Trickster

by Sam Michaels

  A horse and cart passed her. George pulled her flat cap down, and the collar of her coat up. She glanced up and down the street. It was clear. With her blood pumping fast she hurried across the road, then knelt as if tying her laces. Two policemen came out of the station and George froze, but thankfully they passed her.

  Her hands were still shaking, but she managed to strike a match. The fuse lit easily and burned quicker than she’d expected. She thought the bloody thing was going to explode in her hand and panicked. As fast as her legs would move, she charged towards the main door, pushed it open, then launched the paper bag inside.

  She noticed there were several uniforms in the room, and as the door had flung open, a few of the coppers had turned their heads and looked directly at her. She didn’t care. It was too late. The bomb had been thrown, and though she’d have liked to hang about and seen the effect of the explosion, she knew she had to get away, fast.

  There were only several strides between her and the station when George heard a muffled boom. It had worked. She smiled, satisfied, as she ran along the street and into a maze of terraced houses. She’d done it. She’d blown up Battersea Police Station. She didn’t know how much or little damage her small concoction had caused, but at last she felt she had one over on the Old Bill.

  ‘That’ll bloody teach ’em.’ She smiled as she slowed her pace and tried to look discreet. She knew the memories of what had happened to her in that dreadful place would always haunt her, but at least now, justice had been served. She just hoped none of the policemen in the reception room could identify her.

  27

  The next day was Tuesday and Billy arrived at his office early. He’d been busy since taking over, sorting out his father’s many business enterprises: the two poker houses, the books of the private loan scheme to review, and the insurance customers to see. The insurance was of course a racketeering scheme, but his father hadn’t liked to call it that. He hadn’t been so eager to see the books at the only legitimate company under the Wilcox name, but the bicycle sales and repair shop was a good front and cover for the illegal dealings.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Wilcox,’ Knuckles greeted his boss.

  ‘Yes, Knuckles, it is indeed.’

  ‘What have you got planned for us today?’

  ‘There’s just the Livingstone Road brothel left to sort out so come on, let’s get going,’ Billy ordered, marching out with Knuckles behind him. ‘I’ll have to teach you to drive, but for now I’ll take the wheel again.’

  ‘Yes, boss,’ said Knuckles.

  Billy smiled. Boss. He liked the title. It showed respect. His mood was mellow as they pulled up outside Livingstone Road. He had a key and walked in, surprised to find it unusually quiet. ‘Joan… Carol…’ he called.

  ‘Oh, Mr Wilcox, I’m so glad you’re here,’ Hilda said as she sauntered down the stairs wearing an almost see-through black lace negligee.

  ‘Where’s Joan and the others?’

  ‘I’ve been desperate to tell you, but I wasn’t sure how to get hold of you,’ Hilda answered. ‘They’ve done a runner, Mr Wilcox. All of them, and they took the takings from the safe.’

  Billy felt a surge of fury, aware of a small tic under his right eye that had begun to jerk. It always did when he was worked up. He saw that Hilda had noticed and was looking directly at his twitch. How dare she! He stepped forward and grabbed a handful of her loose blonde curls on the top of her head and forced her to look down. She yelped in pain. Billy enjoyed that noise and gripped harder as he growled, ‘If you value your pretty face, never look directly at me again. Is that clear?’

  ‘Ye… yes, Mr Wilcox, but please, let me go. I didn’t do a bunk with them. They wanted me to… but I stayed… to work for you if you’ll have me.’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m glad to hear you had the sense to make the right choice, and yes, you can work for me now.’

  ‘Th… thank you.’

  Billy released Hilda’s hair and shoved her away from him. She stumbled in her heeled slippers and landed in an undignified heap on the stairs. Her ruffled hair was draped across her fair skin, and her dark eyes were glistening. Her negligee had ripped, revealing a long bare leg with a toned thigh. She was visibly shaken and her submissive look momentarily aroused Billy, but he quickly reminded himself that she was a whore.

  ‘Get up,’ Billy ordered.

  Hilda used the newel post to pull herself to her feet and smoothed her hair before pushing her shoulders back. Her ample breasts were provocatively almost busting over the top of her nightdress.

  ‘I’ll send new girls to work here. You can have Joan’s room and as a reward for not doing a bunk with the others, you will be in charge. However, unlike Joan, you’ll still be taking customers. Are you the dancer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes, Mr Wilcox,’ Billy spat.

  ‘Sorry. Yes, Mr Wilcox,’ Hilda repeated meekly.

  ‘Good girl. Now, entertain Knuckles while I look at the books.’

  Billy knew the books were kept in the safe, and he doubted Joan had taken them. She’d have only been interested in the money. He was right and taking them from the safe he glanced through the columns of scrawled figures, while overhead he could hear the bedsprings making a racquet and he rolled his eyes. If Knuckles wasn’t careful, it sounded like he’d be coming through the ceiling.

  He had to hand it to Joan. She’d kept tidy accounts and ran a tight ship. Livingstone Road had been turning a good profit. Billy wanted more though. He thought his dad had been weak and too soft on the girls. But things were going to be very different from now on, Billy would see to that.

  *

  Knuckles had finished, and was smoking a cigarette as Hilda douched herself, then straightened her clothing. The inside of the tops of her legs were hurting. Knuckles was a big man and had pounded her hard. She was sure she’d have bruises appearing soon.

  She headed downstairs and cautiously slipped into the lounge and bar room. Billy had finished scanning the books and was helping himself to a whisky.

  ‘Everything in order, Mr Wilcox?’ Hilda asked, nervously. She was desperate for his attention but didn’t want to rile him again.

  ‘It will do, for now.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked, drawling her voice and fluttering her eyelashes.

  ‘Leave it out, Hilda. I ain’t interested in going where Knuckles has been,’ Billy answered, making no attempt to hide his revulsion.

  This wasn’t going the way Hilda had envisaged it, so she changed tactics. ‘I can turn my hand to just about anything, Mr Wilcox, and I’ve proven my loyalties are with you. I was thinking that a man in your position should have a personal assistant. Someone to look after the paperwork, appointments, correspondence, all that sort of stuff.’

  To Hilda’s delight, Billy’s face softened, and his eyes glinted. She’d found a way to get round him. Appeal to his ego.

  ‘I’d be honoured to work closely with such an esteemed man, Mr Wilcox,’ she continued, ‘and I understand the delicacy and sensitive nature of your work. I can be trusted, and I believe having me at your beck and call will only go to enhance your image.’

  Billy finally smiled. ‘There’s no doubt, Hilda, you are a damn sight better-looking than Knuckles. I suppose you could come in useful, but I need someone I can trust to look after this place.’

  ‘I can find you a tart to trust, with the necessary brains, but you need someone with a bit more refinement to work in your office.’

  ‘All right, Hilda. You find me a girl for here, and you can be my assistant.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Wilcox. You won’t regret it.’

  Hilda was right, Billy wouldn’t regret taking her on in a new role. Unfortunately, as Hilda would discover in time, she was the one who would eventually come to rue the day.

  *

  The noise in the match-making factory was almost deafening, and a pungent smell lingered in the air. Molly had become used to it, and hardly noticed an
y more. She sat in a row with a dozen other women. They didn’t chat much as it was difficult to be heard over the sound of the machinery. And anyhow, Phyllis, the woman she sat closest to on her right, couldn’t speak.

  Phyllis had worked in the industry since she’d been thirteen years old, and now at sixty-two, she was the oldest lady in the factory but refused to hang up her aprons. Working practices had changed since Phyllis had first begun, but the changes had come too late for her. Years of handling phosphates had caused phossy jaw, a condition that had been extremely painful and resulted in her having her jaw removed. Her face was now severely deformed, and she was incredibly thin. It wasn’t easy for the woman to eat.

  Even with no voice, she revelled in a bit of gossip and had learnt to read and write to communicate. However, as there were very few women in the factory who could read, Molly was unsurprised when Phyllis nudged her forearm and indicated her written note. It said that yesterday there had been an explosion at the police station, and she thought Mr Nelson had been taken in for questioning. Apparently, chemicals from the factory had most likely been used in the bomb.

  Molly read the note and gasped.

  Then Phyllis discreetly scribbled that three coppers had been killed and two badly injured. The floor above had been unstable, and the explosion had caused the ceiling to collapse.

  Instantly, Molly could feel her heart pounding, and the room begin to spin. She tried to hide her fear and horror, praying that her face hadn’t given any clues away to Phyllis. There was a reward, a big one, and she had no doubt that Phyllis or any of her co-workers would be first in line to claim it if they knew that she’d been involved.

  She’d been a part of this! Murdering policemen. She’d stolen the chemicals and if they found out, she would hang in the gallows. Oh, George, she thought to herself, what have you done? After what her friend had told her about how the policemen had attacked her, she couldn’t blame George for wanting to get her own back, but she could have kicked herself for not seeing this coming. George was the gutsiest person she knew and wasn’t the sort to let things be.

  Molly thought back to their conversation when George had asked her to steal the chemicals. She’d said something about the police getting a surprise. They’d got that all right. George had done a good job, but Molly felt physically sick and prayed they’d both be safe.

  *

  Every customer that came into the greengrocer’s could talk of nothing else except the Battersea Police Station explosion. Oppo hadn’t read the papers, but he’d been told every small detail. No-one seemed to suspect George as the bomber, but he knew it was her. It had to be! And he assumed Molly was also involved.

  ‘Oppo!’ Mr Kavanagh shouted.

  Oppo heard the man’s booming voice and jumped. ‘Eh? Sorry, I was miles away,’ he answered.

  ‘Yes, I noticed. Concentrate on your job or I’ll be docking your pay come Friday.’

  ‘Yes, sorry, sir. I’ll fill up the carrots – they look to be getting a bit low.’

  ‘You do that, and whilst you’re out the back, you can sweep the yard.’

  Oppo was quite happy to clean up outside. He liked Mr Kavanagh well enough, but the man had something to say about everything and his opinions sometimes got on Oppo’s nerves.

  He’d been in the yard for about ten minutes when he heard his name being whispered.

  ‘Psst, Oppo, over here.’

  He looked round and saw George’s head poking over the top of the fence. ‘What you doing here?’ he asked as he walked towards her with his broom in his hand.

  ‘I had to see you,’ she answered.

  ‘You could have come in the shop like a normal person,’ Oppo joked.

  ‘Yeah, I know, but Kavanagh always listens to everything we say.’

  ‘You’re lucky you caught me out here then, but if he sees me talking to you and wasting more time, he’ll keep me money short this week.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll be quick. Have you heard about Battersea nick?’

  ‘Yeah, everyone’s talking about it,’ Oppo answered. ‘It was you, weren’t it?’

  ‘Maybe,’ George said with a teasing smile, ‘but let’s just say, I’ve been having a blast!’

  ‘I knew it! George, this ain’t funny. If you get caught, that’ll be it for you!’

  ‘I ain’t gonna get caught, but I do need a favour.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get rid of this for me,’ George said, and threw a sack over the fence.

  Oppo looked inside. It was her coat. The donkey jacket that had been described in the papers.

  ‘Thanks, Oppo, I’ll see you later,’ George said.

  ‘Hang on, I haven’t said I’ll help you.’ Of course, he would. He’d do anything for her. But by the time Oppo had looked back up at the fence, she had gone.

  *

  George had dashed to Mrs Peterson’s shop and now with the daily newspaper tucked under her arm, she picked up her pace again, eager to read the main story. She had to refrain from reading it right there in the street, desperate to find out more about the outcome of the explosion.

  She’d hardly slept again last night; adrenaline and excitement still kept her awake. Her father’s trial had been delayed and he’d been moved to Clapham along with several other detainees. At least the coppers at Clapham were known to be a little more agreeable than their Battersea colleagues, and there was a possibility that they would allow her to see him.

  Finally, back home, she took the stairs two at a time, then slammed her bedroom door closed before jumping onto her bed and laying the newspaper out in front of her.

  There it was, on the front page. The headline story. Three policemen killed, and the hunt was on for the bomber. She really hadn’t expected that small paper bag to have had such an enormous impact, but she couldn’t have been happier with the outcome. There were pictures of the dead coppers and she recognised one of them. He’d been in her cell. This was the sweetest revenge!

  She quickly read the rest of the story. They were looking for a young man in a black donkey jacket seen fleeing the scene. A young man! George chuckled to herself. She was in the clear. She wasn’t a young man, nor did she possess a donkey jacket. She’d gotten away with murder and felt elated. She’d slain the enemy and it was a glorious sensation of victory!

  As the euphoria subsided, George found herself deep in thought and twisted her mother’s wedding ring. She looked at the gold band and wondered what her mother would have done. Would she have fought back? George realised she’d learnt something about herself today. She was strong and different from the other women she knew. They seemed to put up with their lot and take all sorts of mistreatment from men. Not her. She wouldn’t allow it. She wouldn’t stand for it. She was proud of herself for what she’d done and only wished she could brag about it to her dad and gran. She knew her father would be proud of her too. He’d taught her to be tough and she’d proved she was that all right!

  The Old Bill had shaken her confidence, but now she’d shaken them, and she smiled again at the picture on the front page of the slain copper. She’d slaughter any man who dared to ever wrong her, just as she had the policeman, and if Billy Wilcox wasn’t careful, he’d be next.

  Part 4

  Georgina Garrett’s fight

  28

  March 1933. Three years later.

  George was glad the sun was shining on the day of her father’s release from prison. She’d waited over three years for this, and they’d been long, arduous years, but she and her gran had got through them. The country was in the grips of something they called the Depression and though it had always been a daily struggle for survival for the poor, it seemed more and more families were now living in poverty. Many had turned to crime to fill their children’s empty bellies, some more successfully than others. George considered herself lucky. She was experienced at thieving and managed to evade the law and provide well for her gran.

  She stood outside the prison gates. The building w
as large, and had an ominous atmosphere surrounding it. Her father hadn’t allowed her to visit him during his time, and she’d missed him terribly. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for him, and the thought of him locked up in a tiny cell had kept her awake on many nights. George jigged impatiently from foot to foot. Any minute now, he’d be coming through the huge, wooden doors. Apart from being a bit taller, she hadn’t changed much and still looked more like a man than a woman.

  The minutes dragged by, but then the doors opened and at last, George saw her father. She wanted to cry tears of happiness but bit her bottom lip as she held back her emotions.

  ‘Hope we don’t see you again, Garrett,’ she heard a guard call as Jack passed through the gates.

  ‘You won’t. You’ll be stuck in this shithole for the rest of your working days… but me, I’m out of here!’ her dad replied jovially.

  She was relieved to hear that prison hadn’t broken him. He sounded the same cheeky, confident bloke that he’d been before his incarceration. George stepped out into her dad’s eyeline. He immediately spotted her, and his face broke into a big smile. She wanted to run towards him, to jump into his arms and smother his scarred and roguish face in small kisses, but instead she remained rooted to the spot.

  ‘Hello, George. It’s so good to see you,’ he said, holding out his arms.

  George at last ran into them, pleased to be in his embrace, though she was sure she felt his body stiffen and he winced. Maybe he was injured, but if he was, he hid it well.

  ‘I can’t wait to get home and have meself a decent cuppa and a bit of cake. How’s your gran?’