Bert swallowed, tasted bile. ‘Nowt to do with me,’ he managed. ‘And you’d best be off, ’cos Gert’ll be here in a minute.’
Tom straightened, sat down, smoothed the creases in his trousers. ‘Then I shall have a word with Gert,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Perhaps she can throw light on the subject, just as you threw an incendiary of some sort into Heilberg’s on Wigan Road.’ He paused, waited for an answer, received none. ‘Were you blackmailed?’
Bert shivered, though the ward was overheated. ‘Look here,’ he said softly. ‘I’m getting cut open tomorrow. Haven’t I enough on with doctors poking about me insides? I don’t need no more bother than I’ve already got. Like I said before, that fire were now(??? check m/s p.241)l to do with me. I were in the pub. In fact, I might have been in the lav, ’cos I’d started being bad with me ulcers. So just leave me alone. I could be dead tomorrow.’
Tom nodded his agreement. ‘So might we all, old chap. In fact, my fiancée is lucky to be alive. Maureen Mason. Do you know her?’
Bert closed his mouth and set it in a tight, thin line.
‘She worked in that shop. She’s an Irish lady with a very pretty face. Fortunately for Worthington, her beauty is still intact, though her fingers will be painful for a while and her hair had to be cut short.’
Bert’s eyes lit up for a split second. ‘She’s all right, then?’
Tom nodded. ‘No further, Bert. You have my word as a gentleman that you will not be prosecuted. I know you did it. You know you did it. And we both know the name of the real perpetrator.’
Bert wasn’t very well up on fancy words, but he got the drift, looked over Tom’s shoulder and saw the time on the clock, was anxious because Gert would appear at any moment. ‘I were under pressure,’ he said softly. ‘He had one or two things on me, see. I’d . . . I’d took a few things as wasn’t strictly mine. He said he’d get the bobbies.’
‘So you set fire to a shop.’
The man in the bed nodded. ‘Aye, but I didn’t know she were there. That shop were a lock-up. It were closed come six o’clock every night. I got a shock when I saw her.’ He gulped painfully. ‘I caught sight of her just as I let fly with the bottle of paraffin. It were one of the worst moments in my whole life. Any road, she didn’t recognize me, else she’d have said.’
‘So you thought you’d got away with it, I suppose.’ Tom took a deep breath, tried to unclench his fists, but the fingers that had tightened instinctively refused to relax. ‘Worthington paid you.’ This was not a question.
‘Aye.’
‘Why?’
Bert licked dry lips, wished with all his heart that the man and the pain would both go away. ‘The land. I suppose if the Heilbergs got ruined, they’d sell their bit of Paradise.’
‘And Sally? Is Worthington paying you to take Sally away from her grandmother?’
Several moments elapsed before Bert spoke. ‘I’ve told you what you wanted to know. As for owt else, you said you’d be a gentleman. So be a gentleman and get the hell out of this bloody hospital before Gert turns up.’
Tom picked up his hat, found himself crushing that, too. ‘I trust that you will get well, Mr Simpson,’ he said before leaving the ward.
In the corridor, he saw Gert tottering along in ridiculous shoes with high wedges and strappy uppers out of which stuck hammer-toes with crimson nails. Behind her walked the mill owner. Gert stopped, said hello, stumbled towards Bert with a bag of green grapes clutched to her ample breast.
‘Lord Goodfellow.’ Worthington bowed with a flourish. ‘Been visiting?’
‘Yes.’
‘Bert Simpson?’
A small silence was laden with so much energy that it seemed to crackle in the air between them, like electricity looking anxiously for an earth. ‘Indeed,’ replied Tom at last.
Worthington leaned against the wall in an effort to retain his balance. He’d been knocked sideways more than once today. He crossed his feet, tried to make the stance casual. ‘Lying bugger, that one,’ he muttered. ‘Don’t know why I took him on.’
‘Quite.’
There was something in Goodfellow’s eyes, a look that screamed his adversary’s infamy. Worthington pulled himself upright, went into the ward. The floozie was hanging over Simpson’s bed, was stroking the man’s waxy face. Worthington tapped her on the shoulder, inhaled the stink of California Poppy. ‘Go and find the sister,’ he advised gently. ‘Ask about the operation. You need to know exactly what is going to be done to Bert tomorrow.’
Gert clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Ooh, you’re right, Mr Worthington. I never thought of that—’
‘Hang on,’ begged Bert, dreading the thought of being left alone with the boss. ‘They’ve told me.’ He lifted his pyjama top. ‘I’ll be cut here, then they’ll get rid of me ulcers and patch me stomach up after.’
Worthington shook his head. ‘Sounds like mending a puncture,’ he commented. ‘I think Gert should ask all the same.’
‘I will.’ She rose, swayed till she got her balance, then minced off towards the office.
‘Well?’ asked Worthington.
‘Well what?’
‘His Lorship is what. Why did he come?’
Bert shrugged. ‘To see if I were all right.’
‘Nothing else?’
Bert was fed up to the back teeth. On the following morning, he would be going down to theatre without even a cup of tea and a ciggy for breakfast. If he survived all the messing, he’d be weeks on just drinks and bits of rice pudding and suchlike. And here stood Worthington with a face like a stopped clock, the bulging eyes looking like a pair of cuckoos ready to jump out on wires and scream the time. ‘Nowt else.’
‘Did he ask about the fire?’
Bert closed his eyes, shook his head slowly. ‘He said as how he’d got engaged to that woman in the shop, her as got burnt.’ A sudden brainwave overtook the pain. He opened his eyes. ‘He’d come for dressings for her hands, he said. Burn cream and stuff, remembered I were still in here. So he dropped by.’
‘That had better be the truth, Simpson.’
Simpson suddenly failed to care. He fixed his eyes on his employer and landlord. ‘Will you please go away? I’m ill. I’ll see you when I get out of here.’
The mill owner turned on his heel and walked out of the ward. He didn’t trust Bert, but there was no more he could do.
She didn’t like him, didn’t want to be near him. There was a terrible anger simmering just beneath his skin; she could see veins throbbing and swelling in his neck, while his breathing had become fast and shallow, as if he were starved of oxygen after a long run. ‘I can come early tomorrow instead, Mr Worthington. Six o’clock, I’ll clean up the dining room and—’
‘Get it done now.’ He swung the nose of the car into the driveway of Worthington House, shivered slightly when he faced the blank, empty eyes of the place he called home. Although he hated himself for it, he knew that he was missing Prudence. He didn’t miss who she was, didn’t care if he never saw the blasted woman again. But she’d been there, always.
Gert’s feelings were similar to her employer’s. She didn’t want to go inside that place. It was an unattractive house with big, squared bays and a solid door that didn’t seem to want visitors. Everything was brown. Brown window frames, brown door, brown curtains. Even the plants in the garden hadn’t managed a true green. They were a sort of khaki, she supposed. A browny-green. ‘I don’t feel well,’ she told him.
He got out of the car, strode to the porch, opened the door.
There was no escaping him, she decided. She would have to go in and clean the blinking room so that he might leave her in peace. The idea of homelessness and unemployment held no appeal. With reluctance illustrated in every step, she walked through the hall and into the dining room. He had thrown his meal at the wall. His chair, too, had been tossed aside. Gert righted this item, began to scrape salad off the floor.
Worthington watched her from the doorway. She didn’t look so bad now. When she bent to retrieve the radish, he glimpsed a stocking top and the fastener on a suspender. The skin above the nylon was surprisingly supple and inviting. What would it matter? he asked himself. Who would miss another little slice off a cut loaf?
She piled the mess onto his plate, walked towards him, almost dropped the crockery when she saw the bulky man blocking the doorway. ‘I’ll get a cloth,’ she murmured.
He grinned, though there was nothing pleasant in the expression. ‘Would you like to earn a little bit extra?’ he asked.
Gert swallowed. ‘No, I’m satisfied, ta.’
‘I’m not. It’s a while since I’ve been satisfied. A cold bitch, my wife. Didn’t like anything that wasn’t strictly kosher, if you get my drift. No imagination, no style.’
She looked directly into the ugly, dome-shaped eyes, noticed that they were almost black, as if the pupils had swollen and swallowed up surrounding irises. If he touched her, she would die. She hadn’t taken after their Lottie. Liking a good time and the odd drink was one thing, but adultery was another matter altogether. Her Bert wasn’t much, but he was hers exclusively. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,’ she said carefully. ‘I want to get home. My husband’s having a big operation in the morning.’
He reached out and ran a finger along her arm, chuckled when she shivered. ‘Just this once,’ he whispered. ‘And I’ll pay you well.’
‘I don’t want money.’
‘I see.’ A huge hand enveloped her left breast, crushed the flesh until she almost screamed. ‘You’ll do as you’re told, Gertrude,’ he muttered. ‘Because I’m on your side.’
As red-hot needles of pain stung the twisted nipple, she brought up the plate and smashed it into his nose. Blood spurted everywhere, splashed on her blouse, on her face. The metallic smell of his life fluid sickened her, almost made her heave.
With a roar of pain, he hit her across the head, causing her to smash into the edge of the open door. As she slithered to the floor, he used his handkerchief to staunch the flow from his nose, employed his foot to keep her still.
Gert lay half-conscious beneath the huge black shoe, decided that she must remain alive. To remain alive, she would need to be compliant. Through a haze, she watched while he mopped his nose, while he knelt beside her, while he tore off her clothes. Alive. She must stay alive. The things he did weren’t right, weren’t normal. She was turned this way and that while he used her body, while he defiled her. To stay sane, she shepherded together her remaining faculties to chant nursery rhymes in her head. A friend of hers had done that during labour, had said that the little songs had helped to overcome the agony. But Gert couldn’t shout the words; she could only think them. When he threw her face down on the dining table and performed more unspeakable acts, she went through the words of Little Bo Peep and wondered whether death might have been the easier option.
At last, he was spent. He dragged himself away from her and blundered out of the room. On the way upstairs, he stumbled, fell down to the hall, began the climb all over again. She didn’t matter. She was a woman of no importance and, like all the rest of her kind, she would keep quiet.
Gert slid to the floor, was suddenly alert. A terrible agony racked her lower body and she saw spots of blood on the carpet. Whose blood was this? she wondered. When she attempted to stand, she knew that the blood was hers, heard it dropping softly and steadily onto the Persian rug. He had ripped her open, had pleasured himself in parts of her body that should have remained intact for life. She could taste him, smell him, feel him inside her. There were no tears, because she was beyond such luxuries.
Her cheap, garish garments were torn, but she managed to cover herself. The shoes would be beyond her. Even when she was at her best, these wedges were a bit on the high side. No matter – she would get home barefoot if necessary.
‘Here’s your money.’ He tossed a handful of coins and notes across the room.
She jumped, wondered how such a big man had come downstairs without making a sound, then noticed that he had removed his shoes. ‘I don’t want it,’ she mumbled.
‘That’s up to you,’ he barked. ‘Clean up, get washed, then get out of here. One word out of you and I’ll deny everything.’
Even now, she looked at him steadily. No wonder Mrs Worthington had taken herself off into another room then off into another place altogether. The man was sick, out of order. ‘I won’t be back,’ she informed him. ‘And neither will my Bert.’
‘Then you can clear out of that house,’ he bellowed. ‘And I hope your damn fool of a man can find a job he’s capable of doing.’
Gert picked up her bag and shoes. ‘One day,’ she announced clearly. ‘One day, somebody will do you in. And don’t think about denying what’s gone on here, ’cos a load of folk will have seen you leaving the hospital with me. You’re a dead man. As for that mucky little house, you can shove it up somebody else’s privates – your own’ll do.’ He walked towards her, but she neither budged nor flinched. ‘Kill me and they’ll know it’s you. Mark me any more and I’ll be a bonny sight for the police.’
All his life, he had dreaded this moment. The young ones were the easiest but, these days, even they were feistier, less afraid. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled with difficulty. He had seldom apologized, found the words sticking to his tongue so that they came out softly. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’ He swallowed the rest of the lie. She wasn’t even young, wasn’t even pretty. He didn’t know why this had happened, though he remembered wanting to punish somebody, anybody, everybody. ‘Sorry,’ he repeated lamely.
‘Sorry? Does that stop me bleeding where I should never have been touched?’
He took a step back. ‘I’m on your side,’ he told her. ‘I was the one who got Lottie to write to you before she left. I was the one she sent for when Ivy Crumpsall’s cronies robbed her at Trinity Street Station. I got rid of your sister so that you could have a child.’ He sniffed. ‘Simpson could never give you one.’
Gert found herself counting beats of time before she spoke. ‘So you paid her to go?’
‘I gave her some money, yes.’
‘And to write asking me to fettle for Sally?’
He nodded.
‘You’d do anything to hurt Ivy Crumpsall, wouldn’t you? And the Heilbergs and all, come to that. Did you burn yon shop?’
He bared his teeth. ‘Ask your husband about that.’