by Carol Rivers
Lizzie smiled at the memory. Whippet had been running for her, a half year now. Before this, he had been a villain in the making. If truth be told, he reminded her of her older brother Vinnie, now serving time. But she saw the good in this lad as she had once done in Vinnie.
Bert peered out of the window. 'Why are we parking round here, gel? It's just the bins and cellar doors of the pub.'
Lizzie glanced at the darkened yard filled with rubbish. It was here the draymen, dressed in their leathers, pulled up their wagons and lowered the full barrels of brewery beer into the open cellar doors and roped up the empty casks.
Towering over this area was her tavern, the Mill Wall. The public house was all Victorian brickwork; filthy and crumbling ornate stone, its tall windows and chipped ledges fouled by the pigeons and rat droppings. Lizzie was fully aware of its notorious reputation for the pub had seen many years of dockland drinking. But she had secured the lease on terms that were dangerously liberal, for there were few applicants to take on such a challenging prospect.
'Lift the traps, Elmo,' she said in a quiet voice. 'Take Fowler and go by way of the cellars up to the bars.'
'And you, missus?' Elmo asked warily in his rough cockney dialect. His long red hair was hidden under the collar of his coat and his close-set eyes darted quickly in their sockets, alert for any movement.
Lizzie smiled at his concern. 'Don't fret over me. Go along now and watch out for yourselves.'
Fowler grunted uncertainly and like Elmo, stared suspiciously into the shadows of the gloomy yard. His unshaven jaw showed a silver growth of bristle and his hairless head and blunted features made him look fearsome. 'Don't like the smell of this,' he added with a snarl.
But without more ado the two men followed her orders and climbed out of the car. Quietly making their way to the cellar, they heaved up the traps and slithered into the rooms below.
'Fowler's right,' Bert muttered beside her. 'This don't feel kosher. Could be we're in for a surprise.'
'P'raps,' Lizzie agreed, opening the car door. 'But as we both know, Bert, there's only one way to find out.'
Chapter 11
Frank Flowers was not a brave man and he freely admitted his faults to anyone who would listen to him.
The problem was, he was suffering. His health was a travesty since his sojourn in the looney bin. On his release, he'd seen fit to put the mockers on Lizzie and Danny's wedding day, which if he was honest, was another misguided move. He should have stayed dead. He should have done Lizzie a favour and disappeared to Australia. Or to Uncle Sam across the pond. Or anywhere really, where he wasn't known for the bastard criminal – that in effect – he wasn't!
It was his voices that had dominated his life and, until the day they'd strapped him in a straitjacket and thrown the electric switch to his brain, the voices had governed him big time. He'd stolen his brother's woman, then messed up his marriage, banging anything in a skirt from day one. And finally – well perhaps not finally, but almost finally – done the deed with Lizzie's sister, Babs.
Frank took a deep breath, attempting to stiffen his injured spine. Since his trouncing by the Millers, his back had never been right. But he did at least have the pills to counteract the pain both physical and mental. Pop one or three, and he could act rationally. Though the fact he should wind up as the manager of a tavern when he'd taken the oath to stay dry, was a joke to him and the world at large. But what else was he going to do with his Godforsaken life? He still held a flame for the woman who loved his brother. Though everyone around him seemed to have forgotten, Lizzie was still his wife on paper. And, it was because he'd never lost hope that they'd be reunited that he'd followed her into the jaws of hell at Chancel Lane. He'd never been as arse-scared before nor, he hoped, would ever be again. But he'd not let her down and for the first time in his life, he'd known what it was to be legitimately proud of himself.
The firm tap on his shoulder made him jump as a meaty hand clamped over his mouth.
In the gloom of the cold passage leading into the bars, he froze. It wasn't until he heard a familiar whisper in his ear that he breathed a sigh of relief.
'Up the front and defending yer turf I see,' Elmo taunted. 'Those medals on your chest, Frank, are weighing you down, mate. I thought you was a hunchback.'
Fowler grinned but said nothing. Frank had a grudging respect for Fowler who kept himself to himself. But Elmo was a surly bugger with a razor-sharp tongue which always made Frank nervous.
'Is Lizzie here?' Frank managed to ask as he rearranged his crumpled shirt and adjusted his armbands.
Fowler nodded. 'She's coming in the front. Is the knifer still in the snug?'
'Three others are with him,' Frank added hurriedly. 'A couple more women, too.'
'Whippet said there was only one geezer and his tart.'
Frank blinked his blue eyes and pushed back his neatly combed blond hair oiled lavishly to produce a shine. 'There was when I gave Whippet the message. But after the kid left, the others turned up.'
'Where's all your muscle?' Elmo demanded, glancing around. 'You should have one geezer at least, if not two, on the door.'
'I did. They buggered off the minute they saw the knife.'
'Well, congratulations. You made a good choice there,' replied Elmo with a grimace.
'I can't help it if they do a midnight flit.'
'You're paid to help it,' came the accusing answer. 'Lizzie gave you the wherewithal to hire backup. Are you on the jollop again?'
Frank took umbrage to this. He'd packed in the booze since he started this job. More than once it had occurred to him he was living the life of a vestal virgin. He was about to voice his opinion when a ruckus started in the saloon bar. The two towering men pushed past him and standing shoulder to shoulder, they peered over the swing doors.
Frank patted his empty pockets nervously. He had nothing more than his baccy tin to defend himself with. But after the calamity with his dad's service revolver last year, when he'd shot a man by accident and Danny and Bert had been left to dispose of the corpse, he wasn't about to repeat the mistake.
Frank heard another sound; the sharp crack of splintering of wood. This was followed by the shattering of broken glass. To his further dismay came the high-pitched shrieks of Lenny the barman.
Frank stretched his neck to look over Fowler's shoulder. He saw the small, elf-like figure of Lenny encircled by three ugly brutes. Much to their amusement, they were shoving him around the floor. Lenny looked terrified. His cries of distress were witnessed by the customers who stared at the proceedings like the gormless idiots they were. Several of the chairs and stools had been broken and tables knocked over. Shards of glass glinted in the puddles of beer staining the sawdust.
Frank began to feel the old pit-of-the-stomach nausea. These were not just ordinary tarts' pimps. These men were troublemakers. It was clear to see they had an agenda and as such, were on a mission. Frank looked at Elmo and Fowler, who stood motionless, their eyes fixed ahead.
'Why don't you do something?' he whispered hoarsely. 'They're tearing up me furniture.'
'Tell you what,' Elmo growled without turning to face him, 'we'll follow your lead, Frank. You go out there first and lay down the law. Them ugly mugs don't look as though they could knock off an old dear's 'andbag. We'll have your back, don't worry.'
Frank swallowed and shrank away at Elmo's taunt. He was appalled at the idea of confronting trouble. When Elmo turned his red head and smirked contemptuously in his direction, Frank knew Elmo knew it too. The big ox never lost an opportunity to ridicule him. Frank's fingers curled into fists. What kind of world was it when blokes supposed to be on your side turned out to be the enemy?
Suddenly, and to Frank's further alarm, there was yet more shouting. Lenny's screams indicated the distress he was in. Once more, Frank strained to see what was happening.
To his horror, the front door of the pub had opened. Lizzie stood alone, her spine as stiff as the proverbial broom. With an ago
nising slow pace, she moved towards the three roughnecks.
Frank gulped as Lenny, with an eye the colour of an overripe banana tried to make an escape. But one of the men grabbed his collar. 'Where d'you think you're going, Hercules?' he demanded, clouting Lenny round the chops again.
Frank swallowed in distaste for that could have been him. Would have been him if he hadn't done a bunk the moment he sniffed trouble. But worse was to come he realized, as Lizzie walked up to the ugly geezer and stared him directly in the eye.
'Let Lenny go,' she said, as the barman shivered and shook pathetically.
'You what?' demanded the bruiser.
'Let my barman go,' Lizzie repeated in that tone of hers that Frank had come to respect. But she wasn't dealing with the likes of him here. She was well out of her league. Biggest mistake of all, she'd come without Bert.
'Hark at it!' scoffed the big ape, 'You must be jokin' yer silly bitch!'
'No joke,' returned Lizzie coldly. 'Do as I say, then clear out.'
Frank closed his eyes in despair. There was only Elmo and Fowler against three of the opposition. Where was Bert when he was needed? Back serving spuds in the shop no doubt!
Frank glanced to his far right and his stomach lurched as he saw the joker with the knife. Add him to the equation and the odds were well against Lizzie.
Frank shuddered at the threat of violence and the need for his participation. He had been doing all right as a porter at the hospital. He'd minded his own business and had created his own little stream of income with knock-offs from the drug store. Now he stood in the front line of battle, or at least, Elmo and Fowler did.
Becoming a pub landlord, he decided, was another punt altogether.
Chapter 12
Lizzie guessed the man was only in his late twenties, but his general fetid appearance added another decade to his age. The stink coming off him was enough to make the eyes water and the other two men fared no better. Three sets of greedy, red-veined eyes stared in her direction. She returned their lusty smiles as she waited for the inevitable.
'So, it's an apology you're after?' The man closest to her sneered. He turned to his companions who duly laughed. 'Come here and I'll give you the best apology you ever had in yer life.' He pushed aside his coat and grasped at his groin.
Lizzie stared at him in amusement. 'My sympathies,' she answered boldly, 'with so little to boast of you will no doubt grow into a very lonely old man.'
A soft ripple of amusement filled the room. Her assailant blushed red in humiliation. With a roar of anger he kicked over a chair and banged his fist on a table. The occupants sat perfectly still, their eyes turning to Lizzie.
'You cow!' he bellowed advancing towards her. 'You need teaching a lesson.'
Lizzie stepped to one side as he made his leap, though he was more agile than she thought. He caught hold of her arm in a forceful grip.
Raising her free hand to her beret, she slid out the hidden hat pin. Swiftly she drove the sharp point into the soft skin between thumb and forefinger. Elmo and Fowler appeared in an instant and Bert joined them from the street where he been waiting to enter. Lizzie stepped back, allowing them to deal with the other men as Lenny fled through the saloon doors.
Then, without warning, a figure appeared from the snug.The man was tall and lean; a flash of steel glittered in his hand. A handful of women followed him and flung themselves into the fight, biting and kicking.
The stranger made his way towards her, cleverly avoiding attack. Before Lizzie could take a breath, the knife was pressed to her throat. The man's powerful body enfolded her; his eyes – as sharp as splinters of ice – were narrowed to slits behind a mask that covered the upper part of his face. A perfumed aroma drifted from his spiky dark hair. The scarf around his neck was made of silk and his coat was like no other she'd ever seen. The cloth was a smooth purple, with a dramatic half-cape that fell like wings from his shoulders. Brass buttons shone from the epaulets giving a military touch. All this she took note of as, unable to move in his grip, he forced her to meet his gaze.
'Who are you?' Lizzie demanded, struggling to be free.
'I am all things to those who step into my world,' he whispered in a faint accent. 'And you, Lizzie Flowers, have arrived without invitation.'
Lizzie caught her breath on a gasp. 'The Mill Wall is my tavern.'
He laughed softly. 'You may believe it is, but you are mistaken. Think again before you turn out my women. The odds are in Salvo Vella's favour, not yours.'
She closed her eyes as she felt the point of the knife prick her skin. Was he going to kill her? But for what reason? And why had he said the Mill Wall was his?
When she opened her eyes, he was gone.
Chapter 13
Lizzie sat in the snug, now deserted, trying to gather herself. Her meeting with the foreigner had shaken her. The knife at her throat need only have moved an inch …
Who was this man wearing a mask? And why had he threatened her? His women, he said. His world. She looked around her now, blanching at the unwholesome aromas left by the previous occupants. Strong tobacco, rank body odour and cheap perfume hung in the air and clung to the shabby upholstery. Every curtain was limp and faded. The brass rings on which they were hung, were tarnished with rust. The candles had melted into the wooden tables and been replaced without cleaning. She was ashamed of what she saw, for this was her turf, despite what the stranger had said.
'We've thrown out the geezers and their tarts,' Bert announced as he joined her, swatting the flies with his cap from the filthy wooden table. 'But I was too late to catch the sort with a knife. Did he hurt you?'
Lizzie put her hand to her throat. The pin-prick of blood was drying. 'No, it's nothing.'
'He moved like a bloody streak of lightening. Looked like a comic turn from the Queens. One of them actors that dress up like dandies.'
'He was no dandy, Bert. He called himself Salvo Vella.'
'Never heard of him,' Bert scoffed. 'Sounds like a foreigner.'
'He had an accent, it's true, but I couldn't make it out.' Lizzie swallowed, still shocked and trembling from the threatening encounter.
'His flamin' whores was all over us,' Bert continued to complain. 'Nails out like cats and kicking us in the balls. I couldn't get to you in time.'
'I think that was his plan.'
Bert stared at her in surprise. 'You mean we was set up? By a load of females?'
'He knew my name, Bert. They were his women. He warned me to think again before I chucked them out.'
Bert clenched his big fists. 'Bloody sauce!'
Lizzie shook her head slowly. 'For some reason he thought the Mill Wall was his.'
'So that's his game, is it? Trading in the snug as if he owns the place and we are expected to put up with it. Well, he won't be bringing his knocking shop round here. Where's bloody Frank? I reckon he must know the bloke. Do you reckon Frank's blotto and taking a back-hander?'
'No,' Lizzie said at once. 'Frank might have his faults, but he's on the wagon.'
'It wouldn't take him long to fall off.'
Lizzie thoughtfully pleated her fingers together on the table. 'It was as if the women had deliberately caused a ruckus, in order to bring us here. When you and Elmo and Fowler were busy with the troublemakers, Vella came straight to me. He had a message to deliver and made sure I understood it.'
Bert moved closer and in a soft voice murmured, 'So you believe this is a serious case of aggro? Not a one off?'
Lizzie nodded slowly. 'The mask, the cape and brass buttons, now I think about them, he was dead set on making an impression. He meant business, I'm sure.'
Bert swiped his hand across the bloody scratches the women had left on his jaw. 'Let's wait to hear what Frank says.'
'What about Lenny? Did they rough him up?'
'He's scared witless but is willing to overlook the slap he took for a bonus.'
'See that he gets one.' Lizzie was beginning to feel a little better. Though it seemed c
lear to her now that today's meeting with Salvo Vella had been no accident.
Bert rose to his feet and lumbered off. She couldn't forget those piercing eyes and the melodrama that the man with the knife had created. It was as if every move he had made had been planned in advance. She felt as though the women and the roughnecks were all part of a colourful but lethal group of performers, the head of which was Salvo Vella.
She was still deep in thought by the time Bert returned. Beside him was the dapper-looking figure of her estranged husband, Frank Flowers. Gone was the look of the Chicago hoodlum wearing garish pin stripes and two-tone brogues. In their place was an expensive-looking waistcoat and pristine white shirt. At thirty-six, he was now the man-about-town, with all the trimmings. Fair hair styled close to his head and with a finely combed centre parting. She knew his apologetic features were arranged carefully for her benefit.
'Where have you been, Frank?' she asked shortly.
'In the khazi. You know what me stomach's like.'
Lizzie took a deep breath. 'It would have helped if you'd made it your business to get rid of those women before trouble started. Why did you let them in? This snug is supposed to be for the benefit of customers who want to sit and drink quietly. '
Frank's wide blue eyes and slightly open mouth indicated his surprise. 'Gawd only knows who they were. I've seen one or two of them before, wanting a bit of how's-yer-father, but never so many at once.'
'Did you tell them to leave on other occasions?'
'Course I did. But I ain't got eyes in the back of my head. The cows may have stole in when I'm not around.'
Lizzie frowned in dismay. 'Are you at the bookie's again?'
