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11th March 2014
At the bottom of an anonymous set of steps in Sweeting Street, lay the unprepossessing basement office of Granger, Harland and Sackville, Solicitors.
It may have been thought that Rupert Sackville had outlived his partners, but in reality they’d never existed. An invention, solely to give his practice more gravitas.
He represented many people, but in truth had only one actual client. Mark Anthony Stephen MacMahon, whom he referred to as Anthony, pronouncing the ‘th’, as was intended by MacMahon’s parents when they named him. It could be said he was the ‘family’ solicitor, for he represented all the members of MacMahon’s criminal gang except for one. Tommy Cole insisted on having his own. They‘d never been on friendly terms. In fact, he knew Tommy despised him. For his part, he didn’t despise Tommy Cole. He just feared him.
Now Anthony was dead, Rupert Sackville feared Tommy Cole even more. He’d lost his protector, his friend and the man he’d secretly loved. He’d been ‘Brian Epstein’ to MacMahon’s ‘John Lennon’, having fallen for his presence and good looks the first time he’d represented him as Duty Solicitor at the Mags’ Courts, all those years ago. Anthony had been only twenty years old and he’d been thirty-five. Last week had been the worst week of his life.
He knew Cole would replace him. It wasn’t a matter of loss of income that worried him. He’d been very careful with the money he’d earned. Anthony had been very generous, but then again he had worked hard to earn that generosity and done things that hadn’t been in his career plan before their first meeting. True, he lived well, as did his mother with whom he shared his home on Allerton Road. They’d wanted for nothing, and Anthony had always treated his mother with the utmost respect. She in turn had treated him like another son. No, it wasn’t the money. He just didn’t believe Tommy Cole would let him walk away.
He looked at the clock on the wall. Seven o’clock. He needed to get home. Mother would be worrying. He’d had no idea she knew about his feelings for MacMahon. She’d never said anything. But now, with his passing, she’d told her son she’d known from the first moment he’d brought him home. Then she’d held him as tightly as her frail form could, as he broke down and cried in her arms. She said he should take some time off, but he’d gone to the office hoping it would make things easier. It hadn’t.
Putting on his thick, warm overcoat he set the alarm, turned off the lights and locked the entrance door. Then he climbed the anonymous steps to the narrow open gateway bounded by a building line on one side, black wrought iron railings on the other. It was only as he neared the top and his security light went out that he realised the normally lit street was in darkness. Stumbling on the top step he steadied himself with a hand on the railings and stepped out onto street level.
He didn’t see where the man came from. He just felt himself being swung by his coat lapels against the metal security shutters of the office next door. He grunted involuntarily as his head hit them hard, then again as a punch to his diaphragm left him breathless. He felt the grip on his throat as his head was banged against the brickwork.
His assailant let go. He collapsed onto his backside, heard the click, saw something glint. A coarse scouse voice said: “Yuz ‘av brung dis on yerself, yer fucking snide, yer fuckin’ mummy’s boy. Tony’s not ‘ere tuh fuckin’ save yuz anymore, or yer fuckin’ Ma.”
By the front of his coat, he was pulled to his feet. “Please! No! Please! I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ve done nothing!” His hands were waving wildly in an attempt to fend off the attack. He held the arm that held the knife but knew he couldn’t hold it long. His assailant was too strong, he was too weak. He felt the punches to his head, the warm urine flooding his groin. He was going to die. “Oh, Mother! Mother!” he heard himself call. He sobbed as the last of his strength ebbed from his grip.
“Ay! Ay! Pack it in, Lad!” A nearby shout. “Leave him alone! I’m callin’ the Bizzies!”
The assailant slid his arm free of Rupert’s exhausted hands. “Yuz won’t be so fuckin’ lucky next time,” he snarled then ran off along the alley towards Dale Street.
Seconds later, a man was standing over him, helping Rupert up, supporting him against the security shutter. “Are you ok, mate?” he said with a softer scouse accent. “Do you want me to call the Bizzies?”
“No, no...” Rupert struggled to get the words out. “I’m... I’m alright... I think I’m alright.” He wiped his eyes.
“Can you walk?” asked his saviour. “We need to get out onto the main road. It’ll be safer. He might come back.”
“I think I can...”
Rupert took a few faltering steps. “Yes, I think I can manage it.”
His rescuer steadied him as they walked slowly towards Castle Street and the bright lights. “Av you been robbed, mate?” he asked. “You need to report it, you know.”
“No. No, it was just a disgruntled client. There’s no need for the Police.” He was feeling better, more in control of himself now. “I’m fine. Thank you so very much for helping me. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise. Silly of me to work so late.”
As he spoke he checked himself. His head was throbbing and he had a few lumps on his scalp. His hands had several superficial cuts to his palms and knuckles.
“You should put somethin’ on them when you get home,” the man suggested. “Listen, I think you should get a taxi. Here’s one now.” They’d emerged onto Castle Street and turned towards the Town Hall. Without waiting for a reply, the saviour hailed a black Hackney which swung into the marked loading bays nearby.
Rupert clambered into the back of the cab. Sitting down he turned to his ‘hero’.
“I cannot thank you enough. I haven’t got any money to give you. I think I’ve just got enough to get home.”
“Not a problem, mate,” the ‘hero’ smiled back at him. “I never dun it for money. I dun it ‘cos you needed help.”
Rupert handed him a business card. “Look, I know it’s not much, but please take this. If you ever need a Solicitor, I’d be more than happy to provide my services free.”
Hero took the card. “Thanks, mate. You never know in Liverpool, do yuh? Take care.” The man shut the door and was gone. Rupert couldn’t turn around to see him walk away; his neck was now suddenly very sore and stiff.
He gave the taxi driver his address and sat back in the seat, acutely aware that his trousers were very wet. He examined his hands which were still trembling. He’d been lucky. If his rescuer hadn’t intervened, he would be dead by now.
During the journey, he phoned the Police and told them he was calling on behalf of his elderly mother who’d seen an intruder in the back garden. He then spoke to her, telling her the Police would be there soon, so she should ‘play along’ until he got home.
“Is this all about Anthony and his friends, dear?” she’d asked.
“Yes, Mother,” he replied.
“You can trust me,” she’d said simply.
The fear within him began to turn to anger. Never give them a second chance, Tony had taught him. If Tommy Cole expected him just to roll over and take it, he could think again. He knew all about MacMahon’s safety deposit box. It had been him who’d suggested it. He’d even placed things in there himself when Anthony was too busy to make a ‘deposit’. He knew most of its secrets, particularly Anthony’s ‘insurance policy’ against Tommy Cole.
When he arrived home, a Police car was outside and two Officers were sat in the kitchen with his mother, enjoying a cup of tea.