All the Lonely People

Chapter Nineteen

“Shirelle, isn’t it?”

The barmaid lifted her blonde head from bored scrutiny of the pump that was pouring out a pint of bitter. Tonight her earrings were magenta spheroids which danced at the sudden movement. Hostility flashed in her eyes as she said, “What’s it to you?”

The Ferry Club was quiet as yet, with just a handful of women in short skirts and a couple of spotty youths perched on stools adjacent to the bar. The fair-haired keyboard player was slaughtering an old Coffin and King number while the drummer leafed through an old copy of Melody Maker and surreptitiously picked his nose. Harry said, “Where’s Froggy this evening?”

She pushed the glass across the bar. “His night off, innit?”

“Any idea where I can find him?”

Suspicion gave way to unvarnished hostility. “You a busy?”

“Not me. Just a paying customer. I was in here last Thursday night, remember? Froggy spilt beer over me. That isn’t why I’m looking for him, though. Our last conversation was interrupted. I’d like to finish it.”

Weighing up his battered face, the barmaid said, “Someone wanted to finish you, by the look of things.”

“Where’s he likely to be?”

“Haven’t a clue.”

Harry stifled a yawn. He’d spent most of the day either asleep or resting and still he felt kitten-weak. There was work to be done, though. In the past few hours he had convinced himself that the man called Froggy could lead him to Liz’s murderer. Passing the woman a ten-pound note, he said, “Keep the change. Where does he live?”

Tucking the note under her sleeve, she glanced quickly to right and left. Nobody was watching; the prostitutes were arguing amongst themselves and the young men were pretending not to be listening. Nevertheless, Shirelle spoke out of the side of her mouth, a habit perhaps picked up from watching too many black and white thriller movies on late night television. “Baden Powell Street. By the Municipal Baths.” Unable to contain her curiosity, she murmured, “Why are you after Froggy if you’re not a busy? Most people are glad to steer clear of him.”

Harry ignored the question. A second tenner materialised in the palm of his hand, peeping at her from between his fingers. “Tell me, Mick Coghlan — is he a customer here? Does Froggy do any work for him?”

Shirelle considered the banknote. He could tell that she was torn between an instinctive desire to tell a stranger nothing and the timeless attraction of easy money. Even her earrings seemed to flutter with uncertainty. In the end, she opted for compromise. “Coghlan? The name rings a bell. But I don’t think he comes here.”

The tenner inched towards her. “How does Froggy spend the rest of his time? Where might I bump into him?”

The barmaid sniffed. “Haven’t the faintest. The less I have to do with that feller the better. He loiters in bed till dinner-time as far as I know. After that, you’re as likely to find him in the bookies’ as anywhere.”

“What number Baden Powell Street?”

“How would I know, sunshine? I’m not the rent collector or the bailiff.” A mascara-masked woman at the far end of the bar leaned over and muttered something unintelligible. “Look, I’ve got a job to do, okay?” Shirelle held out her hand and the moment Harry slipped the note into it she swept away to serve the thirsty tart.

He sipped his drink slowly, keeping the entrance in view. More customers drifted in, the usual mixture of navvies, sales reps, divorcees and teenage kids out to spend their dolemoney. Another girl arrived on duty behind the bar. The keyboard player began to mangle the hits of Stevie Wonder. The suave manager whom Harry had seen on Thursday night put in an appearance, marching around with an easy air of authority and self-regard, not neglecting to loop an arm around the barmaids’ shoulders when he exchanged a word with them.

Harry finished his beer. It was ten o’clock. His damaged arm and ribs were reminding him that without the timely intervention of the security guard’s Alsatian, he would have been in intensive care rather than back on the booze. There was nothing to detain him here. He had had enough for one day.

He wandered out of the club and back to the Empire Dock. The anti-climax of failing to pick up Froggy, coupled with the aching of his body, had wearied him. Tonight no masked thug barred the way to the brightly lit entrance hall of the old warehouse, although anxiety knotted his stomach as he crossed the Strand and he was glad to nod at Griff and say with casual affability, “Unscathed for once, see? Goodnight.”

Moving quietly along the thick-pile carpet of the third floor corridor, he tip-toed past Brenda Rixton’s room and was about to enter the sanctuary of his own home when he became aware of footsteps approaching from the far end of the passage. Looking up, he saw Brenda walking towards him.

She smiled readily at him, although he sensed at once that her mood was one of strained patience. “I spent the evening with Joyce Mahoney at three-oh-nine,” she said. The name meant nothing to Harry; he was unacquainted except by sight with the rest of his neighbours. “How are you feeling? Have you been to the hospital this evening?”

“Afraid not,” he said.

As she drew up by his side he could tell that she was smelling the alcohol on his breath. The lines of her face hardened, not so much with disapproval as with sadness. “I might have known.”

“I decided to go out for a meal,” he said. True enough as far as it went. He’d eaten a mixed grill in one of those dependable, boring steak restaurants with uniform decor and waitresses chosen for shapeliness rather than speed of service. After sinking a bladderful of coffee he’d strolled to the Ferry in search of the man with the bulging eyes.

Plaintively, Brenda said, “I brought something back for the two of us. I didn’t think you would be fit enough to go gadding around. Roast chicken and a salad. But even at half-seven you weren’t here.” No, he’d been in the mood for a couple of drinks before eating. “In the end I shared with Joyce instead.”

So Brenda possessed in abundance that female knack of imposing guilt, thought Harry. With some women, it seemed as natural as breathing. Conscious of the constricting pressure of unnecessary remorse, he said defensively, “Sorry, I didn’t realise. It was kind of you.”

“No, it doesn’t matter.” Thus neatly was the point scored.

In the ensuing lull in the conversation, he felt awkward as well as ungrateful, scratching around for something placatory to say. “I was just going to have a nightcap. I suppose you wouldn’t…”

“Thank you, I’d like that.”

Once inside his flat, she quizzed him about his injuries. He tried to be dismissive without conveying the impression of nobly suffering in silence. After pouring them each a glass of Grand Marnier, he settled back in his armchair. Brenda was on the sofa, her shoes kicked off, legs tucked beneath her. Good legs in sheer tights, he noticed. Her fine hair shimmered in the glow cast by the wall-lights.

Raising her glass, she said, “To a rapid recovery.”

The rich taste of the liqueur kept the two of them quiet for a minute or so. The central heating had been programmed to come on four hours earlier and the air in the room was warm and dry. The floods of pain that had washed through his body all day were beginning to subside.

“Tired?” Brenda asked.

“Mmm.”

“You shouldn’t have gone gallivanting,” she said, but not unkindly. “You really should take more care of yourself.”

He didn’t reply, but presently sensed a movement in front of him and looked out through narrowed eyelids. Brenda was kneeling in front of him. She eased off his shoes and socks and began to rub his feet. Smiling, she said, “You don’t have to wake up. Relax for once. That feels nice, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

How long she carried on, he didn’t know. His mind was emptying, like a jug tipped upon its side. All the grieving and the hating and the riddles of the past few days had started to drain away. The policemen’s questions, the squalor of the Nye, his brief, foolish yearning for Angie O’Hare — none were more than faint memories. For him, the world had shrunk to this warm room and the tender touch of Brenda’s fingers running rhythmically up and down his soles.

He heard her say, “It’s late.”

Unable to camouflage a yawn, he prised open his eyes. She was leaning over him now, her delicate perfume noticeable for the first time that evening. Her jersey-clad breasts rested against his chest.

“I’ve been left in the lurch too,” she said. “I think I can guess how you feel about losing your wife. I’ve imagined being with Les each day since he walked out. For long enough I dreamed he’d come back one day, though I’ve more or less learned not to delude myself any more. God only knows, it takes an age to adjust. I suppose something died in my life, too, that dreadful day.”

She was sliding her fingers through the tangle of his hair. “I don’t believe in moaning about bad luck. Perhaps it’s true that life is what you make it. I ought to grab what I can whilst there’s still time. I thought you…”

Her voice trailed away and he mumbled, “Go on.”

“No,” she said with a new briskness. “How stupid I am. I can tell the agony that you’ve been through these past few days and I mustn’t add to it. It’s time for me to go, before — well, never mind.”

She kissed him gently on the cheek. His eyes closed and he felt the tip of her tongue touch his skin, her body pressing against his. Then she withdrew.

“Goodnight, Harry.”

And as the door closed behind her, he was conscious of a sense of loss.