Goodnight Lady

by Martina Cole

  ‘Not a day has gone by since but I’ve thought of you, Ben. The only child of my body. I’m sorry if I don’t fit the bill, but that’s another thing I can’t do anything about.’

  Benedict looked into her face and what he said didn’t really surprise her.

  ‘I hated Henry Dumas all my life. It’s funny, but my mother’s ... my adopted mother’s ... father was the only man I ever cared for. Yet now I know he was nothing to me really, no blood relation at all.’

  Briony was sorry for her outburst, but this big handsome well-spoken man frightened her, even while she loved to look at him and hear his voice. He frightened her because she knew he was looking down his nose at her. Knew he would be ashamed of her, was ashamed of her and what she was. The knowledge made her want to cry.

  ‘Why did you come here? Why did you want to see me?’

  She asked the question even though she was terrified of the answer.

  ‘I had to know you, I had to see you and talk to you. I had to know what stock I had come from, I had to know if you were as low as I had been told...’

  Briony laughed then, a heartrending little sound that was nearly crying.

  ‘And am I?’

  Benedict finished the brandy in one gulp and looked into the face so like his own.

  ‘Yes, you are.’

  With that he stood up and left the room.

  Briony heard his footsteps as he walked to the front door, she heard the crunch of his expensive boots as he walked across the gravel of the drive and away from her.

  Then the tears did come and with them the burning heat of humiliation and shame.

  He was her son, her boy. She still loved him with every ounce of her being.

  Benedict walked from his mother’s house and down the drive in a state of terror and shock. He had seen her, spoken to her. He had sat in her house. The biggest impression she had made on him was the fact she looked the same age as him. They could have been brother and sister.

  As he pulled open the door of his car and got into the driving seat, he felt his heartbeat begin to slow down. His pulse was not so erratic now and he took long deep breaths to calm himself.

  She was so young.

  Brother and sister.

  The thoughts swirled around in his head, making him dizzy. He saw her then in his mind’s eye as a young girl, a very young girl of ten or eleven. He saw his father as he had seen him in countless old photos, taking the young girl as a grown man might a woman. Taking her as his right. After all, he had paid for her. He saw the frightened face, her crinkly red hair and those huge green eyes. The scene before his eyes sickened him, and the way he had hurt her sickened him more. But, oh, he had wanted to hurt her, that girl-woman who had borne him. He had wanted to make her hurt as he had been hurting for the last year.

  But hadn’t she been hurting for fifty years? Over fifty years in fact. Since she had first come into contact with his father? Hadn’t he wanted to hurt her because she had abandoned him, given him to Isabel and Henry Dumas, when she was his flesh and he was hers. When they were mother and son?

  Hadn’t he wanted to hurt her for every hurt inflicted on him by a father who couldn’t stand the sight of him, who had wickedly tortured the young boy in his care because he was the product of Briony Cavanagh and for no other reason but that? Because his mother had been a young girl, a young child, and Henry’s wife Isabel had bought his son from her because she wanted a baby so desperately?

  And with the clarity of adulthood and hindsight Benedict realised that he himself had also been a stick to beat Henry Dumas with. A hold over him. Something Isabel could use to get her own back for the barrenness of her marriage and her life.

  Wasn’t that why he had hurt the woman back in that house? No other reason but that? Because through her he had been hurting all his life?

  And now through his meeting her, and what he had just done to her, he would carry on hurting, only this time the hurt would be tinged heavily with shame and guilt.

  Yet, through her, now he had it all. A good education, a good marriage, two healthy children, more money than he could ever hope to spend, and a place in society that had culminated in his inheriting his grandfather’s peerage. Benedict Dumas, now Lord Barkham. He smiled a twisted smile at he thought. Lord Barkham begotten by a man’s twisted desire for young children.

  It was a heavy burden to carry around with you day after day, and yet he knew he would have to. For his own children’s sakes.

  He felt an urge to run back to that house and into that woman’s arms, to cry on her shoulder and hear that deep husky voice tell him everything would be fine. Instead, he started up his Daimler and drove home to Fenella and Natalie and his son Henry Dumas the second. Home to his real life, that wasn’t really his life, had never been his life.

  At over fifty years old he felt like an orphan, and strange as human nature can be, after the revelations of last year, that felt quite good.

  Delia was in the Jack of Spades, a small club in Soho that played jazz music, served warm beer, and turned a blind eye to the smoking of cannabis. She looked at the youth with her, about nineteen, with a three-day stubble on his chin. Already she wished she had never met him.

  He loved the thought that she was related to Kerry Cavanagh. The name Cavanagh haunted Delia. Jimmy Sellars had loved the fact she was related to all those people whom he admired, the twins most of all. It was just a pity Delia herself didn’t garner the respect her cousins and her aunts did. Then she might be a bit happier.

  She accepted the tiny piece of blotting paper from Andy and looked at it for a second before putting it on her thickly coated tongue. It had a little smiling face printed on it. The LSD was called California Sunshine and was about as good as you could get. She felt the need for the rush tonight, a deep inner need that had nothing to do with Andy, her aunts or her cousins.

  This was between her and her brain.

  The thought made her smile.

  Everywhere she looked were Jimmy Sellars lookalikes. All smoking dope, dropping uppers and downers and acid. The smell of chemicals should be coming out of their pores by now, she reckoned. But she did miss Jimmy Boy, missed him a lot.

  An hour later she was smashed out of her skull. The room had taken on rosy edges, faces were swimming before her eyes, faces that were like plasticine models. She lifted an arm and watched the strobing. Fifteen arms moved in perfect harmony together. She smiled to herself. All around her she could see a blue heat coming from the bodies. Bodies that were entwined, were moving with perfect clarity, and yet were not moving at all. Let’s hear it for California Sunshine, she thought to herself then. For being out of your box and still able to think.

  Andy thrust a drink into her hand and she gulped at it gratefully, feeling the warm bubbles of lager as they made their way through her body. Every nerve was alive, every pore in her body could feel. That was what she loved most about LSD. Only when tripping could she really feel that aliveness, that being present feeling that deserted her when she was straight. When real life was just a bummer. When her feelings were deadened and frustrated by lack of chemicals. Whoever invented LSD should get the peace prize, should be feted and adored. Whoever made this synthetic feeling of happiness should be rewarded.

  Such was Delia’s thinking when she bumped into the guy with the long black hair and the crooked grin.

  Before she knew what was happening she was out of the club, was in a car then in a flat in Ilford, with Pink Floyd on the stereo and her own voice talking above it.

  She was telling him all about her life, her child, and the death of her child’s father.

  The man listened gently, prompting her now and then or asking her questions.

  Delia, in her drugged innocence, answered everything he asked her. Truthfully. Without a shred of nervousness.

  Later on he made love to her.

  That bit, as far as she was concerned, was the best bit of all.

  Chapter Forty-five

  Tommy wat
ched Briony as she pushed her food around her plate. He watched her closely, taking in everything about her, from her hair, piled high on her head to reveal her slender neck, hardly creased with age, to her coral-painted fingemails. Dressed as she was in a deep green three-quarter length dress with matching sandals, she looked every bit the lady to him. Her eyes were expertly made up. The fine lines around them made her look more interesting than old.

  He wished with all his heart that she would tell him what was ailing her. Whatever it was it had been on her mind for over a week. She had lain beside him, pretending to sleep, but with the knowledge of someone who has spent countless nights beside her, he knew she was faking.

  ‘Come on, Bri ... Tell me what’s up. We’ve never kept things from one another, have we?’

  Briony looked startled. Her eyes glanced into his and he saw first the hurt, then the confusion.

  ‘I think that whatever’s on your mind, girl, should be shared. Just talking about a problem can automatically make it seem less gigantic.’ He smiled as he said that.

  Briony half smiled. Tommy was shrewd enough to know that whatever was wrong with her was big. Was enormous. Otherwise she would have sorted it herself.

  But should she tell him?

  Should she open up to him and tell him all the demons that were plaguing her day and night? About the guilt and the fear, yes, fear, because she was frightened of her son, frightened of what he thought of her. What he felt about her.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head.

  ‘I’ll tell you soon, my love, I promise you.’

  ‘Is it very bad?’

  Briony heard the hurt in his voice and was sorry. ‘It’s bad enough. It’s a family problem.’ Well, that was true anyway.

  ‘It’s not about me then?’

  Briony did smile now. ‘No, Tommy Lane. It’s not about you. It’s about something that happened a long time ago and has come back to haunt me.’

  Then Tommy knew.

  There was only one thing in her past that could rise up and have this effect.

  Her son.

  Nodding his understanding, he carried on eating the excellent steak and kidney pudding cooked by Cissy.

  He made a mental note to find out about Benedict Dumas. If that little bugger was causing hag, then he wanted to know about it. It wasn’t until dessert that he realised the epithet ‘little bugger’ was completely wrong. Briony’s son was only thirteen years younger than she was.

  This thought stayed with him all night. Suddenly he saw again a beautiful young girl, dressed in blue velvet. And, being a gentleman, he told himself she hadn’t changed a bit.

  Daniel combed his hair in the hallway mirror of Boysie’s house. He could hear Suzy’s voice coming from the lounge and closed his eyes. She was one mouthy cow, that Suzy. If she was his old woman he’d give her an almighty slap, shut the bitch up.

  ‘So I’ve got to stay in all night on me own then, is that it, Boysie Cavanagh? Is that this evening’s plan then? You fuck off out and I stay here bored out of me brains?’

  Boysie stared at his little wife and sighed.

  ‘I’ve got a bit of business, Suzy, I’ll try not to be late...’

  She interrupted him.

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry about me, Boysie, or should I say us? Me and the baby. Your baby by the way. We’ll sit in here and watch telly. Like we always bleeding well do. You go out and enjoy yourself!’

  Boysie picked up his jacket from the back of the settee and quickly left the room.

  Suzy, though, wasn’t letting him get off that lightly. She followed him. Bursting out into the hallway, she launched herself at him, nails and hair flying.

  ‘You big gormless bastard! You walk out of this house and that’s it, the finish! I mean it!’

  Boysie grabbed at her wrists and held her away from him.

  ‘Enough!’ Daniel’s voice was scandalised. ‘I ain’t never heard anything like it in my life!’

  Boysie and Suzy stared at him. He had come through the front door as Suzy’s mother had left. He’d been waiting in the hall for the fight to finish before showing himself. Now, however, he had listened to enough from Suzy Rankins, as he still thought of her.

  ‘Listen here, darlin’, you married a fucking man. Ever heard of one of them, have you? If you wanted a nine to fiver, love, you should have spent your time down at the Ilford Palais or some other dive full of civil servants and insurance brokers. You wanted the excitement of being Mrs Cavanagh. Well, you’ve had your day, darlin’. Most dogs get one, you know. So shut your fucking trap up and give us both a bit of peace!’

  Suzy stood stock still, the naked hatred in her brother-in-law’s face enough to stem any further words from her.

  She looked at Boysie, expecting him to defend her, but he stared at her, eyes like flint. She knew that this humiliation in front of his brother would cut deep, and felt a prickle of fear then at what she had done. Her breathing was erratic in her chest. Pain constricted her windpipe, made her eyes water. Fear emanated from her in waves. Looking at her, Boysie wondered why he couldn’t smell it. It was acute, almost tangible.

  So great was his temper, his feeling of complete humiliation at his brother witnessing his domestic strife, he could easily have wrung her neck.

  ‘Boysie...’ It was a plea.

  Turning from her abruptly, he walked from the house. Danny shook his head at her and poked a finger into her chest.

  ‘You’ll push him too far, girl, then you’ll be sorry. But if ever I hear you carry on like that again, you’ll have me to deal with and all. Just remember this. He raised you, darlin’, when he married you, and he could cast you back down any time he wanted to.’

  DC Sefton sat before DI Belling dressed in his straight gear. His long hair was tied back in a ponytail and his earring had been removed. He accepted the proffered cup of coffee and sipped the scalding liquid cautiously.

  ‘So, Sefton, what’s the buzz on the streets?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘The usual really. I’ve put in my report the names of the dealers, the suppliers, and also some of the addicts. Only the ones we’ll get info from though. Most of them are two sandwiches short of a picnic.’ He paused so Belling could give his perfunctory laugh, then continued. ‘There’s something I’ve found out though, sir, that isn’t in the report. I thought I’d have a word with you about it.’

  Belling nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, sir, I’ve picked up a girl. Delia Dowling actually. Well, she’s a known face around the clubs, she can introduce me to a lot of people. Her cousins are the Cavanagh twins and her father is Marcus Dowling.’

  He heard the sharp intake of breath from Belling and was gratified.

  ‘The thing is, while under the influence of LSD, she told me about the death of a certain Jimmy Sellars. It seems her father and the Cavanagh twins murdered him, but they all stuck together to protect them. I get the impression she’s rather out of favour with the family as a consequence of this. I think, reading between the lines, she set Sellars up. It’s definitely preying on her mind. Sellars is, or rather was, her child’s father.’

  Belling frowned.

  ‘I know about that. Limmington is an old crony of mine, we go way back. You did right not to put it in the report, son. Do you think she might spill the beans if pushed? If we had something on her like?’

  Sefton grinned. ‘To be honest, I think if you gave her the edge, she’d do anything. She’s one of those people who have to be in the centre of a drama. You know the type. If there ain’t one, she’ll create one. You get the picture. I think she’d grass up her own granny if the price or the time was right.’

  ‘I’m telling you, Mr Cavanagh, that’s what he said.’

  Vince Barlet was frightened of Boysie, but he had to tell the truth, didn’t he? He had to make sure that Boysie knew it wasn’t anything to do with him. He wiped a dew drop from the end of his nose with a grubby fist, and seeing Boysie’s disgust at his action, ha
stily wiped his hand on the jacket of his mohair suit.

  Vince watched the changing expressions on the other man’s face and sighed. Why did he always get the shit jobs?

  ‘So what you’re saying is, Vince, Pargolis is inching in on our territory. Who’s the stooge?’

  ‘That’s just it, Mr Cavanagh, I don’t know exactly. But I heard a word on the street that he’s been seen with Mitchell, Davey Mitchell.’

  There, it was out, he had said it, and Boysie Cavanagh could do what he liked with the information.

  ‘Piss off, Vince.’ This was said calmly, almost nicely, and Vince, never one to overstay his welcome, left the room in double quick time.

  Boysie watched the man leave. He looked like a snotty-nosed ferret, made Boysie feel sick. Silversleeves, they called him behind his back. He was disliked, hated even, but he knew his scam and so for that reason the boys put up with him. He was a grass, but he was too frightened to grass them. He didn’t have the guts.

  Mitchell, now, he was a different kettle of fish altogether. He had disappeared off the face of the earth after Rosalee’s funeral, which was just as well because for all the twins’ promises to their aunt about not touching him, they would have decapitated the ponce on sight, such was their temper with him. Well, they’d had a few scores to settle with him, and now they had a few more. With all the trouble and aggravation at home, and now this as well, Boysie was practically enjoying the thought of getting it all out of his system.

  Limmington had spoken to Belling and was feeling on top of the world.

  If what Belling said was true, they could nick the Cavanaghs this time good and proper. It was like a dream come true. Delia Dowling was unreliable in as much as she was a drug user, but she also knew better than anyone what her family was capable of. If she could be a credible witness... He savoured the thought to himself like a pools win. It was too good to be true.