Nameless (39 page)

Betsy’s cheeks flushed deep red but, despite her embarrassment, she held Charlie’s gaze steadily. The state of him! Once he had been so gorgeous, a true leader of men. Now stir had made a wreck of him. She couldn’t even recognize the Charlie she had once known, the Charlie she had very nearly married.

Her first, her only real love, had been Charlie. And the shaming part – the part Joe would never know – was that she had still harboured a passion for him through all the years he was inside. She knew she had settled for second best with Joe. Joe had never been exciting, the way Charlie was.

But now it was like it had all been a cruel illusion and she felt cheated and angry. Charlie was nothing to lust over. He was old, belligerent, bleary-eyed, unwashed and unshaven. Yeah, a wreck.

‘What a cow you turned out to be,’ said Charlie.

‘Hey!’ snapped Joe. Charlie was right, but this was his old woman. He couldn’t have her bad-mouthed by anyone, not even his older brother.

‘You want to be careful,’ said Betsy, chucking the rubber gloves onto the draining board. ‘One word from me about your behaviour, and your probation officer’ll go mental. You could end up back inside.’

‘My
behaviour
?’ Charlie’s face twisted with disbelief. He hated being beholden like this, but they were his family and he ought to be made welcome by them, oughtn’t he?

Joe held up a placatory hand. ‘She didn’t mean that,’ he told Charlie hurriedly. ‘We’d never grass up anyone,
would
we, Betsy love?’

Betsy looked at the pair of them. She didn’t want to upset Joe, but she hated having Charlie anywhere near her. Just seeing him reminded her that once they had been lovers, and she was so much better than that now. Having him here reminded her of how shabbily he had treated her all those years back, practically raping her one minute and then dithering over whether or not to do the decent thing by her. She’d
loved
the bastard, and in the end it had all come to nothing; she’d had to settle for dull, predictable Joe instead. Now she wanted to forget all about Charlie. But she couldn’t. Day after day, he was in her face.

‘No,’ she said at last. ‘I wouldn’t grass. Of course not. It’s just . . .’

‘It’s just that you don’t want me here,’ finished Charlie.

‘No . . .’ said Joe.

‘It’s OK,’ said Charlie. ‘Maybe I’ll go and stay with little Ruby for a while, who knows?’

Despite the scare Michael Ward had given him, the idea tickled him. Maybe he would. So what if Ward had warned him off? He couldn’t watch her
all
the time, could he? So Charlie could have some fun with Ruby, frighten the crap out of her like he had back in the day.
Fuck
Michael Ward.

Betsy’s face twisted with black humour. ‘Ruby? You’re joking. After the way you treated her? I wouldn’t go near, if I were you.’

‘What’s she on about?’ asked Charlie, glancing at Joe.

‘Oh, come on, Charlie,’ said Joe, getting exasperated with all this. He didn’t want to upset Charlie, but he didn’t want Betsy to get stroppy and start giving him a shedload of earache, either. ‘You know how it was with Ruby and you and Dad. You seriously think she’s going to put out the welcome mat for you?’

Charlie hadn’t told Joe or Betsy how Michael Ward had seen him off at Ruby’s place. Nor would he. He had
some
pride. He thought of Ward, that
git,
giving him the hard word. Him, Charlie Darke.
No one
told him what to do, and he was going to have to teach Michael fucking Ward that lesson – and
then
he’d teach Ruby.

Charlie looked at Joe and Betsy in disgust. They didn’t want him, and Ruby – his
sister
, for God’s sake – didn’t want him anywhere near. At least back at the hostel in Camberwell he had been made welcome.

‘I’m going out,’ he said, and turned away.

Joe followed him out of the kitchen. ‘Charlie!’ He caught his brother’s arm.

Charlie stopped, looked at him. ‘What?’

‘I don’t want us to fall out,’ said Joe.

‘We won’t. I’ll be on my way soon. I’ll get my stash, and then . . .’

‘
What?
’ First Betsy, now Charlie. Were they both
mental
? Joe let out a laugh. ‘Don’t be so bloody silly. The stash ain’t worth a bean, not any more.’

Charlie looked at his brother dully. ‘What?’

Joe shook his head, exasperated. ‘Shit, you’ve been inside too long, you poor bastard. Look, those notes are from the war. They were completely different to the notes in use even ten years ago. Now we’ve gone decimal. Decimal coinage, Charlie.
Everything’s
changed. You can’t use that money. You may as well just bloody forget it.’

Charlie was shaking his head, his expression confused. ‘I didn’t think . . .’ he said.

‘Sorry, Charlie.’

‘All that time inside,’ Charlie mumbled. It sounded like he was talking to himself.

Yeah, for something that’s now worthless
, thought Joe.
You poor sod.

‘I’m going out,’ said Charlie, and this time Joe didn’t try to stop him.

101

Charlie ended up in the pub that used to be his local, the Rag and Staff. Here, it used to be that everyone stepped very carefully around Mr Charlie Darke; he was treated with respect. Now, no one seemed to even notice him. He ordered a pint and stood there at the bar to drink it, ignored by and ignoring the other punters.

He glanced up as he drank, and he saw in the mirrored wall behind the bar a sad, tired old man draining a glass of Guinness. The poor old cunt had bags as big as suitcases under his eyes. His thin grey hair was plastered greasily to his scalp, his skin was mottled and pale, and there was a couple of days’ worth of grey stubble on his chin. He looked like a down-and-out.

And then he realized it was him.

It was
him
he was staring at in the bar mirror.

His stomach knotted and his hand tightened around the glass as he emptied it and slapped it back down on the bar. Jesus! When had all this happened, when had he got so frigging
old
? He’d wasted his life away inside. His stash was worth nothing. The world had moved on.

The jukebox was playing songs he didn’t even know, rubbish songs, not the stuff he remembered from his glory days. Even watching the news on the telly was like an out-of-body experience; they were talking about things that could have been happening on another planet for all he cared.

Inside, he’d felt safe.

Now, he felt alone in a hostile world.

Rachel
, he thought, and his hand tightened over the hair slide in his pocket. He took it out, turned it over in his hand. The cheap jewels glinted in the subdued light of the bar.

‘You want to sell that?’ asked a voice.

Charlie turned his head. There was a geezer there in a denim jacket and jeans, with messy wheat-blond hair. ‘You what?’ asked Charlie.

The stranger shrugged. He addressed his next remark to the change he was sorting out in his hands. ‘I can see times are hard and friends are few. That’s a nice piece. You want to do a deal?’

He thinks I’m a tramp
, thought Charlie.

Maybe Betsy was right. He
was
an undesirable. In prison, he’d been a big noise and he had managed to hold it together. But now he was outside he could feel himself crumbling apart, dissolving like a sandcastle when the tide washes in.

Places to go, things to do.

Like what?

‘Fuck off,’ he said to the man, and put the hair slide away.

‘I was only asking . . .’

‘Well, you’ve asked. And I’ve said no. Now clear off.’

‘Hey, there’s no need to be like
that
,’ said the geezer, and that was enough.

Charlie turned and punched him right on the nose, feeling the crunch of bone and gristle as his fist connected. The blond bloke sprawled backwards, knocking into several other punters, who
also
went down in a heap. They shouted and swore as pints and tables and beer mats went flying in all directions. The man lay on the floor amid a tangle of table legs, handbags and shrieking women, touching a hand to his bloody nose and staring up at Charlie through tear-filled eyes.

‘You
cunt
,’ he said, and came up at Charlie very fast.

Charlie was even faster. He broke his empty Guinness glass on the bar. The man stopped dead in his tracks as Charlie waved the jagged edges of the glass in his face.

‘You want to persist in this?’ Charlie asked him. ‘’Cos really, mate, I would advise you to just piss off while you still can.’

‘Look, I don’t want no trouble,’ said the landlady anxiously from behind the bar.

She was a big brassy brunette who had served Charlie his pint, commented on the weather, smiled and chatted. Charlie didn’t know her. Years ago, he had known the landlord well, an old RAF type with a handlebar moustache. Sid. He’d asked her, did she remember Sid? But she’d never heard of him. Now she was watching him like he’d grown two heads.

He dropped the glass on the floor and went outside.

He looked around. The traffic was so much heavier than it had been back in the day. So many more
people
, all rushing around, going where? He looked at the cars, the buses, so much noise, and there were billboards everywhere, plugging cars, drinks, clothes.
Darkes
, he saw across the road.
New store opening soon
.

Little Ruby. His dear sis, who’d been getting the pork sword off Michael Ward, who’d got him worked over inside. Yeah, there was a score to settle there. Things needed setting straight. He’d get Ward, he promised himself that. But first,
first
, he was going to kill that bitch sister of his.

He stumbled out into the road, a man on a mission, intent on crossing to the other side. He didn’t even see the car that hit him at full speed, flinging him up into the air, arms and legs flailing.

Charlie crashed back down onto the tarmac amid blaring horns and the shriek of tyres and the shouts and screams of motorists. He lay there, eyes open but seeing nothing. Charlie Darke was dead.

102

‘You’ll never guess,’ said Daisy, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

They were at dinner, the four of them: Daisy and Kit, Michael Ward and Ruby. Since the night of Kit and Daisy’s abduction, this had become a fairly regular occurrence. The four of them got on, seemed to speak the same language.

‘Go on,’ prompted Ruby.

‘Pa’s letting me have the gatehouse,’ she said, nearly hugging herself with glee.

‘What gatehouse?’ asked Kit.

‘The gatehouse at Brayfield, silly.
You
know. You drove right past it when you took me home.’

‘That will be nice,’ said Ruby, although her heart sank to hear it. She’d thought that Daisy loved London best of all, not the country. She didn’t want her disappearing off the scene. They’d become friends. Not close, but friends nevertheless. It was the most she could hope for, she knew that. ‘You’ll be near your mother,’ she said, although it nearly choked her.

Daisy nodded.

‘Mother hates town. I always stay with Aunt Ju while I’m up here. Of course, I won’t be down there all the time – I’d hate that.’

‘She must be very pleased,’ said Ruby, and took a sip of wine.

‘She’ll barely notice I’m there; she’ll be in the potting-shed as usual.’

Now Ruby was curious, despite herself. ‘Doesn’t your father spend time with her down there?’

‘Oh no. Well, not much. Pa has the London house where he stays during the week, and he goes home at weekends. Not
every
weekend, though. Sometimes he’s just too busy.’

Ruby nodded.
Busy with what?
But she thought she knew. Busy with women, busy with boys. Once the very mention of Vanessa and Cornelius would have made her green with jealousy. Now, she just pitied Daisy, to have them for parents.

But you’re her parent
, she thought.
What about you, Ruby? When did you ever give her the love she deserves, the love she so obviously craves?

She hadn’t. And now, she couldn’t. The deal had been struck, she had to acknowledge that: and it was far too late to break it. All she could do now was enjoy Daisy’s company. She was so lucky to be able to do even that. No point in craving for more. No more was on offer.

‘I’ve got the keys,’ said Daisy, looking across at Ruby with an angelic smile. ‘Would you come down with me on Saturday, give me some advice on furnishings and things?’

‘I don’t . . .’

‘Oh, please, Ruby. You’ve got such fantastic taste and I don’t know anything about décor.’

‘But your mother . . .’

‘Oh, she’s away. Visiting the folks.’

Ruby took a deep breath, like a high-diver going off the top board. She knew she shouldn’t. But the temptation was too much. And if Vanessa was away, it hardly mattered: she would never know. ‘Then . . . well, all right. I suppose so.’

‘Great!’ Daisy picked up her glass for a toast. ‘To my gatehouse!’ she said, and one by one, smiling, they all picked up their glasses, clinked them against hers, and drank.

‘You two seem to have hit it off,’ said Michael, pulling off his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.

It was later that same evening and Ruby was sitting up in bed, wearing her peachy Janet Reger silk nightgown, watching him pull off his clothes and leave them in a chaotic heap on the floor. Hers she had neatly folded and placed on a chair. The habits of order, of keeping things tidy, had never deserted her; but he was so untidy. Scrupulously clean, but a crazy man about the house. She wondered why his innate messiness didn’t drive her mad, but it didn’t.

Must be love
, she thought.

‘Me and Daisy? Yes. She’s lovely.’

More and more Ruby was spending time here with him, in his flat over the restaurant. But . . . it was a woman’s flat, not a man’s. The colours were neutral, very feminine; Ruby guessed that Sheila had been a blonde. She could clearly see his dead wife’s hand all around her. There was even a pale space on the wall in the bedroom, where a picture of her must have hung, and which Michael had obviously taken down to spare Ruby’s feelings. But the dead wife still hovered all around them, like a wraith. Ruby actually disliked making love in this flat, in his bed, because of it. But she couldn’t tell him that. How the hell could she?