Tara

by Lesley Pearse

  'Tell me –'

  Harry cut her short with a finger on her lips, then sat down next to her.

  'I'll tell you anything and everything, but a kiss first,' he said, sliding his arm round her and pulling her closer. "Thoughts of you are all that have kept me going these past few weeks. Now I want to feel you in my arms.'

  It was tenderness rather than passion, a need to hold and be held, yet it was the most memorable kiss Harry had ever given her. She could feel his inner strength, silent reassurance that he would fight to the end to save her, but that he intended to live because there was so much more to do together.

  'I love you, Tara,' he said softly. 1 don't know where this is going to end. I can't even promise we'll make it. But if we do, I want your promise that we'll spend the rest of our lives together.'

  She could only nod. She knew now that their love would survive anything.

  'Just tell me one thing, was it you who phoned the club and Uncle George?'

  Harry looked at her, head slightly on one side, as if surprised by the question.

  'I got captured the night you came back from Paris.' He reached out and cupped her face in his hands, turning it towards him. 'I've been in this cell ever since. Except if you count two days ago when I escaped briefly, only to get this wound.' He patted his leg gingerly.

  Tara explained to Harry exactly where he was, how she'd discovered the place and everything else she knew.

  'So Josh is in on it?' Harry shook his head in astonishment. 'He's the missing link! Of course!'

  'I can't believe he'd want to hurt you.' Tara felt her eyes filling up with tears but she brushed them away angrily. 'You were friends once.'

  'Men like Josh Bergman don't know the meaning of real friendship.' Harry smiled ruefully. 'Looking up to me as a kid turned to jealousy the moment he met you. This is about destroying me, gaining a fortune and having you, too.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'It's a kind of frame-up.' Harry explained. 'Everything has been arranged as if I'm the instigator. Duke and all the leading players back in London will have perfect alibis. You can bet when my body's found there'll be a nice bit of incriminating evidence with it. I'll be labelled another Al Capone or Ronnie Kray.'

  'How did Josh get to know Duke?'

  'I've got a feeling Joe Spikes has the answer to that. I got word of him when I was in prison. Seems he had some grudge against me. Josh has plenty of contacts in the East End still. Maybe they just scratched each other's backs? They kept their eyes on me, through you.'

  Tara's eyes misted over. Over the years she must have innocently dropped hundreds of pieces of information about Harry. Was she to blame for all of this?

  'So getting someone to impersonate you on the phone wasn't just to stop people like Needles and your Dad getting anxious about you. It was a smoke screen!' Tara shook her head in wonder.

  'Wainwright!' Harry closed his eyes and put his hand on his forehead. 'Of course! Josh must have recruited him when he was in hospital. I couldn't see how he got in on it before, but now it's all becoming clearer.'

  'But I still can't really see why Josh would take the risk of doing something criminal. He's got a good business already.'

  'Is it that good?' Harry smiled grimly. 'You told me yourself sales were falling. It might have been a golden opportunity to build up the business again, and lose his rival into the bargain.'

  Tara remembered the pile of bills and sighed.

  'But how could Josh get all these blokes together?' She still couldn't quite believe it. 'That bald man, there's something familiar about him.'

  'I don't know if Josh planned it.' Harry tickled her chin. 'I suspect he was picked out by Duke. Maybe word had got around he hated me, and he had some bread to put up. Josh knew enough about me to smooth things along. Funny you should say Joe Spikes seemed familiar, his voice does to me. Every time I hear him speak I do a double take.'

  'Maybe it'll come to us.' Tara snuggled closer to Harry. 'So what do you think they're doing now?'

  'My guess is that a boat comes up the English Channel, maybe bound for Sweden, Norway or wherever. He drops a parcel overboard tied to a float. Micky let it slip that he was into water skiing. I couldn't understand afterwards why he was so worried that he'd told me, after all it's a pretty harmless hobby. Until I got to think about it.'

  'He water skis out to pick it up?'

  'Right!' Harry smirked. 'No coastguard is going to be suspicious about a couple of blokes fooling around in a little motor boat!'

  'But why have they gone out now? Surely they aren't going to do it in the dark?'

  Harry shrugged. 'Maybe they have to watch where the ship drops it. Send messages, who knows. It's better if they don't get home till the morning – they'll be tired, we might be able to steal a march on them.'

  'How, if we're in here?' she asked.

  The sound of the outer door opening made them jump. Tara looked at her watch, it was almost nine. She rushed for her jeans and pulled them on. Harry had gone white as a sheet. He stood up defiantly as the key turned in the second door.

  It was Micky, with two mugs of tea and a couple of bars of chocolate.

  'I thought you might be thirsty,' he said. 'And need the bog.'

  Harry hobbled across the room, picked up his bucket and, averting his eyes from Tara, went out.

  'What are they going to do with us?' Tara saw no harm in resorting to feminine wiles and trying to prick his conscience. She took the two mugs from him and put them down on the floor by the bed.

  'I don't rightly know,' he said, avoiding her penetrating stare. He knew exactly what was planned for both Harry and her and it made him sick to his stomach to think about it. 'I'd like to help you both, but I don't know if they'll give me the chance,' he added in a whisper, inclining his head towards the door.

  Harry came back in, limping badly, the bandage wet with fresh blood.

  'Do you want to go?' he asked Tara. 'Last chance unless Micky's going to leave the door unlocked.'

  'I daren't,' Micky shook his head, mouthing a message that someone was outside. Tara went out to the toilet.

  'Don't let her cop it, too,' Harry whispered. 'Not just because she's beautiful, or my girl, but her grandmother was murdered just last Christmas, and her brother died in an accident. Her mum couldn't take any more.'

  Micky closed the door and drew Harry over to the corner. 'Joe doesn't want to kill her.'

  Harry's mouth fell open in shock.

  'He's been arguing with Frank and Carl. She wasn't part of the plan.' Micky shook his head. 'Trouble is, I can't see how he can avoid it!'

  'You know Josh Bergman's your man in London, do you?'

  Micky frowned, obviously surprised at this piece of information.

  'We grew up together. He wants Tara for himself,' Harry explained. 'This has all got out of control, Micky. Don't let another man put blood on your hands.'

  Micky faltered. He was in this so deep he could see no way out. 'I'll do what I can.' He dropped his eyes from Harry's cool stare. 'You don't know how difficult it is!'

  'Oh, I do,' Harry assured him. 'I've been in your shoes, remember? Took the rap for killing a nightwatchman. Everything I've got now I earned after I came out the nick, and it didn't come easy. But I can sleep nights, Micky. I ain't got nothing on my conscience. Carry on the way you are and in a couple of years you won't get no more choices about how you live.'

  Tara came back, stopping in the doorway as she heard the last bit of what Harry was saying. Micky turned to look at her.

  'Drink your tea while it's still hot. I gotta go now.'

  'Do you think that all fell on stony ground?' Tara said as the second of the doors banged shut.

  'None of it did.' The shadow of a smile twitched Harry's lips. 'Micky's a good sort, he ain't no killer, but he's scared of the others. The question is whether he'll be strong enough to side with us if it comes down to it.'

  'It's bugging me about that Joe.' Tara frowned. 'It's like h
e's tucked away behind a net curtain in my head. I've almost got it, but not quite.'

  'Like an itch you can't scratch?' Harry smiled. 'Well let's forget them for the moment, drink our tea and have a cuddle. Maybe it will come to us.'

  He whispered as he held her. The pain in his leg prevented real lovemaking, but his hands reached out for the comfort of her breasts like a small child. He wove dreams about living in the country when all this was over, about the beautiful clothes she would design for her own company. He spoke of their children, of George, Queenie, Amy and Greg, painting a fairytale happy ending.

  She couldn't spoil his vision of the future by discussing the possibility of them being led out, shot and buried somewhere. Instead she held him tightly, told him maybe her mother would phone George and pass on her question about Lympne. That even now help might be on the way.

  It was when Harry fell asleep that Tara finally remembered who Joe was. Lying tucked against Harry's shoulder, unable to sleep herself, concentrating on that voice was like counting sheep. She went over her life year by year, trying to recall every man she'd ever met, every voice she'd heard. But it was when she analysed the words she'd heard Joe utter that a shutter flew up in her mind.

  'Goldilocks.' Suddenly, she vividly recalled a voice calling to her across a school playground. 'Oi, Goldilocks!' The same gravelly Cockney voice, and she could see the face it belonged to so clearly, peering over a fence.

  Reason told her it couldn't be the same man, yet she knew it was. He hadn't been bald then, nor did he have an ugly scar twisting his mouth. But it was him.

  Her father!

  Her immediate reaction was to wake Harry and tell him the news, but one look at his peaceful face stopped her. Instead she turned over on her side to give him more room and considered what this meant.

  Bill MacDonald had staged his death so convincingly that the police had closed the file on the murder of Father Glynn. He had re-emerged in the East End as Joe Spikes. The bald head, the fit, muscular body and the hideous scar hid everything that was Bill MacDonald. Had he sought out this job because he wanted to destroy Harry and ultimately wound George? Did he know who she was?

  Tara stared hard at the wall in front of her. The musty smell in here reminded her of the flat above Sid's fish and chip shop, and the nervy, miserable feeling inside her was identical to how she'd felt so much of the time back then. But it was a long time ago. No-one else in Whitechapel had ever recognised her as Anne MacDonald, so why should he?

  There was no question of sleep now as other images came into her mind. She remembered the mystery of Gran's murder. Could her father have been responsible?

  'Are you awake, sweetheart?' Harry's whisper broke through Tara's reverie.

  She had thought things through, she even had a plan of sorts, but she knew she couldn't tell Harry. A sigh, a yawn and she turned round to snuggle into his arms, to let him think she'd been sleeping.

  'How's your leg?' she asked.

  'Pretty bad,' he admitted reluctantly. "That's what woke me, I think. Could you stand to re-dress it?'

  The bandage was soaked in blood and as Tara gently eased it from the wound she winced.

  'Oh, Harry!' Tears sprang into her eyes when she saw the purple hole and the inflamed area all around. 'Should I wash it?'

  'Better not.' Harry screwed up his face in pain and gripped his knee tightly. 'That water's been sitting around uncovered. Just bind it up with a strip of that old sheeting.' He pointed to some material folded up on the table.

  'I've got an idea.' Tara held up the material and tore off a four-inch strip. 'When they come back I'll ask if I can talk to Joe because I've got a deal to offer him. Once I'm upstairs I might be able to escape or even talk him round.'

  She deftly bandaged the leg, noting the perspiration on Harry's upper lip and the clammy feel of his hands. His leg was infected, he needed treatment fast, but worst of all she doubted he had the strength to fight anyone off.

  'What sort of deal?' Harry's voice sounded weak, he slumped back on the bed almost as soon as she'd finished the dressing.

  'Well, I'd just bluff,' Tara said vaguely. 'Go on about how important I am to Josh, offer him a bribe. Make out I'm a hard bitch and I value my own life more than you.'

  Harry caught hold of her hand fiercely. His eyes were bright with fever.

  'Micky said Joe didn't want to kill you. Convince him it's right to let you go,' he said. 'Don't risk anything for me, sweetheart. I'll do what I can when they come for me. I've got the rope, I'll wait behind the door with it.'

  Harry knew it was unlikely she'd get away with it, at best all he could hope for was that they'd shoot her cleanly and unexpectedly before she got a chance to panic. His leg hurt so much the fear of death was loosening its grip, but if there was a chance for her, he wanted her to take it.

  Tara didn't want to pursue the subject any further. Joe did know who she was! That's why he felt bad about killing her. Well, if he knew who she was then it was almost certain he'd killed Gran! She hated him with every fibre of her body. She would get the better of him somehow!

  Four o'clock came, five and six, but still no-one came. Harry was drifting in and out of consciousness now and it crossed Tara's mind that maybe the men might never come back, but leave them there to die of hunger and thirst.

  She sat on the side of the narrow bed, dressed and ready, and tried to control the rising panic within her. When she finally heard footsteps in the passage Tara almost shrieked with joy. She jumped up, slid the Stanley knife into her pocket and handed the rope to Harry.

  'Just stay where you are,' she whispered. 'If one of them bends over you, use this. You aren't strong enough to stand.'

  She had only the briefest look at him as the outer door was unlocked. His eyes were almost closed with pain, his breathing laboured, his mouth boyish and vulnerable.

  She kissed him, stroking his face gently. 1 love you, Harry.'

  The key was turning in the lock. Tara stood close by it, poised for action.

  'Take me up to speak to Joe?' she said the moment the door opened. It wasn't Micky as she'd expected but an older man with short mousy hair, possibly the one called Carl Harry had spoken of. 'It's really important. I must speak to him.'

  'Now hold on.' The man was surprised by her calm. 'My brief was just to let you use the bog, nothing else.'

  'You must be Carl?' Tara widened her eyes and moved closer to him, reaching out and putting one hand on his arm almost seductively. 'I'm sure a real man like yourself wouldn't want to hurt a lady, particularly if she's got some information which will help you all.'

  'I'll have to ask.' Carl's eyes were constantly on the move, flitting nervously round the room. 'Get back in there while I lock the door again.'

  The door slammed shut and was locked. After a second the other door slammed behind him.

  Tara used Harry's comb to tidy her hair, wishing she had some make-up or could even clean her teeth before she had to face Joe. What if he refused to see her? What if he wouldn't speak to her alone?

  Harry was right out now and the bandage was soaked in blood again. He still held the length of rope in his hands but he would never be capable of defending himself.

  Footsteps came back down the stairs. Once again the doors were opened and Carl looked in.

  'All right, come on,' he said, looking over to Harry. 'But don't even think of any funny business!'

  It confirmed everything. Joe knew who she was!

  Carl held her arm the whole way, fingers digging into her as if he was prepared for her to make a dash. She had expected to be taken to the kitchen, but instead he marched her right up the stairs to the first floor.

  They were all in the room at the front where she'd seen the sleeping bags. Micky was lying down, another young man with dirty straw hair and pale blue eyes was crouching over a radio and Joe sat by the window on a fishing stool. There was a great deal of equipment in the room – wet suits, flippers, fishing rods and the kind of large plastic bo
xes fishermen use to keep their bait. Tara's eyes scanned it quickly, and she took deep breaths to combat the feeling of panic.

  'What's so important?' Joe looked up at her. It was difficult to assess whether he was smiling or scowling, but as Tara looked into his deep brown eyes she knew she was right about his identity.

  'It's something only for your ears,' she said in a small voice. She could see something in one of the open fishing boxes that looked remarkably like a gun. 'Could we talk alone?'

  Joe looked round at his men and back to her. 'Go and take a walk,' he said.

  Carl's fingers still dug into her arm and as Tara took a step nearer Joe his grip tightened. Micky and Frank got up, shot curious glances at her and sauntered out.

  'Could he wait outside, too?' Tara asked. 'What I've got to say is very personal.' She didn't dare look directly at the fishing box in case he followed her eyes, but she was ninety-eight per cent certain it was a gun.

  Joe got up from the stool, rubbing his back with his hands in a gesture she remembered clearly from her childhood. He was fit now, not a trace of belly hanging over his trousers. The flabby jaw she remembered was tighter, the undamaged skin on his face glowing with health even though he needed a shave. If he had his dark hair back and kept his left side towards her, he would look almost the same as he did in his old Army snaps.

  'OK, Carl,' he snapped. 'Wait outside. I'll give her five minutes.'

  The moment Carl walked out of the door, Tara moved closer towards both Joe and the box.

  'Well, come on,' he said impatiently, sitting down again on the stool. 'What's all this about?'

  'Take a good look at me,' she said softly. 'The hair colouring, the eyes.'

  She looked straight at him, opening her eyes wide. He knew who she was, she saw it in his eyes, but to her surprise she saw consternation. 'You didn't mind killing me while I didn't know you, I suppose,' she said softly. 'You made the mistake of giving me too much time to think.'

  'How did you know?' His voice had lost its harshness.

  The baldness and the scar distracted me,' she said slowly, inching closer towards the box. It was a gun, a small pistol like ones she'd seen in films. Was it loaded? Could she actually fire it if necessary? 'But you couldn't change your voice.'