A Mersey Mile (19 page)

‘Do you know, love, I never got nothing out of him. Bag of chips on a Friday, a smack in the eye of a Saturday night, loads of sweaty socks, and grime on his collars that thick I needed
holy water and a papal blessing to shift it.’

‘I know, kid. There’s not one of them to mend another. Bloody men? They should be locked up, most of them.’

‘Greg mustn’t get her back, Ida. She’s too good for most, so definitely a sight better than that yellow-belly.’ As for Cal, well, he had collected a pretty nurse, so to
hell with Lois Monk, but Hattie kept that to herself.

When the dinner-time crowd had left, Polly started to clear up. Linda had been right about the sideboard; covered in heat- and damp-proof material, it was a good halfway mark for dishes and
debris. He was back, damn him. And Frank was staying away because . . . ‘Because I’m a fool,’ she told a pile of dinner plates.

‘He’s turned up, then? The bad penny, I mean.’

She jumped. ‘Has that wheelchair got crêpe tyres? Sneaking up on me like that while I’m all of a dither – yes, Greg’s back.’

‘If I could walk, I’d kill him.’

‘And a lot of use that would be, our kid.’ She made the decision there and then. If Hattie had seen Lois, others would see her, and the news should come from Cal’s sister, his
one and only living relative. ‘Cal, Lois has been seen, too.’

He parked his chair. ‘Well, she’d better not waste my time, Pol. I’m not in the mood for folk who don’t know whether they’re coming or going.’ He picked up
his book and carried on reading about the malpractices of Jack the Ripper.

His sister, up to her elbows in washing-up water, considered spinsterhood. It wasn’t a pleasant prospect, but it was a damned sight better than finishing up like Hattie, who had often
sported a black eye, a cut lip, bruised arms. Polly retained no feelings whatsoever for Greg. The hurt had turned to anger, and the anger had dissipated like dew on a summer morning. He
didn’t matter, but he’d better not become a nuisance.

Someone knocked on the cafe door. ‘We’re closed,’ the siblings called.

The tapping was repeated, so Polly picked up a towel to dry her hands and walked through. A well-dressed and pleasant-looking woman stood outside. Polly surveyed her through the glass before
opening the door. ‘Yes? Can I help you?’

‘May I come in?’

‘Of course.’

They sat at one of the tables. ‘I won’t keep you. I’m Christine Lewis, and I’m looking for Frank Charleson.’

‘Oh?’ This was the housekeeper, then. This was the one who danced to the mooing of the old cow.

‘His mother asked me to collect rents for her, because Frank moved out recently. He’s looked after the business for years, so I wanted to ask him a few questions, get some hints and
tips.’

‘He’s not been here. I haven’t seen him for a while.’

‘Oh. Er . . .’

‘What?’

‘I thought . . . I just thought you and he were—’

‘Well, we’re not, because I can’t stand the woman you’re collecting rents for. When did he leave?’

‘Not very long ago. It was a Thursday. Mrs Charleson said he’d been out with you the previous evening and brought you to see her. He drove you home and returned in a temper. She was
very upset. Have you any idea at all where he might be?’

‘She sent you.’

‘No, no—’

‘If I knew where he was, I wouldn’t tell you. That bloody woman ruined my best friend’s life and robbed her of years she might have had if she hadn’t been mithered by Mrs
Moo.’ Polly lowered her tone. ‘My situation’s a bit like that; I have a vulnerable brother. He’s not got a bad heart, so he can’t be killed like Ellen was, but
he’s unable to walk for now, and I want him in good spirits. That’s why I turned Frank down, because I don’t want her in my life or within a mile of my brother. So if Frank does
come near, I won’t tell you. Sorry, Mrs Lewis, but if he’s cleared off, good luck to him.’

Christine Lewis found herself outside the shop; its door was locked, its blind was down, and window blinds were also being lowered. She suddenly began to approve strongly of Miss Polly Kennedy.
The young woman should have hung in there with Frank. Because Polly Kennedy feared no one. She might have been Norma Charleson’s albatross.

Somewhere outside Stone in Staffordshire, Eugene Brennan shivered in a barn. Staffordshire, if he remembered rightly when thinking of the geography of this godforsaken country,
was not very far south of Cheshire. Chester, the county town, was a hop from the Wirral, which was a ferry ride or a long swim from Liverpool. He was going in the right direction. In truth, he
would have liked to avoid Liverpool like the plague, but his money was there alongside other personal items he might need.

A pile of sacks that felt not too damp had to be his covering, while prickly hay, also covered in sacks, furnished him with a makeshift mattress. The right direction? He was wearing clothes
stolen from a washing line, had spent money taken from a purse in some careless woman’s kitchen, while the company he was keeping consisted of a bottle of Scotch and some scuttering things,
probably rats. Oh yes, and he had killed a man of God.

He dozed. The day had been warm, but the night was quite chilly, especially in this aged building. Constructed from wood, it owned many gaps and loose planks. Courting the edge of sleep was not
pleasant, because the dream threatened. Last night, in a deserted house in the middle of nowhere, he had lit a fire and slept in an old chair. Sleep was no place to hide.

The dream; oh God, yes, the dream. He was in his grey cell waiting for a grey man, one of many. A grey man himself, he was forced to wear the garb of a monk, as he had no change of clothing, and
his own garments were being cleaned after his bath. The plus side to uniform was that he wouldn’t be recognized immediately during his escape. On the wall over his bed, the pale shape of a
cross lingered, but any incomer would not notice the missing Christ crucified, as the bunk was not facing the door in this cramped container.

The ordained priest lifted the weighty object and brought it down on the skull of one of the brethren just as the monk placed a tray on a tiny table. His victim did not fall; surprisingly,
frighteningly, he turned to face his attacker. What followed would leave an indelible mark on the mind of Brennan, and an unsightly one on the face of the doomed brother.

An arm of the cross fixed itself in the man’s sun-starved face. It broke his cheekbone, entered the eye socket and remained there. Brennan was welded to the spot, crazy thoughts running
through a maze in his brain while he watched his visitor sink to the floor. It was an inside monk, because the skin was not weathered; other monks tilled the soil and grew vegetables, but this one
clearly didn’t. There was very little blood. There was very little blood because the first blow had stopped his heart. A dead man had managed to turn and face his killer. Had this been a
miracle?

He bent over the still form and removed a leather belt. The key was his. He had the key at last, and he was a murderer. What he didn’t have was the memory of inflicting the second blow.
Had Satan made it happen?

Getting through the front door was easy; getting out of the grounds was not. A hefty man, Brennan took a while to climb over a wall and its added railings, but he finally managed it. As he
hurried along a country lane, he heard a bell tolling. His victim had been found. The order would not be silent today, as its members would be forced to talk to police.

He left the lane and scurried through fields and hedges, climbed walls, dragged his exhausted body across a shallow stream. Water was good; dogs lost their bearings near water. From a washing
line in the garden of a cottage, he stole clothes. In a copse, he hid the grey garment given to him in the monastery and donned ill-fitting trousers, shirt and cardigan.

Again, he travelled, trying to keep the afternoon sun to his left, as he needed to progress northward. From another cottage, he stole money and food. As a murderer, he would be hunted by every
force in England. As a murderer, he might well face Albert Pierrepoint, the hangman who had dispatched those found guilty at Nuremberg. His face would be in every newspaper . . .

In the cold barn, he fell asleep eventually and relived once more the killing of a dedicated, decent man. But this time, Christ was made flesh, climbing off the cross and growing to full height.
He stood in bloodied garments between priest and monk. ‘Thou shalt not kill,’ He said before disappearing from the scene.

Brennan woke screaming. He had broken a commandment that carried an extra clause: no confessor could forgive him, no priest would be able to cleanse his soul until he answered first to the law
of the land. He was doomed. If he arrived at suburbs, his screams would definitely be heard. The owner of the off-licence from which he had bought whisky might well remember the oddly dressed man.
He needed a beard. He needed to lose weight. Moving more and eating less, he would achieve the latter, while the former would take care of itself.

All this mess had been caused by a young thief who had entered sacred territory to steal from the vestry. ‘All this for half a crown,’ he mumbled. ‘All this for a worthless
young whippersnapper.’

Morning came. Bleary-eyed and weak, he staggered on, avoiding civilization, steering clear of cows and horses, as such animals were often accompanied by humans. Within a couple of days, he had
become a man without a job, without a redeemable soul, without a future. Eugene Brennan was now a murderer on the run, a tramp, a vagabond. He might as well hang for a sheep. Billy Blunt, St
Anthony’s parish, Scotland Road, Liverpool. But before Eugene could go anywhere or do anything, the screaming had to stop.

Dr Shaw (Pest Senior) returned. He perched on the couch while Billy played on the floor. ‘Right, Pest Junior. What’s going on? I’m told you want to talk to
me.’ The bed had been returned to its rightful place upstairs. ‘Do you still have the trap?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you use it?’

Billy nodded. ‘Yes, and it works. But the dream changed.’ He put down a small fire engine. ‘I’m getting a dog, but it’s not long borned. When they get borned, you
have to wait six weeks at least.’

‘Is it going to be black?’

The child shrugged. ‘It’s a spaniel, I think. I don’t care what colour it is, because the black dog spoke to me.’

‘Did it?’

‘Oh yes. Said he was on my side, a rescue dog, just like you told me. The fat man, the priest, ex-caped from where he was being kept.’

‘I see.’ It had been in all the newspapers, of course. The boy had probably read it or heard about it, since it was a nationwide sensation, the press having a field day with one man
of God who had killed another.

‘He had Jesus in his eye.’

‘Who did?’

‘The man who got murdered by the fat priest.’

Dr Shaw had spoken in confidence to a pathologist on the case, and the involvement of a crucifix was not yet in the public domain. Only detectives and a few medics knew the details of the
murder. ‘Anything else?’ The psychologist tried to keep his voice level.

‘Jesus stood up and spoke, something about not killing. Shalt is a funny word, isn’t it? And he got the key – not Jesus, I mean the fat priest. That was how he excaped. The
black dog told me. Anselm’s a daft name, isn’t it?’

A cold chill travelled the length of the visitor’s spine. The dead monk had not been named for the general populace. The monks, one body in Christ, formed a contemplative order who
scarcely spoke, spending their time with alcoholics and vegetables, quite a good combination in Dr Edward (Pest) Shaw’s book. The brother as a free man had been Bernard Hughes, a Welshman
from mining country in the valleys, but his order name remained a secret. Perhaps it had been Brother Anselm. A child would surely not invent such a name.

‘Where’s Brennan now?’

‘In a shed.’

‘Where’s the shed?’

‘How the heck should I know? The dog said what he had to say, then walked away. But I know something else: he’s trying to come back. Not the dog –
him
. But the dog
will save me, so that’s all right, isn’t it?’

‘No more screaming?’

Billy shook his head. ‘I’ll have two dogs. I’ll have the real one and the dream dog, who says I must not be afraid. All I wanted to tell you is that Father Brennan’s got
out of where he was, and the dream trap works. See, the dog wasn’t snarling at me, was he? He was snarling at him.’

‘Yes.’ Pest Senior had a telephone call to make. He needed confirmation that a Brother Anselm was dead. ‘Send for me if you need me again, Pest Junior.’

‘I will. And I’m going to call my puppy Jumble. He wore a grey frock with a hood on it.’

‘Right.’ The second reference was presumably related to the monk’s habit. If Edward told his immediate colleagues about a dog that talked and a child who ‘saw’
events in his sleep, he would end up in a special ward for the terminally confused.

‘He made dinners, that monk. Cal makes dinners. In the cafe called Polly’s Parlour.’

Edward Shaw said his goodbyes and left. He stood outside and scratched his head. Sometimes, the mentally ill were misdiagnosed. And somewhere among the thoughts of Billy Blunt, divine
intervention must have occurred. There could be no other answer, so he nipped into St Anthony’s and said a prayer. It was best to be on the safe side, just in case . . .

Polly was a bit fed up with her famous whistle, since it took effort, and she felt weaker without her special man, so she pinched Cal’s football referee’s
Thunderer, a famous brand known to teachers and players of soccer nationwide. It still needed a lot of breath, but it was easier than her own version.

‘Bleeding hell.’ Ida shoved a finger in an ear and riddled it about. ‘That’ll clear your catarrh and wax any day of the week. Polly?’

‘What?’

‘Do you want us all deaf?’

‘Eh? I can’t hear you. Now, I know you’re all up in arms, but my second sitting’ll be arriving before you lot have stopped chuntering. He escaped, the police are after
him, there’s nothing we can do but wait, so shut up and eat up.’