Wishing and Hoping

by Mia Dolan

  ‘I won’t let him have the Blue Genie,’ Marcie responded defiantly.

  ‘Of course you won’t – not if you can help it. But he won’t ask you, love. He’ll threaten you and your kids if you don’t play ball. How can you cope with that?’

  ‘I will cope! Everyone treats me like a kid,’ Marcie exclaimed. ‘Even Michael. I can run that place. I know I can. And I will. It was Michael’s dream and I’ll keep it alive – even though he thinks that I can’t,’ she added.

  ‘It’s worth a try. If you really want to,’ said Carla. ‘But not alone. You can’t do it alone.’

  ‘Yes, I can!’

  Carla laughed. ‘A young woman all alone; the sharks will be around love and they’ll eat you for breakfast. After meeting Paddy Rafferty you must know that.’

  ‘I can handle him.’

  ‘Can you? Do you have the muscle he’s got – and I mean meat on the hoof, love? Can you get an army of over-muscled numbskulls around you, intent on doing your bidding – for a price of course; there’s always a price.’

  Marcie thought of her father. He’d drifted in and out of the criminal underworld all his life. He was bound to know the right people. But then there was the other side of the coin. Valuable property being considered for redevelopment usually drew the attention of local politicians and professional people like architects, bankers and lawyers. That’s where Jacob Solomon would come in. He could help her cope with that side of things; she knew he could.

  Her mind was working overtime, planning things out for herself, but she wouldn’t let Carla know that. Or her mother for that matter. Why should she? Even if she concentrated really hard, she just couldn’t bring her mother’s face to mind. Neither could she remember her touch or anything they’d ever done together. Determined to sort this out to her own advantage, her expression hardened. Throw the ball back into Carla’s court.

  ‘So! What’s the solution?’

  Carla tugged at the dangling earring in her right ear and made a clicking sound out of the corner of her mouth. ‘It takes fire to fight fire. My suggestion is that you team up with someone as tough as Paddy Rafferty. Someone who Rafferty respects. That’s my suggestion.’

  Marcie eyed her sidelong as though somehow that would clarify what Carla Casey was all about. ‘And you know just the right criminal to fit the bill?’

  Carla did a so-so motion with her head. ‘Like I said, you have to fight fire with fire.’

  It amazed Carla to see how calmly Marcie was taking all this. Some unfortunate wives would be hysterical, crying that they couldn’t cope and horrified at the prospect of throwing in their lot with a gangland boss, a well-respected gangland boss who could deal with the likes of Paddy Rafferty. Marcie Brooks – or rather Jones as she was now – had a lot of guts. It should come as no surprise of course, bearing in mind who her mother was. And far from being married to a judge, Mary Brooks had married the most powerful gangland boss in London.

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Marcie said thoughtfully, eyes downcast, then suddenly flashing wide. ‘So who do you have in mind?’

  Marcie’s look was so strong and so confrontational that at first Carla was taken aback. Then she said, ‘Leo Kendal. Rafferty wouldn’t cross him. He’s a right powerful bloke and guaranteed to scare the pants off scum like Paddy Rafferty.’

  ‘Do I get to meet him?’

  ‘No need. Leave it to me. I’ll make all the arrangements and fill Jacob Solomon in on the details when the time comes. And don’t worry, it’ll be a loose partnership that can be settled once Michael is out of prison.’

  ‘You think he will be out of prison?’

  Carla almost sobbed at the sudden brightness of Marcie’s face. All the girl wanted – at least at this moment in time – was her husband lying in bed beside her.

  ‘Who knows? Don’t worry,’ she added on seeing the look of sudden alarm on Marcie’s face, ‘it’ll be a fair partnership and will give you a breathing space while the court case is going on. You’ll be safe. I suppose you’d prefer to tell Michael yourself that you’re going to run things. I presume he doesn’t know you’re going to disobey his orders. Will he be OK about that?’

  Marcie tossed her head defiantly. ‘Of course he will be. He trusts me and knows I can handle myself.’

  Carla nodded, though didn’t look that convinced at how Michael would react. ‘It might be best if you didn’t – not yet anyway – until we’ve sorted things out.’

  Marcie nodded. ‘OK. We’ll leave it at that. I won’t tell him, not until there’s some hope of him being freed.’

  Deep down she’d been hoping for Carla to say that the old judge had died and her mother wanted to see her. If ever there was a mover and fixer in London, Carla was it. She moved in diverse circles and seemed to know everybody who was anybody. There was another thing preying on Marcie’s mind that had made her wary of allowing Carla into her confidence.

  ‘By the way, how did you know I’d met Paddy Rafferty?’

  The statuesque blonde paused in the doorway. It was obvious from her expression that she’d been caught off guard. Her face froze then thawed quickly.

  ‘You know how word gets round.’

  Marcie wasn’t fooled. She watched from the window as Carla left. At first the woman in the fur coat stood on the kerb and raised her hand as though hailing a cab. But it wasn’t a cab that pulled up. It was the same black limousine she’d seen outside the prison. Mary Brooks was never far away. How long, Marcie wondered, before they met? How long before she could quell the bitter anger lurking in her heart?

  Chapter Eighteen

  IT WOULD BE so easy to place a cushion over her husband’s face and let him go, but Sam Kendal couldn’t do that.

  She watched him sleep, his breathing rasping like sandpaper over wood.

  His lungs were shot away; their chronic condition a direct result of strong cigarettes and hard liquor.

  Leo Kendal had lived life to the full and, until meeting her, had never married.

  She’d been a lost soul when she’d met him, without a home, without a penny to her name – not that she’d known her real name. All she recalled was drifting into a life as a nightclub hostess where she’d attracted his attention. The nightclub was his and he’d started to take an interest in her.

  Eventually he’d asked for her real name. By then her strong personality and good looks had got under his skin. She’d hesitated and dropped her eyes. That was when she’d admitted that she didn’t know because she’d lost her memory.

  ‘I don’t know. I picked the name Samantha from a TV programme.’

  ‘No name?’

  He’d raised his eyebrows. It had been difficult to read the look on his face. She hadn’t realised what she was seeing until much later when he’d offered to give her his name – in marriage. She realised then that she’d actually aroused the protective instinct in this grim, hard man. He liked her because she had a strong character as well as good looks. She’d told him the truth about herself – as far as she knew it. He told her the truth about himself, a cruel truth about a mother who had abandoned him, leaving him with a grandfather who’d taken a belt to his bare backside, had locked him in the cellar, had sent him out stealing, the money earned spent on beer and betting.

  ‘My grandfather worked on the docks. He used to bring stuff home from there – mostly bags of sugar and salt which he divided up and sold off.’

  ‘How long did that last?’ she’d asked him.

  ‘Until I grew bigger than him.’

  He’d told her how he’d finally grown bigger both physically and by reputation. The leather belt had come out one last time. Leo had beaten his grandfather into an inch of his life.

  ‘And then I picked up a sack of salt that he hadn’t began dividing up and poured it over him. I rubbed it into the cuts. I took pleasure in doing that, the bastard. And then I left.’

  From the very start he’d trusted her with his secrets and with his business. As it turned out, he’d
made a very wise move and had judged her well. She had a sharp business mind and was totally loyal to the man who’d given her his name even though he knew nothing about her.

  He’d fallen ill just as her memory started to return. His lungs filled ever more with fluid and the cancer that was threatening his life. Still loyal to him, she had held back on telling him about her returning memory. By the same token, she had been unwilling to disclose the fact that she was still alive to her ex-husband, Tony. It had occurred to her to tell Tony, but facing her past was difficult. He wasn’t the sort to believe in lost memories. From what she remembered of their past life, he would rant and rave and call her a liar. She couldn’t face that. She didn’t need to face that.

  Only her daughter, Marcie, knew that she was alive, even if she didn’t yet know the whole truth – and they hadn’t yet met. That was another thing she couldn’t bare to do just yet. The truth of the matter was that tough as she might appear to the outside world, when it came to facing her daughter, she was shit scared.

  She had said to Carla, ‘Tell her I’m married to an old judge who’s been good to me and that if I tell him about my former life, he’ll be a goner. I can’t do that to him. Tell her that. And also tell her not to divulge my secret to a soul.’

  Carla had done her bidding and Marcie had stuck to her word.

  Sam looked at her husband. Sensing her presence, his eyes flickered open.

  She smiled at him and covered his hand with hers. ‘How are you, love?’

  He gave her a weak smile. ‘Finished.’ His voice was fragile.

  ‘Not yet,’ she said softly.

  ‘Soon,’ he responded.

  She didn’t argue. They’d always been honest with each other and would be now. ‘You know I’ll take care of everything.’

  His nod of assent was barely perceptible.

  ‘I’ve got a problem with Paddy Rafferty. Any objection if I deal him a heavy hand?’

  The shaking of his head was as weak as his nod had been. She’d wanted that agreement, before he went, before she could cross old bridges and rebuild her life.

  Chapter Nineteen

  THE DOCTOR REMOVED his spectacles. Rosa Brooks could tell by the way he paused before delivering his verdict that he was loath to do so. Although her eyes could not detect him rubbing at the bridge of his nose with one finger and thumb, she knew that was what he was doing. It would be bad and only confirm what she already knew.

  ‘Your eyes are getting worse. The pressure behind them is caused by the diabetes. It’s quite common in older people. Unfortunately you are also developing a cataract problem. No matter how hard you stare at me, the situation will not get any better.’

  She knew she was staring at him as though she could see through her foggy version and fancied he smiled. She gave the impression of being an indomitable lady who was not easily beaten. And she was not beaten, not entirely. She still had her second sight.

  Her gift for seeing the unseen had lain dormant in her youth, a fancy rather than a factual thing. The gift had not manifested itself until she was married with a child.

  As a naval reserve, Cyril had been recalled to active service. He had ended up in Malta, the place where they had first met. Having many relatives there, she had gone too, taking Antonio, their son, with her.

  ‘You are a widow, Mrs Brooks?’

  ‘Yes. For twenty years.’

  She heard the scribbling of pen on paper. The sound of paper being shifted around his desk reminded her of the rustling of paper-thin garments that had once been good cloth, of dry skin that had once been supple.

  ‘Do you have anyone to look after you?’

  ‘Garth.’

  ‘I see.’

  She heard the rustle of paper again. His chair rumbled as he wheeled it around to face the fireplace.

  ‘It’s a little cold in here.’

  There was a popping sound as the gas fire flared into life.

  It did little to brighten the wintry afternoon. Her world was turning dark, though it could never be as dark as the true darkness she’d known during the siege of Malta.

  In her sleep she often relived those terror-filled days, especially the one when she had got caught out and had to take cover in the catacombs. The shuddering of a bomb blast had found her even there. The old tombs had collapsed on top of her. She had been buried beneath a mountain of ancient corpses, their skin and their clothes as crisp as paper, their bones as dry as dust.

  The doctor’s voice invaded her lapse into memories. ‘We are all getting older.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, knowing he was being kind and sympathetic to her, a woman nearing the end of her life.

  The poor man was totally unaware that he was far more ill than she.

  She couldn’t see him that clearly; all she could see was a colour mutating around him into peaks and troughs, though sluggishly, as though the power to radiate energy was getting weaker.

  Her intention had also been to mention her toe as well as her eyes. Weeks ago she’d dropped a pan on it and cracked a toenail. The resultant wound was not getting any better; in fact it was beginning to smell bad. But the colour around the doctor was not good. She had no wish to add to his woes – woes he didn’t yet know he had.

  ‘You are telling me that new glasses will do nothing for my vision. But that is all right. I can see the things that are most important to me.’

  The good doctor, who had served in the Sheerness surgery she attended since she’d first arrived in England in the years between the First and Second World Wars, shook his head and sighed. She didn’t tell him about the light shining around him, a message that his own time on earth was coming to an end.

  He cupped her elbow in his hand and escorted her to the door.

  ‘Keep taking the insulin tablets. At least we can keep the diabetes under some sort of control.’

  Garth sprang up from the chair in the waiting room as she came out on the doctor’s arm.

  ‘Have I got to go in and see the doctor as well?’ he said anxiously.

  Rosa shook her head. ‘No. You are healthy, Garth.’

  Outside the surgery, with its flat roof and modern façade of glass-framed teak, Rosa Brooks stopped to take a deep breath. The air was spiced with the saltiness of sea air mixed with the sweeter smells of candyfloss and fish and chips. It was always so when the wind was blowing directly up the beach and into the town. All the smells came with it.

  She could also smell people passing by; small children smelled of milk and bubblegum. Some women smelled of cheap perfume and face powder, others smelled of weariness. Old men smelled of damp wool, mothballs and strong tobacco. Some people smelled bad, either because they did not wash too often or because of something else, something evil hanging around them in a slimy green aura.

  Funny, thought Rosa, how other senses grow stronger when one sense is fading.

  ‘Can we get some fish and chips, Auntie Rosa?’ Garth asked.

  He asked the question with all the gushing enthusiasm of an eight-year-old. Poor Garth. With one hand God had taken and with the other had put something back.

  ‘Of course we can. Give me your arm and you can guide me there. What do you fancy? Cod or haddock?’

  He opted for cod, just as she guessed he would.

  The day was unseasonably sunny and a few day trippers were making the most of it. Children were running in and out of the crowds and retired people were sitting in sheltered areas, eating home-made sandwiches whilst staring out at a surprisingly tranquil sea.

  Local girls in short skirts, the hems barely reaching halfway down their thighs pushed babies in pushchairs.

  Some of the local boys pushed against Garth and laughed when he told them politely not to do that. The boys made faces and blew raspberries.

  ‘They shouldn’t do that, should they, Auntie Rosa?’

  ‘No,’ said Rosa. ‘They should not. It is very rude.’

  The fish and chip shop had a drop-down counter so customers didn’t
need to go into the shop to choose what they wanted.

  Rosa and Garth joined the queue. Rosa rummaged in her tapestry bag with beechwood handles for her purse. Once she’d found it, she struggled to get it open. The clasp was so stiff.

  Concentrating on opening her purse, she wasn’t immediately aware of the running boys who had been watching her. She wasn’t aware at all what they were up to until they barged into her, knocking her backwards.

  Her purse fell to the ground, pennies rolling out everywhere.

  Rosa fell against Garth.

  ‘My purse!’

  Swooping like a bird of prey, one of the boys snatched her purse from the ground and ran on. The others went too, whooping and hollering with glee.

  The woman serving the fish and chips came out from behind the counter and helped pick Rosa up from the ground along with what few coins were left there.

  ‘Are you all right, love?’ she asked earnestly.

  With her free hand, Rosa patted the ground, feeling without seeing for her purse.

  The more she searched, the more troubled she became.

  ‘My purse!’ she exclaimed. ‘Someone has taken my purse.’

  The woman who had come from behind the counter nodded to the owner who was still serving inside the shop.

  ‘Mr Hancock! We need to get the police. Little tykes,’ she muttered, glaring in the direction the boys had run. ‘I’d belt the lot of them if I saw them again.’

  Chapter Twenty

  THE DEN WAS made of old sheets of corrugated iron left over from the war. The supporting walls were made of concrete and had once protected gun emplacements. Inside smelled of cats’ pee and musty old furniture mainly because the old sofa cushions that provided the seating had once belonged to an old woman who had kept a multitude of moggies.

  The boy with the purse, who wore corduroy trousers, the hemline torn and saggy around his knees, took centre stage. The others gathered round.

  ‘Come on. Let’s have a look-see.’

  ‘What you got in there? What you got in there?’