It was not until the next morning that Sarah found out why her daughter had slept so peacefully and for so long. Finding that she could not wake Maura, Sarah pulled the blankets from her, disturbed by her daughter’s whiteness. A mass of deep red blood had seeped from her, till it covered nearly all her lower body and soaked the sheets and bedding. Maura Ryan was haemorrhaging her life’s blood away.
Sarah’s screams finally brought her friend Pat Johnstone running into the house. She took one look at the scene before her and phoned for an ambulance. The two women sat together as Maura was operated on, united in grief and worry.
Pat Johnstone had known immediately what had happened and she swore to her friend that the knowledge would go to her grave with her. After phoning the ambulance she had phoned Michael, not knowing what else to do. Now she held her friend’s hand.
Sarah sat in limbo, waiting for the operation to be over. She would wish to her dying day that she had not taken her daughter to that little flat in Peckham, that she had let her have the baby in St Charles’s hospital where they were fighting so valiantly to save her life. She closed her eyes tightly to blot out the troubling visions that kept disturbing her . . .
She heard the swish of the swing doors that led to the operating theatre and turned in the direction of the noise. It was the surgeon. His gown was covered in blood and his face strained. For one awful moment Sarah thought that her daughter had died. Then he spoke.
‘Mrs Ryan, your daughter is over the worst now.’
Sarah heard her own voice. ‘Thank God! Oh, thank God,’
‘I wouldn’t be so quick to thank him if I were you, Mrs Ryan. Your daughter was very badly smashed up inside. We’ve had to remove her ovaries. An infection had set in and I’m afraid she was in no fit state to fight it. Whoever the person was who operated on your daughter, they should be facing a life sentence.’ He shook his head slowly. ‘By rights she should be dead. As it is she will never have a child . . . another child. She still hasn’t regained consciousness yet. But as I said before, the worst of it is over. Though how she will react mentally, I really couldn’t say.’
‘Thank you, Doctor. Thank you.’ Sarah’s voice was low and full of shame.
‘Whoever it was who did this to your daughter should be put away. I have never, in all my years, seen anything like it. It was as if they had used a battering ram inside her. I’m afraid I must insist that you give me the address. I won’t tell the police anything about your daughter. I feel she has been punished enough. But I cannot allow this ever to happen again.’
Sarah nodded. Opening her bag she gave the surgeon the piece of paper the chemist had given Maura. He took it. Patting Sarah’s shoulder, he said, ‘I know that sometimes the easy way out looks inviting. But it never works out, you know. In the end it pays to do things properly. Your daughter’s being taken to Intensive Care if you would like to see her.’ He walked off with the paper clutched in his hand.
When Sarah and Pat got to the Intensive Care Unit Michael was already there. He had just arrived in the hospital. Seeing him, Sarah forgot all the harsh words and ran into his outstretched arms. Michael held his mother to him, tears in his eyes. While all the staff looked at the big handsome man comforting his mother, Terry Petherick was being beaten mercilessly by two hired thugs. It would be three months before he came out of hospital and nearly a year before he went back to work.
Sitting his mother down, Michael asked one of the nurses to get her a cup of tea. He wiped her eyes with his handkerchief and then went into the little ward to see his sister. He stared down at her, shocked by what he saw. The years seemed to have been piled on her overnight. Her high cheekbones stood out starkly against her white skin; her cheeks had sunk into her face, leaving deep hollows. As he looked down at her he made a solemn vow to himself. No matter what she did, or what happened, he would always be there for her. He knew that if it had not been for him, she would not be lying there. That Petherick would not have dumped her. Now she was hurting and it was his fault. If it was left to him she would never know hurt again. Petherick was being paid out for his part in it, even as he stood there. Paid muscle was beating him to a pulp. And that was as it should be. As he had told Benny, you looked after your womenfolk.
He took her hand gently in his and Maura regained consciousness. She opened her eyes and looked up into Michael’s face. She ran her tongue across cracked lips, trying to speak. He put his head nearer to her face and what she said caused him to sob into her shoulder.
‘My poor baby, Mickey. My poor innocent baby.’
He gently enfolded her in his arms, their tears mingling together. If it cost him his life, she would never know sadness again.
A week later the surgeon, Mr Bernard Frobisher, was told by the police that the address he had given them had been firebombed three days previously. The tenants of the flat, Mr Ahman Patel, his wife Homina and eldest daughter Naimah, had been killed.
The police thought it was probably a racial attack; they had no idea who could have done it. Mr Frobisher wisely kept his opinion to himself. He had no intention of putting his own family in jeopardy. Especially not for a back-street abortionist.
Chapter Thirteen
Maura had been out of hospital six weeks and the whole family agreed that she was a changed girl. She had a brittleness that sat uneasily on her now slim shoulders. She had lost so much weight that Benny playfully nicknamed her ‘Beanpole’. With her height and new svelteness she looked like a fashion model. Except for her breasts. Somehow, although they had shrunk with the rest of her body, they were still large enough to make her feel ‘top heavy’. She had smiled at Benny’s jokes about her body, but deep inside felt she had paid a high price for her newfound slimness.
She was sitting by her bedroom window looking out at the children playing in the street. She remembered when she had played the same games with Margaret. Tin Pan Alley, Hopscotch, Five Jacks. She longed for that safe world now, when the only worry she’d had was what time she had to be in by. Maura’s profile, as she looked down on the children, showed the extent of the change in her. Her nose was more sharply defined, a Roman nose, her cheekbones looked as if they had been carved from ivory. Her dark blue eyes were deeper set. Earlier, she had creamed her face and hands, still unaware of how lovely she really was. Although she saw herself in the glass, she never really took any notice. It was as if the day she had left the hospital, Maura Ryan as was had ceased to exist. Now a beautiful outer shell, inside she felt nothing. Nothing at all. Until today. Today she had the beginnings of a plan forming in her mind, and she needed Michael’s help to fulfil it.
She smiled as one of the children below her screamed and pointed to something on the pavement. She guessed, rightly, that it was some kind of insect. It brought back a memory from her subconscious. She could smell the dampness of the scullery, that cold dampness that seemed to seep into the bones. Anthony had locked her in there when she was a small child. Turning out the light, leaving her in the darkness. She had been far too small to reach the light switch. She had stood in the dank world he had created, knowing that the army of cockroaches was scrambling beneath her feet. She shuddered as she thought of it. The fear and panic it had created rose up inside her again, as it had on that day. She had imagined they were running up her legs, into her knickers. Until she had felt the hot wetness as the urine had run down her chubby legs, soaking her socks and shoes. That’s when the screams had been forced from her throat, high piercing screams that had brought her mother and father and Michael . . . a very angry Michael who had taken off his belt and laid into Anthony until his screams had matched her own.
Again the image of her baby in the washing up bowl filled her head. She forced the picture away, shaking her head as if it would help to make it disappear. She did not blame anyone but herself for what had happened in that tiny flat. She told herself that at least twenty times a day. Not her mother or Michael. Not anyone but herself. And Terry.
She blamed him with all h
er heart and soul. From the moment she had seen the body of her child, their child, lying in that dirty bowl, hatred for him had entered her body. A seed had been planted that day, and Maura had nurtured it and cultivated it, until now it had grown tall, like a bedraggled beanstalk in a fairy tale. She had read about his beating in the Daily Mirror and felt nothing for him. No pity. No sorrow. Nothing. She was as empty where he was concerned as she was about herself. As the seed of contempt had grown inside her, it had strangled the memory of every nice thing he had ever said or done, until she had forgotten his goodness. Forgotten the fun they had had and the closeness they had shared. She knew that if he had not dumped her that day, she would have had the baby. Somehow she would have found a solution to her problems. She chose to forget her fear of Michael. Her fear of having a baby alone. In Terry Petherick she had found the perfect scapegoat. She knew that the police knew exactly who had ordered his beating but like so many things that happened thanks to the Ryan family, they could not prove it. She smiled to herself. Well, if everything went as she planned, she would soon be a real member of the Ryans. An active working member . . .
She hoped that Terry was in agony. That he was so badly hurt no one would ever look at his handsome face again. That was her prayer. The only good thing to come out of the whole sorry business was that Michael was back in her mother’s good books. Although he had not come back home to live, he still visited frequently. It seemed that the day he had moved out had started the ball rolling for them all. Geoffrey, Leslie, Lee and Garry had all moved out. Only Benny and herself remained at home. Lee and Garry shared a flat off the Edgware Road; Geoffrey had bought himself a flat near Michael’s, in Knightsbridge. The house was quiet now, unlike the old days when they were all young and it was noisy from early morning to late at night. In a funny way she missed the hustle and bustle of her younger days.
She was roused from her reverie by a tap on the bedroom door.
Michael walked in carrying a large box of chocolates. She gazed at him affectionately. There was no doubt about it, he was one hell of a good-looking man.
‘You keep buying me chocolates, Mickey, and I don’t eat them.’
‘No . . . but I do!’ He grinned at her mischievously, and then, throwing himself across the bed, rolled off on to the floor, rolled again sideways and was kneeling in front of her, offering the box of chocolates in a gesture of supplication. Arms outstretched, eyes raised to the ceiling, like a Japanese Geisha girl.
‘And all because the lady loves Milk Tray!’
Maura burst out laughing. ‘I wouldn’t mind but they’re Black Magic.’
‘That’s right, laugh at me after I risk life and limb for you.’
He sat back on his heels and looked at her. ‘How are you feeling?’ His voice was gentle.
Maura sighed. ‘I feel OK. Though I would feel a damn’ sight better if everyone stopped asking me that, I just want to forget it.’ She slumped into her chair, her face closed again. She stared at him warily. ‘Actually, Mickey, there is something I want to ask you.’
He shrugged. ‘Ask away, Princess. Anything you want, you can have.’
‘Honestly, Mickey? Anything?’
He put his hand on his heart. ‘I give you my word, as they say on the telly.’
Maura leant forward in her chair and grinned at him. ‘I want you to give me a job!’
Michael stared, his face a study in dismay. ‘I don’t know about that, Maws.’
‘You promised me, Mickey.’ Her voice was hard and shrewish. ‘You promised me anything. Anything!’
‘Yeah. But I never expected this.’
‘Look, Mickey.’ Her voice was wheedling now, cajoling. ‘I have been thinking about this for a while now . . . I want to take over the ice cream and hot dogs.’
‘You!’ He sounded as if he had been poleaxed.
‘Why not? I worked them often enough as a kid.’
He pushed her back into her seat. ‘You don’t understand, Princess.’
She pushed herself forward again, her voice desperate. ‘Oh, but I do understand, Mickey. That’s just where you’re wrong. I know exactly how to run them. A bloody kid could do that. If you’re worried that I ain’t got the bottle then you can stop. I have got it, Mickey. More than you would think. I’ve spent the best part of my life listening to you lot plan and scheme. I could piss it, Mickey, if you gave me the chance.’
‘Look, Maws, it’s a dangerous business for a bloke. Let alone a bird.’
‘I know that, Michael, but I’m your sister. Not some nonsense bird out to make a few bob. I could do that on me back like your hostesses. I know that if you give me the chance, I could make a go of it. At first I would be respected because I’m your little sister, but I guarantee you that within a few months I’d be respected for myself.’
‘But you don’t understand, Maws . . .’
‘I do! That’s just what I’m trying to tell you if you’d listen to me. I know that if someone puts a van on one of our pitches, licence or no licence, they get warned off. Or you try to buy them out, depending. If they won’t play your game, you petrol bomb them. They soon get the message. If you happen to know the person and like them, and the pitch isn’t major, you arrange for a little percentage. Christ Almighty, Mickey, we’re all from the same stable. If you can’t trust me, who can you trust?’
Michael digested this bit of logic.
‘I don’t know, Maws.’ She sensed that he was thawing towards her, and pressed home her advantage.
‘I swear to you, Mickey, that I will make you proud of me. I’ll run those pitches better than they have ever been run before!’
Seeing her face, so full of hope and anticipation, Michael couldn’t deny her. After all she had been through, the pain and heartache, it seemed small compensation. He grinned. ‘All right. You win.’
Maura threw herself into his arms, pulling them both to the floor. She kissed him full on the mouth.
‘Oh, Mickey, thanks. Thanks! I’ll work like a nigger for you, I promise. You won’t regret it.’
I’ve got the ice cream and hot dogs, she thought, thrilled at the implications. If Terry Goody Two Shoes Petherick wanted to catch criminals . . . let him try to catch her!
‘I promise you, Mickey, you will never regret this.’
And he didn’t.
Maura walked across the Yard towards the small crowd of men. They were all staring at her. Some watched her with hostility, others with curiosity. She was their boss, and like most workforces they were waiting to see the outcome of a new regime. They were all aware that she was Michael Ryan’s sister. Just seventeen years old. Most were amazed at the sheer size of her. She was taller than most of the men there. She smiled at them all, hiding her nervousness behind a façade of friendliness.
‘Right, I expect you all know me, and over the next few weeks I hope to get to know you. I’m new at this business, I admit, and I will be open to any friendly advice you may wish to give me. But I must stress this one fact . . . at the end of the day it’s my decision that counts. Now if any of you gentlemen find that hard to accept, I suggest you see me after I’ve finished the rotas. OK?’
She scanned the sea of faces before her, looking for any hint of trouble. Everyone looked neutral. Not bad for starters, she thought.
‘Now if the runners would all stand aside, I would like to see the actual drivers and workers.’
Most of the younger men in the crowd broke away and made a smaller gang by themselves. The runners were the young men who kept a look out for the police. They stood at strategic points near the vans watching not only for beat policemen but also Panda cars. They also eyed up any competition that came on to their patch, reporting all back to the drivers - the mainstay of the business. It was not unusual to see an ice cream van wheelspin away, dragging a runner into the service hatch as it went, especially on the police patches: Westminster, the Houses of Parliament, Knightsbridge, outside Harrods, and Baker Street where Madame Tussaud’s brought so many to
urists.
The drivers and servers stood quietly. They employed and paid their own runners, the Ryans only paid these men. Eventually, if the runners proved any good, they were given new pitches as and when they came up. It was a close-knit community that these men lived in. If they were caught, and hauled into Bow Street court, they gave ‘moody’ names and Michael paid their fines. It was an arrangement that suited everyone. In the summer, especially, there was an awful lot of money to be made. And as with any lucrative business, many people who wanted a piece of the action.
Maura coughed to clear her throat. ‘I think that for the time being, we stick to the usual rota. So you can all go to your usual pitch today. I will be looking over the takings and popping along to see you now and then.’ She smiled again. ‘I hope you will all bear with me on this.’
The men nodded at her, happier now they knew where they were to be stationed. Most knew their pitches like the back of their hands. They knew every road, alleyway, and escape route on their own particular manor.
‘Off you go then. If you have any trouble, ring me. If I’m not here, someone will find me.’
She turned away and walked to the caravan that served as her office. Michael was watching her from the window. He had been listening to her address the men and was impressed. Against his better judgement, he began to think that she might just be able to do the job after all.
The men all gravitated to their vans. Most were subdued. None had ever worked for a woman before. All had lived on the fringes of crime, were petty burglars, car thieves or ‘kiters’ - people who bought stolen cheque books and then used them to buy goods that could be sold off to fences. Maura’s advert into their masculine world was a shock. But she was Michael Ryan’s sister and so they would afford her a trial period. If she didn’t work out, and they were all sure she would not, Michael, being a businessman first and foremost, would ‘out’ her and they could all get back to normal!
Dangerous Lady Page 19