Goodnight Lady

by Martina Cole

  Briony took a long drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke into his face.

  ‘Yes, Tommy. I can hear you, mate. The whole of Barking can hear you.’ She pushed him from her with a strength that surprised him. Standing, she pointed at him with the cigarette.

  ‘All I ever hear is you. You, me, I - sodding Tommy Lane! Well, for once I ain’t interested. I’ve got a bit more on my mind than your stupid fucking worries about saving face. As you just said we’re supposed to be a partnership so that gives me the right to do what I want, go where I want, and have a say in what I want too! That’s a partnership, boy. Not sitting home like a fucking wife while you run around being the hero!

  ‘And while you was ducking and diving tonight, running round like a blue-arsed fly, I went round and saw Ma and Da Campbell. It’s Dumas we want Tommy. Henry Dumas. Da Campbell saw him and Bolger having a meet and put two and two together. So why don’t you calm yourself down and use your head instead of your arse for once? Only I would be interested to know what the other half of this so-called partnership has to say about that?’

  Even in her grief she was secretly pleased to see Tommy deflated by her words.

  He was shaken and disturbed.

  ‘Dumas?’ His voice was low, incredulous.

  ‘The very one.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another, pulling the smoke into her lungs with a ferocity that stunned him. ‘I want him. I want that bastard once and for all. I don’t care if he has got a father-in-law who’s a fucking lord, I couldn’t care less if he is the Prime Minister or fucking King Street Charlie, I want that bastard cut!’

  ‘Oh, Briony, come here, love...’

  She screwed up her eyes and clenched her fists, her whole body tense.

  ‘Don’t try and make it right with me, Tommy, please. I don’t want a cuddle or kind words, they don’t mean nothing. I want that bastard prostrate in front of me. I want to pay him back for me, for my emptiness, for Ginelle, and most of all for daring to try and tuck me up.’

  She looked at him and he couldn’t meet her eyes. Couldn’t acknowledge what he saw there: the pain and unhappiness. And the lust for revenge. She wanted revenge and he knew she would get it, with or without him. All the anger seemed to seep from his powerful frame in seconds. Compared to what she had suffered at that man’s hands, his own feelings were as nothing.

  ‘We’ll get him, girl. Between us we’ll get him, I promise you that.’

  It was what she wanted to hear. The burden of her thoughts was lifted, shared now and taken on by Tommy. Walking to him, she let herself be pulled into his embrace. Over his shoulder she watched the cigarette smoke curling up in tendrils in the empty air and saw the faces of Ronnie Olds and Willy Bolger. Tomorrow Tommy and she would be the undisputed King and Queen of the East End, and the knowledge made her feel sad and bitter. It was a title she had never craved, wanting respectability through her clubs and money-making schemes. Now she would have to keep the title and fight for it, otherwise Dumas and people like him could get to her once more. Could try and force her back to the gutter she had crawled out of. Sometimes things were forced on you, and you had to bear the consequences. It was the story of her life.

  Finally, after what seemed an age, she cried.

  Benedict Dumas watched his father’s moustaches quivering as he sat in his chair reading his daily paper. He pushed his own food around his plate, unable to stomach the kidney and scrambled eggs. He liked a boiled egg and bread and butter, his father knew this, but forced the kidneys on him every morning and waited until he ate them.

  ‘What are you staring at, boy? Eat your food.’

  ‘Yes, Papa.’

  Henry clenched his teeth in anger. Every time the boy called him ‘Papa’ he fought the urge to beat him. He had to acknowledge the child. His father-in-law doted on him, his wife adored him, even the blasted servants pandered to him. Henry hated the sight of him. Hated what he represented.

  Banging his fist down on the table he shouted: ‘Eat your breakfast, boy!’

  Isabel walked into the room with the mail and the atmosphere immediately lightened. Benedict smiled at his mama, and she kissed him on his cheek lightly.

  ‘Your grandpapa is coming today to take you to see the trains at Paddington. Then, I believe, he is taking you to the zoological gardens!’

  ‘Oh, Mama, how splendid! I’d better not eat too much breakfast as he always buys me an enormous lunch.’

  Henry gritted his teeth and carried on with his pretence at reading the paper.

  ‘No, darling. Leave that now and run up to your room and get your lessons prepared for Mr Bartlet. He has kindly allowed you to miss French today, but you must make up for it tomorrow.’

  ‘I will, Mama.’

  Isabel’s eyes twinkled as the boy looked at her with the special conspiratorial look reserved for when Henry was near them. Already Benedict knew the set-up in the house. His father was a terror to the face, and a joke behind his back.

  Isabel watched her husband as he tucked into his bacon, eggs and sausages. She had aged a great deal since the arrival of Benedict in her household. At first Isabel had been shunned by her so-called friends and contemporaries. But as her father had become besotted with the child and rumours had begun circulating that the child was actually his and not Dumas’, people had begun to call again and life had resumed its normal pattern. Isabel adored the boy; she saw him as the only thing in her life she actually possessed wholly. He was also a stick to beat Henry with and she took delight in this, surprising herself with the keenness with which she pitted her wits against her husband.

  Now the child was ten, he ate with them, as a boy was expected to at a certain age, was allowed to greet company, and was being trained in the niceties of being a young man of wealth and good family. The latter made her smile in her darker moments, knowing his stock so well: a father who was enamoured of little girls and a mother who was a whore of the first water. She shunned Briony now, hated thinking about the girl who had borne him. He was her son, wholly her son.

  Henry’s fork crashing on to his plate distracted her from her reverie and she looked at him, the animosity between them tangible in the confines of the room.

  Folding up his paper, he stood and left the room without a word or a backward glance. Pouring herself more coffee, Isabel smiled and mentally chalked up another victory to herself.

  Joshua was eating his lunch at The Chequers Inn. As always he had a pint of brown ale, and pie, peas and mash. He was swallowing down the last of his peas when his friend Billy Buggins started chattering about events of the previous night.

  ‘Anyway, seems that Tommy Lane went to Victoria Park and caused all sorts! I heard this morning that Ronnie Olds is dead, Micky Campbell, Marcenello and Willy Bolger! Though no one’s gonna miss him! Cut Ronnie Olds up right under his brothers’ noses they did. The Old Bill has been crawling around like maggots on a bit of rancid bacon. Well, they ain’t gonna find out nothing, are they? No one’s gonna put their face in the frame for the likes of them, I ask you. That Briony Cavanagh was there by all accounts, with the big Swede Jurgens. Now there’s two women I wouldn’t fancy...’

  His voice trailed off and Joshua wiped his tongue around his teeth before saying: ‘Go on, Billy. Finish what you was going to say.’

  Billy was terrified - not of Joshua, he had known Joshua for years. He was terrified of the fact Joshua was soon to be a part of that set-up too. He was marrying Briony’s sister.

  ‘Say what you was going to say, Billy, I ain’t going to have a go nor nothing. I want to know what you was going to say.’

  Billy was as red as a beetroot, even his neck was flushed. ‘I never meant nothing by it, Joshua, everyone knows Eileen’s a good kid. I mean, she can’t help her stock, can she? Can any of us?’

  This was a veiled reference to Joshua’s father and he digested the words before he said: ‘In future, Billy, think before you open your mouth. I’m a peaceable man but my wife’s family is s
oon to be my family and I can’t listen to anyone bad-mouthing them, can I?’

  Billy shook his great head furiously. ‘No, Josh ... You’re right, I was out of order.’

  Joshua smiled and carried on eating his food.

  But he was worried. Eileen’s sisters had not really played a part in his life, not yet anyway. But all he had heard this morning was how Briony and Tommy Lane had taken on the hard men and won. It was just occurring to him that his sweet-faced Eileen, with her angelic face and compliant nature, might be more trouble than she was worth.

  Bernadette and Kerry were sorting through a pile of clothes together. They’d had a truce since Kerry had made it plain she would brook no trouble. Bernie for her part was frightened of her sister now. Besides being her employer, she was Bernie’s ticket out of the East End. Evander was not discussed by mutual consent and they played a game that everything was as it had been, though both knew that to regain their old easy footing would be impossible now. They walked around each other carefully, weighing up their words and phrases. It was exhausting for them both.

  Now, though, they had a subject they could discuss freely: the events of the night before in Victoria Park.

  ‘Our Briony’s got it all now, Kerry. She’s number one, the business as they say.’

  Kerry nodded. ‘Yes, our Briony is up there with the hard men. Jesus wept, I never thought she’d stoop to murder! I thought she was strictly a good-time girl, a madam. Oh, Bernie, what on earth will all this come to?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Our Briony was always a law unto herself, you know that. It’s why she got as far as she did and took us with her. We’ll just have to hope she can take on contenders for her crown, because there’ll be plenty of them, once the novelty wears off. She’ll spend her whole life looking over her shoulder now.’

  Kerry looked down at the dress she was holding and bit her lip. If Briony looked over her shoulder and saw Evander, what would happen then?

  Chapter Sixteen

  St Martin’s Church was full. Ginelle’s coffin was closed, the lid screwed tightly down. Briony stood at the front of the church with Tommy, Ginelle’s mother and her elder children taking the second pew. Briony’s eyes strayed constantly to the coffin, knowing exactly what was inside it. She heard the muffled sobs of her girls, and the vicar’s droning voice.

  Unlike a Catholic Mass, with its pomp and ceremony, the Church of England service seemed very shallow and unfeeling to Briony. The vicar, a dour man in his sixties, kept referring to Ginelle as ‘the young lady’, as if frightened to admit any kind of association with her. There were no hymns, no real prayers, and as far as Briony was concerned, no emotion. She grasped Tommy’s hand for warmth. He squeezed it tightly, as if knowing the battle raging inside her, the guilt she felt. Ginelle’s death was her fault. Ginelle had become a valuable asset, appearing in the films with Jonathan la Billière. She had been the girl of everyone’s dreams. Bolger had killed her because she was worth money to Briony, a lot of money. If Briony hadn’t decided to branch out into the films, Ginelle would have still been just a Tom. Would still be walking around with her phony accent and her outlandish clothes.

  Recognition of this caused her a great deal of concern. Though Briony had fought for Ginelle, and now guaranteed her girls a much safer life, she still couldn’t rest easy in her bed. Not even with the reassuring presence of Tommy beside her. Because in her mind’s eye, in the dark, she once more saw Ginelle in the crate. Smelt the sticky blood. Saw the terrified face on the dead girl. Now there were other faces too. Bolger’s, Marcenello’s, Campbell’s and Ronnie Olds’. Ronnie holding his guts inside the gaping hole of his belly. As soon as this service was over, and Ginelle had been laid to rest, she was going to go round and see the bastard who was behind all the carnage, and the death. She forced herself to concentrate and began praying.

  Tommy watched as her lips moved in silent prayer, not at all sure what exactly he was doing in this church, burying a working girl. He sighed heavily. Briony gave him a quick look out of the corner of her eye and, feeling ashamed, he tried valiantly to remember a prayer from his childhood. As he began his ‘Our Father’ he smiled to himself. Only Briony could get the new governor of the East End to a whore’s burial. But that’s what he had always loved about her: her dogged determination to do what she considered right and just.

  He finished his prayer and hastily blessed himself, feeling a glow of righteousness go through him. Then, bored once more, he concentrated his thoughts on Henry Dumas, and contemplated the vicar who was saying nothing and taking far too bloody long about it.

  Henry sat in his office and looked over a pile of papers. His secretary, Miss Barnes, a recent acquisition, stood nervously by waiting for his approval. Henry took his time, enjoying her discomfiture. He had no real need of a woman in his workplace, but it was now the done thing. She stood there in front of him in her long grey skirt, high button boots and a sensible white blouse, her brown hair tied at the back with a black velvet ribbon, her hands clasped demurely together. At least she didn’t smoke. He couldn’t abide seeing women smoke.

  ‘They’ll do, Miss Barnes.’ He held the papers out for her without looking up and the girl hastily took them and departed. Henry rested his elbows on his desk and glanced at the heavy mahogany clock on the wall. It was a quarter to five. He grinned to himself, contemplating the little girl waiting for him at a small house in Upney Lane. He decided to leave early and walk to his destination. It was only fifteen minutes from the dock offices. Nodding at Miss Barnes, he left the building.

  Briony and Tommy watched him leave, buttoning his coat. They watched him walk down to the corner of the street and walk into a small shop. He came out five minutes later with a brightly coloured box of sweets. Briony felt her heart stop dead in her chest.

  It was as if she was a child again and Henry was coming to visit her, with his little treats and presents. She gripped Tommy’s hand on the steering wheel and whispered: ‘Follow him, let’s see where he’s going.’

  He shrugged and started up the car, the urgency in her voice communicating itself to him.

  ‘He’s got a girl, Tommy. The bastard bought sweets, and from what Sally’s said they’re not for Benedict. He can’t stand the sight of the child. He used to bring me bits and pieces. The bastard, the dirty bastard!’

  They followed him, matching his brisk pace. As he turned into Upney Lane, Briony held her breath inside her chest until it hurt. Henry’s pace quickened and when he opened a small wooden gate and practically danced up the path, she felt the rage build inside her. The front door was opened by a young woman. Briony squinted. She looked familiar. The woman greeted Dumas effusively, and when the door shut behind them, Briony and Tommy emerged from their car on to the dirt road.

  ‘I’ll kill him, Tommy. I swear to you, I’ll kill him!’

  ‘Calm down. We’ll go in and find out the score. There’ll be no killing here today. If we top him it’ll cause us too much trouble. It’s a warning we’re here to deliver, right?’

  Briony stared into his face and the misery she displayed made Tommy want to wring Henry Dumas’ neck.

  ‘I hate him! I hate him from the very bones, do you know that? Even Olds, as bad as he was, deserved to live over that bastard. Had more right to life.’

  Pulling away from Tommy, she walked over to the house purposefully, banging open the little wooden gate and tramping up the neat path as quick as her legs would carry her. Tommy followed her, a feeling of foreboding inside him.

  This was more than a revenge. Briony was facing her own personal demons today, he understood that, and as the front door opened, he put his hand inside his coat and caressed the policeman’s truncheon he had placed there earlier. He had a good few scores to settle this day himself.

  Christine Howell opened the door smiling, her big moon face split in a grin that rapidly disappeared as she saw the two people standing before her.

  ‘Where is he?’ Briony’s voic
e was tight.

  ‘Who?’ Christine’s voice was high. Fright mingled with confusion making her panic.

  ‘Who? Who do you fucking think! That nonsense who just walked in here!’

  Pushing past the terrified girl, she opened the first door she came to. Bursting into the room, she stopped dead. Sitting by a blazing fire, his face drained of colour, was Henry Dumas, on his lap a little dark-haired girl of nine. Her hands were still clutching the box of sweets, her face a mask of dismay.

  As if just realising the child was there, Dumas pushed her from him as if she was red hot, emptying her from his lap on to the carpet with a thump.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ His voice was high and incredulous. His mouth moved again, but this time no sound emerged. Henry Dumas was literally lost for words. As his eyes burned into Briony’s he became aware of Tommy Lane picking the little girl up and leading her from the room. Heaving himself from the chair, he stood up, shoulders back, and in his most commanding voice, shouted: ‘Leave that child alone! Now take yourself and this ... this ... slut back where you came from!’

  His voice and demeanour triggered a reaction from Briony. He dared to shout at them? He dared to stand there in this house and order them out?

  She flew at him, hair and nails flying. Instinctively she went for his face, dragging her nails through the soft plump skin of his cheeks, feeling it tear, a superhuman strength flowing through her body. As small as she was, she forced him to the floor. His utter shock at being attacked gave Briony the edge over him. As Henry hit the carpet, his hands trying desperately to hold her clawing fingers away from him, Briony kicked him in the stomach.

  He let go of her to hold himself and she picked up the poker from the embers of the fire and brought it crashing down on to his head, the smell of his singeing hair permeating the room. Raising the poker up over her head again she brought it down on to his shoulders and back, again and again, every blow easing the pain inside her until, spent, she looked down on to his bloody face and dropped the poker with a dull thud. She closed her eyes tightly, savouring the moment.