With Love From Ma Maguire (40 page)

‘Why?’ she asked quietly. ‘Ask and I’ll give you if the need is real. Why, Joey?’

‘I . . .’ He stumbled backwards against the scullery door. ‘I didn’t . . . I mean, I was just—’

‘Just what? Just what are you doing in my house in the middle of the night? Is this a social call? Shall I put on the kettle, make a pot of tea?’ She stared hard at him. Yes, this one was Swainbank to the core, with Charles’ features, the cunning of old Richard and – oh, she hoped he hadn’t inherited Harold’s weaknesses! It was the same with horses. You never could tell. Put a good sire to a fine mare and the slightest shared flaw would be magnified. Though Molly seemed an excellent dam . . .

His mouth opened, but no words were framed as the matchlight dwindled away.

She lit another, applying the flame to a nearby candle. Her movements were slow while she raised the horsewhip and brought it down hard across his shoulder. As she tried to deliver a second blow, Joey’s temper erupted with force, his mind clouded by the pain she had inflicted. No way would he allow an old woman to beat him! Why, she must be seventy-five, just a little old crone, no real strength except in her gob.

He grabbed the whip and pulled it sharply from her hands, causing her to fall against the mantel, her head cracking loud as a pistol fired into the black silence of night. Miss Leason lay like a crumpled heap of dirty clothing, just another pile in a room filled with such messes.

Although his heart was beating erratically, fear pounding in his ears like a jungle drum, Joey found the sense to extinguish the candle. The house next door was empty – he’d emptied it himself. But the other side was occupied by a family, people who cared about and protected their property, all new windows and a showy garden. He listened. Except for the cats, there came no sound.

On hands and knees he crept to her side, placing his head against her chest, trying to hear some sign of life. Silence again. Except for the sound of his own laboured breathing. He sat back on his heels. If there had been a heartbeat, what would he have done? It was beyond him, too much to think about. But as she was dead, he might as well take the money. With his eyes riveted to the dim shape of her body, he backed out of the room, the box clutched tightly to his chest.

Janet watched as her brother disappeared up the back street. She’d lost him ages ago and didn’t know what had prompted her to look for him here. But yes, she did know. Somewhere inside herself, Janet had realized that Joey was going to do something bad, something really bad. He’d likely been listening when she’d told all that to Gran, all that about Miss Leason’s money. What now?

Moments later, Janet found herself stumbling through Miss Leason’s wide-open door. Inside, it was very dark and she almost fell over the little lady’s prostrate form, so still she lay, right next to the range in the living room. Cats crawled on to their mistress’ motionless body; Janet could feel little paws touching and clawing for some response.

‘Miss Leason?’ Her hand reached out and made contact with the woman’s head. ‘Miss Leason?’ This was blood on her fingers – she needed no light to identify the sticky substance. Quick as a flash, she tore down the ragged curtains, thereby allowing a meagre glimmer to enter the room. At last, she saw some matches on the floor and, with shaking fingers, she managed to light a mantel.

If Miss Leason wasn’t dead, she was hurt very badly, that was for sure. And Janet knew with a blinding certainty, a clarity of mind fuelled by fury and disgust, that she had protected Joey for the last time. With sobs racking her chest, she covered the old lady with the curtains and a few clothes from a chair. Joey must pay for this. He really must.

She raced home, her feet barely touching the flags as she flew for help. It was like a dream, a nightmare. The faster she ran, the further she still needed to run. And he was ahead of her, well in front. She wanted to reach home before he did. But she took the faster route past all the house-fronts, knowing that Joey would be slower round the backs and with the box to carry too.

At last she burst into her parents’ bedroom, tearing back the quilt as she spoke, her voice rising in pitch when the response was not immediate. ‘Wake up! Mam, for goodness sake, get up!’

‘Whatever . . . good God, Janet! You frightened me out of my skin . . .’

‘You have to come!’

‘What? Why? Set a match to the nightlight, will you?’

Janet obeyed, her teeth chattering as she put flame to the squat candle on the mantel. ‘I followed him. I followed him, Mam. Thought I’d lost him—’

‘Who? What are you on about, lass?’

‘Our Joey! He’s killed Miss Leason and took all her money, I think.’

‘Eh?’ Paddy rubbed his eyes.

‘Go back to sleep, you.’ Molly pushed him on to the pillows, jumped from the bed and dragged Janet out to the landing. ‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know! He’s likely hiding the money! She’s hurt, Mam. She might even be dead—’

Molly ran into the children’s room. Only Daisy and Michael lay sleeping in their beds. Swiftly she dashed out again and down the stairs, beckoning Janet to follow.

‘Please, Mam – she needs the hospital.’

‘Right. How do you know all this, lady?’

‘I followed him – I told you before—’

‘Middle of the bloody night?’

‘Yes.’ Janet hung her head. ‘See, I thought he was up to something, but I hoped I might stop him before he got in bother with you again.’

‘And she’s bad ways?’

Janet nodded quickly.

‘Right. You get to that there phone box down yonder – or break the glass in the old emergency box on Saint George’s Road. Ask for the ambulance. Don’t say who you are or nowt like that. Just say her address and that she’s hurt bad. Tell them it’s an emergency so’s they’ll hurry up.’

‘I will.’ Janet turned at the front door. ‘What about our Joey?’

‘Just leave him to me. He’ll be dealt with. Now get gone.’

After pulling on a coat to cover her nightdress, Molly put the fire to rights and set the kettle, just for something to do while she waited. It couldn’t be true – not this! Aye, he’d a streak in him – plus that determination, that Swainbank single-mindedness – but murder? After the road he’d been fetched up in a good Catholic house?

She gazed into flickering flames as they struggled for life around fresh coals. Did Charlie have murder in him, or old Richard before him? No! Not murder, not direct actual murder. Was Joey so frustrated by his station in life, did some instinct dictate that he ought to be among finer, richer and more powerful surroundings? Did he feel so thwarted that he had to go out and steal, whatever the cost? Even if it meant taking human life? Dear God, what had she brought into the world? What had she carried in her belly, nursed at her breast, nourished in her home? And what had she inflicted on the rest of this innocent family?

But Janet was all right. It hadn’t come out in her, not yet. God forbid . . .

Janet ran into the house, white-faced and panting. ‘Our Joey’s in the wash-house, I think. Why are you sitting in the dark, Mam?’

‘I want him to think we’re in bed. Did he see you?’

‘No. I just heard him. I tiptoed round and—’

‘All right. Stay there and make not one sound.’ Molly crept out into the scullery and peered through the window. As quietly as possible, she opened the back door, sped down the yard and collared him just as he was making for the gate. With a blow that might have unsettled a man twice his size, she sent him reeling towards the house, kicking him into the scullery with the brass-capped toe of her workday clog.

When they were both inside the house, she grabbed him by the hair, dragging him through to the kitchen. The firelight flickered on his ashen face. ‘You bloody little swine, you!’ She threw him on to the sofa beneath the window. ‘What have you done now, eh?’

He glanced quickly at Janet. ‘Nowt! I’ve done nowt!’

Molly fixed a steely stare on her son. ‘Nowt?’ she breathed. ‘You’re nowt a pound, our Joey. Scum of the earth, if what I hear’s right. And you’ll go down for it, lad. Oh aye, there’ll be nowhere for you to hide once the bobbies start looking.’ She paused. ‘Well?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Molly stood by the fire, her hands straying for support along the guard. ‘Tell him, Janet.’

The girl swallowed hard. ‘You stole Miss Leason’s money and after she’s been so good to us and all! She must have caught you at it and you . . . you killed her!’ She burst into tears. ‘It’s my fault! If he’d never heard me today telling Gran about the box, if I’d told somebody he was up to no good—’

‘Rubbish!’ Molly’s tone was dangerously quiet. ‘Why do you always cover up for him, girl? He’s no good! And why should it be your fault? I’m the one as brought him up! Now stop your snivelling!’ She turned to Joey. ‘Where is it?’

‘Where’s what?’ His voice faltered.

‘You hard-faced little bugger, you! Now, either you tell me where that money is, or our Janet runs down for the police.’

Joey eyed Janet who was still dabbing her face. ‘She wouldn’t do it!’ Fear distorted his features. ‘She wouldn’t—’

Janet sniffed noisily. ‘I would, Joey! You’ve gone for a poor little old lady tonight and I’ll never forgive you for that! Never!’ She seemed to regain some strength as she spoke. ‘I’ll tell them! I’ll say I saw you coming out!’

‘No, Janet.’ Molly spoke firmly. ‘If he admits it and gives the money back—’

‘But he’s a murderer, Mam!’

‘That’s as may be, Janet. And they hang murderers, don’t they? They’d probably not hang him, not at his age, but he could go to one of them reform places, then on to prison the rest of his life.’

‘Like Grandad,’ said Janet quietly.

‘What?’ Molly thought for a moment, then remembered Ma Maguire’s husband who was currently serving a third term. ‘Oh yes. Like your grandad.’ Their real grandad was dead. Long dead. Like many of those who’d worked for him, worn out, gone to dust . . . What a daft world. Their real grandad had died with their adopted granny by his side, yet . . . She shook herself visibly. How was she managing to think about all this rubbish while her son was a thief and a murderer? ‘The rest of your life, Joey, in prison with a lot of other bad men. Is that what you want?’

‘He should go!’ Janet’s chin jutted forward. ‘He should pay for what he’s done! I hate you, Joey Maguire! You were right all along – I do hate you!’

Ma’s door opened and there she stood, toothless and in the long white nightdress, a dark net holding to her head what was left of her hair. Yorick loitered by her side, the usual lugubrious expression on his yellow face. ‘Speak!’ This single word was spat from Ma’s mouth like venom.

Joey hung his head in the face of such adversity. ‘It’s in the wash-house,’ he muttered.

‘What?’ Molly’s eyes widened in disbelief. ‘You fetched it here to your own family, trying to get us all involved in theft and bloody murder? I can’t believe . . .’ Her voice faded away.

‘I . . . didn’t know what else to do with it.’ His head still hung in shame.

‘And why did you hurt her? Why?’ asked Janet.

‘I never! She hit me with a big whip – I pulled it off her, that’s all! And when I pulled, she fell against the mantelpiece.’

Ma studied this terrible scene. Molly must be tormented halfway to death with it, probably feeling it was all her fault. After all, wasn’t Joey one of the two cuckoos in this particular nest?

‘Get that money in here, our Janet,’ ordered Molly. ‘I’ll have to think on what to do. They’ll likely come round questioning everybody if she’s dead – wherever shall I put it?’

‘With me.’ Ma’s voice was clear and firm. ‘Let him ta . . . ke it from me. If he dares.’ Her head nodded wisely. ‘Yes. If he da . . . res.’

Janet left to fetch the box. Molly now turned the full force of her wrath on Joey. ‘Keep away from the rest of my children, do you hear? Because they’re too good for your likes. I don’t want them all copying you and turning out criminals. And if that woman is dead, may God help you. The same if she isn’t, because then she’ll go for you, will Sarah Leason. Powerful woman in her time, knows all the topknobs, all the posh folk.’

‘Molly!’ Ma raised an arm. ‘Do . . . n’t be carrying on, now—’

‘Hush, Ma! This is nowt to do with you! You’re supposed to be ill in bed, so shut up!’

Ma, unaccustomed to being told to shut up, sat in a dining chair with the dog by her side.

Molly wagged a finger in Joey’s face. ‘Even if you get away with it this time, I’ve no doubt you’ll be in bother again, Joey Maguire. It’s in you. I don’t know how, but it’s there. Pure and simple bloody bad, that’s what you are. And you didn’t learn that from me, or from Ma, or from your dad.’ She swallowed audibly. ‘God alone knows how it got there, this wickedness, but I’ve a mind to kick it out of you. I’d rather see you dead than this!’

She turned away to pull the steaming kettle off the coals, then leaned against the range, arms outstretched along the mantel, head bowed as if beneath a great weight. ‘The only reason I’m saying nowt to the law is because I have to think about the rest of this family. Who wants to admit to a son or a brother like you, eh? We don’t. And don’t be thinking on running away, for the police will be looking for anybody as does something unusual. This country would not be big enough to hide you.’

‘If—’ he began.

‘If what?’ Molly straightened and swivelled to face him. ‘If what?’

‘If I had some money . . . well . . . I could go abroad . . .’

In spite of her disability, Ma had to jump quickly to her feet, because Molly had thrown herself at the boy, was swearing, clawing, punching and spitting just as Edie would have done. ‘Stop it!’ screamed the older woman.

Janet entered, dropped the box, then dragged her mother away from Joey. ‘Don’t, Mam. He’s not worth it, not worth anything.’

Molly sobbed inconsolably in her daughter’s arms. ‘Get up the stairs,’ snapped Janet. ‘And stay there until you’re told different.’

Joey slunk out of the room.

‘Mam . . . come on now, sit down till I make a drink. Gran, make her sit still. Mother – will you stop it? We’ve made enough noise already – Mrs Seddon will be sending for the police next news! Gran, reach in that drawer and get her an Aspro. Stop shaking, Mam. It’s not your fault . . .’