All Through the Night

by M. P. Wright

  As expected, I stayed quiet. Beaumont let his arms fall at his side and walked across the room and stood in front of me. He held out his hand. I looked at it. An outstretched policeman’s hand normally holds handcuffs or a truncheon and rarely a welcome sense of equality to a black man. Beaumont let his hand hover in mid-air for a few more moments before awkwardly withdrawing it. He turned back to the two men behind him and began his formal introductions, pointing to each of them with the flat of his hand as he did so.

  “Joseph, these gentlemen with me are Mr Paxton and Mr Jardine.”

  Paxton nodded by way of a haughty acknowledgement. Jardine just stared back at me coldly. Both had the kind of grisly look about them that said they were as mean as a couple of hungry wolves. I let them keep on giving me the evil eye and thought now was as good a time as any to open my mouth. I was already sick of hearing Beaumont’s whiney, fawning voice spouting at me.

  “What is it you want, Beaumont?”

  “That’s a good question, Joseph . . . good question. Straight to the point, I like that. Truth is, I’ve got myself a little bit of a problem.”

  “That right? People got problems the length and breadth of this country. What yours gotta do with me?”

  Before Beaumont could answer me, Paxton snapped out a brutal retort.

  “For a quiet man you got a real smart mouth on you, nigger.”

  “It’s ’bout all I have got.”

  Paxton grunted under his breath and took a step forward toward me, his right fist clenched. I let my right arm drop to my side and slowly let it rest behind my back. Beaumont, feeling the aggression seeping out of the two men behind him, raised his hand in an attempt to placate their aggrieved dispositions.

  “Let’s keep this friendly, shall we, Joseph. I’ll come to the point. These men have a vested interest in some property you have acquired recently. They’ve come a long way to negotiate that property’s return to its rightful owner. I’m here to mediate the successful transaction of any business we may do this afternoon.”

  “What the hell you talkin’ ’bout, Beaumont?”

  “I’m talking about being the man who can improve your lot in life.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Hear me out.”

  “OK, get talkin’ then. But keep your jive to yo’self, try stickin’ to plain English. That way I won’t have to keep reachin’ for the dictionary every time some crap climbs outta your mout’.”

  I watched Jardine grin to himself at my remark. When he realised that I’d seen him drop his guard briefly, his face turned back to stone and he returned to eyeballing me. Beaumont rattled on with his dime-store spiel.

  “It’s like I said a moment ago. We know that you are in possession of a certain item that both Mr Paxton and Jardine here are very eager to retrieve. These men are United States lawmen. It goes without saying Bristol Constabulary also wishes to see the item mentioned returned to its rightful owner as swiftly as possible.”

  “And you’re speaking for the Bristol police, are you?”

  Beaumont shuffled on his feet, thrown a little by my question. “Yes . . . In a roundabout fashion, I am.”

  “Detective Inspector Fletcher sent you up here on this fool’s errand, has he?”

  “I don’t think it matters to you who sent me.”

  “I think it does to Ida Stephens. I think she’s the one paying your wages for this job you moonlightin’ on, not the police.”

  Beaumont, red-faced, was pushed aside by Paxton, who took a couple more steps towards me. I felt my body tense as Paxton pointed a thick finger in my face and spat out his words.

  “Look, boy. You are in way above your head here. It’s time you cleaned the wax outta those black ears of yours, listen to what the man here’s telling you. It’s time to give it up.”

  “That right? By give ‘it’ up, I assume your talkin’ ’bout Truth?”

  “It don’t need a name. You know I’m talking about the bastard that belongs to the Walter Wilkins.”

  “Oh, it’s the Walter Wilkins that wants her back so badly . . . So that’s why Ida Stephens is employin’ you and your friend back there. You’re boltin’ across half of Somerset with a double-dealing copper like Beaumont, just so you can get your hands on a runaway child, yeah? Someting stinks, and it ain’t Beaumont’s feet.”

  Paxton looked across at Beaumont. “I ain’t listening to any more of this nigger’s horseshit. Give him the envelope. Let’s get this over with.”

  Beaumont reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a white envelope and stuck it out in front of him. “If you have any idea of what’s good for you, you’ll take it.” Beaumont took a step forward towards me and shoved the envelope at my chest. “There’s eight hundred pounds in there. All you have to do is bring me the girl and that’ll be the end of it.”

  “The end of it, just like that? I take the money and just forget all this, do I?”

  “Yeah, it’s as simple as that, Joseph.” Beaumont flashed another one of his “cat got the cream” grins.

  “Simple? How’s it simple? What ’bout Doc Fowler? Who’s gonna be in the frame for what happened to him?”

  Jardine finally broke his own silence and barked at me. “Why’d you give a shit? Nobody’s gonna be weeping over some drunken, dead old nigger doctor. The finger ain’t gonna be pointing at you if you do the right thing here. Get wise, take the fucking money.”

  Beaumont made another desperate attempt to get me to take the envelope from him by prodding the thing limply at my chest again. Droplets of sweat were forming on his forehead and temples; his scared eyes, panicky, were darting from side to side. His voice crackled when he spoke to me.

  “Joseph, let’s be honest here.” The stale, unpleasant stench of his body odour hit me as he desperately reached out one more time towards me. “You really have gone and pissed off the wrong people. Do yourself a favour. Take the money and go and get the girl. You can walk away from this clean and eight hundred quid richer. You hear me?”

  I looked down at the thick envelope filled with cash, thinking for a moment, then slowly lifted my left arm and pushed it away from my chest with the palm of my hand. Beaumont blew out a jet of air from his mouth in fearful exasperation.

  “You can keep your blood money, Beaumont. Go back to the orphanage with the Yankee Doodle Dandy twins here and tell Ida that it’s gonna take a lot more than eight hundred pounds to buy either my conscience or my silence. Are you hearing me?”

  Beaumont didn’t get the chance to reply. Paxton pushed him out of the way and took up the reins. He’d already got his speech for me worked out.

  “Nigger, this is how it’s gonna play out.” His Southern drawl began gnawing out his words, his tone dipped in spite and malice. Paxton held out his arm and looked at his wristwatch. “It’s just after five thirty. I’m gonna give you five hours. That’s three hundred minutes you got to sit and think about how this is all gonna play out. Plenty of time for you to come to your stupid senses, I’d say. Beaumont here is going to leave the envelope on the bar. That’s gonna be our final offer. Take it or leave it. In the meantime, we’re gonna sit out front and back, and we’re gonna wait. Now, it ain’t any good you trying to call the police. We already cut your phone line. Shit, one of them boys out there, I think he went and cut nearly every damn phone line from here back to Bristol. Now, I know you ain’t on your own, I know you got another nigger with you and most likely whoever runs this old flop joint too. But it don’t make any difference. Think about it: you’re in the middle of nowhere here and there ain’t nowhere for you and that bastard to run to.”

  Paxton raised his voice as if preaching to an invisible audience. “There ain’t nowhere any of you can go. Give me any trouble and I got British police officers outside ready to keep the lid on all of this. You can rest assured that me and Jardine here, we’ll be happy to get on with the dirty work if you don’t agree to our terms.”

  Paxton took another step closer towards me. “And you r
eally need to be agreeing, boy. You got till ten thirty to give me what we want or we’ll come in and take it from you by force. I’ll leave you and your friends’ bodies out front of this shithole for the crows to pick over.”

  I stared back blankly at Paxton and said nothing.

  Beaumont leant forward, put the envelope on the bar and spoke close next to my ear. His voice quivered like a frightened child’s. “Ellington, he means it. If these men don’t get what they want there’s going to be a bloodbath here. Don’t be a bleedin’ fool, give him the girl.”

  As Beaumont stood back from me I caught sight of the terrified look on his face as the thin barrel of a L1A1 self-loading rifle was raised from behind my left shoulder and held up to the three men in front of me.

  “You gentleman quite finished?” Benny slowly moved out of the shadows from behind the back of the bar and stood at the open hatch for a moment before stepping out to stand next to me, the muzzle of the rifle now aimed squarely at Paxton’s face.

  Paxton stood his ground and called back over his shoulder to Jardine. “Shit, that’s all we need, some old cotton picker with a shooter.”

  Jardine laughed to himself then nodded at the rifle in Benny’s hands. “Boy, you need to mind how you’re going.Somebody gonna get hurt, you start pointing that thing about like it’s your flopper.” I watched as Benny altered his aim slightly so that the rifle was now pointing directly at Jardine. Benny squeezed on the grip, his finger resting gently on the trigger.

  “Boy? You callin’ me boy?” Benny took a step forward, making all three men retreat a couple of paces towards the door. “Well, I suppose it’s a step up from nigger.” Benny slowly brought his aim back towards Paxton’s head.

  Paxton didn’t flinch an inch. “Old man, you must have just heard what I just told your friend here.”

  “I didn’t hear nuttin’ but a lot o’ hot air comin’ outta your ugly-assed mout’.”

  “That ain’t a very friendly thing to be saying.”

  Benny moved a couple more steps out in front of me, the butt of the weapon tucked firmly into the crook of his huge shoulder, the rifle steady in his hands. He slowly raised his thumb, releasing the rifle’s safety catch, his aim still directed at Paxton. Next to the American, Beaumont was beginning to look pale, stinking the place out with his sweaty hide. Heavy beads of perspiration poured down from his balding pate and forehead into his eyes, which were glued on the barrel of the gun in front of him.

  “Well, I ain’t a very friendly man, especially when some backwater shit-kicker starts callin’ me boy.”

  Paxton forced a laugh through his gritted teeth, shaking his head slowly. He stared back at Benny, his expression poker-faced. “You are making a big mistake, old man, big mistake.”

  “Bin makin’ ’em all my life. I sure as hell don’t see no reason to stop now.”

  “Well, in five hours’ time you’re gonna be wishing you’d been a little less carefree with the way you shrugged off my threat.”

  Benny took another step forward and levelled the barrel of his rifle a few inches away from Paxton’s right eye. “See, that’s my problem. I ain’t quakin’ in my boots yet, cos all you bin doin’ since you walked through that gate door back there is threaten folk. Your talk’s as cheap as that honky pig’s aftershave.” Benny shifted his gaze briefly over towards Beaumont, who looked like he was about to pass out, then quickly shifted the muzzle of the rifle a little closer towards Paxton’s face so that the tip of the barrel was just touching his flickering eyelid. “Now, mister policeman, why don’t you take your stinky friend Beaumont and laughing boy there back out into the car park and start that waitin’ game o’ yours, cos if you hang ’bout here any longer, my trigger finger’s gonna start to git real jumpy.”

  Paxton took a step back away from the barrel of the rifle and stared at Benny, a look of pure hatred etched on his face. When the Yank finally spoke there was bloodlust in his voice. “I’ll be seeing you boys then.”

  Jardine took a step forward and grabbed the now terrified Beaumont by the back of his jacket collar, dragging him backwards towards the door, slinging the copper out in front of him. Paxton never took his eyes off the two of us as he slowly backed up across the floor of the pub. He reached the doorway of the alehouse then turned on his heels and walked out, leaving only his bigotry and the evil stench of sweat permeating the room.

  Benny stood still and calm, the rifle in his hands unwavering, watching as the three men walked back to join the others sat in the cars parked outside. I walked across to join him and stood at his side then looked down at my blood-drained, clammy right hand. Gripped for dear life in my palm was the taped butt of my Smith & Wesson .38 service revolver. Benny looked at me then down at the gun in my hand before flicking his own weapon’s safety catch back on. He slung the rifle across his shoulder and chuckled to himself before heading out back behind the bar, calling after me before he disappeared.

  “Was you tinkin’ o’ firin’ that pea-shooter at any time or was you just holdin’ on to it to keep your hands warm?”

  I turned around to answer him, but Benny was already gone.

  21

  I was in a daze as I walked back through the bar to head towards my room. I needed a moment to get my head together, to think straight about Truth and about what I had to do to protect her. The ten thirty deadline that Paxton had fixed loomed over my thoughts like a vulture hanging over a rotting corpse. It was Lazarus who broke my morbid, trance-like state by calling down to me from the top of the hall stairs. I found him stood on the top step, resting against the side of the banister, chewing on a bright-red apple. His right arm hung lazily at his side: in his hand he held a 9mm Beretta semi-automatic pistol. The bluing of the dark metal on the barrel glistened as it was caught by the thin rays of early evening sunlight that shone through the small window next to him.

  The clock on the wall behind Lazarus said it was just after a quarter to six. I climbed the twelve steps, stood next to him and glanced down at the gun resting against his thigh. Anxiety had crept into every fibre of my being; my heart felt like it was about to burst out of my chest, my guts fit to spew. I headed for the bedroom, stuck my head around the door and saw it was empty, then glanced back out along the landing, looking for Truth. I turned back to Lazarus.

  “Where is she, Lazarus, where’s Truth?”

  “Will you calm down, son, the child’s fine. Come with me.”

  I followed Lazarus along the short hallway into his bedroom and watched as he walked across the room towards a large walnut chest of drawers stood on top of a threadbare Persian rug. He took the corner of the antique dresser in his hand and pulled it across the wooden floorboards away from the wall to reveal a small hatch door.

  Lazarus knelt down and put the Beretta into the waistband of his trousers then looked over towards me, a big smile etched on his face. He jabbed at the secret trapdoor in the floor with his finger as I walked across the room to join him.

  “Priest’s hole. It goes into the cellar, then if you need to you can climb down into Hunter’s Hole and the caves. Take you out as far as the edges of Cheddar Gorge, it will. Come take a look.”

  Lazarus hooked two fingers through a brass-looped handle on the hatch door and lifted it up. Stale air drifted up out of the hole into the bedroom as I nervously peered down the steep stone steps into the small candle-lit underground room below us, realising as I did the horror of what I was staring down at.

  “Jesus Christ, Truth is down there?”

  “Yeah, course she is, it’s the safest damn place in the pub for her to be. Why, what’s the matter, did I do something wrong?”

  I rubbed at my mouth with the tips of my fingers, struggling to find the words to explain. “In the name of . . . Look, just stay here a minute, will you, I’ll go down there and get her.”

  Lazarus nodded back at me, a crestfallen look on his face. I dropped to my haunches then shuffled onto my backside, squeezed through the hatch opening and began to ma
ke my way down the slim limestone steps into the badly illuminated cellar.

  A half-dozen or more candles had been lit and placed in four oval cut-out recesses in the white alabaster-covered walls. I searched around in the half light and found Truth at the furthest end of the underground room, sat on an old red satin cushion between two large oak beer barrels. A large grey woollen blanket had been wrapped over her head and around her shoulders. I stood staring at her for a moment, trying to process in my own head what the poor child must have been going through for the past half-hour, stuck down in yet another hideaway dungeon, alone.

  I called out to her, “Hey there, how you doin’, little one?” but got no reply. I hunched my body down so as not to hit my head on the low ceiling and made my way across the damp cobbled floor over to where she was sat. Truth looked up at me blankly, her eyes wet with tears. Even in the poor light I could see that she was shaking underneath the blanket. I knelt down in front of her and reached out and took her tiny hand in my own. Her pale little fingers felt frozen in my palm. “I’m sorry, Truth. Lazarus, he didn’t know ’bout where you’d been stayin’ befo’. He didn’t know where Doc Fowler had hid you. He brought you down here thinkin’ you’d be safe. It’s not his fault, it’s mine. I should have explained to him. You sure are one brave little soldier, down here in the dark like this on your own.”

  “Have those men gone?”

  I nodded back at her in the low light. “Yes, they ain’t here no more.”

  “Are they coming back?” she asked softly.

  I shook my head and gently squeezed her fingers with my own. “You needn’t worry ’bout them comin’ back; they ain’t gonna hurt you.”

  Truth slowly nodded her head, thinking to herself, uncertain of the honesty of my words.

  “Theo told me those men always come back for the children, Joseph. They’re just like the smugglers we talked about down at the beach. Theo said that the children those men went away with went forever.”