by Mia Dolan
‘I used to go to school with you. Remember?’
His name was Paul Smith. ‘How could I forget?’
He was pleasant enough and didn’t hesitate to help her carry her belongings up the garden path. Having heard a car draw up and the front gate squeak as it opened, her grandmother was standing at the door.
‘You are here!’
She sounded both relieved and surprised, as though there might have been some reason why she shouldn’t be. Marcie was apologetic.
‘Sorry, Gran. I didn’t have time to phone.’
Her grandmother stared for a split second. That was all it took for her to take in Marcie’s flushed cheeks and breathlessness.
‘This is home. There is always a place for you here whether you let me know you are coming or not. And you are well?’
Again that probing as though she might not be well.
Marcie smiled and was reassuring. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘Of course.’
Once her grandmother had taken Joanna from her arms, she paid the taxi driver.
He winked at her and held her hand for a beat as she handed him the money.
‘If ever you fancied a night out, I’m your man.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind if I’m that desperate,’ she said with a tight smile, before slamming the door in his face.
Her grandmother paused in the hallway. ‘Father Justin is here,’ she said over her shoulder.
‘Eating cake and drinking tea,’ Marcie added sarcastically. The old priest spent most of the day eating and drinking. She sincerely doubted he kept a crumb of food in the presbytery, except perhaps a bottle or two of communion wine. He depended on charity in the shape of his parishioners for his daily bread.
Her grandmother threw her a look that warned her to be polite and respectable.
‘Don’t worry, Gran. I’ll keep a civil tongue in my head.’
They went through to the kitchen where the priest was sitting in one of the fireside chairs. He was presently leaning across to the other chair where Garth was sitting silently, a vacant look in his eyes. He jerked back when they entered. On seeing Marcie his eyes lit up, the yellow streaks in the whites running into the pale pupils.
‘Marcie!’ He got to his feet, smothering her hand with both of his. ‘How are you, my child?’
His eyes twinkled and like the taxi driver, his hands lingering too long on hers.
‘I’m very well, Father. And yourself?’ she said while retracting her hand. She adopted a congenial expression though the effort to smile almost broke her jaw.
He told her that he was fine and that he’d come here to try to persuade her grandmother to let Garth go into the care of some nuns at a convent in Essex.
‘Your grandmother doesn’t agree with my suggestion. I think she has something against Essex. She couldn’t possibly have anything against the holy sisters can she now?’
The comment was delivered with good humour, a thick Irish brogue and a light chuckle.
‘And how does Garth feel about this?’
‘He does not wish –’
Father Justin butted in. ‘Now, now, Rosa. The poor fool can’t know his own mind. You know that as well as I do.’
Ignoring the priest’s ugly eyes, Marcie looked at the poor creature sat huddled at the fire with a blanket around him. The day was neither warm nor cold, certainly not cold enough to warrant a blanket.
Garth had not acknowledged her arrival. He was sitting staring at the glowing coals of the old cast-iron range. It wasn’t usual for him to ignore her and the fact that he was doing so troubled her.
‘Is he ill?’ she asked.
‘He is tired,’ said her grandmother. She passed Joanna back into her mother’s arms before dealing with the priest. ‘That is all the cake, Father,’ she said, taking the empty tea plate from the priest’s hands. She took the last piece remaining on the cake stand and gave it to Joanna.
Father Justin looked surprised. So was Marcie. Although Father Justin O’Flanagan was not the most likeable of people, her grandmother always deferred to his position and was courteous, never showing her true feelings towards him. A lot of that courtesy was extended through cake.
The priest got to his feet but was languorous in his movements. Marcie concluded that he was not inclined to leave too swiftly. Turning his back to the range, he stood with legs slightly apart. He held his black robe aloft at the rear and rubbed his rear with his hands.
‘I’ve been telling your grandmother that she’s done her Christian duty for Garth and she’ll be rewarded in heaven. The sisters will look after him well. He’ll be better off there.’
London had made Marcie a braver soul than she had been. She chanced looking into his pale eyes and saw nothing but conceit and gluttony staring back at her. And something else; her flesh crept when she realised she could also see lust there.
‘I think that’s a ridiculous statement,’ she said hotly, folding her arms while staring steadily into those awful eyes. ‘Do you have some reason of your own for wanting him to go there, Father O’Flanagan? Do they pay you on a commission basis for patients referred there? Is the Catholic Church that short of funds at the present time?’
She heard her grandmother gasp. She saw the priest’s mouth slacken as the sickly smile fall from his face.
‘Not at all,’ he said after swift consideration. ‘I’m just thinking of your grandmother dealing with a boy trapped in a man’s body. He still plays with the kids in the street. You have to be careful of him doing things like that. He’s got urges and what with young kids around …’
‘Your insinuation appals me. Garth wouldn’t hurt a fly, Father Justin O’Flannagan. And now I suggest you leave. I’d like to talk to my grandmother alone and besides I’m tired and my baby’s tired. I would appreciate if you left now.’
His expression stiffened. She could tell he didn’t like being put down like that. The lust had certainly gone from his eyes. Waddling and shuffling his feet, he wished Rosa Brooks a good night and made for the back door.
Once he was gone Garth Davies expressed a deep sigh. Both women looked at him in surprise. Garth smiled at Marcie. ‘Hello, Marcie. I’m better now.’
He grinned in his usual lopsided fashion, his two front teeth large and uneven.
For the second time in the space of minutes, Rosa Brooks had something to gasp about.
‘That is the first time he has spoken for days.’ She looked at her granddaughter as though seeing her for the first time. ‘You did this. You came home and did this, yet on his drawing …’
‘He’s still drawing?’
Marcie could tell by the look on her grandmother’s face that this was indeed the case.
‘I bought him a sketchbook,’ said her grandmother. ‘His mother only gave him bits of white meat paper that the butcher uses to wrap up a pound of chops. I thought he deserved a proper sketchbook. He did one of you before you came home. That is why I was so surprised to see you. And so relieved.’
Marcie read the look on her grandmother’s face. She was not nearly so gifted as Rosa Brooks, but she knew her grandmother well enough to read that she was unsettled.
Marcie picked up Garth’s sketch pad and saw the drawing. The people it depicted were drawn in coloured crayon. She saw the three figures: one lying on the ground and the others standing over her. The figure on the ground wore a skirt and was obviously a woman. The other two were men and one of them was wearing a wide-brimmed hat. She didn’t need her grandmother to interpret who they were. The man wearing the wide-brimmed hat was Roberto. The other was Michael. She saw what her grandmother had seen; these two men were fighting over her. She knew then that it wasn’t over. Roberto had come for her once and he woudn’t give up that easily. If he went back to her flat and found it empty, he’d guess where she’d run to. It was only a matter of time before he came for her again.
Chapter Forty-three
THE BLOW LANDED on his father’s chin and sent Victor Camilleri
sprawling, his heavy built-up shoe landing like a hammer on his good leg. Blood trickled from his cut lip. He looked surprised.
‘I’m warning you Michael, my son …’ He raised an accusing finger.
‘Warn me all you bloody like. And don’t call me your son! You did sweet FA for me until I was of an age to be useful to your operation. Roberto’s your son, not me.’ Michael stood over him, barely able to control his anger.
‘You have to understand …’ Victor began. ‘He bears my name …’
‘And is just as malicious! Just as corrupt. I asked you to help stop him from hurting that girl. You’re the only one he listens to. Well, if you’re not going to stop him then I am!’
Boiling with an anger he could not swallow, Michael headed for Victor’s private study where he’d so often been left to sort out his private paperwork.
‘You’re the only one I trust, my son,’ he’d said to him. ‘You’re a bright boy. You’ll go far in life.’
What Victor had meant was that he could make good use of a bright boy who had made university and got a degree in accountancy – a safe career his mother had wished him to follow. She hadn’t wanted another criminal in her life, but Michael had seen things differently at the time. Following childhood with only his mother, he’d been flattered that his father had wanted him. But he’d just been used. Roberto would never be supplanted in his father’s affections.
Michael knew exactly what to look for. As Victor’s criminal empire had grown so had his need to keep records of his transactions; it was all here, his dealings with local politicians who had given him the nod when a decrepit property was available for peanuts prior to demolition. Lists of the people – mostly immigrants – renting those properties, crammed in like sardines, sometimes a hundred people in a house built to hold thirty.
Victor had managed meantime to struggle to his feet and tug an antique blunderbuss from the walls. He had a whole host of antique guns; some of them in working order, though not the blunderbuss. He swung it round his head like a club, roaring as he charged towards his bastard son.
Michael ducked towards the door, the gun barely grazing his shoulder.
Victor prepared to charge again. The door opened, the butt of the gun grazed the edge of the door, landing on the head of his wife. Gabriella Camilleri screamed and went down on her knees.
Michael didn’t hang around. Gabriella hated him and for obvious reasons. Let the two of them stew. He had to stop Roberto. He knew he could do that. He also knew where to find him.
Pete Henderson had been dragged from bed – Sally’s bed – to hear this. And he listened. The more he heard the more the bells of promotion rang inside his head.
Pete knew he played second fiddle in Sally’s affections to an incredibly rich Swiss banker and accepted it. There were perks to their relationship. Number one she wasn’t faithful to him alone so he didn’t need to be faithful to her. That suited him fine. He liked a bit of variety in his sex life. Number two she mixed with the underworld in a way that he never could. They trusted a girl who took her clothes off in their nightclubs, which in their estimation meant she didn’t have a brain. Boy, were they mistaken!
He devoured the information Michael had brought him and knew it was dynamite.
‘There. Now will you do something about it?’
Sally was shrugging herself into a diaphanous dressing gown. Luckily she was wearing something else beneath it so Michael wasn’t treated to a free view of her body.
Sally’s question was directed at Pete Henderson. She’d gone to the police station to find him. He hadn’t been there so she’d left a message. She’d also phoned Carla, who’d fallen silent as Sally told her what she intended to do.
‘You might not dance again. You know that, don’t you?’
Sally knew exactly what she was saying. If the Camilleris found out that she’d betrayed them to the police then her livelihood was in danger.
Carla’s voice was its usually gravelly self, but Sally perceived an undercurrent that made her think she was hiding something.
Carla had been the one who’d suggested that she and Allegra approach Marcie with the business scheme. It was Carla who to all intents and purposes supplied the money. The suggestion had seemingly come out of the blue. What was Marcie to her?
Sally cast her mind back to a few days before her meeting with Marcie and Allegra. Klaus had been around. Smiling as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and dressing relatively conservatively in a little black dress with a boat neck – cleavage discreetly hidden – she’d accompanied him to an upmarket cocktail party in Kensington. It was there that she’d got into a conversation with the wife of a high court judge. They’d gossiped about friends, family and the London social scene and also social problems among the young, especially teenage pregnancy. The woman had been friendly but had excused herself when she’d mentioned her friend Marcie and how brilliant she was at dress designing. She remembered mentioning her name and where Marcie came from.
The woman’s expression had paled and she’d excused herself. Sally had presumed that the woman – like a lot of those with money and husbands of position – only talked about social deprivation. The aspect of working-class girls getting knocked up when they were barely more than kids themselves had been too much for her. That was what Sally had thought at the time. In a way the woman excusing herself was just as well, before she blabbed about her own past and her own child. Carla had come calling shortly after that.
‘Are you listening to me?’ Carla had said. ‘You will never work again if you cross that nest of vipers.’
Sally knew she was right.
In desperation she’d gone back to Marcie’s place in the faint hope that she’d returned. Instead she’d found Michael.
‘Leave it with me,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll call round as soon as I can.’
‘So, copper. Are you going to do something with this?’
Pete Henderson had sandy-coloured hair and the hint of a moustache on his top lip. His skin glistened. His smile was as slow and shadowy as a python about to gobble up its prey.
‘Consider it done.’
Chapter Forty-four
THE LAST PEOPLE Marcie had expected to see at her grandmother’s front door were Sally and Carla. Michael was with them.
She must have looked astounded.
Sally did the talking. ‘Don’t look at us like that, Marcie. We’ve only come down from London, not bloody Mars. Can we come in?’
Rosa Brooks came out into the hallway. Her black eyebrows beetled above suspicious black eyes.
‘Who is this woman using bad language in my house?’
‘We’re not in your house, Mrs Brooks. We’re still out on the doorstep,’ said Sally. ‘I promise I won’t swear if you put the kettle on and make us a cup of tea. There’s a dear.’
‘They’re friends,’ said Marcie.
Her grandmother was not the sort of woman who took kindly to any form of condescension. There was a fierce look in her eyes.
‘They’re very good friends, Gran. They helped me set up my business.’
She hadn’t had the guts to tell her grandmother that she made scanty costumes for showgirls and strippers. There was no need as far as she was concerned. What she did for a living was her business, but she treasured her grandmother’s approval. So she’d told her that she made nurses’ uniforms. She did sometimes, though not the sort a real nurse was ever likely to wear on a ward.
Rosa Brooks scrutinised both women. Marcie could only surmise what she was thinking.
Carla was wearing her leopard-skin coat and skyscraper heels. Sally was neat and sassy in a shocking-pink suit with navy-blue trim. The jacket was boxy, the skirt was short.
Rosa Brooks went into the kitchen where Garth was sitting at the kitchen table drawing.
‘They’ve come,’ he said.
Rosa looked at him abruptly. ‘Who has come?’
‘The aunties.’
He spoke as though there w
ere some great significance to them being here.
Rosa frowned. She fully accepted that Garth had a similar gift to hers. She also accepted that the pattern of his gift varied greatly from her own. He saw more than she did – in the living as well as the dead.
Marcie took Sally and Carla into the front parlour. Marcie bent down to switch on the electric fire. The room was mostly used at Christmas or when someone important called like the priest or the doctor.
‘A bit parky in here,’ said Sally rubbing her hands together. ‘Never mind. It’ll soon warm up.’
Carla made no comment but gathered her coat more closely about herself. She seemed distant and not so forthright as she’d been in the past.
Michael stood by the window with his back to the room. Although his eyes had met hers he hadn’t kissed her. Cool and collected as always, she sensed he was dwelling on something that might concern her or might not.
She returned here and felt safe, but thoughts of London had come with her. ‘Have you seen Allegra?’
‘She’s OK now,’ said Sally. ‘Victor beat her up. She’s alright but … He thought she was phoning another bloke. She was trying to phone you to warn you about Roberto.’
Marcie felt a great sense of relief. At least that particular bridge could be rebuilt. She frowned. ‘So why have you come?’ A sudden fear made her look to Michael. ‘Is Roberto out to get me?’
He smiled at her over his shoulder and shook his head. ‘No. Roberto won’t be going anywhere for a long time.’
‘My Pete …’ Sally exploded into a drawn-out description of how her ‘lesser lover’ as she called him, had arrested the Camilleris for deception, fraud and goodness knows what else.
For Marcie this was very good news indeed. It was as though the weight of the world had suddenly fallen from her shoulders. She brightened up immediately.
‘Joanna’s having her midday nap. You have to stay long enough to see her when she wakes up.’
‘We have to get back,’ Carla snapped.