Billy nodded miserably. ‘And more,’ he mumbled.
‘I beg your pardon?’
Billy decided that he could no more talk to this bloke about rape than fly to the moon on a yardbrush. ‘I’d better get home. Diddy’ll be expecting me.’
‘Did they find a weapon?’ asked Father Bell.
‘Eh?’
‘A weapon.’ The priest spoke slowly, as if he were addressing a very young child. ‘Did they find the . . . the rope?’
‘What rope?’ Billy’s eyes ached. The tears had stopped, but he was tired enough to fall asleep crying on a clothes line. Why was this man talking about ropes and washing lines?
‘The rope she was strangled with.’
‘Oh.’ The older man scratched his head. ‘My brain’s not straight, Father.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know nothing about what they found and didn’t find. They’ve searched that field a few times, though. Nothing’s been said, not to me, anyway.’ He walked off and left Liam Bell standing in the company of several unanswered questions.
The priest walked round a corner and stood in the shadow of the hospital. He had been so careful. He had been so careful that a piece of vital evidence was missing, was possibly in the hands of the police. What a damned fool he was! ‘It wasn’t you,’ said a small inner voice, but Liam ignored it. The last time this sort of thing had happened was so long ago. He could not quite remember certain events, but he recalled this episode well enough. He had been doing his duty, no more and no less, he told himself. People had to learn and learning was a painful process.
He walked again, stopped, walked a little further. Should he go in? Perhaps if he went into the hospital, he might find out a few things. And that girl could recognize him, identify him . . . No, she had seen nothing.
The trouble was, he could not remember everything. Like Billy Costigan, he seemed to be suffering from a degree of absent-mindedness. It was so difficult now that Anthony had left the area. Liam needed Anthony as a focus, as if Anthony provided the lenses for his eyes, the reason for his continuing existence. But Anthony had moved across the county. Of course, Liam had almost saved his twin from yet another mistake. Almost. The girl was alive. Shocked into silence, but still alive.
He sat on a form and stared at some miserable daffodils as they nodded their way towards death. She was potentially dangerous. Alive, she might even pose a threat. But he could not walk into the hospital and finish what he had started. And if he fled the area, the finger of suspicion would certainly point in his direction. The stole. Where was it? Why hadn’t it been found? Or had it been found, and was he being watched right now, in the dusk? And was that where he had lost it? Had these past few days been a nightmare? Or had he really put a stop to Maureen’s whoring? Yes, he had. Yes, he was the one who could be called guilty by those who misunderstood his vocation in life.
Made furtive by his fear, he glanced around, saw no-one lurking or staring at him. But the police were clever. He must remain on his guard and stay away from the hospital. Maureen Costigan’s memory might return, might not return. ‘She won’t know you,’ he whispered. ‘She never saw your face.’ But if he hung around here looking guilty, he could very well give himself away.
He forced himself to recall what he could. It had happened in the field – yes, he had dragged her there. She had struggled, had kicked him on the shin. Not a word had been spoken. Or had it? Oh, he wished his powers of recollection would buck up. The full punishment. That was right – he had disciplined her thoroughly, had attempted to make her sorry for all those sins of the flesh. Had she died, she might have repented during those final moments, could have entered purgatory rather than hell. He had hurt her. Retribution for sins of the flesh had to be extremely agonizing.
His mind wandered again to other women whose lives had been altered by him. They had been allowed to live, of course, because those street girls had not been connected to the Bell family, had posed no threat. But the other one . . . the last one . . . yes, she had died.
A man had hanged for that. But he had deserved to hang, because he had been found drunk. So Liam had taught the world two lessons. Two birds with one stone? Drunkenness and sacrilege had been justly condemned on that occasion. The woman had left the Church. Anthony could not be allowed to marry a non-believer. In fact, a lapsed Catholic was worse than a Protestant. Some of the latter were simply ignorant, uninformed. But the one called Valerie had thrown away the only true faith. He had promised himself that he would not think about Valerie any more. God had directed him, had spoken to him, had guided his hand. He needed no priest to ask on his behalf for God’s mercy, because the disposal of Valerie had been a part of God’s plan.
Maureen Costigan was not a suitable candidate for the Bell family. She had not seen his face, he told himself firmly for the umpteenth time. As far as he could recall, he had not seen hers, either, not on that occasion. He had worked from behind. He had been careful, had made sure that he had been almost invisible. For much of the time, she had been barely conscious, so what could she say? Nothing. No, no, she would never accuse him. But all the same, he worried about that stole.
Billy stumbled through the doorway of Bell’s Pledges. Charlie, who was in charge for the moment, saw the pain in his father’s features. It was etched deeply, as if ingrained by a chisel into stone. ‘Dad?’
‘Where’s Sam?’ asked Billy.
‘Kitchen.’
Billy crossed the shop, passed the bottom of the stairs and entered Sam Bell’s kitchen. Old Theresa Bell was huddled over the fire, while Sam sat at the table writing in a ledger. ‘Billy? Are you all right?’ asked the pawnbroker.
Billy dropped into the chair opposite Sam’s. ‘I can’t tell Diddy,’ he said. ‘I can’t, Sam.’
Sam laid down his pen. ‘Tell her what?’
Billy flicked a meaningful glance in Theresa’s direction.
‘It won’t go no further than these walls,’ promised the old lady. ‘If I hear owt, I’ll say nowt,’ she added with her usual Lancashire bluntness. It was a tragedy. That young girl hurt for no reason. ‘I’ve prayed for her,’ she told Billy.
The large man swallowed. ‘Sam, she’d been interfered with.’
It was difficult to know how to reply to this statement. ‘I’m sorry. Is that what you can’t tell Diddy?’
Billy nodded.
‘Wants bloody castrating,’ spat Theresa. ‘Men like that should be sent somewhere for a seeing to.’ She rose stiffly, walked to the table and placed a claw-like hand on Billy Costigan’s shoulder. ‘Lad, I’ll pray for you and yours again tonight.’ She left the room and made her slow and painful way upstairs.
Sam rose and reached for a bottle, took two glasses from a cabinet next to the range. He poured a moderate amount of whisky for himself, a double for Billy. ‘Here, drink that.’
Billy swallowed the lot, allowed Sam to provide a refill, emptied the glass again. ‘Don’t give me any more, Sam,’ he said. ‘I need my thinking brain tonight, and it’s been on strike all week. I can’t tell her. I’ll have to let our Maureen do it when she’s ready. The policeman and the doctor promised to say nothing to Diddy. It’s already made her ill. She’s not sleeping, not eating, not looking after herself. Her nerves are shot to bits.’
Sam nodded. The Scotland Road folk often told him their troubles, because they knew he could keep a secret. ‘Bridie would help her if she was here.’
Billy agreed. ‘Don’t bring her home, Sam. Let her have a bit of a holiday with her horses. Rosa McKinnell was saying last week how good Bridie is with horses.’
The shopkeeper sat and stared at Billy Costigan. He had known Billy from birth, had watched him grow up, marry, become a father five times. He was changing. Since marrying Bridie, Sam Bell had developed one or two chinks in his armour. Bridie had made the house into a home, had got Muth out of bed, had contributed to the running of the shop. And he missed her. ‘She’s a good soul, is Bridie,’ he told Billy. ‘If she knew about this, she’d be back to
help, I know she would.’
‘There is no help, lad.’
‘Never say that,’ urged Sam.
‘I don’t know what to say, don’t know what to think,’ answered Billy.
‘Be positive. Try to be hopeful.’
Billy’s hands were clasped so tightly that the whiteness of his knuckles showed through work-stained skin. ‘I’ll kill him, Sam.’
Sam nodded.
‘I’ll geld him, then I’ll cut his throat. If I can bloody well find the swine. Police are getting nowhere with it. They’ve spent days with a fine-tooth comb searching the playing field. And he’s still out there walking about a free man, whoever he is. That bastard’s laughing up his sleeve at us. Who’ll be next, eh?’
Sam could provide no reply.
‘They say Maureen can come out of hospital in a couple of days. She wasn’t as badly hurt as they thought, thank God. The bit of her throat that got damaged is all right now. Course, they had to stitch her face and one of her legs. She’s got bruises all over her body and a big purple mark on her neck. And she won’t talk. But they’ll not keep her much longer.’ The massive hands lifted themselves then crashed loudly onto the table. ‘I’m so damned useless,’ Billy cried.
‘Stop it,’ pleaded Sam. ‘You’ve got to be strong for the rest of your family.’
The docker’s head moved slowly from side to side. ‘I know I’m built like a brick lavvy shed, but Diddy’s been the strength in our house. I just earn the money when I can, only it’s her what does all the working out and paying bills and tending the kids. Her strength’s on the inside. Mine’s just in my body. But if Diddy found out that our Maureen’s been raped, she’d crack. She’s not far off breaking up as it is. Without Diddy in one piece, our family would fall apart, Sam.’
Sam thought about this for a moment or two. ‘They both need a rest,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll send Diddy and Maureen to our Edith’s. Maureen shouldn’t be round here. A change of scenery would do her and Diddy a world of good.’ He pondered again for several moments. ‘They were supposed to go just for the fortnight, but they can stop on a bit longer, Bridie and the girls. Another week or two off school won’t do Cathy any harm.’
Billy blinked several times, looked for all the world like a man waking from a long sleep. ‘Hasn’t Mrs Spencer got enough on her plate?’ he asked. ‘She’s already got Bridie and the girls, then your Anthony’s there, too—’
‘Anthony’s in a cottage,’ interrupted Sam. ‘And Edith’s got a heart of gold and enough bedrooms for a battalion. Leave it to me, Billy. Go home and get your head down.’
Billy Costigan rose from his seat and stared for a while at the pawnbroker who employed two of his children. Nicky, who ran the stall, worked for other dealers, too, but Sam was the mainstay. Then Charlie was nearing full time here, and the lad enjoyed his work. Billy reckoned he had known Sam Bell for most of his life. Yet he hadn’t known him.
‘Go home now,’ said Sam.
The pawnbroker had pretended to listen in the past, had nodded and grunted. But now, he was listening, answering, thinking about solutions. ‘Thanks, Sam,’ he said. Then Billy Costigan went home to nurse his wife and his terrible secret.
Maureen lay flat, hands on top of the white coverlet, her hair spread out against a pillowcase of cheap, coarse cotton. She had been here for a long time. Sometimes, it felt as if she had been here for ever. But she hadn’t. She lived in Dryden Street with Mam, Dad, Charlie, Nicky, Tildy-Anne and Jimmy. They had scouse twice a week, tripe and onions on Thursdays, boiled eggs and toast on a Saturday morning and, like most other families on Scotland Road, they had salt fish cooked by Dad every Sunday morning.
Maureen didn’t like salt fish. It was grey and sad-looking, sludgy and full of bones. There was a pigeon on the window-sill. She turned her head and looked at it, wondered if it might be one of Dad’s come to visit her. The pigeons were kept in the back yard next to the scullery. Dad was very gentle with his feathered pets, very tender with his children, too. He was a great big man, well over six feet in height, but he had a delicate touch.
Mam. Mam kept crying. When she visited the hospital, she was always talking about needing the toilet or going to see the doctor. Really, she was going outside to cry in the corridor. It wasn’t like Mam to cry so much. Mam was crying because of what had happened, because of . . . No, no, Maureen told herself. Don’t try to remember, don’t think about it. You never saw his face. They keep on asking you the same questions, but you didn’t get a look at him. He came from behind . . .
There was a big mark on the ceiling of this hospital room, as if something or other had spilled and filtered through from upstairs. She was in a small ward of her own. People came in with food and drink and medicines, but she was alone most of the time.
Fairy Mary had visited her star pupil. She had gone on and on about Maureen getting better and being picked up by a talent scout. ‘We’ll see you on the professional stage yet,’ Mary Turner had chirruped. ‘This won’t make any difference, so don’t worry, because the scars will go.’ Maureen could not quite manage to worry about the scars.
The man had not just strangled her and left her for dead – he had also left his marks. There were the blemishes on the surface of her body, and there were those inside. Apart from being hit and strangled, she hadn’t been aware of or conscious during anything else. But she was sure that he had done the really bad thing, the thing she and the rest of the girls had been warned about. ‘No man will want you for a wife unless you keep yourself to yourself,’ Sister Agnes had said. Maureen had had no choice.
The door swung inward and Father Brennan rolled in. He was a fat man with a jolly face, yet she didn’t want to look at him. He said some Latin and held out the host, but Maureen tightened her lips. She didn’t want Holy Communion. She just needed to be left alone. ‘Open your mouth, child,’ said Michael Brennan. On no less than three occasions, Maureen had refused.
‘Maureen?’
She looked straight at him, kept her mouth firmly closed.
‘Why, Maureen?’
She didn’t know.
Father Brennan sighed. ‘Child, let me help you. I’ll do anything, anything at all if you will only let me. Can’t you talk to me? Can’t you allow me to comfort you?’
Maureen simply stared at him until he went away.
The day wore on. She slept occasionally, was glad when she woke, glad when the dreams stopped. Her throat remained sore, but she was able to swallow soup and rice pudding. She had heard them discussing her voice box, had listened while they had gathered to wonder aloud about damage to vocal chords. So, once safely isolated again, she had tested her power of speech, had found it to be rusty, but competent.
The lights went on outside in the corridor. She had nothing to say, and that was why she remained silent. After a while, they might get fed up and go away with their questions. Why should she talk about it? Why should she let herself be forced into encouraging the recurring nightmares?
A nurse came in. The nurses always wore bright smiles and over-white aprons that hurt the eyes and crackled with starch. The woman switched on the light and gave her patient a cup of cocoa. Once propped up on pillows, Maureen sipped at the drink and avoided eye contact with her minder. They were all waiting and watching. If she uttered one single syllable, the police would swarm like flies in summer all round her bed.
‘Would you like a biscuit?’
Maureen made no reply, did not nod or shake her head. Let them all think she was struck dumb, then she might get some peace.
‘A hot water bottle? Shall I fill your decanter for you?’
The patient closed her eyes.
‘Your mam been in yet?’
They were so annoying, so persistent. Never an hour went by without them trying to trick her into some kind of response. But she was going home soon. Mam had told her that she could come home and rest in the kitchen on Grandma’s old sofa. Maureen remembered Grandma, just about. After her death, Mam
had taken over the rent book. Mam had lived in Dryden Street for ever.
When the nurse had left, Maureen closed her eyes and let out a sigh of relief. Another day accomplished without being forced to talk. Talking would have been useless, because she had nothing to say. Where was she? Ah yes, she had been thinking about home and how Mam had always lived there. It was a drab house. No matter what colour the walls got painted, they inevitably attained a brownish tinge after a while. Dad was always on the roof sticking felt over leaks. The tap in the back kitchen was stiff, sometimes needed a quick belt with the hammer.
Maureen Costigan had envisaged something better for herself. The London stage, perhaps, or the wireless. She had a nice singing voice. Well, she used to have a good voice. Until . . . Who was he? she wondered. And where was he?
All her life, Maureen had been proud of her looks and her abilities as an entertainer. But it was as if her attacker had removed all ambition and all interest in herself. She didn’t want to live round here any more, only she no longer thought about moving towards something. Maureen felt more like running away, just running and running until she got as far as possible from . . . from him. A tear made its slow way down her cheek. At just under fourteen years of age, Maureen was certain that her life was over.
Michael Brennan smothered his chips in vinegar. He was partial to a nice bit of cod with chips and sloppy peas. Across the table sat the bane of his life, one Liam Bell. Liam was staring at him, was tacitly condemning the older man’s greed. On Liam’s plate, there lingered a sliver of steamed yellow fish, two boiled potatoes and a sprig of cauliflower. ‘You don’t like your food much, do you, Liam?’
Liam prodded the fish with his fork. ‘I don’t believe in overindulging,’ he replied pointedly.
The Bells of Scotland Road Page 23