The stranger arrived and stood by Laura’s side. ‘You called?’ He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. A definite for Neil’s list?
‘Yes. Will you take me back to the chip shop, please? I’ll just grab some things from my room.’ She ran upstairs.
Neil stared at the man, who returned the favour with compound interest, causing the would-be intruder to lower his eyes. The jeweller was handsome, taller than Neil, and very well presented: shiny shoes, a good suit, a trilby in one hand. And he wasn’t exactly old, probably early fifties. So Laura dressed up for this man, used makeup for him. What else was she doing for him? Were they lovers? She came downstairs with a small bag. ‘I want to leave now, Andy,’ she said. After glaring at Neil for a few seconds, she approached him. He caught a whiff of perfume, good perfume; no Californian Poppy for her.
Neil backed away to allow them access to the short path, the gate, the pavement and the car. Her shoes did have small stiletto heels. The couple drove off. He watched as they rang the shop’s bell, saw lights being switched on, stood where he was until Laura was inside and Jewellery Andy disappeared in his car. They were punishing him, making a fool of him by acting out this little scenario while he could only stand and watch.
His heart was beating madly, like a kettledrum doing overtime. Sickness threatened his throat, and he gulped back its evil taste. She knew something. But she had a poor memory for detail and seldom read a paper or listened to the news. All the same, he might be in danger.
‘She suspects but has no proof,’ Neil muttered under his breath. Female intuition? Could he kill her to save himself? Was he capable of wiping out a girl he’d loved since his teenage years? Confusion, confusion.
Neil remembered, just about, how grounded he had been, how determined and hardworking. He’d mended furniture, made second hand look like new, had bought her every labour-saving device known to man. He’d been a good husband, a beloved father . . .
‘Would you like anything else, sir?’ the waitress asked, pulling him back into the here and now.
Neil blinked. ‘Sorry,’ he replied. ‘I was lost in thought.’
‘Yes, we noticed that. Are you all right?’
He nodded. ‘Another coffee and a buttered Eccles cake, please. And, thanks for letting me think. I needed the chance.’
‘You’re welcome.’ She was nice. But there could be no nice women for him, because he’d found another way. Gonorrhoea. It was perhaps as well that Laura had turned him away that night, because he might have infected her. Instead, he could play pass the parcel and spread the disorder like wildfire through the prostitutes of Liverpool and their clients. He had been granted an easier way of killing, and it might live on long after his death.
Henry VIII. He remembered reading somewhere that the evil, self-promoted primate of Christianity had suffered from syphilis, and that his daughter had not dared to wed because she had been born with it. Catholic propaganda? He had no idea. He had no idea about much, really, kept forgetting names of people, of streets, of all kinds of things. Many of the apostles and disciples had suffered. He was one of them, and it was his turn to feel the pain.
When Eccles cake and coffee had been consumed, he wandered off to pick up his bike. Joseph was at home with Maude, so Neil Carson had the privilege of time on his hands. Although he knew he should seek medical help, he opted for a different tack; he would spread the filth he carried, and he knew exactly what to do.
As he cycled along, he went through a list. There was Belle Horrocks. She had corrupted a man with only one hand. She had left Meadow— What? Meadow what? The farm. Yes, she’d run off to grab at a normal life. Normal? What did she know about normal? Fat Mamma was another, though her death was imminent anyway. She had made no effort to conceal her antipathy whenever she saw him. He was pleased that their names were coming back to him.
Who else? The jeweller. Name? Then Trevor Burns, butcher. Laura? Could he, should he? No, no, he needed to take a chance there, had to hope she wouldn’t sound off about that wretched cross, because the children must not become orphans. Though they might get adopted by decent people . . . So it wasn’t a long list, but he needed to begin his research. Er . . . was Joseph with Maude? Yes, yes, he was. Maude was his adoptive mother, not the real one. He liked Maude, didn’t want to kill her.
People had patterns. They worked, slept, ate and played, but they all did it in their own way. So he did remember some things, then. Wavertree. Oh yes, he recalled that one. A female child ran from one house to another, so relatives of Belle . . . he would remember her surname again in a minute, must live nearby. They were probably the child’s grandparents, while the little girl was likely to be a bastard. Did that disease – what was its name? – did it damage the brain? If it did, such damage must surely take a while to kick in. Syphilis did. Yes, he’d recollected that from God alone knew where or when. Henry . . . a king. He’d suffered from that. Hadn’t he?
He stopped outside a newsagent’s and bought an exercise book and a Biro pen. When he remembered something, he would make a note of it.
‘Writing your memoirs?’ the shopkeeper asked jovially.
‘Just a few notes,’ was Neil’s reply.
Returning to the bike, he stopped and pondered. Wavertree. Cecil Avenue or Street, Carlisle – was there a Carlisle Street? Albert Road, Cambridge Street? There was an Earle Road. He closed his eyes and was mentally sorting letters at work, but they were all jumbled up. Newcastle Road? Yes, it was there, or near there.
Oh, God, his head was cloudy. A black door, then two houses, then a dark green door. Picton Road. The Picton Library was in town, not in this part of the city, not on Picton Road. Gonorrhoea. He wrote furiously in his new notebook. Plant pots. They might have moved them, because bedding plants would be past their best. Both houses had plant pots, one house had a green door, and the other was black. He was falling apart. Somewhere behind all the nonsense, he knew he was losing his grip. Laura was no longer a good mother, because she had brought another man into the children’s lives. But he couldn’t, no, he couldn’t . . .
Kill her. Couldn’t. He was probably tired because he never stopped thinking. Even asleep, he thought. Jesus came back in dreams and told him everything was going to be fine, but they were just dreams. Meadowbank, that was the name of the farm. He scribbled it quickly.
OK, he would take his time. Deliberately slow, he followed his nose towards the southern end. Ah, yes, he had the right street. Numbers 42 and 48 were here. Plantpots present and correct, contents rather frazzled, and lights were on inside both houses. Count, count, and go round the back. A convenient knot hole in the gate, nobody about, a good chance to—
Oh, look at them. The man was peering through a glass on a stand, and she stood behind him. It was a beautiful picture of something Neil had never known. She was stroking his hair, and he was turning to look at her. Were they redeemed, then? Tears burned his eyes. I am ill, and they are well. Did I get the message wrong? Perhaps not, because they are inside rather than on the streets. I can’t, I can’t do any more. There’s the little girl climbing onto his lap. Lucy, oh, Lucy. My boy Matt, my lovely boy. The streets. Jesus said the streets. I must write that down later. I must not put these people on my list; I mustn’t kill unnecessarily.
He rode all the way back to Joseph’s house and parked the bike round the back. Removing his bicycle clips, he entered the scullery and found Joseph there in tears. For a reason he couldn’t identify, Neil felt embarrassed. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘Mother’s gone.’
Neil allowed a few taps of time to pass. ‘Gone? Gone where? Into hospital?’
The grieving man shook his head. ‘She asked for half a grapefruit, which I spoon-fed her, then she wanted me to wash her hands and face. I was washing her when she thanked me and asked me to thank you, too. Then a weird thing happened; she closed her eyes, opened them wide again, as if she was getting better, and she said, “Neil must stop.” After that, she went. Just went.
’
Neil swallowed, his throat dry enough to cause pain. ‘Is she . . . is she still in her room, Joseph?’ She was in heaven and, during her passing, she’d picked up a message from Jesus. Neil tried to clear his throat. ‘She must have meant she wants me to stay here with you. Well? Is she still in the front room?’
Joseph finished drying his eyes. ‘No. Doctor did a death certificate, pneumonia and heart something or other—’ He sobbed. ‘Congested heart failure, I think. The McManus Funeral Parlour has her. Oh, Neil.’
Neil wrapped his arms round his friend. ‘Let it out, Joseph.’
The man was crying like a baby, shaking from head to foot and pouring his grief onto Neil’s shoulder.
Neil patted his friend’s back. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he said.
‘I used to . . . when I was younger . . . used to resent her. No life of my own, you see.’ He pulled away and tried to calm himself, mopping his face with a handkerchief. ‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Er . . . library, a cafe, a ride round the city.’ He remembered all that well enough. ‘Joseph, if I’d known—’
‘You can call me Joe now. Mother wouldn’t let anybody call me Joe. My dad was Joe, so I had to be Joseph.’
‘All right, Joe. And I’ll live here as long as you want me to.’
‘Thanks. I have to get funeral money from her policy. And a black suit.’
‘We’ll get dark navy,’ Neil said. ‘They won’t be wasted.’
‘OK. Will you be a coffin bearer, Neil?’
Neil marked a few seconds before replying. Could he carry a woman who’d told him to stop? She’d gone towards a light, probably, and peeped through into wherever . . . and she’d ordered him to stop. Stop killing? Stop here with her son? ‘Yes, of course I will, Joseph.’
‘It’s Joe.’
‘All right, Joe.’ He sat on a stool.
Joe stared at him. ‘Will you do something else for me?’
‘You know I will. What?’
‘Strip her bed.’ These three syllables arrived on a whisper.
‘I will.’ The lodger stood and walked through the living room and into the empty bedroom/parlour. There remained a dip in the top pillow, a depression where Maude’s head had rested. ‘Bye, Mother,’ he whispered. He could smell her scent, lavender with a hint of lilac. She’d used Johnson’s baby powder too, and the whole melange made him feel at home. Wright’s Coal Tar soap sat in a dish by her bed next to surgical spirit and the ointment used for her pressure sores when they appeared.
As he bent to pick up the pillow, he felt a slight chill in the air, and his pores opened. ‘Stop, lad.’
Neil turned and saw nothing.
‘You’ll come to a bad end,’ the voice whispered. ‘Remember – I warned you. Remember. Nothing good can come of it.’ The voice faded.
He ran out of the front room, through the living room and the tiny kitchen, past Joe who was sitting on the stool, finally reaching the small, tacked-on bathroom. He retched until his ribs ached, emptying his stomach into the pan before flushing. He sat on its lid. The small bathroom suited him just now, because he was near enough to the sink to splash his face with cold water and wash his hands. He was ill. The voice was in his head, surely?
Joe tapped at the door. ‘You all right, Neil?’
He breathed in deeply through his mouth. ‘I think I must have had a bad Eccles cake, Joe. And it was a shock hearing about your mother.’
‘Sorry, lad.’
‘It’s all right, Joe. Who else would you turn to?’
There was a pause. ‘We’ll leave the bed till tomorrow, then, and we’ll do it between us,’ the disembodied voice suggested. ‘We’ll need spanners or something to pull the frame apart.’
‘OK. I’ll have a bath.’
‘Right-o.’
Neil lay in the water. ‘It’s all in your head,’ he breathed. ‘Maude, Jesus, Judas – you imagined them. Get a grip.’ He stood up, found his robe and went upstairs to dress. His bedroom door opened. ‘Hi, Joe,’ he said.
Joe sat on Neil’s bed. ‘Why did you leave Laura?’ he asked.
‘We didn’t see eye to eye any longer.’
After a short pause, Joe asked, ‘But you still like women?’
‘Some, not all.’ Neil finished dressing. ‘Why?’
Joe lowered his head. ‘I like men,’ he answered quietly. ‘I like you.’
‘Oh?’ Neil stared into the mirror, past his own reflection and studied his landlord. ‘I’m your friend.’
The seated man swallowed audibly. ‘I couldn’t have left my mother, and I couldn’t have brought trouble and shame to her door, so I’ve never told anybody.’
Icy fingers travelled down Neil’s spine. It was his turn to gulp. ‘But Joe, I’m not that way.’
‘Not queer?’
‘No. I could never . . . have you ever?’
Joe shook his head slowly. ‘Not since school. There was a lad there, and we used to mess about, but I’ve wanted to talk to somebody – anybody who’d listen. And when you left your wife, I wondered—’
‘I’m not like that.’ What was he going to do now? He couldn’t stop here, could he? This man’s mother was hardly cold, yet here he sat talking filth in Neil’s bedroom; no shame, no control over himself.
Joe continued, ‘I thought with you being my best friend, there might be a bit more to you. Sorry.’
Neil fastened his shirt and turned to look at the poor creature who had just lost his mother, who was desperate for affection and possibly close to breaking point. Like I am. I must look after myself. ‘I’ll stay till after the funeral, Joe.’
Joe raised his head. ‘What?’
‘I can’t live here with you now. You’ll want to bring friends home, friends who want what you want. I’d be a wallflower.’
‘No, I—’
‘Sorry, Joe.’ Neil left the room, ran down the stairs, and went through the ground floor to a small shed in the back yard. He found a drill, screws, and a bolt. If he had to stay for a few days, he would make sure of his own safety. But could he stay? If Maude was still hanging about, and if Joe was going to carry on acting weird, was this the place for Neil?
And the police were searching for his alter ego. There’d been some distraction in the press, he couldn’t recall exactly when, articles about a man who’d shot dead a policeman on Lime Street Station, but warnings were still being issued to women about staying in at night. If they had to go out, they were advised not to go alone. See? I remembered all that.
There was no sign of Joe, but Neil could hear him sobbing in the front bedroom. He crept upstairs and entered his own room. As quickly and quietly as he could manage, he installed the small bolt and shot it home. Although he had no reason to suspect that Joe might try to force him into his unsavoury world, Neil wanted to make sure.
It was in the Bible somewhere about not having physical relations with someone of the same sex. It was a sin. Killing people was a bigger sin, so Joe was a better person than Neil. But Jesus and Judas— Oh, why had they come that night on the hearth of the front room fireplace at home? Had they come? They must have, because that event never left his memory. The names of three women stayed with him, too. Jean Davenport, Shirley Evans and, sandwiched between those two, his mistake, Dolly Pearson. But he’d repaid by staying here to look after Maude, who . . . who was no longer here.
Thirteen
Given months or at most a year to live, Eve decided to make the best of her time, and she started by buying a car, a three-year-old Bentley with plenty of leg and belly room. Comfort mattered, since there was enough pain without being squashed at a driving seat, and she didn’t want to use the van for her personal expeditions.
Her second decision was also a novelty – she closed the business on Thursdays. When questioned by Kate O’Gorman, her second in command, she had the answer ready. ‘I want a bit of freedom, love. I’ve spent too many years behind closed doors, and I want to get out and about a bit while I still can.
Anyway, they could all do with a rest once a week.’
Kate knew she wasn’t getting the whole story. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me, Evie; I can always see when you’re holding back.’
The large woman shrugged. ‘Let me have some secrets.’
‘No. Not while you’re ill.’
Eve sighed resignedly. ‘Look, I want to go out with a bang. He’s killed three women so far, that Mersey Monster. One was on a Friday, which is pretty much our busiest night, so I’m staying open, but two were Thursdays, and that’s when we’ll shut, because one of you might like to come with me. I’ve tracked him by looking at the killing sites, and he does vary among streets around the docks. But they’re all within a mile or so of each other.’ She stared through the window. ‘I’m going to put a stop to him if it’s the last decent thing I do.’
‘You and whose bloody army? Eve, you can’t – it’s a job for the cops.’
‘I can try. I’m doing no more van runs, so I can carry on as I like, where and when I like. Belle found us that van driver – Cathie Drake, and she’s agreed to take over. She’s a retired working girl who had a good thing going – she towed a caravan round to holiday resorts and was never short of customers – and she’s used to driving. In winter, she rested abroad for three months, if you please, so she must have been minted. Spain, I think it was. She went for New Year and stayed till Easter. Now there’s a woman with what I call a head for business.’
Kate nodded. She quite liked Cathie Drake; Cathie was tough but nice.
‘I’ll stick to Thursdays and the odd Friday, and you can cover here on the few Fridays when I’m out. When I’m gone for good and you’re the boss, you could do a lot worse than choosing Cathie as your deputy. She knows a thing or two. Or Angela. There’s more to Whiplash than met our eye for years. As for him,’ she pointed at the Liverpool newspaper in Kate’s hand, ‘he’d better watch out, wherever and whoever he is. Is there anything about another killing in that paper?’
Midnight on Lime Street Page 28