The Fight for Lizzie Flowers (25 page)

‘That’s why I refuse to have a weapon in the shop,’ Lizzie said quietly. ‘The trigger is pulled and in a split second someone’s life can end.’

‘Like that man’s, whoever he is – was.’

‘Yes, after all, he’ll have someone who cares about him too, whatever he did.’

Ethel nodded, her fingers clasping together anxiously. ‘They’re right when they say at the point of death your life flashes before your eyes.’

Lizzie frowned. ‘Did that happen to you?’

‘It was like going to the cinema. I saw my past go over the screen, but it took only a few seconds. Mostly I saw the kids when they were born and then growing up through all the ups and
downs.’ Ethel paused, her eyes growing misty. ‘I saw Richard and me on our wedding day. And our first night together.’ She smiled wistfully. ‘We was just two kids finding
out about the world. Perhaps all the years we’ve been together do count for something after all.’

‘I’m sure Richard loves you in his own way.’

‘Do you think so?’ Ethel said hesitantly. ‘He was my first love, though apparently not my last. But what is love anyway? Am I getting it mixed up with lust? It wasn’t Cal
I thought of. It was my husband.’ A tear slithered down her cheek. ‘What’s happening to me, Lizzie?’

‘You’ve had a big shock.’

Ethel wiped her eyes. ‘Why am I thinking about Richard when he couldn’t even be bothered to come to Flo’s wedding reception with us?’ She shook her head in confusion.
‘Is it possible to love two men at the same time?’

Lizzie smiled. ‘You’re asking the wrong person.’

‘But you’re still with Frank. Yet I know you love Danny.’

‘As I said, I’m not the one to give advice.’

Neither spoke for a moment and Ethel lifted the teapot and poured yet another lukewarm cup of tea.

Lizzie sighed. ‘I felt a bit guilty last night.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Your mum’s convinced the reason you and Richard argued was because you’re expecting. I didn’t stop her from thinking that.’

‘You couldn’t have. Mum’s got a mind of her own. She’s sussed me and Cal and won’t stop till she finds out the truth.’

‘Ethel, what are you going to do?’ Lizzie asked.

‘I don’t know. I really don’t. It’s like I’m on this train and it’s time for me to get off at the next stop. But when the train pulls up at the station I
still find myself sitting in my seat, gazing out at the platform.’ Ethel thought about the fear she had of being left alone. ‘The kids are growing up so quick. Timothy is already
hinting about leaving home and finding digs with his mate.’

Ethel thought she’d known what she wanted; the love-making, the passion, the adventure, the feeling of being desired that her affair with Cal provided. She’d thought she’d
known right up until yesterday in Lizzie’s shop. And in that moment, everything changed. She didn’t know
how
it had changed. But it had. She took a long sip of her cold tea.
‘You know, I’d liked to have opened that shop with you.’

‘We still can, if you want.’

‘I don’t know about that.’

Lizzie gave a long sigh and nodded. ‘I’m sorry. I just meant that if—’

‘Lizzie, I’m having a baby.’ Ethel looked down at her flat stomach.

‘What?’

‘I haven’t had me monthlies.’

‘Are you regular these days?’

‘Yes, on the dot.’

Lizzie’s green eyes widened. ‘Ethel, your mum was right.’

‘Yes, funny, ain’t it?’

‘I didn’t give it a thought.’

‘Well, why should you? I was surprised myself. After all, me and Richard don’t often – you know.’

‘Oh Ethel.’ Lizzie reached across and grabbed her hand. ‘I’m so sorry you had to go through all that at the shop. It was my fault you went there. You might have lost the
baby.’

Ethel found herself laughing. ‘I might have lost a bloody sight more.’

‘Don’t joke about that.’

‘And before you ask, if I am up the spout, I won’t know who the father is.’

Lizzie’s mouth fell open. ‘You’re joking.’

Ethel shook her head. This was her, Ethel Ryde, speaking. She could hardly believe it. This from the woman who until a few months ago had never so much as looked at another man even though
Richard never seemed to want her. She’d almost forgotten what it felt like to have a man’s arms around her. Then, for no reason she could think of, about two months ago Richard had
tried to make love to her. But his clumsy attempts to satisfy himself had ended in disappointment. Needless to say, his ego had been hurt when she hadn’t hidden the truth. She knew how
important it was for a man to believe he was good in bed. She would have let him continue in blissful ignorance if only he’d considered her too.

The hysterical laughter soon caught in her throat and along with the hot, bittersweet tears she babbled, ‘What if it looks like Cal? He’s as dark as Richard is fair.’ There was
a catch in her voice.

Lizzie took a sharp breath. ‘You won’t know – no one will know – until when?’

‘About seven months’ time.’

‘February,’ whispered Lizzie and they stared at each other.

‘So do I go on seeing Cal or not?’

‘Only you can answer that.’

‘If the baby is Richard’s, I don’t think Cal would forgive me.’

Lizzie was puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

Ethel felt herself blushing. ‘I told Cal that Richard and me don’t have relations. And it’s almost true. But for that one occasion.’

‘So why won’t Cal accept that? Richard is your husband after all.’

‘Cal is a jealous man. And that was what attracted me. I’d never known what it felt like to have someone want me so much.’

They were both silent, looking at each other, until Ethel began to chuckle. Then the laughter erupted and Ethel had to put her hanky over her mouth in order to stop herself from waking the whole
household.

‘It ain’t funny,’ Lizzie said, red in the face and wiping the tears of laughter away.

‘No. It’s not.’

‘Then why are we laughing?’

‘Because it don’t seem like me talking. It seems like someone else.’

‘Yes,’ Lizzie agreed ruefully. ‘Where has my friend gone?’

‘Search me.’ Ethel blew her nose and pushed away her cup of cold tea. She was a stranger to herself these days.

Danny pulled the van up slowly to the wharf’s edge and killed the engine. He lowered the window and inhaled cautiously. In blew the rawness of Limehouse. The tang of salt
on the running tide. The sourness of fish long past its catch. A fragrance of Oriental cooking, not unpleasant in itself, but mixed with the mud and the sewage it hit the bottom of his stomach with
a punch.

Opening the door quietly he climbed out. As usual, close to the river, and even in July, a silvery grey mist floated over the mossy stones, growing thicker by the second, until it disappeared
and suddenly there was a glimpse of the dark skeletons of cranes and derricks, poking their necks into the night sky.

Where was Bert, he wondered? Had he managed to find the small rowing boat that was kept tied up on the mudflats near the dock walls? Their plan was for Bert to row the boat down to Limehouse.
But the wind had sprung up and Danny knew their plans could falter on this alone. The little craft was used by anyone caring to reach the other side of the river. And responsible enough to row it
back. He’d never had need of it personally. But it was always there, glued to the muck on which it rested, and from time to time maintained by the water men of the island.

Danny walked to the edge of the mossy stones. He was careful to stop when he heard the water. A whispering breeze could turn easily into a roaring wind in a matter of minutes. His imagination
ran ahead of him. Of Bert desperately trying to row against the tide, or even with it. He’d keep to the lights of the shore, but there were few around here. A black void to peer into, the
water whipping up and testing with the boat’s buoyancy.

And yet, Bert could skull. He’d grown up on the river, played in its mud and swum in its murky depths. He was strong and powerful. And if he could keep his head, he would see the narrow
jetty, their landmark, and the appointed place to tie up.

Danny scanned the shadows of the waterside, searching for the sight of the rotting pier. The mist and fog were playing tricks on his eyes. On the one hand, when the muck lifted, he could at
least see who might be prowling about in this remote corner. On the other, the breeze shifted things and caused him to start; a can rolling across the cobbles, discarded newspaper billowing eerily
over the stones, the rattle of the wind in the rigging of some hidden craft.

Danny took another breath, this time without flinching at the potency. His attention was now fully on the river. He waited expectantly for the sound of oars stroking the water’s surface.
It was many years since he’d passed this way. And then, it had been in daylight, on the horse and cart as he’d ventured through to the Commercial Road. Limehouse had been part of
legend. As a boy he’d listen wide-eyed to the tales of its mystery handed down by his elders. The opium dens and the pukka-poo parlours, the smoking, gambling and drug taking. A subterranean
world into which lowly mariners and aristocratic lords alike had been lured.

‘Bert, where are you?’ Danny whispered into the night, sticking his hands in his pockets and walking a few feet. The mists swirled in folds at his ankles.

In reply, a hooter sounded, and the jangle of a horse’s harness somewhere in the distance. Danny stopped still, attuning his hearing to the closer noises. His eyes closed and opened
briefly as the swirling yellow cloud in front of him cleared almost instantly. To his utter relief he saw the long outline of the jetty. And something – was it human – bobbing beside
it. A head, or perhaps arms, or both?

As the water lapped at his feet, Danny followed the moving outline. At a snail’s pace it went, tall and lumbering.

Danny hurried now, making his way with confidence to the rough mud that surrounded the rotting pins of the small pier.

A figure lowered itself into the darkness. Holding his breath Danny went to greet it.

‘You been waiting long?’ Bert whispered, panting as he emerged from the shadows. The squelching of his boots in the mud brought up the stink beneath his soles.

‘No. Did it go all right?’

‘Yeah. I tied the boat up to the jetty as close to the shore as I could.’

‘Did you bring the guns?’

‘Yeah. I’ve put ’em in a sack and weighted it down with stones.’

Danny nodded his approval. ‘Let’s hope the law is otherwise occupied tonight.’

‘I’ll eat me titfer if we see a rozzer down this way after dark,’ Bert assured him. ‘Or before it, come to that.’

Danny hoped that was true. Limehouse was, and always had been, a law unto itself. A maze of cheap lodging houses, drug dens and brothels. The Chinese were kings in this long-forgotten area of
the East End. From the Tower and Wapping to Limehouse, these slums bred their own variety of criminal. Ripe for smuggling on the water, this stretch of river had always been the Orientals’
territory. It would be a brave copper who landed in amongst them.

Danny glanced at Bert, who for a big man moved with agility along the rotting timbers of the jetty. This was the end of the earth, a fitting tomb for evil, Danny thought. But nevertheless felt a
moment’s pity for the corpse they were about to sink into the river’s bowels.

‘We’d better get on with it,’ he murmured. And together they hauled themselves through the mud and mist, back to the van. Here on land, a cloying air enfolded them. With it
came a great wash of sulphur from the coal yards downriver and the stench from ancient drains.

‘Blimey, what a corker,’ groaned Bert. ‘The stink of the dead.’

‘Goes with the night,’ Danny muttered, eager now to finish the job. They opened the back doors and reached in. Bert pulled out the legs and Danny the shoulders. They had stripped the
body of any identification and it was now stiffening with the rigor. They trod carefully, glancing this way and that. Danny heard the water beckoning, the swirling and sucking of the fast-flowing
eddies that were whipped by the breeze.

‘I’ll go first.’ Danny stepped into the mud. ‘If we strike trouble with the timbers, just let him go and save yourself.’

Bert nodded in the darkness. ‘I’ll shout if I see an ’ole.’

The murk lifted momentarily a few feet. Danny stepped gingerly onto the pier. The planks creaked and the river lapped at his boots. He took two, then three steps up and tested the way onwards.
Bert followed with painful slowness as they crept their way forward.

Then the fog came down again. The rough woollen sweater Danny was wearing clung to his arms. Sweat peeled away from his body and loosened his grip so that he was forced to stop and adjust his
hold. Bert did the same. They were puffing and panting by the time they had gone ten yards.

Then the jetty lurched, and they swung sideways. Bert cursed loudly. Danny’s footing loosened and he felt his stomach dip. The rotten timbers cracked loudly. Somewhere the structure had
broken.

‘Gawd, what’s that?’ Bert demanded as they stood, listening and tense.

‘The jetty’s given, but where? Can you see?’

‘Not a damn thing.’

‘Was it behind us or in front?’ Danny craned his neck round. But there was no way of knowing. The water was black when the fog lifted, and invisible when covered. A few feet either
way and the current was treacherous.

‘He’s bleeding heavy,’ Bert complained. ‘We could chuck him in now.’

But Danny knew they must keep to their plan. Their fortune lay with the tide and the flow of the undercurrents mid-stream. They would sweep any living or dead thing into the estuary. And
perhaps, with luck, out to sea. He thought fleetingly of Duncan King, bloated, misshapen and disfigured. Mercifully for them all, he hoped the efforts they made tonight would take the remains to a
watery grave too far out to return.

‘We’ll go on as we said,’ Danny decided. And with that he moved cautiously, one backward step at a time. He could hear Bert’s laboured breathing. And his own. But they
continued until the little pier swayed again. A crack here, a creak there. But finally they heard the insistent waves and felt spray on their faces. The wind was at its strongest here and all
effluent blown away. There was the smell of rain in the air.