Without Conscience Page 8

  Suddenly emboldened, Harryboy left his lookout point at the end of the street and walked slowly until he stood outside Aspinall’s. You used to be able to buy anything here from a galvanized bucket to a box of matches and from the tatty eclectic window display it seemed you still could. Without further thought, Harryboy found himself entering the shop. A little metal bell tinkled above the door as he did so. Even the bell was the same.

  A grey-haired man dressed in a brown smock was leaning over the counter reading a newspaper, his finger following the lines of print. ‘Morning,’ he said lazily, not glancing up from the sports pages. It was old Fred Aspinall himself, still here and not looking much different from the days when Harryboy scampered in wearing short trousers with a note from his mother. When the shopkeeper prised his gaze away from the paper and viewed his customer he seemed surprised. Not only was this an adult but a stranger, someone new to his premises. It was clear to Harryboy that old Aspinall didn’t recognize him. He was very glad of that.

  ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ asked the shopkeeper in a faintly obsequious tone.

  ‘Packet of Players and a box of matches,’ said the young man without a smile.

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  Aspinall ducked down below the counter and retrieved the cigarettes and took the matches from a shelf behind him. ‘Anything else, sir?’

  ‘Nah.’

  Aspinall’s friendly demeanour frosted a little. There was something unpleasant, rude even, in this young man’s attitude. He was dismissive of his courteous and attentive service. Aspinall looked closely at the pugnacious face, the cold eyes and the thick lips that seemed to be set in a constant leer. There was something familiar about them, that and the arrogant stance of the fellow. He reached down the dark corridors of his memory but failed to come up with anything. He sighed. His memory, like every part of him, was not what it was.

  ‘That’ll be one shilling and tuppence.’

  The man picked up his purchases and threw some coins on to the counter while he gazed around as though he was sizing up the premises for some purpose.

  Suddenly Aspinall wanted this creature out of his shop. He certainly had no desire to cultivate his custom. The fellow gave off a very unsettling aura. Without a word he picked up the money, opened the till and extracted the correct change, placing it on the counter.

  Harryboy was oblivious to Aspinall’s change of attitude. He was just drinking in the sights and smell of the old shop, recapturing his childhood, that golden time before things turned nasty and life became an unfair battle. Suddenly he realized that the old shopkeeper was staring at him. Was he starting to remember? It had been a stupid risk to come in the shop in the first place. What if there had been another customer who did recognize him? It was time he was out of here. Snatching up his change, he turned on his heel and left.

  As the door clanged shut, old Fred Aspinall gave a sigh of relief. He hoped he never saw the young man again. ‘There was something quite unpleasant about him,’ he muttered to himself, before returning to his newspaper.

  Once outside Harryboy made his way back to his lookout post at the end of the street. He didn’t want to get any nearer to his old home. He began to think that he should curtail this expedition now. He wasn’t quite sure why he had succumbed to the urge to come out here in the first place. He hadn’t given it much thought in the five years he’d been away. Maybe it was his way of making a kind of formal goodbye to his old self, an attempt to acknowledge that a chapter of his life was now well and truly closed. He was severing the link. His departure had been unsatisfactory – untidy – to say the least. He knew that he would never be able to meet his mother or brother again but being close to the old house, to his old house, helped him to put the final bold full stop to that particular paragraph of his biography.

  He was just about to leave when he saw someone emerge from number seven Waterloo Street. It was a slight figure in a floral patterned wraparound apron, with wispy hair pulled back in a bun.

  It was his mother.

  Harryboy felt his throat constrict and his eyes prickle with tears.

  His mother.

  She was carrying a cane carpet beater and she set about thrashing the faded rug on the line. A fine spray of dust exploded into the air, causing her to stand back momentarily and cover her mouth, before attacking the rug once more. Harryboy stared mesmerized by this little woman as she beat the decrepit rug with a determination that he remembered of old. He was too far away to see her face clearly, to see how time and hardship had treated her fair skin and gentle features but her shoulders were bowed now and there was a stiff awkwardness with her movements which suggested the onset of old age.

  After a while she sat on the garden wall to catch her breath, staring at the old rug. Here was his chance. He could just walk up the street and greet her. ‘Hello, Mum, it’s me, Harryboy,’ he could say. How would she react? Would she burst into tears and throw her arms around him or try to smack him across the face with the carpet beater? He’d never find out because he wasn’t going to do it. That was not part of his plan and however tempting it was, he knew it was not an option. It would be madness. He wasn’t the prodigal son. He was a deserter and a murderer on top of his other crimes to the family. Bad pennies remain unwelcome.

  Harryboy had had enough. He’d done what he’d set out to do. More, in fact. Now it was time to get back to London and get on with his new life. Then as he made to go, he saw something that stopped him in his tracks, the fist squeezing his heart so tight that he could hardly breathe.

  Turning into the street from across the road was a man in a wheelchair. Oblivious of Harryboy, he skimmed along the uneven pavement at a fast pace and although he held his head down, Harryboy had no difficulty in recognizing him. The prominent nose and the wild corkscrew hair were unmistakable.

  It was Jack.

  His brother.

  On instinct, he almost called out his name, but the word didn’t come. His throat had seized up.

  On the faint cool breeze came the train sounds once more and there he was, his thirteen-year-old self again. Running, running as hard as he could, his chest aching with the exertion. His legs aching as his scuffed red sandals pounded the pavement.

  Running.

  Running away.

  He’d been found out and he was trying to escape. He’d been caught red-handed.

  Stealing.

  He thought his chest would burst open but he couldn’t stop. He mustn’t be caught. He turned his head. Yes, there he was, still on his tail, still determined to catch him and make him pay.

  He’d stolen from his mother’s purse. He’d been doing it for weeks. But they’d laid a trap for him – his mother and his brother. They’d caught him in the act. There could be no excuses, no prevarications. They had seen him take the money. And so he did what he always did when faced with an unpleasant truth: he ran. He pushed his mother to the ground and raced through the door and down the street. But Jack was after him and Jack would show him no mercy when he caught up with him.

  He scrambled up the wall of the railway sidings thinking that if he could get down the other side he might well lose Jack in among the many wagons stationed there in an apparently higgedly-piggedly fashion. His shoes slipped and slithered as he hauled himself up, his fingers bleeding as he scuffed them on the crumbling brickwork. As he reached the summit Jack bounded up and scaled the wall, it seemed, in one go. He sat astride the top facing Harryboy and grabbed hold of his jumper.

  ‘Come on, lad,’ he bellowed. ‘You’re coming home to face the music.’

  Suddenly Harryboy exploded with anger. His frustration at being apprehended like this possessed him with a wild fury and he lashed out at his brother. With great ferocity he pushed him. Jack hadn’t expected this. He wasn’t prepared for the strength or the swiftness of the action. Immediately, he lost his balance and toppled over the wall.

  As he landed, his legs sprawling across one of the railway tracks, he lost consciousne
ss. Harryboy gazed in shock and horror – all anger now dissipated – as a little shunting engine juddered its way along the track, the driver oblivious of the obstacle on the line.

  Harryboy’s scream merged with the high-pitched whistle of the engine.

  The wheelchair creaked and rumbled its way down the street until it reached the house. His mother had seen Jack and she came to the gate to greet him. She bent over the wheelchair and threw her arms around him and gave him a hug.

  Harryboy shook as with a fever, his body drenched with sweat. His stomach churned violently and for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. He made the gagging sound of a strangled man. Why the hell had he come back here a voice screamed in his head? He cursed himself for being so stupid. Tears blurred his view of his mother pushing Jack up the path and down the side of the house. He retched and gasped for air, leaning on the wall for support. And then, suddenly, panic engulfed him and he turned and fled. Like he always did; he ran away. He ran wildly, desperately, in a frantic attempt not only to leave the area but also this part of his life. He wanted to amputate it, rip it out of his consciousness and consign it to some furnace where it would be consumed by the flames. It was the only thing that he had no control over. No bullying, no force or threats with a gun could eradicate the past and the damaging effect it had on his mind.

  He ran along the pavement, across cobbled streets, his legs hardly obeying him as he tried to make his way back the way he came. More than once he stumbled, almost crashing down onto the ground. He could hardly see now, his eyesight bleary with tears. Soon, he found himself on the waste ground where he had roamed as a kid, the terrain shifting and undulating uneasily before him as though he was seasick. He felt like stopping, gaining his breath and calming himself down, but he knew must carry on. If he stopped, he might be trapped, hauled back into his old life. He might be made to face the consequences.

  He must escape.

  He carried on running, his feet catching against errant clumps of grass which still survived in this vast crater of dust, causing him to stagger forward in an unsteady fashion. He was now running blind and he had lost all sense of direction. He splashed his way across the little stream and then his foot caught upon a large jagged rock hidden by a fine layer of soil. A sharp electric pain shot through his foot and this time he did lose his balance completely. With a cry, he fell spread-eagled, face down in the dirt. He lay there, his mouth full of dry grit and his body rippling with sobs.

  Above him the grey clouds parted and a small patch of pale blue sky appeared, but in the distance he thought he could still hear the faint sounds of the railway engines.

  TWELVE

  I suppose that London after dark has always been a strange place. When the sun goes down the city becomes a different animal. But with the war, the change is even greater. Gone are the bright flashing lights, the neon signs and the glare of theatres and restaurants. The blackout changed all that, cloaking the city in dingy blackness where everything is reduced to a dim silhouette or a vague shadow. Now when the daylight fades, the lively buzzing city retires and in its place there emerges an indistinct skulking creature, reluctant to reveal itself for fear of harm and exposure.

  On leaving the Guardsman after my drink with David, I emerged into London’s cool ebony night, the clouds above me hiding the stars and the moon. In this monochrome half-world I made my way home along the disguised streets. From time to time I would hear voices and sharp footsteps approaching me in the gloom and then suddenly their owners would magically appear before me as though someone had pulled back a curtain to reveal them. Oblivious of my presence, they would drift past like spooky apparitions and then just as magically be swallowed up by the all consuming night once more.

  The malefactors of old London Town must be offering up their grateful thanks to Herr Hitler and his air force for creating the ideal conditions for their activities. The petty crook, the thief and the murderer have never had it so good. They can now become invisible to carry out their dirty deeds, with shadows always ready to hide them, like the bastard who killed Walter Riley. As these depressing thoughts percolated their way through my mind, what little intoxication I felt as I left the pub dissipated quickly and by the time I was approaching the building that housed Hawke Towers, I was cold sober and sorely in need of another drink. Well, I told myself, as I slowly mounted the stairs with a heavy heart, I have a bottle of Johnnie Walker stashed away in my office with enough whisky inside to provide at least one decent nightcap.

  I had just put the key in the lock when a voice called to me from the shadows. ‘Johnny.’ This was followed by a sharp tug of my coat. I didn’t need to turn around to identify the owner of the voice. I knew it instantly.

  It was Peter.

  Some ten minutes later, Peter was sitting on my shabby sofa in my shabby living quarters, situated just beyond my shabby office. He was still wearing his old raincoat while clutching a mug of hot tea in both hands. He looked pale and tired, but his eyes were bright and his expression was a lively mixture of relief and pleasure. We had spoken little so far. I had bustled him in, given him a quick hug and brewed up the tea. I had made no attempt to interrogate him about why he was here, how he had got here and what he expected me to do now that he was here. That could come later. At the moment I was just relieved that he was safe. And I was very pleased to see him.

  ‘You hungry?’ I asked, lighting up a cigarette, sitting on the arm of the chair opposite him.

  Peter nodded. ‘I’ve only had a packet of biscuits and the pork pie the soldier bought me since I got up this morning.’

  ‘What soldier?’

  ‘The one on the train. He hid me from the railway man, ‘cos I hadn’t got a ticket. He said that he used to get free rides on the train when he was a kid. I … I think he felt sorry for me. He looked after me until we got to Euston and then he gave me half a crown.’

  I gazed down at the slight, rather pathetic figure sitting on my sofa and smiled. Who could not help but feel sorry for this little boy in the threadbare raincoat with the earnest expression?

  In my inexpert way, I created a Spam sandwich and brewed up another cup of tea for my guest. He devoured the sandwich caveman fashion as though he had never eaten before. I watched him with silent pleasure.

  With a final slurp he finished off his second mug of tea and grinned at me. ‘That was good,’ he said simply. ‘Thank you.’

  I ruffled his hair in what I hoped was an affectionate manner in order to soften what I was about to say. ‘You’ve been a naughty boy. The people who were caring for you, Mr and Mrs Booth, are very worried about you. So is Nurse McAndrew. How could you be so thoughtless, Peter? To do a bunk like this. You know the police have been told about your disappearance.’

  Peter’s mouth dropped open with alarm. ‘The police,’ he said, the words emerging as a hoarse whisper.

  I couldn’t help but laugh at his shocked expression. He relaxed immediately.

  ‘Oh, you’re kidding me.’

  ‘No I am not,’ I replied quickly, wiping the smile from my face. ‘And you’ve put me in a hell of a pickle.’

  Peter stared at his shoes. ‘I’m sorry. But I couldn’t stand it any longer. I just hated it down there. And they didn’t like me. Mrs Booth was all right, I suppose, but Mr Booth … well, he ignored me. I could tell he didn’t really want me there. I could hear them arguing about me sometimes. I heard him call me a London guttersomething. And then there was Tom Bates. He bullied me at school and covered me in cow muck …’ He lifted his head and stared me directly in the face. ‘I just want to stay with you, Johnny.’

  His eyes watered briefly as this very personal admission released emotions that he had been keeping at bay for a long time. For a moment his frame shook with suppressed sobs but then with a determined shake of his body, a strong sniff and a little cough, he fought them off. I knew he didn’t want to cry in front of me. Crying was only for cissies and Peter was no cissy.

  ‘Can’t I be your
partner? I could help you catch crooks.’

  ‘I wish you could,’ I said flippantly, almost to myself. ‘Just at the moment I need all the help I can get.’

  Peter gave me a mock salute. ‘I’m reporting for duty, sir.’

  ‘No you are not,’ I said, standing up, brusquely, attempting to sound authoritarian. ‘You are reporting for bed. You need some sleep and I need to decide what the hell I’m going to do about you.’

  ‘Please let me stay,’ wailed Peter, jumping to his feet, his empty mug crashing to the floor.

  ‘No more talk tonight, my lad. We’ll sort things out in the morning. Now, out of those clothes, a quick wash and then bed. You take my bed. I’ll doss down on the sofa for tonight.’

  ‘You don’t have to. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I don’t want to be a nuisance.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that,’ I said wearily and then softened the comment with a brief smile. ‘Now are you going to do as you’re told or am I going to have to come the heavy handed sergeant major with you?’

  ‘I’ll do as I’m told. Always with you, Johnny.’

  Ten minutes later my little runaway was curled up in my bed. He had hardly had time to say goodnight before his eyes closed and his body relaxed as exhaustion overtook him and he drifted off into a deep sleep. I stood watching him for a while, a whirlpool of conflicting emotions sloshing around in my mind.

  Eventually, I returned to the sitting room and poured myself the delayed whisky and slipped a Duke Ellington record on the gramophone. The meditative wailing saxes complemented my mood exactly. I sipped the whisky slowly, savouring each warm mouthful. Well, I mused, as Oliver Hardy would observe, here’s another fine mess I’ve got myself into. Logic and common sense told me that I should ring up Susan McAndrew in the morning and inform her that Peter was with me. She could then contact the police and put the Booths’ minds at rest. But then the poor blighter would be hauled away and either dumped back in Devon or carted off to some orphanage. I didn’t want that. I’d had plenty of that myself and I couldn’t be responsible for abandoning Peter to such a life.