The Street

‘Yeah? What?’ Sarah had immediately perked up at the prospect of a bit of gossip.

‘You should’ve heard the racket going on in ours last night. There won’t half be big trouble when me mum ‘n’ Aunt Fran catch up with Uncle Jimmy.’ Alice’s blue eyes grew round in her pale face. She leaned forward to confide, ‘Should see the state of me aunt Fran! She looks like she’s been street fighting with a pro.’ Alice whipped a chilly hand from her pocket to demonstrate her poor aunt’s disfigurement. ‘Lip out here and eye like that ‘n’ already going black.’

Sarah’s jaw dropped open. ‘Yer dad going after him?’

‘Dad don’t know yet what’s gone on. Me mum’ll get Jimmy first, anyhow, if she can find him.’

‘I know where he is,’ Sarah gasped triumphantly.

‘Where?’ Alice demanded with a grin.

‘Seen him go in number fifty-five as I was coming out of the shop. It was only a few minutes ago.’

Alice blinked at a house a few doors away. ‘Cor! Dunno why he’s hiding in there. You’d have thought he’d scarper further’n that. Nellie Tucker lives there, don’t she?’ Alice didn’t know much about Nellie Tucker other than she worked nights and lived with her old mum. Although she did recall that a lot of the women round here seemed to have taken against her since she moved in about six months ago. But then feuds between people were commonplace in The Bunk. She shrugged. ‘Suppose I’d better get going. Gotta get some milk. See yer, then.’

When Alice returned home she found her mum in the process of bathing Aunt Fran’s face with a cloth.

‘Hold still,’ Tilly ordered as Fran tried to duck from the pressure on her cuts and bruises.

Alice put the milk on the table and watched.

‘Get the tea goin’, Al, there’s a good gel.’

Alice obediently set the half-full kettle on the hob grate. ‘I just saw Sarah Whitton. She’s off school ‘n’ all.’

‘Her mum bad?’ Tilly asked whilst still patting gently at Fran’s closed eye.

‘Yeah. She just saw Uncle Jimmy going in number fifty-five.’

Tilly halted with the cloth poised above her sister’s face. Both women swivelled to look at Alice. ‘You sure about that, Al?’ her mum asked whilst from a corner of her eye she gave Fran a significant look.

‘That’s what she said. Why’s he gone in there?’

Tilly dropped the cloth back into the basin.

‘I reckon I can guess why he’s gone in there,’ Fran choked out through her fat lips. ‘The bastard! With that scabby bitch!’

‘Come on. Let’s get this done,’ Tilly announced briskly and started rolling up her sleeves.

When they’d gone Alice went to check on baby Lucy. She was still in exactly the same position as when last she’d seen her. But now her tiny face was crumpling and she was making little whimpering sounds. Alice knew she would soon start to wail. Picking up the rag her mum had used on Aunt Fran, she looked for a clean edge. She tore it away then dipped the end into some of the milk she’d just bought. Gently she inserted the milky cloth between Lucy’s lips and watched her suck.

Having satisfied the baby for a moment, she went to the window and angled her head to try to see her mum and aunt. But number fifty-five was too far away for her to catch sight of what might be going on. She pulled a chair close to the window and stood on it but her view was no better from the top sash. Her curiosity was getting the better of her and she quickly found a shawl and wrapped Lucy in it. Then she whipped off her school pinafore and tucked Lucy into that too. Impatient to be outside, Alice scrambled into her coat and, bundling Lucy onto her shoulder, she darted out of the room and down the stairs.

Chapter Three (#ulink_e324a10f-d936-5237-9f3e-3c0d2d1673ac)

A little jeering crowd had already gathered about the railings outside number fifty-five. Soon Alice was close enough to see what entertained them. Her mum had hold of a fistful of Nellie Tucker’s fair hair and was dragging her head down close to the pavement. Her other hand was busy delivering swift punches to Nellie’s face. Uncle Jimmy looked embarrassed and keen to get away from Aunt Fran, who was waving her arms and ranting at him.

Alice knew that Uncle Jimmy had beaten his wife, and that it wasn’t the first time. It seemed hard to believe he could ever do such a thing. He always had a laugh and a joke for her and Sophy when they met him. She could see now that he had that soppy smile on his face. It looked like he was puzzled as to what the fuss was all about. Alice edged nearer, hoping to find out what had started this latest upset.

‘Yer fuckin’ whore. Get yerself back down Finsbury Park. Keep to reg’lar clients, or yer’ll have more o’ the same.’ Alice recognised her mum’s raucous voice.

As if to make her point Tilly landed one final blow on the side of Nellie’s head before letting go of her hair. Nellie tipped forward onto all fours. To add insult to injury, Tilly sent the woman crashing down onto her chin by kicking her up the behind. A hoot of laughter erupted from the assembled throng. A few of the women started to clap. ‘New position for you, love, eh? Or perhaps you like it up the jacksie,’ someone shouted.

Another time Tilly might have joined in the banter but she was in no mood for it today. She stuck her hands on her hips and swiftly got her breath back before swinging about. She immediately stalked after her brother-in-law. ‘You fuckin’ animal.’ One of her thick fingers was up close to Jimmy’s unshaven chin. ‘Find yourself another place and another punch bag. Come back here again and touch me sister ‘n’ you’ll be leavin’ in a pine box.’

Bright colour started to creep up under Jimmy’s collar. Having a brawl in the street with a man was one thing; being threatened by a woman in front of an audience was another. Tilly bloody Keiver was making him into a laughing stock and he didn’t even have the consolation of knowing that later he could, behind closed doors and at his leisure, kick the words back down her throat. She wasn’t his to tame, more was the pity. Only once had she been at his mercy and if he’d known what a thorn in his side she’d become over the years he’d have done a far better job of making sure she gave him respect and a wide berth in the future. That soft sod she’d married let her get away with too much and she’d got cocksure.

He took a furtive glance to right and left to see who was witnessing his humiliation. One of his drinking pals from Lennox Road was laughing openly at him and it made his gut start to writhe. He’d have to give Tilly Keiver a smack in public just to save face.

With his fists tightening at his sides he marched after Tilly to confront her. ‘You interfering bitch,’ he enunciated in a furious whisper whilst swaying on the balls of his feet, ready to strike. ‘Why don’t yer piss off home and sort out your own business?’

‘This is my business, you bastard,’ Tilly snarled and lunged forward, her fingers curled. Before she could tear into him she was grabbed from behind and hauled clear of Jimmy’s swinging fist.

Jack Keiver held onto his struggling wife, his arms hooked under hers so she could do nothing but kick out in frustration and punch her hands in the air. Ignoring her threats and curses he simply said one word, ‘Twitch.’ It was enough to immediately calm her down and quieten the crowd.

The little group of spectators started to shuffle, then disperse. In less than a minute only Nellie, still on her hands and knees and whimpering, remained with the Keiver clan when the two constables reached them.

‘What’s going on here?’

The officer who had spoken was Constable Bickerstaff, nicknamed Twitch by inhabitants of The Bunk on account of a recurrent tic that regularly brought one of his shoulders and ears together. He spasmed and cast a stern look at the dishevelled woman crouching on the floor. ‘What’s going on?’ he again demanded to know. He fiddled with the truncheon on his hip as though to reinforce his authority and hurry an explanation.

‘Nuthin’.’

The single word was chorused by all, even Nellie. Twitch turned to his colleague. Constable Franks was more interested in eyeing a comely woman across the road than bothering with this rabble. Connie Whitton had been watching the spectacle at a distance. The little tease knew he liked her and tauntingly flicked up her skirt to give him a glimpse of her knees before having a raucous laugh with her friends at his expense.

‘What d’you reckon about all this?’ Bickerstaff asked Franks. ‘It looks like more than nothing to me.’

‘I reckon it’s nothing if that’s what they all say it is,’ the younger man replied flatly, then looked around, his expression displaying disgust at his environment. The depressing, rotten houses marched off either side of the road as far as the eye could see, interspersed here and there by shops that seemed to make little effort to draw in customers, judging by their gloomy window displays. Franks had been transferred from Hampstead so was quite new to this beat. He knew they were required to walk this route but he saw no reason why they should linger unnecessarily in the worst street in North London.

Campbell Road, so he had been told by long-serving colleagues, and some of The Bunk’s inhabitants, was home to the most notorious criminals: thieves, prostitutes, fraudsters – every sort of rogue and vagabond drifted through this slum. Unbelievable as it seemed to Franks, some had settled and been resident a very long while. If a couple of women – one who looked like she’d had seven bells beaten out of her – wanted to set about a well-known brass, it didn’t take a genius to work out that one of their old men was playing away. Bickerstaff might be a stickler for doing things by the book but, in the great scheme of things, this was a petty domestic incident. The Bunk community had its own system of justice. Franks agreed with it: leave them be to shovel up their own shit.

‘Well . . . right . . . come on, then. Get on home, the lot of you, before I change my mind and get out my book.’ Twitch earned his nickname again. He didn’t want to start an argument with Franks in front of this crowd. But back at base he’d have something to say about his colleague’s lack of support. To his mind, the new recruit was too keen on warming his arse on a chair and his hands on a mug of tea.

Jimmy Wild needed no further telling. With a sly, poisonous look encompassing his wife and his in-laws he sauntered off towards Paddington Street. Tilly and Jack took up position either side of Fran and, linking arms, they started off home.

Twitch made to follow Franks who’d also moved away, impatient to get back to the comfort of the station. He hesitated and stooped to take a look at Nellie, who was still huddled on the pavement. Not a soul had come to her aid, even to get her to her feet. The worthless scumbag who’d caused the trouble had been the first to skedaddle.

Sidney Bickerstaff had been pounding this beat for very many years. He knew the people round here. He knew Wild. He was a womanising thug who had once put his wife in hospital because he couldn’t control his temper or his fists. Yet the policeman had seen the weasel turn and flee rather than stand his ground when an irate fellow accused him of touching up his wife. Sidney came across many Jimmy Wilds in his line of work. Every one was a charming fellow on the surface. But underneath was a despicable coward who enjoyed beating up women because a fair fight with another man terrified him.

Sidney had guessed at once what had gone on. He took another look at the grizzling tart. Presently she was trying to keep her tangled blonde hair from sticking to the blood on her face. A clump of it was on the road beside her.

‘Need a hand, love?’ Sidney Bickerstaff stooped to proffer an arm.

‘Fuck off, copper,’ she replied and, clearing her throat of congealed blood and mucus, spat it onto the ground by his feet.

Twitch looked at the mess an inch from his polished shoes. ‘Lucky you missed, or you’d be licking them clean,’ he threatened softly.

‘If it ain’t yer shoes you mean it’d cost you a lot more’n you could afford, mate.’ Nellie managed a coarse laugh but it hurt, so she stopped. ‘Fuck off, copper,’ she repeated more quietly.