Midnight on Lime Street (12 page)

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That very sentiment was being expressed in an old scout hut beyond Meadowbank’s trees and bushes. ‘We can’t stay here f-for ever,’ John said, ‘and
we’re sitting on a pile of d-drugs worth a fortune.’

‘We don’t know anything about that,’ Ian snapped. ‘We don’t know the drugs are here.’

‘And I’m nearly past caring,’ Phil added. ‘If the coppers find us, we might be put somewhere decent away from the Pastorals. And John – the drugs were here before
we came, so they’re nothing to do with us. Can we see them? No, we can’t, because the dealers hid the lot under the scout stuff.’ He sighed heavily. ‘It’s the boredom
that’s killing me.’

John nodded his agreement.

Life was easier, but duller. The baron from the southern end of Liverpool kept his word. Every Thursday night, he or one of his cronies arrived with fish and chips, a crate of pop, tinned food,
bread, butter, jam, cheese, ciggies and five pounds. The message was always the same once Boss admitted that drugs were in the hut – ‘Don’t touch them. We don’t want you
lads smoking filth, because you’ve been through enough trouble already.’ It was almost like having a few uncles, as if somebody cared at last.

‘We could ask for some games like Monopoly and cards,’ Ian suggested.

‘It’s fresh air we need,’ John answered. ‘Going out once every b-blue moon to spend the fiver isn’t enough. Anyway, I hate bloody Monopoly. They g-got the name
wrong; it should have been Monotonous. I wouldn’t mind p-playing dominoes or learning chess.’

They were still discussing their plight when someone knocked at the door. It wasn’t the big fellow or any of his attendants, because their knock went bang, bang, bang, pause, bang, bang,
bang, pause, then four quick, quiet taps. Anyway, it wasn’t a Thursday. The boys were safe in theory, because three huge bolts had been fixed to the inside of the door and, in case they all
went out together, there was a massive padlock for use on the outside.

‘Sh-shit,’ John whispered. ‘Th-they’ll have heard us.’

Ian crept to the door and placed his ear against it. The other two lay down beneath the window.

‘We know you’re in there.’ The owner of the voice was female. ‘We only want to help, that’s all.’

Ian turned and shrugged at his mates.

The woman spoke again. ‘Look, we won’t get you charged with trespass or whatever, because the cops aren’t exactly friends of ours, either. Open the bloody door – we mean
you no harm.’

Sal and Babs stared at each other. They’d been up in the spare attic looking for bits of Sal’s stuff to pack, when they’d seen a boy walking into a hut in the distance. The
place had belonged to one scout group that had merged with another, and it was supposed to be empty. ‘Open up,’ Babs said again. ‘You’ll be fine, I promise you, cross my
heart and hope to die.’

‘What do you want?’ Ian asked at last.

‘To make sure you’re all right, that’s all. We’ll be back with our boss if you don’t open this door. Believe me, you don’t want to tangle with our boss,
because she’s built like the
Titanic
, and it’d take a bigger iceberg than you to put a hole in her.’

‘How did you find us?’ Ian asked.

‘We were up in the roof and some of the conifers have been trimmed – they grow fast. You can’t be seen from the rest of the house. It’s just that one attic, and it
doesn’t get used except for storage. Open the door.’

Slowly, reluctantly, Ian drew back the bolts and opened the door. ‘Come in before you get noticed.’

The two girls entered the shed. ‘God, it stinks in here – you’ve no ventilation. What are those two daft sods doing on the floor?’ Babs asked.

Phil was annoyed. He wasn’t a daft sod, and he said so. He and John stood up awkwardly.

‘Matter of opinion,’ Babs snapped. ‘Right. What are you hiding from?’

‘From nosy parkers like you,’ Phil hissed.

‘We’re serious,’ Sally said, her tone gentler than Babs’s.

Ian the leader came to the fore. He didn’t care any more, wasn’t afraid of language, of the words he needed to use, because he was tired, and so were both his companions. ‘We
ran away from a boarding school because we were all interfered with by monks. I was bleeding from my backside, and it was a mess. Took ages to heal.’

Babs sat down suddenly, depositing her behind on a rough wooden box. ‘Bloody hell, lads. You’ve been in all the papers. The cops are spending a fortune trying to find you. But me and
Sal are moving away in a few days—’

‘Belle,’ Sally said, interrupting her girlfriend. ‘Belle will help.’

‘We don’t need help,’ Ian insisted. ‘We’ve got . . . mates who look after us. Don’t tell anybody else.’

Babs took a pen from her pocket. ‘If things get bad, phone this number. It’s in Southport.’ She wrote the number on the wall, low down near the floor. ‘Get to a phone box
and ring me. Ask for Babs or Sally. This is Sally, and I’m Babs. And you could all do with a bath, but I can’t do anything about that just now.’

‘We could sneak them in during the night,’ Sally suggested.

‘No thanks,’ Ian said.

Babs took the bull by the horns. ‘Do you know what a whorehouse is?’ she asked, pausing to see the boys’ reactions. All three blushed. ‘Well, that’s where we live
until Saturday. Nobody will get the police, because we’re all prozzies, and we could end up in big trouble. Understand?’

‘Yes,’ they chorused.

‘Where are the bastards that raped you?’ Babs demanded to know.

‘Disappeared,’ Phil answered. ‘On retreat and waving white flags, I reckon. Some bishop will be looking after them.’

‘Let me tell you this much, lads. There isn’t one woman in that farmhouse who wouldn’t kill the buggers for what they did to you. Don’t make the mistake of thinking that
prostitutes don’t care, because that’s not true. In our job, we prozzies save young girls from the sort of thing that happened to you, and we all hate rapists. Trust us. Belle will look
after you.’

John found his courage. ‘C-can you get us some playing cards and d-dominoes?’

‘Course we can,’ Sal said.

Babs sniffed back some confused emotion. ‘Listen, boys. Sally and I were both raped when we were kids, so we know what you’ve been through. My uncle’s dead, but Sally’s
stepfather is still out there. You’re not alone. If the monks get caught, there’d be thousands of us on your side, boys and girls alike. According to the
Echo
, you’ve
sent loads of letters with no return address on them. Now I know why. Sally and I won’t betray you.’

Ian shuffled, his cheeks pink. ‘So . . . er . . . you two get paid for doing it now?’

‘Yes, we do, mostly because we were so messed up as kids that we didn’t do well at school.’ She paused. ‘How old are you?’

‘We’re all nearly fifteen.’

‘Then you’ll soon be old enough to stand on your own two feet. They keep talking about raising the school leaving age to sixteen, but the powers are good at talking and useless at
doing.’ Babs reached out and took Ian’s hand. ‘We’ll work this out. I’m not sure how, but we will.’

‘Thanks,’ he managed. ‘Erm – what will you be doing in Southport?’

‘I’ll be learning to ride a horse that’s going to win the Grand National.’

‘You’re kidding,’ Phil cried.

‘Am I? Well, remember his name – it’s Mad Murdoch. He’s stubborn, daft, naughty and beautiful. And when he jumps, he flies.’

‘P-Pegasus,’ John stammered. ‘Winged horse. It was in a b-book.’

‘He used to read a lot,’ Ian explained. ‘Spoken words were kicked out of him and he got the stammer, so he liked his words printed. He’s clever.’

Sally spoke to the other two boys. ‘Babs makes things happen. She’ll find a way of helping you – you’ll see.’

The girls walked back to the farmhouse, forcing their way through bushes. ‘This is one fucked-up world,’ Babs mused in a whisper. ‘Them lads have been through hell just like we
have. We are getting out of this game sharpish, babe.’

‘How?’ Sally asked.

‘Any bloody way will do. We go and live with that sad, randy old bugger and we take it from there. Just watch me and do as I say. There’s always a way, Sally; it’s just a
matter of biding our time. The horse is the key.’

‘How do you know?’

Babs shrugged. ‘I don’t know how I know. I just know.’

Laughing without quite understanding why, they entered the place they would soon be leaving. As they lay together that night, each held in her mind a picture of three frightened boys in a smelly
shed. ‘We must find some games for them,’ Sally whispered. ‘There’s a compendium in the kitchen. It won’t be missed.’

Babs deposited a chaste kiss on her girl’s cheek. ‘I love you, Sal. You care in spite of all that’s happened to you.’

‘Or because of it. You’re the same. We’ll be OK, won’t we?’

‘Of course we will.’ Oh God, she hoped so. ‘Get some sleep, Sally. We’re going to need all the rest we can get, cos there’s big changes coming.’

‘Goodnight, Babs.’

‘Goodnight, love.’

I got the first one right except for the cross and chain. The paper said Jean Davenport had children. Well, they may have a chance of a decent upbringing without her in their
lives. The second was a disaster; I must learn not to judge a book by its cover, and I think I know how. If I smile or speak, real ones will ask whether I want business. But I wish I could stop
thinking and dreaming about Dolly Pearson and her mother, God help the old girl on her deathbed.

Anyway, I overheard a conversation at work. There’s a place called Meadowbank Farm that doesn’t get mail delivered – it’s picked up twice a week by a mountainous woman in
a large van. She has a post office box, because the farm is a whorehouse, or so some people think. It’s accessible from the East Lancashire Road. I suppose the women think they’re safe
there, off the beaten track and at least a couple of miles away from their nearest neighbours.

That conversation I listened to should never have happened, because members of the public ought to have their privacy respected, which is why we have post office boxes, but Jesus made sure I
heard it. And here I am with aching legs, wheeling my bike with its lights turned off as I stumble along a dirt track that shows signs of use by a heavy vehicle, probably the van that was
mentioned. There’s a sign on one of the open gates, and it bears the name of the farm.

I’m pondering the subject of beehives. Why? Because one normal female bee is over-nourished, cared for by drones and fed whatever is collected by worker bees. This super-sized grub becomes
the queen; the fat woman who drives the van is probably monarch of the farm. This particular home for bees is Sodom and Gomorrah, with Lime Street and the Dock Road included in the mix. Worker bees
will have their own cells where they serve customers, while drones will keep the hive in good order and feed Fat Mamma.

The van’s coming – its engine is noisy. I throw down my bike and dive into a bush. The vehicle passes me, and I’m sure I haven’t been noticed. It stops outside the house,
and its back doors open to spill out half a dozen men. Fat Mamma keeps her girls off the streets, then. She picks up their sex partners and brings them here – well, there’s a novelty.
Oh, this is a good place for me. With paraffin and a box of matches, I could wipe out all of them, clients as well as those who serve them.

I booked a few days off work, and Laura thinks I’m sea-fishing, but oh no, I’m here watching and waiting. I hide my bike in the bushes, sit and remain as still as possible. The front
door closes. There’s no hurry, because I’m supposed to be out on a boat over the bar, trying to catch fish in the Irish Sea. Laura will go to bed soon – she’s a creature of
habit, as am I. We scarcely talk these days. I’m a different person, I suppose, because I am under hallowed orders.

After about an hour, I’m getting cramp, but I have to know the place and what happens here – I’m not risking another Dolly Pearson. The door opens, spilling pink light out onto
a gravel path. Men climb into the van while the fat woman wedges herself at the steering wheel. The vehicle turns and travels past me. Queenie has left the building, so I move to the other side of
the house away from the driveway.

At least one ground floor room is a bedroom. Through a small gap in the curtains, I see an almost naked woman washing herself at a small sink. There’s a mirror on the ceiling above a
double bed with a purple quilt and pillowcases in the same shade. The wall facing me is red, with pictures of naked people above the bed’s headboard.

The woman’s voluptuous. She strips off her transparent black clothing and is changing into something as red as that wall. My body is responding; I suppose this is another test sent to me
from above. Oh, how rounded and comfortable the whore is. Laura is thin except when pregnant. She’s the only woman I’ve ever had, and now I understand how men get tempted into
fornication with these shameless hussies.

I am confused. I haven’t touched Laura since . . . since Jean Davenport, but I could touch this one. Anybody can touch this one. How do I get picked up by that van? To discover the layout
of this house, I need to be a customer. It will be my duty to copulate with one or more of the whores. Moving my eyes away from the vision is difficult, but I must go, because I have to be alone
and hidden while I rid myself of terrible discomfort and indulge the need. I am a bad man.

Back in the hedge, I see the fat woman returning in the van. Again, about six men disembark and enter the building. I lie down for a while. Behind my eyelids, the ground floor prostitute is
stripping and washing herself. Oh God, spare me this torture. Still, it’s better than the vision of Dolly Pearson, I suppose.

For a while, I doze, but am woken by the sound of the engine as Fatso drives her customers away, and back I go to the window with the gap in its curtains. She’s washing again. Her hair is
brown and shiny; it looks like silk against alabaster. Of average height, she has a tiny waist, flaring hips and large breasts. This time, she’s dressing in white, which is supposed to be a
sign of virginity.

A man enters the room, and I realize that I’ve been too engrossed to hear the vehicle returning. I must have been standing here for ages. So the creature in white will have had several men
tonight. I won’t be seen here; the van comes nowhere near this side. There is a strange beauty to what’s happening in the room. All my married life, I’ve been with a good,
hardworking wife and mother who just . . . just lies there. A few feet away from me at this moment, there’s a limited view of joy through a small gap in curtains. She moves. She touches him.
She laughs. She holds him. She climbs on top of him. She’s beautiful.