by Mia Dolan
Marcie shook her head as the truth hit her. ‘But it doesn’t matter if she was lying, does it? He thought she was telling the truth and that was why he shot her – that’s what the police will say. His fingerprints were all over the gun.’
Number ten returned to its slumbering silence once the family had left and gone back to London.
Rosa was pleased with herself. Marcie had not noticed that she wasn’t quite her old self. She had not noticed her failing sight or questioned the lack of sparkle in her eyes.
She lowered herself into her favourite chair, one of a pair of old armchairs placed either side of the old iron range.
The cottage kitchen was quiet except for the occasional sparking of the coals glowing bright red in their cast-iron nest. The smell of fresh baking hung on the warm air.
Rosa dozed, her thoughts wandering off into dreams of the past and hopes for the future. Not for her future, of course. She was too old to have much of a future. In her mind she was asking Cyril what kind of future he thought lay ahead for their granddaughter.
You always were a worrier. Always was upset easily, but I guarantee the worst of the past is behind you. Do you remember that night in 1942? What could have been worse than that?
The deepness of her sigh was such that her body sagged like an old sack leaking grain. Of course she remembered. She would never forget. She recalled it as if it were only yesterday, the pictures alive in her mind.
A dive-bomber screamed overhead, and a series of staccato firing from an accompanying fighter ripped into the dirt out in the street. The planes flew past towards Marsa at the end of the creek, where they would make a turn and come back for a second run.
Another sound: a low droning, instantly recognisable. Despite being alone she’d cheered out loud. Hurricanes – too few and too slow to be truly effective, but better than the old biplanes they’d depended on such a short time ago. They were just about holding their own against faster, more numerous planes. Flattening herself more securely between the buildings, she steeled herself for the bombers’ return. Too many people had taken a lull in bombing as a sign that it was all over. It rarely was.
Returning planes droned overhead. Dock workers and others who had chanced coming out to inspect damage and retrieve bodies scampered for cover.
Dark greyish figures appeared in the fog of debris some way along the quay running towards her. For a moment it looked like a surreal vision of washing flapping and flying. The grey solidified to the black habits of fully committed nuns and the grey of a few novices shepherding a crocodile of small children.
The children were dressed in white and probably going to church for their first communion – if they got there. They’d got caught in the raid.
With fear clutching at her heart, she looked up at the sky; looked back at them.
The droning was getting louder. She imagined the spinning blades of the propellor, the bomb aimer, thumb ready on the button.
‘No!’ Stepping out from her hiding place, she waved her arms and ran towards them. ‘Go back!’
The force of the blast blew her straight back into her hiding place, jammed there like a bundle of damp rags.
The earth, the buildings, the very air reverberated with aftershock. She didn’t know how long it was before she emerged, staggering as though sun-blinded into bright sunlight, except that the sunlight wasn’t blinding but clouded with dust.
For what could only be seconds, the silence was so intense that she thought she’d gone deaf. Even when all hell erupted around her, people running, shouting, screaming and crying, she did not – could not – move.
Just yards away lay what remained of the nuns and the children. Earlier they had been running along hand in hand. The worse thing was seeing two small arms ripped from children’s bodies, the hands still clasped in death as they had been in life . . .
‘I didn’t tell them, Auntie Rosa.’
Garth’s voice brought her back to the present.
‘Garth?’
No longer sitting at the table, he’d made her a cup of tea and brought it to her with a mismatched saucer.
‘What didn’t you tell them, Garth?’
‘That you can’t see very well. But you’ll see better soon, won’t you, Auntie Rosa?’
Rosa smiled as she took the proffered cup and saucer. ‘Yes,’ said Rosa and thought of Cyril and of seeing him again – though not of course in this world.
Chapter Fifteen
MARCIE HATED THE prison. She hated the high walls, the dense red of the Victorian bricks and the sound of the main gate closing behind her.
The prison prided itself on being modern; there was no mesh grille between the visitors and prisoners. Instead inmates and visitors slouched over the tables meant to keep them apart, as though slouching would bring them an extra inch closer.
Prison officers – whom everyone referred to as ‘screws’ – stood like dark pillars at strategic points around the walls. The windows were high above their heads.
The institutional smell of packed bodies and boiled potatoes permeated the air along with something else that Marcie could only interpret as desperation.
Just one look and Marcie could tell that Michael hadn’t eaten. The rings beneath his eyes looked as though they’d been etched in with graphite. He was eyeing her pleadingly.
They said hello but were not allowed to touch – not even their fingertips.
Marcie swallowed her concern. It would do no good to ask him how he was or question why he looked so awful. He needed hope, though she had precious little of that to give him. But there was one thing, of course.
‘I suppose Jacob told you that Linda Bell wasn’t pregnant.’
Michael nodded. ‘He did. Not that it makes that much difference. It’s the gun that’s causing the problem – that and the shirt. How did the gun get in my office? How did the shirt get where it was found?’
She shook her head. ‘Someone wanted you out of the way.’
‘Rafferty is known to be harsh in repaying slights or insults. He’ll try and get round you, get you to sign over the club. That’s why I want you to sell it. Quickly.’
‘To him?’
He sighed and hung his head. ‘If you have to.’
‘I won’t!’
He looked surprised at her outburst.
‘I’m determined to hold on to it.’
‘Marcie, you don’t know who you’re dealing with. Without me there . . .’
‘But you’re not there, are you? You’re in here. I have to do what I think fit. If this hadn’t have happened you might even have been setting up another club by now.’
‘Are you accusing me?’ He sounded hurt.
Marcie sighed. It was difficult to take on board how even the silliest comment could upset a prisoner with nothing to do but dwell on his reason for being there. She’d reminded herself before coming to be careful what she said, but it wasn’t easy.
‘I didn’t mean that. If you hadn’t gone back in that night . . .’
‘A passer-by phoned and said there was a fight outside . . .’
Now it was Marcie who was surprised. ‘Isn’t that why you employ bouncers? Why did you have to go in? Why?’
‘I thought they were slacking.’
‘And were they?’
Hanging his head, he ran his fingers through his hair and groaned. ‘No. It was a hoax.’
‘So why didn’t you come home right away?’
‘OK, I went into my office and fell asleep. Honestly.’
‘Oh, Michael. Why did you do that? You should have come home.’
‘I didn’t do anything, Marcie. Honestly I didn’t. I didn’t get that tart pregnant and I didn’t kill her.’
She glanced around her, making sure the screws weren’t listening too closely before whispering, ‘Linda Bell came to see me.’
He looked surprised. ‘When?’
She told him.
He frowned. ‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’
&n
bsp; She shrugged. ‘I saw no need to tell you. I didn’t believe her. I told her to clear off.’
His frown deepened. ‘Christ, Marcie, you should have told me. I could have sorted it out right away.’
‘Could you?’
She couldn’t help the disbelief in her voice. The sharpness of his rebuke hurt. What he said next hurt even more.
‘I barely knew the girl. She worked at one of Victor’s clubs as a hostess. She was always on at Victor, at Roberto and at me to let her dance on stage. Victor and Roberto never did, though they promised – in return for her favours, of course.’
‘And you? Did you give her a chance?’ She recalled Linda saying he had.
‘She danced at the Blue Genie, but only once. I said we’d give her a chance, but the punters didn’t like her much.’
‘You didn’t date her?’
‘Christ, Marcie!’
‘I’m only asking!’
She watched his fingers course through his hair again, her heart aching to touch him and to hear the truth.
‘I may have had a drink with her about a year or so ago, when she was auditioning. That was all.’
‘You did? Then why didn’t you tell me?’
She couldn’t help the sudden anger in her voice. He’d denied knowing the girl. Now he was saying he had known her and that in fact he’d been out for a drink with her. It brought home one very obvious fact: it was all very well loving someone and depending on them, but did she really know the man she had married? Was he telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth as they said on Perry Mason?
Resting his head in his hands, Michael sighed deeply.
‘I can’t believe this is happening. Everything was going along so well. We had a great future you and me.’ He looked up suddenly as though startled from a deep sleep and even deeper thoughts and fears. ‘I need you to believe in me, Marcie. I need you to be my eyes and ears on the outside. I’ve got enemies, Marcie. You above all people should know that. My father for a start; he’s never forgiven me for getting him and Roberto put in stir. As for Rafferty . . .’
Marcie looked at him. This man, her husband, had pleading in his eyes and sincerity in his voice. She’d come here uncertain whether he was telling the truth but she couldn’t help believing him. He looked so desperate, so totally dependent on her. Besides that he was the father of her son and had officially adopted Joanna and given her his name. Would a deceitful man do something like that?
Making her mind up was pretty straightforward. Children needed two parents and this marriage had to work. She sat back resignedly.
‘So what do you want me to do?’
His sudden surge forwards was met with a warning hand on the shoulder from one of the screws.
‘Not too close, Jones. No touching.’
Michael retreated only as far as he had to and took a deep breath. His eyes held hers.
‘I won’t pretend it’s going to be easy for you, so I’ve worked out what will be best. I’m hoping Jacob can get me off, but it could take some time. If I hadn’t fallen asleep and stayed in the club in full view of everybody, there would be no case to answer. However –’ he shrugged ‘– that’s water under the bridge. Until I’m released I’ve got to protect you and the kids. So this is what I’ve decided. Keep the commercial properties, but sell the club. Speak to Jacob about likely purchasers. He’s got his ear to the ground. Try and avoid selling it to Rafferty. I hate the bastard. I wouldn’t be surprised . . .’ His voice trailed away. She didn’t need him to finish the sentence. She knew what he was insinuating.
‘Should I go along and ask him outright?’
He looked alarmed. ‘No! On no account do that.’
‘And your father? I hear he’s out of prison. Should I ask . . .?’
‘No!’
Again his loud response attracted the attention of the screws.
Marcie shook her head, not at all happy with what he was telling her to do. ‘But you love the club the best. You said it was just the beginning of an empire that we were to share.’
She hadn’t exactly been keen about him getting involved in nightclubs just like his natural father. She herself had been considering getting rid of the sewing room where she made costumes for exotic dancers. It was still her dream to design and make fashionable dresses, but that was all it was, a dream. She was just a girl from Sheerness who had left school and got a job selling candyfloss on the seafront. What chance did she have?
Michael’s look turned pensive as though he were mulling something over, debating with himself whether to confide in her. To some extent the thought of him having to decide whether to entrust her with whatever it was made her bristle. She told herself to calm down, after all he was under pressure and worried.
Marcie swallowed her doubts and agreed to do as he said. ‘I wouldn’t be able to handle the club and my own business anyway,’ she added, though knew she was lying. Keeping the club for him was her way of believing in him. When he came out everything would be as it was. Very shortly he would be released from prison. She had to believe that. There was no point in jumping from the bridge until she had to.
Michael did not detect the fact that she intended disobeying him. He was nodding thoughtfully.
‘Keep making your theatrical costumes. You’re good at what you do, and, besides, I think everyone should have their own little bit of independence.’
His smile was fleeting but did not fool her. His eyes were heavy with worry.
Her heart went out to him.
‘Michael, are you getting enough to eat?’
Her question pulled him up with a start. If it were possible, he looked even more alarmed than he had when she’d argued to keep the nightclub.
‘I’m fine.’ His eyes flickered. His jaw snapped shut.
‘You look . . .’
‘I’m just tired.’
She hadn’t expected him to snap like that. There was something he wasn’t telling her. The opportunity to ask him what was wrong was drawing to a close. She wasn’t quick enough to ask what the problem was.
Visiting time was short, sweet and soon over. Responding to command, the visitors – mostly women, some there with young children – turned away from the men they’d come to visit. For their part the prisoners rose reluctantly. Even when their bodies were making for the door that led back to the cells, they glanced over their shoulders until there was nothing left to see; until the door had slammed shut between them, their loved ones and the outside world.
Only the sound of excitable children accompanied the visitors as they made their way back towards the prison gate. The women said little though one or two stole sideways glances at the clothes she was wearing.
She’d taken special care with her appearance. Her coat was navy blue, the collar, cuffs and belt bordered in yellow braid. It was a very chic outfit – very fashionable.
The coat had been plain. She’d added the braid herself.
Being admired was of no interest to her. Feeling empty and sick inside, she filed out with the others.
‘Never mind, love. It’ll all come out in the wash.’
She jerked up her head. The speaker was one of the prison officers, one who was senior to the others. He winked as he said it.
‘I hope so.’
‘I’ll see he comes to no harm,’ he added.
She didn’t meet the look in his eyes. She didn’t see the meaning there. Despite the fact that her father had been in prison, she wasn’t familiar with what went on. Her grandmother had shielded her from that. She’d never visited and her father had never talked about it. Besides, all she had in her head was getting Michael out of there.
‘He’s innocent,’ she said.
‘They all are.’ There was an undeniable smirk on his face when he said it.
Marcie didn’t like his comment, but was too pre occupied to react.
Although tinged with traffic fumes, the air outside the prison smelled far sweeter than it did inside. Even so it was ha
rd to banish the stench of it from her nostrils. She promised herself a hot bath perfumed by her favourite bath salts when she got home. Her car being in the garage for new brakes, she’d come here by taxi and would go home the same way.
Nearing the edge of the pavement, she looked around for one.
‘Excuse me.’
The last thing she’d expected on stepping out from the prison was to be hailed by a big man dressed in a badly cut suit. He was chewing gum.
‘Mrs Jones? Michael’s wife?’
She stopped and looked at the speaker. He had shoulder-length hair and was wearing a kipper-sized tie. She decided that she didn’t know him.
‘Yes. I am. Who are you?’
‘That don’t matter, love. It’s my boss that wants a word with you.’ It was hardly an invitation – more like an order.
Taken unawares, she looked beyond him to where sunlight bounced off a shiny black car. Quite a lot of cars were parked outside. She was vaguely aware of an equally ostentatious car pulling in somewhere behind this one. It must be a day for them, she thought. Perhaps a judge was visiting the prison. She turned back to the man.
‘Who is your boss?’
‘Mr Patrick Brian Rafferty, of course.’ He proclaimed it as though everyone in London had heard of the name.
‘I’ve never heard of him,’ she responded loftily. Rafferty! The pompous little Irishman who was trying to take over her husband’s club!
‘But he knows you and wants to introduce himself.’
‘Look, I’ve got to get home . . .’
‘It won’t take a minute. Mr Rafferty insists.’
Marcie was in no mood to conform to anyone’s insistence unless she could turn it to her own advantage. If the circumstances hadn’t been so dire, she would have quoted her father’s favourite saying: What’s in it for me? On the other hand and despite Michael’s warning, it wouldn’t hurt for her to have a word with him.
Holding her head high, she addressed the man chewing gum.
‘I’ll speak to him if he can give me a lift home.’ She spoke firmly, not at all like the little girl she had been such a short time ago. The little girl she’d been was no more. The old Marcie had died around the time Joanna had been born. In this world she had to be strong for herself and those she loved.