Angel of Death

Joe Finnigan wasn’t a drunk, but he drank heavily, especially if he were out of work. He took bad luck personally, flew into rages, lashed out at anyone near enough to reach, used his fists on his wife and children in any of his moods of resentment and self-pity. Terry learnt at an early age to keep out of his father’s way, especially if Dad had been in the pub.

He rarely had a job yet sometimes he had money, other times he had nothing. By the time Terry was five he had realised, partly through his own sharp wits and partly from accusations other boys threw at him, how his father got money.

‘Your dad’s a crook, Terry Finnigan.’

‘Is not!’

‘Is. Me dad says.’

‘Your dad’s a liar, and barmy into the bargain.’

‘Is not.’

‘Is.’

Sometimes the police came to the house. Terry and Jim were usually in bed by then, but would creep out on to the landing to peer down through the banisters. They got to know the policemen by face, even by name. They filled the tiny house as they shouldered in through the front door.

Terry could remember how his dad had sweated, seeing their hard, flinty faces and those tight, threatening smiles.

‘Have you been out tonight, Joe?’

‘No, I’ve been here all evening – haven’t I, Nancy?’

‘That’s right,’ Mum would agree. ‘Been here all evening.’

She always backed him up in a confrontation of that kind, whatever she might say to him when they were alone.

‘Somebody burgled the chemist’s shop, Joe. You got any drugs in the house? Mind if we have a look?’

‘Yeah, I do mind. Told you. Haven’t been nowhere. You get a search warrant if you want to poke around my home.’

‘Why would you mind us looking if there’s nothing for us to find?’

‘Would you like strangers coming into your house, going through your things?’

‘I don’t burgle other people’s houses.’

‘Neither do I, then. You can’t prove I

did.’

‘Some day we will, Joe, don’t worry.’

He was never caught, but Terry realised how uneasy life was for his parents, especially his mother, who lived in a state of worry and always had a frown of apprehension on her face, especially if someone knocked on the front door.

Terry and Jim would lie in bed, upstairs, listening, tense, anxious. They both loved their mother and were afraid of their father. Their childhood had been tough, they never had enough to eat and wore the cheapest clothes, but they could have borne that, if they had not lived in permanent fear.

When they were in their teens, Jim told him one Friday night, ‘I’m off. I can’t stand it any more. He’s not knocking me about again. Next time I’ll hit him back, I know I will. I nearly did, tonight. I wanted to kill him.’

Terry had been shocked. ‘Where you going, then, our kid?’

‘Getting a job down south.’

‘Take me with you. Don’t leave me here alone,’ Terry had pleaded.

‘You’re not old enough,’ Jim shrugged, then, seeing his white face, placated him. ‘I’ll come back for you when you’re sixteen.’

He had not come. They never heard a word from him. His father threatened to skin him alive if he did come back. His mother was pale and silent. She wept when she thought nobody was in the house. Terry had heard her once or twice. Jim had always been her favourite, her first-born son.