Widows

by Lynda La Plante

  In the rearview mirror, the cabbie watched the way her eyes had followed Richmond’s car as it passed. He’d had enough people in the back of his cab to know that Dolly was either on the wrong side of the law or was on her way home to her husband after an evening with her lover—and Dolly’s age suggested to him that she was dabbling in criminality.

  Unaware of being watched, Dolly was mumbling to herself: “We showed him, Wolf, didn’t we, darling? Yes, we did. We showed him!”

  At Liverpool Street Station, Dolly paid with the exact change, cash she’d put into her coat pocket for speed. Preparation would be everything from here on in. After a quick look round to make certain she hadn’t been followed, Dolly carried Wolf down the backstreets to the big arches behind the station. Here there was a row of lock-ups, mostly used by British Rail for storage, but some hired out to car mechanics for repairs.

  The alley was dark and dingy with no external lighting, and cold, each building shading the next from natural daylight. Dolly slowly progressed down the line of archways. She took her time; she couldn’t see what she might be stepping in, and her eyes had to adjust to the darkness. She was looking for number fifteen. Some arches had no doors on them and the insides were huge caverns of dripping water, cold, damp and musky-smelling like underground cellars. Old, wrecked and rusting cars stood silent like ghosts of the past, windscreens shattered, wheels gone and doors left open. She passed wrecked car after wrecked car, getting more and more filthy, and laddering her tights on a jagged old bumper. In one unused archway, a group of winos lay in a drunken stupor by a makeshift fire in an old dustbin. They remained oblivious to her presence as she walked past.

  Eventually Dolly stopped by a green sliding door. Removing the keys Harry had left from her coat pocket, she tried one of them in the padlock. She almost dropped Wolf when the doors suddenly moved toward her an inch or two and a dog with a terrifying growl and a high-pitched bark slammed into the door from the inside. Wolf began to bark, making the dog behind the doors even more aggressive. Dolly covered Wolf’s mouth with her hand; she could hear the dog’s chains rattle as it continued to hurl itself frantically against the door. She peered upward and realized she was at number thirteen. Scuttling toward the next archway, she hoped the dog hadn’t attracted attention.

  A faded and grimy number 15 was scratched into the paintwork of a small entrance door built into the larger wooden doors of the lock-up. Harry’s secret place. Dolly tried one key, then another and the small door swung open.

  Inside the large, cavernous room, it was eerily silent until the echoing thunder from the trains above filled the space. Dolly closed the door behind her, put Wolf down and switched on a small pocket torch.

  By the light of the thin beam she slowly edged forward and, as Wolf sniffed about by the old ghost cars, wagging his tail, she felt sure he could smell Harry. He seemed so excited at the prospect of seeing his master again. When Wolf looked up at her as if to ask: “so, where is he?” her heart sank and she felt Harry’s loss all over again.

  This was a “man’s place,” a million miles from the pristine opulence of their Potters Bar home. She could almost smell the sweat and the hard work and the testosterone as she imagined Harry’s men hanging on his every word while he held court. For what seemed like an age, Dolly couldn’t move; she’d never been to this lock-up and she was frightened of what she might find hidden deep in the darkness. Dolly had lived with the knowledge that she’d find out some secret about Harry one day, but she always imagined it would be a younger lover. He was so incredibly handsome and even the best men in the world are suckers for flattery. But what was inside this lock-up . . . this was a big secret to keep.

  As she ventured forward, eyes focused on the furthest dark corner, she didn’t see the puddle filled with thick, slimy, oil-streaked mud and swore as she felt some of the brown water seep onto her feet. She looked down at her ruined shoes and saw Wolf sitting in the middle of the puddle, tail wagging. His little paws now had black, oily socks.

  Dolly made her way to the back of the garage, toward a set of large wooden interior doors, also with a smaller interlocking door. Opening it, Dolly switched on the overhead neon strip lights. As they blinked into life, she was surprised to see the annex was much cleaner than the rest of the lock-up. A couple of old wrecks had been pushed against the wall and in the center of the room was a medium-sized van covered with a tarpaulin. As she pulled off the tarpaulin her hand slipped and she winced as she broke a nail. Wolf darted under the van and began frantically digging at the floor—Dolly knelt beside him, ripping her tights again, and looked where he was digging.

  Below the loose concrete were slats of wood. Lifting them away, she revealed a two-foot by one-foot hole in the ground containing something wrapped in brown sacking. She hauled the package out and opened it to find two sawed-off shotguns. The handgun in Harry’s safety deposit box was the first time she’d known for certain that he’d used guns, but it hadn’t been a shock to her. In fact, her pulse had raced at the thought that he’d left her something to protect herself with, even after he’d gone. But these guns. These guns were different. These guns weren’t for protection; they were for committing armed robberies. In that moment, Dolly felt closer to Harry than she’d done at any other moment since his death. He’d given her the keys to this place and was allowing her, at long last, to know everything. What Dolly now did with all of this information was up to her and her alone.

  Without touching the shotguns, Dolly wrapped and replaced them in their hole in the ground. She slowly stood. It’s all here, she thought as she looked around; everything Harry used in his robberies—the cars, the vans, the cutting tools, the gloves, the shotguns. This was all hers now. Dolly reached into the pocket of her oil-stained coat, brought out her diary and opened it to the page of shorthand notes she’d made after leaving the bank. Everything Harry needed to commit the next robbery was in those ledgers, in her diary and in this lock-up. She clicked her pen open and drew a strong, bold tick next to her note, “2 S-O”; two sawed-offs. As she smiled down at that tick, she could almost feel Harry smiling with her. “That’s my girl,” he’d say.

  Dolly walked through the rest of the cavernous, dank, warehouse. It was enormous. She headed toward a small room at the far end, which looked as though it had been built out of old partitions from a legal office. The once polished wood was now badly peeling and the cracked windows were cobwebbed and dusty. She turned the handle on the grubby door and stepped inside. Looking down at her hand, she saw that she’d picked up oily fingerprints in almost the exact same pattern as her own. She imaged they were Harry’s actual fingertips touching hers.

  The office was stark: a sink and a small portable gas stove, a desk, a couple of mismatched wooden chairs and numerous girlie pictures stuck to the wall. Used mugs and moldy half-eaten biscuits told Dolly that this was where Harry and his team must have planned the robbery that went so terribly wrong. Dolly picked up the dirty mugs and took them over to the filthy sink. She turned the taps on and they made a knocking sound as the pressure built, trying to force the water through the pipes. Suddenly a brown rusty liquid spurted out, bouncing off the porcelain and onto her coat, causing her to jump back. She dropped the mugs into the sink, cracking two and snapping the handle off the third—three broken mugs: Harry’s, Terry’s and Joe’s. The tears Dolly had held just beneath the surface for so long welled up and, in the privacy of Harry’s office, she allowed them to flow. The relief was so overwhelming that she felt lightheaded and weak, gripping the sink for support. She fought the emotions but it was no good; the floodgates were opened and there was no closing them. Her devastating sadness at losing Harry was sapping her strength and she struggled to keep herself upright as she gripped the cold porcelain sink. With her head bowed, she could see Wolf sitting at her muddy, oily feet and she suddenly remembered a moment when Boxer had been at his lowest ebb, living in the gutter, and Harry had pulled him out. “All I see is dog shit,” Boxer had said to Harry
through his drunken haze. “Wherever I look, all I see is dog shit.” Harry had lifted Boxer’s head and replied, “Then look up, Boxer, my old mate. If your head’s down, dog shit’s all you can see. So, look up.” Of course Harry hadn’t been Boxer’s mate at all, but he always knew the right thing to say.

  When Dolly finally lifted her head, the tears had stopped and Wolf was on his feet waiting for her next move. She glanced one last time at the three broken mugs, picked up her little dog and squeezed him tight, ignoring his dirty, muddy, oily fur. “All right, darlin’,” she whispered. “Mummy’s all right now. Everything’s all right now.”

  Chapter 7

  Linda arrived on the dot of ten at the Sanctuary health spa in Floral Street and instantly realized that her very best outfit, which she’d ironed specially after getting Dolly’s phone call, didn’t even come close to the fabulous clothes the other women were wearing as they floated by. They’ve probably never done a day’s work in their lives, she thought and was just about to walk out when the snooty receptionist asked if she was the guest of a member. When Linda mentioned the name of Mrs. Rawlins, she was welcomed with open arms.

  On the obligatory guided tour, Linda didn’t know where to look. She’d never seen so many half-naked women before and she didn’t like it. The changing rooms were the worst: everything came off in there and people just strolled about as though they were at home. In fact, Linda didn’t even walk around naked at home in case the window cleaner saw in through her nets or the bailiffs knocked.

  The prices in the food bar were extortionate and she thought about nipping out to the cafe opposite for a bacon sarnie and coffee, but the assistant told her that all she had to do was mention the name of Mrs. Rawlins and everything would go on her tab. Linda shrugged. She wasn’t used to getting something for nothing.

  “Go on, then,” she said, pointing at a sandwich. Cheese would have to do.

  After her sandwich, Linda was led back to the dreaded changing rooms, where she was left to fend for herself. She stood there, fully clothed, feeling like a right idiot, trying not to look at all the bums and tits brazenly walking by. She couldn’t cope for long and, head down, she walked swiftly out.

  As she wandered round the gym, Linda glanced over at the exercise bikes. At first she hardly recognized Shirley, she looked so thin and worn out, but it was her all right. Linda started to wander over but was stopped by one of the attendants who informed her she was not allowed in the exercise area without the right clothes.

  “Oi!” Linda shouted at Shirley. “Feelin’ peckish?”

  Shirley turned and, recognizing Linda, stopped pedaling. Linda bustled past the attendant. The women didn’t hug as neither seemed certain that was the right thing to do, so Linda just said, “Been a while, ain’t it?”

  They quickly established that they had last spoken at a cocktail party somewhere or other about two years previously. Linda’s memory of events was nowhere near as clear as Shirley’s due to the free bar, but Shirley filled in the blanks. The bottom line was that the cocktail party had been a Harry Rawlins do—and it was Dolly Rawlins who had called them both out of the blue and told them to meet her here.

  Neither Shirley nor Linda knew exactly why they’d been summoned, but they both hoped it was to do with a handout of cash; they couldn’t even begin to imagine what else it might be.

  “Well, whatever the reason,” said Shirley, “I’m going enjoy the spa facilities while I can. Come on!” She headed for the changing rooms, shyly followed by Linda.

  Shirley quickly changed into the fluffy white towel provided while Linda, trying and failing to look at ease, focused on her chipped nails, avoiding eye contact with anyone and everyone. Shirley handed her a towel. “Relax—Dolly’s paying,” she said kindly.

  Linda had forgotten how beautiful Shirley was, how easily elegant and womanly. Even under a square towel, Shirley was a stunning shape, with her hair and make-up immaculate. Linda wasn’t going to let Shirley see how insecure she was so she attempted to make a joke.

  “I don’t want to drive the fellas wild by exposing my body, Shirl.”

  “It’s only women here.”

  Defeated, Linda snatched the towel from Shirley. “Well, I’m not taking my bra and knickers off. They might get nicked!” she snapped as she bundled into a cubicle for some privacy. When Linda bent to remove her shoes, she could see the now-seated Shirley looking in at her. “Bleedin’ ’ell!” Linda’s dulcet tones echoed round the changing room. “What’s the point in having a soddin’ door that stops two foot off the ground!” When Linda stood back up, she was head and shoulders above the top of the door and Shirley couldn’t stifle her giggles. “It’s like getting changed behind a postage stamp! I might as well be out there with you!” Linda draped her arms over the top of the door and the two women howled with laughter for the first time since they’d heard the news.

  By 11:30 a.m., Shirley was relaxing with her eyes closed in the bubbling, milky water of the jacuzzi and Linda was sitting on the edge, warming her feet and ankles. Her red satin bra was visible above the white towel and she’d dropped crumbs into the water from the cheese sarnie—but she didn’t care.

  “A good screw is as good as an hour’s exercise, did you know that? And it don’t cost you an annual membership fee, I can tell you,” Linda laughed at herself as she stuffed the last of her sandwich into her mouth and washed her hands in the jacuzzi. “Course you can’t just lie there and take it, you’ve got to do some of the work.”

  “Don’t you ever talk about anything else?”

  “Well, I’m not getting any, am I? Me and Joe were at it pretty much every night.” Linda’s mood dipped as she remembered her husband. “There’s a lot of adjusting to be done, I can tell you.”

  Shirley opened one eye and glared at Linda. Was being celibate for a month really the biggest adjustment after your husband’s been blown sky high in a botched bank job?

  By midday, Dolly still hadn’t appeared and Linda was getting tetchy. Shirley was now naked on the sunbeds and Linda was sitting by her side sipping coffee, eating a chocolate bar and moaning about the money.

  “If she’s a no-show, I’ve spent a bloody fortune on food I didn’t even want! I’m fatter now than when I arrived! Some bleedin’ health spa this is.”

  “She’ll be here. Keep your voice down.” Shirley whispered. She’d forgotten quite how embarrassing Linda could be sometimes, even when she wasn’t drinking. In fact, Shirley had wondered if Linda had sneaked a drop of vodka into her coffee, because she was definitely getting louder. Twice she had fed bits of biscuit to the parrots that were in cages hanging from huge fern plants. The attendants had asked her not to, but she’d ignored them. She’d also been making loud remarks and laughing at some of the woman’s figures, calling them stick insects.

  Linda hadn’t meant to embarrass Shirley, but could see that she had. The truth was that Linda felt totally out of her depth in these elegant surroundings. She looked around: these women were all self-indulgent, toffee-nosed, snooty, skinny bitches with more money than they knew what to do with. She was about to leave when she saw Dolly walking casually toward them wearing a matching bath towel and turban. Dolly nodded her acknowledgment to a couple of attendants as she moved up the steps toward the sun beds. “Gawd almighty,” Linda snorted to Shirley and jabbed her with an elbow, “Lana Turner’s alive and well and living in London—take a look.”

  “Hello Linda, hello Shirley. I’m sorry I didn’t send flowers.” Dolly said with a smile. Linda chewed her lip. Dolly’s patronizing voice and glib reference to their husbands’ funerals instantly annoyed her. It was hardly appropriate as an opening line. Linda would have preferred: “How are you?” or, “Long time, no see,” or, “So sorry that my husband got your husband killed!”

  “Let’s go into the sauna—we won’t be disturbed there.” Dolly said and walked off ahead of them. Shirley and Linda followed Dolly in exactly the same obedient manner as Wolf—as though they instinctively knew
that following would be more beneficial to them than not.

  Linda had never been in a sauna before. She was sweating profusely and worried that the color would run from her red satin bra and show through the pristine white towel. Shirley, who was well used to saunas, immediately lay flat out along the top bench.

  “How are you both?” Dolly asked, as though it was the most innocent question in the world. Nothing Dolly did was innocent anymore—and knowing what she did now, she wanted to find out a little more about these widows before sharing her latest thoughts. Dolly had also remembered the cocktail party from two years ago. It had been brimming with villains from the four corners of London. If she was totally honest, Dolly hadn’t remembered Shirley and didn’t recall her saying a word all night; Linda, on the other hand, had been entirely memorable.

  “Terry didn’t leave any cash for the mortgage, so if I don’t win Miss Paddington next week, I’m going to have to get a job.” Shirley seemed genuinely distressed by this; but then she was a girl in her mid-twenties with no education and no real life skills. She’d always been looked after and had no clue how to survive on her own.

  “My heart bleeds,” Linda mocked. “Try doing three jobs at once. That’s how many I had when Joe was inside the last time. And what the fuck is Miss Paddington?”

  “Oh, it’s a beauty contest!” Shirley beamed as she explained. “Mum entered me for it. I was ever so mad at her at first, cos of just losing Terry. But there’s a thousand pounds prize money for first place and a holiday for two in Majorca. And the winner goes forward into the next Miss England competition!”