Too Many Heroes Page 13

  Frank flicks on the light and unlocks the door. As soon as he pulls back the last bolts the two men stumble inside. Frank grabs hold Dennis before he falls. The metallic smell of blood hits his nostrils along with the whisky and cigars on the landlord’s breath.

  Between them they get Dennis onto a chair. Breathing hard, Harry says: ‘I found him on the corner – he was sprawled out on the pavement outside the ironmongers.’ The docker sits down to get his breath back.

  Frank scrutinises the injured man. His right eye is almost swollen shut and his cheeks and the right side of his jaw are a mass of blood and bruising. To stop him sliding off the chair, Frank puts a hand to his chest and Dennis cries out in pain. ‘Looks likely he’s got a few cracked ribs,’ he says, ‘who knows what else besides.’

  ‘Looks far worse in the light.’ Harry stands up, starts pacing the floor. ‘Reckon we need to get him to hospital.’

  Dennis rouses himself, ‘No bloody hospital.’ He points a finger at both of them in turn. ‘Don’t want a fuss – you hear me?’ He tries to shake his head then winces with the pain of it. ‘Once I’ve had a bit of a lie down, I’ll be right as rain.’ He grabs at Frank’s sleeve. ‘No doctors – understand?’ His good eye looks straight into Frank’s before he lets go.

  ‘Man’s out of his wits – take no notice,’ Harry mutters. ‘You get him cleaned up a bit while I go an’ phone for an ambulance.’

  ‘No!’ Frank pushes the docker’s shoulder to sit him back down. ‘The man knows what he’s saying alright. He must have his reasons – we should go along with what he wants.’

  ‘What’s all this racket?’ Grace demands from the doorway. Her hands fly to her mouth. ‘Oh, my good Lord, whatever’s happened?’ She looks straight at Frank. ‘You didn’t –’

  ‘Harry found him like this.’

  ‘Came across him lying half in the road just round the corner,’ Harry says. ‘Bloody lucky some car didn’t hit him.’

  ‘Oh, Dennis, my love, will you look at the state of you.’ Grace bends down to examine his injuries. ‘What in God’s name happened?’ She gently squeezes her husband’s shoulder. Turning to Harry she says, ‘He might have bin run over?’

  ‘Done over, more like,’ Harry tells her. ‘Look at his eye. You might check his pockets, see if he’s bin robbed. There was no bugger around when I found him. I’ve no idea what sort of bastard would go an’ do such a thing.’

  Frank says nothing while Grace examines her husband’s injuries. ‘Who was it did this to you, darlin’?’

  Dennis opens his one good eye. ‘Too bloody dark.’

  ‘We have to get him a doctor,’ Grace tells them.

  ‘No!’ Dennis roars. ‘I ent seein’ no ruddy doctor – d’you hear me, woman?’ He subsides from the effort. ‘Wasn’t no thief, that’s for sure. It’d be more than my life’s worth if the Old Bill started askin’ questions.’ He touches his wife’s hand. ‘Please, sweetheart, trust me, it’s for the best.’

  Frank and Harry wait for her response.

  ‘Okay, we’ll have it your way – for now, anyway.’

  ‘Can you stand, are your legs alright?’ Frank raises his voice to stop him drifting off.

  The landlord’s eyes remain glazed for a minute before he stirs himself. ‘I think so.’

  Between them, they manage to get him into the back kitchen. ‘Hold up,’ Harry says. ‘Let me get me breath back.’

  They lower Dennis into a softer chair. Grace finds a flannel to sponge the worst of the blood from his face. It’s not much of an improvement. Harry squats down to the injured man’s eye level. ‘This may not be the right time to say it, but I’ll say it anyway – you, Dennis Stevenson, are your own worst enemy. This here’s bin a long time coming. Think of the bloody company you bin keepin’, for Christ’s sake.’

  Dennis looks like he’s drifted off. ‘Why do I get the feelin’ I’m talking to meself?’ Shaking his head Harry straightens up. ‘Not goin’ to be easy but we better try an’ get him up to his bed.’

  ‘Wait.’ Frank bends close to the landlord’s wrecked face. ‘Are you quite sure about this? We shouldn’t be moving you around or owt before a doctor’s had chance to check over them ribs of yours. I used to do a bit of boxin’ – I know it can be serious if a broken rib punctures a lung or summat like that.’

  The landlord opens his good eye. Looking at Grace he says, ‘Don’t you dare go callin’ any doctors.’ With an effort he swivels his head from Frank to Harry. ‘Same goes for you two. We’re all what you might call men of the world.’ With an effort he taps his nose. ‘You know what I’m saying without me havin’ to spell it out.’

  Grace tries to carry on sponging his face, but Dennis brushes her hand away. ‘If you want to help me, sweetheart, you’ll go an’ get me a drop of whisky.’ The landlord’s attempt at a smile reveals several missing teeth. ‘Need somethin’ to deaden the pain before they start manhandling me up them stairs.’

  Grace stands her ground. ‘Looks to me like you’ve had more than enough booze. I’ll fetch you some aspirin, if you like.’

  ‘Right then, well, we’d better get on with it.’ Thin Harry rubs his hands together. ‘Don’t know about you buggers but I’ve got an early start in the mornin’. We’d better be getting ’im up them apples.’ He looks at his watch. ‘My missus’ll be thinkin’ it’s me that’s had a ruddy accident. We don’t want her ringin’ the Old Bill.’

  It’s quite a struggle to get him up the narrow staircase and into the bedroom. One final heave has him on the bed.

  ‘I’m all in.’ Harry doubles over, breathing hard.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for everythin’ you’ve done.’ Grace squeezes his arm. ‘If you hadn’t found him lying there, Lord only knows what would have happened. You get off home now Harry – Frank and I can manage the rest between us.’

  ‘I’ll lock up behind you,’ Frank says, following the docker down the stairs.

  Harry retrieves his cap from the floor then stands on the threshold fiddling with it. ‘You don’t need me to tell you –’ He points his cap at Frank’s chest, ‘You need to watch your step here.’ He puts his cap on his head. ‘I’ll say no more. Goodnight to you.’

  Frank ponders the man’s words as he climbs the stairs. He helps Grace undress her husband down to his underwear. Hardly in good shape at the best of times, there’s vivid bruising along both his forearms where he must have tried to defend himself. When Grace lifts his vest, his torso is purple and black; his attacker must have carried on kicking the poor man when he was down. Frank turns away, shaking his head – hadn’t he done much the same?

  As he lies there in the bed he shares with her, Frank notices Dennis’s pale and scrawny legs – how they contrast with the bulk of his body and how, now they’ve finally got him onto his back, the man begins to resemble a half-squashed toad. He tries to banish the thought. The landlord groans a couple more times before noisily falling asleep.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ Grace says, pulling the covers up over her husband and then turning them down with care like a nurse might. ‘I’ll see to him now. If anyone asks, say you’ve heard Dennis is restin’ up in bed after a fall. Don’t make it sound too serious.’

  Her fingers sweep over her husband’s forehead brushing his thinning hair away from his eyes. Frank’s shocked by the tenderness of the gesture. He watches her every movement as she leaves the bedside to go over to the window and draw the curtains.

  ‘You should go,’ she says, not once looking directly at him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Wednesday 25th June

  He doubles back in order to approach the newsstand from a different direction. Keeping to an unhurried pace, Frank looks at this and that like he’s simply a man out for a constitutional on a fine afternoon. Up ahead, the vendor is strolling back and forth chanting something that sounds like ‘Idiot sees flyin’ saucer.’ Getting closer he realises it’s: ‘Yankee pilot sees flyin’ saucer; read all abowt it.’

&n
bsp; Frank adjusts the angle of his hat. ‘Evening News,’ he says, handing over the exact money to prevent any further conversation. Stuffing the paper under his arm, he strides on trying to look as nonchalant as possible.

  He’s spent the morning going over everything in his head. That fifty guineas would open up so many possibilities; the way things are, he’s wondering if he shouldn’t just claim it and disappear again. What’s stopping him? With that money he could go down to the south coast for a bit; spend a bit of time enjoying himself before he looks for another job. He could try getting work at a funfair or something like that.

  He enters the park through the gate by the lido. In front of him the grass is teeming with kids – they run across his path trailing their kites or speed past him on their bicycles or push scooters. He’s heading in the direction of the empty bandstand and the quieter fringes of the park. Clouds block the sun for a moment – once again a few cumulus humilis that have bubbled up in the heat. Perhaps a change of weather might be on its way.

  And then there’s Grace. How could he have imagined for one second they might have a future together? It became crystal clear last night that the woman still has tender feelings for that useless husband of hers. What with the Dawson brothers and everything, he really ought to get out of London, and fast. But then how can he just up sticks and leave her so unprotected?

  Two men get up from a bench at the far end near the road and walk away in opposite directions. Despite the humidity, they’re both formally dressed like they could be a couple of ill-disguised spies. Frank entertains the thought as he walks through an avenue of gnarled old plane trees to claim the bench they’ve just vacated.

  At last he can spread out the newspaper. Ignoring the enticements of the front page, he scans every inch of the inside section. At first, he can’t find it, but then halfway down page six a headline catches his eye.

  TOO MANY ‘HEROES’

  Sadly, this newspaper has been forced to suspend the reward money offered to the man who saved the young boy from drowning in the river at Thames Beach last Saturday after a great many ‘gentlemen’ stepped forward claiming to be the hero in our photograph. Fortunately, the Evening News has since uncovered more clues to real man’s identity. If the genuine hero of the day would care to get in touch at the address below, our lawyers will establish the truth of his claim. The Evening News remains eager to reward this man with those fifty guineas for his selfless and heroic deed.

  Frank studies every word and the implications behind each. The most straightforward, less worrying explanation is that some reporter’s talked to the two women he met on the beach. Maybe the sisters have offered to identify him in person. He was sloppy when he told them his first name but he’s sure he told them nothing more than that.

  Frank’s hands are trembling as he folds the newspaper. All those imagined possibilities are dead in the water; there’s no chance of any of that now. If he contacted these lawyers, they’ll want cast iron proof of his identity before he can get within sniffing distance of the money. They’ll eagerly plaster the story of who he was and how they found him all over their bloody rag. He’ll stay at the Eight Bells for the moment but only as long as it takes for Dennis to get back on his feet.

  As he leaves the park, Frank drops the newspaper into the nearest bin.

  There’s no letup in the pub. ‘Here have you seen this picture of that bloke they’re lookin’ for?’ Wilf produces the same damn photo and someone holds it up to Frank’s face while they all look from him to it and back again.

  ‘Apart from the hair, it could be him,’ Bert decides.

  Wilf draws on his pipe as he cogitates. ‘No offence,’ he says, releasing a stream of smoke into Frank’s face, ‘but that fella’s a lot better lookin’ than you.’

  ‘They’ve already had loads of blokes tryin’ to claim it.’ Fat Harry burps into his pint. ‘Frank here would have to join the queue.’

  He’s careful to carry on drying the glass in his hands. ‘Aye, well anyroad, I can safely say it’s not me.’ It’s a struggle to keep his smile looking natural. ‘So you lot can all bugger off and stop taking the piss.’

  ‘You could still have a go at it,’ Bert suggests. ‘Worth a shot. I would if it was me.’

  Frank shakes his head. ‘As you said, it’s obvious it’s not me, more’s the pity – fifty guineas would come in dead handy.’

  ‘If I had fifty guineas, I’d go up West.’ Bert’s eyes glaze over with nostalgia. ‘For a start I’d have meself a slap-up meal in some fancy restaurant. Then I might go on to one of them clubs you hear about where there’s a woman barin’ her all on the stage an’ the other girls hang off yer arm – all of ’em practically half naked.’

  Wilf snorts the froth off his pint. ‘If you was to find yerself surrounded by half naked women, Bert Matthews, your eyes’d be spinin’ so much you’d have a ruddy heart attack.’

  To Frank’s relief this takes the conversation in an altogether different direction.

  Frank’s attention is drawn towards the saloon bar where Cyril Lloyd has his hand raised. ‘Two double malts when you’ve got a minute,’ he says, the light glinting off the heavy ring on his pinky finger. Leaning an elbow on the counter, he turns to say something to his companion. Frank recognises the other man – Johnny Davidson.

  He goes over to serve them and is struck by the way their expensively tailored jackets are unable to disguise those protruding paunches. ‘No, I insist, these are on me,’ Davidson says brandishing a fiver.

  Once Frank has counted out his change, he leans in. ‘Could you tell our friend Dennis we’d like a quick word when he’s got a minute?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that – Mr Stevenson’s in bed recovering from a very nasty fall.’

  Frank registers what seems like genuine surprise on both their faces. ‘His injuries aren’t too serious, I hope?’ Lloyd looks anxious now. ‘Any idea when he’s likely to be back on his feet?’

  ‘Hard to say at present.’

  ‘Perhaps we could come through and have a quick word with him,’ Davidson suggests.

  ‘’Fraid not, gents. Mrs Stevenson’s left strict orders he’s not to be disturbed – under any circumstances.’

  Lloyd’s eyes narrow on him. ‘Your name’s Frank, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Well now, Frank, while it’s only natural for a wife to feel protective towards her husband, I’m quite sure Dennis wouldn’t object to a couple of old friends paying him a visit.’

  Davidson adds, ‘No need to disturb his beauty sleep for more than five minutes.’

  Frank squares up to them. ‘I’m afraid I really can’t let you through, gents – poor bloke’s in quite a state and needs to be left in peace right now.’

  ‘Then perhaps we could have a word in Mrs Stevenson’s shell-like.’ Lloyd lowers his voice. ‘It’s a business matter of some urgency. I’m sure Grace will understand.’

  ‘Sorry, gents. I’m happy to tell her you were asking after her husband, but I’ll do nowt else.’ Frank stares down one and then the other. ‘I take my orders from the boss.’

  ‘So we’ve been hearing,’ Davidson mutters. ‘I think you’d better watch your step, Frank. It seems to me you’re getting somewhat above yourself.’

  His friend pulls on his elbow. ‘Let’s not get too carried away, Johnny. I’m sure our barman here will inform the lovely Mrs Stevenson of our pressing desire to have a quiet word with her husband.’

  Davidson finishes his drink and slams the glass down hard on the counter. ‘Tell Grace we’ll be round to see Dennis tomorrow afternoon.’ He puts on his hat. ‘You can assure her that, whatever the poor man’s injuries, he’ll want to hear what we have to say.’

  It’s nearing closing time when Frank’s attention is drawn to a movement to his right. She’s standing in the doorway, doesn’t come any further than the threshold. ‘I’d like a word once you’ve finished up.’

  She looks down, fiddles with her wedding
ring, turning it round and round with a nervousness he hasn’t seen before. When she finally looks at him her eyes are red-rimmed and her face is drawn and anxious.

  ‘How’s Dennis?’ he asks to her disappearing back.

  She doesn’t even turn to answer.

  Chapter Twenty

  Grace paces the kitchen waiting for Frank, her mind reeling from lack of sleep and worry. When she’d last checked Dennis, he looked worse if anything; the bruises covering his skin make him look like he’s been coloured by a child’s purple and mauve paint set. That closed eye seems to bring a new focus to the open one, like he’s seeing right the way through her.

  She goes to check on him again. It’s hard to recognise the man lying there. Even when asleep, he doesn’t seem to be resting; his fists keep curling or his legs thrash around like he’s running. Though the movement makes him wince, it doesn’t stop. He keeps mumbling, too. Try as she might, she can’t make out the words though he seems to be re-living an argument. Has he been lying about not seeing who attacked him? He’s shouted out the odd word but so far, no name.

  Over on her dressing table, there’s a framed photograph of the two of them standing outside the church on their wedding day. Grace picks it up. There she is – a scrap of a girl so awkward in the posh new dress he’d insisted on buying. The man beside her is looking proud as punch all dolled up in his suit – a lot slimmer, that’s for certain. You’d never call him handsome, but he has a nice, kind-looking face.

  To help the swelling round his eye, she fetches a cold flannel. The shock of it wakes him up. Dennis knocks it to the floor as he attempts to sit up. ‘I’ve got to go out,’ he keeps saying. Doesn’t say where or why. His attempts fail. If he weren’t confined by pain, he’d be out of the bed before she could stop him. Since this afternoon, and against her better judgment, she’s been adding whisky to his tea to keep him calm enough to rest.