The Corner House (45 page)

‘It’s the beer that’s making you dizzy,’ advised Roy Chorlton. ‘Slow down a bit.’

Ged stopped flicking and looked his comrades over. Here they all sat, three mismatched men thrown together because no-one else would have them. Each was being treated for the clap, but Roy Chorlton was the only one who wasn’t suffering because of family. Mother had gone absolutely epileptic over the letter. Warned in writing not to use the same lavatory as her son, Lily had gone a very funny colour while tackling Ged. It was a well-known fact that venereal diseases could not be contracted from toilet seats, but Lillian had refused to be appeased. ‘So you admit that you have this filthy illness?’ she had screamed. ‘I’ve been thrown out,’ he told Betteridge now. ‘So don’t carry on as if you’re the only one in trouble.’

Teddy wasn’t taking that comment lying down, sitting up or standing on feet that were turning to jelly. ‘You’ve been thrown out into a nice little semi where you can please yourself, furniture and carpets included.’

Roy tugged at Teddy’s coat. ‘Shut up,’ he snapped. The pub had quietened; people were not looking at the trio, but all ears were at the red alert stage.

‘I want my kids,’ the drunkard blubbered.

Roy and Ged looked at one another. It was a universally accepted fact that Teddy had long disliked his children, his wife, her cooking, her appearance, and the neglected house his father had left him. For donkeys’ years plus several, Teddy had not said two words together in praise of his family situation.

‘Bad enough catching the clap off that whore without finishing up on my own, no clean socks and not a slice in the bread bin.’

The ensuing silence was painful, to say the least. Pint and gill glasses froze in mid-air, while cigarettes produced their own blue smoke rather than the usual grey, lung-processed fumes. The clientele waited for more.

‘Bloody fool,’ snapped Ged Hardman, his face fiery except for the white pits.

Teddy Betteridge was not going to be called a fool in public, not by anybody. ‘What did you say?’

‘I called you a bloody fool,’ answered Ged. ‘Telling everybody our business. Why don’t you put an advert in the paper, make sure the whole town knows?’

Roy, who had been a witness to more than one of Teddy’s drunken rages, tried to hang on to him. ‘Come on, Ted,’ he pleaded as the man rose to his feet. ‘Calm yourself before you do any damage.’

Betteridge swept Roy aside as if dealing with a troublesome insect. ‘You can all bugger off,’ Teddy bellowed, the words directed at everyone in the room. ‘Yon feller called me a fool.’

Roy righted himself, reached for Teddy and tried to get a grip on him, but Teddy was riled beyond reason. He lunged drunkenly across the table and
knocked Ged Hardman as near to the middle of next week as he could manage. Ged, dragged from his seat and hurled to one side, felt the window smashing when his head punctured the glass. As if angered by the assault, the pane bit back, slicing into Ged’s neck with a long, cold shard.

Hanging there, impaled and useless, Ged Hardman felt the life ebbing out of him. Unfortunately, Ged was sober, having imbibed no more than a whisky and a gill of Magee’s. He was dying. The knowledge raced into him as quickly as the life fluid gushed out. In a matter of seconds, his eyes glazed over and he sank into a dark red abyss.

Teddy Betteridge blinked slowly, as if waking from a long sleep. Blood poured down both sides of the broken window, some falling outside onto the exterior sill, the rest dripping down the wall next to the three men’s table. ‘I didn’t… I didn’t mean to …’

Roy jumped up and supported Ged’s weight. As soon as he touched the man, he knew that it was too late. A major artery had been punctured, and the man’s heart, enlivened by adrenalin, had pumped hard, emptying Ged’s body in a matter of seconds.

A woman screamed. Customers, who had been stilled by the loud pronouncement about venereal disease, were now stunned by the knowledge that they had witnessed a death. ‘He’s murdered him,’ shrieked the same woman.

A man near the door shot outside, across the road and round the corner towards Bolton’s central police station. The landlord dashed off into his living quarters to use the phone. Women wailed while men, shocked to the core, sank down into chairs or onto stools, some opting to place themselves on
the floor. From that level, they could fall no further if they fainted at the sight of so much gore.

Roy Chorlton and two stalwart citizens lifted Ged Hardman down and laid him against the wall beneath the window. When an eyelid flickered, Roy placed his hand on the white face and bade a silent goodbye to his drinking companion. Of the two, Roy would have chosen Ged to carry on living. He rose and turned to face a shivering Teddy Betteridge. ‘You’ll hang for this,’ he said, his tone icy.

‘But it was an accident.’ Frantic and almost sober, Teddy begged the crowd to stand by him. ‘He called me a bloody fool,’ he sobbed. ‘So I hit him.’

Roy walked to the door and turned his back to the main road. ‘We must all stay,’ he announced. ‘We’re witnesses.’ He spoke to the landlord as soon as the man reappeared. ‘Make sure nobody sneaks out through the rear entrance.’

Teddy sank to his knees and began to slap Ged’s face. There was blood everywhere, rivulets trickling between ancient flags, pools settling in uneven surfaces of the slabs. He could not believe that his friend was really dead. Not five minutes earlier, they had been talking, drinking, having a smoke.

‘Leave him alone,’ called Roy. ‘The police will want to see him as he is, not even more messed up.’

Teddy Betteridge rose to his feet. He was still rather unsteady, though the drink played just a small role in his physical weakness. This wasn’t the first man he had killed, but the others had been foreigners, had played the game of war for high stakes, had paid with their lives. Pumping bullets into Germans was one thing; killing a mate was horrible.

‘Don’t even think about it,’ ordered Roy.

‘Eh? Think about what?’

‘Running.’

Teddy’s head twisted and turned wildly as he looked at all the people in the bar. While women wept, men stood up and formed a solid wall in front of him. There was anger, even hatred in their faces. They didn’t understand. ‘It was an accident,’ he said again.

‘I’ve never seen a bloke thrown through a window by accident,’ said one of the men.

‘I just hit him.’

‘You killed him, more like.’

The landlord broke through the ranks and covered Ged Hardman’s body with an army blanket. ‘His mother’ll go mad,’ he commented. ‘He was all she had.’

Teddy sank into a blood-spattered chair. The full horror of what had happened began to sink in. He would go to prison. He might even hang. His wife wouldn’t care, because she’d piked off to live with her sister up Doffcocker. His children wouldn’t care because they had never even liked him.

Two policemen pushed their way on to the scene. One knelt down and felt for a pulse in Ged Hardman’s wrist. He looked up at his partner, shook his head, then covered Ged’s face. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘The ambulance is on its way. What happened?’

Ruth was out. Maggie Courtney, with her hair down and her corset loosened, stretched in front of a proper blaze. Ruth McManus did not believe in overfeeding guests, herself or the fire. While her miserly host was out at work, the visitor was making the most of her absence; she had piled on the coal, spread a quarter-inch of marg on her toasted crumpets. She licked her lips, remembering the delicious
taste of her recent sin. The fact that Maggie herself had paid for the margerine, the crumpets and the makings of the evening meal would cut no ice with Ruth. Ruth McManus was the female equivalent of Ebenezer Scrooge, with knobs on. Not doorknobs, though, Maggie pondered sleepily. No Jacob Marley decorated the door of Ruth’s house, even if the woman did insist so firmly that her house was haunted.

The door in question flew open, then was slammed home with a vengeance, while a cold draught added its unnecessary weight to these heralds of a new arrival.

‘Maggie?’ It was Theresa.

‘In here.’

Theresa burst into the room. Her pretty hair was sticking out all over her head like a halo created by some extremely untidy artist. She wore one of Eva’s aprons over a skirt that had seen better days, and her feet were encased in a pair of greyish carpet slippers. ‘Saints alive,’ proclaimed Maggie.

‘He’s dead.’ Theresa waved a very crumpled
Bolton Evening News
.

‘What?’ Maggie rubbed the last chance of sleep from her eyes. ‘I was just drifting off nicely,’ she grumbled.

‘It’s saved me a job, I suppose.’ The visitor was walking up and down the room like a cat on hot tiles, shivering, quaking, chattering. ‘It couldn’t have happened to two nicer people.’

Maggie tut-tutted. ‘All right, I give up. Give me the answer to the riddle, for I’ll get no peace until you do.’

Theresa told herself to calm down. She had learned, of late, to control her body’s mechanism
by counting backwards from ten, regulating her breathing by slowing her progress through the reversed numbers. Stephen had begun to teach her about relaxation, about the use of gramophone records and soft music on the wireless. Although he was a doctor, he believed that poetry, music and sheer willpower had a lot to do with remaining alive.

‘Have you done striding about like the Coldstream Guards?’ asked Maggie.

‘Yes.’ Theresa sat at the table. ‘Ged Hardman’s dead,’ she announced. ‘It’s here in the paper. Teddy Betteridge pushed him through the window of the King’s Head on Deansgate. He bled to death in a matter of minutes.’

‘Well now.’ Maggie sat up straight. ‘Isn’t that two of your men dealt with already? You can throw away your gun and live the civilized life after all. Your daughter – and your other daughter – will not have a murderess for a mother. It’s all been done for you, so.’ Pleased with herself, Maggie added, ‘See? I told you there was no murder in your cards.’

Theresa tutted her impatience. ‘Don’t start all that again,’ she warned. ‘Anyway, there’s one of them still on the loose. Chorlton was the first.’ Her voice was cold.

‘Ah, stop that. Hasn’t he lost his friends?’

Theresa decided not to pursue that particular line of enquiry. Some people deserved to lose things. ‘The magistrates remanded Betteridge. He’ll be charged in Crown Court with murder. It says here …’ She wrestled with the evening paper. ‘“Witnesses were horrified. Two men and five women were treated for severe shock after the event. As a mark of respect to the deceased, the King’s Head will remain closed until Friday.” ’

‘Terrible,’ sighed Maggie. ‘Aye, a violent end is an awful thing.’

Theresa Nolan stared blankly into the fire’s depths. To her surprise, she found herself agreeing with Maggie. It was terrible. She wondered how Teddy Betteridge felt after killing his supposedly close friend. What had driven him to do that? ‘It would be the drink. Like his dad, Teddy Betteridge is an alcoholic.’

‘Maybe so. God rest the dead man, anyway.’

Theresa wondered whether Maggie was trying to rile her. She had a way of taking the bull by the horns just for devilment. Yet Theresa, who ought to be celebrating, felt empty now that the first flush of excitement had passed. ‘I’m still going to see Roy Chorlton,’ she said.

‘See him if you must.’

‘I will.’ Unwilling to discuss any details of her intentions, the younger woman took up her
Evening News
and left.

Maggie Courtney’s appetite had disappeared. The pork chops she had bought for herself and Ruth no longer appealed. Seeing Theresa so excited by the demise of one man and the imprisonment of another had made Maggie feel sick. Yet Maggie believed in Theresa. Theresa was not a bad woman, she was an angry one. Had the rapes not happened, how different her life might have been.

Ruth entered and made herself the centre of attention, as usual. ‘I’ve had a pig of a day,’ she announced. ‘Bloody machine broke down four times and we’d two mechanics off sick. You’ve got a big fire there. Coal doesn’t grow on trees.’

‘Coal is trees,’ replied Maggie half-heartedly.

‘Don’t talk so daft.’

The door opened again. Maggie began to wonder whether she was living in a house or on Crewe station. When Irene’s uncomely face appeared, the Irishwoman closed her eyes and prayed to St Jude.

‘Eeh, Mam,’ began the unwelcome visitor.

‘What do you want?’ Ruth threw off her coat and claimed the other fireside chair. ‘She’s bloody married and I still can’t get shut of her,’ she advised Maggie.

Maggie opened her eyes. Irene came back again and again in a fruitless search for affection – even recognition.

‘We got the body this afternoon after the police had finished with it. There weren’t a drop of blood left in him.’

‘She thinks she’s telling us summat,’ said Ruth wearily. ‘We all know who you mean. Don’t be coming here thinking you’ve a surprise up your sleeve. Deansgate were awash with his blood this morning. I reckon he’ll haunt that pub from now on.’

Deflated, Irene sat in a dining chair. ‘He felt funny,’ she said. ‘As if he were a doll, one of them plastic ones off the fair.’

After a few seconds of silence, Irene addressed Maggie. ‘Well, I’ve done one thing right,’ she said. ‘I’m so glad I got out of here and got married. At least that job’s a good ’un.’ The implication that Ruth had been a less than perfect mother hung in the air, but no-one tried to capture it for closer examination.

Maggie nodded and tried to smile, thanking God that Irene showed no sign of wanting to become a mother. Heaven forbid that she might have children,
thought Maggie, as any offspring of Irene’s would be kept within this unhappy woman’s reach, would never be allowed to grow and go.

Irene looked at her mother, saw hatred burning bright in those angry dark eyes. ‘I know where I’m not wanted,’ said Irene now. ‘Ta-ra, Maggie.’ She flounced out, banging her leg against the door-frame.

Ruth laughed at her daughter’s clumsy misfortune, but sobered when she noticed that Maggie did not share the joke. ‘Have you got a ciggy?’

‘There’s a packet on the dresser.’

Without a word of thanks, Ruth walked across the room to pick up the ten Players Weights. ‘Is the tea on?’