by Sam Michaels
Hefty didn’t answer but bundled Joan back into her room.
‘What are you doing, Hefty, get orf me you bleedin lump.’
Hefty stared at her but didn’t say anything.
‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’ Joan asked as she eyed him suspiciously.
He walked to the window and seemed to be scanning the street. Joan thought he looked jumpy and became worried. ‘Hefty, what’s going on?’
The big man spun round and looked at her, then placed the palms of his hands on his bald head. ‘He’s dead, Joan. Billy’s killed his own father.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Where did you get such an idea?’
‘It’s true. I saw Norman’s body with my own eyes, and Billy, well, he was gloating about killing him and reckons he’s taking over the business. Fuck, Joan, I can’t make head nor tail of this. He’s mental… fucking mental!’
Joan walked slowly to a chaise longue at the end of her bed, and sunk onto it, shaking her head in disbelief.
‘What do I do, Joan? He said I work for him now and he told me I’d be dead too if I don’t do as he says. Shit. That means you work for him and all – we all do!’
‘Yes, I realise that,’ Joan snapped, then added, ‘Sorry, Hefty, it’s just a bit of a shock.’
‘I know, I still can’t get my head round it. Honestly, Joan, I wanted to kill the sly fucking cunt. How could he do this? What sort of person could kill their own dad?’
‘A person that ain’t right in the head, Hefty. I don’t think any of us are safe now. If he can murder his own flesh and blood, then just think what he could do to us.’
Hefty sat himself down next to Joan and leaned forward with his head in his hands. ‘I thought the world of Norman. I know people thought he was a difficult man, but he was always good to me, Joan. I can’t stand by and let Billy get away with this.’
‘No, he shouldn’t be allowed to, but I don’t see what you can do about it. You can’t get near him, at least not safely. He’s got too much protection around him. I don’t know what to suggest, but one thing’s for sure, we can’t work for him.’
‘We might not have any choice.’
Joan scratched her head, then closed her eyes, deep in thought. ‘Hefty, get the girls together. I’ve got an idea.’
Once everyone was gathered, Joan stood behind the bar and poured herself a large brandy. She looked at the women sat on the sofas, then to Hefty who only just fitted in the armchair. He looked nervous, drumming his fingers on his massive thigh. Carol, Vi, Annie and Hilda stared back at her, obviously waiting for an explanation for the sudden meeting. Someone rapped on the front door.
Joan knocked back the brandy before speaking. ‘Ignore it.’
The women exchanged a bewildered glance. It was Carol who asked, ‘Are you going to tell us what’s going on, Joan?’
‘Norman Wilcox is dead. He’s been killed by his own son, Billy,’ Joan answered, then paused as Carol gasped.
Vi jumped to her feet and spluttered, ‘Jesus Christ! If Billy Wilcox is at the reins, we’ve got to get out of here! I’ve heard all about him and how he treats his Russian girls. Annie and Hilda might be all right – they’re young – but us three… well, I dread to think.’
‘Sit down, Vi,’ Joan ordered. ‘Yes, you’re right, we’ve got to get out of here, but we’re not leaving Annie or Hilda behind. We’ll do this together, but it’s going to be risky.’
‘What have you got in mind?’ Carol asked.
‘We’ve got a few days takings in the safe, enough to get us started. We need to pack a small suitcase each, then Hefty can run us down to Portsmouth. We’ll be out of Billy’s reach there, and we can set up a new business by ourselves. As far as I know, there ain’t no-one running the South coast, so we shouldn’t be stepping on anyone’s toes.’
‘Portsmouth… are you having a laugh?’ Vi said in a high-pitched voice.
‘What’s wrong with Portsmouth?’ Joan asked.
‘It’s a bloody Navy town. The place will be over-run with whores and strippers. And them sailor blokes… well, they can be a bit rough. No, I ain’t going to Portsmouth. You’d better think again.’
‘I don’t know anywhere else. Portsmouth is the only other place I’ve ever been to outside of London. Anyone else got any suggestions?’ Joan answered sharply, irritated at Vi for putting her idea down.
‘I’ve got a cousin in Wales,’ Annie offered, her voice quiet.
Joan rolled her eyes. ‘Thanks Annie, but we ain’t emigrating.’
‘I can’t drive you to Wales or anywhere else. I ain’t got Norman’s car now. Billy’s got it,’ Hefty said, and lowered his head.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Joan swore, then sucked in a deep breath. ‘Right then, wherever we’re going, we’ll have to travel by train, but we’d like you to come with us, Hefty. We could use a minder.’
‘Yeah, all right. If I stay around here I might just throttle Billy Wilcox, but I don’t want to risk swinging for the likes of him.’
Carol said, ‘I’ve got an idea. Bernie… he’s my brother. He lives in Aldershot. He stayed there when he came out of the army. I ain’t seen him for a few years, but we keep in touch. He’s the henchman for Marve the Mad Axe. From what Bernie has told me, Marve is a bit of a face in Aldershot, but as far as I know he ain’t got any girls working for him. Maybe we could persuade him to diversify his business. What do you think, Joan?’
Joan poured herself another brandy. Carol’s suggestion didn’t sound too bad.
Vi huffed, and folded her arms. ‘But Aldershot is an army garrison. It wouldn’t be any better than Portsmouth.’
Joan drank the brandy quickly, then said firmly, ‘Vi, stop bloody whinging. We’ve got to do something, and it would help to have a bit of clout on our side. No offence, Hefty, but your skills don’t lie in running a business. Carol, girls, get your stuff packed. We’re going to pay Bernie a visit.’
*
George had first checked the pub that Norman was known to frequent, then after running all the way to his house she hammered on his door, breathless and desperate to find the only man who could save her father. It was nearly four, and it wouldn’t be long before the sun would set. The time was quickly ticking past, and all the while her dear dad was imprisoned in that stinking shitpit, a foreboding place that she was all too familiar with.
There was no answer at Norman’s, so she banged harder. Still nothing. She knew he had a place on Livingstone Road, a whorehouse that she’d been warned to stay away from. Her dad wasn’t a judgemental man, but he was always outspoken about his detestation for prostitutes. She had no other option: she had to track down Norman, and on this occasion, she thought her dad would turn a blind eye to her calling at the brothel.
It took George fifteen minutes to get to Livingstone Road. She had run for so long that she felt sick, but after catching her breath she knocked hard on the door. Once again, there was no answer. Norman had to be here – he just had to be! She banged again and would have called Norman through the letterbox, but it was sealed. Instead, she tapped on the downstairs window, hoping that she wasn’t disturbing a bloke on his vinegar stroke. She stepped backwards, and shouted, ‘Mr Wilcox. Norman Wilcox,’ then went back to the door and pounded on it.
At last, it opened, and George found herself staring at the irritated-looking face of an older woman wearing so much make-up that George had a job not to laugh.
‘What do you want?’
‘Mr Wilcox. I know he’s here. I need to see him,’ George replied.
‘Well he ain’t here so clear off.’
‘He is. He must be!’ George insisted. She wasn’t going to let this ridiculous-looking woman stand in her way so she shoved past her into the hall.
‘What do you think you’re playing at?’ the woman snapped, looking furious. ‘You ain’t got the right to barge in here. Hefty… Hefty…’ the woman yelled.
To George’s relief, Hefty appeared in the doorway. If he was the
re, then Mr Wilcox must be too. He looked surprised to see her and asked, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Oh, you know her then?’ the old crone said.
‘Yeah, she’s Jack Garrett’s girl.’
‘Oh, so you’re George! I can see why everyone thinks you’re a bloke,’ the woman said as she eyed George up and down, then turned back to Hefty, adding, ‘Huh, well, no doubt she’s a chip off the block and just as stuck up her own arse as her old man. I’ll leave you to it. Just make it quick.’
‘OK, Joan,’ Hefty answered, before turning his attention back to George. ‘I can see you’re in a bit of a state. What’s wrong?’
‘It’s my dad. He’s been arrested. I was hoping Mr Wilcox would work his magic and get him out of the nick.’
‘Sorry, George, but Mr Wilcox won’t be able to do anything. In fact, it’s best you get off now,’ Hefty said as he moved past her to open the front door.
‘Hang on a minute, Hefty. You can’t just fob me off. Where’s Mr Wilcox? Let’s see what he has to say about it. Is he in there?’ George asked as she moved towards what she hoped was the lounge.
Hefty’s huge arm came out, blocking her path. She could see the skin on his thick neck looked red and his face was clammy as he said, ‘You’ve been told Norman isn’t here. He can’t help you or your dad. You’ll have to sort this out for yourself.’
‘Come on, Hefty, you know my dad is Norman’s friend and he’ll want to get him out. Just give me a couple of minutes with him… please.’
George saw Hefty’s body slump, and his cheeks begin to twitch. He wouldn’t make eye contact with her and she could tell he was on edge. She realised then that something wasn’t right. ‘What’s going on, Hefty?’
‘Trust me, George, you really don’t want to know.’
‘But I do… please, Hefty, Norman is my dad’s only hope. He could be looking at doing a three stretch.’
Hefty seemed to crack and threw his arms in the air. He walked two steps forward, spun, then three back, and then forward again, all the time muttering, ‘He’s dead… he’s fucking dead…’
George could hardly believe what she was hearing. Hefty was ranting. Dead? Norman Wilcox dead? He couldn’t be – she needed him. Her father needed him.
The heavily made-up woman appeared in the hallway again and grabbed Hefty’s arm. In the dim light she looked like something from a horror film.
‘It’s all right, calm down, Hefty,’ she said firmly, then turned to George and added spitefully, ‘Are you happy now? See what you’ve done?’
George glanced at Hefty’s crazed eyes, then at the scary-looking woman. Never mind about this being a whorehouse, it’s more like a bleedin’ madhouse, she thought to herself.
‘Don’t just stand there gawping, girl,’ the woman barked. ‘Help me get him through to the lounge.’
George took Hefty’s other arm, and between them they tried to pull him towards the room, but he yanked free from their grasp. His arms began to flay around wildly and George, along with the woman, had to step out of harm’s way. Both stared in stunned silence as Hefty then began to repeatedly punch the door, all the while moaning, ‘He’s dead. Billy fucking killed him. It ain’t right. It ain’t right.’
George gulped in shock and turned to the woman. ‘Is it true?’ she asked. ‘Has Billy killed his father?’
The woman nodded. Then three younger-looking women appeared in the hallway, and all seemed horrified at seeing Hefty in such a state. The wooden door was now in splinters and blood from Hefty’s fists dripped onto the parquet flooring. Eventually, probably exhausted, he fell to his knees and began to howl and cry.
‘Help me get him to my bed,’ the woman ordered the three younger ones.
George watched as they gathered Hefty up and encouraged him along the passage to a room near the end. When they disappeared inside, it went quiet for a few minutes, and during that time George realised she’d forgotten about her father. Her mind was filled by the enormity of what Hefty had said.
The women came back along the passage again, and the older one spoke, ‘Right, you’ve heard the truth now and I suggest, if you know what’s good for you, that you keep it to yourself.’
‘I’m not gonna blab,’ George told her and meant it. Billy Wilcox was a dangerous man, a madman; she realised that now. She was afraid of him, but if they crossed paths, she’d never let him see her fear.
*
Joan had thrown some essentials into a battered suitcase, and gently nudged Hefty. ‘Get up, big man, time to go.’
Hefty slowly opened his eyes, looking befuddled. After his hysteria earlier, he’d fallen into an exhausted sleep, and now Joan hoped he’d wake calmer.
‘Where… what…?’
‘It’s all right, Hefty. You’ve had a bit of a snooze, but we’ve got to get going. Come on, get yourself up.’
Hefty sat up, still looking dazed. ‘Shit, I lost the plot,’ he said sheepishly.
‘Yes, you did, but we ain’t got time to muck about. The girls are ready, let’s go.’
‘I’ll need to shoot back to my place to pack some clothes.’
‘There’s no time for that. You can buy some new clobber when we get to Aldershot.’
‘But that will leave me skint.’
Joan had taken what money was in the safe and knowing it now belonged to Billy, she was eager to get away. However, she didn’t want to leave Hefty behind. With no idea what was in front of them, she needed a bit of muscle around and Hefty fitted the bill. ‘Look, we can’t risk hanging around, so I’ll help you out until we get on our feet.’
‘All right then,’ Hefty agreed as he climbed off her bed and she opened the door to find Carol, Vi and Annie waiting in the hallway and looking anxious.
‘Where’s Hilda?’
‘Probably in her room. I ain’t seen her.’
‘Annie, go and tell Hilda to get a move on. There’s a bus due that’ll take us to the station.’
Hefty emerged from Joan’s room as Annie came running down the stairs. ‘She’s gone,’ Annie called. ‘She ain’t in her room. It’s empty and her bag has gone. She’s scarpered.’
‘This is all we need,’ Joan said through gritted teeth. She’d been right never to trust that girl. She had no doubt that Hilda had done a runner straight into Billy’s hands. ‘The two-faced bitch. She’ll be telling Billy what we’re up to, and that we’ve pinched his money. There’s no time to hang about. Come on, we’ve got to leave right now!’
Carol was obviously thinking the same. ‘But what if she tells Billy that we’ve gone to Aldershot? He’s bound to come looking for us. Joan, I think you should put the money back in the safe.’
‘With his father gone, Billy’s going to be too busy to worry about coming to Aldershot looking for us. He’ll have enough on his plate, and anyhow, a few quid missing won’t hurt him. We need this money. Now, let’s get out of here.’
Joan was the last one out, and as she closed the door behind her, she felt sad to be leaving. All the years of living in the house and working for Norman, she thought she hadn’t liked the man. But now she realised she was going to miss the security he’d provided, and ultimately, she’d miss him too. ‘God rest your soul, Norman Wilcox,’ she whispered. ‘And God help us.’
25
The following morning, Billy sat in his father’s armchair with his legs stretched out in front of him and his hands placed behind his head.
‘Very comfortable,’ he said out loud to himself, ‘and this will be my chair from now on.’
Now that his father was out of the way, he was savouring the thought of being the man of the house. But first he had to tell his mother that his dad would never be coming home again. He wasn’t looking forward to it. He’d considered saying that his dad had run off with one of the Livingstone Road brasses, but Billy didn’t want to see his dear mother hurt. He loved her and would do all he could to protect her from any unnecessary pain. He thought about telling her there had been an accid
ent, but it left too many questions, and his mother would want a proper funeral. In the end, he decided on gently breaking it to her that the Liverpool gang had killed him. It was the kindest way he could think of.
She’d been gone for the weekend, but he was sure she’d be home soon, and hoped it would be in time to cook his dinner. He always looked forward to a Sunday roast, though there’d be one less place setting at the table today. He imagined the scene: he’d be carving the meat in place of his father and his mother would be looking at him adoringly. The only blot on his landscape was Sally. Perhaps he’d carve her up instead of the roast beef!
Billy heard the front door open, then Sally came into the lounge, closely followed by his mother. Sally eyed him up and down, then gave him a filthy look before stomping back out and up the stairs. He detested her, and just her presence alone irritated him. He only tolerated her for his mother’s sake.
He thought his mum looked elegant in a black wool coat that draped loosely over her slender shoulders, edged in thick fur round the neck and wide, open cuffs. He could see she was wearing a crimson dress with a black lace hem, and she wore a set of long ebony beads. She was surely the most glamorous woman in Battersea, a cut above the rest.
‘Sally, come down and take your sister upstairs with you please,’ she called, pulling off her red gloves, then turned to Billy and asked, ‘Where’s your father?’
Billy stood up from his dad’s armchair. ‘Sit down, Mum.’
‘I don’t want to sit down. Just tell me where your dad is.’
He could tell she’d sensed something was wrong. ‘I’ve got something terrible to tell you,’ he said gently. ‘Dad’s been killed. The Portland Pounders finished him off. I’m sorry, Mum, there was nothing I could do.’
He saw his mother’s legs buckle and hurried forward, grabbing her under her arms as she began to drop.
‘No… no… no, Billy. You’ve got it wrong… Where’s your father?’
Billy gently pulled her towards the sofa and eased her down. She sat stunned, and stared up into his eyes, searching for answers.
