The Legacy l-1

by Lynda La Plante

  Evelyne let rip. ‘ “Our…?” What do you mean, “Our”? That little bugger wasn’t ours, Da, he wasn’t worth the worry we all had, he had it coming to him!’

  Hugh stared in horror as she faced him, arms folded, with such a look of fury on her face he was astounded. He threw the papers at her. ‘The lad had his throat cut by those vermin and that’s all you can say about it, he had it coming to him? What kind of woman are you?’

  Evelyne turned away from him and he walked out, slamming the door so hard the house shook. Why hadn’t she told Hugh the whole story, why hadn’t she told him now? She knew it was because of Gladys, and she felt guilty. She went up to her room and from the window she could see Hugh and Gladys running up the road. If she cut across the fields as fast as she could and up the other side of the mountain, she could get to Freedom before them.

  The crowd roared. The two boxers were well-matched, and both around the same weight. Even though Freedom was five inches taller, Taffy had the extra inches in muscle, his solid body straining and sweating as he threw punch after punch. Freedom was up to his old dancing tricks, as light on his feet as a woman. He seemed to be running rings round Taffy.

  ‘Git the bugger to sit still, Taffy lad!’

  They were already into five rounds, with neither boxer giving points away. They were even and both looked strong enough to go to the distance. The bell clanged and they split up, heading back to their corners. They were both filthy from the earth and coal dust they kicked up as they fought. Taffy panted and gulped at the water, spat it out and looked at Roberts.

  ‘He’s the toughest I’ve had yet, you buggers, he’s like a ruddy fly dancing around me.’

  Roberts rubbed Taffy down and he kept up a steady flow of instructions. ‘Tire him, let him dance his feet off, he’ll soon slow down, but don’t stop the punches hitting home.’

  ‘What d’ye mean, don’t stop ‘em, I’m trying hard enough and can’t get at him, he’s clobbered me twice.’

  Roberts could see that Freedom’s punch had caught Taffy’s right eye, which was swelling up like a tangerine.

  Throughout the break the crowd yelled, ‘Tafffyyyyy-yyyy … Taffyyyyyy …’ No one shouted for Freedom, the gypsies sat silent and watchful. They were acutely aware of the growing drunkenness on the far side of the ring, and the echo of the men’s voices combined with the gurgle of the waterfall made a horrible, rumbling, guttural noise. Like animals they were baying for blood.

  Sir Charles sipped from his brandy flask, gazing at the black-haired gypsy through half-closed eyes. He watched the lean body swerving, dodging, the strong legs keeping up the strange dance steps, and wondered how long the man could keep up such a movement. He didn’t seem to tire in the least, but one look at his opponent told him the big Taffy Brown was starting to tire. Sir Charles knew that the lad was waiting for an opening — knew Freedom was merely toying with the Welshman — and he was excited, grinding his teeth, a habit he had had since childhood. The lad was even better than he had been told, like a wild animal. But the most important thing about him was his intelligence. He was playing for time … an intelligent boxer? Unheard of!

  Trying to predict when Freedom would knock Taffy out, Sir Charles turned to Ed and saw the same dazzled look on his friend’s face. ‘What do you think of him?’

  ‘Gawd help us, he’s beautiful, just beautiful, what I wouldn’t do to get me ‘ands on ‘im, work wiv ‘im. ‘E’s world-class material guv, look at ‘im, dancing round like ‘e was fresh as a daisy.’

  Evelyne raced up the path, her breath heaving in her chest. She cut her hand on the brambles as she jumped the stream, but kept on running.

  Rawnie was washing out Jesse’s clothes. There was no visible sign of anyone but she could hear the sound of running footsteps. She straightened up, her hackles rising. It was clearer now, someone running, and running fast … there was fear, and Rawnie’s dark eyes flashed around the dark mountainside.

  Evelyne gasped for breath and rounded the curved pathway, with still a good mile to go. She paused as another massive roar echoed down from Devil’s Pit. The next moment her heart lurched as a scrawny hand gripped her hair from behind and a razor-sharp knife pricked her throat. Her legs went from under her as a hard kick from hobnailed boots cut into the backs of her knees. She fell forward, and felt her hair torn out by the roots. Screaming with agony and fear, she rolled over and found herself looking straight into Rawnie’s face.

  Rawnie’s eyes blazed, the knife held high, and Evelyne shouted ‘Rawnie! Rawnie!’ As if a cloud had lifted from her face, Rawnie relaxed and backed away from Evelyne.

  ‘Remember me, Rawnie, it’s Evelyne … Rawnie, it’s me, the girl with the red hair, look, I wear your earring, see?’

  She pushed back her hair and showed Rawnie the gold hoop earring. Rawnie stared, and Evelyne saw the small, clenched hand loosen its grip on the knife, and then Rawnie sat back on her heels and smiled.

  ‘O lelled thee for a jal a moskeying, an you as almost mullo mas.’

  Evelyne didn’t understand and Rawnie explained, ‘I thought you were a spy, you were almost dead meat.’

  Evelyne got to her feet, still panting for breath. She had to find Freedom, had to speak to him. Rawnie pointed up to the mountain. Freedom was still fighting, the roars of the crowd echoed down.

  It was very difficult to explain to Rawnie, but Evelyne told her of the newspaper cuttings and how they were discovered in her pocket. She didn’t mention the possibility that her father could cause trouble, just that the men might turn nasty. She wanted to warn Freedom — warn the whole camp that they should leave. Rawnie laughed and asked what the papers said about the killings.

  ‘This is hardly the time to discuss it — the fact is the villagers will believe Freedom guilty.’

  Rawnie looked closely at Evelyne and then turned away, her voice soft and quiet, strange. ‘Thee don’t believe this to be true, but the gav mush do, is that so?’

  Evelyne looked puzzled, and Rawnie told her that gav mush was the law, then she spat on the ground. She had changed so much, there was something chilling about her. Still as beautiful, but there was a nasty, sarcastic edge to everything she said. Her eyes were expressionless, then mocking, and she waded into the stream to prevent Jesse’s shirt from floating away. She slapped it on to the bank, and lifted her skirts high.

  ‘Thee washed me down that night, thee saw the marks on my body, what you say should be done to those that had their way with me? What you say, paleface? Let the gav mush smack their filthy hands that pawed and prodded into my body? Smack their hands and say, “She was only a gyppo whore”?’

  Evelyne shook her head as the cheers carried down from Devil’s Pit, and they could have been back in Cardiff inside that nightmare tent. Rawnie rolled Jesse’s shirt and laid it on a rock, banged it, twisted it. She seemed in no hurry to help Freedom.

  ‘I’m Jesse’s manushi now, he made me romms him to show he didn’t care what those vermin had done to my body. I wear his ring now, I’m Jesse’s woman.’

  Satisfied the shirt was clean, Rawnie shook the wet material and then in a strange movement wrapped the wet shirtsleeves round her waist and gave Evelyne a slant-eyed look. Rawnie moved closer and closer to Evelyne, her eyes hypnotic, just like the time she had read Evelyne’s palm.

  ‘I’ll tell you the tatcho, paleface, only you’ll know, and I can see in your yocks ye’ll not betray me, mande mui.’

  Closer and closer she came until her hands traced Evelyne’s face. ‘We done each one — one by one — an’ Jesse let me have their throats, look into their eyes before the blade was drawn across.’

  Evelyne stepped back, afraid of her.

  ‘The best was the last, sucking on his toffee-apple, and I was right behind him, just a small move and …’

  Rawnie flicked open the razor-sharp knife and cut through the air. She laughed delightedly at Evelyne’s shocked face, then she turned in one sweeping move, her voice trilled ‘Kushti rardi, E
velyne’, and she was gone.

  Evelyne called after her, but the girl didn’t turn back. She heard another roar of men’s voices, cheering in unison and ran towards Devil’s Pit, hoping to God she could get there before her father.

  Gladys hammered on the post office door, looking up at the windows and calling for Ben Rees, the postman. His wife opened a window and called down that they were all at the fair, Gladys shouted that she had to use their telephone to call the police. Hysterical, she screamed that the killer, Freedom Stubbs, was up at Devil’s Pit.

  By the time Gladys had got through to the police a group of women had gathered outside the post office. In murmurs and whispers they passed the name of Freedom Stubbs among them. Lizzie-Ann, always one to be in on anything going on, came rushing up. The garbled story gained detail. Evelyne Jones knew the killer, he was one of the gyppos, and he was boxing up at Devil’s Pit.

  ‘Let’s get up there and warn the menfolk. We’ll get the bugger even if the law can’t.’

  Rolling pins were hastily collected, and one woman who had armed herself with a heavy frying pan swung it around, saying she’d take first crack at the vermin. Lizzie-Ann fuelled their rising tempers, telling them that Evelyne Jones knew more than she let on. Schoolmistress she may be, but why hadn’t she shown anyone what the newspapers said? She’d concealed evidence, that’s what she’d done. Half the women were illiterate and would never have read the papers anyway, but, egged on by Lizzie-Ann’s bitterness towards Evelyne, they went on the march, fists clenched and rolling pins at the ready, heading for the Devil’s Pit.

  Mr Beshaley was beside himself, there was not a soul at the station, even to collect his ticket. There wasn’t a horse or a cart, nothing in sight, and Devil’s Pit was a good five miles up the mountainside.

  Doc Clock chugged by in his precious motor. He’d been up at Mrs Morgan’s on an emergency call, only to discover it was her dog that was ailing. The poor animal was very old and couldn’t understand that with the strike on Mrs Morgan didn’t have the money to put in the purse for him to take to the butcher. He was turning nasty, hanging on like grim death to the shopping bag and biting anyone who tried to take it from him. Doc Clock’s thumb was bandaged to prove it.

  As if that wasn’t enough, the Doc was confronted by a lunatic in a dreadful suit who demanded to be driven to Devil’s Pit. Beshaley took out his fob watch and looked in desperation at the Doc. ‘The fight, I’ve got to get up there to see the fight,’ he said, ‘I’ll pay you whatever you ask — anything — it’s a matter of extreme urgency, sir, I beg you.’

  Doc Clock tooted his horn as he rounded a curve on the narrow mountain track, and smiled to himself. At long last he’d got a watch on the end of his chain. Beshaley held on grimly as the old motor bounced and swerved along the unlit track. Twice he thought they’d go over the edge, but the motor somehow weaved its way back to the centre. They could hear the cheering and shouting, and Beshaley stood up, banging on the windscreen, and bellowed for the Doc to go faster.

  Evelyne stood on tiptoe at the back of the screaming crowd, but she couldn’t even see the men fighting. She pushed her way through the crowd and, spotting Jesse, made her way towards him.

  ‘Jesse … Jesse? Do you remember me? … Jesse?’

  He shrank away from her, wondering if she’d seen him lift the man’s wallet. His eyes narrowed and he turned to dart back into the crowd, but Evelyne caught his sleeve, and then he recognized her by her red hair tumbling down from her schoolmistress’s bun. She was Freedom’s paleface friend. Jesse could barely hear what she had to say over the roar of the crowd, but when he understood they weaved and elbowed their way through the men to the opposite side of the makeshift boxing ring where the gypsy men watched the fight together. He squeezed his way among them, cupping his hand to their ears and whispering, and they passed the message on.

  Evelyne looked at the ring and shuddered. Freedom and Taffy were in the centre, Taffy bleeding badly from a cut below his eye. Jesse moved like a dart, in and out between the men, then he returned to her side. ‘The wagon’s yonder, git outta here.’

  He slipped away so fast that Evelyne had no time to grab his arm, and the gypsies were quietly leaving, one by one. The combined noise of the waterfall and the men’s voices was deafening, and across the ring she could see fists raised as the miners yelled, ‘Take the man out, Tarry!’ Over their heads she could see her father, way over on the far side, shoving his way towards the ring. His face was set, he looked vicious, and he too was shouting, but she couldn’t make out the words.

  The bell clanged for the end of the round, and Freedom walked abruptly to his corner and sat down, snorting through his gumshield. He was surprised Jimmy One-Eye didn’t take it out of his mouth, and where was the water? Then Jimmy leaned over and cupped his hand to Freedom’s ear. ‘Go down, mun, first punch go down, they know who you are, all hell’s gonna be let loose — police’ll be here, we’re gonna have to do a runner.’

  Hugh was close to the side of the ring, pointing at Freedom and yelling at the top of his voice, ‘Killer! Killer!’

  The men around him tried to hear what he was saying and Evelyne could see him making gestures, slicing his hand across his throat and pointing again to Freedom.

  Taffy’s corner men worked hard, rubbing the big man down, plastering Vaseline over his swelling face. Taffy was heaving for breath and trying to listen to his trainer’s instructions. He gasped with pain as they painted his cut then flapped their hands and blew to dry the paint. It was smarting so badly his eyes were watering, but he could have been weeping. His hopes of the Heavyweight Championship were dimming — he couldn’t even get near the bastard.

  The bell clanged, and Freedom was up on his feet before the clapper was still. He looked fresh, his breathing under control but his body glistening with sweat. Taffy lumbered into the centre and hunched up, somehow he knew he was going to get it, that was it, he knew it was coming, but he wasn’t going to let the gyppo get him down easily.

  Freedom opened up his defences and looked as if he’d walked into the right uppercut. Over he went, falling back against the ropes, which sagged under him. The crowd went berserk and Taffy gazed in astonishment at the slumped body, the ref. bending over him, counting and waving his arms. The crowd joined in as he counted.

  ‘One … two … three … four …’

  Beshaley ran from the Doc’s car just in time to see Freedom take the final punch. He slumped against the rocks, feeling as if he himself had been hit, winded. Through the celebrating crowd he could make out the tall figure of Sir Charles and was about to push forward to talk to him when he saw Taffy’s manager. Sir Charles was shaking his hand, congratulating him.

  Doc Clock panted over to Beshaley, muttering that nobody had told him about any fight. Beshaley had paled visibly, and the Doc was concerned, but he was bodily moved aside by a group of women. ‘Dear God,’ he thought, ‘what is the world coming to when women are watching boxing matches?’ He was walloped on the back with a frying pan, and spun round.

  ‘Oh, sorry, bach, didn’t recognize you!’ said the woman.

  Taffy was riding high on the shoulders of two miners, and the makeshift ring was swarming with men, dancing and yelling, while Hugh Jones stood in the centre, screaming for quiet, his arms waving and his face bright red with fury. ‘Quiet… Quiet… Listen to me, will you listen to me!’

  Freedom went inside the wagon while Jesse organized the hitching of the horses. Outside the wagon the noise of the men was diminishing, and one voice was raised high above the rest, a voice screaming, ‘Murderer! Murderer!’ The wagon rocked as the horse was backed into the shafts. Hugh Jones was slowly getting the men to listen, despite the added din of the high-pitched screams of the women who had just arrived. ‘The police couldn’t find him and they been lookin’, we got him right here, here amongst us … Freedom Stubbs killed Willie, slit his throat, are we gonna let him get away with it?’

  Evelyne put her hands over her ear
s to shut out her father’s voice. She wanted to turn and run — run away from the madness echoing round the mountain like the Devil himself. She stood up and tried to get to her father’s side.

  ‘Turn the wagon over, get him out, get him out!’ Evelyne was within feet of her father, screaming at him to stop, but a clod of earth flew through the air, narrowly missing her head.

  ‘Tell us what you know, Bitch! Bitch!’ Frying pans and rolling pins thudded down on heads, the women were screaming and pointing at Evelyne. A man grabbed Evelyne from behind and held her arms. ‘This is the one, she’s known all along …’

  Now Hugh was fighting to get to his daughter. Evelyne pulled her arms free and lashed out at her father with her fist.

  Miners swarmed around the heavy wagon, heaving together to overturn it. The horse reared and kicked, striking a man on the side of his head. The wagon rolled forward, heading directly into the crowd around Hugh and Evelyne, and the men and women sprang away in fear for their lives.

  Jesse whipped up the horse and lashed out at a man who tried to bring him down from the wagon. As they careered through the crowd, Freedom leaned out of the back and grabbed Evelyne by the waist. She tried to fight him off, but she was lifted off her feet and hauled on board as the wagon bounced and rumbled through the crowd.

  Chapter 12

  HUGH stood in the ring, or what was left of it, the ropes trailing on the ground. His initial fury had subsided, he knew he had been wrong, but he couldn’t understand his daughter — his own daughter had raised her fist to him in front of the whole village. He stood still, shaking. What in God’s name had got into her? Suddenly he took off after the mob chasing the wagon.