A Mersey Mile (47 page)

Cal entered on crutches. ‘Hiya, Billy.’

The child looked up. ‘Where’s your tin leg?’

‘It’s having a rest. Linda says I should change our surname to Lipper.’

‘Why?’

‘Cal Lipper. That’s my tin leg. Caliper.’

‘Oh.’

Chris positioned himself near the fire while Frank got down to Billy’s level. ‘That’s a fine fire engine.’

‘It all happened cos I bought it with money for Mam’s birthday.’

Frank shook his head. ‘No, son, none of it was your fault. If it hadn’t been you, it would have been some other child. Father Brennan wasn’t well in his head.’

Billy thought about that. ‘Dad says he was always pissed.’

Mavis looked heavenward and heaved a sigh.

‘Did he, now?’ Frank grinned. ‘So what’s the story? Tell Father Foley, eh?’

Billy raised his head and smiled at the priest. Father Foley was just another bloke who wore striped pyjamas and a tea-stained dressing gown in the mornings. He was real, and he gave fewer Our
Fathers and Hail Marys for penance, so St Columba’s was always packed on Confession nights. ‘I’ve got a house in Blackpool,’ Billy said. ‘It’s mine, just mine. I
can have holidays, and other people can stay in it and pay me. But I can’t have any of the money till I’m twenty-one.’

Chris nodded. ‘You’d only spend it on Dinky cars and the like, so that’s the best way.’ The settlement had been made swiftly and out of court, because the Blunts had
decided that their boy had been through enough. ‘What did you see, Billy?’

The boy frowned. ‘Oh yes. I had to wake Mam up in case I forgot. You sometimes forget dreams,’ he said, his eyes sweeping over all of them. ‘He’s dead. Father Brennan, I
mean. He told me he was sorry, then the light came and he melted.’

‘Melted?’

‘Yes, Father. Like a snowman, but dressed funny. There was a big whip with hooks on it and I saw a bucket and shovel. He was wearing one of the things what Mrs Benson gets her spuds
in.’

Hattie spoke for the first time. ‘A potato sack?’

Billy nodded. ‘And he was thinner and quieter.’

‘Tell them the rest, son,’ Fred urged.

‘I’ve forgot it.’

Mavis took a small notebook from her pocket. ‘The farm’s real name is Kingsmead. It’s in Cheshire – that’s what Billy said. And Brennan’s changed his name to
Don and—’

‘And he’s been good,’ Billy insisted. ‘When he’s a farmer, he’s good, really nice and happy and he doesn’t get pi— drunk all the time.’ He
paused, deep in thought for a few beats of time. ‘He came for him, that monk with the daft name. He was there, too.’

Chris blessed himself hastily.

‘And that’s the last one,’ Billy whispered. ‘The last dream. I won’t have any more, because they were Father Brennan’s dreams and thoughts and I just shared
them. Gladys Mason used to be her name. It’s her farm. Can I have a jam sarnie, Mam? And he looked after the foxes. They’ll miss him.’

‘So you’d a conversation with him?’ Cal asked.

Billy smiled at his friend who could now walk nearly properly. ‘No. I just listened. Sometimes, I could see what he was remembering.’

Mavis went into the kitchen. Hattie, tired after a hard day, made her excuses and went home. No one should ever doubt the sight of an innocent. The bad priest was dead, and she needed her
sleep.

Chris Foley leaned on a wall near the Blunts’ sideboard. Sackcloth and ashes, then. Eugene Brennan had not allowed Billy to see the flagellation, but those self-inflicted wounds, filled
with ashes, had been covered by the time the child had been welcomed in to hear the apology. There was some good, honest guilt in the man. And if Brother Anselm had collected him, was there a
chance of life eternal after a longish sentence in Purgatory?

Chris found himself praying for Brennan. Well, praying was his job, wasn’t it? Praying, doubting, reading, studying, accepting the sins of man and carrying them back to the Lord.
Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do
. Jesus’s words, spoken from the cross, asking for a blessing on His murderers, echoed in the mind of Father Foley, St
Columba’s, Everton, Liverpool.
So who am I to doubt the word of Christ?

Billy dug his teeth into a jam sandwich. ‘It’s true isn’t it, Father? Isn’t it, Cal? Frank? My dream, I mean.’

‘We believe so,’ Frank answered for all.

Chris blessed the company before leaving to walk home; he was on duty till morning. Cal and Frank stayed for a few minutes just to make sure that the Blunts were all right. ‘I’ll
call in tomorrow,’ Frank said. ‘I’d better go, because my boss is quite harsh when it comes to timekeeping. I hope she’s asleep.’ The three men left as Mavis took
Billy back upstairs to his bed.

After dropping off Cal in Seaforth, Fred took his last passenger home. ‘It’s a queer world,’ the driver said.

‘You can say that again.’

‘It’s a queer—’

‘Shut up, Fred. I feel as if I’ve been fried in batter and served with chips.’

‘Sorry, lad. He asked for you three, said he wanted listeners.’

‘Witnesses.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think he’ll stop with this sighted business now, Fred?’

‘I bloody hope so. It makes my flesh try to crawl off the bones. I just want the ordinary life for me and mine.’ He applied the brakes. ‘There you go, son. See you
soon.’

‘Ta-ra, Fred.’

The bus pulled away while Frank stood almost praying that Fred wouldn’t lose his job for nicking a bus. He was up for promotion to inspector, but tonight’s stunt might well put the
kibosh on that.

Upstairs in the bedroom at last, Frank undressed quietly and slipped into bed, his right arm reaching out to cover the little bundle of mischief and joy who was his wife. She smelled of
Silvikrin shampoo, baby powder and breast milk. She smelled of home. She
was
his home.

‘Frank?’

‘Go back to sleep, girl. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I love you.’

She growled in her almost-sleep.

‘Same to you,’ he said.

Somebody was trying to knock the front door off its hinges. Hattie, who had stayed behind after keeping Mavis company while Fred went to steal a bus, was late this morning. She
leapt out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown, pushed her feet into old slippers and stumbled down the stairs. Oh. It was Ida, of course.

Hattie drew back security bolts and opened the door. Ida, doing a fair imitation of a goldfish, carried a newspaper. So it was true, then. Father Brennan was dead and Ida had the evidence.
‘Stop your noise and come in. What’s up?’

Ida flew into the shop like an oversized bat out of hell. ‘Are you not opening today? Are you all right? Is it one of them mind grains what you get sometimes?’

‘Migraines, they are. No, I was late dropping off asleep last night. What’s going on? Has World War Three kicked off without me noticing? Has somebody drained all the water out of
the Suez Canal?’

Ida drew herself up. ‘Don’t talk daft; it’d fill up again, wouldn’t it? You dig a canal near natural sources like rivers.’

Hattie folded her arms.

‘Or seas,’ Ida concluded.

‘Been reading again, love?’

‘I have. And you should see today’s papers.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘Eh? Is who dead?’

Hattie looked up as if seeking divine intervention. ‘Little Billy had one of them dreams. Is it in the papers?’

‘You what?’

‘Right. I’m putting the kettle on. Leave the bolts off in case anybody wants serving; it won’t be the first time folk round here have seen me in the dressing gown. Mind grains?
What next?’ She walked through to the living quarters with Ida close on her heels.

‘Why would Billy Blunt’s dream be in the papers, Hat?’

‘He saw Brennan in sackcloth and ashes.’

‘No.’

‘Yes. Fred came to get me about elevenish last night. He had to go and pinch a bus.’

Ida blinked. ‘A bus?’

‘Yes. You know, one of them big things with stairs, wheels, and no smoking on the bottom deck. Shut your mouth, Ida – there’s one due in a minute, and you might be mistaken for
a tunnel.’

Ida’s lower jaw relocated itself, and her mouth set in a hard line before she spoke again. ‘What are you on about, Hattie? I have to go waitressing in a few minutes.’

‘The monk came for him.’

‘Say again, girl.’

‘The monk he killed with a crucifix came for him.’

‘But he’s dead.’

‘They’re both dead. Do you want a cuppa?’

‘It’s not in the papers.’

Hattie scalded the pot while her visitor dropped into a chair. ‘They probably didn’t find him in time for today’s papers,’ Hattie mused, almost to herself. ‘Billy
said a light came and they melted away like snowmen. He wasn’t upset – Billy, I mean. But it shook the nerves of the rest of us, I can tell you that.’

‘Who was there in the house?’

‘Mavis, Fred, Billy, me, Frank Charleson, Cal Kennedy and Father Foley from Columba’s. Oh, and the dog. It’s a daft bugger.’

‘Why wasn’t I there?’

‘Because we were packed like sardines.’

‘Not because I gossip?’

‘No. You’ve gone better with that, anyway. Billy wanted witnesses, and Mavis asked me just to sit with her while Fred pinched a number fifty-three.’ She poured the tea.
‘Here you are, Ida. Put yourself outside of that.’

Ida, who had virtually forgotten the reason for her visit, sipped from the cup that cheers. ‘He took a double-decker?’

‘He did. Billy wanted his grown-up mates round him. He’s always liked Cal, he respects Frank, and he seems to think the sun shines out of Father Foley’s eyes. So Fred had to go
trolleying all over the place to pick them up. It was quite a night.’

‘But the little lad’s all right?’

‘Yes, as far as I know. Mavis is going back to church – she’s gone all holy water and genuflecting near her statue of the Sacred Heart; Billy says it’s all over now with
these dreams, so there’s just Fred in trouble. He was down for inspector, remember?’

Ida nodded. ‘I do. That’d be another fiver every week.’ She crossed her fingers. ‘Anyway, you’d best take a look at this, Hat. Government ministers, high-up judges,
some cops, a bank manager, couple of doctors, army officers and a Russian spy or something.’

Hattie wore a puzzled frown. ‘What are you on about, Ida?’

‘Elaine Lewis, daughter of Mrs Pearson what collects rents for Frank’s mam. She’s been running a house of ill-repute – well, a flat of ill-repute – in London. They
call it a mansion flat. Kensington.’

‘No. Isn’t she a model?’

‘That must be her day job,’ was Ida’s swift reply. ‘She’s got a maid what looks after her.’

‘Let’s have a shufty, then.’

And there, on the front page, was a photo of Miss Lewis in a beautiful suit. She was posing on the pavement attached to a long road at the bottom of which stood the Eiffel Tower. ‘Bloody
hell, Ida.’

‘Bloody hell is right, Hat. Her poor mother. She put every ounce of herself into her daughter and saved every last penny she could scrape for that girl. Talk about a smack in the gob, eh?
Mrs Charleson won’t be best pleased, either, cos that Christine Pearson’s her best pal. Her husband a grand chap, but he can’t save her suffering all this lot. Break her heart, it
will. What’s the world coming to, love?’

‘God knows, Hattie.’

‘Does He? Well, we’d best pray for a miracle, then.’

Paul Cropper knocked on the back door. He opened it, and stuck his head through the gap. ‘Mrs Acton? Gladys?’

When he got no answer, he shouted once more, then decided to get on with his work. For some reason or other, the herd had not been milked; nor had eggs been collected from the chicken house.
Where the hell was Don? It wasn’t like him to slacken off and leave the beasts in distress. Something was wrong.

As usual, the farm worker in Paul rose to the surface and dealt with practicalities. He lined up the Drovers cows, attached tubes, and allowed machinery to do the rest. When eggs had been
collected and stock had been fed, he tackled the cleaning. It was getting light, so casual labourers were about to arrive; they always did jobs listed by Don. This was all wrong. By now, Paul and
Don should be in the kitchen having breakfast. The casuals were always fed slightly later than the farm manager and Paul, Don’s assistant.

He stood in the middle of the yard, his head cocked to one side. What was that noise? Bells. Police? Ambulance? Paul’s blood suddenly pooled like a solid mass in the middle of his chest.
The broom he had been using was transformed, since it needed to do the job of a walking stick. Cold fingers of fear touched every vertebra, every nerve. The bells were getting nearer; there was
more than one vehicle.

He sat on the edge of the water trough. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ he muttered. Should he run back to his family’s farm and fetch his dad and his four brothers? Mum might
be needed if Gladys was hurt. A hand rose of its own accord and swept through his hair. There was little he could do until he found out the details of what was going on.

‘Cup of tea,’ he decided aloud. ‘I need some sugar.’

The kitchen was colder than normal, too. In the grate, last night’s fire remained damped and barely lit. He opened the damper to allow oxygen to flow, fed in some kindling and a small
amount of coal, then riddled the ashes with a poker. Where was she? Where was Don?

Big Mac burst onto the scene. Big Mac, a Scot from a travelling family, was huge; people often expressed the opinion that he shouldn’t really fit in a caravan unless he hung his feet
through a door or a window. He seemed to fill the entrance to Gladys’s kitchen. ‘Mrs Acton’s gone off in an ambulance. She collapsed.’ He reached the centre of the room,
placing a shovel-sized hand on Paul’s shoulder. ‘Don’s dead, son.’

Paul blinked senselessly. ‘Dead?’ he managed finally.

Big Mac nodded.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Aye. We found him. I went for the police. When they came back bringing me with them in the car, Gladys was there near the body. My oldest sons had stayed with Don till I got back.
It’s a wicked mess, Paul, blood and flesh all over the place. I sent my lot home once the cops were there, told them they’d still get to work this week, but no dinners, because Gladys
won’t be cooking for a while. White as a sheet, Don was. So was she. They may keep her in the hospital.’