The Black Widow

by Linda Calvey

  At the front door, Mickey picked up his bag, which contained two sawn-off shotguns, and turned to shout to the kids.

  “Daddy’s off now. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Bye Daddyyy!” they both shouted from the living room.

  My stomach flipped over as I looked at my husband’s beloved face, which was lined with worry. I could see he was deeply uneasy, and I suddenly felt panicked. I had to fight with an intense urge to grab his arm and keep him there with me.

  “Look, Mickey…” I started but he interrupted before I could finish.

  “I’m goin’, Lin. I love you and I’ll be home safe and sound this evenin’.” He pulled open the front door, bringing a rush of cold air into the hallway. That must’ve been why I shivered.

  The door closed and I felt a sudden urge to weep. I never cried. I usually looked on the bright side in life, but today was different. A second or two later there was a knock at the door. Mickey was standing there. He never took his keys because, again, it could lead the police to our door. “I’ve forgotten me turtles,” he said. “I won’t come in, just get ’em for me, won’t you, love.”

  He waited outside while I looked for his gloves (his turtle doves, as he called them) under the stairs where all the coats, scarves and boots were kept. I fished them out and handed them to him. Melanie had seen her dad return, and was waving at him in the bay window, peering through the net curtains.

  Chapter 7

  Robbery

  Saturday, 9 December 1978

  Where is he? Doesn’t he know what time it is? The roast is getting cold…

  It was just before 7pm and I’d heard nothing all day from my husband. The roast dinner I’d cooked was set out on our two dinner plates, the gravy congealing in pools around the now-cold chicken.

  The roast potatoes will be soggy if he doesn’t appear soon…

  I was starving hungry but I didn’t like eating until my Mickey came home, so I’d waited.

  Mickey would usually have appeared home by now after a raid, either with a long face and the slam of the front door behind him if he’d mistimed the job, or with a great whoop and a bag filled with nicked cash which he’d shower over the table in a grand gesture.

  Either way, he always came home – so where was he?

  I’d kept myself busy all day to try and quell my fears, though a nagging voice at the back of my mind kept thinking how spooked Mickey had seemed. It wasn’t normal for him to go out a third time to the same job. I couldn’t shake the feeling that all was not well.

  I managed to get the kids to Mum’s, where they stayed most weekends, and then I kept myself busy working her stall at Roman Road market while she was babysitting them. Luckily, I had a steady stream of customers, so I was forced to be bright and cheery, chatting away to Mum’s regulars. I didn’t have much time to worry about Mickey.

  Mickey wasn’t a normal dad. He was more involved than most – he used to do most of the school runs and get the children up, dressed and fed in the mornings, so that I could go out early to help Mum. But when he was working, that always took priority.

  When I finished, I went and got my hair done. This was my Saturday ritual, a blissful bit of peace and quiet, flicking through one of the magazines.

  Today was different though. I felt fidgety and nervous.

  Pull yourself together, Linda. It’s all going to be fine. This is Mickey, he always gets out of the scrapes he lands himself in.

  I tried to believe it.

  While the roast was cooking, I’d run myself a bubble bath, and made myself up with glossy lipstick and the black kohl I loved to draw heavily around my eyes. I liked to copy the looks I’d seen in Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. I chose one of the wonderful dresses Mickey had bought for me, a black sequinned number, paired with high heels, and I picked out one of the fur coats I had hanging in my wardrobe – a mink one that my husband particularly loved. I was glammed up but still there was no sign of Mickey.

  I ate my dinner, as by now, I was too hungry to wait a second longer, and covered my husband’s plate with tin foil so he could eat it later, once he’d explained why he was taking so long to come home.

  By 7.45pm, I was cross. Mickey’s pal was also late, and I still hadn’t heard a thing.

  Mickey would have to have used a public phone box or a friend’s home telephone to call me, but soon enough a knock at the door announced Jerry, his new young girlfriend standing behind him.

  “Alright, Lin, how are you, girl? You look lovely,” he said, kissing my cheek as he came in.

  “How do you do, come inside,” I said to his rather plain-looking friend. She was dressed down in plain brown leather boots, a brown calf-length skirt and blouse with a bow at the neck. It had rather a prissy sort of effect. I later learnt that she was a school teacher. She had no idea Jerry and Mickey were crooks – which at the time I found amusing – but later part of me wished my life wasn’t so entwined with blaggers and robbers. How much simpler it all would’ve been.

  “Where is he?” Jerry said, looking round. He popped his head round the kitchen door as if he was expecting Mickey to be there.

  Puzzled, I turned to him. “Well, I thought you’d know the answer to that! Don’t tell me you haven’t heard from my Mickey?”

  Jerry shook his head. “Don’t worry, Lin, he’s probably forgotten the time and has gone out boozing with his mates to celebrate. Yeah, yeah that’ll be it, babe, that’s what he’s up to.”

  I noticed that Jerry didn’t say why he would be celebrating in front of his law-abiding girlfriend.

  “Why would he do that when he knows his dinner was waiting for him, and you were coming round?” I countered. In my heart, I knew something wasn’t right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “Listen, Lin, Mickey’s fine.” Jerry soothed. “He’s just being a naughty boy with his pals. We’ll find him in the pub somewhere. Come on, let’s go and you can give him a proper tellin’ off when you see him.” Jerry winked at me.

  “Ok,” I said, pulling my mink onto my shoulders, turning off the cooker that was keeping Mickey’s plate warm.

  The three of us headed straight for The Needlegun in Roman Road, one of our usual haunts. It was busy with all the usual crowd of small-time crooks, some of whom raised a glass to us as we walked in. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and there was something loud playing on the jukebox.

  “’Ave you seen Mickey Calvey?” Jerry shouted to the landlord over the din. I knew his wife quite well, and she looked over at me and shook her head.

  “No darlin’, we ain’t seen him tonight. I think he was doin’ a bit of work today.”

  “Well, tell him we’re goin’ down the Carpenters, will ya,” Jerry said as he opened the door for me and his lady friend.

  “We will, don’t you worry,” the landlady said.

  Down at the Carpenter’s Arms in Ben Jonson Road, Stepney, it was the same story. No-one had seen my Mickey.

  The mystery deepened. The Carpenters was Mickey’s favourite pub. It was a bit more downbeat than some of the pubs we usually went to, but he liked watching the old men play darts as he sipped his pint.

  “Listen, let’s go to The Albion and get ourselves settled and wait for him. He’ll find us there,” Jerry said, though his face told me he wasn’t optimistic. The night was being wasted in cabbing between pubs on what felt like a wild goose chase.

  Where are you, Mickey? What’s happened to you? I said to myself, feeling furious now. How embarrassing it was to be out with his friends when he wasn’t anywhere to be found!

  We were friends with Ron and Sylvie, who ran the pub in Lauriston Road, Hackney – a late Victorian public house with a green façade, and three doors under a series of archways. Jerry, his friend and I made a strange little group at the bar: a crook, a crook’s wife and a teacher all making small talk. I sat at the bar sipping
my vodka and lime, when Sylvie came down the stairs. She baulked when she saw me, then she went to her husband and whispered something in his ear.

  “Oh Linda, I’m so glad you’re ’ere. Mickey just rang minutes before you got ’ere and said he’s been held up and won’t be back till later tonight.”

  Was it me, or was Sylvie deliberately not catching my eye as she spoke?

  “Held up? What on earth does that mean?” I turned to Jerry who shook his head, bemusement on his face.

  “Oh well, at least he’s ok. Thank you, Sylvie.”

  Jerry knew something was up. On the pretence of “sortin’ some business with the guv’nor”, Jerry walked over to them. They started talking, and all three of them looked over at me.

  “This is the weirdest night I’ve ever been on,” the school teacher said to me.

  There was nothing I could say to that except to agree with her.

  As I looked over at the three of them huddled at the bar, urgently whispering, I saw pity on their faces as they turned to me. I felt my stomach swoop. Something had gone wrong.

  “What’s goin’ on?” I said to Jerry, sharply, I could feel my heart racing now.

  “Listen, Mickey ain’t goin’ to be ’ere until after the pub shuts.”

  The pub’s goin’ to shut?” I said incredulously. There were always lock-ins for the regulars at the weekend. I couldn’t remember a night when we hadn’t been offered one.

  “What’s goin’ on?” I said again as I watched Ron empty the pub. Sylvie appeared at my side with a small holdall.

  “Mickey’s goin’ to be really late, so I’m comin’ home with you. I don’t want you to be on your own at home tonight.”

  “But Sunday’s your busiest day,” I said. “You can’t come back with me.”

  “It’s fine. I’m comin’ home with you and that’s that.” Sylvie turned to her husband and added, “I’m staying with Lin. When Mickey gets in I’ll come home.”

  It was getting late and I’d had a drink, so Sylvie called a cab. I was really getting angry by this point.

  “He really is somethin’ else!” I huffed as we got into the taxi. “He’s really embarrassed me this time.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” soothed Sylvie. Jerry and his girlfriend left, so it was just us heading back home.

  When I opened the door, I shouted, “Mickey, babe, are you in?”

  There was no reply. It was dark. The bar was unopened. It was obvious he hadn’t been back here this evening.

  “Let me fix you a drink and you can go straight to bed,” Sylvie said.

  I didn’t sleep much that night, and only fitfully. When the phone rang at 6.30am, I was already awake. Sylvie must’ve been too, because she was the first to get to the receiver.

  She picked the phone up.

  “Hello, oh hello Terry. Yes, I’m the guv’nor’s wife, yes, I know…”

  What did she know?

  The questions were already forming in my sluggish brain – the combined effect of lack of sleep and the vodka I’d drunk the night before weren’t helping. I felt strange, like everything was all wrong, and I couldn’t understand why.

  There was a pause as Sylvie listened to the voice at the other end of the call.

  “No, no she doesn’t… ok… we’ll be there.” She hung up.

  I looked at Sylvie. I knew I looked dishevelled. I’d slept in my make-up, but I didn’t care.

  “Tell me,” was all I said.

  “He’s been arrested. We have to go to the nick,” Sylvie replied, too quickly.

  “Oh, for God’s sake!” I exclaimed. “I’ll need to pack him a bag.”

  “No, there’s no time.” Sylvie grabbed my wrist, stopping me from charging back into our bedroom to retrieve some clothes for my husband.

  “We have to go now before the shift changes.” Again, Sylvie wouldn’t catch my eye. She meant that the police officers on duty were an alright bunch, so I understood we had to move fast to be able to speak to them.

  “Oh, I see, alright then, give me a minute and I’ll get dressed. Bloody Mickey, how the hell did he get himself arrested?” I muttered to myself as I changed. “I hope they’re treatin’ him well.”

  Chapter 8

  The Truth

  Sunday, 10 December 1978

  When the cab turned into Brabazon Street, I knew something was up.

  “This isn’t the way to the nick,” I said to Sylvie, but she just shook her head and wouldn’t answer.

  “Why are we stopping outside Terry’s block of flats?” I asked as the cab drew to a halt. I felt utterly bewildered.

  Again, Sylvie just shook her head. “’Ere you go, love, there’s a tip on there as well,” she said to the cabbie, holding out a note.

  By now, I was utterly confused. The feeling of dread I’d been holding at bay was becoming stronger and more powerful by the second. Perhaps Mickey had got hurt, and that was why no-one was telling me anything? I hadn’t had a straight answer to anything yet so far. I felt panicky. My thoughts were spiralling out of control with “what-ifs”.

  “Can you please tell me what’s wrong? Is Mickey hurt?”

  The words had only just left my mouth when Sylvie interrupted me. “It’s ok, darlin’, follow me.”

  Meek as a lamb, I followed her into the lift and up to the 10th floor, our old apartment, which Mickey’s brother had moved back into.

  Sylvie knocked on the street door, and someone opened it. Nothing felt real any more. Once inside, we walked to the end of the corridor, off which were the doors leading to the bedrooms. We turned into the lounge. My mum was standing there.

  “Hello Mum, what are you doin’ ’ere?” I asked, not really thinking why she was standing in my husband’s brother’s flat on a Sunday morning at 6.45am. Nothing made any sense. I felt disorientated, but a part of my brain just wanted everything to be ok when it blatantly wasn’t.

  There was silence in the room. Was it me, or did everyone look awkward? They all turned to look at me. I felt like I was standing in a shop window, everyone gazing at me. My brother-in-law Terry walked over to me, taking my arm gently.

  “Mickey’s dead.”

  For a second, I thought he was joking. I almost laughed. Then the room swam. My head felt hot, prickly, like something terrible was in there and I wanted it to get out. I could feel my heart pounding, bang, bang, bang against my chest, but that didn’t feel real either. Everything became a blur. I felt suddenly cold, and then I heard a woman screaming. Agonisingly, heartbreakingly.

  “She’s hysterical,” I heard someone say, and I realised it was me, I was the one howling. My Mickey was dead, he was dead, and I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel anything anymore. I wailed and sobbed and railed at God.

  “My Mickey, my Mickey, he’s dead,” I sobbed.

  “Give her a brandy, for God’s sake!”

  A cold glass was thrust into my hand, breaking the spell.

  “Drink this, darlin’.” It was Terry’s wife. I looked up at her, realising I was bent double. “Drink this, come on Lin.”

  Trembling, I stood upright and placed the rim to my lips, swallowing the bitter liquid. It made me cough, made me come to my senses. They were all there – Terry, Sylvie, Mum and other members of Mickey’s family – all there because our beloved boy had died.

  “Tell me,” I ordered them, and let myself be guided to a sofa. I only wanted to know the truth of it.

  “It looks like it was a trap,” Terry said, his voice scratchy. “The coppers were waitin’ for them. The Flyin’ Squad got him as he tried to leave. They didn’t get the money. They didn’t get nothin’ except a bullet.”

  Terry sat back, waiting for me to take in this information. When I felt composed enough to speak, I said, “He should never have gone back after two failed goes at that job. I told him, I
told him not to go, that it was jinxed.” Tears streamed down my face.

  “The worst of it is, Lin, that the Old Bill need to identify his body, and it’s you who has to do it this mornin’.” Terry’s voice cracked with emotion. He’d lost his brother that day too, and he started to sob like a child, the weight of his loss crushing him on that bleak December morning.

  “Me? Why me? And why so quickly?” I felt panicked. I’d only just learnt my husband, the love of my life, was dead. It would be too cruel to have to go and see his body right now.

  “I’m sorry, Lin, but he’s been dead since five o’clock last evenin’. The police came to your door just after you left for the pub. They eventually found me – that was at about 11pm last night. The Old Bill came to my door and told me to contact you as Mickey had been shot dead. I told ’em I wouldn’t phone you at that time of night, instead I said I’d call you early in the mornin’ and get you to go over there.

  “I wanted you to ’ave one last night of peace before findin’ out.” Terry looked away. I could tell he felt bad about me having to go and identify my dead husband’s body – and I knew he’d been a real gent with me, giving me my last night’s sleep for some while to come.

  “Of course I’ll go, Terry, and thank you for everythin’ you’ve done, I know you’ve lost your brother as well as me losing my husband.” I smiled at him, managing only a watery grimace, but it was an acknowledgement, at least. He’d done what he could for me, and now I had to do what I could for Mickey.