Redemption Road

by Lisa Ballantyne

  These were the early walls that she built for herself. She moved away and started a new life and tried her best not to think of George.

  Her tears spent, Kathleen looked at her face in the mirror. Moll had her shape of face and she had her temper and strength, but the child’s blue eyes had always been George’s. Moll’s squint had become more noticeable when she was due to go to nursery. When she was a baby, they had hoped it would correct itself. Fighting with her daughter over the need to wear her eyepatch, Kathleen had sometimes wistfully wondered if one of Moll’s eyes was looking at her and the other was looking behind in search of her father.

  It had upset John, but Kathleen had needed to tell her the truth about her father.

  ‘We loved each other very much, but not as much as we loved you.’

  ‘But did my real daddy not want to visit me, even?’ Kathleen still remembered the loud whisper and Moll raising her head off the pillow.

  ‘He knew John was your daddy now, and he was happy for you. He knew we’d all be happy here and he gave us his blessing.’

  She had reached the point where even she believed it. It had been another version of herself who had loved George, and she would not now be able. She could only love John now, and was grateful for him.

  Kathleen smoothed the hair back from her face and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her daughter had been her meaning for so long, and now that Moll was gone she was not sure where her meaning lay. One day since the newspaper article naming George McLaughlin, and Kathleen felt pummelled by her own memories.

  It was too much. No one should have to endure it. Kathleen opened the bedroom window to let in the air then went downstairs to call Inspector Black, in case there was some news.

  26

  Big George

  Friday 4– Wednesday 9 October, 1985

  George opened up the cupboards in Bernadette’s kitchen. There was no bread or cereal, but he saw rice and pasta, tomato sauce, brown sauce, vinegar and a bottle of sherry. George was not the best of cooks, so he focused his attention on the tinned goods: chopped tomatoes and several cans of beans, plus tinned pork and meatballs and a couple of tinned steak and kidney pies. There was tea and coffee and an opened packet of dark chocolate digestive biscuits, and George ate one and gave one to the bairn as he considered.

  In the fridge he found some eggs and three onions.

  He knew there were the makings of a good meal in the house, but he didn’t have the foggiest idea how that would come together.

  He turned on the radio that sat on a shelf by the window, poured himself a mugful of sherry and began to cook to Otis Redding singing ‘I’ve Been Loving You Too Long’.

  ‘Will you set the table?’ he said to her.

  ‘I don’t know where things are.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ he said as he lit the gas and raked in the cutlery drawer for a tin opener.

  He gave her sliced pork with beans and he ate a steak and kidney pie. When they finished, George found a packet of Angel Delight and Moll helped him follow the instructions so that he could make her pudding.

  ‘Why are we in Bernie’s house?’ she asked, putting a dessertspoon of chocolate Angel Delight into her mouth.

  George poured himself a little more sherry as he considered how to answer her.

  ‘Well, Bernie’s a good friend, and it’s a nice wee place to have a holiday. Also I need to spend some time looking for a new car for us.’

  ‘What kind of car are you going to buy?’

  He was going to steal it, not buy it. ‘What kind would you like?’

  ‘A pale blue one.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’

  They were both tired when the meal was over. He turned on the television and they sat side by side in separate armchairs, watching a western. There was a telephone on the table beside Moll’s chair and halfway through the film she turned, kneeling on the chair, and picked up the receiver.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, frowning.

  ‘I’m going to call my mummy and daddy.’

  ‘You can’t,’ George said, checking the sternness in his voice. He couldn’t have her making phone calls, but at the same time he knew how wilful she was and he didn’t want to cause another argument.

  ‘I think the phone’s broken,’ he tried.

  She put the phone to her ear and looked over her shoulder at him, round-eyed. ‘There’s a dialling tone. When you hear the dialling tone that means it’s working.’

  George clasped his palms. His fingertips were sweaty and the gunfire on the television put him on edge. He got up and turned the volume down.

  ‘Well, I don’t know the number,’ George said, biting the inside of his lip.

  ‘It’s OK, I know it. It’s 94712…’

  She turned her attention back to the phone and leaned over the arm of the chair to dial. George took a step towards her, ready to take the phone from her and risk her tears and anger, but then he saw what she was doing and stopped.

  Her tongue protruding between her lips, her small forefinger hooked and pulled on the dial, 9-4-7-1-2.

  He exhaled through his teeth and ran a hand through his hair. She didn’t know the area code.

  She turned to him, frowning. ‘It’s not working.’

  ‘That’s not possible,’ said George, taking the phone from her. There was a recording of a posh lady’s voice saying, you have dialled an incorrect number.

  ‘Try it again,’ said George, handing the phone back to her. ‘Maybe you accidentally dialled the wrong number.’

  Moll tried again, to no success. Her face crumpled with dismay.

  ‘Hey, button,’ said George, lifting her up and setting her on his lap. ‘We’ll try again another time. Maybe the phone’s just having a bad day. Don’t worry.’

  She rested her head against his chest. ‘I wanted to tell my mummy about Bernie’s house.’

  ‘You will tell her. You can tell her all about it once we get to where we’re going.’

  By the time the film finished, she had fallen asleep, squashed beside him on the armchair. It was eight o’clock. He carried her upstairs and put her to bed in Bernadette’s double bed. He pulled off her trainers and set them at the side of the bed and then drew the pink frilly curtains.

  Upstairs there was only the small bedroom and the bathroom. The ceilings were low, and George had to hunch up. He ran a bath and peered at his reflection in the tiny bathroom mirror, before it steamed up and his face disappeared.

  ‘What the hell are you gonna do now, Georgie?’ he asked himself.

  George was asleep on the couch in Bernadette’s living room. He was lying on his back with his feet raised on the arm of the chair. When Moll leaned over and lifted one of his eyelids he was startled awake.

  He looked around the room, confused. The living room was dark but it was cast in a blue light from the television, which showed a static picture of a young girl at a blackboard with a clown. A high-pitched noise pierced the room, signalling the end of TV programming.

  ‘What is it, button?’ he asked, focusing on Moll’s face and glancing at his watch. It was just after three in the morning.

  ‘I woke up. I don’t like it up there. Can I sleep down here with you?’

  ‘Em…’ George ran a hand over his face, still dazed with sleep.

  She didn’t wait for him to reply, but instead curled up on the couch beside him. He was too tired to argue, so he shifted on to his side and put his arm around her.

  ‘You don’t have a cover or anything,’ she said, in a deafening whisper.

  ‘Are you cold?’ he mumbled, yawning.

  ‘Not any more,’ she said, curling into a ball. ‘Night night.’

  In the morning, George made tea and drank it peering out of the net curtains on to the street. It was a grey day, but he could see that the sun was trying to shine through the clouds. He had big plans for today. He wanted to go out and scout the area for a car to steal, and buy them some food for the next
few days. He had decided that if they lay low for a while, then things might calm down, although he wanted to be gone before Bernie got back. He could trust her but he didn’t know what he would say to her about the wean.

  They were eating boiled eggs for breakfast.

  ‘My mummy makes me toast soldiers so I can dip them,’ she said, her brows gathered.

  ‘Well, I’m going to go out and get some shopping, so I’ll be sure to pick up some bread and then you can get toast soldiers tomorrow. You can stay here and watch the fort.’

  ‘No!’ she exclaimed suddenly, throwing down her spoon and jumping out of the chair. ‘I don’t want to be by myself.’

  ‘I’ll only be gone an hour or so. You can watch telly.’

  ‘No.’ Her lip curled, and George took an intake of breath, knowing that tears were soon to follow.

  ‘OK, OK, you win.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘C’m’ere.’

  He pulled her into the space between his legs, and brushed what hair she had left off her face.

  ‘If I take you with me, you must remember to be very quiet and not talk to anyone.’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘Tell you what… I bet Bernie has some scissors. We could try and sort your hair and that would be a start.’

  He set newspapers on the floor and a stool on top of them and got her to sit on it. Bernie had a mixing bowl in the cupboard and George set it over her head.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I want to make sure I cut it straight this time… You need to sit still now. Hear me?’

  She nodded.

  He tutted loudly. ‘Sit still means sit still. You can speak instead of nodding your head.’

  ‘OK.’

  When he was finished, she looked a lot better. There was a mirror on the kitchen wall and George held her up to see.

  She said nothing, pulling at the hairs on her fringe.

  It was a twenty-minute walk from Bernie’s flat into town. George was wearing a T-shirt and a sweatshirt and Moll had her baseball cap on. They walked hand in hand through the terraced streets. It was Saturday morning and the streets were busier as they approached the shops, but George felt more confident than he had when they had taken the bus. He was not wearing his suit, and he had shaved his stubble last night. He had considered growing a beard, but one of the radio reports had described the abductor as scruffy. It had offended George. Moll, with her hair cut, was a more convincing boy.

  ‘I’m hungry,’ she said, lagging behind. The weight of her on his hand was slowing him down.

  ‘Have you got hollow legs?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you just had breakfast.’

  ‘Only two eggs and no soldiers.’

  He glanced at his watch. It was nearly eleven o’clock. He felt her hand tug away from him. He turned and she was crouched on the street, her head in her hands.

  ‘We need to keep going, Moll,’ he whispered to her.

  ‘When are we going to get to the shop? I don’t want to walk any more.’

  He regretted telling her about the shop. It was not his top priority.

  He had thought about going to a parking lot to find a suitable car to steal, but there were none nearby. He would have time in a parking lot to work on the locks. He turned round and looked down at her. She was rubbing her lazy eye, and looking up at him with her good eye, now standing with her feet turned in and her stomach thrust forward. She was too big to carry, and yet he knew he wasn’t going to get very far unless he offered.

  ‘Tell you what, you want a piggyback?’

  Moll blinked and then smiled. He turned round and took her arms around his neck, tilted forward and caught her feet.

  ‘You’ll need to hold on tight.’

  She curled her long legs around his waist as they walked down Eaton Street. There was a park and George turned on to Baskerville Street, noticing that there was a line of parked cars opposite the red-brick terraced houses. He walked with the park on his left side, peering into cars to see if they were unlocked. He would have tried a few doors just in case, but he was sure that she would comment.

  He decided that it would be best to find a suitable vehicle and then come back at night, when she was asleep.

  Her lithe limbs were tight around his neck and waist and he almost didn’t feel the weight of her. After fifty yards or so he felt her bury her face in his neck.

  ‘You smell nice,’ she said, so close to his ear that it tickled.

  ‘I find that hard to believe, but thank you anyway.’

  ‘You smell like crisps.’

  George smiled and put a hand on her wrist at his collarbone. Just then, ten feet from him, he saw a gift from God.

  Until that moment, he thought every ounce of religion had been beaten out of him. His father had been a staunch Catholic and yet George had never known a more sinful man. The nuns had been his religious instructors, yet all they had really taught him was pain and humiliation. George had not considered it carefully – he had given up God like some people give up cigarettes – but he supposed he was an atheist.

  He was an atheist until he saw the gift from God before him.

  Parked opposite the next house in the terrace was an eight-year-old Volkswagen caravanette in powder blue, with a For Sale: £300 or nearest offer sign inked on to cardboard and taped to the inside of the windscreen.

  George tapped on Moll’s arm before lowering her to the ground.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, peering up at him, her lips pulled back, exposing the gum where her front teeth had been.

  George wiped his mouth with his hand, unbelieving, as if it were a mirage in the desert. He almost crossed himself, and then, as he took her hand and crossed the road to the house in question, he did cross himself. A sign on the gate that said Beware of the Dog.

  ‘Remember you’re Robin and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to,’ he said, finger pointing at her, then lifting up the skip of her cap until she nodded assent. He opened the garden gate and walked up the path.

  As soon as he pressed the buzzer, he heard the sound of a dog barking. George pulled Moll behind him.

  He prepared his best smile.

  When the door opened, an ungroomed standard poodle leaped on to the doorstep and licked Moll in the face and then knocked her off her feet.

  ‘Beware of the dog indeed,’ said George, helping Moll up and thrusting a hand at the small, corpulent man in shorts and T-shirt who stood behind the door. ‘Affection is the best defence, so it seems.’

  ‘Dudley,’ the man said sharply, and George thought for a second it was an introduction until he realised that he was calling the poodle inside. The house smelled of sausages and George guessed that he had interrupted Saturday brunch.

  ‘Is it about the van?’ said the man, frowning.

  ‘It is. Does it go?’

  ‘It goes, but I promised it to someone last night. I meant to take the sign off. I’m sorry.’