Midnight on Lime Street (15 page)

‘Discreet’s my middle name.’

‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Isabella Discreet Horrocks. Put a hyphen between the two last names and you’ll be double-barrelled.’

‘We’ve enough barrels with Eve,’ she replied. ‘See you soon.’

He watched her as she walked the short distance home. She was a whore who served upwards of twenty clients each week. But he knew there was more than that to Belle, and that she shouldn’t
be defined by the job she did. Behind the masseuse’s white coat and under the colourful underwear, there resided a decent woman, a woman who might hurt him if he opened his heart, a woman he
almost feared.

Belle entered the Horrocks house and leaned against the front door.

‘Belle?’ her mother shouted.

‘Coming.’

‘Where’ve you been till this time?’ Sam asked as soon as his daughter entered the kitchen.

Belle kept her tone casual. ‘I met that man with one hand. I met his dog, too. We got talking and had a cup of tea in his kitchen. Max nearly licked me to death.’

Frankie inhaled sharply. ‘You went in his house? He’s a stranger, and you never can tell. You might have been hurt or raped or anything.’

‘Mam, he’s decent to the bone. And he’s no stranger, because it turns out I met him when we were doing a jeweller’s prep for audit. He mends watches and clocks.
Don’t worry, I’ll not be fooled again like I was with Lisa’s dad. I’m not as daft as I used to be. Shall I put the kettle on?’

‘Yes,’ they chorused.

In the scullery, Belle splashed her face with cold water before filling the kettle. There was a degree of turmoil taking place in the area of her stomach, and she breathed deeply through her
mouth. What the living hell was up with her? Yes, Tom Duffield was a good man, but . . . but what? Everything she knew, everything she understood might be whipped out from beneath her feet like a
bath mat on ice. She was thinking differently, hoping for change, yet dreading it at the same time. This, she concluded, was confusion; it was an example that illustrated the concept of being in
two minds. Well, in several minds.

‘What do I want from life?’ she asked the kettle. It was so tempting, but was it love? Might it become love? What sort of man wanted a woman who’d been so well used and paid
for her favours? He had a nice house, a good job, and he lived near Lisa, Mam and Dad. Perhaps she’d got him wrong. There was a strong chance that he wanted things to carry on as they were,
and yet . . .

‘Belle?’

‘What, Mam?’

‘Bring the biscuit tin.’

‘All right.’ She put the tin on the tray, hoping that her mind would slow down a bit. If she carried on like this, there’d be no sleep for her tonight.

Meanwhile, just three houses along the street, Tom Duffield popped a watch back inside its casing. He wound it, listened to the tick, then put it to one side for an hour. If it kept time, it
could be returned tomorrow with several other timepieces to Martindale’s, a jewellery shop in town.

He suddenly hated the silence with which he was surrounded, so he turned on the radio. It was the shipping forecast, but there’d be a play in a few minutes. There was a slight dip where
she’d sat on his sofa. He picked up her cup and placed his lips where hers had been. ‘God, I’m a soft swine,’ he said.

Max sat in front of the range, his head tilted to one side.

‘Do you miss her too, lad?’ Tom asked.

The dog sniffed.

‘I remember reading something, Max. It was a saying about things turning out better for people who make the best of things – along those lines, anyway. We have to go with the flow,
son.’

‘Woof.’

‘I’m glad you agree.’

The radio play began. Although he sat through it, Tom would never be able to account for its subject matter. All he could think about was a young woman in a striped dress, sensible shoes and a
navy cardigan. The idea of living with her made a kind of sense, anyway, because her parents were here, as was her child. ‘But I want to marry her,’ he advised his sole companion.
‘She needs to feel safe.’

The dog whined.

‘All right, Max. Let’s go for a walk.’

I can’t do it. I just can’t do it. I’m useless.

Laura lay there as she usually does, like a half-empty coal sack with some sharp bits sticking through the cloth. She’s bony. I tried thinking about that well-upholstered woman at the
farm, but it didn’t help. It did when I was there, straight after looking through the gap in the curtains, but it was a solo performance in the bushes, and I felt sick afterwards. It made me
remember my mother checking my underpants for what she called filth when I was a teenager. Pyjamas got the same treatment, and I can scarcely touch myself to pee without hearing her screaming
‘You filthy boy’.

Laura told me to go and see the doctor about what she delicately termed my problem, but there’s no point, is there? I mean, would you? ‘Hello, doc. I’ve gone limp with my wife,
but I’d be all right with a bit of rough in a whorehouse.’ No. I can’t do that. Nor can I go to Confession. As for Holy Communion – well, with a soul as stained as mine,
I’d be committing sacrilege. Or would I? After all, Jesus told me to clean up, and getting rid of that farm and all its occupants would give me a high score.

So here I sit in a scruffy pub waiting for my butcher to put in an appearance. Some louts are playing darts very noisily, while the brassy tart of a barmaid keeps giving me the eye. I wonder
what she does in her spare time? Knitting? Not likely. I wonder whether she’s one of
them
when the pub closes for the night.

He’s late. I don’t do late if I have an appointment. But I mustn’t let my anger show when he gets here, because I’m asking for a favour. I have to say there’s a lot
more to this job than Jesus was willing to let on about. And I’d have thought He might have come back to me just to check on my progress and my plans.

I go to order another half of mild. She asks if I’m all right and I nod. ‘I’ve not seen you in here before,’ she remarks, smiling at me. There’s lipstick on her
teeth, but I say nothing about that.

So I tell her that’s probably because I’ve never been in here before. I feel like saying I haven’t missed much by not patronizing this hole in the wall, but there’s no
point in being provocative. She has a flourishing moustache. Women should look closely at facial hair before piling on the powder, because makeup only makes the fuzz more noticeable.

Oh, my goodness, here he comes, jovial Trevor with his red cheeks and halfway-to-purple nose. The cheeks are probably the result of too much beef, but the nose looks as if it’s had a
close, long-term relationship with a bottle, and I don’t mean milk or Vimto. So cheerful, he grates at times.

‘Hi, Neil,’ he says. ‘What are you drinking?’

‘I’m fine,’ I tell him.

He comes back with what looks like a triple whisky. He should save his legs and get the whole bottle, or a bucket. I am being rather less than charitable, and I’m trying hard not to lose
my temper with this overfed animal.

‘Right,’ he says.

‘Right,’ I answer.

‘Why this meeting, Neil? What do you need to say that you couldn’t say across my counter?’

I take a sip of my mild. ‘Your wife was there, Trevor.’

‘And?’ He raises an eyebrow – well, he almost raises both, because they’re joined in the middle above that colourful nose.

I lean forward. ‘It’s about Meadowbank Farm.’

‘Say again,’ he mumbles.

Is he deaf as well as ugly?

‘Meadowbank Farm,’ I repeat. ‘You know it. Out in the middle of nowhere, nearest shops in Knowsley village.’

Interestingly, his whole face changes colour. The nose is now puce, while the cheeks are scarlet. It’s an unbecoming combination, especially on a man whose residual hair is ginger.
‘What?’ he growls, as if hiding his voice behind fear at the back of his nose and throat.

‘I want to ride in the van to Meadowbank Farm.’

He looks round the room as if expecting to see a flock of nuns, some priests and an archbishop or two. ‘What?’ he asks again. ‘How do you know about it?’

I tap the side of my nose.

‘It’s by recommendation only,’ he whispers.

‘Then recommend me.’

‘You’re married,’ he blusters, clearly upset.

‘So are you. We both have kids, too, and we’ve a lot to lose. Get me in, and I won’t say a word to Mrs Burns. Do you understand me?’

He nods.

I stand and walk out, leaving him to wallow alone in his misery.

She’ll be asleep when I get back. Or she may pretend to be asleep. My Laura is a good, caring woman, an excellent housekeeper, a perfect mother, great with money, but . . . but she’s
not desirable. I’m confused. If I try and fail again, she’ll start on about the doctor, or she may talk to him herself. Jesus has made a mess of me.

There’s one of them hanging about on a corner. Well, she might be one, or she could be a policewoman dressed up to look like a tart. I wheel my bike past, pretending that I haven’t
noticed her. See, I’m wondering whether I might have finished with the outside jobs in order to concentrate on something more spectacular and efficient – a brothel.

I switch on the bike lights and ride homeward, remembering how I used to look forward to time spent with my family. The bedroom curtains are closed, and no light shines, which is rather
symbolic, because my whole life has become dark, no sun, no moon, no stars. I don’t pray any more, not since I begged Jesus to come back and talk to me. Even Judas would do, because
he’d be familiar with my dilemma.

After putting my bike away, I go inside and look for the meal she always leaves for me. She’s been baking. My portion of steak pie in suet pastry is on a plate with vegetables, gravy and
baby potatoes. Her cooking is mouth-wateringly good. I set the pan to boil, put the plate covered by the pan lid over the bubbling water, and read the newspaper while my dinner heats up. It smells
wrong; perhaps it’s my imagination.

It isn’t my imagination. Laura loves kidney, as do Matt and Lucy. Me? I can’t stand the stuff, and she knows it, which is why she’s always made pies containing just steak. Is
this her not-so-subtle way of telling me to leave or to make my own dinners? I feel a shift under my feet, as if the planet is re-aligning itself, a bit like an earthquake so tiny that it
wouldn’t register on any scale. My world is changing, and there’s no turning back.

Boss was hopping mad, literally. Normally, he sat in his chair, far too chilled and laid back to stand, but he was upright, furious and shifting his body weight from one foot
to the other. ‘Who let him near the white room?’ he roared. ‘After all I’ve said about keeping to your own side of the business. Well?’ He waited.

Nobody offered a reply.

‘Who brewed it? Who injected him?’

Silence continued to reign.

‘Because he was never a user. Whoever gave him the shot is used to a big dose of heroin, but he wasn’t used to any, and he got too much. He grew a crop of decent cannabis,
that’s all. More by luck than good management, that lad produced top whack stuff, and I want to know which of you bastards killed him and what you intend to do with the body, because I am not
taking the rap for this.’

No answer arrived.

‘Right,’ he said, ‘if it wasn’t somebody, it was everybody. I’m not talking about people working the grass, but yous lot on the white stuff had better get busy,
because you’ll be grafting tonight to make up for time lost today while you bury the boy.’ Too furious to stay, he stalked out of the office. Roy Foley was dead, and his friend, Bill
Tyler, would want to see him in the not too distant future.

Boss walked back to the cottage, his mind working at about ninety miles an hour. The grass people would carry on in the left side of the barn, but the white team had a grisly job to manage. Damn
them. He didn’t mind them using a bit of ‘wastage’, but injecting and overdosing a new worker from the cannabis side was . . . well, it was murder. ‘Bloody months I took
finding and developing this place, and what do I get? A dead boy, that’s what.’ He lit a cigar.

Bill Tyler. What the hell am I supposed to say to him? He’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he’s not exactly backward, and he was a close pal of the dead boy. ‘Shit
and derision,’ he cursed before pouring himself a double Scotch. ‘I’ll have to move again, take the whole shebang to another isolated place.’ Isolated places took some
finding, but there was no alternative. They couldn’t stay here. The only one left behind would be poor Roy Foley . . .

‘He won’t come out. He won’t do anything he’s told.’

Eve held the phone away from her ear. For an old man with a bad heart, Don Crawford was a blast when it came to injuring eardrums. She spoke to him quietly. ‘I’ll be there tomorrow
with your girls, Don.’

‘Gordy needs Babs now. Murdoch’s been sulking ever since she left, and he’s stuck in the stable with Nicholas Nye. We can’t even muck them out.’

‘Who’s Nicholas? Bloody room service? Don, I’m up to me eyes here, up past the eyebrows, actually. I’ve two new girls training, Belle’s not back, I’m hanging
on to Angela Whiplash by the skin of my teeth, and it’s Friday. This is one of our busiest nights, and it’s your damned horse, nothing to do with me.’

‘He’s his best friend,’ Don said, sounding rather choked.

Eve, feeling lost, glanced at her watch; she had to do her first run in ten minutes. ‘Who’s whose best friend?’

Don was clearly losing his temper. ‘Nicholas Nye’s Murdoch’s best friend. He’s a blind donkey. They’re inseparable.’

Eve tried hard not to seethe; she felt like a pressure cooker about to blow its top in a big way. She still had her curlers in, the books weren’t balancing due to an oversight relating to
a greengrocery order, the electricity bill had arrived, Babs and Sally, supposed to be helping the new girls, were lolling about in love all over the place . . . ‘Don, I have to
go.’

‘But—’

‘I’m going, Don.’

‘And I’m coming to get my girls.’

‘You can’t. They’re educating their replacements.’ She slammed down the receiver and began dragging out her curlers. The phone rang again, but she ignored it. Let the old
bugger stew – he’d had enough out of her lately. Her two new girls were nowhere near as pretty as Babs and Sally, so she was in danger of losing business.