Wishing and Hoping
Read Wishing and Hoping Online
Authors: Mia Dolan
Contents
London in the swinging sixties ...
Life's been hard for Marcie Brooks, but when she marries Michael Jones things start to look up. Not only has he given her daughter, Joanna, his name but they now also have a son. The family's finances are on the up too with Michael opening his first nightclub.
However, when he refuses to do business with an Irish gangster, Michael finds himself being framed for murder. With her husband in prison, everyone seems to think Marcie should sell the club and concentrate on
raising her family.
But a little voice seems to be telling Marcie she needs to fight for her children's future. And if that means standing up to intimidation, then so be it ...
Mia Dolan is the star of ITV's
Haunted Homes
and the bestselling author of
The Gift
,
Mia's World
and
Haunted Homes
as well as two other novels
: Rock a Bye Baby
and
Anyone Who Had a Heart.
Her work spans from live shows in front of hundreds of people to helping the police. She also runs a psychic school which helps others develop their own gifts. Mia also won the paranormal celebrity edition of
The Weakest Link.
She lives on the Isle of Sheppey.
Rock a Bye Baby
Anyone Who Had a Heart
Mia Dolan
I dedicate this book to Francesca Dolan, the golden gift that Peter left us.
1969
THERE WERE SPARKS
and lightning and Michael was in trouble. She smelled something burning. She saw someone blind and, worst of all, she found herself parted from her husband.
âNo!'
Marcie Jones sat bolt upright in bed gasping for breath and drenched in sweat.
Her husband lay beside her and he stirred himself awake, his voice groggy and confused at being disturbed.
âMarcie? What is it? Were you having a nightmare?'
Resting her hand on her chest she felt her racing heart. âI thought I heard Aran crying,' she lied, unwilling to admit to him that he was right, that she had indeed been dreaming and the dream had seemed so real.
Aran was their son and only a few months old, a brother for Joanna, who wasn't Michael's child though he had raised her as his own. When Joanna had been
born Marcie was a single mum, Marcie Brooks rather than the respectable Mrs Michael Jones. Joanna's father had been Marcie's first love, Johnnie, who had been killed in a road accident before he could make good on his promise to marry her.
Raising himself on one elbow, her husband strained to hear their son. There was no crying, no sound at all. There never had been.
âNo,' he said, shaking his head. âI can't hear anything.'
Marcie gave a short, light laugh. âI must be hearing things. He's such a good kid,' she said as she snuggled herself back beneath the bedclothes and hugged her husband's warm body.
âTakes after his dad,' said Michael.
If Michael could have seen her expression he would have realised that Marcie had been lying about having heard the baby crying.
Marcie laughed again, though more relaxed, the dream behind her.
âGet some sleep,' he murmured sleepily, stroking her arm as he closed his eyes. âWe've got a long day tomorrow.'
She lay there listening to his breathing as it softened into sleep, half afraid to go back to sleep herself in case the dream returned. For four nights now she'd had that same dream and was convinced it was some kind of warning, a foretaste of things to come. Up until
now she'd never admitted â even to herself â that she may have inherited her grandmother's gift for seeing things other people could not see. Michael might think she was a little touched if she did. In time things might change, but for now . . .
She looked at her husband, so peacefully asleep. She loved him and was very proud of him.
Tomorrow night would see the official opening of Michael's first nightclub, the Blue Genie. Marcie was to flick the switch that would turn on the neon light above the door. The neon depicted a blue genie rising out of a brass lamp. Like moths to a flame, the customers would be drawn by its bright blue gleam and the female â and very sexy â genie.
Marcie had suggested that it was slightly lurid, but Michael had persisted.
âThey're not coming to a church bazaar after all,' he'd said. âWe're not selling apple pies and cups of tea. We're selling a dream, a few hours of fantasy.'
She'd had to agree with him. There would be drinking, gambling and scantily clad hostesses. It was all a little worrying. Her husband would sometimes be there without her, though he insisted they didn't interest him. She trusted him because she had to; they had a family in common. Besides, they really loved each other, didn't they?
âI've only got eyes for you, Marcie. Surely you should know that.'
His words and the look in his eyes had been reassuring. The concerns were buried at the back of her mind. It wasn't easy to compartmentalise family life and business, but the older she got the more pragmatic she was. Business was business and Michael Jones had done very well for himself. He'd started his business buying up, tidying up and renting out commercial property. To his and everyone else's surprise, he'd found little competition in the commercial property marketplace. Then he'd come across the disused warehouse in Limehouse not far from the river. At one time it had been used to store tea and the old place still smelled of it â or had done until he'd done it up.
Marcie didn't know who'd suggested that he should turn it into a nightclub but suspected her father might have had a hand in it.
âIt's a challenge,' Michael had said to her, his eyes shining with excitement.
She'd immediately understood what he meant and kept her mouth tightly closed against the protest that she'd wanted to voice. What Michael was saying was that he was challenging his father and his half-brother, Roberto. He wanted to prove that he was as good as them, even as hard as them. The latter especially troubled her. Michael's father was Victor Camilleri, the notorious gangland boss. Being the bastard son of one of Victor's many mistresses,
Michael had always considered himself second best. It was Roberto who got all the praise, all the affection. Michael always felt like the also-ran, hence this effort to be just as good as they were in their chosen field of operation. Nightclubs!
Her eyes closed despite trying to stay awake. The sleep would be welcome, but returning to the dream would not.
In the dream the sign above the new nightclub had developed a devilish beard, a broad male chest and a cruel expression. In effect the female form had changed into a male one â not a very nice male one.
It also spoke to her. Now what had it said?
The genie in Joanna's favourite storybook always said, âYour wish is my command.' But in Marcie's dream it was twisted into something else.
Hoping is real. Wishing is fantasy.
It made her think. She was hoping that Michael's nightclub would be a huge success â just like his commercial properties. She'd told him how proud she was of him. It seemed like he couldn't put a step wrong. They would be the envy of everyone, she'd said to him.
A shadow had crossed his face then and she fancied there was something he wasn't telling her.
âIs anything wrong?'
âNothing for you to worry about,' he'd said and kissed the tip of her nose.
So she'd pushed the concern to the back of her mind. Michael was capable, and, although he knew some pretty tough characters, he could handle himself. As for wishing â well â she sometimes wished things could have been different in her life: that her mother had never left home, that her father was respectable and that Johnnie, her first love, had never died . . . But then if Johnnie hadn't died, she would never have met Michael. She wouldn't have her precious baby son.
The dream didn't return, though at one point it did seem as though someone whispered something in her ear.
âFace things head on and your wishes could be fulfilled.'
There was also a smell â a hint of engine oil â and a feel of leather. It made her feel better. She slept.
At number ten Endeavour Terrace, in Sheerness on the Isle of Sheppey, Rosa Brooks couldn't sleep. She'd been dreaming about an electrical explosion and someone she loved was close to it.
Having no telephone and the nearest public phone box being at the end of the street, she could not convey her fears to her granddaughter immediately. On the other hand she couldn't just lie there in the
darkness mulling her fears over in her mind, so she did what she always did at a time like this.
Swinging her old legs out of bed, she felt with her toes for her slippers, found them and put them on.
Turning the light on might disturb Garth, her âadopted' nephew. There was another reason for not turning the light on: it would do nothing much to aid her descent. Her eyes were getting bad â very bad.
Luckily she'd lived in the old cottage for many years. She knew its nooks and crannies, which stairs squeaked and how many there were between the top and the bottom.
Familiarity had trained her to know where the kettle was and, by their radiated heat, how hot the coals were in the old iron range.
Out of habit she went to the right hook on the dresser for her cup and the shelf for her saucer.
Once the kettle had boiled and the tea had brewed, she felt for her favourite chair and sat in it, her cup and saucer balanced in one hand.
The tea cooled. She hadn't taken a sip. Vestiges of the dream were still in her mind. They troubled her.
She sighed deeply and heard it echoing from the matching armchair on the other side of the fireplace. There was a sound as though someone heavy was
making himself comfortable. Her husband Cyril had always sighed and the springs of the old armchair had always sagged and sang beneath his weight after a hard day at the docks.
âI had a dream,' she said softly. âI think Marcie is about to have some trouble.'
âAnd you want to warn her.'
The words her deceased husband spoke were not heard in the usual sense; she
felt
them.