by Keane Jessie
Milly knew that Dad was encouraging Javier in his pursuit of his daughter; she wasn’t a fool. Charlie was thinking of strengthening his ties with his business associate, who apparently supplied him with cut-price cotton and stuffing from somewhere in Brazil, and if he could nudge his daughter toward Javier, she knew that he’d be chuffed to bits. She was nothing more than a pawn, being used by every bastard that passed by – even by her own family!
‘Milly!’ Belle was trying to keep up with her. Her face was pleading. ‘Oh come on. You’re my friend, Mills. I warned you about him, you know I did. But you were dead set on carrying on with it. What could I do?’
Milly ground to a halt. Her face was twisted with rage and exertion.
‘Oh poor you! Poor bloody Belle, what a tragedy for you all this has turned out to be. But no, not really, is it? Because you’re still perfect and pretty with your lovely family, and I’m just a fat convenient nobody that imbecile screws when there’s nothing better on offer. I’ve got a loony for a mother and a father who’s always losing it and kicking the fucking furniture.’ Milly heaved in a breath. ‘You can fucking well stay away from me in future. You got that? You just stay away.’
And she turned on her heel and fled, leaving Belle staring after her.
Back up at the house, the long black car that had passed her on the drive was parked up. To her dismay she found Javier waiting for her on the porch. He was nearly dwarfed by the huge bouquet of pale shell-pink roses he was carrying.
‘For you,’ he said with his greasy gold-toothed smile.
‘Thanks,’ said Milly, awkwardly aware of Sammy sitting there by the open front door, watching this exchange.
‘You are so welcome,’ he said in his excellent English. ‘Where is your pretty little friend? Belle, isn’t that her name? I saw you down at the gatehouse, talking to her.’
‘She’s busy,’ said Milly. Every man from nine to ninety wanted to know about Belle.
‘Dinner, perhaps? Tonight?’ he offered.
‘No. I don’t think so. I’ve got a headache,’ said Milly. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to lie down.’
She could see he wasn’t pleased. But fuck it, she thought as she hared off up the stairs clutching the huge bouquet, fuck the lot of them. She didn’t give a stuff.
76
Beezer knew everything about the product, and soon, under Beezer’s tutelage, so did Harlan. The pathetic old sod had been hanging out of Charlie’s arse for years. Harlan recalled the story that was told and retold at family parties, about Billy ‘Beezer’ Crowley doing a job years back but refusing to burn his designer togs afterwards for sentimental reasons – and costing himself two years inside. Fucking pineapple. Harlan watched Beezer now as he moved around town carrying out Charlie’s orders, Beezer with his snappy suits and his Rolex watch and his worn old face, age-spotted from too many holidays down on the Costas.
Harlan watched Beezer whenever he was at home – which wasn’t often. Watched the stupid old sod giving Milly and Belle presents, telling them funny stories, making them howl with laughter.
Silly bastard.
Harlan was getting his own comrades around him. A younger mob, the cream of Charlie’s up-and-coming crew, like Nipper and Ludo and Sammy and lots of others; not the old crew that Charlie loved the best and shoved all the goodies towards. Harlan was busy cultivating the new boys; he liked their fresh approach to old problems. Kept them in money and whores and anything else they desired. Treated them like they were his high-flying executives and he was their CEO, had fun with them on breaks away and in massage parlours.
Him and his men were in one of the parlours on Friday night. It had been a good week, profitable. Everything running smooth. No worries. Now it was time to relax.
The madam was used to them, looked after them. Gave them high-end booze, stocked the place with only the best girls. Chinese, African, Swedish, each one like a model. And all expensive. Not that expense worried Harlan. Never had, never would. Dad could moan, but Harlan was Number One Son, only son, he’d do whatever the fuck he wanted and screw Charlie Stone.
They were lined up in the parlour, all the girls, in skimpy underwear. The men were spoilt for choice.
‘Her,’ said Nipper. He’d selected a statuesque brunette; they wandered off together, hand in hand, to one of the many luxurious bedrooms in the place.
‘That one,’ said Ludo, ebony-skinned, lean and supremely elegant in his designer gear.
He’d chosen a milky-skinned redhead. She smiled and they sauntered off.
‘And for you, Mr Stone?’ asked the madam, smiling.
There was a small blonde at the end of the line. She had big sparkly wide-awake blue eyes, which was a bit of a problem because Belle’s were a dark liquid brown, smoky with sensuality, but in other ways this girl did look a bit like Belle, and he liked that. He could fantasize about Belle while he had her. Belle was going to be his one of these days, there was no doubt about that, try as she might to resist. But this one would do – for now.
‘This one here,’ he said, and walked over to her. She smiled up at him, all teeth, eyes and tits, really working it, and he smiled back and took her hand. ‘What’s your name, then?’ he asked.
‘Sugar,’ she said, improbably.
‘Not for tonight,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ She was still smiling.
‘For tonight it’s going to be Belle. OK?’
She nodded. Her smile slipped, just a notch, and then was back in place. ‘Belle. OK. Yes.’
‘Lead on then, Belle,’ he said.
77
‘That’s not on,’ said Beezer to Harlan days later. They were in Charlie’s Tower Bridge apartment and Beezer had something on his mind. He was pacing up and down between the two big white leather couches, while Harlan lounged on one in his dressing gown, yawning.
‘What?’ asked Harlan, wondering what the old fool was talking about.
Beezer stopped pacing and looked down at his boss’s son. ‘You kicking off at Peg’s place like you did. Hurting Sugar. It’s not on.’
‘Hurting her? I didn’t,’ said Harlan.
‘That’s not what Peg said. She said Sugar was hysterical. She was covered in bruises. You beat her up. And that’s not on.’
‘Says who?’ asked Harlan, and got lithely to his feet. He crossed to the patio doors and slid them back, admitting a gust of sharp river air. Down below a barge sailed by, leaving barely a ripple behind in the dark olive-green waters. From here, he could hear the traffic passing over the bridge. The sky overhead was full of black roiling clouds, promising rain.
Harlan crossed to the railings and leaned on them, grinning as Beezer joined him out there on the balcony.
Beezer was looking mad, the wind ruffling his thinning hair. ‘You know your problem, pal?’ he said.
‘No I don’t. What is it?’ asked Harlan.
‘You’re a sick little pervert,’ said Beezer. ‘You fuck a girl, fair enough. You didn’t have to play rough with the poor bint.’
‘I’ll send her some flowers,’ shrugged Harlan, admiring the view from here, which Charlie had told him was one of the most expensive in the whole of London. He watched the barge float on by.
‘Too fucking late for that. Peg’s seriously pissed off. She says Sugar left next morning. She’s gone back on the streets, she said it was safer. She thought you were going to pissing well murder her, you moron.’ Beezer was still pacing, casting irritated looks at Harlan. ‘What the hell were you thinking?’
Harlan shrugged and spread his hands. ‘I don’t think when I’m fucking,’ he said.
Beezer stopped pacing the balcony and stared at the younger man, his face twisted with fury. ‘No, you don’t think at all. That’s your trouble.’
‘You know what? You could be right,’ said Harlan.
He reached out and grabbed Beezer’s snazzy jacket by its lapels. Then he heaved sideways. The much lighter Beezer, caught off-guard, staggered and had no time to snatch at the railing
s or even see what was coming.
Harlan lifted Beezer out and over.
With an ear-splitting shriek, he fell.
Then Harlan leaned over the railing. He looked down at the wreckage of Beezer, stretched out dead on the pavement far below, blood starting to ooze in a crimson tide from his shattered body.
‘Certainly didn’t think about that,’ he said to himself with a smile. Then he drew back and went into the apartment to get dressed. ‘But I’m glad I did it.’
78
Charlie Stone was in shock. Harlan broke the bad news to him in the sitting room of the Essex house, with Nula there beside him. Harlan was visibly upset.
‘I was there. I saw it,’ said Harlan in a choked voice. His eyes were wet with emotion. ‘I’d just got out of the shower and he was talking, not making much sense. He was saying sometimes he didn’t know how to go on. Said he’d never really got over his brother dying like he did, all those years ago. That he felt overwhelmed. That he didn’t like the business any more but he didn’t know how he could tell you.’
Charlie, who had been standing, now sank down beside Nula on the couch. He was shaking his head, over and over.
‘Why didn’t he tell me, the silly bastard?’
‘You know Beezer. He would have felt he was letting you down. He was devoted to you. And I suppose no man wants to show weakness,’ said Harlan. ‘Not in our game, anyway.’
‘Go on with what you were saying,’ said Charlie with a deep, shuddering sigh.
‘Yeah. Well.’ Harlan sat down and looked at Charlie. ‘He just kept saying there was nothing to go on for. He’d never married, never had kids, he had nothing except the business, the manor, and he thought it all stank and he couldn’t stand living with it for another day.’
‘And what did you say?’ asked Charlie, gulping back a tear. His old mate! He’d had no clue Beezer felt this way. Sure, Beezer had black moods sometimes. Didn’t they all? And Col’s death! Charlie could still remember it, in all its awful detail. So had Beezer, obviously. But Charlie had never guessed that Col’s death had stayed with Beezer like that, tormented him, driven him finally to do something like this.
Harlan shrugged. His face looked pained; his voice was sombre. ‘I told him not to be stupid. To take a break somewhere, have a change. You wouldn’t mind. I’d explain to you for him, I told him that, there was no need for him even to face you with it.’
‘And . . .’ prompted Charlie.
‘He wouldn’t listen. He stood up and went over to the balcony doors and before I could even realize what he was about to do, he did it. He just . . . jumped.’
‘Christ!’ Charlie put a hand to his eyes. His shoulders shook.
Nula, her eyes fastened on Harlan the way you’d keep your eyes fastened on a cobra, said: ‘Nobody else saw it happen?’
Harlan shook his head. He looked like he too was ready to shed genuine tears over this. But Nula knew her ‘son’. She knew he was cold right to his heart but he could make all the right noises, appear to care when he didn’t give a single shit. So far as she knew, Harlan had always disliked Beezer intensely, always mocking him for being ‘behind the times’.
‘So only you saw it,’ she said.
Harlan nodded again. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Nula’s eyes were still fastened on him. She’d never once known Beezer to be cursed with what she herself suffered from: clinical depression. He wasn’t the type. But of course Harlan was being clever, claiming that Beezer had concealed his condition, as many men did. She thought this was pure bullshit. She thought, in fact, that if Harlan was the only witness to this event then he was lying through his teeth about what really happened.
What Nula thought was more likely was that Harlan had pushed Beezer to his death. And why would he do that? She knew why. It was because Beezer was Charlie’s man, not his. She’d seen the young thugs Harlan was starting to surround himself with – Ludo, Nipper and all the others. They were a different breed to Charlie’s old gang. They laughed over the pain of others, drove flashy motors, enjoyed a level of wealth and ease that very few of their age could even dream of. What she thought was that Harlan was busily getting rid of the old and supplanting it with the new. She knew how dangerous he was. She wondered if Charlie knew it too, or if he thought her warnings were just the demented ramblings of a madwoman.
‘I’m so bloody sorry,’ Harlan was saying.
Charlie was still sitting there with his head in his hands. Nula was still watching Harlan.
He was having a clear-out of the old guard. But she knew that if she warned Charlie about it, Charlie would laugh in her face, or get furious and tell her she was bloody crazy again.
‘It’s a sad business,’ said Harlan.
‘Yeah.’ Charlie straightened and scrubbed a hand over his wet, reddened face. ‘It is.’
‘But look,’ said Harlan, putting his hands together and looking intently at Charlie’s face. ‘We’ll give him a real East End send-off, yeah? Do it good and proper. He didn’t have family left, did he? So we’ll be his family. We’ll do this for him.’
A pale ghost of a smile passed over Charlie’s face.
‘Yeah. That’s what we’ll do,’ said Charlie.
Nula said nothing.
She just watched Harlan.
79
‘Milly!’
Milly was walking down the drive at home one day when Nipper’s car pulled up alongside her, the powerful engine idling. Milly kept walking, her face set. The engine stopped. She heard him get out of the car. She kept walking.
‘Milly! Come on, stop, will you? I want to talk to you.’
Milly stopped walking. She turned on her heel and glared at him. It hurt to even look at him these days, after what she’d heard being said between him and Belle. They’d been laughing at her. Well, he had anyway. To be fair, Belle had been defending her. And Belle had warned her about Nipper. Maybe she’d been wrong to lash out at her friend. She was going to make up with Belle, soonest. She missed her.
‘What do you want?’ she snapped.
‘What do you think?’ he said, standing right there in front of her with his thick blond hair riffling in the breeze, his face twisted in contrition, his eyes pleading. ‘Oh come on, Mills . . .’
‘Don’t you dare come here with that pathetic look in your eyes, thinking, “oh yes, poor old Milly, she’ll forgive me because she’s so grateful.” Don’t you fucking dare.’
‘Look.’ He ran a hand through his hair and stared at her. ‘I didn’t want Belle to know how I feel about you. That’s all. So I told her it was only a laugh. I knew she’d tell her parents the whole thing and that they’d laugh about it, but then it might get back to Charlie and he’d bite my balls off. I didn’t mean it, not a word of it.’
Milly was frowning. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s the truth. I couldn’t risk Charlie finding out that we’re in love.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘No.’ He was shaking his head, smiling. ‘No, I’m not lying. My silly sweetheart, I’m not lying at all. I was lying to Belle, yes – but not to you. Your dad’s a very dangerous man when he loses that temper of his. You know and I know, he wants you to get cosy with Javier. So I had to cover our tracks. To pretend there was nothing between us, even to Belle. You were never meant to hear any of that and I’m so bloody sorry if it hurt you.’
Milly was staring at his face. After turning Javier down the first time he’d asked, she’d just accepted a dinner date with him. ‘I didn’t . . .’ she started. ‘I thought . . .’
‘I know what you thought. That I was a cruel bastard, laughing at you. That’s not true. None of it’s true.’
Milly stared at him. Well, dinner dates could be cancelled.
Nipper didn’t know how he was keeping a straight face. It was fun, pulling her strings. And it was fun, shagging her. Poor desperate bitch.
He saw Milly starting to smile. ‘I didn’t realize . . .’ she said.
&n
bsp; ‘I know you didn’t. I’m head over heels crazy about you.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. One hundred per cent. But we got to be careful.’
‘Yes. OK. I get that.’
‘Good.’
‘Chrissakes come here and kiss me,’ said Nipper.
80
Belle usually liked her trips into the Smoke. One of her dad’s people – it used to be Beezer – always drove her in a nice big shiny Merc, dropped her right outside Harrods and in she went for a spree. Money no object. Anything Belle wanted, she could have.
In fact . . . well, there wasn’t much she did want. Not today. She already had a walk-in wardrobe stuffed with designer gear, rack upon rack stacked with shoes, a cupboard full of Gucci and Chanel handbags worth a bloody fortune. But her mood was low. God, it was so sad about Beezer. He’d been a fixture in all their lives for so long, and to know that he’d done that, killed himself, it was just tragic.
Belle walked all around the store, stopped for a coffee, then did the rounds again. Nothing took her eye. Nothing appealed. A deep sadness seemed to be sapping her of strength, of purpose. She went back for another coffee, went into the ladies’ loo and repaired her make-up, adding a slick of sugar-pink lippy and a squirt of perfume.
She paused then, staring at her reflection. Yes, she looked good. And men liked her. She’d had a few boyfriends, nothing serious; Nige Pope – or Einstein as all her group called him – she’d dated him for a while, but they hadn’t really clicked. She’d never been actually in love, not even close to it.
She put her make-up back in her handbag and pulled a face at herself in the mirror. One day, Dad always told her, she would marry a wealthy man and she would be treasured, because she deserved to be. All the time, Belle knew she attracted attention from men. Even walking down the street, she drew stares. She was used to it. Used to Harlan trying it on too, the bastard. She frowned as she thought of him. He frightened her. They’d practically grown up together but she had never once felt comfortable around him and she hated the gang of young chancers he was gathering around himself. They were different to Charlie Stone’s old workforce. She didn’t like any of them.
