Cowards Die Many Times

by Peter Hey

‘Patty?’

  ‘Sorry, let me introduce ourselves. I’m Mary Sheehan and this here’s my father, Patrick O’Brien. We’re over from Ireland in case you haven’t guessed. Mary and Patrick are such unusual Irish names after all.’ She grinned and then stepped to one side and pointed to the bed behind her. ‘And this fine lad’s my brother, Patty.’

  A boy in his late teens waved a salute. ‘They brought you in late last night,’ he said. ‘You’ve been asleep all day – I was worried you might not wake up. We lost a Frenchie in that bed yesterday,’ he added cheerfully.

  Mary gave her brother a silencing look and then turned back towards Thomas. ‘Don’t mind Patty. I’m sure you won’t be following after that Frenchman. You’ll be out of here in no time.’

  Thomas’s mind was working slowly. ‘Mary Sheehan, not O’Brien?’ he said, not noticing the frown that moved across Mary’s father’s face.

  ‘I was married. Not for long. He... he died. He was a good looking fella, bit like yourself.’

  Mary was not intending to flirt and she flushed with embarrassment. She glanced out of the window and then continued. ‘Da thought we should try our luck in New York. My uncle’s already here. And what do they call you now?’

  ‘Thomas…’ He hesitated, his mind going back to his experience on the ship. ‘...Thomas Ramsbottom.’

  Mary’s father let out a sound that started as a snort and then tried to disguise itself as a cough.

  ‘It’s the name of a town in Lancashire,’ added Thomas, defensively.

  ‘We’re from County Wexford – we wouldn’t know our way round England. And there’s lots of names over here you wouldn’t recognise. Those foreign fellas often change them. To sound more American, you know?’ Mary’s blue eyes twinkled an apology. ‘And what’s brought you so far from home, Thomas Ramsbottom?’

  Thomas had to think for a moment. The ship, leaving Liverpool, his past life seemed very long ago. ‘We’re heading to Ohio, the coal fields. My friend and I are miners. He’s got kin there.’

  Mary looked surprised. ‘I wouldn’t have you down as a miner. That’s a dirty, dangerous way to earn a crust.’

  ‘I was in a cotton mill for a while.’ Thomas paused again. ‘There was an accident. I don’t like to think on it.’

  ‘There’s plenty of other work for a fit, young man, right here in New York. They’ve got all the streets laid out, mile after mile, neat and square, but there’s a city to build in amongst them.’

  Thomas didn’t reply. He’d once hoped for something better than manual labour, but it seemed a futile and alienating thing to say. Laudanum’s shadow and dark memories caused his heart to drop. He was suddenly close to tears.

  Sensing his discomfort, Mary changed the subject. ‘So, where’s your friend now?’

  Thomas shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. I think he may have continued on his way. I guess he’s thinking I’ll follow after him.’

  ‘And you’ve got no family to worry about you?’

  Thomas shook his head. ‘No, there’s no-one’, he replied truthfully, hearing ‘in America’ implied in the question.

  It started as honest confusion and became a lie.

  The party

  Jane hadn’t wanted to go in the first place. Now she positively resented the invitation. All the same, she knew she couldn’t burn a bridge that had only been built so recently. She packed her smallest suitcase and threw it in the boot. It contained two dresses. One was the supposedly tasteful number she had worn to the auction where Duff had bought the fire engine. The other was a shade of blue that was verging on electric and had interestingly asymmetrical orange arms. In Jane’s eyes it was a proper party dress; it suited her better and was much more fun. Her mother would hate it.

  She remembered the route well enough to eschew the services of irritating robot woman in her phone’s satnav, but the traffic was even worse than on her previous journey and crawled all through the New Forest and down to the Dorset coast. When she pulled up outside her mother’s house, she was late and she was tired. It had taken five hours and her mood had not improved. She had driven all that way to meet a group of people she wouldn’t like. Tomorrow she would have to drive all the way back again.

  A voice Jane didn’t recognise answered the intercom and the heavy iron gates rolled back. Jane found that space for a single vehicle had been left on the gravel area in front of her mother’s bungalow. Jane parked the Mazda and climbed out, carefully opening the door so as not to scratch the car alongside. It loomed over her and seemed ridiculously large and ostentatious. Even Jane recognised the badge as that of a Rolls Royce. And next to it was a smaller, sleeker, prettier two-door coupé in a shade of bright lemon-yellow that she did very much approve of. Again, she found she knew the emblem on its grille. It was the trident of a Maserati, never again to be confused with the W of a Wartburg.

  ‘Darling! Thank you for coming.’

  Jane looked up to see her mother standing at the door, a glass of something sparkling in her hand. Jane immediately assumed it was a rather good champagne. Guests in Maseratis and Rolls Royces presumably didn’t drink prosecco.

  Jane waved a greeting. ‘Mother, sorry I’m a bit late. There was a nasty accident on the A338. Tailbacks for miles.’

  ‘Well you’re here now, darling. And everyone’s dying to meet you.’ Her mother scanned Jane’s clothing and frowned slightly. ‘I’m assuming you’ve brought something nice to put on? I’ll show you up to your room, so you can get changed.’

  Jane read her mother’s expression and immediately knew she which dress she would be wearing. She also found herself wondering if ‘your room’ meant precisely that, somehow her possession in her mother’s dominion. She quickly decided not. It was not a large house. It was a guest room and hers for one night only.

  Jane was awoken by the screeching of a seagull. She sat up in bed and checked her mobile phone. It was well past 9:00 am. She felt like she’d had the best night’s sleep ever. The party had finished by 10:30 pm and she’d only sipped the champagne, partly because of her reluctance to develop expensive tastes. And the bed was unbelievably comfortable. She normally struggled to sleep when away from home, certainly for the first night or so, but the mattress and the quilt and the pillow were unusually cosy and comforting and warm. She could only assume she was used to the bedding equivalent of cheap fizz.

  She looked around the room and saw her frock hanging over the back of a chair. She had played it safe and it had been the right decision. All the other guests had been elegantly glamorous and Jane would have stood out like the sorest of thumbs. The watchword had been sophistication not fun. Just as she was congratulating herself on her restraint, another thought came into her mind. She winced at its memory and decided she needed to get up. Perhaps a hot shower would wash it away unnoticed like a temporary and unobtrusive blemish.

  Cleansed and dressed, Jane descended the stairs from the small first floor to find her mother in the kitchen staring out of the window onto the wide expanse of Poole Harbour. The house was immaculate and there was no evidence of the previous evening’s revelry. Jane had offered to tidy up, but had been told that was what the hired staff were for. It was certainly a change from the bomb sites she had awoken to after parties she and Dave had held in the past.

  ‘Morning, Mother,’ said Jane. ‘Sorry I slept in a bit. You been up long?’

  The older woman was already aware of another presence in the room and turned her head slowly. ‘Darling, glad you got a good night’s rest – you young people have such hectic lives. I have been down a while.’ She stood and began walking towards a wall of cupboard doors. ‘I’ll make you a coffee and what would you like for breakfast?’

  When Jane had visited Dave’s parents bacon and eggs were always on offer, but she knew that was beyond her mother’s scope.

  ‘Toast would be fine?’ suggested Jane.

  Her mother looked disapproving. ‘I’m sure we’ve got some bread somewhere. I don’t normally... How about fresh
fruit and yoghurt?’

  ‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’

  One of the cupboard doors revealed a huge fridge whose shelves were only lightly stocked. Slices of fresh pineapple and melon were produced and laid alongside a small serving of Greek yoghurt. Jane’s mother then turned her attention to the coffee. She did not check her daughter’s preferences. She knew they still matched her own: a tiny bit of milk and no sugar. It was part of a regime that had thankfully stopped the teenage Jane developing her father’s bulk.

  The conversation faltered as her mother worked, and Jane focused on the view. It remained as wonderful as the first time she saw it. The perfect lawn flowed into the shining ripples of the bay. Yachts bobbed at anchor off the wooded islands. A waterside hotel still wore the crenellations of its fortress core. There was serenity, yet there was life. Boats already motored back and forth. Sails were being raised in preparation for escape out into the English Channel and beyond.

  ‘There, darling,’ said her mother, laying a pure-white, slightly dished plate in front of Jane. It was accompanied by a cream linen napkin and a spoon, knife and fork. The coffee was served in something that was bigger than a cup but far too stylish to be called a mug.

  ‘Thank you, this looks wonderful,’ replied Jane, looking up and smiling.

  Her mother sat alongside cradling her own coffee in her hands. It was unclear whether she had already eaten or whether breakfast had been sacrificed entirely in her ongoing mission to avoid the spread of late middle age. If one had to choose between figure and face, she had opted for figure, though she wouldn’t even enter her own kitchen without her immaculate and understated make-up helping fight the other front.

  ‘So, did you enjoy the party last night?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ lied Jane politely, before adding a degree of qualification. ‘Though everyone was rather more rich and glamorous than my normal circle of acquaintances. I’ve never seen so many jewels on display.’

  ‘Rich, glamorous and old,’ said her mother. ‘That does seem to be demographic on Sandbanks. Certainly the ones I mix with. That was why I so wanted you to meet Hugo.’

  Jane smiled unconvincingly. The blemish she’d hoped had gone unseen was threatening to be exposed.

  ‘He’s much nearer your age,’ continued her mother, ‘and utterly, utterly charming. And, between you and me, he could probably buy out everyone else at the party last night. He owns a hedge fund.’

  ‘Yes, so he said. I did ask him to explain what they were exactly. I got very lost very quickly, but it did sound like a licence to print money.’

  Jane’s mother put her coffee down on the table. ‘Indeed, and, amazingly, he’s single at the moment.’

  ‘And has the second fastest boat on the South Coast,’ said Jane.

  ‘It is a beautiful, beautiful boat.’ confirmed her mother enthusiastically.

  ‘The man with the fastest boat is a Japanese banker who doesn’t know how to handle her.’ Jane’s sarcasm was now only thinly disguised. ‘So Hugo’s boat is effectively the fastest and he was very keen to take me out on her today. He said we could cruise over for lunch on the Isle of Wight. He knows this fantastic fish restaurant in Cowes.’

  ‘It is a nice restaurant, darling. It would have been a lovely day out. Why on earth did you say no?’

  ‘He wasn’t my type. Too full of himself. I like confident men, but there’s a limit. So I said no. And I had to keep saying no, because he kept on and on at me.’

  Her mother shrugged. ‘Men like that are used to getting their way. Talking people round. It’s what makes them successful. I don’t suppose he’s used to being turned down.’

  Jane stared out of the window. ‘I got that impression.’

  ‘So why did you have to say that silly thing, darling?’

  Jane’s gaze was still directed unseeingly towards the view. ‘I meant it as a joke. A put down, but a joke. It just came out more strongly that I intended. It did the trick though.’

  ‘But threatening to gouge his eye out? He made a joke of it too, though I could tell he wasn’t 100% sure. He said you were, and I quote, “charmingly feisty”, though I was far from convinced he was charmed.’

  ‘Oh, Mother! I’m sorry if I upset your friends and they now all think I’m a mad, crazy bitch. I guess I don’t fit into your world. I did try, but… I am a mad, crazy bitch sometimes. That’s not a surprise to either of us.’

  There was a long silence. It was finally broken by Jane.

  ‘How did my father lose his eye?’

  ‘In a fight of course. He was hit in the face with a broken bottle. God knows what he did to the other man. All he’d say was, “Don’t worry your pretty face, sweetheart. I sorted it. That’s all you need to know.” Or maybe it was, “I sorted him.” Either way, your father’s face was sorted too. They could probably tidy it up much better these days, but I think he was proud of it. That hideous patch he wore. He really did fancy himself as some kind of pirate.’

  ‘I went to see his sister.’

  Jane’s mother’s brow dropped in disbelief. ‘You went to see that awful woman? What was her name? Stella?’

  ‘Stacy.’

  ‘That was it, Stacy. God, she was rough. Why on earth did you want to see her?’

  Jane finally looked back from the window. ‘To see if she knew where my father was. To see if they were in contact.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She said not. I’m not sure if I believe her. She said I was better off not getting involved with him.’

  ‘Well, I agree with her there.’ Jane’s mother took her daughter’s hand and her tone became conciliatory. ‘What exactly do want from him, darling? An explanation, a reason for why he abandoned you? Reconciliation?’ A cuddle from your long-lost daddy? I warn you he may not be as cuddly as you might remember.’

  Jane felt the other woman’s touch. Its warmth seemed alien and out of place. ‘Maybe I want revenge. Maybe I need to punish him. I am a mad, crazy bitch after all,’ she replied.

  ‘Is that one of your jokes again, darling?’

  Kids

  The constable was rather short and decidedly fresh faced. Jane knew a classic sign of age was that policemen looked younger, but she hadn’t realised she’d reached that stage yet. Perhaps this officer had only just qualified. Or maybe he was genetically blessed, or cursed: it wasn’t an advantage looking like an innocent schoolboy when confronting an angry drunk outside a Nottingham bar on a Saturday night. This PC might need his CS spray more than most.

  He wouldn’t be needing it right now, of course. He was on a mundane burglary call-out, more admin and paperwork than policing. Nonetheless, he was wearing his stab vest. It was a sad indictment of modern society that this had arguably replaced the helmet as the trademark symbol of the British bobby, now they mostly patrolled by car and wore peaked caps or went bareheaded.

  He smiled amiably and introduced himself as PC Zahid Kahn. He flashed a warrant card, though it disappeared so quickly it could have been his gym membership for all Jane knew. It didn’t matter, she had reported a non-urgent crime and here was a uniform on her doorstep. PC Kahn obviously thought he could handle this on his own: Jane could see his colleague outside in the patrol car, busy on the radio.

  ‘Hi, come in.’ Jane said cheerfully. ‘I wasn’t sure they’d send anyone out. You hear stories of break-ins just being logged on the phone these days. Only even-numbered addresses being investigated, that kind of thing.’

  PC Kahn looked hurt, a sensitive disposition seemingly joining his baby face in his list of non-ideal job qualifications.

  Jane quickly backtracked. ‘Sorry, not having a dig. It’s the cuts, I know. I was on the force myself. Down in the Smoke.’

  The smoke?

  Jane grimaced. ‘Sorry, London. I momentarily slipped back into my old mind set. That’s how they talk in the Met. It’s still a very macho culture. A bit Sweeney, you know?’ Seeing a blank face she elaborated. ‘Part cockney rhyming slang, part sexist
stereotypes.’ She affected a growl in her best EastEnders’ accent: ‘“She was a right tea leaf, not to mention a total slag.” That kind of thing. At least it was before I left.’

  PC Kahn finally seemed interested. ‘Was that why you did leave?’

  ‘No, it was the usual reasons – shift work, antisocial hours. Tired of dealing with lowlife.’ Jane reeled out her usual excuses. The truth of a mental breakdown and the assault and near blinding of a prisoner in custody was not something she needed to broadcast.

  ‘I’m on a fast track programme. I’m hoping to make detective soon,’ said the PC enthusiastically.

  ‘I’m sorry to tell you that’s when you get to meet the real scumbags. And I don’t just mean the DIs!’ Jane waited for a response and then decided she needed to apologise again. ‘Just joking. My ex is a DI. “Guvnor” in Met parlance. And he’s only a part-time scumbag.’

  PC Kahn allowed himself a smile but then remembered his workload. ‘Where did the break-in occur, Ms Madden?’

  ‘It’s Jane. Are you okay if I call you Zahid?’

  The young constable didn’t seem totally sure, but Jane just carried on and gestured that he follow her down the hall. ‘It’s in the extension at the back. My grandfather built it years ago. I really should have had the French doors replaced with something more robust. Never got round to it.’

  They entered the room and Jane pointed to the doors. ‘They’ve been forced with one of those big screwdrivers, I think. It’s probably just kids. They’ve raided my drinks cabinet and nicked a small flat-screen TV I had in the corner. It doesn’t look like they went through the rest of the house. They were probably nervous and scarpered quickly with the first things they found.’

  ‘They didn’t take your laptop,’ said the PC in a puzzled tone.

  ‘I can tell it’s been moved,’ replied Jane. ‘But they probably saw how old and knackered it was and decided not to bother. Actually, they might have done me a favour if they had taken it. I’ve been told it’s unsupported or something. It still works though.’