The Ladykiller (16 page)

‘I heard that, Lily! I may be old but I’m not deaf!’

Nancy’s voice seemed to drill through the wooden kitchen door.

Elaine put her hand over her mouth to stifle a high laugh.

‘She has ears like an elephant, Elaine, you don’t know what it’s like.’

‘I can imagine, thank you very much, and before you ask the answer’s no. Both George and I work and she can’t be left on her own all day.’

Lily sighed.

It was worth a try, even if you already knew the answer.

In the lounge George and Joseph had set their mother on the settee, packing cushions all around her.

‘Joseph, you go back to your dinner. I want to speak to George in private.’

Joseph left the room as quickly as possible. He was nearly sixty years old. He had his own prosperous business. Yet his mother could reduce him to an eight year old in a few sentences. When Joseph left, Nancy patted a tiny expanse of seat beside her.

‘Sit with your mama, Georgie boy.’

He sat beside her warily.

Nancy looked into her son’s face for a few moments.

‘The years haven’t been kind to you, my boy, have they? No. You know this yourself.’

George could smell her perfume. It was lily of the valley. The scent brought back his childhood. The terraced house in Bow, the war, his father’s death, his mother’s endless stream of men friends. His ‘uncles’ as he had had to call them. George could not remember his father and knew that there was something not right about his death.

After the war his mother had packed up what was left of their home and moved them all to East Ham where she had made a niche for herself.

Nancy Markham had been a formidable person all her life. She ruled her children. When she said do something, you did it or took the consequences. Like Edith’s baby. She had wanted to keep the child. It had broken her heart when she had had to give him up. But, as always, Mother knew best.

Nancy was still talking, her voice low and caressing as she enumerated every failure in his life.

George knew that his mother did not like him, though she swore that she loved him. As he watched her ruby red lips opening and shutting he had a vision of himself getting up from the settee, going out to the hall and getting his Swiss army knife from beneath the floorboards in the hall cupboard. He could see the fear in his mother’s face as she realised that he was going to plunge it into her fat body. Over and over again. Slashing and ripping at her fat breasts and overhanging stomach . . .

‘George boy, you’re sweating! Are you feeling all right?’

He smiled at her. His secret smile. ‘Yes, Mother, I’m fine. Absolutely fine. Never felt better, in fact.’

For the first time ever, Nancy Markham felt as if her son had the upper hand. And like Elaine before her, she didn’t like it one bit.

Patrick Kelly sat at his daughter’s bedside in Grantley Hospital. The bruising on her face was beginning to fade, but still she lay in a deep coma. The doctors had opened a little window in her skull because her brain had swollen so much they had to relieve the pressure on it.

He held on to her hand. Christmas had no meaning for him now. The big dinner he had planned, and the present giving, were all far from his mind.

Earlier in the day he had attended Mass in the hospital chapel. It was the first time in over twenty years. He’d prayed to God to save his daughter. Make her be as she was before she was attacked. Even as he prayed he knew he was a hypocrite.

While he sat in the chapel, paid muscle was looking for the perpetrator of the horrific deed. He gritted his teeth.

If it took him the rest of his life and every penny of his considerable fortune, he would find the bastard. And when he did, when he confronted him, he would exact his payment, which was death. A long slow death.

Putting Mandy’s hand to his mouth, he kissed it softly.

Chapter Seven

Christmas 1948

George lay in bed staring up at the ceiling. He pulled the blankets over his shoulders and rubbed his frozen ears with his hands, breathing into his palms every so often to warm them. His whole body was numb with cold. The sash windows had iced up inside, reflecting weird murals on the walls with the breaking dawn. He poked his head out of the blankets once more as he heard a noise from his mother’s room. He let his breath out slowly, carefully, watching it spiral like cigarette smoke in the cold dimness. He strained his ears to listen. Nothing. Gradually he relaxed. Then he heard the dull thud of footsteps on the linoleum. He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could. Maybe it was Mother going to the toilet? Or Edith? But the footsteps stopped outside his door.

He hunched himself lower down in the bed. The inadequate bedding barely covered him - one sheet, one blanket, and an old overcoat.

He closed his eyes and tried to feign unconsciousness, his mouth quivering with apprehension. He listened as the door creaked open slowly and someone came into the room. George’s nose quivered as he smelt the heavy mustiness of the man. It was a mixture of sweat and beer. He was terrified. The man moved towards the bed purposefully, treading only on the boards he knew would not creak.

‘Georgie? You awake?’

The child lay there unmoving. His heart was beating so loud and fast surely the man could hear it?

He closed his eyes even tighter, then felt the warm breath on his neck. George’s head was tucked beneath the blanket and overcoat, and he instinctively brought his knees up to his chest until he was in a foetal position.

A large warm hand entered the bed and George felt the roughness of the skin as it began slowly to caress his buttocks. Then the bed was sinking with the weight of the man, and against his will the child was rolling into his heavy stomach.

At least he was warm.

Then the blankets were pulled over both their heads and George was being dragged down, down, into the fantasy world that was his only escape from this life.

Later the man crept from the bed, and George could finally sleep the sleep of the exhausted. His eyelashes still glistening with the silent tears, he lay there in the warm space the man vacated.

He slept then.

Bert Higgins slipped back into bed with Nancy Markham and was just settling himself when she spoke.

‘How was Georgie tonight, Bert?’

He froze beside her.

‘Oh, I know all about your little visits to him in the middle of the night.’

Nancy was enjoying the fear she was creating. She finally had something over him and she liked that. She liked that very much.

She laughed derisively.

‘I can just imagine what your friends would say if they knew you liked little boys, Bert.’

He turned over in bed and grabbed her throat with an iron hand.

‘What you going to do about it, Nance?’

She laughed again, no trace of fear in her voice.

‘Who, me? I’m not going to do anything, Bert. You know me - each to his own. The only thing I want from you is more money.’

Bert let go of her and lit the candle by the bed. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling.

‘You mean . . . you’re not going to stop me?’

His voice was incredulous.

‘Why should I? Providing we can come to a financial arrangement, I’m not bothered about it.’

Bert smiled in the candlelight.

‘You’d do anything for money, wouldn’t you?’

Nancy lit a cigarette and blew the smoke out. Then she turned to him full on.

‘That’s about the strength of it, yes.’

‘Fair enough then, Nance. How much?’

‘An extra fiver a week should do it.’

Bert considered this for a few minutes.

‘I can go to three quid.’

‘It’s five or the deal’s off.’

‘All right then. But what about us?’

Nancy stubbed out her cigarette, then blew out the candle.

‘Us? We carry on as usual. Good night.’

‘Good night, Nancy.’

She was asleep in minutes. Bert, though, lay awake for a while pondering the situation. Nancy Markham had sold her son to him for a measly five pounds a week.

George came home to find Bert slumped on the settee, snoring loudly. When Bert turned over on the settee to make himself more comfortable, George smiled to himself. A little smile that barely showed his teeth.

He could smell the alcohol fumes with every breath Bert took and guessed, rightly, that he had passed out at some point in the evening. That’s why his mother had left him there.

George walked closer and stared down at the man. He had spilt a glass of whisky over himself. The smell was strong and the glass still beside him. It was trapped between his body and the back of the settee.

George picked up the bottle of Black and White whisky and gently poured the last of it along the back of the settee. He was feeling acutely excited.

He placed the bottle back on the table and then picked up a box of matches. With shaking hands, he lit one. He stood watching the burning match in fascination until it got down to his fingertips. Then the burning sensation made him throw it from him. He watched, sucking his finger, as it ignited the whisky. In the semi-darkness he saw a tiny blue flame slowly lick its way along the back of the settee, gathering momentum as it went. A sticky burning smell emanated from it. George watched as Bert, still snoring heavily, began to breathe in the black smoke.

It wasn’t until Bert’s clothes caught fire that George felt a shiver of apprehension. He watched as the trouser material began to curl up and melt, his excitement growing stronger as Bert did nothing to help himself.

Then all at once the settee was a fireball. It just seemed to burst into big red and yellow flames that snaked over the arms and on to the floor.

George stepped back towards the door, the heat from the flames touching his aching face.

Then he heard an almighty roar. The flames were standing up and coming towards him.

He backed out quickly into the hallway, his woollen socks making him slip and slide in his haste. The terrible agonising roar came from the flames again. The man was stumbling round the room in panic. George saw Bert grab the brocade curtains and watched in fascination as the flames began to creep up them as well. Suddenly, everywhere was pandemonium. Edith was behind him and her screams brought George back to himself. He watched as she pulled the tablecloth off the kitchen table and ran back into the front room and tried to put out the flames on Bert with it. He was lying on the floor and Edith was patting at the flames.

‘Go and get some help, George, for goodness’ sake. Hurry UP!’

He snapped into action and collided with Joseph who came careering down the stairs at the noise.

‘Bloody hell!’ Joseph’s voice was incredulous.

Then he was out of the front door and running up the garden path in his pyjamas. George turned back to the scene in the front room.

Edith’s nightdress was burning, the hem was beginning to glow blue, and he ran into the room and pulled on his sister’s arm.

‘Your nightie! Edie, your nightie!’ She allowed him to stamp it out with his woollen socks.

‘What the hell’s going on here?’

Nancy’s voice was loud. She stood in the doorway blinking rapidly.

The room was blazing now and Edith pushed George towards the door.

‘Mum . . . help me pull him outside. For God’s sake, the whole place is gonna go up.’

Nancy threw George out of the front door. He stood in the rain, his feet beginning to freeze, while Nancy and Edith dragged Bert’s bulk from the house. Thick black smoke was coming from the front door and the smell of burning was everywhere. Little flakes of grey ash were trying to rise up with the smoke but the rain was forcing them down on to the pavement and eventually into the sewers.

Lights were now on all over the little cul-de-sac and people were coming from their houses in fear and excitement. George felt Mrs Marshall put a heavy coat around his shoulders and pull him from the garden. Her slender arms were gentle as she propelled him towards her own house. He watched the proceedings from her lovely warm front room. He stared out of the lead light window and across the road with a feeling of unreality.

The clamour of the fire engines made him start. The firemen were clearing everyone away from the burning house. Bert was taken from the garden on a stretcher, a blanket covering his face.

George was elated. Bert was dead. He was dead. Bert Higgins was dead. He turned to Mrs Marshall and she mistook the light in the boy’s eyes for unshed tears. She pulled him into her sweet-smelling embrace and kissed the top of his head gently.

‘Poor little mite, aren’t you?’

He had never felt so powerful. He had rid the world of Bert Higgins.

Mrs Marshall put him from her and looked into his face. ‘Shall I make you some nice sweet tea?’ She placed him gently on her settee and went out to her kitchen.

Joseph walked into the room and sat beside George. His face was ashen.

‘Mum’s gone to the hospital with Bert. Edith’s gone with her. We’re to stay here until they come back.’

George slipped his hand into his brother’s, and Joseph squeezed it tightly.

‘Mrs Marshall’s making some tea, Joseph, do you want some?’

The next day George and Joseph raked through the ruined house. They managed to salvage quite a bit of stuff and piled it carefully in the front garden. Edith and Nancy came home from the hospital in the afternoon.

Nancy went straight into Mrs Marshall’s, Edith came for the boys.

‘Bert’s dead. Mum was sedated and I had to stay there with her. Are you two all right?’

‘Where are we going to go?’

Edith shrugged.

‘I don’t know. But don’t worry, things will turn out all right, they always do somehow.’ Her voice was tired and George felt a great sadness for her.

‘Mrs Marshall made us eggs and bacon this morning. She might make you some if you ask her nicely.’

Edith smiled at him wanly.

‘I’m not very hungry.’

George shrugged and resumed his searching.

‘Do they know how the fire started, Edie?’