Wishing and Hoping (26 page)

There was only one relative of the right age though negligible responsibility who could call on her grandmother and that was her stepmother.

Before returning to London, Marcie went round to the scruffy council house where her stepmother and brothers and sister lived. The moment she turned into the street she heard raised voices. A crowd was gathered around the garden gate, shouting encouragement at the spectacle taking place on what passed for the front lawn. Barbara Brooks – Babs as she liked to be called – was wrestling with another woman. They were screaming at each other, grappling with each other's shoulders and collars; shoes flew off, stockings laddered and mud-spattered skirts were hoisted up exposing large nylon knickers.

‘You cow! Keep away from my old man, you effing slag!'

Marcie groaned. The woman's insult wasn't far from the truth. Babs loved flattery. Loved attention and loved the men even more.

Babs screamed back. ‘Who the bloody hell do you think you are, calling me that?'

The screeching was deafening and embarrassing. The fight, together with the exposed backsides and naked thighs, was drawing a lot of hilarity.

‘Blimey, who'd want to go further with them big bums?'

Laughter and amused tittering ran through the gathered crowd.

Marcie was mortified.

‘Right!' she shouted. ‘Out of my way.' She barged through the people massed around the garden gate. ‘Let me through.'

Heaving an elbow here and there proved the most efficient way of getting into the garden.

‘Babs,' she shouted.

No joy. Her stepmother was busily screaming a torrent of obscenities at the other woman who in turn was hurling a few more back.

Marcie managed to get in between them, but she couldn't do it alone. ‘Can someone help me?'

A woman with a harelip and wearing a sacking apron helped her prise the two women apart.

‘What the fuck do you want?' shrieked Babs, her smudged mascara making her look like a panda.

Marcie held on to her. ‘I was going to ask you to keep an eye on Gran. She's not well.'

Babs laughed mockingly, her uneven teeth stained yellow by nicotine. ‘Get lost. I'm nothing to do with you lot any more. I'm getting a divorce. Didn't yer dad tell you that?'

THE MIRRORED BACK
wall of the Rose and Crown reflected the smoke-filled bar and the old walls reverberated with the sound of raucous conversation and the tinkling of an out-of-tune piano.

Tony Brooks was in the thick of it, leaning against the bar and regaling anyone who would listen with his usual boasts of how important he was and that he owned one of the busiest nightclubs in the whole of London.

Regardless of the truth, Tony was well oiled with one too many drams of Irish whiskey and beyond what was the truth and what was not.

‘Another drink for you, my boy?'

The fella who asked was called Gary as far as he could remember – or it might have been Patrick. Whatever. There were plenty round about who were hanging on to his every word. He presumed they were all friends and fully immersed himself in the party atmosphere.

The woman – a tasty piece who said she was a nightclub hostess – was all over him like a rash. She told him her name was Gloria.

Unfortunately for Tony they were far from being friends, but he didn't know that at the time, not until he came to, with no idea where he was.

He tried to open his eyes but found he couldn't. He also tried to move his arms but he couldn't do that either. His wrists were sore though not aching as much as his head and something sticky was running into his mouth.

Something – most likely a boot – thudded into his side.

‘Wakey, wakey! Time for the sleeping beauty to open her eyes.'

He knew that voice. Paddy Rafferty!

Tony's mouth was as dry as the bottom of a bird cage so he said nothing, only groaned in response to the kick in the ribs.

‘Get 'im into a chair.'

Two pairs of rough mitts dragged him to his feet and shoved him unceremoniously onto a hard chair.

‘What . . .'

He couldn't say any more. Everything ached. His head was swimming. He guessed somebody had clonked him on the head. He tried to remember where he was when it happened. Gloria! He remembered the voluptuous girl with bosoms too big for one hand to cover and a ribald laugh. She'd made him feel good. They talked, laughed and got drunk together. So what if she was a nightclub hostess with a few
years' experience under her corset, she was fun. That was the great thing about most of those hostesses; they were uncomplicated. Buy them a drink, have a laugh and that was it, they were putty in his hands. He vaguely remembered her suggesting that they went back to her place. He'd gone willingly.

He couldn't recall having heard her give the taxi driver the address. In fact he couldn't remember whether it was a taxi he'd got into. He only knew that Gloria was big and beautiful and warm to cuddle up to. Not that they ever got to her place. He remembered the car – not a taxi at all – coming to a halt down some ramshackle road lined on each side with sheets of corrugated iron. He recalled dogs barking and the smell of rusty cars.

‘Out here,' she'd said.

She didn't get out with him. He'd been dragged out and hit over the head. He'd passed out and had now come to. Sticky tape kept his eyes closed. His hands were tied.

‘Where am I?'

‘It don't matter where you are, Tony, only the reason for you being here.'

That was Rafferty all right.

Tony concentrated on listening, trying to work out where he was. Once again he heard the barking of dogs. They had to be close to a scrapyard, though God knows where. There were tons of them around
the East End, where whole streets had been flattened in the Blitz leaving vast expanses of cleared, rough ground. Nothing grew in these places except dusty weeds and piles of rusting cars and vans.

Tony was scared. He knew – or thought he knew – what they wanted. If only he hadn't drank so much. If only he hadn't got a conscience.

‘I ain't said nothing.'

‘About what, Tony?'

He curbed his first instinct to spout out about the gang of Irish labourers and the gun. Wasn't it wiser to let them state the reason? Just in case he got it all wrong.

‘About you asking me to persuade our Marcie to flog you the club.'

Rafferty made a tutting sound like an old woman about to birch him for being cheeky. ‘Come on, Tony boy. Don't take me for a bloody Mick straight from the bogs.'

‘I don't know what you mean, Paddy. I swear I don't.'

‘I want you out of London, Tony. I don't want anybody – including your daughter's old man – knowing that we've ever associated. Get it?'

Tony didn't take long to think about it. ‘Of course not. If that's what you want, Mr Rafferty. Whatever you want.'

Even to his own ears he sounded scared. He
was
scared. On the other hand he also thanked his lucky stars that he hadn't blabbed about the Irish blokes and the gun. He'd been drunk on that occasion too and hadn't twigged what they were up to. Only with hindsight had he seen that he'd been set up. And here he was, drunk again.

‘All I want is for you to put a little pressure on that daughter of yours. She's too headstrong for her own good. The more she holds me off from what I want, the more I'm going to be beating the shit out of you, Brooks. Have you got that?'

He was about to protest that Marcie was more like her mother and wouldn't listen to a word he said. Just in time he realised that sort of comment would result in another beating. ‘I'll do what I can.'

Paddy's gloved hand slugged him around the head so hard that he fell off the chair.

A pair of meaty hands dragged him up from the floor and sat him back on the chair.

‘Now,' said Paddy. ‘Run that by me again. What is it you're going to do for me, Tony?'

Tony Brooks licked at the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. ‘I'm going to have a word with my daughter. Get her to see things your way.'

‘Good! Good, good, good!'

He flinched when Paddy patted his shoulder. A pat was the last thing he was expecting.

His mind was racing. There was no way he was
going to cross the likes of Paddy Rafferty. On the other hand, intimidating his daughter was out of the question. Number one, she wouldn't listen, and, number two her old man would give him what for if he did.

‘I'll make sure you'll be reimbursed for your trouble once the building is in my hands. Just don't let me down, Tony,' Rafferty said, his fingers digging like claws into Tony's shoulders. ‘Take the girl in hand. Show her who's boss. Right?'

‘Right, Mr Rafferty.'

Right! Paddy Rafferty was out of his mind if he thought every woman in the whole wide world would cave in to a bloke's bidding – husband, father or whatever. Tony was already totally convinced that he didn't have a chance. The little girl he'd once bossed around was gone. He saw a girl who was very much like her mother had been.

‘Go to it,' said Rafferty.

Well, he'd most certainly do that. He'd be off out of London as soon as he could. The obvious destination was already in his mind. He was going home. At least he'd get to see his old mum and the boys. He grimaced at the thought of seeing Babs and having to make amends, but he'd do it because he had to. It wouldn't take much to persuade her to drop the divorce proceedings; a bit of a kiss and a cuddle and that would be it.

Once he was staggering away from trouble, his mind went into overdrive with freshly laid plans. He was going home and he wasn't leaving Sheppey again until he was sure that the coast was clear.

At least if he was there he could think how he might be able to help his daughter – if at all. If he was safe he could think of something – he was sure he could.

TO HEAR THAT
her father was off to make it up with Babs came as something of a surprise to Marcie. He telephoned from a local call box in Tottenham Court Road saying he thought his place was back on Sheppey with his kids and his sick old mother. Marcie didn't argue with that but told him it was for the best and that he was doing the right thing by his family.

‘Thank God someone will be there for Gran,' she said to him. ‘Let me know when she's had the operation. Tell her I'm thinking of her.'

‘You're not coming down yourself?'

‘I can't. I have to keep an eye on things up here. She told me she understands. Then there's the kids . . .'

Feeling guilty as hell, she put the phone down. If she could have torn herself in half, she would gladly have done so. She needed to be here in London to keep things going. Her husband deserved that. On the other hand, she desperately wanted to go to Sheppey to support the woman who had brought her up.

Two of the most important people in her life needed her. Her grandmother was sick and her
husband was in prison. The responsibilities were weighing heavily on her shoulders. Although she too would prefer to be back on the island, she couldn't possibly go – not yet, not until a few things had been settled.

‘I'm sorry I can't be at the club,' her father had said before hanging up.

‘I'll manage,' Marcie had responded.

The fact was that she could manage perfectly well without him. He was hardly the kingpin of the place.

She grinned at the thought of it as she checked through a pile of invoices Kevin had left on her desk.

When it came to managing the club, Kevin McGregor was the bee's knees. He treated her with the greatest respect and so did the other staff that worked there, especially the bouncers.

‘I get the impression that if anybody dared upset me, one of you might bite him,' she had said to Kevin.

Kevin had grinned at that. ‘The boss is away. We wouldn't want anyone taking advantage of that now, would we?'

So that was it. Even though her husband was inside, he was taking care of her. Kevin and the bouncers were just following orders.

McGregor brought her a cup of coffee. She thanked him.

‘Rafferty wants this place. You know that don't you?'

She sipped at her coffee thoughtfully before putting the cup back on the saucer. ‘Do you think I'm mad to hold out?'

‘No. I think you're brave, though that's not surprising. All things considered. It's in the blood.'

She smiled at that. OK, sometimes her dad was brave but if there were an easy way out of something, he'd take it. Which made her think of him going back to Sheppey. What was that all about?

‘Rafferty is a nasty piece of work. Me and the boys will come running if you need us. Just yell.'

‘Or scream?'

Michael had been cagey about Paddy Rafferty and what he was capable of because he hadn't wanted to frighten her.

It was Jacob Solomon who had put her wise and told her a bit of his form. It wasn't good to listen to. Paddy had a history. People who had defied him were dealt with savagely. Places had been vandalised and even burned to the ground by his thugs.

‘We're taking it in turns to stay here overnight,' Kevin said to her. ‘The night watchman is not near enough.'

She thanked him. ‘I much appreciate you and the boys taking care of me.'

Kevin smiled. ‘Think nothing of it. We're just doing what we're paid for.'

She knew very well that it was much more than that and decided to mention it to Michael the next
day when she went to see him. She loved him all the more for thinking of her with all that he had to contend with at present.

‘Tomorrow I'll tell Michael how kind you've been,' she said.

Kevin's smile was hesitant. ‘No need for that,' he said.

There was something about his smile that she couldn't put her finger on. It was as though he didn't really want her to mention it to Michael at all.