Mavis and Fred tried asking Billy what had happened. He couldn’t answer, as his throat was as dry as sandpaper. But he fell asleep with a smile on his face, because Mam and Dad were here. He loved his mam and dad. Inside the dream, which was now clear of black dogs and ghosts, he grew to manhood. It was still a bit cowboyish, though, because he held a gun. The gun had a purpose. The purpose was born of anger. The anger was directed at evil, and evil had a name. Brennan.
Sergeant Mike Stoneway was filling in the night sheets. These were notes listing all that had happened so far during this endless shift. Just two rooms in the hotel housed visitors tonight. Paddy Lundy was in number four, while Father Eugene Brennan was in number one. It wasn’t exactly the Ritz, and they weren’t exactly paying guests unless loss of freedom might be considered payment.
He wrote, 4 a.m. Lundy is sleeping it off after a long period of disturbance from Brennan in Cell One. Both checked every twenty minutes by myself or Constable Jones. Lundy is on his bunk. Brennan is on the floor in a pool of urine, but I am not inclined to disturb him, because he has been loud and verbally abusive on and off since his arrival.
He chewed the end of his pen before continuing. ‘I’ll need three days’ sleep after this lot,’ he said aloud.
I believe he has the DTs, since he has been screaming at things crawling on walls. These things are purple with twelve legs, though in my opinion he is in no state to be counting as far as twelve. At the moment, he is quiet, but I’m worried about alcohol poisoning and have sent for Dr Warmisham, our duty medic for this shift.
He threw down his pen. Like most other people in the area, he nursed a strong dislike for the priest. Anyone who kicked a child was at the bottom of the list when it came to grading folk. However, this all had to be done correctly, because if the man died through inhaling his own puke, questions would be asked.
But when the main door to the station opened, Dr Warmisham was not to be seen. Instead, two men in pinstripe suits entered the reception area. They introduced themselves as Drs Thornton and Moorcroft before the former placed a piece of paper on the counter. ‘Father Brennan is to be released into our care,’ he explained. ‘He needs to be supervised and medicated. If he has too swift a withdrawal from alcohol, he might die.’
Sergeant Stoneway stood his ground. ‘He almost killed a child by whipping and kicking. I don’t care if he’s suffering from terminal cancer, he should still face court.’
‘And that,’ said Thornton, pointing at the paper, ‘is a court order releasing him into our care at Prestwich Mental Hospital. The drinking is merely a symptom of a psychiatric disorder.’
Mike Stoneway remained unimpressed. ‘So you clowns will diagnose him insane, then let him loose in society so that he could put a child on an operating table? What sort of bloody doctors are you? I’ll tell you what you are – no need to answer. You’re bought and paid for by the diocese.’ He beat a closed fist on the counter. ‘Now, you just listen to me, Dr Psycho and Dr Crackers, if it wasn’t for this uniform I’d lay you both out on the floor and give you some of what Brennan gave young Billy Blunt.’
‘A threat,’ said Thornton smoothly.
‘Noted,’ was the reply from Moorcroft.
‘And you can tell whichever of the bishop’s minions sent you here that I don’t believe a word. Why would you allow a nutcase loose on children? Eh?’
‘He has deteriorated. We thought his condition was under control, but drinking has probably interfered with his medication.’
‘Drinking is his bloody medication.’ Mike didn’t care any more. He was retiring in six months, and was quite prepared to go earlier if necessary. ‘I know who and what you are. I’m telling you now that if you take that creepy priest away, Scotland Road and some of Everton will rise up tomorrow. There’ll be a crowd at court in the morning, because they want to see him ordered to face a judge and jury. Have him when we’ve finished with him.’
Thornton folded his arms. ‘Read the order,’ he snapped.
‘I don’t need to. It’s from a corrupt see, and you are part of that see, as is the judge that signed your Mickey Mouse so-called order.’
The two intruders glanced at each other. ‘We are from Manchester, actually,’ Thornton said. ‘So you’re saying that bishops are corrupt?’
The sergeant grinned. ‘Think higher.’
‘Cardinals?’
‘And the rest. Things are coming to light here, in Ireland and even as far away as Australia. Children who were abused are growing up and speaking out. Their words will dig the graves of many crooks, and you are two of their number. Have you any idea of what you’re doing? Do you know Liverpool? This is a Catholic area, but they want to see him jailed.’
Moorcroft waded in. ‘I’m sure you and your fellows will manage the populace.’
Dr Warmisham entered. He looked dishevelled and heated to somewhere in the region of gas mark nine. ‘Sorry, Mike. I’ve been delivering a baby.’ He stopped in his tracks. ‘Ah, excuse me, I didn’t mean to interrupt. Just lead me to the patient.’
‘He’s in the first cell lying in his own piss,’ Mike told him. ‘Leave him. These . . . gentlemen have come to take him away. I’m sure they’re handy with a mop.’
Thornton muttered under his breath. Mops were not his province.
Mark Warmisham sank onto a bench. ‘Blood and sand, he’s getting away, isn’t he? This is what we dreaded. I think I’ll emigrate.’
‘And I’ll retire,’ Mike said. ‘We’ve got the bungalow, just a lick of paint needed. Jones?’ he called. ‘Why can I never find him when I need him?’
Jones came in through the front door.
‘Where’ve you—?’ Mike didn’t get any further; for a few terrible seconds, Sergeant Mike Stoneway felt like kissing his second-in-command. Jonesy, a nice, quiet, Welsh copper, wasn’t alone. Behind him stumbled residents from the mile, women in curlers, hairnets, nightdresses with coats dragged over the top to save a little dignity, eyes screwed up against the light. The men were tousle-headed, half-dressed and still drunk with sleep or from an evening spent on the ale. Several were barefoot, while a few had left teeth soaking at home in jam jars.
‘The people have spoken, and they don’t need words,’ Mike advised the psychiatrists. He picked up the court order. ‘Show that to the magistrates in the morning, then try getting Brennan past this lot. This is Scotland Road. Take that name to the grave with you as soon as you like. Jonesy, man the desk. I’m going to phone Prestwich, see if they’ve heard of these two so-called doctors.’
‘Our attachment to Prestwich is temporary,’ gabbled Moorcroft.
Billy’s Uncle Johnny stepped forward. ‘Your attachment to your breath will be the same if you don’t bugger off smartish.’
The two unwanted visitors fled.
Mike Stoneway shook his head. ‘Right. Get home, you lot, because you look as if you need beauty sleep. Thanks for coming, I think. I say I think, because I might just have lost my job, and I’m trying hard to care. Jonesy, we’re going to lock down. I know we’re not supposed to, but we must. He’ll be remanded tomorrow or I’ll eat every helmet in the force.’
A round of applause followed his statement.
‘Get out,’ he laughed. ‘Go on, bugger off home. You look like you fell off a moonlight flitting.’
When all had left, the two men locked all exterior doors. Mike, knowing he had probably broken the law by refusing to accept a court order, concentrated on his Fleetwood bungalow. The wife wanted a buttercup yellow front door. He hated yellow.
Four
The night seemed to last about a year, though it ended eventually. Mike Stoneway signed out for himself and Constable Jones, who had risen considerably in Mike’s estimation. ‘Thanks for mopping up the pee, lad. Shame about his clothes. The poor gentleman will have to appear in court stinking of dried urine. Still, your brainwave worked well. Thank goodness you had the sense to wake the troops. Tell you what, I’ll treat you to breakfast in Polly’s, eh? And
make sure you get the sergeants’ exam done. You’re a natural.’
‘Thanks, Sarge. A bit of toast and some strong coffee would be appreciated before court.’
Scotland Road looked different this morning. Notices in shop windows announced their owners’ intention to close for an hour at ten o’clock, because everyone would be going to the magistrates’ court. Men who normally wore overalls were suited and booted; some had grabbed the morning off with permission, others were taking a chance. They wanted to see the man who had whipped and kicked little Billy Blunt.
Women were working the early shift. Several with prams piled high with washing were already on their way back from the public washhouse. As the two policemen walked down the main road, they glanced down side streets and saw many female heads bobbing about in doorways; steps were being scrubbed and stoned early today, because this was a special occasion, though not for a good reason. It was no holiday. If poor Billy didn’t make it, the whole area would be bereaved and Brennan should hang.
Jonesy spoke up. ‘They’re good people, aren’t they, Sarge?’
Mike nodded. ‘The best. In fifteen years or so, this place will be derelict, and that’s as good a reason as any for me to retire. Man and boy, I’ve worked here. It’s been special, but not for much longer.’ They entered the cafe to a round of applause and a free breakfast. ‘See?’ Mike whispered to his companion. ‘See what I mean?’
‘I do, Sarge. Decent people.’ They sat and ate with the rest. Mike gazed round at the good, the bad and those who fell somewhere between the two categories. By God, he would miss every one of them.
She stood over him. ‘Oi. You with the hand and the interesting attitude. Open your eyes and face the world before I tip this lot over you. I’ve fetched your breakfast up the stairs, and you’ll have to leave this place the back way, or people will think I’m working part time for Mother Bailey. I don’t want my reputation getting any worse than it already is.’ She placed the plate on a bedside table. ‘Come on, wakey-wakey.’
He turned over and dragged a sheet over his head. ‘Go away. Cruelty to a dumb animal, this is. Go and mither some other poor soul.’
‘It’ll be tomorrow if you don’t shift. There’s stuff to be done, Frank.’
‘Oh, God.’
‘He’s not in. It’s only me, the woman you spent the night with. Sit up immediately, if not sooner.’
Frank, whose hair was doing a fair imitation of a burst cushion, dragged himself up. He glanced at his breakfast and did a quick double-take at the monumental pile. ‘What on earth is that supposed to be? I’ve heard of these high-rise flats, but—’
‘It’s a full English on butties.’ She pointed to the large server plate heaped high with sandwiches. ‘This was what you asked for when you had a meeting, and you’ve got a meeting this morning, so I used common sense and a butter knife.’
‘Where’s the meeting?’
‘Magistrates’ court. Sergeant Stoneway had a load of people down the cop shop in the night, got them dragged out of their beds cos two blokes came to take Brennan away. They said they were from Prestwich Mental Hospital, but they weren’t. They are psychiatrists, though, but from Jersey, so he can prove they were lying. It means he can work a bit longer towards his pension. They had a court order, and he disobeyed it, but he’s OK, cos they were telling lies, see.’
See? See? He could scarcely see at all. Frank was not a morning person. He was one of those annoying types who come to life at midnight and keep you awake by spouting politics and religion, plus his speciality: the rights of children and the elderly in society. ‘Do I know you?’ he asked. ‘Have we been introduced?’
‘I should bloody well hope so. That left hand of yours can shift, I’m telling you. My name’s Dorothy. I’m Dorothy Kennedy, spinster of the parish of St Anthony, Scotland Road, Liverpool.’
‘Eh?’
‘I was baptized Dorothy Joan, shortened to Dolly. I didn’t like Dolly, so I kept the olly, dropped the D and put a P on it when I was five.’
‘You peed on it when you were five?’
She smiled sweetly.
‘You peed on your name?’
‘I did. Speaking of which, there’s a bucket of tea for you on the windowsill, the biggest mug I could find – it holds just over a pint, but I think I spilled some. Now shape. I’ve cancelled the second breakfast sitting downstairs, but I need to be back for dinners, and so does Cal. See you in court.’
Alone, he opened the first sandwich. Two plump pork sausages placed in a V sign were the sitting tenants. On the other side of the gigantic plate, a single open slice was covered by a fried egg with eyes, nose and mouth in brown sauce turning the yolk into a face. She was a little devil. I LOVE YOU in small strips of streaky bacon travelled round the edge of the platter. The letters were square-ish, but their meaning was clear. She was a little angel.
He didn’t want to go home; he wanted to stay here. Daft breakfasts, lack of space, poor Cal, loud neighbours – all these served to make him feel alive. As for Polly . . . He grinned. Polly was perfect. She was playful, quickwitted, hardworking and a sight for sore eyes.
His right hand was a lot better. But if he pretended it wasn’t, he might stay again tonight, get Cal drunk and snoring, come back to this very bed and show her who was boss. He stopped chewing for a moment. There was absolutely no question about who was boss. She was, and always would be. Ellen had been in charge just occasionally, God bless her.
He ate a bit of bacon. There could be no doubt about Scotland Road women; they knew how to teach a man his place and keep him there. Exceptions existed, of course, but the general rule was Don’t tell the wife how much I’ve had to drink, she’ll kill me. Don’t tell her I put that quid on a horse and Remember, I was with you playing cards for matchsticks. Frank liked strong women. The concept of getting past a strong woman was exciting. Would he get past her or would he die trying? She had a wisdom that went far beyond the reach of academia; soaked into her bones were at least two generations of Scotland Road life preceded by centuries of old Ireland.
He was in love. He’d been in love for a while, but now that the feeling was reciprocated, he hovered on the brink of delirium. Mother would throw a fit, but that couldn’t be allowed to matter. If she disowned him, he had plans of his own. And yes, he was going to court. It would be a short session, just the accused’s name and address, the charge, and the magistrates’ decision that the case needed to go up to the Crown Court. Although this was all a formality, dozens would squeeze in just to hear the words when the charge was read out.
The chances of a case against a priest reaching the Crown Court were minimal. But Frank had contacted local presses, who would pass the information on to nationals. Brennan’s character would be mud by tomorrow, and his employers would come under close scrutiny. And it was all deserved. The Church needed to sing for its supper, in Latin if necessary.
In the bathroom he found some of Cal’s old shaving equipment, and he did his best, though the process left him looking rather swarthy and interesting. Wearing yesterday’s shirt didn’t bother him, though he drew the line at underpants. None of Cal’s clothes were up here; they were currently housed in built-in cupboards at each side of the fireplace downstairs. Right. What to do now?
He raided his fiancée’s drawers and went through her drawers. She had some nice ones, lacy and silky (several with matching bras), but he opted for white cotton with a double gusset. Discovering that women were a shape completely different from males caused little surprise. The waist pinched, as did the top of the legs parts, but at hip level he had material to spare. ‘Oh well, vive la différence,’ he muttered.
‘What the hell are you doing, Frank?’
He turned round. ‘Borrowing knickers. Is it a crime? One question. Where’s the gap at the front? How am I supposed to . . . What’s the matter with you now? Are you drunk at the crack of dawn? I’m marrying no alcoholic. A chocoholic mother’s enough, believe me. She should be awarded shares
in Cadbury’s, Fry’s and . . .’ His voice died, though he refused to allow himself to laugh.
Polly, in the doorway, was sinking helplessly to the floor. ‘There is no gap. Girls don’t need a gap.’
He shook his head sadly. ‘See? I learn something new every day. Have you any scissors up here? You must have some with all your hairdressing equipment. I need a gap.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Show me what I have to do to manage this lot, then. It’s definitely not suitable for a man of my calibre.’
‘Oh, bugger off. I’m not fiddling with your credentials. Get dressed. Cal’s ready in his chair, and you’re the pusher. You can go out the front way, cos I’ve just been and told people in the cafe you were in the middle room with Cal. Your car’s outside.’
‘I can’t push with this hand,’ he told her.
‘Then I’ll push.’ She left him and walked down the stairs. If he so much as glanced at her in court, she’d burst out laughing and get done for contempt or some such thing. She imagined introducing him to people. ‘This is my intended, and he has no gap.’
They followed the crowd down the road in the direction of town. Polly’s inclination to laugh deserted her, because this was serious business. At the front marched the exhausted parents of the child in hospital, with Johnny and Kathleen, his uncle and aunt. A strange silence accompanied the throng as it moved towards the courthouse. This was indeed serious business; even Ida Pilkington and Hattie Benson were quiet for a change.
They were ten deep outside the small civic building. When a car eventually pulled up, Brennan was helped out with a blanket over his head. ‘Traitor,’ the crowd called. ‘Child killer,’ shouted a woman near the front. Then they all stepped aside for the cameras. They wanted the cameras. They wanted his malice spread all over newspapers, spoken about on every radio station, included in news programmes on TV and in cinemas.
Polly stayed outside with Cal. There wasn’t much room inside, and there was no wheelchair access, though her real reason was probably knickers. Yes, it was a solemn occasion, but she often laughed involuntarily when nervous. For a few minutes, she nursed the suspicion that Frank might have played to the gallery if she had been there to be the gallery – oh, he was a case. She pictured him pulling at the waist elastic and grimacing at her, wriggling a bit and simulating pain. But no. His interest in the encouragement and care of children was intense. Even the pain in his hand was evidence of sorts, since he’d been the man who’d stopped Brennan with a vicious and triumphant upper cut to the jaw. She was proud of him.
A Mersey Mile Page 8