The Secret Journey (84 page)

They found themselves in the rear area of the terrace. They set off at a sharp pace and did not slacken speed till they reached the end of the street. They halted. ‘Well, I don't know,' said Doogle emphatically. ‘Is it a new one?'

‘No! It isn't! Never mind her. Anyhow, the like of you talking of bitches! It's a real bastard this is. I don't know what'll happen if this case comes off.'

‘She'll leave you, I suppose,' replied Mr. Doogle. He pulled out a cheroot from a packet and lit it. And as he puffed he looked into Mr. Slye's small eyes.

‘Me! Not her! I may be nabbed. Look here! We can't just say good day and then calmly disappear. Though we're different in business, we can help each other. Suppose we met at Mac's. Say after seven this evening, I'd know how things stood, and you might keep your ears open,' he concluded excitedly.

Mr. Doogle said: ‘All right! That's fixed. Suppose you have to clear. Taking the wife?' Mr. Doogle smiled broadly, it was a slow cold sort of smile. ‘But that kid? You have a kid too. Taking it too?'

‘I don't know! Don't worry me. I said I don't know! Look at the time. There's Cain whom I
must
see. I don't like this Trears fellow! Heard that silly bloody name somewhere, and I've been trying to think where I heard it. Read it somewhere, I'm sure,' and now Mr. Slye removed his hat and scratched.

‘It's just another bit of mankind to me, another name, that's all,' said Mr. Doogle. ‘Well, we'll leave it at that! See you at Mac's after seven. Best of luck,' and shaking hands with Slye he added: ‘If anything happens—in a hole or anything, just ring Denton eight-double—oh, you know the number. So long,' and Mr. Doogle dashed off, leaving Mr. Slye islanded in the middle of the street.

He stood there watching, and only when Mr. Doogle vanished round the corner did Mr. Slye pull himself together, remember the awkward predicament, and finally dash off to call up Mr. Wayne. He hoped that Maureen would return prompt on time. He hoped she'd get rid of the kid. That was an obstacle. All kids were.

In Mr. Slye's profession the word fly really meant
Fly
. Yes. Either that or—well. ‘Oh, sod the swine who split,' he growled. ‘It's her. That Sloane bitch!' He knew! Well, she'd have to look out. Gelton wasn't much, but it was a kind of home. He hated the thought of having to go.

It worried Mr. Slye all the way across town, right up to Mr. Wayne's office door. When he reached the office, Mr. Wayne met him, gave him a look that read
Danger
.

‘You mustn't talk too much. I'll call you in ten minutes,' said the nurse to Maureen, as she led her up the ward. They stopped at the bed. It was still screened off. The nurse put a finger to her lips. ‘Not too long you know! She's very weak. Ten minutes. Your mother was brought here early on Tuesday morning. She had been wandering and had collapsed in the street. Her nerves are almost gone. She has terrible nightmares. We had to strap her down. But not now. She's far too weak at present.'

Then she went away. Maureen stood at the bedside. ‘Poor mother! Like this.' She said it aloud, whilst at the same time she thought: ‘I'm afraid, afraid.' Not of death, nor her mother. Only of Mr. Slye whom she loved. She was worried about it. Worried at this moment at the bedside.

‘Hello, Mother,' she said. The woman in the bed did not move. ‘Hello, Mother,' and she spoke softly in her ear.

The woman opened her eyes, looked at her for some moments, then said: ‘You there?'

‘Yes, it's me, Mother! It's awful. Are you feeling better now, Mother?' She bent down and kissed her. Then
s
he
s
at on the chair and watched her.

The woman moved restlessly in the bed, her long face was drawn, her mouth hung loose. And suddenly she appeared to be staring at her daughter out of only one eye. She was very restless. Maureen fixed the pillow behind her.

‘You never came to see me when they took Peter away,' said the woman, and the accusation came so sudden that Maureen lowered her head. She shook it slowly. No. She had never come near. She felt deeply ashamed.

‘Your father came yesterday.'

‘Did he, Mother! Poor dad! Oh, Mother, I
am
sorry to see you like this, Mother.' She lifted the woman's hand and held it to her face. She began to cry.

‘Are you?' the woman said. ‘How's the little boy?'

‘He's very well, Mother. Very well.' The blood rose to Maureen's forehead.

‘Are you still with this man, Maureen?'

Maureen bowed her head. Yes. She was still with her man. It was her man who had sent the blood mounting in her. It was hard to think of her mother. But it was hard, it was something worse; it was dreadful to think of Dick going away.

The woman had placed her hand on the sleeve of Maureen's coat. ‘I had a letter from Peter! Poor boy. He thought he was doing something for me.'

Maureen could say nothing. A lump came into her throat. The mother talked on. Beyond the screen a nurse looked at her watch. The minutes ticked away.

‘Desmond's been.'

‘Desmond? Been!'

‘They told me. Your father saw him. Oh, I'm so tired,' she said and closed her eyes.

‘Dear Mother,' said Maureen, and could hold back her feelings no longer. Now she wanted to stay. But the watch ticked the minutes away. So Desmond and dad had been. Where was Anthony? Had Joe been? She wanted to ask the questions that couldn't be answered now. The woman had fallen asleep.

Maureen sat up. She wanted to grasp her mother and hold her. But now the nurse approached. It was time to go. She had barely seen her mother, and that was all.

When she left the hospital she waited for a tram back home. There were none in sight. She walked slowly along. People looked twice at her, not at her mass of red-gold hair—she never wore hats now—nor at her new sky-blue dress, latest present from Mr. Slye. They looked at her in another way.

When at length the tram came Maureen boarded it, and here the conductor looked twice at her who never gave anybody but a single glance. Maureen Kilkey was no adept at hiding her feelings. From time to time she whimpered into a handkerchief. By the time she had reached Adolphus Terrace she had quite lost sight of her mother. Mr. Slye pressed hard, he pressed and worried, and created dread. She daren't lose Dick. No matter what happened she couldn't lose him. He was the only man she really loved. She would do
anything
, anything rather than lose him. In this precise state of mind she reached Mr. Slye's cellar.

There sat Slye Esquire, just returned from Mr. Wayne's office. He sat with his hat on, his feet spread apart, his chin in his hands. He was worried.

‘Hello, darling,' Maureen said. ‘You see I came back on time, didn't I?'

He didn't answer her. Apart from worry, and not least the threatening danger, he hated her in that sort of mood. He hated her wheedling tone of voice.

‘Oh Christ! Don't be worrying me. See your mother?' He never looked at her at all.

‘Yes; she's terribly ill. I was——'

A staccato ‘dear me' cut off any further flow from Maureen.

‘I've got to get out, Maury, me old chick,' he announced, rose to his feet and caught her hand. ‘Come here, chuck,' he said, and pulled her towards him. She felt the hardness of his hand under her breast. ‘Are you ready to go?'

‘Darling,' she said, ‘I'm always ready,' and she clung to him.

‘That woman will be here any minute. The bitch who split. Yes. It was her.'

‘I don't care! Oh, Dick! Dick! You do love me, don't you?' she rubbed her face against his own. He smiled, showing one row of pearly false teeth.

‘Course, Maury, course! Now let's see,' and suddenly he was seated again, Maureen on his knee. ‘Let me see! I hate doing it, it's hard cash to me.' He looked at the stock in the corner. ‘Funny, isn't it? The ups and downs business has. Listen. There's somebody coming down now.'

‘Dick darling! You know how much I love you,' said Maureen. Sitting up she began to open the top part of her dress in order to rearrange it. The upthrusting breast that Slye Esquire saw had at this moment no more effect upon him than if he had been staring at a piece of granite. That was only her way. Because she loved him. But now he hated breasts. Hundreds of them stared at him from floors and table. Burn the lot. It was the only thing to do. Hard cash down the drain.

Hours and hours of enjoyment for people, wasted. Yes. Burn the lot and clear. But that was an effort. Suddenly the door opened and Mrs. Sloane came in. She was short, slight, with the face of a missionary and the eyes of a zealot, though for a missionary and zealot she was extraordinarily dirty. She had a country appearance, dressed in virgin black, with a black straw hat. The type whose passions have been held in by iron shields. She looked at the human composition on the chair!

‘Nice,' she said, ‘very nice,' and her eye travelled the whole length of Maureen's leg. Where on earth did the leg end?

Mr. Slye got up, pushed Maureen away, said: ‘Go on, child. Time for the kid.'

Maureen went out. In the next room she sat down and cried again. Somehow Slye and her mother had joined hands for this. She cried for both of them. She heard whisperings, later loud voices, angry shouts. She understood everything. She lay her head on the table and went on crying. She thought of Dermod.

‘The trouble with you,' said Mr. Slype, addressing the visitor, ‘is that your nose is too bloody long—your ears too small, and as for your tongue——' But here Mr. Slye flung one leg over the other. Apparently he had run out of adjectives. The tongue beggared description. He glared savagely at the woman.

‘I told you all along, didn't I? Didn't I say be careful? When you get them girls of the middle-class type you
have
to be careful, and as half of them aren't even capable of bearing what looks like a kid, it's the more trouble. They're a whiny lot, and so are you, you old bastard! You split on me! And I'm going to find out how before I leave! If I have to smash my connections here and run for it, I won't pay. By God, I won't. I never believed in that. I'll make somebody else pay.… D'you stand there and tell me you want the commissions on two operations which ought to have been taken on? Well, either
they've
split, or you. It's in the court now. I can't see how I can be kept out of it. They'll come here. Find valuable stock, stock that cost me money, stock that meant plans, struggling, ideas. Oh hell, everything! But it's just common muck to them. People who think humanity is composed of angels are potty. Daft! Loonies! I knew a magistrate who ran a brothel. A man who slept with his daughter. A child of ten who drew pictures you wouldn't believe—oh—well, anyhow, here's your rotten stinking money.'

He pulled a pile of silver from his pockets, counted out two pounds and flung it on the table. ‘There, get out before I count three or I'll take it back.'

‘There's only one pound nineteen here, Mr. Slye Esquire,' she said, and then she took the remaining shilling right out of Mr. Slye's hand. She pinched the hand hard. ‘What about Long-legs?' she asked, smiling.

‘Oh her! I dunno yet.'

‘Not tired yet?'

‘Not me.'

‘I often wondered why a man with a head full of ideas like you have didn't go in for something respectable.' She surveyed the room in a sweeping glance.

‘Rubbish! Banking's the only respectable business with money in it. Look here, Mrs. Sloane, you might think it queer, but look'—he dug his hand into his pocket again—‘There's another ten, and another thing, give me your address. Never know, do you! Friends must stick together, mustn't they?'

‘Taking Long-legs when you go?' she asked. She kept glancing at the door.

‘How do I know?'

‘She's a nice girl.'

‘They all are for that matter! I like them
all
, Mrs. Sloane. They're grand.'

‘Keeps you busy, though you have to watch your health, haven't you?'

‘Oh, by the way, Mrs. Sloane. I've got something here might interest you. Look.'

She watched him take a large folio from a drawer. When he opened it, she saw a series called: ‘The Stations of the Cross.'

‘Now I'll sell you that for just two quid. It's a money maker. Get the right people in the right mood, and you can clear a fiver, easy.'

‘They
are
bloody,' she said, noticing the enormous drops here and there.

‘They like it. They like to see blood! More blood, more luck. Like it?'

Mrs. Sloane hesitated. What was this? Palming her off with this and getting back his two quid. She hedged. She slammed the folio down.

‘The halos are all spoilt,' she said. ‘Got grease and stuff on them. And Saint John's head has a hole in it. I'm older than you, but me eyes are good, Slye Esquire. Give you a quid for the lot and that's that.'

Mr. Slye scratched his head. ‘Oh, all right. Give us your quid. Now here's a thing, Mrs. Sloane, I meant to show to you long ago. It's a poem on “Death on the Docks.” Mr. Doogle got rid of fifty for me. I'll sell you two gross for a quid.' He went to a large bottom drawer of the chest in the corner.

‘You'll sell me no “Death on the Docks.” My people hate poemy stuff. I'm going. See you again some time—
maybe
. Good day, Mr. Slye.'

Mr. Slye had hardly time to say good day. Mrs. Sloane had vanished. He then gave a kick on the wall with the heel of his boot. This meant: ‘You can come in now.' Maureen came back. He gave her one quick look. What was wrong with her?

‘Yes. What's got you? Crying there as though somebody had cut your head off.'

‘I wasn't crying.'

‘You were. Want no lies here. What's the matter, Maury, me chuck? Eh, Maury?'

He caught her by the shoulders, pressed his mouth to her ear and whispered: ‘I could tell soon as I woke up this morning that something was wrong. What is it?'