Hell Is Always Today (13 page)

The Gunner’s progress down the sloping roof had been checked by the presence of an ancient Victorian cast-iron gutter twice the width of the modern variety. He had hung there for some time contemplating the cobbles of the yard thirty feet below. Like Jenny in a similar situation, he had found progress up a steeply sloping bank of Welsh slate in heavy rain a hazardous undertaking. He finally reached for the rusting railings above his head and pulled himself over in time to see Faulkner hurl the girl from him and turn to Miller.

The Gunner, silent on bare feet, delivered a left and a right to Faulkner’s kidneys that sent the big man staggering forward with a scream of pain. As he turned, the Gunner stepped over Miller and let Faulkner have his famous left arm screw punch under the ribs followed by a right to the jaw, a combination that had finished no fewer than twelve of his professional fights inside the distance.

Faulkner didn’t go down, but he was badly rattled. “Come on then, you bastard,” the Gunner yelled. “Let’s be having you.”

Miller pushed himself up on one knee and tried to lift Mallory into a sitting position. Jenny Crowther crawled across to help and pillowed Mallory’s head against her shoulder. He nodded, face twisted in pain, unable to speak and Miller folded his arms tightly about his chest and coughed as blood rose into his mouth.

There had been a time when people had been glad to pay as much as fifty guineas to see Gunner Doyle in action, but up there on the roof in the rain, Miller, the girl and Mallory had a ringside seat for free at his last and greatest battle.

He went after Faulkner two-handed, crouched like a tiger. Faulkner was hurt—hurt badly, and the Gunner had seen enough to know that his only chance lay in keeping him in that state. He swayed to one side as Faulkner threw a punch and smashed his left into the exposed mouth that was already crushed and bleeding from Miller’s efforts. Faulkner cried out in pain and the Gunner gave him a right that connected just below the eye and moved close.

“Keep away from him,” Miller yelled. “Don’t get too close.”

The Gunner heard only the roar of the crowd as he breathed in the stench of the ring—that strange never-to-be-forgotten compound of human sweat, heat, and embrocation. He let Faulkner have another right to the jaw to straighten him up and stepped in close for a blow to the heart that might finish the job. It was his biggest mistake. Faulkner pivoted, delivering an elbow strike backwards that doubled the Gunner over. In the same moment Faulkner turned again, lifting the Gunner backwards with a knee in the face delivered with such force that he went staggering across the roof and fell heavily against the railing. It sagged, half-breaking and he hung there trying to struggle to his feet, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. Faulkner charged in like a runaway express train, shoulder down and sent him back across the railing. The Gunner rolled over twice on the way down, bounced across the broad iron gutter and fell to the cobbles below.

Faulkner turned slowly, a terrifying sight, eyes glaring, blood from his mouth soaking down into his collar. He snarled at the three of them helpless before him, grabbed at the sagging iron railing and wrenched a four-foot length of it free. He gave a kind of animal-like growl and started forward.

Ma Crowther stepped through the door at the head of the stairs, still in her nightdress, clutching her sawn-off shotgun against her breast. Faulkner didn’t see her, so intent was he on the task before him. He poised over his three victims, swinging the iron bar high above his head like an executioner, and she gave him both barrels full in the face.

It was almost nine o’clock in the evening when Miller and Jenny Crowther walked along the second floor corridor of the Marsden Wing of the General Infirmary towards the room in which they had put Gunner Doyle.

They walked slowly because Miller wasn’t in any fit state to do anything else. His body seemed to be bruised all over and he was strapped up so tightly because of his broken ribs that he found breathing difficult. He was tired. A hell of a lot had happened since that final terrible scene on the roof and with Mallory on his back, he had been the only person capable of handling what needed to be done. A series of painkilling injections weren’t helping any and he was beginning to find difficulty in thinking straight any more.

The constable on the chair outside the door stood up and Miller nodded familiarly. “Look after Miss Crowther for a few minutes will you, Harry? I want a word with the Gunner.”

The policeman nodded, Miller opened the door and went in. There was a screen on the other side of the door and beyond it the Gunner lay propped against the pillows, his nose broken for the fourth time in his life, his right leg in traction, fractured in three places.

Jack Brady sat in a chair on the far side of the bed reading his notebook. He got up quickly. “I’ve got a statement from him. He insists that he forced his way into the house last night; that Miss Crowther and her grandmother only allowed him to stay under duress.”

“Is that a fact?” Miller looked down at the Gunner and shook his head. “You’re a poor liar, Gunner. The girl’s already given us a statement that clarifies the entire situation. She says that when you saved her from Faulkner in the yard, she and her grandmother felt that they owed you something. She seems to think that’s a good enough defence even in open court.”

“What do you think?” the Gunner said weakly.

“I don’t think it will come to court so my views don’t count. You put up the fight of your life back there on the roof. Probably saved our lives.”

“Oh, get stuffed,” the Gunner said. “I want to go to sleep.”

“Not just yet. I’ve got a visitor for you.”

“Jenny?” The Gunner shook his head. “I don’t want to see her.”

“She’s been waiting for hours.”

“What in the hell does she want to see me for? There’s nothing to bleeding well say, is there? I’ll lose all my remission over this little lot. I’m going back to the nick for another two and a half years plus anything else the beak likes to throw at me for the things I’ve done while I’ve been out. On top of that I’ll be dragging this leg around behind me like a log of wood for the rest of my life when I get out.”

“And a bloody good thing as well,” Brady said brutally. “No more climbing for you, my lad.”

“I’ll get her now,” Miller said. “You can see her alone. We’ll wait outside.”

The Gunner shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Miller and Brady went out and a second later, the girl came round the screen and stood at the end of the bed. Her face was very pale and there was a nasty bruise on her forehead, but she was still about fifty times better in every possible way than any other woman he’d ever met. There was that strange choking feeling in his throat again. He was tired and in great pain. He was going back to gaol for what seemed like forever and for the first time he was afraid of the prospect. He felt just like a kid who had been hurt. He wanted to have her come round the bed and kiss him, smooth back his hair, pillow his head on her shoulder.

But that was no good—no good at all. What he did now was the most courageous thing he had ever done in his entire life, braver by far than his conduct on the roof when facing Faulkner.

He smiled brightly. “Surprise, surprise. What’s all this?”

“I’ve been waiting for hours. They wouldn’t let me in before. Gran sends her regards.”

“How is she?” The Gunner couldn’t resist the question. “They tell me she finished him off good and proper up there. How’s she taken it? Flat on her back?”

“Not her—says she’d do it again any day. They’ve told you who he was?” The Gunner nodded and she went on, “I was in such a panic when he started smashing his way in that I locked her in the bedroom and forgot all about the shotgun. She keeps it in the wardrobe. She had to shoot the lock off to get out.”

“Good job she arrived when she did from what they tell me.”

There was a slight silence and she frowned. “Is anything wrong, Gunner?”

“No—should there be?”

“You seem funny, that’s all.”

“That’s me all over, darlin’. To tell you the truth I was just going to get some shut-eye when you turned up.”

Her face had gone very pale now. “What is it, Gunner? What are you trying to say?”

“What in the hell am I supposed to say?” He snapped back at her, genuinely angry. “Here I am flat on my back like a good little lad. In about another month they’ll stick me in a big black van and take me back where I came from. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

She had gone very still. “I thought it was what
you
wanted—really wanted.”

“And how in the hell would you know what I want?”

“I’ve been about as close to you as any woman could get and…”

He cut in sharply with a laugh that carried just the right cutting edge to it. “Do me a favour, darlin’. No bird gets close to me. Just because I’ve had you between the sheets doesn’t mean I’ve sold you the rights to the story of my life for the Sunday papers. It was very nice—don’t get me wrong. You certainly know what to do with it, but I’ve got other fish to fry now.”

She swayed. For a moment it seemed as if she might fall and then she turned and went out. The Gunner closed his eyes. He should have felt noble. He didn’t. He felt sick and afraid and more alone than he had ever done in his life before.

The girl was crying when she came out of the room. She kept on going, head-down and Miller went after her. He caught her, swung her round and shoved her against the wall.

“What happened in there?”

“He made it pretty clear what he really thinks about me, that’s all,” she said. “Can I go now?”

“Funny how stupid intelligent people can be sometimes,” Miller shook his head wearily. “Use your head, Jenny. When he left your house he was wearing shoes and a raincoat, had money in his pocket—money you’d given him. Why did he telephone you?”

“To say he was giving himself up.”

“Why was he barefooted again? Why had he got rid of the clothes you gave him? Why did he come running like a bat out of hell when you were in danger?”

She stared at him, eyes wide and shook her head. “But he was rotten in there—he couldn’t have done more if he’d spat on me.”

“Exactly the result he was hoping for, can’t you see that?” Miller said gently. “The biggest proof of how much he thinks of you is the way he’s just treated you.” He took her arm. “Let’s go back inside. You stay behind the screen and keep your mouth shut and I’ll prove it to you.”

The Gunner was aware of the click of the door opening, there was a soft footfall and he opened his eyes and looked up at Miller. “What do you want now, copper?”

“Congratulations,” Miller said. “You did a good job—on the girl, I mean. Stupid little tart like that deserves all she gets.”

It was all it took. The Gunner tried to sit up, actually tried to get at him. “You dirty bastard. She’s worth ten of you—any day of the week. In my book you aren’t fit to clean her shoes.”

“Neither are you.”

“The only difference between us is I know it. Now get to hell out of here and leave me alone.”

He closed his eyes as Miller turned on heel and limped out. The door clicked and there was only the silence. He heard no sound and yet something seemed to move and then there was the perfume very close.

He opened his eyes and found her bending over him. “Oh, Gunner,” she said. “Whatever am I going to do with you?”

Miller sat on the end of Mallory’s bed to make his report. The Chief Superintendent had a room to himself in the private wing as befitted his station. There were already flowers in the corner and his wife was due to arrive within the hour.

“So you’ve left them together?” Mallory said.

Miller nodded. “He isn’t going to run anywhere.”

“What about the leg? How bad is it?”

“Not too good, according to the consultant in charge. He’ll be lame for the rest of his life. It could have been worse, mind you.”

“No more second-storey work at any rate,” Mallory commented.

“Which could make this injury a blessing in disguise,” Miller pointed out.

Mallory shook his head. “I hardly think so. Once a thief always a thief and Doyle’s a good one—up there with the best. Clever, resourceful, hightly intelligent. When you think of it, he hasn’t done anything like the time he should have considering what he’s got away with in the past. He’ll find something else that’s just as crooked, mark my words.”

Which was probably true, but Miller wasn’t going down without a fight. “On the other hand if he hadn’t been around last night Jenny Crowther would have been number five on Faulkner’s list and we’d have been no further forward. I’d also like to point out that we’d have been in a damn bad way without him up there on the roof.”

“Which is exactly how the newspapers and the great British public will see it, Miller,” Mallory said. “You needn’t flog it to death. As a matter of interest I’ve already dictated a report for the Home Secretary in which I state that in my opinion Doyle had earned any break we can give him.”

Miller’s tiredness dropped away like an old cloak. “What do you think that could mean—a pardon?”

Mallory laughed out loud. “Good God, no. If he’s lucky, they’ll release him in ten months on probation as they would have done anyway if he hadn’t run for it.”

“Fair enough, sir.”

“No, it isn’t, Miller. He’ll be back. You’ll see.”

“I’m putting my money on Jenny Crowther.” Miller got to his feet. “I’d better go now, sir. You look as if you could do with some sleep.”

“And you look as if you might fall down at any moment.” Miller turned, a hand on the door and Mallory called, “Miller?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Regarding that little wager of ours. I was right about Phillips—he killed Grace Packard just as I said, but taking everything else into consideration I’ve decided to give you your pound back, and no arguments.”

He switched off the light with his good hand and Miller went out, closing the door softly behind him.

He took the lift down to the entrance hall and found Jack Brady standing outside the night sister’s small glass office talking to her. They turned as Miller came forward and the sister frowned.

“You look awful. You should be in your bed, really you should.”

“Is that an invitation, Sister?” Miller demanded and kissed her on the cheek.

Brady tapped out his pipe and slipped a hand under Miller’s arm. “Come on, Nick, let’s go.”

“Go where?”

“The nearest pub. I’d like to see what a large whisky does for you, then I’ll take you home.”

“You’re an Irish gentleman, Jack. God bless you for the kind thought.”

They went out through the glass doors. The rain had stopped and Miller took a deep breath of fresh, damp air. “Hell is always today, Jack, never tomorrow. Have you ever noticed that?”

“It’s all that keeps a good copper going,” Brady said and they went down the steps together.