Abigale Hall

by Forry, Lauren A

  A red door opened in an alley a few feet away. Peter hoped to see Stephen, but it was only a drunken couple sent running by the rain. Peter checked his watch. What time had Stephen gone in? It had to be at least half an hour ago. Twenty minutes, certainly. Maybe only fifteen but no fewer than that.

  Michael talked only to Peter about the war, and his stories were very different from John and Samuel’s tales of derring-do and amorous French girls – but John and Samuel hadn’t been POWs. Michael said war wasn’t about action, bravery or romance, but waiting – how his squad would march hours upon hours over frozen French soil, waiting to be shot at, then camp in their foxholes, mending their socks or rereading letters from home, waiting to be bombed. Michael said when the air was still, it was like you could see Death walking amongst the trees and barbed wire and you kept watching for him to turn and point his blackened finger at you. Michael said he still saw Death. He came for him in his dreams, chastising him for living when so many others had died. Peter wondered if Death wore a blue and yellow cap.

  A girl in a turquoise dress hurried past him using a newspaper to shield her hair. She stopped on the opposite corner, and turned towards the building to light a cigarette. It was difficult to see her in the dim light and incoming fog, but the dress looked similar to the one Jessie wore on their date. She even wore her hair the same way. But what girl didn’t have victory rolls nowadays? Peter stepped forward to get a better look. A private car drove past, splattering his trousers. It stopped in front of the girl and, after a moment’s conversation, she climbed inside, discarding the wet newspaper on the pavement. He tried to catch another glimpse of her through the rear window when someone whistled.

  It was Stephen, leaning in the open, red doorway. He lit a cigarette then beckoned Peter over.

  ‘Do what I say, when I say it. All right?’

  Peter watched the car drive off.

  ‘Oi, ginger.’

  ‘Right. Sorry.’ Peter followed him into a dark, narrow hall. One exposed bulb dangled from the ceiling, illuminating cheap wallpaper that peeled at the creases and corners. A thin black carpet beneath his feet reeked of fag smoke, liquor and urine.

  At the end of the hall was a little booth – a coat check where a woman whose peroxide-blonde hair and layers of pancaked make-up made her severe age more pronounced. Before her sat a small tin ashtray filled with a few soiled coins. She tapped the tray with a finger ringed in costume jewellery as they passed.

  ‘Leave it, Marjorie,’ Stephen said.

  Peter’s unease grew as Stephen led him up a maze of creaking wooden stairs. Unmarked doors surrounded them at every corner. Always know your exits, Michael said, but Peter could see nowhere out of here. ‘Are you sure . . . ?’

  ‘If ol’ Bess was into gambling then these would be the people who’d know.’

  Peter wanted to ask why Stephen couldn’t ask for him, why he had to come at all. His cowardice must have been obvious. Stephen clapped a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You want the truth, aye? What if Mosley was lying to you? Don’t want to be taken for a fool, do you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ It had happened too many times already.

  ‘Of course not.’ Stephen patted him on the back. Muffled music and conversation seeped into the hall from behind a black door. ‘Now you don’t owe these lads anything. So, you’ve nothing to worry about.’

  Stephen showed him into a large, windowless room filled with crowded tables covered in cards, poker chips and drinks. Ladies in tight, brightly coloured dresses sat in the laps of men with wrinkled suits and loosened ties. A layer of smoke drifted up from their cigarettes and ashtrays, collecting at the nicotine-stained ceiling. A phonograph in the corner scratched out a Glenn Miller tune barely audible over the chatter and laughter of the punters. Stephen guided Peter to a makeshift bar at the back where a pockmarked barman served what looked to be homemade spirits.

  ‘Matthew.’ Stephen leaned against the counter. The barman nodded. Peter tried to act casual, but his arms felt clumsy and unnatural. He settled for standing beside Stephen, arms crossed.

  ‘What now?’ he asked.

  ‘We wait.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Until the boss is ready to see us.’

  ‘I thought that’s what I was waiting outside for.’

  ‘You were waiting outside till I could get you in. Now we wait for the boss.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Have a drink. More nervous than a virgin in a brothel.’ Stephen looked him up and down. ‘Then again . . .’

  ‘Beg pardon?’

  ‘Have a drink.’ Stephen nodded to the barman and a glass of liquor was placed before Peter. Tiny unidentifiable specks floated within the off-white liquid.

  ‘Took my pain pills,’ he lied.

  Stephen shrugged and drank it himself. As they waited, Peter tried to relax. The gamblers seemed like normal-enough people, the kind who came to the Palladium for a show and needed a place to go after the pubs closed. He could imagine he was at the theatre now where he knew every aisle, every row, every exit. But the heat of the room was causing his wet clothes to steam and the smoke itched his eyes, clouding his vision. His mind grew foggy. The questions he wanted to ask about Bess – so perfectly formed when he woke this morning – now became jumbled, some disappearing completely.

  After several minutes, he noticed people staring at him. Eyes would glance in his direction then dart away as the person shifted in his chair. It happened several times before Peter realised they weren’t looking at him but at his companion. Stephen seemed unaware of the glances, playing nonchalantly with his lighter as they waited.

  Peter’s cluttered mind began to drift. There was something about this smoky haze – so much like fog – and the way it clouded the dim electric lights, causing an indistinct glow. And Stephen, the way his brutish hands fiddled with the lighter . . .

  A door slammed. Peter caught sight of it at the other end of the gambling hall as it bounced off the wall. A blonde woman in a red dress hurried out, still adjusting her undergarments. A short man with thinning, slicked-back hair, dressed in a white button-down shirt but no jacket or tie, appeared in the doorway, zipping up his trousers. He scanned the tables before resting his eyes on Stephen. He nodded and disappeared into the back room.

  ‘Here we go.’ Stephen slipped the lighter into his pocket. Peter followed closely as they navigated the mishmash of tables to reach what he now saw was an office.

  Inside, the man leant back against his desk, lighting a cigarette. Stephen closed the door behind them.

  ‘You must be Peter.’ The man extended his hand. His skin was tough and smooth and cold. Wet from the condensation on his glass. It felt to Peter the way a shark’s would.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Angelo. Stephen says you work with him at the Palladium?’

  ‘I used to.’

  ‘Yes, Stephen told me about that, too. Good thing you still have that apprenticeship. You middle-class folk have it all sorted out. But we’re not here to discuss social politics, are we?’ Angelo moved slowly back and forth across the room, leaving a trail of cigarette ash in his wake. ‘I’m told you’re an acquaintance of dear Bess Haverford.’

  ‘I am. Or, I was.’

  ‘My wife took her life the same way. Women, eh? So, what is it you wanted to know? Stephen was a bit . . . fuzzy on those details.’

  ‘Well . . . that is, I’ve been told Bess was a gambler, sir. Or fond of it.’

  ‘Old girl owe you money? Is that it?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. Only, it was her niece that I was close to.’

  ‘Didn’t know she had any family.’

  ‘She, well, see . . . thing is . . . I, that is . . .’

  ‘I haven’t got all night, Peter.’

  ‘Right. Yes. I believe she may have sold her niece, to pay off her debts to you. Sir.’

  Angelo stopped. ‘I never said she owed me.’

  ‘No. Of course not. Beg
pardon. But, if she did owe money, to someone, how would, that is, would she have got in contact with the people that offered her the, well, deal? That is what I’m hoping to learn, you see. Sir.’

  Angelo crossed his arms. ‘Now, how would I know a thing like that?’

  ‘Well, of course, I don’t know that you do. But Stephen said . . . Perhaps if you knew other people who ran such establishments then perhaps they might know.’

  ‘Hm. Yes, yes, I think I understand now. So you want to get in touch with these people in Wales, I think it is? Now, if I were privy to such information, how much would it be worth to you?’

  ‘Worth, sir?’

  ‘How much would you be willing to pay for it? What would you be willing to do?’

  Peter’s mouth went dry. ‘Stephen didn’t say—’

  ‘Stephen is not in a position to negotiate on my behalf. Are you, Stephen? Now,’ Angelo resumed pacing, ‘I could ask you for money, but to be fair, I’m earning plenty from those punters out there. If it’s all the same to you, Peter, I’d like to ask a favour of you. Would that be agreeable?’

  ‘I suppose it would depend on what the favour was.’

  ‘Ha! Smart boy. I like you. Yes, I like you. Well, let’s see. Let’s see what would be fair. Yes, I know.’ He walked behind his desk and wrote on a piece of paper. ‘Bess may or may not have owed me money, but there are others who certainly do.’ He handed Peter the paper. It was an address in Blackfriars. ‘There’s a man there who owes me two hundred quid. You get me that money, I’ll make sure you get your information.’

  The note quivered in Peter’s grip, fluttering like a moth’s wings.

  ‘What do you say?’ Angelo held out his hand.

  In war, Michael said, a man had to make sacrifices for others as well as himself. A real man could do that and anyone who couldn’t should be shot for cowardice.

  ‘Well?’

  *

  The address of the man’s flat sat in his pocket. Peter needed to leave soon if he was to make good time, but there was one more thing he wanted to carry, something for luck. From inside his sock drawer, he pulled out the small case which had sat there for so long. It opened with a little click. The engagement ring glittered in the black velvet lining. He snapped the box shut and slipped it into his pocket. There was no more time for cowardice.

  The bomb-damaged streets and long queues in Blackfriars were much the same as in any other part of London. Signs of slow rebuilding could be seen in the stacks of disused iron stretchers piled on the edges of pavements, waiting to fence in unfinished estates Peter was sure had waiting lists as long as his arm. Would Eliza want to live here? Or would she prefer the suburbs? Maybe Richmond or his own Shepperton?

  Construction workers sat on the edge of the scaffolding, chewing on sarnies from tin pails, watching Peter as he walked past. What was he doing, they probably wondered, walking around down here in a suit and tie while they wore overalls and steel-tipped boots? Their voices fell from the scaffolding as they gossiped like housewives about the awkward boy in the ill-fitting clothes. He couldn’t hear their exact words, but he knew they must be talking about him. He drew up his coat collar and continued on.

  He had memorised the address and worked out directions using the A–Z, but his was a pre-war version. Some streets he needed were closed for repair, missing their signs or completely blocked by bomb debris. After circling Borough Tube station twice, he ducked into an off-licence for directions. He half expected the shopkeeper to raise an eyebrow when he heard the address, say, ‘Oh, you’re going to see him, are you?’ The only response Peter received was a set of complicated instructions scribbled on the back of an old receipt. He felt the man’s eyes on him as he left, but when he turned back, the shopkeeper was busy with a customer.

  Despite the cool air, Peter’s palms became sweaty and smudged the pencilled directions. The weather continued to turn the closer he came to the address, the darkening sky making the buildings loom taller and shadows stretch longer. All the walking emptied his stomach and made his mouth terribly dry. He debated making a quick stop at the next pub, but before he came across one, he stumbled upon the building.

  A discarded newspaper drifted across his path and an air of abandonment permeated the entire street. He reread the address. This was the right place. It was a brown Victorian house now split into flats, the higher windows boarded up, smoke damage staining the bricks. Chunks torn out by shrapnel littered the façade.

  The man might not be home, he told himself. He might not be home, then Peter could return to his flat and forget the whole ordeal, at least for today. He rang the buzzer then wiped his damp hands on his trousers. It was a few minutes before the door opened. A mole-like old woman with thick glasses stared up at him in silent regard. Peter’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

  ‘Afternoon, ma’am. I’m looking for Mr Cooper?’

  The woman walked away, leaving the door open behind her. Peter was overwhelmed by the stench of cat urine as he entered. The mole stopped and pointed to a poorly painted door then toddled off down the hall to a kitchen. A chorus of meows increased in number and volume as the woman approached, barely silenced when she slammed the door behind her.

  Peter knocked where she had pointed. Blue paint flecked his knuckles.

  ‘Come in! Come in!’

  Peter saw no one as he descended the steps. Stubs of lit candles sat on the floor, table and mantelpiece. A pile of rags on the bed rose to greet him.

  ‘Sorry ’bout the light there, guv’nor. Bit short of coins for the meter. Now, lad, what can I do for yeh?’ The man had a hump in his back which made him stoop low, a web of broken red veins on his nose and an unkempt beard which covered the lower half of his face. The rags he wore were of an old army uniform.

  ‘Are you Mr Leslie Cooper?’

  ‘Aye, that I am. Captain Leslie Cooper, retired. First cavalry. You in the cavalry, lad?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve never been on a horse.’

  ‘Pah!’ The man dismissed Peter with a wave of his hand. He pulled a dented flask from his pocket and took a swig while he waddled back to bed. The smoke stung Peter’s eyes as they strained to see in the candlelight.

  ‘Sir . . .’

  ‘Never been on a horse. That’s what’s wrong with society today, I’ll tell you. Men sitting behind desks, no getting dirt under their pretty nails. Wouldn’t have been no war, I’ll tell you what, if each man in England were forced onto a horse. That’s the God’s honest truth, that is.’

  ‘Sir, Angelo . . .’

  At the mention of the name, Cooper froze – one leg in bed, one out. He took another drink.

  ‘Angelo says you owe him some money. I’m here . . . I’m here to collect it, sir.’

  Cooper sat down, the flask dangling from his fingers. ‘Go on and do it then,’ he whispered, not meeting Peter’s eye.

  ‘All right. Well, I’ll . . . if you show me where you keep your money, I can . . .’

  ‘I don’t have any money.’

  ‘Then, how can I . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t play with me, son. I don’t have the money. Angelo knows it, aye. Told him so meself only last week. So go on and do what yeh came here for. I won’t fight yeh.’

  Little tremors ran through Peter’s body, breaking him into tiny pieces. ‘No. No, I . . . I’m only here for the money.’

  ‘There ain’t no money, I told yeh. Now get on with it, else you’ll be in as much trouble as meself.’

  All he had to do was get the money. Pay back the debt. Then he could find Eliza. That was all he was asked to do. Cooper didn’t understand.

  ‘No. You have to have it. You have to. There has to be something, God damn it!’ Peter searched through the man’s things, tossing rubbish and clothes into the air. He had to make him understand. All he came for was the money. Only the money. It all came down to money. A soggy newspaper landed on a candle, extinguishing it with a small hiss. Peter stopped. The smoke in the room seemed heavier tha
n before. His eyes watered. Cooper regarded him with pity.

  Imagine that, Peter thought. He’s the one about to die and he’s pitying me.

  No, no one was going to die.

  If you don’t do it now, his voice said, someone else will. Someone less sympathetic. Someone who will make it hurt.

  Cooper waited, his eyes low and sunken like a dog’s. A wise old dog who knew why his master had brought him alone to a quiet wood, too obedient to run even at the sight of a shotgun. The fool. He was an absolute fool.

  ‘I won’t,’ Peter whispered.

  ‘No? What got you here, boy? You ain’t like his normal toughs. What’s he got on you? What do you owe him?’

  ‘Nothing. I owe him nothing.’

  Cooper smiled. Half his teeth were gone. ‘We all owe him something. Better to pay your debts now than wait for his reckoning.’ He rose from the bed and hobbled towards Peter. ‘Don’t worry. Killing a man is easy. You won’t ache too bad after.’ Cooper exposed his neck, offered it as sacrifice.

  ‘I can’t.’ Peter backed away. ‘I can’t. I won’t!’ He ran up the steps, knocking over candles.

  On the street, the overcast day blinded him. He squinted against it and ran, not caring what road, which direction. He reached the edge of a bombsite and nearly tumbled in. There was Mosley’s body – broken and bloody – resting at the bottom. He blinked and it was gone. He blinked and it was Cooper.

  He ran the other way. Buildings passed by in a blur. Voices shouted, at him, he didn’t know. His leg sent pain up to his back and down through his calf, but he had to keep running – from the house, from Blackfriars, from his idiotic, foolish self.

  Not war, not war, not war.