The Hiding Place (21 page)

What’s he up to? he muses aloud.

Salvatore’s round eyes shimmer in the darkness. He shrugs.

Search me, Tino. But it look bad, this. Bad for Mary, eh? Martineau is silent, thinking not of Mary, but of Eva – clutching his sleeve to steady herself as she hooked up the straps of her
sandals, her diamanté earring rocking gently against her neck. Him itching to put out a finger and touch it.

If you see Mary, tell her I’m looking for her, she shouted, her face suddenly grim.

As usual, thinks Martineau, the Gaucis ruin everything.

The Moonlight is in darkness. Salvatore doesn’t bother with the lights, heading straight through the door marked Private and up the wooden stairs. Martineau wanders round the empty cafe
and sniffs the scent of Joe Medora on the air. He lights a cigarette to while away the time, to disguise the smell – like bitter aloes working its way through his gut – of something
going badly wrong.

Check the safe, he shouts, with a shiver of foresight, Check the safe, Sal!

~

In Joe Medora’s office, everything is still. Salvatore closes the door behind him, moves past the low sofa and around the long desk to the safe, wedged discreetly
underneath. He draws out his key and crouches, balancing on the balls of his feet. And he stares into the dark inner, at the shelf compartments with the papers on the top half and the space
underneath where the money used to be. Five thousand pounds yesterday morning – half to go to Joe Medora, sure – but half of it is his.
Was
his. Salvatore smooths his hand around
inside, as if his eyes might not be seeing, feeling the coolness of metal on his palm. And then he finds the napkin, pushed to the back, with one remaining biscotti inside. It is this more than
anything that makes Salvatore rage.

~

Eva searches for the doorkey in my mother’s handbag. She pulls out the length of fabric with the rabbit’s foot hanging from it.

Christ-Shit! she says, throwing it back in, Where’s the bloody key!

Rose pushes her hand through the letter box and pulls up a grimy tangle of string with the doorkey attached. Eva snatches it from her, waggles it in the lock.

You have to pull it towards you, says Rose from behind, You
obviously
haven’t got the knack.

It hasn’t taken Rose very long to claim superiority. Celesta’s not even out of the country, and she already thinks she’s boss. She’s angry with Eva for
not telling her where our mother is. I know she’ll torture me later to get the details. Luca and Fran bolt in ahead of us, shouting up the stairs,

Mam? Mamma?

Eva puts my mother’s handbag on the sideboard, then her own, takes off her gloves and flings them on top.

C’mon, girls, get those coats off. Rose, why don’t you make us all some tea?

You’re not my mother, says Rose sharply.

Be glad I’m not, young lady, says Eva, Waiting on you hand foot and finger! Now do you want some tea – or not? No one else is talking. We watch Eva kneel down by the fire. She lifts
the fireguard off the hearth.

Get this going, she says, rattling the poker among the grey coals. As soon as they are turned on their backs, they give off a disgruntled glow. She waits for a minute, places a few shiny lumps
on top, covers the whole lot with a sheet of newspaper. The flames jump to life behind the print.

Where’s our Mam? asks Luca for the tenth time.

Run off with the gypsies, says Rose, nastily, And she’s
never
coming back!

Eva drags the spread of newspaper away from the chimney; a bowl of smoke rises over the mantelpiece. Luca starts to wail.

Look what you’ve done now! cries Eva, For God’s sake, Rose!

She turns to comfort Luca, who wrenches herself away.

She’s just gone out for a bit, Lu. I’ll ask Mr Amil to look for her, will I?

Run away with the gyp-sees, whispers Rose, her mouth split in a grin. Luca howls again.

That’s it, shouts Eva, In bed! All of you. Now!

No one asks where our father is.

~

The car turns off the main road, down a pitted track off Tyndall Street and on to the broad concrete wasteland of the East Dock. Joe and Paolo sit silently in the front. In the
back seat, Frankie twists the ring on his finger in silent agitation; there aren’t many street-lights in this part of town. No people, no one to see them. He feels vulnerable now that
he’s thrown in his lot with Paolo. Five thousand pounds buys him a ruby ring; a passage on the
Athene
; Paolo’s silence. There is a balance of power between them: Pippo
won’t get to hear of his brother’s links with Joe. And Joe won’t be told where Frankie’s got his money from. It delighted Frankie at first, this plan; to buy his
father’s ring back with Joe’s own cash. It seemed – correct. But Paolo is relishing his secret. Now and then he winks at Frankie in the rear-view mirror, makes sly references to
The Moonlight.

Must bring in a lot of profit for you, that club, Paolo says.

Some, says Joe, not wishing to be drawn.

What would you say – a clear hundred a week?

Maybe, Joe shrugs, A good week.

More, even – with a sideline. Hey, Frankie, you’ll know! Does Salvatore, uh, diversify? Card school maybe? Girls?
Passage
papers?

Frankie stares at the back of Paolo’s long neck; avoids the dark eyes flashing in the mirror. He says nothing.

Ah Salvatore, muses Paolo, Poor Salvatore!

Joe pays no attention. He’s got the money from Frankie; now he just wants him out of his car and on that ship. Business completed.

~

Mr Amil is downstairs shouting with Eva, there’s a lot of door banging, then only the sound of the telly. Fran creeps down to find out what’s happened. Eva and her
husband have gone, and they’ve left Mr Amil’s mother in charge: she’s sitting on the couch eating peanuts and watching
Double Your Money
.

Fran flops back down on her divan. She’s got my mother’s vanity mirror off the dresser and she’s frowning into it, combing her fringe with her fingers. In the other corner of
the room, Rose and Luca are holding a conference. They pass whispers behind their hands, shoot me calculating looks. This is designed to frighten me.

You’d better tell, says Rose, One last chance, Crip.

I’ve already told them all I know. I consider making something up, but then Luca sidles round to my side of the bed, slowly, like a cat stalking a sparrow.

You know where we’ll put you, she says.

Leave her alone, says Fran sharply.

Alright then, says Rose, pausing, Cradle!

She snatches up one of the folded sheets at the bottom of Fran’s bed and flings it over me. Everything goes soft and ghostly, but their voices fizz with excitement.

Not a word! says Luca, close to my ear, Or you’re a goner! There’s no point in fighting them. Rose rolls me across the bed, wrapping me tight inside the damp sheet.

I can’t breathe, I say, my mouth hot and blocked, I can’t breathe!

Rose pinches up the fabric in a pocket around my face.

That’ll do, she says, and then I’m lifted through the air, swinging, bumping my head on something sharp, falling. I hear them laugh, Rose’s ecstatic shriek as she heaves my
legs up, Luca barking a chorus of hard yowls through the space around me. They drag me across the floor, rolling me over, over. The smell in my nose is biting.

~

The Junction Dry Dock is drained and empty; its lock gates creak against the spread of black water pressing in from the East Basin. Behind the dock, the hot flare of the Union
foundry roars and is quiet; sparks up the night, and dies again into darkness.

Martineau parks the car on the slip road between the Engine House and the West Dock offices. All the way, Salvatore has kept up a storm of shouting; now as Martineau switches off the headlamps,
he falls silent. Salvatore talks to the sailors in The Moonlight; he knows when a ship is set to leave port. The
Athene
’s due out on the dawn tide, bound for Cyprus. A Maltese crew.
Salvatore suspects there will be one extra deckhand by the morning. He’s no betting man, but he’d put money on it.

On the east side, sharp as cut-outs against the floodlit grain store, three men are walking. Frankie leads, drawn by the ship in the distance. It’s a long time since he’s been to
sea; he doesn’t think of the rope-burns and the stiffness and the mad-making boredom of the nights. To him, the ship ahead is a romance; a future. The men approach the far side of the dry
dock, filing along its edge like a troop of rats. At the start of the wooden footbridge running over the lock gates, Joe and Paolo stop. They won’t cross.

Salvatore has been listening to their footsteps echoing over the empty drop of the dock – Frankie’s clicking gait up front. He sees the space between Frankie and the twinkling lights
of the
Athene
, and this time, he won’t let Frankie escape. Before Martineau can stop him, Salvatore jumps out of the car.

~

They’ve knotted one end of the sheet to the banister, the other around the pipe that runs up the wall and disappears into the loft. I’m suspended over the stairs. It
doesn’t feel safe; I can hear the handrail creaking as I sway. My feet are higher than my head, I’m getting a bloodrush.

POW Dolores Gauci, says Rose in her flight-commander voice, Spill the beans!

She went for a walk, I say, but my voice feels tiny, a thousand miles away.

Liar, says Luca, somewhere above me.

Liar, shouts Rose, poking the sheet so that I swing in space. They begin to chant.

Liar! Liar! Crip’s on fire!

~

Frankie moves along the bridge, his arms out like a scarecrow. He places his feet carefully on the wooden boards. On his right is a sheer drop into the dry dock, with
paint-cradles suspended at intervals along the walls. They squeak greasily in the wind. It’s so far down, the concrete floor is invisible. On his left, the black water of the basin makes its
sucking-licking noise. The soft rain which has fallen at intervals all day begins again now, scattering the fairy-lights reflected on the water, making the distant gangplank of the
Athene
shine like a strip of silver. Frankie turns his head, sees Joe and Paolo in the distance. As they fold into the darkness, Paolo raises his hand in a farewell salute. They don’t see Salvatore
striding up to the edge of the dry dock.

He knows, thinks Frankie, catching sight of Salvatore rumbling towards him. Frankie steps off the bridge, puts his hands on Salvatore’s shoulders to try to keep him quiet. To reason with
him. To beg.

~

Help me, I say, then louder, Help me!

I don’t care if old Mrs Amil hears me now; the sheet is wet and stuck to my face, my legs have gone to sleep. I’m scared to move in case the rocking tips me over and
tumbles me down the stairs. And I know my mother won’t be back to save me.

Help!

There’s a warm grip of arms around my body, a low grunt, and I’m lifted into space, feet first, flying or falling, I can’t tell which.

Sssh, says Fran, unwrapping the sheet from my sweating head, Ssh now, they’ll hear us!

~

Salvatore holds his fists tight into his chest, throws them out above his head.

Fottuto Bastardo! You do this to me? Why, Frankie, Why?

Frankie calculates the distance, whether the sound will carry, whether Joe is still in earshot. There’s no calming Salvatore now.

Habib, he says, with half a smile, the Frankie grin, Habib . . .

He tries to hug his friend, to stop the noise coming out of him. Anything to stop him.

And the biscotti, Frankie! cries Salvatore, almost pleading. He takes one step back, then another.

In the brief flare of the Union foundry, Frankie sees Salvatore as he flies, falls, slips away into the concrete pit of the dry dock. There is no more shouting. Frankie looks
down into the darkness, then across to where Joe and Paolo were standing. They’ve gone. Frankie hears a car engine in the distance. He is alone, he thinks.

Luca holds my arm out like a flagpole over the kitchen sink. She’s placed her body between me and my sacrificial limb, but she still tells me to close my eyes, as if I
might see through her. I lean against the table; behind Luca I can see the long enamel bath we used to share, daily converted by its wooden lid into a place for Domestos, Jeyes disinfectant, and
things for washing up. I’m looking out for hazards just in case I fall. Luca’s going to give me a tattoo; she’s using my arm as a test-bed for her own.

It won’t hurt if you concentrate on something else, she says.

I try to think about the water dripping into the sink, but it’s slow and thick and sounds like blood. She holds the knife up for inspection like she’s Dr Kildare,
turning it this way and that, and there’s a moment of stillness except for where sunlight jumps off the taps and the sharp edge in the air between us.

I didn’t see her choose the knife. I didn’t see her heave open the cutlery drawer and chink about, draw out the yellow horn of the handle of my father’s best blade. It is
curved like a grin, worn down by the constant scrape of the Steel. My father used this knife to skin the rabbit.

~

Luca caught me off-guard. A fiercely bright morning, I’m scrawling out the numbers on my hopscotch grid with a nub of coal:

10

ten fingers ten toes and pinch me

9–8

my mother’s lucky number, and the days since Salvatore and my father disappeared with all that money

7

Luca’s age

6–5

the number of girls we are, and my age

4

days since the social services found my mother.

~

I’m pondering loss and gain: Marina, the rabbit, my father; almost my mother. Celesta’s gone on honeymoon so she doesn’t count. Fran doesn’t count
either; they say if she behaves herself, she might come back one day. Gain is harder. Can’t think of a single thing. I’m wondering about 3–2 and 1, and what they might mean, but
suddenly my sky is darkened by Luca. She’s standing over me.

You’ve got the six back to front, you Crip! she goes, snatching the coal from my hand. She scrubs at the backwards six with her shoe until it’s faint, then draws it in again.