Midnight on Lime Street

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Is it mad?’

  ‘He was. Wouldn’t let any bugger near him, wouldn’t take a blanket, let alone a saddle, kicked everyone and upset all the other animals. Gordy Hourigan has him just about halfway tamed. He’s famous in racing circles is Gordy Hourigan.’ She stared hard at Babs. She was a short girl with an hourglass figure and a pretty face, a face that was currently concealed behind half a pot of cold cream. ‘All right, then. Kate can hold the money.’

  ‘Pull out and I’ll shop you,’ Babs advised. ‘And I’ll give the girls enough warning so they can scarper before the cops arrive. Oh, and you can drive me to Southport a few times while I get used to all this. If I can’t stand him and his messing about, I’ll walk out and all bets will be off. OK?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘And I can come back here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you train Sally for all the daddy-men?’

  Eve nodded.

  ‘Does she know?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘So the poor little cow will get this pink room? Well, good luck to her, because she’s going to need it. I’d best get this muck off me face before I turn into an oil leak.’ Babs swivelled and faced the mirror once more.

  Carrying the strong suspicion that she had just been dismissed, Eve crept out of the room. She’d never liked short women; what they lacked in height they made up for in the cheek department, stretching their personalities as a form of compensation. Good things came in small packages? Yes, and so did poison. Barbara Schofield was possibly dangerous . . . yet she was lovable. ‘The daughter I never had,’ Eve mouthed.

  Downstairs in the office, she phoned Donald Crawford yet again. ‘She’ll do it. She wants the five hundred and a quarter share in Mad Murdoch.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Eve. She doesn’t care about me, does she?’ he asked in a tone that managed to convey both grief and resignation. ‘I’d give her the world, but she’d never love me, and why should she? Have you told her she can have other men as long as I can watch?’

  Eve took a deep breath. ‘No, I haven’t. She may look young in her outfits except for her bust, but she’s an adult, Don. I’ll bring her to you, only you’re the one who has to persuade her to stay. Any negotiating is down to you and her.’ She ended the call, stood up and walked to the window. While Don Crawford presented as a harmless old man, there was something in him, an element that rang alarm bells in Eve’s experienced mind. She decided it was dementia, which rendered unpredictable all who suffered from it. Anyway, Babs was capable of looking after herself, wasn’t she?

  She stared out onto the flat, green nothingness of the Mersey plain. Kate O’Gorman, cook and housekeeper at the farm, often commented about the boring dump, as she termed it. ‘It’s bloody pancake land,’ she sometimes moaned. ‘No ups, no downs, just boring. In Bolton, we were surrounded by hills and fields. It were great.’ The girls would often sing, ‘We’ll send you home again, Kathleen, to visit all the Woollybacks,’ in a poorly adapted version of an old Irish song. Anyone without a Scouse accent was dismissed as a country bumpkin.

  Eve nodded; Kate was right, because Meadowbank Farm sat on flat earth behind strategically placed conifers and thick bushes. It was safe, it was hidden and yes, it was dull. But a move nearer to Liverpool was out of the question. The purchase of this house had been a deliberate act arising from the need for concealment. Leaving Kate in charge, Eve drove to and fro, there and back, the van sometimes empty, often packed with men. She went to Liverpool and picked up clients at pre-arranged and constantly changing locations. She took them back as well – at least half a dozen trips hither and yon most nights. This was the only way to run a secret brothel.

  She sat in a chair by the window. ‘I’m getting a bit old for this,’ she mumbled, comforting herself with the knowledge that Don Crawford’s thousand quid would go a long way towards paying off the mortgage. ‘Except if Miss Frilly Pants wins her bet,’ she added in a whisper. The job would have to continue unless she sold up, since a house of this age required maintenance, and she was probably stuck with it. Anyway, who else would want to live in a farmhouse without land beyond its own admittedly large gardens? Perhaps it could be made into a smallholding where vegetables might grow and a few hens could be kept – perhaps pigs and a goat, too. But it wasn’t everybody’s cup of tea.

  Miss Frilly Pants. Ah yes, there was something in her, too, something with a red-hot temper, sharp reactions and a venomous tongue. Twice, she’d lost her rag here; twice, she’d been removed and stuck in solitude up in one of the attics. On the first occasion, Baby Babs had smashed pots and had thrown a pan at poor Kate; then last year she’d kicked a bloke where it hurt because he’d wanted stuff Babs didn’t allow – to this day, she refused to perform any act she considered radically unusual. ‘She’ll keep him alive till Christmas,’ she whispered, ‘but God help him when it comes to Boxing Day, because she’ll have him breathing his last. God, I’ll miss her.’

  An uneasiness crept through Eve’s large body; she should have thought things through. Donald Crawford and Barbara Schofield were each unstable and unpredictable. He was senile, and she was without patience. It was down to the question of which one would crack first. If he made his baby girl into a cabaret act with himself as audience, he’d better hide all sharp knives first. ‘I’m in danger. If he kills or hurts her and gets arrested, he’ll tell the cops where he bought her, and if she’s caught for attacking him, she’ll blow me up without a second thought. She’ll plead . . . oh, what is it? Mitigating circumstances? Undue provocation? Having been sold like an animal? Shit. What have I done?’

  Kate knocked before entering the office. ‘Dinner’s ready,’ she announced, referring to the midday meal, a kind of breakfast-cum-lunch. ‘I’m going to ring the big bell.’

  ‘Shut the door and sit down for a minute, Kate. I think I’ve been a fool.’

  ‘Never in this world,’ was the answer, delivered in the flattened, slower speech birthed in cotton towns. Although mills were gradually being silenced, messages were still mee-mawed, as if fighting to be lip-read across the hot, sticky din of hell itself.

  ‘I’ve sold Baby to Don Crawford,’ Eve said.

  Kate pursed her lips.

  ‘Did you hear me?’

  Kate answered eventually. ‘I thought she were in a bit of a mood half an hour since. She threw no plates and pans, but she looked like a cornered cat ready to get its claws out for sharpening.’ She paused for thought. ‘Can I talk straight, Evie?’

  ‘Course you can.’

  The older woman sighed. ‘Look, lass, you’re my best mate in th’ ’ole world, and I love you like a daughter, only you don’t own nobody. Even if you were me daughter, I wouldn’t own you. Think back. We were on the game for years, love, we never had no pimp, just our own little ’ouse in Dingle, and you saved like buggery to get this place. I were never no good at saving, and you minded me when I retired. But even though we liked being together and looked after one another, we didn’t own each other, did we? It’s wrong to sell the girl on. And if you were selling some working girl, she’s not the right one. In fact, she’s a wrong ’un from top to toe, and well you know it.’

  Eve dropped her large head into plump hands.

  ‘I still ’ave the scar to prove it.’ Kate rubbed her forehead.

  ‘I know, Kate. But what I don’t know is how I undo it.’ She opened up about the bet, the horse and Baby’s attitude to the proposed move, her dislike for Southport, the old man’s idea of watching her with other men. ‘She would object to that; I said the two of them have to negotiate terms. But do you remember the identical twins?’

  Kate nodded.

  ‘One finished with her and went to the bathroom, and the other one took his place for round two. She nearly blasted the roof off with her yelling that night, frightened other clients halfway to death screaming that she wanted paying twice. The second twin had a slight cast in one eye, and Missy spotted it right away. I’m not sure she’ll agre
e to perform with Donald watching. She’s that sharp, she should be kept in a locked drawer or a toolbox.’

  ‘You’re going to need to put a stop to it, Evie.’

  The big woman raised her head and shook it. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Shall I talk to her, then?’

  ‘No. You never know which way she’ll jump, and she’s stronger than you. I’ve seen more flesh on a string bean, sweetheart, and you know she’s feisty at her best and ruddy lethal at her worst. I must be losing my grip, Kate. Maybe it’s time for me to give up and turn myself into a bed and breakfast – we’re near enough to the main road between Liverpool and Manchester.’

  Kate shrugged. ‘You’d not clear ninety to a hundred and twenty a week at that lark. This is what you know, Evie; this is what we understand. Men need women, and they can’t always get them. In fact, the government should be behind us, because I reckon we save a fair few girls from getting raped.’

  Eve nodded. ‘An essential service. Try telling that to the bastards in charge. Yes, it’s time the world grew up, but that isn’t going to happen until I’m pushing up daisies. Ring the bell, queen. And keep your ears open while they’re all eating, because I need to know what’s going on.’

  ‘I always keep tabs. You know that, Evie.’

  Kate left the room, and a loud bell sounded three times. One long ring meant fire or cops, two shorts in succession meant an unexpected daytime client who had made his own way here, while three shorts summoned the girls to table.

  Eve tried to count her blessings, though she didn’t find many on this occasion, since her mind was fully occupied by speculation relating to Baby and Don. There had to be some way of making herself and this place safe. Aside from throttling Don, Baby or both, there was no ready solution. Never mind. Kate would bring her meal soon, and Eve loved her food.

  The escape committee met behind a redundant air raid shelter on the top field. Grass on the top field was left untended, so the Brothers Pastoral seldom ventured up there, as wild and damp herbage tended to wet their long, air force blue habits.

  But the boys got together not to discuss clothing; they were gathered to condemn their supposed saviours for bad behaviour. The orphaned, the abandoned and the unmanageable had been delivered here to be fed, clothed and educated by men of the cloth in this new order set up to care for unwanted and difficult young males. The six boys who had come together today were going to travel beyond difficult and all the way to impossible; it was about revenge, personal dignity and freedom, and the greatest of these was freedom.

  ‘Did any of you tell your welfare people?’ Ian asked.

  ‘No,’ chorused the other five.

  Ian had to admit that he, too, had failed to jump that particular fence. ‘Who’s going to listen to us?’ he asked, knowing that his question was rhetorical. ‘I’ve been done for a load of shoplifting, Pete stuck a craft knife in some bastard teacher’s arm, and the rest of you are down as bloody trainee criminals as well. So, let’s see what we’ve got.’

  Each laid down prizes. They had wire-cutters, a Swiss army knife, a crowbar pinched from the wood and metal-work room, a hammer, an axe and an assortment of food stolen from the kitchen. There was a bag of mixed clothing, a torch, some matches and a packet of Woodbines.

  Ian eyed the knife. ‘I know what I’d like to do with that,’ he said, his tone grim. ‘I’d like to cut Brother Healey’s bits off and shove them down his throat.’ He spoke to John, who had a terrible stammer. ‘Just nod or shake your head, lad. Have we got some money? Good. Are you sure you know the way to that old scout hut? Great. Are you sure nobody uses it no more? Brilliant. Tonight then, lads.’ He sighed. ‘I wish we could take some of the little ones, but they’re too noisy.

  ‘Now, we need paper and pens or pencils, some envelopes and some stamps, because we’re going to tell people what’s been done to us. It’ll be easier in writing. I’ll get that stuff while I’m cleaning Brother Bennet’s office. Remember, we all need to be shut in the basement tonight. This is the first time we’ve wanted to be locked up, and the last time they’ll shove us in clink, I hope.’

  The school bell sounded, and they dispersed, each boy changing into indoor shoes as soon as he reached the cloakroom. For what they hoped to be the final day, they dispersed and went to sit with their fellows in two separate classrooms. The Brothers Pastoral were back from their session in chapel, where, no doubt, they had prayed for their own souls, because some of them were monsters, while almost all believed that corporal punishment was good for the recipient. Why couldn’t they be more like Brother Williams, who was firm, but fair and always prepared to listen?

  Ian Foster shook his head almost imperceptibly; these men of God were allied to the devil himself, especially Brother Healey, who taught Divinity. Divinity? What did this terrible man know about that? How could he possibly be close to God?

  The boy lowered his posterior onto a hard chair, all movements slow and careful, as he had been left bleeding last night. At the age of fourteen, he was now judged old enough to show his love for God in the fuller sense, and the wicked so-called brother at the teacher’s desk had raped him. Ian needed to lead the other lads into trouble as soon as possible so that Healey would send them to the dungeon.

  He closed his right fist and imagined the crowbar gripped tightly in his fingers. Behind lowered eyelids, he watched himself bringing the metal down on Healey’s head until it burst open like a ripe melon; even then, he didn’t stop raining blows, because the creature at his mercy was lower than an amoeba and must be rendered unrecognizable as human.

  ‘Ian?’ Healey called. ‘The seven gifts of the Holy Ghost are?’

  Ian rose slowly to his feet. ‘Wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, fear of the Lord, Brother.’

  ‘Ah, you remembered them at last.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Brother. I got no sleep last night, so I learned them.’

  For a fleeting moment, a glimmer of fear showed in Healey’s eyes. ‘Sit down, Ian.’

  The boy remained standing.

  ‘I said sit down.’

  ‘It hurts, Brother. Something happened to me, and I’ve been bleeding.’

  Another boy rose to his feet, as did a third, a fourth a fifth, a sixth. They weren’t all on the escape committee, but each had been a victim. Usually too scared for words or actions, they followed Ian’s lead, because Ian was a natural born genius and top of all classes in all subjects.

  ‘Go.’ Ian’s voice was soft.

  Seven desk lids were lifted and slammed shut, lifted and slammed, lifted and—

  ‘Silence!’ Healey roared.

  And slammed.

  ‘Stop!’ Ian’s voice rose above the clamour. To the tune of a well-known Christmas carol, he sang into the sudden and deathly silence, ‘We will get you, get you, ge-et you, we will kill you, kill you, ki-ill you, we will hurt you all we-e can, evi-il, stinky-y, dirty-y man.’

  White with shock, the man had remained immobile during the delivery of the song. ‘Out here now,’ he commanded loudly, his face turning purple with rage.

  Almost casually, Ian approached the lectern behind which Healey sat. The teacher climbed down from his perch and grabbed a cane. Ian Foster held out his hand, never flinching throughout six heavy strokes. Determinedly, he stared into the eyes of his tormentor. When the caning stopped, he managed to smile. ‘Thank you, Brother.’ All boys were trained to thank their betters after punishment.

  Healey was sweating and breathing hard; it was clear that the caning had excited him.

  Ian continued to stand his ground. ‘Are you all right, Brother Healey?’ he asked, his tone saccharine sweet.

  Four of the escape committee were in this class today. The other three members stood and walked to the front in response to Ian’s nod. They stood behind their leader, arms folded, mouths tightly shut.

  Healey panicked. He raised his weapon once more and lashed it across Ian’s face. Stammering John grabbed the cane while the
others jumped on the man. They were fourteen years of age; they were strong; they were healthy and, beyond all that, they were furious. John used the cane, slashing once at Healey’s face before lifting up the hem of his robe and beating his shins. He then dragged the monk’s legs wide apart while the other three kicked their torturer repeatedly in the abdomen and testicles.

  Ian placed his hands round the creature’s throat and began to squeeze. ‘Always remember, Brother, that there are more of us than there are of your scabby lot. Always remember that we’ll grow up unless you kill us, and that we will talk. Oh, and we do pray. We pray to St Jude, patron of hopeless cases, because you and a couple of your mates need to die so that we’ll be free of you dirty, mad, rotten bastards. You’re in Liverpool now, and Scousers take nothing lying down. Right, lads, that’ll do for now.’ The four of them returned to their desks.

  Brother Williams burst in. ‘I’ll get an ambulance,’ he cried when he saw the state of his colleague.

  ‘And fetch a doctor for me,’ Ian hissed. ‘Because that filthy swine shoved something of his up my back passage last night and I’ve been bleeding.’

  Williams, a true Christian, simply stood as if riveted to the floor. ‘What?’ he managed finally. ‘And why is your face marked?’

  Ian stood. ‘He caned me across the face, so we did the same to him. There’s Healey, Ellis and Moorhead. They interfere with us, Brother Williams.’ Inside, he was shaking, as the hormone that had sustained him thus far was dispersing fast. He glanced at his three friends; they, too, were trembling. They needed to be put downstairs in clink, because the prison cells provided the easiest escape. He hoped that the other two prospective escapees had misbehaved in their Latin class, so that they, too, would be placed down below.

  ‘Shall I get the police, Brother Healey?’ Williams asked.

  ‘No,’ groaned the felled man. ‘Remember? Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.’

  John jumped up. ‘J-J-Jesus said th-th-that on the c-cross. You w-w-w-will nev-v-ver be for-forgiven. E-evil f-f-fucker.’