The Corner House (46 page)

The Irishwoman’s paddy began to simmer. ‘If you want food, prepare it yourself. I shopped for it and paid for it, so you can cook it.’

Enlivened by the prospect of a fight, Ruth sat down again and lit a cigarette. ‘What’s up with you?’ she asked.

‘You are up with me and I am done with you.’

‘Bugger off, then.’

‘Don’t worry, I shall. Then you’ll have no audience to applaud or boo you. It’s been like living with a petulant child, so it has. And as for that girl of yours, you’re reaping exactly what you sowed, no more, no less.’

Ruth inhaled, blew a couple of smoke rings, and smiled. ‘She’s took after her father. He’s Irish. He beggared off back to Mayo and left me with his brat to rear and not a penny out of him.’

Maggie glowered. ‘Could you blame him? What sort of a woman tells her child she’s ugly? What kind of mother leaves a small girl in the house with no
food? But you always had your smokes, always had what you wanted.’ Maggie stood up and towered over Ruth. ‘Irene works with the dead because she fears the living. She gets no accusations out of a corpse. And she’s waiting for you, I’ve no doubt. Once she has you stretched out in a box, she’ll say all she’s bitten back in the past. In fact, it would come as no surprise to me if she put an end to you. Not because she’s evil, but because you deserve it.’

No-one had ever spoken to Ruth in this way. The whole neighbourhood knew Irene and her mother; not one single soul had come up smiling after a close encounter with the cotton carder or the undertaker’s assistant. ‘You know nowt, you,’ snapped Ruth. ‘Stuck on me own here with me dad and that little rat. None of the others bothered to—’

‘That little rat was a child, a human being.’

‘She’s wicked,’ snarled Ruth.

Maggie paused. Was there a hint of Ruth’s nastiness in Theresa? Did madness run in the Nolan family? After all, the patriarch had been a tyrant of some considerable notoriety. Could insanity lie at the root of Theresa’s need for vengeance? Maggie thought not. No, this one here, a being like no other, had created a monster in her own tainted soul’s image. ‘I pity your day of judgement,’ she told the seated woman, ‘because you have not one single saving grace. I pity your family and the victims who get torn by your tongue and by the wicked machinations of your daughter. I understand that many of her neighbours and even some of your relatives have received poison pen letters from her. She has neither the wit nor the wisdom to conceal her identity in spite of a lack of signature. Poor spelling and bad grammar betray her, for she got little in the
way of education. Which is a pity, because her talents might have served her had she been given encouragement.’

Ruth let out a roar, leapt up and pushed Maggie away. ‘What would you know, you owld bitch?’

‘More than you do, and that’s for certain sure.’

‘Ha,’ spat the dark-haired Lancastrian. ‘All the same, you Irish. Fat, lazy, useless and stupid. One more brain cell and you’d be a potato in the famine.’

Maggie placed her hands on her hips, thrust her chin forward. ‘I could chew you up and spit you out in a fight. Oh, you’d not care to take me on, for I’ve wiped the streets of Liverpool with men and women twice your size.’ She wagged a finger under Ruth’s nose. ‘But I won’t need to touch you, because your daughter will do it all for me. And when Irene does finally snap, she’ll have the weight of these streets behind her.’

Ruth McManus blinked. The shock of someone actually standing up to her was almost overwhelming. Like most bullies, she was a coward, a frightened soul diminished by her father, a woman whose only satisfaction lay in the persecution of others. Needful and unfulfilled, Ruth had destroyed her own daughter because she was incapable of giving or receiving love. ‘You’d best get out of my house.’ Her voice was low, threatening.

‘I’m going, so. I’ll sleep on Eva’s sofa until we move into Theresa’s house.’

Ruth grinned hideously, displaying an array of tobacco-stained dentures. ‘When our Theresa pops her clogs, I’ll be round to collect my niece.’

‘When Theresa dies, you’ll be long gone,’ prophesied Maggie.

‘Is that a threat?’

Maggie walked to the door and swung round. ‘That, my dear Ruth, was a definite promise. And don’t forget – I have the sight.’ She smiled menacingly. ‘You’ll die before Theresa does.’

Theresa watched the workers leaving by the back gate. There were five of them: three men, two women. They chattered in a small huddle for a few seconds, then each set off for home. Theresa needed to be quick. She didn’t want Chorlton to lock the shop before she’d had the chance to get in.

Counting backwards, remembering Stephen’s advice, she ambled round to the front of the shop and placed her hand on the latch, experiencing a peculiar feeling whose constituents seemed to be a mixture of fear and self-congratulation. She had timed it just right, as the workers had gone and the master had not yet locked the door. She had timed it perfectly, and her heart was beating hard in spite of all her efforts to remain cool and clear. She had no idea what she would do once inside, yet she had to go in, had to look her tormentor in the eye.

He was taking money out of the till and placing it in a green canvas bag. He looked up, then glanced down at the cash, freezing for a fraction of time before forcing himself to look at the beautiful, wraith-like woman who had entered his shop.

Theresa wandered the length of the counter until she stood within two yards of him. Slowly, she opened her handbag, lifted out the gun, then placed herself in one of the chairs provided for older customers.

Roy Chorlton swallowed audibly. He had spent several years in the company of firearms, many of which had been handled by official enemies, but he
had never before seen a gun in the hands of a civilian. He dropped the bag onto the counter and gripped the rim of the wooden surface. Somebody had to say something.

At last, she spoke. ‘Lock the door, turn the sign round, close all the blinds.’

After a moment of near-paralysis, he complied with the instructions and returned to his place.

Theresa nodded slowly. ‘You look just right there, Mr Chorlton. Every inch the shopkeeper. Do you rub your hands together when a sale is made? Your father used to do that. Yes, Maurice the Mole was a greasy creature, too.’

He kept his eyes on the gun. It was small, but anything fired from that distance would fell a man. Three days ago, Ged Hardman had been killed and Teddy Betteridge had been deprived of his freedom. Bail had been refused. It seemed that Roy would have no chance to apply for bail, for mercy, for the right to remain alive and uninjured.

‘It’s my turn now,’ she whispered.

He gulped again, made no reply.

‘How does this feel?’ she asked, as if making an enquiry about a bolt of cloth.

‘Unpleasant,’ he managed.

‘Good.’

For what seemed like an hour, she sat there with the gun trained on him while he shivered in his shoes. How could she achieve such stillness? he wondered. She didn’t flinch, didn’t shake, scarcely blinked, seemed almost to have stopped breathing.

With a suddenness that surprised both of them, Theresa swung round and fired a bullet into a dummy dressed in a fifty-pound suit. The missile
pierced fine worsted, sliced through the figure, then embedded itself in a wall. Smoke floated out of the broken ‘man’, made its way upwards and thinned away to nothing. ‘That’s how easy it is,’ she told him. ‘Just a tiny squeeze on the trigger and it’s all over. My turn. My turn to have total control over you.’

Urine trickled down Roy Chorlton’s leg. ‘Someone will have heard that shot.’ His shop was not one in a row. Surrounded by warehouses and small factories whose occupants had clocked off for the day, he held little hope unless someone passing by had recognized the report as gunfire.

Unimpressed by the man’s comment, Theresa examined the gun as if assessing its performance. ‘It works.’ Her tone was conversational. ‘Frightening, isn’t it, when someone takes over and gives you no choices? Imagine how you would feel if there were three of me.’

He decided against reminding her that he and his fellows had carried no guns. The balance was about right, anyway. With a trio of attackers, Theresa had stood no chance. Here and now, in his own shop, Roy Chorlton feared a very small woman with a very small gun. He probably deserved this.

‘I have a daughter,’ she continued, deliberately neglecting to mention Katherine. Let Katherine survive, let her remain untouched by this. ‘Jessica is probably yours. The other day, I asked for money from the three of you. With one dead and the other in jail, it’s your responsibility.’

‘I have your money,’ he managed. ‘May I get it?’

She nodded.

Roy opened the register and pulled out a Bolton Savings Bank pass book. ‘Two thousand pounds,’ he said. ‘It’s in your name and the paperwork is correct.
To withdraw, you will need only to confirm your identity.’

‘Two thousand pounds,’ she murmured. ‘Very generous indeed. Tell me – is that the value of your life?’

He shrugged. ‘When I opened this account, I didn’t know that my life would be under threat. Some of the money is Ged’s. He had it transferred the day before he died.’ Humiliated by his body’s weakness, he was glad of the counter, because it hid the wet patches on his trousers. Had she really felt fear as strong as this? Of course she had.

‘I got hold of this gun some years ago. I had one or two vague ideas about killing the lot of you, but you and I are the only ones left. What shall I do with you?’

Roy did not move. If he ran, she might well shoot. If he stayed, would he stand a chance? ‘Not a day has passed without my regretting what I did that night.’

‘My thoughts exactly. If I hadn’t gone visiting, if I’d stayed at home … “If” is such an important word.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ve always been sorry.’

She nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes, so have I. And I’ve always wanted to face you just like this.’ She gazed around. ‘Nice shop. Doing well, are you?’

‘Well enough.’

Theresa stood up. ‘Take off your clothes.’

His jaw dropped. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Undress. Now.’ She raised the gun.

With fingers that seemed to be made of melted butter, Roy struggled with jacket, tie, waistcoat and shirt.

‘Put them on the floor. The vest, too.’

With his white and flabby upper body stripped
naked, Roy’s embarrassment was unbearable. He crossed his arms to hide a chest that might have been a woman’s except for the patches of black, matted hair.

‘Trousers,’ she ordered.

He could scarcely believe his ears. Anger bubbled, but he quashed it, removed a leather belt, undid the urine-soaked fly, stepped out of the garment.

‘Go on,’ she said mildly. ‘Everything off. Let’s see what Nature intended when she made this deliberate mistake. She must have an excellent sense of humour.’

When the last thin layer of modesty lay in a wet heap on the floor, Roy made a feeble effort to hide his droopy breasts with one hand, his lower parts with the other.

Theresa stepped forward and grabbed a bunch of keys from the counter. ‘You can go now,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘You heard me. This is the nearest a woman can come to rape, you see. You stole my virginity and I’ve taken away your outer wrapping so that the world can see you as you really are. Clothes make the man – isn’t that so true? Underneath, you’re just like a garden slug, shapeless and without any value to mankind. I can’t hurt you on the inside like you hurt me. But I can make you a fool.’

‘I can’t go out like this.’

‘I had to. I had to push a second-hand pram with your child in it. People pointed, talked about me because I was an unmarried woman with a child. If I can be a fool and survive it, so must you. The back door, I think.’ She waved the gun in the direction of the workroom.

He turned and walked slowly away from her.

Theresa picked up the bank book before following the ridiculous figure through to the rear of the shop. The cheeks of his bottom flapped about as if they had no muscles to support them. The whole picture was made all the more laughable because the man still wore black socks stretched all the way up to his knees.

‘Open it,’ she ordered when he reached the back door.

Roy Chorlton stepped out into a biting evening. A clear sky advertised severe frost, the effects of which hit Roy as soon as he was out of doors. Behind him, the door slammed shut, a key turned and two bolts shot home. He ran into the lavatory shed and closed the door. Death would come swiftly if he didn’t find some cover. She was so damned clever. His car keys were among the bunch she had taken.

Inside the shop, Theresa leaned against the door and broke her heart. She howled for the night when she had been hurt, for the Liverpool years, for Jessica, for her stolen child. Sobs racked her body when she thought about the man in the yard, because she actually pitied him. The pity infuriated her, so she wept harder. After ten minutes or so, she dried her face, rubbing the skin with a scarf until she glowed.

The Town Hall clock announced half past something or other, possibly six. Theresa had never cried like this, so perhaps the dam had finally burst. Whatever, she felt considerably better. But her feet refused to follow instructions; although she tried to walk towards the front door, her lower limbs remained on strike.

‘I can’t do it,’ she told herself.

Still leaning against the back door, she gripped
Chorlton’s keys, feeling the cut edges biting into her palm. The temperature outside was deathly cold. He might freeze. He might be found dead in the morning, his body curled against the ice, too misshapen for a coffin. ‘I’m a good person,’ she told the unoccupied room. Bolts of cloth lay on shelves, paper patterns on a cutting table. Three sewing machines sat idle on a bench, spools of cotton in an open box, measuring tapes and chalk on a desk.

‘Oh God,’ she mumbled.

A bus rattled past towards Deane Road, then another on its way to Trinity Street Station. Ten, nine, eight … Her breathing steadied, settled down. With painful slowness, she drew back bolts, unlocked the door with the biggest key. On a sudden impulse, she picked up a large piece of uncut cloth and dragged it out behind her.