Lawless

by Jessie Keane

  Suddenly Daisy became aware that her arm was sore, her knee was throbbing. Everything hurt. But the hot rage that had flooded through her had blanked it all out. Slowly, she came to. Saw the fright on the faces of her two tormentors. Julie was crying. Tessa was saying she’d get Daisy for this.

  She let them go. Doris was staring at her.

  ‘We’d better clear up this mess . . .’ said Doris, looking around her and then back at Daisy, like she’d never seen her before.

  ‘These two can do that. Can’t you, girls?’ said Daisy.

  ‘Don’t want anyone slipping on this, do we?’ asked Doris nervously. ‘Come on, Daisy, you can give us a hand . . .’

  ‘Actually, I can’t,’ said Daisy. She pulled off the Darkes uniform and threw it on the floor. Then she went straight up to Ruby’s office to tell her that she was done with working here – but Ruby had already gone home.

  Daisy piled gratefully into her Mini and headed back to Ruby’s place in Marlow. She saw Ruby’s Mercedes on the drive, saw the hose there and the moisture on the driveway. Rob was washing the car. She got out of the Mini, locked it, and went over to where Rob was, behind the Merc’s bonnet.

  ‘Hi . . .’ she started to say, then Reg straightened up, thirty years older than Rob, white-haired and pug-nosed and sporting a matching set of cauliflower ears from his days punching it out in the boxing ring.

  ‘Oh!’ she said in surprise.

  ‘Sorry, were you expecting Rob?’ he asked. ‘He’s helping Kit out, he had some jobs for him. I’ve taken over driving Ruby.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Daisy, her guts creased with disappointment. She’d had the day from hell, she was going to have to break it to Ruby that she was quitting the store, and now no Rob.

  ‘Will he be doing that for long?’ she asked.

  Reg shrugged. ‘Who knows.’

  ‘Oh. OK,’ said Daisy, feeling her heart sink all the way to her aching feet.

  Then her eyes fell on the other car parked up on the drive, a red BMW. Of course. Simon was bringing Jody the nanny and the twins back from their day with him. Daisy and Simon had argued about this – every conversation with Simon ended in an argument – but as usual he had won. Daisy thought the twins far too young to be removed from the familiarity of home. But of course, Simon disputed that.

  ‘They’re my kids,’ he’d raged. ‘And for God’s sake the nanny will be with them. One fucking day. Is that too much to ask, you bitch?’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said Reg, his eyes following hers. ‘Your husband’s here.’

  ‘Ex-husband,’ said Daisy, and trudged on indoors.

  29

  At first Maria had asked Tito to intervene, but Tito had been indifferent to her pleas.

  ‘Come between a man and his wife?’ he had scoffed at her. ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  A man and his wife. That phraseology told Maria everything she wanted to know about Tito’s attitude; that it wasn’t a mile away from Vittore’s own. Tito was dead now but it was clear what his opinion of women had been. The man was important: the wife was not. The wife was an appendage, to be treated as the man chose within the sanctity of marriage, within the privacy of his own four walls.

  The beatings were the worst thing. The pain and indignity. And he seemed to need to hurt her; only then could be become aroused enough to mount her. She knew how much Vittore wanted a family, kids – to prove himself a man, presumably – but she had got the Pill from her doctor and she’d been careful to take them, and even more careful to keep them hidden away in the little place behind the bath panel. But he’d found them, destroyed them. And he’d said he would kill her if he found any more, that it was a sin against the Catholic faith, against nature. Then he beat her again – more carefully this time, avoiding her face – to make her understand the error of her ways.

  The last thing she wanted was a child of his.

  Impotent anger boiled inside her. She started to spend his money feverishly, on things that didn’t matter, things she bought, unwrapped and then discarded, because it was a way of hurting him, of having some small revenge.

  And then she thought that there could be bigger, better vengeance against her hated husband. Not divorce, of course. They were Catholic: there could never be divorce. But there were other ways.

  So Maria went to Fabio. She knew the family all discounted Fab, thought him the weak, vain baby, not bright enough to run the family, and they all thanked God for Vittore, who was dull but sensible.

  Maria’s lip curled in instinctive dislike every time she so much as thought about her husband. She loathed everything about him: his square body, his dull, menacing brown eyes. The truth was, she’d never loved him. She married him because she needed a meal ticket, a way to escape her own miserable family background. Even back then, the very thought of him touching her made her want to puke. Not that he did that very often. He was hung like a worm and seemed to have little appetite for sex, except after he’d given her a beating – and she tried as best she could not to give him an excuse to do that.

  She had to bide her time, waiting until she was certain Vittore was busy about town and would not be home until late, and Bella was in her own part of the house watching TV – Bella never stirred in the evenings, thank God. Only then did she ask Fabio if they could have a talk.

  ‘A talk?’ said Fabio, astonished to be approached by Maria. She had always been the quiet dutiful little wife, always in Vittore’s shadow. At family gatherings, she barely uttered a word. And now she wanted to talk?

  Fabio had a lot of stuff going down. He didn’t have time for chats with Maria, he couldn’t see any advantage in it.

  ‘I’m busy . . .’ he started.

  ‘I know you are. Of course you are. I just need to speak to you, please, Fabio, on a family matter.’

  Family matter? He was puzzled. But she was family, and he was flattered. No one ever sought his opinion about anything.

  ‘Meet me tomorrow, in the park,’ he said.

  What would Vittore say if he knew she had been in contact with his younger brother about a family matter? He’d be seething mad about it, Fabio knew. And that appealed to him, the fact that he was going to lend a sympathetic ear to Maria over something she didn’t want to discuss with know-all Mama’s favourite Vittore.

  So he walked over to the park next day, and there she was – though he almost didn’t recognize her at first. Around the house, his sister-in-law was always close-mouthed, eyes permanently downcast. He barely noticed her; she was more part of the furniture than part of the family.

  But today she looked different.

  She’d done her hair, brushed it until it shone in the watery spring sunlight. She was wearing a little make-up and a form-fitting purple dress instead of the black shapeless garments she usually covered her body with.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ she said to him.

  Fabio had to admit that Maria was a nice-looking girl, although obviously cowed from her marriage to Vittore. He wondered about that, how it was with the two of them. Despite Mama’s objections to the union, the marriage seemed to have stuck. There were no children, true, but she seemed to be a devoted wife.

  But now, this. A secret meeting! He was intrigued.

  ‘Hi, Maria,’ he said, and sat down with her on a bench. ‘What’s all this about then?’

  Maria stared at his face. Then, unsmiling, she indicated her own. ‘It’s about this, Fab.’

  Fab peered at her cheek. Beneath the film of make-up, it looked faintly blue.

  ‘What? That bruise there? You fell against the fireplace, you said.’

  ‘I know. I lied.’

  Fabio frowned. ‘How did it happen, then?’

  Maria gulped down a breath. ‘Vito hit me. He hits me all the time.’

  ‘He what?’ This was the first Fabio had heard about it.

  She nodded. ‘It’s true.’

  Fabio was silent.

  ‘I asked Tito to have a word with him. He wouldn’t.’

/>   Fabio shrugged. ‘Maybe you should tell Mama. She has more say with Vittore than anyone.’

  ‘Mama Bella hates me. She always has. Do you think I don’t know that?’ Maria sniffed. ‘I think you’re a bigger man than your brother, Fabio. I think you could speak to Vittore for me, warn him off.’

  Fabio looked at her. He was flattered that she was confiding in him, but this wasn’t his business. If he dared speak to Vittore about it, Vittore would be livid. He had no intention of provoking his brother, knowing what he was like when he flew into one of his rages. Still, she had come to him; of course she had. He was getting to be a big man now, a businessman in his own right, and clearly she respected him enough to entrust him with this.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said. He’d do nothing.

  ‘You will?’ Maria smiled. She was really quite pretty, he thought.

  She reached out, put a small hand on his thigh. ‘You’re so nice,’ she said, smiling into his eyes.

  Things were really looking up.

  30

  Naples, 1947

  Astorre’s opportunity had come at last. Patience had triumphed. The baker Lattarullo was heard in his shop moaning about how when he took fresh bread into Corvetto’s compound every day, Corvetto always insisted on coming down to the kitchens and prodding the produce, asking, Is it stale? Are you bringing me yesterday’s bread, not fresh like I ordered?

  ‘The man’s a pig,’ said Lattarullo to anyone who would listen. ‘He insults me.’

  Bella, who’d been in the shop buying what little bread she could afford, went home and reported this to Astorre.

  Astorre knew that Lattarullo was a decent, hard-working man. He was also the widowed father of a beautiful daughter, whom he adored.

  It pained Astorre to do it. But he knew he had to, to avenge his dead father Franco’s soul. Here Tito played his part, spiriting the girl Luisa away to an isolated place, a little falling-down hut near the family’s home, and kept her there.

  Meanwhile, Astorre called upon the baker Lattarullo and told him that unless he performed a certain task on Astorre’s behalf, his daughter would be killed.

  The man started gabbling away, begging for his daughter’s safe return.

  ‘That is guaranteed,’ said Astorre, making calming motions with his hands. The poor bastard was doomed, he just didn’t know it yet. ‘All will be well, I promise you. But first you have to do something for me.’

  Lattarullo passed a desperate night in his bakery, Astorre standing at his side. The baker worked, kneading the dough, flour misting the air. All the time he prayed for his child to be returned to him unharmed.

  ‘She’ll be fine,’ said Astorre. ‘So long as you do this for me.’

  In the morning, as usual, Lattarullo drove out to the Corvetto compound in his truck, the covered section at the back piled high with bread for all the estate workers. The guards let him in, holding the snarling dogs tight on their leashes.

  ‘Go on up,’ said one, grinning and grabbing a loaf out from under the cover, pulling it apart, eating. Then he paused. ‘Hold on,’ he said, and he went around the back of the truck and poked hard at the covers. Then again and again, each poke more vicious than the last.

  Lattarullo’s heart was in his mouth.

  ‘You’ll damage the goods,’ he warned, his voice trembling, sweat pouring down his brow as the day’s heat intensified.

  The guard drew back with a grin. ‘Go on. Up you go.’

  Lattarullo drove up to the house, parked in his usual spot outside the kitchen door. He switched off the engine with a shaking hand, took his basket and threw back the cover at the rear of the truck. He piled bread into the basket, his eyes furtive as they moved left and right. Another guard holding a rifle lingered by the door, watching him.

  ‘All right, my friend? Hot day, uh?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lattarullo unsteadily.

  He took the basket filled with bread into the kitchen. There was the cook, smiling a welcome, her fat black lapdog at her feet as usual. The dog got up at Lattarullo’s entrance and hobbled bow-legged toward him.

  And here came Corvetto, bustling in from the hall, slapping the baker on the shoulder, taking up a loaf from the basket. Lattarullo felt so terrified now, so overwhelmed at what was required of him, that he thought he might faint.

  ‘These are fresh today, huh?’ Corvetto asked, his gaze teasing and offensive to a craftsman such as Lattarullo. Of course the bread was fresh. It was the finest in Napoli.

  ‘Yes, fresh,’ said Lattarullo. His mind was full of Luisa, his beautiful girl; he was doing this for her.

  Corvetto tore a hunk from the loaf and popped it into his grinning mouth. He chewed thoughtfully. Then he coughed. The cook poured water from the carafe and pushed it towards him, on the kitchen table. Corvetto coughed again, swigged some of the water.

  ‘Are you—’ started the cook, but she didn’t finish the sentence.

  Lattarullo drew the knife out of his pocket. He’d honed it last night, for just this purpose.

  My lovely Luisa, he thought. After he did this, he would be dead, but she would be safe at least. He had Astorre’s word on that.

  With a desperate shriek, he drove the knife in an upstroke into Corvetto’s fat neck. Lattarullo had strong hands from his work in the bakery, and he used that strength now to pull the blade across. Blood spurted out in an arterial jet from the rapidly opening wound and Corvetto fell back, his mouth gaping wide, the remnants of Lattarullo’s bread falling out of it. Blood poured from his mouth and drenched his clothes. Lattarullo was spattered in blood, so was the cook and her dog, the walls, the table, the ceiling.

  The cook screamed. The dog started barking, a high panicky sound. Corvetto fell to the floor, gasping uselessly, his windpipe sliced in two, his eyes wide open in terror. He could see his own life ebbing away as the blood pulsed out of his throat. His hands pawed at the wound, as if he could stop the flow; he couldn’t. The cook said afterwards that you could see in his eyes that he knew it.

  The guard ran in from outside the kitchen door, alerted by the woman’s screams and the dog’s wild barking. He saw Lattarullo standing there with the bloodied knife in his hand.

  Luisa, thought Lattarullo.

  The guard raised the rifle, and shot him in the head. The baker fell dead across Corvetto’s body.

  Soon, Corvetto let out one last wheezing groan. He was dead too. Finally, Astorre’s revenge was complete.

  31

  Simon was in the small sitting room at the front of the Victorian villa, and the look on Ruby’s face when Daisy entered told her that Ruby wasn’t sorry for the interruption at all.

  ‘We have the Dubai contract now, so we’re rammed right up to next year,’ Simon was telling Daisy’s mother in his usual bragging tones. ‘Oh – Daisy,’ he said, getting to his feet. He came over and kissed his ex-wife’s cheek.

  She hated him kissing her cheek. She wished he would just vanish from the planet, but he was the twins’ father.

  He was still an attractive man, actually rather sexy – short, squat, powerfully built, with his thick russet-red hair and sharp hazel eyes. But his too-quick temper was betrayed by his high facial colour.

  The Red Dwarf, people called him, and it suited him: he could kick off in spectacular style. A late order, a missed dinner, a mistake on an invoice, a misheard conversation. Anything would do it.

  ‘How are you, sweetheart?’ he asked.

  I’m not your damned sweetheart, thought Daisy, teeth gritted.

  ‘Fine,’ she said.

  Ruby shot her a sympathetic look. Ruby knew exactly how Daisy felt about her ex.

  ‘I was telling your mother about the new contract,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I heard. Well done for that. Has Jody taken the twins upstairs, Mum?’ asked Daisy, wanting an excuse to get away from him.

  When Ruby nodded, Daisy said: ‘Good, I’ll go on up.’

  Jody was getting the twins into the bath,
and for a while the misery of Daisy’s day was forgotten amid the splashes and laughs as the babies were bathed, fed and then put to bed. When she heard Simon’s BMW being driven away, Daisy headed downstairs. Ruby was closing the front door. She smiled at Daisy and linked her arm through her daughter’s as they went back into the sitting room.

  ‘It’s always so quiet the minute he’s gone,’ sighed Ruby. ‘He seems to suck the air out of a room, doesn’t he? What an exhausting man. Drink, Daisy?’ she offered. Ruby always had a sherry after work: she’d earned it, after all.

  Into Daisy’s mind came a vision of Kit, spark-out drunk on the sofa. She’d never been an angel: her youth had been full of reckless rebellion, so much so that she’d scared herself. Only when she’d been reunited as an adult with her mother had she found any peace.

  ‘No thanks,’ she said.

  ‘How’s Kit?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘He’s going to take a break,’ she said. ‘I think he needs it.’

  ‘Good for him,’ said Ruby. She was hurt that Kit hadn’t phoned to let her know what he was doing, but at least a break would get him clear of Vittore, and that was a good thing. She stood up. ‘Come on, I’m starving. Let’s sort out dinner.’

  ‘Mum?’ said Daisy.

  ‘Hm?’

  Oh what the hell. Best to just come out with it.

  ‘I’ve quit the store.’

  Simon drove to his home deep in the pitch-dark Berkshire countryside, his mood lifting as he turned the BMW into the drive. He loved his house. It was big, white, impressive. Daisy had hated it, called it The Mausoleum, said it was miles from anywhere and cold as the Arctic tundra. No matter. Daisy was the past, anyway. Of course he would like to meet someone new, someone who could be a proper mother to his twins, not like her. Some lovely docile woman who adored being at home, who would be there waiting for him at the end of the day with the house all warm and welcoming, a hot meal cooked, ready to listen to his woes; that was his dream.

  As he pulled up outside the garage block he gave a sharp sigh, seeing the house in total darkness. No warm, accommodating woman waiting for him. He’d heat something up himself, or maybe not bother, just grab a whisky and a sandwich. In the headlights he could see that the damned gardener had left one of the garage doors open again; he had told the bloody man about that on more than one occasion; there were thieves even out here, and some valuable stuff was stored in the garage. Why didn’t the fool listen?