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Chapter Sixteen

OUTSIDE, ON THE opposite side of the street, Jack stood under a dripping tree, sheltering from the rain beneath an umbrella. After much soul-searching, he had finally plucked up the courage to come down to Bower Street. It was only a mile or so from Buncer Lane, but that short walk had seemed like the longest journey of his life. At one point, his courage failed him, so he dodged into the nearest pub for a pint and a quiet moment to think about what he was doing.

After a while, he reminded himself of his reasons for coming back to the North – not for the glory of managing the new showrooms, because that was an opportunity and a bonus. He had come back because of the nightmares, and because he needed to find out if the psychiatrist was right. But how was he going to do that? As yet he hadn’t quite worked out the details. But he would – and soon – because it was constantly playing on his mind.

All these years, so many unanswered questions . . . If, as he truly believed, the psychiatrist was indeed right, then where else should he look, if not the very place where his dreams had started?

More than anything, he had come back because he knew instinctively that if he was to go forward, then he must first go back, to the place where it all began.

After leaving the pub, he had quickened his steps towards Bower Street. Within minutes, he was actually standing across the street from his old house. He found himself travelling back through the bad memories. He felt like a young lad again. He had felt vulnerable back then; and he felt vulnerable now too.

‘Go on, Jack!’ he urged himself. ‘Knock on the door – just tell them you used to live in that house; that you’re back in the area and you were just curious.’

He smiled to himself. ‘They’ll probably think I’m mad, or call the police – and I wouldn’t blame them.’

He thought of knocking on the door of Thomas’ house. Now, that was a better idea. Thomas wouldn’t think he was mad if he knocked on his door. But he might not live there any more, of course.

At that moment he was surprised to see what looked like a young man dressed against the elements, and going down Thomas’s garden path, towards the door. So another family must now be living there. Jack was disappointed.

Not realizing the ‘young man’ was actually Jack, Libby decided to call it a day. ‘Next time I’m here,’ he said to himself, ‘I’ll knock on that young man’s door. Maybe he or his parents will know where Thomas has gone. They might even have an idea as to where Eileen and Libby are.’ It was a comforting thought, but for now, he just wanted to get out of the rain.

Jack had a lot to think about. The fact that Thomas appeared to have moved out of Bower Street was a bitter blow, as he’d been so looking forward to seeing him again. He had not forgotten the help and support Thomas had given him when he needed it most. He wanted to thank him for his help and advice.

Naively, he had even harboured the hope that Thomas might hold the key to his nightmares. Maybe just to sit and talk with Thomas might somehow open a door in his mind – a door that would reveal the truth and give him peace.

Jack was fast becoming obsessed with the idea that he was close. He could not imagine what he might find when he began to probe deeper, but he had to believe. Because he could not live the rest of his life wondering. Never knowing . . .

Jack suddenly decided that he wasn’t ready to go back to his rented house. Fired by a need to revisit old haunts, he made his way towards King Street and Whalley Banks. And as he walked, a feeling of warmth and belonging took hold of him. But the further along he went, the more he began to realise how everything had changed. There used to be a row of houses to the right; he recalled a fun-loving girl at school who lived there with her parents and her many brothers. They were a strong family. But the houses were now gone, to make way for a garage.

The parade of shops was still there, however – although what used to be a tripe shop was now a florist’s. He recalled how a large family called Brindle, had lived in that very tripe shop.

He felt sorry to see that the little bridge was no more. With its arched back and curved walls, affording a way over the Blakewater, it had been a pretty thing – a familiar landmark.

The alleyway by the flower-shop was still there. He recalled the slaughter-house at the back, where the Brindle kids were not allowed to go; nor were they allowed to climb the big stone wall that overlooked the deep water below. Somehow though, they always found a way in through the gates when no one was looking. It was rumoured that a neighbouring child was drowned there, but Jack didn’t know if that was true; he only knew what he had heard.

It was sad to see that almost everything familiar was gone. He understood, though. It was right that things had to change, because if time stood still, there would be nothing new or exciting to look forward to. No challenges. No new horizons.

But Jack remembered everything, as if a map had been imprinted on his memory, including every street, every house, every landmark. Just like he remembered the bold, flowered wallpaper pattern on his bedroom walls in that house in Bower Street. And the creaking third step as you went down the stairs. It always puzzled him as a boy, why the step never creaked when you went up the stairs. He smiled wryly, thinking that was a strange thing to remember.

Now uncomfortably aware of his sodden trousers and squelching shoes, Jack caught the unmistakable aroma of a chip shop – and his stomach began to grumble. He hadn’t eaten for some hours, and even if he had to sit in a bus shelter to eat them, wouldn’t it be fun to have a bag of fish and chips? He could watch the world go by while eating his dinner off his lap. But he’d have to be careful of his suit.

The more he thought about it, the hungrier he got. Following his nose, he quickened his steps.

‘There you go!’ The red-faced man finished packing the last hot, damp paper package into the two plastic carrier bags before handing them over. ‘That’ll be fourteen pound, please, love. I’ve thrown a few cracklings in.’ He gave Libby a cheeky wink. ‘I know your Mam’s fond of ’em.’

While Libby counted out the money, he asked, ‘’Ow is she, by the way? We’ve not seen hide nor hair of her for some time now. Keeping well, is she?’

Libby simply replied that her mother had not been too well lately. ‘But she’s getting on all right now. Content one minute and demanding the next.’

He laughed – a loud, raucous laugh that startled the little man next to Libby and made him visibly jump. ‘Aye, well, that’s women for yer!’ he chortled, ‘Want this, want that, and when they get it . . . they want summat else instead!’

‘Stop yattering, yer silly old bugger!’ That was the fat woman on Libby’s right. ‘We’re ’ere for fish an’ chips, not a bloody lecture!’

Libby was still smiling when she came out – until she saw Jack approaching. She recognised his demeanour and the way he held himself. He was the same man she’d seen outside Thomas’s house the other night; but she could not see him clearly then, or now. ‘I’m almost sure it’s that man again!’ She crossed the road, her face averted and her hood up.

Jack didn’t notice her until she crossed the street and turned to look at him a second time. The glance was fleeting, but there was something about the boyish person that niggled him.

Shrugging it off, he went into the chip shop, where the fat woman and the proprietor were having a row.

‘Mushy peas? I never asked for mushy peas – that were the young lass that just went out! I asked for beans. That’s plain enough, isn’t it?’ She spelled it out for him: ‘B–e–a–n–s.’ Exasperated, she rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, now, you’ve made me forget me potato-dabs. I’ll ’ave two o’ them, and forget the beans.’

The man behind the counter did not take kindly to being nagged at, especially in front of the other customers. ‘Yer in a sour mood tonight, aren’t yer, Betty?’

‘What d’yer mean, sour mood? I’m never in a sour mood!’

‘Well, you’re in a sour mood from where I stand, but you’d best not tek it out on me, ’cause I’ll give as good as I get, an’ no mistake!’ He came back at her with humour: ‘What’s up, eh? Is the old man not looking after yer proper – if yer know what I mean?’ He gave a knowing wink to his audience.

‘I know exactly what yer mean!’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘And what me and my old man get up to is none of your damned business! Some folks should look at theirselves afore they start pointing the finger at others. At least my Les doesn’t ogle after other women. Oh, don’t deny it! We all saw yer eyeing that young lass up and down as she went out of ’ere. Yer tongue were ’anging out so far it could’a shined yer shoes! Shame on yer, that’s what I say. Randy old bugger!’ She snatched up her goodies, threw the money on the counter and marched out, muttering and tutting.

Jack tried hard not to smile, but he wasn’t the only one.

‘Touched a sore point there, didn’t I, eh?’ The red-faced proprietor was laughing heartily. ‘She’s that easy to wind up,’ he confessed. ‘I love to get ’er going. It’s the highlight o’ my day.’

Jack had to chuckle at the older man’s antics. If he didn’t know he was back in Lancashire, he knew it now. It was almost as though he’d never been away.

Instead of a bus shelter, Jack found a bench near the parade of shops and sat down to eat his fish and chips. There was a plastic knife and fork inside the bag, but he set them aside and tucked in with his fingers. It was a joyful feast.

‘That’s the way to eat fish and chips,’ said an old man sitting down beside him. ‘I ask yer, what right-minded person wants to eat fish and chips with a plastic knife and fork?’ He promptly took out his bag of chips and, stuffing them two at a time into his whiskered face, made a sighing noise after each bite whilst chatting away with Jack.

When he got up to leave, he turned to Jack. ‘Where are yer from?’ As he spoke, the remains of his hurried meal sprayed the air. ‘I can tell from the way yer talk – yer not from these parts.’

Having taken a shine to the old man, Jack explained. ‘I do come from these parts, only I moved away when I was eighteen.’

‘Eighteen, eh? An’ what did yer parents think o’ that?’

Jack took a moment; even now the memories were painful. ‘My father was caught up in a bad fire at the factory where he worked. He was badly hurt and never recovered.’

The man shook his head soberly. ‘Oh, yer mean the one out Cicely way? I remember that fire. It were a bad ’un – took out half the street, it did. As I recall, four people were lost in that fire . . . So what about yer mum?’

Jack recalled his mother. Claire Redmond was a smart, attractive woman, but she was never a natural-born mother. In fact, during a heated row between his parents, Jack had once overheard her say she had never wanted children. It was a crippling thing for him to hear.

The old man was waiting for an answer. ‘Aw, don’t tell me she were caught up in that fire as well?’

Jack shook his head, ‘No. She didn’t even work at the factory.’

‘So, why did yer leave? I’d ’ave thought yer mum would want you at ’ome, with her. Especially with her man gone, and you coming up to the age when you could earn some money.’

Jack wasn’t enjoying this questioning, but he reluctantly satisfied the old man’s curiosity. ‘A couple of years after we lost Dad, she found herself a rich man, and moved abroad.’

The older man was shocked. ‘So, did you ’ave older brothers or sisters to keep an eye on yer?’

‘No.’ Jack recalled the loneliness he had felt. ‘I was an only child.’

‘I see. So yer dad died and yer mum buggered off with a rich fella, leaving you to fend for yourself.’ He shook his head as he moved away. ‘It don’t bear thinking about!’ Screwing up his chip paper, he placed it in a nearby bin. ‘Women, eh? Can’t live with ’em, can’t live without ’em. Well, good luck to yer, son, and mind how you go, eh?’

Jack watched him amble down the street, shifting from one side to the other to avoid the puddles. He couldn’t help but wonder if the kindly old man had also suffered at the hands of some woman or other.

Jack finished the last of his chips, which by now had grown cool. But the flavour was not lost, and he thoroughly enjoyed them, right down to the last morsel. Afterwards, he sat a while, thinking and planning, and feeling curiously at ease with the world.

Inevitably, his thoughts drifted to Molly. He hoped she and Mal were getting on all right. Strange to think she might be married to someone else. There was a time when he could not have envisaged his life without Molly in it. When he needed her, she had been there for him, a thoughtful and loving partner. And yet, from the moment he told her of his plan to move up here, it as if she became a different person. He missed her, but he was not sorry it was over between them. Because of the way things had turned out, he realised that he and Molly never really had a future together.

Thomas was worried. ‘You reckon this bloke followed you to the chippie, then?’

‘Well, to be honest, I don’t know if he actually followed me.’ Molly was beginning to wish she hadn’t said anything about the stranger. ‘By the time I came out of the shop, he was only just going in, so it could just have been a coincidence.’

‘What’s he look like?’

Libby pictured him. ‘Tallish, probably about my age, but I couldn’t see his face because he had his umbrella up and his jacket collar turned up.’ Having just left her trainers in the hall, she now took off her wet socks. She hoped Thomas would drop the subject.

Having finished dishing up the food, Thomas handed her a nice hot plate of saveloy, chips and mushy peas. ‘Don’t worry about it any more, lass,’ Thomas said. ‘Leave that to me. You just put him out of your mind.’

Eileen was proud of herself. ‘I set the table,’ she told Libby for the third time. ‘Did you get my cod?’

‘I certainly did.’ Libby pulled out a chair for her mother. ‘I got you chips too, and if you want them, some mushy peas into the bargain.’

‘I never asked for no mushy peas!’ Eileen looked agitated.

‘No matter. I’m sure me and Thomas can finish them off.’ She helped her mother into the chair. ‘All right, Mum?’

Eileen nodded. ‘But I don’t want you and Thomas to eat my mushy peas.’

Libby and Thomas exchanged a knowing smile, with Thomas teasing, ‘Too late! You didn’t want any, so now they’re all mine.’

‘You behave yourself!’ Eileen said with a chuckle. ‘Yer an old devil, that’s what!’

Folding his arms, he pretended to shrink from her. ‘I wouldn’t dare eat your mushy peas!’ he said in mock terror.

Eileen was highly amused. ‘Naughty man,’ she kept saying. ‘You’re a very naughty man!’ Then, to Libby’s delight, she got stuck into her food, as if she hadn’t been fed for a month.

Jack woke in a panic.

It had taken him a while to drop off to sleep, and when he did, he was instantly back there, in that pitch-dark place – only this time, there was someone standing beside him.

He couldn’t see who it was, but he knew there was someone there – a shadowy figure, stooping down . . . reaching out with both hands. ‘No! Go away!’ His frantic cries shook him awake, but he couldn’t escape, because the figure was closing in on him . . . and those eyes . . . stark and staring, were looking straight at him. He was trapped, but he was awake. He was awake. And this time, he was more afraid than he had ever been.

Scrambling out of bed, he sat for a moment, the sweat pouring down his face, his body trembling from head to foot. The dream was the same, but different, because now there was someone else in it. Someone else was there, reaching down, wanting to take him away. The dream had changed. Everything appeared sharper. Nearer. And he didn’t know how to deal with it.

He got up and began restlessly pacing the floor. ‘Someone was there . . . they were right there, next to me.’ Now he remembered the words. He could still hear the voice, soft and kind: ‘Come away, Jack . . . come away.’

But he didn’t want to go. Not yet. The eyes held him in a weird kind of fascination. So still, and cold. Staring right at him. Where was he? For pity’s sake – where was he?

Wide awake, he could still feel the cold. It was bitter and sharp, piercing, right through to the bones. Wrapping the duvet around himself, he shivered uncontrollably. He’d never heard the voice before, but now it stayed with him, whispering in his ear: ‘Come away, Jack . . . come away.’ And he could hardly breathe.

He relived the dream carefully in his mind, looking for answers. One thing was now clear to him, which he had never realised before: someone else knew that place. Someone else heard his cry for help.

For some strange reason, being back in his home town was helping him to think with clarity. Maybe in time new things would come to the surface, and he would find the answer to his nightmares.

Calmer now, Jack went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of cocoa. He was desperately tired. But half an hour later, he was dressed and in his car. He started the engine and headed towards Bower Street. At this time of night, the roads were deserted, and unnervingly shadowy.

Crossing over into Spring Lane, he drove past the trees on the right, then turning right again, he passed the pub, and was soon in Bower Street. The street-lights shed a yellow haze across the houses, highlighting the house where Thomas used to live. Slowly, anxious not to disturb anyone, Jack parked the car a short way up from Number 20, the house where he was born.

Switching off both engine and lights, he sat there, his mind in chaos. ‘What in God’s name am I doing here?’ He glanced at the clock on the dashboard; it was almost 2 a.m. ‘I must be crazy.’

He sat there for a few minutes, his attention straying from the house he knew, to the house where Thomas had lived. All was still.

He brought his gaze to the house where Libby had lived; his best friend – the one he trusted above all others. Sadness flowed through him. Libby Harrow had been the one true mainstay in his young life. Leaving her behind had been, and would always remain, his biggest regret.

That first month in London, he’d many times picked up a postcard, ready to write to her. But for some reason, he never did. Maybe she was too close to his past. Yet he needed her to know how he’d worked hard to build a new life for himself, and how he had gone to college and got the ‘A’ Levels he badly needed to forge a career.

Looking at the house where she’d lived, Jack imagin ed her running down the path in her school skirt and white blouse, her hair tamed into auburn pigtails hanging down her shoulders, and her voice, calling to him: ‘Hurry up, Jack! Or we’ll miss the school bus and have to walk again!’

The memory caught his heart. ‘Dearest Libby,’ he said. A wealth of love trembled in his voice.

Thomas could not sleep. He was concerned about what Libby told him earlier, about the stranger. Even now, it played on his mind.

Having just woken from a shallow sleep, he instinctively went to the window and looked out. At first he didn’t see the big Lexus parked some distance away, out of reach of the street-lamps. Then, as he turned away, a figure got out of the car.

‘Who the devil’s that?’ he muttered to himself. The man’s build was much the same as the description Libby had given him, but it was dark, and the shadows hid his face. Whoever the man was, there could be no mistaking his interest in Eileen and Libby’s house, because Thomas could see that he was staring right at it.

Thomas’ first instinct was to go out there and confront the stranger. Grabbing his trousers and shirt from the back of the chair where he had left them earlier, he hastily dressed. ‘I’ll have you, yer bugger!’ he grumbled, as he kept the figure in his sights. ‘You’ll tell me what yer after, or I’ll have the coppers on yer, an’ no mistake!’

Suddenly the man climbed back into the car and within moments it was on the move. ‘Dammit!’ Thomas blamed himself, ‘I wonder if he saw me watching him.’

As the car passed underneath his window, its back end was illuminated by the nearby street-lamp. ‘Got yer!’ Pressing his face closer to the window, Thomas narrowed his old eyes to see all the better as he hurriedly scribbled the car’s number onto the wallpaper with a biro. ‘Damn and bugger it!’ He’d missed that last number. Was it an eight? Or it could have been a six. Never mind – he had most of the number-plate. That should be enough for him to keep a wary eye out.

Grumbling and moaning, he went down to the kitchen, where he sat at the table, drumming his fingers on the table-top. ‘I don’t like this business . . . not one little bit!’

A short time later, Thomas went back to bed, but he was too unsettled to sleep. All manner of questions ran through his mind, along with other things. Things long gone, but not forgotten. Bad things that troubled the mind.

Thomas didn’t see himself as a bad man. He was a man of good character. An honourable man, who cared deeply for those around him. Especially the two lovely women next door. Apart from himself, they had no one. For their sake, he hoped the stranger’s appearance in their lives was just a coincidence, instead of a sign that the past was beginning to rear its ugly head.

For reasons of his own, that was something Thomas had always feared. Yet a part of him knew it was inevitable that one day this secret would be out, sadly some secrets could not be hidden away for ever.

For a time, he stood by the window, murmuring to himself. ‘You were wrong to think it would all be forgotten,’ he bowed his head in shame. ‘There’s an old saying, Thomas, and you would do well to remember it.’ He said it now, clear and strong: ‘Be sure, yer sins will allus come back to haunt yer!’

He was not a man who read the Bible. But he knew more than enough about sinners repenting.