immediately. Rex barked furiously, his claws scrabbling on the lino to get to Freedom, Edward stood, stupefied, staring at his father. One of the policemen knelt down, slowly turned the body over. The blood had already formed a thick, dark pool, the knife in Freedom’s heart right up to the hilt.
‘Oh, Jesus God . . . right, you two lads, up against the wall, the pair of you, against the wall, now.’
Like terrified children, Edward and Alex stood with their backs against the wall. They watched in horror as their mother looked from the open kitchen door at the body. Her legs were shaking, the tremor running right through her . . . she pushed the policeman’s helping hand away, stumbled to kneel beside Freedom. She cradled him to her, the blood oozing over her chest as she rocked him in her arms. She made not a sound. They could see the blood spreading over her pinafore, his blood, blood to blood, heart to heart. Without looking at his brother, Alex put out his hand, and they grasped each other tight, but made no move towards their mother.
The drone of fighter planes coming closer made one of the policemen swear out loud, ‘Dear God, the bastards are coming again, and in broad daylight.’
The air-raid warning sounded for everyone to take cover. Edward’s black eyes clung to his mother, never leaving her face as he watched her cradle the body. He had never seen such raw agony. His body felt chilled, icy, as if his own life were draining steadily away. The grasp of his brother’s hand gave him assurance, but the voices of the police became distorted, unreal. ‘There’s an ambulance outside, we’ll get him outside later, best get to the shelter. There’s nothing we can do here until after the bombing. You two lads come with us, come on, move it.’
Alex and Edward were herded roughly out of the door by one of the policemen, and the other bent down to Evelyne. ‘Come on, come on Missus, the bombs’ll be dropping any minute. There’s nothing you can do for him now . . .’
Evelyne looked up and told him quietly that there was no need for the ambulance, he was dead . . . ‘Leave me, please, leave me with him, please.’
The policeman realized it was pointless to argue. She was so calm, like ice, and he didn’t want to waste any more time. The unearthly wail of the sirens continued, and he followed the others out. As he hurried to the shelter, he looked up. Broad daylight, the bastards had the audacity to come in broad daylight, like big, black birds in the sky.
The deadly bombs fell all around number twelve, but Evelyne couldn’t hear them. She sat on the floor cradling Freedom’s body in her arms, unable to cry. Her body felt wounded as if the blood were slowly dripping from her. Rex whimpered, crawling on his belly to lie beside her, licking the outstretched, lifeless hand.
Under the watchful eyes of the policemen, the brothers huddled in the shelter. Alex held Edward in his arms, and whispered to him, softly so the police couldn’t hear. ‘Edward? Listen to me, I’ll say that I did it. No one saw, no one will know, can you hear me?’
Holding his brother tight, needing his warmth, Edward listened.
‘I’m two years younger, they can’t do nothin’ to me, I’m a juvenile, they’ll not send me to jail. You can go to Cambridge, you can still go.’
Edward shuddered and clung even closer, feeling the softness of his brother’s skin. He kissed Alex’s neck.
‘See, it’s what Ma wants, what she’s dreamed of, so I’ll do it, I’ll say it was me that knifed him.’
Edward whispered close to Alex’s ear. ‘I didn’t mean it, you know that, I didn’t mean to do it . . . I’ll make it up to you, I will, I give you my word I’ll make it up to you.’
Alex seemed satisfied, patting his brother as if he were the younger of the two. Edward gave him a small thankful smile. ‘You won’t go back on your word, will you? I mean, you won’t ever tell anyone, will you?’
Alex blinked back his tears. ‘No, Eddie, I’ll never tell no one else, not even Ma if you don’t want me to.’
Edward gave him a hug, then peeked out of the shelter, said he thought the bombing was almost over. Alex looked at Edward, who no longer seemed to be distressed, no longer clung to him. Alex was shocked, confused, but it was too late, he had given his word.
The bombing had ceased and the all-clear sounded. Edward’s voice was calm. ‘Will you have to take my brother to the police station, sir? I should get back to our mother.’
The people who had sheltered with them lingered to watch, but they were moved on by another officer. Alex was taken away from Edward, and was led to the front of the house. The police officer took Edward aside. ‘Now, lad, best take care of your mother. We’ll have to take him into custody, understand? Tell her she can come down the station any time, but we have to get your brother’s statement.’
‘What’ll happen to him, sir? It was an accident, he didn’t mean it.’
That was not for the officer to say, but he gave Edward permission to have a few words with Alex before they took him away.
Some of the neighbours stood on their front steps, whispering and nodding at the ambulance and the police. Two air-raid wardens joined the gathering, and they all watched with interest, but the police kept them at a distance.
Edward went over to the silent Alex, standing between two police officers. He looked unafraid, his chin up and managing not to cry. Edward couldn’t say what he wanted, not with the officers standing so close . . . He caught Alex’s hand and tried to hug him, but the sergeant broke them apart, and pushed Edward roughly aside. ‘Don’t start anything, sonny, go to your mother, there’s a good lad. Let’s get this over with as quietly as we can. The whole street’s watching.’
Alex was led to a police wagon and helped up into the back of it. Edward called out to him that everything would be all right. He watched the white face staring from the back of the van as they drove off.
The policeman and the ambulance attendant stood talking at the front door, and Edward went to pass them to enter the house, but the policeman put a hand on his arm. ‘She’s in a bad state, and she won’t let anyone touch him. We’ve been waiting for a doctor so they can take him up to the morgue.’
Edward couldn’t face her. She sat in exactly the same position, with Freedom still in her arms. Rex still licked the lifeless hand.
‘Ma, Ma, you’ll have to let him go. They have to take him away.’
Slowly she turned vacant eyes towards him, and as if in slow motion she blinked. Prising her rigid arms from his father’s body, he held her. She was covered in blood, and it had dried, hard. The police and an attendant moved in, wrapped the body in a blanket and carried it outside to the ambulance, where the doctor was waiting. Several people watched the body being lifted into the ambulance, and the doctor examined it
briefly and told the ambulance crew to take it straight to the morgue, the hospital could do nothing. One of the spectators asked if bombs had dropped on this side of the street, if they had he hadn’t heard them. ‘I’ve got so that I don’t hear ’em any more, was it a bomb done it?’
The policeman shook his head, said quietly that this was a murder. They shut the back of the ambulance, not noticing the white dog standing by the closed doors.
The truck drove off, the dog followed, followed until his paws were bloody from running on the broken glass and rubble. He knew his master was inside the wagon, and he wouldn’t stop following it. In his exhaustion and the confusion of the traffic he began to follow the wrong vehicle, becoming more bewildered and confused, unable to find the scent, unable to find Freedom. In the end he lay in the gutter, chest heaving, tongue lolling, and his pink eyes closed as his heart gradually stopped.
Evelyne felt as if her heart had broken, it was so painful, she kept her hand pressed to her chest, to the dark, crusted stain. Edward made her some tea. She didn’t speak, but she sipped it, slowly. At long last she appeared to thaw out, the hand that had remained pressed to her chest moved, and she stared at her stained fingers. ‘Where’s Alex, where’s Alex?’
Edward bit his nails, looking guilty. ‘They took him down the station, Ma, just to give a statement.’
Evelyne was puzzled, she rubbed her head. ‘Why Alex, Eddie? Why have they taken Alex?’
Edward chewed his thumbnail down to the quick, he couldn’t face her. ‘Because he did it. They said you can see him any time.’
She knew it was a lie and she felt sick. She had to hold the table-top tightly, or she would have fainted. ‘Alex would never have touched him, Eddie, he worshipped the ground he walked on . . . Don’t ever lie to me, don’t lie to me!’ She gripped his hand so tight it was like a vice on his wrist.
He sobbed, ‘He said that he would say it was him, then I could go to Cambridge. He said it was what you wanted, Ma, what you dreamed of, you always said that.’
She stared at him, as if he were a stranger. He had sent his own brother to jail.
‘He’s still a juvenile, Ma, they can’t do anything to him, but they could to me. I’m two years older . . . It’s what you always wanted, isn’t it? You want me to go to university.’
She walked out into the hall, feeling her way along the walls, clinging to the banister as she walked up the stairs. Edward followed and stood at the foot of the stairs. ‘It’s what you want, isn’t it?’
She looked down at him, her eyes as cold as the North Sea. ‘It’s what you want. Well, you go, if Alex doesn’t mind, you go.’
‘I’ll show you, Ma, I’ll be somebody for you, I will, I’ll not stop until I prove it was the right thing to do . . . Ma? Ma?’
The bedroom door had slammed, and he banged on the banister rail with his fist.
Evelyne undressed, carefully folding each garment, the blood-stained apron, the blouse. She sat on the bed, touching it, running her fingers along the carved posts. One son at university, one in jail, Freda and Ed gone . . . this was what Rawnie had seen in the palm of her hand. ‘Beware the black birds in the sky. You will lose all you love.’ They were the planes, the German bombers, and it was true, she had lost Freedom, she had lost her love.
The scream echoed down through the derelict house. In the kitchen, Edward raised his head, looked up towards the bedroom. She frightened him, the terrible sound of her screaming, calling his father’s name over and over. At long last the screams stopped, and he heard sobbing, it reverberated through the whole house. He put his hands over his ears to try to block out the noise, but it went on and on. He rocked in his chair. ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it . . .’
When he took his hands away the house was silent. He didn’t know when he had fallen asleep, but he sat up sharply as he heard her calling for him.
‘Edward, bring me up some hot water, I have to wash.’
He carried up the big kettle, poured the water into her bowl.
‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
He had a pot of tea ready for her in the kitchen, and two slices of buttered toast. She was dressed in her best clothes. ‘I’ll go to the police station, poor Alex must think we’ve forgotten him. We’ll have a lot to be getting on with, there’s everything to arrange for you to go up to Cambridge, and then we’ll need the best lawyer there is.’
Edward was stunned – she was as calm as ever, but when he went to kiss her she pushed him away. She didn’t touch his tea or the toast, just counted the change in her purse. Edward would never forget the way she looked at him, it released him, released him from her. Her eyes were filled with such loathing – as if he were no more than an animal. She never let him touch her again, never held him in her arms, and never spoke of Freedom. She even removed the photograph of Freedom from the mantelpiece, along with those of her two sons.
Evelyne buried Freedom, and the local people showed their love and respect for their dead champion, walking in silence behind the hearse. Ten high-stepping men wearing dark pinstriped suits, bright neckerchiefs and gold earrings appeared as if from nowhere. Somehow news had reached them that their fighter was dead. They kept a few yards back from the rest of the mourners, their heads held high – arrogant, black-haired men.
When the ceremony was over, Evelyne remained beside the grave. There was an air of aloofness about her, an untouchable grief that made it difficult for her friends and neighbours to comfort her. Even Mrs Harris couldn’t take her in her arms. It was strange, but it was Jesse, who had brought the men from the clans, who stood alone with her when everyone else had gone. It was Jesse who sensed her need, her devastating loss. He held her gently, and she could smell the same musky oil that Freedom used to wear.
‘We burn our dead’s possessions so they take them with them, and in that way they rest and will not haunt the living.’
‘They’ve already gone, Jesse, went in the Blitz.’
‘Have you nothing he were proud of? He’s a Prince, he cannot lie without a treasure, with no talisman.’
Evelyne remembered the necklace, how proud Freedom had been the day he gave it to her. She hesitated.
It was all she had left of him, all she had to remember the good times. Jesse seemed to know instinctively that there was something and his black eyes went darker than dark as he whispered,
‘He loved thee, woman, more’n ye may know, but he was the son of a dukkerin, his blood was royal. He has strong powers. No church, no service will give him peace. You bury the gold tonight, place it at the foot of the cross and he’ll rest quiet.’
Evelyne knew now, more than ever, how much of his past Freedom had given up for her, how much of his life she knew nothing of, as if in death he had returned to the wild, returned to his people.
‘Will you sing that song for me. He loved it so.’
Jesse straightened his waistcoat, and in a clear voice that rang out across the graveyard, he sang,
Can you rokka Romany,
Can you play the bosh,
Can you jal adrey the staripen,
Can you chin the cosh . . .
Evelyne stared at her reflection, her face worn and pale, her naked shoulders as white as her shift. She carefully clasped on the gold and pearl necklace and then each earring. She searched her own face, her own sad eyes for the past, eyes brimming with glistening tears; they once again sparkled with youth and vitality. In the half-light of the small bedside lamp she was sure, sure he had entered the room. A small china figure was placed in front of the lamp and, caught at that moment, held in the beam of the light, it formed a lifesize shadow. Evelyne carefully inched the tiny figure forward until the shadow seemed to stand over her bed. She then lay down and lifted her arms and the shadow kissed and enveloped her, and she knew he would never leave her.
The police constable took Alex a mug of hot tea. The boy had hardly had a bit of food since his arrest. As the key turned in the lock, Alex looked up with a pitiful expression of e
xpectancy on his face.
‘Here, lad, get this down you, you’ll feel better for it.’
Alex’s hands shook as he cupped the tin mug. His teeth chattered against the rim, and his face crumpled. The constable felt sorry for him, and sat down on the bunk. ‘He was buried today. Streets of people walked behind him to say goodbye. They gave him a champion’s . . .’
He broke off to grab the mug from Alex. He had begun sobbing, his whole body shaking, and he was spilling the scalding tea on himself. All night he sobbed for his father, until he was exhausted, totally drained. The police officers heaved sighs of relief when at last the boy in their charge was silent.
Edward walked across the cobbled courtyard towards the main hall. Hundreds of black-gowned students milled around, shouting and calling to each other, joyously reunited with old pals. Cycles wobbled past, bells rang and everywhere the eye fell there were students. The excitement was contagious and exhilarating, even for the nervous first-timers, the freshmen who looked shyly to one another with small embarrassed smiles. Edward wanted to touch the stone of the walls, wanted to get down on his knees to kiss the cobbled quadrangle, he still could not quite believe he was here, he had done it, he was at Cambridge. He could not contain the feeling of achievement. It was bubbling inside him, bursting from his brain. He had made it. As he crossed the threshold into the main hall for his first assembly, he noticed the stone was worn, curving at the centre from hundreds of years and thousands of students’ hurried steps. Now it was his turn, his time, and he would use every second, every moment. Edward knew that there would be many students who could match him academically, but doubted if anyone, bar himself, would have committed murder to cross this worn, hallowed step. This would be one accomplishment he would never think or speak of; if he did it would destroy him.
As Edward crossed the threshold into his new life he left behind the East End, his mother and his brother. He could not lose or forget as easily the last image of his father. This memory, like a clearly painted picture, was not of when he had seen his dead father cradled in his mother’s arms, it was not of when he had turned to threaten him, it was not even of the smile he had on his face when Edward had felt the knife cut into his heart. The image, the clear, brilliantly painted picture that swept into his dreams and often into his waking hours, was of a man with flowing black hair – a handsome wild man with black angry eyes. The man was Freedom holding his bare knuckled fist up ready to fight, Freedom, the fighter from Devil’s Pit, Freedom alive in the days before Edward had even been born, before he had married Evelyne.
The Legacy (1987) Page 56
