Dangerous

by Jessie Keane

  ‘Clara—’ said Bernie, distressed.

  ‘You took this out of my purse,’ said Clara, grabbing Henry’s arm and shaking him. ‘You stole off me.’

  ‘I didn’t!’

  ‘And will you stop tormenting this poor bloody dog! Yes, you did. Admit it! Say you did!’

  But Henry said nothing. Clara looked at the boy, mystified. ‘Why would you do a thing like that? Steal off your own family? If you’d asked me for money, I’d have given it to you. You didn’t have to take it.’

  Henry wrestled his arm free of his older sister’s clutches.

  Clara turned away in disgust. Was there anything worse than a thief? Yes, there was. A thief in your own family. Dad had thieved off them, then left them to it. The thought that Henry could do that too was devastating.

  ‘You mustn’t be so hard on him,’ said Bernie.

  ‘Better than being too bloody soft,’ said Clara.

  Probably it was Bernie’s bland acceptance of her brother’s many little foibles that had brought them to this pass. She had been indulging him too much, never pulling him up when he stepped out of line. He wasn’t a baby any more, to be endlessly indulged. He was in long trousers, and he ought to know better.

  ‘Well someone needs to be,’ snapped Bernie.

  ‘What does that mean?’ returned Clara.

  ‘You don’t have a pleasant word to say to him. Or to any of us, come to that.’

  Clara eyed Bernie mulishly. Hadn’t she done enough? It tormented her that she had been propelled into a sham marriage with a man she didn’t love, could never love or even respect. Frank was nothing but a mean penny-pinching bastard with filthy habits. All of it – everything – was down to this boy, and her sister too. She had done what she had done to protect them, to keep them safe, keep them together. But the price had been high. Too bloody high, perhaps. She was in a cage of their making. And now – for God’s sake – Henry was stealing off her. Hadn’t she endured enough, without this?

  Later, she decided that she would talk to Henry about it being bad to steal off your own, before his light fingers landed him in trouble at school. She probably was too hard on him. She would try not to be. Christmas was coming, a time for goodwill to all men.

  Yeah, thought Clara. But what about me?

  23

  1959

  ‘What you mean, you didn’t see him?’ asked Ivan Sears, slapping the newspaper down onto his desk when Fulton came back from his visit to London. ‘Jesus, can you believe this shit? Buddy Holly’s dead. Killed in a plane crash. Richie Valens too. And the Big Bopper. Never bloody know, do you? Not safe to go out the door.’

  ‘You kidding?’ Fulton asked.

  ‘Nah. Here it is.’ Ivan tossed the paper over the desk so Fulton could see for himself. ‘So what’s up about Jacko?’ Ivan was getting bloody fed up with all this. No Christmas visit from Jacko, no card, and eating his turkey at the groaning family table while getting his ear bent by Ma. Where was her baby boy? What was Ivan going to do about it? Pa had a heart condition now, he wasn’t going to last forever.

  Ivan told Ma he was doing something about it. He didn’t give a shit if Jacko had vanished off the face of the earth, but he was sick of Ma going on about the little tit. Now it was February, and still Ivan was getting bother. And here was Fulton, having missed the family Christmas himself, back with no result.

  ‘He left his digs,’ said Fulton. ‘Ages ago. But the old tart remembered he still owed her rent. She wanted me to pay it, the brassy old cunt. I told her to fuck off.’

  Ivan frowned at this. Him and Fulton and Jacko had grown up together, done National Service together, done time in the slammer, taken up boxing, been bloody good at it too, a few cups, a couple of trophies; but then the call of crime, of dodgy deals, had whispered to them of bigger gains.

  They’d kept in touch, more or less: the two younger brothers had even met up now and again, got a beer in Jacko’s local down south. Not Ivan, though; if Jacko wanted to be friends again, he was going to have to come to Ivan – no way was Ivan going to make the move. But Fulton had been down there. Now for too long there had been no calls, no meetings, no fuck-all from Jacko. Dead silence. Nothing else. And Ma was still being a pain over it.

  ‘You ask around?’ Ivan demanded.

  ‘Course I did. No bastard’s seen him, honest.’

  Actually, Fulton hadn’t searched too hard. He’d never had much time for Jacko; in Fulton’s opinion Jacko was too impulsive and he didn’t have the brains of a louse.

  Ivan sucked his yellow tombstone teeth at this. And then he said: ‘Go on back down. Take another look.’

  Fulton Sears went back to London and spoke to Jacko’s landlady again. Ivan was the boss of the family and he supposed he’d better toe the line, make some effort. This time maybe he’d take a closer look, actually find that troublesome little fucker, or Ivan would have him forever going up and down to the Smoke like a whore’s drawers.

  ‘He ain’t here! How many more times? Now clear off – unless you’re going to pay the rent he owes me,’ she said bitterly.

  ‘No. I ain’t,’ said Fulton. ‘You ask me again, you mouthy old bitch, I’ll kick your arse.’

  He left her there and went down to what he knew to be Jacko’s local, the Bear and Ragged Staff. He ordered a pint and waited while the place filled up; soon he recognized a couple of Jacko’s drinking pals he’d met once before; Stevey Tyler and Ian Bresslaw.

  ‘Jacko? That you, you old bugger?’ asked Stevey, frowning at Fulton.

  ‘I ain’t Jacko. I’m Fulton, his older brother. You remember me?’

  ‘Oh!’ Stevey’s face cleared. ‘Jesus! You don’t half look like him, don’t you. Yeah. Sure I remember you.’

  ‘Come to find Jacko. Ain’t heard from him in a long while. You seen him around?’

  The lads shook their heads. ‘Pint, is it? You want a whisky chaser with that? Nah, we ain’t seen him since we done over a club, the Blue Bird, years back. Used to be one of Lenny Lynch’s old clubs. Feller called Redmayne owns it now. We scarpered early on ’cos we was gettin’ the worst of it. Thought Jacko was followin’ on, but turns out he wasn’t. We thought maybe he’d had enough and was back off up to Manchester. We knew he’d taken over the Dragon in Greek Street, but that’s in new hands now, I heard. Here’s the drinks, mate.’

  Stevey pushed Fulton’s pint glass toward him, and his chaser. Fulton picked up the glass, smashed it on the edge of the bar in a shower of glass fragments and foaming beer, and whacked it into Stevey’s face.

  Crimson blood spattered out and Stevey fell back, bellowing in shock and pain, minus most of his nose. Ian’s face was blank with horror as Fulton, mountainous and mean-eyed, turned toward him. Ian held up his hands, shook his head.

  ‘I don’t want no trouble,’ he yelled. Patrons were scattering and the barman was yanking down the metal shutters around the bar.

  ‘You should have thought of that before you ran out on my brother,’ Fulton snarled, spittle flying. ‘You useless cunt. Who stayed with him then? Who would know what happened after you yellow scumbags legged it?’

  ‘Jamesy. Jamesy might know,’ gabbled Ian. ‘He was there! But we ain’t seen him much since.’

  Stevey was writhing on the floor, screaming and gurgling past the blood, his hands cupping his shattered face.

  ‘Jamesy who?’ demanded Fulton over the din.

  Ian told him, and gave him an address.

  ‘You’re lucky I’m in a fucking good mood today,’ said Fulton, and brushed past the terrified man and went out the door.

  And that was when Fulton saw her, for the very first time.

  They would be beauty and the beast, like in the fairytale; that’s what Fulton Sears thought, when he saw her at the door of the pub, holding up her elderly companion. Her dad, probably, the legless old bastard.

  But just look at her!

  Fulton couldn’t stop looking at her. Oh, he knew he was ugly. He was a big, big man, bar
rel-chested and round-stomached, bald, with a nose knocked off-kilter too many times in the ring and a matching set of cauliflower ears. He was nothing to look at. But a cat could look at a queen, wasn’t that true?

  There was gleaming back hair falling all around her shoulders, her skin was like alabaster, and those eyes of a deep, melting violet-blue! She had a trim body, shapely, large-breasted and big-arsed, not boyish. Mid-height, not too short.

  Beautiful.

  Suddenly, passing the young woman in the doorway, all Fulton’s urgency to find his brother became a lot less pressing. As she turned, supporting the old drunk, something fluttered to the floor.

  A handkerchief.

  Fulton stooped, picked it up, was about to hand it back to her, but she was off, tottering along the pavement under the weight of her burden, so instead he kept it. Lifted it to his broken nose. Sniffed a delicate, flowery perfume. Then he tucked it into his pocket.

  He would go on looking when – if – he had a moment, keep Ivan sweet, but he was going to take his time over this, hang around down here, keep her in view. He didn’t even know her name, not yet: but he was going to find out – just as he would probably find out what had happened with Jacko.

  Eventually.

  But no rush, eh?

  24

  Seven o’clock, thought Clara as the alarm went off. She leaned over and thumped it irritably. Same old routine. Same old shit.

  ‘Frank? Time to get up.’

  Frank didn’t reply. Out on the piss again last night, there he’d been, drunk as a lord, and she had been called upon yet again to guide him back home or he’d fall in an alleyway and die there. Sighing, she grabbed her robe and went over to the window and yanked back the curtains. Daylight. Pale sun. Some clouds. Another fucking day.

  She stretched, yawning. ‘Frank? Come on.’

  Jesus, he’s going to be in a right mood this morning, she thought. She turned back to the bed, went over there and shook his shoulder. ‘Frank?’

  For the first time she saw that he was much paler than normal. And very, very still.

  ‘Frank? Wake up.’

  No answer. She stretched out a hand and laid it against the bristly mottled chin. She snatched her hand back with a gasp. His flesh was like chilled meat.

  ‘Frank?’ she whispered.

  He didn’t answer.

  Clara turned away from the bed and quickly left the room. She found Bernie sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea and reading the paper. Poor dead Richie Valens was singing ‘Donna’ on the radio. When Bernie was small, she’d always been fairly cheerful in the mornings, but somehow all her childhood ebullience had dropped away from her. She had become ever more jumpy, introverted, less inclined to smile. Clara had long since acknowledged that Bernie had been hit much harder than she had by Mum’s death; in fact, Bernie hadn’t really been the same since. But right now, Bernie’s state of mind was the least of her problems. She sat down beside Bernie at the kitchen table, dizzy with shock.

  ‘Morning, Clar,’ said Bernie, turning the pages.

  Clara looked at the paper over her sister’s shoulder and saw the state of emergency was still in force in Rhodesia. She saw that the Macmillan and Khrushchev talks were still going on. She saw that Britain and the United Arab Republic were in agreement after the Suez crisis. She saw it all, but she didn’t take in a single word.

  ‘Want some tea?’ asked Bernie.

  Clara shook her head. Bernie looked at her older sister. ‘What’s up with you then?’ she asked.

  ‘Bernie,’ said Clara, ‘Frank’s dead.’

  It brought it back to her, the memory of finding Mum dead. But whereas Kathleen has endured an awful, painful death, Frank had slipped away in his sleep, the lucky sod. No pain for him.

  Clara dutifully called for the doctor, and then the undertakers came and took poor Frank away. A massive heart attack, the doctor said; and Clara thought that Frank had drawn a long straw for once. No drawn-out illness.

  No suffering.

  He’d simply passed in his sleep.

  ‘This must have been an awful shock for you, Mrs Hatton,’ said the doctor.

  ‘Yes. It was.’

  Clara put on a black dress that afternoon, and told Bernie to do the same. She pulled all the curtains in the house closed.

  ‘Will we have to leave again?’ asked Bernie anxiously as they sat at the kitchen table having their tea.

  ‘What?’ Clara asked, surprised. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, when Mum died, we had to leave,’ said Bernie.

  Clara stared at her sister’s wide, ever-anxious eyes. She saw that Bernie’s lips had been gnawed until they were raw, and her nails were bitten right down. Clara leaned over and patted Bernie’s hand. ‘No, Bern. We won’t have to leave.’

  ‘You know, I don’t think I’ll ever forget it,’ said Bernie.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Living there in the slums. The smell. The . . . desperation.’ Bernie was frowning, creasing up her sweet little pixie face with concentration. She shuddered and looked at Clara. ‘Sometimes I think that I should do something about it.’

  ‘What?’ Clara looked at her blankly.

  ‘Something to help,’ shrugged Bernie. ‘Don’t you think we should?’

  Clara looked at her sister like she’d just sprouted another head. ‘Bernie,’ Clara pointed out, ‘Frank made his living collecting rents on those places. His living now keeps us out of there. So no, I don’t think we should.’ The thought of having to see that place again, of maybe going back to those filthy streets, and to that mould-ridden place crawling with vermin, caused a horrified thrill to run through Clara’s body. She hugged herself, blanked it from her mind. Poor, soft-hearted Bernie, she must be mad.

  It was strange, how empty the house seemed without Frank. Clara didn’t actually miss him, but it was as if there was a hole in all their lives, and he had been a bit of a father-figure for Henry, who was no longer a sweet little boy: now he was a troublesome little sod at the best of times. Still, these things happened. Death happened. And at least it had been a merciful end.

  25

  Frank’s funeral took place on a Friday, a week after his death, at the Houndsditch church he had attended as a boy. It seemed wrong somehow that spring was under way and Frank would miss it. But that was life; it went on, even if you’d rather it didn’t.

  Clara was surprised to find that Frank’s funeral attracted a large turnout. Of course he’d been around the area for years, working first for Lenny Lynch and then for this other one, this Redmayne bloke.

  After today, Clara thought, I am never coming near this place, ever again.

  Clara hadn’t known Lynch and she didn’t know Redmayne either, but she was under no illusions about Frank’s employment. She knew that Lenny Lynch had been the worst of slum landlords – as bad as that Peter Rachman everyone seemed to be talking about – leeching off the poorest, most desperate members of the community, sending men like Frank out to collect from them using intimidation.

  And if Frank’s methods failed, Clara knew that the next step for Lynch had been men with wooden staves to threaten non-payers or ultimately, if no money could be wrung from them, they would be thrown out onto the streets. Maybe Redmayne was better, who knew? Clara was only grateful that she and her family were no longer under the power of such people.

  Near the back of the church, Marcus Redmayne nudged his mate Gordon. Gordon was on his left, Pistol Pete on his right.

  ‘Who’s that then?’ he asked.

  ‘Hm?’

  ‘The woman at the front with that mousy-looking girl. The one with the black hair.’ He watched as Clara turned. Jesus! ‘And the tits,’ he added.

  Gordon sniffed. ‘That’s the widow. Clara Hatton.’

  ‘You’re fucking joking.’

  ‘No, that’s her.’

  ‘You’re shitting me. You sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure.’

  Marcus couldn’t believe it
. He stared hard at Clara, her face caught in profile, admiring her almost luminous white skin, so stunning against the contrast of that heavy fall of black hair, decorously tied back in a bun at the moment. He pictured it coming loose, tumbling down to those lushly curving hips, and felt a sharp stab of excitement in his groin.

  Frank Hatton, that old soak, had trapped this in his bed? How, in God’s name, had he managed it?

  ‘What the hell did she marry a dried-up old stick like Frank for?’ asked Marcus.

  ‘Shut up,’ hissed Gordon, as Saul’s ‘Dead March’ started up. He glanced back. The pall-bearers were carrying in the coffin, stepping solemnly up the aisle with their burden. Everyone was standing up. ‘Here comes Frank now, show some bloody respect.’

  At the end of the service, Bernie went off home to get the funeral tea ready and check on Henry. At twelve years old, Clara had deemed him too young to attend today. She was playing her role of dutiful widow to the hilt. And why not? Frank had been fairly good to her and to Bernie and Henry too. There had been no malice in him. Still, she was glad when the service was over.

  Outside, she stood at the church door with the vicar, his cassock billowing in the brisk spring air, trying not to let her eyes rest upon the large untidy plot at the far side of the graveyard where the paupers who could not afford a proper burial or even a headstone were laid to rest. Mum must be in there, she thought. She gritted her teeth and shook hands with the assembled mourners, thanking them for coming to pay their respects to her late husband.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said to a flamboyant-looking young man whose glossy dark hair cascaded onto the shoulders of his military-style navy greatcoat. He had an apricot silk scarf tied around his neck and when he came close she was enveloped in a cloud of sandalwood and musk aftershave.

  A peacock, thought Clara, looking into hazel eyes that beamed with warmth as he smiled, lighting up his smoothly tanned and extremely attractive face. She could see that he was vain of his beauty, but instantly she liked him.