by Martina Cole
‘That’s crap and you know it! I can swallow a lot. Maws, but not self-pity. That’s a luxury none of us can afford.’
Maura looked at Margaret as if for the first time. Since having the kids she had become huge. In her pink candlewick dressing gown she looked like a little pink Buddha. Her red hair was pinned up untidily and her face had the harassed look that seems to be worn only by mothers of young children. It was only her eyes, the deep sea-green eyes, that still held the image of the girl she had been. They were as sparkling and mischievous as ever.
Cutting off a small piece of bacon, Margaret held it to Maura’s mouth. Reluctantly she ate it. Slowly Margaret fed her the whole breakfast. When the last piece of food had been eaten she placed a mug of tea in Maura’s hands. Then, picking up the tray, she made her way out of the room. As she opened the bedroom door, holding the tray against her side with one hand, she looked back over her shoulder at Maura.
‘You can’t plan and scheme on an empty stomach, you know!’
‘And just what do you mean by that?’
Marge smiled at her cheekily.
‘I’m not as silly as I look, you know, Maura Ryan. So I’ll thank you not to act as if I am.’ She lowered her voice. ‘What I know and what I’ve guessed will go to my grave with me. Now, you need your wits about you at this time, and I intend to see that you have them.’
She walked from the room and let the door slam shut behind her.
Maura leant back against the pillows and sighed. Good old Marge. The only real friend she had. She sat up in bed, and, putting the tea on the night table, picked up her packet of cigarettes. She lit one, drawing the smoke into her lungs. Margaret was right. She did need her wits about her. If only Carla would talk to her she would feel better. Every time she tried to get through to her, the phone was slammed down. She had even tried ringing Carla’s friends. But nothing. She had not answered any of Maura’s messages. Maura could imagine her mother, in her element, poisoning Carla against her. Oh, she had guessed her mother’s game all right . . .
She took another pull on the cigarette and felt a wave of nausea sweep over her. The combination of fried food, cigarette smoke and acute hangover was suddenly too much for her stomach. With her hand pressed tightly to her mouth, she ran from the bedroom into the bathroom. Dropping her cigarette into the toilet pan she retched. She heaved until she thought her insides were going to come up. A cold sweat broke out all over her body. She leaned against the wall, trying to gather her wits about her. Turning on the shower, she slipped her nightie over her head and stood underneath the shower head. She shivered as ice cold water ran over her body, making her teeth chatter. Still she stood there, trying to bring some kind of life back into her limbs.
After a few minutes she felt the delicious sensation of warmth that only cold water can bring. She felt the tightening of her skin as the blood vessels beneath the surface tried desperately to pump warm blood around her aching body. Her nipples were rock hard and as she turned the water on to hot she savoured the exquisite sensation of the heat gradually invading her bones. She put her face up to let the water cleanse her from head to toe. Gradually she felt the life begin to come back to her. For the first time in days she actually felt something that was real and tangible.
Then the tears came. A torrent of salty rivulets that mixed with the heavy water from the shower and ran away, down her breasts, over her empty stomach, on to her feet and into the shower tray.
In her mind she saw the loathing on her mother’s face. The handsome carefree face of Benny, the young boy who had always been in some kind of prank. She saw the face of Terry Petherick, as it had been the night of the club bombing. She had known then that he still cared for her, that if she had not been Maura Ryan they would have married. She would have been like Margie, juggling the bills, looking after the kids and just being loved. As Dennis loved Marge, even with her large mauve and silver stretch-marks and empty breasts. And she, Maura, would have loved it. Every second of it.
Instead she had more money than she knew what to do with. She ran a business that was more crooked than the Government of Cuba, and had a brother who was at this time almost totally dependent on her. As for the younger boys, they blamed her for Benny’s death. Not Michael but her. They believed that if she had not wanted her dock properties so badly, and had given them to Dopolis, Benny would still be alive. And she had to be honest and admit to herself that they were right. She cried harder. Whoever said that money made you happy was a liar. A dirty rotten stinking liar! She would give every penny she had at this moment to be just plain ordinary Mrs Terry Petherick. He was the only man she would ever want, even if she lived to be a hundred. If only she had kept that little baby! If she had nothing else now she would have had that. She would never have taken over the ice cream and hot dogs. She would never have become the person she was now. The person who had watched her brother murder an old man, Sammy Goldbaum, who had been waiting patiently for them to arrive. He had walked so meekly to the car. And now she had his blood on her hands and could never escape from any of it.
She had always thought that if she ever came face to face with Terry Petherick she would spit in his eye. Instead she had felt an urge to tell him all that happened to her. About the baby and her life with Michael . . . everything. She had wanted to be like it had been once before. When she was young and free. She was still young, but too much had happened over the years ever to allow her to be the girl that she once had been.
She turned off the tap and stood in the confined space of the shower cubicle. The sudden silence was startling and broke her out of her reverie. Her tears were gone now and all they had left in their wake was a heavy tiredness. Stepping from the shower, she wrapped a large towel around her body. As she dried her hair she thought about what she was going to do next. Then she made a decision. All that she could do now was go forward into the future. No matter how exciting the past may have been you could never recapture it. What Margaret had said earlier was right. Self-pity was a destructive force. She would have to make herself stronger. Much stronger. What she really needed was to get laid!
She smiled to herself. That was what Marge had been telling her for years! She shrugged aggressively, as if throwing off all her previous worries and cares. She wiped the steam from the mirror on the wall opposite the shower and stared at her face. Her hair hung in limp, damp strands around her face which was puffy from crying. She smiled to herself. She was going to pick herself up and slowly mend all the broken pieces. She and Michael could take on the world. She had absolutely no one else now. She had lost them all, one by one. But she knew that she would always have Michael and Margie. Good old Margie.
She remembered that it was Christmas Day. Back at her own house she had the mother-of-pearl jewellery box that she had bought for Carla . . . She forced the thought from her mind. Let the ungrateful little bitch stay with her mother! Maura did not need her. She did not need anyone.
She ran her hands through her hair, feeling the silky softness of it. Letting the towel fall from her body, she ran her hands down her neck and over her breasts, travelling down her tight stomach to her pubic hair, enjoying the sensation. Picking up her nightie from the floor she put it back on, then went back into the bedroom where her overnight bag was. She felt a lot better. Much better, in fact. As she plugged in her hair dryer she was actually humming a little tune. Margie was right. Self-pity was a bummer. All that she could do now was go forward.
When she finally went downstairs she had her make-up on and her hair done to perfection. She was wearing a dress that would have cost Marge two months’ housekeeping and was gratified to hear the long low whistle that came from Dennis.
‘If I wasn’t so happy with my old Margie I’d be after you myself, Maws!’
Marge laughed. ‘Listen here, Dennis Dawson. You couldn’t pull a ligament these days, let alone a beauty like Maura. Especially not since you lost your hair.’ She smiled at Maura. ‘All he’s got these days is six hairs and a
nit!’
Maura laughed with her. Dennis had lost his hair early, and Maura knew that it was a sore point with him.
‘Come out here and have a cuppa. You look much better.’
Maura followed her out into her little kitchen. ‘I feel a lot better, Marge. Thanks for letting me come.’
Margaret plugged in the electric kettle. ‘What you on about, you silly cow? This is your home for as long as you want to be here.’ She opened her arms wide and Maura walked into them. Margaret’s tiny plump body held on to Maura’s tall thin frame. Maura got upset again at the show of emotion.
‘If you knew what I’d done, Marge!’
‘Shh.’ Margaret stepped back from Maura and raised her finger to her lips. ‘Look, Maws, I know that you and Michael ain’t strictly kosher. I’ve always known and I don’t care. You’re me mate and that’s all I’m interested in.’
Maura looked at her and frowned. ‘Sometimes, Marge, I don’t think that I’m all the ticket. I get so moody and I think really weird things.’
‘Maws love, you’ve been through an awful lot, you know. Just let yourself heal naturally. Benny’s death would make anyone feel rotten. It was horrific. You need time to get over it, that’s all.’
‘Maybe you’re right, Marge.’
She wanted to tell Margaret what Mickey had done to Sammy Goldbaum and Jonny Fenwick. She wanted to tell her that she had helped him. She was experiencing that feeling again - as if she was on the outside of her body looking in. She had always known that Michael enjoyed inflicting pain on people. And until the night with Jonny Fenwick and Sammy Goldbaum it had not bothered her.
‘Maura!’ Margaret’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Mickey’s on the phone for you.’
Maura stared around the kitchen blankly. Margaret looked at her curiously. ‘You all right, girl?’
Maura nodded and walked out of the kitchen into the lounge. The twins were watching Mary Poppins on television and baby Dennis was now sitting on his dad’s lap. Maura’s mind registered the fact that the Christmas tree was falling to one side where the kids had been playing underneath it. She walked out into the hallway and picked up the receiver lying on the telephone table.
‘Oh, darling. You’ll never guess what?’
His voice was bubbling over with excitement.
‘What?’ Maura’s voice was flat.
‘I just had a visit from Sammy Goldbaum’s daughter. You know her . . . the one with the big hooter?’
‘Rebekka.’
‘Yeah, that’s it. Rebekka. Anyway, she said she had come to see me on Christmas Day to show that she bore me no ill will. Not that I give a toss anyway. Those front wheels are like the eye ties, full of crap. Anyway, the bottom line is she brought me some documents that belonged to Sammy. I’ve just been through them, and have a guess what I found along with a load of old betting slips?’
‘What?’
‘The name of the property developer we’ve been looking for. The mastermind behind Dopolis.’
‘But Sammy said he had no idea who he was . . .’
‘I don’t think Sammy realised just what he had. You see, I found an old cutting from a newspaper. The Daily Mirror in fact. It was from the racing section and it had a picture of Dopolis. And get this bit, Maws. He’s in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot! Now what, I asked myself, was he doing in there? Then I realised that he was standing with none other than William Templeton! That’s when it hit me. He’s the Mr Big that Dopolis was talking about.’
Maura was stunned. ‘But he’s a peer of the Realm!’
Mickey laughed. ‘I know. Saucy bastard! I bet he’s even in You Know Who . . . or whatever that book’s called.’
Maura laughed despite herself. ‘It’s Who’s Who, you wally. Christ Almighty, Mickey, if you’re right . . .’
‘I know I’m right. I’ve got a gut feeling about it. Look, can you get over to me now?’
‘I can’t, Mickey. I promised Marge and Den I’d have Christmas dinner with them.’
‘All right then, Princess. But get your arse over here as soon as you can. All right?’
‘All right then, Mickey. Merry Christmas.’ Her voice was sad.
Michael’s voice lost its excitement. ‘I know it’s been a bad time, the last few weeks, but I promise you, Maws - I’ll make it up to you somehow. Merry Christmas, my darling.’
Maura put the phone down gently. The implications of what Mickey had just said were phenomenal. She went back into the lounge and started to play with the children. She held them to the floor and tickled them till they screamed with laughter. Marge and Dennis watched her with amused expressions on their faces. This was more like it. This was the old Maura.
It wasn’t until she was sitting at the dining table eating her enormous Christmas dinner that the excitement hit her. Lord William Templeton . . . Suddenly she could not wait to get started on him. Together Michael and she would eat him alive.
She picked up a bright blue cracker and pointed it at Patricia. ‘Come on, Patty. Let’s see who wins the paper hat!’
Lord Templeton was also sitting at his dinner table in his large rambling house in Kent. The house dated back to the fifteenth century and over the large inglenook fireplace was a painting of one of his ancestors. It had been executed by Holbein, one of Henry VIII’s favourite painters. There was an old story in his family that it was this ancestor who had actually ordered the death of Sir Thomas More. William liked to think that the story was true.
At forty-five, he was a somewhat jaded man. Over the years he had used his vast wealth to engage in many pastimes, both sexual and otherwise. He had hunted big game in South Africa and had smoked hashish in Turkey. He had travelled to the Himalayas and had seen the Manta Rays leap from the sea in the Maldives. He had experimented with drugs, and did not think there was any country in the world that he had not visited. He had married once, when he was very young, a large voluptuous woman, years older than himself. She had left him after one year, taking with her a large amount of money and his good wishes. She had taught him much: that there was no pleasure without pain; that a man, especially a rich man, needs to use his wealth wisely. He had never, as far as he knew, fathered a child. Unlike most men. William Templeton did not have the urge to reproduce. He rather like his solitary life. If he wanted a woman they were easy enough to find.
He picked at his expertly cooked Christmas dinner. At this moment he was a very worried man. He was regretting getting involved with the Greek, Dopolis. For a start it had not achieved his objective - the warehouses that the Ryans owned in the old docklands. Dopolis had turned out to be a penny ante type villain. Not at all the hard man he had said he was. The Ryans had completely obliterated him. If only he had had the sense to keep his eye on the proceedings, then the young boy, Benjamin, would never have died. He shuddered. He had been impressed with Dopolis at first. Had admired his plan of action. How was he to know it was all going to backfire?
He pushed his plate away from him. He had no appetite. Dopolis should never have ordered the boy’s killing, and such a horrible death . . . Now he would have to be very careful. The only avenue left to him was to get someone harder than Michael Ryan and from what he could gauge that would be a very tall order indeed.
His manservant, a rather pinched-faced man called Rankin, cleared the table in front of him. Templeton sat back in his large comfortable chair. His dining table could easily seat twenty-four people. Normally he would have accepted an invitation from a friend for the Christmas festivities, but this year, after all the trouble with Dopolis, he had a hankering for his own company and his own hearth. He conceded that he had made a fatal mistake with the Greek. He toyed with the idea of going to see Michael Ryan and offering him a good price for the warehouses, but pushed the idea away as quickly as it occurred to him.
Some of his best friends had done a stint in Ford Open Prison; in the circles he moved in it was inevitable that you would eventually meet someone who had either embezzled money from the ba
nk that they had worked for or been involved with some kind of fraud. But that was a fact of life. This Ryan, though, was a rough type and his sister wasn’t much better apparently. He lit up a Cuban cigar and poured himself a large Remy Martin into the glass that Rankin had left conveniently by his elbow. No, he had made a tragic mistake. What he had to do now was try to recoup his losses. But he was sure of one thing. He would get those warehouses. He would get all the Ryans’ properties along the Thames.
He smiled to himself. As usual he was absolutely amazed by his own intelligence. He thought of himself as the epitome of the upper class male. God in heaven, he was a cousin to the Queen! Only by marriage, he admitted, but it was a close enough connection to get Nigel Dempster practically wetting himself with excitement every time he appeared in public. He relaxed. There was nothing whatsoever to tie him in with Dopolis.
He sat in his chair, smoking his cigar and drinking his brandy, planning his next move. When the building finally started in the old docklands, every foot would be worth a small fortune. He sat all evening scheming how he would get the Ryans’ properties.
Luckily for him he was not aware that Maura and Michael Ryan were also planning and scheming along the same lines - how they were going to get his properties, and his co-operation.
Maura and Michael were now certain that William Templeton was their man. An old friend of Michael’s who worked on one of the gutter papers had run his name through the newspaper’s computer and supplied them with every piece of gossip ever written about him, as well as some facts that had never been published. And their friends in the IRA had been very helpful. Their final recourse had been to some paid ‘informers’ in the Foreign Office who had supplied information that had shocked even Michael. It seemed that Templeton was a major shareholder in an arms factory that had been supplying anyone with the readies for years. Templeton was certainly no angel, that much was apparent. And that he was protected by the old boy network was more than obvious. Though as Maura had pointed out, there had to be more people involved with him, and with all his businesses. His main buyers were North African countries; Iran, Iraq, Libya - the list was endless. He also supplied Romania and the Czechs. All in all, Templeton seemed like their kind of guy!
