Water Gypsies (43 page)

‘Why the hell don’t they hurry up?’ he burst out eventually. ‘Bloody useless idiots.’

A few moments later they saw the shaded lights of a car approaching from the far end of the street. Charlie flagged it down a little way along from Osborne’s shop. Three policemen climbed out carrying truncheons and stood looking around them.

‘In here,’ Charlie said.

The most senior policeman must have been nearly sixty and had a neat little moustache.

‘You sure it’s him?’

‘It’s him,’ Charlie said. ‘You couldn’t mistake that face. I only caught a glimpse, but he’s the one.’

‘All right, lads.’ The three of them stood apart by a lamp post and conferred for a moment. Joel saw the two younger ones listen, leaning in for instructions.

‘I reckon he’s only a sergeant, that one,’ Charlie murmured. ‘You’d think they’d manage to send a bigger fish along for this, wouldn’t you?’

‘Right,’ the sergeant said as they came over again.

‘Only thing we can do is take them by surprise. You think they’re up at the top of the house do you?’

‘The attic,’ Charlie said.

‘And how many’re in there?’

‘Three, I’d say.’

‘Right,’ he said again. ‘ Come on then.’

The three men stepped into the pitch black of the entry. Joel and Charlie glanced at one another, then followed. One of the policemen switched a torch on, creating a picture show of jumping shadows. They all crept silently round to the back door.

‘Ready, lads?’

The door broke open on the second try and banged back hard. The policemen raced through it and upstairs, making the most terrific racket on the bare boards. Charlie raced after them and Joel followed, up through the dark house, frustrated by his slowness. There was a particular, cloying smell, and he realized after a few seconds that it was of meat. Of course – this was a butcher’s shop. Fancy living with that horrible stink all the time!

He heard the other men reach the top of the attic stairs and the door crash open. He paused at the last bend in the stairs, expecting instant sounds of mayhem, of shouts, even fighting. But there was a moment of stunned confusion and during it he followed them into the room, panting from the stairs.

He was in a dingy attic room, with a sloping roof at one side. Three men were round the little table in the middle; a bottle lay on its side dribbling its contents over the table and onto the floor, evidently knocked over as the round-faced fellow facing Joel had leapt to his feet. On one side of him was grey-haired Mr Osborne; on the other Norman Griffin sat hunched, looking impassively in front of him. Under the high, dormer window was an old iron bedstead with a filthy mattress on which crouched a little girl, her distraught face smeared with dirt and tears.

‘What d’you think you’re–?’ Mr Osborne got to his feet then. He sounded frightened.

‘Stay where you are,’ the sergeant said. ‘No monkeying about. You’re all under arrest.’

At his nod the other two policemen jumped into action. The round-faced man struggled, panicking.

‘No – you can’t do this to me! This is ridiculous – a mistake! I shouldn’t be here –’

‘No – quite right, you shouldn’t, sir,’ the policeman said, forcing the man’s hands behind his back as he tried to struggle. In a moment the handcuffs were fastened on. The other officer had handcuffed Mr Osborne, who stood in shocked, sullen silence.

Norman Griffin hadn’t attempted to move from the table so they left him until last. There was something about his brooding stillness and the grotesque distortion of his face that made them hesitate, reluctant to move closer or lay hands on him, almost as if he were an unearthly creature, not fully human. Joel saw him look round and fasten his one good eye on him, and held Griffin’s gaze, revolted at what he saw. That puckered, shiny skin – what a horrible sight he was! For a second Joel even pitied him.

Norman Griffin pushed the chair back and stood up slowly. Out of the corner of his eye, Joel saw the sergeant take a step forward.

‘So – Mr Bartholomew,’ Norman Griffin said. His tone was mocking. ‘Little Maryann’s husband.’

Anger flared in Joel. ‘ How do
you
know who I am?’

‘Oh, I get about, don’t forget. Quite a regular visitor to the wharves. I keep an eye on things – I like to look out for my old family members.’ He made a sound which could have been a laugh or a clearing of the chest. ‘Make sure they’re not coming to any harm. I’ve never been sure at all about you, for Maryann. Far too young, she was, when she first took up with you.’

Joel drew his fist back, but in that split second Norman Griffin launched his weight at him, catching him off balance and thrusting him back against the open door. Joel cried out with pain and fury as the hard door crashed into his back. Norman Griffin took off down the stairs.

‘Well, get after him, you gormless clods!’ the sergeant yelled, furious at himself for hesitating. ‘How could you let that happen?’ The other two let go of the scowling Mr Osborne and the third man and took off in pursuit.

‘They’ll soon catch him up – he’s twice their age,’ the sergeant said.

‘Yes, but they’ve only half his intelligence,’ Mr Osborne muttered sourly.

‘Downstairs!’ the sergeant barked at the two prisoners.

‘I’ll give you a hand with them,’ Charlie Dean said, roughly catching hold of the plump man.‘It’ll be a pleasure.’

Joel was going to follow when he realized everyone seemed to have forgotten about the little girl. She was pressed against the wall, squatting on her haunches, arms clasped round her knees. Joel saw that she was wearing a skimpy yellow frock, heavily soiled and with one sleeve badly torn. His heart went out to her. Although she had dark brown hair, unbrushed and messy, in every other way she reminded him of their little Sally. They must have been much of an age.

‘Hello there, little ’un.’ He spoke very gently.

Her eyes widened further and she tried to press herself back harder against the wall.

‘I’m going to come over and sit by you.’ Joel felt uncomfortably conscious of his enormous size in comparison with her. He seemed like a giant and felt a discomfort that recently, for the first time in his life, his wife had also made him feel: a sense of contamination as a man. What had been forced on this poor waif of a girl? What must he seem like to her? Just another heartless monster come to harm her?

‘Don’t run away.’ He tried to make himself smaller, bending his knees, shrinking down as he walked until he sat himself gingerly on the edge of the grubby mattress. He could see a damp patch on it and there was a pungent smell of urine. The girl flinched, but didn’t get up to move away. Close up to her, Joel could see why. Her ankles were tied together with a piece of cord, so tightly that he could see the mauve bite of it where it met her flesh.

‘Poor little thing.’ He felt close to weeping at the state of her. ‘Can you tell me your name?’

‘Carol,’ she whispered.

‘I’m Joel. I won’t hurt you, I promise. I’ve come to help you. Now – let’s get these off, shall we?’

Taking his knife from his pocket, he cut the cords away from her ankles and she whimpered at the pain as he did so. She rubbed at the angry welts on her ankles when he’d finished, tears running down her cheeks.

‘Now then,’ Joel told her gently, ‘we’re going to get you home safely to your mom and dad, aren’t we?’

When Charlie Dean came back up he found Joel sitting on the bed, his arm round the little girl, who was sobbing her heart out beside him.

*

When the two policemen ran out in search of Norman Griffin, they got out of the entry only to find that he had already disappeared. For a moment they stood at a loss in the street.

‘We’re going to get it in the neck for this,’ one said gloomily.

‘He can’t’ve got far, old geezer like him. You go that way and I’ll go this. We’ll soon find him.’

They ran off in opposite directions.

Just a few yards away, pressed into the shadows at the back of the house, only feet from the back door, Norman Griffin smiled grimly into the darkness.

Maryann sat at the table in the
Theodore.
In the quiet night she heard the chucking sound of a water bird, which must have strayed out unusually late.

Should be safe on a nest somewhere by now,
she thought protectively.
Perhaps it’s a young one.
She sipped her tea, feeling very tense, wondering what was going on and where Joel and Charlie had got to. At moments she wished she’d gone with them so she wouldn’t have to wait in an agony of wondering. Had they found him? Were the police there? Or had it been the wrong place, wrong person? Had Charlie Dean made a mistake?

She’d put all the girls down to sleep, top to toe, on the main bed. There was no point in her trying to sleep. Filling up her cup from the old brown and white teapot, she sat holding it with both hands, her thoughts spinning round. She thought of Amy Lambert, of what Margaret had said to them, such as it was. Why was Norman Griffin asking about their relatives in Alvechurch? Janet had said that her sister had young daughters. Surely he wasn’t planning to track down every member of every family he’d ever been involved with? It was a terrible thought. Her mind moved on to the night the boatmen had found the girl’s body in the cellar in Acocks Green and at that she could stand her thoughts no more. She picked up one of Sylvia’s old magazines, dog-eared by now, desperate to distract herself. The sight of it brought a faint smile to her lips, remembering Sylvia exclaiming over some of the pictures, but she couldn’t concentrate.

Oh, I wish Dot and Sylvia were here still!
Maryann thought, giving up and closing the magazine. She missed them more than she could ever have imagined. Thinking back to their arrival on the boats, she remembered how resentful and irritable she’d felt, how all she’d wanted was to have Joel back and for nothing to change. But now he was back and things had changed more than she could ever have imagined. It all felt impossible. She couldn’t be close to him or give him what a husband wanted and needed. And it was her that was at fault. There was something deeply, horribly wrong with her to make her like this. Unable to bear the pain of her thoughts, she pushed them away. Tonight, maybe they’d get
him
once and for all. Get him put away, and then maybe her nightmares would come to an end.

Sighing, she picked up the magazine again. Another small sound came from outside and she tensed, listening. But nothing else followed. It must have been one of the other families further along the bank. Maybe she’d even imagined it, the state she was in. Then, a moment later she heard sounds she knew were real: hurrying footsteps and then they were back, knocking on the cabin. At last!

‘Coming!’ she called.

She undid the bolt and the hatch was abruptly pushed back.

‘Did you get him …?’

But the questions died in her throat. His form filled the doorway and he was climbing down into the cabin, his ravaged face caught in the lamplight as he leaned in towards her, lips curved into a triumphant smile.

‘Hello, Maryann,’ he said.

Forty-Four

She could hear his laboured breathing as he slid the hatch closed and shut the door. He’d obviously been hurrying over some distance.

‘Sit down,’ he ordered.

In that instant it was as if all her will had been stolen from her. Maryann sank onto the side bench as she was bidden, with a wild glance at the back bed. To her relief she saw that the curtains were drawn right across, hiding the girls as they lay sleeping. She prayed that none of them would stir and cry out.

Norman Griffin struggled down the steps. He was a bulky man and unused to moving in this confined space.

‘Move up, so I can sit by you, then,’ he ordered, and she slid along the bench as if she was programmed to obey him. She couldn’t seem to think properly, as if he had scrambled her thoughts. How could she ever get out? She noted that he had not fastened the bolt at the bottom of the door, but even if she managed to get past him, she couldn’t leave him with the children. She was trapped in here with him again, and now he was not just her stepfather with his vile, dirty ways. He’d done worse things, terrible things! She despaired, then, paralysed with fear.
Oh, please,
her mind begged,
let someone, come! Joel, where are you?
She pressed herself as far along the bench as she could, trying to get away from him.

‘Don’t know how you manage in here.’ He lumbered round, stooped to avoid banging his head and squeezed himself, grunting, into the space beside her. ‘Like living in a matchbox.’

It was such close quarters that avoiding her cramped proximity to him was impossible, though she tried to shrink away, every cell of her body in revolt.

Norman Griffin laid his hat on the table, and the sight of his face, horribly visible now in the light, the smell of him, of sweat and damp clothing, the press of him against her, turned her into a child again: petrified and at his mercy.

He turned and looked at her, having to swivel his body to fix her with his good eye. Up close she could see with horrible clarity the damaged skin, the way the flames had shrivelled and distorted it. She became aware of her own blood pounding through her veins.

‘You always were a nice-looking girl, Maryann. I know the passing of the years takes it out of us. None more so than me – ’ He made a harsh, self-mocking sound which made her jump and he noticed. ‘No need to be nervous … Yes – you’ve still got your looks, wench – a freshness about you. Must be living in the open air that does it.’

His voice was soft, wheedling and seductive in the way that she remembered, how he would be before he touched her. The sound filled her with sick dread.

‘We go back a long way don’t we, you and me?’

You and me.
As if there had ever been a ‘you and me’!

‘What d’you want?’ she managed to whisper. She knew she shouldn’t show him how frightened she was, but she couldn’t control it. She knew her eyes were stretched wide with fear.

‘What do I want? Don’t be like that!’ To her horror he reached for her left hand and pulled it to him, holding it tightly, stroking it. ‘You were my daughter once – remember?’