“Hold on a bit. I wanted to have a chinwag while we could.”
“I’d better not stay too long, Bri.”
Brian shook out a cigarette from his package and offered it to Jack. “You smoking yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Smart lad.” Shakily Brian lit a cigarette and drew in a lungful of smoke. “I was curious as to how you got into the clutches of that rotten sod Donny Jarvis.”
Jack shrugged, not looking at him. “He saw me coming out of one of the bombed-out houses.”
“God, Jackie, don’t tell me you were looting.”
Another shrug. “I suppose so.”
Brian caught his arm. “No, Jackie. Not suppose. Either you were or you weren’t.”
The boy tugged himself free, shrinking away from him. “The people were dead so they didn’t need it anymore, did they.”
“What’d you steal? I’m curious.”
“Some money. They’d left it in a jam jar. It wasn’t much.”
“How much?”
“ ’Bout ten bob.”
“And for ten shillings you sold your soul to Donny Jarvis?”
Jack was on the verge of tears. “I didn’t know what to do.”
“Why didn’t you go to Dad? Or better yet, why didn’t you talk to Granddad? He knows how to deal with rubbish like Donny.”
“I can’t. Donny’ll hurt me bad if I tell anybody and if I don’t do what he says.”
“That where you got your bruise?”
Jack nodded, his face abject. “I didn’t want to say anything about you, Bri, but it sort of all came out. Donny’s like that. Nobody stands up to him. He broke his last girlfriend’s nose because she cheeked him. He doesn’t just threaten – he does.”
Brian chucked the boy under the chin. “No good crying over spilt milk. I’m going to take care of Mr. Jarvis before I go.”
Jackie looked at him, round-eyed. “What’ll you do?”
“Never mind about that.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Do you know what’s in the bag he gave you?”
“No.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” He grinned. “If you think Donny Jarvis can hurt people, he’s got nothing on me when I get riled up.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Don’t know about you, but I need that cuppa.”
Jackie glanced over at the clock on the mantelpiece. “No, I’ve really got to go, Bri.”
“Not yet. There’s something else I want to talk to you about.”
Brian went into the kitchen, leaving the door open. “How’re you doing at school?” he called over his shoulder.
“All right.”
“Did you get Mr. Lishman this year?”
“Yeah.”
“He’s a bit of an arsehole but he makes you learn.”
“Yeah.”
Brian stood in the doorway. He said, ever so casually, “I saw Nessa last night. She made it in spite of the fog.”
“Good. That must have been nice for you.” Jack’s eyes were lowered.
Brian stepped closer. “What did you tell her exactly when you gave her the message?”
“That you were here and would meet her at midnight in the shelter. Just like you told me. Why? Did she get the time wrong?”
“No, no, she was right on time. Funny thing, though, she seemed surprised to see me. I mean to see me. Almost as if she was expecting somebody else.”
Jack didn’t look at him. “Don’t be daft, Brian. How could she be?”
“That’s what I wondered. So I thought I’d better ask what you said exactly.” His lips twisted into his ferocious grin. “Maybe you said some film star was waiting in the shelter.”
“Course I didn’t.”
“Michael Wilding, for instance. Or Leslie Howard.”
“Not likely.”
“When you said it was me wanted to see her, and that I wasn’t in the army anymore, she must have been quite taken aback.”
“Course she was.”
A piece of coal fell in the fireplace and Jack jumped. Brian didn’t take his eyes off his brother’s face.
“Was she glad? When you said I was home and waiting for her, was she glad?”
“Course she was, Bri.”
Brian came to the table where Jack was sitting. “It’s a relief to know what you just said, Jackie.”
“Sure, Bri. Anytime.”
Brian turned his brother’s head towards him. “Because I don’t like fibbers, Jack. In fact, I hate them.”
After Jack had left, Brian felt even more restless. His granddad had said they should keep the curtains closed at all times. A lot of people did these days, so it wouldn’t seem so strange. They were heavy blackout curtains; he had to turn the light on when he was in the room. He would love to go out and get some fresh air but he knew he couldn’t. He wasn’t going to be outside in daylight for a long time. What if Donny let him down and didn’t bring him the passport and identity card? Well, he wasn’t going to stay here. He’d go stark, raving mad. He’d find a way to get to Ireland himself. Even if the absolute worst happened and Vanessa couldn’t come with him right away, he’d go regardless. The war couldn’t last forever. He’d have to wait it out.
He went back upstairs and pulled out the bag from underneath the bed. He decided to take a chance on his gran’s being out for a couple of hours and decided to use the living room.
He emptied the contents of the shopping bag onto the table. There were two alarm clocks without the outer casings, a couple of batteries, two tiny light bulbs from a torch, and some wires. That was it. He hadn’t made a timer before but it was a simple matter really. Connect the wires from the battery to the clock, then to the light bulb. Set the alarm for a certain time. When it switched on, it would connect with the light bulb, which would start to heat up. So much for Donny’s protestations about no bombs. This type of timer was intended to connect with some kind of explosive substance that would react to heat. It was small but it didn’t have to be big. Everything would fit in a shoebox.
“No casualties,” Donny had said, but who was kidding whom? Well, he couldn’t think about that. This was survival of the fittest. Let those who can survive. He couldn’t take care of everybody else.
Suddenly the front door opened and in walked Mrs. Swann, the next-door neighbour. “Beattie, I’m off to the shops. Do you—”
Seeing him, she stopped in her tracks. “Brian, what are you doing here? I thought you were off in the army.”
His mind froze. He could easily have told her he was on leave, but he could see she was peering curiously over his shoulder.
“Is Beattie in?”
“No, she’s gone shopping.”
Something must have showed on his face, some expression that alarmed her. She began to turn towards the door.
“I’ll just drop off this pamphlet, then.”
He was on her in a flash, grabbing her thin arm. “Mrs. Swann, stay here.”
“Brian, what’s wrong with you?”
She tried to push him away and get out the door but he jerked her hard and she fell to the ground. Her head connected with the bottom step in a sickening bounce. The breath had been knocked out of her body and she lay gasping on the floor, one leg splayed out at a grotesque angle. Brian was paralyzed. She was going into seizures and it was obvious from the sudden stench that she had involuntarily voided her bowels. She moaned and her eyelids fluttered.
It was the moan that broke Brian’s immobility. Terror swept through him. Without a thought, wanting only to stop the sound, he seized one of his granddad’s brass-topped walking sticks from the stand.
She was a fragile old thing and it didn’t take much to silence her, only two savage blows.
Brian started to talk out loud. “Got to get her out of the hall – quick.”
He was panting as if he’d been running. Mrs. Swann’s hat had tilted over her forehead and a halo of blood was spreading around her head.
“Don’t think about that now. Get her out of here. The sh
elter. I’ll take her down to the shelter.”
He grabbed the hall rug and wrapped her in it. His grandfather’s mac and old cap were hanging on the coat stand. Trembling, Brian put them on.
“If anybody sees me, they’ll think it’s Granddad.”
Mrs. Swann was frail and small, but she was now a dead weight and he had to heave to get her over his shoulder.
He stumbled towards the back door, his knees shaking so hard he could hardly walk.
“You would have told. I know you would have. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to pull you like that.”
He managed to open the door a crack and peeked out. Nobody was in sight and a thin rain had started, darkening the already gloomy day. He kicked open the door and, making himself walk briskly, he strode down the path to the air-raid shelter. Now his burden seemed light, although the smell was sickening in his nostrils.
There was a green chenille curtain hanging across the far corner of the shelter. Behind it, offering some cramped privacy, was a chamber pot, a jug of water, and a pile of extra blankets. There was just room between the blankets and the wall to dump the body, although he had to fold her up like a rag doll. He pulled away the rug and loaded the grey blankets around and on top of her.
“I’m sorry, but you shouldn’t have walked in like that,” he whispered. “Look at it like this. A bomb could have dropped on you. We don’t know what God’s plan was for you, do we. You’ve lived your life. Mine’s just starting.”
He dropped the curtain. Nothing looked disturbed. Good. He just hoped they wouldn’t be using the shelter tonight.
He pulled his granddad’s cap tightly onto his head. “Come on. Walk casually.”
He went back to the house carrying the bloodied rug, the rain wetting his face.
When he got inside, Brian felt his strength leave his body like air out of a balloon. He could have lain down and gone to sleep right there and then. But he had to clean up.
He filled the kitchen sink with water and dumped the rug in. The water turned pink immediately. Then he got a wash rag, mop, and bucket and went back to the hall. Bloody hell. He’d been standing close enough to the old lady to catch some of the blood spatter, and his jersey was sticky all down the front. And the walking stick. He had to clean the walking stick. He pulled off his jersey and used it to wipe the stick, then replaced it in the stand. He was trying to move as fast as he could but the sensation was like moving through water. Everything was an effort and he couldn’t get his thoughts in order.
He started to wash the floor … no, wait, he mustn’t be found here in his undervest with the blood-stained jersey at his feet. And the timers. He had to get them out of the living room.
He scrambled up to his room, using hands and feet as if he were a dog. He shoved the jersey in the shopping bag with the other stuff. He didn’t dare spend time washing himself off but he couldn’t see any stains on his skin – his clothes had absorbed the blood. But everything smelled bad. Had some of her shit got on his trousers when he picked her up? He checked frantically but couldn’t see any. Maybe it was on the jersey. He’d have to throw it out as soon as possible. Fortunately his gran had given him a couple of extras. He grabbed one from the drawer and pulled it on. The shit smell lessened but not that much.
He went back downstairs, slipping on the last two steps in his haste and banging his tailbone painfully. On the linoleum was a large red stain flecked with bits of whitish grey stuff that must be brain matter. He dragged over the bucket and started to mop it up, trying not to gag.
The rage that had overtaken him seemed far off. He could hardly remember hitting Mrs. Swann. Had he always had such a temper? He’d been angry at times like anybody else, but he’d never lost control in this way before. But war changed men. The timid became bold and the apparently brave crumpled in the face of danger. That’s what they said.
But you haven’t been at war, said a cold voice in his head. She was an old, helpless woman who never did you any harm.
He whimpered. Mrs. Swann had given him sweeties when he was a child and even a pair of socks she’d knitted herself when he had a birthday. She’d always been kind and interested in his welfare. For a moment he experienced a rush of such grief and remorse that it actually made him feel as if he would collapse.
Maybe she wasn’t dead.
He considered making a dash for the shelter just to make sure, but he might be seen. Besides, he knew she was dead. His act was irrevocable.
He heard a quick three taps at the door, then the key in the lock and Beattie came in.
“Brian,” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?”
He was surprised how easily he could lie to her. “Gran, I’m so sorry. I tripped and spilled my tea all over everything. I’m so sorry.”
“That’s all right, Bri. What did you do with the rug?”
“I put it in the sink to soak.”
“That was the right thing to do.” She began to take off her headscarf and her coat. “Come on, cheer up, it’s not the end of the world. That rug’s had a lot more than that spilled on it over the years.” She sniffed. “What’s that bad smell?”
“Oh, Jackie dropped in this morning. He must have stepped in some dog dirt.”
“Ugh. Why wasn’t he at school?”
“He was skipping off, I suppose.”
“I’m worried about that boy. He’s not himself at all.”
She tidied her hair in the mirror of the hall stand. Their eyes met.
“Bri … should you be downstairs?”
“Please, Gran. I’m going stir-crazy.”
“Oh dear, we can’t have that. Just stay away from the windows, there’s a good boy. And the door wasn’t locked. We must be so careful.” She picked up her basket. “I did well with the veg. I went over to Stebbings and he had a new delivery of potatoes in. I bought some extra carrots as well. I told him I was shopping for Mrs. Swann, so I’ll have to give her a bundle in case she says something.” She bent down. “What’s this?” She fished out a card that had got shoved under the coat stand. “Why, it’s one of Maisie’s Peace Pledge cards. How did that get here?”
“She must have dropped it through the letter slot and it got swept over there.”
Beatrice put the card in her pocket. “If this war goes on much longer, I’ll join myself. Anyway, I’ll just pop out and take her the carrots or she’ll be coming over. Won’t be long.”
Don’t. Don’t go. He swallowed hard so he wouldn’t actually shout those words to her. He heard the back door click shut and he rushed to the window to see what she was doing. She crossed the back garden, went past the shelter, and opened the gate of Mrs. Swann’s garden, where she vanished up the path out of sight. He waited. There was a bread knife on the draining board by the sink and he picked it up. For what? He didn’t allow himself to contemplate the answer to that. Within a few minutes Beatrice reappeared. She was walking calmly down the path, not running, not looking bewildered or afraid. Go past the shelter. Don’t go in there. She didn’t, and in another minute she was at the house.
“Did Mrs. Swann like her carrots?” Brian set the knife back down
“She wasn’t home. I left them on the counter.” Beatrice shook her head. “She’s getting a bit doddery in her old age. She’d left her kettle on the stove. Good thing I came in when I did. It had practically boiled dry.”
Beatrice went to the sink and started to squeeze the rug. “You did make a mess of this, didn’t you.”
“Sorry.”
Beatrice glanced over her shoulder at him, then came over and drew him into her arms. “It’s not important, Brian. It’ll wash out.”
For the rest of the afternoon Tyler worked non-stop, interviewing as many people as he could before the end of their shift.
A very clear picture emerged of a factory ridden too hard. Morale was low and it wasn’t just because of the explosion, which all the workers thought had been an accident. The dead girls had been well liked, and both Tyler and Cudmore had to pr
offer handkerchiefs at regular intervals. Mary Ringwald-Brown’s name came up frequently. A shadow had descended over her that she wasn’t easily going to dispel.
She herself refused to be interviewed. She claimed to have said everything there was to say in the canteen interrogation – note the word – and unless he was going to charge her with the crime of being a natural woman, he had no legal grounds to insist on her presence. Cudmore delivered this message, voice neutral, manner neutral. He’d have made a good diplomat, Tyler thought. As for himself, he thought the woman’s attitude was provocative but he didn’t want to give her fuel for her fire by throwing his weight around. He decided to leave her be for the time being.
“We should stop soon,” he said to the secretary, who was looking bleary-eyed. “How many more people are there to see?”
“That’s the last of those who came in today, sir. I shall send word to the absentees and ask them to come in tomorrow.”
“Mr. Cudmore, you are a brick.”
“Thank you, sir. I shall have these notes ready for you by tomorrow morning.”
Tyler got up. “I’ll go and see how my constable has made out.”
Eagleton was covered in dust and looked hot and tired, but he’d accomplished a lot. He’d brought in a table and was standing in front of it putting the shards of the papier-mâché pots together. A neat pile of debris was beside the shattered bench.
“You look like a desert rat, Eager. Time for a cuppa, I’d say.”
“Thank you, sir. This dust gets in your throat something awful.”
“Did you get some lunch?”
“I did, sir. A tasty bowl of veggie soup.” He removed his glasses and put them in his pocket. “I’m afraid there’s not a lot to report, sir. There’s too much damage to the pots to determine if they were originally faulty. As you thought, the explosion seems to have occurred right here.” He pointed to a spot directly in front of the stool once occupied by Tess Deacon. “This person got the brunt. There were a few remnants of her tray but I would say that all the other fuses in the pot were ignited. That in turn must have set off the fuses in the magazine box, which was at the end of the bench.”
Beware This Boy Page 17