A Mersey Mile (50 page)

Elaine folded the newspaper. It was a sensationalist rag, though it showed Frank and Polly in a good light. Both were bold orators. She still missed Frank. If Frank had chosen Elaine instead of
Polly, life would have been so different. Or would it? ‘It takes more than one to keep me happy,’ she whispered, her breath clouding the chilled air. ‘And the Charlesons have
their baby.’ Her head ached again; she should have bought shares in Aspro.

Frank and Polly had probably wanted a family. Elaine retained the belief that children were a waste of time, energy, money and education. What was the point of a woman going to university if she
intended to breed? What was the point if she was going to be a whore or a clothes horse? She shivered, but not because of the weather. Her bones were chilled by the absence of hope and the clear
knowledge that she had no future.

Mum might come to London with the throng today. Perhaps if Christine saw her daughter, she might relent and allow her home. In Liverpool, Elaine should be less noticeable, especially now that
Mum had a new address. Plans down here in London could carry on without her presence; in fact, it might be best if she could be elsewhere when the new passport was produced. But was there really
anywhere to hide on this small island?

South America, though. Who the hell wanted to live in Peru, Argentina or Brazil? She was a lawyer, damn it. She was a solicitor, a fashion model and . . . and something else, something that had
got her into deep, deep trouble. She was addicted to sex. Oddities had been catered for in her establishment, and they had provided more than money, since some of them had expected chastisement,
and she had enjoyed that. What the hell would she do in South America? Learn the rumba, the samba, the paso doble?

She found a cafe and ordered breakfast. The Scousers were coming, and she would be nearby when they arrived. With no work and nothing to distract her, she could certainly spare the time. Her
life was over; she had wrecked it herself, and she should have stayed in Liverpool.

While she chewed on tasteless toast, her mood darkened further. She could well end up in prison. If she fled the country, she would never be sure whether she might be recognized, pursued, and
dragged home by bounty hunters employed by criminals who had been badly represented by her clients from the legal profession. Having bedded judges, QCs and solicitors, she could well become a
target worthy of capture, as her prosecution would almost certainly lead to the arrest of several City lawyers and politicians.

Was life worth living now? Probably not. Vladimir had been a mistake, since he had worked in an embassy, and the government was afraid that he might have gathered information through her, as she
had also entertained members of the Cabinet. Yes, she was in a mess. It was time to collect the purple purse, just in case. In case of what? Well, she had to report to the police station first.
After that, the day would be her own.

A cavalcade of seventeen vehicles passed through Liverpool that morning. Six were coaches, while the rest were cars, vans and lorries. They were photographed on Scotland Road
by cameramen dragged from their beds at an unusual hour, and saluted in the city by people walking to work at this ungodly time of day.

Each coach had a leader in charge of food, drink and order. Father Christopher Foley was boss of the first coach, Polly and Frank shared responsibility for the second, Hattie and Ida were in
charge of the third, while Den Davenport (minus his horse) supervised the fourth. Number five was under the watchful though humorous eye of Jimmy Nuttall, and the well-being of passengers on the
sixth rested in the sensible hands of Fred and Mavis Blunt.

Coach six developed a problem while still in Cheshire. The driver flashed his lights, and the message was conveyed down the line until the whole procession ground to a halt. ‘What sort of
noise?’ the driver asked of a rear-seat passenger who had walked to the front. ‘There shouldn’t be any noise, because this coach is in perfect working order.’

‘Like a banging. Like the wheel’s loose or something.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my bus. All these coaches were checked yesterday and there were no problems with any of them.’

‘But there’s a noise. Not all the time, like. No need for you to take it personal.’

Mavis glanced at Fred, and Fred glanced at Mavis. ‘It’s him,’ they said in unison. ‘Turn your engine off,’ Mavis suggested.

In the relative quiet, everyone listened to the sounds emanating from the rear luggage compartment. ‘The little bugger,’ Fred snapped. ‘We said nobody under the age of twelve,
and even then, the names had to be picked from a hat. He’s supposed to be with Carla till school time, then in Judy Greene’s house after school. That lad’s getting to be a law
unto himself.’

The driver, muttering ominously about the possibility of exhaust fumes, leapt from the vehicle, closely followed by Fred and Mavis. Billy was dragged out and examined by the driver.
‘He’s fine,’ he snapped. ‘But we can’t take him back, or we’ll be late.’

‘He’s fine? Fine?’ Fred roared. ‘More like fined. No spends for you till Christmas; that might teach you to do as you’re told. You’ve gone too far this time,
Billy-boy.’

Mavis agreed with her husband, though she held her tongue for now. The teachers would be worried, as would Judy Greene and Carla, though nothing could be done about any of that. She grabbed the
child’s hand and dragged him to the front of the coach. Billy certainly knew how to embarrass his parents. ‘Get in there,’ she hissed.

‘Sorry, Mam.’

‘You will be, I promise.’

Squashed between his parents on a seat made for just two people, Billy remained silent. He was going to see London. He was going to see the house where the Prime Minister lived. The man who
stole money from working folk lived next door, too. Billy might see the big clock and the bridge that opened and closed. Then there was Buckingham Palace and Nelson standing on a long pole
somewhere, with lions lying near him but lower down.

But when true daylight arrived, what Billy and the rest saw on their way through England was more impressive than any mere city. There were hills and forests, fields where animals grazed, lovely
old farmhouses with whispers of smoke curling from chimney pots. Passengers stopped chattering while travelling through their green and pleasant land. It was beautiful, especially where the greens
changed and became the mellow tones of autumn.

Billy broke the silence. ‘The leaves have gone rusty, Mam.’

‘They’re dying, son. They have to die so that new baby leaves can be born next spring.’

‘That’s sad,’ the child answered.

‘That’s the way it is, lad. For everything on earth, that’s the rule.’

He swallowed. ‘Even us?’

Mavis nodded. ‘Children are born, and their grandparents die. It’s God’s way.’

Billy pondered. ‘Couldn’t God think of a better plan?’

‘If we didn’t die, there wouldn’t be enough food, so we’d all die anyway.’

‘Oh.’ He pointed. ‘Look, a windmill.’

Mavis heaved a sigh of relief. Sometimes, she felt like she needed a degree in how to distract her youngest child. His dog was much the same. She hoped Daniel the spaniel wasn’t creating
too much havoc in Elsie Gleason’s house. Elsie was a dog lover, but Daniel would try the patience of a saint.

After two stops for refreshments, they finally crossed the hem of North London. So this was London? Why all the fuss? It could have been anywhere, just houses, some not well kept, others better
cared for, a few corner shops, a bit of a park here and there. Finally, they crossed the invisible seam that divides outer from inner, and the London they’d seen on postcards and in magazines
loomed large before them.

The city was stunning. They got the standard tour: the palace, the Mall, Piccadilly Circus, bridges, West End shops, Trafalgar Square, Westminster with its wonderful clock tower. Few
Liverpudlians had visited before, and they were, for the most part, in awe of the impressive buildings.

When they passed St Paul’s, Fred spoke up. ‘See that there? London was burning and Winnie was probably somewhere underneath it in his little cell. And what did he say?
‘‘Save St Paul’s.’’ This church mattered to him. I suppose it mattered to a lot of folk.’

‘I’m glad we came,’ Mavis murmured. ‘It’s gorgeous, isn’t it?’

Her husband nodded. ‘It’s gorgeous and it was built by the labour, blood, sweat and tears of the ordinary man. Credit went to Christopher Wren and all the rest who did nice drawings,
but there’s no mention of those who fell off roofs and died while this lot got put together.’

‘Like Liverpool Proddy cathedral,’ his wife replied.

‘Yes, something like that,’ he said.

They parked the vehicles on land owned by a London coach company. Coffin lids, wreaths and banners were distributed before Frank called the assembly to order. ‘We walk from here to
Whitehall, but we don’t talk, even if people speak to us. When we get to Downing Street, the same rule applies. There’s something menacing about a few hundred silent people standing in
too little space. That’s why the House of Commons is kept small, because packed government facing packed opposition is not a situation to be taken lightly. Small works, you see. They talk a
load of cra— rubbish in the House, anyway, but we say nothing. Not a word. This has gone beyond the point where meaningful negotiation is useful. So, onward Christian soldiers.’

Billy stood at the front with his parents and Father Foley. Behind them, six nuns and several priests, all in their usual black, carried small cardboard coffin lids with the names of threatened
schools and churches printed in red on the undersides. Shopkeepers bore wreaths stuck to cards with the titles of businesses printed in the centres. Others held the names of streets on plain
sheets, and tall men supported banners bearing damning epithets like MURDERERS, DESTROYERS, THE STREETS BELONG TO US and HOMES, NOT ROADS.

Polly and Frank took lead position in front of the Blunts.

Polly turned to Billy. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she whispered, ‘but seeing as you are, you can take the petition to the door. A policeman will knock, then someone will
open the door, and you give that person the petition. It’s heavy.’

‘Will it work?’ the child mouthed.

Polly shook her head. ‘It may make them think in future before they break up families and neighbours.’

‘Stop talking,’ Frank ordered.

They walked towards their target just as the Westminster chimes heralded the arrival of noon. Although this was a cold October day, the air was still. Londoners stood back and watched while the
procession of silent, black-clad invaders walked on. No one spoke. All eyes were fixed resolutely ahead until they reached Downing Street, where press photographers jumped and pushed and elbowed
each other in search of a clearer view.

A Pathé news crew was in attendance, but no one would speak into a microphone. Shadows moved in the windows of numbers 10 and 11. Frank smiled grimly; the fools who were about to attack
Egypt had been interrupted by ordinary working folk who were just dropping by for a quiet, peaceful visit.

And they stood in lines, packed so closely together that breathing became a privilege. Names of streets, schools, businesses and churches were held aloft, as were banners bearing accusations.
Nuns prayed on their rosaries while little Billy carried the petition to the black door. When it opened, he broke the rule of silence. ‘Why can’t we have new houses where we live now,
sir?’ he asked, his voice shrill.

‘Billy?’ Frank called. ‘Come here, son. They’re deaf, blind and stupid.’

Billy returned to his parents.

Not another word was uttered when the Prime Minister came to the door. He stared impassively at the gathering, nodded, looked at his watch and backed into the lobby. Just before the door closed,
his eyes locked with Frank’s. It was just a moment in time, a time of great trouble in North Africa and in Hungary, but the man was distracted for a split second by the sight of loathing and
contempt in the eyes of a citizen.

Frank squashed a grin. He would love to cross verbal swords with Eden one day, but it couldn’t be yet. Today must be civilized, and the kind of debate that took place in the House of
Commons was scarcely that.

The people of Scotland Road remained where they were for a further hour. When the clock struck one, they left coffins, wreaths and banners in the street and wandered off to find cafes and pubs
where there would be longer than usual queues for bathroom facilities.

Frank, Polly, Chris, Hattie and Ida walked further along Whitehall and spoke to the news crew.

Only Christine and Richard Pearson remained at the end of Downing Street. Frozen and fearful, the former clung to the latter.

On the opposite pavement, a beautiful young woman stared at her mother. Elaine Lewis took a step forward and opened the purple purse.

For Father Chris Foley, everything slipped into slow motion. Riveted by shock to the pavement, he could only watch while Frank, his best friend, floated in the direction of
Elaine Lewis. It was weird, because he knew that Frank was a fast runner, yet on this occasion everything moved at snail’s pace. ‘Dear God,’ Chris mumbled after remembering to
breathe. He watched aghast as the young woman raised her gun, pointing the weapon in the direction of her mother and stepfather. Would she fire? Would she really injure or kill her own mother?

Frank shouted, ‘Elaine – no, don’t do it!’ He stopped moving.

Inch by inch, long second by long second, Elaine changed target. When she finally looked at Frank, she wore an absent, almost other-worldly expression on her face. Like an automaton, she froze,
as if her power supply had suddenly failed or been switched off. But the hand that held the gun seemed to know what it was doing.

The Downing Street police also owned legs made of lead; they were running, but getting nowhere. Chris Foley heard the shot and watched horrified as Frank folded onto paving stones. There was
blood. Elaine dropped the gun and fell to her knees, crawling until she reached her victim. She stroked the head of the man she had shot, her lips moving, until she was dragged away by police.
‘I love him,’ she screamed, hitting out at the men who held her. She was forced against a wall and cuffed. ‘Why couldn’t he love me?’ she cried. ‘Frank,
Frank!’