by Martina Cole
He was stuck in Maximum Security and his wife, his little Donna, could be gasping her last breath. The futility of his situation was the hardest to bear - that he could do nothing, nothing at all. He clenched his hands into fists and began beating the tiled wall, blood soon running from his knuckles and mixing with the water, trickling in crimson rivulets down the drain.
One word was going over and over in his mind: Donna. Donna. Donna.
If only he could reach out to her with his mind, could warn her in some way.
Two wardens pulled him from the shower and Georgio began fighting with them. Between them they eventually overpowered him and marched him to the Punishment Block. Thrown into the damp cell, naked, he slid down the wall and cried bitter tears into his hands.
He was still only capable of one word, and that was whispered brokenly in the gloom.
‘Donna.’
If anything happened to her he would kill Lewis with his bare hands. Georgio stared around the cell like a caged animal. Lewis was a big man - the biggest, in fact - but he, Georgio Brunos, would outwit the bastard. If it was the last thing he did, he’d outwit him.
This was personal now.
It didn’t cross Georgio’s mind to inform the police about Lewis because he knew it would gain him nothing. He had no proof, only the word of a transvestite murderer.
But he swore he would get the better of Lewis. Somehow, someday, he would get the better of him. He sat up all night with pictures in his head of Donna and what could be happening to her even as he was slumped there.
He walked out of the cell the next day a changed man.
More than one person remarked on it.
Chapter Six
Like Donald Lewis, Frankie White was a big man in personality, and in reputation. His first prison sentence had been when he was twenty-one; he had received ten years for attempted murder and aggravated assault. Frankie had beaten his wife’s boyfriend half to death and was in the process of doing the same thing to her when the police had interrupted him. One punch to his wife’s boyfriend had been so hard it had forced his ribs through his heart. Only the intervention of a skilled surgeon had saved the man, who now lived in a one-bedroomed council flat in Poplar, unable to climb stairs or couple with a woman, as the jealous husband had also stamped repeatedly on his groin. Frankie’s first wife had disappeared without a trace.
Frankie had gone to prison a hero, and left it seven years later a villain. Since then he had been involved in many nefarious dealings: had financed a night club, a building consortium, and betting shops. He was married now, aged forty-three, to a twenty-six-year-old woman who had produced three children in rapid succession. His children were his life, his reason for living. At an age when most of his contemporaries were looking forward to grandchildren, and were still financing their own children, Frankie White had only just realised the real depth of feeling that fatherhood gave him.
A known ‘face’, he could put up his hand to many illegal acts: armed robbery, GBH, and extortion to name but a few . . .
As he walked in his garden with his small son, Frankie Junior, he smiled at the antics of his daughters. Liselle at five was a real live wire. Unfortunately she had inherited his hooked nose, but Frankie was determined to disguise his mother’s Jewish ancestry the moment the girl was old enough for plastic surgery. Desdemona, his three year old, was her mother’s double, a blonde bimbette with a face like an angel and a voice like a navvy. He watched the two of them running towards the swimming pool and grinned. Frankie Junior, all of ten months, grinned with him. A large-boned amiable child, Frankie adored him.
As the girls slipped off their robes, Frankie saw the masked man in the bushes to the left side of the pool. His mind registered the gun, and his arms tightened on his son instinctively. Liselle screamed loudly in the quiet of the day as the man opened fire, and in stunned disbelief Frankie felt the cold heat of the bullets as they rained across his body and that of his infant son. Even as he fell to the ground, in the throes of death, he was still trying to protect his son. As he hit the earth with a heavy thud, his last sight was of his son’s staring face. The cheerful, gummy smile still intact. But all trace of life gone.
Tracey White was shopping in East Ham market with her sister Sandra when the police found her. She listened in stunned disbelief to what her mother and the policeman were telling her.
Her only words were: ‘But we live in Surrey. How could that happen in Surrey?’
No one as yet had the nerve to tell her about the death of her baby son.
Chapter Seven
Dolly placed a poached egg on toast in front of Donna. ‘Get that down you, love, it’ll set you up for the day.’
Donna sipped her Earl Grey and smiled. ‘You and your breakfasts, Dolly.’
The housekeeper tucked into her own plate of bubble and squeak and bacon. ‘My old mum used to say that breakfast was the most important meal of the day and she was right. Now eat that up.’
Donna stared at the white and yellow mass on the piece of brown toast and sighed. Food was becoming less and less enjoyable these days.
‘I wonder what Georgio’s having for breakfast?’ she mused.
Dolly snorted through a mouthful of food. ‘A lot more than you, love. My old man said they fed ’em plenty in nick. Porridge, eggs, toast and marmalade. Gallons of tea or coffee, fruit juice, the lot.’
Donna immediately brightened. ‘Really? I was under the impression the food wasn’t all that good.’
Dolly chewed on a large mouthful and shook her head. ‘They eat all right. Now will you get that down you?’
Donna began eating. Dolly asked God to forgive her for her lies about prison food. But it was for Donna’s own good; the girl was wasting away.
The shrill ringing of the phone on the kitchen wall broke their reveries. Donna got to her feet and picked it up.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that you, Don Don?’
‘Georgio! Where are you?’
‘Calm down, love. I’m still in nick. The prison chaplain got me a call to you. I’ve been feeling a bit down. Missing you, like.’
His voice trailed off. Donna felt her heart bursting with love for this man who would get a call to her because he missed her so much.
‘It’s so lovely to hear your voice, Georgio.’ Her own voice was scratchy with emotion. ‘I miss you too, love. More every day, in fact. I can’t believe I’m talking to you.’
Georgio sighed heavily. ‘Listen, Donna, do me a favour. Put Dolly on for a second, would you?’
‘Of course. Dolly, come and talk. It’s Georgio!’
Dolly took the phone in shock. ‘Hello, Georgio?’ The words came out high-pitched in disbelief.
‘Listen to me, Dolly, and listen good. Someone might be sending someone to see Donna, and it won’t be a friendly visit. Don’t say a word, just tell Big Paddy what I told you. Say that Lewis is out to get me.’
Dolly’s face blanched. ‘I’ll do that, mate. Here’s Donna back. She’s champing at the bit to talk to you.’
‘Thanks, Dolly.’
‘Georgio, is everything all right?’
He laughed down the phone. ‘I tried it on with the chaplain love, told him I was depressed and wanted to top meself. He arranged for me to make this call.’
Donna’s voice was small as she answered, ‘Don’t talk about killing yourself, Georgio. Especially after what happened to Wilson.’
The line went quiet and Donna wished fervently she could take back those few words.
‘You know about him then?’
Donna nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see her.
‘I miss you, Don Don. I love you, darlin’. You’re my life, don’t ever forget that. You’re my whole life.’
‘And you’re mine, Georgio. Always have been. I went to see your barrister with Maeve and he’s got the appeal in hand. So try not to worry, all right?’
‘All right, Donna love. Look, I’ve got to go, the chaplain’s back in the off
ice with me. Come and visit soon, and bring Big Paddy with you. I’d love to see him, all right? Promise me you’ll bring Big Paddy?’
Donna wiped her eyes with her fingers. ‘I’ll bring him, Georgio. Don’t worry.’
‘Good girl. I’ve got to run. I love you, darlin’.’
‘I love you too.’ Before she finished talking the line was dead.
Dolly took the crying woman into her arms. ‘Come on now, Donna. Pull yourself together, love. I’ll make us another cuppa, eh?’
She walked Donna back to her chair and sat her down. Then, taking away the plate of poached egg, she placed it in the sink and poured Donna a fresh cup of tea. All the time her mind was racing. Someone was out to get Georgio - Donald Lewis to be exact. His name had never come up before, either during the trial or afterwards . . . so why the big deal now?
She would tell Stephen as soon as she could.
Dolly knew Lewis well. Not personally, but in the same way everyone knew the name of Donald Lewis. He was a big-time villain. He ran the East End of London and the West, in between running both North and South London. Lewis was bad news. And Lewis was after their Georgio . . .
A sudden heaviness settled on Dolly’s heart.
Georgio was in big trouble.
Paddy Donovon was in the Portakabin with his friends, drinking tea. It was five minutes to ten and the tea-break was early. Men sat around on the benches reading the Sun, the Sport or in extreme cases the Independent. Paddy himself was listening to little Milton Hardcastle’s version of a fight the previous Friday night in The Dean Swift public house.
‘Jaysus, Paddy, the man was huge, with arms like a side of beef! I saw the first one coming at me, and I blocked it.’ He held up his arm to demonstrate. ‘Then I shoved me boot in his groin. As God is me witness, I nearly put his balls up on to the back of his neck!’
Paddy grinned at the blatant lying. ‘Did you now? And who was this Hercules you were fighting with? Did he have a name at all?’ Paddy winked at Del Boy Bryant as he spoke and the Cockney choked on his tea.
Milton shook his head sadly. ‘No, I never got to find out who he was. The police were there before the ambulance and I didn’t stick around to find out anything.’
Paddy made a deep obeisance of his head. ‘Ah, sure, you did the right thing there, Milton. The buggers would have crucified you if they’d caught up with you.’
‘They would that, Paddy, and no mistaking.’
Milton shook his head again and sipped at his tea, deep in thought. He really believed his lies; after the first five minutes he was there, in among the action and reliving it, so to speak. He was the joke of the building trade. One of his most spectacular stories was how he had been out in the Falklands as a mercenary. An Irish mercenary, of course. The men accepted him and played along with him and he lightened many a dull dinner-hour or tea-break. One thing in Milton’s favour, he was a demon of a worker, knew all there was to know about building and could have been a foreman if he hadn’t such a reputation as a joker. Like most liars, Milton never gave himself credit for what he did achieve, only what he wished he could achieve.
Paddy’s mobile phone rang and he took it out of his shirt pocket nonchalantly. His initial embarrassment at using it in front of the men was long gone.
‘Hello, Paddy Donovon here.’
He listened for a while and the men all stared at him as he swore under his breath.
‘Jesus fucking cross of Christ! Are you sure?’
He listened once more and then, shutting the phone off, got up quickly.
‘Everything all right, Paddy?’ Milton voiced everyone’s thoughts.
‘Yeah, fine, fine. Listen, can you lot get on with the work without me for a while? I have to go somewhere.’
The men all nodded.
‘What’s up, Paddy? You look in a right two and eight.’ Del Boy’s voice was concerned.
Paddy waved a hand at them. ‘I have to go see Mrs Brunos. Listen, if she comes back here, make her wait for me. And if she arrives while I’m gone, ring me on me mobile. It’s important, very important I speak to her, all right? Del Boy, get in the main office and sit by the phone. If she rings in, tell her to sit tight until I get to her . . . On second thoughts, tell her to come here. Make her come here. Then ring me. Make sure you ring only me or Stephen.’
‘All right, Paddy, keep your hair on.’
Paddy practically ran from the Portakabin across the site to his car.
‘What was all that about then?’ Tommy Gibbons’s voice was amazed.
Milton nodded his head sagely. ‘I know, but I can’t say.’
Del Boy, worried by Paddy’s obvious confusion, said nastily: ‘Why don’t you go and lie on another site, Milton? Ain’t we had enough porkies from you for one day?’
Milton sipped his tea in silence, looking for all the world like a man with a secret. To his chagrin, no one asked him what it was.
Donna was at the building suppliers in Bow, trying her hardest to raise their credit. After finding out that the money in her joint account with Georgio was all they possessed, she had been hard put to finance any more building work. After she’d paid over seven thousand pounds to the supplier, he had then informed her that unless another ten was forthcoming in the next few days, all their credit would be cut off.
It didn’t take Donna long to realise that this scenario was nothing new. It seemed Georgio owed money left, right and centre. Stephen had explained that it was the recession and most big builders were feeling the pinch, if not leaving half-built houses to complete at another time, when demand was once more the name of the game. Donna had left two sites with houses built only up to the damp course, laying off men or putting them on other sites. Now she had to see Mr Francis Pemberton and convince him to allow her more credit to finish some of the houses or he’d be paid nothing at all.
As she pulled up at the building suppliers, she rested her head on the steering wheel for a few seconds, savouring the sound of Georgio’s voice once more. He had rung her. She had spoken to him. Those few words had meant the world to her.
She had turned off her car phone earlier, sick of the constant calls while she was driving, wanting a few hours’ peace to think about Georgio and his words.
Finally getting out of the car, she smoothed her suede trousers and tidied her hair before walking into Francis Pemberton’s yard. She passed through the main warehouse and walked over to the small office at the back.
Francis Pemberton was smoking a large Cuban cigar, the reek from it pervading the whole atmosphere. Donna knocked on the door and walked inside, smiling widely.
‘Hello, darlin’, and what can I do you for?’ Francis Pemberton was forty-eight years old, tall, good-looking, and with a permanent smile that never touched his eyes. He wore handmade suits, Freeman, Hardy & Willis shoes, and white towelling socks. His head was big, his features heavy, his hair a curly salt and pepper halo that enhanced his rugged looks.
‘Good morning, Mr Pemberton. I trust I’m not inconveniencing you, calling like this?’
Francis Pemberton laughed out loud. ‘My old woman could do with a few lessons from you, love. She would give her eyeteeth, not to mention her right arm, for your voice. No matter how I dress her up, once she opens that big trap she’s a typical Cockney. Still, she’s my old woman so I have to swallow it, don’t I?’
Donna smiled nervously at the man before her. Francis Pemberton talked to everyone as if they were his close friends or family. No topic was taboo, nothing shocking enough to be kept private. If it was in his head, it came out of his mouth. As simple as that.
Donna sat down opposite him and smiled once more. ‘I’m here because . . .’
Francis held up his hand. ‘Oh, I know why you’re here, love. You want me to extend your credit. Well, I told you the other day - no way. You’ve got more chance of having Princess Di to tea than you’ve got of me giving your old man another cent.’
Donna lowered her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘I
thought you were a businessman, Mr Pemberton. I was under the impression you knew all there was to know about the building trade. If I can’t finish the work on my sites then I can’t pay you a cent, as you so nicely put it. In fact, I will come clean with you. If I don’t finish those houses then I am afraid my business will go to the wall. Now, I have been looking over old invoices and my husband has dealt with you for many years. Why are you being stubborn now? You always advanced him before.’
Francis took a deep drag on his impossibly large cigar and blew the offending smoke across the desk straight into Donna’s face. ‘You just hit the nail on the proverbial head, love. I dealt with your husband, Georgio. Now I know you’re a nice little lady and all that, but at the end of the day, love, you’re a bird, a woman, and women don’t run building sites.’
‘This one does.’ Donna’s voice came out curt and clipped.
Francis Pemberton laughed out loud at her audacity.
‘In fact,’ she went on, ‘with the help of Big Paddy Donovon I run the sites every bit as well as Georgio did. I see my husband regularly and he still has a large input into the businesses. All of them. I didn’t think you were the kind of man to spout sexist tripe, Mr Pemberton. You’ve always seemed rather intelligent to me.’
‘Oh, I have, have I?’ Francis’ voice was barely audible.
‘Yes, you have. I know you have a very good reputation around these parts and I will be quite frank with you. I don’t have to pay any more invoices for three months - the seven thousand I just paid you guarantees that. I have been to see the Murphy brothers and they have offered me - me alone, not my husband - twenty thousand pounds credit. I am not going to lose my husband’s business, Mr Pemberton. In fact, I shall labour twenty-four-hours a day if need be to keep it all going for him. I am willing to go to the Murphys if you give me no joy, but I thought it only fair to let you know exactly where you stood. I would be more inclined to pay the Murphys if that’s who’s supplying me. You, I am afraid, would have to wait.’