Stone Cold

by Taylor, Peter

  ‘We’ve come here with a confession, Micky. You won’t like what we have to tell you.’

  Micky nodded. ‘Best you sit, then. This will be a double whammy because I’ve got bad news as well.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘We’ve got the miserable faces; if we had a body we could have a wake.’

  Henry rolled his eyes. ‘Don’t tempt fate, Mick.’ He turned to John. ‘Go on, tell it the way you told me. Mick’ll understand.’

  John hunched forward, stared at the surface of the table, began to talk. He never lifted his eyes until he’d finished, then only briefly before he lowered his head like a condemned man putting his head on the block, expecting the executioner’s axe to fall.

  Micky’s eyes flitted to Henry. There was a moment of silent understanding between the two men.

  ‘It took courage to tell the truth, son,’ Micky said. ‘I’m glad you did because I’ve already had a phone call from Peter. Those men you saw did break into the house, but fortunately couldn’t access the safe, only got away with a couple of paintings not worth a great deal.’

  Henry gathered himself. It was his turn now to pour more oil onto the fire.

  ‘I’m sure my rat of a brother was behind it. John told me one of the men looked a bit like me. Using Tonks, who has a grudge, fits his style.’ He wanted to add that his brother was a drug dealer, but was so ashamed of his own flesh and blood he couldn’t say it to his friend and mentor, especially not in John’s presence.

  Micky cleared his throat. ‘Peter doesn’t want you out there again. His wife doesn’t like your gypsy background, thinks you might have passed information to dubious friends. Peter himself wasn’t of that mind but has given in to her. He wants you to know he’s sorry for the way it’s turned out.’

  Henry couldn’t say he was surprised. In truth, he felt sorry for the farmer who’d had such good intentions only to see them go up in smoke, literally and metaphorically. He hoped Mick wasn’t paying for the trust he’d invested in him, that his relationship with Fairbrother, who was a sponsor for the community centre, hadn’t been damaged.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘So sorry for all this.’

  ‘So am I,’ John chimed in, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper.

  Micky screwed his face up. ‘Nah! You’re both victims here. Neither to blame.’ He pointed to John. ‘You redeemed yourself rescuing those horses. Even the Fairbrothers are wondering who the good Samaritan was who let them out. The only trouble is —’

  Micky’s voice caught in his throat. His face seemed drained of colour. They sensed more bad news coming, mentally braced themselves.

  Micky swallowed hard, said it in a rush. ‘The chestnut had too much smoke in his lungs. He died later that day.’

  Henry’s innards felt as though a shark was on the prowl down there taking bites. Tears flooded John’s eyes, rolled down his cheeks. He didn’t attempt to wipe them away. Both of them had loved that old horse to bits. He’d deserved a better death.

  ‘Something has to happen about this,’ Henry said with slow deliberation, remembering how trusting the old chestnut had been.

  Micky’s hands bunched into fists, as though he wanted to hit out at something, vent his frustration in a way he might once have done in his long gone youth. Finally, he shook his head, unwrapped his fists, laid his hands on the table, fingers extended.

  ‘What can we do, Henry? If we tell the police, Tonks will blame the lad here. Everyone will be told he’s a grass. His life will be finished. One way or another, he’d be punished.’

  ‘They shouldn’t have done it,’ John mumbled, his lips pouting. ‘They should pay. I could go to the police if that’s the only way — take my chances.’

  Henry and Micky exchanged glances. Henry knew how the lad was feeling. What made it even worse for him was his brother’s involvement. He felt sullied by their association, however tenuous that was.

  ‘You can’t. But maybe I should tell them about my brother.’

  The old trainer’s stare was withering. ‘You need to stay away from the police and you know it. I should never have mentioned them. Grassing isn’t the style around here and it certainly isn’t the gypsy way, is it?’

  Henry sighed audibly. ‘It might be that I’ll have to deal with Frank myself because, for sure, he’s not going to let matters rest.’

  ‘Couldn’t you move away for a while?’ Mick suggested.

  Henry shook his head. ‘Probation would have to agree and it would take time.’

  A silence settled on the kitchen. There seemed to be no clear solution. Deep down, Henry had a feeling the end was already written, that, no matter how he wanted to avoid it, events were moving inexorably to a confrontation with his brother. Frank couldn’t afford to back off. That happening was as likely as South Bank turning into Monte Carlo overnight.

  Breaking the depressing silence, he said, ‘Frank won’t stop until I agree to fight Chip Jackson.’

  Micky flared up. ‘An illegal fight would be crazy in your position. That’s apart from the fact you’re not battle hardened — and that takes time. Being fit isn’t the same, as you well know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ve no intention,’ Henry told him.

  Even as he said it, he wondered if he believed it. He was being forced into a corner because people involved with him were being made to suffer. However unpalatable, accepting the fight might be the only way to put a stop to it. Even if he grassed him up, Frank was too wily a character, would have his tracks well covered, and exposing Tonks would almost certainly set the mob against John.

  They talked on, but were going around in circles, getting nowhere fast. Henry suddenly remembered the promise to Father Andrew that he’d go and see Tom Daly’s widow. He wanted that visit over and done with as soon as possible. He stood up and John, who’d hardly spoken since hearing about the chestnut’s fate, did likewise.

  ‘Something I have to do,’ he told the old trainer. Seeing the look on Micky’s face, he added, ‘Don’t worry, it’s unrelated. I’ll have to mull all this business over, make some decisions. Meanwhile it’s best I stay away.’

  Micky faced him. ‘You don’t have to stay away on account of what’s happened.’

  ‘Yes, I do, Micky. People are getting trouble because of me and I don’t want anything else on my conscience. You’ve helped me and I don’t want you suffering.’

  Micky opened his mouth, aborted his answer when he saw the stubborn set of Henry’s jaw.

  Henry stretched out his hand. ‘Whatever you hear, believe the best of me.’

  As they shook, Mick forced a grin which contradicted the sadness in his eyes.

  ‘Didn’t I always, son? Didn’t I always?’

  *

  North Ormesby, where Bridget Daly resided, was a stone’s throw from South Bank, just a smidgeon more up-market. Leaving John to find his own way back to the house, Henry hopped on a bus, the first time he’d used public transport since his release. Sitting amongst people leading normal, everyday lives brought back memories and a comforting sense that the world was going on as it always had. Yet, for him, life was far from back to normality. Mary had been correct. Coming back had been a mistake. But if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have seen a softer side to his father he’d never dreamed existed. While those glimpses hadn’t reconciled him to the old man, he couldn’t feel the same bitter hatred he’d built over those prison years, even felt a pang of sympathy for his deteriorating health. He wondered if, in spite of his denials, his reason for coming back, in some twisted way a psychologist would make much of, had to do with his father and brother living in South Bank.

  The house was only a short walk from the bus stop. Henry rang the bell, waited until it opened just enough for a woman’s gaunt face to appear. Her apprehensive eyes reminded him of a mouse peeping out of a hole afraid the cat’s paw was poised to take a swipe.

  ‘It’s Henry Torrance, Bridget,’ he announced gently. ‘Father Andrew sent me.’

  She opened the door slowly, leth
argically, as though the action was costing her energy she could ill afford to expend. Now that he saw her in her full glory he was taken aback, had to hide it. Her hair was a tangled mess. She wore a creased skirt, a food-stained cardigan which she was holding around herself like armour against the outside world. He’d met her once, briefly, years ago when she was a young teenager. This was a far cry from his memory of her, and from the pretty, vibrant woman in the picture Tom had taken pride in showing him.

  ‘Come in, Henry,’ she said, stepping back and wafting her hand in a beckoning manner. He followed her through to the lounge, wondering what he was getting himself into, how any words he could utter were going to make a difference to this woman. She looked as though she needed more than words.

  The curtains were only open a little, leaving the room in a half gloom. It felt like a funeral parlour. Bridget gestured casually at a chair and he sat down. A coffee table, burdened with dirty plates and cups, lay in front of him. The meagre shaft of light squeezing through the curtains alighted on a television set in the corner, showed a thick layer of dust on a screen scored by finger marks.

  She lowered herself into the chair opposite. Henry shifted uncomfortably, wondered if he should introduce the subject of Tom’s death without preliminaries, or leave it to her. She rescued him by speaking first.

  ‘I know this place is a mess,’ she said, her voice lethargic. ‘I haven’t bothered with it since — since Tom’s death. Have to make an effort, won’t I?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘That’s understandable. Can’t be easy for you.’

  They were platitudes he was giving her and he knew it. What else was there? He wasn’t a bereavement counsellor. Best to get to the point quickly.

  She was staring into the fireplace, didn’t look at him as he spoke.

  ‘Tom talked about you a lot, Bridget.’

  A ghost of a smile played on her lips. She wiped her eyes with a sleeve, drying away tears. Henry was relieved when she at last looked at him and spoke in a stronger voice.

  ‘He talked about you as well. Said you helped him cope in — that place.’

  Henry shrugged diffidently. ‘He was a pal. Knew him from way back. We grew closer in prison.’

  Once again Bridget retired into her shell. Her whole body seemed to go limp and listless. Henry didn’t know what to say, just waited. Then, suddenly, as though an electric charge had passed through her, she sat bolt upright. She looked like an actress with stage fright in the full glare of the spotlight.

  Henry thought she was oblivious to his presence. He waited more than a minute in silence before her eyelids fluttered like delicate butterfly wings and she met his stare.

  ‘You must think I’m a terrible woman,’ she said. ‘I’m sure you know I bought drugs for Tom and arranged for them to be smuggled inside.’

  How should he respond? Should he tell the widow he thought it had been a crazy thing to do, at the very best misguided? Aware of her fragile state, he settled for a toned-down version.

  ‘It wasn’t a good idea, not really. But I know how Tom was. He wouldn’t help himself. I tried —’

  ‘I used all our money,’ she interrupted.

  Henry nodded, ‘Yes, he told me.’

  Bridget’s eyes bulged, as though they were going to spring out of their sockets. Her laugh was disconcerting, self-mocking, like a crow’s.

  ‘We hadn’t much. For a long time I resorted to other means to get him his drugs.’

  Henry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He’d heard the regret, the self recrimination in Bridget’s voice, sensed she was about to make a confession, hoped not. Why should he be the recipient? Why not Father Andrew whose business it was to hear such things?

  ‘Other means?’ he echoed, in spite of himself.

  Bridget dug her fingers into her knees. ‘I knew how much Tom needed his fix, wanted to help him.’ She drew her fingers up her thighs, digging the nails in as though she deliberately wanted to feel pain, hurt herself. ‘I met Jet Jackson on a visit to one of the gypsy camps. I’d known him a long time before I met Tom and I told him my problem. He said he had ways of smuggling the drugs inside — so I paid him.’

  ‘Until the money ran out?’

  She nodded, drew back her lips, showed her teeth. It gave her the feral look of a huntress.

  Henry had to prompt her again. ‘And after the money ran out?’

  ‘Jet had always fancied me. He supplied Tom for a while — until I was in his debt, then said my debt was Tom’s and he would have to be punished if he couldn’t pay, that he could stop that happening and continue to supply Tom if I went out with him.’

  Henry studied the woman, the anguish on her face. How easy it was to be trapped when you were weak, made bargains with men who had not an ounce of compassion. She was looking at him now, a plea for understanding in her eyes.

  ‘I did it for Tom and because . . . I was lonely. It was all right at first, then he grew tired of me, became abusive, finally dropped me like a stone.’

  Henry’s memory flashed back to the cell, Tom’s suffering in those last days, the beating he’d taken in the shower. His wife, in her foolishness, had been helping him down the road to nowhere.

  ‘That’s when they stopped supplying Tom,’ Henry said. ‘And you had to tell him it was because you’d run out of money — which was half the truth.’

  Bridget pulled at the tangle of her hair. He sensed there was more to come and he waited silently, giving her time.

  ‘There’s something I need to know,’ she said hesitantly. ‘It’s killing me not knowing. You knew Tom better than anyone near the end.’ She caught the throb in her throat. ‘I’d like the truth — no matter what.’

  Henry thought he could guess what was coming. ‘If I can help, I will.’

  She focused on the corner of the room, clasped her hands together in her lap trying to compose herself.

  ‘I need to know’ — she began — ‘I need you to tell me whether Tom knew — When he killed himself did he —’

  As her question died on her lips, Henry reached across, grasped her hand. She dragged her gaze back to him. Tears were dropping from her eyes. One hot tear landed on his outstretched hand.

  ‘No, Bridget, Tom never knew about you and Jet. Right till the end he talked about you in loving terms.’

  Her shoulders started to shake. More tears fell. Henry squeezed her hand harder.

  ‘Why then?’ she mumbled, making an effort to control herself.

  ‘You know why,’ he told her, his voice adamant. ‘The dragon swallowed him. Tom was hooked, couldn’t give it up. Even without you, he’d have found a way. I tried but he was too far down the road.’ He shook his head in exasperation as he remembered. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he started too young.’

  It wasn’t strictly the truth. There’d been a chance, a slim one but nevertheless a chance that, if he’d volunteered for the drug free wing Tom could have been weaned off them. It would have been hard but, in the end, perhaps more loving not to comply with his demands. But he wasn’t going to tell his widow that now. She was paying a price, suffering for her mistakes. He wasn’t going to add to her woes.

  His words seemed to be a comfort to her because she stopped crying and dabbed at her tears. Henry slid his hand away from hers, sat back. When he thought she’d regained a little composure he spoke again.

  ‘Tom wouldn’t like to see you like this, you know. He liked light and laughter, wouldn’t like to see someone he loved living in a mausoleum. Forgive me, but he’d tell you to open those curtains and let the light in, to try to get on with life.’

  He was sure he’d gone too far, but it had come from the heart and was truly what her husband would have told her. She seemed to take it well, didn’t launch into a tirade telling him to mind his own business and what did he know about her grief. As if emerging from a cocoon, aware of her surroundings for the first time, she swivelled her head to all four corners of the room in turn.

  ‘I haven’t bee
n able to concentrate,’ she said. He noticed a slight slackening of tension in her facial muscles. ‘You’ve no idea what it means to me to know Tom had no knowledge that I’d let him down, that it wasn’t the reason —’ She left the rest unsaid.

  Henry felt it was time to leave. He’d done all he could here. Bridget seemed, if far from sparkling, more alive. As he started to rise, she held up her hand to stop him. He sank back into the chair again wondering what else there was to talk about, only too aware he had pressure in his own life to sort out that would take more than talking.

  ‘You were Tom’s friend and you’ve helped me by coming here,’ she said. ‘Maybe it won’t mean anything to you, but I think there’s something you should know.’

  Henry exercised his patience. He didn’t think there could be anything she could tell him that would interest him right now.

  ‘Once when I was out with Jet,’ she continued, wrinkling her nose with distaste at the memory, ‘he drove us to a farm near Saltburn. There was a guard on the gate, I remember. Jet drove us down a long track, parked well away from the house, told me not to get out. That was when I saw your brother with Daniel and Terry Jackson.’

  Henry wasn’t too surprised to hear it, given what his father had told him. He gave a snort. ‘Must have been a pig farm.’

  Bridget continued, ‘Daniel Jackson picked up a spade and dug into a pile of manure lying in the yard. I watched him pull a package out of the dung and hand it to Frank.’

  Henry blew out his cheeks. He didn’t have to engage his brain much to figure out what was in the package. Bridget’s story was merely confirming his brother’s drug link with the Jacksons.

  ‘They let you see them doing that?’

  Bridget shook her head. ‘The car was a good distance away and I sank low in the seat. Jet soon came back and we were gone.’

  ‘So one little piggy got careless and let you see the other piggies going to the market for their drugs,’ Henry mused. ‘Good job they didn’t see you.’