Killer mine, p.3
Killer Mine, page 3
I lit a cigarette and, leaning against the iron railing by the car park, fished in my wallet for Dave Tanner’s address. As I unfolded the crumpled sheet of notepaper the sun came through and the rain-washed faces of the houses smiled down at me from the low hill on which the town is built. I felt warm and relaxed as I read through Tanner’s letter :
2 Harbour Terrace Penzance, Cornwall 29th May. Dear Jim, I hear things are not what they were in Italy now that the Army’s moved north and the peace treaty has been signed. If you’re getting tired of the Ities and would like a change of air, I can fix you up with a job in England - no questions asked! The bearer of this note - name of Shorty - can fix passage for you in the Arisaig which will be taking on cargo in Livorno.
Is Maria the same dark-eyed little bitch I knew or has she retired to raise a brood of American bambini? If she is still at the Pappagallo, give her my love, will you? England is all controls and restrictions, but those who know their way about do ail right, same as we do in Italy. But I miss the sun and the signorinas.
Hope you take this opportunity to come over — it’s a mining job and right up your street.
Your old chum, Dave.
I folded the note and put it back in my wallet. Shorty had come out to the lignite mine with it himself. That had been in August with the sun beating fiercely down, the earth baked brown and the dust rising in choking clouds. How different, I thought, to this clean, sparkling air with the sun shimmering on the wet pavements. In that moment I held my fate in my hands. I didn’t know it then, of course, but I had only to forget all about Dave Tanner and seek a job on my own and the thread that was leading me to Cripples’ Ease would be broken. And I came so very near to breaking it. I thought of the Arisaig and how Mulligan had cheated me. If those were the sort of men Dave mixed with … and the job he had for me - no questions asked, that was what he had written. That could only mean one thing - a racket of some sort. I recalled the man himself. Neat, dapper, quick-witted - a Welshman. He wasn’t the sort to live strictly within the law. Even as a corporal in charge of a Water Transport coastal schooner, he’d had his own little rackets - shipping personal consignments of silk stockings, wrist watches and liquor from Livorno to Civitavecchia and Napoli, and on the north-bound trips, olive oil, sweets and nuts. I put my hands in my pockets and immediately encountered the remains of my meagre five pounds.
I turned then and went along the quay. In that moment the fatal decision was made. Harbour Terrace was behind the gas works, a narrow street running up from the harbour. Number Two was next to a corn merchants, the end house of a long line, ill exactly alike. There were torn lace curtains in the window and that air of faded respectability that belongs to the boarding house throughout the English-speaking world.
A girl answered my ring. She was about twenty-eight and wore a yellow jumper and green corduroy slacks. She smiled at me Brightly, but with the lips only. Her grey eyes were hard and watchful.
‘Is Mr Tanner in?’ I asked.
Her lips froze to a thin line. Her eyes narrowed. ‘Who did you say?’ she asked. Her voice was thin and unmusical.
Tanner,’ I repeated. ‘Mr Dave Tanner.’
There’s nobody of that name living here,’ she said sharply and started to close the door as though to shut out something she feared.
‘He’s an old friend of mine,’ I said hurriedly, leaning my bulk against the door. ‘I’ve come a long way to see him. At his request,’ I added.
There’s no Mr Tanner living here,’ she repeated woodenly.
‘But -‘ I pulled the letter out of my wallet. This is Number Two, Harbour Terrace, isn’t it?’ I asked.
She nodded her head guardedly, as though not trusting herself to admit even that.
‘Well, here’s a letter I received from him,’ I showed her the signature and the address. ‘He’s a Welshman,’ I said. ‘Dark hair and eyes and a bit of a limp. I’ve come all the way from Italy to see him.’
She seemed to relax. But there was a puzzled frown on her face as she said, It’s Mr Jones you’re wanting. His name’s David and he has a bit of a limp like you said. But he’s away to the fishing now.’ And then the guarded look was back in her eyes as though she’d said too much.
‘When will he be back?’ I asked. There was an uneasy emptiness in my stomach, for he must have had a reason for changing his name, and I didn’t like the frightened look in the girl’s eyes.
‘He left on Monday,’ she said. ‘And this is Wednesday. He can’t possibly be back till tomorrow. Might even be Friday. It depends on what the weather’s like.’
‘I’ll come back this evening,’ I told her.
‘It won’t be any use,’ she said. ‘He can’t be back till tomorrow.’
‘I’ll come back this evening,’ I repeated. ‘What’s the name of his boat?’
‘No good coming this evening. He won’t be here. Come tomorrow.’ She gave me a bright, uncertain smile and closed the door on me.
I lunched on fish and chips and then went down to the South Pier to make a few inquiries. From an old salt I learned that David Jones was skipper of the Isle of Mull, a fifty-five ton ketch used for fishing. He confirmed that the Isle of Mull was unlikely to be back for at least another day. But when I asked him where the Isle of Mull did her fishing, his blue eyes regarded me curiously and I had that same sense of withdrawal, almost of suspicion, that I had had when talking to the girl at Harbour Terrace. ‘Over to Brettagny mebbe, or out to the Scillies,’ he told me. ‘T’edn’t like ‘erring, ‘ee knaw. ‘Tis mackerel and pilchard ‘e be after, an’ it depends where ‘e do find’n.’ And he stared at me out of his amazingly blue eyes as though daring me to ask any more questions.
After that I went back into the town. It was just after three. The sun had gone out of the sky and the mist was coming down in a light drizzle. Penzance looked wet and withdrawn. Until shortly before eight o’clock, when I walked back through the gathering dusk to Harbour Terrace, I was still free to make my own decision. For the space of a few hours I could have broken that thread of destiny and with luck I’d have eventually got passage in a ship to Canada, and so would never have discovered what happened to my mother.
But fear and loneliness combined is a thing few men can fight. Tanner was the only soul I knew in a strange country. He was my one contact with the future. What did it matter if he were mixed up in some shady business? I was a deserter. And since that put me outside the law so long as I remained at liberty, it was outside the law that I should have to earn my living. To that extent I faced up to the reality of my situation. What I could not face up to was the uncertainty and difficulties of the unknown if I tried to fend for myself. I took the easy way, comforting myself that if I didn’t like Tanner’s proposition, I could decide against it later.
And so as a clock down by the harbour struck eight I turned up by the gas works into Harbour Terrace. The single street light showed the rain dancing on the roadway and water swirling down the gutters of the steep little street. It was an older woman who answered the door this time. ‘Is Mr David Jones back yet?’ I asked her.
Her face paled and she glanced quickly over her shoulder at the stairs which ascended in a rigid line to the unlighted interior of the house. ‘Sylvia! Sylvia!’ she called out in a hoarse, agitated voice.
A door at the top of the stairs opened and the girl I had seen before stood framed in the flood of light. ‘What is it, Auntie?’
‘There’s a gentleman inquiring for Mr Jones.’
The door was instantly closed, shutting out the light, and the girl came down the stairs. She was still dressed in her yellow jumper and green corduroys. But her face was pale and drawn as she faced me in the doorway. ‘What do you want?’ she asked. And then almost in the same breath: ‘He’s not back yet. I told you he won’t be back till tomorrow. Why’ve you come again -now?’ Her voice dropped uncertainly on the last word.
‘I’d said I’d come back this evening,’ I reminded her. Then my eyes fell to her hand. There was blood on it, and more on her slacks. And there was an impersonal, familiar smell about her. A surgical smell. Iodine!
She saw the direction of my gaze. ‘One of our lodgers,’ she muttered. ‘He’s cut himself on a glass. Excuse me, I must go up and finish bandaging his arm.’ As soon as she’d said the word ‘arm’ her eyes widened. For a second she stared straight at me, quite still. Then panic leapt into her fear-struck eyes and she flung herself at the door.
But I brushed her and the door back and stepped inside. ‘He’s back, isn’t he?’ I said, closing the door. ‘He’s back and he’s hurt.’
She leapt to the stairs and stood there, panting, barring my way like a tigress defending her young. ‘What do you want with him?’ she breathed. ‘Why have you come? All that about coming from Italy at his request - that was all lies, wasn’t it? You were asking questions about him down at the harbour this afternoon. That’s what I was told. Why?’
I said, ‘Look, I don’t mean any harm. It’s true what I said this morning.’ I fished the letter out of my wallet again. ‘There, if you don’t believe me, read that letter. That’s his handwriting, isn’t it?’
She nodded, But she didn’t read it immediately. She stood there with her eyes fixed on mine as though I were a wild beast and she was afraid to release me from her gaze. ‘Read it,’ I said. ‘Then perhaps you’ll believe what I say.’
Reluctantly she lowered her eyes. She read through. Then she folded it carefully and handed it back. Her face had lost the strained look. But the wide eyes looked tired and drained. ‘Was Maria — his girl?’ she asked. Her voice was soft, yet somehow harsh.
‘Oh, God!’ I said. ‘She was nobody. Just a girl in a trattoria.’
The door at the top of the stairs opened and Dave Tanner’s voice called down sharply, ‘What the devil are you doing, girl? Come and fix this arm before I lose any more blood.’ His figure was black against the light from the room behind. The wide shaft of light showed the grey cupids on the peeling wall-paper. Across it sprawled his shadow. He was in his shirt sleeves and held a bloodstained towel to his left arm. His hair was damp with the rain, or maybe it was sweat. ‘Who the hell was it anyway?’
‘It’s all right, Dave,’ she answered. ‘It’s a friend of yours. I’ll come and fix that arm now.’
‘A friend of mine?’ he echoed.
‘Yes,’ I called up to him. ‘It’s me - Jim Pryce.’
‘Jim Pryce!’ He peered down into the unlighted hallway. His ace caught the light. It was drained of all colour, the bones standing out like a caricature in marble. ‘A helluva moment you’ve chosen to come visiting,’ he said. Then impatiently: ‘Well, come on up, man. Don’t stand there gaping at me as though I were Jesus Christ.’
The girl suddenly came to life and hurried up the stairs. I followed her. We went into the bedroom and she shut the door and started to work on his arm. ‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘Oh, just a spot of trouble,’ he said vaguely and his face contracted with pain as the girl dabbed iodine into what was obviously a bullet wound.
‘Who was Maria?’ the girl suddenly asked.
‘That’s a pretty nasty wound,’ I said quickly.
‘It’s nothing - nothing whatever. A flesh wound, that’s all. What did you say, Syl?’
‘I asked who was Maria?’ the girl said and dabbed iodine into the wound so that the sweat stood out in beads on his forehead.
‘Just a girl,’ he snapped. He looked across at me. His black eyes gleamed in his taut face. ‘What’ve you been telling her?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I had to show her your letter. She wouldn’t let me in.’
‘Oh,’ Then to the girl in a curt voice: ‘That’s enough of the iodine. Now bandage it. No, he can do that. Get me some dry clothes. And when you’ve done that we’ll need some food to take with us.’ As she opened the wardrobe, he said to me. ‘We’ll cut up by Hea Moor and Madron. You’ll not be minding a night march, will you now?’
‘Yes, but what’s happened, Dave?’ I asked.
‘Nothing,’ he said and held out his arm for me to bandage. With his other hand he took a gold case from his hip pocket and lit a cigarette. The lighter was gold too. A diamond ring flashed on his finger. The girl put a pile of clothes on the chair at the foot of the bed. ‘Now get the food,’ he said. He spoke with the cigarette clinging to his underlip. ‘It’s time we were going. And see if you can find another raincoat.’ The girl’s face was sullen and her eyes flickered up at me with fierce hatred. She wanted to be going with him. She went out and I began to bandage his arm. ‘Hey, not too tight, bach,’ he said. ‘Yes, that’s better.’ He grunted as I pressed against the arm muscles to tie the bandage. ‘Was it Mulligan you came over with?’ he asked as he began to change his wet clothes.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And the dirty bastard robbed me when he brought me ashore.’
‘Did he now?’
‘You don’t seem very surprised,’ I said.
‘Why should I be surprised? The man’s as crooked as an eel.’ He turned suddenly. ‘Look you now, don’t be blaming me, man. The Arisaig is the only vessel we have on the Italian run. It was the best I could do. It’s not every skipper who will take the chance of smuggling a deserter into the country.’ A flicker of a smile creased the corners of his eyes. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me, you know, if you were to meet Mulligan again.’
‘How’s that?’ I asked. His back was turned towards me and he was struggling into a dry pair of workman’s corduroys. He did not answer. ‘Look, Dave,’ I said, ‘what’s this job you’ve got for me? Is it still available?’
‘Yes, I think so,’ he said. He pulled on a seaman’s jersey. As his head emerged from the neck, his mouth was twisted in pain and the sweat ran down -his face. He put his cigarette back between his lips and drew in a great lungful of smoke. ‘It’s a good job, you know — mining, did I tell you?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You told me that in your letter.’
He nodded and forced his injured arm into his jacket. ‘Come on now,’ he said. ‘Your way is the same as mine. I’ll tell you about it as we go.’ He stuffed some cigarettes into his pocket and transferred his case and lighter and a thick wallet from his sodden jacket to the one he had put on. His quick eyes glanced round the room. Then he opened the door. He seemed in a great lurry to be gone.
I followed him down the stairs. In the dark hallway he leaned over the banisters and shouted down into the basement for the girl. ‘Just coming, Dave,’ she answered. The tip of the cigarette glowed red as we waited. He was puffing at it nervously. The gloom of the little hall was lessened by the light from the street that entered by a dirty fanlight above the front door.
The girl’s feet sounded hollow on the bare stairboards. I could -ear her quick, frightened breathing as she emerged from the basement. There’s sandwiches and an old raincoat of father’s,’ she said, her voice breathless.
‘Listen, Syl.’ Dave’s voice was a harsh whisper. ‘Those clothes upstairs - burn them. Clean up everything. Leave nothing whatever to show that I returned — you understand? And when they come around asking questions, tell them I never came back. See that the old woman doesn’t jabber.’
He turned to leave then, but the girl clung to him. ‘Where can I get in touch with you?’ she asked quickly.
‘You can’t.’
‘You’ll come back, won’t you?’ This in a fierce whisper.
‘Yes, indeed I will,’ he assured her. ‘I’ll send a message. But understand - I never came back here. And don’t let on to them where I’ve gone.’
‘How can I when I don’t know?’
‘Indeed you can’t - that’s why I didn’t tell you.’ He turned to me. I could see his eyes in the dim light. ‘Open the door and see if there’s any one about.’
I pulled the door open. The street was deserted. The rain came down in a steady stream. In the light of the street lamp it slanted in thin steel rods to dance on the roadway and run gurgling down the gutters. I looked back into the hallway. The girl was clinging to Dave, her body pressed to his in a primitive declaration of passion that stripped her bare. Dave was looking past her to the open doorway, the cigarette still in his mouth.
When he saw me nod he detached himself from the girl and came towards me. The girl started to follow him. He turned to her. ‘See that you get those things burned,’ he said. Then he kissed her quickly and we left Number Two, Harbour Terrace. As I shut the door I saw the girl standing alone at the bottom of the stairs. She was staring straight at me, but she didn’t see me. The skin was tight and drawn on her face and I had the impression that she was crying, though there were no tears in her eyes.
It’s a strange thing but it never seemed to occur to me to leave Dave to fend for himself. I didn’t know what had happened. But a man doesn’t get a bullet wound in his arm for nothing. Nor does he abandon his girl and his lodgings, with instructions for his blood-stained clothes to be burned, unless he’s been mixed up in something pretty shady. For all I knew he might be involved in murder. But I was swept up in the thing now and, as I say, it never occurred to me to leave him. Probably it was the company and the fact that he was an outcast, like myself. There is nothing to my mind so terrible as loneliness - not the loneliness that comes to a man in a town when he is afraid of his fellow creatures.
We kept to mean, badly lit streets as we threaded our way out of Penzance. We didn’t talk. Yet I found immeasurable comfort in the presence of that small figure limping along beside me.
We came out at last on to a main road and as we climbed a short hill through the rain we left the lights of Penzance behind us. At the top I paused and looked back. The town was just a ragged huddle of lights, faintly visible through the driving rain.
‘Come on, man,’ Dave said impatiently. And I knew he was afraid of those lights.
