Dangerous Lady

by Cole, Martina

  Geoffrey, Leslie and Garry were already in there having a drink. He greeted them and poured himself a large brandy. Sitting behind his desk, he looked directly at Garry. If anyone knew Maura’s whereabouts it would be him.

  ‘Do you know if our Maura’s got a boyfriend?’

  Garry looked at his brother in bewilderment. ‘What if she has? It’s none of our business.’

  Michael was out of his seat and round the desk, knocking Leslie flying out of his chair as he pushed past him to get to Garry. He grabbed him by his shirt front, pulling him up out of the chair with considerable strength.

  ‘ “None of our business” you say . . . I heard a whisper on the street tonight that our sister is knocking about with a filth!’ He threw Garry back into his seat. His temper was seething. If he didn’t get some kind of answer soon he would explode.

  Leslie stared at Garry, who was gasping for breath. There was no doubt about it . . . Mickey was an awesome bastard. There was no one to touch him. Mickey was the business. Well the business.

  ‘Who told you all this then, Mick?’ Geoffrey tried unsuccessfully to defuse the situation.

  ‘Never you mind who bloody well told me! It’s enough that I’ve heard. I want you two -’ he pointed at Leslie and Garry - ‘to find out how true it is.’

  Geoffrey tried again. ‘It’s not definite then? What I mean is . . .’

  Michael screwed up his face and bellowed at this brother, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Geoffrey . . . I don’t want a government White Paper on it all. I just want the facts! Now do what I fucking well told you to do!’

  Leslie and Garry scrambled from the room. When Michael was in one of his tempers, you did not argue with him.

  Geoffrey poured himself a brandy. When Michael was like this, it was best not to rock the boat in any way.

  Michael swallowed his own brandy in a gulp and grimaced. ‘So what do you think, Geoffrey?’ His voice was once again steady.

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘Jonny actually.’ He sounded wary.

  ‘In that case . . . no way. Not our Maws.’ His voice was dismissive. He did not like Jonny. He did not like the fact that Michael was homosexual, though he would never say it outright.

  Michael guessed, rightly, exactly what had gone through Geoffrey’s mind.

  ‘I know you don’t like Jonny. That’s tough. But I’ll tell you this much - for all his faults he ain’t a liar. And there’s one thing that seems to have escaped your notice . . . most people don’t even know we have a sister.’

  Geoffrey digested this bit of logic, watching Michael sitting at his desk chewing his thumbnail. Geoffrey knew from experience that Michael could sit like that for hours. Sighing, he poured himself another drink. He hoped for Maura’s sake that what they had heard wasn’t true.

  Downstairs, Leslie and Garry had told Benny what had happened. He was still sitting with Pussy, except now the night had lost some of its enchantment. Sensing that she had lost his attention, the girl stroked his thigh, pouting at him prettily. He smiled at her with a crafty little grin guaranteed to melt the hardest of hearts.

  ‘Pussy.’ His voice was caressing.

  ‘Yes?’ She looked into his eyes. Their blue depths mirrored her features.

  ‘Let’s go, shall we?’

  ‘All right then.’ They stood up together. Benny wanted out of here before Michael decided to rope him in on everything. There were many things he would do for his eldest brother, but even he drew the line at a witch hunt on his only sister. Gathering up their things, they left the club. Hailing a cab outside, Benny jumped in, pulling Pussy in after him. There was a little hotel just off Leicester Square where he could hole up with her for the night. And that’s what he intended to do. The thought of ringing home and warning his sister crossed his mind, but he soon dismissed it. He didn’t want any part of this whatsoever.

  The girl snuggled up to him in the back of the taxi, and for the first time in his life Benny wondered if he would be able to get it up.

  The way he was feeling, he would need Charles Atlas to lift it for him.

  Garry and Leslie got out of their car. They were going to see another policeman. This was their second visit in two hours. The first had been to a young PC who had been as bewildered as they were. They had left no wiser to their sister’s antics than they had been before. It had cost them twenty quid to keep him quiet, but it was worth it. He was going to keep his ear to the ground. The man they were going to see now was a sergeant in Notting Dale police station. He had been on the Ryans’ payroll for about five years. Well, now he could earn his money.

  They knocked on his front door. It was nearly twelve-thirty. The small terraced house was in darkness. A light came on upstairs and Sergeant Potter’s grizzled head appeared from a window.

  ‘Who the bloody hell is it?’

  He peered myopically down at them.

  ‘It’s Leslie Ryan. I wanna see you, Sarge.’ Leslie’s voice was a theatrical whisper.

  Grunting and moaning, the old man retreated back inside the room. Leslie and Garry heard him clumping down his stairs. The hall light went on and the door was opened.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at? Coming round here at this time of night?’

  Garry and Leslie walked into the hallway.

  ‘We’ve got a few questions, and we want you to give us the answers.’

  The old man looked at them maliciously. He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew what they were going to ask. ‘Would the questions be about your sister by any chance?’

  ‘That’s right, Sarge. What do you know about her then?’ Garry sounded menacing and the man realised that he had forgotten for a moment just who he was dealing with. He licked his lips.

  He started talking in a self-righteous tone of voice. ‘Now you listen to me . . . I didn’t know anything until today, I take oath on that. A friend of mine who’s now at Vine Street gave me a ring at Notting Dale. He told me that there had been a bit of malarkey with one of the plainclothes there. He got hauled over the coals because he was knock - I mean, seeing your sister.’

  He was fiddling with the cord of his plaid dressing gown, his short stubby fingers tobacco-stained. Leslie and Garry stood quietly staring at him.

  The man began to babble. ‘Honestly, boys, I didn’t think you would be interested in it. I mean . . . I assumed you knew about it all.’ He was getting desperate.

  ‘What’s the bloke’s name?’

  ‘The bloke who rang me or your sister’s fancy man? Sorry, I mean boyfriend.’

  Garry closed his eyes wearily. He spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘Who was the man who rang you up?’

  ‘Oh, it was an old friend.’

  ‘Listen, you!’ Garry pushed him across the hallway. ‘I just want his name, not his fucking life story. Now who is he?’

  The old man had fallen back on the stairs and sat there watching the two boys. Upstairs he could hear his wife getting out of bed. Her high-pitched, nasal voice floated down the stairs. ‘Who’s that down there, Albert? Sounds like an ’erd of bloody elephants from up here.’

  He groaned. That was all he needed, his wife awake and sticking her oar in where it wasn’t wanted.

  ‘No one, dear. It’s police business. You go back to sleep.’

  ‘Well, just you tell them to keep their great big galloping feet off of my clean floor.’

  ‘I will.’

  Leslie had an urge to laugh and stifled it. ‘The name of your informant?’

  ‘It was a bloke called Jones . . . He’s a DS at Vine Street.’

  ‘Is he reliable? I mean, if he said something was true, would that be the case?’

  ‘Oh, yeah. He’s a rare one, old Jonesy. If he told me he had seen old Nick himself I’d believe him. He’s not a spinner.’

  Garry snorted. ‘That makes a change in the police force. I thought you needed a degree in being a lying bastard before they would have you?’

  Albert pursed his lips. Even though he was on
the take, he still took a pride in being a policeman.

  ‘What was the bloke’s name who’s been seeing my sister?’

  ‘Petherick. Detective Constable Terence Petherick.’

  ‘That’s all we wanted to know. You can go back to bed with old vinegar tits now.’

  As they left the house, Leslie slipped the old man a ten-pound note.

  ‘Listen, Sarge, we want his address. If you can get it there’ll be a pony in it for you, all right?’

  ‘OK, son.’ All his animosity was forgotten now. He could do a lot with twenty-five quid. Anyway, he reasoned, they’d get their information one way or the other so he might as well feather his nest while he had the chance. ‘I’ll keep me ear to the ground. Don’t you worry.’ He closed the door behind them.

  His wife’s voice came once more from above him. ‘Al . . . bert!’ She had the knack of singing his name out in such a way that her voice carried for about three miles.

  ‘Oh, shut your row, you stupid old bitch!’

  His wife sat in her bed, her face a mask of Pond’s cold cream and abject disbelief. Her curlers were placed strategically around her head like a crash helmet. She hitched up her ample chest, her mouth settling to a grim line. A malevolent gleam in her eye, she pulled the covers off her. Swinging her legs out of bed, she placed her feet in her carpet slippers, stood up and picked up the heavy chamber pot from underneath the bed. She walked out of the bedroom on to the landing. As her husband reached the top of the stairs she flung the contents into his face . . . that would teach him to answer her back!

  She clumped back into her bedroom leaving her husband clutching a soggy ten-pound note in his hand. He spat. Only his Gladys would have the nerve to empty an ‘Edgar Allen’ all over him. Sod them bloody Ryans! If they hadn’t got him out of bed none of this would have happened.

  Garry and Leslie drove back to Dean Street. It was just on one o’clock. They arrived at the club at one-thirty-five. The balloon went up at one-forty.

  Maura was lying in bed wide awake. It was nearly two-thirty in the morning and she was no nearer sleep than she had been at nine o’clock when she had got into bed. Her mind was turning in circles, her thoughts drifting away on different tangents as she tried to see a way out of her predicament. There was none. She had talked everything over with Margaret, but neither girl could find a solution to her problem. A problem that was getting bigger in Maura’s mind with every passing second.

  She was in a quandary. If she told her family who the father was there would be murder. Especially if she told them he had dumped her. As much as Terry had hurt her, she wasn’t going to be the cause of his getting beaten to death. And if she knew Mickey that would be the outcome. She placed her hands on her belly. There was a tiny little person in there, a completely new life waiting for her to bring it into the world. She turned over the bed again. The blankets and sheets were tangled around her.

  How could he have dismissed her like that? She was still reeling from the shock. She had thought he would have been over the moon once the news had sunk in. She had seen him picking her up in his arms and kissing all her fears away. Telling her that he loved her. That they would go away and get married, away from her brothers, to Scotland or somewhere. Now, in bed, in the dark, she could see her plans for what they were: childish fantasies. Terry had no more need of her than he had of his car. When it was old hat, you traded it in for a newer model.

  She felt the familiar sting of tears. Well, he wouldn’t hear about this child from her. She wouldn’t lower herself. If he didn’t want her then he didn’t want his child either. But what was she going to do about the baby? She couldn’t see herself as one of these unmarried mothers, brazenly having their babies and sod the neighbours. If it had been anyone else, her brothers would have been round the boy’s house, given him a good hiding, and then the wedding would have been arranged, quick smart. But this was a situation that could not be resolved so easily. Even if Terry wanted to marry her, Michael would move heaven and earth to stop the marriage taking place.

  She was hot again so she pushed off the blankets. In her short nylon nighty she looked far more seductive than she felt. Her long smooth legs were spreadeagled on the blankets, her arms were hugging her breasts. She had combed out her long hair before getting into bed and it fanned around her head giving her an ethereal appearance, like a saucy angel.

  She rolled her head from side to side on her pillow. Oh, why was she being plagued like this! It was bad enough being pregnant without all this added worry. She turned herself over again in the bed. This time she was facing the window. She stared out into the darkness, only the light of the streetlights to illuminate her room. Earlier she had prayed - to the Immaculate Conception and Saint Jude, the patron saint of no hope! Above her bed was the Sacred Heart, a large golden vessel pulsing outside Christ’s body. He had looked benevolently down on her for years. She began to pray to him again. In the half-light she could see his golden heart glinting. She began to murmur the Eucharistic prayer.

  ‘ “Father, you are holy indeed, and all creation rightly gives you praise.”

  As she prayed she heard a car drive into Lancaster Road. She saw the car’s headlights cast long shadows over her bedroom ceiling as the engine died down and guessed, rightly, that her brothers were home. She heard them coming into the house and carried on praying.

  ‘ “All life, all holiness comes from you . . .”

  They were coming up the stairs. She could hear the thud of their shoes.

  ‘ “Through our son, Jesus Christ our Lord.”

  Her bedroom door was thrown open and the light turned on. She pulled herself up in the bed and put her hand over her eyes to shield them from the sudden glare. Michael and Geoffrey stood at the end of her bed like avenging angels.

  She squinted at them. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘I was just gonna ask you the same thing.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re on about, Mickey. I ain’t done nothing!’ Her voice was full of fear.

  With one bound he was across the room. He grabbed her hair, yanking her head back. ‘You bloody tart! You’ve been knocking about with a filth, ain’t ya?’

  ‘No . . . Mickey, I swear!’ She was screaming with fear.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, you slag.’

  He pushed his face closer to hers. She could smell his breath as he shouted at her, ‘Lover boy got an ultimatum today, Maura. Either his bit of skirt or his job. I understand the job won.’

  Maura’s head was reeling. That was why he had dumped her! That was why he had taken the key from her. He knew who she was!

  ‘He was called into the Chief’s office. Told what a naughty family you’d got. I’m the fucking laughing stock of the Metropolitan Police Force over you. Every villain from here to Liverpool will be laughing up their sleeves at me. I could bleeding well murder you!’

  Maura was not listening to him. All she could think of was the fact that Terry had known about her when she had gone to him. It was the name Ryan that had created the rift between them. Somewhere deep down inside her a grain of contempt was forming. It was her family that he objected to, not her. Even though it proved that it was not anything she had done that had caused their rift, instead of pleasing her she felt a disdain for him that was so strong she could actually taste it. The gutless bastard! The dirty gutless bastard . . .

  He didn’t even have the nerve to tell her why he was dumping her. He’d said he wanted to see other women when in reality he meant: I am frightened of your brothers. He had destroyed her and didn’t have the decency to tell her truthfully why. She was carrying his child inside her. The fruit of their so-called love. If he walked into her room now, Michael wouldn’t be in it. She would rip him to shreds, Terry Gutless Petherick would be a dead man, and it wouldn’t be her brothers who killed him.

  Michael and Geoffrey were watching her, fascinated by the changing expressions on her face.

  ‘Leave me alone, you!’ she screamed at Michael at
the top of her voice, all fear of him leaving her at the thought of what Terry had done to her. Michael brought back his fist. As he went to slam it into her body, Sarah’s voice stayed him.

  ‘Oi! What the bloody hell’s going on in here? It’s a wonder you ain’t woken up the whole bleeding street.’ She took in the picture before her and ran to her son. Raising herself up on her toes she grabbed hold of Michael’s hair, shaking him like a dog with its prey.

  ‘Don’t you dare raise your hand to your sister, you great gormless bastard! Leave go of her hair before you pull it all out.’ She pummelled Michael’s chest with her fists. It said a lot for his feelings for her mother that he didn’t strike her, but instead threw Maura back against the pillows.

  ‘Go back to bed, Mum, and let me sort this out.’

  ‘No, I bleeding well won’t!’ She looked at her husband who had followed her into the room. ‘Tell him to leave her alone.’

  She pulled her daughter into her arms.

  Benjamin, as usual, was half drunk. He looked at everyone in the room with his drunken leer and, finding it difficult to concentrate, waved his hands at his wife. ‘Leave Mickey alone. He knows what he’s about.’

  Sarah lost her temper.

  ‘That’s right, Ben, do what you always do. Pass the bloody buck. This time to your son. You drunken bastard! Get out of me sight.’

  She turned her gaze on Mickey.

  ‘Now you tell me what’s going on here. Your father might be scared of you but I ain’t. I’ll never be frightened of something that came out of me own body, so just you remember that. Come on, I’m waiting. What’s going on?’

  Geoffrey answered for him. ‘She’s been seeing an old Bill.’

  Maura’s little sob was the only other sound. Sarah stroked her daughter’s hair gently and sat herself on the bed.

  ‘So what? Why should that worry you lot? Who the hell do you think you are . . . the Krays? You’re nothing, do you hear me. Nothing!