All day he had been worried about Maura . . . Her reaction. How to let her down gently. In his worried state he had concentrated wholly on Maura. Now the thought of her brother invaded his mind. He rolled the glass along his skin, savouring the coldness as he became unbearably hot.
He sat back in the chair. Everything in the room seemed to be mocking him. Even the TV set in the corner. Once again the dreadful feeling of foreboding pervaded his being. Michael Ryan would not like his sister being with a policeman, he would lay money on that.
He closed his eyes again. In his mind he could see Michael standing over him, threatening him with bodily harm. Suddenly he tensed. He could hear the scraping noise of a key going into a lock. His whole body was taut. In his mind’s eye he could see Michael Ryan letting himself into his flat. He sat in the chair paralysed with fright, the knuckles of his hand white as he clutched the glass. He heard the door swing open with its familiar creaking groan. Every nerve in his body was jangling. For the first time he knew the smell of fear. It seemed to rise up into his nostrils, an overpowering aroma of hot sticky stale sweat. Supposing Ryan had taken the key off Maura? They could have been seen out together. A hundred different thoughts whirled around in his head, leaving him breathless and dizzy . . .
Instead of Michael’s heavy footfall, he heard the familiar clatter of Maura’s heels as she stepped into the hall on to the worn linoleum. He collapsed into the chair like a rag doll. A thin trickle of sweat slipped down his forehead, over his eyebrow and down on to his cheek. A feeling of euphoria swept over him. It was Maura . . . Maura . . . Her name bounced around inside his head like a crazy pattern in a child’s kaleidoscope. She walked into the lounge and smiled at him.
‘You all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
He stood up awkwardly. Placing his glass on the small coffee table he went to her. Maura was in the process of putting her key back into her bag. Reaching out, he took it from her gently and slipped it into his trouser pocket. Maura looked at him.
‘What did you do that for?’ Her big luminous eyes held a hint of fear. He tried to smile and succeeded only in grimacing.
As he looked at her he didn’t see her lovely trusting face. Terry saw only Michael Ryan. A very angry Michael Ryan.
‘I think that we’re getting a bit too serious, love.’ It sounded lame even to his own ears. ‘I think we should cool it for a while. We’re both young . . .’ His voice trailed off. He felt so bad he could not meet her eyes. Maura just stood there thunderstruck.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Her voice sounded small and hurt.
Terry still could not bring himself to look at her so he walked back over to the window.
‘It’s quite simple really, Maura . . . I don’t want to get involved right now. I want to be free. Go out with other women. I don’t want to get tied down just yet.’
‘I see.’ Her voice was flat. Pride had taken over. ‘And just when did you come to this earth-shattering conclusion, may I ask? Only I was under the impression that you was my bloke . . . My chap, if you like that expression better. Now I find that I was just a screw.’ She stormed across the room to him, pulling him around to face her with considerable strength. ‘Let me tell you something, Terry bloody “I want to see other women” Petherick! I’m ...’
She stopped herself there and then. How could she tell him about the baby? Her eyes darted around the room, looking for a chance of escape. It was all going wrong. All the words she had practised on her way over here dried up inside her head. The picture she had built up in her mind of Terry taking her in his arms and whispering that they would always be together, no matter what, faded in front of her eyes like chalk paintings in the rain. He was dumping her. He had had his bit of fun and now she was ancient history.
The fight left her as quickly as it had come. The urge to rip his face open with her nails dissolved along with all her dreams and hopes. She felt the hot salty tears come and forced them away. If she had to go, she would go with dignity. She glanced around the room. She had experienced so much pleasure in this little flat, the result of which was inside her at this very moment. Should she tell him? Should she scream it out into his face? Make him take the responsibility? Even as the words formed in her mind she knew that she would never say them to him. She would never tell him about the child. Having him on sufferance would be far worse than not having him at all. She bent down wearily and picked her bag up off the floor. She had not even realised that she had dropped it. She turned to leave and his voice stayed her.
‘Believe me, Maws, I am really sorry about this.’
His voice sounded so sincere. She laughed bitterly. He had the knack of sounding sincere. Last night in bed he had told her that he loved her, and had sounded sincere. The lying, two-faced bastard!
Without facing him, she said: ‘Terry.’
‘Yes?’ His heart was breaking.
Gathering up every ounce of strength and hatred she could muster she turned to face him, launching herself at him with arms flying. She felt his skin tear beneath her nails. Felt the pure rush of pleasure as she made him hurt, as she was hurting. As quickly as the attack began, it stopped. The sudden urge of energy left her drained.
‘You can fuck off, Petherick!’ She saw his hand go up to his face. Four deep grooves on his cheek were bleeding simultaneously. She smiled at him, a nasty evil smile, and pointed her finger at him. Her long scarlet-painted nails made him flinch.
‘I never thought I would ever say this to you. You’re a dirty rotten swine. You took me and you used me. I trusted you, Terry.’ Her voice broke. ‘But I tell you something now, boy. The day will come when you will want me . . . when you will need me. You’ll live to regret this day, because if you live to one hundred years old you’ll never find anyone to love you like I do.’
With that she turned away from him and left the flat, slamming the door behind her.
Terry watched her leave. In his heart he knew that what she said was true. She deserved much better than the treatment he had given her. She was his first love, the first woman to meet him on an equal plane, and he had destroyed her with a few simple words. He was not surprised to feel that he was crying. The tears were running into the scratches on his face, making them sting. He had a terrible feeling that although he had destroyed Maura, somewhere along the line he had also destroyed himself. He saw droplets of blood falling on to his shirt, their deep crimson colour spreading over the material.
Suddenly he couldn’t let her go. He ran to the window. Pulling back the net curtain, he looked out on to the street. She was on the other side of the road, her head tucked into her coat. He knew that she too was crying. Fumbling with the ancient catch on the window he finally opened it and leant out, calling her at the top of his voice.
‘Maura . . . Maura . . . come back!’
His voice carried to her on the wind.
He knew that she could hear him, saw her hesitate before walking away faster, her white-blonde head tucked even further into the collar of her coat. He watched her until she turned the corner, the hum of the traffic grating on his ears.
Pulling his head back inside, he closed the window. The once friendly little room looked alien now, and hostile. Everywhere he looked was Maura Ryan . . . He could see her flitting about, putting up the curtains, making sandwiches or curled up with him on their special armchair. He could breathe in her perfume and taste her musky body. She was everywhere around him. He sat in the chair.
He was still sitting there thinking about her when he passed out much later in the evening. He had drunk the whole bottle of Scotch.
Maura was devastated. If someone had told her that Terry would dump her like that she would have laughed at them. ‘I want to see other women.’ Those words kept echoing in her head. They would stay with her for the rest of her life. Anything he could have said, even that he hated her, would not have had the profound effect that those few words had. Well, let him see other women! She hoped to God that he caught a ter
rible disease from them.
She passed the Angel and made her way along the Pentonville Road. The fact remained that she was still pregnant. She had an urge to go and drown herself but dismissed it. It was getting dark and she wandered aimlessly, trying to figure out what on earth to do. All around her were couples, holding hands, laughing, kissing. She pushed her hands further into her pockets and carried on walking, letting her legs carry her wherever they wanted to go. Terry’s face was fresh in her mind, his softness and his tenderness welcome memories to her in the cold evening wind.
She found herself at Kings Cross Station and was surprised at how far she had walked. A black cab came along the road and she hailed it, telling the driver to take her to Notting Hill. She sat in the back, huddled into a corner of the seat, staring listlessly out of the window at the rapidly moving landscape. A lone tear rolled down her face and she wiped it away impatiently. She was done with crying, she had more important things to think about.
The cab driver looked over his shoulder at her and asked cheerfully, ‘Whereabouts in Notting Hill, love?’
‘Lancaster Road, please.’ She wouldn’t go home just yet. She would go to Margaret’s. Margaret would know what to do. She rested her head on the window, her breath coming in little gasps that barely managed to create steam on the glass surface. She felt so lonely, so frightened. Her bottom lip quivered as she tried to stop the tears of frustration and rage. She loved him so much!
‘You all right, love?’ The driver’s voice was concerned.
She sat up in her seat and saw him watching her in the mirror above his windscreen.
She gave him a small childish smile. ‘No, actually, I’m not.’
He had a broad good-natured face. ‘You listen to me, girl. If it’s boyfriend trouble that’s put that frown on your boat, remember this. Us blokes ain’t worth it!’ He laughed at his own wit.
Maura looked back out of the window, then forced a large smile on to her face. ‘Don’t I bloody know it!’
Chapter Eleven
Michael Ryan was in the Valbonne nightclub in Kingly Street having a quick drink with his boyfriend, Jonny Fenwick. It was a well-known fact that Michael Ryan was a ‘brown hatter’. Not that anyone would call him that to his face. Far from taking anything away from his street credibility it enhanced it, because queers were known to be nasty bastards. They had a cruel twist to their nature and the best thing to do was to keep on the good side of them. There was no queer bashing when Michael Ryan hit the streets. He also took a woman now and again which further puzzled his friends and adversaries alike. It was proof of his ever changing habits. He treated his friends like he treated his lovers. He could go one way or the other.
At the moment Michael was besotted by Jonny Fenwick’s youth. He was a beautiful boy with thick blond curly hair and large, wide-spaced grey eyes. Mickey had put him up in a flat and paid him an allowance. He was Jonny Ryan now. Michael owned him, lock, stock and barrel. Jonny loved it, and loved being seen with Michael. Tonight, though, he was in a dilemma. He had heard a bit of gossip today concerning Michael’s sister and was not sure whether to tell him or not. He certainly didn’t want any comebacks off Michael if what he said turned out to be false. But Michael was in fine fettle tonight, full of laughter and jokes, and Jonny decided to risk it. Not only that, but that bitch Tommy was looking at him all gooey-eyed and Michael was loving it, so Jonny would use it as an excuse to get him away from the bar and Tommy! He tapped Michael’s arm.
‘What, mate?’ Michael’s voice was warm.
‘It’s a bit private, Mickey. I heard a bit of news today . . . I don’t want to talk about it here.’ He looked meaningfully at Tommy and pursed his lips. Michael nodded.
‘Come and sit down then.’
He picked up their drinks and led Jonny over to an empty table away from listening ears. Jonny sat down and crossed his legs, placing his hands one on top of the other on his knee. He leant towards Michael theatrically.
‘It’s about a member of your family. But first I want your solemn promise that you won’t go ape shit in here.’
Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘I won’t lose my temper. Now tell me what you heard.’
Jonny flicked his hair out of his eyes with a girlish gesture and said, ‘I asked you to promise me, Michael.’
He gritted his teeth. ‘For fuck’s sake, Jonny, spit it out. I ain’t got all night.’
Jonny licked his lips nervously. He wasn’t at all sure that he was doing the right thing now. Michael spoke of his little sister as a mixture of the Virgin Mary and the Queen. Either way, she was completely beyond reproach.
‘It’s about your sister . . . She’s got herself a boyfriend.’
Michael relaxed. ‘Is that all? Who?’
Jonny took a sip of his gin and tonic before answering. ‘It’s a policeman from Vine Street.’
Michael looked as if he had been hit by a bus.
‘A what!’
‘Keep your voice down! Do you want the whole world to know? He’s a young Detective Constable. Remember my friend little Mo, the fat queen from Kensington?’ Michael nodded. ‘Well, apparently he has a few friends at Vine Street, though myself I’d call them customers. Anyway, one of them told him. It seems a bigwig there . . . some bloke called Murphy . . . pulled the rug out from under him today. Told his Chief Inspector that he was seeing her . . . your sister. Apparently there was a big to-do about it. Anyway, little Mo rang me. And being a good boy, I thought you ought to know.’
Michael was staring at Jonny without seeing him. His face was dark with fury. The conniving little bitch! She’d been knocking about with a filth right under his nose. He felt a blinding compulsion to wring her neck.
‘Phone this little Mo and find out who his customers are. Names, ranks, the works. Tell him from me that if he decides to become coy I’ll break his fucking neck.’
Jonny nodded. ‘All right, Mickey. First thing in the morning.’
Michael was in the throes of a violent rage. Maura had never even brought a fellow home. A small rational thought broke into his reverie. It said to him, Well, she wouldn’t, would she? Of course not. She had a bit more sense than to bring an old Bill straight into her family of criminals. He could easily walk out of this club and smash her to a pulp. At least one good thing had come of it. He had the means to blackmail a few of the shirtlifters on the force. He consoled himself with that thought.
‘Look, Jon, I have to get around to me own club now. I’ll see you later on tonight.’
Jonny smiled his best smile. He had been the teller of very bad news and now he was scared. Michael was capable of taking the whole thing out on him.
‘All right, Mickey love.’ He fluttered his eyelashes as a woman might. Watching him, Michael experienced one of his lightning changes of mood. He laughed softly, guessing what was going through the boy’s mind. Wagging his finger in Jonny’s face, he said: ‘Behave yourself, you!’
To which Jonny answered seriously, ‘I don’t have much choice do I?’
Michael squeezed his shoulder affectionately and left the club.
As he made his way to Dean Street he thought about what Jonny had told him. The doorman of the Pink Pussycat hailed him and he waved back halfheartedly. His arrogant, strutting walk and dark countenance were familiar features around Soho. Unlike most of his contemporaries Michael didn’t feel the need to be surrounded by minders. His immense size, coupled with the fact that he was known to carry a piece, was warning enough for any would-be assassins. Since Michael had taken over as the Baron of the West End he had not had one serious threat. He was, to all intents and purposes, the business - the highest accolade that a villain could be awarded. As he walked to his club he was hailed by touts, prostitutes, bouncers and pimps. He crossed Shaftesbury Avenue into Dean Street itself and slowed his pace. If Maura was knocking about with a filth he would kill her. He hadn’t fought tooth and nail since he was seventeen to have his little baby sister blow it all wide open for him. He gritted
his teeth in temper. He had worshipped her, would have given her the earth if she had asked for it. But he wouldn’t allow her to have this bloke. Never! He would find out everything he could about this copper and then he would nip it in the bud. He stormed into Le Buxom at ten-fifteen.
The club was just picking up. A few stray punters were having a drink. They were ‘weekend warriors’ - the nickname given to men who saved up their meagre earnings as civil servants or bank clerks and came up West once a month for a drink, sex and excitement. An experienced tom could tell them a mile off from their off-the-peg suits to their Freeman, Hardy and Willis shoes. The older women gravitated to them, secure in the knowledge that it would be an easy lay. These men were too scared of their wives and the police ever to cause any trouble. They were seldom rough, and because they had to make their money stretch were hardly choosy. The only bugbear for the club was the fact that they only ever bought one bottle of champagne, making it last all night, until the final stripper had departed. A weekend warrior was the only sort of punter who provided the women with an opportunity actually to drink the stuff.
Michael looked around the club. It was half empty. He noticed Benny sitting at a table with one of the younger girls, a pretty little piece known affectionately as Pussy. Despite his anger Michael smiled. Benny had a permanent hard on. As soon as a new hostess arrived, Benny was there, cock standing to attention. There was a longstanding joke in all the rival clubs that without Benny, Le Buxom would have gone bankrupt years ago. Michael stood by the meat seats. For once the girls there were subdued. He had that effect on people. The girls rarely spoke to him unless he addressed them personally. The stench of cheap perfume was overpowering. Michael nodded to them and made his way out into the foyer and upstairs to the offices.
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