‘It’s just a temporary, you know … until she finds herself a proper job.’
‘In the meantime you take it easy.’
He grinned. ‘You could say that. I trust our violent friend is in police custody this morning?’
I nodded and reassured him that neither he nor Rachel would be involved further in the nasty business.
Benny’s grin broadened. ‘That’s a blessed relief. Now, what can I get you? The usual fry up?’
‘Why not?’ I made my way to a small corner table and picked up a newspaper someone had left behind. I flicked through the pages filled with the latest trials and tribulations of our sorely tried nation. After a while Rachel came and brought me a mug of tea. ‘Your food won’t be long,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’
‘How … how did things go after … after we’d left you last night?’
‘Fine. You’ve nothing to worry about. Harryboy’s safely in the hands of the police. He’s no threat to you any more.’
At this news her face brightened considerably. ‘Really?’ she said breathlessly, as though she was having great difficulty in believing that her luck had changed.
‘Really,’ I repeated, squeezing her arm.
She leaned forward and kissed me on my cheek. ‘Thank you, Johnny.’
I could smell her, the sweet fresh aroma of soap and powder and my face tingled where her lips had been. Once again I felt that not unpleasant feeling of excitement in my stomach, like a very small musician playing the xylophone with my intestines. She had gone before I could respond. Somewhat embarrassed I looked around to see if anyone had noticed this gentle display of affection but everyone seemed involved in devouring their breakfast or deep in some hushed conversation. Shaking my newspaper, I returned to the small print.
I was a little dismayed when it was Benny who delivered my food a few minutes later. I had hoped it would be Rachel.
‘I saw that kiss,’ he whispered, his face split from ear to ear with a smile of delight.
‘She was showing her gratitude.’
‘Oh, so that’s what it’s called these days.’ He paused, pretending to examine his tea cloth before continuing, ‘She’s a nice girl. And pretty. You could do a lot worse …’
One of Benny’s missions in life was to get me married off to ‘a good woman’. I know he meant well, but I reckon if I was going to have a wife or a girlfriend, I wanted to have quite a large say in the matter. Any time a girl showed any interest in me or vice versa, Benny was all ready for calling the banns.
‘You got any brown sauce in this establishment?’ I said, ignoring his banter.
With a smirk, he reached over to a nearby table and plucked up a bottle of sauce and plonked it down by my plate.
‘Enjoy,’ he said with a chuckle and left me to eat my food in peace.
When I had finished Rachel returned to collect the crockery. ‘I was wondering if I could call on you to do me another favour,’ she said, scooping up my empty plate.
‘If I can.’
‘Benny’s helped me pick out a few addresses from the paper for lodgings. I want somewhere cheap but respectable. I wondered if you’d go with me while I looked at some of the places. Help me decide. You’d be much better at it … more experienced like.’
‘I’m not so sure about that. When do you want to do this?’
‘Benny says I can go now.’
I looked over at the beaming rascal leaning on the counter.
‘Does he?’
‘What about it, Johnny?’
‘Sure. Get your coat.’
Most of the addresses were in the Marylebone area, down dreary streets with nondescript names. Suspicious women stuck their unsmiling faces around half-open doors to peer at us disapprovingly. I’d manufactured the story that I was Rachel’s brother helping her to find lodgings in London but it didn’t really win the hearts of these domestic dragons. They saw fancy man, boyfriend and trouble tattooed across my forehead and for the most part we were turned away. Where we were invited in to inspect the room and facilities, I wouldn’t have wished the accommodation on my worst enemy. Damp and decay were the strongest architectural features, with grey bed linen, mouldering wallpaper and cracked window panes. We had all but given up hope when I noticed a sign in the window of a smart looking villa in an avenue in Lisson Grove.
Two women appeared in response to my manly knock on the door. They could have been twins from their age, dress sense and identical grey hair which each had tied in a neat bun atop their head. They were in fact sisters. Unmarried sisters with smooth unlined faces which seemed to suggest that they took the sorrows of life with a certain ease or resignation. I was to learn that it was their faith that had helped to ease their way down the rocky road of existence. And it was probably their faith and general belief in the goodness of man that allowed them to accept my story about being Rachel’s protective brother. They looked on us benignly and invited us in. Their parlour, spick and span with shining wood and gleaming glass, was like a Victorian museum, complete with aspidistra in the window and a well-polished harmonium in one of the alcoves. Miss Evelyn and Miss Edith Horner bade us sit down and provided us with a glass of sherry each.
Rachel, I thought, while I sipped my sherry, you have beached up on a fine shore here. These ladies were perfect. The room was small but in the same tidy and pristine shape as the parlour. One cooked meal a day was part of the deal and the rent was ridiculously small. Rachel glanced at me with raised eyebrows. I gave her the nod of assurance.
The Horner sisters seemed as pleased with the transaction as we were.
‘It will be so pleasant to have someone young about the place,’ observed Miss Edith Horner, while her sister nodded in agreement.
Financial matters were settled and Rachel arranged to move her meagre possessions in that evening.
‘That is marvellous.’ Rachel said, once we were outside again. ‘It’ll be like two grannies looking after me,’ she giggled.
‘Wasn’t it that kind of life you left Wales to escape?’
‘In a way. But I don’t think they’ll suffocate me or be judgemental.’
‘As long as you are a good girl.’
She stopped and turned quietly towards me and gazed up into my eyes. ‘You might not think so, Johnny, but I am a good girl.’
She squeezed my hand and, Goddammit, I blushed.
We crossed Park Road and found ourselves strolling in Hyde Park. For a crisp and sunny day in autumn, it was a very pleasant experience. Although the amber sun generated little warmth that was discernible, it gilded the bare trees and the damp scrubby grass in such a way that it lifted one’s spirits. Rachel had been quiet for most of the trip but now in the park she seemed to relax and began to talk about her experiences with Harryboy. It was an ugly tale. It was clear that Rachel regretted falling in with him so easily and was ashamed at how gullible she had been.
‘I suppose you think I’m a yokel from the sticks,’ she said earnestly when she had finished her recital.
‘We’re not all as smart as paint in London, y’know. We can all make mistakes when we encounter cunning snakes like Harryboy Jenkins; and I reckon you paid for yours the hard way.’
Instinctively she touched her face where the bruise was still visible. ‘I’ve certainly learned a lesson. I won’t be so stupid again.’
Suddenly, she grabbed my hand and rushed forward. ‘Look!’ she cried, tugging me forward. ‘Down by the lake. Someone is feeding the ducks. I love ducks.’
And like a teenager she scampered forward towards the water’s edge with me in tow. I’m sure that for all the world we looked like a courting couple.
If only life was that simple.
TWENTY - NINE
Harryboy Jenkins gradually grew conscious of muffled sounds and a sensation of bright lights before he was capable of opening his eyes. He was aware of other sensations too: the feel of starchy, stiff sheets about his aching body, the smell of antiseptic assailing his nostril
s and, above all, the herd of elephants stampeding in his head. He tried to remember what had happened and where he had been before he lost consciousness. With infinite slowness he was able to piece together the various fragments of memory that were floating around his brain like the debris of a shipwreck and reconstruct a kind of out-of-focus movie of the events of the previous night. He remembered a man with an eye-patch, probably a pirate, a woman crying and most of all the sudden, searing pain at the back of his head. He didn’t have to remember that: it was still there.
Gingerly, he prised his eyes open and struggled to bring them into focus so that he could take stock of his situation. He was in a bed in a pale featureless room; a bright sun was shining through the window creating shifting shadows on the wall and, in the distance, he could hear voices, while from beyond the window came the muffled purr of traffic. He was in hospital. That was it. He was in a hospital and was being treated for his head injury.
On coming to this conclusion, his energy waned and he found himself drifting back into sleep. The corners of his vision darkened and his thoughts began evaporating, leaving a void behind them. He licked his dry lips and tried to fight against it, digging his nails into the palms of his hands in a desperate attempt to keep himself awake. He needed to know more – like how the hell he had got here in the first place. The nails dug deeper. He rallied briefly, his eyes widening again, just long enough for him to glimpse the figure sitting on a chair by the door. He seemed to be dozing, head nodding, and he was cradling some dark object in his lap. Harryboy strained to bring the thing into focus. It was a helmet. A police helmet! This feller was a policeman. So the coppers had got him after all. They had come to arrest him for what he’d done to his brother. But it had been an accident! He had explained that a hundred times before. Although, in his heart of hearts, he knew he was responsible. He knew he was guilty. He had to get away. He had to escape. To get somewhere safe. He had to go where no one would find him. Yes! He had to get back to the hideout. The sheriff’s men would never catch him there. That’s what he’d do. He’d escape and go there, to the hideout.
With this resolution firmly fixed in his mind, he gave up the struggle to keep a grip on consciousness and he slumped back into a deep sleep once more.
The constable by the door was indeed dozing and had not witnessed his charge’s brief resuscitation. However, he was roused sometime later by the cries and whimpers of the prisoner as he tossed and turned in a disturbed sleep. Hesitantly, the policeman rose from his chair and made his way to the bed. Harryboy’s brow was wet with perspiration and his body shifted awkwardly beneath the covers but he was imprisoned in a deep sleep. He was muttering words and phrases over and over again like a mantra. The constable withdrew his notebook and pencil and proceeded to write down what the man was saying. After all, it could be important, although it did seem to be the ramblings of a delirious mind.
He scribbled down in neat handwriting: ‘Got to get to the hideout. My hideout. Get away from the sheriff’s men. Jack will never find me there.’
‘Don’t know what the inspector will make of that load of nonsense,’ the constable murmured to himself, as his charge lapsed into silence once more as a strange calm seemed to overtake him.
‘That boy is more than feverish; he’s in a real bad way: he needs medical attention,’ observed Sergeant Woodcock rubbing his chin as a visible sign of his consternation. ‘I don’t want to be responsible for a death in my station. We need to get a doc to look at him.’
PC MacGregor who had brought Peter into the station nodded in agreement. The boy had begun behaving strangely ever since he’d taken him from Dave’s tea bar. He’d barely said a word, even when questioned and had begun shivering involuntarily before they had reached the police station. Sergeant Woodcock had contacted the appropriate authorities about the runaway but was told it would be at least twenty-four hours before they could send an official down to take custody of him and try to find a place for the boy in one of the orphanages. ‘They are bursting at the seams. We have more of these children than we can handle,’ he was told by a stern-voiced woman at the other end of the telephone. As a result Peter had spent the night in the cells. Despite being treated kindly and offered some food, he had retreated into himself, curling up into a defensive ball on his makeshift bed and slipping into a deep sleep. Peter really had no control over his actions. His mind had taken over and feeling battered and shocked after all the terrible experiences he had undergone in the last few months it sought a way to escape. It did this by shutting down.
The sergeant ran his fingers over the hot, damp forehead of the unconscious boy and then turned to his constable, a grim, grey expression on his features. ‘Get Dr Glover here, as fast as you can!’ he said.
Doctor Glover, who was used to treating old lags when he was summoned to the police station, was surprised to find a ten-year-old boy in a high fever lying in one of the cells.
‘He’s a runaway,’ explained Sergeant Woodcock. ‘Probably been living rough along by the river. God knows what he’s picked up. By the look of his face, it could be scarlet fever.’
Doctor Glover knelt down by Peter and felt his pulse and then, extracting his stethoscope from his bag, he pulled open the young boy’s shirt to reveal a fine red rash there. He listened to his heartbeat ‘I reckon your diagnosis is correct, Sergeant. Has he vomited?’
Sergeant Woodcock shook his head. ‘He’s done nothing but shiver and sleep.’
Glover pulled back one of Peter’s eyelids to reveal only the bloodshot white beneath.
‘We need to get him into a hospital fast. If he isn’t treated quickly, this could develop into rheumatic fever.’
‘Right,’ said Sergeant Woodcock hoarsely, shocked at this diagnosis. He’d lost a brother to rheumatic fever and he knew what a killer it could be. ‘I’ll get on to Charing Cross Hospital straight away. Get them to send an ambulance.’
He turned at the door of the cell and glanced down at the small, curled figure on the bed. ‘Poor bugger,’ he said, and then hurried away.
THIRTY
There was a black wreath on the door of The Loophole Club when I arrived around nine o’clock. It was, no doubt, placed there as a token of respect for Amanda. I wondered who would really mourn for her. Her? I knew that it really should be ‘him’ but I couldn’t help but think of Amanda as anything other than a woman. I reckon she would have approved of that.
The club was packed and smoky which was fine by me. I was enough of a sore thumb as it was, dressed in male attire; the dimly lighted, crowded room afforded me a little camouflage. I stood by the door and surveyed the place. It was quite bizarre and surreal, rather like (I would imagine) attending an annual general meeting of the pantomime dames association. With the exception of a few very convincing ladies, most of the men there were dressed badly, crudely made-up and wrongly shaped: they made terrible women. But one thing struck me forcibly: they all seemed happy. The air was filled with cheery chatter and laughter. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed – for the right reason.
To my dismay, there was no sign of Helen, tall, slinky Helen. Eventually I squeezed my way to the bar. I battled across the room and secured a stool, sardined between a large fat apparition in a black shiny evening dress and a thin fellow in a WAAF uniform. Both parties ignored me, as did the lovely creature who was serving behind the bar. It was the same person who had served me the last time: I recognized the stubble. I suppose a chap in a suit is really persona non grata in an establishment like this. However, eventually, the barman deigned to come over. I ordered a Scotch on the rocks.
‘Is Helen in tonight?’ I asked casually, as he slapped my drink down on the counter.
‘Who?’
‘You know, Helen. Tall, long black hair. Friend of Wilma Riley’s.’ I waved a ten-shilling note provocatively as bait.
‘Oh, her. I haven’t seen her, but she often leaves it late till she comes in, when things have quietened down a little.’ His hand crept t
owards the note.
‘What do you know about her?’
The barman’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and he pulled back. ‘This is a private club. We don’t ask questions here. Understand?’
I nodded. I understood. I placed the ten-shilling note on the counter. ‘Just give me the wink if you see her come in, eh? I have a message for her.’
Without a word, he picked up the money and went off to serve someone else. I lingered over my Scotch for the best part of half an hour while I surveyed the room in an apparently casual manner. There was no sign of the lovely Helen.
It looked as though I was in for the long haul and so I had no alternative but buy another drink. I made it a tonic water. This was easier on my wallet and I wanted to keep a sharp brain tonight. One of the things I’d learned since I’d been doing this job: never get squiffy when you’re meeting up with a murderer.
By ten o’clock the club had quietened down a little but it was still busy. Somehow the blitz and the danger of further bombing had done away with people’s bedtimes. What was the point of getting into bed before midnight, if you’ve only to get up again to rush down to the shelter an hour later? You may as well stay up.
And then she came in. Or rather made an entrance. She swanned slinkily down the stairs as though she was attending a Hollywood premiere. I was reminded of the newsreel pictures of Vivien Leigh posing and pouting at the opening of Gone With the Wind. No pushing and shoving through the throng to get to the bar for Helen. The crowd parted like the Red Sea, numerous envious eyes appraising her as she did so. This character made a remarkable woman. She was tall, shapely and had the most delicate feminine features. It was as though Nature had been undecided which sex to dole out in the womb and this borderline amalgam had emerged.
She sat on a stool at the other end of the bar and ordered a drink. Another customer, in a flowery red dress and a disappointing wig came up and offered her a cigarette. Helen ignored her, extracting her own packet of cigarettes and lighter from her small clutch bag.
Without Conscience Page 19