The Liverpool Trilogy

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘And she woke?’

  The man nodded, then adjusted a pair of very mobile spectacles. ‘She asked for this Roy. Her mother said he was in hospital, and poor Mrs Allen screamed. I hope she hasn’t damaged herself further. I think she believed that Roy had been hurt by the man who hurt her, but that’s not the case.’

  ‘So she knows he’s not hurt?’

  The glasses slipped again. ‘The truth’s bad, too. Telling her he’s judged insane hasn’t done any good. She’s trying to get out of bed to go off and find him. Ah. Here come my ladies. Thanks for talking to me, Mr … er?’

  ‘Compton. Don Compton.’ He stood and watched while three sad people walked away. It was a frightening world. But he had to go back and report his findings to the wife. If he didn’t, he would be paying in pasties and paint for some considerable time to come.

  The scenery had changed dramatically, suddenly, and more than once. There had been a kitchen, a brutalized woman – his woman – then a police station. She had followed him to the police station. A corner-of-the-eye job, Rosh lay on the floor of the interview room, only to disappear when Roy moved his head to get a fuller view of her.

  He had been in this place before to answer questions about his dad. Someone mentioned that. ‘Where is Rosh?’ he asked. ‘Is she in the other room?’ But he knew she wasn’t in the other room, because she kept coming and going on the floor here, didn’t she? Then there was him, Clive bloody Cuttle with his cutlery – Cuttle and cutlery? What an appropriate name the monster had. He was appearing and disappearing in a corner. His item of cutlery was a sharp, vicious vegetable knife.

  They told him Rosh was in the Women’s Hospital in Liverpool.

  ‘I killed him,’ he said. ‘But I keep seeing him.’

  They knew Roy had killed him, and they said so. ‘He’s not here. He’s on a slab somewhere.’

  ‘What’s he doing over there in that corner?’ Roy asked. There was a huge carving knife through the man’s neck, and it had stuck in the wall behind him. But when Roy turned to look, the apparition did a disappearing act.

  They brought tea. And more tea. ‘I went for chips,’ he told them.

  So they brought him chips.

  ‘I don’t want them,’ he said. ‘I want the real Rosh, not the one who keeps coming and going. And that thing in the corner’s back, too.’ He was strangely calm. ‘Green glass.’ What came in green bottles? Was it wine?

  ‘Yes, we know, lad.’

  More of them arrived. Solid, real, clothed in navy blue. Whispering. Why were they whispering? They had news. ‘Is she dead?’ Roy shouted.

  A young one entered; he was wiping his eyes with a handkerchief. A weeping policeman? Was he real? Yes. No light passed through him. ‘She’s alive,’ a constable answered.

  Handkerchief. ‘It was on the floor,’ Roy announced. ‘And the stuff smelled sweet, the stuff he used to make her sleep. He had a handkerchief.’

  ‘We know.’ The man who spoke had three stripes on his sleeve and very sad eyes. ‘These officers here found things in his flat, Mr Baxter. As you can see, my lads are upset about what they discovered. Shoeboxes with names on. Those names and the contents of the boxes were the property of missing women. You stopped him. You wiped out a one-man plague.’

  ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘No. They’re mending her. She’s young and healthy and they can get plenty of blood into her. Your Rosh is in the best place, son. Good nurses, brilliant doctors – it’s second to none.’

  Roy’s eyes moved sideways, though his head remained still. ‘Why is he still hanging on the wall like one of the ten green bottles? He used a green bottle, you know … And why is Rosh on the floor here?’

  ‘Because you can’t get what you saw out of your head. And you can’t forget what you were forced to do.’ The pavement outside the police station was three-deep in photographers. The nationals were arriving, too, since this broken man was a hero. ‘It’s not murder, Mr Baxter; it’s rodent control.’

  ‘I’m a Catholic.’

  ‘So am I, but I’ve shed no tears when somebody I arrested went to the gallows. Cuttle would have killed her. You stopped him, and you stopped him killing somebody else after Mrs Allen.’

  ‘So she’s not dead?’

  ‘She’s not dead.’

  ‘How do you know she’s not dead?’

  ‘Because they told me they’d every hope of getting all the glass removed and of making her whole again. They’ll sedate her for a few days to keep her still and numb the pain.’

  They were alone now, just Roy and the sergeant, plus transparent figures that seemed to come and go as and when the urge overcame them. ‘They aren’t real, you know,’ Roy said. ‘As long as I know they’re not real, I’m all right. Right?’

  ‘Er … yeah, I’d say so.’

  The see-through figure in the corner raised two fingers in a lewd gesture. Roy shot out of his chair and ran towards Clive Cuttle. Real or not, he needed ten shades of waste matter knocking out of him.

  When the police doctor entered, Roy’s knuckles were bleeding.

  ‘What’s that wall ever done to you?’ the new arrival asked. So Roy clouted him as well.

  Dragged by the sergeant back to his seat, Roy fought to regain a level of steady breathing. The one-eyed medic sat next to the sergeant’s empty chair. ‘Keep hold of him,’ the doctor recommended. ‘I’ll have a shiner tomorrow, and I don’t want another.’

  The heroic killer of Clive Cuttle was asked questions about the date, the year, the Prime Minister, Rosh and her children, their address, his address.

  ‘What are you writing?’ Roy demanded.

  ‘About your state of mind,’ was the reply.

  ‘State of mind? State of bloody mind? I haven’t got one. I’ve a mind, but not a state of.’

  ‘Then why did you hit me?’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve a face only a mother could love. Or I’m having a nervous breakdown – how the hell should I know? You’re the doctor.’

  ‘And you’re not aggressive by nature, are you?’

  Roy shrugged. ‘I suppose not. But I killed him. I knifed him so hard, he was pinned to the floor. I can still see him over there in that corner.’

  The doctor sat back. This was no psychotic; Roy was a man who had been driven to the edge and beyond. ‘Every normal person, Mr Baxter, including you, me and the sergeant, is capable of killing under certain circumstances. Cuttle’s final victim is the woman you love, I take it?’

  Roy nodded. ‘Even if it hadn’t been her, what he was doing sickened me.’

  ‘And you’re having a bloody awful reaction. You need a rest. Peace, quiet and relaxation. Will you go hospital voluntarily?’

  ‘No. I want to be with Rosh.’

  ‘You can’t be with her. She’s in a hospital for women only. Look, I’ll be straight with you. The images you’ve seen in this room tonight are created by your brain. It’s acting like a cinema projector, and this is, I hope, a temporary situation. But I can’t let you wander off, you see. I can’t allow you to pick up pieces until you’ve put down the burdens you’re carrying now.’ A suicide attempt could not be ruled out; if Rosh Allen died, this man would make sure he joined her.

  ‘The kids need me. She’s not dead, is she?’

  ‘She’s alive, Mr Baxter. Look at me. Look me in my one eye. If you go home and carry on seeing Cuttle, how many more people will you punch? For your own safety and for the sake of others, you must go to Whiston tonight. You’ll be assessed, helped, then sent home to look after the people close to you.’

  DIARY OF ROY BAXTER, PSYCHIATRIC UNIT WARD 6, WHISTON HOSPITAL.

  Drs Fisher and Thorne, you said this would be a good idea. It is almost winter, and my section has run out long ago, but I remain voluntarily. Looking back on all that’s happened, things got too much for me. Leaving aside (as if I ever could) the incident with Cuttle, life was already catching up with me. More responsibility at work, chasing round to be there for Rosh and her
family, the leap from despair to hope, the supersonic dash from hope to joy – as I said, all these things were too much for me.

  I can say now for the first time that excellent news can be as wearing as bad news. That looks so silly written down, yet it’s true, and I am ordered to be truthful in this journal. My father’s nastiness and my mother’s goodness are on display now, as is the need for a family, for Phil’s family. When Rosh promised herself to me, I was overwhelmed and weakened in a way that remains to this day beyond my comprehension.

  My darling comes to see me regularly. Alice broke through whatever her barrier was, and she’s now as normal and terrible as the next child. Philly is piano soloist with a youth orchestra, while Kieran is heavily into biology and other sciences. Anna, my wonderful soon-to-be mother-in-law declared her intention to starve the two girls so that their bridesmaid dresses will fit. Rosh has healed. The first few visits she made in a wheelchair, then she progressed to crutches, then a walking stick.

  At first, she was very pale, frighteningly so. What do you want me to say here, docs? That I was terrified of losing her because she looked so fragile, that Cuttle came back and mocked me, that what wasn’t there became more real than actuality? All right, I’ll say it. I’ve said it. Yes, I remember my one night in the bounce-off-the-rubber-walls room, and he never returned after that, because I killed him all over again in my head.

  I’ve become institutionalized. And I’ve made some decisions. I’ll let you know my conclusions very soon, because I don’t want to here. I’m not ungrateful, and I shall miss Stuart writing advanced maths problems all over the walls, Louisa and the ten-foot scarf she won’t cast off the needles, Ellen with her Bible and Chris with his flying saucers and his belief that we all arrived here in spaceships thousands of years back – there may be something in his hypothesis. Above all, I shall miss the two of you.

  Christmas soon, then 1960. In these months, you have turned me round and shown me that I have much to offer and much to live for. I still admit that I would have chosen not to live if Rosh had died. You were right. I needed this space away from everything, needed to grow stronger with your help. But I can also say now that I did the right thing and I am not a murderer. Oh, and I don’t believe in ghosts any more, not the Clive Cuttle type, anyway.

  More later.

  Anna’s arms were folded tight across her bosom. ‘Anyone would think a king was coming to dinner. Don’t forget the little ermine cape, now. You look like a Christmas tree dressed by Alice. Remember? She hung so many ornaments on one side that it fainted.’

  ‘Shut up, Mother.’

  ‘As for when he’s home to stay – well, I don’t agree with your plans.’

  ‘I’m not leaving him on his own overnight.’

  ‘Then we’d best find out when he’s coming out of the hospital, and get the wedding booked for that day.’

  Rosh continued to apply mascara. If her mother didn’t shut up soon, there would be another episode in this house. Roy couldn’t come home and face a wedding on his first day. He had saved her life and had paid for it by falling apart. She owed him everything, and he’d already won her heart on the very night that … just before it happened. An involuntary shiver passed through her body.

  ‘And you might not be fit yet for … messing about.’

  Sometimes, just sometimes, Rosh felt like crowning her mother with the cast-iron frying pan. ‘Take the three of them to the cinema like you promised. I’ll not have him mithered.’ The kids had taken some comments and questions at school and in the neighbourhood. There was no way of shutting them up, not after what they’d been through, and they might just push Roy over the edge again. Especially Alice, who now talked at the speed of an express train. The press had been tethered; even now, reporters were forbidden to waylay the young Allens, but plenty of local people had kept the fires burning.

  ‘If it wasn’t for the shop, I’d move,’ Rosh announced. ‘It has to be just the two of us tonight, Mam. Shall I drop you off at the cinema?’

  Anna shook her head. ‘A walk will do us good. Go on. Go and fetch him.’ She was so proud of this beautiful daughter. Like most strong Irish girls, she had healed at a miraculous pace. After the initial shock about Roy’s condition, Rosh had shunted her thoughts into some kind of order and resumed her focus. Having progressed weeks later to a walking stick, she had passed her driving test in a month before turning her attention to something she called pelvic floor. Pelvic floor involved little yelps of pain, a lot of determination and a screwed-up face, but she persevered.

  ‘As soon as Roy’s home, we’ll get that shop started up,’ Rosh said. ‘I’ll employ temporary help until Roy’s ready.’

  ‘Ready for what?’

  ‘Ready to work there.’

  Anna dropped into a chair. ‘He’s got a good job, Roisin. Very highly thought of in legal circles, that man of yours. And you’ll have him selling newspapers and tobacco?’

  ‘I am not letting him out of my sight, Mam.’

  ‘Don’t you know that people shouldn’t be together twenty-four hours a day?’

  Rosh awarded her mother a withering glance. ‘I’ve managed it with you when I was a child and when we lost Phil. If I can tolerate you—’

  ‘It’s not you I’m concerned about, madam. It’s him. You’ll drive him mad.’

  ‘He’s visited mad already and wasn’t too keen on it. Anyway, he can make up his own mind. The leg’s no better, and he’s as thin as a peeled rake, so I shall be looking after him as best I can.’

  ‘Hmmph.’

  ‘Same to you.’

  ‘We’ll be off, then.’ Anna went to capture the grandchildren.

  Rosh blotted her lipstick. Roy hadn’t been here since the death of Clive Cuttle. ‘Worse for you, my love, because I was out of it, unfeeling as a stone, and you had to take a life. And you already felt guilty because of wishing your father dead.’ She was bringing him back to this house, to the scene of the … the incident. Would he ‘see’ Cuttle in the kitchen? Would the breakdown recur, would he suffer?

  She pulled on a coat. November shivers were something she could do without. Should she change her mind and allow a member of staff to come with him? No. She and Roy needed to talk in private.

  ‘I can’t do without him much longer. He’s the only man alive I can love the way I loved Phil.’

  ‘I know.’

  Rosh turned. ‘Can’t even talk to myself, can I?’

  ‘Not while I’m around, no.’

  Rosh kissed her children, told them she hoped they would enjoy the film, made sure they were dressed warmly, then found her keys. The little van purchased for the shop was making its first long journey tonight. Whiston wasn’t far away on a map, but it was a stretch for a woman who’d driven just locally until now.

  When she reached the grim, grey place, he was seated on a chair in the central corridor. So thin, he was, and there were streaks in his hair where the colour was fading. But this served only to make him more attractive, and she ran to greet him with her arms widened to receive him. ‘Handsome devil,’ she whispered after kissing him.

  He was quiet. Leaving this place had not been easy on the few occasions when he’d been taken out shopping for a couple of hours. But this was different. He was with his sweetheart, his princess, his backbone. Yes, he was going to a place that had been bad for a while, though its longer history was cloaked in happiness. He would be all right.

  She set off back towards home. ‘You’ll be all right,’ she said, as if reading his thoughts.

  The smile was audible in his reply. ‘I know. As long as I have you, as long as I’m with you, whatever happens, I shall always be all right. Don’t worry about me.’ Rosh had been through the real hell, yet he had managed to crack up and make a spectacle of himself. A hero? Heroes didn’t come apart at the seams and allow the terror to show.

  Rosh was very worried. Should they eat in her house, the place in which he’d put an end to the evil predator Clive Cuttle? Or s
hould they go across to the house in which he’d seldom been happy since the death of his poor mother?

  ‘And how are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, I’m great. The café’s done, but with just sixteen covers until I open the kitchen and expand the menu. I’m a driver, as you can see, and the children are wonderful. Alice is still different, has to carry an article from home wherever she goes, but she’s top of her class with an adult reading age. Philly’s on the up with her music, and Kieran’s always attached to a book, mostly medical.’

  ‘Your mother?’

  ‘A pain in the bum, so normal, I’d say. She started a campaign about dog dirt, so some neighbour or other collected piles of cat poo and deposited the lot outside our front door. That put a stop to her. Then she joined the Labour Party. I feel ever so sorry for them. If anybody can spoil their chances locally and nationally, it’s my mother.’ She was prattling nervously, and she knew it.

  A rusty laugh emerged from the passenger’s throat.

  ‘I’ve not finished.’

  ‘I know that, sweetheart. Don’t ever alter.’

  She blinked. Driving in darkness with eyes filled with tears was not a good plan. ‘So what did she do? She ragged all the Tory posters off shop windows and the like, painted Hitler moustaches on the candidate’s stiff upper lip and, where she could, pulled Conservative leaflets out of letterboxes and replaced them with Labour.’

  ‘Was she admonished?’

  ‘Oh, yes. But she says all’s fair in love, war and politics. I hope you know what you’re taking on, lad.’

  He knew what he was taking on. He remembered a precious child having a shave with him, another playing the Moonlight Sonata until he wept, a third engaging him in a discussion about the nervous system and which parts of the brain were in charge of various functions. A family. And this delicious woman in his arms and in his heart. Well, they were all in his heart, Anna included. ‘How are you physically?’ he asked.

  ‘Improving. I couldn’t run a mile, but I’m a lot better.’