The Talisman (16 page)

‘Alex, it’s not wrong to cry for her. It’d be a release, don’t try to stop it. No one’s here to see you but me . . . Come on, son, cry for her, get it out of your system.’

Nathan watched Alex struggle to regain control of his emotions. He took Alex off guard with his next question. ‘Did you cry for your dad when he died?’ He could see the barrier – the feeling in the boy’s eyes was breaking him up, it was so desperate. Still Alex’s hands opened and closed spasmodically. Nathan kept up the pressure. ‘Did they love each other, your mum and dad?’

Unable to speak, Alex just nodded his head. His eyes never left Nathan’s face now, as if mesmerized by him.

‘They love you?’

Nathan could see the marks on Alex’s hands where he was inflicting pain on himself to control his emotions. Alex made a strangled, guttural sound. He wanted to tell Nathan they had loved him.

‘I didn’t hear you. You say they loved you or they didn’t?’

Alex’s voice was alien to him, childlike. He gasped out, ‘They loved me.’

‘What about your brother? You’ve got an older brother, haven’t you?’

There it was – Nathan saw it, the boy’s whole body altered. One moment he was helpless, a child in need, and the next the body was tight, the face set, the highly charged emotions under control. It was as if someone had stopped a dam bursting. The transformation fascinated Nathan. He knew he wasn’t dealing with a schizoid or a psychopath, as the prison had hinted. He also knew that to unlock the boy’s trauma would take time, time he didn’t have, wouldn’t be allowed.

‘I read about your dad. He almost made heavyweight champion of the world, didn’t he? Used to box meself, tell by me hooter. You box, Alex?’

The blue eyes met Nathan’s. The barrier was still there. Nathan tried again. ‘Did you want to follow in his footsteps? Eh? Big lad like you could fill out, maybe go on the heavyweight circuits – good set of shoulders on you. Mind you, you’d have to put on quite a few pounds. What are you, six-two, six-three? Your dad now, lemme see, I was readin’ up on him – six-four, wasn’t he, Alex?’

Rising from the bunk, Alex walked to the wall, leaned against it. Nathan showed no fear of him, just lit another cigarette. He hated having to cut corners, hated the pressure he was under. He had reached retirement age, but being wartime he had been roped in. But more than anything he hated knowing that time was against him. If he didn’t crack Alex fast, he wouldn’t get another chance. He also knew that if Alex didn’t get help, and fast, they would have a potentially lethal young man on their hands. ‘He ever hit you? That what made you go for him? Your dad a violent man, was he?’

That guttural sound again, the low moan, the hands moving rapidly.

‘Sit down, son . . . come on now.’

But Alex turned his face to the wall, and when he spoke his voice was strained, close to breaking. ‘He was gentle . . . I had a dog, he give me a dog. He never hit none of us.’

‘What about your ma?’

The fist slammed into the brick wall and Alex turned on him, eyes blazing. ‘No!’

‘All right, all right . . . what about your brother?’

There it was again. At the mention of the word ‘brother’, Alex recoiled. Nathan knew he had put his finger on it, but he had to get Alex sitting, had to calm him. But he knew his time was up, although he hadn’t looked at his watch once. At any moment the screws would bang on the door, and there were a lot more patients to see. ‘I am trying to arrange for you to visit your mother’s grave. You’d like that, wouldn’t you . . .? Maybe get some flowers . . . We’ll take it stage by stage, all right? And I’ll come and . . .’

Alex put his head in his hands and wept. He slumped on to the bunk, mumbling over and over that he wanted to see her, see his mother. Nathan stubbed out his cigarette and then put his hands on Alex’s head in a comforting, fatherly gesture. He had to go, and he felt badly about it, he could feel that the boy was ready to open up.

‘I can’t find my dream no more, I don’t seem to be able to lose myself anywhere no more.’

‘Maybe, son, that’s what the problem is, you’ve been trying to lose yourself. But we’ll find you, and we’ll do it together, okay? I’ll pull every string I can, I’ll get you out of here. You’ll say goodbye to your mum first, then – well, we’ll set about putting you together. You’ll have to take the punishment doled out to you, son, for the little fracas with the Guv’nor, but don’t let it get to you. I’m on your side, I give you my word . . .’

Later that night, Nathan sat in a pub with Dr Jim Gordon. He had already put away a few Scotches, and his pug face was flushed. Both men were depressed as Alex had had five years added to his sentence. The Governor, however, had promised that Alex would be allowed to visit his mother’s grave.

‘I need time. You can’t help a kid with his kind of problems in a few hours . . . I feel sorry for the bastard. Any chance we can get him out of the Scrubs, somewhere he can pick up his education? The lad’s clever, that’s one of his problems. If they keep him banged up in a cell, when he gets out you’ll have a fucking killer on the loose. The key to Stubbs lies with his brother, I’d put money on it. You know if there’s any way I can get to him?’

The sirens sounded, and everyone in the pub had to run like hell as the bombs began to drop. The two men lost each other in the confusion. Nathan never made it to the shelter – he was killed by a second bomb one hour later – and Dr Gordon worked through the night, helping the injured. Prisoner Stubbs was forgotten.

Evelyne was buried in as neat and orderly a fashion as she had lived, with only Mrs Harris and a few other neighbours attending. There was no great fuss, no weeping, and no high tea afterwards. Mrs Harris, exhausted from the effort of standing by the grave, went home alone. She had shed her tears, and even when she went into number twelve the next day, to collect Evelyne’s things, she didn’t cry. She crept around the silent house, then locked up and took the key to the lawyers as requested.

Later that night the house took a direct hit. The blaze lit the sky, and Mrs Harris watched it from her bedroom window. ‘Dear God, there’s nothing left there now. Almost the whole street gone, and neither of those boys around to give a helping hand.’

Mrs Harris remembered then, and went to her dressing table. She took out the leather case containing the gold and pearl necklace and stared at it as Dora moved away from the window.

‘Well, that’s them finished, it’s as if they never existed. Sometimes it makes you wonder what life is all about.’

‘She wanted me to bury this with her, and I promised.’

‘What is it? Let’s have a look.’

‘It’s her necklace. She said it was like his talisman, that it had to be buried with them, and I promised . . .’

‘Bloody ’ell, Mum, this is real gold, an’ these are pearls. This must be worth a packet.’

Dora danced over to the mirror and slipped the necklace around her neck. ‘Oh, Mum, isn’t it beautiful? It’s so beautiful.’

‘Well, you can’t have it. It belongs to her sons.’

Dora put the earrings on and admired herself. ‘Yeah? Well, they don’t deserve nothing, them two, and what they don’t know you got they won’t miss.’

‘Dora, you put that back now. It’s unlucky, don’t wear it, you can’t have it.’

‘Why not? You think about all the years she stayed with you, the way you was the only one to see her at the end. You’ve got a right to it, so I’m keeping it. Besides, who’s paying the rent and feeding you? You gotta let me keep it, Mum . . .’

Mrs Harris shrugged. She knew it was pointless to argue with Dora when she wanted something.

Mrs Harris took a long time to decide exactly what to write. Dora had promised to copy it out neatly for her, as her eyesight was none too good, let alone her spelling. Dora would do anything for her mother right now, since the pearl and gold necklace and matching earrings had been given to her.

Mrs Harris had found Edward’s last letter to his mother with her other things at the hospital, and she was so furious at his request for money from the poor, sick woman that she crumpled it up and threw it in the fire. Dora had told her off, because now they didn’t have Edward’s address so how could they tell him about the funeral? In the end they had written to Edward care of Cambridge University, hoping it would reach him, and in the meantime Mrs Harris had gone to the funeral directors and found that Evelyne had organized every last detail. She had forgotten nothing; the casket had been chosen, the cross and the exact wording for Evelyne and her husband. And everything had been paid for.

Edward stared at the strange, scrawled writing on the cheap pink envelope. He hadn’t the slightest idea who it was from. He opened it and read the badly spelt letter as he walked across the quad.

‘. . . I am sorry to inform you that your mother died last Wednesday and was buried Friday. We had tried to contact you and hope you will understand why everything went ahead as your mother had arranged everything. Please call on us when you come to London as we would like to tell you about everything then, also that the lawyers have the keys to your house as your mother instructed us to leave them there. I am writing this on behalf of my mother as she cannot see too good, and is still very upset as she loved your mother very much as did everyone else in these parts. Yours sincerely, Dora Harris.’

In the privacy of his room, Edward read and reread the letter. He was ashamed that he couldn’t cry, could feel nothing. He tore the letter into shreds and burnt it, then lay on his bed for hours, staring at the ceiling. His body felt light, alien to him, and he tried to feel some kind of emotion, tried to recall his mother’s face.

Walter found him still lying there, fully dressed, the next morning, staring into space. He offered to call a doctor, thinking he was ill. ‘There’s a big bash tonight, Teddy Kingly’s departing for the army, it’s over at King’s, you going?’

Edward stared vacantly at Walter and asked him to get his dinner jacket out, it would need cleaning.

Walter did as Edward asked, then turned and asked again if he was all right.

‘I’m fine. Look, can you do me a favour? I need a weekend leave, I used mine up going to that party at Cynthia’s. You don’t need yours, do you?’

Walter hesitated. ‘Nothing wrong, is there?’

‘No, old chap, I just got an invite to a dinner party in London. Can you fix it for me?’

Although he had been thinking of going to see his parents, Walter gave in to Edward as usual. The next weekend Edward returned to the East End for the first time since he had left for college.

He walked among the bomb sites, turned into the old street and stood at the top of the road, stunned. Hardly a house was left standing, and he could see that number twelve was no more than a piece of waste ground. He walked slowly to the site of his old home and stood where the doorstep had been. He felt nothing, just as he had been unable to feel anything when he learned of Evelyne’s death.

Side-stepping puddles and piles of rubble he walked on, trying to remember where Mrs Harris used to live. As he turned into a narrow alley the sirens started screaming overhead. A warden ran along the alley towards him and yelled for him to take cover as they were coming this way. Edward asked for the nearest shelter and ran for the railway sidings.

He had forgotten the voices, the accents, and he stood huddled against the wall, remembering, as more and more people crowded under the railway arches. The planes passed overhead and as they heard the bombs dropping they were all looking skywards.

‘Bleedin’ bastard Jerries, sons of bitches, go on ya buggers, get out of it.’

The all clear sounded, and they made their way out, carrying their gas-mask cases. Edward asked a couple of people if they knew a Mrs Harris, and he was eventually directed to a rundown block of flats. The smell of cabbage and the stench of urine swamped him as he went up the stone steps – obviously many people used the stairs to live on – and he shuddered. Most of the windows were boarded up, and the flats had evidently been hit more than once, as there were holes in the roofs.

‘All right, I’m comin’, for Chrissake ’ang on, no need to ring on an’ on.’ Dora Harris opened the door and stepped back, surprised. She didn’t recognize Edward, saw only a well-dressed gent who, when he spoke, sounded posh, upper crust.

‘Mrs Harris?’

Dora tried to close the door, thinking he might be the law, but Edward put his foot between door and post.

‘What you want ’er for? She’s busy right now, if it’s the rent then you’ll have to come back, but you ain’t the usual rent man, is you?’

Mrs Harris shuffled out of the kitchen and asked what all the racket was about. She squinted past her daughter and stared.

‘Are you Mrs Harris? It’s Edward, Edward Stubbs.’

She stared at him then after a moment nodded to Dora to let him in. Dora went towards the lounge, but Mrs Harris moved back into the kitchen. Dora wore only a thin wraparound and fluffy slippers, her hair in curlers. She watched the smart gent as he passed by her into the stuffy, smelly kitchen.

‘I’ll be gettin’ changed, Ma, won’t be a tick.’

Mrs Harris lowered her bulk into the easy chair and looked into the fire. She was sweating with the effort, and her heart thudded in her chest. ‘So you’ve come. You took your time – well, sit down, lad, sit down.’

Uneasy, Edward sat down and wished he hadn’t bothered, the place reminded him of his old home and he felt sick.

‘You look all done up like a dog’s dinner, what you up to, then?’

Edward explained that he had not received her letter until too late, and thanked her for taking care of his mother.

‘I never did nothing, boy, she took care of herself, that one, even arranged her own funeral down to the cross, have you seen the grave? No, didn’t think you would have done. What about your brother, been to see him, have you? Our Dora used to go, but they moved ’im, did you know that? You want a cup of something?’

Edward shook his head and stood up, he had nothing to say, he should never have come. Mrs Harris looked at him in his smart clothes. ‘She was ill, you know, cancer, but she never let on, not to me even. Yer brother took it hard, is he all right?’