The Price of Love and Other Stories (24 page)

“What about you?” Tommy asked. “Where are you going?”

“Dunno,” said Uncle Arthur. “You, Maddy?”

“You know I hate being called that,” Tommy’s mother said. Her name, Tommy knew, was Madeleine, and she didn’t like it being shortened.

“Sorry,” said Uncle Arthur with a cheeky grin.

“Do you know, I wouldn’t mind taking the tram all the way along the seafront, to Fleetwood and back,” she said, then giggled. “Isn’t that silly?”

“Not at all,” said Uncle Arthur. “That sounds like a lot of fun. It looks like a warm day. We can sit upstairs in the open. Give me a few minutes. I’ve just got to get a shave first.”

“And comb your hair,” said Tommy’s mother.

“Now, don’t be a nag,” said Uncle Arthur, wagging his finger. “Maybe we’ll see if we can call in at one of them there travel agents, too, while we’re out.”

“Arthur!” Tommy’s mother looked alarmed.

“What? Oh, don’t worry.” He got up and tousled Tommy’s hair. “I’m off for a shave, then. You’ll have to do that yourself one day, you know,” he said, rubbing his dark stubble against Tommy’s cheek.

Tommy pulled away. “I know. Can I go now? I’ve finished my breakfast.”

“We’ll all go,” said his mother. And they went up to their rooms.

Tommy took a handkerchief from his little suitcase and put it in his pocket, because he really was starting to sniffle a bit now, made sure he had his badge and the money Uncle Arthur had given him, then went back into the corridor. Uncle Arthur was standing there, waiting and whistling, freshly shaven, hair still sticking up. For a moment, Tommy felt a shiver of fear ripple up his spine. Had Uncle Arthur realized that someone had been in his room and rummaged through his stuff, found the money and the gun?

Uncle Arthur grinned. “Women,” he said, gesturing with his thumb towards Tommy’s mother’s door. “One day, you’ll know all about them.”

“Sure. One day, I’ll know everything,” muttered Tommy. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to blow his nose, and it snagged on the plastic wallet, sending his badge flying to the floor.

“What have we got here, then?” said Uncle Arthur, bending down to pick it up.

“Give me it back!” said Tommy, panicking, reaching out for the wallet.

But Uncle Arthur raised his arm high, out of Tommy’s reach. “I said, what have we got here?” he repeated.

“It’s nothing. It’s mine. Give it to me.”

“Mind your manners.”

“Please.”

Uncle Arthur opened the wallet, looked at the badge, and looked at Tommy. “A police badge. Like father, like son, eh? Is that it?”

“I told you, it’s mine,” Tommy said, desperately snatching. “You leave it alone.”

But Uncle Arthur had pulled the badge out of its transparent plastic covering. “It’s not real, you know.”

“Yes, it is,” Tommy said. “Give us it back.”

“It’s made of plastic. Where did you get it?”

“I found it. On the beach. Give it to me.”

“I told you, it’s just plastic,” said Uncle Arthur. And to prove his point, he dropped the badge on the floor and stepped on it. It splintered under his foot. “See?”

At that moment, Tommy’s mother came out of her room, ready to go. “What’s happening?” she said, seeing Tommy practically in tears.

“Nothing,” said Uncle Arthur, stepping towards the stairs. He gave Tommy a warning look. “Is there, lad? Let’s go, love. Our carriage awaits.” He laughed.

Tommy’s mother gave a nervous giggle, then bent and pecked Tommy on the cheek. He felt her soft hair touch his face and smelled her perfume. It made him feel dizzy. He held back his tears. “You’ll be
all right, son?” She hadn’t seen the splintered badge, and he didn’t want her to. It might bring back too many painful memories for her.

He nodded. “You go. Have a good time.”

“See you later.” His mother gave a little wave and tripped down the stairs after Uncle Arthur.

Tommy looked down at the floor. The badge was in four pieces on the lino. He bent and carefully picked them up. Maybe he could mend it, stick it together somehow. But it would never be the same. This was a bad sign. With tears in his eyes, he put the pieces back in the plastic wallet, returned it to his pocket and followed his mother and Uncle Arthur outside to make sure they got on the tram before he went to do what he had to do.

“You ready yet, Tom?”

“Just a minute, Phil,” Detective Chief Inspector Thomas Burford shouted over his shoulder at DI Craven. He was walking on the beach, the hard, wet sand where the waves licked in and almost washed over his shoes, and DI Craven, his designated driver, was waiting patiently on the prom. Tom’s stomach was churning, the way it always did before a big event, and today, July 13, 2006, he was about to receive a Police Bravery Award.

If it had been one of his men, he would have called it folly, not bravery. He had thrown himself at a man holding a hostage at gunpoint, convinced in his bones, in his every instinct, that he could disarm the man before he hurt the hostage. He had succeeded, receiving for his troubles only a flesh wound on his shoulder and a ringing in his ears that lasted for three days. And the bravery award. At his rank, he shouldn’t even have been at the hostage-taking scene – he should have been in his cubicle catching up on paperwork or giving orders over the police radio – but paperwork had always bored him, and he had sought out excitement whenever he had the chance. Now he walked with the salt spray blowing through his hair, trying to
control his churning bowels, just because he had to stand up in front of a crowd and say a few words.

Tom did what he usually did on such occasions, and took the old plastic wallet out of his pocket as he stood and faced the grey waves. The wallet was cracked and faded with time, and there was a tear reaching almost halfway up the central crease. Inside, behind the transparent cover, was a police badge made out of plastic. It had been broken once and was stuck together with glue and Sellotape. Most of the silver paint had worn off over the years, and it was now black in places. The crown and cross had broken off the top, but the words were still clearly visible in the central circle:
METROPOLITAN POLICE
curved around ER.
Elizabeth Regina.
“Our Queen,” as his father had once said so proudly.

In the opposite side of the wallet was a yellowed newspaper clipping from July 1965, forty-one years ago. It flapped in the breeze, and Tom made sure he held on to it tightly as he read the familiar words:

Tom knew it by heart, all the names, all the details. He also remembered the day he had walked into the police station, shown his badge to the officer on the front desk, and told him all about the contents of Uncle Arthur’s holdall. It had taken a while, a bit of
explaining, but in the end, the desk sergeant had let him in, and the plainclothes detectives had shown a great deal of interest in what he had to say. They accompanied him to the boarding house and found the holdall in its hiding place. After that, they soon established that the gun was the same one used to shoot his father. The gang had been lying low, waiting for the heat to die down before daring to use any large quantities of the money – a year, they had agreed – and they had been too stupid to get rid of the gun. The only fingerprints on it were Uncle Arthur’s, and the five hundred pounds it was resting on was just a little spending money to be going on with.

The one thing the newspaper article didn’t report was that the “boy” was Tommy Burford, only son of Brian and Madeleine Burford. That came out later, of course, at the trial, but at the time, the authorities had done everything within their power to keep his name out of it. Every time he read the story over again, Tom’s heart broke just a little more. Throwing himself at gunmen, tackling gangs armed with hammers and chains and challenging rich and powerful criminals never came close to making the pain go away; it only took the edge off for a short while, until the adrenalin wore off.

His
mother
. Christ, he had never known. Never even suspected. She had only been twenty-nine at the time, for crying out loud, not much more than a girl herself, married too young to a man she didn’t love, for the sake of their imminent child, and bored with her life. She wanted romance and glamour and all the nice things that his father couldn’t give her on a policeman’s wage, the life she saw portrayed on posters, in magazines, at the pictures, and on television, and Arthur Marsden had walked into her life and offered it all – for a price.

Of course, Tom’s father had talked about his job. He had been excited about being chosen for the special assignment, and had told both his wife and his son all about it. How was Tom to know that his mother had passed on the information to Marsden, who was already her lover, and that he and his gang had done the rest? Tom
knew he had seen her with Uncle Arthur before his father’s death, and he wished he had said something. Too late now.

Whether the murder of Tom’s father had ever been a part of the master plan or was simply an unforeseen necessity, nobody ever found out. Uncle Arthur and Tom’s mother never admitted anything at the trial. But Tom remembered the look his mother gave him that day when he came back to the Newbiggins’ boarding house with the two plainclothes policemen. She came out of the lounge as they entered the hall, and it was as if she knew immediately what had happened, that it was all over. She gave him a look of such deep and infinite sadness, loss and defeat that he knew he would take it with him to his grave.

“Hurry up, Tom. We’d better hurry up or we’ll be late!” called DI Craven from the prom.

“Coming,” said Tom. He folded up the newspaper clipping and put it away. A wave rolled in and touched the very tips of his polished black shoes. He stepped back. How upset his mother would have been if she had known he had stood so close to the water. Brushing his hands across his eyes, which had started watering in the salt wind, he turned away from the sea and walked towards the waiting car, thinking how right they had all been back then, when they said he was young for his age and knew nothing about girls.

M
y very first memory is of Mother putting makeup on me when I was a little girl. The greasy red lipstick tasted like candle wax, and when I cried, the mascara ran down my cheeks like black teardrops. I had lost two of my front baby teeth, and Mother got the dentist to fit some false ones for me. They felt like cold pebbles in my mouth, and I couldn’t stop probing them with my tongue. Later, Mother held my hand and we stood on a glittering stage in a huge ballroom with crystal chandeliers spinning in the light and rows and rows of people watching. I was wearing my powder-blue satin dress and matching bows in my hair. I was nervous, but I knew it was an important night for Mother. She told me pageants and talent contests would give me poise and confidence and help me to make friends, and soon I began to feel excited about them. I smiled and danced and sang, and people clapped for me. I felt warm all over.

Perhaps the terrible thing that happened on Father’s birthday happened because I was always a well-behaved little girl. I did what Mother told me to do. Father too, of course – well, he’s my stepfather, really – but I see less of him, so it’s not often that he tells me to do anything. He’s an important businessman with an empire to rule, so
Mother says, and I am under strict instructions not to bother him unless he asks to see me. Not that he doesn’t love me. I know for a fact that he does. He asks to see me every day and tells me I am the apple of his eye. Sometimes, he gives me expensive presents, or if he’s really pleased with me, he tells me I can have anything I want in the world.
Anything.

Father protects me, too. Mother told me once, after one of my friends started crying at a pageant and no one would tell me why, that I was to report to her immediately if anyone ever bothered me or touched me, and Father would have them taken care of. Those were her words: “have them taken care of.” I didn’t know what she meant, but I thought it must be something to do with doctors and nurses and hospitals. Nobody ever did bother me, though. I suppose they must have known they would have to go to the hospital if they did. Father can be frightening, I know, because I’ve heard him shouting at people, but he’s always very gentle and silly when I’m with him, laughing and tickling me and playing games.

We live in a huge mansion surrounded by woods and trimmed green lawns as big as playing fields. We have two swimming pools, one indoors and one outside, garages for the cars, and stables where I keep my pony, Arabella. I love it when the wind is blowing through my hair and Arabella is galloping over the fields. There is one point where you get to the top of a short hill and you can see the sea in the distance, all blue and green and white. Sometimes, we stop there and rest, and I watch the waves roll in and out. It’s times like that I feel happiest, riding Arabella or swimming in one of the pools. They are the only times when I can do what I really want.

Of course, I have to go to school like everyone else, though it is a very good school. Bennett drives me there and back again every day in the Rolls. I like drawing and music most, but my teacher says I’m really good at writing, and I do like to write. I also love to read. My favourite book of all time is
Alice in Wonderland
, but I like
A Woman of Substance
too.

Even when I’m not at school, it seems that I am forever going to dancing classes, singing lessons, piano lessons, acting classes, and all kinds of other lessons and classes, like flower arranging and tennis. And then there are the auditions. I hate auditions. That’s when you have to sing and dance, sometimes in a small room with only one person watching you. It’s no fun, not like pageants. You don’t get to be with your friends, and nobody claps. They just put on a face so you can’t see what they’re thinking, and then they phone Mother later to say whether they want you or not. I’ve done some television commercials, and I even had my photo on an ad for lotion in a woman’s magazine once, when I was seven. I haven’t been in any movies or plays or TV shows yet, but I know that’s what Mother really wants me to do.