All Through the Night

by M. P. Wright

  Benny had me confused.

  “Same place we goin’ now.” Benny smiled back at me and winked.

  “You’re sending ’em after us?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “Sure I am . . . Listen, son, befo’ you explode, there’s method in my madness, just you wait an’ see.”

  “Where we goin’, Benny?”

  “Little place called Priddy, ’bout sixty miles from here. I got an old war buddy, name o’ Laszlo Dolan, we go back a long way. Served with him in Korea. Tough bastard too. The boys in our regiment used to call him Lazarus on account that no matter what shit he ended up in, he always came outta it without a scratch. Me and Lazarus, I tell you, we seen our fair share o’ death out there, enough to get me tinkin’ that the only way I would be going home was in a body bag or, worse still, I’d be buried out there in the cold ground. But Dolan, he didn’t have no truck with death: bullets whizzed past him, an’ fear, well, it seemed never to enter into him. I soon got to believin’ what the other guys did, that he was just like his biblical namesake: he was a man who, if fancy took him, could rise up from the dead.”

  “An’ this Dolan knows what kinda trouble I’m in?”

  “Damn, Joseph, Lazarus known trouble all his life. I told him we was probably drivin’ outta one shitstorm into another and that I didn’t like bringin’ trouble to his gate door. Far as Lazarus sees it, he feels he owes me. Once I called that favour in from him earlier, the die was cast, in his eyes. It don’t matter none to him if the fight’s personal or not. It’s a simple matter o’ honour and integrity to Dolan. I tell ya, God broke the mould when he done made Lazarus.”

  “What does Dolan owe you, Benny?” The big man cleared his throat then shuffled irritably in his driving seat.

  “That don’t matter none. All that matters is we get that child and you outta harm’s way.”

  “And you’d do that fo’ a stranger like me? Shit, this ain’t your fight, man.”

  “No, no it ain’t . . . But from the moment you two walked into my home, you made it my fight. Like I gone told you yesterday, ain’t nobody gonna hurt my family without me havin’ someting to say ’bout it. Whoever gone an’ beat up on Loretta is comin’ for you and that child. They ain’t settin’ foot in my world, turnin’ it upside down and tinkin’ they gonna walk away from it scot free. Man messes wid my kin, son, he gonna find out soon enough that fuckin’ around wid me an’ those I care ’bout ain’t a wise move. From what you told me, it sounds like you got men bringing a war to you, boy; I’m just levelling up the battlefield befo’ they git to us, that’s all. Now, tell me ’bout those two bastard coppers who set ’bout my Loretta.”

  “Well, I only know o’ one o’ them that would be capable o’ doing harm to a woman, like they did to Loretta. A young detective constable called Beaumont. He’s got himself a mean streak as wide as the stripe on a raccoon’s tail. Now, his boss’s name is Fletcher, a white, military type. I had a run-in with both of ’em last year. Fletcher seems like an OK fella. He’s old school, a bit by-the-book; he ain’t the type to go knockin’ a woman ’bout or to give the orders for somebody else to do it, I’m pretty certain of it. We’re lookin’ for an American. Loretta told Cutpurse Pru that the other fellow that beat up on her had a Yankee accent and that he was real mean-lookin’. I reckon his name might be Paxton. Doc Fowler befo’ he died said that the man who’d shot him’s name was Paxton: he called him the devil. Now, I never did see his face, let alone hear him speak. Whether he was an American I couldn’t tell you, but one ting’s fo’ sure . . . I ain’t never heard o’ no Yank hangin’ ’bout in St Pauls befo’.”

  “Well whoever this Paxton or Johnny-Joe is, fo’ some reason he’s sure eager in getting his hands on little Trute back there. Why’d you tink some American dude would be so desperate to seek her out like he is?”

  “Hell if I know . . . The child’s a mystery. Shit, I’d be surprised if she’s spoken fifty words to me since I found her. I know as much ’bout Truth as you do. The woman who got me involved in all this mess, Ida Stephens, I know she’d a given her eye teeth to have got the kid back. That place Truth was stayin’, the Walter Wilkins orphanage, that joint made my flesh crawl, Benny. Place was like a morgue. I didn’t hear the voice o’ one damn child the whole time I was there. There was a whole cesspool o’ badness in there, I could feel it. There was no way I was sendin’ that child back there, no way.”

  I rubbed at the top of my head with the flat of my hand, my frustration at not being able to fathom what was going on all too evident. Nevertheless, the big man kept pushing with his questions.

  “None o’ it makes a bit o’ sense, Joseph. What’s that kid have that’s so damn special to that broad Stephens and the Yank? Why would this Paxton tink nuttin’ o’ beatin’ Loretta ’bout to find the child’s whereabouts, an’ that Dr Fowler be crazy enough to t’row himself outta the back o’ your car to keep the pair of ’em from findin’ her?”

  “Beats me, Benny. What I do know is befo’ Fowler killed himself he told me that there’d be some real cruel people wanted what he had hidden, that I’d understand once I saw what he’d been keepin’ stashed away. He warned me that there’d be more men like Paxton lookin’ to find what turned out to be that little girl there.” I looked over my shoulder at our young companion. She was fast asleep.

  We continued to drive along minor roads until we reached a signpost for a place called Wheddon Cross; from there on we started on our bleak journey across Exmoor. The wind was still howling outside and heavy rain continued to pelt out of the sky, making it difficult for Benny to see where he was going. He pulled up at a fork in the road and hung a left onto a thin dirt track that led back out on to a more established stretch of highway. Around us it was pitch-black and the headlights of the Land Rover struggled through the deluge to pick out the tarmac road in front of us. Benny dropped into second gear and slowed the car right down as a torrent of water hit the windscreen. The noise of the rain as it hit the roof was deafening. Benny braked suddenly then looked across to me and laughed.

  “At the rate we’re goin’ this fuckin’ storm is gonna kill us befo’ any other son o’ a bitch gets a chance to do us any harm. You climb over into the back, hook your arm round Trute. From here on, this toll road is full o’ potholes. It’s gonna get a bit hairy, best you keep an eye on her, don’t see no reason fo’ the child to be wakin’ up alone back there and gettin’ scared.”

  It was a real squeeze, but I finally managed to haul myself into the back of the Land Rover and settle next to Truth. Benny looked back at the two of us and smiled to himself as the little girl tossed and turned for a moment, then kicked her legs out across my lap. I covered her back up with the woollen blanket, and as I did the coldness of the sixpence attached to the leather cord tied around Truth’s ankle grazed against my wrist. I looked out of the window into the black void around us and shivered as I remembered what Momma Cecile had said to me earlier: “If you afraid o’ the dark, the dark it’ll know it.”

  Benny called over to me, breaking the spell of the old traituer’s foretelling words.

  “You ready to rock ’n’ roll back there, brother?”

  “Yeah, I’m ready.”

  “Good, you try an’ git yo’self some shut-eye with the pickney. Next time I stop this here jeep we’ll be at the Hunters Lodge inn. If we gotta face ourselves some hostility in the next day or so, there ain’t no better place than Lazarus’s lodge fo’ us to be standin’ our ground in.”

  Benny stretched in his seat then took off the handbrake and put his foot slowly down onto the accelerator as we drove off into the dead of night. I remember closing my eyes and my head rocking from side to side as the Land Rover drove over divots and holes in the road. I felt the comforting warmth of Truth’s body against my own as the memory of my daughter Amelia crept into my unconscious. The whisper of her gentle voice calling me to sleep was never more welcome nor more heartbreaking.

  17

  I
woke with a jolt to the sound of the car’s handbrake being pulled on and heavy rainfall still ringing in my ears. I yawned then looked across at Truth, who was still fast asleep next to me. Rubbing at my eyes with the tips of my fingers, I sat myself up and stretched my arms out at the side of me. The faint interior light of the Land Rover had been switched on and was illuminating Benny, who was staring at the two of us. He was leant across the back of his seat, resting his chin in the palm of his huge hand with a grin on his face and mischief in his eyes.

  “’Bout time you raised ya head. You pair o’ sleepin’ beauties sure missed one helluva storm. Wind damn near blew us offa the road at one point.”

  “We here, Benny?” I broke out yawning again as I asked my question.

  “Well, I ain’t stopped for no piss break. Course we here, fool.” Benny shook his head to himself, opened up his door then turned back to me. “I’ll come round and get Trute, carry her in. You get your bags outta the back. Leave mine in there, Joseph.”

  I did as I was asked. We were parked up directly outside of the Hunters Lodge inn. A large single bulb lit up the peeling sign that hung outside of a dilapidated grey pebbledash building. Benny came round to the passenger side door, opened it up then wrapped the big blanket underneath Truth before hooking his arms under the child’s tiny body and lifting her off the back seat. Benny nudged the rear door to with the side of his hip. He looked back at me then motioned towards the pub with his head. “Come on, let’s git outta this damn rain.”

  I followed Benny onto a low porch that ran along the length of the front of the pub. Two large bay windows sat either side of a mahogany-veneer front door. I could see a series of candles flickering inside, shining meagrely through the Marmite-brown windows out into the darkness around us. I stood in front of Benny for a moment then turned the brass knob on the door and opened it for him to walk in with Truth. We stepped into a dimly lit saloon bar: the place was empty and stank of stale cigarette smoke and spilt beer. At our feet were bare boards and on the far wall a large, welcoming open fire burnt in the hearth. At the bar, veiled in the shadows, stood a large white guy, his bulky silhouette just visible, aided by the flame from the tapered wick of a low-burning candle that sat underneath the bottles of optics behind the dimpled brass-topped bar. The man drew himself out of the darkness and spoke, his voice deep and rich with a West Country accent.

  “So, you managed you get yourself across them moors did thee . . . Thought that storm out there mighta beat you, Benny.” The big man, ignoring me, walked out from behind the bar and stood in front of Benny, staring at him coldly, poker-faced. Benny, clutching a sleeping Truth at his chest, took a step forward and glowered back unblinkingly. The two men stood in silence, eyeing each other up suspiciously for a moment as if they were squaring for a fight. Benny finally broke the hushed air and spoke.

  “When did a bit o’ rain ever stop me from findin’ my way to this run-down rat-’ole o’ yours? How you doin’, Lazarus?” Benny winked at the hulking giant, who burst out laughing.

  “Benny Goodman . . . you old bastard, you. It’s good to see you, old son. That a dead body you lugging around with you there?”

  “Lazarus, this here’s Trute.” Benny pulled the blanket carefully down a little to reveal the child’s angelic sleeping face.

  “Jesus, Benny . . . I knew you said you were bringing guests, but I didn’t think one of ’em would still be needin’ her mother’s tit.”

  “Kid’s beat. You got somewhere I can lay her down? She may look like a cherub, but shit, she weighs in like a side o’ beef.”

  “Sure, Benny, bring her through the back. I got a couple of spare rooms upstairs. Beds are all made up.” The big man looked me up and down enquiringly then stared back to Benny and nodded his head towards me. Lazarus shot me a suspicious look. “Well, who’s this then?”

  “Sorry, Lazarus, this here’s a good friend o’ mine, Joseph Tremaine Ellington. Joseph, meet the landlord of the Hunters Lodge and my old buddy, Laszlo Dolan.”

  Lazarus took a couple of steps towards me and stuck out his sizable hand in greeting. I took hold of the man’s big paw: his grip was firm and powerful. He pumped at my arm, making it feel like it was about to be torn out of its socket.

  “Pleased to meet you, Joseph. Call me Lazarus, son. Here, let me take those bags from you. You just sit your arse down by the fire and get yourself warm. Benny and me, we’ll be back in a minute.”

  Lazarus took the bags from me. Benny followed him behind the bar with Truth and the three of them disappeared behind a curtain. I took off my coat, hung it over the back of a chair and went across to the snug and sat on a small wooden seat that was facing the open fire.

  I warmed my hands in front of the flames for a moment then sat back in my seat and listened to the rain beat against the glass of the small multi-paned windows. Despite having slept for over an hour, I still felt shattered. I wearily looked up at a large teak Napoleon-hat-shaped clock on the mantel: it was just after eleven thirty. I yawned and rubbed at my eyes again in an attempt to try and shake out the fatigue that was enveloping every part of me. I stared down into the hot embers and watched as white-hot pieces of wood crackled then spat themselves out of the flames onto the wood floor, their fiery glow dying at my feet, leaving black singe marks on the panelling.

  I closed my eyes and listened to the gentle ticking of the clock. In the background I could hear the muffled sounds of Lazarus and Benny laughing. Their merriment became louder as the two of them returned through the bar and came over to join me in the snug. Benny was carrying a wooden board laden with food in one hand and three plates in the other. He placed the food and plates down on a small circular table then carried the table over to where I was sitting.

  “Trute, she tucked up in a comfy little bed. You git the one next to hers. It’s kinda pokey, but shit, any port in a storm, hey brother?”

  I looked down at the mountain of food that Benny had brought over.

  “Lazarus thought we could do with some supper. Man, he sure likes to put on a fine spread for his guests, yes sir!”

  On the board were three ivory-handled butter knives, which were lined up neatly by a pile of two-inch-thick slices of bread, six sausage rolls, a pork pie and a half-round of cheese. Next to the cheese, slices of thick-cut ham had been fanned out on a pretty but chipped porcelain plate. Pickled onions, a large pot of mustard and a dish of butter finished off the hearty spread. From the bar, Lazarus called over to me.

  “Here, Joseph, come and choose your poison, son.”

  Lethargically I hauled myself out of my seat, walked over and found Lazarus standing in front of a row of seven wooden barrels racked up against the side wall. He held a dimpled-glass pint pot in his right hand and waved his other hand across the front of the barrels by way of an introduction.

  “We got four ales and three scrumpys: you take your pick, they’re all good.”

  “Scrumpy? What the hell’s scrumpy?”

  Benny laughed out loud at my ignorance.

  “It’s rough cider, son. It’s made o’ fermented apples, strong as a fucker it is too. Couple of pints o’ that stuff and you’ll be on your back and out for the count until sun-up. Have a hangover on you like somebody hittin’ the inside o’ your head with a jackhammer.”

  “Fermented apples? And you drink that stuff?”

  “Well, we don’t rub it on our pricks, you bloody idiot. Course we drink it! You fancy tryin’ a pint?”

  Somehow I wasn’t convinced by Lazarus’s home brew and pointed to one of the other barrels at the far end of the row. “You got any stout?”

  Lazarus broke out into a big smile and dropped the pint pot on the table next to the barrels. “Ah, we got ourselves a dark drinker, ’ave we? Here, come an’ get yourself one of these.”

  I followed the big man and leant against the bar and watched as he bent down to a low shelf and picked off a small bottle with a dark crimson label on its side. Lazarus blew off the dust from around the bot
tle’s neck then slammed it on to the brass-topped bar.

  “Here, try this: Courage Imperial Russian stout.” Lazarus shook his head to himself as he took a bottle opener from off a hook and uncapped the metal top from the bottle and began to pour it into a half-pint beer glass. “Christ, you turn your nose up at scrumpy, you want your head seeing to. You like stout? Well, this fucking stuff is donkey’s years old. It’s like black battery acid. It’ll put hairs on your chest and strip the lining outta your guts. You’re welcome to it. I’ve had a dozen bottles of the bloody stuff collecting dust at the back o’ here for over two years. Help yourself to it, cos no other bugger’s daft enough to drink it.” Lazarus laughed to himself again and went back to one of the scrumpy barrels, turned the brass tap at its base and began to pour the fermented apple drink into his pint pot. I lifted the half-pint glass to my lips and took a swig of the strong, aged stout: it tasted of brown sugar, chocolate and dark fruits. It was my kind of beer. I took another swig and waited for Lazarus to finish filling his glass, then raised my own to thank him.

  “Cheers.” I sank another mouthful of stout.

  “Cheers to you, son . . . So my mate Benny tells me that you an’ the little one upstairs are a pair o’ runaways with trouble on your tail, that right?”

  I leant my back against the bar and thought to myself for a moment before answering the big man’s question. “Well, that sure sounds ’bout right. Although what kinda trouble we’re in, I ain’t too sure of yet. All I know at the minute is that I’m indebted to Benny and now you for keepin’ us one step ahead of whoever wants to do that child and me harm.”

  “Well, Benny never was a man to walk away from a fight, especially when family or friends were involved. He says his niece has been hurt because o’ the trouble you have yourself mixed up in, says that the little girl and you are in some deep water. I know Benny; he wouldn’t have come seeking me out in a storm without a good reason. Benny, he can stand his own ground in a punch-up, I’ve seen him do it countless times. He must think that the people after your hide really mean business.”