Tara

by Lesley Pearse

'This beats chucking out drunks,' Needles chuckled as he clambered in.

  'I ain't even 'ad the collywobbles.' Tony got in beside Needles. 'Remember not to drive like a loony, Ginge, I don't wanna be the first man to drown in leather.'

  It was only then that Harry took a look at Ginger. He was shivering violently, though it wasn't cold. Even in the dark, Harry could see he was white as a sheet.

  'I'd better drive,' Harry said as he locked the back doors and pulled the warehouse door closed behind them.

  Harry knew Needles and Tony inside out, and he could predict their reactions to almost anything. Ginger, however, was an unknown quantity. Nervous men were dangerous.

  'No, that's my job,' Ginger said quickly. 'I'm all right, 'Any. Just a bit cold.'

  'OK then.' Harry didn't want to shame the man. 'But drive carefully. We don't want to draw attention to ourselves.'

  As they steamed up along the side of the warehouse and turned the corner, to Harry's horror he saw a man bent over by the gates, looking at the broken lock.

  'Shit,' he muttered.

  'What do I do?' Ginger bleated, the van swerving to one side.

  Harry took it all in at a glance. A Ford Popular was parked up beyond the gates. This man was clearly a nightwatchman, but he'd gone home instead of staying here as he was supposed to. By his stooped shoulders he looked elderly and maybe they could come to an amicable agreement with him.

  'Keep driving,' Harry said. 'I'll jump out, push the bloke away and open the gates. Drive straight through. I'll leg it after you.'

  It was an old man; Harry could tell by his slow reactions. He stood up slowly, holding his back, and stared at the van, his face white and featureless in the headlights.

  Harry leaped out of the side door and ran towards the gate. Close up he saw the man was in his sixties, tubby and paralysed with fright. His hands were clinging to the mesh of the gate, his mouth open in horror.

  'It's OK, we ain't gonna hurt you,' Harry shouted. 'I'm just going to open the gates and let the van out.'

  'The police are on their way.' The old man's voice was croaky. 'Don't do this, son!'

  In that moment Harry guessed he was ex-service, had probably been tough in his time given the bluff about the police coming. If he had phoned from that box he would be on their side of the fence now.

  Harry wrenched the gates back from him and they swung easily in the wind, but still the man stood in the path of the van.

  'Look, I'll lock you in that hut,' Harry said frantically, not wanting to manhandle him. 'You can make out we shoved you in there when we arrived.'

  The van revved up behind him and startled him for a second. He jumped back, pushing the old man slightly to one side, and turned angrily towards Ginger, intending to warn him not to run the old chap down. In that split-second the van lurched forward between them. Harry was blinded by the headlights, then a shot rang out.

  The van was between him and the man, and the speed at which Ginger drove didn't give Harry time to think. He sprinted along beside it and leaped in the open door.

  ' 'Struth, the old bugger was armed. Put your foot down before he fires again.'

  As the doors slammed shut, the engine revved and Needles and Tony yelled from the back wanting to know what had happened, Harry could hear and see nothing outside. They were six or seven hundred yards down the road before he realised the smell of cordite was inside the van. His head jerked round towards Ginger and he saw an old service revolver still in his hand while he struggled to steer.

  'You shot him?' Harry gasped, so thunderstruck he could hardly get the words out.

  Everything seemed out of control – the wipers weren't clearing the rain properly, the van was lurching on and off the grass. Even Harry's brain seemed to have seized up.

  'What's goin' on?' Needles bellowed from the back. 'Are you hurt, 'Any?'

  It was like a nightmare, one of those when he found himself walking down the High Street with no trousers on. Only it was real. Ginger's thin white face was smirking and there actually was a gun in his hand.

  'You slag! You shot that old geezer! What on earth for, you shit-bag? He wouldn't hurt a fly!'

  'He was going to stop us.' Ginger's mouth was quivering, the van was veering all over the road.

  'All you had to do was push 'im away. What 'ave you got a gun for, anyway?'

  They were coming into the industrial estate and, although it was after one in the morning, one factory was ablaze with lights and men were loading a lorry.

  Harry tried to think. 'Did you hit 'im?' he asked.

  'I might 'ave winged 'im.' Ginger was shaking now, and the van was going right up on the kerb.

  'Pull up,' Harry ordered. 'I'll drive while I think about this.'

  He was out of the van before it had even stopped completely and round to Ginger's side, dragging him out by the lapels of his raincoat.

  'You bastard.' He wanted to pummel that white face into a pulp. 'D'you know what they give yer for armed robbery? He was a brave old man. He probably only went home for a cup of tea and some sandwiches. Now you've hurt 'im and 'e might lose 'is job. Suppose he ain't got a phone in that little hut of 'is?'

  Harry threw Ginger against the side of the van and punched him in the stomach. Ginger doubled up and vomited in the road. Harry's blood was up now. He caught hold of Ginger's shoulder with his left hand, about to drive his right into the shivering man's face.

  'Harry!' Needles' voice came from the back of the van. 'Will you tell us what's going on or 'ave I gotta break out of 'ere to find out?'

  It was the voice of reason. He let go of Ginger, looked down at the vomit, already dispersing in the rain, and glanced up the road at the lit-up warehouse they'd just passed. Aside from that one warehouse, all the others were in darkness, but this sort of place had high security. Even now someone could be watching them.

  'Get in, you maggot,' he hissed. 'And don't say a fuckin' word until I ask you to.'

  Harry climbed into the driving seat, then turned towards the back. The smell of leather was almost suffocating in the enclosed space.

  'Needles, Tony,' he called softly. 'Did you see anything out the back window?'

  'No, just 'eard the shot.' Tony's voice was muffled. "Then Ginge drove off. Who was it? Watchmen don't 'ave guns normally.'

  'We can't talk 'ere.' Harry fumbled under the dashboard for the wires to start the van. 'I'll drive to our van, then I'll fill you in. I'm for dumping this lot.'

  It took no more than twenty minutes to reach the van. Harry let Needles and Tony out of the confined space and into the back of his van, leaving Ginger to stew in the stolen one while he spelled out what had happened.

  'I want to go back,' Harry said, sitting on his haunches. 'That old geezer might have had a heart attack, anything. He might be lying out in the rain.'

  'We can't go back,' Tony said quickly, running a hand through his dark hair. 'If he has called the police they'll be there now.'

  'We could phone an ambulance,' Needles said. His small eyes glinted in the darkness and he kept cracking the bones in his fingers.

  'OK, we'll do that.' Harry felt marginally better. 'I don't want no part in those coats. Let's just lock the van and leave it 'ere.'

  It showed the measure of his two friends that there was no argument. Harry had always been their leader and they trusted his judgment.

  There was a single light in the car-park and it shone on to Needles' and Tony's faces. Needles' small eyes had all but disappeared in a deep frown, and his usually jovial mouth drooped at the corners. Tony seemed to have shrunk.

  'What about that slag?' Tony thumbed towards the stolen van. 'It's all 'is fault. Shall we dump 'im 'ere?'

  All three were thinking the same thing. Ginger was boastful, there was a strong chance that by tonight the whole of the East End would be sniggering about this robbery. Ginger might well make out he was the only one who didn't lose his bottle and he'd shot the man so they could get away. Such talk was dangerous; it could get all
four of them nicked.

  'No.' Harry shook his head. 'We give him a good verbal bashing, promise we'll kick 'is 'ead in if he squeaks. But right now we've gotta get 'elp for the old chap. Please God don't let him be badly hurt!'

  Harry was gone less than ten minutes but, when he walked back into the car-park, the stolen van had gone with Ginger in it.

  'What 'appened?' He ran over to his van, where Tony and Needles were sitting.

  'When we got out the van he must've thought we was goin' to do him over,' Needles said glumly. 'He drove off like the 'ounds of 'ell were after 'im.'

  'Fuckin' 'ell,' Harry exploded. 'A bloody loose canon careering around town!'

  Harry got in the driving seat and started it up. There weren't many times he wanted to cry, but this was one of them.

  ' 'E shot the geezer,' Tony said softly.' 'E's got the coats and the van. It's 'is funeral now, 'Any. Let's just get 'ome.'

  Harry didn't go to bed when he got in. It was almost five in the morning and in an hour he'd be picking George up. The three of them had gone straight to the Regency Club in Dalston in an attempt to create an alibi. To ask anyone to lie for them would be an admission they'd been up to something, but they knew the owner well enough to know that he'd cover for them if necessary.

  Harry sat in an armchair, watching the dawn come up. His flat was a small serviced apartment on the third floor, a tiny, functional and austere place which he'd never felt enthusiastic enough about to turn into a home.

  He wasn't thinking about himself now, but of the effect this would have on his father. He recalled all the times he'd been warned not to look for easy money, to keep out of fights and not to mix with villains. How could he possibly tell George about this?

  With luck he could keep Tony and Needles out of it. Needles had small kids, Tony's dad was out of work and he had to help support the family. The old man had only seen two men; if he could just find Ginge before the police did, then he could mark his card.

  Later he scrubbed the bottom of his boots until there was no trace of mud on them, and rolled up the oilskin coat and his gloves to dump them later. But all the time his heart was sinking further. Why on earth had he taken Ginger along? He never played poker with people he didn't know, all his life he'd gone by the code of never taking anyone on trust. Yet now, as the sky gradually lightened, he saw he was to blame entirely.

  George once told him that, if a man assumed the role of leader, it was his duty not only to look out for his men, but also to set the ground rules at the outset. Harry had failed on both counts.

  The rain had blown itself out as he drove towards Bethnal Green to pick up George. The sun was peeping through the clouds and, when he stopped to buy the morning paper and found nothing in it about the robbery, he thought perhaps the gods had decided to smile on him just this once.

  Tara was in the kitchen as he walked in, wearing a frilly pink gingham housecoat. She turned and smiled at him.

  'Want a bacon sandwich?' she asked. 'I'm just making one for Uncle George.' She looked as fresh and pretty as the morning.

  'Just a cup of tea will do.' He sat down at the table and, without thinking, put his head in his hands.

  'What's up?' she asked softly, putting one hand on his shoulder.

  'Just tired.' He forced himself to smile. 'Bin up all night playing cards, so don't waste your sympathy on me. Tell me 'ow you're doin'. I don't see enough of you these days.'

  It was getting on for two years now that she'd been in London working for Josh. She'd never gone back to school. Although in the first few months he had taken her out dancing and introduced her to his friends, since then he had distanced himself from her.

  Both George and Queenie were very protective. They wanted her to make friends of her own, and certainly didn't want her running around with shady characters. Besides, she was immersed in her work.

  'Everything's wonderful.' Her mouth curved into a wide smile.

  Tara was eighteen now. At the end of the summer holidays a year and a half ago she had persuaded her mother and gran, with Josh's help, to let her stay and work permanently. That first dress she designed was one of many that Josh had subsequently made up and sold. He gave her a small percentage on each of her designs, she had a wardrobe full of samples to wear herself and she had money in the bank. But although she was happy with her job, she could see her limitations.

  She knew next to nothing about the costing and manufacturing side of the business. Josh gave her very little credit for all the hours she put in and she was still a long way from being given a free hand. But, as her mother had pointed out, if she left now and went somewhere else she would have to start at the bottom again.

  'You've done brilliant.' Harry gave a weak but encouraging smile. 'But a pretty girl like you should be thinking about 'aving fun, not workin' all the bleedin' time.'

  'I don't work all the time.' Tara tossed her hair back from her shoulders. 'I go out with Angie and her friends. I go down the Rising Sun with George and Queenie.'

  'What, no boyfriend?' Harry raised one eyebrow questioningly. He kept his ear to the ground where Tara was concerned and he knew she had enough admirers to go out every night of the week if she wanted to.

  'No-one special.' She giggled. Twice she had briefly thought she was in love, but both times it had fizzled out after a couple of weeks. 'Boys don't like ambitious girls.'

  Harry grinned. He'd heard her put blokes off countless times because she was engrossed in her work, and it made him happy.

  Tara poured the tea and stirred some sugar into Harry's.

  'What about you?' she asked. 'What's happened to that girl Janet?'

  She had been so jealous when he brought the small blonde girl round once for Sunday dinner that she'd found it impossible to stay in the room with them. She knew this was entirely unreasonable, but Harry was very special to her.

  'History.' He smiled wickedly. 'She was boring!'

  'I've got to go and get dressed.' Tara sensed he had something on his mind and she wished she had the time to dig deeper. 'Why don't you come home to the farm with me one weekend? Mum and Gran would love to see you.'

  A lump came into Harry's throat. Right now he could think of nothing better than being alone with Tara in Somerset. But he couldn't make any plans until he knew whether that nightwatchman was all right.

  'Maybe in a few weeks,' he said. 'Give us a hug, babe?'

  He didn't get up and Tara moved over to him and put her arms round him.

  'Have you done something wrong?' she whispered, as his head nestled against her.

  Harry gulped. She smelled beautiful, of soap and talcum powder. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin housecoat and her hands caressing his head were so soothing.

  'Just bin a bit of a prat,' he murmured, wishing he could stay in her arms all day and forget what had happened. 'Nothing for you to worry about, babe.'

  She wanted to question him further but she could hear George's feet on the stairs. She bent and kissed his forehead.

  'Come for that weekend,' she whispered. 'Soon!'

  'That nightwatchman's died!' Mabel was sitting in her rocking chair reading the newspaper.

  The kitchen smelled of onions and herbs and although it was only two in the afternoon it was gloomy because of the rain belting down outside. Amy was mincing leftover cooked meat for a cottage pie. She broke off from turning the handle and looked at her mother questioningly.

  Mabel had begun to take a great deal more interest in the outside world since Tara left home. She not only read the newspapers, but studied farming magazines. At long last they had a milking machine, electricity in the out-buildings, a washing machine, refrigerator and vacuum cleaner to make life easier. Even the changes in her appearance, which started when Amy had the breakdown, had been maintained. Her white hair was always cut and permed, she no longer slopped around in men's trousers and boots. In a tweed skirt and navy blue sweater she looked just like every other middle-aged woman in the village
.

  'What nightwatchman?'

  "The one that was shot last week out at Tilbury,' Mabel took off her glasses and looked at her daughter. 'Didn't you read about it? Two men robbed a warehouse and the old man tried to stop them getting away. They shot him and left him lying in the rain. He died last night in hospital. Poor old chap!'

  Amy sighed. 'What's the world coming to? Once it would've been just a cosh over the head or tying him up. Why did they shoot him?'

  'Greed, what else.' Mabel folded the paper and rose from her chair. 'I hope they hang him when they catch him.'

  Amy put the last piece of meat through the mincer, and glanced out of the window.

  'It's still raining,' she said in irritation, unscrewing the mincer from the table and shaking the last few bits into the dish of meat. 'I wanted to go for a walk this afternoon.' She had felt on edge all morning, though she couldn't exactly say why, other than that she'd been cooped up in the farmhouse for days.

  'You aren't made of sugar.' Mabel looked round at her daughter and noticed she looked pale. 'Put a raincoat and boots on and go anyway.'

  'You don't mind?' Amy knew there was work to be done in the dairy and the stable needed mucking out.

  'Why should I?' Mabel said. 'I'll see to the butter and grade the eggs. You work too hard as it is.'

  Amy stood on the wooden bridge at the end of Dumpers Lane and gazed reflectively at the river beneath her. This place made her think of Paul because it had always been his favourite.

  Trees crowded around her, the drumming of rain softened by the canopy of leaves. The river was high today, cascading over stones, brown with churned-up mud. She could smell wild garlic and damp earth and the undergrowth was shiny with rain. To her left was the spooky old mill, the river gushing through the tunnel beneath the house. To her right a narrow footpath led through the trees to the village.

  She wondered what Paul would have been like now. Sometimes she stopped to speak to his friend Colin and found it hard to come to terms with a burly teenager in jeans and a leather jacket, instead of the little freckled-faced boy in shorts he had once been. It didn't hurt to think about Paul now. She could see him here so clearly, with his fishing net and a jam jar with string tied round the top, wading in with his tongue darting in and out between his lips as he tried to catch sticklebacks.