With Love From Ma Maguire

by Ruth Hamilton

  Molly rested her throbbing head against Ma’s thin shoulder. ‘No, I wouldn’t. But I’m not a Swainbank, so I don’t set store by the bloodline.’ She sighed, her breath trembling as if broken by a swallowed sob. ‘Oh, I’ll try to hold together. Only some days I feel like running, taking Daisy and Michael out of here before it’s too late. I’ll be all right. Just give me a minute—’

  Aye, a minute and then another. An hour or a day at a time got through in pain and anguish – how much more would the poor girl take? Ma felt as if a knife were being twisted in her own breast as she held on to the stiff, tense body of this woman she loved so much. What to say, though? Molly was right, there was no making it better, easier. They clung to one another for several seconds, then, without further conversation, each set about her nightly tasks.

  Paddy returned with his milk stout, cleared the table and began to deal with rolling pin and pastry. He was proud of his pie crust, pleased with the way he’d taken to cooking as easily as a duck to water. Weren’t some of the best cooks in the world men, after all?

  Janet arrived at about nine o’clock and immersed herself immediately in calculations, samples and price lists. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of new-baked bread and cooling pies by the time everyone settled down for cocoa. Too tired for small talk, the four of them sat in silence as the clock ticked its steady way towards bedtime.

  It happened with Yorick first. One minute he was lying across the rug, apparently trying to take up as much space as possible, then he was suddenly up and howling, the large yellow head raised as if baying at some unseen moon.

  ‘Whatever—?’ began Ma. The dog looked at her sadly – but Yorick was always sad – then fled beneath the table. He shivered violently. It was one of them, he knew it. One of them in trouble. Not here. Somewhere away from the house.

  ‘Daft hound,’ said Paddy. ‘He’s about as much use as a chocolate fireguard – I reckon if we had burglars, he’d run a flaming mile. Now he sets off hooting like a late train with too much steam—’

  ‘Leave him!’ snapped Ma. ‘There’s more to a dog than meets the eye. And he was no doubt having a bad dream, poor lad.’

  The stairway door flew open and Daisy swayed dangerously on the second step. ‘Joey?’ she cried, her voice strangled.

  Paddy leapt forward to catch her before she fell. ‘Another one with bad dreams,’ he said as he lifted his small daughter. ‘What’s matter, lass?’

  ‘Joey. Where’s Joey? All still now, Mam. Our Joey’s all still . . .’

  ‘It was a dream,’ Molly cried as she ran to Paddy’s side. ‘Just a nightmare, love.’

  ‘No.’ The lower lip trembled just as it always did before the tears came. ‘It was real.’

  Ma struggled to her feet and placed the cocoa mug on the mantelpiece as a car screeched to a halt outside. She stared hard into Daisy’s eyes, her own grandmother Gallagher’s eyes, before going to the door. The ultimate proof of Daisy’s sightedness was probably outside the house right this minute. Ma Maguire laid a hand on the gleaming brass latch just before the knock arrived. She should have listened to Daisy. They should all have listened to Daisy . . .

  He worked hard on the trike for an hour or more, replacing distorted mudguards, oiling and tightening the rusted chain, fiddling with a small brush to paint all the tiny nooks and crannies. Aye, the job was a good ’un. He stretched stiffened limbs and smiled at his handiwork as he thought of the delighted child who would receive this gift tomorrow. Joey would have given an arm and a leg for a toy like that when he was a kid. His grin broadened. With no arm and no leg – he’d not have been able to ride it, would he?

  Now for the stock. He walked through the back door and into the shop where he set about checking small equipment before improving his displays. People looking for a bike, whether new or secondhand, liked to handle the merchandise, have a good prod at a saddle, get their fingers round the handlebars for an idea of the feel of a machine. So he began to reorganize things, spread everything out, mount a few bikes on metal stands so that folk could get a better look at what they were buying.

  When the back door burst open, Joey stood dumbfounded, almost rooted to the spot by what he saw, three large hooded men wielding knives and bike chains – the latter likely picked up in his own back yard. ‘What do you want?’ He edged stiffly towards the front of the shop. ‘We’re shut and the takings are long gone – there’s nowt in the tills . . .’ He looked over his shoulder and through the window out on to the main road, hoping against all hope that someone would glance in and notice the bother.

  One of the three sprang forward and flicked off the lights, then they all surrounded him, legs apart and arms outstretched to discourage any attempt at escape.

  ‘Joey Maguire?’ asked one.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Is your name Joey Maguire?’

  ‘What if it is?’ He knew his voice was shaking while his legs threatened to give way at any minute.

  ‘We’ll ask the questions!’ The accent was Southern, possibly London. ‘We got orders, see? Some bleeder wants you done in, Joey. Booked a place in the great bike shop in the sky for you, they have. Shame, ain’t it? Only we got to do as we’re told. Nothing personal, old son. But orders is orders . . .’

  Joey heard himself blubbering, ‘Why? What for? I’ve done nowt, far as I know. Who—?’

  ‘Don’t need to have done a thing, mate. Just the fact that you’re here is enough, just the fact that you was ever born. See, Joey . . .’ He leaned against a wall, his tone conversational. ‘Fact is, you stand between Mr Fenner and a lot of dough.’ The man shrugged carelessly. ‘No contest. And where’s the other one? Usually here making curtains, ain’t she?’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean—’

  ‘We was expecting two of you – one in this room and the other through there. But yours was the only light.’ He jerked his head towards the door that connected Joey’s shop to Janet’s. ‘Your twin sister. Where is she? Only we’re on a double according to Fenner—’

  ‘But . . . hey . . . hang on a minute! I don’t know anybody called Fenner. Who the hell’s he when he’s at home? Never even heard the name. And I’ve got no twin sister.’ A bus rattled by and Joey glanced over his shoulder again, praying that some eagle-eyed passenger would notice what was amiss in the shop. But he held no real hope. The room was in semi-darkness now, illuminated only by the meagre glimmer borrowed from street lamps and a narrow beam from behind the shop where the door remained slightly ajar. ‘There’s been a mistake made,’ he went on, heart in his mouth. ‘You’ve come after the wrong Maguire.’

  ‘Naw.’ The spokesman shook his hooded head and pounded a black-gloved fist into the flat of his other hand. ‘Fenner don’t make mistakes – except when he backs a lame nag about every other meeting. It’s a fair cop, Joey. We gotcher and we ain’t gonna let go. More than our lives is worth, see? But it’s not personal, like I said before. It’s a contract. A question of my word what I gave in good faith. And me being a gentleman – well – I never break my word.’ He raised a huge arm.

  ‘No!’ Joey cowered against the door, hands coming up automatically to shield his face.

  They laid into him systematically, fists, boots, bike chains, then finally, a single slash of the blade across his neck. And all the time, Joey’s main feeling was one of absolute confusion and disbelief. Why him? Oh God, it hurt like hell! Why him, though? A steel-toed boot caught him in the groin and he folded instantly to the floor. Then a knife flashed in the miserly light, slicing neatly through the flesh of his throat. Bikes tumbled and crashed down as Joey writhed in agony, his world collapsing about ears already dulled by pain. As complete darkness descended, a last disjointed thought flitted across his tormented mind. This was retribution. For Witchie Leason . . .

  Charles sat in the conservatory, a sheet of plans laid out before him on a white-painted wrought iron table. The insurance was cleared and, with a bit of juggling, he’d have the latest looms installed w
ithin six months. He sighed deeply and stretched long legs. Things in general were not looking good. For a start, there was this Hitler chap promising to stir up trouble by trying to take over half of Europe. And the last cotton meeting had gone on for hours, a roomful of old men speculating gloomily about Eastern imports and whether or no the government would keep a rein on them. Would there be a flood of foreign cloth within five or ten years? Would Lancashire be able to compete, was this the beginning of the end for Bolton traders, should everyone think not of expanding, but rather of cutting costs and drawing in horns? Miserable old buggers, they were, all cotton and no fun, having the bloody wake before there was a body to bury. No guts, no imagination.

  He heaved himself to his feet and wandered about among Amelia’s plants, all lovingly tended now by Emmie, all thriving and healthy in spite of their mistress’s absence. Why should they live their stupid immobile lives when those of real value had been taken? But no, he wouldn’t smash anything else. And she’d loved those plants, he could never hurt or destroy things so dear to Amelia’s heart.

  He paced the narrow area, listening to the hollow sound of his shoes against the red ceramic tiled floor. Life was becoming no easier. Since the fire, some hadn’t wanted to know him, had treated him as something of a Jonah. Even with the noise of machinery all around, he sometimes sensed a layer of silence as he entered a shed, could almost reach out and touch the atmosphere created by his presence in their midst. It wasn’t all of them, just a group here and there, the odd few who seemed to think he was some kind of bad luck charm.

  Klaus growled and Charles stroked the animal’s head absently. ‘Are memories so short?’ he asked his canine companion. ‘All behind me when the boys died, sympathetic when I lost my wife . . . but now?’ He shrugged and looked down at the dog. ‘One of their own has died, Klaus. One of their own.’

  A sharp rapping at the window caused the dog to growl again while Charles peered out into the darkness before opening the door. ‘Who’s there?’

  Out of the shadows stepped the familiar man in black, the same hat pulled well over the eyes, that perennial raincoat belted tightly against his thin body.

  ‘Lucas?’

  The man crept forward and entered the conservatory, pulling the door tightly behind him. ‘Don’t say my name, sir. I’ve brought some information you might need.’

  ‘Oh yes?’

  The visitor glanced quickly over his shoulder and through the window into a blackness too heavy for any human eye. ‘I’m not really being over-cautious, Mr Swainbank. I’d be no use to anybody if I got noticed. And what I’ve found out could affect me as well as others—’

  ‘Then I suggest you pass it on quickly.’ Charles could feel his patience slipping. This caricature of a spy was almost laughable, though Charles had not been inclined towards hilarity for some time now. ‘Well? What is it? Is old Leather-barrow about to undercut me by a mile?’

  Lucas flattened himself against a wall and reached for the light switch. Then he whispered into the dimmed room, ‘The boy you were interested in – Joey Maguire—’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘There’s a contract out on him and his sister.’

  Seeds of fear quickly rooted themselves in Charles’s mind and he felt a chilly finger travelling the length of his backbone. ‘Contract? What do you mean by a contract? This is hardly Chicago—’

  ‘Money. Some quite big London money. I took the liberty of paying high for this information on your behalf, sir. The name’s Fenner, Marcus Fenner. Seems he got his hands on a largish gambling win and chose to spend it this way. They’re after a couple of corpses, Mr Swainbank. Cash on delivery, I understand.’

  Charles backed away from the carrier of this news. ‘But . . . but this is ridiculous! Why would Fenner . . . ? How would he . . . ? Oh no! Dear God, no!’ Like a white-hot knife, the assessment of what must have occurred cut into his brain, burning through fear and confusion instantly. He shook his head frantically. ‘That scheming conniving bitch! I left the bloody thing in my desk! She must have gone through everything . . .’

  Lucas stepped closer and placed a hand on Charles’s arm. ‘Sorry I couldn’t let you know earlier, but I’ve been away and only found out myself this evening. It cost me . . .’

  ‘I’ll pay! What the devil’s going on?’

  ‘They’ve arranged for him to work late, sent in a rush job for him to do. The girl usually stays behind on a Friday night, but they wanted the pair. He works with bikes?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘They’ve given him plenty to do, probably watched them both till it went dark—’

  ‘Christ! What if Janet’s there too? What if—’

  ‘I think we should get down there, sir, try to put your mind at rest. Because I phoned the police, rang in anonymously with the tip-off. I’d rather not get too involved, you understand.’

  They dashed out of the house and through the grounds. Charles started up the car engine as soon as they were seated, screeching off down the drive almost before the doors were closed.

  ‘Slow down, Mr Swainbank! The police are on to it – and there’s no point in arriving dead, is there?’

  ‘How much?’ The voice, unlike the driving, was cold and controlled.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘How much are they paying for my . . . for those two lives?’

  Lucas hung on grimly as they careered down the road on the wrong side, the vehicle brushing against overhanging greenery, tyres spinning on the verge from time to time. ‘A couple of thousand, I reckon. Could be more.’

  Charles screamed round a corner on two wheels. How much for a life, Mr Swainbank? Yes, he could hear her now, what price a life, what price an eye . . . ? And it was his fault, all of it. How many children would he kill? His boys in a fancy sports car, Ronnie Bowles in a mill fire, Joey and Janet Maguire because of a will he’d failed to conceal.

  Janet. He shivered convulsively. Let her be alive, he prayed, shoulders hunched over a tightly gripped wheel. Spare her, let it not be her! So much store he’d set by sons, carriers of the line, the great makers of continuity. But a daughter? Yes, that particular daughter had made him think, filled him with hope, despair, love. Janet Maguire had restored his ability to feel, had caused his blood to warm and flow, had allowed him to remember pain and joy in a heart so completely deadened by misery.

  He shuddered to a halt on Bradshawgate just as an ambulance pulled away, a loud bell proclaiming that its cargo was alive. Hurt, perhaps dying . . . With his head in his hands, Charles began to rock back and forth, unable to contain in his mind the knowledge that he had arrived too late. Lucas crouched down in his seat as a policeman approached the car and knocked on the window.

  ‘Sir?’ The constable’s voice arrived muffled by glass.

  Charles turned the handle and took a deep breath of air once the window was lowered. ‘What happened?’ he managed.

  ‘Not sure, sir. Oh, it’s Mr Swainbank, isn’t it? Friend of yours, this lad?’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the shop.

  ‘Yes. A friend. Was he alone? Was anyone else in there with him?’

  The policeman shuffled uneasily from foot to foot. ‘Not supposed to discuss it at this stage. But being as it’s you – yes, there was just the one.’

  Charles swallowed. ‘The ambulance bell – he isn’t . . . ?’ Sweat poured from his brow as he waited for an answer.

  The officer drew a thoughtful hand across his chin. ‘How did you know about this, sir – if you don’t mind me asking, like?’

  ‘One of your superiors. I’ve an . . . interest in the shop, you see.’

  ‘Aye well. I don’t know as how your investment will pay off, Mr Swainbank. There wasn’t a lot of that boy left, just hanging on, poor beggar. We must have disturbed whoever did it, else they’d likely have stopped on to make sure he was out of it altogether. It was plain enough they meant to finish him off, I can tell you that for nowt. But I reckon they got away over the backs when they hea
rd us coming. Likely after what was in the till, then decided to clobber the lad in case he recognized them. Shocking, it is. I don’t know what this world’s coming to at all. Good kid, that. I got a nice bike off him for my daughter only a few weeks back—’

  Charles nodded. ‘Where have they taken him?’

  ‘Infirmary. They’ll have a go at stitching him up, see what’s wrong inside—’

  ‘Stitching him up?’

  The constable nodded sadly. ‘Throat cut ear to ear, sir. Only they’ve happen missed the main artery or he’d have been well away by now. Bloody bastards. I wish I could get my hands on them.’

  ‘Thanks, officer. I’ll be on my way—’

  He dropped Lucas at the corner by the Swan Hotel. ‘I’m grateful,’ he whispered before the man could do his disappearing act. ‘I’ll see you right in a day or two – there’ll be a package of money at the Post Office, usual box number. And . . . stand by, will you?’

  ‘I will.’

  Charles sped off towards School Hill, his eyes darting this way and that as he searched for whoever had committed this terrible crime. But how would he recognize them? Fenner would never do his own dirty work, probably worried too much about lily-white hands and years of imprisonment. ‘Don’t worry about prison, Marcus,’ he muttered beneath his breath. ‘I’ll keep you out of jail, old son.’

  He burst into number 34 without even pausing to knock. A lone figure sat hunched over the fire, body trembling, head in hands. On the couch lay a child, the same girl who’d been there last time, while a large yellow hound occupied the space beneath the table. ‘Paddy?’ Charles rushed to his side. Paddy!’

  The man looked up, eyes red-raw, cheeks tear-stained and haggard. ‘Mr Swainbank? Charlie?’ What was he doing here? Aye, they’d been in touch on and off over the years, bit of droving, bit of chauffeuring, a pie and a pint once in some country pub. But Charlie wasn’t really a friend, not what could be called a mate. ‘What do you want?’