can’t be too careful: the polis just need a whisper and it’s up their nose it goes like a sniff to a bloodhound.’
Up in the loft Jimmy went straight to a long wooden box and took out his Sunday coat and trousers, but he didn’t get into them immediately. For quite some minutes he stood with them gripped tight against his chest, his eyes closed, his lips moving as he muttered to himself, ‘Oh dear God! don’t let nowt happen our Rory. Please, please, don’t let nowt happen him.’
As he came down the ladder again, Janie said, ‘I’ll go with you.’ But he shook his head at her. ‘No, no, I’ll be better on me own. Well, what I mean is, I can get around the waterfront. If he’s not in the hospital I can get around and ask.’
‘Be careful.’
He turned to Lizzie and nodded, saying, ‘Aye; aye,’ and as he went to let himself out, Ruth followed him and, opening the door for him, said quietly, Don’t stay late, not in the dark, not around there.’
‘All right, Ma.’ He nodded at her, then went out.
He ran most of the way into Shields and wasn’t out of breath. He took no notice of the urchins who shouted after him:
At one time the rhyme used to hurt him but he was inured to it now. Nothing could hurt him, he told himself, except that something should happen to their Rory. He’d want to peg out himself if anything happened to their Rory. What was more, if it had already happened he would be to blame because if he hadn’t yarped on about the boatyard Rory wouldn’t have gone gambling . . . But, aye, he would, he would always gamble. But not at this new place, this big place he had gone to these past few Saturdays. He hadn’t let on where it was. He had asked him, but the laughing answer had been, ‘Ask no questions and you’ll get no lies . . .’
The porter at the Infirmary said, ‘No, lad, nobody the name of Connor’s been brought in the day. Then they don’t bring people in on a Sunday less it’s accidents like.’
‘Well, I was thinkin’ it could’ve been an accident.’
‘Well, there’s no Connor here, lad. Neither mister nor missis.’
‘Ta . . . thanks.’ He didn’t know whether he was disappointed or relieved.
He was going down the gravel drive when the porter’s voice hailed him, saying, ‘Just a minute! There’s a fella, but I hope it isn’t the one you’re lookin’ for. There was a bloke brought in round dinner-time, no name on him, nothing. He was found on the waterfront. Not a sailor. His clothes were respectable, what was left of them, but I expect by now he’s kicked the bucket.’
Jimmy walked slowly back towards the man, saying as he went, ‘What’s he like?’
‘Oh, lad, his own mother wouldn’t be able to recognize him, he’s been bashed about worse than anybody I’ve seen afore.’
‘Had he brown hair, thick, wavy . . . ?’
‘Whatever colour this fellow’s hair once was, lad, I couldn’t say, but the day it was dark red, caked with blood.’
Jimmy stood looking up at the man, his mouth slightly agape. Then closing it, the words came dredged through his lips as he said, ‘Could . . . could I see him, this . . . this fella?’
‘Well. Well, I’ll ask the sister. Come on back.’
‘Sit there a minute,’ he said a moment later, pointing to a polished wooden chair standing against the painted brick wall of the lobby.
Jimmy sat down, glad to get off his legs. He was feeling weak, faint, and frightened, very frightened.
The porter came back and beckoned to him. Then with his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder, he pointed and said, ‘Go down there, lad, to the end of the corridor, turn left, an’ you’ll see the sister.’
The sister was tall and thin. She put him in mind of John George. He had to put his head back to look up at her. She said to him, ‘You’re looking for your brother?’
‘Aye, miss.’
‘How old is he?’
‘Twenty-three, comin’ up twenty-four next month.’
‘There’s a young man in there,’ she nodded towards the wall. ‘He’s in a very bad state, he’s been badly beaten. But . . . but you may be able to recognize him, if he is your brother.’
She turned away, and Jimmy followed her towards the figure lying on the bed. It was very still. The head was swathed in bandages, the face completely distorted with bruises. He found himself gasping for breath. He had once seen a man taken from the river. He was all blue, bluey black and bloated. He had been dead for days, they said. This man on the bed could be dead an’ all. He didn’t know if it was their Rory. The sister was whispering something in his ear and he turned and looked dazedly at her. Then he whispered back as he pointed to his thumb. ‘He had a wart atween his finger an’ thumb towards the front. He’d always had it.’
The sister gently picked up the limp hand from the counterpane and turned it over; then she looked at Jimmy as he stared down at the flat hard wart that Rory had for years picked and scraped at in an effort to rid himself of it.
The sister drew him backwards away from the bed, and when they were in the corridor again she still kept her hand on his shoulder as she endeavoured to soothe him, saying, ‘There now. There now.’
The tears were choking him. Although they were flooding down his face they were packing his gullet, he couldn’t breathe.
She took him into a room and said, ‘Where do you live?’
When he was unable to answer she asked, ‘In the town?’
He shook his head.
‘Tyne Dock?’
He brought out between gasps, ‘Up . . . up Simonside.’
‘Oh, that’s a long way.’
He dried his face now on his sleeve, then took a clean rag from his pocket and blew his nose. After some minutes he looked up at her and said, ‘I’ll bring me ma and da,’ then added, ‘Will he . . . ?’
She said kindly, ‘I don’t know, he’s very low. He could see the morning, but then again I don’t know.’
He nodded at her, then walked slowly from the room. But in the corridor he turned and looked back at her and said, ‘Ta,’ and she smiled faintly at him.
He didn’t run immediately, he walked from the gates to where the road turned into Westoe and as he looked down it he thought of Janie. Poor Janie. Poor all of them. In their different ways they’d all miss him, miss him like hell. He had been different from them, different from his da and Mr Waggett and Mr Leary, and all the women had looked up to him. He had become something, a rent collector. There were very few people from their walk of life who rose to rent collectors . . . And himself? He stopped in the street. If Rory went then his own life would come to an end. Not even boats would bring him any comfort. This feeling he had for Rory was not just admiration because he had got on in the world, it was love, because he was the only being he’d really be able to love. He had another love, but that was in a secret dream. He’d never have a lass of his own for no lass would look the side he was on; but that hadn’t mattered so very much because there’d always be Rory.
As if he were starting a race he sprang forward and ran. He ran until he thought his heart would burst, for it was uphill all the way after he left the docks, and when finally he staggered into the kitchen he dropped on to the floor and held his side against the painful stitch before he could speak to them all hanging over him. And when he did speak it was to Janie he addressed himself.
They walked quickly, almost on the point of a run, all the way back with him into Shields in the dark, Paddy, Ruth, Lizzie and Janie, and for hours they all waited in the little side room. It was against the rules, but the night sister had taken pity on them and brought them in out of the cold.
