by Roberta Kray
It disgusted him to think of how much time he had wasted in trying to get her back. Some women weren’t worth fighting for. In fact, come to think of it, none of them were. Underneath the slick, glossy exteriors, they were all bloody bitches. He should have made her pay for what she’d done to him, and still regretted that he hadn’t. A simple hit-and-run or an overenthusiastic mugging and Mr Silver Spoon could have been lying flat on his back in the morgue. The thought of this sent a pleasurable shiver down his spine.
Alan Beck had understood how women could wreck your life. That Lynsey had trapped him good and proper; the poor bloke had been done up like a kipper and no mistake. A wedding ring on his finger before he’d had time to get his head straight, and then a screaming sprog to support. Tony heaved out a breath. He should have learnt from his mate’s mistakes and stayed single.
It was twenty past four before Tommy Quinn finally emerged from the building, crossed the road and climbed into Meyer’s MG. He was checking the buttons on his shirt and wearing a smug expression like a kid who had got away with doing something he shouldn’t.
‘Make the most of it, shitbag,’ Tony muttered under his breath. ‘This could be the last happy day you have for quite some time.’
He thought about following him, but then decided against it. Tommy was probably going back to the Fox to open up. No, he’d stay here and see what he could find out about the tart. It meant more hanging around, but it could be worth it in the end. Once the MG had driven off, Tony got out and strolled casually towards the flats. There were eight bells in all, four flats on each floor, but no names on any of them. He went back to the car, turned on the radio and settled down for another wait.
In the event, it was only twenty minutes before the small blonde appeared again. She had changed into a flowery minidress, only marginally longer than the one she’d been wearing for Tommy, and was tottering along the pavement in a pair of white stilettos. She was so top-heavy that she looked in imminent danger of tipping forward. Still, she didn’t have far to fall. She stopped at the bus stop and gazed hopefully down the street.
Tony lowered his head, pretending to read the paper as he watched her from behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. He didn’t find her any more appealing close up than he had from a distance. Her skin was very pale, a shade that made her look almost anaemic, and her bare shoulders were faintly pink from where the sun had caught them. He wondered, apart from the obvious, what Tommy Quinn saw in her. But then again, maybe it was the obvious that was the big attraction.
Within a couple of minutes a bus turned up, and Tony pulled the car out from the kerb, swinging behind the red double-decker. He had a fleeting glimpse of her climbing the stairs before she disappeared from view. Following a bus was a tricky business. There was always some moronic bastard behind you, getting the hump because you weren’t overtaking when it stopped to let passengers on and off.
Tony kept his eyes peeled as he trailed the bus through the traffic down to Old Street and around the roundabout. With no idea of her destination, he had to be ready for whenever she might make a move. From what she was wearing, he had no idea of whether she was going to work or planning a night on the tiles. Maybe Tommy Quinn wasn’t the only man in her life.
It was another forty minutes, just as they were skirting the green expanse of Finsbury Park, before he noticed her coming down the stairs again. As soon as the bus stop came into view, he pulled into the first available parking space and watched as she got off and continued to walk along Seven Sisters Road.
Tony got out of the car and pursued her, keeping a discreet distance. Over the years he had noticed that some people had a sixth sense when it came to being followed. It was as though a tiny alarm went off in their head, a primitive warning that someone had their eyes on them. This girl, however, didn’t turn around or even glance over her shoulder.
After a hundred yards, she stopped outside a pub called the Dog and Duck and made a few minor alterations to her hair before walking through the door. Tony didn’t immediately follow her inside. Instead he lit a fag and leaned against the wall, deciding to wait a while before putting in an appearance.
Five minutes later, he pushed open the door and went in. It was still early, and the place wasn’t busy yet. He scanned the tables, most of them empty, but couldn’t see her. Had she gone to the ladies’? Had she clocked him and done a runner through a back exit? But then he suddenly caught sight of her behind the bar. Ah, so Tommy’s bit of fluff was a barmaid. That made sense. Tommy Quinn didn’t strike him as the adventurous type; he probably liked to stick with what he knew.
Tony went up to the counter and gave her his widest smile. ‘Hello, love. A pint of lager, please. And have one yourself.’
‘Oh, ta, darlin’. That’s nice of you. I won’t say no.’
She had a broad cockney accent and a mouthful of teeth. Decent teeth, as it happened, straight and white, although there seemed to be too many of them. Her bright red lipstick was made more garish by the paleness of her skin.
‘So, what’s a beautiful girl like you doing in a place like this?’
‘What you after, then?’ she giggled.
Tony gave her a look of mock incredulity. ‘Can’t a guy give a compliment these days without being suspected of ulterior motives?’
‘Not to me, love. I’ve heard every line going and then some.’ She put his pint on the counter and took the pound note from his hand. ‘But don’t let me stop you. I like a good laugh.’
Tony watched her as she wiggled over to the till and rang up the drinks. Her fingernails were long and red, the same shade as her lipstick. When she came back with his change, he gave her another of his smiles. ‘I’m Tony, by the way.’
‘Shelley Anne,’ she said as she placed the change in his palm.
‘So, Shelley Anne, how are things with you?’
‘Could be better,’ she said. ‘But I ain’t complaining.’
‘Ah, I like an uncomplaining woman.’
‘I bet you do.’
Tony grinned. ‘Why do I get the feeling that some ungrateful man’s been breaking your heart?’
‘It’s a long story, darlin’.’
Tony leaned forward, his eyes full of sympathy and understanding. ‘Well, I’m not going anywhere; why don’t you tell me all about it?’
16
Helen was in bed, lying on her back with her hands behind her head. She knew without glancing at the luminous green dial of the alarm clock that it was just after eleven. The bedroom was at the front of the flat, overlooking Station Road, and the customers were starting to leave. People always talked too loudly when they had the drink in them. Sometimes there was shouting, rows and fights, but tonight it wasn’t so bad.
She was tired, but she couldn’t sleep. She was thinking over the day and the deal she had made with Frank Meyer. Three more weeks and then she could leave if she wanted to. He had promised to drive her anywhere, but where would she go? Perhaps by then Gran would be better and she could return to her life at Camberley Road.
After the two of them had left the cemetery, Frank had walked her up to Moira’s and stayed for a cup of tea. Helen had watched him surreptitiously from over the rim of her mug. He was the kind of man, she thought, who made you feel safe: big and solid, with an easy manner. Maybe, when she was older, she would marry a man like Frank, someone who was kind and funny and never mean to her. That was if she ever got married at all. Would anybody want a girl with bad blood?
After Frank had gone, Moira had leaned across the table and laid a hand over hers. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, love? That Joe Quinn’s a nasty piece of work. If you want me to have a word with him…’
But Helen shook her head. ‘It’s fine. Really it is.’ She couldn’t bear the idea of anyone else getting involved. All she wanted to do now was to try and forget about it. Her grandmother, who adhered to the stiff-upper-lip school of thought, had always disapproved of people who ‘made a fuss’. She had been raised to put a brave fac
e on things and not to whine about what you couldn’t change.
Moira, sensing her awkwardness, changed the subject smartly. ‘So how about something to eat, then? You must be starving.’ Before Helen could reply, she had jumped up and started bustling round the kitchen. ‘What about an omelette? You go and put some music on while I get them ready.’
Helen had flipped through Moira’s extensive collection of LPs, examining the covers while she tried to decide what to play. It was mainly soul music – Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, James Brown – with a bit of pop thrown in. She had chosen Aretha Franklin’s Soul ’69 and they had listened to it while they ate their lunch.
Afterwards, she and Moira had taken their chairs outside to the rickety fire escape that led down to the alley. They had sat in the sun and chatted about nothing in particular. For the first time that day, Helen had actually started to relax. Joe might be her enemy, but she wasn’t completely alone. She had Tommy and Moira on her side, and Frank Meyer too.
At four o’clock, they had walked back to the Fox together. Moira had stopped by the back door and laid a maternal hand on her arm. ‘You can always come to mine, Helen. If you’re worried about anything, or if you just want to get away from here for a while. You’re always welcome.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Would you like me to come in with you?’
Helen had shaken her head. She was anxious about entering the pub again, scared that she might walk straight into Joe, but she had to do it some time. And she had to do it on her own. ‘Thanks for lunch. I’ll see you soon.’
After Moira had left, Helen had unlocked the back door and stepped gingerly inside. She had held her breath while she listened for any noises coming from the bar or from upstairs. All she could hear was the faint sound of the television. After a few minutes, she had climbed quietly up the stairs.
As it happened, she’d had no need to be worried. There was no sign of Joe in the living room, and everything was calm. Her two cousins had shifted up to make room for her on the sofa and even Yvonne had made an effort to be nice.
‘You okay, love? Sit yourself down. I’m just making tea. It won’t be long.’
Food, it seemed, was the common answer to any upset. No one had come straight out and asked her about what had happened, but she could tell that they all knew. Karen and Debs had given her curious sidelong glances, clearly eager to ask for all the gory details but probably under strict instructions not to do so.
They had eaten tea on their knees, eggs, chips and beans, and everything had been fine until Tommy had come back. As soon as he’d stepped through the door, Yvonne had started sniping.
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘A bit of business,’ he said.
‘Yeah, and we all know what kind of business that is.’
Tommy had raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘The kind of business that keeps this family fed and clothed, woman. What’s your problem?’
‘My problem is you disappearing and not telling me where you’re going.’
Helen had bowed her head, not wanting to listen. She hated it when they bickered; it reminded her of her mum rowing with Gran, and that in turn reminded her of everything she’d lost. For her uncle, however, it was like water off a duck’s back. He gave an indifferent shrug and headed for the kitchen.
Helen had gone to bed early so that she could pretend to be asleep when Karen joined her in the room. Out of earshot of Yvonne, her cousin might be tempted to start asking questions. Now, an hour later and still awake, she turned over and lay on her side, gazing at the thin stripe of light that ran along the bottom of the door. The landing light would stay on until Tommy locked up and came upstairs.
From the bunk above, she heard Karen’s light snuffling snores. There was the sound of laughter from outside, and then the clatter of an empty tin can as it rolled along the road. She closed her eyes, willing oblivion to come. Her body felt heavy and exhausted, but the events of the day continued to haunt her. Her eyes blinked open again. Had Joe come in yet? What if he was still angry and he… No, if she started thinking like that, she’d lie awake all night.
It was only when she heard Tommy’s heavy tread on the carpet outside the door that Helen finally relaxed. She was safe so long as her uncle was close by. Joe wouldn’t come for her when his son was around. There was a murmur of voices from the master bedroom, and then it went quiet. She closed her eyes again and began to drift into sleep.
Helen had just dozed off when she was woken abruptly by a huge crash. There was the distinctive sound of breaking glass, followed by a soft whooshing noise. She sat bolt upright, her heart hammering in her chest. It had come from downstairs, either the first floor or the bar.
Seconds later, she heard Tommy thumping along the landing. ‘For fuck’s sake!’
Helen leapt out of bed, opened the door and leaned over the banisters. She saw the top of Tommy’s head as he turned the corner on the first-floor landing and lunged down towards the pub. There was a thin, crackling noise and smoke started to drift up the stairwell. Oh God, the Fox was on fire! For one crazy, panic-stricken moment, she thought that Joe was trying to kill her, before reason kicked in. He was hardly likely to burn down his own pub, especially when his two granddaughters were fast asleep in the flat above.
Yvonne came out of the bedroom, her fingers fumbling with the sash on her pink silky dressing gown. ‘Get Karen,’ she yelped as she rushed into Debs’s room.
Helen dashed back, jumped on the bottom bunk and reached up to shake Karen awake. ‘Get up, get up! Quick! There’s a fire!’
Karen half climbed, half fell out of bed, and the two of them ran out on to the landing. Yvonne grabbed her daughters’ hands and started pulling them down the stairs. Helen followed behind, her legs feeling weak and shaky. They stumbled down the two flights into the smoky atmosphere of the ground-floor hallway.
As Yvonne yanked the key off the hook in the hallway and began to fumble with the lock on the back door, Helen looked across at the entrance to the bar. The central pillar was alight, blazing fiercely, and there were other, smaller scattered fires. Tommy, dressed only in his jeans and trainers, was spraying the floor with the fire extinguisher, trying to stop the flames from spreading. His back was gleaming with sweat, his shoulders grey and ashy.
Helen felt another wave of panic rising in her chest. What if he got caught in the fire? What if he couldn’t escape? From where she was standing, she could see the gaping hole in the window, its edges sharp and ragged. She heard an ugly splintering sound and saw one of the tables collapse to the ground. The acrid smell of smoke filled the hallway.
‘Come on,’ Yvonne urged, finally getting the door open. She quickly pushed her daughters out into the cool night air and then grabbed Helen’s arm and propelled her out too. She called over her shoulder. ‘For God’s sake, Tommy, get out of there! Leave it!’
But Helen suspected that he’d take no notice. Tommy loved the pub and he’d do anything to try and save the place. As Yvonne dragged them all towards the far side of the car park, Helen kept looking back, willing him to run out through the door, to do exactly as his wife told him for once in his life. Please, Tommy, she silently begged.
‘Stay here,’ Yvonne ordered, before flopping clumsily down the street in her slippers towards the red phone box on the corner. There were two phones in the pub, one upstairs and one down, but there hadn’t been time to use them.
While she was gone, the three girls huddled together and gazed helplessly at the burning building. The orange glow of the fire could be clearly seen through the back windows of the bar, the flames licking at the glass. From where they were standing, they couldn’t see any sign of Tommy. Karen started to cry, a thin, mewling sound like a frightened kitten.
‘He’ll be all right,’ Debs said, trying to comfort her.
‘Your mum’s gone to call the fire brigade; they’ll be here soon,’ Helen offered, although in truth she had no idea how long they would take. She wished Frank Me
yer was on his way too. He’d know what to do. He wouldn’t let Tommy get hurt. Hopping from one foot to the other, she hugged her chest with her arms. Perhaps she was being punished for not going to church. She stared up at the starlit sky, making a private deal with the God she had ignored for the last couple of months. Please don’t let him die. Please keep him safe and I’ll always be good. When she thought of fire, she thought of hell and damnation. She thought of her mother going to sleep and never waking up.
Yvonne returned and went as close to the back door of the pub as she dared. By now the smoke was billowing out in thick black clouds. ‘Tommy!’ she yelled again. ‘I’ve called the fire brigade. Get out of there!’
Helen strained her ears but couldn’t hear any reply. She lifted a hand and chewed on her fingernails. They should never have left him alone. He was going to die. He was going to burn to death. She watched, terrified, as Yvonne retreated, beaten back by the smoke. And then, just when she thought there was no hope remaining, Tommy suddenly came barrelling out of the pub with a jacket over his head. He got as far as the centre of the car park before his legs gave way beneath him and he crumpled to the ground.
The girls were on him in a second. ‘Dad? Dad? Are you okay?’
Tommy sat on the concrete, his head between his knees, his body racked with great heaving coughs. His fair hair was singed at the ends and blackened by the smoke. There were cuts and burns across his shoulders, back and arms. After a while, the coughing began to subside and he gulped in the fresh night air.
While the girls fussed around Tommy, Helen stood back. Her instinct had been to run straight to him, but she had fought against the impulse. She might be family, but she wasn’t his daughter. Relieved as she was, she didn’t want to push in where she might not be wanted. Instead she briefly squeezed shut her eyes and whispered, Thank you, God. Thank you, God.