A big, black dog dashed towards him. It was the size of a pony and it had a long, pink tongue that rippled every time it panted. But he wasn’t afraid of dogs, so why was he running? Except he wasn’t moving; his legs were trying to carry him out of danger, but they were merely marking time. The dog stood tall on its hind limbs. It had human fingers carrying a chalice that was blindingly bright each time the sun hit it. Billy was terrified when the animal’s head faded away, leaving nothing in its place. Above the nothing, there was a biretta. It was the ghost of a priest. Fat, bad king who killed his wives; fat, bad priest . . .
All dreams were capable of turning daft, but this one was not funny. It was nasty and frightening for a seven-year-old who couldn’t work out where he was. He screamed and yelled, yet no sound emerged from him. Silent screaming hurt, and there was dull pain in his chest, his stomach, his head, his limbs – and where was he and why couldn’t he hear himself crying and shouting for help?
Suddenly, bright lights hurt through the lids of his closed eyes. When he opened them slightly, he found a masked man hovering over him. Were they robbing a bank? ‘Hello, Billy,’ the man behind the mask repeated. ‘You with us, son? Give me a sign. All right?’ Though almost closed, the eyes were mobile, indicating that the child was about to regain consciousness.
Residual anaesthesia overcame the patient once more, but the man called out till young Billy dragged himself halfway back to consciousness. The dog had become normal and it had stopped chasing and leaping about. Billy stroked its head, only he couldn’t feel the fur, and someone was still calling him.
‘Come on, now, young man. Show me that your brain’s switched on. I shall be put away for talking to myself if you don’t shape up a bit.’
Billy tried to reply, but his mouth didn’t work, so he blinked instead.
‘Good boy. Message received. We’ve mended you with a bit of glue and some drawing pins, a couple of paper clips and Auntie Dora’s rusty old Singer sewing machine. That’s a good little flicker of a smile. But we’re going to keep you asleep for a while until you’re feeling better.’ There seemed to be no brain damage, and the surgeon expressed his satisfaction by releasing the boy into recovery. ‘He’s a fine specimen,’ he told a nearby nurse. ‘A tough breed, thank goodness.’
As he stripped off his scrubs and swilled specks of the boy’s blood from his arms where gloves had failed to reach, the medic wished he could put these same hands round the throat of the person who’d hurt Billy Blunt, a slightly built child, seven years of age. There was no excuse for what had been done to the boy. A punctured lung plus haematomas created by blows from the foot of a grown man? It defied reason. Who the hell would inflict this sort of damage on a small boy? An ordained priest?
Billy, sedated, hovered in a place halfway between slumber and wakefulness. It wasn’t a dream. Well, it was, but it wasn’t. Where was Dusty Den Davenport? Dusty Den, the local rag and bone man, had rescued Billy from . . . from what? Dusty was a favourite with children, because he gave away pennies, toy windmills and goldfish in exchange for rags. ‘Rag-a-bone, donkey rubbing stone, a goldfish, a windmill to carry back home.’ Soft, stupid song. Where was Mam? Where was Dad?
Billy dozed again. Columba’s playground. The school behind him. He faced the playing field with the old air-raid shelter built for the war, a few trees near the railings. Someone behind him breathing heavily, too fat to run properly. Cane. A kick. The sound of his own bone breaking. Pain, so much pain. The priest, that ugly, nasty one, was trying to murder him. He couldn’t breathe properly.
When he opened his eyes again, the bright lights had gone, and Mam and Dad were there. Money. He’d taken money to buy flowers for Mam’s birthday, but he would have put it back by adding a bit of his spends to the collection plate at St Anthony’s until the half-crown had been repaid. Yet he couldn’t say any of it. Mam was crying. Dad was thumping the wall with a closed fist. Dad never did things like that. Dusty Den wasn’t here. Sleep claimed Billy completely.
Fred stopped knocking hell out of walls; he was managing only to injure his hand, anyway. Pete Furness arrived with Johnny, who grabbed his big brother and hugged him before moving on to hold Mavis, his sister-in-law. ‘He’ll be all right, girl. We’re a tough lot. What have they done for him?’ Little Billy had blood going into one arm, clear fluid dripping into the other. It wasn’t right, and his Uncle Johnny was hopping mad.
Mavis explained in fits and starts about a compound fracture of an arm, the bruising of a kidney, a rib piercing a lung, internal bleeding. ‘And a priest did that,’ she concluded. ‘Put there to look after us, and he nearly killed my son. I don’t understand it. What did Billy do that was so terrible? He’s not a bad kid. I know he can be a bit cheeky, but this?’
The constable joined Fred. ‘I understand that you weren’t there. But I know some people who were present, so I’m taking statements. Any road, I think Father Eugene Brennan should spend the night in custody, if only for his own safety while we get to the bottom of things. Poor Billy.’ He walked to the bed. ‘Get well for your mam and dad, but mostly for yourself, me laddo.’ He sniffed back some emotion. Policemen did not cry. Not for the first time, he wondered why the hell he was in the job. This was definitely the sharp, pointed edge of life, one child with life being dripped back into him, one priest with the biggest sin imaginable on his conscience, if he had a conscience.
‘Den will speak up,’ Fred promised. ‘And have you talked to Frank Charleson? He’s frightened of nobody.’
‘I have spoken to him, yes.’
‘Teachers? Dusty said there were three of them standing there.’
‘Not yet, Fred. I’ll have to see the sergeant first, but Brennan will be shifted to the cop shop, I’m sure, because they want his guts for garters out there. Even the kids are out of bed and looking for catapults and pea-shooters. Everton’s moved in as well. I’m off duty, but I’ll be called in again when I’ve taken Frank’s car back. We’ve a job to keep folk rational when this kind of thing happens.’
Johnny stood next to his brother. ‘Even the Proddies are after his hide, Fred. Everybody loves our Billy. There’s no harm in the boy. People are baying for blood all over the neighbourhood.’
The policeman shook his head thoughtfully. ‘You’d best not encourage folk to take the law into their own hands.’
Hot-blooded Johnny folded his arms. ‘What are we supposed to do? Leave him where he is till the bishop shifts him a few hundred miles away to keep him safe? They don’t want the bad publicity, you see. But he’ll not get far tonight, because we’ve forty men surrounding the presbytery and a dozen inside keeping him trapped. So you go and arrest him. He’ll be there. Brennan’s going nowhere but the police station tonight, Pete.’
Pete Furness scratched his head. ‘They won’t attack him, will they?’
Johnny answered for everyone. ‘Much as we’d like to kick seven shades of muck out of him, the answer’s no. A prison sentence is what’s needed. Let’s see how he goes on living among his own kind. They’ll sort him for us, cos actually most of them serving time aren’t really his kind. Big difference between thieves and kiddy killers.’
‘Nobody’s going to die,’ Mavis managed through quieter sobs.
‘That’s right, love.’ Fred held her close. ‘But it won’t be for want of Brennan trying, the drunken old bugger.’
Constable Peter Furness left them to their vigil. He stood for a few minutes outside the hospital gates and pondered. Scotty was a largely Catholic area, but it was ready now to turn on one of its pastors. Roaders were a tough breed, stoic, humorous and usually kind, but if one vulnerable member of their society was injured, all were hurt. He stirred himself and climbed into the borrowed car. They had better not clout the bloody priest. In court, righteous anger would count for next to nothing.
Polly was forced to open the cafe. This had happened before in times of crisis, when what she termed the Mothers’ Union turned up for a meeting. Kids got under everyone�
�s feet as usual, yet the gathering of females was a necessity. Wives and mothers made most household decisions, and when husbands and older sons were out of reach, the activities of those missing menfolk merited as much concern as children’s.
Polly produced a huge pot of tea and left it on the counter where the women could help themselves. Frank’s contribution was to be put in charge of half a dozen youngsters in the middle room. He switched on Cal’s television, and his charges were immediately riveted to the news. Television remained a novelty to most, so they were fascinated.
Meanwhile, Hattie Benson, greengrocer and spokeswoman separated from a brutal husband, was in full flood and off-topic, as ever. ‘That dog’s never chewed its food proper. Breathes it in, more like, which is what it did with me dad’s teeth. I’ve been stuck down Maddox Street listening to folk planning on giving a dog an enema. Well, let’s hope me dad’s set does its job down there, cos the bloody hound never chews with its gob. Me dad’s waiting on his choppers coming out the other end. Can you imagine using teeth what have come out of a dog’s arse? Oh, I left them to it and came home.’
Polly called the impromptu meeting to order. ‘Right, girls. Let Hattie’s dog deal with her dad’s falsies, because there’s worse trouble on. Ida? I believe you know the score.’
Ida Pilkington, who was newspapers, sweets, tobacco and local gossip, stood up. ‘There’s about a dozen of our men in the priest’s house with him, and the rest are outside singing – definitely not hymns. Anybody with kids out loose, go and find them, because the language down St Columba’s is shocking.’
‘Why singing?’ Polly asked.
‘To cover the noise of Father Brennan pleading for his life. Now it’s a case of who gets there first. There’s four police waiting for help, only there’s been a big robbery down the builders’ yard; the watchman got beat up. We’ve Evertonians lined up looking for the bishop, because a Catholic won’t tell him to bugger off, but they will.’
‘The bishop?’ several whispered in near awe.
Ida nodded vigorously. ‘The housekeeper phoned him before locking herself in the bathroom. She keeps screaming through the door, telling our lads the bishop’s on his way. It’s a great big stand-off. We can only wait and see what happens.’
Hattie, who appeared to have given up on her dad’s dentures, spoke some words of warning. ‘If the bishop gets there first, the men in the house will cripple Brennan. Because the bishop will make sure there’s no case, no prison, so they’ll batter him. I mean the queer feller, not the bishop. What can we do?’
‘Nowt.’ Pete Furness stood in the doorway. ‘Stay out of it. Polly, tell Frank I still need his car. I’d best get round there and see what’s what.’ He left as suddenly as he had arrived.
Hattie carried on regardless. ‘See, they’re like kids. If you keep them in, they read their comics or their newspapers, eat their dinners, cut their toenails, behave themselves, cos they know we’re watching. But when they go out to play, it’s a different story. They’re either fighting or drinking, sometimes both. Well, I’m not going down there, girls. I don’t want nothing to do with police or bishops.’
There was little to be done, but at least they were together. These were the core of the Scotty Road mamas’ mafia, and each drew comfort from company with the rest. The women in the cafe and others like them had carried generations through war, diphtheria, TB, and many births and deaths. Their wealth sat in no bank; it was here in toughened faces and gentle hearts. Mavis Blunt’s lad had been attacked, so they fretted with and for her. ‘This is what they’ll take away,’ Polly said. ‘Us sitting here because we know the Blunts are sitting watching over Billy in a hospital bed. When they destroy our houses, we lose this strength.’
Mary Bartlett, the butcher’s wife, came in. ‘I’ve fetched your bacon, Pol. We’ve only just cleared up. Harry’s gone down Columba’s. I hope he stays out of trouble.’ She placed a parcel on the counter. ‘I hear Frank clobbered the bugger.’
‘He did,’ Polly replied. ‘He’s in the back with the rest of the kids.’
‘I heard that,’ he shouted.
Polly grinned. He was meant to have heard it. ‘Hurt his hand, poor lad.’
Carla Moore, resplendent in blue, pink and yellow plastic curlers, fell in at the door. ‘The Proddies have stopped the Bishop of Liverpool,’ she gasped, fighting for breath. ‘Shut in his car, he is. One of them . . . I can’t breathe . . . I think he has a chip shop near St Columba’s . . . ooh, I’m winded. He said respect and all that, but a common criminal was under citizen’s arrest . . . Give us a cuppa, Pol.’
After a few noisy slurps, Carla carried on. ‘So the bishop’s in his car, and he can’t do nothing. There must be fifty men down there outside the wotsname – presbytery. They’re hanging on for the cops, but there’s been a robbery somewhere, so Pete Furness is going to phone town for reinforcements. I just seen him. He said we’ve to stop here safe, like.’ She sat down. ‘And I’ve laddered me stocking.’ This final incident clearly meant more than anything else to Carla. She would shop happily in the city centre in colourful curlers under a scarf of transparent nylon chiffon, but laddered stockings were a source of great shame.
‘Hush.’ Ida put a finger to her lips. ‘Bells.’
‘If they’re for Brennan, they’re hell’s bells,’ Hattie whispered.
Mary Bartlett, bringer of bacon, opened the cafe door and listened. ‘Yes, the cavalry’s on its way. If our lads and Everton’s can hold the bishop back, Brennan will be spending his first night where he belongs.’
Knitting needles, crochet hooks and wool appeared while Polly went to make more tea. Communal gatherings like this one took place in times of trouble, and the cafe was chosen by all whose businesses were contained in what Frank termed the mile. With the exception of pubs, Polly’s Parlour had the most chairs, so she had no competition, but she was only too delighted to be their place of safety. For how long would this cafe continue to be their refuge?
She found Frank and his companions playing dominoes at the table. He would make a lovely dad.
‘They cheat,’ he said as she passed through to the kitchen.
‘Course they do,’ was her answer. ‘It’s all part of their culture.’
Pete Furness followed her. ‘We got him, Polly. Hi, Frank, and hello, kids.’ He placed the keys to Frank’s car on the sideboard. ‘Thanks for the car, pal. Little Billy Blunt has internal bleeding, a punctured lung and compound fractures to one arm. They’re keeping him asleep for a while, but he’ll have to sit up soon for his chest’s sake.’
‘How was Brennan?’ Frank wanted to know.
‘Crying like a baby.’ Pete struggled not to laugh. ‘They gave him a guard of honour, all standing to attention and saluting as he passed. Now, they’ve gone down Everton way with their new Orange mates. I’ll never fathom folk round here.’
‘Foreign parts for you,’ Polly told him. ‘Took you three years to understand the language. Are you having a cup of tea?’
‘No, I’m going to run and be there when he’s charged.’
Frank told him to keep the car till morning.
‘Thanks.’ The good constable retrieved the keys and rushed off to watch while the wheels of justice began to turn. As he passed once more through the knitting circle, he was bombarded with questions, though nothing was going to stop him, because he’d visited Billy. For Billy’s sake and for the Blunt family’s peace of mind, Pete wanted to see Brennan in front of the magistrates tomorrow morning. Sometimes, being a copper was OK.
Cal was drunk and snoring, the resulting noise reminiscent of the trumpeting of a rogue elephant. His attendant had been and put him to bed, which had proved a difficult task, since Cal had made very little sense after an unusual amount of alcohol. The poor lad still needed nappies during the night, as he couldn’t always manage to reach the commode by himself during the hours of darkness, though he had regained some daytime control. Frank was failing to settle on the sofa. There was too muc
h noise from the man in the bed, and Polly was just above their heads in the rear bedroom.
He wanted her. But he was determined to be patient, so he urged himself repeatedly to remain strong. After dragging sheet and blanket round his ears, he reminded himself to be thankful. Mavis and Fred Blunt were the ones in real trouble, with their youngest child in hospital.
His hand hurt. Again, he concentrated on the little lad with his broken arm and rib, because an injured hand was nothing in comparison. She was so near. He longed to feel her breath on his cheek, her hair under his good hand. But it was going to be a difficult night, and he must grin and bear it. He might manage to bear it, though grinning might well prove to be impossible.
Cal’s snoring had started to deliver a different sound; he was making as much noise as a ship moored in dock on New Year’s Eve. Sleep promised to be impossible to achieve, so Frank counted his blessings. Polly came top; his mother was not on the list.
There was no peace to be had down at the local police station, either. Father Brennan screamed constantly for whiskey, brandy – anything to combat the pain in his face. He was given tea and aspirin, which he threw at the wall while using language seldom heard from a man whose life was supposedly dedicated to the betterment of mankind through belief in Christ.
Pete Furness hung on, though there was no overtime to be had. He found himself fascinated by the concept of an evil priest who went through life drunk, disorderly and dangerous. The visiting bishop had managed to quieten Brennan in his cell, but the old drunkard had kicked off again once the primate had left the building. ‘I want a decent drink,’ he yelled repeatedly. ‘Get me some whiskey.’
A Mersey Mile Page 6