by Anna King
Instantly a loud thud on the adjoining wall broke the highly charged atmosphere in the small room.
‘You all right in there, Aggie?’ a strong voice called from behind the parlour wall. And at the sound Kenneth came to his senses. That was all he needed, a nosy neighbour. With a supreme effort he released his hold on Agnes, then, with a great theatrical gesture he stumbled to the couch and slumped down, dropping his head in his hands – afraid to look at the hovering Agnes for fear he might not be able to contain his rage. Then he heard Agnes call back, ‘Yeah, I’m all right, Doris. Just knocked me leg against the table. Thanks anyway.’
Breathing a sigh of relief Kenneth kept his face averted and whispered, ‘Oh God, Agnes. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. To go for you of all people, the only person whom I can trust implicitly. Will you forgive me, Agnes? I’ll understand if you want me out of the house this instant. It’s no more than I deserve after such despicable behaviour.’ His hands still covering his face Kenneth held his breath as he waited for some response from Agnes, while cursing himself for his inability to contain his frustration. And it wasn’t the first time. Good God, no! If he wasn’t careful it would be the undoing of him one day.
Still deeply shocked and unnerved by Kenneth’s actions Agnes felt behind her for a chair to steady herself, gratefully sinking down on the padded seat before her legs gave way beneath her. She couldn’t believe what had happened. Kenneth, her kind, gentle Kenneth, a man who wouldn’t hurt a fly, to have suddenly turned into a madman. If anyone had told her he was capable of such savagery she would have laughed in their face. Yet she had seen it for herself.
Then she heard a loud groan of anguish from the man sitting opposite and all her reservations vanished as Kenneth, looking at her with bloodshot eyes, eyes he had carefully rubbed until they had hurt to get the desired effect, gazed at her in mute contrition. And Agnes, firmly pushing any lingering doubt to the far recesses of her mind, went to the man she loved. With a cry of joyous relief she fell into Kenneth’s outstretched arms sobbing, ‘Don’t worry, love. I understand. Finding yer niece gone like that would make anyone act crazy, especially when yer was so near to rescuing her from that filthy hovel. Now, don’t you worry, darling. We’ll find the girl, I promise. She can’t ’ave got far. She probably got scared when Micky didn’t come home and went out looking for ’im. I bet yer anything she’s gone back to that place they call ’ome. After all, where else could she go? You probably just missed her. If yer’d waited a while longer, you might have caught her coming back.’ Feeling herself being gently but firmly pushed from Kenneth’s embrace, Agnes fidgeted with the laced-edged neck of her white frilly blouse, her thumping heart beginning to calm its erratic beat. ‘Look, you sit and rest while I make us a nice cuppa, then we’ll decide what to do, all right?’ She looked at the averted face hopefully.
Conscious he had to make an effort, Kenneth looked up and smiled wanly. ‘Thanks, Agnes. I don’t deserve you, especially after the way I behaved earlier. I’m so ashamed. I don’t know what got into me.’
Agnes’ body relaxed. ‘Now don’t say another word about it, Kenneth. It’s all done and forgotten. You just sit there while I fetch the tea. I won’t be long.’
Left alone Kenneth allowed his true feelings to surface once more, his devious mind going over the past few weeks. Weeks he’d had to try and pretend he found the ugly old hag attractive. God! How stupid could some women be? Still, if the woman in question was as desperate for a man as Agnes was, she’d believe anything. His upper lip curled in contempt as he recalled how proud Agnes had been of the plan she had thought up to get Micky temporarily out of the way. She’d gone on about a book she’d just finished reading, a book that had given her the idea for getting Micky locked up for stealing some bread. A snort of derision came from his mouth. As if a woman of her limited intelligence could possibly understand the work of Victor Hugo. The stupid woman hadn’t even been able to pronounce the title properly, pronouncing it as ‘Less Miserables’. Up until that moment Kenneth hadn’t had much occasion for humour, but he’d had to stop himself from laughing in her simpering face as she proudly tried to get her tongue around the French title. Obviously someone of higher intelligence had read the famous book and told Agnes snippets of the plot. But out of all the complexities of the story, all Agnes had remembered was the part about Jean Valjean stealing a loaf of bread. Stupid, ignorant cow! And he’d had to look impressed at her supposed knowledge.
Still, it had been worth it. Or so he had thought at the time. When he had met Agnes earlier that evening and she had told him that Micky Masters was safely locked up in Hackney police station, Kenneth had wanted to shout his elation to the very heavens. He’d had no intention of ever seeing Agnes Handly again. He’d had everything planned so meticulously. First he would go to the ruin and wait until Molly finally showed herself. He had expected a long wait as he knew the young girl was under strict instructions from that brat of a brother to keep indoors until he was home. But a child as young as Molly would eventually become frightened and venture out to find her brother, and then he would have her. How he had hurried through the streets, his mind filled with the delights to come once he had the girl safely installed in a secret place he had stumbled across quite by accident, and he was confident that she, like her predecessors, would entertain him for many months, or even years. It all depended on how young they were when he got them. But eventually children grow up, then, sadly, Molly would have to be got rid of, the same as all the others he’d taken over the years. But all that was in the future. Then, after all his scheming, all his fantasies, and, worst of all, the loving attention he’d had to shower on Agnes to keep her sweet, to then find the child gone had been a crushing blow.
He had searched the ruined building frantically when it had become apparent that the house was empty. His first reaction had been one of stunned amazement. Then the anger had begun to burn into a raging hate against the world. A world that didn’t understand men like him. Needing to vent his anger on someone he had turned instinctively on Agnes. She was the only other person he could think of who could have taken the child. But now it was evident Agnes knew nothing of the girl’s disappearance. More importantly he had almost given himself away. Any other woman with an ounce of pride would have shown him the door immediately, but not Agnes, who still obviously thought the sun shone out of his backside. Even so, he would have to be more careful until he had Molly. Even a woman as lonely and desperate as Agnes would become aware something was wrong sooner or later.
And he still needed Agnes – for the time being. Hearing footsteps Kenneth composed himself and smiled as Agnes reappeared bearing a tray carrying china cups and a plate of sandwiches.
‘Shall I be mother?’ Agnes simpered coyly.
Shuddering inwardly, Kenneth nodded. ‘Please, my dear. Then I must be off. I won’t be able to rest until I know my niece is safe.’
Agnes bent her head as she poured out the tea trying to hide her disappointment. She had hoped Kenneth might stay awhile, but it wouldn’t be proper to suggest such a thing. Besides, she mustn’t forget Kenneth had a wife to go home to.
‘Is there anything I can do to help, Kenneth?’ she asked wistfully. ‘You know yer’ve only gotta ask.’
Kenneth shook his head. Downing his tea and ignoring the carefully cut sandwiches, he rose to his feet. ‘I’m grateful, Agnes, but like I said, I must get off. I’ll do what you suggested and go back, just in case Molly has returned.’
Rising with him Agnes walked alongside the immaculately dressed man to the door. ‘Of course, Kenneth, I understand, and you’ve got yer wife to think of an’ all, poor soul. I hope she doesn’t ’ave too much of a shock if you don’t manage to find your niece and bring her home with you tonight.’
For a moment Kenneth looked at her in puzzlement. ‘Who…?’ he asked vaguely.
Agnes swallowed hard, her previous suspicions returning. ‘Yer wife, Kenneth,’ she replied, a tremor creeping
into her voice. ‘I expect she’ll be worrying an’ all, and that can’t be good for a woman in her poor state of ’ealth.’
Immediately Kenneth’s brow cleared. ‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed, his lips parting to reveal white, even teeth in a wan smile. ‘I nearly forgot about poor Margaret. I must get off. Goodnight, my love.’
Following him to the door, Agnes’ forehead creased in confusion. Kenneth had just referred to his wife as Margaret, but she could have sworn he had told her his wife’s name was Marjorie. Oh, stop it, she chided herself. She must have made a mistake. After all, the two names were similar.
On the doorstep Agnes held her face up for a kiss, and Kenneth obliged by giving the lovelorn woman a peck on the cheek.
Doffing his bowler hat, Kenneth was about to take his leave when a strong, sneering voice boomed in the night air. ‘Well, well! If it isn’t Kenny Stokes. I haven’t seen your ugly mug around these parts for a couple of years. When did they let you out? If it was up to me I’d’ve thrown away the key, you filthy pervert. You still up to your old tricks, Kenny? ’Cos if you are, then you’d better be careful, as I’m going to be keeping an eye on you now I know you’re out. And so will the rest of the nick once they know you’re back on this patch.’
Under the street lamp, Kenneth’s face drained leaving his handsome face bloodless. But more frightening to Agnes was the look of sheer terror that filled every inch of Kenneth’s face.
Stumbling backwards, Kenneth cast a wary, frightened look at the glaring police officer before turning and, almost at a ran, made off into the night.
‘Well, nice company you’re keeping these days, Agnes.’ PC John Smith bore down on the startled woman. ‘First you stitch up young Micky, now I find you with a piece of scum like Kenny Stokes.’
Her stomach churning, her heart racing, Agnes faced the stony-faced officer bravely. ‘I don’t know what you’re referring to, John Smith. Copper or not, you’ve no right to be nasty to friends of mine, just ’cos you don’t happen to like him. As a matter of fact, Kenneth and me are…’ She gulped nervously. ‘Well, if you must know, we’re sort of courting. Only we’ve gotta keep it quiet, ’cos his poor wife’s dying. And his name ain’t Stokes, it’s Wells, so there,’ she added somewhat childishly.
To her horror, the uniformed man stared at her in amazement then threw his head back and laughed loudly. ‘Bleeding hell, woman. Talk about there’s no fool like an old fool. I don’t know what that pervert’s been telling you, Agnes, but I can tell you you’re a bit too old for Kenny Stokes’ tastes. About 40 years too old, I’d say.’
Agnes opened her mouth to reply but no words came. All her earlier misgivings, all the suspicious thoughts she had harboured and squashed as soon as she saw Kenneth now came back at her with a vengeance. Yet still she refused to believe what the policeman was telling her, though deep down, in that special place where no one can hide the truth, not even from themselves, she knew with a sickening start that she was hearing the truth. And if that was true… Her knees buckled as the full horror of what she had done hit her like a physical blow. If John Smith hadn’t moved quickly she would have fallen. When she came round she was in her armchair, John Smith’s concerned face bending over her.
‘Here, Agnes, old girl. Get this down you.’ The smell of brandy wafted under her nose as she gratefully grabbed at the glass. Draining it in one go, she laid her head back, her eyes filling with tears. Dear God! What had she done? Closing her eyes her mind ran down the years to a time in her life that she had tried to obliterate. But, like all memories, sooner or later they surfaced, usually when least wanted or expected.
She was nine years old again, and she was lying on a comfortable sofa with her Uncle Cyril, a horsehair blanket thrown over them. Agnes’ mother was in the room, smiling down at them, teasing Agnes for being such a misery-guts when she had such a special uncle who thought the world of her. And all the time under the blanket, in full view of her mother, her Uncle Cyril was touching her down below. Touching and hurting her, and she was powerless to stop him. For if she told, then her mum and dad would go to prison, and so would she for being such a bad little girl.
Her eyes flew open as John Smith said firmly, ‘Come on, old girl, tell me what you know.’ The grim-faced officer was seated opposite her, just like Kenneth had done only a short time ago.
‘Can I ’ave another drink, John? Gawd help me, I need it.’
Getting to his feet the constable answered kindly, ‘It’s your brandy, Agnes, but I want to know what’s been going on with this Stokes bastard.’
Agnes nodded tiredly. Taking the replenished glass she took a long swallow, then, all the fight knocked out of her, she began to talk.
* * *
Micky stirred, a low whimper escaping his lips as he tried to wake himself from the nightmare, but his tired mind was too weak to obey his unconscious demand. Molly was calling for him, but he couldn’t get to her. He tried – Oh God, how he tried – but it was no use. The closer he got to her, the further away she went, still calling his name, her pretty face awash with terror.
Then another face appeared in his dream. But this face was soothing, the eyes and lips assuring him everything would be all right. He just had to hang in there, he had to wait until she could get back, and then the nightmare would be over.
His body thrashed this way and that, but still he slept on. He could hear her voice so clearly, and after a while his body relaxed slightly. Then he called out into the darkness, ‘Ellen, Ellen, come home. Please! Please, Ellen, come back.’ Yet still he remained deep in slumber.
Opposite the young boy, Ted awoke with a start. ‘Micky! Micky! You awake, mate?’
There was no answer from the slender form huddled up in the armchair. Satisfied Micky was still asleep, Ted made himself comfortable while wondering if he had indeed heard Micky call out for Ellen, or if he himself had dreamed it. Either way, she was needed back here, as much for his sake as Micky’s.
But would she come back if asked? There was only one way to find out. And Ted fully intended to do just that.
Chapter Thirteen
The Grand Hotel was in a prime position overlooking the sea front in the popular holiday resort of Southend. Visitors staying at the Grand were only five minutes away from the multitude of entertainment facilities which included theatres, amusement arcades and plenty of other activities to occupy the ever-increasing stream of holiday makers who had chosen Southend for their annual vacation. The Council boasted that their fair town had something for everyone, whatever their age. But, despite all the attractions of Britain’s much loved resort, Ellen was bored out of her mind.
On this spring morning, Ellen was sitting out on the balcony adjacent to their first-floor room staring at the wonderful view of the seafront and sighed heavily. She had imagined that having some time to themselves would bring her and Arthur closer. Instead it had only served to emphasise how little they had in common. They had been fine back home – at least Ellen had thought so. Now she realised that it was only the fact that, during their short marriage, she and Arthur had spent very little time alone together. During the day they were both busy in the shop, and at night, tired out by the long day, and knowing they had to be up early, they normally only spent an hour or so in each other’s company before retiring to bed. And then, she was usually reading while Arthur dozed off after his evening meal. Both of them had become accustomed to their daily routine, not realising they were, without knowing it, forming a kind of barrier between them, unconsciously masking the insurmountable differences in their personalities.
The holiday had started off well. The change of scenery and the chance to relax had been wonderful. Their days had been filled with exploring the seaside resort and all the sights it had to offer, but when they were alone in the hotel suite, or dining out at one of the local restaurants, it had soon become painfully clear to both Ellen and Arthur that their conversation was becoming more and more stilted and awkward. In some respects they were like a
couple thrown together by chance and were now realising they had nothing in common. In all honesty Ellen had to admit that the sad state of affairs wasn’t solely Arthur’s fault; she was as much to blame for the tension that existed between them. The main trouble was that all of Arthur’s conversation revolved around the bakery and the day to day running of his beloved business. Whereas Ellen, now she had broadened her horizons, due mainly to her friendship with Ted Parker and Micky, plus the various stallholders she had become friendly with over the past months, had plenty to talk about and humorous stories to tell. But whenever she tried to share her thoughts, Arthur would quickly change the subject and revert to his pet love – the bakery, the tradesmen, and of course, his loyal customers. It was as if he was trying to pretend that Ellen didn’t have a life of her own now. And if he told her once more about the rise of prices in flour, yeast and everything else they needed to run the bakery she felt she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions. Even that wouldn’t have been so bad if the stories varied, but they were always the same. Yet Arthur continually regaled Ellen with his narrations as if imagining his wife was hearing them for the first time. And Ellen, heartily sick of hearing the familiar anecdotes again and again, had to restrain herself from screaming at him in frustration. The only thing that had saved her sanity was making the acquaintance of a middle-aged couple, May and George Bradley.
They had met at dinner in the hotel dining room and, after the initial embarrassment of being mistaken for father and daughter, the atmosphere had quickly changed. Much to Ellen’s surprise, Arthur, who normally shied clear of meeting strangers, had taken to the pleasant couple with uncharacteristic warmth and enthusiasm. At first Ellen had been stunned to find her husband suggesting they make up a foursome, until she realised that Arthur too was aware that things weren’t going well between them. And this knowledge only made Ellen feel more guilty. In a fit of desperation she had suggested they cut their holiday short and return home. She had been sure Arthur would jump at the idea, but there she had been wrong. For someone who had had to be dragged metaphorically kicking and screaming into taking a holiday, Arthur now seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself. Or maybe he just wanted to keep Ellen away from London – and Ted Parker – for as long as possible. She was beginning to wonder if she had underestimated her husband.