Wishing and Hoping

by Mia Dolan

  But still, if you run with the hounds . . .

  Tony’s mouth cracked into a smile. ‘Paddy! How are you?’ He sauntered over as though he were a man of importance. Inside he was wary. Paddy was not to be trusted.

  Leaning on the car door as though he and Paddy were the greatest of chums, he got out his packet of Woodbines. ‘Care for a fag?’

  Paddy shook his head. He had a thick mane of hair. His complexion was totally at odds with the rumours regarding his hands, pitted as it was like a pink-skinned orange. ‘I don’t indulge in the habit, Tony. It isn’t good for the health so I’m led to understand.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Tony was doing his best to sound nonchalant. Inside he was wondering what the fuck Paddy was after. A favour, he supposed. Everybody wanted a favour of good old Tony Brooks, especially now that his daughter was married to one of the Camilleris, albeit Victor’s bastard son. The Camilleris were a big noise on the local manor.

  Victor Camilleri was trouble, though nothing compared to the likes of Roderico Parkhouse or the real big fish, Leo Kendal. Kendal was numero uno – him and his missus that is. Apparently Leo Kendal’s wife was a bit of a looker with a sharp mind and a ruthless streak. Tony had heard all this by hearsay; he’d never met either of them, so he took it on trust.

  In the meantime it was Paddy Rafferty who was demanding his attention.

  ‘I wanted to have a little talk with you, me boy,’ said Paddy. It wasn’t often he adopted such an obviously Irish catchphrase. Despite the flash outfits and rough demeanour, Rafferty could talk upper-crust English with the best of them, depending on what he was likely to make out of it. He could also talk bullshit. Tony decided it was some of the latter he was about to hear.

  ‘I hear your son-in-law’s doing very well for himself. That’s a nice nightclub he’s got going down in Limehouse, though I doubt that the Chinks welcomed him with open arms. It’s their territory after all. Has been for years.’

  It was true that Limehouse had long been peopled by the Chinese, as a direct result of the opium wars. There were a lot of gambling houses around there, set up in cellars beneath old sugar refineries, and a few opium dens too, but basically there was little trouble. The Chinese did not wish to attract the presence of the police. They preferred to pay them to keep off their backs, and as long as there was no trouble in Limehouse, they got no aggro.

  ‘They don’t bother Michael,’ said Tony smiling confidently and shaking his head. ‘My son-in-law’s got a good name round and about,’ he added, purposely reminding Rafferty of the fact that they were family. He only just stopped himself from drumming his fingers nervously on the car roof. What was it to Rafferty how Michael was doing?

  ‘That’s good to hear, Tony, though I have to say that as the boy’s only young he may be in need of some more mature guidance. I have to ask myself, has he really got the experience to be running that nightclub as he is? There are times when a young man is in need of a helping hand, you know, Tony, and, seeing as Victor Camilleri isn’t around to guide him, I thought I might offer my services. All legal, of course. It’s not so much the nightclub itself, Tony. It’s the building. It’s an old building and bound to be due for demolition before long. Then what’s he going to do? You might like to mention to him that I know some blokes on the local council. If they see that I’m involved with the property there won’t be a problem when it comes to redevelopment, know what I mean?’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ said Tony slowly, wondering where the hell all this was leading.

  He knew nothing about redevelopment, though quite a bit about collecting the rents with menaces from the tenants of rotting Victorian tenements in the East End of London. He used to work collecting rents for Camilleri. The tenants, mostly immigrants, had paid dearly for the privilege of living in the squalor of the overcrowded London slums they’d rented from Camilleri.

  Rafferty was putting him in the picture. The more he heard, the more misgivings he had.

  ‘The boy needs a partner with some experience in the building, demolition and development game and I’m his man. Now you tell him from me,’ he said, one gloved finger tapping at Tony’s shoulder, ‘that if he doesn’t give me a ring about this, I’ll be round to see him and explain what I’m offering in more detail. You got that then, Tony, my boy? You got that?’

  Tony felt the tap of Paddy’s finger turn to a stab hard enough to bruise him.

  Straightening, he watched as Paddy’s big black Rover drove off.

  He was now in no doubt of where Paddy Rafferty was coming from. The partnership he’d suggested would only be legal as far as the paperwork was concerned. No money would actually change hands – or at least not from Paddy to Michael. Paddy wanted a cut of Michael’s Limehouse property but he had no intention of paying for it. It was a glorified protection racket – extortion with menace.

  Down in Sheerness, Rosa Brooks was giving the range a prod with a brass-handled poker.

  Suddenly she stood up sharply.

  ‘Anything wrong, Auntie Rosa?’

  Garth was sitting at the table layering jam on top of a well-buttered doorstep of bread cut straight from the loaf.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, but it wasn’t true. The truth was that the blinder she became the greater her inner sight. She was seeing things more clearly than she ever had and to her mind there could be only one reason for that, a reason she would not voice to anyone, even to Garth who understood so well.

  Chapter Three

  THE NEON SIGN had been mended though it didn’t shine as brightly as it had done. Every so often the light shivered as though it had seen a ghost. Despite this the nightclub was a great success from the very first night.

  Marcie did not often go there but Michael had to. Running the club was mainly a night-time business so Marcie spent a lot of time with just the kids. Michael offered to hire a nanny so she could go there with him, but Marcie refused, preferring to look after them herself.

  So most nights she spent alone, waiting for him to come home. Once the children were in bed she passed time doing chores around the house or watching the brand-new colour television Michael had bought her.

  ‘Funny to see things in colour rather than in black and white; it doesn’t seem natural,’ she’d remarked.

  He’d laughed and pointed out to her that real life was in colour so a colour television was bound to be more natural.

  Sally, one of her best friends, had thought her mad that she hadn’t taken up the offer of a nanny. ‘You’re a fool to let a good-looking bloke like Michael out of your sight. Aren’t you afraid that some little tart will get her hooks in him?’

  Marcie replied that she was not worried. ‘I trust him.’

  It didn’t mean to say that she didn’t sometimes wonder whether he really was where he said he was and doing what he should be doing. But it wasn’t often.

  The hours until midnight seemed to drag. The hours between her getting into bed and falling asleep went more quickly. Instinctively she always woke up just before he put the key in the lock.

  Just as she usually did, Marcie woke up aware that he was home. The room was dark, and when she looked at the illuminated figures on the bedside alarm, she saw that it was three o’clock.

  Adjusting her eyes to the darkness and her ears to the silence, she waited for the light to come on in the hallway below or the soft tread of his foot on the first stair.

  The house was a bay-windowed semi-detached built in the 1930s that had survived the war and offered them a proper family home away from his business and the more crowded tenements of London’s East End. He’d been trying to get her to move to a more palatial house in Richmond, but she’d argued that the kids were settled and that their present home was cosy. A big house in Richmond would be less so, though at times she wondered whether they should make the move. They certainly had the money to do so.

  Their neighbours treated them with courtesy rather than friendliness. Warily they eyed the sleek Jaguar parked in the dr
ive and whispered guardedly about the fact that this couple was terribly young to be able to afford such a lovely home.

  Michael had already set himself up before Marcie had met him. With a keen mind and the vigour of youth he’d driven himself ever onwards to do better for himself – and to do better than his father, Victor Camilleri.

  Just because he owned property and a nightclub didn’t mean that Michael was out to all hours all the time. The club had a manager and an agent and a lawyer handled the property portfolio, but still he went out of his way to check them all now and again. Tonight he had gone to the club with some business associates.

  The light in the hallway downstairs eventually came on and she heard that first stair creak beneath his weight. The house felt different when he was home. It was as though the very walls themselves were sending her some telepathic message that they’d warmed up. She felt warmer herself once she knew that Michael was back.

  She knew that out of habit he’d look in on Aran and Joanna first before coming to bed.

  Marcie lay back on her pillow, eyes wide open. This was the best bit of the day – him coming home.

  Some women couldn’t live with the knowledge that their husband spent three nights a week at a nightclub where hostesses tripped around on four-inch stilettos and strippers danced naked on a floodlit stage. But she loved Michael and, what’s more, she trusted him.

  Marcie switched on the bedside light as Michael came into the bedroom.

  Blinking, he held one hand in front of his face to deflect the sudden glow. ‘Do me a favour, turn it off.’

  His tie was already loosened and he looked tired. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. His face looked puffy – not as firm as it usually was.

  Lying on her side, her head supported on her hand, Marcie eyed him quizzically. Even at this time in the morning, he wasn’t usually like this. It was something that had always amused her about him; the time on the clock was of no consequence. If the work was there, then the work got done.

  ‘You look tired. Is something wrong?’

  ‘Nothing that I can’t handle.’

  He managed a smile, but Marcie wasn’t fooled. She’d fallen in love with the gentleness she’d seen in this man and for the fact that he was so different to most of the men she’d known. He didn’t smoke and wasn’t a great drinker. Neither was he a braggart, which her father could sometimes be. He was a ‘steady Eddie’ as her father would say. Sometimes she knew very well that what he really meant was boring. But she didn’t think Michael was dull. She loved him and hoped it would always be so.

  Most times when he came home tired he was still happy. There were always business worries, but he was usually able to put them to one side until the morning. Tonight the concerned look was more weighty, as though he didn’t know what to do about it.

  She reached out for him. ‘Michael? What’s wrong?’

  Shaking his head, he sat down on the edge of the bed and covered his face with both hands. ‘Nothing you can do anything about,’ he murmured through his fingers.

  Her hand stroked his shoulder. ‘Michael, we’re married. Your problems are my problems.’

  It came as a complete surprise when he shrugged away her gentle touch, a touch meant to reassure and to soothe.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, stop fucking nagging me!’

  Shocked, Marcie drew back her hand, clenching her fingers into a fist. Her heart beat wildly, its thudding echoing inside her head.

  Michael had never spoken to her like this before. OK, they hadn’t known each other for much more than three years, but it was long enough so she could say with her hand on her heart that he’d never lost his temper.

  ‘I wasn’t nagging you,’ she responded, unable to stop the hurt from filtering into her voice. ‘I care when you’re unhappy or worried.’

  ‘Well don’t,’ he shouted, flinging himself up from the edge of the bed.

  The sound of Aran crying filtered through from the other room.

  Now it was Marcie’s turn to be angry. ‘Well that was bloody clever of you, wasn’t it?’

  She flung the bedclothes back, got out of bed and stormed out, mad at him for being angry with her and at herself for feeling so hurt, for needing him so much.

  It angered her even more to see Aran’s little face screwed up and red. Clasping his warm body against hers, she cooed sweet words against the side of his head. ‘Never mind, my little precious. Never mind. It was just that nasty old Daddy shouting at Mummy.’

  Reassured, the tautness left the baby’s body and the softness of sleep and being secure returned.

  She suddenly became aware that she was not alone. Michael was standing in the doorway, one arm resting against the frame, the back of his hand against his forehead. His expression was one of remorse.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’re working too hard,’ she whispered while returning the baby to his cot.

  He raked his hand over his chin. The slight stubble that wouldn’t now get shaved off until the morning made a rasping sound.

  Not for the first time she thought how handsome he was and how lucky she was to be married to him. Heads turned when Michael entered the room. She sometimes wondered whatever he’d seen in her, a small town girl, when he could have had any girl in London or anywhere else for that matter.

  His arms pulled her to him so that her head rested against his chest. She wound her arms around him, smelling and feeling the warmth of his body, the slight sweat of a man who was tired and wanted only to sleep.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘It’s been a hard day.’

  ‘Or even a hard day’s night?’ she said, hoping to lighten his mood.

  ‘The Beatles have a lot to answer for,’ he said immediately understanding that she was trying to cheer him up.

  ‘I wasn’t really nagging, was I?’ she asked earnestly.

  ‘No. Of course not. You’re right. I’m tired. I need a break. We both need a break. How about we take the kids and nip down to see your gran at the weekend? How would that be?’

  ‘Great if the weather holds.’

  He hugged her tighter. ‘Then that’s what we’ll do.’

  They didn’t make love that night, and Marcie had not expected to. She was content to stay in his arms and feel his warmth. In time, once she’d told him how her day had been – which wasn’t terribly exciting, being about the kids mostly and the things they’d done – she fell asleep. Michael was home and all was well with her world.

  Tired as he was, Michael lay wide awake, the events of the evening going round and round in his head. Nothing could have been worse than that his business should attract the attention of Paddy Rafferty. Marcie’s dad had been the first to bring the news.

  ‘What are you gonna do?’ he’d asked.

  ‘Tell him to sod off. What the hell do you think I’m going to do?’

  Basically that was exactly what he’d done, though in retrospect it didn’t seem such a good idea. Playing for time might have made more sense, but Rafferty had brought out the worst in him.

  Tony had given Rafferty the message. ‘But he won’t like it,’ he’d warned.

  Michael had been unrepentant. ‘I don’t care. This place is mine and if it does ever get redeveloped, it’s my sweat that’s gone into the place and my money. I’m certainly not sharing it with the likes of Paddy Rafferty!’

  Michael had specifically stayed away from the places where his father owned clubs and branched out on his own. Now he’d attracted a different problem. Paddy Rafferty had a bad reputation. A day or so later, the ugly man with the pitted complexion who always wore gloves had stood in his office and told him – not asked him, told him – that he wanted half of the building housing the nightclub, though not right away.

  ‘With a view to future potential,’ he’d said to him, his eyes raking the bare brick walls of Michael’s very modern office.

  ‘No chance.’

  Paddy had smiled coldly. ‘You’re in my territory,
Mickey, my boy. When the time comes for this place to be redeveloped – which it will do – then you need a partner who knows the ropes. I’ve got friends in high places . . . the planning department at London City Council, even some politicians. Mark my words, Michael. This place will get redeveloped one day and when it does you’ll have earned a fortune. And old Paddy Rafferty will be there to help you. Trust me, Mickey. You’ll be in need of a friend – to smooth the way, so to speak.’

  Michael’s face had darkened and he been barely able to control his anger.

  ‘My name’s Michael, not Mickey. And this is London, not a bog in Ireland.’ His tone was as uncompromising as his body stance.

  Reading him correctly, Paddy’s pale watery eyes had seemed to ice over.

  ‘Insults about meself I’ll forgive. Insults about Ireland I will not.’

  ‘Stuff you and stuff Ireland! Get out.’

  Rafferty glowered, his bottom lip quivering as though in the first stage of rabies and considering what or who to bite.

  He pointed a hooked finger. ‘I’ll give you a few days to make up your mind, Mickey,’ Paddy went on, attempting to bring his flaccid lips back into a smile, his eyes glassy and cold. ‘By the way, did you know that I knew your mother? That was before Victor got her up the spout with you, of course. I was never that careless as to let any slapper get her hooks into me. But fair dos to the old broad, she was a good lay . . .’

  Michael had been sitting behind his desk, Paddy standing in front of it. A steeplechaser couldn’t have jumped the desk better. Ordinarily he would have gone round the desk, but Michael was so incensed he leaped up onto the desk top; the second leap took him down on the floor facing Paddy who looked dumbfounded.

  The left hook to Paddy’s chin was followed by a right. Paddy went down with blood pouring from his mouth and a chip of tooth hanging on his chin.

  Paddy’s shock was so great that he lay there for a moment as though trying to take it all in. Once it hit, his scowl was deep and the finger that pointed at Michael was like a sword aching for the blood of retribution.