his face, grey-eyed and ash-bark-whittled, like his mother’s. It was a risk for Riley, that surveillance – Greene had seen him in Hagan’s Manufacturing in Lancaster on occasion when both were purchasing supplies of ink, knew him for what he truly was, not the sign painter he professed to be because there was only one in Morecambe Bay, though Greene had thankfully not made mention, suppliers could get shy in their support of the tattooing industry, or downright vicious. Discretion aside, Reginald Greene would not want him in the print shop. That would suggest appreciation, friendship, or secondary distribution of ink – ink, the only thing Eliot Riley and Reginald Greene had in common other than a masculine set of tackle! Their difference as great as collaborating with the living compared to working with the dead. So Riley had waited for the busier moments and was quick about his perusal of Cyril Parks’s work.
Eliot Riley knew he was not popular with many of the businesses in Morecambe, which frowned on the seedier aspects of the town in which they were located, nor the Council, nor the sanitation department, for similar reasons. But that did not alter the fact that in summer the crowds flocked to his shop, the way they flocked to the pie rooms and the ghost-train rides and the ballrooms, wanting to take home an altogether more permanent holiday souvenir. Something they could call their own and never have it taken off them. He was just as much a part of the town’s leisure and entertainment features as the other businesses, and sometimes made better money.
Then the last Saturday of November 1921, a handful of years after meeting the lad, he decided to make his move. He wasn’t sure why he chose that moment over any other. Maybe just because the boy was getting taller and older. Maybe just because he was passing him in the street. As Cy was locking up and leaving work, Riley collared him and said there was a better job for him if he wanted it, better than blocking in signs and calligraphy and being forced to produce insipid, uninspired art. And he took him to the pub where the boy spent near on all his wages on ale and listened to him talk.
Outside the Dog and Partridge two hours later the wind had calmed, having lost the spouse’s quarrel with the sea, and it was replaced by a gentle roar inside Cy’s ears from the merry passage of drink around his body. Riley took hold of him and suddenly became serious. The drawbridge lifted in his face, he clouded over, and he seemed to Cyril, through a pair of eyes that were for once in his life not truly well behaving, incredibly angry. The man appeared thunderous with concentration and premeditation, as if some kind of vendetta were in operation. It was the look of a bully about to strike. The look of a man closed up sentimentally from those he faces and about to pull a trigger. Perhaps it was the broken window, thought Cy, perhaps that was what this meeting had really been all about, though it seemed a little unfair to be holding a grudge this long and Riley had made no mention. He’d seen a pocket full of coin and not claimed compensation.
– You have until eleven o’clock tonight to giveme an answer. I’ve someone coming in at ten if you want to see what it’s about. Won’t take me more than an hour. Eleven Pedder Street, door with the split lock and the Jewish looking lights in the window. You know it? Yes, you know it.
Cy nodded. Something about the length of time Riley said his work would take gave the scenario an official feel, gave it credibility and made Cy nervous in his stomach, as if a doctor’s appointment had been scheduled, as if he were about to enter the rooking parlour room in which his mother worked with Mrs Preston.
– Ask for me if someone else answers. Don’t take guff off any of them. This is important, boy.
And Riley placed his hand around the back of Cy’s neck and seemed to tighten his grip on the hairline.
– This is important,
Eliot Riley knew he was not popular with many of the businesses in Morecambe, which frowned on the seedier aspects of the town in which they were located, nor the Council, nor the sanitation department, for similar reasons. But that did not alter the fact that in summer the crowds flocked to his shop, the way they flocked to the pie rooms and the ghost-train rides and the ballrooms, wanting to take home an altogether more permanent holiday souvenir. Something they could call their own and never have it taken off them. He was just as much a part of the town’s leisure and entertainment features as the other businesses, and sometimes made better money.
Then the last Saturday of November 1921, a handful of years after meeting the lad, he decided to make his move. He wasn’t sure why he chose that moment over any other. Maybe just because the boy was getting taller and older. Maybe just because he was passing him in the street. As Cy was locking up and leaving work, Riley collared him and said there was a better job for him if he wanted it, better than blocking in signs and calligraphy and being forced to produce insipid, uninspired art. And he took him to the pub where the boy spent near on all his wages on ale and listened to him talk.
Outside the Dog and Partridge two hours later the wind had calmed, having lost the spouse’s quarrel with the sea, and it was replaced by a gentle roar inside Cy’s ears from the merry passage of drink around his body. Riley took hold of him and suddenly became serious. The drawbridge lifted in his face, he clouded over, and he seemed to Cyril, through a pair of eyes that were for once in his life not truly well behaving, incredibly angry. The man appeared thunderous with concentration and premeditation, as if some kind of vendetta were in operation. It was the look of a bully about to strike. The look of a man closed up sentimentally from those he faces and about to pull a trigger. Perhaps it was the broken window, thought Cy, perhaps that was what this meeting had really been all about, though it seemed a little unfair to be holding a grudge this long and Riley had made no mention. He’d seen a pocket full of coin and not claimed compensation.
– You have until eleven o’clock tonight to giveme an answer. I’ve someone coming in at ten if you want to see what it’s about. Won’t take me more than an hour. Eleven Pedder Street, door with the split lock and the Jewish looking lights in the window. You know it? Yes, you know it.
Cy nodded. Something about the length of time Riley said his work would take gave the scenario an official feel, gave it credibility and made Cy nervous in his stomach, as if a doctor’s appointment had been scheduled, as if he were about to enter the rooking parlour room in which his mother worked with Mrs Preston.
– Ask for me if someone else answers. Don’t take guff off any of them. This is important, boy.
And Riley placed his hand around the back of Cy’s neck and seemed to tighten his grip on the hairline.
– This is important,
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