4 Bones Sleeping (Small Town Trilogy) Read online

  Was this perfectly formed young woman was pregnant?

  Shirley whispered goodbye and left in a hurry. I stood up and took the short walk across to Wyn. The first thing that stood out, he wasn’t a drinker. He sipped a glass of orange juice. He’d tell anyone else that it had gin in it, but I watched him pour the orange into an empty glass. He smiled my way, gestured me into a seat and I asked him. ‘Do you ever take a drink?’

  Wyn frowned a touch, glanced up at me and smiled. ‘Not really – I prefer a good cup of coffee my boy. With Shirley around I need a clear head anyway.’

  I wondered if he wanted his sexual performance razor sharp or because she couldn’t be trusted, a bit of both probably. I wanted to ask him who the pregnant woman’s father was, instead my eyes went towards the piano, ‘Who’s the piano player?’

  A small woman, in Army uniform and playing like Theloneus Monk or more accurately, Jelly Roll Morton and she hit her stride with ‘Fickle Fay Creep’ Just my sort of music, perhaps she was looking to follow in Jelly Roll’s footsteps. After all he started his musical career playing in a brothel.

  Wyn opened the palms of his hands and shrugged. ‘She played here throughout the war – when she was on leave that is. I’ve been here two months and she comes in and plays, get her the occasional drink – doesn’t want paying. Good isn’t she?’

  Good? An understatement, ‘You should offer her a contract – you could be her manager as well.’

  Wyn’s glance back my way suggested Grandmother and sucking eggs. ‘Oh I’ve asked her – not interested. Only has eyes for my brother for some strange reason.’

  ‘Are you talking about me?’

  Harry, soon to be Harry the Ox, with his gigantic shoulders and bullet head. A distorted massiveness due to his height I guessed. I glanced up to the belligerent face set atop of them.

  Wyn said, ‘This is Jack’

  He placed two drinks on the table and rested his cigarette on the ash tray. I stood and he gripped my hand like a clamp.

  ‘That’s a powerful grip – is that full power?’ I stated the blindingly obvious in the hope that the vice of a hand would relax a touch.

  Harry frowned, ‘What sort of questions that Jack?’

  ‘I think it’s one of the easier ones.’

  He smiled and relaxed the grip and wandered back to the piano with two drinks in his right hand and a cigarette in the other.

  I inspected my fingers expecting dislocations in all four. Wyn laughed, ‘He’s still got time – all those years without proper food. We’ll get him fit and strong again and who knows? The trouble is no one wants to fight him.’

  I sipped the awful beer; no one wants to fight him, that could be no surprise. He moved like a tank, slow and predictable maybe. But he dished out the same punishment a Sherman tank would, once he caught his opponent that is. Armour plated, impervious to punches, he hit harder than an irritated donkey kicked. Harry used his elbows, forehead, thumbs – everything went his opponent’s way. He frightened me as I watched him smiling and chatting to the pianist. The bruised eyebrows and fat lip testament to his trade.

  Wyn’s soft voice brought me gently back, ‘I need some photographs – and a few lines. Who do you write for again?’ He looked disappointed when I reminded him. He raised his eyebrows a touch, beggars can’t be choosers. ‘What do you think?’

  I think that my editor wouldn’t want to be seen promoting some cheap little brothel in Soho. Unless one of the girls was on offer of course. I shook my head, ‘Not really – what’s different? What could sell it that sets it apart from the rest?’ I answered my own question, ‘Nothing except the piano player maybe.’

  Wyn smiled, ‘Oh yes the divine Peggy, how about this for a headline then. “War heroine plays for free. Mystery woman plays at the Swinging Spoon.” What do you think?’

  I smiled back at him, it might work. Wait until Friday night and the editor comes back from his usual three hours in the Old Bell in Feet Street. Did you hear about the war heroine playing jazz piano? The old editor’s red faced, leering presence might just give me a sympathetic hearing. If Wyn threw one of his attractive women into the equation then he’d get half a page.

  Wyn gazed my way, hopeful, eyebrows raised a touch. I wanted to ask him what regiment he was in and how come he was demobbed so quickly. I glanced around, taking in the girls and the business suits, all drinking heavily – group flirting progressing nicely. The smart appearance of the girls couldn’t disguise a collective hardness about them. Well behaved with just the right amount of communal submissiveness needed to keep the men interested. They had been well schooled that’s for sure.

  I’ve seen this sort of woman in other clubs, most of them wore a garish blouse and tight skirt. Many of them took on the appearance of a thirteen year old girl who had raided her mother’s make up. Lashed the foundation across their cheeks with a distemper brush and then used the same frenzied approach to the lipstick and eye shadow. It gave them the terrifying, expressionless appearance of a sociopath in high heels. I couldn’t see it myself, but in other clubs, the tired business men, dust covered builders and the occasional sharp suited banker seemed untroubled by a woman that appeared made up like a circus clown out on the prowl.

  These girls were much more understated, Wyn had gone upmarket that’s for sure.

  I said, ‘You did well to get all these girls organized so quickly.’

  Wyn balanced his cigar in the narrow edge of the ash tray. ‘Shirley sorted all of that out. Contacts – their all good girls as well. No drippers, all under twenty five and no deranged pimps to worry about either.’

  I wanted to smile at the oh so certain man sat opposite me. But I feared for his life and that of his brother. I didn’t show the same concern for his little tart, feeling deep down that Shirley would always survive anything thrown her way. Either Wyn had a naïve streak that I’d missed somehow, or he’d got plenty of muscle hidden away somewhere. But what I’d learned about this business, muscle had to be upfront. The potent threat omnipresent.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. No one’s ever bothered me with threats, no demands for protection.’ He picked his cigar up, played the lighter beneath and made the flame jump about as he lit up. ‘Of course I’ve also got the boy – You’ve seen him in action. Not that I’m expecting any, but Harry will nip any aggravation in the bud.’

  A burst of laughter from the table next to us, six business men mingled with the same number of women. To a woman, apparently in awe of the men, laughing at whatever they said.

  Oh you’re the funniest group of men we’ve had in – well for at least half an hour anyway.

  We both exchanged a smile, all that champagne – all those girls, all that money. Wyn’s self-belief was impressive, the world and his wife respected and believed in a self-confidant man – but.

  I said, ‘Do you know Teddy Lewis is out soon?’

  His expression hardly changed, just a small cloud passed across Wyn’s moon shaped face for a second or two, before the smile returned. ‘He might still be a young man, but he’s an old time crook – times are changing.’

  ‘It’s none of my business…’ I trailed off; Wyn must have known that Shirley was his constant companion at one time. I’d heard somewhere that Teddy even wanted to marry her.

  He read my mind. ‘They couldn’t have married, that would’ve been impossible.’ Wyn’s belief in that assertion total, he tipped his head a touch and leant my way. I felt confirmation of his earlier statement coming towards me. Wyn never disappointed, ‘She’s married, her husband’s just got back. Five years in a Polish prisoner of war camp. I think you’ve just met him.’ He smiled, then spread the palms of his hands as he said. ‘Complicated enough for you?’

  Complicated?

  I shook my head.

  I imagined her husband tagged, shaved from toe to head, de-loused, de-humanised. Stood in a line, hungry and shivering. While his wife…

  ‘Does he know?’

  ‘Does wh
o know?’ Wyn shrugged and smiled again, showed me the palms of his hands. ‘Her husband? Teddy Lewis? Do either of them know that she’s my companion? No to both I think.’

  Companion?

  I leant forward, opened my mouth, but thought better of saying anything. After all what business was it of mine? A pregnant companion. No, a pregnant mistress, a returning husband, a psychotic ex-boyfriend. I shook my head and we sat there. Wyn leant back staring around his fiefdom. One of us serene the other anxious, one of us wondering whether a returning husband or an avenging angel sweeping down from Wormwood Scrubs would wreak a violent revenge on this totally self-assured man. Wyn relit his cigar, smiled as he stared, calculating, forever calculating how much was in the till. Perhaps he should pay more attention to the woman, pregnant or not, I’d lay money on her being trouble.

  After all she’d hypnotised me from the minute I’d set eyes on her.

  Teddy - 1945

  ‘C’mon Teddy, time for a walk.’

  Teddy stared at them, both with truncheons in their right hands and frightened eyes looking his way. Wide eyed and if not ready for a fight, then expecting one at least. Teddy stood right in front of them and stared from one to the other. Not now, not another fight – out tomorrow. Another fight meant three more months. Teddy knew that this thought emboldened the guards too.

  ‘C’mon you cunt and let’s get going.’

  As they marched him down the corridor, the random prod in the ribs to help him on his way, ‘Move it. March c’mon – one two, one two.’

  Marched up to the door of the governor’s office, made him mark time on the spot, prods in the ribs again. ‘We never told you to stop.’

  ‘Come.’

  Into the governor’s office, up to the desk. ‘Stop – stand up straight.’

  Stare down at him, full faced, cheap suit – Teddy knew about sharp suits. Teddy mocked the suit sat in front of him. His heavy lips sneered away until the florid faced governor pulled the jacket together and coughed a couple of times.

  ‘Lewis.’ He sighed, a patient father administering a gentle word of advice to an errant son. ‘Lewis I think you know that you’ve not done yourself any favours.’ He sighed again, shook his head, picked his pipe up from the oversized ash tray and pushed the tobacco down with his thumb.

  Placed it in his mouth and …

  ‘Get the fuck on with it.’ Teddy stared down - the hard cold eyed, unrelenting gaze that unnerved most and caused the pipe smoker to squirm a touch in his seat.

  From behind him, ‘Shut your mouth Lewis.’

  The governor raised his hand, calm everyone. ‘You’re out tomorrow – another outburst and I could give you an extra week for your troubles – you’re nothing but a menace. I think ….’

  Teddy’s attention had gone, caught by the back page of the Express’s banner headline.

  ‘Welshman humiliates local boy.’

  Last night at the York Hall, Bethnal …

  ‘Lewis – Lewis.’

  Teddy couldn’t believe it – beaten by some sheep-shagging Welshman.

  ‘Fuck it.’ He said.

  ‘Lewis, you’ll be out tomorrow and good riddance.’ The governor lit his pipe, great big sucking sucks until he’d got something going that resembled an allotment fire in late September. Through the dense tobacco smoke, a voice filtered up towards Teddy. ‘Oh just take him away – get him out of my sight.’

  Teddy didn’t move, just stared out of the window, he noticed the sky and the powerful morning blue, the moon long gone in the west, along with the soft pink blush as the sun soared up on its late spring climb in the east. Irregular dark buildings contrasted harshly against the sky, the mist that bubbled up over the canal, long gone too. A warm day and he imagined the women in their print dresses. He never knew what to say to young women, they interested him like nothing else in his adolescent life.

  But they never liked him and it took Teddy a long time before he got to find out what they wore under their cotton dresses The rattle of a train wrestled for his attention, that and the bell of a racing police car.

  Teddy stared on, thinking of her blonde hair and dancers legs. He brought his gaze back to the governor’s newspaper and stared down at the picture of a boxer, his arm around a well-dressed man that could no one else but his brother. One bruised and blood stained the other like he was straight out of Burton’s window.

  Teddy gazed at the boxer and compressed his eyebrows – he’s too short to be a fighter surely?

  4

  Jack - 1980

  ‘You get a favour thrown your way, I expect…’ Inspector Mably’s voice trailed off and he walked away from me at the same time.

  ‘I’ll get rid of him.’ Spoken to a man that wasn’t listening. I turned and walked towards the builders. Old drinking companions all of them. Although, to a man they wouldn’t look at me. I went up to Stuart first, I said nothing. Just shook my head at him. My admonishment would have to come later.

  He just smiled at me, naughty schoolboy; again.

  I turned to the builders. They had a communal strength about them, only one of the group had heavy shoulders, all three had hands like gravel, bare knuckle prize-fighters hands. A granite solidarity about them – they were a handful. Cold eyed, never polite and a collective look bounced towards me.

  Don’t get too close

  They should come with a health warning.

  ‘See anything?’

  I said this to Stopcock Arthur, probably the most superstitious man on the planet. He finally dragged his coruscating blue eyes my way. His face blistered red brown after a lifetime working outside.

  He pointed and whispered. ‘Just jumped out head first – six feet away from me.’ His eyebrows saucered wide open as if to confirm his next few words, ‘Can’t believe it.’

  Arthur rolled his substantial shoulders, the hawk nose pointed my way like a road sign and his mouth froze open like a disbelieving man-hole cover. We stared at each other until Arthur closed ranks and took his unblinking gaze in the same direction as his two colleagues.

  I moved around the builder’s self-imposed wall, getting into Tommy Doyle’s eye line. Tommy was Stuart’s father-in-law and an uneasy truce had always existed between the two. Tommy had said it enough times to his errant son-in-law. Hurt my daughter you bastard and you’ll get a fucking half brick across your thick head.

  I smiled and despite the fact that I’d know these men for over thirty years, I never expected much joy. Tommy, cold eyed, white cheeked and unshaven, with tired, tired eyes. Almost fifty five now, thickening around the waist a little, but still the boyish expression and the fearless appearance.

  Bleak and silent he tried to light a cigarette, his breathing shallow, he stood waiting, staring like a condemned man who’d just finished his last breakfast. A man of moods, at the same time he could be melancholic, stubborn, violent and funny. Now his lighter shook randomly around a quivering cigarette, a fraught encounter as he wrestled the shakes in a bid to light up.

  After a long Saturday night boozing, his hands often shook on a Sunday morning. He’d walk blinking into the pub; find a spare table, read his Sunday Mirror and smoke. A glass of Irish and a pint close by as he snorted the cigarette smoke and watched as it climbed like the pernicious column it was, until it met up with the nicotine coloured ceiling … a meeting of minds somehow. And now, with Tommy’s face as closed as the tightest of vaults, I turned to the youngest of the three. A close friend of Stuart’s but it counted for nothing as the invisible wall came between us and I was on the outside, frozen out on a freezing day.

  I stared at the younger man, Patrick the Hod, with his pugnacious frown and thick, dark blonde hair. He still wore it cut too long, thirty one and not married. Local hard man, slight framed but don’t let that fool you. A hod carrier since he was fifteen, a man of few words and many girlfriends.

  Nothing from him either.

  I sighed and tried the collective approach, ‘Were you all up the scaffolding at
the time?’

  Just like the truth, a lie makes no noise, but silence often screams like a wailing Tom cat sat staring at the full moon. The traffic slid past, a backdrop like a round of polite applause. The three smoked and stared and occasionally stamped cold feet.

  I said it again, ‘Were you up the scaffolding when it happened?’

  Tommy spat an answer my way. ‘Arthur and me were working.’ He nodded up towards the highest level of scaffolding and then pointed at Patrick. ‘You better ask that cunt what he was doing, whatever it was it wasn’t work.’

  Patrick stared at Tommy as if some Fenian brotherhood’s darkest secret had somehow been blurted out to the world in general. The silence screamed again. I gave up and walked back to the gate in the wall, perhaps Stuart would have more luck on his own?

  Mably noticed me approach and turned his back towards me.

  I felt a period of penance coming my way. Stuart was impulsive and he had his father’s temper; an interesting cocktail. Now he had damaged a carefully cultivated relationship.

  I crept back under the tape. The impact was close to the school kitchen. The smell of frying onions and plates being rattled, shouts and curses coming through the air vents of the kitchen. They were in a world of their own, kitchen staff, oblivious to the outside world and the chaos ensuing ten feet away from them.

  ‘That’s close enough sniffer.’

  The policeman both chortled away, as I felt my chest tighten, resenting the soubriquet and the accompanying intimation that I was only a journalist who only ever reported on village whist drives, funerals and the odd shoplifter in Woolworths. All too true I’m afraid. I was touchy about taking the easy life above hard journalism, three decent stories in thirty five years.

  I shrugged and stared at the body.

  The air compressed out of my lips like exhausting air brakes and I felt my eyebrows stretch skywards.

  Why didn’t I recognise her a few minutes ago?

  It was the girl in the Chinese restaurant a few weeks ago. I was convinced of it and what a painful night that turned out to be.