Cook knew of two ways to deal with a long gun pointed at you from a frontal position. Left hand or right hand. Sweep the barrel away, then twist to the side. Grab the arm holding the gun, then put an elbow into your assailant’s face, aiming for the chin but an eye or a cheekbone worked just as well. The only decision was which hand to use.
Cook’s left arm was already spoken for, cradling the ugly clock. Which cut down on decision-making time. His right hand was the only one available, so it was the one he used. He stepped towards the gun, batting the barrel away to his left, while pivoting his body in the same direction. Once he was side-on to the counter, he jabbed the man’s chin with his right elbow – jarring for Cook but much worse for the recipient. Like being hit with a metal bar, definite damage to the teeth and jaw. Concussion likely. Momentary knock-out almost always the result.
The tommygun clattered to the counter as the man went down. Cook reached forward and guided the man’s head away from the edge of the counter. He’d already inflicted life-altering damage. Anything worse seemed out of proportion. Cook had been taught time and again that combat wasn’t cricket, but he’d seen enough killing. Seen enough, and done enough.
The bell above the door jingled again, a second visitor, just as Cook was guiding the man into a crumpled heap on the floor behind the counter.
‘What’s this?’ Cook recognised the voice. It was Reynolds. Frankie’s father.
Cook turned to face him. Reynolds was flanked by another man. Two jingles from the doorbell – two men. Everything accounted for. Both Reynolds and his man had their right hands in their pockets, ready to produce weapons should the need arise.
Cook raised the clock, held in the crook of his left arm.
‘This got misplaced,’ Cook said. ‘Thought I’d return it.’
‘That was here?’ Frankie’s father asked.
‘Wasbeing the operative word,’ Cook said.
Frankie’s father looked angry. He whispered something to his man, who shook his head. Cook recognised the situation. When your boss is angry, and he asks if you’ve got anything to do with it, denial is always the best response.
‘A mistake, no doubt,’ Frankie’s father said. He pulled a sheaf of banknotes from his pocket, peeled off a pound.
‘Let me,’ he said, proffering the money.
‘No need,’ Cook replied. ‘We resolved the dispute without money changing hands.’
Frankie’s father stepped forward and looked over the counter. He looked back at Cook.
‘Looks like you’ve saved me the trouble,’ he said. ‘Lee should have known better than to take that. Everyone on the island knows it’s Gracie’s.’
Frankie’s father made a gesture to his man, and he left hurriedly, the doorbell clanging behind him.
‘How’s she doing? About Ruby?’ Frankie’s father asked. ‘Must be taking it hard.’
46
Cook followed Reynolds across the road, back to the pub he’d passed. The World’s End. It was crowded, the air thick with smoke. Reynolds had a corner table. Two beers, half drunk, claimed the places, and when Reynolds sat down he sipped from one of the glasses. Cook wondered how he’d been alerted about the trouble across the road. A boy, running in with the news? A telegraph? And what did that make the man sitting across from him? Was Reynolds some kind of enforcer? The way he’d taken control in the pawnshop, Cook thought that unlikely. More likely an owner.
A barmaid brought Cook a pint, and Reynolds nodded to the remaining chair. Cook sat, checking his surroundings. He didn’t like being forced to sit with his back to the crowd.
‘I don’t think Ruby was on that bus,’ Cook said.
‘Say more.’
So Cook told his story, about the coat, and the pegs in the Lyons – one with a coat and one without. The parents looking for their daughter.
‘So you don’t know she’s alive?’
‘I don’t know anything,’ Cook replied. ‘Everyone thought she was on that bus, so they thought she was dead. If she wasn’t on the bus, but she hadn’t come home, would you think she was dead?’
Cook watched as Reynolds thought it through. He didn’t want to let himself hope, if it was going to be taken away again.
‘We should tell Gracie,’ he said.
47
‘Didn’t expect to see that again,’ Gracie said, as Cook hefted the clock onto the mantelpiece. She didn’t sound particularly enthusiastic about it.
