by Roberta Kray
Helen’s wardrobe had increased dramatically since she’d come to Kellston. She was now in possession of two pairs of blue jeans, as well as numerous shirts and blouses that Karen or Debs had grown out of. She didn’t mind wearing their cast-offs. Anything was preferable to the dull, old-fashioned clothes that her grandmother had bought for her.
When she heard the town hall clock strike eight, Helen headed slowly back towards the Fox. She let herself in through the back door, walked along the corridor and looked into the bar. She wrinkled her nose. The place smelled of stale beer and tobacco. Someone had already begun the tidying up – there were dirty glasses stacked on the counter, and a couple of the tables had been wiped clean.
Helen was about to go in when she heard the heavy tread of footsteps on the stairs. Tommy? She looked over her shoulder, intending to call out, but then her heart missed a beat. She heard a familiar wheezing breath, followed by a cough. It wasn’t Tommy at all. It was Joe Quinn, on his way down.
She felt a flutter of panic in her chest and instinctively looked for somewhere to hide. It was bad enough crossing paths in the flat, but at least upstairs there were other people around. Down here she would be alone with him. Her first thought was to slip into the bar, to hide in the ladies’ perhaps, but if Joe was going to finish cleaning up, then she could be trapped in there until the pub opened. She glanced towards the back door, but she already knew that she wouldn’t make it before Joe reached the bottom of the stairs.
That only left one option. As quietly as she could, she ran along the passageway, pushed open the door to the cellar and closed it softly behind her. She flicked on the light – a bare bulb hanging from a fraying piece of string – and went quickly down the old stone steps. Her left shoulder brushed against the wall, the mortar flaking off and covering her arm in a thin white dust. At the foot of the steps, she stopped and listened, but she couldn’t hear anything.
Across the far side of the basement was another, more solid door. It led out into the car park, but she knew it was locked. The key was hanging in the bar on a hook by the optics. Helen resigned herself to a wait. If she hung on for five or ten minutes, she could hopefully sneak past Joe and get back up to the flat without being spotted.
11
Helen perched on the edge of a barrel and looked around. The cellar, crammed full of old crates, had a musty, beery odour. Cobwebs hung in the corners of the ceiling and there were fag ends scattered on the tiled floor. Boxes of spirits were stacked up to her right, beside the bottled beer and the sherry and the mixers. She scanned the floor for spiders, hoping something large and black wasn’t about to make an appearance.
Joe Quinn reminded her of a spider. She gave a quick, involuntary shudder. It was impossible to think of him as a grandfather; her real grandad had been kind and gentle, but Joe was something else entirely. Fortunately, he didn’t spend much time in the flat, and any occasion he was there, she was careful to steer clear. She understood that he’d fallen out with her mother, but why did he hate her – Helen Beck – so much? What had she ever done to him? Her very existence, it seemed, was enough to send him into a rage.
Two minutes passed, and then another two. Helen kept glancing at her watch, aware of how slowly the hands were moving. Was it safe to go yet? She decided to venture back up and take her chances. She had just jumped off the barrel when she heard a noise from above. She stood very still, straining her ears. Voices. Yes, there were definitely voices. And then, horror of horrors, she heard the door at the top of the steps open.
‘Down here,’ Joe Quinn said.
‘What’s wrong with the bar, then?’
‘You want to do business or not?’ This was followed by a hissing sound. ‘For fuck’s sake, can’t he ever turn this bleedin’ light off?’
For a second Helen was paralysed. Unless she moved quickly she was going to be caught. How was she going to explain why she was lurking in the cellar? And what would Joe do when he found her? Panic finally propelled her into action. She scurried over to the rear of the room, where the empty barrels were stacked up awaiting collection. Crouching down, she wedged herself between the barrels and the wall.
She was only just in time. Seconds later, peering out, she saw two pairs of feet descending the steps. Joe’s black boots came first, followed by a pair of smart brown brogues.
‘Nice place you got here, mate.’
Helen didn’t recognise the other voice. She was holding her breath, her arms wrapped around her knees, her heart thumping wildly in her chest.
Joe gave a grunt. ‘You got a problem, son? ’Cause if you have…’
There was a low laugh. ‘No, mate. Don’t sweat. I get it. Just saying, that’s all.’
Helen kept her head down as the two men walked to the centre of the cellar. It was dim in the corner and she prayed they wouldn’t see her. Please God. Please God. She couldn’t have made herself any smaller if she’d tried, but in her mind she was the size of an elephant.
‘How much we talkin’, then?’ Joe said.
‘Five, and that’s a bloody good deal.’
‘You reckon?’
‘You’ll make ten times that out on the street and you know it. It’s good stuff, Joe. It’s none of your shit.’
There was a brief silence, followed by the sound of a match being struck. Helen could smell the burnt match and then the drifting cigarette smoke. She felt sick to her stomach. She shifted slightly, careful not to make any noise. Her trembling shoulders were beginning to ache from the hunched position she’d assumed. When would they go? She didn’t want to hear any of this, didn’t want to listen. If only she’d never come down here. If only she’d stayed outside, safe and free.
Joe’s voice again. ‘When are we talking about?’
‘Thursday. Cash on delivery. I can bring it here or you can choose a place.’
‘Not here.’
‘Like I said, it’s up to you.’
Joe began to pace around the cellar, striding from one side to the other. His boots creaked as he walked. ‘Where’s it coming from, then?’
‘Straight from sunny Morocco. Top quality, no messing. You’ll shift it in no time.’
‘Morocco,’ Joe grunted. ‘I don’t trust those bloody bastards. They could be palming off any old crap on you.’ He changed direction again. Helen could hear his footsteps getting closer. She shut her eyes tight. If she couldn’t see him, then he couldn’t see her.
‘I’m telling you, it’s damn good stuff.’
Now Joe was only a foot away. If he looked down, if he lowered his gaze just a fraction… She could sense him looming over her and instinctively she shrank back. It was then that disaster struck. Although the movement was a small one, her body make contact with the edge of one of the empty barrels. There was a thin scraping noise as the metal shifted against the tiles. Her heart instantly jumped into her mouth.
‘Who’s there?’ Joe called out roughly. ‘Who the fuck’s there?’
Helen tried to scrabble backwards, but the wall was blocking her escape.
Joe lunged forward, leaned over, grabbed the top of her arm and hauled her out. ‘You!’ he said, almost spitting in her face. She struggled to get free, but his hold was too tight. Terror streamed through her blood as he grabbed her other arm too and began to shake her.
‘What’s your game, girl?’ he roared. ‘What you playin’ at? What you fuckin’ playin’ at?’
Helen couldn’t have answered even if she’d wanted to. Her jaw had gone rigid with fear, her teeth clamped together so hard she thought they might break. The rest of her body was as limp as a rag doll. There was no fight left in her at all; she was helpless and he knew it.
Joe’s grasp tightened as he shook her ever harder. He was shouting now, yelling at the top of his voice. ‘Tell me, you scheming little cow! Who sent you to spy on me? Who was it?’
‘Hey, take it easy, Joe,’ the other man said. ‘She’s just a kid.’
Joe’s lips were twisted in a snarl, his brea
th coming in short, fast pants. ‘Keep out of it! This is none of your damn business.’
Helen looked pleadingly at the man, hoping he might intervene, but instead he took a step back. Whatever his feelings on the matter, he clearly wasn’t going to cross Joe Quinn. She had time for only the most fleeting of impressions – longish brown hair, small mouth, pointy chin – before Joe started in on her again. Helen was convinced she was going to die, right now, right here in the cellar, when suddenly another voice rang out.
‘What the hell’s going on down there!’
As Tommy jogged down the steps, Joe abruptly let go of Helen’s arms. Her legs instantly gave way and she crumpled to the floor. Without the will or the strength to try and stand, she stayed on the ground, her face on her knees, her eyes brimming with tears. She gulped in air, her chest still heaving. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t going to let the bastard make her cry.
Tommy knelt down, putting an arm around her. ‘Mouse? Mouse, are you okay?’ He looked up at his father. ‘What the fuck have you done to her?’
‘What have I done to her? You’re asking the wrong bloody question, son. She’s the one who’s been sneaking around. Spying on me. Hiding right here in the cellar, listening to every bleedin’ word.’
‘I’m out of here,’ the stranger said, heading for the steps.
‘We’ve still got business,’ Joe growled.
‘Later.’
As soon as the man had gone, Tommy glared at Joe. ‘What’s wrong with you? Jesus, don’t bother answering that. You never did pick on anyone your own size.’ He ran a hand gently over the top of Helen’s head. ‘You okay, love? You hurt?’
Joe growled. ‘There ain’t nothin’ wrong with her. I barely touched the kid.’
Tommy carefully helped Helen to her feet, placing one arm protectively around her shoulders.
‘But she’s a wrong ’un,’ Joe continued, ‘and you know it. This is what happens when you bring a brat like her into your house. She’s got bad blood. What do you expect? Her mother was a whore and her father was a bleedin’ copper.’
Tommy stiffened. ‘Don’t talk about Lynsey like that.’
‘Why not? It’s the fuckin’ truth.’
Helen stared at Joe Quinn, her eyes blazing with hate. She knew what whores were. They were the girls who worked Albert Street, selling their bodies. Sometimes they’d come into the pub of an evening in their short skirts and low-cut tops, their faces empty, their mouths an angry slash of scarlet.
‘Don’t listen to him,’ Tommy said. ‘He’s a goddamn liar. He ain’t got a clue what he’s talking about.’
Joe barked out a laugh. ‘And her old man weren’t even straight filth. That piece of shit were as bent as they come.’
‘That’s enough!’ Tommy said. ‘Shut your bloody mouth!’
But Joe Quinn wouldn’t be told. He took a few steps towards Helen, baring his teeth. His voice was a menacing hiss. ‘That’s where you come from, love – a bent copper and a dirty whore!’
Helen’s stomach was turning over again. It wasn’t true, none of it was. How could he say these things? Her mother had been beautiful; her father had been a hero. She felt the tears pricking her eyes again. Quickly, before anyone had the chance to grab her, she ducked free of Tommy’s arm and made a dash for it.
‘Mouse!’ Tommy called out.
But she didn’t stop, not even for a second. She sprinted up the stone steps and along the passage, and launched herself at the back door. Yanking it open, she stumbled outside. And then, as fast as her legs would carry her, she ran and ran and ran…
12
Helen kept on running for another five minutes until she passed between the black wrought-iron gates of Kellston cemetery. Even then she only slowed to a jog until she was certain that no one was behind her. Her chest was starting to ache as she cut away from the main avenue, skirted around the chapel and stumbled into the older, wilder part of the cemetery. Here, where the tall, wide-branched trees formed a canopy, she advanced into shadow and finally slowed to a walk.
The long grass brushed against her legs as she forged a path between the tilting gravestones. Some of the smaller ones were stacked up against each other, in fours and fives, neglected remembrances of people long gone, long forgotten. Further in, the grass grew shorter, with weeds and wild flowers forming a carpet beneath her feet. She lifted a hand to her face and found that it was wet. Quickly she brushed away the tears. Even in this place, where only the dead could see her, she refused to cry.
‘I hate you, Joe Quinn,’ she muttered. ‘Hate you, hate you, hate you.’
She knew that it was wrong to feel this way, but how could she help it? Every part of the man was bad, every bone in his body, every greasy hair on his head. She scowled. What kind of father called his own daughter a whore? It went against everything that was natural. She had sat through enough church sermons on the subject of turning the other cheek, of being the better person, but she still couldn’t find it in her heart to forgive him.
Eventually she emerged into a clearing flooded by sunlight. In the centre was a large white stone lion set up on a plinth. It was not the first time she had come across him, but the sight still made her eyes widen. He was the very image of Aslan from The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. She reached up to run her palm across his paw, the stone worn smooth by years of touching.
‘Hi there,’ she said.
Aslan had come back from the dead to fight against evil. She wished that he could rise again and sort out Joe Quinn. If there had been a magic wardrobe she could go through in her bedroom at the Fox, she’d have run straight into Narnia without a second thought. She leaned against the memorial, letting the sun warm her body. If only she was still living in Farleigh Wood. If only Gran wasn’t sick. She wanted to go home, to feel safe again, to wake up in the mornings without that heavy ball of dread in her stomach. She gave the lion one last look before turning away and retracing her steps.
Once she’d reached the main avenue again, she glanced warily towards the gates. There were three cars parked there, but none of them was Tommy’s. She thought that he might have come to look for her. A jogger, a middle-aged man in a blue tracksuit, thudded past, breathing heavily. An elderly woman hobbled across the grass clutching a bunch of flowers. Helen kept on walking until she came to a curving path that led off to the left. She followed the path until she came to its end. Here, not far from the wall, was the pink granite headstone with fine gold lettering. Irene Elizabeth Quinn. Beloved wife and mother. Born 29th May 1912. Died 10th January 1957. Rest in peace.
Helen sat down by the side of the grave, pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around her legs. There was no mention of her own mum, but this was where they had scattered her ashes. It had been Moira’s idea to bring her remains here, to reunite mother and daughter.
They hadn’t told another soul, especially not Joe Quinn. It was a secret only the three of them shared.
Thinking back to the May afternoon, Helen remembered how the sun had been shining that day too. A blue sky, a thin breeze rustling through the yew trees. First of all Tommy had made sure that no one else was around. You were supposed to ask permission before placing ashes in a grave. When he was sure they were alone, he’d crouched down, swept away the white marble chips and dug into the earth with a small metal trowel. Moira had said a prayer and then they had taken it in turns to empty the urn into the hole. The ashes had been a pasty kind of white, the feeling of them grainy as they slipped through her fingers.
Helen still found it hard to connect her mum to those ashes, to fully accept that she was gone for ever. Or perhaps not for ever if there truly was life after death. But what did that mean? She screwed up her eyes as she peered into the sky. Was that where heaven was? Up high above the clouds and the sun? And if it was, then why hadn’t those astronauts noticed it when they’d gone to the moon? She felt a sudden spurt of resentment at her mother’s abandonment. It wasn’t fair that she’d been left here alone to co
pe with the likes of Joe Quinn.
Helen slowly rubbed at her arms, still sore from where she’d been grabbed. Already the skin was turning brown and yellow as the bruises started to emerge. She was studying the damage when a voice behind her made her start.
‘Mouse?’
She whirled around to see the tall figure of Frank Meyer looming over her. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for you.’
‘What for?’
‘Because I was worried. We all are. Moira said you might be here. She’d have come herself but she reckoned you might go to her flat, so she’s hanging on there instead.’
‘I’m not coming back,’ Helen said defiantly, wrapping her arms tightly around her knees again. ‘You can’t make me. I’m not ever coming back.’
Frank lifted both his hands, showing her his palms. ‘Hey, I’m not here to make you do anything you don’t want to.’ He lowered himself on to the grass a few feet away from her and stretched out his long legs. ‘Look, what Joe did was bang out of order. It’ll never happen again. Tommy will make sure of that.’
‘Where is he, then?’
‘Driving around, seeing if he can spot you on the streets.’
Helen stared at him for a moment and then lowered her gaze. She didn’t know Frank Meyer that well, but there was something trustworthy about him. Unlike most of the men who came to the Fox, he was the sort who didn’t need to talk loudly or show off to make his presence felt. And he didn’t work for Joe Quinn, which was another plus. The only business Frank did was with Tommy.
‘So, you got plans, then?’
Helen looked up again. ‘What?’
‘For where you’re going to go next.’
She gave a small shrug. ‘Might have.’
‘Well, it’s a big old world out there. I guess you can go just about anywhere you want.’
In truth, Helen hadn’t thought much beyond the never-going-back bit. She could always get on a bus to Farleigh Wood. Would Janet really turn her away when she found out what had happened, when she showed her the bruises on her arms? Maybe not, but that didn’t mean that she’d be welcome, either. Her aunt had always been distant with her, tolerant but never loving.