Abigale Hall (29 page)

The man in that portrait would never have begged. Eliza kept the knife primed while she opened the drawer. It was empty save a single photograph. A smiling girl about Eliza's age stood in front of a simple stone house. Because she was smiling, Eliza did not immediately recognise her. A younger girl stood in the foreground and the older man beside them wore a suit that did not fit his weathered face and deep-set eyes.

‘My . . . Victoria,' he wheezed.

Eliza turned the picture over.

‘My . . . daughter.'

Reginald
Kyffin and daughters, 1876

There was no doubting the similarity between the man in the photograph and the old man lying on the bed. Eliza dropped the knife.

‘You're not . . . You're . . . Reg Kyffin.'

He closed his eyes and nodded.

‘But, but no . . . You died. They said you . . . disappeared.'

‘Came . . . came to find her . . . Can't leave till . . . till I find her.'

‘Why is Mrs Pollard keeping you here? Why is she pretending you're Mr Brownawell? Where is he?'

He did not answer.

‘Is he with my sister? Do you know where they are?'

A deep breath. ‘No.'

‘Did the house take her? Take her like it took Victoria?'

‘Not like . . . Victoria. P-Pollard. Like Pollard.'

‘But is she here? Is Rebecca here?'

Reg Kyffin did not answer.

‘Have you seen her ghost? Mr Kyffin, have you seen your daughter's ghost?'

‘Ghost . . . ghosts. No . . . ghosts.'

The old man was exhausted, losing his battle against sleep. He reached out his hand. Eliza gave him the photograph. He pressed it close to his heart and was asleep.

The thump from downstairs woke him. Only the rain, Peter told himself, until he heard the voices. Someone had entered the house. He kept still. The slightest movement would make a sound in an old, empty building like this. Their words were muffled, but Peter heard the men spreading out as if looking for something. Someone.

A street lamp cast a thin ray of artificial light into the room between the gaps in the old wooden boards. Hoping the men were making too much noise to hear him, Peter quietly made his way to the window. He was only on the first floor. Not a long drop. If he could get the boards loose without them hearing, if he didn't injure himself, he could hurry off into the shadows before they could find him. There wasn't much time to think. He reached for the boards.

A hand clamped over his mouth. Peter struggled as the person whispered in his ear.

‘Shhh.'

Peter was allowed to turn. An old man held him. He slowly released Peter and put a bony finger to his lips. Together they waited as the footsteps echoed, drawing closer and closer to their little room at the back of the house.

The old man indicated for Peter to remain still then walked to the door and flung it open, attracting the attention of the intruders. Peter wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go. The man shut the door, leaving Peter in darkness.

‘What you lot coming round here for?' the old voice said.

‘What is it? You find him?'

‘No, it's only ol' Addy.'

‘What're you doing here, Addy?'

‘My
t
Å·
. My house,' the old man said. ‘I've a right to be here more than any of you.'

‘Phew! Take a whiff of him. Been drinking again, Addy?'

‘Oh, leave him alone. He ain't doing any harm.'

Peter recognised the last voice. He'd spent hours down the pub with it, drinking and chatting. A voice that once carried friendship, now only fear.

‘Say, Addy, is it?' Stephen continued. ‘You seen any strange blokes about?'

‘Besides you
tair
?
Na
, quiet as a mouse here. I keep mae
t
Å·
nice and quiet. She likes it nice and quiet.'

‘Yeah, I'm sure she does,' Stephen said. ‘So, no one's been round? No one about my age? Ginger hair? Skinny lad?'

‘Could be you, but you're not so lean, are you
mae bachgen
? Your mother feeding you up nice and proper, she is.'

‘Come on, let's go,' the first voice said.

‘Yeah, come on. I'm bloody starving,' said the second.

‘You'll let us know if you see anyone, won't you, Addy?' Stephen asked.

‘Course I will. Course I will. Report all visitors, I do. Always and forever.' The old man kept rambling while the heavy footsteps descended the stairs. The front door banged heavily and the house grew quiet once more. Peter listened for the old man but heard nothing. Cautiously, he opened the door. The man stood there, staring at Peter.

‘You've caused them
tair
a spot of bother, you have.' He looked Peter in the eye as if assessing his very soul. Finally he nodded and walked away. ‘They should be gone now. Come upstairs and join us for
cinio
. No meat on your bones,
mae bachgen
. No meat at all.'

Peter followed the man to the top floor of the house. This place, too, was dusty and sparse, save one room at the back. Here a rudimentary living space was set up – a mattress on the floor with a few bare sheets, a gas-ring stove, bucket with water, clothes piled in the corner. A second bucket held human waste.

‘Come and sit. Come and sit.' He pointed to a table with two chairs. When Peter made to sit, the man stopped him. ‘
Na
,
na
. Can't sit there.
Na
, that chair's not for you. Here, erm, here . . .' He spun round, looking for a suitable alternative.

‘The floor will be alright,' Peter said.

‘
Na
,
na
.
Na
way to treat a guest. We treat our guests well. Here. You have my chair. Yes, you sit there.
Na
,
na
. Don't mind me. Don't bother me at all. Guests come first. What we always say, isn't it,
m anwylyd
?'

Peter sat in the chair and waited in silence as the man lit the gas ring, scooped water from the bucket using a saucepan, and set it to boil.

‘That was very kind of you,' Peter said. ‘For not telling them.'

‘Oh, nonsense. Don't listen to them. Never listen to them. Bastards,' he spat, his expression turning dark.

‘My name is Peter. Peter Lamb.' He held out his hand.

‘Yes, yes. Of course. How foolish of me.' They shook hands. ‘Addison Marsh. Pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope you enjoy your stay here. Not as grand a guest house as we used to be, but we do our best for our visitors, don't we,
m anwylyd
? Afraid you caught us at short notice, though. Not much food in. Have some noodles. They brought us noodles, so that's what we have. Funny little word, isn't it? Noodles.'

‘That's fine. Thank you.'

There was no heat source in the room, nothing but the few candles and the stove. Peter felt his teeth chattering. His clothes were still damp and the wetness seeped through his skin. The anger that warmed him earlier had yet to be reignited.

‘You've brought us news, I suppose,' Addison said, his voice suddenly solemn.

‘Beg pardon?'

‘News about our Molly. That's why you're here. Hush,
m anwylyd
.'

‘I'm sorry, sir. But I don't know any Molly.'

‘Are you sure? Lovely girl, lovely. Loveliest girl you'll ever meet. Couldn't forget her if you met her so I suppose you haven't. Quiet, woman! He said he doesn't know her.'

‘Is Molly your daughter?' Peter asked.

‘Oh yes. Our only one. Only child, our Molly.
Ein merch.
Ein cariad.
'

‘Has she . . . has she gone missing?'

Addison dumped some noodles into the saucepan and watched the water boil over.

‘She's not missing,' he said. ‘Not to us. No. We know exactly where she is. Exactly where.' From beside the stove, Addison pulled out a bottle and took a swig. He knew. This old man knew. Peter inched forward on his chair.

‘And where is that, sir?'

Addison slammed the bottle onto the stove, dangerously close to the flame.

‘I'm sorry,' Peter apologised.

‘What have you lost?' Addison whispered, his eyes on the ring of flame. ‘Wouldn't be here 'less you lost something. What have you lost?'

‘Her name is Eliza.'

Addison lowered his head. Then he turned down the flame, slowing the boil. He joined Peter at the table.

‘They take them,' he said. ‘They sniff you out, like ruddy dogs, sniff out those with nothing to give and something they need. You say
na
. At first. Say
na
,
na
,
nac oes
. But these are hard times. Hard times. My drink. Fetch my drink.'

Peter grabbed the bottle from the stove and handed it over.

‘
Iechyd da.
' Addison raised the glass then took a long sip before continuing. ‘Did you say
na
?'

‘It wasn't my choice to make.'

Addison nodded. ‘You would've said
na
. Then you would've said yes. We say yes, always. It's only work, that's what we tell ourselves. She's a big girl now. She could do with a proper job, that's what you say. And the money, the money is a little bonus. Something for our trouble. No trouble. And then . . . and then . . .' He took another drink. ‘And then you never hear from Molly again. Hush, dear, don't cry. Don't cry.'

‘Where did Molly go, Mr Marsh?'

‘You can't get her back. Not once she's gone. Once she's gone, she's gone. She's gone.'

‘Is it nearby? Is it somewhere in Swansea?'

‘They don't tell you where. I thought they might. If I let them use the house, if I said they could use it, use it to lure others, they promised to tell me. I know they lie, woman! Stop saying it!'

‘Do you know anything, Mr Marsh? Please. I have to find her.'

‘You have to.'

‘Yes.'

‘You'd do anything.'

‘Yes. Anything.'

‘Anything just to see her again. Hold her. Keep her close. Love her.'

‘Yes. Please.'

Addison pushed the bottle across the table. ‘Then you might as well start on that, because you won't ever see her again,
mae bachgen
. Except in your dreams.'

*

Peter spent a restless night in T
Å·
Marwolaeth. Addison allowed Peter use of the mattress but then spent the whole night pacing the house and speaking to himself. Peter had only brief recollections of his dreams, all of which involved Eliza. He took a few sips of Addison's whisky and found that it helped.

He was only half awake when someone banged on the front door. Peter glanced at his watch – half past seven in the morning. He listened carefully but, being on the top floor, could only hear garbled voices. He was certain, though, that neither was Stephen's. He crept out of the room and into the hall.

‘. . . said no one's been here but us. Why don't you believe us?' said Addison.

‘Who else was asking?'

‘Your compatriots. Came here last evening, looking for
dwili
. Nonsense. Trouble. All you lot ever cause.'

Peter snuck to the railing where he could peer down onto the ground floor. Addison cowered in front of a taller man whose face was hidden by a cap. But Peter needn't see his face. The man had only one arm. This was the man Mosley told him about – the one who took Eliza away.

Apparently satisfied with Addison's answers, the one-armed man left. As soon as the front door was shut, Peter ran down the stairs. He grabbed Addison by the shoulders.

‘Who was that?'

‘Why, him? Calls himself Drewry. Pay him no mind. Same as the others. Take, take, take.'

Peter opened the door and spotted Drewry at the end of the street, turning left. Addison grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

‘Don't. You won't see her again. We never do, do we,
m anwylyd
?'

Peter pulled his arm free and ran after Drewry. He thought Addison might yell after him, but he heard nothing. He glanced behind. The old man was gone.

He was afraid he'd already lost Drewry when he spotted him at the next corner. Last night's heavy rains created deep puddles in old bomb impact sites. If Peter stepped in one, the splash would be enough to draw the one-armed man's attention. Drewry rounded another corner then entered a pub.

It was hours before opening time. The shutters were closed and Peter couldn't see in, but, in the quiet morning street, he heard voices down a nearby alleyway. Peter followed them and ended up round the back of the pub, where he saw Drewry shoving Stephen up against the wall. Two other men stood idly by.

‘My business is with him,' Stephen said.

‘You're to stay in London,' Drewry replied. ‘He comes out here, they'll handle him. He comes to Thornecroft, I'll handle him.'

‘This is personal.'

Drewry punched Stephen in the gut.

‘I don't care if he shat in your mam's bed. You do as you're told according to the agreement, else our business is done. There're plenty of other toerags in that cesspool who'd be happy to have our business. You think I came out here for my health? They sent me to tell you they don't like the trouble you're causing. That means you're in their eye, and that's a more dangerous place than you've ever been. Put yourself on the first train back to London or I'll put you in hospital.' Drewry spat at Stephen's feet then went inside the pub. The other two bruisers followed.

Peter hurried out of the alleyway and watched Drewry head towards Castle Street. After waiting to see if Stephen and the others would follow, he went after him, tailing him all the way to the train station. Peter hid in the crowds there, keeping close to Drewry until he saw him board the train at platform three. Peter bought his ticket with minutes to spare.

Addison Marsh was wrong. He'd be seeing Eliza again very soon.