The Black Widow

by Linda Calvey

  Ron had turned up at my door in Harpley Square, Stepney, the flat I’d been offered by the council after I told them about the hate mail. The council officer I spoke to had been shocked at the vitriol that had come my way, and I was given three offers of new places. I took the first one because it was close to my mum.

  “Oh hello, Ron. Can I help you?” I said, trying to hide my surprise at seeing Ron a third time in as many days.

  “Hello Linda. Look, I don’t mean to intrude, but you’ve got a benefit comin’ up, and I wanted to ask what you’re goin’ to wear.”

  He stood there, calm as anything, waiting for my response.

  “I don’t know, Ron. I haven’t thought about it,” I replied, wondering why on earth he was here again, and why he was asking such a strange question.

  “You need to have something lovely, it’ll be expected of ya and everybody’s eyes will be on you,” he continued. “I’ll take you up the West End and buy you a nice outfit.”

  “Oh, well, alright, thank you, yes, I’d like that,” I said, feeling puzzled and hoping it didn’t show on my face. I didn’t want him to think I was being ungrateful. It was a kind offer.

  Ron nodded, turned and walked off, just like that, leaving me at my street door, blinking in the spring sunshine.

  Back inside, I rang Mum straight away.

  “That Ron just turned up again. He’s offered to take me up to town to buy me a suit for my first benefit. Does that sound strange to you?” I asked, sipping my tea.

  “No, that sounds lovely, that’s very kind of him. Why, are you worried?” Mum said at the other end of the line.

  “I don’t know, Mum, my head’s spinnin’ with everythin’ that’s goin’ on. Perhaps it’s just a kind gesture and I should go?” I had a strange feeling in my gut but this time I ignored it. I knew I was a bit oversensitive, after all I was grieving, so it was good to hear Mum make light of it.

  “Go on, go up the West End, it’ll cheer you up.”

  “Ok, Mum, I’ll do that,” I said, smiling and putting down the receiver. A trip up town would be nice. I hadn’t done anything like that since Mickey died – I’d been too overcome with sadness – and I knew I couldn’t carry on crying under my blankets forever. I had to pull myself together and carry on with life.

  The next day, Ron was as good as his word. He took me to Bond Street, where he flashed his cash, spending £500 on a single pair of Italian shoes and a fitted black skirt suit for me.

  When I came out of the dressing room, wearing the sky-high black heels and suit that whispered as I walked – the sound of silk, the feel of pure luxury – he looked me up and down again. He didn’t say a word. He nodded and pulled out a huge roll of cash from inside his coat.

  “You get yerself changed and I’ll pay,” was all he said.

  It felt very odd knowing it wasn’t Mickey out there on the shop floor, paying for my outfit like he’d done so many times before. I felt a lump in my throat and I knew I was in danger of breaking down again. I looked at myself in the mirror, a huge decorative piece, probably antique, and I saw a young woman, maybe not in the flush of her youth, but still beautiful. And yet I could see my responsibilities and worries laid heavy on me. There were bags under my eyes from the endless nights of broken rest. Every time I closed my eyes I dreamt about Mickey. I dreamt he was in the next room to me, and I couldn’t quite hear him or see him, and somehow, I couldn’t quite get to the room, no matter how I struggled. I would wake up, tears already streaming down my face, knowing that he wasn’t there anymore – and never would be again. The bed felt too big. I missed the solid feel of Mickey beside me, his arm folded over me as we slept. I missed the smell of him, the way he whistled in the shower which used to drive me nuts. I would’ve given anything to hear that sound for one last time. Sighing, I hung up the beautiful clothes this stranger was buying me, and put a smile back on my face. It wouldn’t do to burst into tears when this man was being so generous. £500 was a lot of money.

  Ron was a gentleman that day, and dropped me back to my flat.

  “Thank you, Ronnie, you’ve been really kind.”

  He nodded again. He didn’t waste words. He didn’t do small talk at all. He’d achieved what he’d set out to do today, and he left. Something about him confused me. He was so withdrawn compared to my Mickey, who was gregarious and charming. Ron seemed quieter, yet even then I could see that he was a man used to getting his own way. I didn’t stop to think if I’d even had a choice whether to go on that trip. I’d gone at his command, or so it felt, but I’d been spoilt and treated to nice clothes, which I’ll admit made me feel more like a woman again, rather than a grieving widow.

  I didn’t see Ron again until the night of the benefit. I was standing at the entrance to the hall, as was the custom, greeting people, shaking hands and offering my cheek to be kissed. Ron arrived. He was carrying a huge bottle of Chanel perfume.

  “You look fabulous,” he said, admiringly. “I don’t know if it’s appropriate to say that, but it’s true.” He handed me the perfume and went inside.

  Again, I felt lost for words, barely managing a “thank you” before he moved on. I had to keep smiling, keep acknowledging the support the underworld was showing me that night. Once everyone had started buying drinks and most likely sunk a few, the raffle started.

  People had donated some incredible things: a case of expensive wine, beautiful paintings, a china dinner service. The list was endless. It came to the wine and the bids started flying around the room.

  Suddenly, Ron said, “A grand.”

  The place went momentarily quiet. The auctioneer almost choked on his beer.

  “A grand, well, I don’t suppose anyone will top that. The case of wine goes to Ron Cook.”

  Ron walked over and took out yet another huge roll of cash. He handed it over, then said, “Auction it again. I don’t want the wine, rebid on it.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Ron had paid for something he didn’t even want, and was putting it back up for auction. “Hope it goes well for you,” he said as he walked past me out of that hall, leaving me staring after him.

  My feelings were mixed. On one hand, I was bowled over by his generosity. On the other, I was left wondering why he would make such a gesture. What could he possibly hope to gain?

  The second benefit was taking place in a pub in Romford. Again, Ron turned up at my door.

  “Can I get you a nice outfit?”

  “Thank you, but you already bought me one, I’ll wear that,” I said. I was perfectly happy with my gorgeous, unbelievably expensive outfit. It hadn’t occurred to me I’d need something else.

  “You can’t wear the same outfit twice, it isn’t right,” he said, his voice soft but steely. “There’ll be people there who were at the first one, so I won’t let ya. I’ll take you up the West End again.”

  “Ok, then I’ll happily come with you, thank you, Ron.”

  Again, Ron came and took me up to Bond Street. This time he bought me a dress and a pair of heels. The bill can’t have come in much lower than our last trip.

  “You look wonderful, Linda,” was all he said as he paid.

  I was starting to enjoy myself. It wasn’t every day that I got taken into town and treated, though Mickey always looked after me very well. I was starting to think kindly of Ron, and I dropped my suspicions. He always treated me like a lady. There seemed to be no expectation on his part. Again, he dropped me back to my flat and left. Again, I didn’t see or hear from him until the night of the second benefit.

  Standing at the pub doorway, I felt a million dollars. I felt like a queen, and wondered if the actual Queen would ever wear something as fine as I was wearing just then.

  Ron came again, and did exactly the same thing, bidding on a case of booze, handing over the £1000 to the auctioneer and then leaving, saying, “Hope it all goes wel
l for you.” Unlike me, Maureen was becoming wary of Ron and his lavish, though infrequent, attentions.

  “He fancies you, I know it,” she said that night at the benefit.

  I waved away her suggestion, but the thought took root in my mind. Was Ronnie Cook after me even though my Mickey had only been dead for four months?

  “You know he’s one of the big boys, don’t you?” Maureen added, raising her right eyebrow and staring at me.

  “Yes, I know he’s the top man, Terry told me,” I said, shrugging.

  “He’s done Brink’s-Mat robberies, he’s really big time. You be careful,” my best friend warned.

  “What does it matter to me?” I said, bleakly. “He ain’t Mickey.”

  Maureen and I both smiled sadly.

  Those benefits left me with a small fortune: £6,500, worth more than £32,000 in today’s money. It was enough to keep me going for a while.

  Ironically, I’d taken out a life insurance policy on Mickey a few years earlier. The insurance man used to go to Mum’s and while she made tea, he’d do all the insurances and sort the money out. Originally, I’d insisted I couldn’t afford to take one out for my husband, but the man had found me a deal where I paid 50p a week, and if Mickey died before the age of 60, I’d receive a £60,000 payout. One day, the man came to mine and Mickey’s, because I owed him a couple of pounds. Mickey had asked what it was for, and the man replied that I’d taken out a life policy on him, one where he had to be dead before the age of 60.

  Mickey reacted angrily. “You wicked cow! Cancel it!” He was furious, which surprised me.

  “I was only lookin’ out for the kids, but if it makes you happy, then of course I’ll cancel it.”

  So I did. Two months later, Mickey was dead, and the man told me I would’ve qualified for the windfall. In fact, what he really said was, “Thank God you cancelled it, we had no clauses to get out of it, we would’ve had to pay you £60k.” The benefit money was a great help, but with the insurance money my future would’ve been secured, and that of my children. Instead, I was a widow, taking the first steps into a big, bad world.

  A day or two later, there was another knock at my door. I opened it to see Ron standing on my doorstep. This was becoming a habit. This time I smiled genuinely and offered for him to come inside. He shook his head.

  “I’m ’ere to ask, can I take you for a meal?”

  I took a deep breath in. “My Mickey’s only been dead a few months. It wouldn’t look right, Ron, surely you understand that.”

  “Well then, why don’t you bring a friend along, or one of your brothers?” He didn’t give up easily.

  I couldn’t think of an objection to that. My mind whirred, but I found myself nodding my head. “Alright, I’ll bring Ricky, my youngest brother, to keep it all above board.”

  “What kind of food do you like?” Ron was so courteous, so smooth. He made it impossible to refuse him.

  “I like Italian. Thank you,” I replied. Three seconds ago, I had wanted to say no because I was worried what people would think of me, and now I was choosing the menu!

  “Ok, we’ll go for Italian.”

  When Friday night came, Ron seemed surprised that I was still dressed in black, even for a night out.

  “After Mickey died, I swore that I would wear nothing but black until my birthday,” I told him. “The copper on the case called me the Black Widow because of it.”

  Ron didn’t reply. He just looked at me with that cool appraisal. I didn’t know what to make of it.

  After a pause, he finally spoke. “And when’s that?”

  “My birthday? It’s in a week, Ron.”

  I thought nothing more of it. We had our strange dinner, and it turned into the first of many outings. He took me to a party, then he drove me up to Harrods and spent a small fortune kitting me out with another beautiful outfit, with matching heels and handbag. On my birthday, I was inundated with bouquets of roses – all sent by Ron.

  I was being seduced by the persistence of this man. I was grieving and vulnerable, and his lavish attention was starting to turn my head. I can’t say I fancied him – he was too reserved, too stern – but I was growing to like him.

  As I got to know Ron over the months following Mickey’s death, I gradually started socialising again and meeting more of his old crowd. I was soon introduced to Billy Blundell, one of Essex’s most notorious gangsters, who I got on well with right from the off. He wasn’t a tall man, but he exuded power and wouldn’t take no for an answer. Billy invited me for a drink with some friends one Saturday, picked out a club to take us to, and ushered us past the queues outside, walking straight up to the door.

  The bouncer stepped in front of him, blocking his way.

  “Look behind you, mate. There’s a queue.”

  Billy looked up at him without a hint of expression on his face. “I don’t queue.”

  The bouncer smirked. “These people have been waiting, and you can wait like everyone else, pal.”

  Billy bristled. “I don’t think you’ve quite understood me. I don’t queue.”

  The bouncer shook his head. “I’m not letting you in unless you go to the back of that line.”

  Billy raised his eyebrows, as if the bouncer had failed to grasp something obvious. “Listen to me,” he hissed. “I don’t care how long those people have been waiting. I. Don’t. Queue.”

  The bouncer glared back down at him. “In that case, you’re not coming in.”

  I could see Billy boiling with rage as he turned to us, calm and icy. “I apologise for this, ladies,” he said reassuringly, before turning back to the bouncer. “Here, can I ask you something, mate?”

  “What?” Looming over Billy, the bouncer mockingly bent forward to hear what he had to say.

  Billy launched himself forward and headbutted the bouncer squarely in the nose. Blood spurted into the air and he went reeling backwards, as the people in line behind us gasped in shock. Billy caught hold of his jacket and pulled the bouncer’s head downwards until his ear was level with Billy’s mouth.

  “I don’t queue,” he spat into his ear. “You should know that. Now go and tell your manager that you’ve just refused Bill Blundell entry.” He shoved the bouncer through the door of the club and turned to us. “Now that’s sorted, let’s go and find somewhere else.”

  Sure enough, when we arrived at the next club, Billy was shown straight in by the bouncers, no questions asked, and the owner came over to greet him.

  “Mr Blundell, pleasure to see you, sir. Where’d you like to sit?”

  Billy pointed to a table in a corner of the room, where a group was already sitting, drinking and laughing together.

  “Right away, Mr Blundell.”

  I looked on, astonished, as the staff cleared the table in an instant, the drinkers getting up hurriedly and moving off as soon as they were told. We sat down to have a drink, and 15 minutes later, the owner came over to us once more.

  “Mr Blundell, sorry to interrupt. There are some people to see you.”

  It was the bouncer from the previous club, gingerly cupping his bloodied nose, accompanied by his stern-looking manager. The manager spoke first.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr Blundell. This one’s new on the job. He just started yesterday and doesn’t know who’s who.”

  “I’m new to this part of town, sir,” the bouncer stammered. “It was an honest mistake, I’m sorry.”

  Billy looked up at them with a serene smile. “It don’t matter that he started yesterday,” he said to the manager. “All your staff should know that there are some exceptions.”

  The pair nodded meekly and began to back off.

  “Good thing you came in to apologise, though,” said Billy. “’Cause if you hadn’t, you wouldn’t have had a club anymore. You’d have had a fire.”

  If anything, Mickey’s d
eath had brought me even closer to the top brass of the gangland scene. The men I was spending time with now commanded respect, and the kindness they showed to me was beginning to help me feel closer to normal again. Ron continued to take me out for meals with Ricky and trips to the shops, and Billy soon became a good friend too.

  Six months after Mickey died, there was that familiar knock on my door.

  Ron was standing there. As usual, he didn’t bother with small talk.

  “I want to take you out without your brother.”

  I hesitated, just ever so slightly. He nodded as if he understood my dilemma. My heart had been broken only a few short months previously. I liked the charming man in front of me, but I knew I wouldn’t ever love him. I also knew that going out with him could be seen as a betrayal of Mickey’s memory. I considered it. Six months wasn’t a long time – but it wasn’t six weeks either. My closest friends and family knew I’d love Mickey forever, and no man could ever take his place, including this notorious – and wealthy – top dog. It didn’t really matter what I did from now on. My heart was out of bounds, but it didn’t mean I couldn’t enjoy myself again.

  So I agreed. “Yes, Ron, I will go out with you.”

  “I suppose we can say we’re an item. You’re my girlfriend now. Oh, and by the way, get rid of your car.” He said everything so matter-of-factly.

  “What d’you mean, get rid of my car?” I said, shocked.

  “I’ll get you a new one. What car d’ya want?” Ron said, without batting an eyelid.

  “Erm, well, I’ve always wanted a Mini,” I said, cautiously, not for one moment thinking he’d return with a car.

  He did, of course. A beautiful shiny brown Mini.

  “On second thoughts, I’ll take yours,” he said, throwing me the new set of car keys. Ron never cared what make of car he drove. He didn’t cruise round in a Mercedes like the others. He preferred to keep a low profile. My old car was perfect.