by Jessie Keane
JESSIE
KEANE
FEARLESS
MACMILLAN
This book is dedicated to Cliff –
who still has a lot to put up with . . .
Rikker it adrée tute’s kokero see an’ kek’ll jin
Keep it secret in your own heart,
and nobody will know it.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
BOOK ONE
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
BOOK TWO
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104
105
106
107
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
BOOK THREE
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
EPILOGUE
AUTHOR’S NOTE
NAMELESS
RUTHLESS
LAWLESS
DANGEROUS
STAY DEAD
PROLOGUE
2001
The torch was weaving back and forth in Aysha Flynn’s hand, which was shaking hard. Its cone of light, feeble in the country blackness of the night, was wavering all over the place.
‘Hold it steady, damn it,’ snapped Connor.
Aysha put both hands on the torch. Teeth chattering with nerves, she tried to do as her brother said. Connor was steady as a rock, usually, wise beyond his twenty-five years. But this time? Doing a thing like this? She really thought he was demented. He’d been acting strange and out of character ever since those two Milo bitches had arrived in England.
‘This is wrong,’ she told him.
They were inside a tiny church, way out on the far edge of nowhere in the south of England. No one came here any more. The place was near-derelict; no alarms, nothing. The church hadn’t been in use since Gilbert White trotted past it on his famous white horse in the eighteenth century. It had never been big enough to seat more than twenty people, tops. It had no electricity, no heating or light. It was a place of deep peace and tranquillity.
Tonight, it was being desecrated.
We’re going to be cursed for doing this, thought Aysha with a shudder.
Even at night, the place wasn’t locked up. No point. There was nothing here to steal; no altar cloths or silver candlesticks, no crucifix – even the pews were gone. Connor Flynn, with a pickaxe in one hand and a sledgehammer in the other, had led the way up to the big gravestone at the top of the aisle, in front of the disused altar; last resting place of Polly James, 1745–1762, fiancée of William Cody. The inscriptions had almost been worn away by footsteps over the years, but Aysha could still read them, just about.
MAY SHE REST ETERNAL
Jesus! Spooky, or what?
Polly James had died the night before her wedding, it said. And then there was the old wedding rhyme:
Something Old
Something New
Something Borrowed
Something Blue
Connor tried to get the pickaxe under the edge to lift the stone. But it was huge and too bloody heavy for one man to budge. So now Connor flung the pickaxe aside and took up the sledgehammer again. He was taking aim . . .
Oh shit, thought Aysha.
. . . and the hammer swung fast, up and then down. It hit the ancient stone and bounced off.
‘Fuck,’ said Connor, peeling off his shirt and tossing it aside.
Despite the bitter chill, there was a sheen of sweat on his brow and an alarming intensity to his face when the torch-light caught it. Aysha watched him, thinking that this was crazy, that they couldn’t be doing this, that he must be wrong.
Connor shot his sister a look. ‘Steady,’ he said, and swung again. He was here to prove a point, and he wasn’t about to stop until it was done.
‘Connor, we shouldn’t—’ said Aysha.
‘We have to,’ he cut her off, and swung again, and again, and . . .
Suddenly it happened: the stone cracked. Connor hit it once more, and the crack widened into a fork and split. Connor downed the sledgehammer, grabbed the pickaxe again and levered one of the smaller sections away. It tipped up and then crashed to the side, echoing mournfully in the tomb-like silence of the church. Dust plumed up, and Aysha recoiled, coughing. Connor levered the pick under the remaining section, and heaved. That too gave up and fell aside.
‘What the hell is that?’ asked Aysha, her voice shaking as she focused the torch’s beam on what was revealed.
Connor leaned forward. He’d hoped to find nothing but an ancient skeleton. It was Aysha who stretched down a hand. With a shiver of revulsion she brushed away dirt from the stuff Connor’s blows had revealed.
‘It’s fur,’ she said.
‘Fuck it,’ said Connor.
He hadn’t wanted to believe
it, but here was the proof: the tales the Milo women had spun him weren’t lies at all; they’d been telling the truth.
There was a heavy crash behind them as the door was flung open. They both spun around as footsteps came thundering up the aisle. Aysha let out a panicky cry as she saw the men running toward them out of the gloom. Then one of them lashed out and caught Connor a vicious blow on the head. He fell.
The last thing Connor heard before blackness took him was his sister Aysha’s terrified screams.
BOOK ONE
1
April 1975
On a sunny spring day, twenty-one-year-old Josh Flynn and seventeen-year-old Claire Milo walked away from the gypsy camp that had been their home since childhood. They trod a path they had been using for as long as either of them could remember. Others of their jeal – their kin – had used it too. Not long after the war, a distant Flynn cousin who farmed outside Winchester in the south of England had quietly opened up a puv – a fallow field – so that the Romany Flynn, Milo, Grey and Everett clans – plus a few others – could set up a permanent camp there and stop their travelling.
‘Where you two off to then?’ asked Shauna Everett, passing by, her eyes alighting on Josh. She smiled flirtatiously at him. At him, not at Claire.
Claire felt her hackles rise. Bloody Shauna Everett, she was always giving Josh the glad eye. And ignoring her, like she was nothing.
Keen-eyed and opportunistic, that was Shauna. Claire had known her all her life, and hated her just as long. At eighteen, Shauna was tall, dark-haired and olive-skinned, pure gypsy with flashing conker-brown eyes and a seductive smile that she never wasted on women. Only men ever got the benefit. She was also tough, brassy, sharp-tongued and quick-witted; everything that quiet, pretty and patient blue-eyed blonde Claire – who didn’t look Romany at all – was not.
Claire hated the way Shauna always put herself forward, wearing revealing tight jeans and clinging, plunging tops; everything was out there in the shop window. Shauna would always jostle her way to the front of the queue and grab whatever she wanted out of life. And she wanted Josh. Claire knew it.
‘We’re not going anywhere special,’ Claire told Shauna coldly, and walked on.
Claire saw the hatred in Shauna’s eyes. Well, it’s mutual, she thought. Shauna Everett might be good-looking but she was a right old whorebag. It wound Claire up, the way she was always smirking at Josh. Claire had often seen Shauna hanging around with the Cleaver boys. The Cleavers weren’t Romany; they were gorgi pig farmers from up the lane. Shauna had been spotted necking with them at parties and dances, and they were nothing but backwoods scum that no decent woman would touch with a bargepole. She could see two of the Cleavers lurking over there by the vans right now – big bastards with dirty old macs and mud-spattered boots on, their faces covered in scruffy beards – fat Rowan, and Ciaran with his one blind eye. They were watching what was going on.
Claire thought that Shauna’s flirting with those dead-leg Cleaver boys was just window-dressing, anyway. She had seen the looks Shauna shot Josh at the same time as she was pretending to be all over the Cleavers like a rash. She’s trying to make Josh jealous, thought Claire. Well, she was wasting her time. Josh belonged to her, not Shauna.
As they walked on down the dell and away from the camp, Claire squeezed Josh’s hard-muscled arm and smiled up at him. No doubt about it, Josh was a prize to be coveted and she was proud of him. He was tall with a fine fighter’s build and a head of thick pale-brown hair that always bleached to blond in the summer. His profile was strong and his heart-stoppingly pale grey eyes gave him an almost luminous aura. All the girls looked at him, not just Shauna, but he belonged to Claire. He had been hers since they were small. While ‘grabbing’ was the norm among gypsy folk – where a boy fancied a girl and wrestled her for a kiss or even more – that had never happened with Josh. He treated Claire with absolute respect. Although she was seventeen, she was still as pure as the day she was born.
‘It’s beyond me why you bother,’ said Rowan Cleaver as Shauna moodily flounced over to where him and his brother stood.
Shauna’s eyes had followed Josh and Claire out of sight. Her face was grim as she watched the happy pair walk away, hand in hand. She turned to Rowan.
‘Why don’t you shut the fuck up?’ she said.
Rowan laughed. Rowan was always the one loitering in the background, giggling like a hyena. He was his older brother Ciaran’s lap dog and his younger brother Jeb’s whipping boy, everyone knew that. If Ciaran or Jeb said jump, Rowan asked how high.
‘He got a point, ain’t he,’ said Ciaran. ‘Josh Flynn ain’t never going to look twice at you, gal. He’s been mooning over that Claire Milo ever since he could crawl.’
‘That’s the truth,’ said Rowan, grinning.
‘So just be grateful for what you have got,’ said Ciaran, snaking an arm around Shauna’s waist and pulling her in close.
Shauna quickly pushed herself free of him. The youngest Cleaver boy, Jeb, she could just about stomach. He was good-looking, if you went for the brutish heavy-muscled sort. Ciaran wasn’t all that, though. That ugly milky-white eye gave him an evil look. A pony had kicked him in it when he was eight years old, blinding that eye in an instant. As for Rowan, he made her want to throw up. But all three Cleaver boys were useful in their way. A lot of people were scared of them, but they were always willing to do favours for Shauna. It was all a matter of knowing how to handle them – and Shauna had it down to a fine art.
‘Ah, she’s pissed off because the Flynn boy’s always off with that Claire,’ said Rowan.
‘Give it up, gal,’ said Ciaran. ‘Serious. You’re wasting your time.’
That put Shauna’s back up. The worst thing was, she feared it was true. But she wanted it to be different. And, over the years, Shauna had got used to having what she wanted. Her parents had never done fuck-all for her, so she’d grown up tough, fending for herself, grabbing everything she could get out of this Romany life but always finding it wanting. She wanted more. She wanted better. And she was bloody well going to get it.
‘I could have him if I wanted,’ she said.
‘Yeah, and there goes one of our pigs, flying over that hedge,’ laughed Rowan.
‘I could,’ insisted Shauna.
‘Bollocks,’ said Ciaran, and the two Cleaver brothers turned away.
2
The beauty of the day helped Claire brush Shauna and the Cleavers from her mind. She and Josh trod the path they always followed, crossing the dell and on down past the row of poplars shimmering in the breeze, then between the fields with their fast-greening crops of wheat and barley, and on down to the little church.
The mouldering building was surrounded by an old graveyard, lichen-covered stones standing around like drunks among the overgrown grass which was now studded with pale yellow and sugar-pink primroses.
It was their special place – Josh’s and Claire’s. As children, they had played here. As young teenagers, they had shared their first kiss; and now, as adults, here they were again, talking and laughing together in low whispers, their arms wrapped around each other, Josh so tall and handsome and tough, Claire with her tumbling blonde hair, as lovely as the spring day.
‘Let’s go in,’ said Claire, dragging Josh after her.
Inside, the church was still and peaceful. Claire led the way up to the altar, stepping on ancient stones inscribed with details of the departed. Before the altar she stopped, looking down at the very last one. Polly James, fiancée of William Cody, lay here. The inscription said that she had died of a fever the night before her wedding.
1745–1762
MAY SHE REST ETERNAL
‘Look. That’s the old wedding rhyme,’ said Claire, tracing the words with her toe. ‘Something old, something new . . .’
‘Yeah, I know,’ said Josh, smiling indulgently. She was his angel, sweet and soft-hearted and full of warmth, always championing the underdog. Claire was never loud or pushy, but sh
e had a core of iron and would take shit from no one – not even him. She was strong in her quiet, determined way, and he admired that. He was lucky to have her, and he knew it. ‘I’ve read the damned thing a thousand times.’
‘Don’t swear in church! It’s unlucky.’ Claire stared down at the stone and crossed herself. ‘Poor girl.’
‘Let’s go outside,’ said Josh. ‘It’s fucking cold in here. Catch a chill and I’ll be in no state to fight.’
‘Ah, you’re soft as a gorgi,’ she joked. A gorgi was a house-dweller. But his mention of the fight soured her mood. She wished he wouldn’t be fit enough to step into the ring, not ever. She hated the bare-knuckle fight game and feared for him every minute she knew he was in the ring. She was the soft one, not him. But Josh had grown up fighting, like his father and his grandfather before him; and she was – for better or worse – in love with Josh.
For a while she’d hoped he’d settle for the sort of labour the other Romany lads did. He’d given it a try, done his stint on the driveways, laying razor-thin tarmac bought off council surplus for the roads, and some tree felling. He’d dealt scrap metal and done a bit of horse trading at the fairs. He’d creosoted turkey sheds and picked fruit. But when he’d stepped into the ring for the first serious bout of his life, he’d been lost. He was a fighter; it was in his blood. He couldn’t help it.
Claire noticed that Josh seemed distracted. His face when she smiled up at him was deadly serious. In silence he led the way back out into the sunshine.
‘Josh?’ Claire caught up with him, touched his arm. ‘What’s up?’
‘Got something to ask you. Something important.’
‘Go on then.’
Josh got down on one knee in the long grass.
‘Claire – will you marry me?’ he asked.
Claire let out a scream and put both hands over her face.
Josh squinted up at her. ‘What’s that mean? Yes? No? Fuck off?’
Claire started to cry. Then she started to laugh. ‘Oh Christ! Josh!’
Josh grabbed her around the waist and pulled her close to him. ‘What?’ he asked.
‘It means yes! Of course it means yes!’ howled Claire, wrenching herself free of him and haring away up the dell.
‘Where you going?’ he called after her, still kneeling in the grass. He groped in his pocket – Christ, he’d forgotten to give her the bloody ring, he’d been that nervous!
‘Got to tell Mum,’ she threw back over her shoulder, and ran on.
