The Liverpool Trilogy (143 page)

Tom couldn’t say anything in the restaurant until the meal was over and he’d taken a discreet indigestion tablet. Eating hadn’t been easy, though he’d
managed a bit of soup and an omelette, while Maureen had consumed enough to keep the average carthorse going for a fortnight. He had steered his lovely wife away from Guinness, but she’d
managed two glasses of red wine with her steak, and a healthy flush was beginning to stain her cheeks. It wasn’t just the black stuff, then. She was probably capable of getting inebriated on
just about anything – with the possible exception of dandelion and burdock or household bleach.

‘Drink your coffee, love,’ he suggested. ‘We need to be off soon.’ He was off already, he told himself inwardly. He was right off his head for even considering this
London business. It could even turn out to be dangerous, and he wasn’t armed this time; neither was his wife. Daniel entering the lion’s den must have felt almost as scared.

Sometimes, Tom imagined that he had never truly regained his sanity, and this was one of those occasions. Only the mad would jump into choppy waters without a lifebelt. One of his eyelids
suddenly developed a twitch, and he hoped it wouldn’t be noticed. She never missed stuff like that, never missed much when he came to think. Like her mother, his wife was becoming Eyes and
Ears of the World, though compared to Paddy this one here was a mere apprentice, still wet behind the lovely little ears.

Maureen was taking her time, savouring every moment, every last drop of the cream that had accompanied her lemon meringue pie, every mouthful of coffee. But she clearly remembered where she was,
since she refrained from licking the pudding dish. He had to smile in spite of the situation. This wife of his certainly liked to taste life, preferably in large chunks.

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘A few minutes won’t make much difference. Seamus is next door with Mam and Dad, so he’s safe enough. Let’s hope they are,
because he’s been like a cat on hot bricks this past week.’ She looked round the restaurant. It was definitely the poshest place she’d ever eaten in; in fact, it was probably the
most expensive restaurant in the whole of Liverpool. Her new suit looked wonderful, so she was as well dressed as any other woman, and probably prettier than most.

Sighing happily, she sat back. Oh, she could get used to this, all right. She might work in Scouse Alley and on Paddy’s Market, but she could hold her own in any company. That was one of
the benefits granted to beautiful people. ‘Why do you keep looking at your watch, Tom?’ He was beginning to remind her of their youngest son, all fidgeting and anxious glances.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘What with you and our Seamus, it’s been like a circus in our house. I nearly sent for a safety net last night in case I hit the roof,
because you were both getting on my nerves. Come on, you. Out with it. And your eyelid’s twitching a bit.’

Could he tell her in here, or should he wait till they were in the car? In the car, she might clatter him with her bag, and they could well be too late to follow the London coach if she required
restraining. This upmarket place was almost empty, but they might be thrown out and banned for life if she kicked off in here. And if police were summoned . . . Yet he was desperate, so he waded in
because there was no time to test the water. ‘We’re not going home tonight,’ he said quietly. ‘And I’m warning you just once – any loud noise out of you,
Maureen, and I’m going through that door on my own. Do you understand?’

She didn’t understand, but she nodded.

‘We’re driving to London in about twenty minutes, so get used to the idea.’

Her jaw dropped for a split second. ‘In the dark?’

‘In the dark. The coach just off Lime Street leaves at midnight, and we have to be on its tail. Don’t start. One false move out of you, and I will definitely go on my own. I’m
taking no nonsense this time. Whatever you want to do, I’m off to London.’

‘On the coach?’

‘In the car.’

‘But why do you—‘

‘No buts, girl. For once in your life, just do as you’re told. I’ve no time for questions and mithering. It’s like when you had to . . .’ He looked round and
decided that the other late-night diners were far enough away. ‘Like when you had to give me the gun at the wedding. It was an executive decision I felt forced to make. Now, I’ve paid
the bill and left a tip, so let’s be having you.’

She blinked stupidly. ‘What’s the coach station got to do with it?’

‘Your mother.’

‘Eh?’ Maureen’s voice raised itself.

‘Don’t shout,’ he said sternly. ‘Your mother’s going to London overnight. A man from some Irish club’s meeting the bus in the morning and taking her to see
Mrs Kray somewhere in the East End.’

Seconds ticked by. ‘Why?’ she asked eventually.

‘To get our two sons out of whatever difficulty caused our Reen’s wedding to turn into a bloodbath. The Krays are on our side. Your mam’s trying to get some help so our lads
can come out of hiding. They can’t spend the rest of their lives keeping a low profile, and your mam knows that.’

She folded her arms. ‘She’s been ill. Look, you can drive round to Lime Street and drag her off the coach. Her chest isn’t right, and she shouldn’t be taking all this on
herself, should she? I mean, she could end up with double pneumonia, and that’ll do nobody any good, will it? She could end up in hospital for weeks, and we don’t want that.’

‘No,’ he answered. ‘We don’t want that. She may need looking after tomorrow when she gets where she’s going. That’s why you’ll be paying a visit to the
Kray house with her. I’ve a feeling it’ll be something like a mothers’ meeting, so I’ll stay in the car. Come on. I’ve put a few things in the boot in case you and
your mam decide to sleep over.’

Maureen rose to her feet. Surely this was some kind of dream? She needed to wake up and push herself back to normal. ‘Why don’t I just travel on the coach with her?’

‘You think she’d allow that? Look, she’d go mad, you know she would. Paddy will put herself in danger, but she wouldn’t want you doing the same. She would get off the bus
and bugger off home. Then she’d go through it all again, and we might not manage to stop her or keep up with her. But when we get to London tomorrow, it’ll be too late for her to kick
off.’

‘Oh, my God. I can’t believe all this has gone on behind my back and—’

‘Go to the ladies’ room,’ he ordered. ‘It may be a while before we get another chance. I’m off to the men’s. We’ve a long night in front of us. That
coach makes more stops than the bus to Southport.’

When they met up again, Maureen was toe-tapping in the open porch. The weather wasn’t good, and her breath hung on the air each time she exhaled. What if it snowed? Worse still, what if
they hit frozen fog? He’d packed her bag without telling her. How long had he known about Mam and London? Who’d told him? Why hadn’t he told her? It was her mother, after all.

As he approached the double doors that led to the exterior, Tom noticed the foot. The foot was not a good sign; toe-tapping had been known to act as harbinger for handbag-swinging, words that
should never see the light of day even on a dark night, and broken windows. If she broke this lot of glass, it might cost hundreds to replace. But she didn’t have a cast-iron frying pan, so
the chances of smashed panes were minimal. He, however, might get a thick ear, and he didn’t fancy driving through the night in pain. She needed dealing with immediately, before she got
completely out of hand.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked before Tom could frame a single word.

‘I’ll tell you in the car once we get behind the coach. Until then, button it, Maureen. I mean it. You start lashing out with words or handbag, and I’ll dump you in a ditch.
You’ve had all your own way for long enough. Anyway, I’m giving up being a battered husband. This is for Finbar and Michael, so if you don’t care about your sons, bugger off home
now and I’ll go by myself.’ His heart was beating like a drum in a marching band.

‘Who do you think you’re talking to, Tom Walsh?’

He gazed up and down the street. ‘Well, seeing as you’re the only one here, I must be talking to you. Unless the invisible man’s joined us. If he has, tell him to come back
later, because I can’t see him at the moment.’

‘Don’t try to be clever,’ she snapped.

Right, that was it. ‘I don’t have to try.’ The words were forced through Tom’s gritted teeth. ‘I work for a nationwide company, and I’m about to join the
board as Manager Representative. I can forecast trends, order correctly to the last ounce, predict what’ll be the next individual big seller, and take the rug out from under any salesman who
tries to pull the wool over Co-op eyes. So trying isn’t necessary. Trying is what you are, because you’d try the patience of angels, saints, and the bar staff at the Eagle and Child,
who are noted for their tolerant attitude.’

Maureen’s jaw dropped again, so she snapped it shut. She was beginning to realize that the gentle soul she’d married was fast approaching the end of his tether.

‘Come on,’ he ordered before walking away.

She staggered behind him on heels that weren’t easy. If she’d known about London, she’d have brought something more sensible to change into, but nobody ever told her anything,
did they? And he wouldn’t have brought her make-up. Very few men understood the value of war paint when it came to unusual situations.

Tom was mulling over a different unusual situation. Roy from Waterloo, who had helped Tom climb out of a pit named despair, had turned out to be almost a relative. Injun Joe and a chap named Don
were trying to round up the Rileys. There was one here right behind Tom, a part-Riley of the female persuasion, and Riley women weren’t easy. He wondered whether Injun Joe might have bitten
off more than he could either chew or smoke in his peace pipe, because Maureen, whom Tom loved dearly, was a difficult little besom who spoke with forked tongue. If the others were anything like
Maureen and Paddy, Injun Joe was going to need all his warriors and a bit of curare to dip his arrows in.

‘Tom?’

He stopped and turned. ‘What?’

‘Help me. These shoes are awkward.’

She was a beautiful besom. Paddy, who was a tall, well-built woman, had been a stunner in her time, and her daughter, slighter of frame, was another pretty one. ‘Come on, love,’ he
urged. ‘Take your shoes off and I’ll carry you to the car.’ He would carry her for the rest of his life if necessary. Nothing was ever perfect, but Maureen was still the woman of
his dreams.

Another nightmare that might register on the Richter scale. Tess was fighting her way out of the involuntary paralysis that is a companion to real sleep. Her voice was
returning to her. ‘It’s mine,’ she muttered. ‘Give it back, give it back.’

Don reached up for the cord and switched on an overhead light. She started beating him with curled fists, and her eyes were slightly open. ‘Come on, my beautiful girl,’ he whispered.
‘Get past this. What about your squirrels and your birds? Who’ll look after them if you’re too tired in the morning?’ He gripped her flailing arms before planting a
demanding kiss on her parted lips. It worked. She knew he was here; she knew she was not alone.

Eyelids fluttered before raising themselves fully. When her arms were freed, she wrapped them round him. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Dear God, I’m
getting worse. I shouldn’t be hitting you. It’s not your fault.’

She was getting worse. ‘Tess, it seems the safer we are, with us all working now and a nice house to live in, the more you have to lose. And because you’re asleep, you can’t
reason with yourself, and I should understand better than most. Many’s the night I’ve been on that beach with dead mates in bits spread all round me.’

‘I know.’

He planted a chaste, matrimonial kiss on her forehead. ‘Baby, we have to pull you out of it. Bugger my knee, because this is more important.’

‘Oh yes? Are you sure?’

He nodded. ‘I’ll nip down and do us both a mug of cocoa, eh? No falling asleep before I get back.’ He peeled back the covers and stood up. ‘Read your magazine.
There’s an article about Skaters’ Trails carpet being the worst thing invented since original sin. It’ll remind you about your good taste.’

‘Oh, shut up, Gordon.’

‘Don’t you “Gordon” me, or I’ll tan that pretty little bum.’

She plumped her pillows and leaned against them. ‘Promises,’ she snapped.

In the kitchen, Don made the half-milk half-water cocoa. While it was heating, he noticed the mousetrap on the floor. It wasn’t the old one, the one that killed small rodents; this was a
cage with a lump of cheese inside. It was designed so that the animal would be trapped, but not hurt. Smiling to himself, he shook his head slowly. She was a character, all right. The woman who had
been a nightmare was now a dream, but her dreams were nightmares. Twin tears travelled down his face. The bad was rooted deeply within her, so a long shovel would be required to dig it out.

The doctor, while unwilling to discuss too thoroughly the ills of another patient, had spoken in general terms about childhood trauma and the effect it might have in later years. Hunger and
physical abuse could leave a soul bruised for a lifetime, but treatment was available. Should a patient require private care, he would gladly write a letter of introduction to a Rodney Street
therapist.

So, if it was to be a straight choice between a difficult knee and the mending of Tess – well, there was no contest. Physical pain was a nuisance, but he could go on a waiting list and
take his turn. No, he was not prepared to jump a queue for himself while Tess was in such dire need. There were people who would listen to her, strangers schooled in the art of counselling. She
needed a friendly ear attached to someone dispassionate, a professional who knew how to extract the terrors and deal with them.

He carried the cocoa upstairs on a little tray. She was sitting bolt upright, hands clasped round raised knees. ‘Don?’

‘What? Here’s your cocoa.’

‘Thanks.’ She took her mug. ‘You know what?’

‘Me? I don’t know anything, love. Thick as a brick, me.’