Anyone Who Had a Heart (12 page)

The sight of Garth alarmed her; his face was smudged with what looked like soot and his hairstyle – not that he’d ever had much of a hairstyle – was oddly truncated at the front. On close inspection it looked singed. His smell alarmed her more than anything. He smelled of smoke and that worried her.

Unwilling to cast aspersions, Rosa Brooks turned to the priest. ‘Can I tempt you, Father?’ She knew a salivating set of lips when she saw them.

‘Indeed,’ said the black-robed priest, ‘though not quite so large a bowl if you don’t mind. Gluttony is one of the seven deadly sins after all, though in Garth’s case I don’t think he’s eaten for days.’

Rosa had known Father Justin for a long time and understood what he really meant. He wanted to be tempted. He wanted a large portion and being a good Catholic she had to appear generous – especially to a priest.

The priest thanked her and, although he didn’t gulp his food like Garth, he certainly paid it great concentration. When they more or less finished together, she poured tea for them both.

Joanna chose that moment to wake up. Her cry carried down through the plasterwork ceiling, demanding attention. Marcie had gone to the Labour Exchange with the hope of finding a job in one of the local factories. She hadn’t really relished the prospect but had thought that a larger firm might be more forgiving of a girl in her circumstances.

While Rosa went to attend to the child, Father Justin finished his food, pushed his bowl away and turned his attention to Garth. The boy – for he couldn’t help thinking of Garth as a boy despite the fact that he was fully grown – was reaching for more bread, dunking it into the morass of vegetables and gulping it down.

Garth didn’t see the look of disgust on the priest’s
face
. Father Justin was as susceptible to the baser responses of humanity despite his holy cloth.

‘I think I will have a word with the Sisters at St Saviour’s,’ he said out loud. ‘That’s where you should be, Garth, my boy, with the rest of the loonies.’

Father Justin was the pillar of priestly behaviour when he had an audience, even if only one parishioner. Out of earshot of anyone who might be appalled, he said what he was thinking, becoming baser and fouler mouthed than any of his parishioners could ever dream of.

Garth didn’t understand what he was talking about anyway and he would have carried on, enjoying kicking over the traces and saying what he liked.

He didn’t get chance to say any more. Marcie came breezing through the door. Initially, her look seemed one of surprise, though he could never be sure with Marcie. She had a habit of turning away from him he noticed. A suspicion that she might be gifted – or in the church’s opinion – cursed with the same affliction as her grandmother had crossed his mind. He’d heard rumours about Rosa, had touched upon the matter with her, though Rosa had blanked him out.

His smile was broad. ‘Why, Marcie. You’re looking flushed my girl. Have you been rushing now?’

‘No,’ said Marcie, taking off her scarf. ‘Not really.’

Her flush was surprise at him being there. As usual
she
tried not to look into his eyes. Her smile was for Garth and her pleasure at seeing him was obvious.

‘Garth, where have you been?’

‘Hello, Marcie. I’m eating stew.’ It was as though he had not been missing at all, but had merely popped out to the shops for five minutes. Marcie knew from experience that Garth had no concept of time.

‘So I see,’ said Marcie. ‘It looks as though you’re enjoying it.’

‘You’re a fine-looking woman, Marcie Brooks,’ said Father Justin getting to his feet. ‘Let me help you off with that coat, now.’

Marcie tensed, surprised at the speed with which he came behind her, his fingers brushing her shoulder as he helped her out of her coat. He hung it up at the back of the door. She suppressed a shiver when he looked her up and down with far more familiarity than a priest should ever use.

‘My, but you’re a lovely girl, Marcie. And strong too. These arms seem strong.’

He ran his hands down her arms, patting them as though she were a horse, thumbs caressing.

‘You know I have a vacancy for a cleaner at the presbytery. Would a few hours a week be useful to you?’

For the first time ever Marcie stared into his eyes and what she saw there scared her. It certainly wasn’t cleaning he wanted. Father Justin had sin in mind
and
she was the object of that sin. In his eyes she read his desires, his need to satisfy the lust he felt for her. All she wanted was for him to leave.

‘No thank you! I’m going to London.’

He looked deflated. ‘Are you now? I didn’t know that.’

Rosa came down with Joanna who gurgled with delight on seeing her mother.

Rosa did not ask her granddaughter whether she’d had any luck getting a job. She just knew she had not. An unspoken message passed swiftly between them. Neither would mention where she had been until Father Justin was gone. Although the priest was formally welcomed when he came to visit, he was not liked and neither was he trusted.

‘Where was he?’ She directed the question at her grandmother taking Joanna into her arms.

‘Father Justin says he was sleeping rough in a yard at the back of the shops in Sheerness.’

The statement seemed to reverberate between them and again there was that meeting of eyes and of minds. Marcie felt confused but gained something from her grandmother’s fearless look. It was as if she were telling her not to be afraid at what she was seeing because she was seeing it too. They were both worried about Garth and both wary of the priest.

‘Do you not think that young Garth here might
be
better off at St Saviour’s with the good sisters there,’ said Father Justin.

Marcie frowned. She’d never heard of the place. Her grandmother on the other hand had.

‘Garth needs a home, not an asylum.’

Marcie was horrified. This time grandmother and granddaughter did not look at each other, though they shared a single thought: something bad was about to happen. They both knew it.

THE POLICE CAME
for Garth on Tuesday morning.

‘We have reason to believe the said person was seen at the back of the shops. A witness states he was sleeping there.’

A sergeant had come this time accompanied by the same young constable Marcie had met before.

‘That doesn’t mean to say he did anything wrong,’ Marcie pointed out hotly.

‘My granddaughter is right,’ said Rosa. ‘And we know he did not do anything.’

The sergeant almost laughed in her face. ‘What are you, psychic or something?’

The wrinkles around Rosa’s mouth intensified as she clamped her lips tightly together.

‘Anyway,’ the sergeant went on. ‘He is known as being not all there so it stands to reason that he’s not the sort to be left unsupervised with a box of matches.’

Marcie’s jaw dropped. Her grandmother laid into them before she had chance to.

‘His mother was careless with the men she went with, but was never careless with matches. And
neither
is Garth. He is just a poor soul injured when he was born. That is all.’

The sergeant was having none of it. When he took a deep breath he seemed to swell within his uniform, as though emphasising his authority in these matters.

‘You cannot trust the lad to do things
normally
, madam, like other people do. Surely you’ve noticed that?’

‘He’s slow, but there’s not a nasty bone in his body,’ Marcie interjected, refusing to believe that Garth was responsible for destroying the future she’d planned for herself. ‘He wouldn’t do anything like that.’

She could see by their faces they were not convinced.

‘Tell me who this witness is,’ she demanded, fixing the sergeant with a disdainful glare and a defiant stance, arms folded, shoulders square.

‘Young lady …’ began the sergeant in a condescending tone.

She half wondered whether Father Justin had had a hand in this. Wasn’t he keen to see Garth carted off to the asylum?

‘I’m not at liberty to say at this moment in time. Not until we’ve asked this young man some questions and had him positively identified. But the person concerned does live above a shop in that rank.’

It was useless. Everything has become so difficult,
thought
Marcie. It was as though the life she’d always known in the place she’d always known was falling down around her like a house of cards. A tap on one card and the whole lot fell down.

‘When will he be home?’ asked Rosa Brooks.

The sergeant was hesitant. It was obviously a question he had no wish to answer. ‘The evidence will be assessed and so will he. He may be brought back here on bail, or he may be detained in a safe place – a suitable place for somebody like him – for his sort of person – if you know what I mean.’

‘No, sergeant. I do not know what you mean,’ snapped Marcie, her eyes blazing. Why was it people could not accept Garth for what he was? Just a poor creature in need of human kindness.

The thought brought her up short. That’s exactly what my grandmother used to say to me, she told herself. Funny how alike we’re becoming.

The two policemen prepared to leave. At least they weren’t using handcuffs. As they said, Garth wasn’t the sort to run away and couldn’t run very fast anyway.

‘We’ll be off then,’ said the sergeant. ‘Unless there’s any tea on offer,’ he added hopefully.

‘No!’ Marcie was livid. ‘This way to the front door.’

All she wanted was them off the premises even though poor Garth had to go with them. She held it open for them.

The sergeant nodded a silent ‘thank you’, not daring to look her in the face.

The young constable gave her a quick smile at the same time as letting his eyes drop to her bosom. His look was blatant. His hand brushed against her belly as he passed.

‘Keep your hands to yourself!’ she snapped.

‘It was just an accident,’ he replied. The smug look on his face said otherwise.

‘We’ll be down to see you,’ she shouted after Garth. Garth was all smiles when he waved back, excited because he was going for a ride in a police car.

The old house shook when she slammed the door.

Perhaps Marcie would never have left Sheppey and pursued her dream if it hadn’t been for Alan Taylor.

Following another fruitless search for employment at the Labour Exchange, she’d wandered off along the beach at Sheerness, the sea breeze crisping her skin and sending her hair into thick tendrils behind her.

She looked out to the grey horizon trying to look further into her future. Would she always stay in this place? One half of her would always be here, she realised suddenly. This was where her roots were. The other half of her would always be out there searching for a better future and also to reclaim something of her past.

The breeze was brisk, the halcyon days of summer not yet here – if they would ever chance the east coast of England at all.

But at least it cleared her head and revitalised her flagging energy which in turn helped to lift her depression. Her grandmother said that things always came in threes and it was true in her case. First she’d lost her job, then the boutique – her only other source of income had burned down – and now Garth had been carted away by the police. Perish the thought that he should end up in an asylum. She didn’t care about Father Justin’s reassurances; the place had to be hell on earth.

For a moment she thought she heard somebody calling her, but didn’t bother to look round. The old fear that she was being followed and that someone was about to jump out on her had disappeared, obliterated by her current problems.

‘Marcie!’

A hand jerked at her shoulder bringing her to a stop.

Somewhat dishevelled but still possessing a dapper confidence, Alan Taylor looked inordinately pleased with himself.

‘Didn’t you hear me call you? You trying to avoid me, Marcie?’

Of course she was.

She shoved her hands deeper into her pockets and eyed him grimly. ‘What do you want, Alan?’

She was deliberately surly, though he didn’t seem to notice.

‘Marcie! My beautiful Marcie. You know we’ve got a lot to talk about, darling. Ain’t that right, sweetheart?’

‘No. I don’t think so.’ She tried to brush past, but he blocked her path.

‘Get out of my way, Alan.’

He shook his head. ‘I will not. I want to speak to you.’

Marcie narrowed her eyes. How could she ever have thought that this man was a better father to her than her real one? He’d betrayed her trust. He’d taken advantage of her – of her body when she’d been at her most vulnerable. Her shoulders stiffened and her jaw was like iron. ‘Well, I don’t want to speak to you.’

She shook off the hand gripping her arm. He grabbed her again. The breeze got up and tangled her hair over her eyes. In the skirmish she slipped on the wet pebbles and he went down with her.

For one dreadful moment he was on top of her, his slippery lips on her face, covering and sucking at her mouth and nose until she could barely breathe. He was suffocating her and didn’t even know it, too engrossed in ripping at her blouse, groping for her breasts! He was drunk and wouldn’t listen to her pleas for him to stop. She had to do something. And fast.

Gasping for air, she managed to turn her head away. His head dipped lower, his lips sucking at a bared breast.

Desperate to escape, her hand scrabbled amongst the cold pebbles, her fingers clawing for something, anything she could use as a weapon.

It was not a pebble but a thick piece of wood, a piece of driftwood most likely fallen from a passing ship on its way to Rotterdam or London. It was light enough for her to lift and heavy enough to make a clumping sound against his head.

He gave a strange, strangulated sound deep in his throat. The piece of wood remained sticking at an angle at the back of his head, as though it had stuck there, caught on his collar. One hand reached hesitantly back to remove it, his eyes bulging with surprise.

His fingers never reached the wood. His hand fell limply. His body slumped against her, no longer groping, no longer kissing; no longer moving.