‘You! You bastard!’ she hollered, clenching her hands in tight fists by her side, for fear that she would snatch the chair which stood beside her and crack it across Turner’s head, shattering his skull like a boiled egg. ‘You. You’re behind all this, ain’t yer? There’s no use you denying it.’
Shaking visibly with the effort of controlling herself, Cissie turned to Jim, who at least had the decency to be staring, shamefaced, down at the floor. ‘And you, Jim Phillips. As for you. I really thought you was me friend.’
She dropped her chin and laughed self-mockingly. ‘D’yer know what?’ she said, raising her eyes to meet his. ‘And this is a joke, this is. For a while, I even fancied you, Jim. You was so kind to me, so gentle when yer was helping me.’
She pressed her lips tightly together in an effort to stop the tears from coming.
‘Or when I thought yer was helping me,’ she went on. ‘And if you hadn’t been married, d’you know that I’d have…’
She dropped her chin again, unable to face him any longer. ‘But now I realise what a bloody, stupid, idiot, silly, sodding fool I was. Yer just as bad as him.’
She took a deep breath and twisted round to confront Turner. ‘Just as bad as Mr Big Man. Mr Big Bill Turner.’ She sneered sarcastically. ‘No, worse, cos I don’t suppose the likes of him can help it. The likes of him don’t know no better.’
Turner’s eyes bulged. He grabbed the telephone from Clayborne’s desk and smashed it to the ground at Cissie’s feet. It shattered into a hundred pieces; bits flying from the case like shrapnel from an exploding bomb.
Instinctively, Cissie held up her hands to shield her face.
‘Yeah,’ breathed Turner, ‘that’s right, darling, you wanna protect yerself. You wanna watch yer don’t get that pretty little face o’ your’n cut.’
Cissie immediately and defiantly dropped her hands to her sides and stepped forward. She was just inches from Turner’s great barrel of a chest.
‘Just tell me one thing,’ she demanded, staring up at him. ‘Why me? Why pick on me?’
‘I’ll tell yer why.’ Turner’s jaw was so rigid, he could barely open his mouth to get out the words, to fling them in Cissie’s face. ‘Because,’ he snarled through his teeth, ‘I can have anyone I want.’
He raised his hand and crooked his little finger. ‘Just by doing that. I can own ’em.’ He snorted horribly. ‘Just like I owned your old man. Belonged to me he did. D’you know that?’
Something occurred to him and he chuckled happily to himself. ‘Actually, someone suggested yer to me, if yer must know. Said yer was my type, and anyway, might as well keep it in the family now he’s gone, eh?’
Cissie shook her head sadly. ‘You’re pathetic, d’you know that? Really, totally pathetic.’
With that, she flashed a final, melancholy smile at Jim Phillips, turned on her heel and started walking from the room.
‘You wanna be careful, darling,’ Turner shouted after her. ‘Accidents happen yer know. ’Specially round that market. Crates and all sorts o’ things can fall on yer if yer go round upsetting people. Especially if you upset people what’ve tried to be good to yer.’
Cissie spun round and stared at him. ‘Accidents? Upsetting people?’
‘Yeah, that’s right. If someone upsets me, they suffer.’
Cissie swallowed hard. ‘Like Davy suffered?’
Turner looked at Jim and laughed knowingly, then he turned back to Cissie. ‘Yeah,’ he snorted. ‘That’s right, sweetheart. And if yer know what’s good for yer, you just wanna remember it.’
Cissie ran from the room and took the stairs down to the street two at a time, not caring that her feet were slipping and sliding on the uncarpeted surface.
As she threw herself but of the narrow front door and into the street, she leant against the rough brick wall trying to catch her breath, trying to make sense of the nightmare that was closing in on her.
She could hear Turner’s laughter echoing from high above her.
Chapter 21
Cissie lay awake listening to her mother-in-law’s snores reverberating through the house. How could Lil even think of sleep after what she’d said to Cissie about Davy going with all those other women? Surely even Lil, hard-nosed, tough-talking, selfish, bloody Lil, must have realised how much she had hurt Cissie by saying those things?
Although Cissie didn’t have money to throw around, it had been more than worth giving her mother-in-law the five shillings out of the emergency tea caddy to see her off to the Sabberton Arms and out of her sight for the evening. Because after those agonising revelations, and then after what she’d been through in Clayborne’s office – if his name was Clayborne and if the office was his – the last thing Cissie could have stood was Lil going on and on about what a good idea leasing the flower shop would be.
As soon as Cissie had stepped into the house, Lil had started on about the shop again: when was Cissie going to open it; how much more than the stall would it earn for them? Them! Lil never lifted so much as a finger to help and yet she considered she had the right to a share in every single penny that Cissie brought into the house. But then, money was Lil’s god; Cissie knew that now.
Lil had been so busy going on at her about what money they could earn, that she hadn’t even noticed the state Cissie was in, pale and trembling, shaken to the very core, after the latest blow Turner had dealt her over Davy’s death.
Cissie turned on to her side and pulled the eiderdown up over her shoulders. She had all these terrible things on her mind, all these things driving her closer and closer to despair and to her eventual breaking point, and all Lil was interested in was knowing that she wouldn’t lose out in any way when the stall had to close.
Cissie could have kicked herself for ever having mentioned the sodding shop. And mention it was all she had done. Nothing more than that. But Lil’s eyes had lit up as she’d immediately grabbed at the idea of Cissie bringing home plenty of drinking money. She hadn’t bothered, as usual, to give a toss about what Cissie thought or wanted. With Lil it was always me, me, me.
Cissie sighed loudly to herself. She’d been selfish too, once upon a time. A time when she was like an innocent child with no knowledge of the wicked world and all the horrors it held in wait for her.
It made Cissie feel so ashamed when she thought about the way she’d treated poor Gladys. But at least she’d learnt. She doubted that Lil would ever learn anything except the price of booze and the opening hours of the Sabberton Arms.
Another floor-vibrating snore came from the front parlour. Cissie had a blissful vision of going down there and shoving a pillow over the old cow’s face. But she had to be fair, it wasn’t just the row from downstairs that was making her wakeful; she had a whole lot more on her plate than her mother-in-law’s whistling and snorting.
Her husband had been murdered. She was sure of that now. Just as she was sure, as she had looked into Lil’s spiteful, mean-mouthed face, as she had oh-so-casually told her about his other women, that Davy, the love of her life, had been unfaithful to her. And, worse, that Davy was a man she had never really known.
Cissie really felt as if she was losing touch with reality.
She tried closing her eyes again, but it was no good. She rolled on to her back and stared up at the shadows on the ceiling.
* * *
The next thing Cissie was aware of was the sound of a car pulling up in the street, right outside the house.
She must have fallen asleep. But for how long? There was no light seeping through the cracks in the curtains, so it was still dark out.
Who could it be out there at such an hour? And in a car? No one in Linman Street even had a car.
Maybe it was one of Elsie Collier’s ‘gentlemen’ coming home in a cab from somewhere? No, that wasn’t very likely, they were being far too noisy. Elsie would never have put up with that, she always insisted on what she snootily called ‘a bit of poise’ from her lodgers.
There was more racket from below. It
sounded to Cissie as though someone had fallen out on to the pavement, let off a string of foul language, and then slammed the car door in anger.
Cissie hauled herself up on her elbows. If they didn’t shut up, they’d disturb the kids, and she wasn’t having that. With a weary sigh, she threw back the eiderdown and swung her legs on to the bedside rug. She straightened her nightdress, and ran her fingers through her hair, raking her fringe off her forehead.
She peered blearily through the gloom at the clock on the bedside cabinet. Half past four! Christ, she must have forgotten to set the alarm. She should be down the market by now.
But maybe, she half laughed to herself, more from hysteria than from amusement, what with Sammy proposing to her she didn’t have to worry about going to the market any more.
Sammy Clarke.
Cissie buried her face in her hands. What the hell was she going to do about Sammy Clarke?
But all thoughts of the pink-faced grocer were hurriedly pushed to the back of Cissie’s mind as the sound of another round of loudly abusive cursing came screaming up from the pavement below, further shattering the still of the early morning. The row he was making, whoever he was, would have carried right down to the docks. What on earth was wrong with him? Nobody had any reason to be in Linman Street at that hour.
Her hand flew to her mouth, not unless… A horrible thought occurred to her. Not unless they were planning to turn over the houses. But no, she reassured herself, no one in Linman Street had anything worth nicking, and a burglar would hardly be making all that racket, now would he?
But say he was drunk?
And, now she thought of it, of course someone had something to steal. The shop had cigarettes and the money in the till. There was all sorts of gear to pinch over there.
Say whoever it was broke into the shop and attacked Sammy? Say they hurt him?
Cissie was on her feet, ready for action, but not sure what to do next.
And how about the truck?
Say they were desperate? Say they broke into the houses anyway?
The children. Say they hurt the children?
Cissie crept over to the window and peered round the edge of the curtain, her hands trembling as she pulled back the edge of the net.
Her mouth fell open.
Bloody Bill Turner! What the hell was he doing out there?
She looked up and down the street, careful not to let Turner see her. He seemed to be alone, unless there was someone waiting for him in his big, flashy car.
Which there probably was, she decided, because from the way he was slumped against the lamp-post, he certainly didn’t look capable of driving a car. In fact, he looked completely incapable of most things. The man was, what Davy would have called, totally rat-arsed.
Cissie ducked back behind the safety of the curtain as Turner lurched towards the street door, her street door, and began furiously rattling the letterbox. She flattened herself against the bedroom wall as she listened to him yelling.
‘Open this bastard door, before I kick it off its bastard hinges!’
There was a brief pause.
‘If that’s how yer want it,’ he hollered, ‘then that’s how yer gonna have it. You’ve had yer chance. This door is coming down. Now!’
And from the sound of it, Turner was acting on his word.
‘Mum?’ Cissie heard Matty call out to her.
That was it. Cissie was taking no more of this. Turner might have been a big man, a man who talked so easily about accidents happening to people, but no one, not even him, was going to scare her babies.
‘All right, darling,’ Cissie called. ‘Mummy’s coming.’
It took her a moment, fumbling around in the dark, to find her dressing-gown, but when she did, she grabbed it from the bedpost, rushed into the back bedroom to reassure her son that it was just a silly man having a game outside with his friends, gave him a kiss, pulled the covers up over him, and then flew down the stairs.
Cissie was only halfway down, when she saw she was too late. She stood clutching at the banister in disbelief.
Lil hadn’t only gone to the street door and answered it, but – stupid woman! – she had let Turner into the house.
He was standing there, or rather swaying there, practically blocking the passageway. And beside him was Lil, looking as small as a child next to him.
As Cissie slowly focused in the dim light leaking into the passage from the streetlamp outside the house, she could hardly believe her eyes. Lil was actually smiling adoringly up into the big gorilla’s face.
It was lucky for Lil that Cissie was now more scared for her children than angry. Her little ones were in bed upstairs, right above their heads, and there was this man, who had as good as admitted he’d murdered Davy, standing in their house, and he was blind-drunk.
Cissie thought quickly. Her only hope was that there was someone in the car who was a bit more sober than Turner and whom she could shame into helping a terrified widow with two little kids.
She took a deep breath and pointed accusingly at Lil. ‘Get him in the kitchen,’ she ordered her.
Amazingly, Lil did as she was told; she jerked her head sideways and began walking along the passage. Even more amazingly Turner followed her, stumbling along behind like a great lumbering bear.
Cissie closed her eyes in a silent prayer of thanks and then ran out into the street, pulling her dressing-gown tightly to her throat. She just knew that Ethel, Myrtle, Lena – all the usual suspects – would be almost wetting themselves with pleasure as, undoubtedly, they stared down at the spectacle from behind their bedroom curtains. They’d be loving every minute of it.
Cissie rapped her knuckles on the car window. ‘Oi! You!’
A man was sitting behind the steering wheel. He was very low in the seat as though he was asleep. He had his trilby pulled well down over his eyes and his overcoat collar turned up.
‘Oi!’ she hissed again, this time rapping much harder. ‘I’m talking to you.’
This time the man responded; he shoved his hat to the back of his head and looked round.
‘Bernie!’ Cissie’s legs almost gave way under her. ‘You!’
What was happening to her? If even the man who had helped Fat Stan look after her was one of Turner’s men, then probably Fat Stan himself was in on it in some way. She had always known there was something dodgy about Bernie. But Fat Stan… ?
Who could she trust any more? Who was left?
Bernie Denham puffed out his cheeks with a resigned sigh, stretched across the passenger seat and wound down the window.
‘Yeah?’ He sounded bored. ‘Wad’yer want?’
It took Cissie a moment to compose herself, then she said very calmly, ‘If you’ve got even a streak o’ decency in that bleed’n great big lump of a body o’ your’n, Bernie, then yer’ll get into that house and make sure that that bastard don’t do me no harm while I explain a few things to him. Right?’
Bemie let out a sarcastic gasp at her stupidity and shook his head. ‘Don’t look at me, darling. You find yerself another mug.’
‘Don’t look at you, eh?’ she said evenly. ‘Well, I wonder what the law’d have to say if I went round and explained how it was you what was involved in the “accident” down the market what killed Davy Flowers?’ She narrowed her eyes, weighing up his reaction. ‘Cos I know all about it, see.’
‘Now you listen to me,’ he began, sitting bolt upright. ‘I never had nothing to do with—’
‘No, you shut up and listen to me. I need help. And if I don’t get it and I do go to the law, just think about it. Who are they gonna believe? Me, a poor, grieving widow, or you, a bloke with a cauliflower ear’ole and a bent nose what’s mixed up with Turner?’ With that, Cissie flicked her dressing-gown to one side and strode back into the house. She paused on the step and said over her shoulder, ‘It’s up to you.’
She only began breathing again when she heard Bernie, muttering furiously to himself, get out of the car and follow her alo
ng the passage.
‘Right,’ Cissie said, stepping into the kitchen.
She almost laughed as Turner looked round to face her. He and Lil were sitting at the kitchen table as though it was all perfectly normal, drinking the remains of Lil’s bottle of gin from the pretty, spotted cocktail glasses that Davy had bought home for her one day from down the Lane. She had a passing thought that he had probably bought them, and all the other little presents he used to turn up with, out of guilt.
Turner rose unsteadily to his feet, then slumped back down on the chair that Lil hastily shoved behind him.
‘I will give that woman,’ he said, waving his hand at Cissie, but looking past her at Bernie, ‘anything she wants if she’ll go to bed with me. Anything. All I want is a quick—’
‘Shut your filthy mouth!’ Cissie demanded. She glared at him. She hated giving such foul-mouthed rubbish the dignity of a reply, but her children were upstairs and she couldn’t bear the thought that they might hear him.
‘Cissie,’ Lil smarmed, all mealy-mouthed charm. ‘Don’t you go being so rude to our guest.’
‘Our guest? Have you taken leave o’ your sodding senses, Lil?’
‘No,’ she said, primly, ‘I ain’t, but I think you must have. You’ve got the chance of—’
‘A nice little shop,’ Turner cut in, as though Lil wasn’t even there. He stared down at the floor, and mumbled into his chest, his words running drunkenly into one another. ‘That’s what I’ll give her. Full o’ the best flowers what money can buy. Loads o’ flowers.’ He raised his head and looked sorrowfully about him, as though not quite sure where he was. ‘Them offices and shops. They’re mine see. Not Clayborne’s.’ He laughed softly to himself. ‘That dozy bleeder ain’t in no state to run nothing let alone no shops. Me and Plains, we—’
‘I ain’t stupid,’ Cissie sneered, ‘I managed to work that out for meself. You should have realised that. Just like yer should have realised what me answer was gonna be.’
Lil smiled greedily. ‘Yer gonna take the flower shop then!’ she said triumphantly.
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