by Martina Cole
Wendy rushed out into the kitchen, smelling food.
‘I’m hungry, Mum.’
She stopped dead as she saw her father’s expression. Susan tried to lighten the situation.
‘All right, babe, I’ll do you something in a minute. Go and watch the telly.’
Barry blocked the child’s exit.
‘Didn’t you eat at school then?’
Wendy, all chestnut hair and big blue eyes, shook her head.
‘I didn’t like it, it was horrible.’ She pulled a face to show just how bad it had been.
‘What was it then?’ Barry’s voice was friendly, conversational, but the child wasn’t fooled.
‘It was fish and chips, it’s Friday. But it was all fatty and greasy, I couldn’t eat it. Nanny Kate says it’s because my year go in too late and by then it’s been cooked a while.’
She brought her grandmother into the conversation because she was the only person her father listened or was remotely civil to.
‘So, what you’re saying is, you were provided with a meal, a perfectly good meal, and you didn’t eat it?’
Wendy nodded solemnly.
‘It was horrible.’
Then seven-year-old Alana came rushing out to the kitchen. She was black-haired and beautiful, looked more like her father than any of them.
‘It was shit, Dad, I didn’t eat mine either.’ She looked up into his face and smiled and Barry smiled back.
‘That bad, eh, princess? Well, Mummy will make you something soon, all right?’
She nodded, and grabbing Wendy’s hand pulled her from the kitchen. Alana took advantage of her father’s fondness for her and tried to make life easier for poor Wendy who could do nothing right so far as Barry was concerned. Susan guessed it was a case of the girl being so like her, albeit a better looking version.
‘It’s Christmas soon, Bal, I’m really looking forward to it.’
She hated herself for the forced joviality in her voice, the way she tried to pretend that everything was okay when everything was wrong, very wrong.
‘Big fucking deal! You might have to get off your fucking arse and get a job if I don’t get sorted soon. Might take some of that fat off you.’
Susan stared at the man she was tied to. He would never let her go, she knew that. She provided for him - his comforts, his home. She had his kids and his ring, as he reminded her constantly. My house, my car, my wife. She didn’t even come first in the equation.
Barry owned her as much as he did his watch or his jumper. She was just another possession so far as he was concerned.
As she put the food on the table he dragged her over to the sink by the front of her dress.
‘What’s that?’
Susan looked into the sink and sighed. She had emptied the tea pot earlier and forgotten to swill out the tea leaves.
‘It’s tea leaves, Bal.’
Her voice was rising, she had had enough of him today. He pushed his face closer to hers. She could feel his breath on her skin, see the malice in his eyes. She closed her eyes in distress. He would love it if she back chatted him, gave him the excuse he was looking for to give her a good hiding.
‘I was just going to clear it all out, I ain’t bleached the sink yet anyway.’
She could hear the begging tone in her voice and hated herself for it. Sometimes she wished she had the guts to walk away, get out of it for good. He pushed his clenched fist under her chin, forcing her head back until she was straining every sinew in her body.
Just then Kate slipped unannounced through the back door. Barry turned guiltily, his face ashen as he looked at his mother.
‘The big man’s home then, is he, Susan? I can see you’re getting the usual greeting.’
Barry dropped his fist and walked from the room. A few seconds later the front door slammed and the house along with its occupants seemed to breathe a big sigh of relief.
Kate shook her head.
‘That I bred that, eh? I’d never have believed it. His father was a villain, by Christ, but he would never have harmed me. God rest his soul.’
‘I wish at times he would rest Barry’s.’
Susan’s words came out so fast the two women laughed together.
‘Here you are, Wend, come in and eat this bacon roll, love.’ She looked at her mother-in-law. ‘Shame to see it go to waste.’ The baby started crying then and Susan sighed. ‘Here we go again. Barry Junior starts as if he knows he has to take over from his father.’
She laughed again and Kate watched the big cumbersome woman go to comfort her child. She felt the full hopelessness then of her daughter-in-law’s situation and the worst of it was it was Barry who was causing it. If only you could pick your kids like you did everything else, she would ask God for Susan as her daughter and feel honoured if her plea was answered.
The girl was marvellous. The house shone. The kids were well turned out and clean, had good manners and an impressive vocabulary. Even Alana, though she swore like a trooper.
How Susan managed this in the teeth of Barry’s vicious temper and unpredictable moods Kate had no idea. But the girl obviously fought him, in her own quiet way. The bruises were never mentioned, the kids were protected, and Susan managed, even when he had really hurt her, to carry on with the day-to-day things that mean so much to young children.
She kept up the routine of meals prepared and baths before bed. She read to them when she could, listened to their tales of woe and loved them with every fibre of her being. Even though they were Barry’s children. Barry who had burned her with a cigarette when she was carrying Luke. Little Luke had died at two days old, a tiny scrap of a child born two months early thanks to Susan’s receiving a broken pelvis from her husband.
How that had hurt Kate as a mother, knowing she had brought into the world a man so evil and depraved. It was a terrible thing to hate your own son but she could not abide him near her. Despite that she spent a lot of time at this house, hoping to prevent any further harm being inflicted on this poor girl who had married her son.
Wendy pulled herself on to her nana’s lap. Kate cuddled her into her ample bosom. ‘All right, me little love bug?’ Wendy smiled happily.
Alana laughed then. She opened the fridge and took out some ham, starting to make herself a sandwich. She looked at her grandmother and smiled as she buttered the bread in her usual clumsy way, ripping it as the hard butter refused to spread.
‘What’s a fat cunt, Nan?’
The beautiful face seemed genuinely interested. There was curiosity in her eyes and a little fear because she had heard the expression used so malevolently against her mother. Kate guessed this much and as she answered the seven year old, fought an urge to weep.
‘That’s a dirty expression used by ignorant people like your father. Don’t ever let me hear you use it again, okay?’
Alana nodded, sorry now she had asked.
Wendy, all big-eyed innocence, said loudly, ‘He talks like that, Alana, because he’s a wanker.’
Kate closed her eyes in distress.
‘That is another expression you shouldn’t use, child.’
Wendy turned on her lap and looked Kate straight in the eye.
‘But that’s what Doreen calls him. She said it was the proper name for people like him.’
Kate felt an urge to laugh, she could just see Doreen saying it. Instead she bit hard on her lip and sighed.
‘That’s a joke - one Daddy must not hear about, all right?’
The two girls laughed, happy to be a part of a grown-up conspiracy they did not understand. Gathering the children to her, Kate cuddled them hard. She loved them with a vengeance, and she loved their mother too. She wished she could wave a magic wand and make Barry disappear but knew she couldn’t do that. All she could do was try to limit the damage he did to them.
At that moment Barry was at the Hiltone Club in Old Compton Street. A young woman with dyed black hair and pendulous breasts looked at him expectantly.
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��Can I help you?’ The words were spoken in a parody of a posh accent.
‘Where’s the owner, Ivan? Tell him Barry Dalston’s here.’
The girl picked up the phone and dialled an extension. Barry took the opportunity to look around. It was, he decided, a shit hole. All faded carpets and cheap curtains. He knew the place without even looking at it. It was like all the others. The lighting, subdued and pink-tinted, hid a multitude of sins, not least the ugliness of some of the girls. As if on cue two skinny tarts walked out from the main bar and gave him the once over. He could see they were not impressed and cursed his mother for turning up when she had. He hadn’t had time to change. Tidy himself up. Even these two ugly mares gave him the elbow and walked past him into the toilets.
The girl on reception smiled properly now.
‘Ivan will be down in a tick, take a seat. Can I get you a drink?’
Barry was placated. Respect at last.
‘A large Scotch, and I mean large.’
She nodded and walked through to the bar, returning moments later with a large Chivas Regal. Barry downed it in two swallows but the offer of another was not forthcoming. He was standing there awkwardly with the glass in his hand when Ivan appeared.
Ivan Rechinovich was a loner but that did not make him any the less dangerous. He was a foreigner, the cockney expression for anyone born south of the water. In Ivan’s case it meant Bermondsey. He was the son of Russian Jews forced out of their homeland and was now seventy years old. He had a screwed up face, a red bulbous nose and heavily lidded eyes that gave him a clownish appearance.
But Ivan was no fool. He was a violent and dangerous man and anyone who did not give him his due soon knew about it. Unlike his peers, he liked to take an active part in all his business ventures, whether it was running the hostesses or robbing a security van. His only vanity was that he still dyed his luxuriant hair black, a fierce colour that looked out of place above his lined face.
He wanted Barry Dalston because his club was under threat from a new firm out of North London, a couple of young men with guns in their pockets and Kalashnikov rifles in the boot of their car. Ivan wasn’t stupid. He knew you could not keep the young men away for ever. Many of his peers had retired already. But he did not want to just yet.
Talk was that he was still scamming, but like everything else to do with Ivan, he wasn’t letting on. When he was ready to move he would inform everyone and that was as much as they would ever know. If he pulled a job only the people concerned knew of it. He was very interested to meet hard man Barry Dalston.
‘Come through - come through, my son,’ Ivan greeted him expansively. ‘Take a look at the establishment, tell me what you think.’
He was playing the genial host but Barry was not fooled. He knew this was all part of the game. Ivan came across as a decrepit old man. In fact he was as wily as a fox and twice as dangerous. Years before, when someone had called him a Jewboy, he had personally removed their nose. Consequently when he demanded respect he got it.
‘The girls are eager to see you. They think if you like them, you’ll tip the punters the wink. Take my advice, son, stick with your wife. These are professional fuckers and they take men for granted. Don’t get involved. Fuck them if you wish, it’s a perk, but be careful. I will not tolerate in-fighting among my girls, understand? They grass, they lie and they cheat - they can’t help it, it’s their natural inclination. A whore is born and not made, you know. I have come to realise that.’
Barry nodded, impressed by the older man’s acumen and happy that he had the green light for a marathon shagging session. He gave the women the once over.
‘All right, girls, this is Mr Dalston who will be investigating the wallets for you. Be kind to him, eh?’
The women all nodded respectfully and Barry was pleased.
As they walked along to the dance area Ivan whispered loudly, ‘I use the term “girls” loosely, you understand. I never call them women. Real women wouldn’t have the stomach for what they do. I always find whores so depressing, don’t you? They hate what they do and eventually they hate men, blame them for something they do willingly for monetary gain. A lot of them end up dykes, though of course you can’t tell them that. Like all women they think they know everything.’
Barry laughed with him. He liked the old boy.
Ivan took him through to where the strippers changed and where they kept the private rooms for gambling.
‘When we have the cards, I expect you to stay on and keep order. You search the punters for knives, guns, anything. I once had a man come in with a phial of sulphuric acid to throw at an opponent who had taken his money a few days before. The people who play here are serious and they expect a safe game. It’s your job to ensure they get one. The women are never allowed in here, especially when a game is in place. They only try and ponce off the punters, take their mind off the game.’
Barry nodded. He liked the sound of this job more and more.
‘By the way, Mr Dalston, I expect you to be tooled up at all times. You need a squeezy for ammonia, and a cosh. I also expect you to carry a piece. You may only use it once a year but you will need it. And I expect you to beat the customers who refuse to pay. That’s par for the course. There’s a sawn off shotgun under the counter in reception for emergencies. Don’t worry about the police, I have fair warnings of any raids. So far as they’re concerned we’re clean as a whistle. You also get the girls cabs to the punters’ hotels or wherever. You never, ever let a girl wait on the pavement. That is a no no. They can be nicked for soliciting and we definitely do not want that. There are a list of local establishments by the phone. Make sure you ask for one of those hotels, whatever the girls say. They do us a reduced deal.’
He smiled then, seeing Barry’s bemused expression.
‘If they argue with a punter you slap them - but not on the face. We don’t ruin their main asset. Punch them in the kidneys or the belly, that’s their biggest fear. I allow them to buy rubbers from me at a reduced rate. They’re kept in a cupboard in my office. That’s about the gist of it. Do you think you can cope?’
Barry nodded.
‘And the poke, Ivan, what’s that?’
He grinned.
‘A oner a night and whatever tips you make off the punters. You know how to dress a wallet, don’t you?’
Barry shook his head.
‘It’s easy, son. As they pay their entrance fee, or if you can talk them into joining as a member, you look in their wallet. Then, on a piece of paper, you write the details of their credit cards and how much money they have in cash. You’ll learn how to judge that as you go along. Then you walk them through to the bar and give the piece of paper to Roselle. She has an idea then what she’s dealing with and serves them accordingly.
‘You’d be surprised the number of cunts who come in here with only about a ton and expect that to buy them the earth. I like the foreigners meself, they spend their poke and that’s it. It’s the Brits who give you the grief. Them and the Arabs. They can be bastards. Fucking cheeky buggers, some of them. I’m sure they think I’m running a charity. Oh, and before I forget, look out for the weirdos. Last year I had two girls striped up by the same fucking bloke. That’s how come Tom Hanley’s still talking through a wired jaw. He wasn’t doing his job and he was creaming off me. I won’t have that. My girls are protected. Well, as much as we can protect them, and I protect meself and all. Right, another drink?’
Barry nodded, amazed at how complicated this job seemed to be. He liked the old man, though, and was grateful for this chance.
‘You won’t regret taking me on, Ivan.’
The older man looked into his face and said flatly, ‘If I do, son, you’ll be the first to know.’
The kids were in bed and the baby was lying beside her on the sofa as Susan watched television. She was enjoying a few hours of peace and quiet. She hoped Barry wasn’t going to come home now and spoil it all. She still had to make some jelly and a trifle for Wendy’s
birthday party the next day. She had got the money from Kate, Barry as usual pleading poverty.
Susan kissed her little son’s fingers and he crowed with delight. He was gorgeous. Holding him into her breasts, she caressed his little sturdy body as she watched Starsky and Hutch, smiling at their antics on screen with Huggy Bear.
Twenty minutes later she was asleep, tiredness enveloping her body like a shroud. Barry came home at just past midnight and stood in the doorway looking at her and his son.
Barry Junior had dumped and the acrid smell permeated the room. Susan was snoring softly, her face almost pretty in repose. Barry watched them. He saw his son move, trying to get comfortable, and heard his snuffling. He saw Susan instinctively hold him tighter, moving her body as she slept to accommodate him.
Barry smiled and wished he had not hit her earlier in the day.
On the kitchen table was a ham sandwich and a cheese sandwich, covered in clingfilm. Seeing this little bit of homely care made him feel guilty. She was a good sort, old Susan really. A kindly person.
As he opened the sandwiches and the bottle of Scotch he had bought, he heard her stirring in the lounge. After putting the baby in his cot in their room she came back downstairs and into the kitchen.
‘I thought I heard you. Want me to do you a bit of egg and bacon?’
‘Nah, that’s all right. Get up to bed, mate, and I’ll join you in a minute.’
He was being nice to her and she felt like crying at this change in him. He could be so good at times, so nice, like he used to be.
‘It’s Wendy’s birthday tomorrow and I have to get me arse in gear and start the jellies and that. I fell asleep watching bloody Starsky and Hutch.’
She put the kettle on and began taking bowls out of the cupboards.
‘Do it in the morning.’
Susan shook her head. ‘I won’t have time. I have to do all the sandwiches and cakes tomorrow. Your mum’s going to give me a hand, and Doreen.’
Barry nodded, resigned.
‘I got a job.’
Susan turned towards him, beaming.