The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  Lizzie’s companion chuckled before excusing herself in order to continue with her duties. Alone, the daughter of Alan and Lucy Henshaw stood for some time staring at the couple in the car. They shared history from a time when life had been fairly safe and predictable, and now they had come together in the wake of tragedies and disappointments. Lizzie’s father was the greatest of his wife’s regrets. Greedy for power and hungry for money, he had stolen from her, had greatly underestimated her, yet had made her stronger in the long run.

  David had lost a wife who, according to Mums, had been the great love of his life. Weaker than his current companion, he had run away to a guru on top of some hill in India, had sought solace in meditation and new-fangled prayer to gods who didn’t exist. Were they gods, or were they elements in nature? ‘I’ll ask some time,’ she said quietly. His son, a virtual orphan, had died of a nasty disease, and that poor kid’s father had been absent at the beginning of the illness. David had not grown stronger. He remained fidgety, unsure and almost childlike in some respects. Lizzie and her mother had discussed him at length, and it was clear that Mums was interested, yet hesitant, as he often seemed to be frozen and set in stone, rather like a fossil at the North Pole.

  As an outsider, Lizzie could see what was required. Mums wanted someone to care for, because her children were beyond the age where they needed close vigilance. She needed to take him into her bed and into her heart, because she was a generous woman who was also capable of showering tremendous love on all who travelled within her sphere.

  David was different, more complicated. Emotionally, he lived in the past, body and soul still welded to the ghosts of his wife and child. An overwhelming guilt forbade him to move on, so he was afraid of commitment. But Lizzie had watched, had taken in the expression on his face every time he looked at Lucy. His elemental self clearly desired this wonderful woman, but he was afraid. Mums had spoken about his deep uncertainties, but Lizzie had been too worried about Dad and everything else to take everything on board. Now, she watched David and tried to work him out for herself.

  His fear stemmed, Lizzie suspected, from two sources. One was that the size of his love might suffocate Lucy, since he could give himself only completely. He was rather close to the hero in some age-old romance, the perfect man – created by a female writer, of course – who fixed on one woman only. Dad was like a splinter group in a single body, because he could give bits of himself to any woman who would have him. Dad and David were poles apart.

  The other fear in Lucy’s potential suitor was the terrifying concept of loving and losing yet again. If they came together, he would, perhaps, depend on her too much, might have insufficient self-confidence to expect her to stay with him. If the unthinkable happened, if she died, he would probably never recover.

  ‘I should have studied psychology,’ Lizzie said.

  Something had to be done. Life was becoming rather full, what with Dad ill and still naughty, Mums head-over-heels yet determined to appear unaffected, David Vincent not knowing whether he was coming or going, Theatre in the Park taking up time. And Simon. Lizzie was a rare animal, since she was a twenty-year-old virgin. She hadn’t expected to fall in love, because that wasn’t to be allowed on the agenda until she was working, famous, and able to identify a suitable man who might tolerate her potentially nomadic existence.

  It had happened quickly, and was not to be trusted. Yet she did trust him. Whereas Mother – Mums – was with a man she had known before, a decent, trustworthy if rather absent-minded doctor, and Lizzie needed to find a way of getting them together. She wondered briefly whether Carol Makin might be experienced with a soldering iron, and giggled when she imagined her mother and Dr Vincent glued together for life. One thing she could do. There was a coffee machine downstairs, and she would take her time over a cup of Kenya blend. That might leave them in a car full of UST for another ten minutes.

  Lizzie was wasting her time, because the couple in the car were ignoring any unresolved sexual tension to discuss what might become of Alan. Lucy thought he would return to drink at the earliest opportunity, while David believed that the man currently recovering from open heart surgery might have learned his lesson at last. ‘He’s through the worst. He was through that before they wheeled him into theatre. Withdrawal from any drug is a nightmare, and he’ll know he can’t endure that again.’

  Lucy didn’t agree. ‘Drink is all he has. Even Lizzie’s seen through him, and he’ll have nowhere to turn. No job, no home, no family – unless I can find some very clever way of handling him, he’ll be dependent on alcohol within a week.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’

  ‘Half a lifetime of living with him. I think he sweats booze. When he comes into a room, it immediately adopts all the elegance of a distillery-cum-brewery, especially when he belches. His clothes reek of it. Until I moved into my own room, I smelt of it – from the bed covers. He’s too far gone, David. You think a few weeks in here is a cure?’

  ‘No. I think the surgery is the final cure. He’ll be terrified. After weeks of enforced alcohol-free living and painful withdrawal, he had the line drawn by a surgeon. It wasn’t just drawn, Lucy – it was cut into his flesh. The operation is the full stop at the end of this paragraph.’

  He pointed to the building. ‘This place is Nemesis for him. I know Rhys Evans-Jones. He’s operated on kids whose hearts have needed attention after chemo. That man is one tough bastard who instructs parents like a disappointed sergeant major dressing down the ranks. I shouldn’t like to be on the receiving end of his scalpel. And I don’t mean a hand-held instrument – it’s his pep talks, his threats, his dogged determination to scare the living shit out of sinners. Mark my words, Lucy. He will have made a lasting impression on your husband.’

  Lizzie opened a rear door and climbed into the car. ‘He’s fine,’ she told them. ‘Except he wants a chip butty.’

  ‘Good. Shall we go home, David?’

  He turned on the engine.

  ‘How are we for UST?’ Lizzie asked.

  ‘Is that some kind of treated milk?’ Lucy enquired.

  Lizzie groaned. ‘Home, James. And don’t spare the Audi.’

  Seven

  Lexi must have been waiting just inside the door like a crouching cat, because she opened it and pounced as soon as he began to push the envelope through the flap. He stepped back automatically until he saw the triumph in her face as she leapt from the hall and on to the front step. For the first time in his life, he felt near to murder. He had experienced strong dislikes before, but never hatred. So this was how easy it could be, then. A quick loss of temper, a step too far, a corpse on the floor, and years in prison. During those years, though, Moira would die, and since he could never leave her he would never succumb to the impulse to kill.

  ‘Here comes the man in black once more,’ Lexi proclaimed. ‘With his car parked at least three streets away, because I’m not good enough.’ Her voice rose slightly. ‘Good enough for a quick shag, like, but not for anything more perma—’ She gasped. His hand was at her throat, and it was a very strong grip that interfered with voice and breathing. He moved quickly, pushed her into the house, and kicked home the door when they were both inside the stuffy, ill-decorated hall. Another ounce of pressure, and she would drop like a stone, but he was not a taker of lives.

  Richard saw and enjoyed the fear in her eyes. ‘Listen, you stupid bitch,’ he whispered. ‘If you are going to ruin my life and, far more important, the little piece of agonizing time that’s left to my irreplaceable wife, you can do that just as easily from beyond the grave. Alive or dead, it makes no difference, because you’re a burden on society, and you wouldn’t be missed. Don’t play games with me, because you’re not in my league. You’re just a dirty, stinking whore.’

  He threw her on to a sofa. ‘Where’s the film? Come on – where is the blasted thing? I thought I might send it to Hollywood, see what Spielberg thinks of it. I shall insist on Richard Gere and Julia Roberts to play
our parts, of course. Lost your tongue? Oh, dear – did I hurt you? So sorry. It was completely intentional, I assure you.’

  Lexi was clutching her neck, while her eyes darted from side to side. She was terrified, and she didn’t frighten easily. Situations like this one had been part and parcel of her adult life, but this was an educated man, and she feared him.

  ‘There’ll be no bruising to spoil your delightful appearance – I know what I’m doing. Trust me – I’m a doctor. Where’s this DVD?’ He folded his arms and towered over her. ‘Where?’ She was bluffing, wasn’t she?

  ‘Not here,’ she managed. ‘You don’t think I’d be daft enough to keep it where you could find it, eh?’

  ‘Get me a copy. Moira knows I have other women, because she sanctioned the idea, since she is way beyond the point where sex is even possible for her. I’d like to show her what I’ve been up to – she takes a great interest in everything I do, even insists that I find release somewhere. She may be disappointed to know that I’ve sunk to your level, but she’ll get a good laugh out of it. God knows she has little enough to laugh at. Well?’

  Lexi shook her head.

  ‘Then where’s the camera?’

  ‘I lent it off somebody.’ Her tone was weak and husky. ‘What have you done to my neck? Will my voice get back to normal?’

  ‘Just be grateful that I didn’t break your bloody neck. But I promise you now – the day that little film of yours makes its international, red-carpet debut, you die.’ He watched while she swallowed painfully. ‘Right. Are we being filmed now? Where did you hide the camera? I can be very persistent, Alexandra. My wife knows I have adventures, but she’ll be upset when she finds I’ve been lying down with a prostitute, so I’d rather she didn’t know this particular truth. However, I’ll show her the evidence if you insist. Well? Camera?’

  ‘It was upstairs. But it’s not here now. I’ve give it back to my friend, and she’s gone on her holidays. I only lent it off her.’

  ‘Borrowed,’ he said automatically. ‘Now, hear this. No matter what, when Moira dies, I won’t marry you. She’s one in a million, and there’s every chance I’ll stay single. But, from a practical point of view, the way you speak, the way you dress, you could never play the part of doctor’s wife. So let’s talk business, shall we? For a one-off payment, will you sell me all copies of that film?’ This was the test he’d decided to set. Her reply might tell him all he needed to know. A film? She couldn’t even use the camera on her mobile phone, so she was hardly likely to attempt a hidden camcorder job.

  ‘No. I won’t.’

  He sat in an armchair next to a 1950s fireplace, all beige mottled tiles and lacquered brass ornaments. An ironing board, its cover stained and peeling, stood to one side of the chimney breast. This was not an organized woman.

  There was no DVD. Anyone in a strong position would have asked how much he intended to offer. After all, she could have taken a few grand, given him a couple of copies and kept the master. ‘There’ll be no more payments of a hundred pounds a week,’ he advised her. ‘The filming is a lie – I’d stake my life on that. You’re a tramp, Lexi. Remember, I’ve got your notes. Now that I’ve read them I shall need to check my own health, because you’re a tart. You’ve been to prison, haven’t you?’

  She shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. The trouble was, she hadn’t thought it all through properly. Having laughed at him for not noticing that she was on his list, she’d forgotten that he would have access to her full medical history, which was colourful. It was difficult to keep up with him, because he had a brain that travelled faster than the speed of sound, and she simply wasn’t clever enough. But she would get to him. Oh yes, there was more than one way to skin a cat. Why should he get away with abusing her? He lived the grand life, posh house, nice car, good clothes. And she spent several hours a day pushing bar codes over a checkout light. It wasn’t fair. But she was still afraid.

  ‘I’m going home now,’ he said. ‘Back to a wife I love beyond the reach of ordinary words. Love’s a little bit more than a roll in the hay. And you’d better find yourself another doctor, because I’m too far away for you, really. I know you’re in the catchment area, but I’d rather you went elsewhere. Stay away from the surgery, away from my family, and definitely out of my reach, you tramp.’

  She simply stared at him. It wasn’t over. This time she’d gone off half-cocked, but she wasn’t finished, not by a long chalk. For most of her adult life, she’d been walked on by men. All she’d tried was to better herself, and this article had told her he loved her, albeit only in the throes of passion. He was another user. Fear turned to fury, because the creature represented all who had hurt her, all who had failed to pay, men who had left her diseased, or pregnant, or stranded somewhere with no fare to get home.

  Richard Turner jumped to his feet. He retrieved the envelope containing thirty pounds, opened her handbag, took out her purse and counted the other seventy. ‘I don’t pay scum,’ he snapped. ‘This is my money, and I’m keeping it.’ He pushed the squashed notes into a trouser pocket. ‘Shall I give the money to a charity that looks after fallen women? Or perhaps I could spend it on my wife.’

  She cleared a clogged throat and found her voice. ‘Get out of my house. Go on. You’re the scum, using women because your wife’s ill. Call yourself a doctor, and you can’t even help your own dying wife? There’s still things I can do about you, Turner. You’ve had sex with a patient, and that’s a fact you’d best not ignore.’

  He laughed mirthlessly. ‘And you’ll be believed? Remember, I’ve seen your notes. I don’t even need to read between the lines – your history’s as plain as a pikestaff. Just try it. Just you try it. Because believe me, I’ll be ready for you no matter what. Blow me up to my employers if you wish, because any man would refuse to trust a trollop.’

  ‘And the neighbours might have seen you coming and going.’

  ‘Doctor on call?’ he suggested. ‘Come on, you can’t have it all your own way. I found you ill in the street, brought you home, and have been keeping a check on you out of the goodness of my heart.’

  ‘For an hour and a bloody half?’

  ‘Like I said, Lexi. Try it.’ He walked out and slammed the front door.

  Outside, he found himself shivering like an autumn leaf in the wind. What if there was a DVD? She wouldn’t publish and be damned, because she was already damned, had very probably been rejected by decent society many years ago. If she couldn’t make money out of it, she wouldn’t use it. Even if it did exist. Which it didn’t. How many times had he berated patients for getting into stressful situations? Wasn’t this a case where the motto ‘Physician, heal thyself,’ might be applied? He was a fool, a damned fool, and his heart was beating too fast.

  However, he almost ran to his car, sitting for some time in the driver’s seat because he didn’t trust himself on the road. It was as if he had yet again developed some neurological condition that wasn’t a million miles removed from his wife’s MS, because his limbs weren’t steady, and his breathing was uneven. Life was bloody grim, and he couldn’t quite work out how to improve it. Poor Moira. Bloody Lexi hadn’t finished, he was sure of that. Even without her imaginary DVD, she could do damage to Richard and to his family. He had to talk to his wife immediately. If Lexi did go to the authorities, Moira should be warned first.

  A shadow on the pavement caught his peripheral attention, then the view from his windscreen disappeared. Yes, here she was with her famous squirty cream and chocolate spread – she wasn’t taking anything lying down, not at the moment, anyway. The road on which he was parked was near the docks and flanked by commercial premises, but people still walked through here. He turned on the engine, flicked the windscreen wiper switch and stared at her when a fan-shaped hole appeared in the mess she was creating. He leaned on the horn, engaged first gear, and leapt forward. For a split second, he didn’t care if he hit her. Anger rushed through his system, and a headache threatened.

  Lexi jump
ed out of the way and folded in an untidy heap on the pavement. He stopped and stared into his rear-view mirror until she stood and walked away. Unused to red-hot temper, he stayed where he was for a few more seconds before driving off in the direction of home. She was alive. ‘You haven’t killed her. Yet,’ he told himself aloud. He had to deal with this, and he couldn’t do it alone. Windscreen washers failed to shift the mess, and he was driving half blind. He needed water and detergent.

  On Crosby Road South, he parked and knocked on a door. Explaining that he was a visiting doctor whose parked car had been decorated by delinquent children, he elicited the sympathy of a whole family. Father, mother and two boys came out with buckets and sponges to wash the mess from the screen. They didn’t stop there; after cleaning the glass, the sons mopped and polished the whole vehicle while he sat and drank tea in their living room. There were good people in the world, and he wasn’t one of them at the moment. Being in this place was balm to his wounded soul, because it represented real humanity.

  This was proper family life; this was how it had been for him, Moira, Simon, Alice and Stephanie. He left some money for the boys and a business card for the parents. ‘Anything I can do, just phone. I truly appreciate your help.’ He stood up and looked at the gardens. This was a very ordinary, neat council-built house with a through room, but the gardens front and back saved it from the norm. ‘Is that all your work?’ he asked the husband.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Splendid. You garden for a living?’

  ‘I do.’

  Richard smiled. Something good had come out of something terrible today. ‘In a week or so, telephone me if you need clients. We are about to lose a very good gardener to retirement. He does most of the houses on Mersey View, and some of the parks on the marina side of our road. There should be work for you then.’

  Every face in the room lit up. Richard blinked some moisture from his eyes and made a hasty exit. He was, he reassured himself, a decent man. Deep down where it mattered, he knew that he wasn’t a bastard, though many would think badly of him if they knew how he ‘cheated’ on his sick wife. He had never cheated. And now he would turn to her again, because she was his cushion, his soul mate, his best friend.