by Jessie Keane
They had no money and they were three weeks behind with the rent. One of the few things they’d hung on to from their old life was Mum’s battered Singer sewing machine, and for the first few months Kathleen had got by taking in dressmaking work, never bringing her clients here – of course not – but going out to do fittings and deliveries. The last few weeks, however, Kathleen had been too ill to even lift a needle.
They couldn’t turn to the neighbours for help, either.
‘You mustn’t talk to anyone,’ Kathleen had told her children when they’d moved in here.
Clara had been mystified by this to begin with. It took her a while to understand that all the big terraced houses along this street and the adjacent ones had been greedily parcelled up into flats and let out by uncaring landlords, mostly to migrants and their white ‘girlfriends’, who were prostitutes whose wages the men lived off. Late into the night there were fights, music played full-volume, people loitering in groups, smoking and grinning on the stinking stairs as they tried to pass, watching the family who occupied the top floor as though they were prey.
This, truly, was a nightmare. Clara had heard of such things, but she had never dreamed she’d see them close-up. This place – the furnished flat Kathleen had assured her eldest daughter would be the answer to their newly homeless state – was hell: red-hot in summer, freezing in winter, and there was never any peace. The basement of their building had been turned into an illegal cellar-club where people could gather to smoke marijuana and gamble day and night. The Dolans had to share a squalid, filthy toilet two floors down with everyone else in the block, and it was a battle just to get down there and back without being stopped or asked for cash or manhandled.
And the flat itself was no haven from the squalor. The walls were green with damp, old wallpaper peeling off and hanging in brown mouldering strips from every corner, cockroaches scuttling around in the rotting floorboards beside the skirting board. All the Dolans’ own beautiful furniture had been seized by bailiffs before the eviction order was served, so they had to make do with the stuff that came with this ‘furnished’ sweatbox. The stained mattresses reeked of piss and were crawling with bugs. The bedside cabinets were empty orange boxes with bits of fabric tacked onto them. The previous occupants must have had a dog or a cat, because soon after they moved in Henry developed flea-bites all round his ankles.
Kathleen had rented this flat because she’d had no choice: it was the only one they could afford. Now, they couldn’t even afford this. It had got to the stage where they kept the front door firmly locked at night and daren’t answer it by day, knowing it would either be someone wanting to rob them of what little they had, or the never-never man wanting payment for items Kathleen had bought on tick. Or, worst of the lot, Frank Hatton.
Clara shuddered. Hatton. Last week Kathleen had been too sick to deal with the repulsive, bristle-chinned old thug when he showed up at their front door to collect the rent money, so Clara had reluctantly answered the door and told him that they had a few problems but would pay him in full next week.
‘Promise?’ leered Hatton. He wore a battered brown leather coat and he had an Alsatian, mad-eyed and with thick black-and-tan fur, on a stout lead at his side. Round here, Clara reckoned he daren’t go out without the damned thing or else someone would rip his teeth out and sell them for dentures. The dog was snarling. It looked like it wanted to tear Clara’s throat out. She thought that if Hatton let it go for a second, it would do just that.
Clara hated the way Hatton’s eyes roamed over her; it felt disgusting, like having a slug crawling over your skin.
‘A pretty girl like you need never starve, you know,’ he’d said. ‘Well, I suppose you do know. You must.’
Clara felt her face stiffen with distaste. She knew she was a striking girl, with her black hair, white skin and violet-blue eyes. Men had propositioned her before. But he was old enough to be her granddad.
‘Tuesday,’ she said, and shut the door in his face.
‘Three o’clock, I’ll be here!’ he shouted.
Clara leaned against the door, feeling sick, her heart hammering, her mind chasing around in never-ending circles. They were trapped here and they would all die here, in poverty and in fear. They were in hell, and there was no way out.
2
Soho, 1953
Lenny Lynch looked at his flashy gold watch as he stood at the bar in the Blue Banana club. The place was packed, everyone having a good time, playing chemmy and poker. Eartha Kitt was pouring out sultry vocals on the turntable, singing ‘C’est Si Bon’; Lenny didn’t know what that meant, but he guessed it was something sexual, something hot.
It was almost time.
Pet an animal too much, feed it too well, and eventually, the thing’s going to turn and bite you on the arse. Simple common sense. Dogs, women, men – they were all the same in this respect, Lenny knew it for a fact. But . . . what could you do? He’d always had a soft spot for Marcus Redmayne.
Lenny studied his reflection in the mirrors behind the optics. Poor old cunt, he thought, half-laughing to himself – or trying to, anyway. All the Brylcreem in the world couldn’t hide his thinning hair, all the costly wet shaves and hottowel head massages at Trumper’s couldn’t disguise the fleshy pouches around his bloodshot blue eyes, or the way gravity and time were pulling the sides of his mouth down. His shirt was expensive, his suit bespoke, Savile Row, the best. But, come on, let’s face the music and dance, shall we? I’m old, he thought. And now he felt tired and sad, too, because it had reached the point where something had to be done about Marcus, something drastic.
And it would be done tonight. He’d already arranged it.
‘Put me another one in there, would you, sweetheart?’ He handed his empty glass to Delilah, a statuesque Nigerian beauty in her forties who for years had managed this Soho basement bar for him. She tended the bar naked but for a pair of thigh-high black leather boots, as was her usual rather startling practice.
Lenny looked around. The place was busy for a Monday, full of English, Americans and Italians – all sorts of scum in here since the war – most of them playing at the gaming tables, and he’d take a cut from every winning pot. The tarty-looking hostesses with their hard acquisitive eyes and ready smiles were giggling and flirting while serving the punters overpriced drinks and anything else they fancied.
‘You a bit down, m’boy,’ Delilah purred, eyeing him up. ‘Troubles?’
Lenny thought about confiding in her, then bit his tongue. Delilah was one of the people, his old trusted people, who had put the finger on Marcus, saying he’d been coming in here with that scrawny sidekick of his, checking out the books, acting like she was scooping off some of the honey for herself, which of course she would never do. Delilah had been outraged by this implication, by the mere suggestion that she would ever take from Lenny Lynch. And Lenny was, too. There were lots of complaints coming in about Marcus now, half of Soho was in uproar.
‘You know what, Lenny boy? You want to sort that pup Marcus out afore he bite you,’ said Delilah, reading his thoughts.
Lenny looked at her, startled. But she was right. Delilah was a wise woman. Lenny watched her swagger away to the optics at the back of the bar. Once upon a time, that black arse jiggling around the place would have excited him. In the past, he’d romped happily with Delilah in the back room. Now? Forget it. He was limp as a windsock on a dull day.
Delilah refilled Lenny’s glass and turned back to the bar with a broad smile, but inside she was furious. Fucking Marcus Redmayne, sticking his nose in things that didn’t concern him, coming in here like a frigging accountant, checking the stock, examining the books, asking questions like she was a damned criminal. She’d run this bar for Lenny ten years now, right through the war and everything – of course she dipped in now and then, didn’t everyone? Lenny wouldn’t mind, even if he knew; she was sure of that. Not that he did know, and she was never going to tell him, but if Marcus would only back off and let well
alone, everything would go on as normal and things would be just fine.
She had put the word out around Lenny’s other clubs, and sure enough Marcus had been in most of them, checking over things, asking questions. He was all over the place like a fucking rash, she was sick of that boy. Hiding her irritation, she sauntered back to the bar, working it hard, doing her utmost to make ol’ Lenny’s cock stand up – if it still could, which she very much doubted. All the same, she had to try, because that was the way she’d always kept Lenny off-balance in the past, using sex to keep him sweet. But it was obvious he wasn’t up for it tonight. He was too busy staring at his watch. In fact he’d been flicking glances at it all evening.
‘Something going down?’ she asked him.
Startled, Lenny looked up. He seemed almost surprised to see her there.
‘Eleven o’clock,’ he sighed. ‘Got some boys doin’ a job.’
Delilah’s attention sharpened. ‘Would that something involve Marcus?’
Lenny nodded.
Well, thank fuck for that, thought Delilah.
Lenny could tell that Delilah was happy Marcus was going to get it in the neck. No doubt about it, she was a gorgeous girl. But right now . . . not even Delilah’s prodigious big-nippled tits, swaying teasingly in front of him like two overfilled balloons, were doing it for him. Smirking, she placed his drink on the bar. He downed it in one, just as he had the one before. He knew he’d pay for it later. Once he’d been a ten pints a night boy, but he was too long in the tooth for all that shit now. One whisky was his limit. Two gave him heartburn. Three had him up and down to the bog the whole night long.
He looked around. The Blue Banana was an important part of his little empire. No one owned all of Soho, but he prided himself that a good portion of it belonged to him. In addition to the Blue Banana, he had the Blue Heaven, the Blue Bird, and the Calypso. And then there was the property he had dotted about London: flats in Notting Hill and Houndsditch, stuffed with all sorts, most of them running prossies. Since he’d edged out all the decent working-class families that used to live there, he was pulling in a fucking fortune.
As for Soho, it had been a battleground since the war, with the whites, the Maltese and a few Italians all wrestling for control. So far, Lenny had come out on top. He had the best troops, the best men. And Marcus was the best of the lot, his right hand, his wingman. Or at least he had been, until the rumours started up, until it all began to turn sour.
Lenny hadn’t wanted to believe any of it. At first, he’d refused to. He was the one who’d taken the boy off the streets, groomed him, made him into a man. They’d grown close. He’d spent a fortune on Marcus, sorted him out with a house, a wardrobe of decent suits, all the whores he could fuck. They’d drunk together, fought together, and slowly, inch by inch, Lenny had sat back, relaxed a little, let Marcus take the reins.
You fucking fool, he told himself.
Truth was, he was getting tired. Truth was, he was getting bloody old. He was sixty-eight now, past retirement age, and sometimes it seemed easier to let Marcus take the strain off, let him handle the active stuff. Marcus was a young blood of twenty-two, sharp as a tack and handy in a fight, he could take it.
Oh yeah, he can take it, he’s taken you for a cunt, after all.
Lenny sighed and drained his glass. He looked around at the punters, the girls, and felt weariness overwhelm him. He’d put things in motion, and he felt sad to the depths of his soul about it.
Why’d you do it, Marcus? Wasn’t I always good to you?
But Lenny was no fool. He knew this was the natural order of things. It was inevitable that a leader of men, growing into his strength, would try to take over. It was the same in the animal kingdom. Like those stags he’d seen when he was up in Scotland that time, doing a bit of business: the old ones got pushed out to die alone, the younger, stronger ones became the new rulers. It was nature.
Once, he and Marcus had practically been mates. Buddies. But no more. The young whelp had turned on its master, trying to drive a wedge between Lenny and his old and trusted friends, accusing them of cheating him. Lenny had confronted one or two of them, asked was there any truth in it. Wounded by these groundless accusations, they’d asked him, was he blind? Couldn’t he see what that fucker was up to? Couldn’t he see that the cunt was trying to push him over the edge? It was all a ploy to isolate him so that he could shove him out of the way and take over.
Lenny Lynch knew they were telling the truth. But he was a fighter, always had been. He looked at his watch again. It was time. Eleven o’clock, and goodbye Marcus. It was all set up. Old he might be, but Lenny wasn’t ready to retire from the game just yet, he wasn’t ready to give in and get out. He was going to fight, and fight dirty, to keep his place at the top of the heap. And Marcus was about to learn that Lenny Lynch still had teeth. Bloody great sharp ones.
3
Monday lunchtime, and the doctor still hadn’t come and neither had the district nurse. Leaving Clara with no choice but to go out.
‘Don’t,’ begged Bernie, afraid of being left in the flat without Clara to take charge. Clara was always in charge. In any emergency, they all turned to her, even Mum; they all turned to cool, level-headed Clara.
‘You’ll be fine,’ said Clara, and hoped it was true. With Hatton due to call at three o’clock tomorrow, she had to find the money to pay him, else they would be thrown out onto the streets and then what would become of them?
‘Don’t open the door to anyone except me, the doctor or the nurse,’ ordered Clara.
‘Please don’t be long,’ pleaded Bernie, eyes wide, teeth chattering with fright.
Poor Bernie, thought Clara. Her little sister had delicate nerves, and it was easy to see that the poor kid was in shreds. The slightest thing sent her into a panic – a sudden noise downstairs, the rent man’s heavy knock at the door.
‘I won’t.’ Clara patted her sister’s shoulder reassuringly, feeling wretched. At nine years old, Bernie shouldn’t have to go through all this. And then there was little Henry, holding on to Bernie as he always seemed to since Dad had run out on them – only seven, and abandoned by his father and with his mother in labour. Poor little bastard.
Clara took Dad’s Hunter watch – one of the few things he’d left behind – and hurried down to ‘Loot Alley’. For over an hour she stood there on the pavement outside the Exchange Buildings in Cutler Street, shivering and stamping her feet against the freezing cold and drizzling rain, holding out the watch hopefully to anyone who passed by, but no one seemed to be interested in buying watches. They were buying Voigtlander cameras, nylons, cosmetics – anything but watches. Not even one with a handsome brass Prince Albert chain attached to it, not even for a few measly shillings.
‘Well, it ain’t the real thing, is it, dearie?’ one elderly man said to her with a condescending smile. ‘That chain’s not gold – not even nine carat.’
People glanced at her standing there, then looked away, walked on. Plenty of other, better things to see. She shivered, hugging herself to keep warm, hunching her head down into her shoulders.
‘Little Clara Dolan ain’t it?’ said a voice.
Clara looked up and her heart sank to her boots; it was Frank Hatton the rent collector, his Alsatian on its stout leash at his side.
Shit, she thought.
‘Just selling off a few things,’ she said, as casually as she could. ‘Old things, things we don’t want.’
He nodded, half-smiling. Clara stepped away from that horrible great dog, which was straining against its leash, lunging at her with its massive fangs.
‘Shut up, Attila, you berk,’ Hatton snapped, jerking its chain. He looked at Clara. ‘What’s that – a watch? Your dad’s, is it?’ He reached out, touched it. Clara flinched. He saw her reaction, and frowned. ‘Don’t look worth much. Your mum’s getting the rent money together, right? She’ll have it, as promised? Tomorrow, like we said? Three o’clock – I’ll be there to collect.’
&nbs
p; ‘She will,’ said Clara stiffly. She won’t.
‘Lenny Lynch don’t like late payers.’
‘He’ll have his money,’ said Clara.
‘Good.’ He stood there a moment longer, staring at her.
Go on, just bugger off will you?
‘Look . . . ’ There was a flush of colour in his cheeks as he fished in the pocket of his grubby leather coat, pulled out a stub of pencil and a scrap of paper. He scrawled something, held it out to her. ‘I’ve been meaning to say . . . Take this.’
‘What is it?’ She looked down at the paper, back up at his face. There was an address written on it.
‘That’s where I live. If you . . . Well, it’s got to be paid, ain’t it? One way or the other.’
Clara’s face was stiff with disgust and dislike as she shoved the paper into her pocket. She felt like chucking it onto the muddy pavement and stomping it underfoot. The urge to do so was almost overwhelming, but she fought it. She might be only fifteen, but she knew Hatton’s game. He’d always fancied her – that was the only reason her family weren’t out on the street already. If the rent couldn’t be paid in cash, he was suggesting she do it in kind. Clara gagged at the thought.
‘Yeah,’ she muttered, though it choked her.
Finally he moved on, dragging the Alsatian with him. A shuddering gust of a breath escaped Clara as she allowed herself to relax. She held the watch out to the milling crowds, even more determined now to sell it, to fetch some money in. Even if she didn’t get the full amount for the rent, it would be something to appease Frank Hatton and his boss, that bastard Lenny Lynch, a little sweetener that might make them think again about chucking the Dolans into the gutter.
She tried to smile, to catch the eye of a punter willing to part with a bob or two. And as she did so, a young boy in short trousers with a cap pulled down over his ears ran by and snatched the Hunter straight out of her hand.
‘Hey!’ she shouted, taking off after him, but he was too fast, weaving through the crowds with ease while she collided with passers-by. Within seconds he was lost to sight.
