Her Turn to Cry

by Chris Curran

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  They took her to the local cottage hospital along with the stationmaster who had dragged her away from Cora. He kept talking and talking. Patting her hand and telling her how he had guessed what that poor lady was about to do as he came out of his house to meet the train.

  ‘And you grabbed her. Such a brave little girl. But she was so much bigger. You never stood a chance. At the last minute she must have panicked, changed her mind. I thought you’d had it too. I knew there was nothing I could do for her, but I got hold of you.’

  Joycie let him talk. Then let a doctor examine her and a nurse clean her up. But she wasn’t really there. Her mind was still on the platform, replaying it over and over. Seeing Cora’s eyes. Hearing the train shriek and roar. Feeling the warm blood spattering her face.

  A uniformed policeman asked her some questions, and she heard her own voice saying her name and address and Cora’s name. Nodding when he asked if Mrs Sergeant seemed upset. Her own voice again: ‘Her husband has just died.’

  The doctor came and rescued her. Said she was in shock and needed to stay in overnight. When he put a blanket round her she realized she was shaking, although she didn’t feel cold. Didn’t feel anything.

  Lying in the dimly lit ward she began to think again. Cora had done it all for love of Sid. A strange, twisted love. And when he was dead she wanted to die, but planned to take Joycie with her. Blamed Joycie for his death and wanted to torment her by almost telling her where her mother was buried.

  Somehow she must have slept because the ward lights were on. A trolley rattling from bed to bed. Smells of sausages and baked beans and loud voices shouting, ‘Good morning.’

  Marcus. She had to get back to him. The nurse tried to stop her getting out of bed, but she demanded her clothes, knowing she needed to sound calm, but unable to stop the tears.

  Then the doctor was there. Sitting beside her and patting her hand. Why did they keep patting her hand? But he spoke gently. ‘I know you’re worried about your friend in hospital, but you won’t help him by making yourself ill.’ A vague memory of gabbling about Marcus last night. ‘I’m just off-duty so please let me check you over then drive you somewhere you can get a train. The local station will be closed.’

  ***

  On the way to London the businessmen, their bowlers on the racks, glanced very casually around their papers at her. Her dress was navy blue so the blood didn’t show, but the torn collar, plasters on her knees, and the missing clump of hair must have made her a startling sight on the morning commute.

  Finally London and another taxi. Hurry, hurry. Longing to get to the hospital and yet dreading it. She leapt out before they’d properly stopped. Then had to go back when the driver’s shout of ‘Oi!’ tore through the air. She paid him. Forcing herself to walk more steadily this time. To comb her fingers through her hair. She had to look respectable.

  In the entrance hall she stopped. And the world stopped too.

  Marcus’s parents sitting on a bench. Holding each other.

  She couldn’t move. Her legs were marble. And yet she was moving. Closer and closer. Somehow she was standing in front of them. Wanting and not wanting to ask.

  His father’s eyes focused on her and he seemed to speak, but she could only hear the word, Marcus.

  Then his mother turned to her and she was smiling and Mr Blake was smiling too. Mrs Blake said, ‘He’s awake. And he’s been asking for you.’

  ***

  That first day she was only allowed to sit with Marcus for a few minutes. He was still bandaged and bruised and she didn’t dare to kiss his poor sore lips. He mumbled, ‘I love you,’ before closing his eyes and lying as still as before. She called a nurse who smiled and said, ‘He’ll be groggy for a while, but much better tomorrow.’

  When she arrived next morning Inspector Flynn was standing in the foyer. His face was grim and her heart did a sickening little flip. ‘I’m glad to say Mr Blake was well enough to give us a statement,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately he says he didn’t see his assailants so it looks like they may get away with it.’ He looked hard at her. ‘You’ll be happy to know that we won’t be bringing any charges about the drugs. Insufficient evidence there too, apparently.’ Bill had made good on his promise.

  Inspector Flynn held up a newspaper. ‘I see you’ve been in the wars as well.’

  There was a picture of Eridge station with the stationmaster standing, chest thrust out, at the edge of the platform. The story was a shortened version of the one he’d told over and over that night. He was quoted as saying: ‘I just thought she was a very brave girl. Had no idea she was famous.’

  Inspector Flynn gestured to one of the benches. Joycie looked up at the clock, desperate to get in to see Marcus. Only two visitors were allowed at a time and his parents had said they would stay for just half an hour, generously allowing her the final hour. They were due out soon.

  ‘The woman who went under the train, Mrs Cora Sergeant, was the wife of Sid Sergeant,’ the inspector was saying. ‘If I’m not mistaken he was the man you mentioned in your statement. And he was killed the day before. Hit and run with no witnesses.’

  She watched people coming through the doors to the wards, but forced herself to listen to him. ‘Coincidences do happen, of course, and these accidents will be dealt with by the local police. Unless there’s something you want to add to the statement you gave me.’

  All she could think of was Marcus. And Sid and Cora were dead so was there any point in telling him? But … She swallowed. ‘What if I knew for certain that my mum had been murdered and I had some idea where she was buried?’

  He let out a sound that was half sigh, half laugh. ‘Do you?’

  ‘It’s somewhere in East Sussex. A wood about an hour’s drive from Hastings.’

  ‘And the person who told you this could pin it down a bit more, could they?’

  ‘She’s dead too.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid we’d need more than that to start digging up whole swathes of Sussex. But I want you to know I didn’t ignore your statement.’ He was looking at her with those very dark eyes and his kind smile was back. ‘There’s nothing in our files about your mother, so it seems she was never reported missing, but we do have quite a bit on Charles Todd.’

  ‘My father, yes, he died in prison.’ It was pointless.

  ‘And you know why he was there?’ She nodded unable to speak. His voice became gentle. ‘You see, that does explain why she would want to leave him.’

  ***

  In his room, Marcus was sitting up and when he smiled he looked almost himself again, apart from a missing front tooth. It made Joycie see the schoolboy he must have been and just looking at him brought tears to her eyes. But everything seemed to do that just now.

  He reached for her, but she hesitated to take his hand because the knuckles were red and swollen.

  ‘It’s all right. My head hurts so much I don’t feel anything elsewhere.’

  For a long time they just sat smiling at each other. Joycie loving the feel of his warm skin against hers.

  Finally, he said, ‘So what the hell happened with Cora?’

  She slowly explained it all. ‘I’m sure she glossed over some of the things she did. I wouldn’t be surprised if she killed Pauline Shaw herself. Or made sure the backstreet butcher was someone who could be relied on to make a mess of it.’

  ‘So what now?’

  ‘The police won’t help so it was all a waste of time and I got you hurt for nothing.’ She scrubbed at her face.

  Marcus squeezed her hand. ‘Now stop that. It wasn’t a waste. You found out what you needed to know. Your mum is dead, but your dad didn’t do it.’ They sat in silence again until his grip on her hand loosened and his eyes fluttered closed. He was still asleep when the nurse came to tell Joycie she had to leave.

  It was a lovely afternoon and she took the bus home – no one ever recognized her on a bus. On the way she thought about Marcus’s question, what now?
There were some things she could do. She’d visit Hastings and talk to the dead girl’s family and her boyfriend’s too. They needed to know she hadn’t killed herself and he had nothing to do with her death. And she must talk to Mrs Shaw.

  When she got in she fed and walked Fatty and shoved a jacket potato in the oven to bake. Then poured a drink and, with Fatty’s head on her knee, she phoned Mrs Shaw. As soon as she said who it was Mrs Shaw started talking fast.

  ‘Oh Joyce, I read about everything that’s been happening to you and I’m so glad you’re all right. What about Marcus? How’s he?’

  ‘Much better, thank you. They say he’s making a remarkable recovery. But Mrs Shaw …’

  ‘I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I never liked Cora or Sid much.’ She took a noisy breath and Joycie spoke quickly before she could carry on.

  ‘Cora asked to meet me and she told me things, Mrs Shaw. I’d like to come and see you to talk about what she said.’

  A long pause then that rush of words again, punctuated by tiny gasping breaths. ‘Did she tell you something about your mum?’

  ‘Yes, but …’

  ‘Is she dead? I always thought she might be.’

  ‘Well you were right, but I need to talk to you about Pauline. So would it be OK if I visited soon?’

  Silence. Only the rapid breaths showing she was still there. ‘I’m not sure, Joyce. I’d love to see you, of course, but …’ Those panicky breaths again. Joycie waited, didn’t know what to say.

  She heard a cough and then Mrs Shaw’s voice, slower now. ‘Does it help? Knowing your mum’s dead, I mean?’

  ‘Yes, I think it does.’

  ‘Well for me it wouldn’t.’ The voice was firm and clear. ‘I’d rather imagine my Pauline alive and happy somewhere.’

  After that there was nothing more to say.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  It was only a few days before Marcus was so much better that they were talking about when he could come home. She hated leaving the hospital without him and had got into the habit of taking long, meandering walks after visiting. The newspapers had lost interest now he was recovering and the drugs angle had disappeared so there was no one outside to bother her. As she walked the occasional passer-by looked hard at her or nudged a friend, but she’d only been asked for an autograph once and she found she wasn’t so worried about being recognized now anyway.

  It was a beautiful day; the Thames glittering silver in the sunshine as she crossed Westminster Bridge. After half an hour or so she reached Soho Square and went into the little park to sit on a bench in the sunshine. There was a wedding at the French church in one corner of the square and the bride’s white dress fluttered in the breeze as she kissed her new husband amidst a swirl of bright paper confetti.

  Joycie touched her own lips, remembering the feel of Marcus’s warm mouth on hers, and closed her eyes to let the sun play on her face as she listened to the chime of the church bells.

  It wasn’t until the bells fell silent that she heard the click of heels approaching.

  Her eyes flew open as the bench creaked and Bill lowered himself onto the other end. His face was the same shiny mask as always. She slowed her breathing to still the thump, thump of her heart, but couldn’t trust herself to speak.

  ‘Don’t worry, love,’ he said staring straight ahead. ‘I won’t be bothering you again. I just wanted to say I’m glad your fella’s on the mend and the rest of it has turned out all right for you.’

  Although she wanted nothing more than to tell him to go away she had to ask. ‘But why did you …?’

  He touched her knee before she could say any more and put his finger to his lips. ‘Shh.’ A waft of his familiar aftershave as he leaned closer; a smell she knew she would never forget. ‘Wise monkeys, eh,’ he said. ‘Let’s just say you opened my eyes to a few things. Made me think.’

  She couldn’t avoid a flinch as he reached into his jacket, but breathed again when he pulled out a large white envelope.

  ‘I’ve already got your autograph, but would you mind signing this too.’

  For a moment she expected some kind of document in which she would have to promise her silence, but it was a glossy photo he took from the envelope.

  It was of her – one she’d always liked. She stared at it, wondering what this was all about. But when she looked up at him his face creased into what looked like a real smile and the pale eyes glinted in the sunshine.

  ‘It’s for my girl, my daughter. She’s fourteen next week, and you’re her idol.’

  He was holding out a pen and Joycie took it, feeling as if she was in some kind of dream. The thought that he had a daughter, a family, was incredible, and a vision of a young girl’s bedroom wall covered with pictures of pop stars and models filled her head. She found herself parroting the words she always used when signing photos. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Christina, but she likes to be called Tina.’ His voice was always soft, but this time there was a gentle quality to it she’d never heard before.

  But he was a killer and the gentleness had nothing to do with her, and when she gave the picture back to him she kept her voice cold. ‘And you’ll leave us alone now?’

  He put the picture carefully back into the envelope and the envelope into his jacket with a gentle pat. Then he stood looking down on her. ‘Yes, love, that’s all over now. Thanks for the autograph.’ And he turned on his heel and was gone.

  She should have been relieved, but her legs were shaking as she left the park, and she hailed a taxi, needing to get home as quickly as she could. In the house Fatty greeted her with delirious waggings and lickings. They had never been more welcome.

  The knock on the front door had Fatty rushing past her, alert as always these days to the hope that it would be Marcus arriving home again. Joycie peeped through the window, still shaky from the meeting with Bill.

  But it was Dennis on the step. And when she opened the door he gave her a huge smile.

  ‘How lovely to see you,’ she said. ‘You look good.’ It was true. His skin had lost that grey tinge and his eyes were clear.

  He raised his brows when she offered him a drink. ‘I’ll have a cup of Earl Grey if you’ve got it. I’m off the booze and off the boards too. Kay and I are planning to stay in Cornwall and open a little tea shop.’

  They took their mugs into the garden. Fatty followed, wagging her whole body when Dennis patted her, and lying at his feet with one of her gusty sighs.

  Joycie told him what Cora had said to her. ‘So it was her not Sid who killed my mum, although he was just as much to blame.’ When he nodded, but didn’t speak she said, ‘Why did you disappear, Dennis? Did someone threaten you?’

  He put down his cup. ‘I’m such a coward. There was a man hanging about who I recognized from one of the big London gangs and I knew it must be to do with the questions you were asking.’ He rubbed his hand over his sweet, battered face.

  ‘That was Bill,’ she said. ‘He followed me to Clacton. I’m so sorry, I was too naïve to know what risks I was taking with other people’s lives.’

  ‘You know about Bill?’ Dennis stared at her with wide eyes.

  She laughed. ‘Oh yes, we’ve had a few chats over the last couple of months.’

  He grabbed both her hands and pulled her round to face him, speaking fiercely. ‘It’s not funny, Joycie, he’s dangerous.’

  ‘I know that, but I spoke to him today and he tells me it’s all over.’ Dennis’s fingers tightened on her wrists. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Cora told me he was the one who killed Sid and he more or less admitted it to me today. Said I’d made him think.’ He dropped her hands and turned away breathing heavily.

  When he didn’t speak she said, ‘Are you all right?’

  His voice was muffled. ‘Did he say why he did it? Killed Sid, I mean.’

  ‘Not exactly, but he mentioned his daughter so I think it was to do with what I told him about Sid attacking me and other young girls.’
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  Dennis stayed turned away, saying nothing, his shoulder blades standing out sharp as he breathed.

  ‘Dennis, what is it?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ll be all right in a minute.’

  She grabbed his shoulder. ‘Look at me, Dennis. And tell me. I have to know.’

  His eyes glistened with tears, and he took her hand and kissed it. ‘You’re wonderful, darling. Charlie would be so proud of you.’

  She waited until he dropped her hand and sat looking down the garden rocking gently as he spoke.

  ‘Bill was in Wandsworth Prison at the same time Charlie was on remand there. So when the order came through from Ernie Georgiou I was told it was Bill who actually did it.’

  She could only gasp it out. ‘Bill killed my dad?’

  ‘That’s what I heard.’

  ‘Tommy Green said Bill had come out of retirement because of me. If he killed Dad then maybe he was scared I’d find out and cause him trouble.’ She was clenching her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms. ‘Oh God, Dennis, I wish I could do more than make trouble for him. A whole lot more.’

  ‘No you don’t, sweetheart.’ He rubbed her knee. ‘You need to let it go and concentrate on making a happy life for yourself. I know that’s what Charlie would tell you and what your mum would want.’

  When she put her hand over his he pulled her into a hug. He was thin and felt fragile compared to Marcus, but it was good to rest her head on his warm shoulder and let the tears come.

  After a while he drew back, rubbed his own eyes and handed her a fresh smelling blue handkerchief. ‘Don’t know how you manage to stay so pretty after you’ve been crying,’ he said as she dabbed at her face. ‘I always look like a boiled beetroot.’

  She laughed and realized she felt better. The tears had helped to clear her thoughts. ‘As Bill followed me around and learned the same things I did he must have begun to see that Dad was innocent all along.’

  ‘And he would have been furious. These people have their own codes. They don’t hurt anyone unless they think they have to, or they know the person deserves it.’