Wishing and Hoping

by Mia Dolan

  Grimy fingers that had avoided soap and water all week scrabbled like dirty claws for possession of the brown leather purse.

  ‘It’s mine!’

  ‘No it ain’t! You know the rules. Share and share alike.’

  ‘I did the thieving.’

  ‘That ain’t got nothing to do with it. And anyway it’s up to the General.’

  ‘Someone talking about me?’

  A flash of light came in from outside, by virtue of the tarpaulin, which formed the door, being pulled aside.

  The three boys fell away from their squabbling. The lad in the corduroy pants held up the purse so that the gang leader could see what he had.

  ‘I nobbled an old woman,’ he exclaimed. His triumphant grin was wide enough to split his face in half. ‘Share and share alike,’ he said. Like the others he was wise enough to know when to fall in with gang rules.

  ‘Give it here.’

  The boy who’d done the thieving didn’t argue. The purse was handed over to the boy they called the ‘General’.

  The tarpaulin was pulled back again. The three boys nodded at the new arrival.

  ‘What you got there then Archie?’ said Arnold, peering with interest over his brother’s shoulder.

  ‘The spoils of war,’ his brother Archie exclaimed. He’d been going to the pictures a lot of late. Most of what he’d seen was war films or crime capers and so he’d picked up some of the lingo. ‘Old Sandy here wasn’t going to share it out,’ said Archie.

  The boy named Sandy winced at the fierceness of Archie’s look. Arnold Brooks grinned. His brother Archie certainly knew how to handle the likes of Sandy. He guessed what was coming next.

  Archie nodded at the other two boys. ‘Sandy Harris was going to keep this for himself and be a bit of a greedy sod. Now what do we do to greedy sods?’

  The two who had been in on the steal immediately began pummelling the unfortunate Sandy. The victimised boy wrapped his arms around his head and bent from the waist in an effort to escape the worst of the blows.

  Archie stood with his arms folded – just as he’d once seen Bully Price do in the days when he’d been a schoolboy and Bully, real name Billy, had been calling the shots. Bully had moved on from that. Apparently he was presently doing time in borstal for stealing and selling on car tyres from his employer.

  ‘That’s enough!’

  His order resulted in the immediate withdrawal of the pummelling assailants. The boy on the floor began to unravel himself from his protective position.

  ‘That’ll teach you to keep stuff to yourself,’ stated Archie, his chin jutting out just like he’d seen the heroes do at the pictures. He nodded at Arnold. ‘One for his cheek.’

  Arnold obligingly went over and clipped Sandy around the ear.

  ‘Ouch!’ Sandy’s face was red and snot was running down his nose, which he wiped off on the back of his sleeve. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. A red flush spread over his face drowning his ginger freckles.

  ‘So you should be, buster,’ said Arnold in his best James Cagney voice.

  Archie, being the gang’s leader in fact as well as name, shared out the meagre proceeds from the brown leather purse. Once he’d done that he flung the purse into a corner where it sank behind one of the cushions. He didn’t recognise it at all, nor did he notice the gold crucifix that fell out of it. Neither did he see the grainy black and white snapshot in the side pocket of himself and Arnold as babies, their cheery little faces grinning at the camera.

  ‘Right,’ he said rubbing his hands together. ‘Let’s go and buy some fags then some fish and chips.’

  A big cheer went up.

  Arnold wrinkled his nose. ‘I don’t like fags very much.’

  He winced as Archie fetched him a cuff around the back of his head similar to the one he’d given Sandy.

  ‘Chicken shit!’ exclaimed his brother. ‘I’m not having any brother of mine being chicken-shit scared.’

  If there was one thing Archie prided himself on it was being as hard on his brother as he was on the rest of the gang. No favouritism crept into his dealings no matter whether they were related or not. That’s what he told them and cuffing Arnold was proof of that. That’s why they respected him.

  ‘Are you having a fag then, Arnold?’

  Although there was no doubting his distaste for cigarettes, Arnold agreed to go with them and do as the rest of them did. He’d probably be sick afterwards, but he couldn’t lose face. Neither could his brother.

  Off they all traipsed, first buying their cod and chips and then eating and smoking in an empty yard behind the sea wall where locals tipped all manner of old rubbish. Rusty buckets and broken car seats were utilised as temporary seating and an upturned bathtub did service as a table.

  After finishing his supper, Archie screwed up the newspaper it had been wrapped in, threw it amongst the other rubbish then burped and patted his stomach.

  ‘Right. I’m off.’

  Arnold got up to go with him. Archie pushed him back down again. ‘You stay ’ere. I’ve got a bit of business to attend to and it’s private. Know what I mean?’

  He slicked back his hair with a generous helping of saliva. The message was clear; their leader, the ‘General’ was going to meet a girl. Girls had only just started becoming interesting. Anyone who made any headway with a girl was viewed with the utmost respect. They were all looking up at him with their mouths open.

  ‘I said, do you know what I mean?’

  The boys looked up at him.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘OK,’ added Arnold.

  Archie let the tarpaulin door fall behind him. He’d not only left his gang and his brother in the den, he’d also left some money he’d saved over a period of time. Part of it was for purchasing a pair of jeans. He considered himself too old for short trousers and, although he did have a pair of long trousers, it was a pair of jeans he wanted. A pair of Lee Cooper for preference. Everyone wore Lee Cooper. Nobody who was cool would be seen in anything else.

  The money was safe and not necessary for immediate use thanks to Sandy nicking the old woman’s purse. Never in a million years would he admit to his gang and his brother what he was up to next. It was too vital. Too secret.

  Back he went to the fish and chip shop, then towards home though he knew that wasn’t where he would end up. His little sister Annie was sitting on the step outside the pub waiting for their mother. The kid should be in school. Even for a little girl her face was pinched and white; her limbs and body far thinner than they should be.

  His heart leaped with joy when she looked up, saw him and smiled.

  ‘Archie! Have you got something for me?’

  He grinned and almost felt bashful. ‘Of course I have. Wouldn’t leave my little sister without some decent grub, would I?’

  She snatched the newspaper parcel from him as swiftly as one of his gang members might snatch an old lady’s purse. For a little ’un she was certainly becoming streetwise. He found himself wondering what she would be like when she was fully grown.

  ‘What you gonna be when you grow up, our Annie?’

  The little girl chewed and swallowed before replying. ‘A princess.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? How can you be a princess? You ain’t one now.’

  ‘Yeah, I can,’ she said with a bewitching smile. ‘Cos when I grow up I’ll be beautiful and then I can be whatever I want.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ he said, uncomfortable with the little girl’s innocent view of the world. ‘Get on with yer supper.’

  He watched her as she ate, cramming the hot food into her mouth as fast as she could.

  ‘Steady on,’ he said, placing a restraining though loving hand on her arm. ‘Don’t want to get a belly ache now do you.’

  Hunching her shoulders, she giggled in the pleasant way she did, the way that made him feel like hugging her close and taking her away from their mo
ther, the council house they lived in and the local pub.

  ‘I’ll take you to London one day,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Oh, yeah.’ She looked pleased about that.

  ‘But in the meantime I’ll look after you, Annie. You know that? I’ll always be there to look after you.’

  ‘Lovely,’ she said, and in her smile he felt all the weight of the world on his young shoulders. At thirteen he’d become the man of the house in the absence of his father. It was a huge responsibility and he knew damned well that it was about putting a meal on the table and looking after the ones you loved – only his dad didn’t seem to know that and neither did his mother.

  He looked down at the little girl and felt a tightness in his chest. Whatever it took he would look after her, and if it meant stealing from old ladies then so be it. Annie came first and just behind that came the rest of his family. He’d steal for them. He’d even kill for them if he had to.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  MARCIE WAS DESPERATE to hear some good news, but it was certain she wouldn’t be getting it from Michael’s solicitor.

  Michael had made a formal appearance in court. Bail had been refused.

  Jacob was looking sombre. Outside the courtroom, he took hold of her shoulders and outlined his views on the matter. ‘I won’t tell you not to worry. You’re an intelligent woman. You know how things stand. All I can tell you is that we’ll go to trial then after that we’ll appeal.’

  ‘And if he’s convicted? What will he get?’

  Her voice sounded cold and strangely calm. Inside she was anything but. Her husband was being accused of murder for Christ’s sake!

  Jacob shrugged. ‘I won’t lie. It could be anything from twenty to thirty years – life.’

  Marcie felt numb, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. Michael could be sentenced to thirty years. Thirty years!

  The evidence had been overwhelming. The gun he stated he’d found in his desk drawer at the nightclub was covered in his fingerprints. He protested that it would be. He’d found it in his drawer and, after mentioning it to his manager, had locked it away in the safe.

  Kevin McGregor’s word was not enough to convince the police or anyone else that he was speaking the truth.

  There were statements from other witnesses to consider. For a start, his old friend Aldo confirmed it was when Michael was partaking of his usual coffee break in his usual seat that Linda Bell had come into the café. He repeated word for word what she had said – heavily accented of course. He’d gone on to say, ‘Mr Michael was very angry. He denied what she said.’

  ‘What did Linda Bell say after that?’ the prosecution had asked.

  ‘That she would tell his wife.’

  ‘And what did Mr Jones – Mr Michael – say then?’

  Aldo had taken a deep breath then paused, his eyes frantically searching for some way out of what he could not avoid saying.

  Seizing the advantage, the prosecution had pressed him further.

  ‘What did he say Mr Benuzzi?’

  Aldo looked at Michael. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Michael.’

  ‘Mr Benuzzi?’

  The prosecution had scented blood.

  Aldo sighed. ‘He didn’t mean it – it was just said . . .’

  ‘Mr Benuzzi! Will you please answer the question! What did Mr Jones say – word for word?’

  There was no escape. Aldo replied, ‘He said that if she went to see his wife he would kill her.’

  Other witnesses, Aldo’s customers, also testified to Linda Bell visiting him and him threatening to kill her. Then there was the shirt covered in blood that the police had found buried beneath the rose bush.

  They’d asked Marcie about it, questioned whether she’d found it in her laundry basket and, realising what had happened, buried it out there herself.

  Jacob had cautioned her against lying or risk her children being left without father and mother. She’d had to tell the truth.

  Jacob had managed to throw in some questions about intruders prowling around the place, about the dead cat being tied to the front gate, about the girls in the nightclub being attacked and some kind of gangland vendetta being fought. He suggested that Michael Jones was being framed because of this.

  The judge refused to accept his argument, terming it as little more than conjecture.

  ‘I could ask you not to worry, but I know it will do no good,’ Jacob added before making his way back to Whitechapel.

  Marcie bid him goodbye. Her mind was working overtime. She refused to believe that Michael had done such a thing. Following Jacob’s line of conjecture, she decided that everything emanated from the Blue Genie. Paddy Rafferty wanted to muscle in. He had to be a prime suspect. But she couldn’t rule out Michael’s father and his half-brother.

  She made her way to their house, meaning to confront Gabriella.

  Gabriella’s reception was as cold as ice. ‘What do you want?’

  Marcie stood in the doorway. Gabriella was wearing a brown cap-sleeved dress with a tan, red and brown tartan waistband. She looked a little more tired than when Marcie had last seen her. The dark eyes were still fiery, but living without her son was wearing her down. No matter how cruel or unfaithful, Gabriella lived for the men in her life. She would be loyal to both of them until the day she, or they, died.

  ‘I wanted to ask you whether Victor or Roberto had anything to do with framing my husband?’

  ‘Michael!’ Gabriella almost spat his name. It was obvious judging by the look in her eyes that she’d tolerated Michael for her husband’s sake. Her jealousy was never well hidden at the best of times.

  ‘Whatever your beef with him, Gabriella, he does not deserve to be framed for something he didn’t do.’

  Gabriella’s eyes flashed with anger. ‘What makes you think you know him so well? He is a man. A red-blooded man needs more than a wife. Do you think him a saint? Do you think him better than my Roberto? Better than my Victor? Your husband betrayed his own father. Remember that.’

  Gabriella attempted to close the door in Marcie’s face. Marcie jammed her foot into the gap and held on to the door.

  ‘Yes, Gabriella. And that says it all. They would frame him, wouldn’t they? But this is a life sentence we’re talking about, Gabriella. Not just a short sentence for running a protection racket.’

  ‘My Roberto has been jailed for violence. My Roberto is not violent. His mother knows this.’

  ‘Rubbish!’

  Marcie couldn’t help it. Gabriella deserved to know what her son was really like. Marcie told her as matter-of-factly as she could manage about Roberto attacking her and Victor’s violence towards Allegra. She’d already presumed that Gabriella must know about Allegra.

  She saw the older woman’s expression change. Yes. She knew about Allegra all right, but it was Marcie’s rape she focused on.

  ‘No! No! No!’ she said, shaking her head emphatically. ‘My Roberto would not do such a thing. It is you,’ she shrieked, pointing her finger into Marcie’s face. ‘You are a slut with a bastard child. He told me that you threw yourself at him. It was you who seduced him!’

  Marcie could not believe what she was hearing. She felt her face reddening with anger as she gripped more firmly on the door that was threatening to close in her face.

  ‘Your son is a psychopath. A head case who thinks he can have any woman he wants. Well, he couldn’t have me! And do you know what, he couldn’t cope with that. A woman had actually said “no” to his face. So what was not given he resolved to take. He attacked me, he raped me and he even wanted me to have my child adopted just so I could cater to him and him alone. I hope Roberto rots in jail.’

  Gabriella’s face froze then thawed swiftly. Her smile was cold and the look in her eyes was cruel.

  ‘No. It is that bastard Michael who will rot in jail. My Roberto is coming home. He will be here tomorrow.’

  Marcie came away feeling stunned and also fearful. Gabriella would report her visit to her son and to V
ictor. No doubt she would present herself as a mother standing up for her darling child.

  She could imagine the vengeful look in Roberto’s eyes. He would relish Michael languishing in prison. She only hoped that he wouldn’t get in contact, but knew it was more than likely.

  Her concern proved correct. Roberto Camilleri phoned. He’d been let out of prison.

  ‘Sorry to hear about Michael. Dad’s sorry too. He sends his love. I can do more than send it if you’re willing. How about I come over and take you out on the town. Arrange for that old grandma of yours to take care of the kids and we can start up where we left off.’

  She slammed the phone down, her eyes blazing and her face red with anger.

  He phoned back again. ‘I’ll be watching you, Marcie. I’ll be watching you all the time.’

  Again she slammed the phone down. Although she half expected it, he didn’t ring again that day. All the same, she couldn’t help glancing out of the window now and again, suspecting she might see his car parked across the road.

  The move from the house to the flat above the sewing room had gone relatively smoothly, mainly because she had rented the place out fully furnished.

  Tonight was the next step in her plan. She was going to the nightclub, determined that she could cope whatever might happen.

  Allegra arrived to look after the kids, looking almost dowdy in plain black and without make-up. It occurred to Marcie that the former mistress of Victor Camilleri was beginning to resemble something completely opposite to the woman she’d once been. The glamour and confidence had gone, replaced by a meditative demureness; she’d also admitted to attending confession much more often.

  ‘Will you be OK, then?’ Marcie asked before leaving for the club.

  Allegra smiled. ‘Of course I will. Will you?’

  Marcie took a deep breath and pretended that straightening the hem of her dress was very important. ‘Oh, I’m a big girl now.’

  Yes. She was a grown woman, but usually she would have consulted Michael about doing this. She had not.

  Trying to tell herself that she was up against some heavy problems had done no good. She likened herself to a tigress protecting its cubs, though in her case it wasn’t just her cubs; it was her mate, her den, the things they’d both worked for.