Playing Around

by Gilda O'Neill

  When he reached his Morris Minor, Jameson slapped the bonnet hard with the flat of his hand.

  DCI Marshall was finished. Well and truly finished.

  He unlocked the car and got in. ‘Right, Fuller,’ he said in a low, steady voice. ‘Your protection’s gone. I’m ready for you now.’

  Jameson hummed tunelessly to himself as he drove towards Greek Street. With a bit of luck, Fuller and his cronies would still be there, going over the day’s business, and, with a bit of patience, Jameson would get a glimpse of them when they left, and would see if they looked worried.

  But, much as he would have enjoyed such a sight, Jameson doubted if they would look even slightly concerned.

  Those men had a mentality, lived a life, that thrived on risk and notoriety as much as it did on financial gain; you only had to see them swanking about to know that. It drove Jameson mad, how so many ordinary, supposedly decent, men and women had such an appetite for reading all about the villains’ so-called glamorous lives, with their night-clubs, their tarts and their showbiz friends.

  The public encouraged it. Encouraged it, that was, until they were touched by it. Until it was their kid found out of his head on acid, or caught selling it on to even younger kids to finance their kicks. Then they weren’t so impressed by the likes of David Fuller.

  Jameson was going to have him. Show him that his glamorous life also had its costs, and that being banged up in the Scrubs wasn’t glamorous at all.

  ‘I didn’t know whether to expect you or not this morning, Ange.’ Jackie closed the street door behind her. ‘You’ve not exactly been a regular at work lately, have you?’

  ‘Don’t start, Jack.’

  Jackie managed to keep quiet until they had almost reached the station, then it all just spilled over. ‘Martin’s been away for the whole weekend. At his girlfriend’s. He phoned late last night to say he was going straight in to college today, and wouldn’t be home till tonight. Big posh house in the country, they live in. He says her family are loaded. Her dad drinks too much, her mum seems lonely and he wouldn’t live in the country if you paid him.’ She glanced sideways at Angie, then added, ‘I think he’s sleeping with her.’

  ‘What?’ Angie sounded preoccupied, as if she hadn’t been listening.

  ‘Martin. Sleeping with Jill. His girlfriend.’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he?’

  ‘Angie!’

  ‘Well, don’t be so square.’

  ‘Pardon me for breathing.’ Jackie linked her arm roughly through Angie’s, punishment for not being interested. Or pretending not to be interested. ‘Mum would kill him if he got her pregnant.’

  ‘Jackie, I couldn’t care less about your brother’s sex life. Can we talk about something else? Please?’

  ‘You’ve changed.’

  ‘What, because I’ve got a boyfriend?’

  ‘Boyfriend.’ Jackie snorted. ‘Angie, he is a man. Not a boy. A much older man. And I think you should be careful.’

  ‘Not jealous, are you?’

  ‘All right. If you must know, I am.’

  Angie looked at her. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Course I am. You go off to some party in bloody Chelsea with a bloke in a Jag, and I wind up in a dance hall over the shops in Forest Gate with a gang of girls from school. And it was my birthday.’

  ‘Sorry, Jack. Did you have a good time?’

  Jackie smiled. ‘Yeah. I did actually.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I met someone.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Andrew. Really nice. Works in the City. And he’s nearly as mod as Martin.’

  Angie narrowed her eyes.

  ‘All right, I won’t mention him again.’

  They pushed their way through the crowd down the station steps.

  ‘Know what would be nice, Ange? If we could go on a double date some time.’

  ‘I don’t think so, do you, Jack? David’s not exactly the sort to go dancing at the Lotus.’

  ‘Pardon me for breathing. But I didn’t mean with David, I meant with one of Andrew’s friends.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Jack.’

  ‘Too good for going out with the likes of me now, are you?’

  ‘No. You know I don’t mean that. I just like the life David’s shown me. The places he takes me.’

  Jackie had it on the tip of her tongue to say – you mean, the things David gets for me, and that Angie was sounding a bit too much like her mum – but she didn’t want to cause a row.

  Angie stepped back from the edge of the platform as the train came into sight. ‘By the way, Jack, I’ve decided I’m giving up my job.’

  It was almost lunchtime, and Vi was walking back from Sam’s shop, where she had been ‘helping’ him in the stock-room. She was reading the headlines of the Daily Clarion, laughing out loud.

  ‘Morning.’ It was Tilly Murray coming towards her. She addressed her neighbour through pursed lips. ‘Something’s tickling your funny bone, Violet.’

  Vi held out the paper. ‘It’s this dirty old sod,’ she said, pointing to the front page that was almost entirely taken up with a flash photograph of a startled-looking Detective Chief Inspector Gerald Marshall. ‘Strange what gets some fellers going.’

  Tilly tutted and adjusted her headscarf. ‘Disgusting. Ought not be allowed.’

  Vi smiled craftily. Baiting her saintly neighbour was one of her little pleasures. ‘Don’t you and your Stan ever fancy something a little bit … you know, kinky, to put the lead in that old pencil of his?’

  Tilly’s face went an unflattering, pale mauve. ‘Jackie tells me you’re seeing that Nick again.’

  Vi folded the paper and tucked it into her gondola-shaped straw basket. ‘I’m flattered you’ve been discussing my private life, Tilly. Delighted, in fact. And, as you’re so interested, you might as well know the real story. I’ve not seen Nick for a while. He’s been busy.’ The part of the truth she didn’t mention was that she’d left Nick high and dry, just as she had so many times before, to chase what she saw as a temporarily better prospect. Sam. He might have been even less physically attractive than Nick – he had the looks of a spanked arse and the manners of a monkey – but he had a chain of shops and he worked a lot, giving her the chance to indulge herself with the very handsome, if far less dependable prospect, Craig.

  Craig was Vi’s latest passion: slightly younger, better-looking by miles than Nick, Scottish, and more than a touch unreliable. He wasn’t entirely new on the scene – she had first met him about a year ago – but he was always being called away, always having to go back north of the border. It had annoyed Vi then, not because he was married – she couldn’t care less about that – but because at the time he had been the only one on the firm and she hadn’t liked not having a back-up. But now it suited her perfectly. When Craig wasn’t around, it gave her a bit of time to spoil Sam, to keep him sweet, to ‘help him out’ in the stock-room, and to enjoy first-rate dinners and some lovely little presents, all at pudding-faced Sam’s expense.

  The arrangement was all rather neat; it would be neater still if she could guarantee the times that Angie would be out of the house everyday. She didn’t know what had got into the girl. When she wanted her at home to help, she was out, and now, when she wanted her to piss off to work or somewhere, she was always under her feet. It didn’t actually bother Vi, Angie being there, it was that she was looking so … well … sodding good. Too good. It was bloody infuriating.

  Tilly folded her arms. ‘Must be lonely on your own.’

  Vi raised a heavily pencilled eyebrow. ‘Who said I was on my own?’

  Tilly’s lips became even thinner. ‘My Martin’s courting. Lovely girl. Comes from a really good family. Rich and all.’

  ‘That’s nice.’ The boredom in Vi’s voice was as apparent as the look of tedium on her face.

  ‘And I reckon your Angie’s seeing someone as well.’

  ‘News to me.’

  Before she could stop herself, Til
ly snapped, ‘Don’t you care about that girl, Violet?’

  Vi took her cigarettes out of her trenchcoat pocket and took her time lighting one. ‘Not as much as you do, obviously.’ She smiled nastily. ‘Better get on, Tilly, some of us can’t spend all day gossiping. Things to do. People to see.’ She inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out slowly. ‘Ta ta for now.’

  With that, she tightened the belt of her mac, slung her basket further up her arm and wiggled off on her high heels.

  Chapter 12

  IT WAS ALMOST a fortnight since Tilly had had the exchange with Violet about Angie and now, a chance meeting with Pauline Thompson – the biggest gossip on the whole estate – had only served to confirm Tilly’s worst fears about the girl’s welfare.

  ‘Stan,’ she gasped, standing over her husband as he sat in his armchair in the front room, puffing on his pipe and reading the Daily Mirror, digesting the enormous bacon-and-onion suet roll he had had for his tea. ‘You’ll never guess what Pauline Thompson just told me.’

  Stan Murray didn’t respond. It was Friday night, he’d had a long, hard week at work, and listening to some old nonsense passed on to his wife by Pauline Thompson, who could talk a glass eye to sleep, wasn’t very high on his list of priorities. So he just cocked a deaf one, and let her carry on.

  ‘Stan. Are you listening to me?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  ‘I was outside sweeping the front path – you wouldn’t believe the rubbish that gets blown under that gate from the street of an evening. But I know who the kids are, the ones who drop all them sweet wrappers. They’re out there, hanging around by the lamppost. I’ve a good mind to go and see their mothers.’

  Stan, more interested in an article on the evil threat of drug-pushers moving in on the housing estates than in the provenance of discarded Jamboree Bags, kept on reading. But, knowing his wife’s persistence when it came to putting the world to rights, he kept up the pretence of having a conversation with her.

  ‘Really?’ he offered non-committally.

  ‘Anyway, according to Pauline Thompson, Violet Knight is having an affair.’ As she said the last two words, she banged her broom down twice for added drama. ‘Affair’ wasn’t part of Tilly’s usual vocabulary and her using such a word, along with the broom banging, had the effect of getting Stan’s full attention.

  He let the paper drop to his lap and took the pipe from his mouth. ‘An affair, Tilly? Are you sure?’

  ‘Positive. And with Sam Clarke, if you don’t mind. Whatever would that poor wife of his have to say if she found out? There’s her working all hours and there’s that hussy, Violet Knight, flashing around the presents he’s buying her and bragging about all the fancy places they go to. No better than a Cable Street trollop, if you want my opinion. No wonder her Angie’s running loose. Our Jackie said she’s never in of a night. Never. And you won’t believe this, she’s handed in her notice. And her with that good job and all. A disgrace. That’s what it is.’

  The conversation, or rather his wife’s monologue, had lost its sparkle for Stan. Affairs were one thing, any man would be interested in the idea of Violet Knight … well, of Violet Knight, full stop. She was a fine-looking woman. But what some kid was getting up to at work? Stan could easily get by without knowing the details of that, thank you very much.

  ‘You know, Stan, I feel like going up to Poplar and having a word with Sarah Pearson. That girl’s nan would be shocked if she knew what was going on.’

  Stan picked up his paper and began searching for his place in the article.

  ‘Don’t get involved, Tilly,’ he said, knocking out his pipe in the ashtray. ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘But poor little Angie. She’s like one of our own.’

  ‘You’re too good, love,’ Stan said, closing his part in the proceedings. Then added ambiguously, ‘That’s your trouble.’

  At the other end of the terrace, there was rather more than a bit of sweeping, gossiping and reading going on. Angie was watching television in the front room, singing along with the Byrds’ ‘Mr Tambourine Man’; Vi was in the kitchen, fresh from the bath, with just a towel wrapped round her, checking her hair in the small mirror over the sink and looking forward to a Friday night on the town; and Craig was standing behind her, running his hands up and down her hips.

  ‘Don’t jog me, Craig,’ Vi said, batting at him playfully, ‘or I’ll never get these flick-ups right.’

  ‘Don’t bother with your hair, Vi,’ he murmured in his soft, Scottish drawl, nuzzling into her damp neck, and breathing in the scent of talc and hair lacquer. ‘We don’t have to go out.’

  ‘Oh yes we do.’ Vi twisted round in his arm and pecked him on the lips. ‘I want a very large gin and tonic, followed by a slap-up meal and a bottle of wine. Then we’ll come back here and I’ll show you how grateful I am for such a smashing night out.’

  Resigned to paying for his pleasures, Craig slumped down on to the kitchen chair. ‘You win. As usual.’

  Vi used one hand to trace his lovely, sculpted mouth and the other to tuck in her towel more securely. ‘Of course I win. Now I’ll just go up and get dressed. I’ll be five minutes.’

  Craig looked sceptical.

  ‘OK, ten. Fifteen at the most.’

  Craig rolled his eyes and slapped her on the backside. ‘I know you, Vi. I’ll see you in about half an hour. When you’ve tried on every frock in your wardrobe.’

  As she ran giggling up the stairs, Vi called out to Angie, ‘Make some coffee, Angie. The kettle’s almost boiled.’

  Rather than going through the rigmarole of having yet another row – her not going in to work every day was becoming almost an obsession with her mum – Angie did as she was told.

  Still singing at the top of her voice, Angie stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. ‘Oh, you’re here.’ She gave Craig nothing more than a passing glance as she went over to the cooker where the kettle was whistling loudly. She turned off the gas and took a moment to compose herself. She couldn’t stand the cocky so-and-so. He was so full of himself. And the way her mum swooned over his every word. It turned Angie’s stomach. Why she was going out with him again was beyond Angie.

  No it wasn’t.

  He was good-looking, at least five years younger than her mum, and he earned good money. What more could she want?

  Angie gritted her teeth. He was acting just like he used to: as if he owned the place – feet stretched out under the table, flicking through her mum’s copy of Weekend and waiting for her to make him coffee.

  And she was sure he was ogling her. Even with her back to him. It made her flesh creep.

  Angie was right, he was.

  Craig hadn’t seen Vi’s daughter for months, and he was, to say the least, very pleasantly surprised. She looked sensational. He tossed the magazine on to the kitchen table and looked her slowly up and down.

  ‘Very tasty, darling. Very tasty indeed. I have to say, it is a very striking improvement. Been to the beauty parlour, have you?’

  When she ignored him, he tried another tack. ‘Smoke?’

  Angie would have loved to have said yes to a cigarette, she was gasping for one, but she wouldn’t dare risk smoking in front of her mum, it would just give her another excuse to have a go at her. ‘No. I don’t.’

  She bit on her lip and spooned Nescafé, crossly, into two mugs, one for her mum and, grudgingly, one for him. ‘I can’t remember, do you take sugar?’

  Craig stood up and moved so close to her, she could feel his breath on the back of her hair.

  ‘No. No sugar. But I like my girls sweet, Angie. Just like you.’

  She could hardly believe the cheek of him. The creep was actually touching her leg.

  Angie spun round to confront him. ‘What the hell do you think you’re—’

  Before she could finish, Craig’s mouth was covering hers and his hand was grabbing at her breast.

  Angie struggled and kicked out at him, but it was useless, he was too strong for h
er; he had her pinned against him and was forcing his tongue between her lips.

  He might have been strong, but his timing was lousy. He had just torn two of the buttons off Angie’s top, in a fumbled attempt to get inside her bra, when Vi came back into the kitchen.

  ‘Angela! Stop that! Stop it now!’ Vi grabbed Angie’s arm and wrenched her out of Craig’s grip.

  ‘Me?’ Angie staggered back, stunned, against the table. Not only had her mum’s boyfriend just attacked her, she was being blamed for it. She rubbed the back of her hand roughly across her mouth, trying to get rid of the taste of him. ‘You should ask that … that thing what he thinks he’s doing. Not me.’

  Vi poked Craig in the chest. ‘Well?’

  ‘Don’t get excited, Vi.’

  ‘Don’t get excited?’ Vi’s hands trembled as she snatched up her cigarettes from the window ledge. ‘I come in the kitchen—’

  ‘Just look at her. Throwing herself at me, she was. Begging for it. Dirty little slut.’

  ‘Mum,’ Angie pleaded. ‘He ripped my shirt open.’

  ‘For Christ sake!’ Vi, having just noticed that her daughter’s nipples were showing through her exposed, lacy bra, was becoming almost hysterical. ‘Cover yourself up.’

  Angie, with tears spilling down her cheeks, pulled the torn blouse around her.

  Craig curled his lip. ‘If my daughter—’

  ‘Your daughter?’ screamed Angie. ‘How old’s she then? Can’t be more than, what, five or six? Because, let’s face it, Craig, you’re not much older than me.’

  ‘Angela,’ Vi’s voice was now low and menacing, ‘if you think you can carry on like this under my roof.’

  ‘Like what?’ This was so ridiculous it was almost funny. It was like watching a farce on the telly, when everything gets confused and people pop in and out of the wrong doors and girls’ dresses just fall off and men run around in their underpants. ‘Mum …’

  Vi dragged on her cigarette. ‘Get out.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Get out of my sight.’

  Angie suddenly felt very calm. ‘You’ve said that too many times.’

  ‘Well, I mean it this time.’