Candles for the Dead

by Frank Smith

  ‘Oh, yes, Tony. Yes. Just tell me what you want me to do.’

  ‘It will mean you’ll have to sneak out of the house after midnight and…’ He stopped abruptly and cupped her face in his hands. ‘No. This is wrong,’ he said firmly. ‘It isn’t fair on you. I keep forgetting that you’re so young.’ He pulled her to him. ‘Forgive me, Amy. I’ll just have to risk it myself. I just hope that…’ He broke off as he slipped the blouse from her shoulders and buried his face in her flesh.

  Come on, Amy, say you’ll do it. Now’s your chance to prove you love me. Come on, you silly little cow! Say it!

  Amy clutched him tightly and pulled him down on top of her. ‘I can do it, Tony,’ she breathed fiercely in his ear. ‘Honest. I want to do it for you. You don’t have to give me any money. I love you, Tony.’

  Friday – 17 May

  Amy eased the door shut and retrieved her bicycle from behind the house where she’d left it when she came home last night. Normally, she wouldn’t have risked leaving it outside; bikes and anything else not nailed down had a habit of disappearing from the Flats. She made her way swiftly down the narrow passage between the houses and out into the street.

  The old railway sheds were less than a mile away, and it was an easy ride once she reached Tavistock Road at the top of the hill. She ignored the turning that would take her down to the sheds. It was a narrow road, and steep, and she didn’t fancy chancing it in the dark. Besides, the area at the bottom was littered with old cable reels, sleepers, and rusting lengths of track. It would be much easier and a lot quicker to leave her bike in the long grass beside Tavistock Road, scramble down the hill to the sheds, get the money, and climb back up again. Five minutes at the most.

  A solitary car went by. She waited until it was out of sight, then dropped the bike in a patch of meadow-grass. No one would see it there in the dark.

  There was no moon, and although her eyes had become accustomed to the night, it was hard to see where to put her feet as she picked her way down the steep hillside. The outline of the sheds loomed stark and black against the night sky as she neared the bottom, and it seemed to Amy that they were larger than they’d looked in daylight. And more ominous.

  The darkness and the silence folded around her. The grass was wet. Her shoes were soaked, and she wondered what they’d look like in the morning. Better not let her mum see them. The corrugated metal was ice cold beneath her fingers as she felt her way around to the front.

  She was breathing hard, and tingling with excitement. ‘Second shed,’ Tony had said as he stroked her hair. ‘You remember, don’t you, Amy?’

  She remembered. She and Tony had come here one afternoon. They’d brought sandwiches and had a picnic, using an old cable reel for a table. Later, they’d made love inside the shed. That was why he’d chosen this place, she thought. Tony could be so romantic.

  The big doors sagged open, but Amy hesitated to go inside. The silence was eerie; the darkness absolute. There wasn’t a breath of wind; everything was still. She took out the little torch she’d brought with her and shone the tiny beam into the blackness of the interior. She could feel her heart pounding against her ribs and she wished Tony were with her now.

  Amy took a deep breath and stepped through the gap.

  The silence was deafening. She shone the torch around, picking out the odd bits and pieces of machinery that had been abandoned there. Beside her, at shoulder height, was the loading dock, bare and empty now as it had been for more than twenty years.

  ‘The envelope will be taped to the back of that big old metal thing straight in front of you,’ Tony had said. Neither of them knew what it was, but in fact it was the base of a winch, too big and heavy to move when the shed was cleared.

  The pencil of light found the base. Gingerly, Amy worked her way in behind it. Yes! There it was. A white envelope taped to the back just as Tony had said it would be. Amy sighed with relief. She tugged at the envelope, but it had been taped on well. Her hands were sweating. She pulled harder and the envelope came away.

  She tried to stuff it in her pocket, but the tape kept sticking to her jacket, and it wouldn’t go in. Muttering to herself, she gave up trying. The sooner she was out of there and back up on the road the happier she would be. Tony would be pleased. She gave herself a mental hug as she followed the light of the torch to the door.

  A sound! Soft, like a quiet footstep.

  She froze, every nerve end suddenly alert. She wanted to turn, to see what it was, but she was too scared to move. She held her breath and strained to hear, but the pounding in her ears drowned out anything that might be there. She forced herself to turn, torch held out in front of her with both hands.

  A light blazed in her eyes, blinding her. She flung up an arm to shield her face, but not before she caught a glimpse of something dark descending. Desperately, she twisted away and fell. Pain seared her skull. A black shape loomed over her. She rolled, scrambling hard to regain her feet. Someone swore behind the light. She couldn’t see. Her head felt as if it would explode.

  Her arm went numb. She heard it crack and felt herself falling once again. In desperation she lashed out with her foot; felt it connect, and heard a startled grunt. Blood was dripping down her face; she could feel it; taste it.

  Amy scrambled around on the floor, twisting, turning this way and that to get away from her attacker. She was almost on her knees; the light was blinding her again. The weapon glinted as it rose.

  She launched herself forward with every ounce of strength she had, head down to avoid the descending weapon. She felt it graze her arm as her head slammed hard into someone’s chest. Amy heard the ‘whoosh’ of breath as her attacker staggered back and fell. The light went out.

  She almost fell herself. Her legs were made of rubber and her head was full of cotton wool. She mustn’t faint! She mustn’t! She had to get out before the light came on again. The door! For Christ’s sake, where was the door?

  Chapter 17

  Rita Thomson studied her image critically in the mirror. Her hair simply wouldn’t behave this morning, but it would have to do. She glanced at the time. Quarter to six. She had to be out of the house by ten to six if she hoped to catch the bus. There wouldn’t be another one along until twenty past, and that was too late to get her to work on time at the Greenfield Hotel where she worked as a dining-room supervisor.

  Rita checked her lipstick one last time before turning from the mirror. ‘Amy?’ she called as she shrugged into her coat. ‘Come on, luv. I want to hear you up before I go.’ She listened.

  It didn’t sound as if the girl was stirring. Rita hesitated, then quickly ran upstairs. ‘Amy! Time to get up,’ she said sharply as she opened the bedroom door. ‘You know what Mr Rudge is like if you’re…’

  She stopped dead. Amy wasn’t there. Neither had her bed been slept in. Where the devil…? She couldn’t have gone to work already. But where was she then? God! Look at the time. Rita felt her temper rising. It was always something with that girl!

  She ran downstairs. The house was small, and it took only a minute to determine that Amy wasn’t there. And her bike was gone. Come to think of it, Rita couldn’t recall seeing it last night, either.

  Seven minutes to six! She’d have to run if she hoped to catch the bus. Blast the girl, anyway. She’d stayed out all night; that’s what she’d done. Well, just wait till she got home. She might be fifteen years old, but she could still have her behind tanned.

  Rita slammed out of the house and ran down the street. If she missed her bus because of Amy …

  She knew the bus driver saw her, but he would have started if she hadn’t thrust her arm inside the closing door. It opened and she mounted the step and made her way to the back of the bus and a vacant seat.

  She stared out of the window with troubled but unseeing eyes. She hoped Amy was all right; hoped she’d had sense enough to take the pill if she was having it off with someone. Stupid little fool!

  Rita felt the sting of tears behind
her eyes as her emotions swung from anger to concern. It was so hard to bring up a kid these days, especially a girl like Amy. She was too good-looking for her own good, and she liked the boys. And what with all this talk about AIDS …

  Rita blinked rapidly and brushed a tear away. Just wait till she got home!

  * * *

  Paget knew the moment he opened his eyes that it was going to be a bad day. He’d tried to rationalize; tried to tell himself that this was just like any other day, but it wasn’t, and it never would be.

  Three years ago today, he had lost the most precious thing he’d ever had. Jill. Torn from him in an explosion that not only took her life, but mangled and burned her body beyond recognition.

  Logically, he told himself, the date had nothing to do with it. The memory of that awful time had been just as clear, just as painful yesterday and the weeks and months before as it was today. But logic didn’t enter into it. It was as if the images of that day became more sharply focused on the anniversary date, and no matter what he did, he could not escape them.

  Perversely, he wanted to remember, terrible as those memories were. For it seemed to him that by doing so he was somehow sharing them with Jill; sharing the pain she must have suffered – even if, as he’d been told a thousand times, her death was instantaneous.

  He was not a believer; nor was he a religious man, but perhaps somewhere, somehow she’d know.

  This was not what the psychiatrist had told him to do. ‘I know it’s painful; I know it will leave a scar that will never go away,’ he’d said. ‘Yes, you must weep; yes, you must mourn, but you must also try to concentrate on the good things you shared together. To do otherwise is to indulge in self-pity, and that can only be destructive.’

  He was probably right, Paget conceded as he forced himself to get out of bed, but that didn’t make the images go away. Nor did it alter the fact that he felt as miserable as hell!

  He had not slept well. His neck and shoulders were stiff. He adjusted the water in the shower until it was as hot as he could bear, then stood there and let it pound his skin. He closed his eyes, remembering the first time that he and Jill had showered together. He could see her now; eyes closed, head back as she turned her face to his and …

  ‘Damn!’ His eyes flew open and he shook his head to clear it. He was furious with himself for allowing his mind to drift. He turned the water off and stepped out of the shower. It was just one of those silly tricks the brain played from time to time, he told himself. It didn’t mean anything.

  But for a moment – just for a fleeting second – the image of Jill’s impish face had changed, and he’d seen instead the face of Andrea McMillan.

  * * *

  Walter Palfrey first saw the bike lying in the grass while he was on his way to work. Looked like a nice bike. Kids. Leave stuff lying about without a thought.

  Palfrey saw the bike again an hour later as he was on his way to make his first delivery. He delivered motor parts from a central depot to the garages in the area. It wasn’t a bad job, but it didn’t pay much. By the time he’d paid the rent and bought a bit of food, there wasn’t much left over for cigarettes and beer. Still, it was better than being chained to a desk.

  He scanned the hillside leading down to the railway sheds, but he couldn’t see any children. Besides, now that he looked more closely, the bike was too big to belong to a child. Shouldn’t leave a nice bike like that lying about. Someone could come along and pinch it. It would be worth a bit.

  Walter Palfrey was still thinking about the bike when he dropped off clutch parts for an Escort at Jessop’s garage on the Worcester road. His next delivery would take him back across the bridge, but it wouldn’t be all that far out of his way if he went back along Tavistock Road. Just to see if the bike was still there.

  It was still there. Palfrey slowed and stopped the pick-up. He sat looking at the bike. Drop handlebars; ten or twelve speed; racing wheels. He got out and looked around. The nearest house was a hundred yards away, and the road was quite deserted.

  Palfrey plunged into the long grass, grabbed the bike and heaved it into the back of the pick-up. He glanced around. No one had seen him. Swiftly, he covered the bike with a tarp, then got back in the pick-up. A car was coming toward him as he started off, but the driver was talking to his passenger and didn’t give the pick-up so much as a glance.

  Palfrey let out a long breath and lit a cigarette. He’d drive over to Welshpool tomorrow. He knew some people there. Go down the pub. Bound to be someone there who could use a bike if the price was right.

  * * *

  Tony Rudge fumed as he pulled the sheets from the bed and tossed them on the floor. Where the hell was Amy? Why hadn’t she come to work this morning? Apart from anything else, it was her fault that he was having to help with the rooms. ‘The girl’s not here, so somebody’s got to clean those rooms,’ his father had told him bluntly, ‘and I’ll not have you hanging about with your hands in your pockets while there’s work to be done. Now get on with it.’

  She hadn’t gone to pick up the money; that’s what it was. And now she was too scared to come to work this morning to face him. Stupid little cow. He should have known she’d funk it. Now what was he going to do? Even if he could get away, he daren’t go near the sheds himself in case the police were watching him. And he couldn’t phone Amy to find out what had gone wrong because she didn’t have a phone.

  Tony flipped a clean sheet on the bed and tried to straighten it, but the damned thing kept sliding to one side. He went round the bed and pulled the sheet over. Too far. He went back again and pulled it back. Now there was nothing to tuck in at the bottom.

  Sod it! He threw a blanket over the sheet and tucked it in. If the customers didn’t like it they could make the bloody thing themselves.

  * * *

  Lenny Smallwood’s hands tightened into fists as the shakes began again. Sweat glistened on his face. His nose was running and tears started from his eyes. He needed a fix, but the bastards wouldn’t give him one. He’d asked for methadone, but they’d told him it wouldn’t work. Instead, they were giving him some sort of sedative that was doing bugger all as far as he was concerned.

  His head throbbed with pain, and his face felt as if it had been hammered where they’d wired his jaws together.

  A tremor ran through the length of his body and he felt sick. His kidneys were badly bruised, they said. One rib was broken and two were fractured. And his wrist was taped. He was lucky, they said; the arm wasn’t broken after all. Lucky? Christ!

  ‘Feeling a bit better today, is he, nurse?’

  Lenny moaned. Trotter. Stupid little git! Why ask the friggin’ nurse? What did she know? No, he wasn’t feeling better. He felt like death! Tears trickled down his cheeks.

  ‘He is experiencing quite a bit of pain, Doctor,’ the girl said hesitantly. She was very young and she was afraid of Trotter. The word on the ward was that he had little or no respect for nurses. The charge-nurse had put it more succinctly: ‘He’s a jumped up little sod who thinks he’s God,’ she’d told them matter-of-factly, ‘but he’s still the doctor, so just remember that.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Trotter absently. ‘Blood pressure is up, but that’s to be expected under the circumstances.’ He studied the chart, then handed it back to the nurse. ‘I see no reason to change the medication,’ he told her. ‘Just make sure he drinks as much water as possible.’ He turned to go.

  ‘Please … I need something,’ Lenny called after him. ‘Just to tide me over. Those tablets – they’re not strong enough. I need something stronger.’

  Trotter returned to the bedside and stood looking down at the boy. ‘I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mr Smallwood,’ he said. ‘I know it must be unpleasant, but you’ll just have to make the best of it for the next few days. I think you’ll find it improves after that. And please do try to control the shaking. If you don’t I shall have to order restraints, and I don’t wish to resort to that.’

  ‘Bastard!’
Lenny grated. ‘You could give me something if you wanted to.’ He gasped as another spasm shook his body.

  Trotter looked across at the nurse and shook his head. ‘Keep an eye on him,’ he said quietly, ‘and let me know if these spasms continue. He could do himself considerable damage if this keeps up.’

  Andrea McMillan was talking to the constable outside the door as Trotter left the room. ‘Ah, Dr Trotter,’ she greeted him. ‘Just the man I’m looking for. How is the patient this morning?’

  Trotter shook his head. ‘Doing himself no good,’ he said bluntly. ‘He may have to be restrained if he keeps throwing himself about.’

  Andrea McMillan pursed her lips. ‘I hope it doesn’t come to that,’ she said. ‘I thought he was coping rather well, considering what he must be going through.’

  Trotter remained silent. He was the new boy here, and he wasn’t about to argue with the registrar, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

  ‘I was just telling the constable,’ Andrea went on, ‘that I think we can allow Chief Inspector Paget to talk to Mr Smallwood, now, but I said I would consult you first, of course. What do you think, Doctor? The boy may be in pain but he’s certainly coherent.’

  Trotter bridled. That should be his decision to make, not McMillan’s. ‘Do you really think he’s ready for that?’ he countered. ‘It could upset him further.’

  ‘It is his mother’s murder the police are investigating,’ she reminded him, ‘and the police do have a right to question him. I shall insist on being present, of course.’

  Trotter gave in grudgingly. ‘I suppose it won’t do any permanent damage,’ he conceded.

  ‘Good.’ Andrea favoured the doctor with a smile. ‘I’ll arrange it then. I know you’re very busy, so I’ll let you get on.’

  Andrea waited until Trotter was well down the corridor before turning to the constable. ‘You heard that, I’m sure,’ she said, ‘but please make sure you tell Chief Inspector Paget that I wish to see him in my office before he visits Mr Smallwood.’

  Inside the room, the young nurse had just refilled his glass with water when Lenny grabbed her arm. ‘You’ve got to help me,’ he whispered fiercely. ‘Before that policewoman comes back in. The pain is killing me. Can’t you get me something? Anything.’