A Mersey Mile (26 page)

Huddled together for an hour in his too-small-for-anything-interesting car, they began their walk through life. Inevitably, they eventually strayed into the territory of others. ‘What do
you think about Mavis Blunt and what she said?’ Frank asked.

‘I don’t know what to think. Mam and Dad were in my dreams long after they’d died. But Mavis seems so sure that what Billy sees is real.’

‘She says her mother was sighted, Pol.’

‘Yes, I know.’

‘Was she sighted?’

‘I think she was. I remember old Mrs Mahoney telling me to look after Mam and Dad. With hindsight, I think that might have been a warning without actually telling me they were dying. I
don’t have the answer about what I believe.’

‘You’re in good company. Even Father Chris gets confused on that score, and he drives the bloody train. Oh, he’s invited us both for a meal next Friday, but only if you say yes
to my proposal. He says you’re a sensible girl except for loving me.’

‘Cheeky monkey.’

‘Exactly.’

‘What do you mean by driving the train? Is he moonlighting for the railways?’

‘I’ll explain when I have a week to spare, but do you really think any clown would let him anywhere near a steam engine? He’d get excited if he was given a toy train, never
mind the Flying Scotsman.’

‘Aw, he’s lovely, though, Frank.’

‘My best mate. He’s the only bloke I’m completely open with, and his sense of humour’s great. And another thing – he’s wise. Underneath all the laughing and
gambling for pennies, he’s one clever bloke. He would have been a great dad.’

‘So will you.’

‘I bloody well hope so, kid.’

They sat a while kissing and canoodling before he began the drive back to Scotty. ‘Poor Mavis,’ Polly sighed.

‘And poor Billy, poor Fred,’ Frank added.

‘Nothing we can do for them,’ she said as they parked outside the cafe. ‘But you can do one thing for us. Come in with me now and tell Cal we’re engaged. He’s
missed you. We’ve both missed you.’

When they walked into the living room, Cal was vertical and using a pair of crutches. ‘Hiya, mate. Where the hell have you been?’

Frank swallowed a lump of emotion. ‘You’ve come on a bit, Callum Kennedy. I’ve been abandoning my mother, living in a B and B where my landlady has all the charm of your
average rattlesnake, collecting some of my wares and parking them near the docks, preparing a flat and a shop, gambling with Chris and the Blunts, playing dominoes in the Liver pub, running away
from a woman who wants to get into my drawers . . .’

‘I don’t,’ Polly laughed.

‘I wasn’t talking about you. It’s the lawyer handling my conveyancing.’

‘Well, she must keep her hands to herself. If anybody’s handling your details, it should be me.’

‘Nymphomaniac,’ Frank said solemnly.

‘I’m not one of them.’

‘No, but she is. I reckon she could make a fortune if she put herself in Mother Bailey’s hands. Classy, you see. Shove her in a boudoir with silk sheets, and she’d make a
fortune.’

‘Don’t be making our Polly jealous,’ Cal advised. ‘She’s bad enough as she is. When Linda’s here, they turn into iron maidens.’

‘Don’t worry, Cal, I’ll take this one off your hands and chain her to the sink. I’ve got a place. And there’ll be a flat for you on the ground floor if you need
it.’ He looked Polly up and down. ‘Show him your ring.’

Once again, she did as she was told. ‘It was Ellen’s,’ she explained. ‘I asked for it. I wanted her to be a part of our life story.’

‘Congratulations, both of you. But I won’t need the flat, because Linda and I will be in a bungalow next to her mam and dad. Mrs Higgins needs help since she got bombed and lost her
legs. Makes me feel grateful.’

‘You’re getting married, too?’ Polly laughed. ‘We could have a double wedding.’

Cal shook his head. ‘No. Let whoever marries us deal with one set of trouble at a time.’

She blinked. She would miss her twin terribly, but she would have Frank, and he was her whole world. Oh, and it would definitely be a double wedding.

At the first breakfast sitting, Ida, though seated, was on her soapbox. ‘We need representation for all of us shopkeeper folk,’ she said. ‘The trouble with
having a business or a proper job is that we can’t stand for election in case our shops go down or in case we can’t find another job when we get voted out. So who gets into the Commons,
eh?’ She stood up.

No one offered a reply, so she motored on. ‘Our members of parliament are supposed to be there for our sake, that’s why it’s called the Commons. But what are they? Bloody
doctors and lawyers, because they know they’ll always get a job again if they lose their seats. There’s a few teachers and dentists, too, because they feel safe. And they speak for us?
What do they know about ordinary folk? They want to build roads into the city, and that’s their excuse for moving us on. Oh, they’re always jawing on about what they call eventual
redevelopment, but that’s a load of old soap. Bessie Braddock got in and made her mark, so why not Polly or Frank or Den?’

Polly yawned. After a late night spent talking with Frank, she needed sleep. Her man was looking tired, too. ‘Are you going to eat that breakfast or paint a picture of it?’ she asked
him.

‘Well, I’m not standing for Parliament,’ was Frank’s reply.

‘I can hardly stand at all,’ she told him. ‘My legs aren’t even related to one another this morning.’

He pretended to glare at her. ‘You’ve no stamina.’

‘And you have? You look as if you’ve been awake all night.’

‘No comment.’ He was busy thinking about moving all his stock from the Dock Road store. ‘I have to go soon,’ he said.

Ida continued. ‘One of us has to try to get elected,’ she insisted. ‘Polly?’

‘No chance.’

‘Frank?’

‘Ditto.’

‘What about you, Den?’

Den said he couldn’t leave his horse before adding, ‘You do it, Ida. You’re the one on your feet and mouthing off.’

She sat down again and ate her breakfast. Nobody seemed to listen to sense. Nobody wanted to go to London as a politician, either. Oh well. She dipped a soldier into the yolk of an egg.
‘All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Scotty together again.’

‘Don’t gab with your mouth full,’ Hattie advised.

Ida shook her head. She might as well talk to the bloody wall.

By the time Eugene Brennan discovered the news about his sad and lonely death, he’d been deceased, decapitated, without feet, and a few manual digits short for several
weeks. It was an interesting experience, and it pleased and disturbed him no end, taking him to the brink of hysteria when he read some of the tragic details. He had decomposed, and animals had
made off with bits of him, leaving no feet, no head and no fingerprints. That part caused a few shivers, though he still managed to smile at the ludicrous claims.

He counted his fingers, touched his head and glanced down at his shoes. ‘All present and correct. I do very well for a decomposed person. However, I must compose myself now and take
advantage of this situation. Or would that be recompose myself?’ He looked round the shed in which he had been sleeping; there was no longer a need for him to hide. Sheds, barns and derelict
houses were all about to become things of the past. The nights were cooler, and winter wasn’t too far away; he was safe. The dreams and the screams could stop now, surely? They must, because
he would soon need shelter.

‘Eugene, sorry to give you this terrible news, but you are no longer among us. I wish you Godspeed and a happy eternity. Amen.’

Thus providence shone on him just as September peeped over the horizon, when he found a pile of old newspapers in a stable at the farm where he was currently employed. As he read through the
pages, he learned that a decayed piece of humanity had been discovered in Derbyshire with certain pertinent parts missing, and Eugene Brennan had been nominated as ex-occupier of said mouldy,
fingerless, footless and headless residence. MURDERING PRIEST FOUND DEAD. Quite a headline.

He devoured every syllable of one article which went into great detail regarding his crimes, which still shocked him to the core. The drink had done that. A bottle a day kept reality at bay. He
had kicked a young thief and had killed a Brother Anselm. Perhaps if he’d taken the pills in the abbey, he might have acted very differently, but he had been in full withdrawal and out of
control. Even so, murder was murder, and his soul was beyond retrieval. Prayer proved almost impossible for a while, though he still had the odd few words with the Almighty. Begging for forgiveness
would have been a waste of time. ‘I’m a sinner, Lord, but there were mitigating circumstances, mostly the drink.’

He sighed heavily. The taking of a human life was a sin not forgivable in church law, so he had no chance of redemption. Being excommunicated bothered him more than he might have expected. He
finished reading and threw down the newspaper. ‘Mammy and Daddy were Catholic and I was a priest. But I wasn’t a good one. And now, I’m dead. They were so proud of their
son.’ A tear rolled down his face; he was mourning himself, yet laughing at the same time.

They’d retrieved a rosary and a half-empty bottle of Scotch, so his name had been attached to the remains, as it was believed that the dead man had been overweight and a drinker.
‘But I am a shadow of my former self, idiots.’ Fitter than he had been in years, he suddenly had the chance of never being discovered. The nomad lifestyle suited him perfectly, though
he was no longer dependent on it; he could now come and go as he liked, because he was completely free at last. Had his own mother been alive, she would scarcely have known him.

He was dead! ‘Death makes life a lot easier,’ he said to himself. Many itinerants were without papers like birth certificates and passports. They worked for low pay, gave no tax to
the government, and were usually well received by builders or farmers, who were pleased to find a way of working sites or land using cheap manpower.

Physically and mentally, Eugene Brennan had changed in many ways. There was something about labouring that satisfied him and kept him away from the bottle during hours of daylight, when he was
given good, home-cooked meals as part of his pay. He still drank in the evening, continuing to consume a little more than was clinically acceptable, but working in the fields seemed to help burn
off the effects of alcohol. After all, he was a descendant of a heavy-drinking farming clan, so he needed no training, since he already possessed the necessary abilities to drink and to farm. As
for the strength he had lacked during priesthood, it came back quickly and with some discomfort, though the pains were not as intense as he might have expected.

Well, he could move on to the southern part of Cheshire now. By the time he got to Liverpool, he would be someone else altogether. Did he need to go there? Yes, he did. All he had of Daddy was
the watch, and the only bit that remained of Mammy was a faded picture in a silver frame, and he nursed over-sentimental and half-imagined memories of his parents. Then there was his money.
He’d left over a hundred pounds behind, which now represented the total extent of his personal wealth, as the rest was in a bank account he dared not touch, dead or alive.

Also, he’d managed to hang on to the key to St Columba’s presbytery, although it would still be necessary to break in, or to make the place look as if someone had broken in. Other
items should disappear; if he removed just his own things, Eugene Brennan might be resurrected. But above all, he wanted to walk among them like the invisible man, to see the child, Father
Christopher Foley, Frank Charleson and the rest. He would see them, but they would never notice him.

Being dead became very satisfying as time passed. His confidence grew daily, and he was able to spend his wages on a few items of clothing and some decent drink. A bottle lasted at least two
days, so he was definitely on the mend. He chatted in shops, played darts in pubs, and found that the nightmares were finally leaving him. Dead men couldn’t dream and, as he was safely
defunct, he had no need to worry about Billy Blunt or Brother Anselm, since he had a different name, a changed body and a thinner, bearded face. This promised to be a brand new and promising
beginning.

The name was easy. He took his surname, changed an N to a D, and became Brendan. It was an effeminate moniker, but it served a purpose. Surname? Mammy’s maiden name had been Halloran, so
he chopped it down to Hall, and there he was, a new man, a phoenix reborn not in fire, but in a pub with a glass of Irish in one hand and the stub of a cheroot in the other.

Oh, this was the life. The priest was dead, and the new man should now seek a woman. A woman would make him more normal, just one man in a crowd with a partner by his side. Did he want a woman?
He had no idea. In his fifties, the only fleshly torment he endured was the need for whiskey.

How did a man get a woman? He wasn’t handsome, but he was less ugly than he had been at his heaviest. Muscle had begun to replace flab and he was nicely tanned from working outdoors, while
the trimmed beard disguised a weak chin. Although declared dead, he would feel even safer in the company of a female. And he’d nothing to lose at this stage. Compared to murder, intercourse
with a female, should it be required, seemed a very poor relation in the extended family of sin.

So, it was a case of onward and upward as he made his leisurely way through the country towards the county of Cheshire. He was given rides by gypsies, by people in lorries, even by a deliverer
of bread and a seller of coal. Conversation was possible at last, though he remained a poor, orphaned Irishman who had been passed from pillar to post, from orphanage to foster homes, never loved,
never cared for. ‘So I invaded England to get away from all that,’ was the last sentence in his well-worn monologue.

In the south-eastern portion of Cheshire, he landed on his feet. Away from the main farmhouse, where he found himself, stood a caravan, and this was to be his home during harvest and for longer
if he stayed on. He could take a bath in the main house as long as he gave notice, while the outside lavatory in a brick building was all his, and he could wash his hands at the outdoor tap in the
farmyard. Oh, life was improving, indeed.