Blood on the Tyne: Body Parts

Blood on the Tyne - Body Parts

By Colin Garrow

Distributed by Smashwords

Copyright © 2020 Colin Garrow

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Contents

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2

3

4

5

6

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8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

A Note on the Text

Geordie Glossary

Excerpt from Death on a Dirty Afternoon

Author’s Note

Connect with Me

Other Books by This Author

About the Author

1

Saturday 16th July 1955

Pushing my way through the crowd, I found the exit of the club and banged through the door onto a small landing that led to the steps at the back. The door clattered open again immediately, its handle knocking lumps of plaster off the wall onto a beer-stained linoleum floor. I watched as the couple hurried past me, down the steps and out into the night. Taking a moment to get my breath, I leaned against the rotted wooden banister and half-listened to Ricky’s honeyed voice launch into a jazz version of All of Me, in time to the regular thumpety-thump of the drums. The music had given me a headache and I wasn’t looking forward to my own turn on stage. As it turned out, I wouldn’t be doing any singing that night.

Away from the smoky atmosphere of the main hall, the air had a sharpness to it, and the oppressive heat that had engulfed me all evening finally began to lift. A young couple banged in through the outside door at the bottom of the stairs, struggled drunkenly upwards and deposited themselves in front of me, leaning against the telephone on the wall, blocking the landing and my exit.

‘Alright, pet?’ said the man, swivelling his head towards me. He smirked, then stuck his tongue down the girl’s throat, as if this might be the romantic spectacle I’d been waiting for. I resisted rolling my eyes and squeezed past their gyrating hips, shouting apologies above the din. Glancing back at them, the woman’s glistening eyes caught mine. With her skirt around her waist and one greasy hand pulling at her suspenders, I could see she thought something magical might be happening. I didn’t envy her the prospect.

Outside, I took a few deep breaths, savouring the salty tang in the air. The toilets lay across the lane, and not for the first time, I half-wished I’d been born a man. Other than the stink of piss, the lavatorial structure posed no obstacle for the average Johnny Dangler, but the place threatened an ordeal to be avoided at all costs for anyone in a skirt.

I considered hanging on until one of the other girls came out, then at least we could brave the nightmare together, but my bladder protested.

Crossing the cobbled lane, I gave the left-hand door a shove. It creaked open, revealing only darkness. Digging into my purse, I pulled out the matchbook I’d picked up on the bar. Tearing one off, I stepped into the entrance, shielding the match from the breeze. It ignited first time, illuminating three cubicles. One of the doors hung at an angle, its top hinge shattered. The middle booth stood open but the stench from an overflowing toilet ruled that one out too. The match had almost burned out, so I moved along to the next door and gave it a push. The door bumped against something and creaked shut again. If there’d been anyone in there, they’d have said something, or at least announced their presence. I pushed again, harder this time, and felt a give in the door, as if a sackful of rags had been wedged behind it.

The match went out, causing a yelp to emerge from my throat. Fumbling with the matchbook, lest some ghastly spectre might take the opportunity to drag me down into the depths of Hell, I managed to tear off another match and strike it before my imagination got the better of me. Turning sideways, I squeezed between the damp wall and the edge of the door. Holding the flickering flame in front of myself, I leaned forwards.

And there she was. Half-naked and barefoot, legs stuck at an awkward angle against the back of the door, head resting on the lid of the toilet bowl as if she might be studying the excretions of its last customer. A pool of dark liquid had gathered on the stone floor, the raw, acrid scent filling my nostrils. I had no need to wonder where the blood had come from—the gash in her neck told the story plainly enough.

It was only the act of throwing up that stopped me from screaming.

Four Days Earlier

Wednesday 13th July 1955

I came home the day they hanged Ruth Ellis.

London to Newcastle on a wet Wednesday isn’t a memorable journey at the best of times, and with two deaths in one week, I wasn’t looking forward to the consequences in either case. Not that I had anything in common with poor Ruth, but I could sympathise, you know, with the way it had all gone down the pan for her. Another girl looking to carve out a name for herself and ending up with a posh boy who ought to have known better. And any fool could see how it’d play out in the papers—stringing-up a woman had a touch of the barbaric to it and already the ‘voices of the people’ were calling for changes in the law.

And what did she do, apart from give a bloke what he deserved? In her position, I would have done the same.

‘Course, they say Geordie lasses are tougher than average and if a man takes the piss, he’s liable to get a rolling pin across the back of his head. But that’s one of those pigeonholes, isn’t it? Putting folk in boxes where they don’t belong. I’d fallen into the same trap myself, ‘cos knowing damn well my accent wouldn’t do me any favours in London, I’d gone through hell to get rid of it. Now I knew it’d been a waste of time.

But it wasn’t Ruth Ellis dangling from a rope that brought me home. It was my mam.

According to our Sheila, the silly cow had tripped on a broken paving stone coming out of the house and stumbled into the road. And you know Campbell Street—a car round there’s a rare sight at the best of times, and even on those occasions you’d be hard pushed to hit twenty miles an hour without mowing down the inevitable bunch of kids playing footy along the doors.

Distraction. That’s what did it. A furniture salesman in a battered Ford delivery van. Looking at something he shouldn’t have been looking at—Ivy Paterson and her fool of a husband bolstering the northern wifie/rolling pin myth right there on their own front doorstep—but it was enough of a diversion to lose concentration. Enough to let the steering wheel slide too far, enough to bounce my mam on the Ford’s nearside wing and put her in the RVI. And you know what hospitals are like—only useful if they can fix what’s broken. In Mam’s case, they couldn’t.

Forcing such thoughts to the back of my mind, I ran a comb through my hair and checked my makeup. Definitely not the smiling hopeful I’d been five years back, but it’d do for Tyneside. By the time we passed Sheffield, I had the compartment to myself. Slipping my heels off, I popped my feet up on the seat opposite, tried to catch forty winks. I must’ve dropped off for the clatter of the door gave me a start.

The temptation to leave my feet where they were didn’t get the better of me. Good manners cost nowt, as my mam would say. ‘Sorry.’ I fumbled my shoes back on and pulled my shoulder bag closer.

The newcomer smelled of Brylcreem and beer, with a hint of something gone-off lurking in the background. My eyes slid up and down as he took off his hat and tossed it onto the luggage rack above my head. He had a film star look about him—slicked-back hair and double-breasted jacket I could believe had come from one of those smart London boutiques, if he hadn’t boarded the train at Doncaster. A fancy watch and a gold tiepin suggested a businessman, but I’d seen this type all too often—as soon as he opened his mouth, I’d know for sure.

The compartment had six seats, and of course he plumped for the one across from me. Fair enough, I’ll give him that—we all like a window seat.

‘Going all the way, are you?’ And there it was, the silky-smooth voice, like he’s making conversation for the hell of it, but the leering mouth gave him away. If he hoped for a quick one in the lavvy, he’d be out of luck.

‘Newcastle.’ My attention turned back to the window.

‘You finished with that?’ He nodded at the newspaper beside me.

‘Help yourself.’

‘Don’t usually read the Mail, of course.’ He sniffed and cast an eye over the headline. ‘Ah. Miss Ellis. Got what she deserved, then?’

‘Depends on your point of view, doesn’t it?’ I glared at him.

He smirked. ‘Female perspective, eh?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He blinked. ‘You’re a woman.’

‘And with a knack for observation like that, you must be a copper.’

He laughed, but I could see I’d annoyed him. Leaning forwards, his mouth opened. At the same instant, the door banged open again, and a young couple stumbled in.

‘Here we are, luv.’ A pasty-faced man about my age heaved two suitcases into the foot space between the seats. Behind him a very pregnant woman with a face that’d seen hard times, forced her way through the door and fell into the nearest pew.

‘There ye go, lass.’ The man stood over her, grinning. He looked at me, at Mister Brylcreem and observed, ‘Newcastle?’

We both nodded, then I went back to gazing out of the window, at the long gardens and allotments flickering past, like one of those old silent movies run at the wrong speed.

Brylcreem regaled the young couple with his opinions about the hanging and even with my head turned away, I could feel him throwing glances at me, trying for a reaction. The newcomers weren’t particular in their views on the whole thing and after a few minutes a silence fell over us.

We got into Central Station shortly after two o’clock, and for a change, it wasn’t raining. I put my case down and considered lighting a fag. Plenty folk had told me they wouldn’t do my throat any good, and even though I’d have killed to have a voice like Marlene Dietrich, waking up with a mouth like an ashtray every morning had finally made my mind up. I glanced at the unopened packet of ciggies and chucked them in a bin. Over the road, I took in the shops, the pubs and the rest of the world going about its business. Somehow, I’d expected everything to be different. But five years down south and the only real difference was me. Picking up my suitcase, I turned left and headed up Westmorland Road. Before facing our Sheila, I needed a drink.

The Fountain stood on the corner of Scotswood Road and Rye Hill. It wasn’t the sort of place any woman in her right mind would frequent, but I reckoned I’d be alright as the landlord was an old pal.

Pushing through the double doors, I took a squint into the main bar. Six male heads swivelled round to glare at me.

The man nearest scowled and gave his cap a tug. ‘No lasses in here, pet.’ A couple of his mates sniggered.

My eyes scanned the otherwise empty room. ‘Looking for John.’

The first man took a slurp of his pint and went back to his dominoes, but his partner gave me a nod.

‘Puttin another barrel on, pet. Gan on through to the lounge bar. Ah’ll tell him you’re here.’

I let the door swing back and walked through to the other room.

Brass-topped tables covered most of the floor space, four-legged stools sitting upturned on their tops. Even for a Wednesday, the place was dead. I walked over to the hatch and leaned on the counter. From there I could see through to the bar.

A couple of minutes later, the barman appeared, panting from his exertions.

‘Lass lookin for ye, Johnny,’ said one of the domino players.

The barman glanced over at me. He’d lost what little hair he had last time I saw him and had gained a few pounds that wouldn’t do him any good in the long run. His face sagged and he tried a smile.

‘Rosie. Long-time no see.’ He reached up a hand and slid a wine glass off the rack above his head. ‘Gin?’

I nodded.

Taking his time, as if seeking to postpone the inevitable, he poured a double, then prising the cap off a bottle of tonic, poured half of it into the glass.

As he walked across to the hatch, I noticed one foot dragged a little and I recalled some story about a local hoodlum with a knife.

‘Sorry about yer mam.’

‘Yes.’

‘Bad business, that.’

I knocked back a mouthful and put the glass back on the counter, gripping the stem too tightly. ‘Yes. An accident.’

He pursed his lips and looked away. ‘Aye.’ Then raising his eyes to mine, shook his head. ‘Your Sheila told us. Friday.’

I nodded.

‘Me and the wife went up to see her in hospital, but…’ He studied the counter, drumming his fingers as if to fill the silence.

‘Nother one ower here, John,’ called the scowler, giving me a dirty look. There was something familiar about his face, but I couldn’t place it. The voice too, with its harsh cackling laugh, seemed to trigger something in my memory. I pushed it out of my mind. More than likely he reminded me of one of the many weirdos I’d known in London.

‘Aye, in a minute.’ John half-turned and I could tell he wanted to get on.

I pulled my bag around and began rooting for my purse. ‘What do I owe you?’

‘Nah, ye’re alright, bonny lass.’ He sighed and looked at me. ‘Ye stayin’ wi’ your Sheila?’

I let out a sudden laugh. ‘She’ll not want me up there at her new place. No, I’ll stay at Mam’s.’

‘Well, if you need anything…’

As it happened, there were things I needed, but this wasn’t the time, so I fastened