Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  Tommy pulled a face. ‘I take it he knows who you are?’

  She started walking again, not wanting to see the expression on his face. She didn’t care about what most people thought, but Tommy’s opinion mattered. She knew that he was disappointed in her. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You’re Joe Quinn’s daughter,’ he said. ‘It makes a difference. At least, it does if you’re the filth.’

  ‘Alan loves me,’ she said simply. ‘Nothing else matters.’

  ‘Not even family?’

  She frowned at him. ‘Don’t say that. You saw what that bastard did to me back there. What kind of family is that?’

  ‘Connor’s gonna do his nut.’

  But Lynsey didn’t give a stuff about Connor. Her other brother, currently banged up in the Scrubs, had the same filthy temper as their father. ‘Let him. It’s none of his business.’

  ‘He’ll make it his business.’

  ‘Not if he wants to stay out of nick, he won’t.’ They had reached the corner and Lynsey stopped by the phone box. ‘You’d better go now. You don’t need to worry. I’ll be okay.’

  Tommy screwed up his eyes and peered at her. ‘Will you?’

  ‘Promise,’ she said, forcing a smile. The immensity of what she was doing was just beginning to dawn. She felt afraid and excited, anxious and relieved, along with a crazy jumble of other emotions that set her heart racing. ‘I’ll get in touch when I’ve got things sorted.’

  ‘I could get the motor, give you a lift.’

  But Lynsey didn’t want him to know where Alan lived. Although she trusted Tommy not to tell anyone, she needed time to get her head sorted. It wouldn’t help to have her brother knocking on the door every five minutes. ‘He’s got a car,’ she said. ‘I’ll give him a bell. He’ll come and pick me up.’

  Tommy put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a roll of pound notes. He peeled off twelve – more than she earned in a week – and held them out. ‘Here, take this.’

  She shook her head. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Please,’ he said, pressing the notes into her hand. ‘Just do it for me. This way I know you’ll be okay.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she said, putting the money into her bag. ‘I’ll pay you back.’

  ‘No worries.’ Tommy leaned forward and gave her a quick hug. ‘Take care, yeah?’

  ‘You too,’ she said, pulling away. ‘And watch your back. Dad’s gonna be well pissed off about what you did tonight.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare try it on with me.’

  Lynsey reckoned he was right. Her father was a bully, but he was also a coward. He didn’t ever pick on anyone who might give as good as they got. ‘Bye then,’ she said, opening the door to the phone box. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘You sure you don’t want me to hang about until he gets here?’

  ‘He won’t be long. I’ll wait in the station. It’ll be warm there.’

  Tommy still seemed reluctant to leave. He stood with his white shirt sleeves flapping in the wind, staring glumly back at her.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘If you don’t get back soon, he’ll come looking for you.’

  ‘Go to Moira’s,’ he said.

  Lynsey shook her head. ‘Don’t start that again. I can’t, and I don’t want to.’

  The corners of his mouth turned down. ‘Don’t burn all your bridges, sis.’

  ‘I’m only doing what I have to do. Take care of yourself, Tommy. And thanks for tonight. I owe you one.’

  She went inside the phone box, letting the door close behind her, and picked up the phone, pretending to be looking for change in her purse. Finally Tommy got the message. She glanced over her shoulder and saw him heading towards the pub. At that moment she felt a sudden rip of panic in her chest. What would she do without him? They had always been a team, the two of them, watching out for each other. Now everything was changing.

  She had chosen Alan Beck, a copper, the enemy, and nothing would ever be the same again.

  2

  Lynsey waited until Tommy had gone inside the pub before putting down the receiver and stepping out of the phone box. Quickly she crossed the road and turned right into Kellston High Street. She couldn’t have called Alan even if she’d wanted to. There was no phone in his flat. Still, it wasn’t as if he lived far away. At a brisk pace – if that was possible in the heels she was wearing – she could be there in fifteen minutes.

  She turned up the collar of her coat. It was a cold night, and a thin, drizzly rain was starting to fall. Rummaging in her bag, she found a blue silk scarf, which she took out and tied around her head. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. The carefully contrived waves in her fair hair wouldn’t last long without some protection.

  She glanced at her watch and saw that it was almost eleven. Not that late. There were still plenty of people around, walking in twos and threes, on their way home or going on to a club. It was less than half an hour since Alan had dropped her off outside the Fox. Maybe he’d already gone to bed – she knew he had an early shift in the morning – but he’d understand why she’d come, why she had to be with him. Soulmates, that was what they were. Made for each other. Like two perfect pieces of a jigsaw.

  Her hand rose to her throat, still sore from the tightness of her father’s grip. God, she hated that man. He’d made her life a misery from the day she’d been born. From now on she was having nothing more to do with him. He could rant and rave as much as he liked; there was no way she was ever going home again. She and Alan would start their own family. Of course they wouldn’t be able to stay around here, but London was a big place. They’d find somewhere else to raise their child.

  ‘Lynsey Beck,’ she murmured to herself, liking the sound of it.

  All the shop windows were wreathed in darkness, but as she continued heading north, a light across the street caught her eye. Tobias Grand & Sons, the undertakers, were still at work. And that could only mean one thing. As if someone had walked over her grave, a shiver ran through her. Tonight somebody had died, somebody’s mother, somebody’s husband or wife. She thought of her own mum and bit down on her lip. Irene Quinn’s life had been one of unrelenting misery, her death slow and painful.

  Lynsey hurried on, trying to shake off the image of her mum laid out in the chapel of rest. A woman who didn’t quite look like her mother. A woman with waxy skin and too much rouge on her cheeks. She blinked hard. No, she couldn’t bear to think about it. Her hands clenched in her pockets, her long nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms.

  She turned right at Mansfield Road and skirted around the perimeter of a wide stretch of wasteland. What remained of the old back-to-back terraces – bombed in the Blitz – lay strangled in weeds. She had played there as a kid with Tommy and Connor, clambering over the rubble, searching for treasure in the dust and the dirt. There were rumours that the land was going to be developed, that three high-rise towers were going up, but nothing had happened yet.

  Here, away from the main street, it was quieter. The click of her heels against the pavement sounded unnaturally loud. She peered warily into the black shadows, at the humps and bumps, at the shapes that appeared almost sinister in the darkness. When she was six, Connor had whispered in her ear that the place was haunted, that the souls of the dead roamed forever through the wreckage of their old homes. Connor, like their dad, had always taken pleasure in tormenting her.

  Suddenly there was a small clattering sound. Lynsey jumped, her heart missing a beat. A drunk, perhaps? Or a cat? Or maybe something more ghostly. Before her imagination could begin to riot, she took to her heels and ran as fast as her shoes would allow her.

  Alan’s flat was in Lime Road, above a butcher’s shop. When she got there, she paused for a moment to catch her breath, gazing up at the window on the first floor. The curtains were closed, but a sliver of light crept between the join. She took off the headscarf, put it in her pocket and gently patted her hair. Her mouth widened into a smile. A thrill of anticipa
tion ran through her. Now, she thought, now her real life was about to begin.

  She pressed the bell and waited. It was over a minute before she heard the soft thud of footsteps on the stairs. As the door opened, she prepared to throw herself into his arms, but was brought up short by the appearance of a man she had never seen before. He was older than Alan, in his late thirties, with a plump face, glasses and thinning light brown hair.

  ‘Yes?’ he said.

  ‘Oh.’ Lynsey peered over his shoulder. ‘Is Alan in?’

  ‘Sorry, he’s not.’

  Lynsey looked at him and frowned. Alan had told her he was driving straight home, so why wasn’t he here? She’d been gearing herself up to tell him everything that had happened, and now she wasn’t sure what to do. Her shoulders slumped in disappointment. ‘Would you mind if I came in and waited?’

  ‘There’s no point,’ he said.

  She shook her head, wondering who the man was. A friend? A relative? ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean you’d be wasting your time.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said again. ‘Why’s that? Has he gone in to work?’

  The man hesitated, as if he wasn’t sure what to say. His gaze slid sideways and he shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Lynsey’s frown grew deeper. From upstairs she could hear music from a record player: Connie Francis singing ‘Who’s Sorry Now?’. A bad feeling was starting to stir in her guts. ‘I mean, he does live here, right?’ Of course he did. Hadn’t she been round dozens of times? She could describe the living room and the bedroom in intimate detail. Although now she came to think about it, she had never actually been here at night. Their secret assignations had always taken place in the afternoon.

  The man’s face took on a pained expression. ‘Well…’

  ‘Well?’ she echoed, a slight tremor entering her voice. ‘He either does or he doesn’t.’

  ‘Perhaps you ought to talk to Alan about this.’

  Lynsey could feel the colour rising in her cheeks, a red flush of anger and humiliation. She couldn’t believe it. After everything she’d been through, now a whole new nightmare was beginning. ‘Alan isn’t here,’ she snapped sharply. ‘So it looks like it’s down to you.’

  The man gave an awkward shrug. ‘He’s a mate. He stays here sometimes, that’s all. It’s handy for the station.’

  ‘So what you’re telling me…’ She swallowed hard and tried again. ‘What you’re saying is… this isn’t his flat?’

  The man retreated a step, his hand reaching for the door. ‘Like I said, you’d better talk to Alan.’

  But Lynsey wasn’t going to let it go. How could she? She was pregnant and homeless and in one unholy mess. ‘You’d better give me his real address, then.’

  ‘Sorry, but I really can’t—’

  She moved forward quickly so that he couldn’t slam the door on her. ‘Do you know who I am?’ she asked in desperation. She didn’t wait for an answer before continuing. ‘I’m Lynsey Quinn, Joe Quinn’s daughter. I take it you’ve heard of him?’ She couldn’t be sure in the dim light from the hallway, but she thought his face paled a little. ‘So it’s like this. You give me Alan’s address, right here, right now, or you’ll have my old man to deal with.’ She glanced up the stairs again, pretty sure from the choice of music that there was a woman in the flat. ‘And believe me, you wouldn’t want him coming round here to ruin your evening.’

  He thought about it, but not for long. Any loyalty towards Alan was clearly outweighed by Joe Quinn’s vicious reputation. ‘It’s Camberley Road, out in Farleigh Wood.’

  Lynsey had a lump as large as a boulder in her throat, but she wasn’t going to cry in front of this stranger. ‘What number?’ she demanded.

  He hesitated, glanced down at the ground and looked up at her again. ‘Twenty-four,’ he said eventually.

  ‘You’d better be telling me the truth, or—’

  ‘That’s where he lives,’ the man said firmly. ‘Now do you mind getting out of the way so I can close my door?’

  Lynsey glared at him before taking a step back. Then, without another word, she turned and walked off down the road. It was raining much harder now, but she didn’t bother to put her scarf back on. What did a drenching matter when she was already drowning in despair? Alan had lied to her. Lied to her. The bastard had told her he loved her, taken her to bed, taken her virginity, taken bloody everything. Oh Jesus, what was she going to do now?

  At the corner, where Lime Road met the high street, there was a long, low wall. With her legs trembling, she sat down and put her head in her hands. Her palms were sweating, her teeth chattering with the cold and the shock. She suddenly thought of all the questions she wished she’d asked the man: had Alan taken other girls to the flat? How many of them? Was he married? Oh God, what if he was already married? And maybe there were kids, too. Slipping a hand between the buttons of her coat, she pressed her fingers against the flat panel of her cotton dress and groaned. Perhaps she was mistaken about being pregnant. She was only a few weeks late, after all. ‘Please God,’ she murmured. ‘Let me be wrong.’

  While she sat on the wall, she thought about the first time they’d met, at Connolly’s. A Saturday afternoon, just before Christmas. The café warm and steamy, busy with shoppers, with frazzled mums and tetchy kids, and teenage girls like her and Moira with time to spare and nothing much to do with it. He’d come in with another bloke and sat down at the next table. She hadn’t been able to stop looking at him.

  It was his eyes she had noticed first, a dreamy shade halfway between green and blue with long, dark lashes. Incredible eyes. Then his mouth, wide and sensual, with even white teeth. Dark brown hair flopping over his brow. It had only been a few minutes before they’d got talking, although it was another hour before she’d discovered that he was a cop. Usually she could sniff out the filth without even trying. Enough of them came into the Fox, trying to mingle with the crowd, to eavesdrop on the local villains. But she’d never have clocked Alan Beck, not in a thousand years. He was too stylish, too cool, too breathtakingly gorgeous. Anyway, by the time she found out the truth, it was way too late. Her heart was never going to listen to her head.

  Feeling the rain seeping under her collar, Lynsey shivered and lifted her face. What now? She had to make some decisions, and fast. She wanted to confront him, but Farleigh Wood was miles away. Perhaps it would be better to go round to Moira’s, stay there for the night and… and then what? She couldn’t go crawling back to her dad’s. She’d rather die than do that. He’d almost killed her just for sleeping with a copper. What would he do when he found out she was pregnant?

  Wearily, she got to her feet. At least Moira would provide a shoulder to cry on, although Lynsey would also have to endure the lifted eyebrows and the inevitable I told you so. Moira had never liked Alan, never trusted him. Lynsey had put it down to jealousy, but perhaps her best friend had been right all along. Perhaps? She shook her head. What was she thinking? There was no perhaps about it. But even now, she acknowledged wryly, there was a part of her that still refused to believe in the betrayal.

  She trailed back along the high street with her shoulders hunched and her hands deep in her pockets. She was almost at the turning for Silverstone Street when a car drove quickly past, its wheels sending up a spray of water from the puddles in the gutter. Lynsey tried to jump out of the way, but she was too late. As the motor disappeared from view, she gazed dolefully down at her wet legs and stockings.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ she muttered, wondering if the night could get any worse.

  It was at that very moment that she saw the black cab approaching. On impulse she put out her arm and flagged it down. After clambering into the back, she leaned forward and said, ‘Farleigh Wood. Twenty-four Camberley Road.’

  The cabbie didn’t move. She could see him staring at her in his mirror. ‘That’s quite a way.’

  ‘I’ve got money,’ she said, glar
ing back at him. She grabbed her purse from her bag, took out the handful of notes that Tommy had given her and waved them at him. ‘See?’

  Satisfied, the cabbie gave a shrug and pulled away from the kerb.

  Lynsey sat back and huddled into the corner, gazing blindly out at the street. Whatever the truth was, she had to know it. Good or bad, she couldn’t wait until tomorrow.

  3

  It was three quarters of an hour before the cab got to Chingford and another ten minutes before it finally reached the leafy suburb of Farleigh Wood and began to wind through the back streets. Lynsey had spent the journey in a state of agitation, desperate to get there but terrified of what she might discover when she did. Now, as the moment drew closer, her fear increased, her pulse starting to race, her heart thrashing against her ribs.

  How would Alan react when she turned up out of the blue? Not well, she imagined. He’d be less than pleased to be exposed as the lying love rat he was. She remembered the first time they’d gone to bed, his mouth pressed close against her ear, his voice barely a whisper. She remembered all those afternoons spent in the flat, the evenings up West, the pubs and clubs, the bright lights of Soho and Mayfair. She remembered the parties where they’d danced together, their bodies so close they could feel each other’s heartbeat. And then there was that time when—

  ‘What number was it, love?’ the cabbie asked, interrupting her reverie.

  ‘Drop me here,’ she said, assailed by a fresh burst of panic. She wasn’t ready yet. She needed more time to get her head together. ‘This is fine.’

  The taxi drew up and Lynsey stared out at the row of large semi-detached houses. It was close to midnight and most of them were in darkness. The people who lived here clearly didn’t keep late hours. Reluctantly, she passed the fare over, not bothering with a tip. It had cost more than she’d expected, and anyway, he didn’t deserve the extra after the way he’d looked at her in Kellston. She got out of the cab and slammed the door behind her.