Cowards Die Many Times

by Peter Hey

  COWARDS

  DIE

  MANY

  TIMES

  Peter Hey

  Cowards die many times before their deaths.

  The valiant never taste of death but once.

  Julius Caesar, William Shakespeare

  Also by Peter Hey

  When Beggars Dye: A Jane Madden genealogical mystery

  A forest with no trees

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies or events is entirely coincidental.

  © Peter Hey 2019 1.1.3E

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For my primary school headmaster and the first author I ever knew, Edward Ramsbottom. Sorry, sir.

  Also for Sophie. I’ll let you read this one.

  But this is not for you, Will. Sorry, Will.

  Once again, a mention for the boxer George Foreman. Remember, he doesn’t get too hung up on names, nor need you.

  ‘I named all my sons George Edward Foreman. And I tell people, “If you're going to get hit as many times as I've been hit by Muhammad Ali, Joe Frazier, Ken Norton, Evander Holyfield – you're not going to remember many names.”’

  I wouldn’t stress too much about dates either.

  Contents

  Prologue

  The churchyard

  The crystal sea

  Another favour

  The fire truck

  The trident

  The minister’s wife

  The boy who was born twice

  The old DS

  Family reunion

  Guy’s cousin

  Hannah, Annie and Captain William H F P Bains

  Castle Garden

  Windows on a life

  Help

  Time out

  Unpleasantries

  Victorians

  The letter

  The angel

  As good as it gets

  Emma

  Shredding

  LostCousins

  Shared code

  The hospital ward

  The party

  Kids

  L.Y.

  Blackwell Holme

  The cross

  The Harlem River

  Stolen goods

  Twitching curtains

  The red light

  Collodion and albumen

  The digital camera

  The video call

  Liverpool

  The seagull

  The meeting

  Out and back again

  The leaving of Liverpool

  The Dennis

  Baptist ministry

  Taxi home

  Threads

  The archive

  Facts

  The gas lamp

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  A hint, a snapshot, a clue. Sometimes they’re all we have. And from those traces we elaborate and build. A vast edifice grows to tower over us. We live in its shadow. But the shallowest of foundations merely prick into sand. And then a wind blows and the earth rocks.

  You’re not the man I thought you were. You’re fake news, a cautionary tale, a fiction, a blot. You’re a ghost. I can’t let you haunt me anymore.

  The churchyard

  It was cold, the damp, clinging cold of his youth. It conspired with his memories and his guilt to make his eyes run with tears.

  The gravestone was more a marker than a memorial. Barely four inches high and wide, it carried no sentimental verses of love and loss, not even a name, just a pair of initials whose significance would eventually fade, no matter how durable the local gritstone in which they were cut.

  ‘Please forgive me, Lord.’

  He spoke the words out loud as he struggled to restrain his sobs. It was a name he had not called upon for years and had left his lips involuntarily. He looked up at the sky and realised he was alone, his soul lost to eternity. He mouthed a final farewell and turned his back.

  The churchyard sat on a small, flat hummock to one side of the valley bottom. Dark hills climbed all around and filtered into a sky hung heavy with dense grey cloud blackened by coal smoke. His destination lay across the stream and up a narrow lane that followed the course of a tributary, tiny but fast-flowing in all but the driest months. The village lay between, a long ribbon of two-up two-down terraces, a few shops and the imposing bulk of Graver’s Hall. Graver’s would be throbbing with activity, its walls vibrating to the tune of the engines within, but there would still be people on the streets who might recognise him. He raised the black fur collar of his heavy woollen coat and pulled his hat down low. He knew he had aged more than his decade of exile and hoped that would prove an effective disguise. In truth, the alien expense of his clothing distracted from the man beneath. He would be dismissed as a visiting industrialist, perhaps a manufacturer of tools and machinery. Local lads did not make good, certainly not the likes of him.

  The school was new to him. Much larger than the old building, its stonework still stood out buff and gold amongst the soot-stained buildings all around. Children were playing in the yard, running, jumping and clapping against the chill. The schoolmistress was by the gate, a heavy brass bell in her hand ready to signal the end of their freedom. He did not know her, and her charges were all too young to know him, so he allowed himself to pause as he walked past.

  The man’s eyes were immediately drawn to one boy leaning quietly against a wall. He looked taller, older than the rest. He seemed to be watching the others as if in some position of delegated authority. His blond hair and handsome features were also incongruous amongst the darker, plainer uniformity of the others. The man breathed deeply, sucking icy air into his lungs. The last time he had seen that face it had been cruelly scolded and burnt.

  And dead.

  He moved closer and addressed the schoolmistress. She answered his question without suspicion and confirmed what he already knew. The boy’s name matched the initials on the grave. It was the name of the body that lay beneath.

  The man’s mind entertained no thoughts of ghostly reincarnation. He simply nodded his gratitude and checked the boy’s address. Again the teacher was forthcoming. The man doffed his hat and continued on his way.

  The crystal sea

  It was hot, the unrelenting, draining hot of the region undersold as the Warm Coast. Despite being mid-May everything was already baked dry, everything but his skin, which constantly glistened with sweat. He wasn’t a young man and his claim on middle-age was becoming increasingly thin. His imposing bulk was going to fat, and on days like these he sometimes thought of returning to the more temperate climate of home. The people he had run from would surely be past caring, but what did he have to return to? It was years since his last visit and even then he had felt like a foreigner in his own country. He had changed but it had changed more. This was his home now, so he simply turned up the air conditioning and tried to avoid the midday sun. And had another drink, the curse of living life as a permanent vacation.

  He sat on the terrace of his villa, under the shade of a scarlet bougainvillea that had been coaxed around the open rafters of a wide veranda. Ahead of him, a flat expanse of dusty orange clay dotted with arid scrub sloped down to the water’s edge. The lagoon barely rippled. There were days when he rued the lack of waves and surf, but today it was at its most serene and beautiful, reflecting the sky like a vast sheet of glass. The distant edge of the mirror was a seemingly unending horizon of high-rise hotels and apartments. The Strip ran along a narrow sandspit that millennia of prevailing tides had dragged northwards until it s
tretched some 13 miles. In summer it swarmed with holidaymakers drawn by the contrast between the open ocean to one side and the calm inland sea behind. By night, it glittered like a wall of fairy lights, but its noise and bustle were too far away to disturb the sleepy quiet of this inner shoreline.

  He took in the view and wondered how he could ever consider leaving it. He placed his empty glass on the marble-topped table and checked his watch. He yawned. The heat made him lethargic, but that was not the reason for his lateness. He was not new to this game and he knew how to play.

  ‘Terri! I’m going out now. Shouldn’t be too long,’ he shouted. He waited but there was no reply. She was either asleep or ignoring him. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t there for her conversation.

  He reached for the white panama hat he would once have considered an affectation. He still wore his hair long but it was thinning at the crown. He also needed to protect the surgeon’s work on his face. The normally subdued scars shouted their presence if he allowed them to burn.

  The villa stood alone on a beak of land projecting into the bay. The town ended abruptly 100 yards away. Development had ceased during the last recession and the sellers of holiday homes still outnumbered the buyers. Whilst isolation suited him, it meant there was nothing but an unmade track leading to the end of the first road. In the winter rains, the deep, claggy clay could be almost impassable, but now it was iron hard and rutted.

  He walked past his nearest neighbour, known by everyone as the Shack. The owners had extended it over the years, including a modern kitchen and plumbing, but had managed to maintain its character as a ramshackle beach bar. Back in England he would have called it his local and as a regular customer he preferred to do business elsewhere.

  The seafront promenade was half a mile long and lined with tall palms, spaced to offer regular shade. It was early afternoon so there were only a few people on the sandy beach with a handful in the sea. He saw no faces he knew and kept walking till he reached the sailing club at the far end. He didn’t sail and didn’t like those who did. He was pretty certain they wouldn’t like him. It was here he chose to have his more difficult meetings.

  He recognised the convertible Mercedes parked alongside a high wall. The top was down and the black leather seats were coming into the full glare of the sun. He suspected the car had been there some time and the shadows had shifted. He allowed himself a smile and continued to the terrace at the rear of the building, where it overlooked a modern concrete harbour lined with boats.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he lied, his face betraying the true extent of his remorse. ‘Been here long?’

  A man in his early thirties was sitting at a café table under a large umbrella advertising a brand of vodka. He was wearing sunglasses, white linen trousers and a loose short-sleeved shirt in a subtle peachy pink. That he looked casually handsome was more down to expensive grooming and hours in the gym rather than fine features and bone structure. In front of him was a glass of colourless liquid that could have been mineral water or something stronger.

  ‘No, no, just got here myself,’ replied the younger man, before adding an almost immediate correction, ‘Well, I was here on time, obviously, but I’ve been enjoying the view. Very pleasant.’

  He adjusted his Ray-Bans nervously.

  The larger, older man pulled back a chair and lowered himself down. Even seated he looked menacingly big. ‘It’s what drew me to the place. I started out on the Strip, made some contacts,’ he said. ‘Then I found this place.’

  ‘Maybe a bit on the quiet side for me...’ The younger man made an apologetic gesture with his hands. ‘Just personal preference, obviously.’

  ‘Oh, I like quiet, Adam. You know, a nice quiet life, minimum of fuss. It’s too hot to lose your cool, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes. I agree.’ The man identified as Adam was avoiding eye contact and stroking the condensation down the side of his glass.

  ‘It really pisses me off when things disturb the… What’s the word?’ The older man stared across the table but was met by a blank face. ‘Equilibrium. That’ll do,’ he finished.

  Adam turned towards the marina and tried to steer the conversation onto a different course. ‘There are some lovely boats moored here.’

  ‘You a sailor, Adam? You look like a sailor to me.’

  ‘Well, when I was a boy my dad and I had a dinghy on the Thames. There was a yacht club in Teddington where we lived. One day I hope to have a decent-sized cruiser like the blue one over there. One day, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously,’ nodded the older man with only a hint of mockery. ‘Nice part of London, Teddington. Expensive. We didn’t do a lot of sailing where I grew up.’

  ‘Where was that? Where’s your home turf?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s any of your business.’

  The evenness of the response somehow underlined its rudeness and Adam’s face flushed.

  ‘Talking of business,’ continued the older man, ‘let’s get on with it. How’s that fancy bar of yours doing? Cash rolling in now?’

  ‘Look, we haven’t hit the high season yet. I’m still confident in the concept. Upmarket surroundings attract a better class of clientele. People who are prepared to pay top dollar. And I’m a good front man. I know how to relate to these people, create a good atmosphere. They want to party, I’ll give them a party.’ Adam was aware he had started to gabble and breathed deeply. ‘I just need a little more time.’

  The older man maintained his steady tone. ‘Against my better judgement, I gave you more time. I told you it was your last chance and now I want my money.’

  ‘Look, I just don’t have it yet. As you said yourself, this is business. There are risks. Investors don’t always get the returns they hoped for, certainly not in the short term. But I’m confident we’ll get the overall plan back on track.’

  ‘The banks refused to lend you the money so you came to me. I do my business differently. You may be a wet, middle-class kid from Teddington, but you knew who you were dealing with.’

  The younger man pressed his palms together as if in an act of prayer. ‘I don’t have the money. I can’t give it to you. Not yet. It’s as simple as that.’

  ‘There’s only one thing that’s simple round here. And it’s not me.’ The older man wiped his forehead and let his fingers trace the vestigial scarring above his right eye. ‘Let me explain things to you, Adam. Simply. I grew up in shit street, shit town. Now I’ve got a villa on the beach, a flash motor and a bird young enough to be my daughter. She’s not with me for my looks, is she now?’ He paused though not in expectation of a reply. ‘Do you think I’m a charity? Look at this face. Does it look like the face of a kind man, or a total, irredeemable bastard? Sell your car; sell your apartment; sell your wife for all I care. Get me my money or I’ll introduce your overprivileged arse to the world I come from.’

  The older man laid two massive forearms on the table. Crude, long-faded tattoos darkened the tanned leather of his skin like elaborate bruises. The younger man looked down at his own arms, cosmetically muscled in the gym. He kept his eyes lowered but visualised the large face whose unsettlingly dead-eyed stare was glaring into him. He saw cracks and lines and a sagging jawline. He saw hair more grey than black. He saw tiredness. But did he see doubt?

  As the older man walked back beneath the palm trees, the adrenaline dissipated and he began to notice the heat again. His feeling of success seemed to drain like the sweat from his pores. He could still intimidate, but there had been a palpable hesitation. Even posh pretty boys thought they could argue the toss now, for a while at least.

  There was a solitary bench in the shade and he sat down and placed his panama hat alongside him. He ran his fingers through his lank hair until he found the bare patch at the back. It felt as if it were glowing.

  The faintest of breezes was creating a gentle swell on the surface of the sea. In the middle distance, a lonely, conical island rose from the waters. In this light it looked completely devoi
d of vegetation. It was a uniform, dull brown. Not for the first time, it reminded him of the slag heaps that had blighted much of Britain’s industrial landscape during his childhood. In the intervening decades they had been flattened, grassed over, disguised. In that moment he saw that there was no hiding the ugliness that continued to dominate his own life. Material success and status earned through greed, selfishness and violence. He was a man who had abandoned those he loved and exploited everyone else. Perhaps it was time he thought about a different lifestyle. Perhaps the car and the girl would have to go. He wasn’t sure he’d miss them and he couldn’t keep doing this forever.

  Another favour

  ‘Hello, Janey. This is a pleasant surprise.’

  ‘Hi, Dave. Is it a convenient time? I can always call back later.’

  ‘No, now’s good. I was thinking about…’ There was a hesitation on the line. ‘Well, what can I do for you? Or are you just ringing up for a chat?’

  ‘Do embittered ex-wives normally phone their two-timing former husbands for a chat?’

  ‘Ouch, Janey. That was a bit strong.’

  He sounded genuinely hurt, uncharacteristically so: he wasn’t the sensitive sort. Jane felt obliged to backpedal, a little at least.

  ‘Sorry, only kidding. You know I’ve forgiven you for being a two-timing bastard. Well I haven’t really, but I’m going to pretend because I need to ask you another favour.’

  He seemed happy with the explanation. ‘Ha, ha. I love you too. Go on then, ask away.’

  It was her turn to be taken off-guard. ‘Just like that? I expected you to put up more of a fight. The last time I asked for your help you said it was precisely that, the last time.’

  ‘You’re always going to get round me in the end.’

  ‘But I’d got my arguments prepared and everything.’ She was suddenly wary of sounding flirtatious and her manner became more businesslike. ‘Look, Dave, it’s a personal matter this time. It’s about my father.’