The Good Provider (55 page)

Unable to protect himself, and still tied to the chair, old Joseph toppled and fell to the floor.

For a moment there was silence, then a man’s voice shouted, ‘
Malone, I’m comin’ in
,’ and the front door flew open before Constable Nicholson’s furious charge.

Archie Flynn had been assigned to a short safe beat on the borderline of Greenfield and Partick, a square acre of docile dwellings and timber warehouses where very little ever happened to disturb the peace. Like all other members of the Force he had been instructed to keep a weather-eye open for Daniel Malone and had in his pocket a printed bill which gave a detailed description of the felon. The language of the handbill made Malone sound like a fiend out of hell and Archie was damned glad he would not be abroad in the Greenfield much after dark for he doubted that he had the guts to deal with a desperate dangerous criminal armed with a military sabre.

Now that dusk had fallen Archie was skulking. There was no other word for it. He did not suppose that there would be any inspectors or sergeants sufficiently ‘loose-endish’ to come checking up on a mere third-grade constable and crabbed from one safe niche to another, his back always to a wall.

He was surprised when he saw Mrs Nicholson and, forgetting his apprehension, stepped out to greet her.

‘I thought you were ordered t’ stay indoors?’ Archie said.

‘I’m goin’ to spend the night with a friend.’

‘Who’s that then?’

‘Mrs Frew, in Walbrook Street, where we used to live.’

‘Is Craig stayin’ there too?’

‘No, but if you see him please tell him where I’ve gone.’

‘Aye, I will.’ Archie peered at Kirsty. ‘Are you feelin’ all right, Mrs Nicholson?’

‘I’m – I’m fine.’

‘I’d walk down to Walbrook Street wi’ you,’ said Archie, ‘but it’s out o’ the burgh an’ I’m no’ supposed to leave the beat durin’ duty hours.’

‘I understand,’ said Kirsty. ‘I’m really all right. I can walk there myself.’

‘I don’t think you should be—’

‘Constable Flynn, I’m not a prisoner nor an invalid,’ Kirsty snapped. ‘If you see Craig—’

‘I’ll tell him,’ Archie promised.

The young woman gave him a nod and, apparently disinclined to linger, sidled round him and went on her way.

Archie put his fists on his hips and stared after her.

It was almost full dark now and the section that led down to Highland Street which led in turn to the end of Walbrook Street looked bleak and almost deserted. The big timber sheds, pulled back from the docks, employed only a handful of men and the ‘change shift’ had taken place at six o’clock. There was something about the young woman’s gait, not just her pregnancy, that touched Archie, made him shelve his concern for duty and correctness and neglect his own nervousness.

‘Mrs Nicholson,’ he called out. ‘Wait.’

She stopped and turned round, holding a hand against the wall of one of the larger sheds.

Archie caught up with her. ‘I’ll walk wi’ you.’

‘I can manage, I tell you.’

‘Just to the end o’ Walbrook Street,’ said Archie, compromising with her independence and challenging her irascibility.

The young woman sighed, a sucking breath that seemed to come from her stomach and not her lungs.

‘Thank you, Constable Flynn.’

‘Call me Archie. I’m a pal o’ Craig’s after all. An’ while we’re bein’ so friendly I think you should take my arm.’

She put up no further argument but held on to him tightly through the quarter of a mile of dockland fringe that brought Archie to the very limit of his authority and Kirsty within sight of Walbrook Street.

‘Well, there y’are,’ said Archie. ‘You’ll be all right now, Mrs Nicholson. No’ far to your friend’s house, is it?’

‘No, not far,’ said Kirsty.

She disengaged her arm from his and nodded her thanks but she did not linger. She seemed, Archie thought, driven by some urgency to get on into the broad gaslit street.

He watched her go, waddling, heavy and vulnerable, down the pavement by the railings of the posh terrace that curved away into a rain-wet infinity. He continued to watch her for two or three minutes and then he became aware that it would soon be time for the ending of his duty and that he had better make his way back to the Greenfield proper.

By God, he would be bloody glad to get off the streets and into barracks tonight for there something other than rain to bring a little shiver to the skin, though for the life of him Archie Flynn could not put a name to it, unless it was Malone.

Craig held the heavy stick in two hands as he had been taught to do when going in against a man armed with an edged weapon. He had kicked in the door of the pawnshop with two stabbing blows of his boot and a short surging attack with his shoulder. His heart clenched in his chest as he plunged over the threshold. Something small and fierce darted at him and he would have kicked at it if he had not heard its yowling and, not a moment too soon, realised that it was the little marmalade cat.

The beast scooted between his legs and out into the street. He heard the woman whose help he had purchased with his last sixpence scream as Tiggy went past her like a rocket.

‘
Malone
?’

Craig gripped the stick in his fists and held it at a level with his throat. It would deflect a downward blow and could be raised or lowered in response to any angle of attack.

No attack came.

He peered into the gloom, into the jumble. He had been prepared to meet Malone head on, had expected a sudden violent encounter with the man and felt now a resurgence of that fear which had been deadened by excitement.

‘
Come out here, y’ bastard
.’

From behind the counter came a groan. Still cautious and alert Craig let himself through the door in the counter and almost tripped over old Joseph McGhee strapped to the cane chair.

Craig looked about him then swiftly knelt and untied the scarf from about the old man’s mouth. He probed with his forefinger and scooped out the wad of paper that formed the gag.

‘Was he here, Joseph? Was it him; Malone?’

‘Yis.’

‘Has he gone?’

‘Yis.’

Craig took a grip on the chair and hoisted the old man up. There was blood on the side of his face and Craig’s fingers were slippery with it. He wiped his hands on his lapels and fumbled with the old man’s bonds.

‘How long since he left?’

‘Hour. Gone for—’

‘Gone where, Joe?’

‘For you.’

‘But how did he know where—’

‘Or – or your – your wife.’

‘Christ!’

‘Stole – stole a frocked coat, tall hat, bag.’

‘Are you wounded?’

‘Mouth.’ Joseph, arms free, wiped his cheek, wincing, then caught at Craig’s sleeve. ‘Leave me, son. You’d best be gettin’ after him. He has a knife.’

‘The sword he stole?’

‘Knife,’ said Joseph.

Kirsty saw the figure behind her when she was still two hundred yards from No. 19. She thought nothing of the appearance of a man dressed so elegantly, in such an old-fashioned style. The fact that he carried an American bag suggested that he was a gentleman making his way to visit friends or to seek shelter in a comfortable and respectable lodging. Perhaps he was a minister headed for Mrs Frew’s.

Kirsty turned to face the street and then, for no valid reason, glanced again over her shoulder.

Adjacent to her was the bowling-green fence, that quiet stretch of Walbrook Street with the tall windows of drawing-rooms heavily curtained against the sting of wintry rain and the wind that whistled up from the river. The houses looked implacable and remote. There were no other pedestrians in her immediate vicinity, only two indistinct figures at the faraway corner.

The pain across her diaphragm burrowed downward. She pressed her hands to her stomach as if to contain it, to hold it to her for a little while longer. She looked back once more.

The gentleman was running. He was running straight at her with a long loping ungainly stride, the tile hat tipped back from his brow so that she could see his face.

She stumbled as she swung round, went down on one knee and thrust herself up again. She could hear no sound but the clashing of his boots on the pavement. She ran, ran as fast as she possibly could, ignoring the sudden flooding emptiness in her belly that seemed to have replaced pain.

If the child in her body had not been heavy she would have run like the wind, would have outstripped the man and reached the doorway of No. 19 long before he overtook her but she was not a girl now but a woman wrapped in motherhood, and would be killed because of it.

She did not turn again. She ran on, waiting for hands about her neck or a cudgel to strike her skull. She was reconciled to the hopelessness of her situation. She opened her mouth to scream for help but the air in her lungs pumped so fast through her open lips that only a squeak came out. To cry for help she would have to stop and she did not dare stop. If she stopped she would collapse and he would have her. Deep in her mind was the terror that had lain dormant since that night at Hawkhead, a black fear that she would be penetrated against her will and now, with a baby grown in her body, that it too would be damaged by the savage indifference that was bred in men whether farmer or fugitive.

She found herself at the step of No. 19 and swung herself on to it, shouting in a pitiful, almost inaudible squeak.

By her left side the shape was like a gigantic crow flapping black wings. The knife tore down her shoulder and the upper part of her arm. The blow was cutting not direct and her clothing smothered the worst of it. She was at the door and beating on it with both fists before she realised that she was bleeding at all. It all seemed liquid and warm. She wondered if dying was like drowning. She fell, rolled stomach up, saw him above her, the long knife pointed down at her belly, at her child.

She gave a kick, caught him on the shins. He stepped back to the side and, stooping, pinned her to the stone, his left hand rammed like a stake into her breast.

Softly Malone said, ‘So I’ve got his cow, have I, an’ his bloody calf? Next time I’m back here I’ll get him too.’

She waited for the knife to bury itself in her body. But it did not happen. She detected blurred movement, light spill over the step and, twisting, saw David in the doorway above her.

‘David, help me,’ she cried.

Pressure lifted from her breast. Malone reared back. She heard the whack of David’s fist upon Malone’s flesh, saw more indistinct movements as the young man struck out again.

Malone toppled down the steps to the pavement, the carving-knife flying from his grasp.

David leapt after him but Malone was quick to find his feet and ran off down Walbrook Street towards Greenfield. David did not give chase. He knelt by Kirsty, touched her gently and then, without a word, lifted her into his arms and carried her into the house out of the rain.

‘David, is she dead, is the poor girl dead?’

‘Out of my way, Aunt Nessie, please.’

‘Where are you taking her?’

‘To your bedroom.’

‘Is she not dead?’

‘No, she’s in labour,’ David said.

Frantically Kirsty clung to him, sure that if he was with her she would be safe from harm.

‘I’ll – I’ll run out and fetch a doctor,’ Mrs Frew said.

‘No time, I’m afraid,’ said David. ‘It’s started.’

Kirsty glimpsed the painting of gloomy old Saint Andrew glimmering on the stairs and then she was in bright light in the bedroom at the rear of the house.

‘Oh, God, David!’ said Mrs Frew. ‘What can you do?’

‘Deliver her myself,’ David Lockhart said.

The force of the rain increased suddenly and dramatically. It came in great ferocious spirals over the cranes and gantries of the river reach, swept into the city from the west driving folk hastily into shelter or chasing them, with newspapers over their heads, in a gallop for home.

For five or ten minutes the deluge was so intense that the horse-trams ground to a halt, lines turned to rushing rivers and horses blinded by the tails of rain that lashed over the rooftops and scourged the cobbled roads. Men and women huddled in shop doorways, scanning the sky above the sizzling arc-lamps for sign of let or halt. In closes the street children crouched, grinning and stimulated, and watched the drops bounce outside and heard, with shivers of delight, the tearing sound of the downpour in the backcourts and thought of the big brown lakes that would lie like jelly in the hollows and how they would paddle and cavort in them and, the more inventive, make rafts to sail from shore to shore.

Archie was caught within sight of the Vancouver Vaults. He did not have the temerity to make a dash from the warehouse door to the public house and would not have been surprised to find some officious sergeant in there already waiting to take names. He turned up his collar and shrank back against the dripping woodwork and listened to the funny noise the rain made on the slatted wooden roof, like a million wee creatures in coppers’ boots doing a dance on the tar-macadam cladding. He had just managed to light a cigarette and take a sook on it, holding it cupped in his palm, when a constable came charging across the end of the street.