The Corner House (39 page)

Ged, who was concentrating on his own problem, offered no immediate answer.

‘She could catch it,’ continued Roy.

Ged nudged himself to life. ‘Serve her right,’ he declared. ‘She looks as if she only has a wash at Christmas and a bath every Preston Guild.’

As far as Roy was concerned, Mrs Betteridge’s habits were not the point. The poor woman probably had a venereal disease simply because her husband was an alcoholic philanderer. Roy shifted in his chair, knew that he would need to visit the lavatory yet again at any moment. Was he any better than Teddy or Ged? Sexual frustration was no excuse for using prostitutes. ‘It’s our own fault,’ he opined softly.

‘Is it hell as like. They’re supposed to keep themselves clean, aren’t they? It’s part of the job, part of what we pay them for. Four quid for a quicky and a dose of this? It’s out and out barefaced robbery.’

Roy knew that his cheeks were burning.

‘She’d no right,’ muttered Ged angrily. ‘Wait till I get my hands on her – she’ll soon know which side her head’s been clouted.’

The tailor closed his eyes, tried to ignore the discomfort in his bladder. It was as if that part of his anatomy had been peppered with a thousand shards of hot, needle-thin glass.

‘Can you imagine talking about this to your doctor? He might tell my flaming mother,’ said Ged.

‘He won’t. They pledge secrecy.’

‘Aye, so do the bloody masons, but we all know about their tomfoolery.’ He had forgotten about Mary Palmer and her slender, shapely legs. He
had given up on the idea of snatching a kiss and a cuddle later on. Let his mother deal with it. Let Lily borrow and pay low interest, because he had had enough.

From the doorway, Theresa Nolan, alias Mary Palmer, surveyed her prey. Again, she was calm and detached, as if this whole scenario had been imagined, as if it were a dream. She walked to the table, smiled when Roy Chorlton, that fat slug of a so-called gentleman, almost choked on a mouthful of beer. Ged Hardman, too, had a puzzled look on his face. ‘Good evening,’ she said, sitting down next to Roy Chorlton.

Ged smiled hesitantly. Was this Mary Palmer? Mary Palmer had reddish-brownish hair pulled back behind her ears, while this woman was a strawberry blonde, her hair falling forward in soft waves. ‘You look different,’ he said eventually.

‘I am different,’ she replied.

‘Where’s your friend?’ Ged asked.

‘In my mind,’ she answered, gloved hands folded on the table. ‘She’s all in my mind, Mr Hardman.’

Roy felt as if a hand had reached into his chest to squeeze his heart to death. Theresa Nolan. She looked older, very drawn, yet extremely beautiful.

‘Did the cat get your tongue?’ she asked Roy. ‘Or has your seedy past returned to catch up with you?’

His bladder was close to bursting.

‘Are you in pain?’

Roy studied her. He got the message. She had sent Maria Martin to Bolton.

Theresa turned to Ged Hardman. ‘I hoped you wouldn’t recognize me the other day,’ she told him, her tone conversational. ‘I rinsed my hair with a wash-out colour.’

‘Who the hell are you?’ Ged knew her, yet he didn’t.

‘Just a piece of rubbish you picked up in an alleyway a long time ago. Three of you, there were. You, this poor excuse of a man and an alcoholic called Betteridge. Will he be in this evening?’

Ged’s jaw hung like a broken gate. ‘You’re not her,’ he stammered. ‘She disappeared years ago, went off without so much as a by-your-leave, by all accounts, and—’

‘I went to Liverpool,’ she said. ‘To work with war-victims and other retired sailors.’ She smiled. ‘A young woman lived upstairs. She was supposed to be a kitchen maid, but I think she added to her income by working in the evenings, too.’ She paused, savouring the moment before the kill. No way would she tell these people that she had lived in a place that housed a brothel. ‘The maid’s name was Maria. I understand that she visited Bolton a while ago.’

Ged Hardman leapt to his feet, almost upsetting the table in his haste. ‘You bloody bitch,’ he roared.

The landlord shouted across the room. ‘Hey! If you want to carry on that road, do it outside.’

Ged sat down. She was staring straight at him, would not deflect her gaze. Something in her expression threatened him far more effectively than the landlord’s words. He looked down, picked up his glass and took a swig.

Roy was shaking. He remembered her, her fear, her pain and her fury. In his mind’s eye, he stood once more in a shabby little room, a pink-faced infant in a padded drawer at his feet. The woman was screaming at him. She clutched the edge of a washed-out quilt and begged him to leave. He was
her monster, her nightmare. No, she would not marry him. No, this baby would be hers and only hers. He was not fit to be a father, not fit to be alive.

‘Bugger off,’ spat Ged Hardman. ‘We’ve paid for that mistake, paid through the nose. And now you’ve given us a bloody dose, you cow.’

Roy jumped up and ran to the men’s lavatory.

Unflinching, Theresa held her ground.

‘What do you want?’ asked Ged.

She shook her head slowly. ‘Let’s wait till the other hero comes back, shall we?’

‘Who? Chorlton? You’ll get nothing out of him, either.’

‘Pity,’ she remarked quietly. ‘Because I have a letter from Maria.’ How smoothly the untruths flowed after a while. Maria could scarcely write her own name. ‘She sent it to my friend’s house and says she’s sorry about … her illness, but she didn’t find out about it until she got back to Liverpool.’

‘Balls,’ he spat.

‘And she thought you should be informed.’ Theresa gazed around the bar. ‘Your mother would be very interested to read Maria’s letter.’

He blinked rapidly. ‘You can’t do that,’ he spluttered.

‘Oh, but I can. I might even paint a message on the factory fence: “George Hardman Junior picked up a nasty illness in the line of duty”.’

Roy dashed back to the table, looked at Ged, then at Theresa. Without saying a word to either, he plucked his trilby from a chair and ran outside.

‘Coward,’ said Theresa, no expression colouring the words. ‘I’ll see you soon,’ she told the terrified Ged Hardman. ‘And don’t follow me. I happen to be armed.’

The most worrying thing was that Ged found himself believing her. She wasn’t tall, wasn’t strong. But she had the sort of demeanour that was decidedly disturbing. ‘I’ll not follow you. I couldn’t be bothered.’

‘Good.’ She rose gracefully from her seat, every inch the lady. Several men gave her the once-over as she leaned forward and whispered to Ged Hardman. ‘Fifteen hundred pounds,’ she said. ‘I’ve nothing to lose but face, so save your breath. I’ll tell every man and woman in this town about your illness – about the other two sufferers, as well. Five hundred pounds each, please. Give it to Chorlton. Of the three of you, he’s probably the most honest.’

‘You what?’

‘For my daughter. For her security.’ She turned to leave, then back-tracked. ‘Oh, by the way, Maria would be quite happy to charge you all with rape. That would be a scream, wouldn’t it? When you really did it, you got off scot free. Now, when you’re innocent, you stand to lose a hell of a lot. See you soon, George.’

She left the pub, rested outside for a few minutes. Only now, in the relatively fresh air, did she realize how smelly and claustrophobic the bar had been. Her clothes reeked of tobacco and ale, no doubt. She shivered, pulled the scarf tightly across her throat, turned up her collar. It was cold enough for snow, though the cloud was thin. Perhaps the fall would come tomorrow.

She began the walk back to Daubhill, wondering what the hell she had been playing at tonight. What did she want? Money for Jessica, money for herself, three men in newly dug graves? Chorlton was pathetic, Betteridge was absent, Hardman was another
sad creature, all bad skin and anger. No, no, she would hang on to her resolve; there was no space for doubt, not now, so late in the day and so near to her goal.

‘Theresa?’

She swung round. ‘Maggie. Where have you been?’

‘To London to look at the Queen.’ Maggie caught her breath. ‘Tell you what, Theresa, you can’t half shift. How fast would you go if you had your health?’

‘Have you been following me?’ asked Theresa.

‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

Taken somewhat aback by Maggie’s honesty, Theresa was temporarily lost for words.

‘You’re still looking for those men, aren’t you? Well, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

Maggie leaned against a wall. ‘What for?’ she asked.

‘I was thinking of getting a darts team together,’ she replied with heavy sarcasm.

‘Oh really? You don’t go wandering about on a cold night unless you have a very good reason. I don’t see why anyone in their right mind—’

‘Maggie, shut up. We’re not all like you. Some of us aren’t perfect. If you’d been through what I’ve been through …’ Theresa watched Maggie’s face. In the lamplight, the older woman was beautiful, unlined, youthful once more. ‘I’m sorry,’ Theresa mumbled. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’ Maggie, a victim of incest, did not deserve harsh words.

‘That’s all right.’

‘No, no. At least none of them was my father.’

Maggie shook her head. ‘It took a lot of years and a lot of men to get rid of the smell of him. But you’re
right, it’s the being used that counts most. No matter who the attacker is, you hate him for the rest of your life. He made you less than you were, certainly less than you might have become. But that’s no excuse for hunting these men to the ends of the earth.’

‘Deansgate is hardly the ends of the earth, Maggie.’

Maggie bridled. ‘Don’t you go getting clever with me, miss. Was that one of the men – going bald, on the short side, ran out of the place a few minutes ago?’

Theresa nodded.

‘What had you done to him?’

Theresa raised her shoulders. ‘Nothing yet. Maria’s responsible for his condition, I think. She came over some weeks ago and infected them all. Such a shame. I was going to come with her just for the fun of it, only I changed my mind.’

Maggie’s anger spilled over. ‘Theresa, for God’s sake – didn’t you say one of those men is married? What about his wife? Have you given no thought to her?’

Theresa had a ready answer. ‘Yes, I thought about her. I intend to tell her as soon as possible that she must leave him and take her children with her. After all, she shouldn’t be living with a man who uses prostitutes.’

Maggie closed her mouth with a sharp snap. There was little she could do about this stubborn young woman. Theresa’s energy burned in one direction only, and nothing would deflect her, it seemed. ‘And when do you plan to deal with Eva?’ Maggie asked. ‘After all, she took away the second baby and gave her to a lovely, caring couple. I suppose she must suffer, too.’

Theresa gazed levelly at her companion. ‘I may seem cold and cruel to you, but this is my way of dealing with the cruelty of others. My mother died and my father hated me. I have brothers and sisters who won’t talk to me, let alone help with Jessica. I have another daughter, one I wasn’t allowed to see. Three men raped me. One of them is the father of those twins. When I die, my sister Ruth will try to claim Jessica as some sort of bauble. Her own daughter was not good enough, too ugly. I’ve a heart that won’t heal, Maggie. There are things I must do—’

‘Where’s the gun?’

Theresa shook her head. ‘Things to do, Maggie. You guard my daughter with your life – promise?’

Maggie sighed. ‘I promise.’

A heavy hand clamped itself on each woman’s shoulder. They spun round simultaneously. ‘Monty!’ shrieked Maggie. ‘My God, you could have given us both heart attacks.’

The man panted for breath. ‘I’ve been following you,’ he told Maggie crossly.

Theresa started to giggle. Laughter poured from her mouth until several passers-by stopped in their tracks. ‘You’ve been following Maggie,’ she hooted, ‘while Maggie was following me, while I was following the Three Stooges. Where will it all end?’

Maggie was not amused. ‘Exactly,’ she said ominously. ‘Where will it all end? Anyway, you two can please yourselves. I’m off to enjoy another evening of Ruth’ s hospitality.’

This statement made Theresa double over with mirth. She laughed until the tears came, then she wept on Maggie’s shoulder. She didn’t know why she
had laughed, or why she was crying. But she sobbed all the way back to View Street.

She watched the woman juggling pots and pans, listened as coarse language tumbled from thick lips in a grey, blubbery face. The market hummed with activity, forming a suitable backdrop for Teddy Betteridge’s other half. Mrs Elsie Betteridge wore a thick winter coat, a red scarf and a woollen hat that looked like a tea-cosy with the holes sewn up. ‘Genuine Crown Derby,’ she yelled. ‘Only one previous owner, the Hearl of Hipswich.’ The mouth spread itself into a broad grin. ‘Only kidding, missus. This here dinner set’s fresh from the kiln, hot enough to warm your necessaries all the way home.’

Theresa crossed the street to examine some tawdry articles on a clothing stall. She remembered coming here as a young girl to buy cheap stockings, arriving home only to find that the carefully folded and packaged items had included darned holes, no feet or several ladders.

Dobson’s was still here, the stall covered in pillowcases, sheets and towels. An Antiquities Corner boasted some silver-plated condiment pots, a few fire irons, the odd antimacassar and a bust of Lord Nelson.

She walked into the covered area, almost raising her hands to protect her ears against the noise of stallholders competing for business. ‘Cheapest in town, love’, ‘Come and get your cups, missus – saucers thrown in free’, ‘Two for a shilling, five for a florin’. Theresa realized how much she had missed her home town. She felt at home with the accent, the skyline – even the smells.

It was a smell that drew her further, past the
chandlers, the flower-sellers, the loose covers and second-hand books. The fishmarket had never been one of Theresa’s favourite places, but there was someone she wanted to see, a man who, like his brother, had always been kind and generous to neighbours and customers alike.

Danny Walsh was still there, at the same stall, in the same uniform of blue-and-white striped apron over a white coat. On his head he wore a white hat with a brim and a chequered band. Into the band he had inserted a small flag which bore the words: ‘
NO FLIES ON WALSH
’
S FISH
’. He hadn’t changed at all. Still as thin as a rake, he presided over his kingdom with a beaming smile and a joke for everyone.