by Jessie Keane
115
‘All right!’ Bennett’s voice was muffled beneath the hankie. He glared up at Marcus. ‘Christ, you knocked out my fucking tooth.’
‘Sal was blackmailing you. She was always desperate for cash and she knew you wouldn’t want Bernie finding out about those porno shots you took. So she hatched a plan. She’d fleece you,’ said Clara.
‘All right, it’s true,’ he burst out. ‘She was crippling me, that cow. She said she’d tell Bernie everything, but what the hell does any of it matter now anyway? You made sure Bernie knew all about me.’
‘And now Bernie’s dead,’ said Clara quietly.
‘She . . . what?’
‘She committed suicide.’
‘Christ.’ He looked genuinely shocked. Maybe he had loved her, in his twisted way.
‘Go on about Sal,’ prompted Clara.
‘What? Well . . . I had to stop her,’ he shrugged helplessly. ‘She was cleaning me out. I didn’t know which way to turn. So I went there. Asked her to stop, but she just laughed. She laughed in my face! I got so mad. Furious. And I did it.’
‘They always say murderers like to revisit the scene,’ said Clara. ‘Is that what you were doing, the day we met outside her flat?’
He was nodding now. He let out a shaky breath. ‘You know what? It’s a relief to admit it. It’s been tormenting me, all this. I kept going back there. Not just the day I saw you, but before that. It . . . haunted me. I’m not a violent man, you know. I’m not a bad man. I went back there . . . and it was horrible. I couldn’t believe what I’d done, but she forced me to do it.’
Clara exchanged a long look with Marcus. Then she looked again at David Bennett, the object of her sister’s love. If Bernie had lived . . . this would have destroyed her. But Bernie was already gone. She wouldn’t suffer any more.
‘Now what?’ asked Bennett as silence fell.
‘Now,’ said Clara, ‘we go down the nick with you and these statements. And you confess. You tell them you killed Sal Dryden.’
‘Wait . . . ’ He was shaking his head, seeing his whole world falling apart in front of him.
Clara looked at him and her eyes were hard. ‘Or you vanish. We can make people vanish, you know. Quite easily. A long stretch inside – or a quick exit. You choose.’
116
A few days after Bernie had taken her dive off the fire escape, Henry dragged himself out of bed. Depression sapped him, made him feel weak. Bernie’s death, Bernie’s tormented life that had impacted so viciously on his own, kept running through his head. Clara, turning her back on him for all that time. He hadn’t deserved that. He’d been wounded by it, and had put up a thick defensive shell around himself because of it.
He washed, dressed, ate some toast, drank some tea, and wondered what the fuck he was going to do with the rest of his life.
He was finished with working for that nutjob Fulton Sears, he knew that for certain. Maybe he could carve out a chunk of the action for himself, who knew? Right now, he didn’t have the energy, but life went on. Life always went on, and soon he knew he would start to feel himself again. He was tough, resilient; he’d had to be. So maybe Clara had even done him a favour. Maybe Bernie had, too. Who knew?
He went to Sears’s flat and knocked on the door. None of the other boys were about outside, and that surprised him. But then, really? Rats always deserted a sinking ship, and Fulton Sears was sunk all right.
One of the boys – it was Joey, dim, faithful, strong in the arm and weak in the head – opened the door, let him in.
‘Sears in?’ asked Henry.
Joey shrugged, his face unhappy. Henry followed him into the lounge and there was Fulton Sears sitting in the corner on the carpet. There was a smashed table beside him, and bits and pieces around him – a comb, a broken watch, a hankie. Sears’s eyes were wandering around the room, not fastening on anything. His trousers were wet where he’d pissed himself, and he was muttering something under his breath.
‘Holy shit,’ said Henry.
Sears’s boxer dog whined and nudged at Henry’s leg, looking up at him with pitiful eyes. The dog looked emaciated. Wasn’t anybody feeding the damned thing? Certainly not Sears. He was out of it. Henry stepped closer to the man on the floor.
‘Fulton? Mr Sears?’ he said.
Sears didn’t even look at him, didn’t seem able to focus. And now that Henry was closer he could hear that Sears was saying over and over again cunt bitch whore cunt bitch whore.
He turned. ‘Joey, we . . . ’ he started, and then he realized he was talking to thin air. Joey was gone. And would not return; he could see there was nothing to come back for. Sears had once been a power on the streets of Soho, but that time was past.
Henry let out a sigh.
Then he turned and left the flat, the dog trailing at his heels. He went to the phone box, dialled 999, and asked for an ambulance.
He came out of the box. The dog was sitting there, waiting. What was the mutt’s name? Charlie?
‘Hey, Charlie,’ he said.
The dog wagged its stumpy tail, gave a little grin.
Henry sighed again. ‘Come the fuck on then,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
117
Milly Sears was seriously pissed off with her husband. She was sitting in the hospital beside his mother’s bed, and Christ the old girl was taking her time over shuffling off the old mortal coil. He was the one who should be here, seeing to all this shit, not her. And where was he? Living it up down in London.
Oh, she knew Ivan. He’d be shagging other women down there for sure. And drinking too much; that beer belly of his was getting out of control, she kept telling him. But did he listen? He did not.
And when she’d done all this, when the old girl finally kicked the bucket, who was going to be left sorting out that disgusting pest-hole bungalow? Her, that’s who. Muggins.
She heaved a sigh and looked at his mother. That old cow had never liked her. Milly had red hair, and his mother always said you could never trust a woman with red hair, she would be fiery and she’d like sex too much.
Like it or not, I’m certainly not getting much of it, thought Milly bitterly.
Ivan wasn’t interested in her any more. She suspected that new secretary at the car sales place; he always looked in the other direction a bit too carefully whenever that little bint was about.
‘Mrs Sears?’
The nurse was standing there on the other side of the bed, staring at her. Milly snapped back to the here and now.
‘I’m afraid she’s gone,’ said the nurse.
Milly looked at her mother-in-law’s face, at the sagging jaw and half-open eyes. The old bitch had died, and she hadn’t even noticed.
‘Oh!’ Milly sprang to her feet. ‘Oh God.’ She’d been sitting here beside a corpse, all unaware. The nurse was looking at her, so she fished out her hankie and puckered her face, dabbed at her eyes. ‘Oh dear,’ she said.
The nurse pulled the sheet up over the old woman’s face.
‘There will be some forms to fill in, if you’d like to come into the office?’ asked the nurse.
Milly nodded, and followed as the nurse led the way.
When Milly finally got home in the small hours of the morning, it was to find the police on her doorstep.
Christ, what’s he been and done now? she wondered as her taxi drove away.
Ivan was always half a step away from being banged up. He took risks, liked the dodgy deals. She wished to Christ he wouldn’t do that. They’d be getting the cash from the bungalow soon, it wasn’t like he had to worry about money.
‘Mrs Sears? Millicent Sears?’ asked one of the Bill.
‘Yes. That’s me,’ she said.
‘can we go inside?’ asked the other one.
She was shagged out from all the hospital nonsense. And now this. Bloody Ivan, when would he ever learn to play things straight?
‘What’s this about?’ she asked nervously.
‘I’m afraid we
’ve some bad news.’
So she went inside with them, sat them down in the lounge, and that was when Milly Sears found out that her husband Ivan had been murdered while in London, and she was a widow.
This time, she didn’t have to force the tears.
This time, they were real.
118
Clara was finding things different as she went around the Soho streets. Surprisingly different. People were nodding their heads to her, even smiling at her, where before they had been spitting at her and calling her a nark.
Marcus had his red E-type Jag back again, the clubs were ticking over, everything was right with the world – except she was crippled with grief over Bernie. Wishing she could have spotted the signs, could have been more sensitive, could have known what was going on with her little sister.
But how could she?
And Henry! She felt so bad about Henry, the way she’d misjudged him, even when he was only a child. Bernie had deceived her, it was true, but shouldn’t she have been more aware, shouldn’t she have somehow seen what was happening?
She couldn’t even bring herself to make the arrangements for Bernie’s funeral, she felt too numb, too sad. It was Henry who picked up the slack, stepped in, did what was necessary. Henry, who was virtually a stranger to her because she had pushed him away all his life, Henry with that skinny chestnut-and-white boxer dog trailing around at his heels.
‘You’re a heroine now,’ said Marcus when she mentioned the attention she was getting on the streets. ‘You got the man who killed Sal Dryden.’
‘Some heroine,’ said Clara gloomily. ‘My sister was in bits. And I didn’t even notice.’
‘She hid it from you.’
‘I’ll never forgive myself.’
‘Yeah,’ said Marcus. ‘You will.’
119
Life went on. Clara toured around the clubs the way she always had, and landed up at the Heart of Oak to find little Jan in her long black evening gown, sitting on a bar stool before the start of evening’s trade while the barman polished glasses and restocked the mixers.
‘Hiya, Clar!’ Her face lit up when she saw Clara come in.
‘Jan,’ said Clara, sitting down. She’d given up telling Jan not to call her Clar. It never did sink in.
Then Jan’s face sobered. ‘I heard about your sister. I’m sorry, Clar. It’s awful.’
‘Thanks.’ The pain lanced her again, the grief, the awful finality of what Bernie had done. She would never see her again, and it killed her to know that, to acknowledge the truth of it.
‘I never had a sister,’ said Jan, her eyes anxious as they rested on Clara’s face.
‘No?’ Clara really didn’t want to talk about this. She was afraid she’d begin to cry and never be able to stop.
‘No. I was an only child. Wasn’t even wanted.’
Clara looked at Jan. No sisters or brothers. No friends, only Sal. And Sal was gone. She felt a sudden wave of warmth for poor tubby awkward little Jan.
‘We can be sisters,’ said Clara after a moment’s thought. ‘You and me. Not blood, but as good as. How about that?’
Jan’s face flushed and her eyes filled with tears. ‘Really?’ she gasped.
‘Yeah, really.’
Jan flung herself off her stool and hugged Clara hard. ‘Shit, that’s wonderful!’ she giggled, laughing and crying at the same time.
‘Don’t mark the dress,’ said Clara, smiling.
‘No! OK.’ Jan sniffed and reassembled herself, heaved herself back up onto her bar stool. She swiped at her eyes. ‘Sisters!’ she laughed.
‘Yeah. Sisters.’
‘Clar?’
‘Yeah, Jan?’
‘Do you think Gordon likes me?’
No, thought Clara. Then she looked at Jan’s hopeful bright-eyed face and said: ‘I think he does. Maybe. He’s shy, that’s all.’
‘Honest? You think he does?’
‘Honest. I do.’
Jan was beaming again. She looked almost beautiful when she smiled like that, and Clara thought that if Gordon could learn to like her, he’d be getting a good deal. Then Jan’s face fell.
‘About Sal . . . ’ she started.
‘It’s sorted,’ said Clara. ‘Let it rest now.’
‘They’re saying you found out who did it,’ said Jan.
‘It’s done, Jan. Shut the fuck up about it, will you? She’s at peace.’
‘Yeah.’ Jan sighed. ‘She is. She never had much peace when she was alive, always grubbing around after money like she did, so let’s hope she’s got some peace now, eh?’
‘Yeah,’ said Clara. ‘Let’s hope.’
120
It was a secure unit, Victorian, with high red-brick walls topped with barbed wire. Marcus met up with Colin Drewmore – who was a psychiatric assistant and an old mate of an old mate who could give Marcus the inside dirt on what was going on – a hundred yards away from the guarded main gate.
Colin was a fit-looking man in his forties with a hawkish face, a bald head and sharp grey eyes, dressed in white tunic and trousers. Marcus guessed that you’d need to be fit in there, handle whatever crap happened to erupt with the inmates. And you’d need those sharp eyes to look out for all those very sharp objects.
They wandered off along the road and Marcus got straight down to it.
‘So – what’s the word?’ he asked as they strolled in the sunshine, the high walls on their right. He thought of all those poor bastards closeted inside, some of them clean off their heads and dreaming they were Edward the Seventh, others heavily tranquillized because they had dangerous impulses. Marcus guessed that he knew which category Fulton Sears would fit into.
Colin shrugged. ‘He’s sedated a lot of the time.’
‘Right.’
‘He talks a lot. Mumbles. You know. A lot of them do.’
‘And says what?’
‘Talks about a woman. A bitch, he calls her. Laughing at him. Says he’s going to kill her.’
Marcus stopped walking, turned and looked full in Colin’s face. Colin gulped. Those black eyes seemed to bore straight through him.
‘What I want to know is,’ said Marcus slowly, ‘is there any chance he’ll be let out?’
Colin shrugged again. ‘You know these bleeding-heart liberal types we get coming in here sometimes, sympathizing with the bastards, saying it’s inhuman to lock them up. Bollocks, I say. One geezer ripped his old lady’s eyes out – you saying he shouldn’t be locked up after that? I should say so. But you see what we get? Soft upper-crust twerps who think these people can be healed, reformed, made better.’
‘And can they? Can he?’ asked Marcus.
‘Not a fucking chance. But whether or not he’ll smarm his way around one of these nice well-educated middle-aged frumps who come in here, convince them he’s as sane as you or me, who knows?’
‘So he could get out. Next year, the year after, who knows?’
‘That he could.’
Marcus pulled out his wallet, counted out five hundred. Thought of Clara. And Pistol Pete’s head and hands on his desk. He slipped the money into Colin’s palm. Looked into Colin’s eyes. ‘Right then,’ he said.
Colin nodded, and pocketed the cash.
121
From the unit where Fulton Sears was being detained, Marcus drove over to the flat to see Paulette. She was surprised to see him. He hadn’t been anywhere near her since his wedding day.
‘Oh! It’s you,’ she said, scooping up her apricot toy poodle into her arms and looking at Marcus with hostile eyes.
‘Yeah, me again. You OK?’
‘Do you give a shit?’
‘I’m still paying the rent on this place, aren’t I?’
‘Yeah. You are. But I guess you’re getting your jollies off little wifey now, aren’t you? Well, when marriage palls, you can come back to me, I don’t mind.’
Paulette was doing her pouty Brigitte Bardot thing, looking at him with smoky eyes. Then she gave a sudden, brill
iant smile and put the poodle down and slipped her arms up around Marcus’s neck. Marcus gently took hold of her arms and disengaged them. Paulette’s smile slipped.
‘Paulette,’ said Marcus.
‘Yeah? What?’
‘It’s done. You and me.’
Paulette’s jaw dropped. ‘What?’
‘The rent’s paid up to the end of the month and I have this for you.’ He handed her a brown envelope. Paulette looked inside. It was stuffed with fivers. ‘That will give you time to find something else, make other arrangements. OK?’
Paulette’s mouth was moving, she was gulping for air like a fish yanked from a river.
‘But, I . . . for fuck’s sake! I’ve been with you for ten years! You bastard!’
The poodle yapped at Marcus, sensing its mistress’s mood.
‘If that thing bites me, I’m going to kick its arse,’ warned Marcus.
Paulette snatched the poodle back up.
‘Poor baby, poor Binky, you’re frightening him,’ she snapped. ‘What, you got someone else lined up to be your girl around town then? You got someone else on the side that wifey don’t know about, you arsehole?’
‘Yeah, that’s right,’ said Marcus, and turned away from her. Let her think that, if she wanted. It was a damned sight less complicated than the truth.
‘Motherfucker!’ screamed Paulette as Marcus walked out the door.
122
Clara had to go back, just one last time. There was something eating at her, eating into her soul, and she couldn’t rest until it was done. It was late in the evening, not long after Bernie’s death, not long after Clara had realized, painfully, that they had all been living a lie, and she was in the Blue Bird nightclub and the Everly brothers were filling the act’s break with ‘Crying in the Rain’. Marcus was over at the Blue Heaven seeing Gordon about something or other. Counting the money again, she supposed.
‘Liam?’ Clara went to the big man who had accompanied her to Bernie’s on that fateful day. Liam was built like a tank, in his thirties, with keen brown eyes and a mop of dark curly hair. He seemed none the worse for the pasting Ivan Sears had given him.
