A Mersey Mile (7 page)

‘There’ll be murder done out yonder if I’m not mistaken.’ Pete Furness placed his bobby’s helmet on Polly’s table. ‘Were you
there?’ he asked her.

‘No. Do you want me to leave you two alone?’

‘Stay,’ Frank begged.

‘Nay, you’re not frightened of me, Frank Charleson.’ Pete had brought his inner Lancashire accent with him to Liverpool, and he’d hung on to it. ‘But Polly can stop
if you want. A cuppa would go down well, love. It was me against the world down at the Holy House. I’ve a tongue like the bottom of a birdcage, and it keeps sticking to the roof of me mouth.
Holy House? Nowt holy about that pub tonight.’ The Holy House was a pub about halfway between Polly’s Parlour and St Anthony’s. Men attending eleven o’clock Mass on a Sunday
piled into the pub after worshipping in the church and paid their respects to ale before repairing homeward for Sunday dinner.

Polly went into the kitchen to make a brew. She listened while Frank spoke. From time to time Pete interrupted, since he was taking notes in his little hard-backed police book, but the
eavesdropper heard most of what Frank said.

There had been several witnesses, folk just passing by, only he didn’t know who they were. But a Miss Hulme, a Mrs Mannix and a Mr Cross, all teachers at the school, had seen what had
happened. ‘They’d stayed behind for a meeting. You can catch them at school tomorrow, I suppose. I’ve no idea where they live, but I brought them back here.’ He paused.
‘They may decide not to speak up against a priest.’

Pete sighed heavily enough to be heard by the listener in the next room. ‘I know. Leave them to us. We can but try, but we’re talking solid Catholic in these parts, as you well
know.’

‘Solid stupid,’ was Frank’s declared opinion.

‘All right, lad. But you have to understand – it’s knocked into them from birth, and the heavy stuff’s crammed into their heads the minute they start school.’

Frank laughed cynically. ‘You don’t need to tell me, because I’m the one that got away. I went through all four Cs – catechism, confession, communion and confirmation.
But the fifth C – Catholic – I am not. For me, that last word has a small C and it probably describes my taste in music, nothing more. But there’s no prejudice in what I’m
going to say. It will be nothing but true.’

‘Aye, lad. Remember, I’ve known thee for a few years now.’

As the tale fell from Frank’s lips, Polly found that her hands were curling so tightly that she was marking her palms with her nails. The priest had whipped Billy behind his knees with a
thin cane, thereby causing the boy to drop to the ground. Then he’d beaten him hard across the back before kicking him twice. Brennan was a large man; Billy was seven years of age and quite
slender.

‘He definitely kicked him?’ the policeman asked.

‘Twice, possibly three times. I was running fast, so I’m not sure about a third kick, but I’d swear in court to two kicks.’

‘What then?’

‘The bugger saw me running towards him, so he stopped hitting Billy and raised the cane to me. Thin canes hurt more, you know. When I was sent to fetch a cane – yes, we had the
privilege of carrying the instrument of torture for the good, Christ-blessed people to use on us – I always chose the thicker one. It hurt, but it didn’t whip through skin like the thin
one did.’

‘Hang on,’ Pete said as he caught up in his notebook. ‘Hey, it’s not just Catholics that cane kids. I’ve had a few wallops in my state school.’

‘Yes, but were they brides of Christ or shepherds to a special flock? No. They didn’t pretend to be near to God, did they? All that praying and bobbing up and down means sod all,
Pete. They’re frustrated, sad bastards, and they take it out on those too little to fight back. Anyway, I grabbed his cane, broke it and smashed my right fist into his jaw. The three teachers
pulled me away. And I speak from experience when I say Brennan’s hard-faced. Because my hand feels wrecked.’

When Polly brought the tea in, Pete was shaking his head sadly.

‘And poor little Billy lay there unconscious,’ Frank was saying. ‘He was picked up by a bloke, but I’ve no idea who he was. I gave the man ordained by the Church some
advice on sex and travel.’

‘The F word?’

‘Too bloody right. And he effed off sharpish.’

Pete drank some tea before finishing his notes. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘He’ll be gone by weekend. That lot out there plan to invade Mass on Sunday and keep him shut inside. But
the bishop will spirit him away. He’ll go on retreat for a month, then he’ll pop up somewhere else.’ He took another mouthful of tea. ‘Brennan’s like a locum,
isn’t he?’

‘Yes,’ Polly said. ‘Father Foley’s on retreat. He doesn’t kick kids.’

‘Brennan hasn’t got a parish of his own,’ Frank added. ‘And I reckon that’s because they know he’s a drunk who can’t cope with folk. At his age, he
should be settled in one place, but they protect him, you see. The Church protects the worst of all its sinners. As long as the money’s in the plate, none of them gives a damn about
kids.’

Peter Furness stood up and grabbed his helmet. ‘I’m off duty, but I’ll go and see the lad and his parents. You won’t be driving with that hand, will you?’

‘Not tonight, no.’

‘Lend us your car, Frank. If it’s owt to do with me, the bugger will be cautioned, charged and sleeping in a cell tonight.’

Frank smiled. ‘Not afraid of hell then, Pete?’

‘After working in these parts, hell should be a doddle for me. I’ll bring your car back; give me an hour.’

When Pete had gone to join the vigil at Billy’s bedside, Frank and Polly cuddled up on the sofa. They discussed what had happened, and reached the same conclusion. The faith was important
to most who lived in these parts, but one vital thing rose above the Nicene Creed and all the sacraments. It was family.

‘I reckon they’ll go for him, Frank, if they get the chance. You know what they’re like, shoot first and question the corpse later.’

‘I hope they will, and I hope they get to do it legally. Eugene Brennan should be kept away from all children for the rest of his life. He should be unfrocked and stuck in a cage with
other villains.’

She held his good hand. ‘I’m proud of you, kid.’

‘Give me a down payment, then. One kiss, and I’ll buy you a ring.’

So it was signed and sealed with a kiss; they were engaged. But a cloud hung over the occasion; little Billy was hurt. And where the hell was Cal?

It was the weirdest dream and it kept repeating itself, as if the reel needed changing at the cinema. It didn’t make sense, because it went slowly, then quickly, like a
very old cowboy movie from the silent era, as there was absolutely no sound to it. He couldn’t touch anything, either, couldn’t walk away or stand properly, because . . . because
he’d been whipped behind his knees with a very thin, sharp cane before . . . before what? Something nasty had happened, and it was probably all his fault.

He’d done a bad thing, but couldn’t remember what the sin was. His sums were all marked correct, and he was doing all right with his reading except for some very big words. His
catechism was up to date, as was his map of the world with the British Empire coloured in pink. He hadn’t been too bad in class, but he hadn’t learned the stuff about the bad, fat king
who’d killed Catholics.

A big, black dog dashed towards him. It was the size of a pony and it had a long, pink tongue that rippled every time it panted. But he wasn’t afraid of dogs, so why was he running? Except
he wasn’t moving; his legs were trying to carry him out of danger, but they were merely marking time. The dog stood tall on its hind limbs. It had human fingers carrying a chalice that was
blindingly bright each time the sun hit it. Billy was terrified when the animal’s head faded away, leaving nothing in its place. Above the nothing, there was a biretta. It was the ghost of a
priest. Fat, bad king who killed his wives; fat, bad priest . . .

All dreams were capable of turning daft, but this one was not funny. It was nasty and frightening for a seven-year-old who couldn’t work out where he was. He screamed and yelled, yet no
sound emerged from him. Silent screaming hurt, and there was dull pain in his chest, his stomach, his head, his limbs – and where was he and why couldn’t he hear himself crying and
shouting for help?

Suddenly, bright lights hurt through the lids of his closed eyes. When he opened them slightly, he found a masked man hovering over him. Were they robbing a bank? ‘Hello, Billy,’ the
man behind the mask repeated. ‘You with us, son? Give me a sign. All right?’ Though almost closed, the eyes were mobile, indicating that the child was about to regain consciousness.

Residual anaesthesia overcame the patient once more, but the man called out till young Billy dragged himself halfway back to consciousness. The dog had become normal and it had stopped chasing
and leaping about. Billy stroked its head, only he couldn’t feel the fur, and someone was still calling him.

‘Come on, now, young man. Show me that your brain’s switched on. I shall be put away for talking to myself if you don’t shape up a bit.’

Billy tried to reply, but his mouth didn’t work, so he blinked instead.

‘Good boy. Message received. We’ve mended you with a bit of glue and some drawing pins, a couple of paper clips and Auntie Dora’s rusty old Singer sewing machine. That’s
a good little flicker of a smile. But we’re going to keep you asleep for a while until you’re feeling better.’ There seemed to be no brain damage, and the surgeon expressed his
satisfaction by releasing the boy into recovery. ‘He’s a fine specimen,’ he told a nearby nurse. ‘A tough breed, thank goodness.’

As he stripped off his scrubs and swilled specks of the boy’s blood from his arms where gloves had failed to reach, the medic wished he could put these same hands round the throat of the
person who’d hurt Billy Blunt, a slightly built child, seven years of age. There was no excuse for what had been done to the boy. A punctured lung plus haematomas created by blows from the
foot of a grown man? It defied reason. Who the hell would inflict this sort of damage on a small boy? An ordained priest?

Billy, sedated, hovered in a place halfway between slumber and wakefulness. It wasn’t a dream. Well, it was, but it wasn’t. Where was Dusty Den Davenport? Dusty Den, the local rag
and bone man, had rescued Billy from . . . from what? Dusty was a favourite with children, because he gave away pennies, toy windmills and goldfish in exchange for rags. ‘Rag-a-bone, donkey
rubbing stone, a goldfish, a windmill to carry back home.’ Soft, stupid song. Where was Mam? Where was Dad?

Billy dozed again. Columba’s playground. The school behind him. He faced the playing field with the old air-raid shelter built for the war, a few trees near the railings. Someone behind him
breathing heavily, too fat to run properly. Cane. A kick. The sound of his own bone breaking. Pain, so much pain. The priest, that ugly, nasty one, was trying to murder him. He couldn’t
breathe properly.

When he opened his eyes again, the bright lights had gone, and Mam and Dad were there. Money. He’d taken money to buy flowers for Mam’s birthday, but he would have put it back by
adding a bit of his spends to the collection plate at St Anthony’s until the half-crown had been repaid. Yet he couldn’t say any of it. Mam was crying. Dad was thumping the wall with a
closed fist. Dad never did things like that. Dusty Den wasn’t here. Sleep claimed Billy completely.

Fred stopped knocking hell out of walls; he was managing only to injure his hand, anyway. Pete Furness arrived with Johnny, who grabbed his big brother and hugged him before moving on to hold
Mavis, his sister-in-law. ‘He’ll be all right, girl. We’re a tough lot. What have they done for him?’ Little Billy had blood going into one arm, clear fluid dripping into
the other. It wasn’t right, and his Uncle Johnny was hopping mad.

Mavis explained in fits and starts about a compound fracture of an arm, the bruising of a kidney, a rib piercing a lung, internal bleeding. ‘And a priest did that,’ she concluded.
‘Put there to look after us, and he nearly killed my son. I don’t understand it. What did Billy do that was so terrible? He’s not a bad kid. I know he can be a bit cheeky, but
this?’

The constable joined Fred. ‘I understand that you weren’t there. But I know some people who were present, so I’m taking statements. Any road, I think Father Eugene Brennan
should spend the night in custody, if only for his own safety while we get to the bottom of things. Poor Billy.’ He walked to the bed. ‘Get well for your mam and dad, but mostly for
yourself, me laddo.’ He sniffed back some emotion. Policemen did not cry. Not for the first time, he wondered why the hell he was in the job. This was definitely the sharp, pointed edge of
life, one child with life being dripped back into him, one priest with the biggest sin imaginable on his conscience, if he had a conscience.

‘Den will speak up,’ Fred promised. ‘And have you talked to Frank Charleson? He’s frightened of nobody.’

‘I have spoken to him, yes.’

‘Teachers? Dusty said there were three of them standing there.’

‘Not yet, Fred. I’ll have to see the sergeant first, but Brennan will be shifted to the cop shop, I’m sure, because they want his guts for garters out there. Even the kids are
out of bed and looking for catapults and pea-shooters. Everton’s moved in as well. I’m off duty, but I’ll be called in again when I’ve taken Frank’s car back.
We’ve a job to keep folk rational when this kind of thing happens.’

Johnny stood next to his brother. ‘Even the Proddies are after his hide, Fred. Everybody loves our Billy. There’s no harm in the boy. People are baying for blood all over the
neighbourhood.’

The policeman shook his head thoughtfully. ‘You’d best not encourage folk to take the law into their own hands.’

Hot-blooded Johnny folded his arms. ‘What are we supposed to do? Leave him where he is till the bishop shifts him a few hundred miles away to keep him safe? They don’t want the bad
publicity, you see. But he’ll not get far tonight, because we’ve forty men surrounding the presbytery and a dozen inside keeping him trapped. So you go and arrest him. He’ll be
there. Brennan’s going nowhere but the police station tonight, Pete.’