by Roberta Kray
‘Are you all right?’ I ask again. ‘Has something happened? Come on, Dee, talk to me.’ It’s rare to see her like this. Usually so bright and feisty, she’s not the type to sink into introspection. When I look closer I see that her eyes, the same distinctive blue as Marc’s, are liquid and red-rimmed.
‘Can you believe it?’ she replies, shaking her head. ‘Everything he put us through and that bloody fool still invites him here.’ She makes another assault on her glass before opening her arms in a drunken gesture. Rather more loudly than necessary and in a mimicking tone she shouts: ‘Hey old friend, come on in, our home is yours. Happy Christmas and welcome to our life.’
The old friend I presume is Johnny Frank. I ask with more than a hint of anxiety: ‘But he’s not coming, is he? Can’t you just say no?’
‘What do you think I’ve been trying to do?’ This time her tone is a little snappy but as if she instantly regrets it she lays her hand over mine again. ‘It’s not that easy, love.’
And it suddenly occurs to me with equal amounts of alarm and astonishment that Dee has already lost the battle. At some earlier point in the evening, perhaps for the first time ever, she has raised the white flag and surrendered.
I take a moment to catch my breath. Such defeats are unheard of in the Buckley household.
‘I suppose not,’ I eventually agree, although only because it feels like the right and conciliatory thing to say. And also, if I’m being truthful, because I want to find out more. ‘Is he really that bad?’
She smiles and looks at me sadly. It’s a kind but impatient look, the sort adults usually reserve for children or for those of a diminished mental capacity. Although on the surface indulgent, underneath it screams: You can’t understand.
‘I told him,’ she says, a fact that has been quite self-evident over recent days, ‘I told him I didn’t want him here. Never! But did he listen?’ She makes a huffing sound in the back of her throat. ‘I told him—’
‘So why did Jim ask?’ I persist, quickly interrupting what might become a lengthy ramble.
She lifts her shoulders in a gesture of resignation. ‘He didn’t,’ she says, contradicting her earlier statement.
Now I’m confused. ‘So why—’
This time it’s her turn to interrupt. ‘He invited himself.’ Dee frowns into her glass. Then she opens her mouth again and laughs; it’s a harsh barking sound that bears no relation to humour. ‘And no one argues with Johnny Frank.’
Not knowing Johnny Frank, or even wanting to, I can’t reasonably respond to this opinion. Which isn’t to say that Dee’s words don’t make my blood run cold. And somewhere, in the distant regions of my mind, I’m still trying to decipher her everything he put us through comment, a phrase that begs a hundred questions and bears slim relation to Marc’s dismissive description of ‘just some geezer they used to know’.
Now I’m no lawyer but I recognize conflicting testimonies when I hear them. So either Marc is prevaricating, not entirely impossible if past experience is anything to go by, or he’s as much in the dark as I am. But whatever the truth, there’s still some family history here – and it’s not of the pleasant or cuddly variety.
I’m staring into the middle distance, trying to make sense of it all, when Dee stands up and wanders over to the fridge. Her steps, although not exactly in pace, are still far from staggering as she retrieves another chilled bottle of wine and with the skill of a sommelier opens it with a few twists of her wrist.
So much for not wanting a hangover.
‘Here,’ she says, sloshing a generous measure into my glass.
‘Thanks.’ And although I’ve theoretically given up, I also accept a cigarette. There’s a time and a place for heroic denial. Suspecting there are things, probably unpalatable things, that I will need to face I’m keen to gather all the crutches I can.
For a while we smoke and drink in silence. Five years ago this interaction would have been unthinkable. When I first met and married Marc there was nothing but suspicion between us: like two territorial cats we slowly circled each other, hissing gently. For me, Dee was one of those almost obsolete matriarchs, a protector not just of her son but of a thousand other arcane East End principles of love and loyalty – and for her I was just some stuck-up ambitious prissy bitch who came from the other side of the tracks.
It’s taken us a while to cross the boundaries.
Perhaps the real turning point came not after Marc’s first conviction but after his second. I think she was as stunned as I was by what he’d done. And equally shocked that I didn’t pack my bags and leave. During that terrible period, often sharing the twice-monthly two-hour prison visits, our strained relationship gradually slipped into something less hostile. What was the point in arguing? With so much else to rail against – the long queues, the smug officers and the inevitably humiliating searches – we no longer had the will to fight each other as well.
Not that we’re exactly best friends now; I doubt if anyone could meet the exacting standards she demands of any woman fortunate enough to marry her firstborn. But we rub along and on the whole our relationship is pretty equable.
‘So what would you do?’ Dee asks, breaking suddenly into my reverie. This time her expression is different, almost pleading, as if I might actually be able to offer some useful advice.
I’m startled. It’s so out of character for her to ask for anyone’s opinion, least of all mine, that I suspect she must feel seriously out of her depth. But how can I help? I haven’t got a clue as to what this nightmare is about. All I know is that there’s something nasty lurking in the woodpile. Speaking my thoughts out loud I mutter: ‘How did this . . . how did Jim . . . how did . . .’ No, this is useless. Taking a long drink and then a deep breath, I demand more forcefully: ‘So who exactly is this Johnny Frank?’
I’m not sure whether it’s the directness of the question or just the booze that momentarily sends her reeling. Whatever the reason, Dee jumps back as if she’s been hit. Her chair scrapes a few inches across the floor. Then as quickly she recovers and finds the way forward to her glass. She takes a few fast gulps, before she looks at me again. ‘You want to know about Johnny?’ she asks.
I nod encouragingly.
She gives me that smile again, the one that reminds me of how much I’ll never understand. ‘Well, then I’ll tell you.’ Although she doesn’t immediately, pausing perhaps for effect or just for a chance to gather her thoughts.
I take temporary refuge in a study of the table. It’s a nice piece of furniture, wide and long and scored with generations of use. Oak, I think, although I’m not entirely sure.
When she eventually speaks it’s with a low hiss. ‘He’s scum. Johnny Frank is scum. He’s a no-good, low-life, murdering bastard.’
And there’s not much you can say to that. So I don’t even bother trying.
Chapter Two
Johnny
Last night I burned all Sarah’s letters.
I didn’t read them again. Why should I? I put them in the basin, set them alight, and watched the pages slowly turn to ashes. Then I doused them with water and shoved the sodden remains down the bog. A fitting and symbolic end to an era.
And I could claim I don’t regret it, but I do. It might have been a necessary action, the only way to move forward, but a part of me still wants to go back and put my hand down that fucking U-bend and drag them out again.
Sarah.
The road is slipping past and I’m staring intently through the windscreen, trying to block out Jim’s incessant manic chatter and wondering, ridiculously, if I might see her again. What if I catch a glimpse of that seductive swaying walk, if by chance she suddenly appears, if she raises those hazel eyes and . . .
But what the hell am I talking about? She doesn’t even live here any more. She’s long gone. It’s been over ten agonizing years since we . . .
Shit, that was an awful day.
I can still remember what she was wearing. Black. Of course it was bl
ack. A demure black sweater and matching skirt, black tights and black shoes. Sarah always had a sense of occasion.
And this was some fucking funeral.
‘I’m sorry, Johnny.’
And I knew what she was going to say. I knew what she was going to do. The moment of doom, like some bloody meteorite, was hurtling towards me.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered again.
I wanted to scream at her to shut up. Please. Please.
She tried to take my hand but I pulled away. I couldn’t bear for her to touch me, for this to be the last time she touched me. The room was beginning to turn, to slide in and out of focus. I bit down hard on my tongue to stop myself from speaking. Blood seeped into my mouth. But that was better than talking. A man has his dignity and I wasn’t going to beg.
That she had finally chosen to leave was no great shock. Perhaps the greater surprise was that she stayed so long. For six long years she held on to the dream but faced with another ten, another twelve, another fuck knows how many – well, what kind of love can survive that?
A better person might have spared her the pain of trying to find out. A decent man might have set her free.
But I have never professed, or aspired, to be either.
And if Buckley would just stop talking for a minute, just close his babbling guilty mouth, I might be able to concentrate on what brought us to that point in the first place. Why does he imagine I have any interest in his tedious commentary on the motorways of outer London? Glaring out of the window I try to nullify his voice before I’m tempted to silence it for ever.
But maybe, as hard as I am trying to remember, he is trying to forget.
It all started with the Hatton Garden job, the perfect robbery. Eighteen years ago. Four of us – Dixie, Roy Foster, the driver Eddie Tate, and me. In and out in fifteen minutes, a bloody good result and one to be proud of. A decent haul of gems and jewellery and the split was more than lucrative.
Then three or four days later, Foster comes knocking at the office door of the club, drunk as a skunk and screaming like a banshee. Claimed we’d ripped him off. Where was the rest of his share? Dixie trying to quieten him down while we pulled him inside, away from the punters. Foster’s skinny weasel face pink and twisted, his hand flourishing the newspaper, slapping it down against the desk over and over. Where is it? Where is it? You fucking thieving bastards! Accusing us of cheating him.
Well, you can’t have it, can you? A man’s got his reputation to consider. So no, I’m not denying I gave him a slap, just hard enough to bring him to his senses, to rattle those sodden brains of his back into some semblance of sobriety. And then out the other door to the top of the stone stairwell that led down to the rear fire exit. Escorted off the premises as they say. Or at least that was the intention. But he was too far gone to be sensible about it, grabbing my jacket, struggling, twisting, almost spitting in my face. It was only a push, a push to get his grasping grubby fingers away from me. And before I know it he’s rolling down those steps like some fucking sack of spuds, rolling and rolling . . .
Shit, I can still hear the crack as his skull hit the concrete wall. And the silence that came after.
Anyone else might have survived with a few cuts and bruises, a mild concussion, but not Foster. No, that fucker had to go and get his head caved in. He always was a malignant little bastard.
So there we are with a corpse on our hands – and what jury’s going to believe that this was accidental? At the very best I’m looking at a manslaughter charge. So getting rid seems like the smartest option, dumping him somewhere over the river, and hoping it will look like he took a drunken tumble. Which isn’t so far off the truth.
And we might have got away with it if someone hadn’t witnessed the event, and if that someone hadn’t been Jim Buckley, and if I hadn’t slept with Jim Buckley’s fucking whore of a wife, and if he couldn’t wait to get his fucking revenge. So there you go. Truth and consequences.
Before we know it the Old Bill are crawling all over and it’s not so easy to explain why you’ve got a corpse curled up in the boot of your car. And it’s only a few quick easy steps from there to the Old Bailey and from there to a life sentence . . . and the rest, as they say, is history.
It took me a while to find out who. Almost a decade. Because I didn’t know Buckley was in The Palace that night. I hadn’t seen him on my usual rounds and hadn’t expected to. Since the whole Dee business we hadn’t exactly been on speaking terms, but of course it was typical he’d be lurking in the shadows somewhere, licking his wounds, and waiting for some cowardly way to get his own back. Shit, he must have gone down on his knees and praised the Lord.
I can’t recall who mentioned his name. Another villain, some loser passing through the system who was worried perhaps that I might accuse him. Running through the list of everyone he’d seen that evening, like a roll call of possible suspects. And suddenly there he was, Mr James fucking Buckley, and it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together.
I sneak a sideways glance at his fleshy profile, at his multiple chins and reddened bulbous nose. That face has haunted my dreams. Has he lost any sleep over what he’s done? Has he ever regretted, even for a moment, that he picked up that phone and dialled away my life? If he had the chance would he do the same again?
‘It probably looks a bit different, huh?’ he’s asking. ‘The streets and all.’ And when I don’t reply, as if he’s frightened of the silence, he frowns and starts to chatter on again.
And I’m back to thinking of Sarah. Imagining her walking along the road. Imagining one more day, one more night with her.
But Sarah’s gone. She’s in the past. The bastard who’s sitting beside me was responsible for that. He made a choice and I paid the price.
And now he’s going to pay too.
Chapter Three
Simone
It’s Monday, a few days before Christmas, and the shop is busy. I’m trying not to think about the impending arrival of our guest; the truth is that he worries me too much. Not that I’m afraid in the physical sense – I don’t expect him to be roaming the house with a bloodied axe – but I feel he may be dangerous in a far more subtle way.
Dee is still on tenterhooks, short-tempered and quick to take offence. Although she hasn’t mentioned our chat and I haven’t raised the subject either, I suspect she wishes it had never taken place. Today, she came in for a couple of hours and disappeared at noon.
Marc is unforthcoming about what might or might not have happened in the past. When I told him about the conversation he simply looked blank but as this is an expression he has carefully cultivated, and which is almost second nature, I’m still in the dark as to how much he actually knows.
‘Don’t you think it’s odd?’ I asked. ‘You know what your mother’s like. She doesn’t usually get fazed by anything – or anyone. I’ve never seen her like that before. She looked . . .’ I hesitated to use the word frightened, it seemed too strong a description. ‘. . . She looked anxious.’
He gave one of his shrugs. ‘She’s just stressed out about the shop and Christmas and everything. It’s a busy time of year. Don’t fret about it.’
Although if I didn’t, I’m not sure who would. Sometimes Marc is so laid back only a cattle prod could galvanize him into action. ‘Has your dad mentioned anything?’
‘About Mum?’
‘About him.’
He heard the irritation in my voice and scowled. ‘God, Simone, I don’t see why you’re getting so worked up about this. He’s not Jack the Ripper! Relax. Everything will be fine.’
But I couldn’t stop pacing the room. ‘I just don’t understand how your parents ever got involved with him. I mean isn’t he . . . wasn’t he . . . some kind of gangster?’
This time he laughed out loud. ‘Didn’t I ever mention the Buckley connections? Oh, very shady. The criminal fraternity shakes in its boots every time the name’s mentioned.’ He took a moment to appreciate his own joke before throwing
an arm along the back of the sofa and tilting his head. ‘Why don’t you sit down? You’re making me dizzy.’
‘Don’t look at me then!’
‘How’s that possible when you’re so adorable?’ He leaned forward, grabbed my arm and pulled me down beside him. ‘Come here, wife! I need you.’
I took a moment to gaze into his face, at those magnificent blue eyes, at the Roman nose, and the cleft in his chin I had once loved so much. The face of a hero, of a movie star. Which only goes to prove how deceptive looks can be. We embraced in that familiar and comforting way. Not passionately. Not with fiery red-hot flames. But easily and tenderly.
However, even as his mouth closed over mine it crossed my mind, and this is how paranoia starts, that he might only be doing it to shut me up.
But that’s not something I want to think about either. So now I’m trying to concentrate on the job in hand, trying to stay focused while I organize the next day’s deliveries and fulfil the seemingly endless requests for bouquets. There’s plenty of passing trade today, mainly from men with guilty demeanours, men perhaps who misbehaved at the office Christmas party, had a drink too many, an indiscreet fumble or worse, and now have a lot of making up to do. On the whole they choose red roses, an unimaginative but suitably expensive gesture.
Kerry Anne brings me a mug of tea and hovers while I smooth the cellophane of yet another splashy offering. In a final flourish I wrap a length of baby pink ribbon around the base, twisting it easily into a perfect bow. Voila! Twenty months ago my bows were limp and uninspired but practice makes perfect and now they positively clamour for congratulation.
The man, in his mid-forties, pays by cash and tentatively picks up the arrangement. While he waits for his change he awkwardly holds the flowers away from him. They won’t bite! I want to say but wisely hold my tongue.
As he’s opening the door, Kerry Anne leans forward and whispers: ‘I bet they’re for his mistress.’