Beware This Boy (32 page)

She turned her head away from him. “I’m going to release Colin from our engagement. He shouldn’t have to be tied to a cripple for the rest of his life.”

“Sylvia, look at me. Come on, look at me.”

Reluctantly, she did so.

“What if Colin was the one to get injured? Would you break up with him because he’d got knocked about a bit?”

Her eyes were filled with tears. “You know I wouldn’t. I’d love him just the same.”

“And his feelings for you won’t change one bit.” Tyler hoped this was true.

Again she turned away. “You don’t understand, Inspector. I’ve lost all my fingers. I won’t be able to wear his wedding ring.”

“What’s important is that you’re alive. That’s what will matter to Colin.”

She was silent.

“That’s what would matter to you, wouldn’t it?” continued Tyler softly.

She turned back and studied him for a moment. “You have a kind face, Inspector. You have a daughter, don’t you.”

“Aye, lass. She’s a bit younger than you.”

“She’s lucky to have you for a dad.”

“It’s more the other way around, if you ask me.”

The screen was moved aside and Nurse Ruebotham poked her head in. “I’d say that’s if for today, Inspector.”

Tyler got to his feet.

“Did you want to ask me something?” Sylvia whispered. She was becoming drowsy.

“Just one thing. We found a St. Christopher medal amongst the debris in your section. Do you know who it might have belonged to?”

“No, I don’t. Not allowed to bring in stuff like that.”

“Inspector, time’s up,” said Miss Ruebotham.

Sylvia’s eyelids were drooping. “Thank you, Inspector.”

Tyler’s heart ached for the girl.

He was able to see Peter Pavely, who still had no further recollection of the explosion. “No, Inspector. Like I said, the last thing I remember is walking into the shed.”

“And there was nobody there, I gather.”

“The workers weren’t in yet, if that’s what you mean. Phil Riley was checking to see how many fuses were left over from the previous shift.” He hesitated. “At least I think he was there. It’s all a bit fuzzy. He always has to check at shift change. Maybe it was a different day I seen him. I went in on Friday to have a look at what had to be done. Maybe that’s when I seen him.” The effort to remember was clearly upsetting him.

“Don’t worry, mate. I’ll check it out,” said Tyler quickly. “That’s it, then? Maybe Mr. Riley?”

“The cleaner, the foreign chap – we might have passed him in the passageway.” He rubbed at his head. “I’m not positive. That might have been another day too. He has to clean around the floor when shift changes.”

“Nobody else? No dillie man making a delivery?”

“I don’t think so.” A look of terror came across his face. Tyler had seen a similar expression on Sylvia’s. “Is this going to go away?” Pavely said loudly. “I’ve got terrible ringing in my ears and my mind is jumping all over the place. Do you know, when you sat down, for a minute I thought you was my brother, Dan. Could have sworn it was him. But then I remembered he’s dead and gone a long time ago. First war.” His one eye focused on Tyler. “You’re not Dan, are you? You’re not Dan come for me?”

Tyler stood up and patted Pavely’s shoulder. “No, I’m not. It’s the sedation playing tricks. Try not to worry. You’re going to be all right.”

Pavely caught him by the arm. “When is somebody going to tell me what happened? I keep thinking I was to blame and you’re all keeping it from me.”

“That’s not the case, Mr. Pavely. Tell you what, why don’t you lie back in bed and try to get some sleep? I’m going to have the nurse look in on you.”

Obedient as a young child, Pavely slipped down under the covers. Tyler tucked the sheet up close to his chin.

“Hush, now. You’re going to be all right.”

Donny Jarvis was hiding in the shadows of the house next door when Jack and a woman approached. He recognized her right away. When he was in second form, he’d contracted a bad case of scabies and a shocked and repulsed teacher had sent him to the local clinic. The nurse had been kind, soothed his maddening itch with some ointment, shared her lunch with him, and wrote a note to his parents. Bloody laugh that was. His father had clipped his ear for causing trouble and his mother had gone on a rant about them interfering. Nothing came of the letter – no better food, even less cleanliness.

He supposed he was grudgingly grateful to the nurse. She’d tried, and she at least had treated him like a human being. Her name was Abbott, he remembered, and Brian and Jack were related to her. Too bad it was her family he’d got in the squeeze.

Jack made the drop while she waited outside, then Donny watched them walk away.

He collected the money and went to the meeting he’d arranged with Comrade Patrick. As he entered the gate, he felt uneasy. In early November a bomb had landed in a churchyard and bones and bits of ancient corpses were spewed all around. Live blokes Donny felt he could handle; bloody stiffs were something else. Funny he didn’t worry
about getting killed himself. In fact, he found the raids exciting. And of course there were rich pickings after. During a raid he often went into the middle of the street to watch the action. He loved the roar and crackle of the blazing fires, the
thwump, thwump
of the bombs landing, the sharp rattle of the ack-ack guns. He breathed in the smell of cordite and burning wood like somebody else breathed in the fresh smell of pine trees.

He might even consider signing up when he was older. Nothing to do with love of country. As far as he was concerned, the government could stick their flag up their arse as far as it would go. They’d never done anything for him. But he sort of fancied being in a battle. Having a big, deadly gun. You could just mow men down with one of them. And a bayonet. He’d seen a newsreel at the pictures of soldiers training. They stuck the bayonet into a stuffed dummy, all looking very chuffed and calm about it. The dummy didn’t look anything like a real man. No blood gushing out, no terror on the face of the dying. Not like it really was. But it was all legit. All paid for by the government.

He went to the appointed place, the alcove sheltered by an overhang of the church roof. There was a row of ugly shapes along the roof edge, heads with twisted features. Why people would decorate a church with those things Donny couldn’t fathom. He stamped his feet, which were getting cold in spite of his wool socks. He’d nicked them from Lewis’s department store on one of his little excursions.

He wondered if he could risk lighting a fag. He didn’t want some nosy air-raid warden seeing him. They came out after dark like gnats at twilight.

Finally he heard the soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path. Somebody was coming. He slipped his fingers into the knucks in his coat pocket, just in case. A man’s figure emerged
out of the gloom. He was whistling softly, a popular tune, “Run Rabbit Run.” It was Patrick. Donny stepped forward a couple of feet so he could be seen. Patrick stopped.

“Evening, lad. You’re nice and punctual. Seen anybody?”

“Not a bleeding soul. There’s just me and the corpses.”

“Good. Let’s tuck in here for a minute, then.”

Patrick moved ahead to the darkest place along the wall, where there was a shallow depression. He wasted no time. “Have you got the stuff?”

Donny handed over the shopping bag. Patrick set it by his feet. “And the money?”

Donny fished inside his coat and took out the envelope. Patrick had a small torch with him and he snapped it on, focusing the beam on the contents of the envelope. He riffled through the notes.

“There’s only thirty-five here. I said forty.”

“That’s all they could come up with, I suppose,” Donny replied quickly.

He thought the other man smiled, thin and cold, but he couldn’t be sure. As usual, most of his face was hidden by a muffler. “Too bad. I was going to give you a fiver for yourself but I won’t be able to do that now.”

“ ’S all right.” Donny could actually feel himself sweating in spite of the cold. He thrust his hand into his pocket again and felt the reassuring smooth weight of the knuckle-duster. “When can he get the papers?”

Patrick chuckled. “Don’t be an idiot. Where would I get forged papers? I’m not the Secret Service.”

“Right, course … so our friend is going to be disappointed?”

“ ’Fraid so.”

“What shall I tell him?”

“Tell him whatever you bloody well like.”

“Do you want to get more dosh out of him, then?”

“No, we’re going to get plenty of money soon. But your pal is a liability. When he knows he’s paid for nothing, he’s likely to go into a sulk. You never know what he might take into his head to go and do. We’ve got what we wanted.”

“And the plan is in place?”

“It is. Won’t be long now.”

Donny decided to risk rolling a fag and lighting it. He took the packet of papers from his coat but Patrick caught him by the hand. “Don’t do that yet, Bolton. Wait till I’ve gone. I don’t want anybody coming for a look-see.”

Donny could feel the other man’s breath on his cheek, slightly sour-smelling. “Is there anything more for me to do, then?”

“No, I’ll take it from here. You know the drill; you’ll get notice when I want you.”

“Wait. What shall I do about my friend?”

Patrick was already walking away. “Deal with him any way you bloody well want. Like I said, he’s a liability. Don’t mess up, me boyo. Tomorrow will be our Guy Fawkes’ Day.”

The darkness swallowed him up almost immediately. Donny took out his cigarette makings. That had been a close shave. He’d been stupid to think he’d get away with keeping back a fiver from the money Patrick was expecting. Good thing he’d factored in what he considered to be his commission from the start. He’d picked up almost fifteen quid. Not bad.

He struck his match and lit the fag, drawing the tobacco deep into his lungs. He’d mixed in a little of the remaining ganja with the regular tobacco.

“Deal with him,” Patrick had said.

You
dealt with
rats. You
dealt with
the odd yowling tomcat that came into the back entry. You
dealt with
blokes who thought they could put one over on you. It was one thing to have a dust-up with some sod from another gang, say, or
whack your girl, or hurt a kid like Jack. But to actually kill somebody in cold blood, that was a different story.

Shit. Bloody hell. What was he going to do?

Eileen sent Jack back to the house to report that they had delivered the money and she went on alone to Bennett Street, where Vanessa’s parents lived. A gust of wind hit her face; bits of newspaper wrapped around her feet. She could see the headlines: “High-Explosive Bombs Drop on City Centre. Many Lives Lost.” That had happened only a week ago. She knew another attack was probably coming soon. The moon had appeared, trailing clouds. In the past, before the war changed everything, she’d loved to see the moon grow full. Now the sight brought dread. It was a deadly beauty. She wondered if Lev had been disappointed by her note. Maybe he’d gone ahead and invited some other woman to go to the dance. Some younger, prettier woman?

“Get a grip on yourself, Eileen Abbott.
Miss
Eileen Abbott,” she whispered out loud. She was glad when her torch picked out the numbers on the gate of 62.

She went up the path and knocked. No answer. She knocked again. Did she have the right number? She contemplated the arch of a rose trellis over the doorway. Frost-seared, marooned roses. Vanessa’s mother liked gardening, she recalled. What was her name? Joan? June? They’d only met once, at the wedding breakfast. Jane. That was her name. Beattie had referred to her as “Jane, ever so plain.”

She was about to knock again when the door opened. It was Jane herself.

“Good evening, Mrs. Wainwright, Eileen Abbott here. Is Vanessa at home? I’d like to talk to her for a minute.”

Jane Wainwright was wearing a flowered housedress, a shapeless beige cardigan, and down-at-heel slippers, and she had a fag between her stained fingers. She could have been the model for the cartoon character Sally Slattern, who appeared in the
Daily Mail
. She also smelled strongly of booze.