Parallel Life (15 page)

It was an enormous task, thought Jimmy Nuttall after parking the van. Having travelled on foot down Weaver's Weft, he found himself facing a house that must once have been four or five weavers' cottages. The needle in a haystack metaphor didn't apply – this would be like searching Blackpool beach for one particular grain of sand. It was hopeless. He could check his own house, but he could not bring himself to believe that Annie had been allowed to take the gun back home.

He stood behind a hedge and lit an Embassy. It wouldn't be in his mother's bungalow, either. And it certainly hadn't found its way into any of the shops' safes. After extinguishing his cigarette, he crept down the side of Weaver's Warp, saw the woods, looked at the recently erected bungalow. This was no place for a gun, either; not with builders milling around and digging holes for sewer pipes. It might be further into the copse, but again, where to start? It was hopeless. ‘But I bet the old girl has it,' he whispered. ‘She's the sort to put herself in charge. Lives in the roof.' He turned and looked back at the house. ‘It's in there,' he muttered. ‘She'll be sitting on it, because she doesn't want Lisa dragged in.'

He could probably get inside, but he wasn't completely sure of the layout. The alarm he had installed for Lisa covered the ground and first floors only, so he had never been up into the dress circle. He remembered the second lot of stairs, but had no idea when it came to the apartment – which was the bedroom? Was there a safe? Where was the kitchen? Getting caught in the act would not be a good idea, as he was already a suspect in local burglaries, and an invasion of Weaver's Warp could well make the old girl change her mind and give the gun to police. It was a bloody mess.

There had to be a way of getting the gun back. Deep in thought, he turned away from the house and began the walk back to his van. It was in that moment that the ghost appeared. Dressed in white, it wielded a stick that was very real, while the words it spat emerged in a thick, Irish brogue. ‘Get yourself on your way before I kill you. There's nothing here for the likes of you. We don't feed tramps.'

He stumbled in a rut on the unadopted lane, righted himself, then felt the weight of her weapon across his back. Turning, he growled at her, roaring like a tiger in a cage. She didn't budge an inch. Thanking God for the boot polish on his face, he raised a hand to grab the stick, but she was too quick for him. It whipped across his face, cutting into flesh, tearing as she dragged it away with a downward movement. ‘Get yourself lost,' she screamed.

A light came on in a bedroom of a cottage opposite the big house. The sash window shot open. ‘Eileen? Is that you? Are you all right?'

‘There,' she snarled. ‘My husband and my son will be here in half a second, so run. They have a gun.'

Gun? Was the gun in the cottage, then? Yet another bloody address to wonder about. His face was wet – he knew that he was bleeding. There was no ammo with the gun. Had they bought some? Jimmy ran as fast as his legs would carry him, turning right into the main road, jumping into the van, driving off with gears grinding and tyres screeching.

In the lane, Eileen fell to her knees. She suddenly realized in a small way how Hermione suffered, because a failure in the leg department was terribly frightening. It must be purely horrible to suffer like this all the time. She had stood up to the intruder, yet now, when he had gone, her nerves had gone into overdrive.

Stanley found her in a heap, slippered feet peeping out below the hem of a white nightdress. There was just a quarter moon, so the light was frugal. How had she seen the man in the dark? He posed that very question.

‘He lit a cigarette,' she explained. ‘I was on the landing listening to Hermione's breathing. She stops sometimes, you see, especially after one of her falls. And I saw through the hedge just a flicker of light. God alone knows what he was up to. He'd skin as black as a pot, but he was a white man, I'm sure, because the black had patches showing through. Like a soldier, you know?'

‘Camouflage.'

‘Aye, that's the one. I frightened him, and I hit him twice because I didn't want us all smothercated in our beds by some burgling traveller.' With her husband's help, Eileen rose on unsteady feet and allowed herself to be led down the side of the house and into the family kitchen.

Lisa was there, face creamed, eye mask pushed up into her hair. ‘What the devil's going on, Stan?'

‘Nothing much,' he said grimly. ‘My wife's just half-killed an intruder. He was out there in the bushes, and she saw him strike a match. So she tackled him.'

Lisa sank into a kitchen chair. ‘You could have got yourself killed,' she chided gently. ‘Why didn't you wake us?'

Eileen shrugged. ‘I don't know. I just took Mr Gus's walking stick and clouted the tramp.'

Stanley raised said stick. It was bloodstained. ‘She clouted him, all right. He ran like he had a snake clamped to his arse.' He blushed. ‘Sorry,' he said to Lisa.

The stairlift buzzed. ‘Oh, hell. She's on her way down.' Lisa filled the kettle and set it to boil. ‘See? Even after a bad fall, she's got to be at the front of the queue if there's a performance on. My mother-in-law misses nothing.' She went to meet the miscreant. They heard her almost tender lecture. ‘You should be in bed. There's nothing for you to worry about – have you seen the time? It's nearly two o'clock.'

Hermione entered, Lisa pushing the wheelchair. ‘Well?' asked the matriarch. ‘Has war broken out? Did Saddam's chaps find his misplaced weapons of mass destruction, or has Bush misinterpreted his satnav and bombed us instead?'

In spite of everything, Lisa found herself smiling. She might have married the wrong man, but she had no regrets about being related to this fierce, humorous woman. ‘It was a tramp,' she said. ‘And Eileen beat him about the face.'

‘Why?' asked Hermione, whose philosophy tended to run on the lines of live-and-let-live.

‘He was at the front, then he was at the back,' replied Eileen. ‘Probably trying to pinch stuff. I waited till he went back to the front, then I hit him in the back with the walking stick. Then in the front as well – on his face.'

Hermione processed the information, separating backs of houses from backs of people – she was used to Eileen's meanderings. ‘Is he dead?'

‘He ran very fast for a dead man,' said Stan. ‘I hope I'll be as lively when my time comes.'

Hermione was studying Lisa. ‘What's the matter?'

Lisa swallowed. ‘It was him,' she said. ‘Don't ask me how I know – I just do. He's been here, near my family, in our garden, almost in our house. He'll not stop till he finds it.'

It was Eileen's turn to be confused. ‘Till who finds what?' she asked, eyebrows almost disappearing into her hairline.

‘Never mind.' Hermione's gaze remained fixed on Lisa's face. ‘I thought he'd be long gone – down south or across the Pennines, at least.'

Lisa shook her head. ‘He's not predictable, Mother. And, the more I hear about him from Annie, the more I am inclined to feel that he might very well be dangerous. He cares about no one but himself.'

Eileen glanced from one woman to the other. ‘If someone's making tea, I'd like three sugars. I've just had an encountrance with somebody who's looking for something somewhere. And the somewhere this nobody-somebody is looking is right here, so I need treating for shock.'

They sat round the kitchen table drinking tea. Stanley dipped digestive biscuits into his cup until his wife reminded him that he was in company.

‘Oh, leave the poor man alone,' advised Hermione. ‘If dunking biscuits is his worst fault, he's not going far wrong in the world.'

Lisa, near to tears, tried to hide her fear behind a hand. She cupped her chin, slender fingers creeping up towards an eye. Poor Eileen. Poor old Woebee had just had a close encounter with a lying, cheating thief.

‘Does Annie know where he's living?' asked Hermione.

‘No.' Lisa sighed deeply. ‘She says Freda has seen neither hide nor hair since the day we all met. He could be just about anywhere.'

‘But you'd like his anywhere to be somewhere else,' remarked Eileen.

No one answered her.

Revived by sweet tea, the Irishwoman continued. ‘There are folk here – me and him – who have been associated with this family since time memorial.'

‘Immemorial,' interjected Hermione.

‘Whatever. We even go out of our way to guard you all against danger, but we still sit here drowning in tea and Annies and Fredas and men with no names. Don't you think you should tell us what's happening?'

Hermione breathed deeply. ‘Not at two o'clock in the morning, no. If we carry on, we'll have Harriet awake, and that will never do.'

Lisa cleared away the dishes and pushed Hermione back to the first stairlift. ‘Go with her,' she told Eileen. ‘And don't start asking questions, because she needs her sleep.'

In the kitchen, Stan asked if he could do anything to help.

Lisa smiled at him ruefully. ‘Some days, I feel I am past help. You'd better ask God to come to my aid. I think He's the only one who can make a difference.'

‘Good night, then.'

The door closed. Lisa allowed the flood to pour. She sobbed because she had been a fool, because she had been a poor mother, because she didn't deserve help from Hermione, Eileen and Stan. But most of all, she wept because she was afraid of Jimmy Nuttall. He was still in the area, and there was no way of guessing what he might do next.

He sat in the van, shaking with fury as he mopped blood from his cheek. A blinking old Irish witch had done this to him, and he wanted to sort her out. He knew who she was. Lisa had regaled him with tales of Eileen Eckersley, known by younger members of the family as Woebee, because she always said, ‘Woe betide anyone who . . .' He flinched. God, she packed a fair wallop for a thin, pale ghost.

What now? Home to poor Sal, he supposed. He could always say he'd stopped a robbery at the non-existent house he was supposed to be visiting. No, not yet. He didn't want to be anywhere at the present time, so he parked in a country lane, took out a torch and looked through the Bolton newspaper. When he reached the small ads, he sat up and took notice. That was a phone number he recognized, though he had never used it.

‘Bloody hell,' he murmured. Had they given him the main chance on a plate, delivered via the local press? Would he dare? Could he engineer a way of making a killing?

He folded the paper and sat for at least an hour – smoking, sipping pop from a can, reading and rereading the short message. ‘Help wanted'
,
it began. He was the one who needed the help. But he couldn't do this thing on his own. There was one person on earth who trusted him completely, and she was his current landlady. Sal. Could she do it? Should she be involved in this mess? How might he persuade her without telling her the whole truth?

Jimmy Nuttall closed his eyes and saw her face. She was smiling at him, adoration illuminating her face and making her almost lovable. Sally Potter would go to any length to secure her man. This was the way forward, then.

Six

Annie proved her worth within a fortnight. She watched Lisa and Simon for a few days, then leapt into action when a young couple approached the counter and asked to look at engagement rings. They were clearly short of money, and Annie knew only too well how that felt. ‘Are you superstitious?' she asked the girl.

‘Not particularly, no.' She glanced sideways at her fiancé. ‘He's not, either.'

‘Good. Stay there, and I'll be back in a minute.'

She left the shop, retrieved an item from the office, placed it on a little velvet tray and returned with a look of triumph in her eyes. ‘What about that?' she asked. ‘Second-hand, but who cares? It's the love that matters, eh? Now, it's not a huge stone, but it's nearly clear of carbon. And diamonds are carbon – they were trees, you know. Millions of years ago, that was a bit of wood. Then it went to peat, then coal, then, after ages and ages, it turned into a diamond. So the bit of carbon makes it natural – a tiny fleck of darkness that allows the rest to glitter.'

The female customer picked up the ring. ‘It's lovely, is that,' she said.

‘Right.' Annie picked up a sizer. ‘Try it on.'

‘It's a bit loose.'

‘No problemo.' Annie sized the girl's finger. ‘Now, if you decide to have this ring, not only is it a bargain – look at that price tag – but we'll also resize it for free, and tell your families to buy sunglasses, because I'll make that baby shine like the North Star.'

‘We'll take it,' said the man. ‘And with the change, we can buy a bit of furniture.'

In the doorway to the office, Lisa stood and smiled. Annie had a gift that was not born of or improved by learning – she was excellent with people. That young couple would trust Milne's from this day on. If they did well, they'd be back for other items, because they would remember that they had been treated with fairness and sympathy. ‘Well done,' she said to Annie when they had left. ‘Shall we have a cuppa? Simon, you know where we are if we're needed.'

In the office, Lisa praised Annie and said she would make a fine jeweller as long as she carried on in the same vein. ‘It's about trust, and you convinced them. You even convinced me, and I'm an old hand. Now, sit down and listen.'

Annie sat while the kettle boiled. She did as she had been bidden, her eyes widening with every sentence delivered. ‘But you didn't actually see him?'

‘No. No one did. Weaver's Weft is unadopted, and we haven't bothered with street lights or paving. We like it the way it is – it's more rural and natural. With a big housing estate just a few hundred yards away, it's nice to be a bit different from the usual.'