‘Who is this Betty Martin?’ Roy asked innocently.
‘She is just a saying,’ Anna snapped. ‘And I can tell from your faces that you weren’t talking about anything maroon and white.’
Roy nodded. ‘You’re right, of course. It was royal blue and cream.’
Anna stormed out.
Rosh moved the vase. ‘Coffee at your house, I think, sir. We can’t have a conversation without Big Ears poking a lughole in. Oh, and you’re on coffee and listening, and I’m on talking.’
Across the road in Roy’s house, they drank his excellent coffee and listened to a concert on the Home Service. Coming here had probably been a mistake, Rosh mused. Whilst her mother was a nuisance, she was also a distraction, as were the children. What a day this had been. ‘Roy?’
‘Yes?’
‘When you asked if you had a chance with me, what did you mean? What exactly do you want from me?’
His gaze remained steady. ‘Just to be with you. You know full well how I feel, how I’ve always felt. I think Phil knew, too. A day when I don’t see you is empty. Just be quiet for a minute and listen to this bit. Close your eyes and allow Beethoven to touch your soul.’
She obeyed until the movement ended.
‘Beethoven says it all, Rosh. His father was a cruel man, or so I’ve heard. The torture and the passion are in all his symphonies. What I feel for you is in there, too. Because words are not enough.’
Roy had been reborn with his father’s death. He had become louder, livelier and a great deal more optimistic. Because these improvements showed in all areas of his life, he now acted as the glue that held his legal offices together, the one man who knew where everyone else should be at any given moment of any day. Rosh was turning into the shy one, she reminded herself now. Always a gutsy woman, she found herself very aware of him, of the changes in him, and she was suddenly quieter. Why? What was happening? ‘You’re supposed to be listening,’ she reminded him with mock severity.
‘And you’re supposed to be doing the talking.’
For once in her life, she was almost stumped. It had been her idea to escape to his house, to leave behind Mam and the children, since everybody valued Roy, and Rosh’s mother in particular had taken on the role of matchmaker. ‘My mother has us married off already,’ she began carefully.
‘I noticed,’ he said.
‘There’s been just Phil for me, you see.’
Roy had lived in Phil’s shadow for what seemed like an eternity. ‘No woman has lasted more than a fortnight, Rosh. I seem to have a low boredom threshold. Oh, and we’re not young any more.’
She bridled slightly. ‘Speak for yourself. I’m thirty plus a bit, and that bit is negotiable. On a good day, I’m thirty-one; today, I was thirty-twelve, because I hurt some people.’ She paused. ‘Am I hurting you?’
‘Not at the moment, no.’ And he told her about his pain.
During the litany that followed, Rosh remained motionless. He hurt when she walked away from him and when she approached him. A table between them grew to the size of Everest, while his bed was the loneliest place on the planet. ‘I’m obsessed,’ he admitted finally.
She agreed with that. ‘Yes, you’re a lunatic. We definitely know each other well enough. But we need to make time for us away from here. And be aware, she’ll be watching. There’s no sense in trying to hide anything, because there’ll be gossip no matter what we do.’
‘I know. But I disagree with you; there’s no need for any courtship ritual.’
Yet again, Rosh had no idea what to say.
‘We already know each other completely,’ he whispered.
Rosh inhaled deeply. ‘Not quite completely. So we go directly to bed without collecting two hundred pounds? Like jail in Monopoly?’
He laughed. ‘I didn’t say that. Though it is just about the only thing we haven’t done together. Perhaps you’re right. We need to get away from this area and learn to be together without the past dogging our heels. And out of reach of your mother’s sharp eyes and ears.’
‘She doesn’t need a special mention in dispatches. She’s a constant, a permanent fixture. Even if we do come through, Roy, she stays.’
He chuckled. ‘Poor Eric. He’s got new teeth, new trousers – even a new cap. He loved his old cap, you know. And she still makes his life a total bloody misery. What?’
But Rosh had curled into a ball of agony. Strange, how laughter could make a person ache so much. After a few seconds, she managed to catch her breath. ‘He came round on Thursday, and she was cleaning cupboards. So she handed everything over to him, sat down, and read his paper.’
‘Cheeky mare,’ grinned Roy.
‘I’ve not finished. Neither had she. She examined his cupboards, said his work wasn’t good enough, and made him do it all again.’ Rosh dried her eyes. ‘But she has knitted him a lovely cardigan. He told me privately that it itches something terrible on the back of his neck, but he has to wear it, and I mustn’t say anything. Oh, it’s a shame.’
‘I know how he feels.’
‘You know how he feels? When did you last scrub cupboards for me?’
‘But I would if you asked me.’
‘Yes, you probably would. Tragic, isn’t it?’
‘Not particularly. I love you, and I won’t allow you to have dirty cupboards.’ After this statement, he crossed the room, sat next to her and pulled her into his arms. ‘Stop me at any time,’ he said seriously. ‘Like the ice cream man – stop me and buy one.’
She didn’t stop him. Sensations long forgotten returned within seconds, and she pressed him closer to her by encircling his neck with her arms. For her, the embrace became urgent, almost desperate, yet he went carefully, almost with reverence. His hands on her clothed body simply rested on her softness, and she had her answer. This was meant. It had been organized by someone or something outside the two of them. Phil?
Breathless, they parted and reclaimed their share of oxygen.
‘What were you selling?’ Rosh asked. ‘Stop me and buy one?’
‘Me. I was selling me.’
‘You’re priceless,’ she told him.
He looked at the clock. ‘Eight minutes.’
‘What?’
‘Our first kiss lasted eight minutes.’
Rosh clobbered him with a cushion. ‘You timed it?’
Between blows, he pleaded innocence. He’d just happened to glance at the clock when crossing the room. No, no, he hadn’t timed it, but might she stop hitting him so that they could try to beat their record?
She threw down her weapon. ‘I’m off home,’ she announced. ‘I’m not stopping here to become a plaything for a bloke with a stopwatch. No, I’ll wait for the real ice cream man, thanks.’
‘Coward,’ he cried.
‘Shut up, you’ll have the neighbours in.’ She struck a pose, hand on thrust-out hip, mouth chewing non-existent gum. ‘How much? How much will you pay for my time, mister? I’m good on the flat, not bad over the jumps, and I’m experienced in dressage.’
‘Three-day eventing?’ he asked.
‘You couldn’t afford me for three days, love. I doubt you could afford me for three hours – we’ve Norwegian ships in, you know.’
‘One hour, then?’ he begged.
She nodded, removed the pretend chewing gum and stuck it to his windowsill. For the first time in ages, she was playing a game that could have only one result. ‘Follow me,’ she commanded. ‘And you’ll never last an hour with Lola, sailor.’
‘Who’s Lola?’
Lola arrived home at nine thirty. The children were in bed, thank goodness, but Hawk-Eye remained lively; Rosh, wondering how she might escape upstairs to erase all signs of Lola, could hear Anna clattering pots in the kitchen. Oh, God. The prodigal daughter closed her eyes and leaned against the front door. Twenty questions. Any minute now, torture would begin.
It began. ‘What time do you call this?’
Rosh didn’t open her eyes. ‘Lola,’ she rep
lied.
‘What?’
‘I call it Lola.’
The smaller, older woman dragged her daughter into the dining room. ‘Well, I must say—’
‘No, you mustn’t.’
But silence was not an option in Anna’s book. ‘I must say you look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards.’
‘You should see the other fellow, Mam. Battered, he is.’ Again, she closed her eyes as if the lids would provide some armour against the inevitable onslaught.
A short pause served only to announce the advent of Anna’s next paragraph, which allowed little room for punctuation. ‘You didn’t … you haven’t been and … Rosh, whatever will you say in Confession? You know it’s a mortal sin outside marriage. You’ll be giving the priest a heart attack, so you will. And such a good girl, you were. I have never expected this sort of behaviour from you, but. Howandever, I’ll give you the chance to explain yourself.’
Rosh pleaded the fifth amendment.
‘That’s for Americans, Roisin.’
‘Lola’s probably a Yank. She’s very modern.’
Anna glared sternly at the sinner. ‘So you decided to try before you buy?’
Rosh opened her eyes. ‘Mother? That’s rather vulgar coming from such a good Catholic woman.’
Anna tapped a foot. ‘Well?’
‘I did. I tried before I bought, and I’m glad. I’ve always felt something for him, but I wasn’t sure about the intimate side of things. We’ll probably be marrying once I get the café on its feet.’
‘Oh. Oh, Jesus.’ Anna ran back to the kitchen.
Rosh lingered by the dining-room door. Mam would be weeping under a tea towel. Whenever anything of huge emotional moment occurred, it was run, find a tea towel or similar covering, sit, weep and moan. Yes, a moan emerged. ‘It’ll be all right, Mam,’ she called.
‘I know, I know. Oh, and God knows that’s a fine young man.’ Snivelling was duly resumed.
Rosh puffed out her cheeks and blew. This was Beecher’s Brook cleared with no injuries. ‘And I can love again,’ she whispered. ‘It’s allowed. Thank you, Phil. It isn’t goodbye. It will never be goodbye.’ She sat at the table on whose surface two portions of beef strong enough with rice had been allowed to congeal. Had they eaten, she and Roy might have been too weighted down for what followed …
He was lovely. She wanted to go back and sleep with him, wake with him, listen to a bit more of Beethoven’s Sixth. Roy was a true romantic without being soppy or silly. He took charge but didn’t dominate, was kind, considerate, yet very masculine, and she loved him. Rosh was alive again; she had never fully realized how important the love of a good man could be. ‘Mam?’
‘What?’
‘Cocoa would be nice.’
A loud sniff was followed by, ‘What did your last slave die of?’
‘Lost the will to live and went into a decline. Last seen trudging over the mountains into Yorkshire.’
‘But that’s enemy territory, Rosh.’
They drank their cocoa in the front room.
Neither noticed the man across the road. As night spread its black umbrella across clouded skies, the two women chatted happily about a dress suitable for a second marriage, about bridesmaids, hats and flowers, a venue good enough for the wedding breakfast.
‘I’ll make the girls’ dresses,’ Anna promised. ‘But you and I are going haughty culture.’
‘We’d need an allotment.’
‘Eh?’
‘For horticulture.’
‘All right, haute couture. You know I know what I mean. I know you know I know what I mean. I know—’
‘Shut up, Mother.’
Clive Cuttle remained motionless, eyes fixed on the most beautiful woman in Liverpool. He didn’t like women. He hated women. The good-looking ones were the worst. He still remembered her, all light and happiness, long, chestnut hair, a laugh like tinkling bells, pretty face, heady perfume, perfect smile.
He woke one day and she was gone. At the age of eight, he had been abandoned to the streets of the Dingle, a drunken, abusive father his only companion in a house that had become filthy. And she never came back. Sometimes people fed him, but there were occasions when nothing was available, and he had stolen from shops, waste bins and houses.
At school, no one would play with him. He stank to high heaven, and that fact had prompted him to take clothes from washing lines and shops. Shoes had been a problem, as they were seldom displayed in pairs, and residential areas had become hunting grounds for footwear. Money for the public baths had prompted further exploration, and he had, of necessity, grown bolder and rather reckless in his mission to remain alive and acceptable.
Until he’d been caught, of course. That final beating had put him in hospital and his father in jail. Children’s homes. The joy of three square meals, a bath every night, clean clothes and outings to zoos and seaside towns. The misery when he discovered he had no social skills, no way of knowing how to converse or play with his peers. An outcast. An outcast because of her, because of Mam.
Women were a curse. His mission was to clean up the streets, just as he’d cleaned up himself. So over there in that house sat a candidate ideal for cleansing. He had no intention of working for her. If she disappeared, old Ma Bailey would sell the business to a bloke who would leave Clive Cuttle in charge. Rosh Allen was a marked woman.
Eleven
Cleansings are never easy. I keep telling myself to hunt on foreign soil, but I take no notice of me, never have. Liverpool isn’t very far away, or I could get to the Wirral, Wales, St Helens, Warrington, yet it doesn’t work that way, does it? They aren’t hunted, sought out and chosen by me. No. They arrive. They arrive and challenge me simply by being there. Some don’t even need to talk to me; I can tell from the attitude, from facial expressions, from the way they walk. She’s the one. Why? Why not the one standing next to her, or the other across the road? What’s so special?
Dad, may he rot in hell, always said Mam was a whore. Seems he got word about her selling favours down in London. Good looks make women bad, he said. Dad turned evil into an art form, but only after Mam had gone.
Well, I am like my father, blast him, and these women send me to the dark side. It’s like an illness. Yes, they make me sick. My hell is here and now, on earth in the year 1959. They got cocky since the war, the females of the species. They knock home a couple of rivets, build a bomb, throw an aeroplane together and whoa! They suddenly own the world. Not my bloody world, though. I didn’t fight my way through North Africa to come home and be owned by a woman.
Oh, yes, there she is in a house paid for by the death of her man. Dangerous. Too close to me, to my home and my job. With each one, I’ve taken another step nearer to arrest and trial. Roisin Allen has friends and family; this is no stray bitch wandering the Dock Road looking for customers. She has a mother, some children, a man friend just across the road. And I shouldn’t be bringing trouble to Waterloo, should I? Mind, I’ve got away with plenty up to now, and they weren’t all at a great distance.
The last one I did was from a large family. Where did I bury her? Why can’t I remember all the big things I’ve done? When I’m at home and I get the stuff out of their boxes, when I touch their clothing and bits of jewellery, all the details come back to me so clearly. The terror in the eyes before the chloroform hits, the cutting, the strangling, that wonderful sense of peace when it’s all over. They’re all different, you see. Yet I can only live through it properly when I hold their belongings. Those items aren’t so much trophies as aides-memoires. Cheap perfumes, waxy red lipsticks, the scent of fear, the odour of blood as it trickles, seeps, pools and clots. I keep pieces of their lives and, via those tokens, I relive my triumphs.
And here’s my next. Old Bailey dying like that hasn’t helped. Old Bailey. That’s where they try murderers, isn’t it? Worked at that shop for years, I have. Just the two of us, and we rubbed along quite nicely. Now this. Mrs Bailey’s delighted abo
ut a café. It’ll be all net curtains, frills and fancies. Mrs Allen. I’ve walked up and down Lawton Road a few times today. She’s a friend of that bloke with a limp; he used to buy a paper in the morning on his way to the bus stop.
Funny. I hardly noticed Mrs Allen till Mrs Bailey told me I’m to be offered an extra ten bob a day because of what the new boss calls my unsocial hours. I like those hours, early morning, no one about, air fresher before mankind starts to soil it with all the comings and goings, chimneys spouting smoke, buses pumping out poison. Lady bloody Bountiful offered me a bribe I didn’t need. And in the hours that followed, I saw how beautiful she is, almost as lovely as Mam used to be. Mrs Allen arrived. Oh yes, she pulled into my station and I applied the brakes.
I watched her during today and this evening. And him, the limping clown who probably follows her everywhere when he’s not at work, his eyes never leaving her, his body aching because he’s wanting a taste of her. Straight away, I would know when they’ve had each other. She’s already blushing, and he’s looking anxious, hoping she won’t say no. She won’t say no. I only need a glimpse to know all about them. I’m like that. I know people. Young widows are always on the lookout for the next victim. You’ll never get her, Roy Baxter, not when I’ve finished with her, because she’ll be as dead as a coffin nail.
The day my father died in Walton Jail, I cried like a baby. Not because I missed him, but because I never got to kill him. That last beating left me different, no use with a woman. The doc says it’s probably psychological, but I know I’m not a man. Don’t know where my mother is, whether she’s alive or dead, can’t get her, can’t punish her. My old man’s dead of natural causes, but there was nothing natural about the way he beat me for trying to stay clean. Jack the Ripper? I’m Clive the Cleaver. Never used a cleaver, but you know what I mean; it has a ring to it.
I’ve got all the cuttings in my flat. Some earrings, a chain with a cross dangling from it, beads, underwear covered in blood. I’m not as evil as Jack the Ripper, since I don’t remove body parts, but I cut them up inside to leave them as messed up as I am. Yes, I kill them. Even with the mask, you never know, one of them might recognize me and tell the cops. Perhaps I should try to keep this one alive and useless to men … No. She has to go.
The Liverpool Trilogy Page 102