Backstreet Child (28 page)

‘The boy don’t mean any ’arm,’ she grumbled to Sadie. ‘’E jus’ don’t seem to realise what’s what.’

Sadie was going through a rough patch caring for her husband Daniel who was laid up in bed with a bad bout of shingles and her temper was short. ‘Wallace ’as ter learn, same as anybody else,’ she replied. ‘Look at the ovver day. Maisie told’im orf fer chuckin’ milk bottles at the trams as they went past the street, an’ then ’e chucked one at ’er as she walked away.’

‘I know,’ Dolly sighed. ‘I really told ’im orf about that, but ’e told me ’e didn’t actually chuck the milk bottle at ’er, only near’er jus’ ter scare ’er.’

‘Well, it scared the bleedin’ life out of ’er,’ Sadie retorted. ‘An’ what about that day Wallace walked be’ind ole Mrs Passmore pullin’ faces? Frightened ’er too, ’e did. I tell yer straight, Dolly, your Wallace wouldn’t ’ave got away wiv it if it’d bin me.’

‘I know, Sadie, but the boy don’t mean no ’arm,’ Dolly pleaded.

‘Anyway, p’raps ’e’ll be’ave ’imself now ’e’s got that job wiv young Carrie Tanner,’ Sadie remarked, suddenly beginning to feel a little sorry for Dolly.

The harried woman pulled the collar of her coat up round her ears against the wind. ‘I don’t know so much. Nellie Tanner called in yesterday to ask if I’d pop round ter see ’er Carrie. I don’t know what Wallace ’as bin up to but I ’ope it’s nuffink bad.’

Maisie Dougal was doing her share of complaining too. ‘I went up ter Lockwood’s this mornin’ fer Fred’s Woodbines an’’e told me ’e was right out of ’em,’ she told Violet Passmore. ‘Strike me if I don’t see ole Bert Jolly comin’ out o’ there ten minutes later wiv a packet in ’is ’and. ’E took one out o’ the packet an’ lit it up right in front o’ me eyes.’

Violet stared at Maisie through her thick-lensed spectacles and touched her newly permed hair as though to reassure herself it was still in place. ‘Yeah, but that don’t mean ’e bought ’em in there,’ she remarked.

‘I bet ’e did,’ Maisie insisted. ‘There’s too much o’ this under-the-counter business goin’ on, an’ the prices they’re askin’ is bleedin’ scandalous. Talkin’ about under-the-counter stuff, did yer ’ear about ole Bradshaw’s?’

Violet had heard the story but she knew she was going to hear it again, despite nodding vigorously.

‘This ole lady walked in Bradshaw’s the ovver day an’ asked’im fer a tin o’ corned beef,’ Maisie began. ‘’E told ’er ’e was out of it but ’e ’ad some special offers under the counter. Twice the price it was. Anyway, this ole gel told ’im what ’e could do wiv it an’ Bradshaw give ’er a load of abuse.’

‘Yeah, I ’eard about it,’ Violet sighed impatiently.

Maisie was too keen on finishing her tale to get the hint. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘this ole gel walked out really upset an’ when she got ’ome she told ’er ole man. Up ’e goes an’ calls ole Bradshaw everyfing from a pig to a dog. Bradshaw picks up a carvin’ knife an’ wiv that the bloke crowns ’im wiv a great big brass weight ’e picked up orf the counter. There was blood everywhere, accordin’ ter Mrs Groombridge.’

Violet had heard three different versions of the story but not the outcome. ‘What ’appened ter the bloke who done it?’ she asked.

‘’E comes up at Tower Bridge Court next week, by all accounts. ’E’ll get six months at least, what wiv the beaks they’ve got there,’ Maisie informed her.

Violet got home a little later than planned and complained about Maisie’s inane chattering to Mr Passmore, who being a very perceptive person told her that for most people chattering and complaining were outlets for their anxiety. ‘The war is gonna get very nasty soon an’ everybody knows it,’ he said. ‘Everybody’s scared an’ comin’ tergevver fer support. Once yer realise that, yer get more tolerant o’ people.’

Violet felt comforted after her husband’s explanation. He was so calm and self-assured, she thought. His few words made her feel a little more well disposed towards Maisie Dougal. Meanwhile, Fergus went off to the pub and complained to his cronies about Mrs Passmore.

Carrie showed Dolly Dawson into her tidy parlour and offered her a cup of tea, hoping that what she had to say would not upset the woman too much.

‘I’ve tried, Dolly, we both ’ave, but it don’t seem ter be workin’ out,’ she said kindly. ‘Wallace was fine the first mornin’. Joe told ’im what ter do an’ there was no complaints.’E swept the yard up really well. Then Joe got ’im to ’elp wiv puttin’ up the new shed fer the lorries. It was only fetchin’ an’ carryin’ an’ Wallace seemed ter be gettin’ on fine. We let ’im go early, too, the first day, an’ the next day ’e came in on time an’ wivout bein’ told ’e swept the yard a treat. Trouble was, when Joe went ter get ’im ter give ’im an ’and, the lad ’ad disappeared.’E’s not bin in since.’

Dolly looked puzzled. ‘But I bin makin’ sure ’e goes out on time. ’E’s always back fer ’is tea in the evenin’. Mind you, I can never get much out of ’im at the best o’ times.’

‘Well, I thought yer should know,’ Carrie said with concern.

Dolly finished her tea and stood up. ‘I’m grateful that yer gave ’im a chance, Carrie, many wouldn’t ’ave,’ she said with a brief smile. ‘I wouldn’t worry about ’im, I fink I know where’e’ll be.’

Dolly left the transport yard in Salmon Lane with a heavy heart and walked towards the river wall. The day was bright and cold, with little cloud to bar the winter sun. She could see the tall cranes swinging to and fro and dipping down into the barges and grimy freighters’ holds, tugs puffing up and down the river and the sound of traffic trundling over the white-stone Tower Bridge. The tide was high and beginning to ebb, with patches of oil caught in the middle of spinning eddies. The heart of London was beating strongly, but it held no attraction for Dolly. She was frightened of the river, terrified that one day it would take Wallace to its bosom, close over him and bear him away.

She could see him now, his feet dangling over the river wall and his back arched. He was staring ahead, as though mesmerised by the swishing sound of the muddy water against the old stanchions. He wore a cap which was pulled down on his ears, the peak unbuttoned and covering the whole of his forehead. Dolly drew breath and moved back. It was not the time to go to him, to remonstrate or scold him. He was there, alone with his thoughts, happy and unaffected by the hustle and bustle beneath him and all around him. Wallace was at home.

Dolly turned and walked away, back to Page Street, to Josiah and the children. Wallace would come home later, tired and hungry, and he would eat his fill and then sleep when sleep took him, borne away by the sound of the swishing, swirling waters of the River Thames flowing through his child’s mind.

Dougal McKenzie stepped down from the tram in Jamaica Road and pulled his trilby further down on his head. The night was dark with the moon obscured by cloud and the still air felt cold. Dougal was in no hurry. His informants had done their work well and he knew all he needed to about the layout of the Kings Arms and the habits of its tenants and customers. Last to leave usually were a couple of pensioners who always stood talking for a few minutes before making their way home. Tuesday was always a quiet night, one of the two nights when Terry Gordon was absent. Usually Terry came home around eleven thirty, mostly by tram, but if he was late he invariably arrived in a taxi.

Dougal hummed quietly to himself as he strolled through the dark night and thought about the job in hand. It wouldn’t have been possible to arrange it this way a few weeks ago, he knew. The stumbling block would have been Billy Sullivan the barman. Dougal knew from his informant that the publican had picked a tough, hard man to keep an eye on the pub, a local man who had once been a very good fighter and was well respected by all who knew him. Dougal also knew that it was Billy Sullivan who had stopped the fight and very nearly killed one of the men he had sent to cause trouble at the pub. Things were different now, however. Billy Sullivan did not wait until Terry Gordon returned home, instead he was out of the pub by eleven fifteen, twenty minutes past at the outside, then Patricia put the bolt on the side door and awaited her husband’s double knock.

Dougal prided himself on his efficiency. The man he had used to keep the outside of the pub under surveillance had been told to make a note of when the local policeman walked past on his beat, as well as any other regular occurrences between closing time and midnight. Things had not worked out too well the last time he plotted against the publican, and there was no margin for error on this occasion. Everything had to be planned down to the last detail.

Dougal glanced at his wristwatch as he strolled past the Kings Arms. It showed ten minutes to closing time. So far so good, he told himself. No one would be likely to walk out of a pub at that time of the evening and the night was dark. No one would recognise him in this area anyway. He would be able to accomplish what he had set out to do and be off, like a thief in the night.

He reached the first junction in Jamaica Road; it had taken him just five minutes. Another five minutes in the same direction, then he would turn round and walk back at the same pace towards the Kings Arms. By that reckoning he would reach the opposite side of the road to the pub at ten minutes past the hour, little time to wait, and little time to be noticed, before Sullivan left the place. It was a stroke of good fortune that the barman now left earlier, he thought. His man had told him of the rumours he had heard. It appeared that Sullivan and Patricia had been getting over-friendly towards each other and Terry had become suspicious and warned his barman off. There was a further benefit to be had from such rumours, Dougal thought. If all went well, then Billy Sullivan would be the prime suspect.

The Scot turned back and walked steadily towards the Kings Arms. When he arrived at nine minutes past eleven he could see the two pensioners still chatting away. ‘They’re late, why don’t they shove off?’ he cursed aloud. As if hearing him, the two old men turned and began to walk away from the pub, and then five minutes later Billy Sullivan emerged from the side door which led out into Page Street and walked briskly away down the turning.

Now, thought Dougal. There must be no slip-ups. This time it was for real.

His two knocks were answered by Patricia, and when she saw him and tried to scream he stifled her with his large hand over her mouth. He leaned back against the door to close it then took the heavy service revolver from his overcoat pocket and pressed the barrel against her temple. ‘I’m ganna take my hand away from ye mouth, woman, an’ if ye utter a sound I’ll kill ye where ye stand. Understood?’

Icy fingers of fear grasped her insides and Patricia nodded in panic. Dougal put his face closer to hers as he held the gun against her head. ‘I’m serious, lassie, so be warned,’ he snarled.

She nodded again with terror in her eyes, staring at the revolver held in his large fist.

‘Right then, put the bolts on,’ he commanded.

Patricia knew Dougal only too well. He had a sadistic streak to his nature, and she had been on the receiving end of it more than once in the past. Her mind was racing. He was out to kill Terry, and her too, she had no doubt. What could she do? She must warn her husband somehow.

Dougal’s cold eyes dared her to resist him as she slid the bottom bolt first then reached up to slide the top bolt, her body between him and the door. Her free hand made a short movement before Dougal spun her round roughly and backed her along the short passageway into the small room which divided the two bars.

‘Sit down and be quiet,’ he ordered.

‘What d’yer want wiv us, Dougal? We’ve not ’armed yer,’ she said, her voice shaking with fear.

‘That scum of a husband took ye from me,’ Dougal hissed. ‘Not content with that, he’s after fixing young Bruce. I’m on to him though, lassie, be sure o’ that. I’ve got a present for that no-good scum-bag o’ yours. He’ll get it right between the eyes,’ he snarled, waving the revolver inches away from her terrified face.

‘Terry’s workin’ wiv Bruce, not against ’im,’ she cried. ‘Go an’ talk ter yer bruvver, ’e’ll tell yer.’

‘Bruce always had a soft spot for that Sassenach,’ Dougal growled. ‘He’s been took in, but I’m not. I can see through it all. Bruce’ll come to thank me one day.’

Patricia sat rigid in the armchair. Maybe there was a chance to catch Dougal off guard and run for it, she thought, but there would be no time to slide the bolts before he reached her. Her eye caught the large glass ashtray on the table. Maybe she could stun him, just long enough for her to reach the street. It was a slim chance but better than waiting for Terry to walk into a bullet.

Dougal had noticed her glance. ‘Sit back in that chair,’ he grated, pulling the other armchair round until it was between her and the open door of the small room. ‘We won’t have long to wait, so let’s spend a few minutes talking about us,’ he said quietly.

Josiah Dawson was beginning to feel at home being the street’s warden. Most of the folk in the turning knew him and nearly everyone passed the time of day, or in his case the time of evening, as he went about his business. He had been careful not to antagonise the more volatile tenants with his requests for them to keep within the blackout regulations, and he had come to terms with his problem of talking to people. He had tried hard, and now his range extended a little further than the basic grunts he once made to get away quickly. He had even engaged Sadie and Maisie in polite conversation on more than one occasion recently, and as he prepared to do his rounds he felt in control.

‘Try not ter be too late, there’s a dear,’ Dolly told him. ‘I’ve got a nice pot o’ soup simmerin’ over the gas.’