by Jessie Keane
120
‘Where the hell have you been?’ asked Simon when Daisy dragged her exhausted body through the front door of their home at gone twelve that same night.
Daisy shook her head. She was so tired, wrung out by all that had happened, all these shocking new things she had discovered. That her mother and father were liars. That Ruby was her mother. That she’d had a twin, and . . . oh God, that she’d lost him, that she would never know him. Maybe that was why she’d been such a screw-up all her life. She was missing a part of herself, and maybe somehow she had always known it.
She dropped her bag onto the floor and took off her coat.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ Simon asked, coming and placing himself in front of her, red in the face with temper, hands on hips in indignation.
Even wearing flat shoes like she was now – and oh, she detested flats – Daisy noted that she was a couple of inches taller than her husband. May as well give it up and wear four-inch heels, she thought with a bubble of hysterical mirth.
‘Yes,’ she said, moving past him to get to the stairs. ‘I heard you. Are the twins asleep?’
‘Of course they’re asleep. It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning, what else would they be doing?’ He caught her arm in a painful grip. ‘Where have you been, Daisy? What have you been up to?’
‘Up to?’ Daisy could almost have laughed at that. ‘I haven’t been up to anything, Simon. I’ve . . . just had some really strange news. So I drove around a bit. Tried to take it all in.’
‘What news?’ snapped Simon.
‘Can you let go of my arm? I just want to sleep.’
‘Not until you tell me what’s going on.’
‘Nothing is going on. And I can’t talk about this any more, not now.’
‘Daisy!’ He shook her. Daisy lost her footing and fell against him, feeling his fingers digging into the flesh of her arm. ‘For fuck’s sake. I’ve been worried half out of my mind, wondering where you were.’
‘I’m not a dog, Simon. You don’t have to keep me on a leash. I won’t wander off, you know.’
‘Won’t you?’ His eyes were hard as they stared into hers.
‘You’re hurting my arm,’ she said, gritting her teeth. This was crazy and also rather funny. Simon and his family had bought into the posh Bray clan, but really, they’d been sold a pig in a poke. This explained so much! It even explained why she had always thought that Vanessa loved the idea of having a daughter – that she wanted a dress-up doll, a perfect little well-behaved replica of herself – rather than the boisterous reality that was Daisy.
She thought of that photo Ruby had shown her. The photo of her grandmother, but she hadn’t believed it. She could still scarcely take it in, but Ruby’s words resounded in her head over and over again. Why would I lie?Why would I want to hurt you?
‘What?’ Simon was glaring at her. ‘What is it? What’s going on?’
‘Why don’t you ask my father?’ said Daisy. ‘He’ll tell you. Or – no – maybe he won’t. He’s deep in denial at the moment. So’s my mother. Only . . . oh dear . . . she’s not actually my mother at all, as it turns out.’
Now Daisy started to laugh; it all seemed quite hilarious. She was stunned into silence when Simon slapped her, hard, across the face. Daisy fell to her knees and he dragged her upright again. Suddenly, she started to feel scared.
‘You been drinking?’ he asked. ‘You have, haven’t you, you silly cow?You know you’re not supposed to drink, you’re still feeding the twins.’
‘I haven’t . . .’
‘Oh, shut up, Daisy. Why are you such a loose fucking cannon all the time? Why can’t you just be a wife, be a mother? Isn’t it enough I’m working my arse off day in, day out, without coming home to all this? What’s all this rubbish you’ve got into your head now?’
‘It’s not rubbish,’ said Daisy, feeling her cheek throb hotly where he’d hit her. My God – he’d hit her. ‘Ruby Darke is my mother,’ she told him forcefully. ‘That isn’t rubbish. That is the truth.’
‘Ruby Darke? Are you crazy? That’s the woman who runs the department stores, isn’t it? The black woman?’
‘She’s not black,’ said Daisy. ‘She had a white mother, and a . . .’
‘Daisy!’ Simon was shaking her again. ‘Shut up!’ he shouted straight into her face. Daisy flinched. ‘You’re drunk and you are talking crap. So just shut up and get the fuck up to bed, OK?’
He released her and Daisy staggered, clutching at the banister to stop herself from falling to the floor.
‘I can understand you being upset,’ said Daisy. ‘I’m not exactly the purebred pedigree you expected, am I?’
Now Simon looked murderous.
‘Shut your stupid mouth, Daisy. Go to bed.’
Daisy did. And Simon didn’t come near her that night.
121
Ruby was working late, with Rob sitting patiently outside her office door. Jane had gone home. Ruby was mapping out her plans for the expansion of the childrenswear department, thinking of a new babywear designer, a schoolwear line, and a more appealing array of party frocks for little girls.
Finally the words and figures started to swim before her eyes, so she stretched, stood up, locked her desk drawers and the filing cabinet, and gathered up her black cashmere coat. She stepped out of her office. Rob looked up expectantly from his chair. She liked Rob: he was around the same age as Kit, with treacle-blond crew-cut hair, watchful khaki-green eyes and no tiresome chatter. She found his big, solid presence very reassuring – even though she hated the necessity of having him here.
‘Ready, then?’ she said.
He nodded and stood up. Together they went down in the lift and through the corridor to the staff exit at the back of the store. They passed the night security guard, just coming on duty. Rob opened the door and Ruby stepped outside. The night was frosty, the air bitingly cold.
There was a motor running somewhere out in the back alley, her car was waiting and ready. It wasn’t glamorous back here. Front of store was immaculate, chic, polished to the nth degree; but here was the belly, the bowels of the store. Packing crates. Bins. Big sliding warehouse doors for goods inwards and out.
‘Hey, Rob,’ said the security guard, and Rob stepped back inside.
The motor had been idling, now it roared. Ruby looked around, surprised at the ferocity of the sound. Her car was a sleek, purring Mercedes and her driver Ben was old and not given to boy-racer stunts like this.
‘What the . . . ?’ she started, and the headlights blazed on, dazzling her.
The car was coming straight at her.
The noise of the engine was deafening, a high, shrieking whine. For a moment, Ruby stood there, frozen to the spot, disbelieving, and then when it was nearly on her she moved. She threw herself to one side, feeling herself being jolted and scraped as she hit the cobbles and rolled. She connected painfully, full-speed, with the wall of the store, knocking all the breath out of herself. She crawled to her knees, dazed, and stared after the car. Its red tailgate lights were on as it screeched to a stop twenty yards away. Then the white lights came on. The reversing lights. She saw a faint shadowy figure behind the wheel move, look back.
The car shot backwards.
Whoever it was, he was coming to finish her off.
There was a commotion and Ruby saw Rob almost fall out of the door, the security guard at his heels. She saw Rob reach inside his jacket and pull out a handgun. He took aim. The shots he fired off were deafening. Ruby flinched. The car halted abruptly, its back window cracking open in a shower of glass as bullets tore through it. The left-hand-side tyre collapsed, blown out. The car stopped moving and Rob took aim again.
Pow!
A bullet-hole appeared in the boot lid. Rob fired again and again, each shot hitting further to one side.
He’s aiming for the petrol tank, thought Ruby with startling clarity.
But the assassin had had enough. The gears slammed and the car took of
f full pelt and veered crazily with a shriek of tyres and a squeal of metal rim, out and into the main road. Sparks flew from the back wheel as it spun, shredded tyre sprayed out. The car roared away into the distance, and was gone.
Rob was breathing hard. He slipped the gun back into his jacket and ran to Ruby.
‘You OK?’ he asked her, starting to haul her to her feet. The security guard was standing there open-mouthed. Someone had just tried to kill Ruby Darke.
Ruby collapsed with a scream. ‘My arm,’ she said, her teeth starting to chatter.
‘Let’s get you to the hospital.’ Rob glanced around. ‘Where the fuck’s Ben got to?’ He glanced at the guard. ‘Miss Darke fell over on the icy cobbles, OK? You got that?’
The guard was nodding. The last thing he wanted was to get involved with this. He couldn’t believe what he’d just witnessed. This bastard had a gun.
‘I think it’s broken,’ said Ruby, feeling sick and dizzy with the pain.
‘We’ll take my car, it’s just over there. Think you can walk it?’
Ruby nodded. As she walked, supported by Rob, she glanced fearfully again at the road, at the place where the car had vanished from sight. There was the smell of cordite in the air, of hot rubber from the tyres and scorched metal from the wheel rim. She’d told Daisy – and now here was the result. Cornelius had warned her, and he didn’t make empty threats. The man in the car had been trying to kill her. And if Rob had been a second or two slower, he would have succeeded.
122
Michael was incandescent with rage when he heard what had happened. He’d visited Ruby at the hospital earlier in the evening, and she was sitting there in the hospital bed looking drawn and tired, her arm in a sling, Rob outside her door on guard. The arm hadn’t been broken, as they’d feared. Just some ripped tendons. It would be painful for a week or two, but really she’d been lucky.
Really, she could have been dead.
Now Michael sat in the office behind the restaurant and looked at Kit as Kit filled in the blanks.
‘This has got to be Tito,’ said Kit. ‘You know how tight he is with this Bray character.’
Michael nodded. His initial thought when he’d first heard about Ruby’s near-miss was that this was payback over her brother Charlie, maybe Joe wasn’t quite the limp dick he’d always thought he was. That somehow, somebody had tipped Joe off that Michael had been behind Charlie’s death, and this was tit-for-tat.
But he’d dismissed that theory. Ruby herself didn’t know that it was one of Michael’s lot who’d run that bastard Charlie down. So she couldn’t have let anything slip to anyone in a guilty moment, because she didn’t know.
She was never going to know, either. The secret was his – and Reg’s, because Reg had done the hit.
Reg would never spill his guts to anyone, Michael knew that. So this wasn’t anything to do with that.
No, Kit was right. This was Tito.
Michael simmered with fury at that punk Tito daring to do something like this. Knowing his, Michael’s, connection to Ruby, knowing he shouldn’t dare. But doing it anyway.
Some people you had to do business with, that was a fact of life. Michael had tolerated Tito for years. As far as business went, that was fine; but he didn’t want the creep any closer than that. He had kept Ruby well clear of Tito for a long time. But now, Tito had homed in on her once again, decided to do his perverted pal Bray a big favour by taking her out.
‘You gonna let me do something about that fucker now?’ asked Kit after a long silence.
Michael blew out a plume of smoke. ‘I’ll sort it,’ he said.
Kit bit back the angry, impulsive words that sprang to his lips.
When are you going to do that, Michael?When are you going to let me give that bastard what he deserves?
He knew he couldn’t say that. Michael’s word was law.
But still . . . it hurt to know that yet again Tito had got away with it.
He thought of the horrible way Tito had ended Gilda’s life. Mostly he tried not to, but it was a constant itch, a never-ending sore nagging ache, this need for revenge he felt.
It ate at him, all the time.
‘Michael . . .’ he started, knowing he mustn’t say it, but wanting to.
‘Kit,’ said Michael, ‘no. Now shut the fuck up about it, OK?’
123
Kit got home late that night, feeling wrung out after a day of nagging little worries and one or two damned great big ones too. This thing happening to Ruby. It could have been so much worse, and Kit could only be thankful for small mercies and for Rob’s prompt actions. He liked Ruby. She was tough and she could appear cold, but deep down she was a sweet woman. He’d got used to her as a fixture in Michael’s life, often around the restaurant or in one of the clubs with him.
He thought of the dinners they’d had in the past, Michael and Ruby, him and Daisy . . . oh yes, and now this Daisy business had blown up.
‘Ah, fuck,’ he breathed, and unlocked the door to his flat, snatching up the paper and the mail and flicking on the lights.
He tossed the letters onto a side table, shut the door, kicked off his shoes, took off his jacket, loosened his tie. Went over to the drinks tray and poured himself a whisky and necked it in one long swallow. It burned all the way down and then spread a cosy glow.
Better.
He glanced at the front page of the paper. Yesterday there’d been a general election. Today,Wilson was in power and the Tories had been kicked out. Kit hadn’t even bothered to vote: he never did. He’d always felt detached from the rest of humanity – rootless, belonging to no one. Only Gilda had ever claimed his affection. Only Michael had ever won his allegiance.
He poured himself another before snatching up the mail and taking it over to the couch to read.
Bills and circulars. Damned things. There was also a large A4-sized envelope addressed to him in a loopy, stumbling handwriting he didn’t recognize. He ripped it open, and there was a slip of paper inside, attached by a paperclip to a smaller white envelope. He looked at the slip of paper. The same loopy handwriting was there.
Mum said in her will that this letter should be forwarded to you.
I got your name and address from your business card. Sorry, it was overlooked.
Rose Bailey
He looked at the envelope. It seemed to him as if the thing had been opened, then re-stuck. His mouth twisted grimly. It was months since Jennifer’s passing, and her daughter and granddaughter had no doubt been busy dividing the spoils of her estate, and had then turned their greedy eyes on this envelope and wondered what could be inside it. If there had been cash in there, they would have nicked it, he was sure of that.
Remembering the load of horseshit he’d fed them when he’d met them, that his dad had died up in Blackpool and wanted to leave Hugh Burton some cash in his will, Kit had to smile. They’d been so gutted when their ‘legacy’ had turned out to be fuck-all.
He opened the thing up and spread out the sheet of paper it contained. It was a good-quality envelope, and the paper was thick – Kit was sure this was all part of the stationery set he had given Jennifer, and he looked at it with interest.
Kit, he read. Dear Kit.
The writing was Jennifer’s, unsteady, nearly unreadable in parts, but the spelling was perfect. He read on.
I know you think I’m a very silly old lady and here’s more proof of it! I forget things, you see. Things I should remember, things I try to remember. You know I said that reservist took the baby to a children’s home in Fulham? Well, I got that right. But I never was able to tell you that I remembered something else. That place burned down. It was terrible, a tragedy. I forgot all about it but it came back to me. All those poor innocent children, lost to the flames! But the Principal survived, and she was sacked. It wasn’t her fault, of course, but heads had to roll. Nancy Gifford was her name, and she lived for that job, she loved children so much and she couldn’t have any of her own.
Anywa
y, where was I?
Yes.
She was so upset by it all that she went mad, poor thing, and they had to take her off to the asylum, but when they went to fetch her from her home, do you know what they found? A dark baby boy was there with her, she’d obviously snatched him from the fire and – thinking everyone believed all the children were dead – she told no one and kept him for her own.
Kit sat back, staring into space for a moment. For God’s sake!
Then, his eyes skipping quickly over the page, he read on.
The child was taken to another home, not too far from the first.
Kit read the name of the home the surviving baby had been taken to. He threw the letter down onto the couch, exhaling sharply with the shock of it.
‘Holy shit,’ he said with feeling.
124
It was a grey misty morning and Daisy was walking the lanes near her home. She’d left Matthew and Luke with the nanny and had come out of the house, breathing in the fresh damp country air like a prisoner escaping Alcatraz.
Her home felt like a prison. There. She’d said it, if only in her head.
Her husband was her gaoler. She’d said that too, for the first time allowing herself to think it.
To make him happy, she had to be different from her normal self. And she had struggled to do that, ever since they’d married. But more and more she was aware that she was always, in his eyes, lacking somehow. That she was not the perfectly behaved hostess, the restrained companion at dinner dates and fundraisers. She had opinions,she was clumsy and careless, she had a free, breezy nature – and the very fact of all that seemed to make Simon furious.
And now she had this strange business to cope with. Months had gone by since she’d stumbled home in shock after seeing Ruby, her father and Vanessa. Months since Simon had reacted with such fury to the fact that she’d had a nasty shock. What she’d needed was a cuddle, understanding, sympathy; what she’d got was rage. He’d been away ever since, on business; and she was glad of that.