Sally again. Lottie’s brat was going to end up running the Paradise Mill. ‘Thanks,’ said Worthington tersely. ‘I’ll go and wait at my sister’s house.’
Back in Paradise Lane, Worthington watched the caretaker dashing off to pay his last respects to an old woman who hadn’t mattered. She’d assaulted Worthington once, had driven a posser into his belly. And her husband had stuck a pitchfork in his back.
Revenge. He ambled down Worthington Street towards Wigan Road, realized that he was virtually helpless. For a start, he was on his own. Bert Simpson hadn’t been up to much, but he had been there. And this whole thing was just too big to cope with. He’d no money to speak of, no means of punishing the Jew or Tom Marchant. But Ivy Crumpsall . . .
He stood on Wigan Road at the bottom of Spencer Street, watched the funeral procession as it came to order outside the chapel. Prudence. There she stood in new clothes, her figure trim, her housekeeper by her side. The Crumpsall woman was in a wheelchair. The wheelchair was being pushed into line by Gert Simpson. Another widow, he thought. Still, that was no great loss, because Bert Simpson had been a stranger to work, had shown a marked distaste for anything involving physical movement.
A woman left the crowd, ran down the street towards Wigan Road. Worthington stepped back, but not before she had looked straight into his eyes. After a small beat of time marked by a straining heart, he returned to normal. She hadn’t recognized him, because he hadn’t known her. And he had changed so radically that no-one could possibly identify him through old newspaper photographs.
Irene Lever slipped into the chemist shop and bought a packet of Fisherman’s Friends. A ticklish cough had troubled her right through the service, and she didn’t want to stand hacking over Mrs Blunt’s grave.
‘Here you are,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘Miss Lever?’
‘Oh.’ She pulled out of her reverie, paid for the pastilles and left the shop. Only once had she met a man with eyes as markedly cold and cruel as those in the face of that stranger. The unknown newcomer had backed away, too, had looked uneasy, almost guilty. No, she told herself firmly. That had been no more than a common courtesy or a mark of respect at the sight of the cortège.
She crossed the road, saw no sign of the man. Slowly, she walked up Spencer Street and joined the others. As they set off towards the cemetery, Irene Lever remembered. Basher Bates’s eyes had been wicked, especially on that fateful day when she had snapped his cane and left teaching for ever. The eyes of the man on Wigan Road had been similar to Basher Bates’s . . .
But there was a funeral to attend, so she put away her ridiculous thoughts and concentrated on saying a final farewell to Rosie Blunt.
Victor had turned out to be decent after all. Cora Miles was glad that she’d kept her opinion of him to herself over the years. She watched him now with his wife and son, noticed how he looked after Margaret West-as-was, how he handed round sandwiches and made sure that everyone’s cup or glass was full. ‘He’s a credit to you, Prudence.’ After many years, her employer’s Christian name had begun to slip out easily. ‘That’s a good lad.’
Prudence smiled, nodded her agreement. ‘And Margaret’s pleasant once you get used to her.’ She pondered for a moment. ‘I used to worry in case . . . in case Victor turned out like his father.’
Cora shivered. The thought of a second Andrew Worthington was not one that sat happily in her imagination, though she had, for a long time, expected to see such a creature evolving in Victor. But he was, at last, a good lad.
Prudence sat with her hands in her lap. She was remembering. All those years when she had stayed in Worthington House, her lips tightly sealed, her bedroom door tightly bolted. Then the day when the chrysalis had finally split . . . Her mouth twitched as she recalled bursting in on the Heilbergs – ‘He is so near,’ she had insisted. ‘So near and so dangerous.’ Suddenly, she shivered, as if a draught had entered the hall. But no, the place was warm, made hotter by the existence of a couple of hundred occupants who talked, ate, drank, moved about to form different groups. In fact, the room was quite stuffy.
She shuddered once more. That coldness had come from inside herself. The pores on her arms had opened to make all the downy hairs stand proud. But she dismissed the mood, told herself not to be silly. After all, sixty-one was not an age at which one should act fanciful. Nevertheless, Prudence Spencer looked over her shoulder before stepping forward to talk to her friends.
After several evenings spent in public houses, Alan Westford was absolutely certain that he would never be recognized. He had even been in the company of people he had employed or traded with, had kept the groans inside himself when the subject of the Goodfellow Workers’ Co-operative came up. It was plain that the scheme was successful and highly thought of. The buildings were still called Paradise, and the merchandise bore tickets marked
the paradise look
, but the business was registered as the
GWC
.
He drained his glass, decided to hang for a sheep. Having returned to one bad habit, he might as well indulge another. That first bite of Virginia hit his throat like a bullet and sent his head reeling towards the upper atmosphere, but he was soon smoking along with the rest. Bad ways died hard, he told himself. There had been no mention of Bert Simpson. Clearly, the body had not been found, because so few people walked through that badly-pitted passageway.
Worthington glanced at a calendar on the wall, took note of the date. How much longer? he asked himself. He had sent the money, was beginning to think it had been squandered. It had to happen quickly. The Crumpsall crone was already in a wheelchair and he wanted her to remain alive so that the final dart could be fired into her decrepit body.
‘Having another?’ asked a man at his elbow.
‘No, thanks.’ He was suddenly wary. After glancing sideways a couple of times, Worthington realized that he was in the company of a carder from Paradise. ‘I’ll have to be off,’ he mumbled.
The man followed Worthington to the door. ‘Don’t I know you?’
‘No.’ He was shaking. After spending so many days without a flicker of recognition in a single face, his confidence was crumbling as easily as Lancashire cheese. ‘No, we have never met,’ he said somewhat firmly.
The carder pushed past Worthington and stood outside the Wheatsheaf. ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I thowt I’d seen a bloody ghost. Spitting image of me Uncle Ted, you are. If he’d not been dead these two years, I’d have been asking you about Auntie Kitty.’
Worthington shook his head. ‘I’m just visiting a sister,’ he said. ‘Then I’m going back to London.’
The man frowned. ‘Eeh, you do look like owld Ted,’ he insisted. ‘Well, him and somebody else. Only I can’t remember who the other feller is.’
‘We all have doubles.’
‘Aye.’ The carder scratched his head and went back into the public bar.
Worthington waited until the big bass drum in his chest had settled down a bit. He had just been forced to come to terms with two things. The first was that he was in danger of being spotted too early; the second fact was that the beer and the cigarettes were stirring up the old trouble. Oh, he wanted the Bolton folk to know about his return. But not yet.
He trudged to the bus stop on Bradshawgate, waited for the transport that would take him back to Bromley Cross. Until the time was right, he had better stay close to his new home. Eventually, Alan Westford could be laid to rest and Andrew Worthington would take centre stage once more.
On the bus, he sat and pondered, wished that he could play a part in what he considered to be the main plot. No. He had no chance of retrieving Paradise, no chance of acting out a main part. But once he was cued to step into his own small role, he might well disturb the founder members of the workers’ co-operative.
The unsteadying of a vital corner of Paradise would have to be enough. That, and the final destruction of Ivy Crumpsall’s dream.
He bought a small van, an inconspicuous piece of merchandise that had seen better days. Driving round in this heap of rust was safer than lingering in a bus queue.
For weeks on end, he waited for a letter or a telegram, spent the rest of his time driving round Bolton. He saw Tom Marchant and his wife motoring up the driveway of a sizeable house on Chorley New Road, a double-fronted detached with large gardens. He watched Joseph and Ruth Heilberg enjoying the fruits of their labour – another sizeable property at the edge of a farm in Harwood. And, of course, he kept a weather eye on Crompton Way, where a pair of semi-detached houses contained Ivy Crumpsall, the child and Gert Simpson, then Prudence, Cora Miles and, occasionally, that argumentative boy with the bright orange hair.
Twice, he caught sight of his son, his daughter-in-law and a lad who was probably a grandson. Victor still looked like a mother’s boy, a big soft thing who held Margaret Wotsername’s arm and clung to the hand of the child. Each Sunday, Victor and his family visited Prudence. From various vantage points, Worthington watched Victor kissing Prudence and smiling kindly upon Cora Miles before climbing into his car. No chance there of any support, thought the watcher. Oh, when was it going to happen? When would that final opportunity arise?
It arrived when least expected, in the early part of December. He was sitting next to a blazing coal fire, a copy of
The Times
spread out, his feet resting on a brass fender that wanted polish. The house had got itself into a bit of a mess, with dirty dishes piled here and there, papers on the floor, a pile of washing on a chair. He had been surprised to discover that housework was rather complicated, that the organization of a tidy life required thought and effort. In London, the room had already been squalid, and the woman in the next room had done his washing for a couple of bob a week. Peace and solitude had its price, apparently.
He had loaded the copper and heaped coal on the fire, was preparing to tackle a dozen shirts and what seemed like a million items of underwear. While the water heated, he dozed in the warmth, his copy of the daily paper slipping down his chest, the top sheet flickering in time with his snores.
The alley was full of people in the dream. Something horrible was clawing its way out of a pile of wet cardboard and rotted food matter, its fleshless fingers clicking like a lobster’s bony pincers. Everyone smiled and talked about the weather while the thing climbed into an erect position. It had no eyes, just circles of bone surrounded by tatters of yellowing skin.
Worthington jumped to wakefulness before the people in the alley could accuse him. He had scoured the
Bolton Evening News
each night, had pored over column after column, had searched headlines for news of his victim. Nothing. No-one had missed Simpson because he lived alone and had no permanent place of work. Even after all these weeks, the body had not been found. Surely, someone would miss him eventually? Surely his landlord would notify police that a tenant had gone missing?
He sat up, poked the fire, listened while the copper sang its intention to boil. There was a packet of Acdo in the scullery with some Lux flakes and a bar of plain green soap for his collars. Although he had no idea of how to go about the task, he leaned forward and gathered up his soiled clothing. Whites first. He knew that much, at least. Boil the whites, then soak the coloureds. As for Dolly-Blue and starch – well – he wouldn’t bother, not on this trial run. At least he was making an effort. For months, his clothes had flapped greyly in the back garden after a quick swill in tepid water. It was time to pull himself together on the outside, at least.
When he remembered the dream, he froze. At first, he hadn’t been bothered about anything, hadn’t cared. After all, Simpson had been a ne’er do well with a drink problem and a marked aversion to work. For quite a long time, Worthington had been untroubled about being caught, philosophical about staying free. But the longer the corpse lay in that ginnel, the more obsessed he became. He should move it. He should stick it in a bag with a pile of bricks and tip it into the river.
A knock at the door wiped washing and crime out of his mind. Had they come for him? Apart from the milkman and the paper lad, no-one had visited the cottage. He walked towards the window, peeped through the lace curtain, saw a bike. It was a telegram boy.
He grabbed the envelope, pushed a florin into the boy’s hand, slammed the door. It was happening. His eyes flew over the words.
on my way up stop arriving trinity street
6
pm thursday stop meet the train stop lottie stop
.
‘Yes!’ He jumped into the room, gathered up his shirts and shoved them into the dresser. Another day would do. This afternoon, he would drive to town and buy himself some new clothes. After all, it wasn’t every day a man prepared for his wedding . . .
Lottie Crumpsall closed the window and plucked a mirror from her handbag. The soot from the engine had done little to enhance her appearance, so she used a great deal of spit to rub the specks from her face. It was important to return looking triumphant, she felt. There was no sense in arriving with a face like a sweep’s.
The man sitting opposite tried to ignore Lottie’s far from hygienic attempt at cleanliness. The woman was a tart. From the bottoms of her high-heeled shoes to the top of her ridiculous hat, this female looked every inch the whore. He coughed, retreated behind his
Daily Herald
.
Lottie, unmoved by her companion’s obvious disapproval, stood up and straightened her seams. The lime-green skirt was cut short to show off her legs, and she twisted this way and that to achieve a better picture of what she considered to be her greatest assets. Had she been able to do the impossible by walking behind herself, she would surely have seen that the muscles, pushed out of position by her teetering posture, bulged like the biceps of a prize fighter beneath their veil of thirty-denier nylon.
She righted the hat, made sure that it clung, just about, to the left side of her head. Blond hair suited her, she thought. The curls had gone a bit crisp with the perm on top of bleach, but they would settle in time. When her face was powdered and rouged, she applied bright red lipstick in the middle of her lips, pouted at the Cupid’s bow effect she had created.