by Jessie Keane
In the end, Charlie was left feeling depressed by the length and intricacy of the process. He became withdrawn, certain that it wouldn’t work, that he’d end his days inside. The medics gave him some pills. Six months dragged by, then another six. Then, just before Christmas, he was called into the governor’s office. A welfare officer and his probation officer were there.
They were all smiling at Charlie.
The governor handed him a piece of paper.
On it was his release date: 1 June of the following year.
Charlie didn’t know whether to laugh, or cry.
He was getting out. At last.
And when he did, God help that bitch sister of his.
BOOK THREE
96
1971
At ten past nine on 1 June Charlie was called down to the office after a sleepless night to sign for his bank book and for the few possessions he’d had when he’d been arrested all that long time ago – his clothes, a little cash, comb, a bunch of keys, some photos, an old watch and chain, and Rachel’s hair slide.
He dumped the old clothes straight in the bin – he’d been out of the hostel with his probation officer already, and was wearing new. The assistant governor came down and told him that he had to report to his probation officer today, without fail. He had signed his lifer’s licence. When the assistant governor had gone, he sat on his bed and looked at the hair slide, seeing her all over again – Rachel Tranter, the only woman he’d ever loved, and lost so brutally during the war.
Now he had only Joe and Betsy to rely on; they’d agreed to take him in. And he had a score to settle.
‘That’s not a return ticket, I hope?’ the prison officer joked with him as he went to walk out the door of Maidstone with his train ticket in his hand.
‘Not effing likely,’ said Charlie, and the PO laughed.
Charlie walked down County Road to Maidstone East station, and waited for the train that would take him back to his old life.
97
It was all progressing fine at Ruby’s latest London project. Soon there would be another Darkes department store open for business. The main shell of the building was up and now the builders had almost finished excavating the spoil to lay the foundations for the warehouse at the back of the store. Ruby was proudly showing Vi around the place.
‘I’m not wearing a hard hat, it will ruin my hair,’ said Vi when Ruby met her at the polythene-sheeted entrance clutching two of them.
Ruby had to smile. Vi was still as chic as a fashion plate, her attire faultless, her hair exquisitely cut and vividly coloured. Her nails were long and painted scarlet, to match her lipstick. Her eyes were rimmed with kohl. Vi moved, as always, in a cloud of Devon Violets.
Ruby felt a surge of real affection for her old friend, and compassion too. She knew that the young ‘companions’ Vi had enjoyed so much over the years were getting thin on the ground now. Yes, she was ridiculously wealthy; but for many of those hard-hearted young stallions who’d once feted her, she was now – quite simply – too old.
‘Put it on. It’s for safety,’ insisted Ruby. Grumbling, Vi did so. Ruby led the way through the windy, echoing building’s emerging skeleton, pointing out to Vi what would go where.
‘Ground floor’s for the food hall, plus women’s, children’s, and men’s clothing.’ Ruby pointed upward. There were staircases, but as yet no escalators. ‘First floor, that’s home furnishings, china, bedding, that sort of thing. Second floor, the offices.’
Vi was looking around, nodding.
‘What do you think?’ asked Ruby when she didn’t speak.
‘What I think is you’ve come a bloody long way from an East End corner shop.’
Ruby’s smile widened. ‘Do you think it’s OK for Lady Albemarle to have a friend who’s in trade?’
‘More than OK,’ said Vi, and gave Ruby a quick, impulsive hug.
Daisy met Kit for dinner. It was almost a year since the night when Tito had burnt him, and his hands were better. There were scars, but they would fade. The ones that showed, anyway. He still mourned Gilda. He still wanted to slit Tito’s throat.
Since that horrible night, every time he saw Daisy she made him spread out his hands so she could look at the damage.
‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘It still looks so bad.’
‘It’s nothing.’ Kit retracted his hands. ‘I’m sorry you got involved, that’s all.’
‘Well, if I hadn’t, you’d have been in even bigger trouble than you were.’
‘You’re right.’ Kit hadn’t filled Daisy in on the finer details of what happened that night. He’d told her it had been a misunderstanding over a woman, and that Mr Ward had sorted it. That was all she needed to know.
But he couldn’t get Gilda and her awful fate out of his head. It was his fault she’d died, he was weighed down with guilt. And one day, he would have his revenge on Tito. But for now, he was back at work, heading up Michael’s work-force as usual, and tomorrow he would resume what he had been looking into for Mr Ward before the ruck – this kid that Charlie Darke had been trying to dispose of during the war. Actually, he had no real idea how to proceed with that. So he was going to retrace his steps, see if he’d missed anything.
As they sat down at the table and ordered their starters, Daisy was watching Kit closely. The waiter poured the wine: Kit tasted it, nodded his approval. He was so unreadable, but there was some indefinable something about him that made her keep coming back. All right, he wasn’t interested in her. He had this strange hang-up about older women. But if she was here enough, close enough, surely one of these days he’d weaken and accept that they belonged together?
She raised her glass. ‘To us, then. What a team, eh?’
‘Hmph,’ said Kit, but he raised his glass and obligingly clinked it against hers.
98
The first chance he got, Charlie peeked in Betsy’s address book while she was out down the shops, and found Ruby’s address in there, as he’d expected he would.
Marlow, for fuck’s sake. Stockbroker country. Here he was, on his uppers, and sodding Ruby was out there living the high life. He told Joe he was going to catch up with some of the old boys on the manor, and set off to see his little sis.
When he arrived, he stood at the bottom of the drive for a long while, looking up at the beautiful Victorian villa she’d bought herself while he had been rotting away inside.
That bitch.
He walked up the drive and knocked on the door. Half-expecting a servant to answer, he was surprised when Ruby herself opened it. She was just the same. Dark. Pretty. She was wearing jeans and a light grey sweatshirt. Her half-smile died when she saw who had come knocking.
‘Christ – Charlie!’
Instantly, Ruby tried to shut the door in his face, but he put all his weight against it and she staggered back. He shouldered his way inside, and shut the door behind him and leaned back against it, grinning.
‘Now is that any way to greet your long-lost brother?’ he laughed.
Ruby moved away from him. For one heart-stopping, sick-making moment, she had thought it was Dad standing there on the step. But no, it was Charlie. He’d aged even more since that time she’d visited him in prison.
‘What the hell do you want?’ she demanded shakily.
Joe had told her Charlie was getting out. But she had expressly told Joe not to ever give Charlie her address, and he had sworn he wouldn’t.
Now here he was.
The bastard.
She couldn’t forget all that he’d done to her. Tormented her with Dad in her youth. Laughed at her distress over his callous disposal of her son. She couldn’t forget. And she certainly couldn’t forgive.
‘I’ll tell you what I want,’ said Charlie, approaching her. ‘I want to know how you – my sister – could have got me done over in the nick.’
‘What . . . ?’ Dry-mouthed, Ruby backed away until she hit the richly carved wooden newel post of the stairs.
�
�You going to deny it? Don’t bother. All those questions about the kid? It had to be you.’
‘It wasn’t her,’ said a male voice from the top of the stairs.
Charlie looked up in surprise. He’d thought she was alone. But there was a man coming down the stairs; dark-grey hair, granite-hard eyes.
‘Who the f—’ started Charlie.
Then he saw the pistol in the man’s hand.
‘It was me who had you done over. I’m Michael Ward,’ said Michael as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He pushed Ruby out of harm’s way and kept the gun aimed steadily at Charlie’s midriff. ‘And you’re Charlie Darke, right? And you think you can push your way in here and throw your weight about? Is that it?’
Michael drew closer to Charlie, who had gone pale, his eyes fastened to the gun.
‘Come on, don’t get the wrong idea, I don’t want no trouble,’ said Charlie, putting his hands up, a sickly smile playing on his lips.
‘Don’t you?’ Michael’s eyes were cold as flint. ‘Then you’re going the wrong fucking way about it. Get the fuck out that door, you cunt, or I swear I’ll spatter what little guts you have all over this hall.’
‘I’m going, all right?’ Charlie backed up and opened the door and dashed outside.
‘Good,’ said Michael.
Michael moved forward and looked out at Charlie running away down the driveway. He stayed there for long, thoughtful moments.
‘Do you think he’ll stay away?’ he asked as Ruby joined him at the door. She was shivering, like she was cold all of a sudden.
Ruby gulped. ‘Charlie? No. I don’t.’
Michael nodded slowly, then closed the door and took Ruby in his arms.
99
Kit stopped off in Bond Street and made a small purchase, then he drove the Bentley out to High Firs again. He didn’t think he had missed anything, but he owed Mr Ward big time, and if Michael wanted this kid found, then found he would be. He didn’t take Rob with him; Rob had no patience with the old folks, and his presence last time had only proved a distraction.
This time, Jennifer Phelps was not in the conservatory. She was sitting at the window in her pink-painted bedroom. Kit stood for several seconds in the doorway, unseen by Jennifer. She was staring at the window, but the seal had gone in the double-glazing and the glass had turned opaque. She was staring, in effect, at nothing.
Jesus, is this a good idea? he wondered.
He stepped around her chair. Her eyes raised and met his, her head bobbing on her thin neck like a marionette’s. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘It’s you.’
‘You remember,’ said Kit.
‘’Course I do.’The implication that she might not seemed to annoy her. Kit placed a rectangular sparkly-pink bag on top of the open magazine on her blanketed lap. She stared at it.
‘Present for you,’ he said, sitting down on the nearby bed.
‘Oh.’ Jennifer reached inside the bag and pulled out a rigid A4-sized item covered in red leather. Looking bemused, she opened it out. Inside, it was lined with gold velvet and fitted out with pockets holding an assortment of pens, lined writing paper, notepads, envelopes and stamps.
‘For writing your poems,’ he said. ‘Or letters. Or whatever you want.’
Her crabbed and trembling hands moved over the thing, stroking the plush gold nap of the fabric. She looked over at Kit. ‘Thank you, young man. What a kind thought. I’ve been reading my books. Did you find the baby?’
‘You remembered that too.’ Kit took a breath. ‘Do you remember anything else about that night? You found the baby at your brother’s house . . .’
‘Hugh was dead,’ said Jennifer, her sparse brows folding into furrows.
‘That’s right. And the baby was lying at his feet . . .’
‘Yes, that was it.’
‘What then? Can you tell me again?’
‘Oh! Well, I got the policeman . . .’
‘The police reservist.’
‘That’s the one. And he was going to take the baby to the hospital in the ambulance, with Hugh – poor Hugh – but I didn’t think that was right. We had an argument about it. I was very upset. I used the B-word.’ Jennifer’s mouth formed a dazzling grin, as if her own devilment amazed her. ‘A baby, in with a corpse? That’s not right.’
Kit’s attention sharpened at that. The last time he called, she said that the baby had been taken to a hospital.
‘So – wait up – you’re telling me the baby wasn’t taken to the hospital?’
‘Yes, he was. The other place.’
‘What other place?’
‘The hospital.’ Jennifer was looking at him with exasperation in her eyes. ‘The hospital place, the home. You know.’
‘A home? What, you mean, a children’s home?’
‘That’s right. We took the baby there.’
‘What, you and the reservist? The policeman?’
‘The reservist took the child, he said that was where he was going to take him. To the children’s home.’
Kit’s heart was in his throat. She called magazines ‘her books’ and she called a children’s home a hospital. This was crazy. And probably hopeless.
‘Which children’s home?’ he asked.
‘Oh, I don’t know about that, dear. Only that it was in Fulham, that’s all he said.’
‘What did he say? Exactly?’
‘Lord, I don’t know. Something like “I’ll take the poor little blighter over to the Fulham place, they’ll look after him.”’
100
‘I don’t like having him here,’ said Betsy. She and Joe were in the kitchen. The dishwasher had broken down, the repairman was coming next bloody Christmas or sometime next century. Betsy was in a mood, slinging dirty plates into the sink with quick, irritated movements.
Joe let out a sigh. They’d had all this out several times before, when it became certain that Charlie was getting out soon. Well, now he was out, and he was staying with Joe and Betsy. They had enough room for one guest, and that guest was his brother, for Chrissakes, couldn’t Betsy cut the poor sod a bit of slack?
‘I don’t like him being around Nadine and Billy,’ continued Betsy when he didn’t answer.
Joe didn’t have much to say about that, either. Nadine was a pudgy, truculent six-year-old kid and little Billy was sunny-natured and quick moving. They were normal and they seemed happy. Neither of them appeared to have the slightest problem with their Uncle Charlie staying here.
‘He’s a jailbird, they don’t ever change,’ said Betsy, tugging on rubber gloves to preserve her manicure.
Joe leaned against the worktop and looked at her as she ponced around the kitchen. It was brand new, beautifully appointed. A huge fridge/freezer, enough cupboards to stock up for a siege, and yes, a bloody dishwasher – even if the damned thing had broken down. It was all new, the latest of many additions to the house. The place was redecorated top-to-toe once a year, and new furnishings were installed. Never second-hand, always new to replace the old stuff. He knew he over-indulged Betsy, he knew she was a high-maintenance pain in the arse, but she was his old lady and so he tried to give her everything she wanted.
Not that anything ever seemed quite good enough for her. Oh no. Her sister was Lady Albemarle, and that meant they were now invited to all sorts of black-tie do’s. In Betsy’s eyes, that meant she had to compete with the landed gentry. Which was, of course, impossible. So she was always dissatisfied, and it all somehow got to be Joe’s fault. And now this. Charlie’s arrival, his status as a bad boy, an undesirable (and shit, wasn’t that what Joe was himself, only he’d had the good fortune not to go down for it?) and an embarrassment.
‘Look,’ said Joe, trying to find the right words so she didn’t go off on one.
‘Look what?’ asked Betsy, plunging her gloved hands into the soap suds and crashing plates and cutlery about. ‘Do you think it’s right, a man like that around our kids?’
‘Charlie loves the bones of our Billy and Nadine.’
>
‘I don’t care. He’s a convicted criminal.’
Now Joe was starting to get mad. ‘Hey, I’m a criminal if it comes down to it.’
‘No you’re not.’ Betsy’s expression was stubborn.
‘Fuck me, girl, look around you,’ snapped Joe. ‘You’re living in the lap of luxury, you wear dresses at fifty quid a pop, d’you think I got all this with a book of Green Shield stamps or something?’
‘It’s a nice house, I grant you,’ she said, slapping a plate onto the draining board so hard that suds flew up and bubbles formed, floating in the air between them. ‘And my clothes are fine, but they’re not couture.’
‘Oh thank you Lady Muck. I’ll be sure to call in some fag designer next time you get kitted out for another one of these fucking do’s we have to keep going to.’
Betsy’s cheeks flared with angry colour. ‘Don’t take that tone with me, Joe Darke. And the house could be bigger. Joe, are you sure . . . ?’
‘Now don’t start again. You know it’s no bloody good.’
She was going to harp on about the stash again. She was a bloody lunatic. His part of the Post Office robbery money! Years back, he’d taken some of it for a deposit on this house, and it had scared him witless doing that. He’d grabbed a bit of the loot and scarpered. Then he started thinking about Chewy, Stevie and Ben, what the fuck had happened to them? Then he’d nearly shat himself worrying about using such old money. Would someone suspect? Would the bank tell the police? Had the notes somehow been marked? For weeks he was creased up with anxiety.
But it had all been OK. And after that, he’d known it was pointless to touch the stash again. Years had gone by, decimalization had been introduced, and the old notes would now be impossible to use without alarm bells ringing loud and clear.
Joe was happy with what he had. With this house. With Betsy – even if she was a mouthy cow. And with his takings from the arcades, shops, restaurants and brothels on his manor. He wasn’t greedy. Not like Bets, who wanted to live like her sister Vi – and never would.