All Through the Night

by M. P. Wright

  I stared back down at the ground and laughed to myself then looked back up at Mrs Pearce. “The kind where folk start off tellin’ me lies then keep on lyin’ and I’m plain stupid enough to keep on believin’ ’em . . . I need to find out why I’ve been lied to, Mrs P, then make tings right.”

  Mrs Pearce sighed deeply and smiled at me. “And what do you want me to do for you, apart from fetching you a fresh change of underwear and your razor?”

  “I need you to take care of Truth while I find out what all this madness is ’bout.”

  Mrs Pearce looked at me disbelievingly. “Truth . . . What kind of name is Truth for a young child?”

  “Dat’s just what I was tinkin’, woman. Trute! Crazy, dottish ting to call a pickney, ain’t it.”

  Mrs Pearce almost jumped out of her skin when she heard Vic bellowing behind her. She turned on her heels to viciously chastise my loud-mouthed cousin but suddenly fell silent when she saw Truth quietly standing at his side, smiling at her.

  I let Mrs Pearce treat the cut on my head with iodine then picked up the leather shopping bag and left Truth and my neighbour to get acquainted while I went back into the bathroom and shaved. When I’d finished, I changed into a pair of fresh grey flannel trousers and a blue cotton short-sleeved shirt, splashed on a little aftershave and gave my shoes a polish with the end of the towel. I put on my grey herringbone tweed jacket then snuck past the bedroom door, leaving the ladies to talk, and went downstairs to find Vic.

  He was sat on the settee in the front room, with his feet resting up on the corner of a battered wooden coffee table. He was smoking a huge joint, listening to Stevie Wonder’s “Uptight” on the radio, his fingers busily drumming away to the beat on the arm of the sofa. A bottle of Mount Gay rum was perched on the edge of the table along with two tumblers.

  Vic looked up and me and grinned. “Well, you is lookin’ sharper. Take a pew, cuz.” He pulled himself up from the sofa, reached over for the bottle of rum, unscrewed the cap and poured three fingers of the pale gold liquid into each glass.

  I sat down in an armchair next to him and he reached over and handed me one of the glasses. We chinked our glasses together and I took a long swig of the warm spirit. Vic knocked his hooch straight back, refilled his tumbler then stuck the mouth of the bottle over the edge of my glass and sloshed in another two fingers. I took another draught of my rum and watched as my cousin leisurely sank back into his seat. Vic eyed me up knowingly. “What you want, cuz?”

  I relaxed back in the armchair and sipped slowly at my liquor before answering him.

  “I need you to break the law for me.”

  Vic breathed in deeply then sank down the rest of his booze and sat staring at me, thinking about what I’d just said. He neither moved an inch nor uttered a solitary word.

  I nervously shifted in my chair. “You got a problem with that?”

  Finally he spoke. “When you evah know me worry ’bout anyting?” Vic winked at me mischievously then reached for the rum bottle, filled his tumbler to the brim and took a swig. The cold look in his eyes as he drank sent a shiver down my spine.

  38

  I found Mrs Pearce standing in the hall making a telephone call from the wall-mounted payphone near the front door. I waited in the kitchen until she had finished talking and walked out to meet her just as she was about to climb the stairs and return to Truth. My neighbour pinched her face into a brief smile then quickly looked up towards the top of the stairs. She tapped anxiously with her fingers at the the banister, her nails clicking against the chipped magnolia paintwork, then turned to face me. When she spoke, it was in a grave tone that instantly reminded me of my old school governess back home on Barbados.

  “She is a sweet child, Mr Ellington.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Yes . . . yes, she is.”

  “And she’s clearly been through a great deal.”

  “Damn . . . You can say that again.”

  The old woman looked stony-faced at me. “I don’t need to hear you curse, or to repeat myself, Mr Ellington.

  I felt my cheeks heat with embarrassment and had to clear the frog from my throat before speaking again. “No, you’re right, I’m sorry.”

  My venerable neighbour suddenly lost her dour look and the intonation in her voice became less stern. “Right, I’m going to do what you’ve asked of me. I’ll look after the child until you have sorted out all this madness, as you call it.” Mrs Pearce quickly raised her hand in front of my face, halting the words I was about to speak firmly in their tracks. “But I’ll not care for her here, not in this hovel. I’ll be taking the girl to my sister’s in Portishead.” Mrs Pearce turned away from me and began to climb the stairs. “And we’ll hear no more of it . . . I’ll write down the address we’ll be staying at and you can come and get her when this is all over.”

  I remained silent and watched as the old woman quietly disappeared along the landing. No words of thanks could have truly expressed my gratitude to her, and as I stood motionless alone at the bottom of the stairs I realised how blessed I was to have such a loyal champion and thought myself truly undeserving of her friendship.

  *

  Truth had fallen asleep when I returned back up to the bedroom. It was just after eight thirty in the evening. Mrs Pearce had left to collect an overnight bag for herself, and Vic was downstairs on the telephone arranging for his friend Redman Innes to drive my neighbour and Truth the short twenty-mile journey over to Portishead, on the Somerset coast. I collected the holdall containing the little girl’s remaining clothing and took it downstairs, letting the child sleep a little longer.

  Vic put the receiver of the phone back into its cradle and leant his shoulder against the wall. “Redman be here fo’ the old goat an’ dat damn pickney at nine. I’m gonna git dat kit we’re gonna need from one o’ my lock-ups then go git us some wheels. OK?”

  “OK.” I watched as Vic walked back to the kitchen and picked up his leather jacket from off one of the deckchairs and put it on, then pick up a huge bunch of keys from the draining board. He walked back past me and slapped my arm hard. “What you lookin’ so damn miserable fo’? You ’bout ta git rid o’ two heaps o’ trouble, bossman. Good riddance to ’em!” Vic chortled to himself and walked down the hall, slamming the front door behind him.

  I turned and began to climb the stairs to go and break the news to Truth that she would be leaving shortly and that I would not be joining her on the next part of her journey.

  I walked quietly back into the bedroom, sat down on the side of the bed next to Truth and gently ran my hands along the side of her face and hair to wake her. She grumbled and rolled over onto her back then slowly opened her eyes and looked up at me. Her face was filled with sleep and puzzlement. I smiled down at her. She looked up at me and could clearly see that I was ill at ease.

  “What’s the matter, Joseph?”

  “We need to talk, little one.”

  The girl suddenly came to life and drew herself up off the bed on her elbows. Truth looked at me nervously. “Talk about what?”

  “I’ve asked my neighbour, Mrs Pearce, to keep an eye on you for a little while.”

  Truth looked confused. “Why does she have to look after me? Why can’t you?”

  I shuffled uneasily on the edge of the bed. “Because I need to settle this bidness with the orphanage and find out why those men have been causin’ so much trouble for the two of us.”

  Truth sat bolt upright. Her face became sullen and the corners of her mouth suddenly turned down and began to tremble. “I don’t want to go with her.” I could see her fighting off the tears that were welling at the edges of her eyes.

  “This ain’t no time to be kickin’ up a fuss, child. You gotta do as I say. Where I’m goin’ and what I’m gonna be doin’ ain’t no place for a child to be. Mrs Pearce is a good woman, Truth. You’re gonna be safe with her an’ I ain’t gonna have to worry ’bout you while you’re with her. You understand?”

  I watched as a
single tear ran down Truth’s left cheek. I caught it with the tips of my fingers and brushed it from her face. Truth put her arms around my waist and clasped hold of me for all she was worth. I rested my chin against the top of her head and spoke softly through her blonde hair. “And she’s gonna be takin’ you to stay by the sea too.”

  Truth drew herself away and looked up at me. “And you’ll come and get me as soon as you’re done?”

  I gave a firm nod. “Soon as I’m done.”

  Truth sank back towards me and latched her tiny arms around my back. I squeezed her tightly against my chest and prayed that the little girl would not feel the sad and fearful beating of my heart.

  39

  I’d got the impression from my two fairly brief meetings with Ida Stephens that she thought of herself as a cautious and keen-eyed woman. She’d given me the impression of being a creature of habit, the sort of person who took great delight in strict routines. I felt sure she would be at her happiest living with set patterns, doing the same thing during a certain time period of the day, night and week. Her journey to work at the Walter Wilkins orphanage was one she undertook each day, whether on foot or by car, bus or bicycle, but her pilgrimage today was going to be a very different one from what the administrator was accustomed to.

  Vic and I were sat in the cab of the postal delivery van parked up in a side street directly overlooking the gates of the orphanage on Cotham Road. We’d been waiting for Stephens to arrive at her workplace since just before dawn broke. I looked at my wristwatch. It was just after eight. Vic rested his elbows against the steering wheel of the van while he played about with a battery-operated cassette recorder. I nodded down at the contraption sat in his hands.

  “You sure you know how to use that ting?”

  Vic gawped at me and angrily sucked air through the gap in his two front teeth. “Do me look like a goat head? Course I know how to use the damn ting!”

  I looked at the tape recorder in Vic’s hands then back up at my cousin. “Just make sure that you record every word that woman utters when we get her inside here. Got it?”

  Vic grumbled a churlish reply and laid the recorder in the footwell of the van by his feet then stared out of the window into the street and tutted to himself. “When dis ole hag gonna turn up fo’ wuck?”

  He looked up and down the street impatiently then stuck his hand into the left pocket of his jacket and brought out a pair of leather gloves. He pulled the gloves over his huge hands, slipped his fingers between each other to push the soft kid fabric further down towards his knuckles and then glowered indignantly at me.

  “Git dem mitts o’ yours on!”

  I reached down next to the handbrake and picked up a pair of identical leather gloves along with two lengths of rope that Vic had already prepared into loops with slipknots. I yanked the gloves over my hands, put the ropes into my jacket pocket then looked at the face of my watch. It was just after ten past eight.

  For the next twenty minutes, Vic and me sat in silence. The time passed slowly. Outside the sun began to rise high up in the blue, cloudless sky, and despite it being still quite early in the morning, I could feel the day was beginning to heat up. There appeared to be little traffic about and few pedestrians walking past. I looked out of the passenger window and saw a red and white Bristol Omnibus Company coach turning out of St Michael’s Hill and then pull up at a stop about twenty yards away from where we were parked.

  I peered out of the window nervously and watched as the doors opened. Ida Stephens got out, alone, and began to stride along the pavement towards the orphanage. I let the bus drive off a short way along Cotham Road and slapped Vic on his arm.

  “OK, we’re on.”

  “’Bout damn time too!” Vic turned the key in the ignition and gently licked the accelerator with his toe. The engine revved itself into life as I clambered into the back of the van and knelt down by the back doors. I turned to look back out of the windscreen just as Vic stepped on the gas and pulled the van sharply out into the street. He sped across the road and up on to the pavement, boxing Ida Stephens between a low brick wall and the van’s wing and bonnet. I kicked open both doors, jumped out into the road and ran around the side of the vehicle. Stephens froze when she saw me rushing towards her then panicked. She dropped her handbag and quickly turned to try and crawl across the bonnet of the van. I lunged forward, grabbing her by the back of both shoulders, pulling her backwards. As she was about to swing around and throw a punch at me, the passenger door flew open and Vic’s huge hand and arm reached out and snatched her by her hair, dragging her towards him. She screamed and threw her arms out either side of the door to try and stop herself being hauled inside. I bulldozed straight into her back with the side of my shoulder, and Vic pulled her further into the cab. He savagely gripped at the back of her neck, yanking her head and face down onto the seat beside him, then jammed a rag into her mouth.

  I grabbed hold of her flailing legs, pushed them with my thigh against the side of the door and quickly looped one of the ropes around her feet.

  I tugged on the cord, drawing it tightly around her ankles, then grabbed at her thrashing arms and pinned them behind her, fastening the second cord around her wrists. Vic grasped hold of the back of her jacket and manhandled her inside. I slammed the passenger door shut, snatched up Ida’s handbag from off the pavement, ran to the back of the van and dived inside. I got to my knees and reached for the handles of the back doors and heaved them together just as Vic reversed, swung the van back into the road and drove off.

  Vic quickly navigated the postal van along various back streets, buffeting me backwards and forwards until suddenly coming to a halt. I reached over the passenger seat and took hold of Ida Stephens underneath her arms and heaved her into the back of the van. She dropped onto the floor at my feet like a lead weight and started to lash out at me with her bound legs. I stepped back and let her thrash about a bit to let her wear herself out then reached down and grabbed hold of the back of her collar and slung her against the side of the van, tearing the fabric of her jacket as I did. I snatched up one of the hessian postal sacks by my feet and threw it over the top of her head, pulling it down across her shoulders and back while Stephens continued to struggle and mumble behind the gag in her mouth.

  I climbed back into the passenger seat, drenched in sweat, beads of perspiration pouring down my brow. I wiped at my face and head with the sleeve of my jacket and sank back against the leather-upholstered seat, breathless and tired. Vic grinned at me and looked over his shoulder at Ida Stephens. He watched in amusement as she continued to frenziedly throw herself about in the back of the van.

  “Woman’s got spirit fo’ sure. All dat crazy flounderin’ ’bout make her look like an alligator caught in a trip snare.” He sniggered to himself then pulled the postal van out into the street and tore off down the road.

  We drove north, down into the Hotwells district of Bristol, travelling close to the banks of the River Avon and the busy docks. Vic kept his speed down, confidently guiding the van along narrow roads lined with rows of run-down tenement houses. He pulled up at a junction, took a sharp left turn and swung into an avenue that ran down towards the wharf at Cumberland Basin. At the end of the avenue, opposite a timber yard and set well back from the road, was a large red-bricked garage. Two separate steel shutter doors stood either side of a dividing wall that had a large, fading Esso sign painted on it.

  Vic reversed the van across the forecourt up to one of the doors then got out. I watched in the wing mirror as he quickly unlocked and raised the shutter then yelled at me to get behind the wheel. I climbed into the driver’s seat and backed the van inside. Vic dropped the roller door down onto the concrete floor then flicked at a bank of switches on the wall. I turned off the ignition and got out of the van just as the fluorescent light strips hanging above me began to spark into life.

  Next to the van stood a pristine-looking saloon car, its polished two-tone baby-blue and grey paintwork gleaming under t
he lights. I looked around in amazement. The place was a treasure trove of stolen goods and black-market gear stacked from floor to ceiling. Hundreds of crates of booze and cigarettes stood side by side next to cardboard boxes filled with perfume, nylons and ladies’ silk lingerie. On the back wall next to a long wooden workbench stood two olive-green ex-army steel gun cabinets, both chained and padlocked.

  Vic walked around the van and opened up the back doors then took a Bakelite mechanic’s inspection lamp from the top of the bench behind him and plugged it into a socket in the wall at his feet. He pulled the long cable across the garage floor and climbed into the back of the van then hung the lamp head by its cage from a hook directly above Ida Stephens’ head. Vic then leaned over the driver’s seat, reached down into the footwell of the cab and retrieved the cassette recorder he’d been messing around with earlier.

  Vic switched on the lamp, filling the interior of the van with a brilliant white light, and I climbed inside to join him. I stood close to Ida Stephens and held on to the top of the hessian sack for a moment. I watched as her body jumped in fright as she sensed the close proximity of my body to her own. I waited for a moment before snatching the sack off. The bright, dazzling light above her made Ida turn her head immediately to the side, her eyes squinting and watering under the intense beam. Vic crouched down and grabbed at Ida’s jaw, pulling her head back underneath the stark glare of the lamp. She tried to look away, wrestling her head back and forth feebly against Vic’s strong grip.

  He drew himself closer towards her face and spoke in a deep, thick Bajan accent. “It don’t mek no difference ta me if ya wanna look at me or not, woman.” He squeezed the tip of her chin tightly between a couple of his fingers and thumb then pushed his face even closer towards her own. “Ya headed fo’ da dead house anyways.” Vic reached into his jacket and pulled out a thin-bladed bush machete. “Ya like me Collins?” He lifted the huge knife up in front of Ida Stephens’ face and ran his gloved thumb down its length. Ida pushed her feet against the metal floor of the van, her heels sliding along the ridges as she unsuccessfully tried to push herself away from Vic and the hefty blade.