Tomorrow Brings Sorrow

Terence picked up the phone, expecting to hear Simon giving him the final arrangements for when he would be home. It seemed an age coming this time, as at the end of term Simon had asked if they would mind if he joined a group of boys on a trip to France. It would have seemed churlish not to let him. At seventeen and having done a wonderful job in his exams, achieving marks that would gain him entry to Oxford, the boy deserved to let his hair down. A niggling worry accompanied the decision, though, as some of Simon’s friends looked more than weird with their shoulder-length hair and long sideburns. Not to mention their taste in music and dress! All those velvet collars and tight trousers – ‘drainpipes’, he thought they were called. And then the long jackets, and a shoelace for a tie! Good God, what was the world coming to?

The girl’s voice coming down the line took him aback. ‘Hello. You don’t know me, but I want to meet up with you.’

‘Then why should I agree to meet you?’ The feeling deepened, as if someone had brushed the hairs on the back of his neck with a feather.

‘Because I have some information you should know. It was given to me by Rita.’

With the mention of that name, shock surged through Terence’s body. Good God! The hairs that had stood up on his arms now felt as though they were being pulled out, one by one. He had to think quickly. Louise was coming towards him. ‘Where and when?’

‘All right.’ He felt annoyed now. Angry even. Who the bloody hell was this girl, and what was that fucking Rita up to? ‘Look, I go into Leeds on a Thursday on business matters. That’s the day after tomorrow. Can you meet me there? There’s a cafe-type place opposite the station.’ Not the type of place he or any of his acquaintances used. ‘I’ll be there at around eleven. Now are you going to tell me who the devil I’m talking to?’

‘The only thing I am upset about is that damn fly that keeps landing on me, and you and your infernal questions.’

Grabbing his hat and scarf from the stand near the door, Terence rammed the deerstalker on his head, wrapped his scarf around his neck and stormed out, answering Louise’s hurt voice with a curt, ‘I just want to be alone. I don’t need you fussing over me.’

The house and its confines suffocated him. Louise suffocated him. He had to get out. He’d collect his gun and a couple of boxes of ammunition. He could always think straight when out shooting, and God knows there was plenty to shoot at. Rabbits abounded, eating what was left of the crops and generally making themselves a nuisance, attracting poachers, who’d then bag a brace or two of game birds. What the gamekeeper actually did, he’d really like to know!

It wasn’t until he’d almost reached the thicket that Terence stopped and it hit him how terribly rude and unkind he’d been to Louise. He let his body sink down onto the ground. Damn and blast that bloody Rita. What did she want? A bloody pound of flesh, if he knew her! Well, he wasn’t for giving it to her. She could do nothing; she had nothing on him. Yes, the years might have aroused her bitterness over it all, but there was nothing she or anyone else could do to him, was there? Wait a minute: that business with Theresa wanting to come to see him . . . She’d called it off, saying the problem was solved, but she wouldn’t give any further information. Had she seen Rita? She wouldn’t, would she? Theresa wouldn’t betray him, surely? But then, God only knew what she’d do these days. She acted more strangely every time he encountered her.

He lay back. Tears trickled from the corners of his eyes and ran in cold slow motion down into his ears. He did nothing to stop them or wipe them away. Suddenly his safe world felt as though it might crumble. His past sins, which he’d tried to atone for but couldn’t wipe out, piled up on the grass next to him. He couldn’t face it all. He couldn’t . . .

With a finality that took all feeling from him, he got up and walked into the thicket. Standing looking up into the tree that he’d always considered his favourite, his memory showed him a little boy, climbing its branches, Theresa scrambling behind him, higher and higher. Happy times, without a care.

Sitting under the tree, where its roots looked like gnarled feet, he unclipped his pen from his lapel. Taking his diary from his inside pocket, he wrote on the page for 3rd September 1958:

I’m sorry. I want Jack Fellam to know that I regret everything I did, and I hope he can forgive me. I want Theresa to know that I loved her more than I should have done, but have no regrets, except that the law prevented us being together as we were meant to be. I want my children to know I love them dearly and what I am doing is for them, to save them from the sins I committed and that are rearing their ugly head again. And my darling, darling Louise. I want you to know that you are, and have been since the day we married, my life, my love and my world. You are the purity to my evil, the angel to my devil. I love you beyond words, but staying with you would only bring sorrow down upon you. Forgive my outburst, and think of my last words as ‘I love you to eternity.’

Dropping the pen and the diary onto the floor, Terence stood. The loading and cocking of his gun sent the birds fleeing their afternoon rest. No fear entered him. The inside of him was a void. A warm, floaty void. The metal taste of the barrel tingled his tongue. It was over . . . over . . .

Patsy did as the voice told her, inserting two pennies. ‘Rita, he ain’t come.’

‘What? Bleedin’ hell, what’s he playing at? All right, get the next train back. I’ll sort it.’

‘I – I’ve just been reading the local paper. Th – there’s a report of a man from a place called Breckton. He committed suicide. He – he was a landowner.’

Patsy slammed the phone down. Something had told her it was her uncle. Oh God, she’d been a part of killing her own uncle. Tears streamed down her face. She leaned against the glass of the telephone box. What had she done? Loneliness and pain shrouded her. Her body folded.

A banging on the glass pane sent reality shuddering through her. A voice penetrated the place she’d let herself go to. ‘Come on, love, I need to use the phone.’

‘You’ll need to catch a train. Breckton’s quite a way from here. Take you a good three-quarters of an hour. By, there’s nowt there, lass. Only a mine. Have you family there?’

‘Well, take yourself over the road to the station and someone’ll put you reet. Sorry I can’t help any more. I’ve to ring the doctor for me little Aggie. She’s got a temperature.’

Patsy nodded and left the woman to make her call. Crossing the road, she felt as if her legs wouldn’t carry her far. She was no better than her dad, whoever he was. He’d been a killer, Rita had said; and now she’d caused a man’s death. Oh, she hadn’t known what effect calling him would have, but still, she’d been willing to cause him hurt; and she hadn’t even known him, or the full reason Rita wanted to hurt him. Whatever it was, she realized it must have been bad. Something he couldn’t face. But what? What would make a man kill himself?

‘The next train ain’t until around five-ish – ten past, to be precise. It takes the workers back to the villages and outlying areas and calls at Breckton. If I were you, love, I’d go and have a look around the shops for an hour or two.’

As she walked out of the station, Patsy looked at Leeds for the first time. Nothing about it had registered with her before. Just the cafe, that was all. The cafe where she was meant to meet her uncle. The tears threatened once more, but no, she’d to pull herself together. She couldn’t go crying all over the place.

Leeds looked like it was a busy city; not like London as she was used to, but bustling all the same. The buildings looked similar: important, big, but a bit more tarnished. She supposed that was due to the factories and the mills. She’d seen a lot of them as the train had got nearer. All had tall chimneys belching out smoke. Buses pulled in and out of a lay-by across the road. On one of them she read ‘City Centre’. Without thinking, she ran across and jumped on it.

Rita paced up and down. What to do? She couldn’t stay here, that was for sure. Patsy had slammed the phone down in anger. Suppose as she took herself off to Breckton and found them lot? She’d only have to ask around a bit and she’d soon know stuff. Everyone in Breckton knew about the murders, and who’d committed them. Billy was notorious. Everything would lead Patsy to the Fellams and to her half-sister; she might even meet Harriet, if she was still staying with Jack and Dorothy. Knowing that bleedin’ lot, with their family ties, they’d take her in and she’d tell them who had led her there and why. If she tells Jack Fellam that I had plans to get even with the Cromptons, Jack’s sure to ring the police. He’ll not take any chances. If they did that, Rita knew she’d be banged up again. She couldn’t face that.

Running away was the only option, but what about Theresa? Would Theresa come with her? Leaving her behind would hurt. Rita longed to continue to rekindle what they’d had.

Theresa had welcomed her when she’d visited last night. They’d made love and talked of them being together forever. Rita couldn’t think of giving that up. Perhaps she could persuade Theresa to move in with her somewhere near the sea . . . Brighton, yes, the very place. It was cosmopolitan enough to accept their lifestyle. She’d heard that a lot of arty types lived there, and they were always open to anything. Dallied in it all, in fact.

With this thought, Rita dialled Theresa’s number. A quivering, shock-filled voice answered. ‘Rita . . . He – he’s dead!’

Thinking on her feet, Rita just stopped herself from saying that she knew and asked instead, ‘Who?’

Theresa’s whole body trembled. Rita couldn’t get any sense out of her. Still playing the innocent, she shouted at Theresa, ‘Look, tell me what happened. How did Terence die?’

‘Bleedin’ hell!’ Rita’s shock was genuine; she hadn’t expected that. She thought he would have taken pills or something, but to shoot himself . . . That took guts, and that was something as she’d never associated with Terence Crompton.

There was a sadness in her, too. She hadn’t wanted him dead. She’d thought there might just come a day when they could have picked up where they’d left off, because of all the blokes she’d been with, he was the best, just as his sister had bettered all the women she’d had. Despite these feelings she had to ask, ‘Does anyone know why?’

‘I – I think Louise said something about a phone call. I couldn’t understand all she said, for she is distraught. She said something about a note.’

‘Ye – yes. Something about his sins coming back to haunt him. Oh, Rita, he means me. Me! Me! I killed him . . . I killed my darling, my own brother, my love, my lover . . .’

Her screams rose until they shattered the air around them and filled every particle of space in the room. They pierced Rita’s ears and struck terror in her, because with the screams, froth appeared around Theresa’s mouth, and her eyes glared as if made of glass, bulging from their sockets. The veins on her temple protruded, like blue, ugly, ever-growing worms.

Without thinking, Rita slapped the distorted face as hard as she could. The screaming stopped. Theresa gasped – deep, rasping intakes of breath. Her eyes stared, her mouth leaked foaming spittle. Then her body began to tremble uncontrollably. Horror curled Rita’s insides.

This wasn’t shock shaking Theresa’s bones. If Rita knew anything, a fit had taken her. She’d seen this in the prison, as one of the inmates was prone to fitting.

Panic gripped Rita as Theresa’s tongue swelled and protruded from her mouth, and her torso jumped as if someone had put a thousand volts of electricity through it. Nothing had prepared her for this. She had to get help. Reaching for the phone, she dialled 999, then left.

Tears blurred her vision. Bloody hell, Rita, girl, it ain’t like you to cry. Brushing her eyes in a determined effort, she put her foot down on the accelerator. The car responded. She’d to get some things from her flat and get out of here. There was nothing left for her. She’d phone Bugsy. She’d always called Vince Yarman – one of the heavies she employed – Bugsy, because as tough as he was, he was afraid of any creepy crawly, often screaming like a girl at the sight of a bug. But he was the only person she could trust. The daft blighter loved her.

She’d get him to sell everything she owned while she lay low. Then, when she had all of her assets in cash, she’d take herself abroad. Australia. Yes, that’d be the best. She’d heard as you could get into that country, if you had money. They needed folk down there. She’d cruise over. Take Bugsy with her. They’d make out all right together. There must be a market for her line of work down there. It would all turn out all right.

Though she’d never forget Theresa. But what had changed her so much? But then, she knew what. It’d be down to what the bastard Gestapo had put her through. Theresa hadn’t said anything, but last night, when she’d fallen asleep, Rita had gone downstairs for a drink and Theresa’s diary had been open. What Rita had read had made the insides of her curl in horror. Poor Theresa. Poor bleedin’ blighter.