by Roberta Kray
In the bedroom, Ava changed into a clean pair of jeans and a white jumper. She ran a comb through her hair and gazed at her reflection in the mirror. There had been a time when she’d hated her dark hair and olive skin – an inheritance from her Italian grandmother – but now, finally, she was coming to terms with her appearance. She would never be a leggy blue-eyed blonde and that was just the way it was.
She tilted her chin, reviewing her current situation: twenty-seven, divorced, childless and working for a local gangster. Not exactly what she’d envisaged for her future, but despite past disappointments she still felt optimistic. Life was certainly better than it had been. She’d gone down as far as she could and now the only way was up.
Checking her watch, Ava saw that it was almost six-thirty. She grabbed her jacket and bag and headed for the door. She was due to meet her dad in the Fox and didn’t want to be late. Outside, it was dark and a sleety rain was falling. The temperature had dropped a few degrees and she could feel the cold biting at her fingers. She pulled up her hood, put up her umbrella, bent her head and set off for the pub.
Ava thought about the morning’s events as she tramped along the high street. Things had gone well enough on one front – at least nothing disastrous had happened to the Merc – but she wasn’t so sure about the rest. She had the feeling that Chris Street wasn’t entirely comfortable with a female driver. As there was nothing she could do about her sex, she would have to find another way of convincing him to keep her on.
Ava walked past Beast, closed now with a latticed iron grille pulled down over the shop front. From between the slats, she could see a light shining in the back. She had a sudden image of Morton Carlisle bent over a table, his fingers peeling back the fur on some poor dead creature. She hunched her shoulders, a shudder running through her.
Seeing the gallery reminded her of the antagonistic meeting between Chris and the fair-haired man called Wilder. Why did they hate each other so much? And what would she have done if it had all kicked off? She hoped that there wouldn’t be too many altercations like the one she had witnessed today.
A hundred yards on, she turned left into Station Road, continued until she was opposite the Fox and then waited for a gap in the traffic. She was standing on the edge of the pavement when a white van careered past, sending up a wave of water from the gutter. She jumped back, but it was already too late. The spray rolled over the bottom part of her legs, drenching her jeans and shoes.
‘Pig!’ she muttered, glaring after the van. But the driver was well gone, probably with a big fat smile on his face.
With her feet squelching, Ava jogged across the road, gave her umbrella a shake and opened the door to the pub. Inside, it was wonderfully warm with a real log fire burning in the grate. The place was busy, but not too crowded, and she immediately saw her father standing by the bar. He was holding a twenty in his hand and waiting to be served.
‘Hey, Dad,’ she said, going over to stand beside him.
He turned and put an arm around her. ‘Sweetheart,’ he said, smiling as he gave her a peck on the cheek. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m good.’ Ava noticed that his face was flushed, his eyes a little brighter than usual. She could smell the beer on his breath and knew that he was already tipsy. How long had he been here for? She nodded towards the score he was holding. Usually, he didn’t have two pennies to rub together. ‘You in the money, then?’
‘Oh, just a lucky flutter on the gee-gees.’
Ava narrowed her eyes. Her father was a lovely guy, even-tempered and kind, but he was a dreadful liar. He wasn’t even capable of fibbing to the law, which probably accounted for the number of times he’d been sent down. ‘The gee-gees, eh?’
‘So what do you want to drink, love?’ he said, making a feeble attempt to change the subject.
‘Dad?’
‘What?’
‘You know what.’ She glanced around, lowering her voice. ‘What have you been up to?’
‘Nothing, I swear.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Just a bit of business, nothing to worry about.’
But Ava couldn’t help worrying. She still had a clear recollection of all that prison visiting she’d done as a kid – the chipped magnolia walls, the Formica-topped tables, the hard uncomfortable plastic chairs – but most of all the weary disappointment on her mother’s face. ‘It’s not worth it, Dad. You know it’s not. What if —’
But Jimmy Gold was saved from Ava’s remonstrations by the arrival of the barman.
‘Yes, guv’nor, what can I get you?’
Jimmy pushed his empty glass across the counter. ‘Ta, yeah. You can put another pint in there.’
‘And I’ll have a Coke, please,’ Ava said. ‘Ice and a slice.’
While they were waiting, she resisted the temptation to probe him further. It was a waste of time and it would only spoil the evening. She didn’t want to see him banged up again, but there was no point in nagging.
After they’d got their drinks, they took them over to an empty table near the fire. Ava put her dripping brolly on the floor. She shrugged off her jacket and placed it over the back of her chair.
‘God, you’re soaked,’ Jimmy said.
Ava glanced down at her wet jeans. ‘Some sod of a van driver deciding to have a laugh at my expense. I’ll soon dry out. Anyway, I haven’t told you my news. I started a new job today.’
‘Oh, well done, sweetheart. Good on you. You back on the cabs?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m working for Chris Street, driving him around. But it’s only a trial. I think he wanted a bloke really, but I persuaded him to take me on.’
‘Chris Street, huh?’ he said. ‘You’re not his getaway driver, are you?’
‘Ha ha. Very funny.’
‘And there you were having a go at me for —’
‘Yeah, well,’ she interrupted, ‘I’m not planning on doing anything illegal.’ She took a sip of her Coke and grinned. ‘But he seems okay. I remembered him from when he used to come to Uncle Ted’s car lot.’
Jimmy gave a nod. ‘Yeah, he’s sound enough. Chris won’t give you any bother. What does your mum think about it?’
Ava glanced away before looking back at him. ‘Well, I haven’t exactly told her yet. You know what she’s like. She’ll only start fretting.’
‘Ava Gold,’ he said with mock sternness, ‘I hope you’ve not been lying to your mother.’
‘Not lying,’ she insisted, ‘just not sharing all the details. She won’t approve. You know she won’t. She’ll think I’m on the first step to a life of crime. And I might not get to keep the job so what’s the point of worrying her?’
He played with his glass for a moment, swirling the beer around. ‘Well, I suppose what she doesn’t know won’t cause her any sleepless nights.’
‘Exactly!’ Ava said. She smiled and he smiled back. She had the feeling that he was inwardly pleased that the two of them shared a secret. He’d missed out on so much when she was growing up that now even the smallest of confidences meant a lot to him.
‘So how is your mum? She doing all right?’
They’d been divorced for fifteen years, but Ava suspected that he still held a torch for her. ‘She’s good. She’s fine.’ Before he could start to dwell on what had been lost and could never be recovered – something he tended to do after a few bevvies – she leaned forward, lowered her voice and said, ‘Actually, there was something I wanted to ask you about Chris Street. We came face to face with a bloke called Wilder today – a blond guy, good-looking – and the two of them weren’t exactly friendly. I just wondered if you knew anything about him.’
Jimmy Gold laughed. ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Face to face? Which one of them is dead?’
‘Neither as it happens. Although it was a near thing. So what’s the deal between those two? It was like some kind of hatefest.’
‘Yeah, they’re not what you’d call close.’
‘But why?’ If Ava was going to go on working for Chris, she reckon
ed it would help to find out as much about him as she could. ‘What’s the history?’
‘They’re family, sweetheart – that’s the history.’
‘You’re kidding me? Those two are related?’
‘Brothers,’ Jimmy said. ‘Well, stepbrothers. Do you remember Lizzie Street, Terry’s wife?’
Ava nodded. Lizzie was entirely memorable, a ballsy blonde who’d clawed her way out of poverty to become one of the most powerful women in the East End. She was the one who’d run Terry’s businesses while he was banged up – and made a damn good job of it too. ‘He’s her son?’
‘Got it in one. Guy Wilder. He owns the cocktail joint on the high street, just round the corner.’
‘Ah,’ Ava said. ‘Wilder’s.’ She must have driven past it a hundred times but hadn’t made the connection with the man she’d seen today. ‘So what’s with the aggravation?’
Jimmy took a pull on his pint and licked his lips. He always enjoyed telling a good story. ‘It’s a can of worms, this one. It all goes back to when Guy Wilder was a kid. Six or seven he must have been. Lizzie hooked up with Terry – he was a widower then, bringing up the boys on his own – and Guy was sent to live with his grandmother.’
‘Why’s that? Why didn’t he live with the rest of them?’
‘Depends whose story you believe. From what I’ve heard, and it’s all gossip, mind, Terry and the kid didn’t get on. Wilder claims that Terry knocked him about, that he didn’t want to bring up another man’s child and that he made his mother choose between the two of them.’
‘Ouch,’ Ava said, frowning. ‘That must have hurt. Nothing like being rejected by your own mum.’
‘But Lizzie’s take on it was always different. She reckoned that she’d only been protecting Guy, that she didn’t want him growing up in that world. She had big ambitions for the lad, a fancy school and all that, and didn’t want him turning into a villain. Marrying Terry gave her the money she needed to give him a better start in life.’
Ava stretched her legs out towards the fire, feeling the warmth spread up her shins. ‘And who do you think is telling the truth?’
‘God knows. Lizzie Street could twist anything to suit her own purpose, and her son’s got a massive chip on his shoulder. All I do know is that you don’t want to get involved. Keep out of it, love. That kind of family stuff, it’s always messy.’
‘I intend to. But I still don’t understand the deal between Chris and Guy Wilder. I mean, I can see why there’s bad blood, but the two of them looked like they wanted to kill each other.’
Jimmy took another drink and put the glass down on the table. ‘Ah, that’s because you haven’t heard the end of the story yet.’
Ava waited while her father paused for effect. ‘Go on, then,’ she urged.
‘You know about Lizzie being murdered a few years back?’
‘Yeah, I heard about it.’
Jimmy glanced to either side to make sure no one was listening. He leaned forward, keeping his voice low. ‘Well, rumour has it that Terry was the one who had her bumped off. He was just coming to the end of a ten-stretch and wanted her out of the way before he got out. The marriage wasn’t exactly a happy one – neither of them were the faithful sort – and she’d grown pretty powerful while he’d been inside. They say that Terry wanted his empire back and didn’t want a row about it.’
‘Jesus,’ Ava murmured.
‘And Guy Wilder has always believed that Chris and Danny were involved, that Terry wouldn’t have trusted anyone else. And Wilder might have hated his mother’s guts – he didn’t ever forgive her for abandoning him – but he didn’t want to see her dead.’ He scratched his chin where a day’s growth of beard gave the skin a bluish hue. ‘But like I said, it’s only a rumour. The cops never found any evidence and no one was ever charged. Could just be a pile of bollocks.’
Ava tried to imagine Chris Street lifting a gun and shooting his stepmother through the heart. Was he capable of such a thing? She didn’t really want to think about it. There were enough horrors in the world without creating imaginary ones too.
Jimmy finished his beer and raised his empty glass. ‘You got time for another?’
‘Of course. Let me get these.’ She reached for her bag, but her father was already on his feet.
‘Keep your cash,’ he said, flapping a hand. ‘These are on me.’
As Ava watched him standing at the bar, she wished that he could find someone to settle down with. The girlfriends came and went – usually arriving when her dad was in the money and leaving as soon as it ran out. And okay, maybe he wasn’t the greatest catch in the world, but he still had his own hair and teeth, was kind and loyal and never bore grudges. There were far worse guys out there.
She saw him pay for the drinks and that nagging worry came back to haunt her again. Where had he got the dosh from – and how long before the law came knocking on his door? Her father never could say no to a ‘sure thing’. Hope always triumphed over experience. Raising her eyes to the ceiling, she silently prayed to the heavens above: Please God, just for once, let him get away with it.
8
Terry Street was sitting at his usual table in Belles, near the back and off to the side where he could see everything that was going on. He was staring at the girls, but he wasn’t really seeing them. After a while, one half-naked body looked much the same as another. Tits and bums, tits and bums. He felt no lust for them, no desire. The only thing that brought him any pleasure these days was the booze.
He reached for his glass and drank some of the whisky. When he put the glass down, he frowned. He’d been mulling over something, but now he couldn’t remember what it was. It had been happening to him a lot recently, this weird disconnection halfway through a train of thought. And he kept putting things down and forgetting where he’d put them. Age creeping up, he supposed, although he was only in his sixties.
Terry picked up his glass again. He glanced across at the bar and saw Chris standing there, chatting to a group of banker types. Once Terry would have been the one to do the schmoozing, but lately he couldn’t be bothered. It was too much of an effort and basically he didn’t give a toss about the customers. So long as they paid their money, drank the champagne and kept away from him, he was happy.
Terry knew that he was becoming anti-social. The truth was that most people bored him these days. The younger generation didn’t know the meaning of a proper conversation; it was mobile phones and texting, Facebook and all the rest of that crap. Even the villains were bland. Back in his time, there had been real characters, men with personalities. Now you were lucky to find someone who could string more than a couple of sentences together.
He looked hard at Chris. Both of his boys, in different ways, had been a disappointment to him. Neither of them had what it took to be a real success. Chris was smart enough but he lacked the killer instinct. If he could avoid trouble, he would – and everybody knew it. He had some charm but not enough to make up for his deficiencies. Danny, on the other hand, had a fuckin’ screw loose. It was a tough thing to admit about your own son, but there it was. Danny was a bleeding liability and that was never going to change.
Only Liam, his eldest son, his long-dead son, had had the potential to really go places. Liam could have stepped into his shoes if he’d been given the opportunity. Instead, he’d got half his head blown off when he was only seventeen. Terry felt a sudden searing pain in his heart, the symptom of a grief that never diminished no matter how many years passed by.
He knocked back the whisky and caught the eye of one of the waitresses. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. She came and took his glass and went over to the bar. A minute later, Chris came back with the drink.
‘Here,’ he said, placing the glass on the table. ‘I need a word.’
Terry gestured ungraciously towards the chair in front of him. He would have preferred to be alone with his whisky and his thoughts. ‘Just tell me this ain’t about the Fox again.’
> ‘We need to talk about it.’
‘We’ve already done that.’
Chris frowned. ‘Have we? The way I remember it is that I suggested buying it and you said forget it. Not what I’d call a conversation. You want to tell me why we shouldn’t?’
Terry glared at him. There was a time when Chris wouldn’t have questioned a decision he had made, a time when his word would have been law. But there was no respect any more. A father couldn’t even expect it from his son. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you why not.’ He counted out the reasons on his fingers. ‘For one, Maggie McConnell ain’t going to sell it to us. For two, even if she did we’d never get a fuckin’ licence. For three, we ain’t got that kind of spare cash lying around. And for four, I don’t want to own the fuckin’ place again.’