Read Online A Mersey Mile by Ruth Hamilton - Free Book Online Page B

seemed to be no brain damage, and the surgeon expressed his
satisfaction by releasing the boy into recovery. ‘He’s a fine specimen,’ he told a nearby nurse. ‘A tough breed, thank goodness.’
    As he stripped off his scrubs and swilled specks of the boy’s blood from his arms where gloves had failed to reach, the medic wished he could put these same hands round the throat of the
person who’d hurt Billy Blunt, a slightly built child, seven years of age. There was no excuse for what had been done to the boy. A punctured lung plus haematomas created by blows from the
foot of a grown man? It defied reason. Who the hell would inflict this sort of damage on a small boy? An ordained priest?
    Billy, sedated, hovered in a place halfway between slumber and wakefulness. It wasn’t a dream. Well, it was, but it wasn’t. Where was Dusty Den Davenport? Dusty Den, the local rag
and bone man, had rescued Billy from . . . from what? Dusty was a favourite with children, because he gave away pennies, toy windmills and goldfish in exchange for rags. ‘Rag-a-bone, donkey
rubbing stone, a goldfish, a windmill to carry back home.’ Soft, stupid song. Where was Mam? Where was Dad?
    Billy dozed again. Columba’s playground. The school behind him. He faced the playing field with the old air-raid shelter built for the war, a few trees near the railings. Someone behind him
breathing heavily, too fat to run properly. Cane. A kick. The sound of his own bone breaking. Pain, so much pain. The priest, that ugly, nasty one, was trying to murder him. He couldn’t
breathe properly.
    When he opened his eyes again, the bright lights had gone, and Mam and Dad were there. Money. He’d taken money to buy flowers for Mam’s birthday, but he would have put it back by
adding a bit of his spends to the collection plate at St Anthony’s until the half-crown had been repaid. Yet he couldn’t say any of it. Mam was crying. Dad was thumping the wall with a
closed fist. Dad never did things like that. Dusty Den wasn’t here. Sleep claimed Billy completely.
    Fred stopped knocking hell out of walls; he was managing only to injure his hand, anyway. Pete Furness arrived with Johnny, who grabbed his big brother and hugged him before moving on to hold
Mavis, his sister-in-law. ‘He’ll be all right, girl. We’re a tough lot. What have they done for him?’ Little Billy had blood going into one arm, clear fluid dripping into
the other. It wasn’t right, and his Uncle Johnny was hopping mad.
    Mavis explained in fits and starts about a compound fracture of an arm, the bruising of a kidney, a rib piercing a lung, internal bleeding. ‘And a priest did that,’ she concluded.
‘Put there to look after us, and he nearly killed my son. I don’t understand it. What did Billy do that was so terrible? He’s not a bad kid. I know he can be a bit cheeky, but
this?’
    The constable joined Fred. ‘I understand that you weren’t there. But I know some people who were present, so I’m taking statements. Any road, I think Father Eugene Brennan
should spend the night in custody, if only for his own safety while we get to the bottom of things. Poor Billy.’ He walked to the bed. ‘Get well for your mam and dad, but mostly for
yourself, me laddo.’ He sniffed back some emotion. Policemen did not cry. Not for the first time, he wondered why the hell he was in the job. This was definitely the sharp, pointed edge of
life, one child with life being dripped back into him, one priest with the biggest sin imaginable on his conscience, if he had a conscience.
    ‘Den will speak up,’ Fred promised. ‘And have you talked to Frank Charleson? He’s frightened of nobody.’
    ‘I have spoken to him, yes.’
    ‘Teachers? Dusty said there were three of them standing there.’
    ‘Not yet, Fred. I’ll have to see the sergeant first, but Brennan will be shifted to the cop shop, I’m sure, because they want his guts for garters out there. Even the kids are
out