The Liverpool Trilogy (111 page)

Kevin agreed. ‘As long as he doesn’t grow up looking for the people who killed his uncles and caused his brothers to disappear. But there’s twelve years between him and Reen,
and more between him and the lads, so he’s like a different generation from Finbar and Michael.’ He parked the van. ‘Right. Now, we break our hearts again while breaking our
daughter’s heart.’ He mopped his brow with a handkerchief. ‘I’m getting a bit past it, you know. Stuff like this gives people heart attacks.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ came the swift reply. ‘My boys were scarcely in their twenties when they went south for a look at London life. I knew I’d lost them years ago, God
rest their troubled souls. My grandsons are alive and safe, I trust. The other dead ones are my brothers, older than you, older than me. Sixty-five isn’t that old. Don’t die, or
I’ll kill you.’

He held her hand. ‘A pearl beyond price,’ he said. ‘Come on. Let’s get it over with.’

It was hell. Maureen ranted, raved, tore down curtains, smashed ornaments, clouted her poor husband, broke dishes and threw a frying pan through the kitchen window. Fortunately, Seamus had
popped out for the
News of the World
and a Vimto ice lolly, so the worst was over when he returned with a rather soggy newspaper. ‘Me lolly melted,’ he said. ‘See? I was
reading this about a burnt-out car in the sand dunes, three bodies in it. It was near Southport. It’s in the paper, Dad.’ He looked round. ‘What happened here?’ he
asked.

Kev was good at thinking on his feet. ‘Now, you’re a clever boy reading like that. Give me the paper. Remember we told you your mam’s at a funny age?’

The child nodded. ‘Is she on a maddy?’

‘She is definitely out of sorts.’ Out of her mind would have been nearer the mark. ‘Come on, we’ll go fishing.’ He took the boy next door. If Reen and Jimmy were at
it again, he would put a stop to it. Seamus’s innocence must be preserved at all costs.

So Paddy was left once again with the fruits of her daughter’s fury. She’d always been at a funny age, this one. Maureen’s temper was swift, hot and soon dispersed. It had
occurred to Paddy that Maureen should have been involved in demolition, so quickly did she destroy a room. ‘Get her a cup of tea, Tom,’ she said. ‘If you’ve any cups left.
If not, she can make do with a jam jar, a bucket – whatever.’ She eyed her wild daughter. ‘Have you finished now? Is the tantrum over – can we call the dogs off and tell the
coastguard to stand down? Because you’re not the only one in grief. Is the devil out of you?’

‘Yes. I want me boys.’

‘And I can’t ever have mine, Maureen. My brothers and my sons, all gangsters, all dead. Your sons are alive and with their girlfriends. When you’ve stopped destroying your
home, read properly the letter they left for you. I have things to do, a business to clean and run.’

‘Don’t leave me, Mam.’

Paddy held her unpredictable, feisty child. ‘You’ve got Tom.’

‘He killed those men,’ Maureen sobbed.

Paddy withdrew her physical support. ‘You were the one with the gun in the bag. Tom did what came naturally to him. Now, you just listen for once instead of feeling sorry for yourself. Had
Tom not acted as swiftly as he did, you’d have no son to fetch that silly newspaper. Seamus wouldn’t be fishing with your dad; he’d be on a slab in the morgue, and he’d be
full of holes. Would that be your preference? Should Tom have allowed that to happen instead of ridding the world of a few more gangsters?’

Maureen shook her head. ‘I’m just confused and frightened.’

‘You’re also missing a kitchen window, and half a tea set. It’s time to put your temper to bed once and for all. You indulge yourself, kicking off like that. There’s a
seven-year-old boy living in the house, and he’s better behaved than you are. Your carryings-on could force him to leave home early, just as his brothers did. You can’t possibly expect
him to be content living here with you and your moods.’

A very silent Tom entered the room and pushed a mug of tea into his wife’s hand. The younger woman rallied. ‘Are you saying it’s my fault that Finbar and Michael went
away?’

‘No more than I’m asking whether Martin and Jack were driven away by me. But think about it. Seamus was angry enough already because of the satin suit and hat. Then he comes home
with the newspaper and finds his house wrecked by his own mother. And has it not occurred to you that the police might be on their way? I know none of the wedding party will betray us, but are we
completely sure that no stranger saw what went on? Well?’

Maureen dropped into a chair. ‘I didn’t think—’

‘And there’s the answer. You react like an animal when it senses danger. Now, I’m off to my work, because we have to carry on as normal. I believe that kitchen window of yours
has been broken more times than a bowl of new-laid eggs. Tom still keeps the right size of glass in the shed, so get him to replace it before the bobbies turn up. As for the rest, shift the
breakages and put your furniture in the middle of this room. You’re decorating. I mean it, Maureen.’

‘All right.’

‘And stop these eejit tantrums. What you’re short of is a good hiding, madam. Oh, and remember, when you get time, read that letter again. Have Tom with you when you do. No kicking
off.’

There was no van, because Kev had taken Seamus out of the war zone for a few hours. It was quite a walk from inner Bootle to the edge of the Mersey, but Paddy had done it before. On this
occasion, however, she was not exactly full of energy. Her brothers were dead. That alone was enough to knock her sideways, but her sons? Those two little lads had learned to read at her knee. How
proud she had been of her ability to teach them that vital art. Reading was the key to all else. It opened doors to history, geography, science . . .

As soon as they were at school, they’d started bullying. Nothing major at first, but they learned in time how to terrify, subdue, dominate. Any teacher who tried to control them suffered,
and they excelled at boxing. Michael and Finbar had travelled a similar path with the noble art, though they hadn’t been quite as naughty as their uncles.

Martin and Jack, one at each end of the pram, barely twelve months between them. That had been Kev’s idea. He’d wanted her to get it all over with while she was young enough to cope.
Maureen had been born in a proper house, and Kev had been right, because his wife had managed. Their love life had, of necessity, become inventive, and he had stuck to that calendar like glue, as
three children were enough for any marriage. Like all good Catholics, he had refused to employ real contraception. He was one in a million.

The sons of that man in a million now lay in Epping Forest. The only decoration for their graves would arrive in the form of autumn leaves. She mustn’t cry. She needed to arrive in Scouse
Alley’s kitchen full of life, advice and complaints about people not tidying as they went along, about carrots being cut too thick or too thin, about the wedding, Seamus’s suit, the
drunken celebrant, Maureen’s singing, the fights . . .

But. No mention could be made of blood lying black in moonlight, of bodies, guns, a car. It occurred to her for a brief second that Tom had meted out the family’s revenge; three dead for
three dead, since Peter had died naturally. Or had he? Had terror stopped his heart? Whatever, she must stop thinking like a gangster.

She rounded a corner and saw her newest baby, Scouse Alley. There was no sign of police, no sign of trouble. Walking up the path, she checked for bloodstains, found nothing. Turning, she gazed
down at the river and the street that led to it. Nothing. She hoped the car had burned thoroughly, because there might have been a scrap of paper bearing names and addresses. ‘Worrying like
this will have you crackers,’ she whispered. And had the invaders from London known about Ernie, they would have bypassed the wedding and gone for their real targets.

Ernie Avago-Simpson seemed to have no idea of what yesterday’s visitors were involved with. She hoped that no surviving piece of evidence in that car would leave even the smallest clue,
but beyond that there lay deeper disquiet. Who in London knew where the three dead men had been going? Had Finbar and Michael been careful? Had anyone else been given Ernie’s whereabouts?
With the incident spread all over Maureen’s rag of a newspaper, the whole country would doubtless be aware of the cremated corpses. So who was safe? Those three had known where the wedding
reception was to be held . . .

She entered the kitchen by a rear door and met with a barrage of questions. Had she heard the news? Wasn’t it terrible? Three teacups and one dead man. The number three again.
‘Minnie?’ she asked wearily. ‘Can I have it from you?’

Minnie Walker did the talking. Ernie Avago’s granddaughter had found him dead in his chair not half an hour back. He had a smile on his face, but the aged whippet wasn’t happy. The
old man had a couple of male visitors yesterday afternoon, but his Christine had found a warm pot and three unwashed teacups today. So someone had been there early this morning.

Paddy placed herself on a stool. ‘It was me and Kev,’ she said, her voice shaky. ‘Ernie was fine, so he was. We went a few times before Mass on a Sunday, and I usually
remembered to wash up, but I was in a hurry today.’ They hadn’t visited him in months. Lie upon lie. Venal sins, but piling up like layers of paint over a huge blemish that would break
through again and again. ‘He was asleep when we left him, God bless and save his good soul. Messing about with his roses when we got there.’ Another death.
How many more?

Another walk ensued. After pushing her package of herbs into Minnie’s hands, Paddy cut through back streets in order to catch Ernie’s Christine. If Christine knew the identities of
yesterday’s visitors . . . Lying was bloody hard work. A good liar needed a good memory, and Paddy’s powers of recall were not what they had been. Then there were the teacups –
what if Christine wanted the police to check her dad’s cup for poison? There wasn’t a phone box on Ernie’s street . . . ‘Please, God, please.’

But she needn’t have worried. Christine stepped out of her husband’s embrace and into Paddy’s. ‘Mrs Moss said you’d been. She saw you with him in the garden. Bless
you and Kevin.’

Ernie was still warm. He’d always been warm, generous, open-hearted. Christine and Alan, her husband, had laid him on his bed. Paddy stroked the wiry, grey hair. She was saying goodbye to
several people, and Ernie was the only one she would ever reach, so this poor, innocent man represented them all. ‘Is the priest coming?’ she asked. ‘Ernie should still have the
Unction, because I’m sure his spirit is standing at the back door looking at roses.’

The answer from Alan was affirmative.

Christine mopped her face with a tea towel. ‘Who visited him yesterday?’ she asked. ‘Two young men, we were told.’

Paddy, who felt sick with relief, light-headed through exhaustion, managed a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘You know how your grandfather was, Chrissie. His door was always open, and he
had friends of all ages. They might have been ferret-fanciers, rose-growers – whatever. Will I have a quick look round for clues? Because if we can find them, they might want to be at the
funeral.’

So while Extreme Unction was delivered by a priest, Paddy got the freedom of the house. After making sure that nothing of her grandsons remained, she re-entered the kitchen. The priest had gone.
‘No idea who his visitors were,’ she told Christine’s husband. ‘But they’ll perhaps read the announcement in the newspaper.’

‘Thanks,’ Christine said absently. She was sitting on the edge of the bed. ‘He has oil on his head.’

‘Leave it be.’ Paddy stood by the grieving woman. ‘It’s holy oil.’

‘It’ll be a big funeral.’ Alan sniffed back all emotion. Grown men didn’t cry.

But Paddy did. She finally opened her mouth and released a sound that was almost primeval. Like a sad, wounded wolf baying at an unresponsive moon, she mourned her brothers, her sons, and this
man who had represented all that was good, all that was disappearing with Ernie’s generation. She, a child of the later Victoria years, had done a poor job of keeping in touch with her wider
family, of rearing her boys to be decent. As for today’s youngsters – she disapproved wholeheartedly. Some people, somewhere, had got it all wrong. And she was one of those people.

‘Paddy?’

She pulled herself together, though it took some effort. ‘I’d better get home.’ Her breathing wasn’t right, so the words were born fractured.

She was forced into a chair and given a glass of brandy. Alan went off to borrow a car. He would be back to take Paddy home once he’d dealt with the doctor and the undertaker.

Chrissie patted her companion’s hand. ‘I never expected you to be as upset as that,’ she remarked.

Paddy sipped her brandy. ‘I’m tired,’ she admitted finally. ‘The wedding and so forth. I’ll be better shortly, but.’

She didn’t remember much after that. The brandy seeped into her blood, and she began to nod off. Alan helped her to the car, and she returned to an empty house. In the overheated living
room, she slept on a sofa. Reen and Jimmy had probably gone to look at the O’Garas’ prefab, and Kev was . . . somewhere. He was with Seamus.

Paddy slept for six whole hours.

People don’t bother with me, yet I could have been something of a wit. I went home one day to the Dingle hovel, and Edie next door told me that Dad had gone out.
‘Pour some more petrol on him,’ I told her smartly. I was only about nine at the time. Another evening when he was following me home, a man asked me, ‘Is that your dad?’ So
I told him no, I was just looking after him till the appropriate authorities found him a place. But I didn’t become a comedian, did I? Instead, I’m a street cleaner. I clear away the
human rubbish. Oh, and I work in a shop.

Tess was about to put her foot down and, when she did place it on the floor, it would be cushioned by Skaters’ Trails. The carpet had become a symbol, a physical
expression of her depression and frustration. Don didn’t want to live, eat or sleep with her; he had the money to buy her a house on Menlove Avenue, and he was prepared to spend it to be rid
of her. Hating him should have been easy, but she couldn’t quite manage it. How easy life would be if she could detest him. But she could annoy him, oh yes. What she failed to work out was
her reason for needing to upset him. He held all the trump cards, and he might well withdraw his offer of a house if she stepped too far away from the oche.