The Hiding Place (30 page)

Look, he says, pointing me in the direction of a cutting overgrown with brambles and weeds, We can get across yer. If you’re not superstitious, like.

A leap of black iron spanning the railway. This is Devil’s Bridge. To the left a tangle of tired backstreets; to the right, the docks spread out, the threads of the tracks
cutting and crossing like the lines on a hand. Directly beneath us, curving away like a serpent, is The Arlies. I have never been on top of the arches, only underneath. A noise of banging, metal on
metal, comes from one of the lock-ups in the distance, bouncing out of focus across the air.

We used to play here, I say, When we were little.

Louis grins at me,

We did too! he says, They’re lived in now. Squatters and that.

~

He leads me further in, cutting his path to the heart of the Docks. We’re passing a dingy row of shopfronts when he gestures to the other side of the road –
there’s a grocer’s shop, a tailor’s with a dirt-encrusted grille, an amusement arcade with its shiny purple paint and fake prizes in the window. Louis looks at me expectantly.

What? I say, What?

I follow his gaze. I have to remind him that my memory belongs to five-year-old. It’s a child’s bubble of street names and people’s names. Not the real thing.
He’s pointing at a hand-painted sign above a doorway: Tino’s Fruit and Veg. It still means nothing: but now there’s something about this place that presses down on me. The lack of
proper daylight, that smell of closed-in darkness. Something I can barely feel.

I’ll show you, he says, crossing the road. He pushes the door wide, but I hold back, pretending to examine a crate of oranges on the pavement. Mould closes round them like frost. An old
man sits in the entry, surrounded by boxes of vegetables in various stages of decay. Louis talks quietly to this shadow while I shiver on the pavement; the wind is carrying rain. Behind the grille
of the tailor’s shop, the top half of a mannequin leans sideways in the window. The face is empty and the eyes are blank. The head rests awkwardly in the corner of the frame, a smirch of
fingerprints grazing its cheek. A fizzing starts up in my chest.

Come on, I shout to Louis, Let’s go back.

He leans out of the doorway, gives me a wry look.

I thought you wanted to meet some people, he says, not unkindly. He grips the shoulder of the man sitting on his upturned crate.

Do you remember Dolores Gauci, Mr Tino?

The old man puts out his hand. There is grime beneath the fingernails and the knuckles are grained with dirt, but the hand is strong still, as massive and open as the day it
lifted the baby from the fire. He lets out a tiny, breaking sigh of recognition.

Of course, says Martineau, beckoning me close, Let me see you.

~

The ‘grocery store’ is not what it seems. There’s a narrow set of stairs at the far end of the hall, with a soft light shining down from above, as if the roof
has been peeled off. Martineau fetches a key from a hook and lets us in to a long room. The only light in here is from a plate-glass window facing out on to the street. Windolene has been rubbed
across the lower half in pale pink swirls. Someone has written a message with their fingertip. It takes a moment to decipher.

The MoonLigHt OPen foR BuS nes

So this is what Eva meant – Martineau is her ‘someone’.

My eyes are slow to adjust; Louis and Martineau move like shadows in front of me, easing themselves past the round tables dotted at random in the aisle. At the far end is a counter nailed with
rough formica. A single bottle twinkles darkly on the top. Martineau lines up three tumblers.

Sit, he says, Sit, please.

Louis drags a stool to the bar, and I climb up into the soft blue half-light.

It’s a sad day for you, Dolores, says Martineau. He pours a measure of liquid into each glass. A scent of aniseed. His fingers drum the formica; he is looking for something.

Ah! he says, ducking. He fetches a lemon from beneath the counter. This he quarters, squeezing the juice into the drinks.

I keep the
good
fruit in here, he smiles, pleased at his joke. We raise our glasses. The drink looks cloudy and cool; it has a sharp, numbing taste.

Dolores is interested in the old times, says Louis. There is a shine on his face as he studies Martineau. It is a vision of romance, and it frightens me. I can see in Louis the cut of my father,
swinging down the street with his hat in his hand, success pealing off him like a song. Of course, Louis has been here before. He’s heard Martineau talk. But I’m not interested in old
times. I want to know about scattering a family like grains of rice: about Marina, my father, Fran; about what it means to burn.

You want to know about the fire, of course, Martineau says, reading my thoughts.

Yes. I’d like to know everything.

He looks at me steadily over the rim of the glass; his eyes are rheumy with age or drink, a tobacco-coloured yellow shot through with bloody flecks, but his lashes are long and
black: they look unreal.

Everything, he echoes quietly, shutting me from his sight. He shrugs, and smiles again.

Dolores, he says, I don’t
know
everything.

In the dimness of The Moonlight, his voice feels parched. He hunches over the counter and he tells me what he
does
know.

~

All Martineau has to do is collect the debt. He’s had a few jobs since landing in Tiger Bay – dock-hand, hotel porter, night cleaner, barman – and problems
with each one. This latest job has nothing to do with working behind the counter or washing the lipstick-smeared glasses or pouring drinks. Occasionally he will be called downstairs to evict a
drunk or scare someone into paying for the rum they’ve had too much of, but mostly he just has to stand at the bar, elbow to elbow with Ilya the Pole, who is not a friend of his and whose
smell he does not like.

There’s not much room behind the counter of The Moonlight: the stove next to the wall leaves only a narrow gap, just enough, at a pinch, for two small people. When Salvatore works his
shift, no one else can fit in; he rages if they even try. But now here’s Martineau and Ilya, both men vying for that extra inch of space. They stare out across the empty booths towards the
far door, or down into their cut-glass tumblers, saying little, waiting like dogs for their master to return.

They don’t have to stand so close; one of them could simply walk around the bar and slide onto a stool – and they would both have room. But then Ilya and Martineau would have to face
each other: one would have his back to the door; the other, control of the sticky drinks bottles stashed under the counter. Neither of them wants to give up this territory. Martineau is taller and
wider, his jacket stretched tight across his shoulders as he leans on the bar. He looks at the door, blinks up at the clip of footsteps passing the window, swirls his brandy. He’s waiting for
instructions. He’s very, very bored.

It seems like an age before Joe Medora finally arrives. He puts his hand inside his jacket, takes out a slim notebook and pushes it across the counter.

Collection, Martineau. You do it.

This is a departure; collecting is normally Ilya’s job. He brags about the way he threatens this person, cajoles that one, and laughs when he tells of certain women who
can’t pay but who are willing to treat him nice – and how he simply raises the amount the following week. Mary Gauci has become one of these women.

Sweet, said Ilya, kissing his fingers to his lips, So sweet. Martineau knows her; pretty and exhausted and with so many children; her plain clothes and the way her head is bent to one side when
she walks. The last time he saw her was only a few weeks ago. That was his first job for Joe – to move the Gaucis out of the rooms above The Moonlight. Mary stood surrounded by bulging paper
bags and half-filled crates. She had one child balanced on her hip while the rest darted in and out of the doorway, holding up various items and shouting. Are we taking this, Mam? Is this ours?

Too many children to count, and they all looked so alike. Frankie was nowhere to be seen. Trying to help, Martineau picked up the first thing he saw: the sea-chest, heavy in his
arms. From inside there came a muffled mewling.

It’s the Babby, said Mary, swiping away the hair from her head, Be careful, now.

He carried everything tenderly after that, as if all their sticks of furniture concealed a living thing.

He hasn’t seen her since, but Frankie is still around; wearing a good suit and standing drinks at Tony’s Top Cafe, pretending that nothing has changed. Martineau thinks it would be
nice to see Mary again.

Ilya obviously thinks so too.

That’s my job, Boss, he says, snatching at the notebook. Joe Medora gives him a sidelong look.

I told you to leave Mary Gauci alone. But no. So now you have a different job.

He takes the notebook from Ilya and gives it back to Martineau.

She owes
rent
, he says, Collect it.

~

It’s early afternoon by the time Martineau reaches Hodge’s Row. Up until now, he’s had a very profitable day. Perhaps it’s the newness of his face,
perhaps the size of him, but the people he must call on disappear into their houses for a second, coming back with folded squares of money, or a watch sometimes, or a ring. He takes whatever is
offered, writing deliberate notes in the little book Joe gave him. His pockets are bulging with back rent and interest and gold.

But now here’s Mary, standing in front of him, clutching an old biscuit tin. A smut of coal dust on the side of her nose. She’s talking so quickly that he can’t follow
what’s being said, but he knows by her eyes that she doesn’t have the money. She’s looking beyond him at the house opposite. She swears, turns to go back inside.

Quick now, come in, she says.

Except the door is locked to her. She pushes against it, swears again, like a laugh, he thinks, coming out of her so quickly. Mary leads him along the street, pressing into the
wind.

He’s taken the money, Tino, what else am I supposed to do? she shouts, turning her head once, twice, so that by the time they reach the alleyway, Martineau understands perfectly
what
else
she is supposed to do. What did Ilya say about Mary?
Sweet
. Not to Martineau – to him, Mary is desperate. She takes his hands, presses them to her face, moves them down her
body. Martineau grips her tight to stop her. He will not take payment this way. She looks into his eyes, pleading with him, almost angry, and then, he thinks he is saved: from around the corner
comes a woman’s shout; then another, more urgent than before. A small child he almost recognizes breaks from the edge of the Square, hops like a bird into the bushes, and disappears. Another,
smaller child watches a curling flame of blue.

~

Something is wrong with Martineau’s story. He stares down at his drink, mouth open, trying to find his way back into the tale. He rehearses the words silently over his
lips.

It was a miracle to find you – he points his finger at me – Don’t forget this.
It was lucky.

He stretches his hand out flat on the counter, showing me the lifeline, and another, parallel track, across the palm. Two lifelines.

Lucky for you? I ask, unconvinced by this display. But he hasn’t finished his story. He’s telling me this so that I’ll store it up for later. For when I’ve heard the
rest.

~

He puts the biscuit tin on the counter; the spotlight in the ceiling turns the metal into silver. Frankie’s hat sits left of the bar, so Martineau knows he’s up
there with Joe. He checks the money he has collected, sorting out the notes and coins and jewellery and making a careful tally, and all the while his hands are shaking. He’s working out a way
to tell Frankie about the fire. Already, he’s considering the possibilities; Ilya did it for spite, or Joe did it, someone else he doesn’t know – or no one else. Martineau does
not feel sorry for Frankie. After seeing what Mary has to do, he would like to kill him. He pours himself a drink, drains the glass, pours another. He notices that the cuffs of his shirt are a good
two inches shy of his wrists, and that they are grimed with soot; the hairs here are singed into little black stubs. Martineau is reminded of the woman’s coat – what was her name? Eva!
– and how he had been tempted to touch it. Turning his palm over at the memory, he finds the gash, swollen and specked with grit. He licks a brandy tongue along the wound.

He will have to wait a whole month before Eva contacts him.

~

They’ve gone doolally over at that house, she says, Someone should be checking on them.

She sits in the booth, drains her second glass of rum, pulls the hem of her skirt over her knees. It rides up just the same whenever she leans towards him. He can smell her
perfume and he loves it. His lack of words invite her near. Come closer in, the silence says.

You’re a family friend, aren’t you?

Martineau doesn’t answer. He
feels
as though he is. He lowers his voice so that he won’t be overheard,

Salvatore’s wife goes over, he says, She looks after them.

That Carlotta? Another fruitcake, Eva says, They’ll lose those kids if they’re not careful. The state of the place!

She won’t stay for another drink, but as she gets up to leave, Eva turns and touches his arm.

See you soon, she says.

Martineau will pay the Gaucis a visit.

~

The state of the place. No one answers when he knocks, so Martineau slips round the corner and in through the busted back door. The yard is strewn with pieces of timber; some
new and pale, others charred black. He sees the long handsaw resting on a makeshift bench, a nest of gleaming nails in a crush of paper. The last time he was here, it was Mary standing there,
holding her baby and howling at the sky. Now it’s Frankie, his shirt off, his body sweating in the cold air. He is building a cage.

What’s it for? Martineau asks.

For rabbits, says Frankie.

It’s big, says Martineau, trying to draw him out.