The Reading Room

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Really?’ asked Chas. ‘What can they do?’

  ‘They can make three years feel like ten.’

  The man near their table stood and glared at Wally. There’d been a reason for the sudden singing, and he suspected that Wally might well be at the back of it, but there was nothing he could do when it came to proof. Chas looked up and winked at the guard. ‘Turned out nice again,’ he said in the manner of George Formby.

  ‘You’re becoming a Woollyback,’ pronounced Wally.

  There were many things worse than Lancastrians, Chas thought. Woollybacks were long-ago miners with sheepskins stretched over their bodies as protection. Underneath the slower-than-Scouse speech, they were solid folk. The hour dragged, but he was finally liberated and breathing air that was not fresh, but it was free. Fazakerley. Bloody hell. He didn’t know what to do next . . .

  Chas spent several hours not knowing what to do next. He ordered a meal in a city centre bar, scarcely tasted it, could not have described what he had eaten. After four pints of beer, he shut himself in his car on the dock road and waited to get sober. To that end, he consumed over a litre of water and a full pack of biscuits rescued from the glove compartment. The biscuits made him sick, and he deposited the contents of his stomach as neatly as he could in a roadside drain. There was no point in contacting the hospital, because Chalmers would be under guard and Fazakerley might well refuse to admit that he was housed under their roof. He didn’t phone Eve, didn’t speak to anyone, since he had no idea what to say.

  After sleeping himself sober, he woke to a darker Liverpool. A small idea popped into his head, and he drove to a newsagent to pick up the Echo. Nothing. He looked in the stop-press column, found no late report about the condition of a prisoner, decided that the authorities had actually managed to keep this juicy item from the press. The paper would be filled to the centre when Robbo and his cronies got sent down for receiving stolen goods, yet the murderer attracted no attention.

  It hadn’t been just Eve. His first murder attempt had been against Lily, and he would try again if Satan spared him. Was he alive? Was he crippled or dead? Chas tossed aside the newspaper. He sat on Crosby Road North and wondered about driving up to see Vera, but Eve’s sister would be full of questions, and there were no answers. Going to see his brothers was not advisable, either, not if there was huge trouble afoot. He had better travel homeward. Eve could be worried sick by now. He sent her a text – hope you get this babe bad reception round here see you later. That should keep her quiet for a couple of hours. He really could not go home while his brain was in such turmoil . . .

  Then his phone rang. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Chas?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Bill Martin from Walton. Got your mobile number from Wally. I took your visiting order off you this morning – remember? I’m off duty now. Are you still in Liverpool?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Then meet me at the town end of Stanley Road, Bootle.’

  ‘What’s going on, Mr Martin?’

  ‘Not on the phone, lad. See you in a few minutes.’

  Chas drove to Stanley Road. Bill Martin, still in uniform, got into the car. ‘Where’ve you been since one o’clock, Chas?’

  ‘Pub, dock road, asleep in the car.’

  ‘For over seven hours?’

  Chas shrugged. ‘Time flies when you’re having fun. Anyway, what’s going on?’

  Bill Martin fastened his seat belt. ‘Drive,’ he said. ‘Turn left at the bottom. I’ll tell you as we go.’

  It was just clothes. But beyond that was the clear fact that Michael Walsh didn’t seem to give a fig about how he looked. He could be a priest in gilded vestments, a drag artist in a corset, or a tramp in torn jeans. Lily wasn’t sure what he was supposed to be at the moment, though he definitely didn’t care. How many men could sit at a kitchen table in Bolton Wanderers underpants and a pink silk dressing gown? His face sported shadow far denser than the famous five o’clock stuff, while his hair, which had grown wilder than ever, was a mess. And he was still beautiful. In the bedroom, he had been all soft words and tender touch, and Lily knew that he was in love with her. Yet in the kitchen he began to play the fool again, because that was his gift. This was when he loved her best, because he laid himself completely open, warts and all. There would be no lies, no cunning plans, no threats.

  Now was the moment he had chosen to persuade her to tell the truth. He didn’t need to know what had happened, as he had discovered all that for himself, but he wanted to know how she felt today, how she had felt in the past, and whether he could help her move on.

  ‘You look ridiculous,’ she advised him. ‘And I shall have a rash from your beard. Pink is not your colour.’

  ‘It was the only thing to hand when we got out of your bed,’ he replied smartly. ‘Which item of furniture is still too small. If you will drag me off to have your wicked way with me when I am wearing only underpants, what am I supposed to do when I have ceased to be of use? Wander about naked? Shall I go and change?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then get on with it. I have an ironing board to invent.’

  She sat opposite him and took a deep breath. ‘You realize I’ve been through all this stuff with doctors and head-shrinks, most of whom were dafter than I was.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And it’s not easy.’

  Mike smiled. ‘Nothing’s easy. Just thank God that you met someone wonderful who can help absorb your pain.’ He stood up, lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. ‘Come on outside. I have put together our upholstered garden swing, and it was built for two.’

  Lily prayed that he had done a better job with the swing than he had with his famous ironing board, but she followed him as bidden. They sat in the swing and held hands like a pair of teenagers, away from phones, from doorbell, from the rest of the world.

  She told her story exactly as it had happened, beginning with her grandparents’ farm, the move to Taunton, schooldays, college, meeting Clive. ‘He was spectacular,’ she said. ‘So handsome and funny. Of course, I didn’t notice at first that he couldn’t laugh at himself, or that his car was rather better than it ought to have been – he was just a salesman for windows and conservatories. Then I allowed myself to be dragged into the conservatories – I did blinds, floors, furniture and so forth. I curtained the plastic windows he sold, tried to make them look decent. We were a team. He bought me a two-carat diamond, and we were suddenly engaged.’

  Yes, it had been sudden. She supposed that the term ‘swept off her feet’ was applicable in her case, because she couldn’t recall a proper courtship. Her gaze slid sideways to the man of the moment – had this been a proper courtship? She thought not, but he was the right one.

  ‘Was he a criminal?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Yes. An entrepreneur was how he described himself latterly. Anyway, the owners of conservatories and plastic window frames liked my work, and I got commissioned to do whole rooms – sometimes, a whole house. So he married me.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘He needed to own me. The penny didn’t drop until the glossies began to follow me around. There’d be Linda Barker on one page, me on the next. But the straw that really broke his back was Makeover Madness. He thought I was having affairs with every craftsman from Dundee to Paignton. The programmes he recorded were played over and over while he decided which man had bedded me, which one was planning on bedding me – it was a nightmare. I was away from home for days at a time, so he gave up his legitimate work and began to travel with me. But he still had money. When we were at home, some less than savoury characters called at the house – I knew he was up to no good. He got phone calls at all hours of the day and night. Some of his conservatories fell off lorries, I think.’

  ‘But not the glass?’

  Lily grinned. No matter what, Mike managed to winkle out the ridiculous option. ‘I worked out that he was acquiring materials and that the visitors to our house were building conservato
ries and fitting windows while Clive followed me all over the country. He had his cake and was eating it.’

  ‘And he still wasn’t content?’

  ‘No – far from it. So he made me pregnant.’ Lily stopped and shivered, though the evening was warm. ‘I have a DVD of my baby – one of those special ones. It shows his face. He was a thumb-sucker and a mover.’

  Mike gripped her hand tightly. ‘You can stop for a while if you like.’

  She sighed. It was now or never, so it had better be now. ‘How did I feel? That was what you wanted to know. Trapped. Contained. If I didn’t speak, I was sulking. If I spoke, I said the wrong thing.’ She paused for a few seconds. ‘Life picked up a bit when I became too big for work and he started to go out alone at night. He hated my appearance when I was heavily pregnant, but I didn’t care. My face was prettier, he said, but he wasn’t keen on my shape. I was happy on my own. I was nesting. Then, when I was nine months along, Babs arrived at the door. She had discovered where he lived, and wanted to talk to him about her pregnancy. She thought he was single. Everything negative went into the blow I gave her. I can still hear the scream she gave when my hand crashed into her cheek.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Mike whispered.

  ‘It isn’t. Well, it wasn’t. I couldn’t hit him, so I hit her. He came home, found her crying outside and threw her into the road.’ Lily smiled sadly and shook her head. ‘When I woke in hospital about twelve days later, she was sitting there reading a magazine. I’d been hearing her droning on about Leanne Chalmers and her interiors, but I hadn’t been able to answer, because I was still semi-comatose. She looked at me, put down the magazine and told me that he’d almost thrown her under a Ford transit van. This had offended her sensibilities, because she would have preferred a Merc or a Rolls. “I have my standards,” she said.’

  ‘That’s Babs,’ Mike said.

  Yes, that was definitely Babs. She had become almost a sister to Lily. Cassie would have been a sister to Daniel, but Daniel had never been born.

  ‘Lily?’

  ‘He killed my son. He deliberately put the knife through my abdomen and . . . and I felt . . .’

  ‘You felt his death?’

  She nodded. ‘I lost a kidney, a piece of intestine, and pints and pints of blood. I almost lost my mind. But the biggest loss was, of course, Daniel.’

  ‘Yes. Lily, look at me.’

  She obeyed.

  ‘I love you.’

  ‘I know you do.’

  They sat in silence for a while before she continued. ‘He said I’d stabbed him first, but, when questioned in court, he lost his temper and the truth came out. I was making curtains. I buried my scissors deep in his side to stop him stabbing again. But I missed all the vital organs and, as far as I know, he was back on his feet in a week.’ Lily turned and looked at her man. ‘My womb was cut through. Even my spine was damaged. They stapled me together again as best they could. There’s a chance that I cannot have children.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  He put his arm across her shoulders. ‘I mind. I hate hating the man, and I know you wanted that baby. But for myself, I am happy to have just you. We’ll be all right as long as I find my own dressing gown. You may cry now. I’m here, and I’ll always be here.’

  Lily didn’t want to cry, didn’t need to produce tears. She had handed herself over into the care of this wonderful man, and she had a future with him. He had been right all along, because she had needed to share the past with him. Being right all the time might become annoying, but—

  ‘I can’t help it,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Being right all the time.’

  Lily shook her head before hitting him with a cushion. He was clearly a mind-reader, and he—

  ‘Lily? Lily? Where the bloody hell are you?’ Eve rushed along the side of the house and into the rear garden. ‘I’ve been phoning and phoning and I’ve rung the doorbell—’ Eve stopped and blinked. Even in the dim light of evening, she could tell that there was something wrong with Mike Walsh’s clothes, but she didn’t have time to work it out. ‘You have to come,’ she told him. ‘Have you got satnav?’

  ‘Yes, we have,’ he replied.

  ‘Hurry up,’ urged Eve. ‘Fazakerley Hospital near Aintree in Liverpool. I can find my way if I’m in Liverpool, but not if I’m here.’

  Mike, who had grown used to the demands of parishioners, dashed into the house.

  ‘You and all,’ said Eve to Lily. ‘You’ve got to come.’

  ‘Me? Is Chas all right?’

  Eve nodded frantically. ‘It’s a woman called Diane.’ She placed herself next to Lily on the swing. ‘She wants you to come. She says she can’t do what needs doing until she’s spoken to you.’

  Lily swallowed hard. ‘Diane Chalmers?’

  ‘Yes.’ Eve grabbed her friend’s hand. ‘She’s your mother-in-law?’

  ‘She was. She’s in Somerset.’

  ‘Not any more. The police brought her to Liverpool. It took hours for her to get there, and she’s in a terrible state. Look at me, Lily. I know it’s gone dark, but I want you to look at me.’

  Lily looked. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Your husband – I mean, your ex – is in a critical condition. His mother’s terrified and all on her own – she won’t speak to anyone until she’s seen you.’

  Lily felt the blood draining away from her head. She didn’t want to go anywhere near him, didn’t want to be on the same planet, let alone—

  ‘I’ll be with you. Mike’ll be with you. Chas is already there. Nothing can happen while the man’s ill and you have friends around you. It’s for Diane, love. My Chas says she’s a lovely woman.’

  She was a lovely woman. Too afraid to visit her daughter-in-law in hospital, she had made herself scarce since the attack. Clive had always been able to pull the wool over his mother’s eyes, because she had adored him. An only child, he had been smothered by the love of his single parent. She had probably handed over money to pay Eve’s attackers, though she would not have been aware of its purpose. Always, she had tried to believe the best when it came to her son. She was a mother first, last and always. ‘All right,’ said Lily. ‘But Mike mustn’t leave my side for an instant.’

  Relieved, Eve exhaled and took Lily’s arm. ‘Come on, babe,’ she said. ‘Let’s get it over and done with.’

  For Lily, the journey was a blank. She didn’t notice the motorway, the East Lancashire Road, the flattening of the landscape as the Pennine foothills petered out to make way for the Mersey plain. The first thing she recorded consciously was a sign for Aintree Racecourse, famous for its steeplechases, including the Grand National. She didn’t like the jumps, because horses died or became winded for the rest of their lives. This was a killing place, and her killer was nearby.

  Mike, who had attempted conversation at the beginning of the journey, gave up. He caught a glimpse of the florist who had arrived in Eagleton just a few months earlier, saw the pale, drawn face, the absence of life in features that had been so mobile just an hour ago. This was the woman whose negligee he had worn to make her laugh, whose body he had touched and loved, who had unburdened herself only for the nightmare to start all over again.

  Eve, in a rear seat, had her own worries. Did Chas know what had happened in the prison, was he part of it, would the police come looking for him? When would life revert to normal? When would Lily be able to walk about free and happy? It wasn’t fair. From the sound of things, a third woman was suffering untold agony at this very moment in Fazakerley Hospital. When would this business end?

  The hospital was a huge, ugly place. Parking cost two pounds, payable on exit, and Eve wondered how poor people managed to visit relatives. If they had a car, their visits would be few; if they had no vehicle, bus fares cost more than a meal for a household. Perhaps they lived in their old bangers on the car park and paid just the once? Life had gone crazy.

  Lost and mistaken, the th
ree entered the main reception area of A and E, looked at the seated and wounded, read the board that pronounced a three-hour wait. Mike went and stood in a queue only to be told in the fullness of time that he was in the wrong building. ‘I can see that,’ he told the lacklustre receptionist. ‘It should be condemned.’

  Under direction from a sympathetic visitor, they followed various paths until they reached neurology. ‘It’s supposed to be the bee’s knees for neurological stuff,’ announced Eve. ‘But you should go and look at the main building where the wards are, Mike. It’s a ghetto. It should be called a stalag or something. It looks like one of those terrible blocks of flats they built in Russia.’ She took Lily’s arm. ‘You’ll be all right. I promise you.’

  Would she be all right? At last, she asked the question. ‘Is he hurt?’

  ‘Yes,’ Eve replied.

  ‘Who did it?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Eve held on to her friend. ‘No idea, love. Now, it’s Diane who needs you. After what he did to you – and to me – the details are what you might call irrelevant.’

  The neurological centre was spick and span, carpeted, comfortable and so unlike the main body of the hospital that Eve felt she was entering the foyer of some five-star hotel. ‘Is this still National Health?’ she asked Chas after greeting him.

  ‘Yes. It’s Aintree Trust’s special area of expertise, babe – they ’copter people in from all over the place.’ He nodded towards Lily. ‘Looks like she’s not of this world, just like when she first came to the village.’

  Lily stood as still as stone in front of the seated figure of her ex-mother-in-law. Diane Chalmers was small, round and grey-haired. Her clothes were creased, while a battered hat lay on the carpet at her feet. On the seat next to hers sat the statutory handbag and a photograph album. She looked as if she had got past tired ages ago – her face was devoid of emotion and drained of all colour. Lily recognized the shell, because she had lived in a similar cocoon for long enough before getting to know Mike and some of the other villagers. ‘Hello, Mum,’ she said softly. It was like looking into a mirror and seeing an older version of herself – sad, confused and in shock. But Lily was better now. As soon as she returned to Eagleton, she would be whole once more. ‘Mum?’