The Good Provider (52 page)

Kirsty said, ‘They’ll catch him, won’t they?’

‘Of course they’ll catch him,’ Mrs Walker said.

‘There’s no danger he’ll get away, is there?’

‘Not with our lot on his trail.’

Kirsty liked the sound of that phrase – ‘our lot’. It incorporated her into a group, made her part of what Craig did. Even so, her apprehension was not much lessened.

‘But why—’

‘Better safe than sorry,’ Jess Walker said and, tightening her grip on Kirsty’s arm, glanced over her shoulder nervously.

Joseph McGhee was not so young as he had once been and the routine of opening his pawnbroker’s shop seemed to take an unconscionable time these days. He removed the padlock from the bar of the wooden gate, slid out the bar, hoisted up the gate and put it to one side of the doorway. He shuffled into the alcove, bent forward and waved the key about until he found the hole, turned it and unlocked the door. He pushed the door open with the crown of his head.

A voice behind him said, ‘Hullo, Joseph. Remember me?’

The old man straightened. ‘I thought you was inside.’

‘I was, Joseph, but I stepped out.’

‘Escaped from Barlinnie?’

‘It’ll be in your newspaper, I expect.’

‘What do you want wi’ me, Danny?’

‘A warm by your fire for a start, Joseph. And a bit o’ breakfast might go down nicely too.’

‘Are they lookin’ for you?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I want no trouble, Danny.’

‘Just do as I say, Joseph, an’ there’ll be no trouble at all. Now let’s step inside the shop.’

‘I’ll have to bring in the gate.’

‘Do it, then.’

‘What – what’s that?’

‘Never seen a sabre before, Joseph?’

‘God, where did ye get it?’

‘Borrowed it from a warder. How much would it fetch?’

‘I canna touch it, Danny. You know that. The coppers are round here—’

‘A joke, Joe, just a wee joke. Fetch in the gate then come in an’ lock the door.’

‘Lock the – I’m supposed to be open for business.’

‘Get off the bloody street, Joseph.
Now
.’

‘Right, right.’

Tiggy, the little marmalade cat that kept down mice, tiptoed from the back shop and hopped on to the counter. It squeezed between the iron grid and big silver till then stopped, back arching at the sight of the stranger. It hissed and retreated, ears back, and peered from behind the till, watching as the old man staggered in with gate, bar and padlock and put them down behind the partition.

‘Now, lock the door again,’ said Malone.

‘What if—’

‘I said lock it.’

Joseph McGhee obeyed. He had not been in the pawnbroking business for forty-three years without learning guile. He was only too well aware that he was at Malone’s mercy. In days of yore he had done enough business with Malone to realise that he was no match for the man, sword or no sword.

The cat leapt to the floor and shot into the back shop. Malone whirled round, sabre in his fist.

Joseph said, ‘It’s only Tiggy.’

‘Who?’

‘My cat.’

‘Nobody else here?’

‘Not at this hour,’ Joseph said. ‘Come in to the back, Danny. I’ll light the stove an’ put on a kettle. When did you cut out?’

‘Yesterday.’

‘Have you had any grub?’

‘Not much.’

‘I’ve sausage an’ bread,’ Joseph said. ‘I could nip out for some—’

‘You’ll nip out nowhere, Joe. We’re stayin’ in today. Both of us.’

‘In that case I’ve a suggestion.’

‘What?’

‘I should put up my notice.’

‘What notice?’

‘Closed: Back Soon.’

Malone thought about it and when the old man handed him a strip of cardboard read the painted print as studiously as a scholar.

‘How often do you show this card?’

‘Now an’ again,’ said Joseph casually.

Outside in the street, men passed by, workers from the foundry. Joseph watched them furtively, praying that one of them might glance into the depths of the shop, might notice the man with the drawn sword.

The men clattered past unheeding.

Malone said, ‘If your customers see this notice they’ll come back, won’t they?’

Joseph said, ‘If they’re desperate they will.’

‘What then?’

Joseph shrugged.

‘Put it up,’ Malone said. ‘Then we’ll go through back an’ talk about what we’re goin’ to do.’

‘What are we goin’ to do, Danny?’

‘We’re goin’ to wait.’

‘Wait for what, Danny?’

‘Nightfall,’ said Danny Malone.

It had been a strange, out-of-kilter morning and, Kirsty supposed, unaccustomed excitement had made her feel out of sorts. She was glad when at last Mrs Walker took her leave and she was left alone in the house.

Mrs Walker had not only escorted her on the shopping ‘expedition’ but had insisted on accompanying her upstairs and had even invited herself into the house for a cup of tea and a blether. Unused to socialising, and not much interested in close gossip, Kirsty had agreed only because she sensed that the woman, in her way, was doing her ‘duty’. Mrs Walker did most of the talking. She drank three cups of Co-operative tea and ate a sticky cake, not one of Oswalds’, that Kirsty had purchased from the Greenfield Bakers, and chatted away about her husband and her sons, boasting about their record of arrests which, Kirsty had already learned, was not something that constables did among themselves.

It was around eleven o’clock when Freddie, Mrs Walker’s oldest, came to the door and enquired if they were all right. He was dressed in flannels and a greatcoat and wore black rubber pumps upon his feet. He was unshaven and tousled but animated in spite of a shortage of sleep. Invited into the kitchen he began at once to discourse on football, his obsession, going on and on as if Kirsty were informed about the game. Kirsty sat at the table, smiling politely, wishing that the Walkers would go away and leave her in peace.

The feeling of union that she had experienced for a few fleeting moments had been dissipated by the strain of ‘entertaining’ and by sharp little snips of pain that darted across her abdomen. She hid all sign of discomfort, breathing through her nose, smile fixed, her responses to the stream of chatter suitably rhythmic. ‘Aye, Mrs Walker. Is that so? Do you tell me now?’ and so on until even the sound of her own voice became dull and boring.

She wanted to be alone. No, she wanted Craig to be with her, where she could see him, where he could watch over her. She wanted him to hold her by the hand, assure her that everything would be all right, that Malone would be caught and incarcerated in a prison from which he could not escape, that the pains meant nothing at all, that she would carry to full term and be swiftly delivered of a fine healthy baby, a boy if that’s what Craig wanted, and would be up on her feet in two or three days; that he would not feel impelled to travel down to Dalnavert, that she would hear no more from Dalnavert or about Dalnavert or Madge Nicholson, and would have him and her baby all to herself for many years to come.

At long last Jess Walker took Freddie away.

Kirsty washed saucers, cups and plates and put them away. She felt so pinched and cramped, though, that she brought out a chair to stand on to reach the shelf. She did not risk a high stretch.

She wandered into the bare front room and stood by the window and looked down into Canada Road.

There was a breeze now and it would be cold out. At least the cloud had not brought rain. She watched a message-boy on a bicycle, heard his cheery whistle, watched three old men hobble back from the pub, puffing on their pipes. She saw one of them laugh and wondered what amusement was to be found at such an age, and if she would ever be old, old and idle and content.

Mrs Boyle came back from ‘the steamie’, the public washhouse, with her week’s laundry squatting in a great moist bundle in an old perambulator within which, once, poor down-in-the-mouth Graham must have goo-ed and gaa-ed and blown bubbles to delight his mother.

The pain was lower. It did not race across Kirsty’s abdomen but clenched her so that she gasped and clung to the window sash for support. Perhaps her time had come early. Perhaps she had mistaken the dates. She waited for the pain to establish a pattern but it did not. It disconnected and went away again.

She returned to the kitchen and sat by the fire for ten minutes to recover. She had not spared a thought for Malone or for Craig for at least a quarter of an hour. She found that when she thought of Malone now it did not induce anxiety. She had more to concern her than some convict on the run, however dangerous. ‘Our lot’ would take care of Malone.

In a minute or two she would boil an egg for her dinner, take it beaten in a cup with a knob of butter. In the meantime she had better make sure that the midwife’s address was to hand, in case of emergency.

She took her purse from the dresser drawer and searched its compartments but could not find the slip that Dr Godwin had given her. She poked about in the drawer, on the shelf above the stove, even looked in the bottom of her shopping-basket. She could not find the address.

She was not unduly concerned.

It would do tomorrow.

Yes, Kirsty told herself, tomorrow would be time enough.

Boyle and Rogers had changed into plain clothes taken from lockers in Percy Street. Constable Boyle wore a baggy suit of Harris tweed and a hat with a grouse feather in the band. Constable Rogers had squeezed his bulk into a pair of blue cotton overalls. From a distance nobody could have identified either man as a copper, though a glance at their black boots would give the game away. Craig grinned when he caught sight of one or other of the watchers. If he had not known who they were he would have challenged them and questioned them, been suspicious of their intentions, particularly in the quiet back streets of the beat, down by the riverside.

He was surprised at how calm he felt now that he was clear of Ottawa Street. The routine round was soothing and he did nothing out of the ordinary. Only occasional glimpses of Rogers and Boyle reminded him that there was danger in the streets today. At least he could put a face, a name to it. Tonight, on his way home, he would buy an evening newspaper and read all about Malone’s daring escape from Barlinnie, about the murder of two warders. He would not show the newspaper to Kirsty, not in her condition. She would have been told by now that Malone was on the warpath and would be on her guard. He did not seriously believe that Danny Malone would attack a pregnant woman. It would not be a brave or manly thing to do and Malone was all pride.

Craig trudged along the edge of the embankment. Rogers was on the pavement below, some two hundred yards behind, hands in the pockets of his overalls. Craig did not turn to look at Rogers but kept his eyes skinned for Boyle, who had taken up position near a lamp-maker’s shop a quarter of a mile ahead, leaning against the wall like an idler, arms folded. Malone would spot the watchers a mile off. Malone would not dare pounce while he was protected. He would have to be patient, would have to wait.

He went down by the bridge. Boyle pushed himself away from the wall and cut diagonally across the street to loll in a close mouth at the bottom of Wolfe Road. Wolfe Road! There was a name for newspaper johnnies. Craig could see it in black print, visualise the column headlines –
Murderer Arrested in Wolfe Road.
He composed the report in his imagination and wondered, if the battle were bloody enough, if he might receive a letter of commendation from the Chief Constable. That would be something to paste into the album, to show to his son in years to come.

Out of devilment Craig did not cross the bottom of Canada Road at all, and did not carry on up the short length of Wolfe Road. He could imagine Boyle’s bewilderment and temporary confusion and how he would have to stir his sanctimonious stumps to catch up again. Constable Rogers would still be with him, so he would be safe enough. He trudged off on a swing out to the pawnbroker’s, towards old Joe McGhee’s. It would soon be dinner-time and he would drop into the back of the café as usual for a bowl of soup or a hot pie. What would Boyle and Rogers do about dinner, he wondered.

There were three of them, two women and an elderly man. He knew them by sight and by their nicknames. One of the women, Biddy, was Irish and all three lived hand to mouth – bottle to mouth might be more accurate – by hawking the middens and picking up here and there an item that could be pawned. They were ‘professional poppers’, enjoyed scavenging for its own sake, the thrill of making a find that would earn them two or three pence. They eschewed contact with proper dealers in junk and were known not only to old Joseph but to three or four other pawnbrokers in the Greenfield. The old man’s name was Clash. The second woman, who seldom opened her mouth, was known as Bloomy, though nobody seemed to know why, not even Hector Drummond.

Today, though, Bloomy was nattering away, weather-brown features fierce, one hand clutching the canvas sack that was their receptacle for stock-in-trade, the other fist locked round Clash’s forearm.