by Martina Cole
THE JUMP
MARTINA COLE
headline
www.headline.co.uk
Copyright © 1995 Martina Cole
The right of Martina Cole to be identified as the Author of
the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means, without the prior written
permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which
it is published and without a similar condition being
imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008
All characters in this publication are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
eISBN : 978 0 7553 5073 5
This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations
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Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
BOOK ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
BOOK TWO
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
BOOK THREE
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Epilogue
Martina Cole was born in Aveley in Essex and brought up as part of a large, close-knit family, living in and around Dagenham and Rainham for most of her life. She has been writing since childhood, and was encouraged by her English teacher to try to earn a living from it - advice she didn’t take until she was twenty-five, though for years she wrote romantic fiction in exercise books for a friend.
Her previous bestselling novels include DANGEROUS LADY (‘Welcome to a major new talent’ Best; ‘Move over Jackie [Collins]’ Daily Mirror; ‘Powerful, evocative and crackling with lowlife humour’ Maeve Haran), which was made into a hit television series, THE LADYKILLER (‘Certain to be a second thumping topseller for the talented Martina Cole’ Publishing News; ‘You won’t be able to put this one down’ Company; ‘A winner’ Annabel) and GOODNIGHT LADY (‘Gritty, atmospheric stuff’ Today; ‘Gritty and convincing’ Daily Mirror).
For my big brothers Christopher and Anthony Whiteside (in the words of Horace, Par nobile fratrum). With my love always and my thanks to you both for being there when I needed you.
In loving memory of: Patrick D’Arcy, Ellen Whiteside, Tommy Whiteside, Jack O’Loughlin and Christopher Lane.
Also Ronald Burt, Roy Burt and Bernie Steingold remembering our youth and long summer days.
Many thanks to: the twins and KC and the Sunshine Band for all the help, the stories and the laughter.
Prologue
‘Georgio shouldn’t be much longer now, Harry. Let me get you a refill.’
Donna Brunos took the Waterford crystal whisky glass from the small man in front of her and smiled at him tightly. He’d already had more than enough to drink; a few more whiskies and his nasty streak would surface.
She poured a hefty measure of ginger ale into the glass, topping it up with a small amount of Red Label whisky. She closed her eyes tightly for a few seconds, hoping to take away the ache behind them.
As she turned to face Harry Robertson, his wife Bunty gave one of her high-pitched laughs. Donna handed the drink to Harry and, using the excuse that she was wanted in the kitchen, moved through the lounge, stopping here and there to have a brief word with different people.
Donna was aware that they were all waiting for her husband, that they classed her a poor second as hostess. The only reason they were here, the men as well as the women, was because Georgio had invited them personally. Everyone was grateful for a little bit of attention from Georgio, she knew that, had always known that. Donna smiled ruefully; she felt that way herself and she was his wife. It was a knack he had. When Georgio looked at a person, he could make them feel as if there was no one else in the world and he used this to his advantage.
Inside the kitchen she leant against the wall and sighed.
‘He’s bloody cutting it fine,’ said Dolly, her housekeeper and friend.
Donna nodded and, pushing herself away from the wall, she surveyed the work surfaces intently. ‘How’s the duck?’
‘Drier than a nun’s tits!’
Donna laughed gently, a laugh she didn’t think she had inside her. ‘You’re crude, Dolly, but then you already know that.’
Dolly flicked the ash from her cigarette into the waste disposal and shrugged good-naturedly.
‘It’s nearly half-eight - why don’t you sit down without him? The sooner they eat, the sooner they’ll go. When Georgio gets in, he’ll be grateful most of it is over. He can get down to the business in hand over the brandy and we can all be in bed for twelve.’
Donna pushed her heavy dark hair off her face; it was a weary gesture and Dolly smiled at her sympathetically.
‘You want to tear the arse off him when he gets home, love.’
Donna removed the cigarette from the older woman’s hand and took a long drag, holding the smoke in before letting it out heavily in a thick grey cloud.
‘I would, Dolly, if I thought he’d take any notice. Give him another half an hour then serve, all right?’
‘Okey doke. Get yourself in and join the fray. Sixteen of the town’s bigwigs to dinner and the golden boy doesn’t turn up! That’s him all over.’
This was said with a rough pride. Dolly Parkins loved her employers, and they loved her, and - more importantly - they trusted her. Dolly could be herself with them and she abused this shamelessly. Throwing the butt of the cigarette into the bin, she began putting the plates in the oven to warm.
Donna left the sanctuary of the kitchen and went once more into the lounge, where Betty Hawkins’s loud braying voice immediately hit her with the force of a sledgehammer.
‘Donna! Donna, get over here and tell this fool that your husband has a 911 Carerra with my name on it!’
‘When’s the delivery date, Betty? I’ve forgotten.’
Donna fixed a smil
e on her face and joined in the conversation. In her mind she decided she would take Dolly’s advice. She would tear the arse off her husband when he finally arrived home.
The port and Stilton were on the table and Harry Robertson was holding forth on local government. Donna tried to look interested but her eyes were straying over the debris strewn across the table. Bunty Robertson had burned a cigarette hole in the Venetian lace tablecloth and it was like a magnet, drawing Donna’s eyes. She had always hated the woman; in fact, she realised, she hated everyone sitting around the table. In different degrees, maybe, but it was a form of dislike for each and every one of them. Yet, as Georgio was always saying, they needed them; or more to the point, he needed them. It was Georgio who had arranged this dinner, had even told her the menu and ordered in the wine specially, and who had not turned up - not even had the decency to ring and make his excuses.
Harry Robertson was now on his favourite subject - the courts, his role as magistrate, and the sentencing of juvenile offenders. With enough drink in him to knock out an Irish navvy, he began his monologue on the judicial system. One day, Donna promised herself, she was going to ask him how he felt about drunk drivers. She had lost count of the number of times he had wheelspinned out of her driveway, completely blotto, and gone zig-zagging down the lane towards the M25, his wife hiccuping beside him, both feeling they were a law unto themselves.
Donna heard the doorbell and sighed with relief. Georgio was home. He would take over in that easy way he had, and soon everyone would forget that he hadn’t turned up for the meal, and would all vie with one another to assure him they didn’t mind waiting for him in the least.
She stood up and Harry Robertson said snidely, ‘Now then, Donna, don’t you go giving him a hard time - at least not until we’ve all gone home.’ Everyone laughed dutifully. It was on the tip of Donna’s tongue to reply: ‘Oh, you are going home, then? That’s something to look forward to anyway.’
As she left the room she heard Bunty’s voice, as she knew she was meant to, saying, ‘Honestly - Donna!’ in that maddening tone she had. Closing the door firmly behind her, she met Dolly in the hallway.
‘It’s all right, I’ll answer the door.’
Dolly shrugged and went back into the kitchen.
Donna’s heart sank as she saw four large outlines through the glass of the double front doors. Georgio had brought people home on top of everything else. Her headache was heavier now, a migraine in the making. Putting her shoulders back and pushing out her narrow chest, she plastered a big smile on her face and opened the door. Georgio always liked her to be in control, or at least look as if she was in control.
‘Mrs Donna Brunos?’
The uniforms of two of the men registered in her mind and she felt the panic well up inside her chest.
‘Yes . . . I’m Mrs Brunos. My husband, Georgio . . . What’s happened?’ In her imagination she saw him in the twisted wreckage of his Mercedes Sports. Remembered all her warnings to him to drive carefully. She was totally unprepared for what she heard next.
The bigger of the men in plain clothes was mouthing words at her, she was shaking her head in denial, then they were actually walking into her home.
‘We have a warrant to search these premises.’
‘A what?’ She was aware that Dolly was beside her, and somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she registered loud laughter coming from the dining room.
‘Your husband was arrested today for armed robbery. He is being held at Chelmsford police station. I am Detective Inspector Frank Laughton from the Serious Crime Squad . . .’
The migraine was bearing down on her, jagged, probing. She heard the dining-room door open and Harry Robertson emerged, Council Planning Officer and pillar of the local community, asking in his strident voice what the hell was going on - and then, mercifully, she passed out.
As Donna sank down into oblivion, her mind flashed up images and memories to compensate for the shock just dealt to her. She saw herself as a child again, her face white and strained as she listened to her mother’s strident voice. Covering her ears with her hands, she froze, waiting for the noise she knew was to come.
The soft thud came through the wall on cue. She knew her mother had fallen against the dressing table. She had to have fallen. Donna’s father wouldn’t hurt her, not deliberately.
The room was cold; the house was always cold. Even in the middle of summer it had a damp, clammy feel to it that was more to do with the occupants than the weather.
She could once more hear her mother’s voice, goading her father on, telling him things about himself best left unsaid. She wished her brother Hamish was still at home, but Donna rarely saw him now he was married.
This was a strange household.
During the day, the almost clinical cleanliness could break a girl’s heart. Anyone entering the house automatically spoke in whispers, as if in the presence of the dead. Donna’s mother was pretty in an austere way, her face a beacon of righteousness. She and her husband were well respected; they ‘kept themselves to themselves’, a favourite saying of theirs, along with, ‘It’s nobody’s business but ours’.
The child waited for her father to go to his room, and sighed heartily as she heard the door shut softly behind him. She took after her father, everyone said so. Self-effacing, self-contained, anything for a quiet life.
Tomorrow, the incident would be over - never, ever to be mentioned.
Especially by a little girl who knew exactly how to be seen and not heard.
Her face was flaming, burning as if the skin would melt off it. Mrs Dowson was looking at her with a pitying expression on her normally dour face.
‘You should have told someone, Donna! Why didn’t you tell your mother?’ Mrs Dowson knew why Donna Fenland had not imparted the news to her mother, but she had to ask the question anyway.
Monica Fenland stood like a hefty wedge between her daughter and the door. Her eyes scrutinised her child, bored into her with a pale grey ferocity. ‘Come on, Donna, answer Mrs Dowson.’
Donna looked up into her mother’s eyes - eyes that were saying, ‘Keep in control, Donna. Don’t show any emotion at all, and talk yourself out of this embarrassing situation.’
‘My mother had already explained it all to me, and I didn’t see the need to bother her with any of it. Today was the only time I have ever felt remotely ill since I . . .’ She paused. ‘Well, since they came.’
Mrs Dowson saw Monica Fenland smile grimly and wondered why the hell she’d bothered.
‘I see. Now do you think you might be better off at home, just for today? Until the period calms itself down a mite, eh.’ She was gratified to see the girl’s obvious relief at the outcome.
Ten minutes later Donna and her mother drove home from the school in silence. Inside the house Donna was tucked into bed, given a hot water bottle and a copy of Black Beauty to read.
Then Monica Fenland sat on the side of the bed and smiled at her daughter before saying, ‘You did well today, Donna. Your monthly visitor is private - Mrs Dowson had no right bringing it into the open like that. She should have popped you in a cab . . . But there, it’s done now. I was called from work, I had to travel to your school, and now I have to return to my work. Not that Mrs Dowson would understand that, I suspect. So you just lie back and relax, and if you’re feeling better later on, you can peel a few potatoes for me, eh?’ Standing up, she smoothed out the creases in her plaid skirt.
‘What happens now, Mum? Will it be like this every month?’ But Monica Fenland was already walking from the bedroom, Donna’s words falling on deaf ears.
As she started up her car, Monica glanced at the neat detached house, at her daughter’s bedroom window, and sighed heavily. Not a natural mother, she cared for her daughter but knew she failed her. Monica had never experienced the rush of love other mothers talked about on first seeing their child after the delivery.
The birth of Hamish had been difficult and humiliating. It was an act she had
refused to repeat. Then, just as she was convinced her childbearing days were over, along had come a baby girl. The embarrassment of her late pregnancy still made her face go hot fourteen years later.
Pregnant at forty-three.
Leaning on the cool leather covering of her steering wheel she felt the tears, because no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t really love her daughter.
And she knew that Donna Fenland was a child who needed a great deal of love.
Pulling out of the drive, she felt the familiar urge for a drink.
‘Donna, you’re so bloody boring! Come on, girl.’
Donna followed Jackie’s lead and together they looked through the motley collection of shoes displayed on the market stall.
‘Your mum can’t stop you doing anything now . . .’ Jackie’s voice trailed off. ‘Oh, Donna, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that how it came out.’
Donna looked into the honest blue eyes of her best friend and nodded.
‘I know.’ She shrugged lightly, her instinctive feeling that you had to be accommodating coming to the fore as she tried to pacify her friend. ‘I know what you mean, Jackie. My parents weren’t exactly hip, were they? Sometimes I wonder if they even realised I was in the house.’
The desolation in her voice, and the honesty of the answer, made Jackie’s eyes water. ‘Oh, Donna, I’m really, really sorry.’
Donna smiled widely. ‘Don’t be, they gave me a good life in their own way. Now they’re gone, and I’m here on holiday with you so let’s have some fun!’
‘Do you miss them?’ Jackie’s voice was soft.