Tara

by Lesley Pearse

Duke stood in the kitchen doorway, wearing an army combat jacket and trousers, white blond hair immaculately combed, pointing a gun at her. Her scream was involuntary.

  'Move away from him,' he ordered. 'Stay sitting, just shuffle back.'

  Tara did as he ordered. She didn't know if he was alone or whether he had caught Micky running away, all she could do was play for time and try to stay calm.

  The gun tucked into her bra made her feel more confident. If he got distracted she could reach for it.

  'Where are my men?' he asked. His thin lips were set in a straight line, eyes colder than ice, she could see he was like a coiled spring and she guessed he'd have no hesitation in shooting her.

  'They ran off,' she replied. He couldn't have got Micky or he wouldn't need to ask this. 'I think they took the stuff too.'

  'How did you get out?' The question came out like a bullet and she saw suspicion in every line of his taut body.

  'I charmed them,' she said defiantly. 'I promised I wouldn't remember what any of them looked like when the police got here. I only got as far as this with Harry. I was just going to get help for him.'

  'He looks beyond help.' Duke came closer and kicked Harry's arm. Harry didn't even open his eyes, only a low gurgling moan proved he still held on grimly to life.

  'Don't!' Tara blurted out. 'Please don't hurt him any more!'

  His lip curled derisively, then a banging sound made his head spin round.

  Tara's heart sank.

  'What's that?' He listened, his head cocked to one side, as Frank roared out abuse from the cellar.

  'They're bloody well down there!' Duke dragged her to her feet by her hair. 'How did you get them in there?'

  'I, I...' she stuttered. 'I had a knife.'

  She knew it was futile. Any moment he would find out the truth from the men, or kill her anyway. All she could do was play for time and hope the police got here first.

  'Don't talk stupid!' He cracked the gun barrel on the side of her head so hard it made her see stars, and jerked her back with her hair.

  'I have got a knife. It's in my pocket,' she insisted. 'Shall I show you?'

  Holding the gun to her head, he pushed her back against the passage wall and let go of her hair. He ran his left hand down her hips, then changed the gun into his other hand to try the other side. His fingers caught on the knife. He drew it out, looked at it with a sneer and put it in his pocket. His hand went round on to her bottom next and he pulled out the bunch of keys.

  'Right, let's go down there and ask them what happened,' he said, grabbing her hair again.

  It was only a matter of time, she told herself. Do everything as slowly as possible, string it out, even the answers to his questions. If Micky told the emergency services it was a gun shot wound they'd be bound to send police as well. Any moment now she would hear sirens.

  'Joe!' Duke called out as they went down into the gloom. 'How did she get you all in there?'

  'She shot Carl and Frank,' Joe called back.

  'Whose gun?'

  'Mine.' Joe's voice was subdued.

  'Where is it now?'

  They were down in the cellar now.

  'She's still got it.' This time it was Frank who called out. 'Fuckin' get us out of here, Duke. Carl's dying and I'm bleedin like a fuckin' pig. You gotta get help for us.'

  'Where's Micky?' Duke turned to Tara, pushing her up against the wall and sticking the gun almost up her nose.

  'He ran off,' she said. 'I used him to help me get Harry upstairs and he got out the window while I was distracted.'

  'Where's the gun?' Duke stuck his right into her temple.

  'Upstairs. I put it down once Micky had gone.' She made herself whimper, wishing she could turn tears on at the drop of a hat.

  Duke gave her a long, hard look which turned her insides to jelly, yanked her forward by the hair and opened the cell door. Frank hobbled out first, clutching at his crotch.

  'Give me the gun and I'll finish her right off,' he snarled. His jeans were soaked in blood and his face was chalky in the gloom.

  'Carl's in a bad way,' Joe called from over by the bed. 'If we move him again I don't reckon he'll make it. He needs hospital.'

  'Leave him there for now,' Duke called out, still holding Tara tightly. 'I just came to pick up the stuff and I've gotta run. You clear up here first, then get out. Make sure you don't leave anything behind.'

  'So whatcha going to do about her?' Frank asked.

  'Joe and you can sort that out, and Harry too,' Duke snapped. Pushing her ahead of him with his gun, he led the way back up the stairs.

  Two things struck Tara as odd as Duke pushed her down to the ground with Harry. One was that he seemed to be in a tearing hurry, the other that he showed no concern for either of his wounded men. He tossed his own gun over to Joe.

  'Watch them,' he said. 'Frank, find Joe's gun!'

  Frank lurched off into the kitchen, the hand holding his wound covered in blood. Duke went upstairs, leaving Tara with Harry, her father standing guard over them.

  'Duke's going to scarper with the drugs,' Tara said softly. 'Forget about us and watch him.'

  She read the emotions in his face as clearly as she did as a child. For a moment she forgot the scar, the bald head and even the evil inside him. He was her father, and somewhere deep within her bubbled a little vestige of affection.

  He didn't want to kill her, but he knew he must. He didn't want the other men to know she was his daughter, yet he was looking at her with pride. He too had sensed what Duke was up to, and he suspected she'd sent Micky for help. But most of all she read despair. He knew that, whatever way he jumped now, he was trapped.

  'It ain't in here,' Frank yelled. 'Bet she's still got it stuffed down her drawers.'

  Duke came down the stairs, a holdall in his hand. Frank came out into the passage and Joe just stood there with the gun pointing at her.

  'He wants you blamed for everything, Joe.' Tara spoke fast as Duke came nearer. 'He's going to run away with that bag and leave you to take the blame for everything. Shoot him, not me!'

  Duke leaped towards her. She saw in his eyes that he'd suddenly realised where the gun was hidden, perhaps even noticed the lump under her shirt. As he reached forward to grab her Joe's voice rang out.

  'Hands off her and drop that bag!'

  But Duke ignored him, ripping at her shirt, exposing her chest with the gun stuck into her bra.

  The report of the gun and Duke's exclamation of 'Bitch' came simultaneously, but it wasn't until Duke fell forward on to her that she realised Joe had shot him in the back.

  She moved sideways, but not quickly enough to prevent Duke crashing down on top of her, knocking her to the floor under him.

  'Fuckin' well get her and Harry now,' she heard Frank say.

  The gun was in her hand as she pushed Duke's body off her and sat up. Frank's face blanched, he backed towards the open window just inside the kitchen. Joe had the holdall in one hand, Duke's gun in the other, but he stood still, looking at her.

  'Fuckin' blast 'er,' Frank yelled. 'Come on, don't go soft now, she's only some scrubber.'

  Her mother, Gran and Paul all seemed to be with her in that split-second. She looked into her father's eyes and saw not the scarred thug, not the brute who'd beaten her mother and terrorised her brother, but the man who carried her on his shoulders in Petticoat Lane on Sundays. His eyes begged her to kill him.

  'You didn't turn out so bad,' he said softly. 'Do it. Don't let them take me!'

  Her shot and the sound of sirens came together.

  She was aware of Frank jumping out of the back window; saw blue smoke rise in the air, smelled cordite mingling with the putrid smell of Harry's wound. But her eyes were pinned on her father's body slumped on the floor by her feet.

  There was no need to touch him to confirm he was dead. His face was at peace, almost smiling, even the scar was hidden because he'd landed on his side.

  'Tara!' Harry's croaking voice drew her atte
ntion away from the body. 'Did I hear sirens?'

  'You did.' She bent down and kissed his face. 'They'll have you in hospital in minutes.'

  'Are you hurt?' He seemed unable to open his eyes, his words were slurred and hardly audible.

  'No, sweetheart, I'm fine. Just fine!'

  Chapter 37

  'Miss Manning!'

  Tara forced her eyes open. It was the staff-nurse, a bumptious strawberry blonde of over forty who glared down at Tara over her glasses and pursed her lips in disapproval.

  It was dark outside, and still raining as it had been all day, but it was hot and stuffy in the waiting room.

  'Why don't you go home? Mr Collins won't be up to visitors for some time. You're on the point of collapse!'

  'I can't bear to go away.' Tara's eyes filled with tears. 'Don't make me go!'

  The nurse shook her head, implying she considered Tara's behaviour to be melodramatic.

  'No-one's throwing you out, my dear. I understand you've been through a harrowing time, but you won't be much good to your boyfriend when he comes round the way you are now.'

  Tara stuck out her lower lip petulantly. The nurse shook her head once more and walked away.

  It was close to midnight and the day had passed in a strange blur, with only isolated incidents making any kind of impact – the shock on the faces of the police as they came crashing in to find her sitting on the floor with two dead men and one seriously injured; George passing out when he saw two covered bodies on the floor.

  George, Needles and Tony had arrived just as the police were carrying Carl up from the cellar on a stretcher. Harry was already in the ambulance, but poor George saw only those two lifeless mounds, thought they were Tara and Harry, and keeled over.

  Once they reached Folkestone hospital, she had vague recollections of someone saying she needed a stitch in the cut above her eye and the lump on the back of her neck must be painful, yet until then she hadn't been aware of any injuries. Her whole being was centred on Harry, as she waited on the edge of her seat while they removed the bullet and took him into intensive care, praying he would survive.

  Police kept coming into the waiting room and asking more questions. Were any of the men in the gang known to her prior to this incident? What was the name of the fourth man who got away? Why did Joe Spikes kill Duke? And the most difficult one of all, why didn't she contact the police before blundering into a house miles from anywhere?

  Their questions about Josh washed over her head – she didn't understand how they expected her to know about dates he'd been out of the country, or how he became involved.

  She wanted to sleep, but she was afraid to close her eyes. The police were delighted to recover such a large haul of drugs and even more pleased to have the perpetrators in their custody. They praised her incessantly for her courage and marvelled that a girl who knew nothing about guns could bring herself to aim and fire, not just once, but three times.

  Well, maybe she was brave then, but now she was scared! How long would it be before they discovered Joe Spikes was in fact Bill MacDonald and all the old skeletons were taken out and given a good rattle?

  Would people see her as a heroine when they knew the man she'd killed was her father? And what about Simon Wainwright? He was out there somewhere, watching and waiting. Should she tell the police about him, or let it go?

  'Come on, girl, you're coming with me!'

  Tara looked round, surprised to hear George's voice through the open waiting-room door. He had gone back to London around midday with Needles and Tony.

  'Where did you spring from?' She rubbed her eyes wearily.

  'I've booked you, me and Queenie into a little boarding house just across the road,' he said, pulling her to her feet and hugging her as if she was a small child. 'You didn't think I'd stay in London while my boy is poorly, did you?'

  'That's better now.' Queenie clucked like a mother hen as Tara came back from the bathroom into the small room at the top of the house, wearing the nightdress Queenie had brought with her from London. She pulled back the covers and waited for Tara to get in. 'A good night's sleep is what you need. Drink that hot milk, we put a drop of brandy in it to send you off to the land of nod extra quick. If you want anything, we're right next door.'

  'Thanks, Queenie.' Tara drank the milk and cuddled down under the covers. 'I'm so glad you came, everything feels less scary now.'

  'Well, my goodness, you look better!' George exclaimed as Tara came into the dining room the next morning. Aside from the stitch above her right eye, a little swelling and a bruise on her cheek, she looked like her old self, the sparkle back in her eyes.

  'I feel better. I just rang the hospital. Harry came round just after we left last night and they've moved him out of intensive care into a surgical ward.' Tara beamed at them both. 'And thanks for these clothes, Queenie. It's good to be in something clean.'

  She sat down at the table with them and ordered a cooked breakfast from the landlady. Queenie poured her a cup of tea.

  'I suppose I'll have to face a barrage of questions again today?' Tara said in resigned tone. There were three other couples in the room and they all had their ears pinned back.

  George and Queenie exchanged glances over their bacon and eggs.

  'They can't help it, love.' Queenie smiled comfortingly and dropped her voice to a whisper. 'I mean, they gotta find the whole truth, ain't they? At least yer mum was wrong about yer dad being alive. What a can of worms that would have opened!'

  Tara stared at Queenie, teaspoon still stirring her tea.

  'Course, I don't suppose you know about that?' Queenie took Tara's silence to be incomprehension. 'See, yer mum got the idea it had to be Bill involved, that house being an old haunt of 'is. The police asked George to look at the bloke down in the morgue.'

  'Daft, weren't it?' George chimed in, his voice like a fog-horn in the small room. 'He was about as much like Bill as our 'Arry is to Prince Charles. Bill might have been a bit spoiled with booze, but 'e was a handsome brute. That Joe Spikes looked like summat out a horror film.' George grinned broadly, but at last lowered his voice and continued in a whisper. 'But they already knew it weren't 'im. Bill 'ad a little bluebird tattoo on 'is shoulder, didn't he?'

  'Yes,' Tara replied nervously. 'What about Joe?'

  ' 'E 'ad just about every kind of tattoo you can think of, all over his bleedin' chest, back and arms. But there was no bluebird.'

  'I never could stand a man with tattoos.' Queenie pursed her lips in distaste. 'Shows a man's weird, having needles poked into him for fun.'

  'He wasn't so bad.' Defending Joe seemed essential, though Tara didn't quite understand why. 'If he hadn't been half reasonable I wouldn't have managed to get his gun. And at the end he chose to shoot Duke rather than me.'

  'They found thousands of pounds in Duke's car,' Queenie said, her blue eyes alight with laughter. 'It was a good job he didn't leave his car around 'ome. He'd have got back and found the wheels gone, never mind the money. It come from the club, of course! He was about to run out on the rest of them, they reckon! 'E left the club soon after George rang Needles, seems like he could've listened on the phone.'

  'Did they find Frank, the one who ran away?' Tara asked.

  'Yeah, they pulled him walking along a country lane, only about half a mile from the house,' George said. 'He's bin squealing like a pig outside the slaughter house. 'E told 'em there'd been six small runs before. Mostly Duke came down to fetch it. Then up at the club they'd arrange a private poker game, the dealers from all over the country would come and buy the stuff. Last night the police watched the club, 'oping to get leads on these dealers.'

  Tara clamped her hand over her mouth. 'I'd forgotten. I got a list of telephone numbers from the club. I left it in my rucksack out in the grounds of the house.'

  'You can tell 'em later,' George assured her, clearing a space on the table as the landlady brought Tara's breakfast. 'Now eat that all up, you look scrawny!'

  'Have th
e police pulled Josh?' she asked in a low voice, aware now that the other guests were spinning out their breakfasts purposely.

  'He's gone to ground.' George shook his head. 'At least, that's what they said last night. It was on the news yesterday, the papers are probably full of it this morning, so it won't be long before someone spots him.'

  Tara ate her breakfast with relish. All day yesterday people had offered her food, but she hadn't been able to eat it. But now, after eight hours of sleep and hearing Harry was better, she felt like a new person.

  The surgical ward was full of sunshine. It danced on the shiny floor, illuminating the many vases of flowers.

  A nurse had shaved Harry. He grinned broadly as Tara came into the ward, and tried to sit up.

  'Down,' she said, slapping his wrist. 'You've made a remarkable recovery! Or were you only playing dead?'

  'I kept my eyes shut so no-one would shoot me, then I got to like it that way,' he said teasingly. 'Now kiss me so I can find out if all parts of me are working.'

  Tara was aware of the other men in the ward watching, but she bent down to kiss him regardless.

  'It's working,' Harry whispered. 'It twitched in recognition of your touch. One more and it might stand to attention.'

  'There's not a great deal wrong with you.' Tara laughed, pulling up a chair. She took his hands in hers and looked at him. He was so handsome her stomach churned. Even the pale green hospital pyjamas with 'Folkestone General' stamped on the breast pocket gave him an air of a wounded hero.

  'Seriously, though, how's your leg?' she asked.

  'It hurts, but not as bad as you would expect.' He smirked. 'I dreamed they were amputating it because I'd got gangrene, so when I woke to find it still there, I was over the moon. I don't even care if they've left a bloomin' great hole.'

  'I thought you were going to die,' she admitted softly. 'All the time while Joe shot Duke, then I shot Joe, you never moved, moaned or anything.'

  'You were something else,' he said, a look of wonder in his eyes. 'You kept your head, you took command. I just wish I'd been fully conscious all the time, what a story to tell our children!'

  Tara blushed and giggled. 'Just you watch how you treat me from now on,' she said. 'I might crash you over the head with a frying pan, or run you down with a lawn mower.'