Too Many Heroes Read online

  Grace goes downstairs to make him another cuppa. She’s startled by the knock on the door, though it’s gentle enough. When she opens up, Frank’s standing there like a regular visitor – like he isn’t the same man who only yesterday had her every which way in this very room. ‘How is he?’

  ‘No worse,’ she says, ‘least, as far as I can tell. He’s certainly not happy bein’ in bed – ill as he is. I’ve had a job to keep him from trying to get up.’

  ‘Happen that’s a good sign.’

  ‘Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.’

  ‘Cyril Lloyd and that Davidson chap were asking after him earlier.’

  ‘Were they now.’ Her sigh is heartfelt. ‘I’m at my wits’ end, Frank.’ She rotates the wedding band on her finger – it seems looser than ever. ‘I don’t know what to do or what to think anymore. How did everything get to be such a bloody awful mess?’

  She notices how he hesitates before coming forward. ‘There, there, lass,’ he says, his northern accent really coming out like it does at times. When his arms enfold her, she takes in the smell of him and, losing any restraint, sobs into his chest.

  ‘I’ve gone an’ made you all wet,’ she says, pulling away, stepping back so he’s properly in focus.

  ‘That’s not the least effect you’ve had on me.’ There’s a look in those pale eyes she’s not seen before.

  ‘I expect you think all kinds of things about me,’ she says, ‘a married woman ready to drop her knickers at the drop of a hat.’

  ‘It’s true I do think all kinds of things about you, but not those sorts of things.’

  ‘Why not?’ She lowers her voice to a whisper. ‘Why wouldn’t any man think less of someone who behaves like I’ve done right under her husband’s nose?’

  ‘Is that what you want from me?’ She’s noticed before how quickly his fists remember to curl. ‘Do you think I’m the type of man who would judge you like that?’

  ‘Most men would, and I can’t say I’d blame ’em if they did.’

  He touches her hand, his voice softening as quick as it hardened. ‘But I’m not most men, Grace.’ His fingers run up and down the thin material of her sleeve.

  She looks away from the tenderness in his expression. ‘I think you need to understand.’ Her eyes trace the convoluted pattern on the rug beneath their feet. ‘I do love Dennis in my own way, and I know he loves me too. He can be a bloody fool at times, I grant you, but he’s a good man underneath it. And I’ll be forever be grateful that he took me in, offered me this home, when I hadn’t really got one to speak of.’

  ‘Then I think ’praps I’d best be getting out from under your feet, Mrs Stevenson.’ Not meeting her eye, he turns towards the door.

  ‘Wait,’ she says. ‘Please, Frank, there’s more I need to say to you.’ She can’t see his face. He remains bolt upright, hands at his side, like a man about to take a dive from a high platform.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Just so you know, I’m not in the habit of goin’ to bed with other men. But me and Dennis, we don’t–’ She can’t think why she’s shying away from the words, not in front of a man who’s made her groan in ecstasy. ‘We haven’t done it. I mean it’s bin a long time since we’ve bin properly man and wife – if you get my meaning.’ Loyalty stops her elaborating on their disastrous and perfunctory fumblings; how, for them both, it had been a chore neither of them wished to endure again. ‘He’s not bin interested,’ she says.

  ‘I suppose that’s where I come in.’ There’s more than an edge of bitterness to Frank’s voice.

  ‘Don’t be like that. It’s not as if I haven’t had plenty of opportunities before. Up till now I’ve always resisted.’

  He finally looks at her. ‘So why me?’

  ‘Because – oh, for goodness’ sake, you’ll just have to use your imagination, Frank Danby.’

  ‘But I want you to tell me.’

  ‘Tell you what? You want me to list all the things about you that made me desperate to feel you inside me almost as soon as I set eyes on you?’

  He’s smiling now – a big grin that starts with his mouth and spreads all over his face. ‘You could start there,’ he says.

  His hands are on her cheeks, in her hair, and he’s kissing her so hard it’s hurting. Before she loses control, she pushes him away. ‘We can’t – not with Dennis lyin’ up there right above our heads in the state he’s in.’

  She pulls her blouse back into shape. ‘And besides, I really need to tell you somethin’ else.’

  Frank doesn’t say a thing. He folds his arms across his chest, his face only half serious.

  ‘I think, in fact I’m pretty certain, there’s somethin’ wrong with all the spirits we’re sellin’.’ She takes a steadying breath. ‘I think it’s hooch and Dennis has bin gettin’ it from somewhere he shouldn’t.’

  Frank’s eyebrows go up but at the same time he’s nodding his head like none of it’s a big shock to him after all. Seems like he’s already worked it out for himself. She studies his face. ‘Did you know about it?’

  ‘No,’ he raises both hands like he’s surrendering to an enemy. ‘I swear to you, he’s said nowt to me about it.’ He looks to be telling the truth.

  ‘An’ that’s not all of it,’ she says. ‘I saw him with my own eyes give a bunch of keys to one of Cyril Lloyd’s men. They were the keys for this storeroom he’s got – well, it’s more like a lockup – but a big one. You know them ones under the railway arches off Ragnall Street?’

  Her fingers go back to her wedding ring; she can’t seem to stop turning it round and round. ‘He’s had the place for years just for storin’ a few bits of old family furniture an’ that.’ It helps to pace the floor. ‘Now I think he’s lettin’ Cyril store things in there – things he wants hidden. Could be stuff off their sites – materials he’s claiming to have used. There again – it could be somethin’ else altogether.’ She comes to a standstill in front of him. ‘What d’you think I should do?’

  ‘Seriously, Grace,’ he grabs her shoulders, gives her a sort of shake: ‘It’d be best – safer by far – if you try to forget whatever it is you’ve seen or you think you know. Look what’s just happened to Dennis.’

  She shrugs him off. ‘You mean to say you think the two things are connected?’

  ‘I’m not saying they are or they’re not; what I am saying is, for your own safety, it’s best you know nowt about any of it. In this sort of situation, ignorance may not be bliss but it’s a darn sight better than knowing too much.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Thursday 26th June

  Frank keeps his head down – carries on with his work like there’s nothing out of the ordinary going on. No one in the pub mentions Dennis’s absence. The regulars are unlikely to be suspicious since Dennis is so often not around – his constant presence would be far more noteworthy. The subject hasn’t even cropped up; it seems unlikely Harry will have said anything to anyone.

  His morning shift over, Frank resists the urge to go through and speak to Grace. He locks up as usual before heading east towards Ragnall Street, whistling as he goes, his jacket slung over one shoulder. It’s an easy, ten-minute stroll. Frank stands at the busy junction looking over at the row of arches under the bridge – all exactly as Grace had described.

  He’s surprised by a train as it comes rattling overhead. There’s no knowing which of the lockups belongs to Dennis. Various doors are propped open and a fair number of people are going about their work. Some are sitting outside at workbenches; one man’s stooped over a small lathe. From across the road he hears the whine of the machine, can already smell hot metal and grease. There’s a squeal of brakes as another train passes; under his feet the ground vibrates.

  A couple of units are closed up. A good many padlocked iron bars brace their stout wooden doors. He won’t be able to see a thing through those painted over windows.

  A middle-aged chap in overalls is working on an upturned motorbike next to the two locked units.
The sun’s rays are bouncing off the machine’s silver paintwork. He’s pretty sure she’s a Triumph Tiger.

  ‘Nice bike,’ Frank says, kicking a stone as he wonders over.

  The bloke looks up. Those grease stains on his face could be war paint. ‘It would be if the silly bugger who owns it would learn not to take bends too ruddy fast. This time he’s buggered up the front wheel and bent both front forks. I ask you. The bloody idiot always comes runnin’ to me to fix things up again.’

  ‘Do these really do a ton?’

  The man takes a rag from his pocket and rubs away at the oil on his hands. ‘So I’m told. Bloke I know reckons he got over a hundred an’ five on one up the A1.’

  Frank whistles though his teeth. ‘I had a go on a Speed Twin just after the war. A beauty she was. Course, she didn’t have these fancy telescopic front forks.’

  After that he can barely shut the man up. It takes him a while to steer the conversation around. ‘I do a bit of light welding for people from time to time. Was wondering if I could maybe rent one of these places meself.’ The shine off the metal is making him squint. ‘Those two over there looks pretty shut up – d’you know if anybody’s using either of ’em?’

  Straight off the man’s demeanor changes. ‘I wouldn’t know one way or the other.’

  ‘So you’ve not seen anybody coming and going from them lately or owt like that?’

  ‘Like I said, mate, I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Maybe I could, you know, ask somebody if they’re vacant – that’s if you wouldn’t mind telling me who I should get in touch with.’

  ‘’Fraid I can’t help ya there, mate. Chap comes round here once a month an’ I pay him in cash. That’s it.’ He picks up a large wrench. ‘Everybody’s happy and that’s the way we’d like it to stay round here.’

  He weighs the tool in his hand before he points the blunt end at Frank. ‘I need to get this done by five, so if you wouldn’t mind –’ There’s an unmistakable threat in his eyes as he flicks his balding head in the general direction of the road.

  Frank takes the hint. ‘Fair enough,’ he says. ‘No harm in askin’, eh?’

  The man continues to watch him until he’s out of sight. What next? He dawdles along heading in no particular direction. Perching on a low wall, he stares down at the cracks in the pavement. The unrelenting sun beats down on his head making it hard for him to think straight.

  On his way back to the Eight Bells, he calls in to Eddie’s though he’s not sure he’s in the mood for the man’s perpetual cheerfulness. Forty yards away and he can already smell frying fish. A small queue has built up as they wait for the next batch to be ready. Joining the line, his stomach rumbles its impatience.

  ‘Afternoon, Frank.’ Eddie looks like he’s melting in the heat. ‘What can I do you for today?’

  ‘Just some chips.’ Frank’s thoughts go back to Grace and how, with all her worrying, she’s unlikely to be looking after herself. ‘Hang on – you’d better make that a couple of portions.’

  Eddie’s scoop is poised in the air. ‘D’you want ’em all in together or wrapped separately?’

  ‘Separate.’

  The chippie puts a generous portion in the first bundle and, knowing Frank’s tastes, dusts it with salt and a good dose of vinegar. ‘And the other one?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Is he, or I’m guessing it’s a she,’ he winks, ‘partial to a bit of seasoning or happy to have it just as it comes – unadulterated, as you might say?’

  Frank looks away from the man’s knowing smirk. ‘A smattering of both will do just fine, thanks.’

  A fierce heat from the chips permeates the newspaper and several times Frank has to swap the bundle from one hand to the other to allow his fingers to cool down. He’s just reaching the final corner when a fancy black car pulls up alongside him. A young chap he’s never seen before rolls the window down like he’s about to ask for directions. He glimpses two shadowy figures in the back seat.

  Frank keeps walking.

  ‘Mr Danby?’ In the past, he wouldn’t have broken his stride even if he’d heard his name called out by a stranger but, this time, he hesitates for a split second. Behind him, he hears car doors opening. With one hand still cradling the food, he’s not ready when they come at him from behind.

  He drops the chips to ram his fist into the driver’s gut. Winded, the bastard lets go. Someone else grabs his arm and he turns to aim a knee into the man’s groin. Doubling over, the bastard still doesn’t give up his grip. Frank’s almost worked his arm free when the other two come at him again.

  Too many at once. His shoulders are pinned back so hard any further struggling risks dislocating them. He kicks out wildly as they drag him towards the car. The short one opens the back door and they push him inside.

  With one sitting upfront and the other two lumps on either side of him, Frank knows it’s pointless to struggle. The driver turns round. ‘Really, Mr Danby, such a fuss was quite unnecessary.’ His posh voice sounds genuine enough. ‘A friend of ours merely wants to have a word with you in private.’ Frank concentrates on memorising the man’s face for another time. Mid-twenties; dark hair, long on the top and swept back. Green eyes. Long lashes a woman would be proud of. Skin’s too smooth; he hardly has to shave at all.

  ‘Shame about yer chips, mate.’ The fat one to his left, is dead easy – forty-odd, big nose, gravel rash, tattoo poking out from his shirt sleeve of what looks like a fish or maybe a mermaid’s tail.

  As the car speeds away, Frank turns his attention to the other scumbag but a sack is thrust over his head.

  The rough material is too thick to see anything but shadows. He can feel its loose fibres already tightening his throat. Frank coughs, tries not to breathe in too much, better to remember the sounds instead – anything that might give a clue to where they are.

  Traffic must be heavier now. He hears various engines, bus brakes hissing, someone leaning on a horn. The clop clopping of a horse and someone shouting the same thing over and over. ‘Rabone…Rabone.’ The trouble with rag and bone men is they move around the city.

  Not long after that, the car veers sharply to the right and then he feels the shudder of cobbles underneath the wheels.

  They’ve stopped. With the engine still running, they bundle him outside. Have him by the arms as they force him up four flights of stairs before he hears the groan of heavy hinges.

  Quieter now – traffic noise muffled. They’re inside and walking over uneven floorboards.

  Someone spits. Without warning he’s thrust forward and then released. He hears the door lock behind him.

  At last he can pull the sack off his head. It’s a flour bag with no tell-tale markings on it. The door’s reinforced – too strong to kick in. He tries the handle but it won’t open. Frank resists the urge to call out or bang on the door – to show any signs of weakness.

  The room is cell-like – bare, save for a single wonky-looking chair. Daylight is coming in from a single barred window that’s too high to reach. It looks out only onto more blackened brick. He can smell the damp in the walls. Could this be an old warehouse? The floor consists of wide dusty planks. When he walks around, he finds some of them have been softened by woodworm and are spongy underfoot.

  A lone light bulb dangles from the ceiling. He notices it’s swinging very slightly, its shadow creeping back and forth along the wall like a hangman’s noose.

  Someone’s scratched FUCK YOU on one of the bricks in the far corner. ‘Couldn’t put it better,’ he says out loud.

  What if no one comes and they just leave him in here? His resolve weakens. A few more minutes then he’s thumping the door with his fists.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Grace can hear lots of banging and thumping down there. What now? She goes to investigate and finds the pub is still locked up and there’s no sign of Frank. ‘Alright, hold yer ruddy horses.’ She unlocks the door to a half dozen regulars in high dudgeon.

  T
hey spill into the public bar. ‘It’s almost six o’clock.’ Wilf brandishes his pocket watch – holds it right in her face to prove his point. ‘What in hell’s name’s goin’ on?’

  ‘I could say the same,’ she tells him. ‘Frank should have bin here well before half-five. Can’t for the life of me think what could have happened to him.’

  ‘Mmm, well, in my humble opinion, you can never fully trust a man who claims to be a conchie,’ Fat Harry says, casting his eyes around in search of general agreement.

  Peering over his glasses, Charlie wags a thin finger at him. ‘You’ve gone and got the facts all round yer ruddy neck, as usual, Harry Jones. Frank told me himself he was in a reserved occupation during the war – workin’ on his family’s farm, as it happens.’

  ‘An’ how’s that any flamin’ different? Either way, it tells you the bloke’s too fond of shirkin’ his duty.’

  ‘I’d call it vital work,’ Charlie tells him. ‘We all needed to eat – you more than most.’

  Wilf prods at Charlie’s arm with the damp end of his pipe. ‘If you was to ask me, I reckon he didn’t want to risk Jerry ruining those good looks of his.’

  ‘Well now, aren’t you all singing a different tune this evenin’ with the man’s back only turned for five minutes?’ Grace knows she ought to contain herself but can’t. ‘It’s bin all Frank that an’ Frankie mate while you’ve watched him workin’ like a demon in here every night.’ She gives a hard stare to each of them in turn; every one of them looks away except Charlie. ‘For all you know he could’ve had some kind of accident on his way here. How would you feel then, eh?’ She plants her hands on her hips. ‘Should be ruddy ashamed of yourselves runnin’ the poor chap down like that when he’s not here to defend himself.’

  The men stay mute and, having made her point, she flounces off to turn the bar lights on and remove the towelling mats from where they’ve been draped over the beer pumps to dry. All the shelves are fully stocked so Frank must have seen to the bottling up before he left. Had he intended to be late back? If he had to go somewhere, surely he’d have warned her?