Chapter 9

“Last time I saw you in the ring was when you fought Terry Jones for the area title,” Ma Crowther said. “I thought you had it in your pocket till he gave you that cut over the eye and the ref stopped the fight in the third.”

“I always did cut too easily,” the Gunner said. “If it hadn’t been for that I could have gone right to the top. The Boxing Board took my licence away after the Terry Jones fight on medical advice. Just a vale of tears, isn’t it?”

He looked anything but depressed sitting there at the table wearing an old sweater the girl had found him and a pair of boots that had belonged to her father. He had already worked his way through three fried eggs, several rashers of bacon and half a loaf of bread and was now on his third cup of tea.

“You’re a funny one and no mistake.” Jenny Crowther shook her head. “Doesn’t anything ever worry you?”

“Life’s too short, darlin’.” He helped himself to a cigarette from the old woman’s packet. “I shared a cell once with a bloke who was big on this Yoga lark. You’ve got to learn to relaxez vous. Live for today and use the talents the good Lord’s given you.”

Jenny laughed helplessly. “I think that’s marvellous. Considering the way you make a living.”

He wasn’t in the least embarrassed. “So I scrounge a few bob where I can. The kind of people I hit can afford it. Insured up to the hilt they are. I don’t go around duffing up old women in back street shops.”

“The original Robin Hood,” she said acidly. “And what happens when someone gets in your way on a job? Do you go quietly or try to smash your way through?”

She piled the dirty dishes on to a tray and went into the kitchen. The Gunner moved across to the fire and sat in the opposite chair to the old woman. “Is she always as sharp as that?”

“She has to be, lad, running an outfit like this.”

“You mean she’s in charge?”

“Her Dad passed on a couple of months back—cerebral haemorrhage. Jenny was a hairdresser, a good one too, but she dropped that and took over here. Been trying to keep things going ever since.”

“Having trouble, then?”

“Only what you’d expect. We’ve eight drivers and two mechanics and there isn’t one who wouldn’t take advantage if he could. And then there’s the foreman, Joe Ogden. He’s the worst of the lot. He’s shop steward for the union. Always quoting the book at her, making things as difficult as he can.”

“And why would he do that?”

“You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” She poured herself another whisky. “What about you? Where do you go from here?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, Ma. If I can get to the Ring Road I could snatch a lift to any one of a dozen places.”

“And then what?” He made no answer and she leaned across and put a hand on his knee. “Don’t be a fool, lad. Give yourself up before it’s too late.”

Which was exactly what the Gunner had been thinking, but he didn’t say so. Instead, he got to his feet and grinned. “I’ll think about it. In any case there’s nothing for you or Jenny to worry about. I’ll clear out of here in an hour or so when it’s a bit quieter, if that’s all right with you.”

He went into the kitchen and found the girl at the sink, an apron around her waist, washing the dishes. “Need any help?”

“You can dry if you like.”

“Long time since I did this.” He picked up a tea towel.

“Even longer before you do it again.”

“Heh, what have I done?” he demanded.

“It’s just that I can’t stand waste,” she said. “I mean look at you. Where on earth do you think you’re going to go from here? You won’t last long out there with every copper for miles around on the watch for you.”

“Whose side are you on then?”

“That’s another thing. You can’t be serious for a moment—not about anything.”

She returned to the dishes and the Gunner chuckled. “I’m glad you’re angry anyhow.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Better than no reaction at all. At least you’re interested.”

“You’ll be lucky. The day I can’t do better I’ll jump off Queen’s Bridge.”

But she was smiling and some of the tension had gone out of her when she returned to the washing-up. “I was having an interesting chat with your gran,” the Gunner said. “Seems you’ve got your hands full at the moment.”

“Oh, we get by.”

“Sounds to me as if you need a good man round the place.”

“Why, are you available?”

He grinned. “I wish I was, darlin’.”

The judas gate banged outside and steps echoed across the yard. Jenny Crowther frowned. “That’s funny, I dropped the latch when I went out earlier.”

“Anyone else got a key?”

“Not as far as I know. I’ll see who it is. You’d better stay here.”

He waited, the kitchen door held open slightly so that he could see what took place. Ma Crowther appeared from the other room and watched as Jenny opened the front door.

The man who pushed his way inside wore a donkey jacket with leather patches on the shoulders and had obviously had a drink. He was hefty enough with arms that were a little too long, but his face was puffed up from too much beer and the weak mouth the biggest giveaway of all.

“And what might you want at this time of night, Joe Ogden?” Ma Crowther demanded.

“Leave this to me, Gran,” Jenny said calmly. “Go on now. I’ll be in in a minute.”

The old woman went back into the sitting-room reluctantly and Jenny closed the door and turned to face Ogden. She held out her hand. “You used a key to open the outside gate. I don’t know where you got it from, but I want it.”

He smiled slyly. “Nay, lass, I couldn’t do that. I like to be able to come and go.” He took a step forward and put his hand on the wall so that she was caged in the corner by the sitting-room door. “We could get along just fine, you and me. Why not be sensible? A lass like you’s got better things to be doing than trying to run a firm like this. Keeping truckies in their place is man’s work.”

He tried to kiss her and she twisted her head to one side. “I’m going to give you just five seconds to get out of here. If you don’t, I’ll send for the police and lay a complaint for assault.”

He jumped back as if he had been stung. “You rotten little bitch,” he said, his face red and angry. “You won’t listen to reason, will you? Well, just remember this—I’m shop steward here. All I have to do is say the word and every man in the place walks out through that gate with me—they’ll have no option. I could make things very awkward for you.”

She opened the door without a word. He stood there glowering at her, then moved out. “All right, miss,” he said viciously. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

She closed the door and turned, shaking with rage. “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill the bastard,” she said and then broke down and sobbed, all the worry and frustration of the weeks since her father’s death welling up to the surface.

Strong arms pulled her close and a hand stroked her hair. “Now then, darlin’, never say die.” She looked up and the Gunner grinned down at her. “Only one way to handle a situation like this. Put the kettle on, there’s a good girl. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

He kissed her full on the mouth and before she could say anything, opened the door and went out into the night.

Joe Ogden paused on the corner, swaying slightly for he was still about three-parts drunk. So she wanted it the hard way did she? Right—then that was the way she could have it. He’d show the bitch—by God he would. By the time he was finished she’d come crawling, begging him to sort things out for her and then he’d call the tune all right.

He crossed the street and turned into a narrow lane, head down against the driving rain, completely absorbed by a series of sexual phantasies in which Jenny Crowther was doing exactly as she was told. The lane was badly lit by a number of old-fashioned gas lamps, long stretches of darkness in between and the pavement was in a bad state of repair, the flags lifting dangerously.

The Gunner descended on him like a thunderbolt in the middle of one of the darker stretches and proceeded to take him apart savagely and brutally in a manner that was as exact as any science.

Ogden cried out in pain as he was propelled into the nearest brick wall with a force that took the breath out of his body. He swung round, aware of the pale blur of a face and swung a fist instinctively, catching the Gunner high on the right cheekbone.

It was the only hit he was to make that night. A boot caught him under the right kneecap, a left and a right screwed into his stomach and a knee lifted into his face as he keeled over, for the Gunner was never one to allow the Queensberry rules to get in his way in this sort of affair.

Ogden rolled over in the rain and the Gunner kicked him hard about the body half a dozen times, each blow judged to a nicety. Ogden lay there, face against the pavement, more frightened than he had ever been in his life, expecting to meet his end at any moment.

Instead, his assailant squatted beside him in the darkness and said in a strangely gentle voice, “You don’t know who I am, but I know you and that’s all that matters. Now listen carefully because I’m only going to say this once. You’ll get your cards and a week’s pay in the post Monday. In the future, you stay away from Crowther’s yard. Make any kind of trouble at all, union or otherwise, and I’ll get you.” He grabbed a handful of Ogden’s hair. “Understand?”

“Yes.” Ogden could hardly get the word out as fear seized him by the throat.

“See that you do. Now where’s the key to the outside gate?”

Ogden fumbled in his left hand pocket, the Gunner took the yale key from him, slammed him back hard against the pavement and walked away.

Ogden got to his knees, dizzy with pain and pulled himself up against the wall. He caught a brief glimpse of the Gunner running through the lighted area under one of the lamps and then he was alone again. Quite suddenly, and for the first time since childhood, he started to cry, dry sobs tearing at his throat as he turned and stumbled away through the darkness.

Crouched by the open doorway in the loft above the old barn in the exact positon the Gunner had occupied earlier, the Rainlover waited patiently, wondering whether the man would return.

The door opened for the second time in ten minutes and the girl appeared, framed against the light, so close that he could see the worry on her face. He started to get up and beyond through the darkness, there was the creaking of the judas gate as it opened. A moment later, the Gunner appeared.

He paused at the bottom of the steps and tossed the key up to Jenny. “This is yours.”

She glanced at it briefly. “What happened?”

“Oh, you might say we came to an understanding. He’s agreed not to come back. In return he gets his cards and a week’s pay, first post Monday morning.”

She tilted his head to one side and examined the bruise that was spreading fast under his right eye. “Some understanding. You’d better come in and let me do something about that.”

She turned and the Gunner followed her. After he had closed the door, the yard was dark again, but something moved there in the shadows making no more noise than the whisper of dead leaves brushing across the ground in the autumn. The judas gate creaked slightly and closed with a soft click. In the alley, footfalls faded into the rain.

The Gunner emptied the glass of whisky she had given him with a sigh of satisfaction and turned his head to the light as she gently applied a warm cloth to the bruise under his eye.

“What happened to the old lass, then?”

“I told her to go to bed. It’s late.”

He glanced at the clock. “You’re right. I’ll have to be off soon.”

“No hurry. You’ll stand a better chance later on.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

He was suddenly tired and with the whisky warm in his stomach, contented in a way that he hadn’t been for years. It was pleasant there by the cheerful fire with just the one lamp in the corner and the solid, comfortable furniture. She gave him a cigarette and lit a paper spill at the fire for a light.

He took one of the easy chairs and she sat on the rug, her legs tucked underneath her. The Gunner smoked his cigarette slowly from long habit, making it last, and watched her. Strange, but he hadn’t felt like this about a woman before. She had everything a man could ever want—a body to thank God for, a pleasant face, strength, character. He pulled himself up short. This was beginning to get out of hand. Trouble was it had been so damned long since he’d been within smelling distance of a bird that probably one of those forty-five-year-old Toms from the back of the market would have looked remarkably like the Queen of the May.

She turned and smiled. “And what’s going on inside that ugly skull of yours now?”

“Just thinking how you’re about the best-looking lass I’ve seen in years.”

“Not much of a compliment,” she scoffed. “Not when you consider where you’ve been lately.”

“Been reading up on me, have you?”

She shrugged. “I caught the final newscast on television. You’d plenty of competition, by the way. There’s been a woman murdered earlier tonight on the other side of Jubilee Park.”

“Another of these Rainlover things?”

“Who else could it be?” She shivered and added slowly, “When I was alone in the kitchen earlier I got to thinking that maybe that man out there in the yard

”

“Was the Rainlover?” The Gunner shook his head emphatically. “Not a chance. The fact that he’s seen off this poor bitch earlier is proof enough of that. They always work to a pattern these blokes. Can’t help themselves. The chap who jumped you had something a damned sight more old-fashioned on his mind.”

She frowned. “I don’t know, I was thinking that maybe I should report it to the police.”

She hesitated as well she might. Her father had left mother and daughter a business which was worth in cash and property some fifteen thousand pounds yet he had never considered himself as anything other than working class. His daughter was of the same stubborn breed and had been raised to obey the usual working class code which insisted that contact with the police, no matter what the reason, was something to be avoided at all costs.

“And what were you going to tell them?” demanded the Gunner. “That Sean Doyle, with every copper for miles around on his tail, stopped to save you from a fate worse then death, so you fed him and clothed him and sent him on his way rejoicing because you figured you owed him something?” He chuckled harshly. “They’ll have you in a cell in Holloway before you know what’s hit you.”

She sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I am.” With some adroitness he changed the subject. “So I was on the telly, was I?”

“Oh, they did quite a feature on the great Gunner Doyle.”

“Free publicity is something I can always use. I hope they mentioned I was the best second-storey man in the North of England.”

“Amongst other things, including the fact that you were the most promising middleweight since the war, a contender for the crown until women and booze and fast cars got in the way. They said you were the biggest high-liver the ring had seen since somebody called Jack Johnson.”

“Now there’s a compliment if you like.”

“Depends on your point of view. The commentator said that Johnson had ended up in the gutter without a penny. They seemed to be drawing some kind of comparison.”

There was a cutting edge to her voice that needled the Gunner and he said hotly, “Well just for the record, darlin’, there’s a few things they’ve missed out like the way I cut so badly that refs used to stop fights I was winning because they’d get worried about the blood pouring all over my face. In that last fight with Terry Jones I got cut so much I was two weeks in hospital. I even needed plastic surgery. They took my licence away so I couldn’t box any more. Any idea how I felt?”

“Maybe it was rough, Gunner, life often is, but it didn’t give you a licence to steal.”

“Nay, lass, I don’t need any excuses.” He grinned. “I had a few sessions with a psychiatrist at the Scrubs first time I got nicked. He tried to make out that I’d gone bent to get my own back on society.”

“What’s your version?”

“Chance, darlin’, time and chance, that’s what happened to me. When the fight game gave me up I’d about two hundred quid in the bank and I was qualified to be just one thing. A bloody labourer. Anything seemed better than that.”

“So you decided to try crime?”

“Not really. It just sort of happened. I was staying in the Hallmark Hotel in Manchester, trying to keep up appearances while I tried to con my way into a partnership with a bloke I knew who was running a gambling club. When the deal folded, I was so broke I couldn’t even pay the bill. One night I noticed a bloke in the bar with a wallet full of fivers. Big bookie in from the races.”

He stared into the fire, silent for a moment and as he started to speak again, she realised that in some strange way he was re-living that night in every detail.

“He was staying on the same floor as me five rooms along. There was a ledge outside my window, only about a foot wide mind you, but it was enough. I’ve always had a head for heights ever since I was a kid, always loved climbing. I don’t know, maybe if things had been different I might have been a real climber. North face of the Eiger and all that sort of stuff. Those are the blokes with the real guts.”

“What happened?” she said.

“I worked my way along the ledge at about two in the morning, got in through his window and lifted the wallet and him snoring the whole time.”

“And you got away with it?”

“No trouble at all. Just over six hundred nicker. I ask you, who’d have gone labouring after a touch like that? My fortune was made. As I said, I’ve always had a head for heights and that kind of thing is a good number. You don’t need to work with anyone else which lowers the chance of getting nicked.”

“They got you though, didn’t they?”

“Twice, that’s all, darlin’. Once when I fell forty feet at the back of the Queen’s Hotel in Leeds and broke a leg. The second time was when I got nicked at that new hotel in the Vandale Centre. Seems they had one of these electronic eyes switched on. The scuffers were in before I knew what hit me. Oh, I gave them quite a chase over the roofs, but it was all for laughs. I’d been recognised for one thing.”

He yawned and shook his head slightly, suddenly very, very tired. “Better get moving I suppose. You don’t want me hanging round here in the morning.”

The cigarette dropped from his hand to the carpet. She picked it up and tossed it into the fire and the Gunner sighed, leaning back in the comfortable old chair. Very softly Jenny Crowther got up and reached for the rug that was draped over the back of the settee.

As she covered the Gunner, his hand slid across her thigh and he said softly, “Best looking lass I’ve seen in years.”

She didn’t move, aware that he was already asleep, but gently disengaged his hand and tucked it under the rug. She stood there for quite a while looking down at that reckless face, almost childlike in repose. In spite of the scar tissue around the eyes and the permanently swollen cheekbones, it was handsome enough, a man’s face whatever else he was and her thigh was still warm where he had touched her.

Perhaps it was as well that sleep had overtaken him so suddenly before things had taken their inevitable course—although she would have had no particular objections to that in principle. By no means promiscuous, she was like most young people of her generation, a product of her day and the sexual morality of earlier times meant nothing to her.

But loving, even in that sense, meant some kind of involvement and she couldn’t afford that. Better that he should go after an hour or two’s sleep. She turned off the light and went and stood at the window, her face against the cold glass, rain hammering hard against it, wondering what would happen to him, wondering where he would run to.