Spoils of War (7 page)

‘Domestic?’ the copper asked.

Huw knew what he was suggesting because it had become an all-too-familiar scenario since the war had ended. The headlines usually read,
Soldier arrived home to find wife in arms of other man.
Much as he refused to believe it of his niece, even he had to admit all the evidence pointed that way. Ronnie still had his overcoat on; Diana was in a robe and nightdress. Blood all over the place and the smashed furniture indicated that there’d been one hell of a brawl. That was without the shouts and screams that had led the neighbours to call the police, in itself a remarkable event for Graig people. And he hadn’t forgotten Mrs Evans’ assertion that she had seen two men enter the house. Nosy parkers like her were a godsend to the prosecution.

‘Check the wash house, the back door and the garden path – take your torch.’

‘What am I looking for?’

‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t have asked you to make a search.’

As Hopkins opened the door that led into the wash house, Huw walked to the front. Neighbours were still standing in the street, gossiping and watching the door.

‘Come on now, people, it’s all over. There’s nothing for anyone to see and nothing anyone can do to help, so why don’t you all go home?’ He waited, knowing that if he stood on the doorstep long enough they’d disperse peaceably.

When the last door had closed in the street he looked up and down before walking to the main road. Everywhere, quiet streets and houses with darkened windows yawned back at him. The few people not already in bed were in their back kitchens. There wasn’t a family on the Graig who wasted coals by using their front parlour in winter. And in summer the hallowed room was only opened up on high days, holidays and formal Sunday tea occasions when posh maiden aunts visited.

A dog barked from the direction of the dairy on the corner of Factory Lane. The sound cut hollowly through the frozen air as the long, low shadow of a stray cat darted back up in the direction of Leyshon Street. Not knowing what he’d been looking for, or even expecting, he returned to the house.

‘There’s a blood trail, Constable Davies. It goes from the kitchen to the sink in the wash house then down the garden path and over the wall on to the mountain.’

Lighting his own torch Huw followed Hopkins along the route. There was no mistaking the thin trail of blood spots.

‘We don’t stand a chance of tracking these on the mountain,’ Huw complained more to himself than Hopkins as they stood, shining their torches over the garden wall. He turned as he heard steps in next door’s garden. ‘Mrs Evans, isn’t it time you went to bed?’

‘Yes, Constable Davies, but I couldn’t sleep without knowing if you’d caught him. I didn’t see him coming out of the house and I wondered if you’d got him the back way.’

‘Who, Mrs Evans?’

‘The other Ronconi. The one who went into the house before Mrs Ronconi’s husband.’

Chapter Four

‘You took your time. Is that blood on your face?’

‘I had a nosebleed.’ Tony squinted as he struggled to focus on Judy. There were three of them and he wasn’t sure which was real.

‘It’s all over your coat.’

‘It’s had blood on it before, it’ll clean off.’

‘You been fighting?’

‘Sort of.’

‘You hurt?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone I know.’

‘Family.’ Rolling his coat into a ball, Tony dropped it on a chair.

‘I put your chips in the oven, they’ll be dried to a cinder by now.’ Opening the door set in the side of the range Judy lifted out a stained, greasy tin and tipped a few dried chips on to a plate that didn’t look much cleaner than the tin. ‘Do you want salt and vinegar?’

Feeling distinctly queasy at the sight of so much burned grease, and not daring to open his mouth lest the beer that lay so heavily on his stomach spew out, he shook his head.

‘If I’d known you were going to leave them I would have eaten them myself sooner than seen them go to waste.’ Pushing the tin back into the oven Judy slammed the door. ‘The ty bach’s the first door on the right outside the back door. I’ve put a clean towel in the wash house – it’s the one with blue stripes.’

Rushing through the wash house and into the yard that separated the narrow strip of garden from the house, Tony yanked open the first door he came to. He only just reached the bowl in time. Sinking to his knees he retched violently, ridding himself of most of the contents of his stomach, but seconds later the world still revolved alarmingly around him. Feeling cold, clammy and extremely sorry for himself, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, pulled the chain and staggered outside.

Someone – not Judy he guessed – had laid out the area in carefully measured vegetable plots. A row of bean sticks stood in readiness for spring planting, neatly stacked against the dry-stone wall that adjoined the neighbour’s garden, and he could make out the frost-coated leaves of rhubarb and winter cabbage.

Leaning against the wall of the house, he looked up. The sky was a rich navy velvet, the stars glimmering, diamond pinpricks of intense light – majestic, beautiful, awesome, and sick-making. Why oh why had he drunk so much? His mouth and throat felt as if they had been packed with sewage. His head was pounding, he was incapable of stringing two coherent thoughts together and despite the ice in the air he craved to be even colder.

Was it all a nightmare? Had he really gone to Laura’s house to see Diana or had he imagined it? He closed his eyes. An image of Diana sprang to mind, lying alarmingly still, her eyes closed, her head covered in blood – and Ronnie, crouched over her, his greatcoat more red than khaki. It had to be a dream. A bad dream! He couldn’t have killed Diana. Not a woman! Now men, that was different – he’d killed plenty of men – but then he’d been ordered to. That was war, following orders and killing men.

He felt blood trickling down from his nose over his mouth again and wiped it away with the back of his hand. That was it! He’d had a nosebleed. He often got them when he drank more than a couple of pints. No wonder he was light-headed. He’d made it all up – Diana, Ronnie, the house, the fight – a sort of daymare as opposed to nightmare. But, dear God, it had seemed real.

He opened his eyes again. He could almost believe he’d run from the house over the mountain and back down on to the road to the telephone box to call an ambulance. Stood behind a crowd of people, watching as Diana was carried out of the house on a stretcher.

It must have been his fear of Ronnie that had done it, coupled with the drink and his nosebleed. Ever since his last leave he’d been terrified that his brother would set on him again and turn him into mincemeat.

‘You all right?’ Judy interrupted from the wash house.

‘Looking at the sky.’

‘It’s warmer in the house.’

‘I’m all right out here.’

‘Some of us have better things to do than freeze out here, and I need to show you your bedroom.’

Hesitantly, not at all sure he could prevent his stomach from heaving again, he followed her though the wash house and kitchen to the foot of the stairs where he’d dumped his kitbag. As she led the way up the narrow staircase he caught glimpses of plump, naked pink thighs above thick, black stocking tops. Gabrielle would never allow him to follow her upstairs or precede her down, but then – he comforted himself with the thought – unlike Judy, his Gabrielle was a lady – a real lady with a title.

Tony Ronconi, younger Ronconi son, who had been forced to play second fiddle to his older brother, Ronnie, all his life had caught himself an aristocrat who worshipped the ground he walked on and he couldn’t wait to show her off to the whole of Pontypridd.

‘I warned you it wasn’t a palace.’

‘It’ll do.’ The door hit the side of the narrow single bed and the room was only just long enough to accommodate the bed-frame. He couldn’t help thinking it would have made a better broom cupboard than bedroom. Dropping heavily on to the lumpy mattress he touched the quilt. ‘It’s damp.’

‘It’s just cold. I haven’t slept in this room since the boys left in ‘39.’

He looked up and saw the top button of her pullover was unfastened. As he watched she deliberately moved her hand and unfastened the two below, displaying the V of her breasts.

‘Do you want to wash downstairs first?’

Thinking of his stomach he nodded assent. Pulling the drawstring on the top of his kitbag he heaved it forward and removed his wash bag. Beneath it were rows of neat little packages.

‘Want a present?’ On impulse he handed her a bottle of perfume he’d intended for Tina.

‘Ooh, Tony. What is it?’ She tore at the white paper. ‘Scent!’ Throwing her arms around his neck she kissed him.

Without thinking he reached up and squeezed her left breast through her woollen sweater.

‘Ooh, naughty,’ she squealed. ‘I’ll have you know I’m a respectable girl.’

‘Course you are,’ he mumbled, leaving his hand where it was.

‘You got a girlfriend, Tony?’

Too addled and exhausted to risk explanation he shook his head.

‘Shame, nice-looking boy like you.’ She laid her hand over his. ‘Ooh, you are cold.’

‘This is a bloody cold room.’

‘Mine’s warmer because it’s over the kitchen. Do you want to sit there a while?’

‘The kitchen.’

‘My bedroom, silly.’ Taking his hand she led him into the back bedroom. ‘See, it is warmer.’

‘And the bed’s bigger.’ Throwing himself on top of it, he closed his eyes in the hope that everything would finally stop moving around him.

‘Get your dirty boots off my best bedcover.’ Judy pushed his feet aside and began fiddling with his laces. As she loosened them, she pulled off first one boot and sock then the other. ‘You’re not thinking of going to sleep on me are you, Tony?’

He opened his eyes to see her unbuckling her liberty bodice.

‘Real scent, needs a real thank you.’ Dropping her vest and liberty bodice on to a chair she unscrewed the silver cap on the bottle and sprinkled the contents liberally between her breasts and over her bra. The sickly aroma of rotting roses pervaded the air, making his stomach heave even more. There never had been much love lost between him and Tina, which was why he’d bought her the cheapest scent he could find.

Judy pushed him playfully, rolling him over to make room for herself on the bed. ‘Here give me your hand, I’ll warm it.’ Taking his fingers she clamped it on the grubby pink, artificial silk cup of her bra. He could feel her nipples hardening beneath his touch and despite his nausea, instinct came into play. He could have been back in any one of the dozen or so brothels he’d frequented and offloaded his pay in between the Normandy coast and Germany. He hadn’t come home, he hadn’t had the dream about visiting Diana – he and Ronnie had never had a fight …

‘We’ll be warmer under the covers,’ he suggested thickly.

‘Ooh, naughty.’ She breathed chip fumes over his face and into his ear. ‘Only if you make me your girl. Ow … !’ she shrieked as he tugged at her thick elastic bra strap, pinging it against her back.

‘Your fault.’

‘Why is it my fault?’ she giggled.

‘Decent girls undress before they get into bed.’

‘I am your girl,’ she persisted.

‘Course you are.’ He wondered why every girl he’d ever met wanted the promise of the world with icing sugar on before they’d perform. ‘Bad’ girl, that is. He’d never had to promise a decent one anything. There was no point because there was only one thing they held out for – a wedding ring – but then that was the only kind of girl to marry …

‘If I’m going to undress, shouldn’t you?’ She unfastened the buttons on his blouse and unbuttoned his braces.

‘You’ve done this before,’ he slurred as she started on his fly.

‘Only to my brothers when they’re pissed, and I always stop at underpants.’

‘Then you’re in for a revelation. I ran out of clean ones.’

‘You dirty beggar.’

Kicking off his trousers he lay back on the bed as she leaned over to start on his shirt. Sliding his hands around her chest he unclipped her bra, exposing her breasts. Screeching with false modesty she tried to pull it back but he proved stronger. Tossing it aside he stroked her naked breasts, weighing them in his hands and thumbing her nipples.

‘Nice,’ he mumbled, ‘very nice.’ Pushing up her skirt he tugged at her suspenders.

‘Watch out, these are my last pair of stockings without a darn. Here, I’ll do it.’ Aware that he was watching and drooling over every inch of newly exposed flesh, she pulled up her skirt and rested one foot on the bed. Unclipping her suspenders she leisurely rolled down one stocking. She would have liked to have carried on undressing slowly, but it was too cold. Moments after divesting herself of everything except her artificial silk bloomers she was under the covers beside him.

‘You’re freezing.’

‘Then warm me up.’

Without any further preliminaries he lay on top of her, pushing her legs apart with his knees.

‘You’ve still got knickers on.’ Diving beneath the covers he tore the elastic as he pulled them down.

‘You like it rough.’

‘You don’t?’

‘I like masterful men,’ she gasped as he thrust into her, ‘but not brutal,’ she squeaked as his fingers closed around her nipples, pinching them.

Moments after climaxing he rolled off her.

‘That’s it?’

‘You want more?’ He snuggled beneath the covers. The bed was soft, warm and comfortable. His eyes felt unaccountably heavy. Only vaguely aware of her fingers pinching, poking and prodding, he turned his back on her.

‘Tony!’ There was a sharp edge to her voice that ruffled the pleasant drowsiness that was stealing his senses.

‘I’m sleepy. Leave me be.’ He threw off her hands. ‘I’ll pay whatever you want, just leave me be.’

‘Pay! You bastard, Tony Ronconi! Get out of my bed this minute.’ Bracing herself on the headboard she pulled up her knees, placed the soles of her feet in the small of his back and kicked with all her might, sending him sprawling out on to the bare floorboards. ‘What do you think I am? You – you – filthy beast!’ she shrieked as, jerked into sudden consciousness and unable to control his nausea, he retched over the chair holding her clothes.

The next few moments blurred into a cacophony of howls, screams and evasive movements on his part as he grabbed his trousers and fled down the stairs. Barefoot, braces dangling, flies undone, shirtless he found himself out on the street. Judy was still screaming obscenities from behind the closed door as she slammed it behind him.

Sinking to his knees he perched on the kerb and leaned forward, head on lap, toes in the gutter. If only he’d been able to stay in the spacious villa his unit commander had requisitioned in Celle, with the Jeep he drove parked outside the door.

At this time of night he’d be comfortably ensconced in the feather bed in the fourth largest bedroom. In the morning he’d be gently woken by the smell of freshly ground coffee and frying sausages and eggs as Gabrielle’s mother, who had been given the post of unit cook, made breakfast. Just as he finished eating, Gabrielle herself, beautiful and elegant in her brown serge costume, her shining fair hair plaited back away from her face, would come in. She’d smile her special smile – the one she reserved just for him – before taking her place at her desk outside his CO’s office.

Gabrielle, his Gabrielle – with her at least he would be warm and loved.

‘Nurse John, can I get you a cup of tea?’

‘Only if you’re having one yourself, sister.’ Bethan moved her chair closer to the couch Ronnie was lying on in the examination cubicle the porters had put him in when they’d carried him into the Graig Hospital. The same hospital Andrew had taken Diana to, simply because it was the nearest.

Ronnie had showed no signs of stirring when she’d examined, cleaned and stitched the cuts on his hands and face. She was glad. Another half-hour – hour at the most – and the effects of the drug she had given him would begin to wear off and she was dreading him recovering consciousness before Andrew emerged from the operating theatre with news of Diana.

‘Nurse John, Dr John asked me to take over here. He’s in the office.’

Bethan knew better than to ask the sister if there was any news. She found Andrew, still in his theatre gown, slumped back in a chair, his feet balanced on the corner of the desk, a tray with teapot, milk and two cups set out at his side.

‘There’s no reason for you to have stayed. You’re not a district nurse any more.’

‘With you operating they were short-staffed. I was glad to help.’

‘You could go home now, take the car, I’ll call a taxi …’

‘What’s the news about Diana?’

‘I called in one of the military surgeons from East Glamorgan to help.’

‘Please, Andrew, don’t spin it out.’

‘You saw Diana, you’re a nurse. She’s still alive and that’s about all I can tell you. Given care and time, her arm and the other injuries to her body will heal. There’ll be scarring, of course, mostly superficial, nothing that will impede her movements and probably nothing that cosmetics and long-sleeved dresses won’t hide.’