Dark Briggate Blues (7 page)

‘Who is he?’

‘Good, isn’t he?’ Barclay said as the piano took a long introduction to ‘Stormy Monday Blues’, the sax player replicating the tone of Billy Eckstine’s smooth voice over the chords. ‘Just showed up with his instrument this evening. Lives in Huddersfield, would you credit it?’ He nodded his head in time with the beat.

‘He’s going places,’ Markham said. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Michael Goodman. He’s off to London tomorrow to audition for Dankworth’s band.’

‘He’ll get the gig.’

‘Be a crime if he didn’t.’ He beamed as Goodman caught a solo, a series of short, anguished phrases that built in intensity. ‘I tell you what, Dan, we’re seeing the birth of a new star here.’

‘I think you’re right.’

He stayed for the rest of the set. It was pure joy to hear. The lad played his heart out, tearing through ‘Donna’, some Ellington and more Gershwin before closing with a take on ‘Somewhere Over The Rainbow’ that trembled with hope.

When the lad took the reed from his instrument, Markham left. There was nothing else he could hear tonight that could come close to that. He felt warm, happy in the glow of the music, replaying it in his mind as he walked to the car, just the sounds of the night around him.

They came out of the shadows. Two men, both big. One strayed into the light of a street lamp, showing a boxer’s face with a broken nose and a long scar down his cheek. Rob Anderson. Carter’s man.

The other held up a knife.

‘You’re coming with us,’ Anderson said. He had a voice that sounded as if it had been dragged over gravel. Markham weighed his chances. ‘Don’t,’ the man advised, making his hand into a large first. ‘Right?’

He was pushed into the back of a Vauxhall Velox parked a few yards along the street. The man with the knife sat next to him, the tip of the blade pushed hard against his stomach. Anderson started the engine and pulled away.

‘You’d best hope we don’t need any sudden stops else you’ll be pulling that out your belly.’ It was all he said as he cut through the centre of town, over Leeds bridge and left onto Dock Street, going slow over the cobbles as they passed the old wharf and turned into a small road that ended in the brick wall of a factory.

The street was lined with small workshops and garages. The door to one opened and Carter came out.

‘Bring him in here.’

The knife point pricked the back of his neck, just enough pressure for him to feel the sharpness without breaking the skin. The room was bare brick walls, an old table and two wooden chairs in the middle of the floor. A single bulb cast a harsh light into all the corners.

‘Sit down,’ Carter ordered as he paced around slowly.

Markham sat. He was in for a beating, he knew that. A lesson. He’d expected it. He could take it. But Carter wouldn’t dare kill him. Another murder in Leeds would bring too much unwanted attention. He’d started to reach for his cigarettes when a fist landed on the side of his skull, hard enough to send him sprawling on to the concrete.

He shook his head, trying to clear it as he slowly pulled himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the table. This next blow caught him in the gut and sent him back to the ground, gasping for air.

This time he stayed down, waiting until he could breathe again before he stood. His stomach burned and he could taste the bile in his throat. A heavy throb beat in his head as he moved. Someone had righted the chair and he sat once more.

Carter took the other seat.

‘You think you’re a clever little fucker, don’t you?’

‘Do I?’ His voice surprised him. It seemed to come from miles away, something faint and half heard.

‘Think getting the gun lets you off the hook, do you?’

He didn’t reply. Anything he said would mean another blow.

Carter shook his head. ‘You just think it does, sonny boy. Stupid. Don’t you worry, I’ll find out who he was.’

Markham kept his silence, blinking and trying to keep his gaze from slipping out of focus.

Carter paced again and said, ‘Do you know what’s painful?’

‘What?’ The word was a croak.

‘Broken fingers. It’s a funny thing, they never heal quite properly. It’s a shame you don’t play an instrument. You’d really notice it then.’ He nodded. Anderson darted forward, holding Markham’s arm in a tight grip, left hand forced flat on the table, palm-down. He tried to struggle, to pull back, then the knife was at his throat, the blade cold against his skin. ‘People don’t cross me, Mr Markham. You’re going to learn that. You can scream all you like, there’s no one around to hear.’

Carter leaned over and picked up a hammer.

‘This is going to hurt,’ he said with no emotion. ‘But maybe it’ll make you remember. I told you to persuade the Hart woman to sell. I give you a job to do, you do it.’

Swiftly, he brought the hammer down once, twice.

Markham screamed. It was done, all over before he could even move. He was still yelling as they grabbed his collar. Carter stood in front of him and brought up two fingers like a gun barrel against his forehead. Very quietly, staring into Markham’s eyes, he said, ‘
Bang
.’

They threw him out into the street. The door closed and he was lost in the dark, yelling over and over until his throat felt raw. The pain was intense, the ruined fingers burning and sending flames shooting up his arm. He bent forward and vomited, so weak he thought he might fall.

He managed to steady himself against the wall, cradling the hand, not even daring to look at it. Finally he felt strong enough to try one pace, then another, gritting his teeth and sweating, more stumbling than walking. He stopped, gathering strength before making himself move further. It seemed to take hours until he was back on Dock Street. Every step jolted and hurt. He bit his lip, gathering it all in.

Markham stopped on the bridge, resting his forearm on the parapet. He forced his hand to open. Where his ring and little fingers had been was just blood and tissue, and the sharp, ugly white of bone. They were broken. Useless. He vomited again, leaning over to empty his stomach into the river until there was only the taste of acid left in his mouth.

The pain was worse than anything he’d ever known. He drew in a deep breath and began to move again, urging one foot in front of the other along Briggate. Step by step, each one a little victory. First to Duncan Street, then rest, leaning against the wall, almost in tears. On to Kirkgate. Another break to gather his strength. Eventually he crossed the Headrow. He was soaked, face drenched in sweat, legs as heavy as lead. With his good hand he fumbled for the car keys and sat in the Anglia, head down on the wheel.

He stayed like that, waiting for the nausea to pass as his skin dried under his clothes. Finally he turned the key and put the car into gear, gasping as his fingers touched the lever. It was only a few hundred yards to the Public Dispensary at the top of North Street.

Casualty was a quiet place of green tiles and old cream walls. The nurse took one look at his hand and led him straight through to a cubicle. The doctor bustled in a minute later, no older than himself, pulling on the white coat as he entered and covering a yawn.

‘Christ Almighty, what happened?’ he asked in shock.

‘Someone decided they didn’t like me,’ Markham managed. He tried to smile but his mouth stayed set.

‘Let’s get some anaesthetic in that hand so I can look at it properly.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘It’ll just be a local, no need to knock you out.’

The nurse appeared with a tray. He watched the needle go in and a few minutes later it was numb. The doctor worked for an hour, stitching skin and splinting. He stopped to sigh and clean his glasses, then continued, finishing with a bandage to hold the two fingers tightly together.

‘That’s the best I can do,’ he apologised. ‘With luck you’ll have full usage in time but they’ll never look too good, I’m afraid.’ He paused. ‘What’s that on your head?’ Gently he felt around the knot, the residue of the blow he’d received on the other side of the river. Markham winced under the touch. ‘I’d like to get that X-rayed, just to make sure there’s no concussion,’ the doctor said.

‘I’ll be fine,’ he answered. All he wanted was to go home, to settle into bed and sleep long into Sunday.

The doctor shrugged.

‘It’s your funeral. I can’t make you. I’ll write you a prescription for some painkillers and give you enough to last until the chemist opens on Monday. If you experience any dizziness, I want you back here immediately. That could be a concussion.’

He vanished and returned with a piece of paper and a small bottle of pills.

‘Take two of these once you’re home. Another two every four hours tomorrow.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Go and see your GP, too.’

‘I will.’

‘I mean it, Mr Markham.’ The doctor stared at the hand. ‘That’s a nasty injury; it’s going to need a lot more care to heal well.’

***

He could barely feel anything as he moved to change gear. The eastern sky was starting to brighten. Ten minutes later he climbed the stairs to the flat, weary, angry and needing sleep. He swallowed a couple of the pills with a glass of water, stripped off and sank under the covers.

Markham woke with the sun on his face, turned over and blinked at the clock. Ten past two. As he tried to rise he yelled out in pain as his broken fingers pressed against the mattress. He swallowed two more of the tablets with a cup of tea, switched on the immersion heater and studied himself in the mirror.

The lump on his head was tender. But at least his vision was clear and the wound only ached when he touched it. A few days and it would be gone. He gazed at the fingers, useless and bound. They were a different matter. Carter had done his work well. The scars would remind him for the rest of his life.

He bathed, shaved and dressed. At quarter to five he started the car, the sense of anticipation rising in his stomach. Another half hour and Carla would be home. He could already picture her, skin brown from the sun, climbing down lazily from the train, happy to be back. And to see him again.

He parked and walked into the station. It was a cauldron of noise, voices, engines and the stink of coal and smoke all gathered under the glass ceiling, dimming the light. A whistle sounded, followed by the familiar slow chug of a train pulling away.

Markham stood by the entrance to the platform and lit a Craven A. The pills had reduced the agony to a low ache that pulsed through his body. He watched the hands move on the clock, finishing the cigarette and lighting another.

At quarter past the train pulled in, exactly on time, letting out an exhausted sigh of steam as it came to a standstill. His right hand tensed against the barrier. The doors of the compartments opened and people alighted. Not many passengers, even for a Sunday.

Carla was the last, climbing down and pulling a heavy suitcase after her, then reaching back for second and a third and hauling them down with both hands. A porter appeared, expertly sliding everything onto a trolley and following her as she strode down the platform. Markham waved; she spotted him and her face lit up. She moved faster, almost throwing her ticket at the clerk. Then she was in his arms and grinning at him.

‘I missed you, you bastard,’ Carla said, before giving him a long kiss. She stood back, taking his hands, and the smile turned to horror. ‘My God, Dan, what happened?’

‘I’ve been in the wars,’ he answered.

She stroked the bandaged fingers lightly, then the side of his head. He pulled back a little from her touch.

‘Right,’ she told him. ‘Come on, let’s go home.’

He tipped the porter a shilling for arranging the cases in the boot, started the motor and pulled away.

‘Where?’ he asked.

She leaned her head back against the seat and let out a sigh.

‘Can we go to yours? It feels like I’ve been gone forever. I just want to spend some time with you before I go back to my flat.’

He smiled.

He carried one case in his good hand while Carla grunted and cursed the others up the stairs. Spread out, they filled most of the room. He put Monk on the gramophone to welcome her home and she tapped her feet in time with the music as she sorted through the things she’d brought back with her. Her dress lapped around her in shades of red, orange and black, perfect for her colouring and her figure. After a few minutes of digging, clothes, papers and packages strewn all across the floor, she announced, ‘Aha!’ and held up two large bags. ‘For you. Souvenirs.’

He looked at her warily.

‘What are they? Sticks of rock with Italy all the way through?’

‘Philistine.’ Carla stuck out her tongue. ‘Here.’

He opened the first, bringing out a bottle of red wine, the bottom half covered in woven straw. Chianti Classico, he read from a label with the image of a black rooster.

‘That’s the real thing,’ she told him. ‘Not the muck we get over here. Delicious, too. I thought we could have it when we eat.’

‘I don’t have anything in.’

She gave a wide grin.

‘I’ve taken care of that, too. Look in the other bag.’

He did, and saw dried pasta in a packet. Not spaghetti, but wide noodles and a glass jar holding a dark red liquid, yards of Sellotape wound tightly around the lid to stop it spilling.

‘What is it?’

‘Sauce. I persuaded the cook where I ate on Friday to put some in there for me.’ She grinned, kissed her fingertips and opened her hand, a woman who could charm a bird out of a tree. ‘Perfecto. And all you have to do is heat it. Wait a mo.’ She knelt and rummaged around some more before holding up one more bag. ‘Here. To finish it off.’

‘My hands are full,’ he said.

She drew out a packet of coffee, opening it so the heavy aroma filled the room, then dug down for a small steel pot.

‘For making espresso,’ she explained. ‘After we’ve eaten.’

Markham laughed.

‘Is there anything you haven’t thought of?’

‘Not a thing.’ Her eyes shone.

‘I have plans for after the food.’

Carla ran a tongue teasingly over her mouth.