Lawless

by Jessie Keane

  ‘Because you’d lost your husband not too long before?’

  ‘Because of that, yes. It was considerate of him, I thought.’

  ‘And that’s all?’ asked Rob.

  Vanessa turned her hands up. ‘What other reason could there possibly be?’

  ‘They’re gone then,’ said Ivan, Vanessa’s gardener, coming to the French doors ten minutes later.

  Vanessa smiled at him – small, whip-thin, red-bearded Ivan. He’d been with her for years and she was very fond of him. Fonder, truth be told, than she had ever been of big handsome blond Cornelius, her husband.

  ‘Yes – they’re gone.’

  ‘And they believed what you said?’

  ‘They seemed to.’

  ‘Good.’ He paused. ‘So . . . do you think they’ll come back?’

  ‘No. Why should they?’

  67

  1953

  Tito dropped Gabe off at his parents’ house, where he still lived.

  ‘You keep this quiet, yes?’ said Tito, giving him one last icy glinting glance. ‘This is never mentioned, capisce?’

  Gabriel nodded. He went indoors, into his father’s house, and his mother Sheila was out somewhere, he didn’t know where but he was glad because he knew she would see something was wrong the instant she laid eyes on him.

  The first thing he did was take a bath. Try to wash the whole horrible episode off. He scrubbed at his skin with a nail brush until it was a vivid, angry pink, scrubbing harder and harder, more and more desperately, but it was no good, still he could see it, could see Tito doing it, and the little girl at first silent – and wasn’t there a word for that, wasn’t it catatonic? – and then smiling up at him so trustingly. Finally he sat there in the bath and just cried. He’d always thought of himself as tough, a bit of a handful, but Christ he was nothing compared to Tito. Tito was a fucking psycho.

  Bella would never forget the day when Tito put the little girl in her arms. She was sitting at the kitchen table and he walked in carrying the child, the most beautiful child she had ever seen. Silver-white hair and huge turquoise eyes. Dressed in a little white frilly skirt, sandals and a pink jacket.

  Seven-year-old Fabio, leaning against the table, stared curiously at the little girl.

  ‘Fabby!’ said Bella sharply. ‘Go out and play now. Go on!’

  Sulkily, Fabio did as he was told. The little girl let out a cry, held up her hands to Tito.

  ‘No, bambina, this is your mama, your new mama,’ he said, and she looked at Bella. Bella stared back at her, a tremulous smile on her face.

  ‘She’s so beautiful,’ said Bella in wonder. ‘Where did you . . . ?’ Then Bella stopped herself. She had instigated this; she had wanted a daughter, and now she had one. A shiver of guilt, of apprehension, shuddered through her, but she squashed it. She was not about to question the good luck that had brought her such fortune.

  ‘What are you going to call her?’ asked Tito.

  Bella looked at the girl, who was clutching with tiny perfect hands into the front of Bella’s dress. ‘She’s so white. Pale, and all this white hair. So pretty. I’ll call her the white one. I’ll call her Bianca.’

  Now Bella’s eyes moved on. She was frowning at the small bloodstain on the pink jacket. She looked up at Tito.

  ‘Ask no questions, Mama,’ he said sternly. ‘When you’ve got her some new clothes you burn that, all right? And you’ll have to tell Fabby and Vittore that the adoption came through at last.’

  ‘And other people? The neighbours? Our friends?’

  Tito shrugged. ‘Tell them the same. If anyone pries, I’ll sort it. Not that they will.’

  Bella nodded dazedly. No one questioned the Danieri family over their way of life or what happened in their household. You didn’t ever look too closely at what they did. It would be dangerous.

  ‘Beautiful little Bianca,’ said Bella, stroking the child’s pale hair.

  Tito withdrew. He had to get rid of the Jeep. He’d done his part, and now Mama would be satisfied. The girl whimpered when he left the room, but Mama Bella soothed her.

  68

  ‘Well, what other reason could there be for Michael calling her ladyship?’ Kit asked Rob when they were in the car and heading down the drive, Brayfield’s massive bulk disappearing into the distance behind them.

  ‘Don’t tell me you reckon she was telling the truth?’ Rob shook his head. ‘Can you honestly see Michael arsing around making courtesy calls to some inbred aristo? He hated Cornelius Bray’s guts for the way the bastard treated Ruby. And as for “her ladyship”, that damned woman took Daisy off Ruby – d’you think for one moment Michael would have much to say to her?’

  ‘Seriously? No.’

  Rob was shaking his head as Kit turned into the lane, big froths of cream cow parsley crowding in on either side of them. There was a glimpse of the cress beds as the Bentley shot over the bridge and then they were heading into Brayfield village. Rob thought it was all too quaintly country, with its thatched cottages and its stream with ducks lazing on the grassy bank in the sunshine. It looked like something off a chocolate box.

  ‘I can’t believe Daisy grew up in that place,’ said Rob.

  Kit shot Rob a look. Rich people were ‘nobs’ to Rob, and he mocked them mercilessly, often putting on a cuttingly accurate imitation ‘posh’ accent. He never did it when he was around Daisy, Kit noticed, but Rob’s council-estate upbringing and the staunch lower-class ethics of his parents had clearly left a mark.

  Kit wondered whether he should say anything, and then thought what the hell. This was Rob, his oldest pal. And Daisy was his sister, his twin.

  ‘Daisy likes you a lot,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I think she thought you liked her too.’

  Rob looked at Kit. ‘I do like her.’

  ‘So . . . ?’

  ‘So what? It’s not going anywhere, is it?’ He gestured over his shoulder. ‘Come on, mate, get real. Look at that fucking place. That’s where she came from.’

  ‘No,’ said Kit. ‘If you’re going to be picky about it, she was born in the East End like me, she was illegitimate like me, and Ruby’s dad – our granddad Ted – ran a corner shop. That’s Daisy’s real background.’

  ‘Come on. She grew up in a stately home.’

  ‘Daisy’s a diamond.’

  ‘I know that. But—’

  ‘You don’t think it can go anywhere, you and her,’ finished Kit.

  ‘How can it? Look, what am I? I break heads for a living, I used to mind Ruby. That’s all I am, that’s what I do. Have you any idea what it would be like, trying to introduce Daisy to my family? They’d laugh their heads off at her. And at me.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘You know it’s true.’

  Kit didn’t see that it mattered where Daisy had been brought up or how posh she spoke, but to Rob it was obviously a problem. Which, come to think of it, made Rob the snob – not Daisy, who happily mixed in with anyone. But he could see it was no good pushing Rob into a corner on this.

  ‘I met a girl,’ said Kit when the silence deepened as he drove them back towards London.

  ‘Oh?’ Rob looked at him with interest.

  ‘Her name’s Bianca. She dresses in white. She’s got this platinum blonde hair and she’s pale-skinned with these big blue eyes and a fantastic body.’

  ‘Right . . .’ Rob paused, waiting for Kit to go on. Kit didn’t. ‘And . . . ?’ Rob prompted him at last.

  Kit knew he could tell Rob anything, anything at all, and Rob would listen, sympathize – and then do whatever was necessary to ensure his mate was protected from any comebacks. But this . . .

  ‘I met her in Southampton. She runs a club there at the Back of the Walls – Dante’s.’

  ‘That’s why you took so long coming back?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘You keeping in touch then?’

  Kit flicked a glance at Rob. Ah shit, he thought.

&nbs
p; ‘She was adopted,’ he said.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘An Italian immigrant family adopted her after they came to England.’

  ‘OK.’

  Kit let out a sharp breath. ‘Astorre and Bella Danieri adopted her.’

  Rob was silent for long moments. Then he turned his head and stared at Kit. ‘You what?’

  ‘I had no idea, OK? You know how it is when you’re screwing around, having fun? That’s how it started. I thought it was a quick fuck and then goodbye. Jump on, smash the life out of it, sorted. I gave her a false name.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  ‘Only, as soon as I’d done that, I realized there was something more going on.’

  ‘No . . .’ Rob was shaking his head again, and now he raised his shovel-like hands and clutched at his temples and shut his eyes and said: ‘Tell me you’re not doing this. Tell me you’re not even thinking of doing this.’

  Kit was silent.

  ‘She’ll find out who you are. As soon as she connects Kit Miller with you, what the fuck’s she going to think then? Kit – you killed Tito. You killed her brother. This is a bloody disaster, mate.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘She don’t know yet though? She don’t know who you are?’

  ‘She saw us in Vito’s the other night. She knows I’m Kit Miller.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Rob half-turned in his seat and stared at Kit. ‘Listen, you got to stop this. You got to step away from this girl, right now. Or I tell you, Vittore and Fabio will rip your guts out and serve them up fried if they find out that you and her . . . You haven’t met up with her again since you’ve been back, have you? She been up here? You been jumping on her bones again?’

  Kit nodded.

  ‘Shit. Shit. Shit.’ Rob thumped his head against the leather headrest three times. ‘Kit, listen to me, for the love of God. This has got to stop.’

  ‘I know,’ said Kit.

  ‘Good. I’m glad you know.’

  Kit sighed. He knew Rob was right. But still . . . he was going to see Bianca tonight, and Rob wouldn’t know a damned thing about it. He was sucking the last of the sweetness out of the situation before it all turned sour. Which it would; he knew that. The whole enterprise was doomed. There was no getting away from the fact.

  ‘So. What we doing now?’ asked Rob.

  ‘Ruby got an address for this Gabe Ward character.’

  ‘Where’d she get that?’

  ‘An old associate of Michael’s, she said.’

  ‘Right.’ Rob looked bemused. It wasn’t like Ruby, hanging around dodgy types. She’d made an exception for Michael, but then Michael Ward had been an exceptional man. ‘So . . . ?’

  ‘I thought we’d pay the little tick a visit,’ said Kit.

  69

  1953

  ‘There’s something the matter with Gabe,’ Sheila told Michael a week after Gabe’s return.

  Michael looked at her. ‘What?’

  ‘Your son, Gabe,’ said Sheila with a sigh.

  These Englishmen, they were so taciturn, so unfeeling. She was Italian by birth, she’d come over to England before the war. Her name had been Serafina then, but after her parents died she had adopted the more English-sounding name, Sheila. And she had met and married Michael, a well-to-do businessman, and they had a son.

  Sheila was warmer, more intuitive than Michael – she was Italian, after all – and she loved her son Gabe with a passion. Oh, Sheila knew he was troubled, she knew that he had been getting on his father’s nerves, pushing the boundaries as young men liked to do, testing himself, challenging his father’s rule. All of which was perfectly natural. But none of it had gone down well with Michael.

  ‘What’s he up to now?’ asked Michael, putting the evening paper aside. It was all fucking trouble anyway. After the excitement of the Coronation, it was business as usual: doom and disasters and moans about the state of the economy. There were earthquakes and tidal waves in the Greek islands, the Ruskies were accelerating the arms race and the French were threatening a general strike.

  Sheila was looking awkward.

  ‘What?’ asked Michael, watching her face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I wasn’t supposed to tell you,’ she said.

  ‘Tell me what?’

  ‘You know he went away for a couple of weeks with a friend . . . ?’

  ‘Jesus, what’s he been up to now?’ Michael was fed up with this. His son was not a son to be proud of. He cheated, he lied, he was into the most pathetic kinds of petty thievery and ran around getting girls into trouble, and he ought to know better. Michael had spent a lot of time over the past four or five years bailing Gabe out of silly situations, and he was sick of it. The boy was nineteen now, and Michael was wondering when the fuck the little idiot was going to grow up.

  ‘I shouldn’t tell you . . .’ said Sheila.

  ‘Well, you’ve told me half of it already, you may as well tell me the rest. What is it?’

  Sheila’s eyes came back to his face. ‘He was with Tito,’ she said quickly, making rapid calm-down motions with her hands. ‘Now don’t get angry. Gabe’s really upset. Whatever Tito was up to, it wasn’t good. It’s knocked Gabe for six. But he won’t tell me about it.’

  Michael felt his temper flare. He tossed the paper aside. ‘For fuck’s sake! I told him to stay away from Tito. Tito’s bad news, I warned him.’

  ‘Please don’t lose your temper. The boy’s badly shaken, and he won’t tell me what’s happened. Perhaps you could talk to him . . . ?’

  I’d rather throttle the little bastard, thought Michael, but he tried to cool down for Sheila’s sake. His private opinion was that Gabe was no good and never would be. But he’d never say as much to his wife.

  ‘I’ll talk to him,’ he said.

  ‘And no shouting?’

  Michael almost smiled at that. ‘No shouting,’ he promised.

  But that was before he heard the ghastly details about Gabe’s road trip with Tito.

  70

  Gabe Ward’s bedsit was out in Bermondsey, not too far from the Rotherhithe Tunnel. It was one of a big skyscraper block of flats near the vast sprawl of the river. The lift was out of order and there was graffiti scrawled all up the piss-stinking stairs. Kit and Rob trudged up to the sixth floor, along the draughty rubbish-strewn walkway, ducking here and there under washing lines and stepping over half-dead pot plants.

  ‘Fucking tip,’ commented Rob as they arrived at Gabe’s door.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Kit. Ward lived in a shit-hole. And it reminded Kit painfully of some of the God-awful dumps he’d stayed in as a child. Not happy memories.

  Kit looked at the doorbell, which was hanging off, wires still attached. He knocked on the door. It was scratched at the bottom as if an animal had been trying to gain entry. It could have used a coat of paint. In fact the entire block could have been considerably improved if someone were to knock the damned thing down and start again, from scratch.

  They could hear a TV going inside the flat. Then there was movement, near the door.

  ‘Who is it?’ It was a male voice, quavering with nerves.

  ‘Council maintenance,’ Kit replied. It sounded thin, on a Saturday, but what the hell.

  The door opened, just a crack. A pair of wide bloodshot eyes in an unshaven face looked out at them. There was a chain on the door. Gabe took one look at Kit and Rob standing there and tried to shut the door again, but Rob was faster; he shouldered it, and the chain popped out of its moorings with a tired crunch.

  Gabe fell back and now they could see he had a knife in his hand. Inside, the flat looked no better than the outside. There was a dirty old sofa, a carpet stained from years of use. The smell in here was rank, musty. There was a piece of brownish foil on the coffee table, and a spoon and the sickly scent of burning.

  Druggie, thought Kit.

  ‘Don’t be silly. You’re going to hurt yourself with that,’ said Rob, grabbing the hand with the knife in it and smacking Gabe u
pside the jaw. Gabe went down hard. Rob took the knife off him and tucked it into his belt.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ moaned Gabe, clutching his chin.

  ‘Oh, I think you know the answer to that. And just in case you don’t, listen up. I’m Kit Miller,’ said Kit, dragging Gabe back to his feet and slamming him hard against the wall beside the TV. He stared into Gabe’s eyes. ‘You got something you want to say to me?’

  ‘I . . . wha . . . ?’ Gabe’s mouth was seeping blood where Rob had cuffed him. He looked bewildered, terrified.

  ‘Sorry would be a start. An apology for shoving your ugly mug in my sister’s face and trying to get my mother’s address off her. That wasn’t nice.’

  ‘Wait—’

  ‘You got anything to say, you say it to me. I been hearing you’re not happy with my situation. That’s tough. Understandable but tough.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Listen, cunt.’ Kit shook Gabe. ‘Did I ask you to speak?

  No. So just listen. Your dad trusted me. We were close. He wanted me to benefit when he wasn’t here any longer. That was his decision. I didn’t force it. I couldn’t. You and him, you fell out years ago. Now you come around here, wanting what I’ve worked for, slaved for, poking your stupid nose in where it’s not wanted, frightening my sister, thinking you’re going to be allowed to throw a scare into my mother – you cheeky little prick.’

  Gabe was silent now, panting, blood trickling down and dripping onto the front of his shirt. He was shaking like a sick old man.

  ‘You got something to say then?’ asked Kit, while Rob stood by, watching.

  ‘Have you?’ Kit jammed his fist further into Gabe’s throat.

  ‘No. No!’ Gabe wheezed out. ‘Don’t, you’re . . .’

  ‘Throttling you?’ Kit suggested. ‘Listen, you turd, come near my family again and I won’t play at this like I’m doing now, you got me? I’ll finish the fucking job – and you with it.’

  Kit stared at Gabe. This had frightened Daisy? All he saw was a pathetic wreck, more to be pitied than anything else. He let Gabe go, and the man sank down onto the grubby floor and stayed there.