Midnight on Lime Street (18 page)

The other boys. They were in a shed with a load of drugs belonging to a chap called Boss. Roy had been working for him and Roy was dead. Murdered, probably. ‘I have to go now,’ he
mumbled, ‘because I’m working tomorrow.’ Poor Roy. Poor, clever, stupid Roy was dead. He’d had brains enough for English, maths and science, but not enough sense to keep
himself safe. In Roy, there had been scarcely any fear, so he’d copped it in his teens. ‘Is it right or left here?’ Bill mouthed. Roy would have known . . . Roy wasn’t
available; he would never enjoy another day on earth. It was all so bloody wrong, but more lives were at stake, and only Bill Tyler could save them, as long as . . .

He swallowed, his throat painfully dry. As long as they weren’t already dead.

According to the
Echo
, there had been no arrests made, so the buildings mentioned in the article had probably been abandoned in a hurry. If Boss and his gang were in need of money,
they’d be going for the stash in the hut.

He swallowed again, wishing he’d brought some water or pop. Any killing was one too many, but this time it was Roy Foley, Bill’s best mate, so his fury was strangely hot and cold at
the same time. The icy bit sat in his stomach like a lump of lead, but his overtaxed brain burned furiously.

They’d been at nursery together. They’d gone through infants and juniors as an unlikely pair, and had graduated to seniors, shoplifting and burglary in each other’s company.
‘Stay away from that boy,’ Dad had yelled almost daily. ‘He’s a wrong bugger, just you mark my words.’

Oh well, all the proof Dad needed was now in a saddlebag on the back of a shared bike, and it was on its way to a shed in a field in a deserted part of . . . of where? Hadn’t Boss
mentioned Knowsley? Wherever, Bill had to find the place, because those boys mattered. He pedalled till his feet were sore, his legs ached and his backside was numb. A field and a hut. He had to
find the three lads. Roy was dead, and more people might need saving.

Stopping at a newsagent’s shop, he spent his last few coppers on a bottle of sarsaparilla. Nothing in his life thus far had tasted better. With his terrible thirst finally slaked, he sat
on a wall to have a think. They’d approached the place from Halewood that first night with Boss, but he should remember the route from the hut to Seaforth, because they’d been given a
lift home, and he was doing the same in reverse, wasn’t he? It had been dark and . . . oh, what if he was too late?

Bill and Roy had been to the scout hut only once, on the night when all the cannabis had been sold to Boss. The big man had needed to hide another stash, and it was stored with three teenagers
in a smelly, hot building in the back of beyond. Roy and Bill had been commandeered to help transfer their own stuff from the condemned house to Halewood, then to help shift surplus from Halewood
or Hunt’s Cross to . . . to where? They’d gone along in the second of two vans, the first having been used to carry cannabis and so forth. The so forth was the real worry, as it might
be worth a bomb, while boys were clearly of little value to Boss, since they were replaceable. ‘We know where you are; we’ll know where to find your families . . .’

Again, he stopped pedalling and sat on a grass verge. Where was he? Where were the lads? Bill glanced to his left and saw red. A phone box. 999. He needed Roy, but there was no Roy. He could be
. . . what was the word? Amonymous? It was something like that. Jesus, his heart was going like a train with no brakes, and his brain was on fire. Think, think. Remember the details. There were
tents and stuff belonging to scouts; the drugs were under that lot. The place had just one big window and one door. It was a single door, not a double like garages had.

He opened another single door; it was bright red with rectangles of glass in it. ‘I don’t need money,’ he whispered. Which was just as well, since he had none left. 999. His
hand shook as he pulled the dial all the way round three times. ‘Police,’ he said to the operator, his voice high-pitched and girlish. O God, O God.

It poured out of him as soon as a cop answered. ‘Don’t ask for me name, cos I can’t say it in case they get me mam and dad.’

‘Calm down, son.’

‘I can’t; I’m too scared.’

‘All right. Where are you?’

‘In a phone box and I don’t know where I am. It’s about them what killed that lad down Halewood. There’s three more in a hut—’

‘Three more boys?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are they dead?’

‘No. Er . . . I don’t know. There’s drugs under tents and all that, cos it used to be a scouts’ clubhouse. One window, one door, it has. The lads is them what run away
from that school a few weeks back. I think the nearest place is Knowsley, but I’m not sure. There’s a bloke called Boss. He’s tall and a bit fat and he smokes cigars. He’s
from Halewood, I think.’

There was a slight pause. ‘Anything else?’

‘They’d kill me if they knew I’d grassed ’em up, like.’

‘Can you find your way home?’

‘I think so.’ Bill slammed down the receiver, left the box and picked up the bike. His legs shook, and his hands didn’t seem to be working well either. He couldn’t get
his knees to support him, so he sat down again next to the bike. At the age of eighteen, after mucking about for years, he was starting proper work with his dad. He had to be grown up now. Yet he
sobbed like a baby, tears storming down his face, vision distorted, heart going like the clappers again.

Although he didn’t realize at the time, Bill Tyler became a man that night. He would always be slow when it came to reading and remembering, but his long walk on the wild side had finally
ended. The law would never again be broken by him. In a sense, Roy Foley’s death had been a blessing, since it gave Bill a push in the right direction. He finally found the way homeward, got
back and listened to a big row about the bike and a spoilt meal.

Without saying a word, he allowed his brothers to rant on. When he gave them the
Echo
opened at Roy’s page, they quietened. He stared at them blankly, turned and went to bed,
taking with him the remains of his sarsaparilla. Nothing mattered now except for two things: he hoped the lads in the hut were safe and that he wouldn’t let his dad down at work
tomorrow.

In the absence of Babs and Sal, Ian, Phil and John the Stam had accepted Belle Horrocks as their new champion. When she banged and shouted at the door one evening, they
didn’t hesitate to open it. ‘Get out now,’ she told them, ‘and put as much space as you can between here and yourselves. I have to go back before I’m missed. Now, run
as fast as you can.’ She shoved a bit of paper into Ian’s hand. ‘Get gone. There’s police everywhere.’ She fled into the gathering dusk.

The lads grabbed their running bags; all three had been ready to escape almost since their arrival here. ‘S-s-stay together,’ John begged as they left their shelter. They could hear
the bells on police cars driving through the lanes. As the sounds grew louder, panic beat hard in the breasts of the fugitives.

‘Come on,’ Ian urged. He had been on a recce one night while his fellow escapees had slept. The scout motto
Be Prepared
seemed to be rubbing off on him – it was the
only vaguely decorative item in the shed. ‘Coal cellar under the brothel,’ he managed on what felt like his last breath. They fought their way through trees and bushes, running down the
side of the farmhouse until they reached the rear expanse of garden. ‘In here.’ He lifted the grating and held it while his two companions jumped into blackness and onto sharp lumps of
coal.

‘Are you not coming with us?’ Phil asked.

‘No. Cover yourselves in coal dust and hide. Climb into the coal if you can. I’ll be back.’

Don’t l-leave us,’ John pleaded. ‘I’m s-scared.’

‘Hide,’ Ian snapped. With no idea of his destination, he ran blindly towards another field. It was almost time to give up; they had made their point, they were nearly fifteen, and
they all stank to high heaven for want of a decent bath. Did police stations have baths in them? He doubted that. Where could he get clean enough to give himself up and betray his friends? They
stank, too . . .

Ian ran until he could run no more. When he was beyond exhausted, he stopped and listened; silence, blessed silence. ‘I should have brought the bike,’ he mumbled while crouching in a
ditch. He had to act quickly, as his mates had very little food and water in their packs, since escape equipment needed to be lightweight. It was time to talk. He might go through the
Echo
if the beans needed spilling; the paper would have an exclusive, and deservedly so, because it had been on the side of the runaways since day one. Yes, let the journalists arrange for a meeting
with the cops.

He would sleep on it. Where could he sleep? Should he carry on moving in the hope of finding shelter? It wasn’t cold, wasn’t raining, and he suddenly felt too exhausted to move.
There was another point to be considered. If he, Phil and John left it too long before giving themselves up, the public might forget them and the abuse inflicted by the brothers.

The ditch was dry, so he might as well stay where he was. Tomorrow morning, he would reach a decision. He wrapped himself in his coat . . .

A sound woke him. It was a whistle, a police whistle. God, had they found the other two in the cellar? He peeped over the rim of the ditch and saw that the cops were walking away, flashlights
directed westward, so they were going back across the fields in the direction of the scout hut. Reminding himself to breathe, he lowered his head and lay flat. God, he was still holding the piece
of paper Belle had given him! He pushed it into a pocket and tried to relax. The police would not come back tonight; some would stay to guard the shed, though.

Meadowbank Farm was in a state bordering on the chaotic. Cynthia had been entertaining a person of importance, so he was collected by Eve and taken out to his car in a state of
near-undress. Belle, who had no client, returned from her foray to the scout hut and followed Kate round the house, turning pictures so that erotica became bunches of flowers or scenes of pretty
little cottages with smoke emerging from chimneys.

Angela Whiplash shifted anything that was mobile and hung curtains and sheets over fixed items. Nothing much could be done with ceiling mirrors and the like, but in all rooms, purple and red bed
linens and covers were hidden under pastel blankets or plain sheets. The girls dressed themselves in ‘normal’ clothes, scraped off makeup and gathered in the kitchen. Meadowbank was now
a hostel for homeless girls and women.

Eve ran round the house as fast as her weight would allow; she was catching men. After bundling them all into the van, she drove like the clappers down the uneven lane until she reached the East
Lancashire Road. Once on the main highway, she slowed down to normal speed. She was possibly about to lose her little empire, but she was determined to hang on to her driving licence.

Things were bad enough even without intervention by the law. Angela was threatening to quit, as was Belle Horrocks. Belle had been the most stable and dependable of the girls, but she was now on
the brink of leaving Meadowbank. Babs had gone, Sally had gone, and their replacements were still learning the job. Client numbers had dropped. Trevor Burns had stopped visiting. A butcher, he had
often brought gifts of joints for weekends, and had always been cheerful. After recommending Neil Carson, he had disappeared. Neil Carson. Eve didn’t like him, though she couldn’t
fathom why. In theory and when interviewed, he came across as an ideal customer, and yet . . .

Those who wanted Baby companions were fewer these days. Eve had lost at least a third of Babs’s clients. Meanwhile, Barbara Schofield was living the life of Riley up in Southport. If that
girl fell in shit, she would always emerge smelling of roses. Don Crawford’s place was under consideration as an animal shelter, though Babs and Sal were to be housed there in the event of
Don’s death. Well, perhaps Babs belonged among strays, though young Sal was a lovely girl. ‘What the hell am I going to do?’ Eve muttered to herself. Should she close down, sell
up and hope to live on the equity?

In town, she decanted her passengers and spoke to those who waited for her. ‘The cops are a few hundred yards from the farm,’ she told them. ‘According to Belle, they’re
looking for drugs stashed in a shed somewhere, so I’m shutting down for tonight.’

‘What about tomorrow?’ someone asked.

Eve ploughed through her busy brain. ‘The farm will be closed until the cops have given up. Look in the
Echo
personals every night. I’ll find a way of letting you know when
I’m re-opening. After that, you’ll have to phone me for details like pick-up locations. That’s all I can do; the police are too close for comfort.’

She drove homeward in the empty van. Her life’s work was going down the drain, and all because some stupid vagabonds had stored something or other in a hut that stood hundreds of yards
from the farmhouse. There was no doubt in her mind – she and the girls would be questioned. It would be enough to make them all quit, she believed. Perhaps it was time to go. She might well
have been thinking right after all. ‘I’m getting a bit old for this,’ she muttered.

Parking outside Meadowbank, she turned off the engine, closed her eyes and wondered who the hell would want to live here on a windy and exposed plain in a house that wasn’t exactly pretty.
There were no amenities to hand, no decent views, and there was no protection from the vagaries of British weather. ‘Sod it,’ she cursed. Sighing deeply, Eve Mellor climbed down from
the driver’s seat, locked the van and entered her house. It was all out of her hands, and she must accept what fate dished up for her.

Acting Detective Sergeant Eddie Barnes visited Lime Street Station at the end of his shift. Dave Earnshaw, still in uniform, greeted his erstwhile partner with a broad grin.
‘What time do you call this?’ he asked. ‘Oh, I like the suit, by the way. My new bloke’s a rookie, so he’s searching the men’s lavs. How was your first
day?’

‘Grim,’ was the answer. ‘We just missed catching the runaways from that monks’ place. We found a massive stash of stuff, and we think it’s Albert Shuttleworth
again.’