Abigale Hall (18 page)

Tea was all Peter had to eat. That, a jar of pickled cabbage and a tin of leftover fruitcake from Christmas. If he left the flat, he could do the shopping. But if he stayed inside, no one could find him. No doubt the police were looking for him. A man like Mosley wasn't assaulted without consequences. But Mosley didn't know who he was and, if he did, didn't know where he lived. The police could track him down through the Palladium. Or government records. Everyone was registered. They would find him. Not even the flat was safe forever. Still, it was safe for now.

Peter's hands shook as he rinsed a cup. It slipped from his grip and dropped into the sink but somehow didn't break. He couldn't even break a teacup. How could he break a man? Mosley was fine. A little roughed up, but he walked away. It was a minor thing Peter had done, and for a greater cause. The police didn't lock people up for that, did they? It was only a little fight, a little indiscretion.

These thoughts were like lead pumped into his veins, left to harden under the skin. Lead in his blood. Tea in his stomach. Cigarette smoke in his lungs. His body ached for something more. A solid meal would help, if it was safe to go outside.

Peter checked out the window. Pedestrians, cabs, nothing unusual. Nothing threatening. He pulled his cap low, turned his collar up and cautiously made his way downstairs. The landlady's little dog yapped from behind a door. Sounding an alarm or calling for help? Peter hushed at him to be quiet.

No one assaulted him when he stepped onto the street. He paused and took a good look round. There were so many people about; how could he be picked from the crowd? Barkston Gardens was packed with shoppers. Women with stone faces etched from years counting rations gossiped in long queues while small children ran through the square collecting rubbish and dropping pennies, their high, uncontrollable laughs like chimps at the zoo. Gruff men pushed past him to dash across the street in front of smoky buses.

Peter began to sweat. There was so much noise. Too much, even for London. He would forgo the shop. A Corner House or café would be fine. Anything with food. He tried to hurry, but his limp made it difficult. The faster he moved, the more his leg ached. He needed to get indoors, sit down. There was a café near here, one he wanted to take Eliza to. Why couldn't he remember where it was? He wiped his brow and glanced behind.

The man in the blue and yellow cap stared back.

Peter tasted vomit, smelled the damp pavement, heard the
clang, clang, clang
of the lead pipe rolling. He ran across the street. A horn sounded and he felt the breeze of a car lurching to a stop. He kept running, down to Branham Gardens, into a different crowd.

The man in the cap followed.

Peter remembered being pursued down a different street, a street in darkness, lit only by sodium lamplight.
The first blow struck him in the back
. He felt it now as he turned onto Earl's Court Road and hurried towards the station. The road was crowded, and Peter slipped into the flow of people.

The cap did the same.

There was a cinema up ahead. Cinemas were dark, anonymous. Peter fished a few pence from his pocket and bought a ticket. He made the usherette show him to a back seat and there he remained, keeping his eyes on the door instead of the repeating newsreels and films. His leg welcomed the relief, and his stomach forgot its hunger. Peter dried his palms on his trousers.

The first blow hit him in the back, he remembered now. He was walking down the street, carrying the bag of Jessie's things. Jessie's things – where were they? Did the police have them? He was walking down the street and was struck in the back and fell onto the damp pavement, scratching his hands and chin. He rolled over. Rolled over to see . . .

All he could picture was the blue and yellow cap. The face beneath it was blurred. No matter how hard he tried, he could not bring that face into focus. Peter cycled through those memories as the programme cycled through on the screen. Never could he get past that point. Never could he see any more than the cap before his memory repeated. The doctors said his mind might mend itself, piece the memories together like a film reel. At the time, it was what he wanted. Now he just wanted it to stop.

It was dusk when he finally left the cinema. The shops had closed and the queues were gone. Men rushed home from work while young couples walked arm in arm from the Corner House to the dance halls. His legs were weak, phantom-like limbs that could barely support his weight. He needed to eat. He needed a good rest. Most likely there had been no one at all, only his mind playing tricks. All he needed was a good meal and a good rest.

Peter took a different route home, just to be sure. Once inside his building, he felt no relief. He locked himself inside his flat and hurried to the window. There was only empty pavement and the occasional passer-by. Nothing which should trouble him. He fell into his armchair, hands shaking too much to light a cigarette. His brother Michael had the same problem when a car backfired or a door slammed or his daughter cried. Peter crossed his arms and tucked his hands into his armpits. Michael said it helped. Peter felt his whole body trembling as he allowed his screen-strained eyes to rest, and he was slipping down into the orange abyss . . .

A gunshot startled him. The light blinded. Peter's heart beat wildly as he shielded his tired eyes. The light – only daylight. His neck and back were stiff. Daylight. Morning. He must have fallen asleep in his chair. But the sound? Letters lay on the floor by the door. The snap of the metal post flap – that was what woke him. Peter checked his hands. They were nearly still.

His stomach groaned as he hoisted himself up. Food needed to be a priority today. Limping to the kitchen, he put the kettle on before collecting the post. A heavy letter rested on top, postmarked last week, no return address. He slid it open. Out fell another envelope, already opened, in heavy grey stationery – a letter addressed to Bess Haverford.

*

The rain began sometime after dusk, turning the park path to mud. A yellow fog coated the buildings in a mustard glow. Peter sat on a bench in St James's Park watching ducks drift on the pond, the letter in his hands becoming wet, the words running down the page like the tears in his dreams.

Businessmen hurried by, shielding their suits with briefcases and umbrellas. The ducks disappeared, swallowed by fog. The rain crept into his skin, turning his bones to ice, his muscles to brick. The slanted words were hardly legible now, but that didn't matter. He had read it enough times. He knew what it said.

Dear Miss Bess Haverford,

I represent the estate of
an influential English landowner located in Wales for which the
master requires a housemaid of certain looks and breeding. It
has been brought to my attention that you possess a
niece who would fit his strict requirements. If she were
to be employed, I needn't add that you, personally
, shall be satisfactorily compensated for your loss.

Please reply by
post to the following address should this arrangement appeal to
you.

Signed,

Mrs G. Pollard

Head of Household

The piece of paper with the Welsh address was not included in what Peter received, only a note scribbled on a torn magazine page –
Peter,
I'm sorry, Bess.
Possibly the last note she had ever written, her death the same date as the postmark.

Wales. He was wrong. Wrong about everything. Eliza was only in Wales. Mosley was telling the truth. He was innocent. Peter had assaulted an innocent man.

He had to turn himself in. It was the only way to remove the lead weight from his conscience. He would go to the police, admit what he had done, and turn over the letter. Allow them to continue the investigation. They were the professionals. They knew what they were doing. They wouldn't follow false leads, complicate simple explanations. Peter the fool. He should have stuck to accounting. Accounting was simple – maths, numbers. No guesswork. There were rules in maths, rules that need only be followed for the proper outcome to assert itself. Perhaps they would let him continue practising accountancy in prison. His wet trousers clung to his skin as he rose from the bench. He refolded the letter and returned it to his pocket.

It was only then that he saw him. The man in the blue and yellow cap walked through the park, but he hadn't noticed Peter. Perhaps the fog hid him, Peter thought, as he again smelled sick. Felt the lead pipe on his back, the scratch of the pavement on his chin. Nothing was taken when he was attacked. Neither his wallet nor his ration book.

The man in the blue and yellow cap made his way north towards the Mall.

The only items which hadn't been recovered were those belonging to Jessie.

Leave her
, the voice said. Leave who?

Peter followed him up Regent Street, where the crowds thickened. The rain became heavier. People rushed to and fro, some with black umbrellas, others only soggy newspaper over their heads. The man in the blue and yellow cap kept a steady pace. In Piccadilly Circus, they went round the statue of Eros in opposite directions. Peter thought he would catch him on the other side.

Instead, the man vanished. Peter searched the fast-moving faces but did not know what the man looked like. He only knew that cap, and the open umbrellas blocked every pedestrian's head. He climbed the statue's steps and scanned the crowded circle.

Black everywhere, colours dampened by rain. One mass of people moving together like a herd of cattle. Not now, he thought. Not when he was so near. He caught sight of him heading towards Coventry Street, the cap untouched by rain. Peter leapt off the fountain, landing hard on his bad leg. He ignored the pain and ran. He would not let him escape again. He pushed through the crowds, landing in puddles and tripping over cracks in the pavement. There were only a few paces between them. The man headed for a doorway. If Peter was going to prison, so was the man who had attacked him. With a shout, Peter grabbed his shoulders, spun him round and slammed him against the brick wall.

‘Why did you do it?'

‘Peter?' It was Purvis. ‘I . . .'

‘So it was you. You've done something to Jessie, haven't you? Was afraid I'd find out.'

‘Peter, what on earth . . . ?'

‘Tell me the truth!'

Purvis, who always taunted them, pushed them, made them feel like fools in that worthless job.

‘Did you have an affair? Is that why she needed to go away for a while? You said she got herself into trouble. How would you know? How! Unless it was you who caused it.'

‘I . . . I only meant . . . not that . . .'

Peter raised his fist.

‘Oi!' A hand grabbed his and pulled him back. Peter elbowed Purvis's defender in the ribs. ‘Easy, mate!'

Stephen. ‘What's going on?' he asked.

‘He's the one who attacked me,' Peter panted. It was difficult to breathe. ‘He's the one . . . He's done something to Jessie . . . He . . .'

Purvis cowered by the wall, raising his flabby arms in a meek expression of self-defence. A small crowd had gathered now – more ushers and theatre staff arriving for work. Peter hadn't noticed they were outside the Palladium stage door. Peter knew these people. They trusted him, bought him drinks and covered his shifts, told him about their new girl or the baby on the way. They looked at him now, their faces showing shock and disgust. One of the electricians went to Purvis's side.

‘He . . . He's been . . . I know it was . . .' How to make them understand? How could they feel the black hole inside him? Peter looked at his old employer. Purvis could barely lift a lead pipe, let alone strike a man with it. But it had to be Purvis. Peter followed him here. Following him to the theatre felt right. But the cap. Where was the cap? It must have fallen in the struggle. The crowd around him whispered as he searched the ground. He could prove everything if he found the cap.

‘It has to be here. He was wearing it. It has to be . . .'

Stephen put an arm around his shoulders. ‘Let us take you for a drink.'

‘But I'm right. I know I am . . .' Peter kept his eyes on the ground behind him for as long as possible as Stephen led him away through the rain. He knew the cap was near.

Peter and Stephen ended up in the Dog and Duck, Stephen muscling them into a corner table by the window up on the first floor. A glass of whisky was nudged into Peter's hand.

‘I don't drink whisky,' Peter said, shivering in his soaked clothes.

‘Looked like you could use something strong.'

Peter slid the glass away. ‘I'm fine.'

‘Tell that to old Purvis.' Stephen gave it back. Peter ignored the drink and tucked his hands into his sides. ‘Going to tell us what this is about?'

Peter looked out the blurred window and stared down at the pavement. Despite the rain, the streets were flooded with people. He couldn't distinguish faces. With the number of umbrellas and overcoats, it was hard to tell which were men, which were women. There were so many people.

‘Purvis makes sense. My being attacked after I went to her flat. Her things being taken. What he said to Mrs Rolston. It all makes sense.' He stamped his foot on the ground, shaking the table.

‘No idea what you're on about. Should I call for the bus to Bedlam or do you want to start from the beginning?' Stephen reached for the whisky. Peter stopped him.

‘I've been wrong about everything. Bess . . . Bess sent Eliza to Wales.' He withdrew the letter and handed it to Stephen. ‘Somehow this Pollard woman got her address. Bess sent Eliza out there to pay off her debts. That's what Mosley said, and he was right.'

‘There's no address,' Stephen said, reading the letter.

‘I know. It's all so . . . damn foolish. Why should Bess send me this instead of telling me where Eliza is?'