‘Ha,’ spat the dark-haired Lancastrian. ‘All the same, you Irish. Fat, lazy, useless and stupid. One more brain cell and you’d be a potato in the famine.’
Maggie placed her hands on her hips, thrust her chin forward. ‘I could chew you up and spit you out in a fight. Oh, you’d not care to take me on, for I’ve wiped the streets of Liverpool with men and women twice your size.’ She wagged a finger under Ruth’s nose. ‘But I won’t need to touch you, because your daughter will do it all for me. And when Irene does finally snap, she’ll have the weight of these streets behind her.’
Ruth McManus blinked. The shock of someone actually standing up to her was almost overwhelming. Like most bullies, she was a coward, a frightened soul diminished by her father, a woman whose only satisfaction lay in the persecution of others. Needful and unfulfilled, Ruth had destroyed her own daughter because she was incapable of giving or receiving love. ‘You’d best get out of my house.’ Her voice was low, threatening.
‘I’m going, so. I’ll sleep on Eva’s sofa until we move into Theresa’s house.’
Ruth grinned hideously, displaying an array of tobacco-stained dentures. ‘When our Theresa pops her clogs, I’ll be round to collect my niece.’
‘When Theresa dies, you’ll be long gone,’ prophesied Maggie.
‘Is that a threat?’
Maggie walked to the door and swung round. ‘That, my dear Ruth, was a definite promise. And don’t forget – I have the sight.’ She smiled menacingly. ‘You’ll die before Theresa does.’
Theresa watched the workers leaving by the back gate. There were five of them: three men, two women. They chattered in a small huddle for a few seconds, then each set off for home. Theresa needed to be quick. She didn’t want Chorlton to lock the shop before she’d had the chance to get in.
Counting backwards, remembering Stephen’s advice, she ambled round to the front of the shop and placed her hand on the latch, experiencing a peculiar feeling whose constituents seemed to be a mixture of fear and self-congratulation. She had timed it just right, as the workers had gone and the master had not yet locked the door. She had timed it perfectly, and her heart was beating hard in spite of all her efforts to remain cool and clear. She had no idea what she would do once inside, yet she had to go in, had to look her tormentor in the eye.
He was taking money out of the till and placing it in a green canvas bag. He looked up, then glanced down at the cash, freezing for a fraction of time before forcing himself to look at the beautiful, wraith-like woman who had entered his shop.
Theresa wandered the length of the counter until she stood within two yards of him. Slowly, she opened her handbag, lifted out the gun, then placed herself in one of the chairs provided for older customers.
Roy Chorlton swallowed audibly. He had spent several years in the company of firearms, many of which had been handled by official enemies, but he had never before seen a gun in the hands of a civilian. He dropped the bag onto the counter and gripped the rim of the wooden surface. Somebody had to say something.
At last, she spoke. ‘Lock the door, turn the sign round, close all the blinds.’
After a moment of near-paralysis, he complied with the instructions and returned to his place.
Theresa nodded slowly. ‘You look just right there, Mr Chorlton. Every inch the shopkeeper. Do you rub your hands together when a sale is made? Your father used to do that. Yes, Maurice the Mole was a greasy creature, too.’
He kept his eyes on the gun. It was small, but anything fired from that distance would fell a man. Three days ago, Ged Hardman had been killed and Teddy Betteridge had been deprived of his freedom. Bail had been refused. It seemed that Roy would have no chance to apply for bail, for mercy, for the right to remain alive and uninjured.
‘It’s my turn now,’ she whispered.
He gulped again, made no reply.
‘How does this feel?’ she asked, as if making an enquiry about a bolt of cloth.
‘Unpleasant,’ he managed.
‘Good.’
For what seemed like an hour, she sat there with the gun trained on him while he shivered in his shoes. How could she achieve such stillness? he wondered. She didn’t flinch, didn’t shake, scarcely blinked, seemed almost to have stopped breathing.
With a suddenness that surprised both of them, Theresa swung round and fired a bullet into a dummy dressed in a fifty-pound suit. The missile pierced fine worsted, sliced through the figure, then embedded itself in a wall. Smoke floated out of the broken ‘man’, made its way upwards and thinned away to nothing. ‘That’s how easy it is,’ she told him. ‘Just a tiny squeeze on the trigger and it’s all over. My turn. My turn to have total control over you.’
Urine trickled down Roy Chorlton’s leg. ‘Someone will have heard that shot.’ His shop was not one in a row. Surrounded by warehouses and small factories whose occupants had clocked off for the day, he held little hope unless someone passing by had recognized the report as gunfire.
Unimpressed by the man’s comment, Theresa examined the gun as if assessing its performance. ‘It works.’ Her tone was conversational. ‘Frightening, isn’t it, when someone takes over and gives you no choices? Imagine how you would feel if there were three of me.’
He decided against reminding her that he and his fellows had carried no guns. The balance was about right, anyway. With a trio of attackers, Theresa had stood no chance. Here and now, in his own shop, Roy Chorlton feared a very small woman with a very small gun. He probably deserved this.
‘I have a daughter,’ she continued, deliberately neglecting to mention Katherine. Let Katherine survive, let her remain untouched by this. ‘Jessica is probably yours. The other day, I asked for money from the three of you. With one dead and the other in jail, it’s your responsibility.’
‘I have your money,’ he managed. ‘May I get it?’
She nodded.
Roy opened the register and pulled out a Bolton Savings Bank pass book. ‘Two thousand pounds,’ he said. ‘It’s in your name and the paperwork is correct. To withdraw, you will need only to confirm your identity.’
‘Two thousand pounds,’ she murmured. ‘Very generous indeed. Tell me – is that the value of your life?’
He shrugged. ‘When I opened this account, I didn’t know that my life would be under threat. Some of the money is Ged’s. He had it transferred the day before he died.’ Humiliated by his body’s weakness, he was glad of the counter, because it hid the wet patches on his trousers. Had she really felt fear as strong as this? Of course she had.
‘I got hold of this gun some years ago. I had one or two vague ideas about killing the lot of you, but you and I are the only ones left. What shall I do with you?’
Roy did not move. If he ran, she might well shoot. If he stayed, would he stand a chance? ‘Not a day has passed without my regretting what I did that night.’
‘My thoughts exactly. If I hadn’t gone visiting, if I’d stayed at home … “If” is such an important word.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve always been sorry.’
She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, so have I. And I’ve always wanted to face you just like this.’ She gazed around. ‘Nice shop. Doing well, are you?’
‘Well enough.’
Theresa stood up. ‘Take off your clothes.’
His jaw dropped. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Undress. Now.’ She raised the gun.
With fingers that seemed to be made of melted butter, Roy struggled with jacket, tie, waistcoat and shirt.
‘Put them on the floor. The vest, too.’
With his white and flabby upper body stripped naked, Roy’s embarrassment was unbearable. He crossed his arms to hide a chest that might have been a woman’s except for the patches of black, matted hair.
‘Trousers,’ she ordered.
He could scarcely believe his ears. Anger bubbled, but he quashed it, removed a leather belt, undid the urine-soaked fly, stepped out of the garment.
‘Go on
,’ she said mildly. ‘Everything off. Let’s see what Nature intended when she made this deliberate mistake. She must have an excellent sense of humour.’
When the last thin layer of modesty lay in a wet heap on the floor, Roy made a feeble effort to hide his droopy breasts with one hand, his lower parts with the other.
Theresa stepped forward and grabbed a bunch of keys from the counter. ‘You can go now,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘You heard me. This is the nearest a woman can come to rape, you see. You stole my virginity and I’ve taken away your outer wrapping so that the world can see you as you really are. Clothes make the man – isn’t that so true? Underneath, you’re just like a garden slug, shapeless and without any value to mankind. I can’t hurt you on the inside like you hurt me. But I can make you a fool.’
‘I can’t go out like this.’
‘I had to. I had to push a second-hand pram with your child in it. People pointed, talked about me because I was an unmarried woman with a child. If I can be a fool and survive it, so must you. The back door, I think.’ She waved the gun in the direction of the workroom.
He turned and walked slowly away from her.
Theresa picked up the bank book before following the ridiculous figure through to the rear of the shop. The cheeks of his bottom flapped about as if they had no muscles to support them. The whole picture was made all the more laughable because the man still wore black socks stretched all the way up to his knees.
‘Open it,’ she ordered when he reached the back door.
Roy Chorlton stepped out into a biting evening. A clear sky advertised severe frost, the effects of which hit Roy as soon as he was out of doors. Behind him, the door slammed shut, a key turned and two bolts shot home. He ran into the lavatory shed and closed the door. Death would come swiftly if he didn’t find some cover. She was so damned clever. His car keys were among the bunch she had taken.
Inside the shop, Theresa leaned against the door and broke her heart. She howled for the night when she had been hurt, for the Liverpool years, for Jessica, for her stolen child. Sobs racked her body when she thought about the man in the yard, because she actually pitied him. The pity infuriated her, so she wept harder. After ten minutes or so, she dried her face, rubbing the skin with a scarf until she glowed.
The Town Hall clock announced half past something or other, possibly six. Theresa had never cried like this, so perhaps the dam had finally burst. Whatever, she felt considerably better. But her feet refused to follow instructions; although she tried to walk towards the front door, her lower limbs remained on strike.
‘I can’t do it,’ she told herself.
Still leaning against the back door, she gripped Chorlton’s keys, feeling the cut edges biting into her palm. The temperature outside was deathly cold. He might freeze. He might be found dead in the morning, his body curled against the ice, too misshapen for a coffin. ‘I’m a good person,’ she told the unoccupied room. Bolts of cloth lay on shelves, paper patterns on a cutting table. Three sewing machines sat idle on a bench, spools of cotton in an open box, measuring tapes and chalk on a desk.
‘Oh God,’ she mumbled.
A bus rattled past towards Deane Road, then another on its way to Trinity Street Station. Ten, nine, eight … Her breathing steadied, settled down. With painful slowness, she drew back bolts, unlocked the door with the biggest key. On a sudden impulse, she picked up a large piece of uncut cloth and dragged it out behind her.
He heard her coming, though the chattering of his teeth was almost deafening. He didn’t care any more. With his skin stiffening and his extremities numb, he knew that death would arrive within hours. Perhaps she would finish him off, put him out of his misery. Whatever, it no longer mattered.
The door opened. She stepped inside, drew the woollen length across his shoulders. ‘Come,’ she told him.
He could not move.
With incredible tenderness, Theresa wrapped him up and led him into the yard. ‘Just a few more steps and we’re there,’ she said several times.
Inside, he huddled in a corner away from her. There was no sign of the gun, yet he feared her unpredictability. Was the woman mad? She had threatened to shoot him, had shut him out naked in the cold, had dragged him back in. To what? To a cup of tea. She had set the kettle on the ring, had lit the black paraffin stove to heat the workroom.
‘It’s all over,’ she told him as if reading his innermost thoughts.
He shivered uncontrollably as his mechanism fought to redistribute the near-frozen blood in his veins. She piled further lengths of cloth around him, layering each piece so that air would be trapped between woven fibres. ‘Why?’ he asked, almost biting through his tongue with teeth that refused to be still.
She sat down while the kettle simmered its way towards boiling point. ‘I had to have my pound of flesh, I suppose.’
‘But you brought me in.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ he asked again.
Theresa considered her reply to what was, in the opinion of both people present, a very good question. ‘You took away my dignity, so I removed yours. For many years, I felt as if you and the other two had killed a part of me. But tonight was about being in charge, I suppose, just to warn you that I was capable of fighting back. Yes, I did mean to kill you, but I’ve changed, grown up. I seem to have matured very suddenly.’ She crossed the room and made the tea.
‘We had no luck, any of us,’ he said, his voice stronger. ‘Ged got lumbered with his mother as well as that dreadful skin. Teddy had an unhappy marriage and a terrible drink problem. I’m just ugly. No girl would ever look at me.’
‘Would you like me to contradict you, tell you that you’re handsome?’
He all but laughed. ‘No, not at all.’
‘Good.’ She held the cup to his lips and supported his head as he sipped the scalding, over-sweet concoction. ‘Is it poisoned?’ he asked after a minute or so.
‘It isn’t.’ Theresa put the cup down, dragged a stool across the room and sat facing him. She took one of his hands, then the other, massaging each in turn until the blood flowed more easily.
‘You could have left me out there,’ he said softly. ‘Thank you.’
Theresa almost grinned. ‘Believe me – for ten minutes or so, you were going to be abandoned to the elements. Then I thought: No, he’ll only get chilblains.’
Roy Chorlton laughed, then the laughter broke wide open and turned to tears. The girl even had humour. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry,’ he kept saying until sobs claimed his breath.
Theresa allowed him to cry, simply standing in the doorway until his sobs abated. This was, perhaps, the moment for which she had been preparing all evening, or, possibly, for the past thirteen years. ‘I forgive you,’ she said. And although she didn’t fully understand her feelings, she meant every word.
FIFTEEN
‘Mam?’ It was great to be able to talk to Mam regularly. Not since the days of the devil in the coal hole had Theresa and Jessica actually lived together. Williamson’s didn’t count. Williamson’s was just a TB hospital, a place to which Mam might have to return for a month or so, but it would not be for ever. For ever was here, on Tonge Moor Road, with grocery shops, a library, chip shops, ironmongers, a big Co-op.
‘Yes, love?’
‘Did you know that Michelangelo died just as Shakespeare was born? On the very same day?’
Theresa wiped the sweat from her brow.
‘Leave the curtains, Theresa,’ ordered Maggie. She addressed Jessica. ‘When was that, then?’
‘Sixteenth century,’ replied Jessica.
‘What was the date?’ Theresa asked, her fingers becoming very annoyed with brass curtain rings.
‘April the twenty-third.’
‘And the year?’ Maggie who was moving furniture, stopped to glare at Theresa, who should have been sitting on the furniture.
‘I can’t remember,’ answered Jessica. ‘It doesn’t matter – I
was only saying—’
‘It must have mattered to him that died.’ Maggie flopped onto a sofa. ‘As for Shakespeare – wouldn’t that be some sort of sacrilege for you English folk? God, aren’t you all supposed to know about the Bard of Avon, his birthday and all that? So Michelangelo died and your man was born. Out with the paint and in with the typewriter.’
Jessica laughed. ‘They didn’t have typewriters. They used feathers.’
‘I suppose they walked behind the goose till one fell out.’ Maggie giggled. ‘Or they took their lives in their hands and had a quick pluck. Geese are terrible fierce.’
Jessica walked to the window of her new house. And it was her house, too, with deeds she had perused before leaving them to be minded at the bank. She took the curtains from Theresa and carried on with the threading of hooks and rings.
Maggie thought about Shakespeare. She could remember just one play. ‘Ah, yes. Didn’t your man sit there on his horse, a saucepan on his head, God for England and St George – all that kind of stuff. Then he suggested using dead bodies for the fortifications. Only the English could be so barbaric.’
‘Henry the Fifth.’ Theresa was very pleased with herself. ‘It was a metaphor.’
‘Was that with or without vinegar?’ asked Maggie sweetly.
Jessica decided that she liked Maggie. The argument – whatever its subject had been – between Mam and Eva was settled, so Jessica would still be able to visit Auntie Eva and Uncle Jimmy. But Maggie was great fun. She knew loads of daft stories about goblins and leprechauns, and she could sing and dance an Irish reel at the same time with a glass of water on her head. ‘Maggie?’
‘That’s me.’
‘Did you really never go to school?’
The Irishwoman made a strange sound, something like a ‘pshaw’. ‘Of course I went to school. It was seven miles there, seven miles back, and not a daycent pair of boots to me name. So I went just the once – I think it was a Thursday. Oh, it tired me out, all that praying and chanting and catechism and still seven miles home at the end of it.’
The Corner House Page 37