A Mersey Mile (11 page)

He ate a bit of bacon. There could be no doubt about Scotland Road women; they knew how to teach a man his place and keep him there. Exceptions existed, of course, but the general rule was
Don’t tell the wife how much I’ve had to drink, she’ll kill me. Don’t tell her I put that quid on a horse
and
Remember, I was with you playing cards for
matchsticks.
Frank liked strong women. The concept of getting past a strong woman was exciting. Would he get past her or would he die trying? She had a wisdom that went far beyond the reach of
academia; soaked into her bones were at least two generations of Scotland Road life preceded by centuries of old Ireland.

He was in love. He’d been in love for a while, but now that the feeling was reciprocated, he hovered on the brink of delirium. Mother would throw a fit, but that couldn’t be allowed
to matter. If she disowned him, he had plans of his own. And yes, he was going to court. It would be a short session, just the accused’s name and address, the charge, and the
magistrates’ decision that the case needed to go up to the Crown Court. Although this was all a formality, dozens would squeeze in just to hear the words when the charge was read out.

The chances of a case against a priest reaching the Crown Court were minimal. But Frank had contacted local presses, who would pass the information on to nationals. Brennan’s character
would be mud by tomorrow, and his employers would come under close scrutiny. And it was all deserved. The Church needed to sing for its supper, in Latin if necessary.

In the bathroom he found some of Cal’s old shaving equipment, and he did his best, though the process left him looking rather swarthy and interesting. Wearing yesterday’s shirt
didn’t bother him, though he drew the line at underpants. None of Cal’s clothes were up here; they were currently housed in built-in cupboards at each side of the fireplace downstairs.
Right. What to do now?

He raided his fiancée’s drawers and went through her drawers. She had some nice ones, lacy and silky (several with matching bras), but he opted for white cotton with a double
gusset. Discovering that women were a shape completely different from males caused little surprise. The waist pinched, as did the top of the legs parts, but at hip level he had material to spare.
‘Oh well,
vive la différence
,’ he muttered.

‘What the hell are you doing, Frank?’

He turned round. ‘Borrowing knickers. Is it a crime? One question. Where’s the gap at the front? How am I supposed to . . . What’s the matter with you now? Are you drunk at the
crack of dawn? I’m marrying no alcoholic. A chocoholic mother’s enough, believe me. She should be awarded shares in Cadbury’s, Fry’s and . . .’ His voice died, though
he refused to allow himself to laugh.

Polly, in the doorway, was sinking helplessly to the floor. ‘There is no gap. Girls don’t need a gap.’

He shook his head sadly. ‘See? I learn something new every day. Have you any scissors up here? You must have some with all your hairdressing equipment. I need a gap.’

‘No, you don’t.’

‘Show me what I have to do to manage this lot, then. It’s definitely not suitable for a man of my calibre.’

‘Oh, bugger off. I’m not fiddling with your credentials. Get dressed. Cal’s ready in his chair, and you’re the pusher. You can go out the front way, cos I’ve just
been and told people in the cafe you were in the middle room with Cal. Your car’s outside.’

‘I can’t push with this hand,’ he told her.

‘Then I’ll push.’ She left him and walked down the stairs. If he so much as glanced at her in court, she’d burst out laughing and get done for contempt or some such
thing. She imagined introducing him to people. ‘This is my intended, and he has no gap.’

They followed the crowd down the road in the direction of town. Polly’s inclination to laugh deserted her, because this was serious business. At the front marched the exhausted parents of
the child in hospital, with Johnny and Kathleen, his uncle and aunt. A strange silence accompanied the throng as it moved towards the courthouse. This was indeed serious business; even Ida
Pilkington and Hattie Benson were quiet for a change.

They were ten deep outside the small civic building. When a car eventually pulled up, Brennan was helped out with a blanket over his head. ‘Traitor,’ the crowd called. ‘Child
killer,’ shouted a woman near the front. Then they all stepped aside for the cameras. They wanted the cameras. They wanted his malice spread all over newspapers, spoken about on every radio
station, included in news programmes on TV and in cinemas.

Polly stayed outside with Cal. There wasn’t much room inside, and there was no wheelchair access, though her real reason was probably knickers. Yes, it was a solemn occasion, but she often
laughed involuntarily when nervous. For a few minutes, she nursed the suspicion that Frank might have played to the gallery if she had been there to be the gallery – oh, he was a case. She
pictured him pulling at the waist elastic and grimacing at her, wriggling a bit and simulating pain. But no. His interest in the encouragement and care of children was intense. Even the pain in his
hand was evidence of sorts, since he’d been the man who’d stopped Brennan with a vicious and triumphant upper cut to the jaw. She was proud of him.

At the opposite side of the building’s entrance, the other hero was being interviewed by a reporter. Dusty Den Davenport was sparkling clean for once. He wore a smart suit and shiny shoes,
a plain navy blue tie, and a rather handsome trilby. For a ragman, he certainly scrubbed up well.

Mike Stoneway emerged. Behind him in court, the natives were revolting. ‘Billy Blunt,’ they chanted repeatedly. ‘He’s gone,’ Mike told Polly. ‘Whisked out at
the back to be assessed by last night’s visitors. But he’s still down for Crown Court. I reckon they’ll find him unfit to stand.’

‘He will be unfit to stand,’ Cal said. ‘He drinks enough to keep himself unfit to stand.’ With a weighty hangover of his own, he realized that his statement was rather
hypocritical, though he’d belted no kids, had he?

Polly swore under her breath; Brennan might not serve time in prison. The reason for his escape weighed heavily on many shoulders. A man of God walked with the devil, his escape aided by
higher-ranking members of the one, true, apostolic Faith. It made no sense.

The Blunts came out. Mavis, white-faced but calm, descended the steps on her husband’s arm.

‘Sorry,’ the sergeant said.

Mavis awarded him a grim smile. ‘Not your fault. But I’ll tell you this much here and now. I’ll get him. If it takes me all my life and a gun, that’s a dead man.’
Her tone was devoid of emotion.

‘There’ll be a queue,’ Johnny warned her. ‘There’ll be half of Scotty looking for him.’

Mavis nodded thoughtfully. ‘It should be me. I’m his mother, and I’m the one with no religion. If a man like him can be an ordained priest, there’s a fault somewhere. The
Church is built in an earthquake zone and I want nothing more to do with it.’

‘How’s Billy?’ Polly asked in a bid to divert the conversation.

‘Fine,’ Fred replied. ‘Sitting up and smiling, but it hurts when he coughs or laughs. It was all over a Dinky toy he couldn’t resist. Saved a month’s spends and
bought it, then had no money left for his mam’s birthday. So he took half a crown to buy flowers, and was going to put his spends in the plate until he’d paid it all back. My lad is no
thief.’

‘Instead of paying back in the Sunday plate, he nearly paid with his life. Thanks again, Den,’ Mavis called.

The reporter, realizing that this was the child’s family, left Den and came over. He explained that he might need permission from the paper’s lawyers to name the priest, since the
case was pending, but he wanted the full story and he’d got most of it. He would emphasize the initial severity of the lad’s condition. ‘Liverpool will soon fill in any missing
names,’ he said.

‘I want the Catholics out on strike.’ This statement came from Frank. ‘I know a lot won’t stay away, because missing Mass is a mortal sin unless they’re nearly
dead; even then, they have to give notice. But let those who had him declared insane know that collection plates in this end of Liverpool will be lighter for the foreseeable future. If you hit them
in the Achilles pocket, they squeal.’

Polly tapped the journalist’s arm. ‘This is Frank Charleson. He stopped Brennan kicking Billy by knocking him down, and hurt his hand in the process. Frank, that’s the man who
carried Billy away. Hiya, Den.’

‘Oh, yes,’ Frank said. ‘I think I’ve seen him in the cafe, but I got just a glimpse when he lifted Billy. Well done, Den.’

‘Hiya, Pol,’ Den called back. ‘Sun’s shining, but this is a dark day.’

It could easily have been darker. As Polly pushed her twin homeward, she wondered what might have happened had young Billy died. The mood was already heavy, and plans were afoot, but everything
could have been so much worse. He was out of the deliberately arranged coma and was talking, thank goodness.

The cafe was packed. Polly ran herself ragged serving Lancashire hotpot, steak and kidney pies, or sandwiches and salad for the overheated. Cal sweated in the kitchen while Frank sauntered
towards town in pursuit of underpants and a shirt. He felt a bit mean, because he could have helped, but his ‘bad’ hand might well buy him another night at Polly’s place. All was
fair in love and war, he reminded himself, and she was a mixture of the two.
War and Peace
? She could have written it, though the peace bit might have been brief.

Polly caught snatches of conversation as she moved among the tables. Churches were to be picketed on Sunday. Father Foley of St Columba’s was on his way back from retreat with his golf
clubs. Rumour had it that Brennan had gone to a drunks’ refuge in Harley Street, London, that he’d been banished to Ireland, that he’d been sent as a missionary to a remote part
of the world where human flesh was sometimes on the menu, that he was in a monastery outside Coventry. This was Scotty’s version of Chinese whispers, and it was imaginative.

Altar boys would be kept at home, and parents were prepared to carry the weight of children’s sins. To obey the commandment
Honour thy father and thy mother
, the young would stay
away from Mass. Confirmation classes and Legion of Mary meetings were going to be small. It was a shame that other priests would suffer, but a stand needed to be made. For a few moments, Polly sat
at the bottom of the stairs. All this would stop. Kirkby, Knowsley and other outreaches of Liverpool were almost set to house more Roaders.

She sighed. There were even rumours of a new move further into Lancashire, an enormous estate to be built somewhere between St Helens and Ormskirk. More neighbours to be separated from
neighbours, families split; and public transport to and from the new settlements was far from regular.

Frank had come up with a plan of sorts. It involved moving people round and getting them to continue paying rent on the house provided for them, but it threw up so many complications that he had
been forced to abandon the idea. Children changing schools attracted too much attention, chaos threatened, and poor Frank had to throw in the towel. It was grim.

‘Polly?’ Cal called. ‘Two sausage and chips ready here, love.’

She went to get the dinners. Soon, she wouldn’t hear Cal calling for her to pick up meals, because it was all coming to an end. The promised rebirth of Scotland Road was not going to
happen for decades – if ever. Yet perhaps there was a good side to this. The churches in these parts held a lot of sway, and if there were fewer of them in the new areas the priests who
remained in the district while their congregations disappeared would campaign for new housing here.

In truth, everybody felt sorry for the Scotty priests. They were decent, ordinary blokes with a calling and, for the most part, they worked towards the improvement of their parishioners’
lives. But beyond them lay a level of corruption that had eaten its way into the ranks on Scotland Road.

Everyone had heard of abuse within the Church. Yes, there were whispers and embellishments, but as surely as seeds sat in the core of an apple, truth nestled deep inside the stories.

Elaine Lewis, on her way back from delivering a brief to chambers on behalf of a colleague, stopped and bought an early evening newspaper from a vendor. And on the front page
sat a photograph of the person who was occupying her dreams. He stood with another man, one Mr Denis Davenport, who was described as a rag and bone man, while Mr Frank Charleson was announced as a
property owner and, according to a Mrs Harriet Benson, the best and kindest landlord ever.

Frank and Denis had, between them, put a stop to the criminal behaviour of a terrible priest. There was a lecture from Frank appended.