The Jump

by Martina Cole

  Donna nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I do. They were all I ever knew. I loved them, and now they’re gone I miss them.’

  The Cockney stallholder grinned as he shouted at the two girls: ‘You keeping that shoe, love, or waiting for Cinderella?’

  Laughing at his raucous voice, Donna replaced the black patent shoe on the stall.

  As they walked off, Donna saw an apparition of manhood so excitingly gorgeous it made her breath catch in her throat. And the most amazing thing of all was, he was smiling right at her. Looking over her shoulder in case it was someone else he was staring at, she turned back to find him planted firmly in her path.

  ‘Hello, girls.’

  His voice was rich and brown but Donna heard the cockney inflection in it.

  ‘So what are your names then?’

  Georgio Brunos always talked to pretty girls, and giving the two friends a once-over with his practised eye, decided the blonde one was a little raver, and the dark one a challenge. He concentrated on the dark one, and was amazed to find himself staring into a pair of eyes so startling, he was nearly lost for words.

  And on closer inspection, the face before him was one of the most beautiful he had ever encountered.

  Still smiling jauntily, he switched his gaze back to Jackie. He took in her lipsticked mouth, jutting breasts and short skirt. She was his usual armload. Yet this slim, flat-chested dark piece intrigued him . . .

  And Georgio Brunos didn’t know why.

  He managed to get a firm date and her phone number, much to the chagrin of Blondie. The little dark piece’s absolute shock and bewilderment made him feel good.

  She had potential.

  A lot of potential.

  As he swaggered away, he knew she was still watching him.

  Donna stood in the doorway of the cramped living room, her heart hammering in her chest. The flat was a confusion of smells, noise and bustle. The worn furniture was covered in people and Donna felt an urge to run away.

  A heavy-set woman in her forties, with a beaming smile, false teeth and red work-worn hands, came towards her with surprising agility, shouting, ‘Come away in. Oh Georgio, she’s beautiful. Like a little flower!’

  Georgio laughed in delight.

  His elder sister Mary got up from the battered chair by the fireside and offered it to the thin pale girl her mother was practically dragging into the cramped room.

  ‘Christ, child, your hands are like ice.’

  Sitting Donna in the chair, she began chafing the slim fingers between her own, as if Donna was five instead of eighteen and a half.

  ‘Jaysus save us, would one of yous shut your galloping traps and bring the child a cup of tea?’

  Nuala, the youngest, tripped gaily from the room singing: ‘Georgio’s got a girlfriend, Georgio’s got a girlfriend! ’ He chased her out and playfully slapped her bottom.

  Ten minutes later, Donna had been introduced to everyone, had a cup of scalding tea balanced precariously on her lap and a plate of sandwiches and cake on the wide arm of the chair. In shocked silence she listened as everyone talked at once, shouting over each other to be heard and arguing playfully about just about everything.

  Then a tall man walked into the room with a large covered dish in his hands and everyone fell silent.

  Placing the dish on the table he smiled at one and all, saying in broken English, ‘My first-born son has brought home a girl at last! I have made a large pan of Stifado, and downstairs there’s a beautiful crispy plate of Baklava, full of honey and nuts, to enjoy on this special occasion.’

  Donna’s eyes were drawn to the large handsome man before her, and as everyone in the room turned to look, Pa Brunos put his ample arms around her waist and kissed her gently on both cheeks. Always near to tears, an emotional man by nature, he then pulled out a large white handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

  ‘Oh, Jesus save us!’ snorted his wife. ‘He’ll be roaring after a few Ouzos, child. Ignore him!’

  Donna laughed with everyone, and in those few seconds, amid the rich garlicky smell of the food and the chattering voices, Donna Fenland fell in love once more.

  Georgio she already loved. She had loved him for six months, from the first day she had clapped eyes on him in the Roman Road market.

  But now she realised she had fallen in love with a whole family.

  A real family, full of real people.

  Georgio winked at her and tapped his pocket, where he had a ring ready to place on her slim finger. They’d picked it that day. She was going to marry the tall handsome man with the deep brown eyes and the deep brown voice, and because of that, she would also gain this family.

  This family who were enveloped in love, who were warm, spontaneously affectionate, and close.

  It was something she would thank God for more than once over the next twenty years.

  After her early experience of life without real love, she would thrive on the abundance of it, overflowing from her husband and from his family.

  Especially his family.

  As she looked around her at the smiling faces of the younger children, at the fond glances from his parents, and at the big handsome man she had somehow managed to capture, Donna Fenland felt as if, after a long and painful journey, she had finally and irrevocably come home.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I think you must have made a very serious mistake.’

  Donna’s voice was high and breathless, her face a white strained mask that made even the most hardened of the policemen present feel a tinge of pity for her.

  Donna heard Bunty’s refined tones and closed her eyes in consternation.

  ‘Do you know who my husband is?’ It was more of a shocked statement than a question, and even in her own distress, Donna felt a moment’s smugness that Bunty wasn’t getting it all her own way. The other dinner guests had left as soon as possible; only Bunty and Harry had stayed on.

  ‘We’re quite well aware of your husband’s standing in the community, madam. We would advise you that we have a warrant to search these premises and that is what we intend to do.’

  Harry stormed into the lounge, his face grey-tinged, the alcohol he’d consumed lying heavily on his fat stomach. ‘Come along, Bunty, there’s no more we can do here. I would advise you, Donna, to get your husband a solicitor as soon as possible. Bunty, shut your mouth and let’s get home.’

  She stared wide-eyed at her husband. ‘But surely . . . surely there’s been some mistake? I mean . . .’

  ‘Get your coat, dear, we’re leaving. I’ve been on the phone to the Chief Super and he informs me there is no mistake at all. Now can we please leave?’ His eyes warned against any further objection and Bunty, having always prided herself on being quick on the uptake, moved silently from the room.

  In the hallway, Harry helped his wife on with her wrap. As he picked up the keys to his BMW a voice said hoarsely, ‘Going to call a cab for him, missus? I don’t think the local magistrate would be happy being stopped for drunk driving.’

  Bunty and Harry both looked at Frank Laughton. Replacing the keys in his pocket, Harry picked up the phone, a red tinge flooding his face as he dialled the number.

  Laughton walked nonchalantly past them, a smile on his face. Going into the lounge, he shut the door noisily in Bunty’s face.

  Donna was sitting on a small leather stool, her face devoid of colour and her whole body trembling. Looking at her, so fine-boned, so feminine, Laughton felt the full force of the woman’s attraction. Pushing her heavy dark hair from her face, she looked him in the eye. Tears were rolling down her cheeks, but she made no move to wipe them away.

  ‘This is all a ghastly mistake. My husband is somehow caught up in a ghastly mistake.’ She begged him with her eyes to tell her what she said was true. Laughton did not wish to witness her pain. Instead he said gruffly, ‘Your housekeeper is making some tea. I would advise you to put a drop of brandy in it.’

  Helping her from the stool, he escorted her to the kitchen, ignoring Bunty and Harry as th
ey passed in the hallway.

  Dolly’s cockney accent could be heard even before they reached the kitchen door. ‘Get your ruddy feet off of my clean floor, and stop picking at the food! If you’re not careful . . .’

  As Donna and Laughton walked into the kitchen, she looked at them and said loudly, ‘So! PC Plod has arrived back, has he? You’ve dropped the biggest bollock of your career tonight, I only hope you realise that . . .’

  ‘Hello, Dolly, long time no see.’

  She snorted. ‘Not long enough for me, Laughton. Still fitting people up, I see.’

  The three policemen in the kitchen smiled at the older woman’s choice of words. Dolly nodded at them all, her small black eyes sharp.

  ‘I know what I’m talking about. I had dealings with him when he was greener than the proverbial grass. Grass being the operative word with you, eh, Laughton?’

  ‘Shut up, Dolly. You always was a mouthy bitch and you ain’t improved with age.’

  ‘How’s the wife, Frank? Still turning a blind eye, is she? Mind you, looking at you now, I’d bet me last penny you don’t get much luck from the blaggers’ wives these days.’ She nodded at the three policemen and grinned widely. ‘Oh, that’s true, all right. You could set your watch by him years ago. If the old man got a twelve at three in the afternoon, Laughton would be round the house by eight-thirty, suited and booted, fish and chips under one arm and a bottle of wine in the other. No prizes for guessing what else he had for them . . .’

  ‘Shut up, Dolly, and give your arse a chance.’ Laughton’s voice was hard.

  ‘Truth hurt, does it, Frankie? You ain’t worn very well, but then your kind never do, do they?’

  ‘You was an old boot then, and you’re still one now. How’s your old man? Grateful for getting banged up, I imagine. Anything has to be better than living with you. Now you’re with another blagger. I might have guessed I’d find you here.’

  Donna put her hands to her ears and said loudly, ‘I can’t believe this is happening!’ She turned to face Frank Laughton. ‘You come into my home - my home! - and try to tell me my husband is a criminal, and then you have the audacity to stand there and harangue my housekeeper! You call my husband a blagger? Well, Mr Laughton, you had better prove your allegations or I will see to it that you pay for this night’s work. Now do what the hell you have to then get out of my home. Do you hear me? Get out of my home!’

  Dolly pulled the distraught woman into her arms, glaring at the policemen as they trooped out of the kitchen.

  ‘Oh Dolly, what’s going on? What on earth is going on? There’s obviously been some kind of mistake. They won’t even let me go and see Georgio.’

  ‘It’s all a big mistake, darlin’. Before you know it, everything will be sorted out and back to normal. Look on the bright side, love. It got rid of that load of ponces, eh?’

  Donna smiled wanly. ‘Oh, Dolly. I don’t know what to do.’ Her voice was thick with tears.

  Dolly held her close. She could smell the expensive shampoo Donna always used.

  ‘I’ll pour you out a strong cup of tea. This’ll all be over before you know it.’

  Five minutes later they sat and listened as the house was systematically torn apart around them.

  Detective Laughton was smiling widely. He was known as ‘Arsehole Laughton’ by criminals and his own men alike. He wasn’t what would be termed a well-liked man and he knew this; accepted it. Revelled in it, in fact. He prided himself that his men might not love him, but at least they respected him. It would have pained him to know that, in reality, the men he worked with had more respect for the majority of the criminals they captured than for their Guv’nor.

  Lighting one of the eighty cigarettes he smoked a day, Laughton coughed loudly, a phlegm-ridden, hacking cough that made the young DC’s insides rise up in protest.

  ‘Cigarette, Mr Brunos?’ Laughton’s face screwed up as he fought to hold back another wracking bout.

  Georgio shook his head in distaste.

  Laughton let the cough go, spraying Georgio and the younger man with spittle and mucus.

  ‘Leave it out, for fuck’s sake!’ Georgio Brunos was disgusted and it showed in his face.

  ‘Oh, what’s the matter, Mr Brunos? Are we too, too sophisticated for all this, eh?’ Laughton’s voice was sarcastic and hard. ‘Does living the life of fucking Riley in a big drum, with flash cars and plenty of booze and skirt, make you better than everyone else then?’

  Georgio shook his head slowly, wiping his face with a large brown hand. ‘Listen, Mr Laughton, with respect, a pig in shit has more sophistication than you!’

  The young DC smiled, and hastily turned away from his boss.

  Laughton stared down at the handsome man sitting before him, a wave of malice and temper washing through him. ‘I’ll have you, Brunos, you know that, don’t you? I’ll see me day with you, boyo, see if I don’t.’

  Georgio shook his head sadly. ‘Why are you so determined to pin this on me, Laughton? Did I sell you a right steamer for the wife or something? Did I annoy you in another life and now you’ve been reborn to fucking haunt me in this one - is that it?’

  Laughton took a rasping drag on his cigarette and smiled grimly. ‘I hear the whispers, Brunos, I hear everything. I know you’re not as white as you’d like everyone to believe. I know you was behind that blag, everyone knows . . .’

  Georgio laughed out loud. ‘Everyone knows, do they? Well, I wish they’d let me in on it, mate, because I don’t even know what you’re talking about.’

  Laughton stubbed out his cigarette on a saucer and promptly lit another. ‘Wilding, send in DC Masterson, please. And go and get yourself a cup of tea or something. I don’t want to see you for about forty minutes, OK?’

  The younger man hesitated for a split second before Laughton bellowed: ‘You heard me, boy. Move it! Do you want it tattooed on your arse then?’

  DC Wilding looked into Georgio’s eyes briefly and left the room. The silence was tangible, heavy on the air like electricity before a summer storm.

  Five minutes later, one of the biggest men Georgio had ever laid eyes on walked into the room.

  ‘You wanted me, Mr Laughton?’ The man’s face was open, kind.

  ‘Sit over there, son. I’ll tell you what to do when the time comes.’

  Georgio Brunos, a small tremor of fear inside him now, smiled at the man as nonchalantly as possible, then turning to Laughton he said quietly: ‘You wouldn’t dare, Laughton.’

  The DI laughed loudly. ‘Oh, I’d dare, Georgio. You ask Peter Wilson. Bless his little cotton socks, even as we speak he’s nursing his wounds. Never the bravest of blokes Peter, but very eager to please. Does what he’s told, does young Peter. You could learn from him, Brunos. Tell the truth and shame the devil.’

  Georgio stood up abruptly. ‘I want me brief, Laughton, and I want a break.’

  Laughton’s voice was low and cold now. ‘Sit down, Brunos.’

  Georgio stood firmly, facing the older man.

  ‘Sit down, you Greek ponce, before I put you through the fucking wall!’

  Georgio stood his ground, refusing to be intimidated.

  Sighing heavily, Laughton said, ‘Sit the man down, son, before we have a mutiny on our hands.’

  Masterson stood up, his amiable face still half-smiling. Georgio couldn’t believe it when he was forced back into his seat with such force his spine felt as if it had been crushed. Humiliated, stunned, and losing his temper, Georgio said menacingly, ‘You’ll pay for this, Laughton. The lot of you will pay for this one!’

  The policeman smiled, displaying his tobacco-stained teeth. ‘I don’t like you, Brunos. I don’t like your good looks, your charming manners, and your two-faced fucking way of life. I don’t like your money, your business, or your pretty little wife. I don’t like your family, or your friends. In short, as I said earlier, I’m going to have you, Brunos. I’m going to put you away. I’m going to put you away for so long, it’ll make Nelson Mandel
a’s sentence look like a stint in Borstal.’

  Georgio stared into the manic face above him and felt real fear forming in his bowels.

  ‘I ain’t done nothing, Laughton. Three people saw me in my car lot today. Three people! What more do you want - a fucking signed statement from the Queen?’

  ‘I want you, Brunos, because you’re a piece of shite, you and Davey Jackson and the rest of them. You’re the dog shit on my shoes. I’ve got you bang to rights, Brunos.’

  Georgio shook his head in exasperation. ‘You’re talking bollocks and you know it. You must be hard up for a face to try and pin this one on me. I’ve got more witnesses than the ascension into heaven!’

  Turning to the large DC, Laughton said in a friendly voice: ‘Hurt him.’

  The younger man stood up, and in stunned disbelief Georgio felt himself being dragged from the chair and forced onto the ground. He could smell the dirty floor and the polished leather of the man’s boots as he was kicked viciously in the stomach five times.

  Eventually, the DI pulled the larger man away, knelt down and said quietly: ‘In a minute, I’m going to put on the nice tape recorder and read you your rights, because Peter Wilson gave us enough to put you away. No bail for you, Greek boy. You’re off to Chelmsford nick tonight. But first I’m going to have a cuppa and a fag and watch you squirm on the floor for a while. I hate your guts, Brunos, but don’t take it too personally - I hate everyone.’

  Georgio held down the bile that was rising into his mouth, burning his throat and tongue. This was a nightmare, a bona fide twenty-two-carat nightmare, and inside himself he knew that if Wilson was telling Laughton what he wanted to hear, the nightmare could go on for months. Looking up, Georgio felt the fight leave his body to be replaced by a calmness that surprised him.

  ‘I never done nothing and you know it,’ he said. ‘I’m being fitted up and I’ll prove it.’

  Laughton laughed again. ‘Yeah, course you will. Conspiracy to rob, conspiracy to murder, and aggravated assault on a police officer are only a few of the charges against you, but they’ll grow, Brunos. Like a cancer, they’ll grow - I’ll see to that. God, I wish we still had hanging! A young man died today. You know about it and you know where the dosh is, or my name ain’t Frank Laughton. You can deny it until the cows come home and the Second Coming arrives. I couldn’t give a flying fuck. You’re in this up to your neck, and for the widow of that boy, and for his kids, I’ll see you go away for it. You might not have pulled the trigger, Brunos, but you was there in spirit. You set it up and I’ll prove it. With the help of Wilson, I’ll prove it.’