by Jessie Keane
‘But I have your muscle now. Your protection. Don’t I?’
Marcus was shaking his head in wonder. ‘Jesus! You’ve got some front.’
‘You’re using me for your own ends. What’s the difference?’
Marcus looked at his empty glass. ‘Want another?’
‘Yes, please.’
He went over to the drinks cabinet and poured her a second gin and tonic.
‘Not joining me?’ she asked, when he didn’t refresh his own.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Things to do. I’ll see you later.’
And he left her there, his new bride, on her own in the silence of the flat.
80
‘Twistin’ the Night Away’ was pounding out of the speakers. Everyone who was anyone seemed to be in tonight. The place was heaving with celebs. Diana Dors was in a corner with her husband, and Ronnie Knight was on the floor, twisting with a blonde.
‘I just spoke to Albert Finney!’ said Jan excitedly when she came upstairs to the flat to see if Clara was ready. ‘I was standing this close to him, can you believe it? Christ, I wish poor old Sal had lived to see this. She’d have loved it.’
It was an unpleasant reminder in the midst of what should have been a happy day. But Clara seemed to have lost her facility for happiness, so what did it matter? Another business deal had been done. She had slipped down the ladder a little, come perilously close to falling further, but here she was, back on top again.
Married to a rich man.
Richer than Toby, with more clout than Toby.
But Marcus was cold toward her. At least she and Toby had become friends. Somehow, she couldn’t see that happening with Marcus. She felt too much for him; he felt too little for her. That much was obvious. It hurt her, but she’d make the best of it, like she always did.
‘The police still haven’t got to the bottom of it, you know,’ said Jan. ‘Poor bloody Sal. Someone carved her up proper.’
‘Jan,’ said Clara sharply. ‘Could we not talk about that, today of all days?’
‘Sorry. So what are you going to wear tonight then?’
‘I’m not changing.’
‘Oh! OK. You’re not going away then? You know, on a honeymoon like normal people do?’
‘Shut up, Jan.’
After Marcus had left her alone, she had fallen asleep on the couch. When she woke, it was already dark; she’d been more tired than she realized. And he hadn’t come back. She turned on a couple of low lights, went to the bathroom, freshened up. And still he hadn’t come back. She could hear the party – well, her wedding reception – was in full swing, and she thought that traditionally the bride and groom ought to enter together, to cheers and catcalls . . . but he hadn’t come back.
I stitched him up.
Yes. That much was true. What she had done was the equivalent of throwing a stone at someone and then ducking behind the nearest large object. Marcus was that object. And he was mad as hell about it. This was her punishment, being left alone.
‘Come on. Let’s go down,’ she said, taking Jan’s arm.
People were bopping around on the dance floor to ‘Duke of Earl’ by Gene Chandler now. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Even while people were congratulating her, saying what a dog Marcus was and how the hell did she catch him? Clara found herself anxiously looking around for him, wondering where he’d got to.
Finally she spotted him over by the bar, talking to a big bruiser of a man. As she looked at him, his eyes roamed around the room and settled on her. He said something to the man, who turned his head and gave her a long look. Then Marcus moved through the crowds to where she was standing.
‘Good sleep?’ he asked.
‘What?’ Clara was wrong-footed. ‘How did you know I was asleep?’
‘I came back up. Saw you were dead to the world and left you there.’
‘Oh.’ She didn’t like the idea of him watching her sleeping.
‘Tiring, getting married,’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you’d know.’
‘Third time lucky,’ quipped Clara.
‘Or unlucky, possibly.’
‘You could always divorce me.’
‘Yeah, I could. Right this minute?’ There was a flare of anger in his gaze. ‘I could do that. Easily.’
‘Time to cut the cake,’ said someone, and they were ushered over to the table where all the finger-food in the buffet was being devoured. They’d managed to get a cake at the last minute, a single-tier sponge, nothing fancy, and someone had stuck a little plaster bride and groom on top of it. A knife was fetched from behind the bar, and Marcus and Clara cut the wedding cake. Flashes fired as the guests took photos.
‘Dance! Dance! Come on! Dance!’ Jan shouted, and the rest of the crowd joined in, clapping and cheering as slices of cake were handed round.
‘Oh fuck,’ said Clara.
‘Well it is traditional. The first dance as a married couple,’ he sighed.
Egged on by the crowd, the DJ put on ‘Love Letters’ by Ketty Lester.
‘Jesus,’ said Clara as a space magically cleared all around them.
Marcus pulled her in close against the front of his body, linking his arms around her waist.
‘Do we have to?’ groaned Clara.
‘Yeah, we do,’ he said. ‘Look happy. Pretend you’re cuddling a wad of tenners or something.’
She wasn’t sure how she felt. But that remark did hit her, right where it hurt. He would like to divorce her and he thought she was a money-grabbing tart. She didn’t like him touching her, she never had; it unnerved her, made her feel somehow sad. But she put her arms around his neck and tried to look the adoring bride.
‘You’re stiff as a plank of wood,’ whispered Marcus in her ear as the watching crowd stamped and applauded.
‘You’re a bastard,’ said Clara sweetly. Her eye was arrested by a woman in the crowd, blonde and very pretty, who was staring at Clara as if she’d like to cut her heart out. ‘Who’s that?’ she asked.
‘Hm?’ He raised his head, looked around.
‘The blonde giving me evils.’
‘Oh, that’s Paulette.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Mistress.’
‘And where’s your family? Aren’t they here to celebrate?’ she asked sourly.
‘I’ve only got my mother left,’ he said.
‘And she’s not here?’
‘She doesn’t get around much any more.’
‘What about your father?’
‘Dead.’
‘Do you have to hold me so bloody tight?’
‘Just making it look real. Like we’re in love.’
‘You’re cutting off my air.’
‘I’d like to.’
‘Stop it,’ said Clara as the pressure of his hands increased on her back.
‘Uh-oh,’ said Marcus.
‘What?’
The music halted with a screech, as if someone had torn the record from the deck. Clara looked. There was a confrontation going on at the far side of the room with the DJ and someone else. Punches were being thrown and the heavies were rushing over. And the interloper looked familiar. It was him who had taken the record off, and now he hurled it to the floor, where it smashed.
It was Henry, her brother.
81
‘Don’t hurt him,’ said Clara as she and Marcus rushed over. Then she stood there and thought What am I saying? Henry deserved a thick lip at the very least, crashing in here.
‘Don’t . . . ?’ Marcus hesitated, looked at her face. ‘Wait up. Do you know this joker?’
‘Course she bloody knows me,’ shouted Henry, who was turning slowly purple as he was being clasped in a headlock by one of the bouncers. ‘I’m her effing brother, you tosser.’
Marcus let out a breath. ‘Let him up,’ he told the bouncer.
The heavy reluctantly let Henry go. Henry staggered sideways, then started to grin at Clara’s white, set face.
/> ‘Come to wish my big sis a happy wedding day,’ he said. ‘Another one, for fuck’s sake. You’re making a bit of a habit of this, ain’t you, Clar?’
‘What, like you smashing my clubs up?’ she retorted.
Marcus turned to the DJ, who was mopping at a cut over his right eye and trying to retrieve smashed bits of vinyl from the floor as the crowd surged avidly round, entertained by all this.
‘Stick on something a bit lively,’ he told the DJ. Then he looked at the bouncer. ‘Bring him up.’
Marcus grabbed Clara’s hand and led her to the stairs. The bouncer and Henry followed. The DJ put ‘The Young Ones’ on the turntable, and gradually the crowd dispersed and people moved out onto the dance floor once again.
Up in the flat, the bouncer shoved Henry down onto the same couch Clara had earlier fallen asleep on. Marcus closed the door, but the bass beat kept thumping up through the floor.
‘What the fuck you doing here?’ asked Marcus, staring down at Henry in disgust. ‘I know you. You work for Sears. Seen your ugly mug before.’ Marcus glanced at Clara then turned back to Henry. ‘So you’re not a strong believer in family loyalty then,’ he said to him.
‘What, me be loyal to that?’ asked Henry with a mocking grin at his sister. ‘You want to watch it, mate, she’ll fleece you then move on to the next poor bastard she thinks can keep her in better style. And all her bridegrooms have a habit of winding up dead, in case you haven’t noticed.’
‘But you came here to congratulate her on her wedding, you said,’ said Marcus.
‘Thought it might be fun to crash in.’
‘Bernie refused to come,’ said Clara with a sigh.
‘Wanted her for your bridesmaid, didn’t you. After you fitted up her boyfriend? Some bloody hope.’
‘So why the hell are you here, Henry?’ she asked irritably. ‘To make a bloody scene, I suppose. As usual.’
‘Nah, thought I’d deliver a message. Think you know who it’s from.’
Clara’s heart clenched. ‘You mean that bastard Sears? The one I saw you with, wrecking my bloody club?’
‘That’s the one.’ Henry grinned. ‘Well, surprise surprise, sister dear. Despite all you said and all you did down the cop shop, guess what? The Bill aren’t going to press charges. They’ve dropped the case. Of course they bloody have, most of them are in Sears’s pay, for God’s sake, didn’t you know that, you dumb bitch?’
‘So you’re saying . . . ’ said Clara.
‘I’m saying Sears is out,’ smiled Henry.
Fuck, thought Clara.
‘So now you and lover-boy here are really in the shit,’ said Henry, smiling at both of them as they stood there before him. ‘Your days are numbered. That’s why I’m here, to tell you that. He’s very upset with you. Turning grass, Clara! Becoming a copper’s nark! So now he’s gunning for the pair of you, new husband and new wife. I’d bloody well watch out if I were you. Sears is out on the streets again. And he’s out for blood.’
82
The first thing Fulton Sears wanted when he got out of the cop shop was to send his boys to get Dutch Dave. They were pleased to do that, because it was better than hanging around Sears when he was in a temper like this, his bloody hands still bound up, red seeping through the bandages.
One of the doctors on their payroll had done the job, sewed up three stumps where once there had been fingers and a thumb. Sears was in pain, both his hands and his bollocks stinging and throbbing like a bastard. He was sniffing a lot of puff and coke to make himself feel better, and he was spaced-out but not mellow: he was sweet-tempered as a bear with a thorn stuck up its arse. He was losing it.
They found Dutch Dave in the pub, lounging at the bar with his tied-back mop of long grey-blond hair and his pale-eyed stare. He was a scrawny six foot four with skin like old tanned leather, and abundant tattoos. He looked like the sort of bastard you wouldn’t want to mess with. During the war, Dave had been a crack shot, a sniper in one of the regiments, picking off Nazis with a rifle and notching up each kill on the barrel. He wasn’t known for his patience or his tolerance. He was known for his aim.
‘Dave?’ One of Sears’s boys sidled up to him. The Shadows were playing on the juke. Dutch Dave was drinking Southern Comfort. He sent a pale, cold glance toward the one who had disturbed his drinking.
‘Do I know you?’ he asked.
The boy was one of Sears’s best, tough as old boots, but he gulped. ‘No, I’m a friend of Fulton Sears,’ he said.
‘Then you call me Mr Jones,’ said Dave.
‘Sure. Mr Jones. We got a job for you,’ he said.
Dutch Dave drained his whisky and gestured to the barmaid to pour him another. She did so, then stepped away to serve another customer.
‘I don’t come cheap,’ he said.
‘Mr Sears knows that. He’s happy to negotiate a price that suits you, Mr Jones.’
‘So what’s the job?’ he asked.
‘Little clean-up thing,’ said Sears’s boy.
‘clean up who?’
‘A grass.’
‘Yeah? Who?’
‘She’s called Clara Redmayne.’
83
When the bouncer had dragged Henry back out of the flat and away down the stairs, Marcus closed the door and looked at Clara.
‘You know what you’ve started?’ he asked.
‘I had to do something.’
‘No, you didn’t. You should have come to me, talked it through. Now Sears is spitting blood and we’re in the middle of a fucking war because I’m married to the woman who shopped him to the police. In case you don’t realize, this is all bad news.’
Clara said nothing. She sat down on the couch, feeling wrung out. Sears was out for her blood. The cops – most of them, it seemed – were on his side, and who could tell who was good cop these days and who was bad? Her family had turned against her; Bernie had washed her hands of her, and Henry was now standing with her enemies, despite all she had done for them over the years.
And her husband – she had to remind herself, firmly, that Marcus was her husband, although this whole wedding day had passed in a blur that felt surreal – was looking at her like she’d gone crazy. Actually, he was looking at her like he wanted to wring her neck.
Marcus came over and stood in front of her.
‘Jesus, you really are the fucking bloody limit,’ he said, and grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet.
‘Get off me,’ complained Clara as he pulled her closer.
‘You what?’ He was staring at her face from inches away, holding her tight to his body like he had on the dance floor. Now he started to shake his head, very slowly. ‘Oh no. I don’t think so. We’re both fucked, thanks to you. Christ knows what Sears is going to come up with as a suitable punishment for what you’ve done, and the whole of Soho will be on his side now, not mine – and certainly not yours.’
‘Look, I didn’t—’
‘You didn’t think. Or maybe you did.’ He was staring into her eyes from inches away. She could feel his breath on her face, could feel the angry tension in his body. ‘Yeah, you did. I’m starting to know you, Clara, and it’s scaring the shit out of me. You calculated who had the most clout and then you decided you would back me against him. Right?’
It was right. It was so right that Clara could only nod.
‘You cold-blooded cow.’
‘Marcus,’ said Clara, bunching her hands against his chest. ‘I’m sorry . . . ’
She was sorry. She had hoped the cops would hold Sears and charge him. But his influence clearly went far inside the Bill as well as out on the streets. They’d just let him go, he was on the loose and it was her fault.
‘No you’re not.’ He stared into her eyes for long moments. Then he said: ‘Well, fuck it. If this is a sham marriage, so bloody be it. But I’m going to get something out of the damned thing, that’s for sure.’
‘What are you doing?’ asked Clara when he bent and picked her up in his arm
s.
‘What does it look like?’
‘You’ve got guests downstairs.’
‘Fuck ’em,’ and he went over to a side door and elbowed it open. He walked in, tossed her down onto a double bed, and then went back and closed the door behind him. ‘Right, get undressed.’
Clara shook her head. ‘Not until you calm down.’
‘Calm down? I’m not going to calm down. I’m mad as hell.’ He was throwing off his jacket, flicking off his tie, unbuttoning his shirt, kicking off shoes and socks, glaring at her all the while.
Clara sat there shaking her head.
‘All right then.’ Bare-chested, Marcus came over to the bed and yanked her to her feet. Then he ripped the wedding dress open, right down the front.
‘What the hell . . . ’ complained Clara.
‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Marcus, pushing the remains of the dress down her arms. It fell in a heap onto the floor, leaving her in white bra and pants. He reached round and undid the clasp of the bra. Clara slapped his face.
‘Oh, so that’s how you want it?’ he muttered.
‘Don’t you bloody dare!’ she protested as he pulled the bra off and shoved her back onto the bed.
‘I said shut up.’ He wrenched off her pants.
‘You bastard! You like it rough, do you? Is this how she likes it too, that blonde bitch downstairs?’ panted Clara, naked now and struggling to get off the bed. Angry as he was, she didn’t feel afraid. She felt furious that he was treating her this way – but she also felt turned on and triumphant. She’d made him lose his cool. She was driving him crazy. She liked that.
Marcus threw off his trousers and pants and then shockingly they were both naked. Clara recoiled when his body touched hers, but he pulled her to him, held her very close to him, running his hands down over the small dip of her waist and over the full curves of her hips and buttocks.
‘I’m going to fuck your brains out,’ Marcus warned her. ‘That’s what I’ve wanted to do, ever since I first saw you in the front pew at Frank Hatton’s funeral.’
‘So do it!’ Clara tried to appear nonchalant, but she was gasping for breath and the blood was singing in her ears, her pulse hammering like mad. When she looked at him naked, a sound almost like a whine escaped her. Marcus Redmayne in the nude was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.
