With Love From Ma Maguire (65 page)

‘No!’ Joey cowered against the door, hands coming up automatically to shield his face.

They laid into him systematically, fists, boots, bike chains, then finally, a single slash of the blade across his neck. And all the time, Joey’s main feeling was one of absolute confusion and disbelief. Why him? Oh God, it hurt like hell! Why him, though? A steel-toed boot caught him in the groin and he folded instantly to the floor. Then a knife flashed in the miserly light, slicing neatly through the flesh of his throat. Bikes tumbled and crashed down as Joey writhed in agony, his world collapsing about ears already dulled by pain. As complete darkness descended, a last disjointed thought flitted across his tormented mind. This was retribution. For Witchie Leason . . .

Charles sat in the conservatory, a sheet of plans laid out before him on a white-painted wrought iron table. The insurance was cleared and, with a bit of juggling, he’d have the latest looms installed within six months. He sighed deeply and stretched long legs. Things in general were not looking good. For a start, there was this Hitler chap promising to stir up trouble by trying to take over half of Europe. And the last cotton meeting had gone on for hours, a roomful of old men speculating gloomily about Eastern imports and whether or no the government would keep a rein on them. Would there be a flood of foreign cloth within five or ten years? Would Lancashire be able to compete, was this the beginning of the end for Bolton traders, should everyone think not of expanding, but rather of cutting costs and drawing in horns? Miserable old buggers, they were, all cotton and no fun, having the bloody wake before there was a body to bury. No guts, no imagination.

He heaved himself to his feet and wandered about among Amelia’s plants, all lovingly tended now by Emmie, all thriving and healthy in spite of their mistress’s absence. Why should they live their stupid immobile lives when those of real value had been taken? But no, he wouldn’t smash anything else. And she’d loved those plants, he could never hurt or destroy things so dear to Amelia’s heart.

He paced the narrow area, listening to the hollow sound of his shoes against the red ceramic tiled floor. Life was becoming no easier. Since the fire, some hadn’t wanted to know him, had treated him as something of a Jonah. Even with the noise of machinery all around, he sometimes sensed a layer of silence as he entered a shed, could almost reach out and touch the atmosphere created by his presence in their midst. It wasn’t all of them, just a group here and there, the odd few who seemed to think he was some kind of bad luck charm.

Klaus growled and Charles stroked the animal’s head absently. ‘Are memories so short?’ he asked his canine companion. ‘All behind me when the boys died, sympathetic when I lost my wife . . . but now?’ He shrugged and looked down at the dog. ‘One of their own has died, Klaus. One of their own.’

A sharp rapping at the window caused the dog to growl again while Charles peered out into the darkness before opening the door. ‘Who’s there?’

Out of the shadows stepped the familiar man in black, the same hat pulled well over the eyes, that perennial raincoat belted tightly against his thin body.

‘Lucas?’

The man crept forward and entered the conservatory, pulling the door tightly behind him. ‘Don’t say my name, sir. I’ve brought some information you might need.’

‘Oh yes?’

The visitor glanced quickly over his shoulder and through the window into a blackness too heavy for any human eye. ‘I’m not really being over-cautious, Mr Swainbank. I’d be no use to anybody if I got noticed. And what I’ve found out could affect me as well as others—’

‘Then I suggest you pass it on quickly.’ Charles could feel his patience slipping. This caricature of a spy was almost laughable, though Charles had not been inclined towards hilarity for some time now. ‘Well? What is it? Is old Leather-barrow about to undercut me by a mile?’

Lucas flattened himself against a wall and reached for the light switch. Then he whispered into the dimmed room, ‘The boy you were interested in – Joey Maguire—’

‘What about him?’

‘There’s a contract out on him and his sister.’

Seeds of fear quickly rooted themselves in Charles’s mind and he felt a chilly finger travelling the length of his backbone. ‘Contract? What do you mean by a contract? This is hardly Chicago—’

‘Money. Some quite big London money. I took the liberty of paying high for this information on your behalf, sir. The name’s Fenner, Marcus Fenner. Seems he got his hands on a largish gambling win and chose to spend it this way. They’re after a couple of corpses, Mr Swainbank. Cash on delivery, I understand.’

Charles backed away from the carrier of this news. ‘But . . . but this is ridiculous! Why would Fenner . . . ? How would he . . . ? Oh no! Dear God, no!’ Like a white-hot knife, the assessment of what must have occurred cut into his brain, burning through fear and confusion instantly. He shook his head frantically. ‘That scheming conniving bitch! I left the bloody thing in my desk! She must have gone through everything . . .’

Lucas stepped closer and placed a hand on Charles’s arm. ‘Sorry I couldn’t let you know earlier, but I’ve been away and only found out myself this evening. It cost me . . .’

‘I’ll pay! What the devil’s going on?’

‘They’ve arranged for him to work late, sent in a rush job for him to do. The girl usually stays behind on a Friday night, but they wanted the pair. He works with bikes?’

‘Yes!’

‘They’ve given him plenty to do, probably watched them both till it went dark—’

‘Christ! What if Janet’s there too? What if—’

‘I think we should get down there, sir, try to put your mind at rest. Because I phoned the police, rang in anonymously with the tip-off. I’d rather not get too involved, you understand.’

They dashed out of the house and through the grounds. Charles started up the car engine as soon as they were seated, screeching off down the drive almost before the doors were closed.

‘Slow down, Mr Swainbank! The police are on to it – and there’s no point in arriving dead, is there?’

‘How much?’ The voice, unlike the driving, was cold and controlled.

‘Pardon?’

‘How much are they paying for my . . . for those two lives?’

Lucas hung on grimly as they careered down the road on the wrong side, the vehicle brushing against overhanging greenery, tyres spinning on the verge from time to time. ‘A couple of thousand, I reckon. Could be more.’

Charles screamed round a corner on two wheels. How much for a life, Mr Swainbank? Yes, he could hear her now, what price a life, what price an eye . . . ? And it was his fault, all of it. How many children would he kill? His boys in a fancy sports car, Ronnie Bowles in a mill fire, Joey and Janet Maguire because of a will he’d failed to conceal.

Janet. He shivered convulsively. Let her be alive, he prayed, shoulders hunched over a tightly gripped wheel. Spare her, let it not be her! So much store he’d set by sons, carriers of the line, the great makers of continuity. But a daughter? Yes, that particular daughter had made him think, filled him with hope, despair, love. Janet Maguire had restored his ability to feel, had caused his blood to warm and flow, had allowed him to remember pain and joy in a heart so completely deadened by misery.

He shuddered to a halt on Bradshawgate just as an ambulance pulled away, a loud bell proclaiming that its cargo was alive. Hurt, perhaps dying . . . With his head in his hands, Charles began to rock back and forth, unable to contain in his mind the knowledge that he had arrived too late. Lucas crouched down in his seat as a policeman approached the car and knocked on the window.

‘Sir?’ The constable’s voice arrived muffled by glass.

Charles turned the handle and took a deep breath of air once the window was lowered. ‘What happened?’ he managed.

‘Not sure, sir. Oh, it’s Mr Swainbank, isn’t it? Friend of yours, this lad?’ He jerked a thumb in the direction of the shop.

‘Yes. A friend. Was he alone? Was anyone else in there with him?’

The policeman shuffled uneasily from foot to foot. ‘Not supposed to discuss it at this stage. But being as it’s you – yes, there was just the one.’

Charles swallowed. ‘The ambulance bell – he isn’t . . . ?’ Sweat poured from his brow as he waited for an answer.

The officer drew a thoughtful hand across his chin. ‘How did you know about this, sir – if you don’t mind me asking, like?’

‘One of your superiors. I’ve an . . . interest in the shop, you see.’

‘Aye well. I don’t know as how your investment will pay off, Mr Swainbank. There wasn’t a lot of that boy left, just hanging on, poor beggar. We must have disturbed whoever did it, else they’d likely have stopped on to make sure he was out of it altogether. It was plain enough they meant to finish him off, I can tell you that for nowt. But I reckon they got away over the backs when they heard us coming. Likely after what was in the till, then decided to clobber the lad in case he recognized them. Shocking, it is. I don’t know what this world’s coming to at all. Good kid, that. I got a nice bike off him for my daughter only a few weeks back—’

Charles nodded. ‘Where have they taken him?’

‘Infirmary. They’ll have a go at stitching him up, see what’s wrong inside—’

‘Stitching him up?’

The constable nodded sadly. ‘Throat cut ear to ear, sir. Only they’ve happen missed the main artery or he’d have been well away by now. Bloody bastards. I wish I could get my hands on them.’

‘Thanks, officer. I’ll be on my way—’

He dropped Lucas at the corner by the Swan Hotel. ‘I’m grateful,’ he whispered before the man could do his disappearing act. ‘I’ll see you right in a day or two – there’ll be a package of money at the Post Office, usual box number. And . . . stand by, will you?’

‘I will.’

Charles sped off towards School Hill, his eyes darting this way and that as he searched for whoever had committed this terrible crime. But how would he recognize them? Fenner would never do his own dirty work, probably worried too much about lily-white hands and years of imprisonment. ‘Don’t worry about prison, Marcus,’ he muttered beneath his breath. ‘I’ll keep you out of jail, old son.’

He burst into number 34 without even pausing to knock. A lone figure sat hunched over the fire, body trembling, head in hands. On the couch lay a child, the same girl who’d been there last time, while a large yellow hound occupied the space beneath the table. ‘Paddy?’ Charles rushed to his side. Paddy!’

The man looked up, eyes red-raw, cheeks tear-stained and haggard. ‘Mr Swainbank? Charlie?’ What was he doing here? Aye, they’d been in touch on and off over the years, bit of droving, bit of chauffeuring, a pie and a pint once in some country pub. But Charlie wasn’t really a friend, not what could be called a mate. ‘What do you want?’

‘Just to help. Where is everybody?’

Paddy’s hands twisted in his lap. ‘All gone. Police took them. Our Janet screamed that much, they had to take her in the car and all before she brought the house down. Infirmary, I suppose.’

Charles let out a heartfelt sigh. She was safe.

‘Course, I’ve been left here to mind the young ones.’ Paddy waved a hand towards the sleeping child. ‘I always get left. No matter what happens, I get left. Charlie . . . Charlie? Was there ever a God?’ He began to sob, his mouth wide and gaping.

‘I don’t know, Paddy. Sometimes, I think He got invented to tide us over. I . . . er . . . passed the shop, noticed the ambulance. The police told me what had happened. I’m so terribly sorry . . .’

But Paddy continued between sobs, ‘When they were born, I got shut out of the house, shoved in the street like a dog, I was. I stood at that window listening like a child sent to bed early, then I fell asleep on the flags. That’s how you get treated in a house with two women, like you’ve got no say in anything. But when Ma told me I had a son and a daughter both together . . . well . . . I were that proud . . .’ He wept copiously, pausing only to draw a shirt sleeve across his streaming eyes. ‘My lad, Charlie. My bonny lad—’

‘Don’t wake the little one, Paddy. Hush now—’

The door flew open and a black-robed figure fell in, cassock swinging wide, biretta slipping to the floor as the man crossed the small room. ‘Patrick! I only just now heard from Mrs Seddon – she ran all the way to the presbytery to let me know. Paddy?’

‘What?’ The single word arrived strangled by a sob.

‘I’ve phoned through for the Extreme Unction, just in case. ’Tis as well to be on the safe side.’

‘What for? What the bloody hell for?’ screamed the tormented man. ‘He’ll not die, not my Joey!’

‘He might. And you’d be wanting him to go in a state of grace now, would you not?’

‘No! I’d sooner he stopped in this world with a soul blacker than hell!’

‘Ah now – Patrick—’

Charles stepped forward. ‘He doesn’t want to hear that sort of thing, Reverend. Leave him some hope, for God’s sake. And it might be as well to keep our voices down.’ He indicated the couch where Daisy moaned softly in her sleep. ‘No point in disturbing the little girl.’

Bernard Mahoney stared hard and long at the man whose face he knew so well from pictures in the paper, he who had already brought so much trouble to this particular door. ‘What’s your business here? Were you invited?’

‘No.’

‘Then I suggest you leave. This is no time for casual callers.’

Paddy struggled for breath and composure. ‘Hang on, Father. This is my house, not yours. That’s the one thing about being a Catholic – you lot just walk in and shout the flaming odds as if you own the place! This man were passing the shops, that’s all there is to it. And I’ve worked for him, so has my wife. He’s only come to see what he can do—’

‘And what can you do, Mr Swainbank?’ The priest’s lip curled into a sneer. ‘Have you the power, the ability to make things come right?’

‘No. Have you?’

Paddy dragged himself from the chair and squared up to his Father Confessor. ‘Shut up, Father Bernie! He’s only doing the decent human thing!’

‘Is he now?’

Charles straightened his long back and looked down on the small priest. ‘The boy is hurt. I came to see what I could do for the family.’ Their eyes locked and Charles could tell that Molly had confided in this man, probably in the privacy and safety of the confessional. ‘The Maguires have worked for me – and Ma was like a second mother the night my father died.’ That was a lie, for he’d never had a first, had never learned love and generosity from the ideal source, from a maternal breast. ‘Paddy’s children are my children, sir. All four of them. He and I have broken horses together – and we’ve broken bread together. Now we grieve in unison, because I too have suffered some great blows of late and I understand what he’s going through.’