Mulligan's Yard

by Ruth Hamilton

  Diane tiptoed out of the room and down the stairs, the truth fizzing about in her head and tempting her to speak up. No, she must say nothing yet. She tried to keep her face normal as Gran and Mona entered the kitchen. ‘I’ve put the kettle on,’ she said.

  Joe came in from the front garden. He set four places, found butter, knives and cups. Diane brewed the tea while Ida brought bread and porridge to the table. The child could not look at the adults, could not say anything about what she had seen. But she would – oh, yes, she would.

  The car pulled up at the front gate.

  ‘Here’s Mr Mulligan,’ cried Joe.

  Diane pretended not to notice hope dawning on the faces of the two women. After all, Diane knew nothing. She drank her tea, put on hat and coat, made sure that little Joe was warmly clad.

  Mona was first at the car. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said to Eric Moorhead.

  He nodded. His instructions were that he must not say a word about what had happened, especially in front of the children. ‘Mr Mulligan’s busy,’ he said, ‘so I’ve to do the driving today.’ He smiled at the children. ‘Come on, then, let’s be getting you to school.’

  The drive was conducted in total silence. Moorhead, who was used only to farm machinery, simply ploughed ahead, ignoring most crossroads, hitting the verge a few times, blissfully unaware of his passengers’ misgivings. He dropped a shaky Mona at the shop, then deposited the children outside their school. ‘Er . . . don’t go to Mr Mulligan’s yard after your lessons,’ he said. ‘I’ll pick you up here. Stand where I can see you.’

  He drove off.

  Joe looked at his sister, an expression of bemusement on his face. ‘Well, we’re alive,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the disappearing car. ‘That was frightening, it’s a wonder we’re still in one piece.’

  ‘Only just.’ What was going on at all? Why hadn’t the man said about Mr Mulligan being away at least? She bent down. ‘Joe?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You know how Gran’s had that cough for a week or two?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Tell them I’ve caught Gran’s bad cold. Say I’m in bed, too ill for school.’ She squeezed his arm, fixed him with a gimlet stare. ‘Please, Joe?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve got to go and do something.’ Her thoughts remained disordered, but something had to be resolved.

  ‘What have you got to . . . ?’ Joe’s words trailed off. Their Diane had a face on her like a clog bottom when she was determined. ‘You’ve got Gran’s cold,’ he said resignedly.

  ‘Good lad.’ She planted a kiss on his cheek, then skipped off down the road. She was going to be a heroine, like somebody in a book who just turns up and puts things right. Plans were vague, but anger sustained her.

  Then the spring went out of her step when she thought about Eliza and Margot and Amy. But she was hell bent on making the police let Mr Mulligan go. So, instead of skipping, she adopted a slow march and said a little prayer for Eliza.

  For over an hour, Diane walked the streets of Bolton, her whole being concentrating on what must be achieved. Whatever the method, she would get Mr Mulligan out of jail today. Halfway through her third tour of Deansgate, she bumped into Sally Hayes, her greatest friend in the whole world. ‘What are you doing here?’ she cried.

  ‘You should be at school,’ answered Sally.

  ‘And you should be at the Grange.’ They both stopped outside a chemist’s shop, each pretending to be interested in great bottles of coloured fluid and advertisements for liver pills.

  ‘He’s in prison,’ said Sally, ‘and somebody’s pinched his car and all. I don’t know what’s going on.’

  ‘Well, the milkman says Miss Eliza’s been murdered. Is that right?’

  Sally nodded. ‘And Mr Mulligan’s been arrested. I . . . I didn’t know what to do. Like it didn’t seem proper to carry on as normal, cleaning up and all that. So I came here to . . . I don’t even know why I’m here. I’ve a feeling I might be on my way to the police station, though.’

  ‘Well, I know why I’m here, Sally, and my reason’s the same as yours. And I’m glad to have some company and all. Come on, we’ve something important to do.’

  ‘But – but what?’ Sally had to run to keep up with the younger girl’s determined pace. ‘What, Diane?’

  ‘We’re getting him out of prison, that’s what.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Trust me.’ Diane sounded very much the adult. After crossing the road, she stopped in her tracks, almost causing her companion to shunt right into her. ‘The car’s not been pinched,’ she announced. ‘Mr Moorhead brought us down in it this morning.’

  ‘That’s something, I suppose,’ said Sally. Then she began to wonder about how Moorhead had got the car, why he had it, how Mr Mulligan had contacted Moorhead and . . . and it was all beyond her.

  There was a small crowd outside the police station, some with cameras, many with notebooks. Diane’s stomach rose into her gullet: she was not keen on trying to fight her way through this lot. They were all waiting for Mr Mulligan to be dragged out and pushed into the courtroom, she mused. ‘Excuse me.’ She prodded the nearest journalist on the back. ‘I have to get inside.’

  The man looked over his shoulder. ‘You’ll not get in, love,’ he told her. ‘It’s like bedlam, is this.’

  She pushed, pummelled and fought her way through to the front where a pair of constables stood in the doorway. ‘And what do you want?’ one asked.

  Diane blew a string of hair from her face, then made some attempt to smooth her clothing.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be at school?’ asked the other.

  ‘I’ve got . . .’ Diane turned and looked at a man who had just pushed her from behind. While giving him her famous hard stare, she searched her mind, determined to find what she wanted. She knew the word, had read it in newspapers, but she couldn’t lay her tongue across it. ‘Evidence,’ she screamed in triumph, swinging round to face the guardians of the law. ‘I’ve got evidence.’

  ‘Aye,’ drawled the nearest policeman, ‘and I’ve got a pain in my backside.’

  The crowd laughed uncertainly.

  This was a desperate situation and Diane Hewitt would deal with it. She was becoming inured to the ploys of adults, to the ‘go away till you’re older’ faction. Grown-ups were just tall children. They did right and wrong, were not perfect and were often very ill-informed. ‘You’ve got the wrong man,’ she announced clearly.

  The congregation was suddenly silent.

  ‘And how do you know that?’ asked the younger of the two policemen.

  ‘Because I was a – a what-you-call-it . . . I was a witness.’

  At this point, the sentries decided to err on the side of caution. If this little nuisance had been a witness, she needed to be taken away from all the hungry pressmen before her evidence got spoilt. The constables made a gap between them large enough for Diane to squeeze her slender frame into the station. ‘I want me friend with me,’ she insisted. ‘Sally Hayes – she’s one of the maids from Pendleton Grange.’

  While one went off to disentangle Sally from the knot of journalists, the other took Diane into a small room. ‘When your friend gets here, I’ll fetch the sergeant,’ he said.

  Diane waited. Eventually, a bedraggled Sally was brought into the arena. ‘Are you all right?’ Diane asked.

  ‘Apart from being nearly trampled underfoot,’ replied Sally.

  Diane glared at the newly arrived sergeant. ‘You want to shift that lot before they do damage,’ she advised. ‘I am a witness and I very nearly didn’t get in.’

  The sergeant looked up at the ceiling, plainly annoyed to have been dragged away from his elevenses or some other important part of the daily routine.

  ‘I’m not messing,’ Diane told him.

  ‘She never messes,’ piped Sally.

  ‘Well, I’ve heard different,’ pronounced the tall man. ‘She’s Diane Hewitt and she’s had her fingers in a fair few p
ies.’

  ‘Yes,’ Diane agreed smartly. ‘But, like me Gran says, the pies was too hot so I’ve give over doing all that.’ She felt very pleased with the way she was handling these so-called mature folk.

  He sat down opposite the two girls. ‘Right,’ he said, a false smile stretching the fresh face. ‘Fire away.’

  Diane inhaled. ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

  ‘The wrong man,’ echoed Sally.

  Large fingers tapped on the table.

  ‘He never did it,’ added Diane.

  ‘Couldn’t do anything like that,’ said Sally.

  He stopped drumming on the table. ‘You two a double act?’

  Sally and Diane glanced at each other. ‘No,’ they chorused.

  He fixed his eyes on Diane. ‘You tell me,’ he said, ‘by yourself.’

  Diane took as deep a breath as she could manage. ‘Our Joe fell and he was behind a tree, then I carried on, see, till I got near the little hut. And the guardian were there. I saw Mr Mulligan with me own eyes and—’

  ‘Slow down, please,’ interrupted the sergeant. ‘And what was Mr Mulligan doing?’

  ‘Nothing,’ replied Diane smartly. ‘But, you see, he got arrested even though it wasn’t him what did it. Please, please, listen to me.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ he replied, suddenly aware that the occasional flash of steel in the girl’s eyes was a symptom of intelligence and determination.

  ‘I was a laudator in the Light,’ the child continued. ‘That was how I met Mr Wilkinson – that’s Mr Peter Wilkinson, not Mr Stephen.’

  The man nodded encouragingly.

  ‘You’re right, I have to slow down, like,’ said Diane, ‘get it all in order. My head’s too busy.’

  ‘Just tell me everything you remember,’ asked the sergeant.

  And she did. She went through the cleansings, the attempts to get young women to cross the Atlantic. ‘Have you never known that somebody’s bad, even though you can’t prove it?’ she asked the man.

  He nodded. ‘All the time, love.’

  ‘Well, I can prove this,’ she said. ‘I saw that man running away. He’d been in the hut thing, that shed where gamekeepers spied on folk pinching birds and rabbits. Mr Wilkinson did the killing, he must have. I heard Mr Mulligan shouting. He were running, I think. But he weren’t running away, he were running towards, trying to help. The one running away were Mr Peter Wilkinson.’

  The sergeant opened his mouth, was ready to explain the altered situation, but the girl carried on regardless.

  ‘Like I said about knowing bad folk, you can tell a good one and all. Mr Mulligan is one of the best men on this earth.’ She paused for a split second. ‘He must be good, because Gran likes him even though he’s a Catholic. Well, he picked us up, me, our Joe and me gran. He got me reading all kinds, proper books, poems. He sends fruit for our Joe – that’s me little brother with the rickets. Let him go. You have to let him go. I were there, you see.’ She inhaled against a tide of hysteria. ‘Mr Mulligan is an excellent man.’ She had done her best, had even remembered a good word. ‘Excellent’ described James Mulligan to a T.

  ‘Have you done?’ Bushy eyebrows were raised.

  ‘I suppose so.’ Diane’s shoulders sagged. She felt as if she had just run a very long race.

  The sergeant faced the constable in the doorway. ‘Fetch us all some tea,’ he said wearily, ‘while I get to the bottom of this lot.’

  Diane glanced at Sally. ‘She knows him,’ she informed the sergeant. ‘She knows Mr Mulligan.’

  ‘Mr Mulligan’s my boss,’ said Sally. ‘He is so kind. Got me from the Chiverton Children’s Home and gave me a proper job.’

  ‘Aye, I’ve heard,’ said the sergeant.

  Diane took a breath, continued to labour her point. ‘Mr Mulligan chased him. He chased the guardian away. There were a light in the woods, see. It were him in that there hut.’ She shut her eyes tight, pictured the scene she had witnessed.

  ‘Guardian Wilkinson?’ the man asked.

  ‘Yes.’ She opened her eyes. ‘So you’ve got the wrong man.’

  The sergeant blinked slowly. ‘Who have we got?’ he asked.

  Diane looked at Sally. Happy enough to have discovered that grown-ups were daft, she still knew that there was only so much idiocy she could take. The sergeant, the boss of the whole police station, didn’t know who he had in the cells. A saying of Gran’s popped out of Diane’s mouth before she could apply the brakes. ‘If you don’t know, then you don’t deserve telling.’

  The man’s mouth twitched. ‘No, I know who we’ve got. But do you know who we’ve got locked up?’

  Diane and Sally both nodded furiously. ‘Course we know who you’ve got,’ said Sally. ‘That’s why we’re here. You have got my boss in the cell. He’s a fine man.’

  The man’s red hands tightened until the knuckles gleamed white. ‘Who do you work for?’ he barked, the words directed at Sally. ‘Go on, tell me again. Then I’ll have my say.’

  ‘For Mr Mulligan, of course,’ Sally answered.

  ‘And who are you here to speak up for?’ he asked Diane.

  Seconds marked their own death on the face of a wall clock, a thin, black hand moving stickily across at least ten marks. The sergeant wiped a hand along his brow. ‘In the cells,’ he said slowly, ‘there is a Mr Peter Wilkinson.’

  The girls glanced at each other. ‘The guardian?’ asked Sally.

  ‘Yes.’

  Diane opened her mouth to speak, found no words, shut it immediately.

  ‘Then where is Mr Mulligan?’ Sally’s voice was shrill.

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied the weary man.

  ‘You’ve gone and lost him,’ Sally accused. ‘He never came home last night.’

  ‘Lost him?’ boomed the sergeant. ‘Is he a dog? I’ll answer that one for you, no, he isn’t. He’s a grown man and he walked out of here middle of last night. As far as we know, he’s at home holding himself in readiness for giving a full statement. He’s a witness.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Diane.

  ‘I know.’ These two words were squeezed past the sergeant’s clenched teeth. ‘And you have to tell me everything you heard and saw, and you do not talk to that lot outside, the newspaper people.’

  ‘Oh, right.’ Diane felt important now. She was a witness and she had evidence and Mr Mulligan would not dangle at the end of a rope. ‘He must have murdered Miss Eliza,’ she said very softly.

  ‘That’s as may be,’ answered the policeman. ‘Only it’s got to be proved.’

  Diane was suddenly angry once more. ‘Why didn’t you tell us before?’ she asked. ‘Why did you let me rattle on when you knew Mr Mulligan wasn’t here?’

  The sergeant straightened his spine. For the life of him, he could not remember how the conversation had gone, whether he had listened properly, whether the child had been talking nonsense. ‘We’ve got to write it all down,’ he said now. It wasn’t going to be easy. He had no detailed idea what she had seen, where she had seen it, when—

  ‘Sally, you go home,’ said Diane.

  ‘But what if—?’

  ‘Just go and find him. He’s got no right messing about while there’s murder going on. See if he’s at work or at Caldwell Farm.’ She emitted a heavy sigh. ‘It’s time a few people got a bit of sense,’ she grumbled to herself. Then, in her usual clear tone, she spoke to Sally. ‘Search high and low, please. Tell him he’s got us all in a right state.’

  Sergeant Cooper looked at the clock. The child who needed interviewing was not an easy customer. He blew out his cheeks, opened a drawer and took out a form. If recent experience could be taken as a guideline, he might be here till well past his shift’s end. ‘Right,’ he began. ‘Name?’

  Diane looked up to heaven, waved goodbye to Sally, then gave her full attention to the man in charge. ‘You know my name,’ she replied.

  ‘I still have to ask it,’ he said.

  Diane Hewitt folded her arms and leaned th
em on the table. It seemed there would be no end to the stupidity, then. She was the child, he was the adult. How would he feel if she acted her age? ‘Do you know you have hairs growing out of your nose?’ she asked.

  The man licked the end of an indelible pencil.

  ‘And your tongue’ll go blue if you keep doing that.’

  He placed the pencil on the table. ‘Fish and chips do you?’ he asked.

  She awarded him a brilliant smile. ‘Yes, please,’ she said. ‘Food’ll help me to remember.’

  He stood up and walked to the door. Tonight, he would trim those nose-hairs. But tonight was a long, long way away.

  Twenty-seven

  ‘“The perimeter walls of Makersfield’s Eternal Light Settlement were scaled by Federal officers at dawn yesterday. There was little or no resistance, since the leader of the cult, Elijah Freeman, had absconded days earlier. Members of the sect were hungry, thirsty and disoriented, many having been starved of food and water for several days.

  ‘“The condition of most people was so poor that some officers, even those who have served for over twenty years, were overcome by the distressing sight of children whose limbs were scarcely strong enough to support them. Medical teams are working round the clock to feed and tend inhabitants before evacuating the site.

  ‘“It appears that members of the Temple of Eternal Light were required to starve as part of a penance, though the Supreme Guardian is said to have enjoyed a wholesome diet and unlimited privileges. As far as our correspondent can evaluate at the present time, Elijah Freeman has forty-seven children within the campus, most born of girls who were no more than thirteen or fourteen years of age when first ‘offered’ to him.

  ‘“Survivors will be taken eventually to hospitals where their physical and mental health will be assessed. The bodies of two babies and two adults were removed this morning. Three wells had been sealed and there was no other source of water, so we conclude that Freeman and his closest allies were responsible for the potential deaths from starvation of over two hundred and fifty residents of the complex.

  ‘“Rumour has it that those who tried to escape were shot and buried within the walls; it will therefore be necessary to dig over the whole area once the people have been removed. Decent citizens of surrounding towns and settlements were shocked by these revelations. One, an oil prospector named Hubert Collinge, had been trying to alert communities for some months, but to no avail. ‘I guess people were scared,’ he told our reporter. ‘I sure as God knew there was something wrong in there, but no one would listen to me. The temple is so remote that Freeman got away with real murder.’ Collinge, a six-foot tall man, was sobbing as he expressed feelings of real grief, guilt and anguish.