Now up on his feet, his face red with rage and glistening with sweat, the veins in his head pulsing furiously, Tommy flung his glass against the overturned table and a multitude of icy shards flew away in every direction. The bar staff and other customers in the pub were all transfixed, not just at the violence of the action, but also at who had perpetrated it. Tommy couldn’t care less. Snorting like a bull entering the ring to face a matador, he grabbed his jacket and stormed out of the pub faster and more aggressively than a soldier in the SAS, slamming the door behind him so hard its glass panes reverberated in their mouldings. His mind was made up. He knew what to do now.
December 1979
CHAPTER 23
‘She’d better fucking be there this time,’ he muttered under his breath, glancing at his watch, as he stood outside the Stargreen Box Office in Argyll Street for the third night in a row, pretending to study the multi-coloured squares of cards in the window, each one advertising in bold, black felt-tip pen which theatre show or concert they held tickets for. To his right, a seemingly never-ending line of heavily coated and hatted people was entering the Argyll pub whilst, behind him, he sensed a similar, never-ending line of people, laden with Christmas shopping, bustle past him, invariably heading for the tube station on Oxford Circus or in the opposite direction towards Liberty’s department store at the bottom of the street.
He had chosen his time and position deliberately in order to take advantage of the environment around him. In addition to the busy street, it was cold enough to justify wearing his green Parka coat with its faux-fur rimmed hood pulled over to cover his head. Underneath, a mottled-grey, woollen beanie hat was pulled far down over his eyebrows while a thick, cable-knit black scarf was wrapped around his neck and chin right up to his nostrils. He was uncomfortably hot but that was the least of his concerns, the main one being the cause of his anxiety now.
Two days earlier, standing in the same spot, at the same time, though wearing different clothing, namely a brown duffel coat and shamrock-green beanie and scarf, he was all keyed up as he waited for Vicki to exit her office in Regent Arcade House to his left at precisely six o’clock. This was her normal routine. She would then pass in front of Stargreen on her way to the tube station. A rush of adrenalin coursed through his body when he saw her leave the building, but, to his dismay, she turned in the opposite direction instead and slowly crossed the road as if heading for the London Palladium where the posters outside were advertising Yul Brynner starring in The King and I. Before reaching the famous theatre, however, she dived into the pub next door, no doubt joining some work colleagues for a drink.
It had been the same the day before when waiting in yet another different colour combination of clothing. This time she had not appeared at all and, feeling very conspicuous, he had left when his watch showed six-thirty. He knew she sometimes travelled in her job and wondered whether this was such an occasion or whether she had broken up early for the Christmas holiday. Or, had she finally left work for good until the birth of her baby, for Vicki was now heavily pregnant, and so delaying his plan until well into the New Year on her return? He had considered leaving it until then for he was starting to feel very ill-at-ease loitering around Argyll Street, however heavily disguised, day after day, waiting for Vicki to make an appearance. But the adrenalin was pumping so much, he knew he had to get it over with as quickly as possible. What if she had decided to give up work altogether? The moment was now for, if not now, it might be never. Furthermore, the prospect of a Christmas full of angst, knowing he might have missed his opportunity, was an unappealing one so he decided to give it one more try. If she did not appear tonight, he would leave it and reassess the situation in the New Year.
He glanced at his watch again, never taking his eye off the entrance to Regent Arcade House which was not even ten yards away. Two minutes to six. It was getting close, very close, and he steeled himself, gritting his teeth under his scarf. His clenched right hand was deep in the Parka’s pocket. The slag’s had it coming for a long time, he reflected. She deserves it, the bitch. Be alert, he urged himself, for she could appear at any moment and he knew he only had a fraction of a second to react. Then walk away, nice and easy, round the corner towards the crowds of Regent Street and down the tube. Yes, nice and easy. He would be gone before anyone could work out what had happened. He smiled, proud of the plan he had settled on, which, with a little bit of luck thrown in, he was confident of carrying out successfully. Be alert, be alert, be alert.
There she was. He stiffened when he saw her, ready to pounce. But Vicki stopped outside the entrance, conversing with a man she had exited the building with. His heart began to pound even harder and his lips went suddenly dry. He hoped desperately she would pass his way as normal and not head off in another direction. The wait was killing him, giving him too much time to think about what he was going to do and it unnerved him terribly. He had planned to put his trust in the adrenalin rush and spontaneity of the moment, but, now, he had to wait. What are they talking about? Come on! At least the flow of people in the street was incessant. He could get away easily enough. As he waited, he could not fail to notice the huge bump in her belly and it dawned on him that in a second or two, not only one but two lives would come to an end. He couldn’t give a fuck.
She’s coming my way! He turned to face her and, as they met, he took his hand out of his pocket and slammed it into her chest. Vicki gasped, the force of the blow knocking the breath out of her. As a reflex, her hands shot up in the air, forcibly knocking the arm of her assailant. ‘Shit!’ he cursed, stopping momentarily to look in the gutter. He had wanted to take it away with him and dispose of it later. He strode past Vicki who, holding her chest, suddenly felt faint. She moved her hands away and observed the red palms before collapsing to the ground, unconscious. He strode on and turned right into Little Argyll Street, in the direction of Regent Street, but his progress was slower than he had hoped. The crowds he had believed would be his friend were now his enemy as he was forced to continually stop-start his step. He was impatient to run and scatter everyone in his way like a raging mammal, but he kept calm, not wishing to bring attention on himself.
But he didn’t get that little bit of luck thrown in. Two suited young men, wearing dark overcoats and enjoying a cigarette outside the Argyll pub next to the Stargreen Box Office, pints in hand, and eyeing up any attractive young woman who passed their way, had witnessed everything. One of them had been looking down Argyll Street and caught sight of Vicki’s lovely face coming towards him. He nudged his friend who followed his gaze. All of a sudden, someone in a green Parka, with his back to them, appeared to punch the beautiful young woman in the chest and walk on past her. They were startled and remained rooted to the spot, not believing their eyes, but when Vicki collapsed to the ground, a maelstrom of rage swelled up inside them as their brains finally made sense of what had happened. Flinging their cigarettes away and placing their pints down on the pavement, they rushed over to Vicki and saw the blood on her hands and on the front of her coat. They shouted at those pedestrians who had stopped to observe the scene to tend to Vicki and to call an ambulance for they only had one thing on their mind.
The young men were keen sportsmen, fit and strong. They jumped up from Vicki determined to catch the perpetrator in the green Parka. Neither of them cared about shoving people out of their way as they reached the junction of Argyll Street and Little Argyll Street where they stopped opposite the entrance to the Dickens & Jones department store, one of them looking in the direction of Liberty’s, the other in the direction of Regent Street.
‘There he is!’ the latter yelled, tugging at the sleeve of his friend. ‘Stop! Stop that man in the green coat!’ he screamed before they set off aggressively in his direction, as if on the rugby field, barging everyone out of their way.
‘Shit! The perpetrator knew he had been rumbled and, panicking, began to run. He jumped off the pavement and onto the road where there was less hindrance. But the game was
up and, just as he reached Regent Street, one of his pursuers dived onto his back as if making a match-saving tackle and they tumbled to the Tarmac in a heap, his friend immediately by their side. They turned the perpetrator round onto his back and pinned him down.
‘You’re fucked, mate. We saw what you did,’ one of his assailants shouted angrily. ‘You’re going inside for that.’
The perpetrator had no fight in him and was resigned to his fate as one of the young men straddled his chest while the other went off to find a policeman. A small crowd gathered round, intrigued and bemused at what had happened, peering down at the man on his back as best they could.
A similar crowd had gathered around Vicki, including Brad, her boss, and whom she had been talking to at the entrance to Regent Arcade House. He had crossed the road, but when he heard the commotion behind him, he turned round and saw Vicki slumped on the pavement. He was at her side in an instant and reassured to hear that a member of staff in Stargreen was calling for an ambulance.
Brad observed the blood on Vicki’s chest, which was spreading alarmingly, unwound his scarf, and pressed it as firmly as he could onto the wound. A concerned young woman knelt down and cradled Vicki’s head but there was no sign of any movement.
‘Come on, Vicki, hold on, there’ll be an ambulance here in a second,’ her boss encouraged her, but she looked pale and listless. Brad felt her pulse. It was very weak. ‘Hold on, Vicki, hold on!’ he yelled, the only time he had ever had reason to raise his voice at her.
A policeman soon arrived beside Vicki and spoke into his radio for support before pushing back the crowd. It was then that he noticed something in the gutter, smeared in blood.
Back where the perpetrator had been caught, the young man straddling him was seething and wished no more than to punch him as hard as he could in the face. He settled instead for pulling down his hood, ripping away his scarf and tearing off his beanie. The crowd moved closer to get a good look at the man. They did not recognise him. It was Freddie Butcher.
The policeman next to Vicki lowered himself down on his haunches to get a closer look in the gutter. He already knew what it was; a flick-knife.
New Year’s Day 1980
CHAPTER 24
It was still dark outside as Rhys shuffled listlessly into his living room, for the morning had not yet broken. Occasionally, he heard one or two distant voices as revellers made their way home after a very late night of festivities. The flat was chilly as the central heating had not yet kicked in but Rhys was oblivious to it. He was oblivious to everything, in fact, his mind unable to rid itself of the image of Vicki lying in intensive care in hospital attached to lines of nutrients and drugs that were keeping her alive. He had truly believed that he would never again experience the pain he had felt when he had broken up with Vicki. But this was worse, ten times worse, no, one hundred times worse.
He sat down on the sofa, staring at the floor, numb and motionless, his parents’ snoring providing some faint background sound. They had been at his side the second he had broken the news, providing comfort and helping him to bear up to the sheer unadulterated agony that inflicted his whole being. But now, sitting by himself and thinking calmly and rationally for the first time since the attack, he accepted that this would be the day he would become a father but lose his beloved Vicki. Tears welled up in his eyes. He had cried so many these past few days that he was surprised the well had not run dry.
Yesterday evening had been the defining moment. The hospital consultant, flanked by his registrar and a senior nurse, had explained precisely, professionally and with feeling to Rhys and his parents and Vicki’s family that Vicki’s condition was deteriorating. She had lost so much blood in the initial stages that it had been a miracle she had survived, but her condition had not improved and had now taken a turn for the worse. Of equal gravity was the concern for the unborn child. Vicki was so weak that it was improbable she would survive an operation to give birth to the baby who was now at full term. If they operated, there was every likelihood the baby would be born healthily but they had little time to lose. If they did not, the baby would almost certainly die.
Rhys had taken the news stoically, as had his and Vicki’s parents, but Fiona had burst into floods of tears, burying her head into her mother’s bosom. Rhys had asked just the one question, his eyes moist and voice hesitant. ‘When you say Vicki would be unlikely to survive the operation, what per cent chance do you think she has?’ Rhys hated the way he had expressed himself, feeling more like an accountant than the grief-stricken fiancé he was. But, at that moment, it was the only way he could assess more accurately the condition Vicki was in.
The consultant looked gravely at him and then at Vicki’s family. He had been expecting the question, so often had he been in the same position before. In a firm voice, he answered, ‘Less than ten per cent.’
Vicki’s mother gasped and covered her mouth in shock while her father went white and gripped his wife’s other hand. Fiona’s floods of tears turned into torrents and were accompanied by howls of anguish while Rhys’s parents looked stony-faced at each other. Rhys felt physically sick but, outwardly, remained relatively composed. ‘Thank you for your honesty, Doctor,’ he calmly replied.
‘We’ll do our very best, I promise you, to ensure the baby is born alive and to give Vicki every chance. I don’t know Vicki or what her character is like but a fighting spirit counts for a lot in these situations.’
Rhys nodded but his brain was a fog. He glanced towards Vicki’s father and then her mother and, without saying a word, his expression asked the question and their looks provided the answer. In reality, they had no option. The operation would have to go ahead to save the unborn child. The consultant confirmed it would take place the following morning, leaving Vicki’s loved ones to spend the most desperate nights of their lives. They would never forget the last day of the decade for as long as they lived, or the first day of the new one. Never have prospective grandparents, father and auntie felt more wretched in their lives.
Now, at the start of the most momentous day of his life, Rhys wiped his eyes. He was determined to be as strong and composed as he possibly could, not just for his own sake, but for the sake of Vicki’s family. Vicki was going to a better world, he tried to convince himself, and one day he would join her. He was not religious in the slightest, but, in these desperate moments, he clutched onto whatever straw he could find, however flimsy. At least the world Vicki was going to was not full of scum who attack innocent people with knives in the street. They can all burn in Hell.
The tears would not go away, however. It was one thing trying to be strong, completely another being it. At least the hospital had not rung during the night; Vicki was still alive. Instinctively, Rhys turned to look at the telephone. It remained silent. Turning back, his gaze fell upon the Christmas tree in the corner of the room, bedecked in round and star-shaped baubles of various sizes and shimmering colour. At its base, numerous wrapped parcels and boxes were lying one on top of each other like multi-coloured rocks. Rhys looked at them sadly. They would go undelivered this year. His eyes remained fixed on them but his mind was in a different world, a world where Santa Claus, snowflakes and red-nosed reindeers played no part.
Among the presents, his eyes were suddenly drawn to the white envelope which held the card he had bought for Vicki. Alongside it was a larger burgundyred envelope with his name scribbled on the front next to Vicki’s hand-drawn heart. They both remained untouched and unopened. But staring at Vicki’s handwriting compelled him to make some kind of connection with her, as if by reading her words she would be standing there in front of him, alive, animated … beautiful.
Rhys stood up and took four steps to the tree. He picked up her envelope and returned to the sofa, carefully tearing it open and sliding out the card. The picture on the front drew another tear and a smile all in one. It showed a handsome young couple, snuggling up tightly, arm in arm, walking through a frosty but sunlit park, so obviously in love wi
th each other. It was a glorious winter scene. Opening the card, Rhys was surprised when a folded piece of paper fluttered to the floor. Before picking it up, he read her message, receiving it as if she were saying the words herself.
“To Rhys. Thank you for the most wonderful decade of my life. We made it in the end and I cannot wait for the next one and the ones after that. I hope the card and the label remind you of our first day together. I can’t wait to walk up the aisle with you and give birth to our baby. I love you more than you will ever know, Vicki xxxxxxxxxx”
Rhys broke down. His howls of despair were so loud his mother was soon beside him, her arm around his shoulders, crying herself, his father standing in the doorway.
‘Why, Mum, why? It’s not fair. She can’t die, she’s too young. I can’t live without her, Mum. She can’t die. Please God, help her, help her!’
Rhys’s sobbing was out of control, his tears guttering down his cheeks and running off the end of his chin onto his lap and carpet. His mother held him as tightly as she could, letting Rhys rest his head against her shoulder, but there was nothing she could say. Her husband went back into the bedroom, grim-faced. He felt helpless. They all did. There was nothing they could do.
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