A Lesser Evil

by Lesley Pearse

  As she ate her breakfast Fifi watched the Muckles’ house. Angela spent a great deal of time looking out of the top bedroom window, but she wasn’t there now. The usual blanket was covering it, and Fifi couldn’t hear any crying. It was of course possible she’d been sent to a friend or relative for the day, but Fifi couldn’t imagine Alfie and Molly being that well organized.

  It was lovely out in Frank’s garden, a tiny oasis of beauty and peace. Although Fifi could hear traffic in the distance and the sounds of children playing in the streets and other back gardens, it was possible to forget she was in a big city.

  As she lay back on the comfortable chair, the sun burning down reminding her of days she’d spent like this back home in Bristol, her thoughts turned naturally to her parents. Her mother had written a very cold and distant letter a few days after Fifi got home from hospital. It was clear from the stilted tone that she hadn’t had any real change of heart. While she agreed a miscarriage was upsetting, she felt they always happened ‘for the best’. She said she thought it was churlish of Fifi to refuse the offer of a period of convalescence at home, and she didn’t know what more she could do.

  The letter couldn’t have come at a worse time. Fifi was already so weepy and miserable, and all it had done was push her further into gloom and despair. There were other letters around the same time, a sweet and totally sympathetic one from Patty, a joint one from her brothers, and indeed a very warm one from her father, but her mother’s undid all the good the others might have done.

  Dan had written back on Fifi’s behalf, explaining that she couldn’t write herself just then, and that their decision to stay in London was made not out of churlishness at all, but for practical reasons. He pointed out that neither of them had felt up to a long train journey or the pressures of being surrounded by other people. He said that neither of them believed losing a baby was ‘for the best’, and they both found it upsetting that anyone could view it as such.

  Once Fifi had adjusted to writing with her left hand, she’d sent a brief letter saying little more than her job had been kept open for her and Dan was going back to work. But there had been no reply from her mother. Fifi felt now that she just had to accept her mother was never going to change her opinions, and that she should stop hoping she would.

  At two o’clock the sun was too hot to stay outside any longer. Fifi locked Frank’s back door and went upstairs, thinking she would go to the shops to get something for their evening meal. It was only when she changed into a dress that she thought about Angela again.

  There was still no sight of her at the window, and it worried her to think the little girl might be all alone in the house, upset that she’d been left behind and possibly with nothing to eat. She decided to go across to Yvette and ask if she’d seen or heard her.

  Fifi rang Yvette’s bell and tapped on the front window, but there was no reply. She thought the dressmaker must be out at one of her clients’ homes doing a fitting. Only a couple of days earlier she’d said she was close to completing an outfit for a bride’s mother.

  By the time Fifi had bought some pork chops, vegetables and a few other items, an hour had passed. Before taking her shopping indoors she rang Yvette’s bell again, but she still hadn’t come home. Along by the coal-yard gates, four boys all aged about nine or ten were idly kicking a football around. Recognizing one of them as Matthew, the son of the red-headed woman from the end house, she walked over to him.

  ‘Have you seen Angela Muckle today, Matthew?’ she asked him.

  ‘No, she’s gone to Southend with the rest of them,’ he replied.

  ‘She wasn’t with them when they left this morning,’ Fifi said. ‘I think they left her at home.’

  ‘She said she were going with them yesterday,’ Matthew said. ‘All excited she were. But she ain’t been out here today, leastways not since we come back from the park. But if her mum told her she was to stay in, she wouldn’t dare come out.’

  Fifi thanked Matthew and gave him sixpence to go and buy himself and his friends ice lollies. But as she walked home she looked back at the Muckles’ house. All the windows were shut, and their coverings in place; she could hear no radio playing and it now seemed extremely odd that Angela wasn’t looking out watching the children playing as she usually did.

  Fifi took her shopping in, put the chops in the fridge and glanced out of the window again, willing Angela to look out so she would know she was all right. But there was still no sign of her, the blanket on the window didn’t look as if it had been moved all day, and on an impulse she went back downstairs, crossed over the road and knocked at the door. There was no reply, so Fifi peered through the letterbox. There was a fetid smell, but she could see nothing, as something appeared to be hanging over the inside of the door. ‘Angela,’ she yelled. ‘Can you hear me? It’s Mrs Reynolds from across the road.’

  No reply, not even a sound of scurrying feet.

  Fifi was worried now. Not just the anxious ‘what if’ kind of worry, but a nasty feeling in the pit of her stomach, almost of foreboding. She stood there in the road looking up at the windows of the Muckles’ house and thought about what she’d heard Alfie say that morning. ‘Serves her bloody well right’ kept coming back to her. Could he have beaten her, or locked her in the bedroom?

  ‘What’s up, Mrs Reynolds?’

  Fifi was startled by the question from young Matthew as she hadn’t heard him come up to her.

  She looked down and smiled at the ten-year-old. He was an attractive child with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and periwinkle eyes. He was licking the lolly he’d bought with the money she gave him and his lips had gone green with the colouring.

  ‘I’m a bit worried Angela might be hurt or ill,’ she said. ‘If Miss Dupré was in, I’d try to get over her fence to take a look, but she’s gone out.’

  ‘You could go along the wall at the back of our place,’ he suggested.

  Fifi smiled. It was common knowledge that Alfie used that wall all the time to spy on people and as an escape route if necessary. ‘I don’t think I could manage it with a broken arm,’ she said.

  ‘I could go for you,’ Matthew volunteered. ‘I’ve been along it loads of times with Alan. It’s dead easy from our yard.’

  Fifi was tempted. If he could get in the back way and open the front door for her, she could just check on the child, give her something to eat, and put her own mind at rest. But she had a feeling his mother wouldn’t like it. She’d either got to do it herself or wait until Dan got home.

  ‘No, your mum wouldn’t like it,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I’ll go myself. Can you show me the dead-easy way?’

  She didn’t even have to go through the boy’s flat. There was a gate next to the coal yard that led straight out into his backyard. It was devoid of any plants or trees, just a well-swept space with a washing line and the brick wall along the back.

  ‘You can climb up on the coal bunker,’ Matthew said, and obligingly got a wooden beer crate and stood it beside the bunker.

  Fifi had no trouble at all getting on to the wall, and once she looked along it, she understood why Alfie had no difficulty using it as his private route. The wall was at least fifteen inches wide, and though there were trees and shrubs on both sides of it, there were no obstacles between this end of the street and the far end by the corner shop.

  ‘Stay there for a little while, just in case I can’t get in through the back door,’ she said, looking down at Matthew. ‘Is there something in their backyard to climb down on?’

  ‘Loads of stuff,’ he said with a wide grin. ‘But it’s right mucky.’

  If Fifi hadn’t been worried about Angela, she would’ve got a childish delight in making her way along the wall because it reminded her of going scrumping for apples as a child. She was hidden from anyone looking out of their windows, yet if she parted the leaves she could see into the back gardens, and even into rooms that had no net curtains. Number 10, next to the Muckles, had a very o
vergrown garden, full of bramble bushes. The elderly couple who owned the house had been taken away to a nursing home soon after Fifi and Dan moved here. Their son came once a week to check on the house, and he’d told Frank he wasn’t going to clear the brambles because it deterred the Muckle children from attempting to break in. Fifi hoped it wasn’t the same in the Muckles’ garden, because she wasn’t keen on getting scratched to pieces.

  Luckily, although there were some brambles on both Yvette’s and number 10’s side, a wide area had been hacked clear in the centre of the Muckles’ garden. As Matthew had said, there was plenty to climb down on, almost a staircase of wooden beer crates and planks. She made her way down very cautiously though, for she wasn’t certain the structure was safe and all around it were broken bottles, tin cans with jagged tops and other junk.

  She reached the ground safely, wrinkled her nose at the smell of rotting rubbish and urine, and gingerly picked her way to the back door, past old car seats and a mattress with the springs coming through. The door was unlocked, but she had to push it hard as there was something behind it.

  This was just a crate of beer: once she got the door open slightly she could see it and push it out of the way. Then she went in.

  She almost turned and went straight back out because the smell made her gag, but she covered her nose with her hand and tried hard not to look at the filth.

  She had never in her life seen anything like it. Dirty dishes, empty beer bottles, fish-and-chip papers, cigarette stubs, milk turned sour in bottles and cans of food with jagged tops lay everywhere. The sink and draining board were full of dirty dishes, cigarettes ends stubbed out on them. Burnt saucepans sat on the floor alongside clothes, shoes and old newspapers. She couldn’t imagine how anyone could even make a cup of tea in there, let alone cook a meal. But not wanting to linger, she passed through it into the hall.

  It was eerily quiet, the only sound a buzzing of flies somewhere. She pushed open the back-room door and saw a rectangular table strewn with beer bottles, dirty glasses, a half-full bottle of Scotch and several overloaded ashtrays. Eight chairs were set around it, and this had to be where they held the card games.

  She knew the front room quite well from looking into it so often from her flat, yet close up it proved far more disgusting. Dirty cups and plates littered the floor and the battered and stained couch and chairs were strewn with clothing. The television was a big one, and there was a long, low walnut veneer radiogram, its top scarred with cigarette burns and rings from cups and glasses.

  On she went, up the stairs, peeping briefly into each of the three bedrooms. All were vile; there were beds that looked like heaps of dirty rags, a smell that made sure she kept her hand clamped over her nose, and the light filtering through the covering on the windows was grey. She couldn’t bear even to look into the bathroom.

  Finally she got to the last flight of stairs. There had been no carpet anywhere except in the downstairs front room where the television was, and her footsteps rang out on the bare boards. Balls of fluff, refuse and even crusts of bread were everywhere.

  ‘Angela!’ she called out. ‘It’s me, Fifi!’ Her voice echoed alarmingly, and her heart pounded with fear that the front door would open and Alfie would catch her in there.

  She could smell stale urine on top of the other putrid smells now, and the buzzing of flies was much louder. She went first to the front room, as she’d seen Angela look out from that window so often, but it was empty except for two double beds pushed up close to each other, and the now all too predictable filthy bedding. A naked rubber doll with one arm missing lay on the floor, the only toy she’d seen in the entire house.

  There was only one more room now, and she had a really bad feeling about opening that last door.

  She braced herself as she pushed it open, but recoiled momentarily at the frenzied buzz of flies that flew at her. Her eyes met the end of an old-fashioned black iron bed with fancy brass knobs, and through the rails she could see a shape under a surprisingly clean sheet.

  ‘Angela!’ Fifi called, creeping hesitantly closer.

  It had to be her under the sheet, the mound was the right size and there was even a little tow-coloured hair by the head rails. But even so, Fifi was afraid to pull the sheet back. Goosebumps came up on her limbs and her heartbeat accelerated with fear. She wanted to flee without looking, but she knew she must.

  The smell which filled the whole house was much worse in here, rank and heavy with overtones of urine, sweat and mould. But there was another smell too, something she couldn’t define, and this disgusted her most.

  But she had to get this over with, so she grabbed the sheet and pulled it back sharply.

  ‘Oh no!’ she exclaimed, clamping her hand over her mouth in horror.

  It was Angela, stark naked.

  Her arms and legs were all splayed out like a starfish, and her mouth was gaping open. There were smears of blood and bruising on her thighs and stomach. Even without touching her, Fifi knew she was dead.

  For a second Fifi could only stare at the child in horror. Her eyes were shut, but her features were set in an expression of anguish. Such a thin little body, every bone visible through her pale skin, and her little vulva was swollen and red.

  As she began to heave, Fifi turned and ran down the stairs, wrenching open the front door.

  The heat of the sun hit her like opening an oven door. ‘Did you find her, Mrs Reynolds?’ she heard Matthew call out. She knew she was going to be sick, but some sort of instinct made her hide it from the boy.

  ‘Yes, I’m just going to the shop to get her something,’ she managed to croak out. Then, taking a deep breath to try and calm herself enough to fool him at least temporarily, she began walking quickly to the end of the street and the phone.

  It seemed like an hour before the police came, although in reality it couldn’t have been longer than ten minutes. She managed to report the crime, give her name and address and walk swiftly back to her flat. Fortunately Matthew and the other boys had gone from the street, for if they’d come over to her she might well have blurted out what she’d seen. She needed someone, anyone would have done, for it was far too big a shock to contain it. But the entire street was deserted, and she knew too that the right thing to do was to keep it to herself at least until the police had been.

  She only just got to the bathroom before she was sick. Her legs felt like rubber, she was shaking like a leaf and as cold as if it were suddenly the middle of winter. She hauled herself back up to her flat, wrapped her dressing-gown round herself and waited.

  It was so strange that she’d spent so much time recently looking out of the window but couldn’t look now. The picture of Angela lying on that bed, the accompanying smell and the sound of the flies were all she could see, smell and hear. She was beyond crying; what she felt was white-hot rage.

  Even when the first police car came roaring down the road, pulling up with a squeal of brakes, she couldn’t move to look. She’d left the Muckles’ door on the latch, and she could imagine the policemen seeing everything she’d seen as they went up through the house.

  As a child she was always wishing she could be involved in a huge drama. She would imagine herself rescuing an old lady from a burning house or jumping into a frozen river to save a drowning dog. She wanted to be a heroine, to have everyone applaud her courage, to be looked up to and talked about.

  Maybe she could have that kind of attention now, but she certainly didn’t want it. She wished this was just a terrible nightmare and that she’d wake up to see Angela out playing with other children in the street.

  When she’d sat at the window this morning, the sun had been on that side of the street. She’d felt happy, giggling to herself at how the Muckle family looked in their best clothes. They’d looked bizarre but not evil, not even dangerous. Yet they must have prepared for their day out while Angela was already dead or dying.

  Her horror wasn’t so much that Angela was dead. If she’d heard the child had b
een killed in a road accident she’d be upset, but at least that would be understandable. But how could she ever get over what had been done to that little girl before she died?

  The sound of car doors slamming, heavy boots ringing out on the pavement and other neighbours’ voices as they came out to see what was going on upset her still further. She had to go into the bedroom, draw the curtains and lie down. She wanted Dan. If only he’d come home right now.

  She lay on the bed waiting for the inevitable ring at the doorbell. Even though she’d shut both the living-room and bedroom doors, she could still hear the ever-increasing noise from the street. She so much wished that she could be on the same level as the other neighbours, curious, eager, gossiping and trying to work out what was going on in number 11. She was certain that not one of them could even guess at the real horror the police would be confronted with.

  The ring on the doorbell came at ten to five. Fifi knew she must answer it, but all she really wanted to do was to pull the covers over her head and ignore it. She got up, her legs stiff and wooden, and slowly made her way downstairs.

  ‘Come in,’ she said to the two police officers. She’d never seen either of them before. The smaller, older one was in plain clothes, his dark suit crumpled and shabby, his hair like a rough wire brush. The uniformed one was well over six feet tall, with washed-out blue eyes and rather prominent teeth.

  They were introducing themselves, but she was too aware of the neighbours crowding around just behind them to take in what the men were saying.

  ‘You are Mrs Felicity Reynolds?’ the older man asked as the door closed behind him. Fifi could only nod and lead the way upstairs.

  Once in her living room, Fifi took the chair furthest from the window. ‘I don’t know if I can tell you,’ she said, feeling as if she might be sick again at any minute. ‘It’s too terrible.’

  ‘Take your time, Mrs Reynolds,’ the older officer said gently. ‘We understand you are in shock. I’m Detective Inspector Roper, and this is Sergeant Wallis. We have of course been in there; we just want you to tell us what you saw.’