A Mersey Mile (35 page)

Gladys sat in the chair opposite his. ‘He’s been saying that for a while, but he is in the final stages now.’ Her face blanched. ‘I’ve never lived without my dad.
He’s been a massive part of my life and I can’t bear to think of him dying. I just go from one day to the next hoping it won’t be yet. It’s just lying to myself, but
that’s how I get by.’

‘We all have our mechanisms, our rituals that help us travel through the day. But remember, you’ll still have me.’ But would she?

‘What’s your mechanism?’ she asked.

‘Oh, I’ve several. You, the whiskey, the land, taking your father out, reading to him, being with you like an ordinary family man, no more running.’

‘Running? Were you running?’

‘No, no. I mean travelling.’

‘I see.’

‘We were chased off many a time. Some of the high-faluting farmers don’t want gypsies on their land so yes, we ran. But here in the cooler evenings with a nice log fire and a good
woman, this is perfection for me.’ Gladys wasn’t pretty, but she glowed and looked beautiful when he said certain things. She was small, round, strong and rosy-cheeked from years of
toil. Except for her accent, she could have been the wife of any decent Irish farmer.

‘I’m glad you came here,’ she said before picking up her knitting. It was a cardigan for him, of course. Just like Mammy, she put him first, cooking his favourite foods, buying
him new clothes and even cutting his hair. He was the husband she should have had, the child who had been denied her.

They made love that night. Gladys, grateful for any attention, was comforted, while he gloried in the joys of the flesh, however fleeting they might be. Whatever, it helped him sleep. But just
as he drifted towards unconsciousness, a realization hit him. He loved this woman and didn’t want to leave her. It would all be fine, he reassured himself, because he looked nothing like
Eugene Brennan. Gladys was his beloved, and nothing but death could separate the two of them.

Frank was hanging pictures on the rear wall when the shop door opened. ‘I’ll be with you shortly,’ he called. He descended the ladder, turned and saw her. She
was, without the slightest doubt, the most stunning woman he’d ever seen in the flesh. Like a Hollywood queen, she was beautifully attired; her makeup looked great and not too heavy, while
the shoes and bag must have used up a month’s salary. ‘Ah, Elaine,’ he said resignedly.

She stepped towards him. This was the day on which she would take the bull by the horns, because the tension was killing her. He had to want her.

Feeling threatened without quite knowing why, he backed away a pace. He did know why, he reminded himself inwardly. This woman kept popping up all over the place, and he was one hundred per cent
sure that she was one hundred per cent crackers.

‘I thought I’d let you know that my company will be briefing prosecuting counsel in the William Blunt case against the Catholic Church,’ she said. ‘As far as litigation
is concerned, I’m the new boy, so I do the legwork.’

The legs, too, were magnificent. She was a work of art, no less and no more, because the eyes expressed little. What had made her like this? Short of tearing her clothes off and lying on a huge
bed surrounded by flowers, she could not have done much more to advertise herself as available to him.

‘And I’ve taken on board all you said about lawyers becoming specialists in the area of ill-treated or deprived children. My seniors are considering that suggestion. I may take up
arms myself in that discipline.’ Every man wanted her. Why should this one be different?

‘Good.’ He wiped his hands on a damp cloth. She was mad. Although she was a good enough actress, she could not conceal her insanity from him.

‘So we must have a meeting some time. And I need to see three teachers, a police constable and his sergeant, then a Mr Davenport.’

Frank dried his hands on the front of his overall. ‘Fair enough, though we’re rather tied up with wedding preparations just at present.’ He watched the eyes again, and they
seemed to glint slightly, like the surface of a dull, flint-type element. ‘It’s to be a double wedding. Polly and Cal are twins, you see.’

She pretended to study a few articles in the room. ‘I like your tantalus. Perhaps I’ll buy that some time for a present.’ Turning, she asked, ‘When’s the wedding
going to be?’

‘Three weeks.’

‘Ah. Will your mother be there?’

‘Not by invitation, though she wouldn’t be turned away. She doesn’t approve of my Polly.’

His Polly. Elaine must not allow her contempt for that wretched woman to show. This man, this beautiful example of humanity, was meant to have been Elaine’s first. She had chosen him, but
he refused to respond. ‘You don’t like me, do you, Frank?’

He felt riveted to the spot. ‘What?’

‘You don’t like me.’

He shrugged. ‘What gives you that notion?’

‘You do. You give me that notion.’

He hated her. He hated her for making him nervous, for forcing him to be careful here, in his own property, especially when Polly was visiting. ‘I have no strong feelings for you either
way,’ he lied. ‘You’re just someone I happen to know.’

‘I always get the impression that you wish me far away.’

‘Oh?’ She was never far away, and that was the trouble.

‘Yes.’ She smiled, though the eyes remained cold.

‘Elaine?’ He arranged his words carefully. ‘You may be the centre of your own universe, but you’re not even a B road or a crease on my map. Polly is my life, and
I’m no cheat.’

Laughter that bordered on the hysterical bubbled from her lips. ‘You think I want you? Go and marry your greasy-spoon girl, because if that’s what you want, that’s all you
deserve. I just considered you for a while as a possible source of entertainment, nothing more. But if you’re so wrapped up in Miss Egg and Black Pudding . . .’ she shrugged,
‘then fun time is over before it began.’

‘If you need to play, try Lime Street. You’ll even get paid for it. Now, tell your employer that I will not talk to you. He must make me an appointment with someone else.’
There, the gauntlet had been thrown down.

‘As you wish.’ She swept out, leaving behind her a distinct chill and the aroma of expensive perfume.

Frank panicked. Was she capable of hurting Polly? Was she mad enough for murder? If so, there were two of them on the loose, since Eugene Brennan was probably still alive. Both had cold eyes.
Each was self-engrossed and self-indulgent. Polly had to be safe, as had Cal. Frank made up his mind there and then to move properly to Scotland Road. He would be here in the shop all day, but
nights must be spent with Polly.

For a brief moment, he considered phoning Elaine Lewis’s bosses, but what could he say? ‘Your Miss Lewis sits outside my premises on Rice Lane almost every night’ would sound
pathetic, as might ‘She’s obsessed with me, wants me to bed her.’ She wasn’t having the bloody tantalus, either. He would give it to Chris as a gift for Christmas. He
slapped a sticky SOLD label on one of the decanters and put the whole thing away in a cupboard. Miss Elaine Lewis could go to hell, where she would no doubt find suitable company.

He packed a small case with underwear, pyjamas, toiletries and clean shirts. There was a baby to protect, too. As head of a small family, he needed to be on guard against the decorative
sepulchre who would be involved in the Billy Blunt case. The damned woman had lost her grip on herself; no, she was no sepulchre, no burial site, no whitened grave. She was more dangerous than
whatever was implied by that Biblical reference. Elaine Lewis was a powerful vehicle out of control.

Elaine seemed to have lost the ability to breathe. She sat in her car on Rice Lane and listened to her own rasping airways. Was this asthma? She’d never before suffered
from it; her physical health had always been good, because she was a perfect specimen.

She didn’t realize that this was a full-blown, adrenalin-charged panic attack. The day darkened, seeming to close in around her as if pushing her into the abyss. Did death feel like this?
Was she going to shuffle off the coil at the age of twenty-three? After struggling to open her window, she managed to gain some oxygen, though breathing out wasn’t easy, either. What if Frank
Charleson spoke to the partners? He’d refused to deal with her. He knew, he knew, he bloody knew!

What did he know? That she wanted his body to connect with hers? Or did he think she’d chosen him as a husband? Because the latter was the truth, and she had to face it. Did love make a
person crazy? Did it interfere with the very basic and necessary act of breathing? Was she in love? If she was, it was an illness. A lecturer at Oxford had preached just that – it was a
serious illness with the ability to interfere with all physical and mental functions. Many a first-class degree was reduced to a lower second because of love, he had insisted. Well, she’d
managed to avoid that situation, hadn’t she?

She calmed down slowly. Right. The most important requirement was self-protection. If Frank complained about her, she might lose her job, the very thing that defined her. He had to be stopped.
How, though? More to the point, why was he choosing fried cod when there was high-grade salmon on the menu?

‘Remember that love unreturned is only an inch from hatred,’ the Oxford savant had continued. ‘It is a well-known fact that most murders happen within families or as a result
of unfulfilled sexual desire, which is almost always the basis for love between human adults.’ And she had listened. After listening, she had found her flat and had isolated herself. Anyone
who stared at her during lectures was awarded what she termed her evil eye. When accosted, she simply said nothing and walked away. Being labelled frigid was all right with her.

But here she was, sitting in a car on a road between rows of Victorian properties, some commercial, some residential, longing for a man who didn’t want her. Why? What was it about this
particular man? She saw naked desire in the eyes of most men, but nothing in his. Was that her problem? Had she homed in on him because instinct told her it would be a difficult job? Did she value
the unattainable in order to prove that she could win against all odds?

Breathing became easier. She inhaled through her nose, exhaled from the mouth. It was all about control. Somehow, she would have to silence Frank.

A lawyer knew a great deal about criminality. First, though, she had to wait until the love became hatred. Did she have time for that, or would he speak to her superiors about today’s
altercation? Wearily, she drove back to the office. One point must be conceded: her first would be Bob Laithwaite.

‘I’ve bought us a brand new washing machine,’ Frank said. ‘It’s great. Unusual, but great. It didn’t look right in the middle of the living
room or standing in our bedroom, so I stuck it in the kitchen next to the sink.’

‘Right. I believe you’ll find that’s probably the best place for it, all things considered. It’s where normal people keep their washing machines.’

‘Yes, it seems quite happy where it is now, a neat fit between sink and fridge. It’ll settle down given time, because I had a quiet word with it. Oh, yes, I taught it its position in
life.’

Polly, who was suffering all-day exhaustion due to repeated morning sickness, lay on top of the eiderdown. ‘Good for you. Does it have rubber wringers to get the water out of your
clothes?’

‘Clothes? What clothes?’

‘The clothes you wash in it.’

‘Oh, so that’s what it’s for? Hmm, I did wonder, because I had trouble getting into it, and those blade things mangled my feet. An hour and a half, I spent in Accident and
Emergency. They said I was very lucky. Insane, but lucky. You see, I thought it was an alternative to having a bath.’

She awarded him a look fit to flatten a house. ‘It’s a good job I know what a clown you are, or I’d have you locked up. Stop acting the rubber pig, because my sense of
humour’s taken a few months off in Blackpool for rest and recuperation. It might not bother coming back at all if you keep being such a nuisance.’

‘Well, the damned thing ate my shirts. It’s a Hoover, so perhaps it’s really for floors. Anyway, my poor clothes came out in ribbons, all torn to bits, no buttons and a very
odd shade of grey. I must read the book of destructions before I have another go.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Life gets so complicated, doesn’t it? And that Oxydol doesn’t
half froth up. I nearly had to man the lifeboats. My whole life flashed in front of my eyes. I put a record on, music right to the end, like they did on the
Titanic
.’

In spite of tiredness, she laughed at him. He was clearly determined not to improve. ‘You’re supposed to read the instructions first, love. Don’t make me start giggling again.
I’ve breakfasts to face in the morning, and I have to get myself rehydrated by then. I’m going to charge this baby rent with a heavy deposit against damage to the building.’

‘How long are you going to be like this?’

‘Till my stomach moves south instead of living in my throat.’

‘I’m doing your breakfast jobs,’ he told her. ‘You can serve dinners, because you’ve usually stopped throwing up by then. Ida says she’s got help in the shop,
and she’ll come in and give you a hand for a couple of hours.’

‘Ah.’

‘It’s very good of Ida to offer, Pol.’

Polly said she didn’t mind Ida giving a hand as long as she didn’t put her foot in it. However, she did mind her Frank neglecting his new business. She sat up. ‘But your shop,
sweetheart. Things don’t sell themselves, do they? You can’t just ignore a new business.’

‘No matter. As I’ve said before, you come first. Mind, I am a bit confused about all this. You see, most things with moving parts arrive with an instruction manual and a twelve-month
guarantee on parts and sometimes on labour. I know, don’t start; I should have read the washing-machine stuff. But you get none of that with a woman. What happens if you seize up or need a
change of oil? Where’s your gearbox? If your engine gets flooded or your battery runs down – ouch, that hurt.’

‘Thank your stars it’s only a pillow. You never read instructions, anyway.’