Christopher sprang up. ‘What’s gone on? What’s fuckin’ gone on? I’ll tell you what’s gone on, you bastard. Me dad’s come off a fuckin’ ladder and you know why? Because you bunch of thievin’ cunts stole the new one he should’ve been using.’ He gripped one-handed at the Irishman’s throat and squeezed hard while Vic and Bill tugged at his arms and torso trying to prise them apart. Ted crouched beside Stephen holding out his arms, trying to shield the invalid and prevent him becoming aware of the fracas.
‘It was untied from the top of his van and stolen, so don’t make out you didn’t know,’ Christopher spat though his grinding teeth, as finally his men dragged him back. ‘So he used this one and it’s only fit fer fuckin’ firewood.’ He shook off imprisoning hands and strode to the ladder. He saw at once where a few of the wormy worn treads had given way at the top and kicked out at it in violent frustration. ‘You’d best keep that lot away.’ Christopher pointed a shaking finger at the approaching navvies. ‘’Cos if yer don’t there’s gonna be murders here today …’
O’Connor looked for a moment as though he might retaliate; his fingers were massaging his scratched throat, and his snarl had hoisted one side of his mouth up close to his nose. But instead he strode towards his men, arms outstretched, to pen them and prevent them coming any closer. A moment later the pikeys were retreating towards their own territory, throwing glances over their shoulders. They stood by the door of the house they were working on, and watched as an ambulance screeched around the corner and speeded up to the casualty.
‘Want me to go and let the guvnor know what’s gone on?’ Vic asked in a hushed tone. He gave Christopher’s arm a shake to gain his attention.
Christopher had been crouching by the medical team examining his father, but now he slowly and wearily stood up.
‘Go and let Mr Wild know what’s happened, shall I?’ Vic repeated in a whisper.
Christopher’s uncle was always known either as the guvnor, or Mr Wild. None of Wild Brothers’ employees was under any illusions as to who ran the show, or where familiarity ended.
‘Yeah,’ Christopher said hoarsely. ‘He’ll be at the warehouse off Holloway Road.’
Vic nodded.
‘Would you tell him to let Pearl know?’ Christopher knew his father’s girlfriend would be distraught to hear the news but she’d be even more upset if she were the last to find out. He dug in a pocket and brought out his van key and handed it over. In seconds Vic was reversing at speed out into Lennox Road.
‘Woss gone on?’ a woman’s gravelly voice called.
Christopher turned to see old Beattie Evans, who still lived in the street, hobbling towards him leaning heavily on a stick.
‘Me dad’s had an accident,’ he answered croakily. ‘Would you let me aunt know he’s gone to hospital when she gets back from the market?’
Beattie nodded, mouth agape. ‘Bleedin’ hell,’ she muttered. ‘Stevie don’t look good.’ She glanced about at the stricken faces. The shortarse looked as though he was about to collapse, or throw up. And she could see why: he’d got his eyes fixed on the blood escaping from beneath Stevie’s head and trickling towards the gutter.
Beattie had lived in The Bunk long enough not to be badly affected by the sight of a bit of claret. In Campbell Road’s heyday she’d watched men caving each other’s skulls in with iron bars. In fact, she’d seen Matilda Keiver, in her prime, put a poker over a bloke’s head when he wouldn’t pay his rent. But those days were gone and everybody had gone soft in her opinion. She knew that hot sweet tea often did the trick on such occasions. ‘Get anybody a cuppa, can I?’ she offered gamely.
‘Coming in the ambulance?’
Christopher pivoted about to see one of the crew addressing him. They had his father on a stretcher in the back and were ready to go. He nodded and clambered in quickly. A moment later he’d sprung out again to talk to Ted and Billy.
‘Get everything under lock and key before you leave.’ He sent a stare of violent hatred along the road. ‘I wouldn’t put it past those pikeys to try and turn this to their advantage.’
‘I bought new ladders just a few months ago. I know I fucking did. I bought a couple of step ladders and a high reach, and I know you had ’em, ’cos I delivered them to you myself when you was working on that extension in Tooley Street.’
‘Yeah, I know.’
‘So why was he up a fucking worm-eaten old ladder messing about with gutters?’ Robert Wild turned a look of angry disbelief on his nephew. ‘If you needed more ladders why didn’t somebody just say so?’
Robert and Christopher were standing together in the waiting room of the hospital, and attempting to keep their voices low during a fraught exchange. At intervals both men were darting glances at the double doors that led to the wards, praying that the doctor would reappear with reassuring news.
Chris’s uncle had turned up just twenty minutes or so after the ambulance had arrived and Chris had been enormously relieved to see him. He didn’t relish having this conversation with his guvnor, but he was glad to have somebody with him to prevent his imagination running riot. Every time he heard a hum of activity behind the doors his heart leapt to his throat. He was certain the doctor would rush out at any moment to tell him they hadn’t been able to save his father. The waiting room was almost empty: just an elderly couple sat huddled together on chairs at the end of one row. They looked as anxious as Chris felt and he guessed they too were praying for good news from the staff about a relative.
Aware of his uncle’s steady stare Christopher ran a hand across the back of his neck and dropped his chin. He knew he’d have to grass his dad up, and he was already feeling guilty as hell over his accident.
Stephen had told him not to let on to Robert that the new ladder had been stolen. He’d said he’d replace it himself without the guvnor ever finding out that the Irish crew had stolen it off his van. Christopher had suspected his dad had felt embarrassed, and also at fault for having forgotten to padlock the new ladder. In the past they’d been able to leave equipment unattended for a short while without risking losing it, but since the Paddies had turned up in The Bunk anything out in the open had needed nailing down. Christopher also understood that his dad didn’t like feeling beholden to his brother, or that he was in his shadow, although, of course, he was, on both counts.
‘Didicois working down Whadcoat Street have been stealing stuff,’ Christopher admitted gruffly. ‘We’ve lost shovels to ’em ’n’ all. They nearly had a pick away too only I caught ’em red-handed.’
Robert’s expression made words unnecessary.
‘He didn’t want you to know,’ Christopher sighed out as two nurses bustled past in a rustle of starch. ‘Said he’d replace the stuff we’d lost out of his wages when he could afford to. Felt it was his fault for not keeping a closer eye on it all.’
Robert spun away, his fingers splayed rigidly above his head in a gesture of sheer exasperation, as he hissed a string of curses that made Chris wince.
‘Have you let Pearl know?’ Chris swiftly changed the subject.
Robert nodded. ‘Sent Gil round to the shop where she works to get her and bring her here straight away. Thought they’d have arrived by now. Traffic must be bad …’ He glanced at the large round clock on the waiting-room wall. It was almost five o’clock in the afternoon and Chris realised he’d been here for over an hour already.
‘Came as soon as I heard off Beattie about the accident.’ Matilda hurried in through the swing doors. ‘How is he?’
‘Don’t know yet … waiting to hear.’