Midnight on Lime Street (34 page)

‘Do you? As if we can’t tell? And he loves you, girl. Don’t worry, I’ll ask for help if I need it.’

‘We’ll visit, I promise.’

The big woman blinked rapidly. ‘You’ve been an asset, love. Go and live your life with your family.’

When Belle had left the room, Eve sat for a few minutes with her head in her hands. She couldn’t work out whether she was being sensible or completely stupid. In hospital, she would have
been monitored and kept as free as possible from pain; medical staff would have been available at all times, and— ‘And I’d be bored out of my skull.’ Here was normality.
Here was what she understood.

Eve had learnt that nothing in life was ever perfect. It was a matter of choosing from sets of evils, of compromise, of lining up the possibilities and deciding which would create the least
hassle. She knew that her best friend’s heart was breaking, and that was another reason for being here and staying here. Meadowbank had to be a going concern for Kate’s sake.
‘I’ll get the business up and running if it’s the last thing I do.’

She stood up and walked to the window. If she stayed alive and in control till spring, the garden would be landscaped with lots of flowers and shrubs. For Kate, everything needed to be just
right. Belle and Tom were leaving. Max, too. Had she not been dying, she might have got herself a dog. ‘At least I’ve had a life worth writing about.’ Worth writing about? Did she
have the time? Did she dare? No, not about Meadowbank, but about before this place, the pimps, the weird johns, girls fighting among themselves because somebody nicked somebody’s bloke,
usually a good payer or one with film star looks. Kate and Eve had escaped all that, though they had certainly known a few victims.

Sitting down again, she thought about the girls here. Who could type? Was it Mo or Cynthia? Somebody had to teach this crazy country to accept the world’s oldest profession as valid and
valuable. She opened a drawer, then another, then one more until she discovered the item she sought, picking out a hard-backed notebook. How to start? A white, empty page stared up at her
accusingly. Title? Ah yes,
The Ladies of Liverpool
. ‘Take a letter, Miss Mellor, and make it quick.’ She began to scribble.

Babs slid down from the saddle to deal with Gordy. He was getting on her bloody nerves again. ‘Who’s in charge of this animal?’ she demanded to know.

‘We both are.’

‘Right. And who’s the one with the sore bum? Who’s the one riding him?’

‘You are.’

‘Then shut that and open these.’ She pointed first to his mouth, then to his eyes. ‘Murdoch and me, we know what we’re doing.’ She paused. ‘Well, we nearly
know what we’re doing. I mean, the National’s not tomorrow, is it? Have you never heard of walk before you run? I had to crawl before I walked with this fellow.’

‘The National’s years away for us,’ Gordy conceded.

‘Then leave us alone while we get on with . . . with paces. We’ve walked, we’ve trotted a bit and I never fell off. You’re always criticizing me.’

Murdoch whinnied his support.

Gordy Hourigan blew out his cheeks and emitted a sound not unlike Murdoch’s. ‘You’re letting him have all his own way. Get a hold on the bugger and stop giving him his head.
And your gob’s on the go all the time – you can’t talk to him in the middle of a race. They thunder along, you know, and you—’

‘Shut up.’ Babs glared at him. She was a small woman with a great lump of love growing in her chest, love for the daft horse and love for this short-arse of an Irishman. Sometimes,
her overflow threatened to leak because she couldn’t contain her joy, her anger, Gordy’s disappointment and all the niggles connected to the training of herself and this feisty horse.
‘Just stop it,’ she snapped. ‘I might take time to learn, but once I get there I never forget. Like an elephant,’ she concluded.

‘Is this you telling me off?’ he asked, blue eyes twinkling at her.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Well, don’t bother. You’re only upsetting me, and him as well.’

‘So? So now you know how it feels.’

‘How what feels?’

‘Getting upset. This is my real horse. I’ve ridden all them dozy buttercups over at Mr Macey’s place, but this is my proper horse, the real one that I have to live with, but
you’re at it all the time, gab, gab, gab, moaning and shouting orders and stood there like king of the flaming leprechauns, as if you know everything, and I—’

‘Will you go out with me tonight, Miss Schofield?’

Babs snapped closed her hanging jaw. ‘Out?’

Gordy nodded. ‘Out. As in not in.’

She folded her arms. ‘God, you think you’re clever, don’t you?’

‘Yes, I do.’

She fought a smile and won. ‘I can’t leave Sally on her own with him. He scares her, and she’s frightened of hitting him too hard because he makes her mad. See, she’s
started fighting back, so I’ll have to ask her if it’s OK for me to leave her with Don.’ Babs bowed her head for a moment. ‘You’re the only one who knows where Sal and
I came from.’ She looked into Gordy’s eyes. ‘Don’t you mind what I was?’

‘No.’

‘Why, though?’

‘Because I like who you are now. Would you mind what I was? I gave the Garda a run for their money till they caught me and got me locked away for breaking and entering. Will that make you
back off?’

She shook her head.

‘Then we’re equal, so. Take Murdoch and groom him now. This way, we make sure he is one hundred per cent your boy. Ian and John have done the stable.’

Babs asked how the boys were doing.

Gordy shrugged. ‘They’re scared. You read about Shuttleworth killing the policeman?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, so did the lads. Bill’s in less bother, of course, because he wasn’t left to guard the last of the boss’s spoils. Even so, he’s better away from
Liverpool.’

Babs led her horse away and groomed him. As she did, he made little noises of appreciation. This was his rider, his teacher and his stable girl. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for
her. She whispered to him, ‘I have a date. Will Sally let me go?’

He nodded. It didn’t mean anything, because he nodded frequently, but Babs chose to take it as a good sign. She leaned her head against his. ‘You are so beautiful, baby. But you have
to make me look good, OK? Less of the sideways shenanigans and more of the elegance. Come on now to the kitchen and we’ll get your carrot and your apple, plus one for Nicholas Nye.’

He followed her through the paddock and across the wide lawn. He would have followed her to the ends of the earth, and they both knew it.

Neil Carson was in a quandary. Quandaries seemed to have become a part of his life these days, but this one was special, huge, frightening and humiliating. He didn’t know
where to start, but he opted eventually for the Picton Library and made for the medical section in the reference department.

How was it spelt? And could he have caught it in such a short time with so few encounters? The little creepy crawlies had disappeared after he’d shaved the area carefully, but this . . .
When had he last been with a woman? When had he killed Slitty Eyes? Shirley Evans. Her real name and her nickname owned the same initials. At night, just before falling asleep, he often
‘saw’ her staring at him through dead, half-closed eyelids.

Apart from reporting at and departing from work, time meant nothing to him. He knew what shifts he was on, of course, because that part of him was automatic – he’d been programmed
for years when it came to the job. But remembering days or weeks, where, who, why and when was becoming more than difficult. Perhaps he didn’t need to remember, didn’t want to. Now
this. How was he supposed to cope with it? By keeping a chart on his bedroom wall, he managed to keep up with the looking after of Maude, but just about everything else seemed to be getting
harder.

It was October. Yes, he was sure about that, at least. Days were shorter, nights longer, while the air was becoming as chilled as the inside of a butcher’s fridge. September, he had killed
her. Beginning, middle or end? Oh God. He’d had no protection with him, so he’d buried himself in her filth. And time was no longer calculable . . . Gonorrhoea? Ah, here it was in the
tome he’d chosen.

Why had Jesus abandoned him?

Ugh! He closed the heavy book so loudly that people nearby were startled by the crack. ‘Sorry,’ he whispered before returning the book to its shelf and leaving the area at speed. The
clap. People joked about it, saying it was the applause received after a good session with a whore, but this wasn’t funny. It was absolutely terrifying. See a doctor? Could he imagine telling
an educated man about the clap? Not likely. He could almost hear Mother calling him a nasty, dirty boy, so what would a doctor think of him?

It was all the fault of women. He’d had a nasty mother who’d been able to see only the ‘bad’ in her son, and he’d married a woman completely devoid of character, a
thin, sexless female who’d cared only for her children and the state of the house. Even she had altered her tune now that she was beyond her husband’s reach, all powder, lipstick and
coloured eyelids. The desire to scream in the street almost overcame him, though he managed to swallow his anger.

He watched passing traffic and pedestrians, saw ordinary people having an ordinary day in an ordinary life. A clock struck the hour. A doctor? Talk to a doctor? Weren’t there VD clinics in
the city where people sat and tried not to look at each other in the waiting rooms? No thanks. Pacing about didn’t help, because folk were starting to stare, so he slowed down a bit, since he
needed not to be noticed. The words he had read minutes earlier were imprinted on his brain.
Seek help immediately
. . .
seek help immediately . . .

‘Jesus, Jesus,’ he breathed silently through tightening lips.

Seek help? How on earth might such a statement be framed for a medic’s ears, though? How could he tell a doctor the truth about Angela and that . . . Slitty Eyes? It must have been her,
not Angela; Angela was checked regularly, as were all the girls, and men who refused to wear protection had to leave the premises immediately.

He stood outside the Picton and gazed towards the tunnel’s entrance. Surely he would be killed fairly quickly if he went in there? No, no, a person could never be sure. It might mean
casualty, operations and a diagnosis delivered in a ward filled with people. Suicide was self-murder and unforgivable, certainly, especially for a disciple. He wasn’t right; his thinking was
less than rational. This lack of clarity had started . . . he couldn’t remember when.

He walked about the city for a while. In a town centre cafe, he gazed out at Williamson Square. His mind wandered back a few days or weeks. Once again, time proved immeasurable. It had been a
Saturday, he remembered that much. Details returned to him as he sipped coffee. The house had looked the same, as had the road. Nothing had changed except . . . Except everything had changed.

‘Thank you,’ Laura said as she accepted the dead whore’s money. She was blushing. Never before had she appeared so beautiful and desirable. His wife was wholesome, and he
wanted to come home. Here, with her and the children, the predictability of life might help him to straighten himself out and deal with everything once more. For a few beats of time, he even
managed to be angry with Jesus.

‘How are you?’ she wanted to know.

‘May I come in?’ he asked. Her blush deepened and served to brighten beautiful eyes he had never noticed until now. He knew why she was embarrassed, because he’d hidden up the
side road across the way next to the Wilkinsons’ semi, and had seen her being driven home. There was a man in his house – yes, this was
his
house. He was the one who’d
worked for it and paid all the bills. Laura still kept it ticking over, but he was the money man. Her hair was longer and shiny.

‘This extra cash will help for Christmas,’ she commented belatedly.

They stood in the narrow hall. ‘How are the children?’ Neil asked.

‘Both well.’ Laura paused. ‘They’re staying with the Bramwell twins. It’s rather late for a visit, and I’ve only just finished my shift. I’m about to go
to bed. And you should be visiting our children during daylight hours rather than coming to see me at night. They think you’ve deserted them and that they might never see you again.
It’s cruel, Neil.’

‘Going to bed with him?’ The question fell out of his mouth without asking permission from his brain, whose powers were waning fast anyway. ‘With your new friend and owner of
this car?’

He watched as she straightened her spine. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a gentleman who buys a late supper from the chip shop and eats it here while it’s still hot. I have
not committed adultery.’ Laura looked him up and down. ‘What have you been up to?’ she asked. ‘Because my conscience is completely clear.’

He shivered. It felt as if she could see right through to his marrow. ‘I’m staying with Joseph Turton and helping him care for his mother. She’s old and infirm. We take turns
and work different shifts for her sake.’