A Mersey Mile (51 page)

The pace altered and life was suddenly in top gear. Polly flew past Chris and squatted at her husband’s side. An ambulance, probably ordered by one of the policemen when Elaine produced
the gun, ground to a halt near the fallen man. Chris moved at last. When Frank had been stretchered on board the vehicle, Chris climbed in with Polly. ‘Will he die?’ she asked.
‘He’s my husband.’

No one answered. ‘Will he die?’ she screamed. ‘Answer me.’

‘Not if we can help it, ma’am,’ the attendant replied. ‘Looks like the bullet’s gone in and through, but I’m no doctor. Ah, he’s with us. What’s
your name, son?’

‘Frank. She bloody shot me.’

‘Hello, Frank, I’m Harry. It seems you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Don’t worry, Tommy’s will put you straight. Best hospital bar none, St
Thomas’s.’

‘Polly?’ Frank whispered. ‘My Polly?’

‘I’m here, love,’ she wept.

‘Don’t cry, Pol,’ he managed. ‘The baby.’

She couldn’t get near Frank, because ambulance staff were working on him to stop the steady flow of blood. Instead, she drew up her knees and leaned against Chris, her head resting on his
shoulder. ‘Pray,’ she begged.

‘I’m praying,’ he answered.

‘Hard,’ Polly ordered.

‘Any harder, and God would need a bullet-proof shield.’ He planted a small, chaste kiss on the forehead of a woman who bore a close resemblance to the wife he’d never had.
‘Are you praying?’ he asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

The bell ceased its clanging as they turned left into the forecourt of St Thomas’s. A plethora of people awaited the arrival of this vehicle; an incident on or near Downing Street was
always taken so seriously that the precision was almost military. Frank was whisked away within seconds, though he did manage to smile weakly at Polly and Chris before disappearing into the
hospital.

Inside the building, Polly exploded, just as Chris had expected. She had to be with Frank. They shouldn’t do anything to him unless she granted her permission. He wouldn’t manage
without her. She needed to know what the bullet had hit and should she tell his mother. He didn’t like doctors. His blood was A positive and he was allergic to fabric plasters. She should be
holding his hand, and no, she didn’t want a bloody cup of bloody tea. If she couldn’t be with him, she wanted to be nearer than she was. ‘We’re very close,’ she ended
stubbornly. ‘We’ve never spent a night apart since we married. He sleeps better if he knows I’m near. He’ll get better quicker if you put me with him.’

‘Just leave him with us and trust us to do our best,’ the harassed sister said. ‘He’ll probably be anaesthetized anyway.’

‘He won’t like that.’

‘It’s no fun for us, either,’ the blue-clad woman snapped. ‘This is a busy hospital, so sit down and shut up.’

Polly sat down and shut up.

Chris shook his head slowly. ‘So that’s the answer. You’ll do as you’re told by a woman, but not by a man.’

‘You shut up,’ Polly barked at the parish priest.

‘He’ll be all right; he’s tough.’

Polly sighed heavily. ‘Why did he call her name, Father Chris?’

‘To save her mother’s life.’

‘Oh. He’s a hero, then?’

‘He is.’

‘Well, he’d better be a live hero rather than a fallen one. Did you see how that terrible woman stroked his head? And did you hear her shouting that she loves him?’

‘I did. What she feels for him is probably as near to love as she’ll manage to experience. There’s a lot wrong with Miss Lewis.’

‘I know; I do read the papers. She’s a prostitute.’

‘She’s ill, Polly.’

‘Oh, so you’re a doctor now, are you?’

He turned and took her hands in his. ‘Polly, stop being mad at me. I told them that if he looked near to death, they should send for me to bless him. They haven’t come and asked me,
have they?’

‘No.’ Her tone was uncharacteristically soft. She bit her lip for a moment. ‘I suppose she thought if she couldn’t have him, nobody should. But she’s seen Beth,
Father Chris. She knows Frank’s got a daughter.’

‘Beth means nothing to her. She can’t reach outside herself.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know. All I’m sure of is that she’s not right in the head. Polly, calm down, or you’ll be needing a bed here yourself. Oh, Lord help us,’ he mumbled.
‘Here comes Armageddon on a first-class ticket.’

Ida and Hattie staggered in. ‘She fainted,’ Hattie declared.

‘I fainted,’ Ida agreed. ‘How is he?’

‘No idea,’ Chris replied. ‘Is Cal resting in a coach? It’s been a tough day for him.’

The reply to his question was being pushed through the waiting area in a wheelchair. The wheelchair had been added to the Turnpike March in order to intensify the drama. In charge of the chair
was Dusty Den Davenport, who seemed better at steering his horse. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he muttered after bumping into several chairs. Linda was there, as were Jimmy Nuttall, three nuns, the
Blunt family and the Pearsons.

‘I don’t know what this world’s coming to at all.’ An angry Ida folded her arms and shook her head. ‘Guns now. That’s just what we need. Is he going to be all
right?’

‘Do us a favour,’ Hattie begged. ‘Faint again and leave the rest of us to try and cope. Polly has enough on without worrying about the state of the rest of the
world.’

Christine bent down and hugged Polly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she wept. ‘That bullet was meant for me, not your Frank. I managed to get a message to Norma, and I promised to let her
know what’s going on.’ She turned to Chris. ‘We’ve been interviewed quickly by the police, but we have to do proper statements. What’s happened to her, Father? She was
always a good girl.’

Polly stood up. ‘Just you listen to me, Mrs Pearson. It’s not your fault.’ She swallowed a lump of fear. ‘He’s strong. He’s going to be all right.’ She
clung to Ma’s best friend. The ambulance men had said that Frank would be OK, hadn’t they?

Matron arrived. A spherical figure in black and white, she bristled as she addressed the gathering. ‘What’s this?’ she demanded to know. ‘A prayer meeting?’ She
eyed the nuns and the priest. ‘There’s a church up the road.’

‘We’re from Liverpool,’ Den answered with the air of a man who had just explained the law of thermodynamics.

‘We’re on a protest,’ Linda added.

‘Then why are you protesting in my hospital?’

‘Because one of us got shot.’ Chris rose to his feet. ‘Everybody’s leaving now except for me and the wife of the victim.’

‘I want you to go, too, Father Chris.’

‘But Polly—’

‘Go. Do as you’re told. There you are, Matron, you can have your hospital back. This lot’s supposed to be on its way back to Liverpool.’

Chris glowered before moving to stand with the rest of the crowd.

Mollified, the large, uniformed woman stepped back. ‘We need this space,’ she said. ‘So, you’re the wife?’

Polly nodded. ‘He’s Frank. Frank Charleson.’

Matron smiled. ‘Ah, the Whitehall incident. He lost some blood, Mrs Charleson, so he’s being topped up by transfusion. No major damage, just a chipped rib and a tear in one of his
veins. There’s some slight damage to the diaphragm, but he’s as strong as a horse. We’ll keep him for a day or two because the homeward journey’s a long one. Oh, and the
police want to talk to him as soon as he’s a little better.’

The Liverpool contingent was making its way back from the large porch.

‘He’s going to be all right,’ Polly told them. ‘So go home.’

Christine dashed off to find a phone. Norma needed to know how her son was. Thank God, thank God Frank had survived; had Elaine killed him, that would have been . . . she closed her mind against
the thought.

Ida was on her horse again. ‘Me and Hat promised we’d look after you and Cal, Polly—’

‘I’m fine, and Frank’s not Cal. Go home, Ida. Make sure Ma and Beth are all right. In fact, you should all have left by now, so why did you come back? That includes you, Father
Chris. They’re going to let me sit with Frank, aren’t you, Matron?’

Matron folded her arms – a difficult task, given so vast a bosom. ‘If you can get rid of all these people, Mrs Charleson, we’ll give you a cot to sleep on. I can’t have
my waiting area looking like a newly opened sardine can.’ She glared at the interlopers, many of whom seemed to quail beneath her flinty gaze. ‘Well? Do I have to get you shifted
forcibly?’

Polly fisted her hands and placed them on her hips. ‘You heard the lady, so get gone. I’ve trouble enough without keeping an eye on a tribe.’

She was kissed and cuddled many times over before they left. As the last stragglers passed through the outer door, she spoke to Matron. ‘Can I go to him now, please?’

‘Not until you’ve eaten and he’s out of theatre. Come with me, and I’ll sort you out. We’re breaking all my rules here, Mrs Charleson.’

Polly moved in for the kill. ‘Erm . . . can I have a bath later on? And have you any spare underwear in the hospital? My name’s Polly, by the way.’

Matron grinned. ‘Cheeky Cockney sparrows? They don’t hold a candle to you, Polly. Yes, we’ll manage something. Step into my office, and I’ll feed you.’ She was fast
growing fond of the little minx, just as Scotland Road had grown fond many years ago. If Matron had married and had a daughter, a girl like this would have filled the bill.

Someone knocked on the door. ‘Come,’ Matron called.

A nurse entered and announced that Mr Charleson was out of theatre.

Polly gulped down some tea before following Matron to the lift. Her Frank was alive.

They exited on the first floor. Matron, in an almost unprecedented show of empathy, held Polly’s hand. ‘He’s going to be quite pale. Don’t worry about it, because
he’ll pick up soon. We’re intending to drug him against the pain once the anaesthetic wears off, but we don’t want to interfere with his breathing, so he’ll be awake for
some of the time. Don’t tire him. Try not to talk about what’s happened. In you go. He has his own room. His mother phoned and she’s paying for a private bed.’

Polly nodded. That was typical of Ma Charleson. ‘Thanks, Matron.’

She opened the door and looked inside. Frank was a big man, tall and with good muscle tone; this fellow looked smaller, ashen and weak. In that moment, Polly wanted her fingers round Elaine
Lewis’s throat. But she swallowed her anger, sat, took his hand carefully and stroked it.

‘Hello, love,’ he rasped.

‘Hiya, kiddo.’

‘Have you missed me?’ he asked.

‘Only a bit. I had another boyfriend with me – Father Chris. Then the rest piled in – even a few of the coach drivers. They’ve all gone home now, because Matron was
thinking of reading the Riot Act.’

He tried to sit up.

‘Behave,’ she chided quietly. ‘You’ve blood going in at this side and some other stuff dripping into your right arm. And I’ve no clean knickers.’

He smiled weakly. Polly was great at non sequiturs. ‘In my jacket pocket,’ he told her. He noted the surprise in her eyes. ‘So I’m a romantic fool – shoot me again.
They’re my good luck charm. I hope there’s no bullet hole in them.’

She took his suit from a small wardrobe and found her underwear. ‘You’ve carried them ever since then?’

‘And slept with them under my pillow when we were apart.’

Polly blinked away a few tears. ‘You big soft lad. I don’t half love you, Frank Charleson. You never fail to make my day.’ Because of the way they’d been folded, the
knickers sported four bullet holes.

‘See?’ Frank said when she held them up. ‘Talisman. They slowed the bullet down a bit. I told you. There’s a lot to be said for a double gusset.’ He sighed and fell
asleep immediately.

She sat with her man for hours, leaving his side only when she needed the bathroom. He woke a few times, but she stroked his head until he slept once more. A young nurse popped in every twenty
minutes. She brought pie and mash for Polly, iced water for the patient. Matron arrived on her way off duty. ‘Two pairs of essentials and a nightdress. See you tomorrow, Polly.’ She
glanced at the man in the bed. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘Bit of colour in his cheeks again.’

These were ordinary people like Scotty Roaders, except they talked funny. Frank’s nurse was gentle when she monitored his blood pressure and encouraged him to swallow a bit of water.
‘Don’t worry, he’ll wake up properly when he’s ready. Don’t feed him. And he’s got a catheter, so he won’t need the lav. I’ll fetch your camp
bed.’

Polly lay next to her husband, albeit at a much lower level. She tried not to worry about Beth, because her main priority was here recovering from a mad woman’s attempt to kill him. Beth
would be fine with Ma.

Frank woke. ‘Polly?’ He sounded confused and slightly panicked.

‘I’m here.’

‘She shot me, Pol.’

Polly leapt out of her makeshift bed. ‘I know, love, but you’re going to be fine.’ She moved the chair across, sat in it, folded her arms on his bed and used them as a rest for
her chin. ‘Look, I’m right next to you. Go back to sleep. I’ll still be here, I promise.’ It wasn’t like Frank to be scared, but then he’d never before been the
victim of attempted murder, had he?

‘She’ll go to prison, won’t she?’ he asked.

‘Thank God it won’t be the gallows for murder. Rest now. I’m with you.’

‘I don’t believe in hanging.’

This was true, she mused. According to Frank, capital punishment was murder by the state. ‘Sleep now, babe. I may have a lie-down on this camp bed, but I won’t leave you.
OK?’

‘Water,’ he begged.

She gave him a few sips from the cup with a spout, then bent to donate a loud, sloppy kiss. ‘We’ll be all right, my angel. Soon be home.’

‘Beth?’

‘With your mam. Norma won’t let anything happen to our daughter.’

‘And our son?’ he asked.

‘Curled up and fast asleep where you left him. Just a blob in my belly, Frank. We’ll all be fine.’

‘Will we?’

Polly Charleson grinned. ‘Course we will.’ But she crossed her fingers just in case . . .

She’d been charged, searched, humiliated and stripped of all jewellery. The dolts had taken her belt, her handbag and even her scarf, and she was locked in a cell
furnished with a lidded bucket, a small sink and a thin, dirty mattress on a solid base, no springs, no comfort. Why? Why was she here? Her head ached so badly that she wouldn’t have been
surprised if it had burst wide open.