Changing Patterns (35 page)

‘Jack,’ Ellen said. Jean’s callous tone and the way she was refusing to say his name upset her. It was too much like listening to Hannah talking about Linda. ‘He’s called Jack. It’s a nice name. And it’s not his fault what’s happened, poor little bugger. You know what I went through with Ted’s mother, how she made sure I knew exactly what she thought of Linda, how I worried that Linda would hear her … understand. Do you really want to hurt a child like that?’

‘I’m nothing like Ted’s mother.’ Jean was indignant.

‘You should hear yourself.’

‘I wouldn’t hurt a child.’ Jean stopped, looked uncomfortable. ‘I wouldn’t…’

‘Look,’ Ellen said, ‘we’ve managed to go the whole day without bitching at one another but I can’t stand hearing you go on about the baby like that. What’s wrong with just calling him by his name?’

‘Patrick chose it.’ Jean pulled a face. ‘It … he,’ she said hastily seeing Ellen glare at her, ‘was called something else before.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t know. What I do know is he thought it clever to call some other woman’s kid nearly the same as our Jacqueline.’ Ellen looked blank. ‘Jacqueline … Jack?’

‘You don’t know what he was called before? Haven’t you seen the birth certificate?’

‘No, why should I have? I’m not interested.’

Ellen glanced indifferently at the large woman who stepped out of the pub’s back door, moved to one side to let her pass and was rewarded by a toothless smile.

‘Thanks pet.’ The woman shuffled across the yard. Her stout figure made the hem of her skirt uneven, showing more of her swollen calves from the back than the front. Her shoes, worn down at the heels, slapped against her feet.

Jean and Ellen stood in silence. The noise from inside the pub had risen steadily over the last hour and now the voices and the clink of glass vied with the bands making their way to the park.

Inside the lavatory there was a squeal of the chain being pulled, a pause and then another attempt. There was no following gushing of water. The door opened. ‘Bloody thing won’t flush.’ The woman hitched up her skirt and adjusted her large pair of white bloomers. ‘Sorry, no room to swing a cat in there, I couldn’t move my arms.’ She walked towards them. ‘I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,’ she said, tilting her head backwards. ‘Old Green’s ale’s right off today.’ She sucked her lips inwards. ‘Pretty bad, if I say so myself. Th’owd sod must be making a mint, he’s mixed it with summat and it’s not only water.’

She stopped in front of Jean and the two women stared at each other. Jean raised an eyebrow. ‘Yes?’

‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Jean wrinkled her nose.

Ellen lowered her foot and pushed herself off the wall. This was interesting. She knew Jean enough to know she was uneasy. Come to think of it, the old woman did look a bit familiar. There was something about her: her eyes, the way she lifted one bushy grey eyebrow, almost in comic imitation of Jean.

‘I’m Nelly Shuttleworth. I live on Barnes Street. You’re a friend of Mary Howarth, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, I remember you now. Frank Shuttleworth’s mother.’ Jean didn’t bother to hide her contempt.

Ellen’s mouth slackened. Frank’s mother? Oh God.

‘That’s right.’ Ellen saw the old woman pull her shoulders back and look straight at Jean. When she turned towards her and said, ‘You Mary’s sister?’ Ellen felt sick. It was the first time she’d spoken to her daughter’s grandmother.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘You look alike. Well, except she’s got dark hair, of course. You got children?’

‘A girl and a boy.’ Ellen clenched her jaw. ‘Why do you ask?’

Nelly shrugged. ‘No reason. Does the little girl look like you?’

Oh God. Goose-bumps rose on Ellen’s skin. ‘Suppose so.’

‘That’s nice. I only had lads myself.’ She stopped. ‘Sorry, I suppose you know that already, don’t you?’ She looked long and hard at Jean. ‘Now, if I could just get past?’

Jean stepped aside.

Ellen stood inside the door, watching the woman push her way through the crowded tap room before speaking. ‘Nelly Shuttleworth.’

Jean moved her head in acknowledgement.

Linda’s grandmother. The words repeated in Ellen’s head. Why had she never thought about her before? ‘I need a pee.’ She made herself laugh. ‘I’ll have to hold my nose while I’m at it.’

Sitting in the semi-darkness, her head tilted back against the smoke of the cigarette in her mouth, Ellen’s mind worked furiously. Linda was Frank’s child. That woman, that dreadful woman was her grandmother. Stop it, she told herself, stop thinking about it. She felt quite ill.

When she came out she dropped her cigarette end onto the flags and screwed her foot on it. ‘We’d better find the girls,’ she said.

It was so cold. The dampness of the stone floor seeped through the rough material Linda was lying on and every now and then her body moved in spasmodic jerks that shook her from head to toe.

And it was dark. Even when she opened her eyes as wide as she could there was nothing, only blackness, and it took all of her courage not to panic. If she did she’d start screaming again and her throat hurt so much already.

When the man picked her up and ran towards the scary old mill she’d shouted for her daddy but he’d put his smelly hands over her mouth and called her a little gobshite. She couldn’t breathe. The sound bounced around her as she screamed and fought all the time he dragged her up through that horrible wet stinky pipe. The tops of her arms burned from him pulling at her, and her elbows and knees smarted and were sticky with blood. Once, she’d rolled on her back and pressed her feet on the top of the tunnel to stop herself from being moved but then something ran over her face and the man said it was a rat and if she didn’t shut up others would come. So she’d let him heave her to the top, even though she could hear her frock being torn. When he dropped her to the hard ground she curled into a ball and couldn’t stop shaking. It was a long time before she opened her eyes. All she could hear was the man coughing and wheezing.

Then he’d carried her under his arm to this room. She’d lost one of her shoes.

There was a noise. Her stomach jerked. Lifting her head she whispered, ‘Hello?’ And then louder, ‘Hello?’

Silence.

A scraping noise above. Footsteps.

She felt warm wetness between her legs; she’d peed herself. She hadn’t done that in years. The shame she felt was soon lost in the fear. She shuffled away from the rapidly cooling cloth.

The footsteps stopped. Linda heard the crunch of grit under boots. Then there was the snap of a bolt being pulled back, the scraping of a key turning. The sob in her throat stuck. She saw the outline of the man against the faint light from the open door. She could hear him breathing. She held her own breath, hoping he couldn’t see her, but then he walked towards her and even though she knew he was there, right in front of her, she jumped when the toe of his heavy boot nudged her and couldn’t stop a small quivering cry.

‘How about I get you some fish and chips?’ The man leant over her, his breath sour, smelling of cigarettes.

She shrank back, twisting her head away from him. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘please let me go home.’

‘I said how about I get you some fish and chips?’

‘I’m thirsty.’ There was a salty taste on her lips from her tears.

The man moved away from her. He was still in the room. She heard him clear his throat. Water running somewhere.

The cup, shoved against her teeth, cut her gum. The blood mixed with the water and made her feel sick.

Suddenly, she was being covered by something, the material harsh and prickly. She screamed, kicking out and squirming backward. The rough flags scraped the skin on her wet thighs and buttocks. ‘Get off, get away.’

‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ the man shouted, ‘shut the fuck up.’ His voice echoed around her. The room was bigger that she thought and empty sounding. ‘It’s only a sodding blanket, for God’s sake.’

‘I want my mummy,’ she pleaded, ‘please.’ He didn’t answer. She tried to be brave, to scare him. ‘If you don’t I’ll tell my daddy about you.’ That was a mistake. The blow to the side of her head hurt her ears. No one had ever hit her before. It left a buzzing sound in her head and sick rose in her mouth. She swallowed.

The door closed, she heard the key turn and he was gone, his footsteps a clink of metal studs on concrete.

‘Mummy,’ she whispered.

The darkness closed in on her, the air was thick and damp, cloying to breathe in. There was a scratching sound, a scuffling of soft noises.

Linda screamed.

Let her scream all she liked. She deserved that clout, the little bitch, threatening him with that bastard.

George stood outside the boiler room flexing his fingers.

What the hell was he thinking? It was a fucking stupid idea, bringing her here. The vague plan he’d thought of when he watched Howarth’s missus leave her and the other kid outside the Crown – shutting her in one of the sheds on the allotment – went to pot the minute she started screaming.

He hit the wall with his fist. The pain stopped the rising panic but he needed a drink.

No he didn’t, it was bloody drink that had got him in this sodding mess. As soon as he’d done it he knew it was stupid. Too bloody late by then. Never thought anything through… It was only supposed to give the bastards a fright for a couple of hours. He walked back and forth, trying to decide what to do.

He couldn’t keep her here forever.

He took a deep breath and went back into the boiler room, leaving the door slightly open. There was a sour smell of urine. The kid had obviously pissed herself. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom before he spoke. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I can tell you don’t like this game. Me, I thought it would be fun but I don’t think you’re enjoying playing, are you?’

She shook her head.

‘Right. Well then, how about we get out of here and I buy you some chips, eh?’

She nodded slowly.

‘But you have to do something for me as well.’

She took in a quivering breath.

‘I mean it. Understand?’

She moved her head again. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘Right. You have to promise you’ll keep your mouth shut. You won’t tell anybody where you’ve been.’ He stopped, waiting to see if she said anything. She didn’t.

Congratulating himself that he might be able to get out of this mess, he carried on, ‘I want you to pretend you got lost. You went exploring and you got lost. Okay?’

‘Yes.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yes.’ Linda drew her knees close to her chest and put her arms around them.

‘Right.’ He had to make sure she’d stick to what she said. He squatted down.

‘Because if you don’t, I’ll have to come and get you again. Understand?’ He shuffled nearer. ‘And don’t forget your mummy was cross with you for running off.’ He reached out to touch her cheek. ‘If you tell her you got lost, she won’t be mad anymore.’

She grabbed his fingers and bit him.

He yelled, yanking his hand away, falling backwards.

On her hands and knees she scrambled past him.

‘Bitch.’ He was breathing heavily.

She was at the door.

He flung himself across the floor, grabbed her ankle.

She yelled, kicked out at him.

Pain shot through his jaw. ‘Bitch.’

He twisted over onto his stomach, grasped her other ankle and tugged.

She fell.

He heard the crack of bone on the stone flags. And then silence. ‘Kid?’ He still had hold of her ankles. He gave one of them a shake. ‘Come on, kid.’ No answer. The girl was pretending. She had to be pretending. He couldn’t see enough in the shadows behind the door. Fear churned inside his guts. He crawled alongside her, feeling for her face, her mouth. She wasn’t breathing. ‘Oh God, no, please, no.’ He felt for the pulse in her neck, an almost forgotten automatic gesture from the first aid training he’d done in the Fire Brigade years ago, before he was kicked out. He couldn’t tell if there was any movement but when he took his hand away it was sticky. Blood, oh God, it was blood.

He had to get away. He should never have come back to Ashford. He ran blindly, bouncing off the walls, until he was stumbling down the steps into the fresh air.

He stopped once to look back towards the old hospital before plunging headfirst into the culvert.

‘Ted.’ Starlings, squabbling over breadcrumbs behind the bakery, scattered when Ellen burst into the yard. ‘Ted!’

The shed door was open, bits of coke spilled over the wooden barrier inside and Archie, the man Ted employed, was washing down the yard. The black liquid left its mark on the flags as it streamed towards the grid in the middle. Oblivious to the mess, Ellen splashed through it as Ted appeared at the door.

‘What?’

‘Linda’s missing.’ Ellen sobbed, gasping for air, her hands on her knees. A mop and bucket, stinking of ammonia, was on the doorstep. The smell stung Ellen’s nose and made it run, mucus mixed with the tears.