Ruby's Palace

by KERRY BARNES

  “Oh, Christ, look!” shouted Billy.

  The men turned to see the blood-stained Farley and rushed to help him. Two men put their bodies under each arm, took the weight, and guided him to the fireside. Carefully, they placed him on a deckchair and waited, with baited breath, for Farley to tell them what had happened. Billy knew Farley had been on the club door and guessed this was the Vincents’ work.

  “Who fucking did this, boy?” Billy asked, speaking calmly and gently to his youngest brother.

  Farley didn’t say a word. He turned his head slowly – to face Kizzy – and nodded. A coldness in his action changed the atmosphere. Kizzy could sense her new-found respect being ripped from under her.

  “What’s going on?” shouted Ocean, who felt uncomfortable with the way Farley glared at his girlfriend with hate in his eyes.

  “Ask her, Ocean. Ask your slut,” replied Farley.

  Kizzy, rooted to the stool, was unable to speak.

  “Well?” he turned and glared.

  “Ocean, I swear on me uncle’s life, they were gonna muller me. They had that fucking knife in me mouth!” she cried.

  He looked back at Farley to see what he had to say.

  “You stupid, little prat, they wouldn’t fucking cut you!”

  With all the aches and bruising, he still managed to jump from his seat and grab Kizzy around the neck. “I took a beating, ‘cos of you. I lost me poxy job, ‘cos of you!” All the time he bellowed, he shook her by the throat. “You ain’t no decent O’Connell, you’re just like your stinking slut of a mother. We should have drowned you at birth, you fucking grass!”

  Billy struggled to get out of his chair. His belly was so big it hung well over his trousers. As soon as he was up, he pulled Farley off Kizzy. Ocean didn’t attempt to intervene. As far as he was concerned, she had made a mockery of him. He had declared his relationship with a wrong ‘un, a no-good grass.

  Farley tried to catch his breath, as Kizzy went to run off, but Ocean grabbed her.

  “Oh, no, you fucking don’t. I wanna hear this.” He threw her to the floor, demonstrating his allegiance with the O’Connells and not Kizzy. He desperately wanted to be part of the big boys’ club. Standing his ground, and therefore showing his honour, was one way of doing it.

  “Well, what’s she gone and done?” Ocean asked brazenly.

  Farley was surprised that Ocean, a fifteen-year-old boy, was acting like a man, but he went along with him.

  “She’s told the Vincents that we set them up for a police raid and we are gonna get them closed down.” There was a gasp and then silence. Everyone stared at Kizzy as Ocean kicked cold ash into her face.

  “I didn’t, I swear on me muvver’s life, I didn’t.” She wasn’t only pleading for her life, but also for the respect she had earned only moments ago. However, Farley bore the black and blue marks and they would not believe her now.

  Ocean turned to face Farley. “I’m sorry, mate.”

  He nodded, aware it wasn’t Ocean’s doing.

  As he walked away, Kizzy jumped to her feet and chased after him. She tried to plead for forgiveness but Ocean was too ashamed. As she touched his big, strong shoulders, he flipped. Spinning around, he slapped her hard enough to knock her to the floor. The onlookers cheered. He threw back his shoulders as he strode towards his caravan alone.

  Kizzy lay on the floor sobbing, waiting for everyone to go inside before she could pass the fire to go home. She didn’t make it. She slept on the cold, dew-covered grass, only to be woken two hours later by Jimmy Docherty, a three-year-old gypsy boy, urinating on her hair. She jumped to her feet and slapped the child hard, unaware that Jimmy’s mother, Kitty Docherty, had witnessed it. From nowhere, she came and belted Kizzy clean across the mouth.

  “Don’t you ever touch my little chavi again!” she shouted in a strong Irish accent.

  Kizzy realised that some of the other women were watching. Kitty, a scary gypsy, could beat the crap out of men if need be, so she said nothing and walked away. Those women helped raise her, but now they shunned her.

  The damp gripped her bones as she walked towards her caravan. The shivering was relentless – a mixture of fear, tiredness and wet clothes.

  *

  Johnnie had been staying with Cedric, one of his brothers, at a camp site in Kent. Cedric, the oldest living O’Connell, a wise old man who kept himself to himself, was dying of lung cancer but refused to go to a hospice. He thought everyone would write him off if he was out of sight, so he swallowed lots of pain killers and took to his bed inside his van. It wouldn’t be long before he finally popped his clogs. So Johnnie visited as much as he could and sometimes stayed over.

  He received a phone call from Merlin, an old friend, to update him on the Kizzy incident, He had no idea of the extent of the trouble or even how his niece was involved. He cut the visit short and headed back to London.

  Johnnie knew his nephew, Billy, held a deep grudge against Sam. He had manipulated the lads on the site to work with him in getting the clubs shut down. Billy hadn’t planned it alone, as he didn’t have the brains. His idea of revenge was to take a shooter and blow them away.

  Nigel Napper and his brother, Kenneth, South London boys, had several clubs, including one on the Old Kent Road. Like the Vincents, they wanted to run the nightclub scene but, unlike the Vincents, they hadn’t done too well. One club closed down after three warnings and two raids. In allowing the gypsies to come in, with their flash cars and wads of cash, they thought they were onto a winner, but they could not have been more wrong. The bouncers left. More stilled water and pop were sold than spirits. Their Irish tinker clientele were dealing, and the nightclubs became more of a rave, with kids dancing, half-stoned, for hours to shit music. Two hundred crates of champagne were stolen, and there was bloodshed most nights. So when the clubs got raided, the police found two guns, twenty-three knives, and enough cocaine to block up six toilets. But the Nappers still blamed the Vincents for their downfall.

  However, the Vincents’ success was down to hard work, trusting no one, having the hardest bouncers, and being well-known Faces. It was rare, these days, for any of the brothers to get their hands dirty. They clicked their fingers and a heavy would be there, putting the boot in, which made them even more dangerous.

  Kenneth got the phone call on Sunday morning. “I’m sorry, mate, but the stupid little slag wasn’t up to the job. She grassed!” said Billy, who wasn’t afraid of the Nappers but gutted he might not have their support.

  “What do you mean, she grassed? She was only supposed to strip. How the fuck can she sing like a canary when she’s only meant to take her fucking clothes off and swing around the pole?” Kenneth was fuming. He had just sat down to eat a good fry up, cooked by his wife Celia, when his blood pressure went through the roof. His face turned bright red and the veins in his neck popped out.

  “Calm down, dear,” said Celia, who dressed as though she still lived in the sixties, with her bleached blonde beehive and pencil skirt.

  “Don’t fucking tell me to calm down, woman!” he screamed.

  “So, what do you propose we do now?” He tapped his foot like a madman.

  Billy held the phone to his right ear because the left one was deaf. “Leave it with me, I’ll come up with something.”

  “What is it with you lot? Can’t you fucking get anything right?” Kenneth slammed down the phone.

  Billy sat in his caravan, staring into space. The Vincents weren’t getting away with beating his brother, Farley. Slower these days, and a hell of a lot fatter, he didn’t have the strength or the nerve to do much himself. But he still saw himself as a Face.

  *

  Johnnie returned early that morning. A fit man for his age, he didn’t care for his fat nephew Billy. Even though his father was in a bad way, he couldn’t get his lard arse off a chair and see the old man. Cedric O’Connell didn’t mind as much as he would have, when his youngest boy, Farley, didn’t visit him. He had never really taken to Bill
y, who would quite often pick on Farley. Even as a boy he found him a bully, always picking on the younger kids. Farley was different. He was the baby, and full of life, having lots to say and boundless energy, but Cedric was also blind to the fact that the endless chatter was one effect of the cocaine. Cedric had four sons in all: Billy, the eldest, Tommy, Zaac and Farley.

  The O’Connells were a large family, mainly men. Cedric and his wife lived at the Kent site with Tommy and Zaac whilst Billy and Farley stayed in London.

  Johnnie was so close to Cedric that it broke his heart to see his brother dying. So, when he returned to the campsite, early that morning, he wasn’t too impressed with Farley, or Billy for that matter. “No good selfish cunts,” he mumbled under his breath.

  The air was chilly and the dew remained for a while. The women were up and out and about, clucking like chickens about the night’s events, whilst the small children ran around barefoot and half-naked, poking at the remains of the camp fire. But the dogs were unusually quiet. Johnnie parked his lorry next to his caravan. He had a neat plot, had concreted the base, and had even made enough room for his truck. Anyone caught leaving any rubbish by his bit would get a good hiding. He stepped out of the cab and noticed the women gawking. Nosey bitches. They were waiting for a scene but he wasn’t going to give them one. Kizzy lay sleeping in her bed, so she didn’t hear the lorry pull up.

  He took his boots off at the door and went inside. There was silence, except for the loud ticking from his grandmother’s clock. Everything looked as it should, with the lace curtains hanging perfectly, the cushions placed strategically around the tiny sofas, and the clean pots stacked regimentally on the shelf. He smiled. Kizzy always kept a good, clean van. It was too small to make a mess; it was the gypsy way. Never would the inside of the van house an ounce of dirt. The brass horseshoes on the walls were polished and gleaming. The china Shire horses, with the old wooden caravans, were positioned neatly in the windows, and there was a bright white crochet tablecloth with a small vase of roses in the centre of the table.

  He put the kettle on and waited for her to appear. He wasn’t going to rant and rave at her and he didn’t really care about the stupid plan. Johnnie was of the old kind – a scrap metal man with a history of vicious bare knuckle fights, and he hated anything to do with drugs. Gypsies were not businessmen. That wasn’t their way. Most couldn’t read or write for the simple reason that they didn’t need to. As for Kizzy dancing for her money, well, it was tradition a long time ago, back in his father’s day, for the young girls to dance in the taverns for a few quid. He knew Kizzy was stripping for money but, as long as she wasn’t tapping him for dosh, he didn’t mind.

  She heard the whistle of the kettle and sat herself up. She had only slept for an hour, and her body ached, but it was the humiliation which hurt the most. The thought of the night’s events made her want to run away – and never come back! How could she ever face anyone again? Now she was probably in for a grilling from Johnnie. So, numb and devoid of pride, she got out of her bed, still wearing the jumper and jeans she had on the night before and still covered in dirt and ash.

  “Want tea?” asked Johnnie without looking her way.

  “Yes, please,” she whispered, as she slid her legs under the tiny table with the white tablecloth.

  He placed a rose-patterned, china tea cup under her nose and sat himself down opposite her.

  “Looks like you need a good wash, girl.”

  Kizzy looked up at him, with moist eyes and a sad countenance. She appreciated his kindness and his loyalty and generosity of spirit. Although a man of few words and certainly not a person to give her a hug when she felt down as she did now, he was doing the next best thing, by making her a cup of tea. He looked out for her and she was grateful for that. No one else wanted her.

  She wondered whether her life was predestined to follow a murky path of deceit or whether there was something out there which she could aspire to. She now realised, very starkly, she didn’t really belong in this world: she really was a square peg in a round hole, dragged up by the whole site.

  Kizzy looked into her teacup and a big tear fell from her cheek. Her thoughts, somewhat disconnected, drifted to other times and places.

  The women looked out for her, but she wasn’t tucked up in bed by a mother’s loving arms, or told a story by a caring dad. She enjoyed staying in the other caravans when Johnnie was away. She liked sitting up in a big double bed with the other children, having warm milk and playing eye spy; only, none of them could spell, so they made it all up.

  She used to go fruit picking with the women and kids. The gypsies looked out for each other, so Kizzy just fitted in. She never went short of food. One of the mums would have something on the table for her. Although her clothes were all hand-me-downs, that didn’t matter – as long as she had warm clobber in the winter. Johnnie handed over money for her new boots or shoes. She had learned to thieve at a young age. It was the way it had been since the farming work had dried up. The other kids looked like gypsies but Kizzy had a cleaner, English rose appearance. When the shopkeepers weren’t watching her, she took from under their noses. As she grew into her teens, she stole whatever she needed: makeup, clothes, and jewellery, and even spoke like a gorger too, if she had to.

  Unlike most of the children, Kizzy was sent to school – the best form of babysitting, so Johnnie didn’t have to look out for her during the day. She eventually got expelled for fighting and, from thirteen, didn’t bother returning. The kids had picked on her for being different so, as soon as she had taken enough, she battered them. They hadn’t realised she could fight like a boy and better than most of them!

  A small gang of girls, four in total, had teased her in the classroom for having a fresh rose in her plait. Kizzy hadn’t noticed, when Kathleen Docherty braided her hair, she had pushed a beautiful, red rose in the centre and added a crystal clip. Kathleen thought she looked stunning. To any gypsy she did but, to any gorger in their teens, she looked stupid. It wasn’t fashionable unless you were five years old. Kizzy sat at her desk, unaware the flower was in her hair, or that the girls were taking the piss. As they left the classroom and entered the canteen, the bully in the gang, a girl called Amy, noticed the older boys there and showed off. “Gypsy Rosie Lea, make us some tea,” she laughed, and the other girls joined in.

  Kizzy placed the tray of food on a table, picked up a cup of orange and, walking over to Amy, poured the contents over her head. In anger and humiliation, Amy lunged forward and pushed Kizzy. A crowd immediately gathered, chanting ‘fight’. Kizzy pulled Amy by the hair and dragged her around like a rag doll, before finally punching her to the floor. The other girls jumped in and tried to wrestle her to the ground. But, in a frenzy, she punched and kicked, until two girls fled, nursing their wounds.

  Amy, meanwhile, got to her feet and hit Kizzy in the side of the head. For a second, everyone held their breath, including Amy, who stared into the eyes of a deranged teenager. She went to run but Kizzy had other ideas. She grabbed her arm, pulled her fist back and punched Amy full-force on the nose and again on the chin.

  As Amy fell backwards, Kizzy gripped her throat and sank her teeth into Amy’s cheek. Her legs buckled, and the flesh tore away as her weight pulled her down. The crowd screamed in horror at the sight of the deep wound with blood oozing from her face. Kizzy ran from the school – and back to the only world she knew.

  *

  As she had reached fourteen, her appearance had changed. Her hair now black, and her eyes darkened, she resembled the O’Connells. Her body became womanly, with large breasts and hips. Her father still refused to believe she was his, but it made no difference to Johnnie.

  Kizzy felt safe in her uncle’s presence.

  “So, Kizzy, gonna tell me what happened, then?” He sipped his tea, his voice calm and soft.

  She needed to get the story out in the open and done with.

  “Uncle Johnnie, I swear on me life I had no choice. They really did have a
knife to me fingers. If I’d kept me mouth shut they would have cut them off!” She paused as she waited for a reaction.

  “Who put you up to this in the first place?” He talked slowly, like a policeman.

  “Billy asked Ocean to ask me if I could help them. I had to use the fake ID they gave me to get a job there. They wanted me to be dancing on the pole when the club got raided.” She was surprised he didn’t already know all of this.

  “Go on, girl, then what happened?”

  “I was on the pole, dancing, when the manager, a fucking horrible tall bitch, tells me to get upstairs. When I went into the office, they were there – all three Vincent brothers. They got my hand, and threatened to chop me fingers off if I didn’t tell them what I was doing there. I had to fess up,” she sobbed. “I swear, I would have been cut to pieces. If I knew they were gonna treat me like that, I would never have promised to help Ocean.” The tears streamed. It was the first time Johnnie had ever seen her cry. He touched her hand.

  “Listen, my girl, I’ll be having a word with Ocean, and that cunt, Billy!” He looked at her dirty face. “Go and get yourself cleaned up. You can spend some time with your Aunty Violet down in Kent.”

  Kizzy was relieved. She didn’t have to run away and she had a place to go which she would like. Violet was all right. She had stayed there when Johnnie served time in prison.

  “Can I ever come home, Uncle Johnnie?” she asked.

  “You were born a free spirit, Kizzy, so that I can’t answer, but this is your home. If you want to come back then do it.” He stood up and held out his arms for her to fall into. She was surprised he had offered her any form of physical affection. So she held on to him, as if her future depended on it.

  It did not take long for Kizzy to clean herself up, remove her makeup, put some modest clothes on and pack her bags. She was glad to be leaving the site and the humiliation behind, but she would miss Ocean and it deeply hurt her. Johnnie opened the passenger’s door of the truck for her and she hopped in. The women watched, knowing Kizzy was being sent away. Kathleen Docherty had a soft spot for her and rushed over to the lorry before it drove away.