The Kane brothers to the fore, they all climbed an outside staircase made of iron, which led to a small square landing. When Tom stepped through another door and into the second storey of the building he stopped dead, so great was his surprise, before the hard hand at his elbow urged him forward.
Instead of the great open expanse he’d expected he was in a thickly carpeted corridor lit by several gas jets along one wall. Various doors opened off it, but he was propelled along after Jed and Leo Kane so fast that he had no idea how many they passed before reaching the door at the end of the passageway.
To Tom’s amazement he found himself in a large and well-furnished kitchen, complete with a huge black-leaded range, which had something simmering on it. A large table of the better kind, with a fancy leather-covered top, stood in the middle of the room with eight chairs tucked underneath it, and two enormous dressers packed full with dishes and crockery and kitchen equipment took up one wall. Under a long narrow window stood two more smaller tables, presumably used for cooking. On the wooden floor, along the length of the gleaming steel fender in front of the range, an expensive-looking mat had two fine upholstered rocking chairs at either end of it and one of these was gently moving, as though the occupant had just left it. Altogether it was the kind of kitchen that wouldn’t have been out of place in a grand house, and this impression was further heightened by the two women, dressed in black dresses and lacy white aprons and mop caps, who were staring at them.
Jed Kane addressed himself to the older of the females, a fat, red-faced woman of about forty. ‘We won’t be needing you again tonight, Jessie. You and Polly get yourselves off to bed.’
The woman nodded, her eyes flicking back to Tom and the two heavies holding Archy as she said, ‘Yes, Mr Kane. There’s plenty of bread to go with the soup, fresh and still warm, the way you like it.’ She pushed the younger woman in front of her and they left the room.
‘My cook and maid.’ Jed Kane indicated for Tom to sit down as he and his brother pulled out a chair from the table, although his men remained standing. Archy was standing quiet and motionless now, the gag still in place, and Tom couldn’t bring himself to glance at him. ‘Does it surprise you, this place?’
Again, Tom didn’t lie. ‘Aye, a bit.’
Leo Kane smiled, revealing teeth as sharp and discoloured as his brother’s, and spoke for the first time. ‘A bit, he says,’ he said to his brother. ‘Aye, an’ more than a bit, I’ll be bound.’ His hard black eyes turning to Tom, he said softly, ‘We was born in Blue Anchor Yard in the quayside near to the Death House. Bodies found in the river were kept there and there were plenty of ’em, so you could say we were well acquainted with what life dished out at an early age. Caged animals live in more cleanliness and comfort than what me an’ me brother did. Ten bairns me mam had afore she died, an’ only me and Jed to show for it, but them filthy tenements did one thing for us. They made us strong, an’ folk know it.’
He turned to his brother.
‘An’ if anyone forgets that, we remind ’em, eh, Jed? An’ now we don’t live in one room, with our coal in a cupboard and the rain coming through the roof onto a stinking mattress and the walls crawling with lice.’ He smiled slowly. ‘We live like gentlemen, as you can see.’
‘Mr Kane, I swear I didn’t—’
‘Shut your mouth.’
Leo Kane didn’t shout – he didn’t have to. His soft voice was more menacing than any bellow. And Tom shut up. It had come to him that, for all Leo’s quietness, he was more to be feared than his brother. It was the deadness of his eyes.
Leo turned to the two men holding Archy. ‘Mr Finnigan thought he could short-change us. A foolish notion. And dangerous. Dangerous for him, an’ dangerous for us because we cannot allow such a notion to take root in our organization. And so a message needs sendin’ out to others who might have similar foolish ideas – a very visible message.’ He stood up, walking over to the range. ‘Bring him.’
When Archy had been marched over, Leo looked into the grey terrified face. ‘You thought you could short-change us an’ make a bit more on the side, didn’t you, lad? Do you know what the Arabs do to thieves like you? They cut their hands off. An’ it works, cos that man never again puts his fingers where they didn’t oughta go.’
He laughed at his macabre joke and the two men holding Archy sniggered obediently.
‘But we’re not Arabs, are we?’ Leo continued. ‘Besides which, that’d be a messy job.’ He reached out and grasped the handle of the big pan of soup with a thick drying-up cloth. ‘He who dabbles with fire gets burnt fingers, lad.’ He nodded at the two henchmen, who each took one of Archy’s arms at the elbow before plunging his hands into the bubbling liquid. Archy’s high-pitched screams were muffled by the gag, and his struggles made not an iota of difference to the two burly men holding him. Leo continued to steady the pan, and now the sounds coming from inside the gag were inhuman.
Tom had risen to his feet, but at Jed’s quiet ‘Sit’ he sank down again, swallowing at the nausea that had curdled into his throat, hardly able to believe what was happening in front of his eyes.
‘He’s passed out, Boss.’ One of the men holding Archy spoke impassively.
Leo inclined his head and they lifted Archy’s arms, bringing what remained of his hands out of the pan and letting the unconscious body fall on the floor. Now Jed didn’t stop Tom when he rose and staggered over to the deep white sink in a corner of the kitchen. He vomited until there was nothing left in his stomach, the cold sweat that had taken him over making him pray he wouldn’t faint in front of them all. He was vaguely aware of the two men dragging Archy out of the room and then of the clink of glasses, but it wasn’t until he finally raised his head and turned round that he realized he was alone with the brothers.
Jed held out a glass containing a good measure of brandy. ‘Drink it.’ There was a trace of sympathy in his tone.
Tom crossed the kitchen on wobbly legs and took the glass, knocking back the brandy in two deep swallows. The liquid burned a path into his stomach, but it helped steady his voice when he said, ‘What are you going to do with him?’ as he obeyed the nod of Jed’s head, which indicated for him to sit down.
‘He’ll be taken back to the place he came from.’ Jed poured more brandy into Tom’s glass and refilled his own. ‘You could say he’s lucky. Aye, he’s lucky he’s of more use to us alive, and serving as a reminder to other scum not to get any ideas.’
Tom pictured the two red lumps of meat he had glimpsed and gave an involuntary shudder. Licking his lips, he said, ‘What about me, Mr Kane? I didn’t know it was your stuff, I swear it.’
‘Aye, you’ve said.’ Leo spoke, his raspy voice impatient. ‘Luckily for you, my brother believes you. He knows when folk are lying, does Jed.’
The Gypsy mother. Hell, he just wanted to get out of here. Tom gulped at his brandy.
‘Funnily enough, we don’t like this night’s happenings any more than you do. They’re bad for business.’ Leo leaned back in his chair, reaching into his pocket and extracting a packet of Woodbines. He offered one to his brother and then to Tom. ‘It’s far better when everythin’ ticks on like clockwork. We’ve enough trouble with the customs an’ harbour police, we don’t need more.’
The smell of the soup on the range was turning Tom’s stomach. He finished his brandy and drew the smoke of his cigarette deep into his lungs.
‘We’d heard your name mentioned afore.’ Leo held up his hand as Tom went to speak. ‘Nowt bad. Like me brother said earlier, the word is you’re bright an’ you want to get on. About right?’
Warily, wondering if this was a trick, Tom nodded.
‘An’ you’re a North Dock lad, born an’ bred. That means you’re trusted over the river, aye?’
Tom nodded again. The divide between the East End and Monkwearmouth by the River Wear was more than geography. It was well over a hundred years since the bridge had been completed, joining Monkwearmouth on the north of the river to
Bishopwearmouth on the south side, but he was fully aware of the ‘us and them’ instinct that existed. It wasn’t talked about, but it was there, right enough.
‘We need someone over the river we can rely on. Call it a manager, if you like. A local lad.’ It was Jed who was speaking now and he replenished Tom’s glass. ‘Not just for the dock business, although that’s the bread-and-butter, but further afield. You think you can handle that?’
‘Me?’ The vomiting and the cause for it, along with the brandy and cigarette and not least the sickly odour of the soup on the range, was making Tom light-headed.
‘Aye, you.’ Piercing eyes held his. ‘Don’t tell me I’ve made a mistake an’ you’re not up to it, Tom.’
It was the use of his Christian name that did it. Suddenly Tom knew he wanted this. It was his chance. The break he’d prayed for. And he sensed an ally in Jed Kane, impossible though such a concept would have appeared just an hour ago. He straightened in his chair. ‘I’m up to it, all right. An’ I won’t let you down, Mr Kane.’
‘I know that.’ The black gaze held his for a moment more, before Jed turned to his brother. ‘See?’ he said softly. ‘All taken care of.’
PART TWO
Along Came a Spider
1928
Chapter Five
Lucy opened her eyes slowly, her swollen lids a reminder that she had cried herself to sleep the previous night, which, in spite of the last two years being hard ones for the North in general and her family in particular, was unusual. Her mother had always said it was no good crying over spilt milk, and although the state of the country was more serious than spilt milk, the principle was the same and one Lucy agreed with. Crying got you nowhere.
Even her da now admitted the General Strike had been a disaster; how much of a disaster had come to light as time had gone on. The ignominious defeat of the trade unions had given the employers the whip hand, and the aftermath of rebellion had taken its toll on working-class men, women and children in the North. While the south of the country prospered from the new ‘clean’ industries that were springing up – cars, vans and trucks being built, electrical goods assembled, and printing and packaging going on in modern factories using streamlined production methods – many northerners were sinking in a bog of grim poverty and starvation.
The beginning of the year had seen nearly 500,000 people over the age of sixty-five receive their first state pension of ten shillings a week, but that was no benefit to her da and the lads, Lucy reflected. The bad winter, which had continued into March with blizzards sweeping the North in the middle of the month, had meant her da hadn’t worked since well before Christmas, and the lads’ shifts at the shipyard had dried up too. Their combined dole money barely paid the rent and bought food for the table, and now, in the middle of a cold, wet April, she’d pawned everything that hadn’t already been sold.
For weeks she’d cooked oatmeal gruel and broth from boiled-up marrow bones and pearl barley for their main meal; the rest of the time it was bread with a scraping of dripping, unless the lads managed to snare a rabbit or hare in the fields, but with so many folk in the same boat the pickings from the countryside and the beaches had dwindled. Likewise any driftwood or washed-up coal or coke for the range; even the hedgerows had been stripped bare of twigs and blown-down branches and rotting logs.
All winter she’d comforted herself with the thought that things would be better once the warmer weather arrived. The lads could fish; there were cockles, mussels and shrimps to be had then too, along with crabs. Her mother had shown her how to clean and cook crabs and to be wary of their gills, which, being toxic, could kill. She’d refused to dwell on the inescapable truth that the rest of the unemployed in the town would have the same idea. She had needed to keep her spirits up for her da. He’d been in a deep depression for months. On dole days when he had to stand in line with his hand out – as he put it – everyone in the house had learned to tread on eggshells. Ernie and Donald often visited the refuge in Villiers Street Institute, where the unemployed gathered to play cards or dominoes, but as the institute also served as a distribution centre for charity for the men, her da refused to go near it.
Lucy sighed softly. It was her birthday today, but all she felt was despondency and crushing guilt. The evening before, for the first time in her life, she’d argued with her da, and over the bread knife of all things. The knife was a good one with a fine carved handle, her parents had bought it when they were first wed, and she’d pawned it for a few pence. There’d been nothing in the house to eat besides a little flour and yeast and half a cup of dripping, and with the money she had bought four penn’orth of fatty bacon pieces, along with two big onions and a few carrots and turnips and some spotted potatoes that the grocer had thrown in for a ‘scrappy pudding’, as her mam had always called it, using some of the flour and most of the dripping for the crust. With the rest of the flour, a little dripping and the yeast she’d baked two loaves of bread. It was two days till dole day, but the food would have to be eked out till then.
She had given Ruby and John and the twins a mug of the hot water the pudding had been cooked in before they’d all sat down for the evening meal together, hoping it would fill the children’s empty bellies a little. It had held the flavour of the pudding and it had wrenched her heart to see the way they had gulped it down, relishing every mouthful. All four looked pale and wan and had had constant coughs and colds during the winter. She didn’t have to worry about keeping the twins quiet when her father was home any more; they rarely had the energy to play for more than an hour or two and were content to sit close to the warmth of the range. When Ruby and John were home from school they did their chores without complaint and then joined Flora and Bess by the fire. Lucy was often aware of four pairs of eyes in too-thin faces watching her as she worked.
She had torn one of the loaves into eatable chunks and spread each with the merest scraping of dripping and placed this in the middle of the table, before dividing half of the pudding onto eight plates and calling the family to dinner. Her father had no sooner seated himself at the head of the table when he’d pointed to the plate of bread. ‘What’s that?’
She’d stared at him, genuinely puzzled. ‘Bread and dripping.’
He’d made an irritable sound in his throat. ‘I know that, I’m not stupid. I’m askin’ why it looks as though an animal’s bin at it.’
Her nerves had been stretched to breaking point for weeks. She was always hungry; she often went without so that Ruby and John and the twins could eat, and the daily struggle to feed a family of eight out of nothing and find fuel for the range, which was their only source of warmth and means of cooking, had taken its toll. Ruby’s coat had been hers, which she’d cut down to fit her sister, and she’d made do with her shawl when she had to leave the house all winter. She was at her wits’ end; she couldn’t sleep for worrying about what would become of them all, and her da was complaining about the appearance of the bread? Something snapped. ‘I did the best I could without the bread knife,’ she said, her tone one she had not used before. ‘What does it matter how it looks, if it tastes all right?’
‘Don’t talk to me like that, m’girl.’ Angry colour had flooded Walter’s face. ‘And where’s the bread knife? It was here this mornin’.’
‘I’ve pawned it.’
‘You what?’
For once she wasn’t intimidated or anxious to placate him. ‘We needed to eat and the bread knife was the only thing of any value to pawn. I’ll retrieve it as soon as I can.’
‘You dared to do that without asking me?’
‘When have you been interested in what I’ve pawned, or what I’ve had to do to provide food for us?’ Lucy had now risen from her chair, her face as white as her father’s was red. ‘You don’t say a word to me or anyone else for days. It’s like the slump has only affected you, but it hasn’t. We’re all feeling the same, except we get on with it, whereas you—’ She stopped, aware she had said far too much.
&n
bsp; For a moment silence reigned, deep and heavy. She watched her father’s eyes leave her and move over the rest of his family. They lingered longest on the twins. Flora and Bess had long since lost the plumpness of babyhood, their dark eyes too big for their small pinched faces, but he stared at them as though seeing them for the first time. Then he stood up and walked over to the food cupboard, opening it and gazing at the empty shelves for what seemed like a lifetime to Lucy, who was now awash with guilt. Then he turned, stony-faced, and reached for his cap. Stuffing it on his head, he left the house, ignoring her agonized ‘Da, wait.’
And now it was morning and she was fifteen years old. Lucy stared up at the discoloured ceiling, which didn’t look so bad in the dim dawn light filtering through the old, thin curtains. Flora was snuggled into her side, and next to her in the double bed Ruby was fast asleep with her arm round Bess.
Gently, so as not to disturb her sisters, Lucy carefully slid out of bed and pulled her petticoat and dress over her shift, shivering in the freezing air. Flora had instinctively burrowed into Ruby’s body under the blankets, seeking the source of warmth like a tiny animal. One advantage of being crammed into the bed like sardines in a can was that they were rarely cold.
Pulling on her thick woollen stockings, which had been darned so many times she’d lost count, Lucy tiptoed out of the bedroom holding her boots in one hand. She had waited up for her father until gone two in the morning the night before, but he still hadn’t returned home before she’d gone to bed. Ernie and Donald had kept her company until midnight, trying to reassure her that their da wouldn’t do anything silly such as jumping off the Wear Bridge. More than one desperate Wearsider had taken this way out. Nevertheless, she was overwhelmed with relief when she saw him sitting staring into the glow of the fire as she entered the kitchen.
‘Oh, Da, I’m sorry.’ She flew to him and he stood up and drew her into his arms. ‘I didn’t mean it, I shouldn’t have said what I did. It was stupid and—’
Dancing in the Moonlight Page 5