Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  Tony put the comb away and tapped the cash in his pocket. It was enough for now, but it wasn’t a fortune. Not to worry. The more powerful the Gissings became, and the more they controlled, the bigger his kickback would be. He would keep them informed about any police raids that were being planned and make sure the girls and the dealers could work freely. Basically, he would watch their backs, and in return they’d give him a cut of everything they earned.

  He took one last look in the mirror and then went back into the bar. There was no sign of Lennie Gissing. Walking out of the door, he took a right and strolled down the street. It was barely five o’clock, but already Soho was heaving, the porn shops doing brisk business, the toms touting for trade, the strip joints opening their doors for the first evening shows.

  Tony thought about the deal he’d just made. It was important to him, and not just because of the money he’d be making. No, this was much more personal. He hated the Quinns with a vengeance. It was time to finish them once and for all. It was the very least he could do for Alan.

  Mates, especially ones you could trust, didn’t grow on trees, and he still missed Alan Beck. Together they’d made one hell of a team. How long was it now since he’d been gone? It must be getting on for six years. Jesus, they’d had some good times together until she had come along, getting herself up the duff and forcing Alan to marry her. The bitch had probably done it deliberately. And even then she hadn’t been happy. Nothing was ever good enough for Princess Lynsey Quinn.

  Tony scowled as he pushed his way through the crowd. He wondered, not for the first time, how the fates could conspire to ruin the life of a good man. He could still remember walking into Connolly’s that day. What if they’d decided to go to the pub instead? What if they’d sat at a different table? Maybe Alan would never have caught the eye of the stunning slim blonde sitting drinking coffee with her friend. Maybe the two of them would never have got talking.

  In some ways it only felt like yesterday. It was all still so clear to him. He’d ended up chatting to the blonde’s pal, a gawky-looking redhead whose name he had long since forgotten. Something Irish, he thought. He hadn’t fancied her, but those were the rules. If your mate had his sights set on someone, you had to keep the friend occupied.

  Tony breathed out a sigh. Alan should have run a mile when he’d found out who Lynsey Quinn really was. Screwing a villain’s daughter was never a smart move. But then Alan had always liked to live dangerously. It was part of her appeal, perhaps, that she was forbidden fruit, that there was a big red danger sign flashing above her head.

  He turned into Brewer Street, a deep frown settling between his eyes. If only the clocks could be turned back, the bad decisions made good. If only the bitch hadn’t been so adamant about keeping the kid. It could have been sorted quietly, discreetly, if she hadn’t decided to turn up on Mrs Beck’s doorstep shouting her mouth off. Once the family was involved, there was no chance of making the problem go away.

  The last thing Alan had wanted was a nagging wife and a kid, but that was what he’d landed himself with. It wasn’t any wonder that he’d ended up at Jeannie Macklin’s place that night. Everyone needed a break from time to time. Jeannie had run a tidy little brothel above a takeaway in Whitechapel, with clean girls and no bother. Or at least there had never usually been any bother. Unfortunately Jeannie hadn’t realised that two of her other clients were a pair of East End mugs wanted for the murder of a jeweller in Hatton Garden.

  The bastards, about to head down the stairs, had recognised Alan as he was coming in and thought he was part of an undercover operation to arrest them. Retreating back along the landing, they’d watched as he’d gone into a room with one of the toms, waited for five minutes and then charged in all guns blazing. The poor sod hadn’t stood a chance.

  Tony’s hands clenched into two tight fists. Alan wouldn’t have had to go there if he’d been getting it at home. The frigid bitch wouldn’t even put out for him. The official party line, of course, was that DS Beck had been at the brothel on police business. He was hailed a hero, his face splashed all over the front of the papers. It was never mentioned that he was stark bollock naked when they found him with three bullets through his chest.

  Yes, the Quinns had a lot to answer for. He’d heard all sorts about Lynsey after Alan’s murder – that she’d dumped the kid with the grandmother, that she was screwing around, that she was on the game. Ironic, he thought, that she refused to sleep with her husband but she’d shag anything else in pants. Well, the bitch might be dead, but he wouldn’t rest until he’d scourged the earth of the rest of the family too. He’d already paid off Humber to make sure that Connor Quinn wouldn’t get bail. With the older son out of the picture, it shouldn’t take long to finish off the others.

  10

  Helen was woken by the thin morning light sliding through a gap in the curtains. She turned her head to look at the alarm clock. A quarter to seven. She frowned. Although wide awake, she didn’t want to get out of bed yet. What was there to get up for? It was the beginning of the summer holidays – a time for most kids to be excited – but she was dreading it. The weeks stretched ahead of her, long, empty days, hours and hours that would need to be filled.

  It was over two months now since she’d first arrived at the Fox. She could remember it vividly: the fear, the confusion, the sense that her place in the world had changed irretrievably. That first night, unable to sleep, she’d gone over and over it all – the funeral, the journey to Kellston, the vicious look in Joe Quinn’s eyes – as if by constant repetition she might finally arrive at a different outcome. Eventually, at about three o’clock, she had drifted off to the low tinny sounds of Radio Luxembourg coming from Karen’s transistor radio.

  For the first few weeks she had clung on to a thread of hope. Her grandmother would get better. Tommy would take her home. Everything would be as it had been before. But gradually the hope had faded. Janet’s Sunday telephone calls had become increasingly grim, until finally there was news of a stroke. With her gran in hospital, it was clear that there was no chance of an early return to Farleigh Wood.

  Helen linked her hands behind her head. Her hair, without the constant attention of her grandmother’s scissors, had grown an inch or so, covering her ears and the back of her neck. Thankfully, she was starting to look less like a boy. The second the thought popped into her head, she felt guilty for it. Gran had always tried her best. She knew that. And for all her strictness, for all her peculiarities, Helen still missed her like mad.

  There had been no visits to the hospital. Helen hadn’t been allowed. ‘It’ll only upset her, you seeing her like that,’ Janet had said. ‘Best to wait until she’s feeling brighter.’ But brighter never happened, and Janet’s phone calls, once so predictable, had become increasingly irregular. How long now since she’d last heard from her? Almost two weeks, she reckoned.

  Helen gazed at the wall. The bedroom was painted purple and covered with posters. From where she was lying she could see Michael Jackson smiling down at her. She’d been allocated the lower bunk and could hear the creak of the springs whenever her cousin turned over. Karen seemed indifferent to her presence, neither pleased nor angry about it. They had not become friends, but at least they weren’t enemies.

  Helen hadn’t seen any of her real friends since leaving Farleigh Wood. She’d exchanged the odd letter with Ruth and Susan, but now – like with Janet’s calls – their communication was starting to tail off. She was only a few miles away, but she might as well be living on the other side of the world. Out of sight, out of mind was one of her gran’s favourite sayings, and Helen was beginning to grasp what that meant.

  Starting a new school could have been the chance to make new friends, but that hadn’t worked out too well. When it had become clear that she wouldn’t be going home in a hurry, she’d been enrolled at Kellston Comprehensive. The building, a sprawling, low-slung concrete construction, was a daunting maze of corridors, and the other kids – of whom there see
med to be thousands – scared her half to death.

  On her first day, the teacher had sat her at a desk beside another new girl called Andrea Moss. Andrea, who had moved from Bournemouth, wore her hair in a long brown plait hanging down her back. As the two new kids, they were glad of each other’s company, safety in numbers and all that. They spent break times and lunch together and everything was fine for a week. But then, on the following Monday, Helen had gone cheerfully into class only to find herself shunned. Andrea had moved desks and was apparently no longer her friend.

  Helen briefly squeezed her eyes shut, remembering the shame and humiliation. It was another girl who, either through pity or relishing the prospect of passing on bad news, had finally told her the reason why.

  ‘It’s ’cause you’re a Quinn, ain’t it? Her mum and dad don’t want her hanging out with you.’

  ‘But I’m a Beck,’ Helen had protested.

  The girl had shrugged her shoulders as if this was a mere technicality. ‘Don’t make no odds. You’re living with ’em, ain’t you?’

  This was a fact Helen couldn’t dispute. She could have tried to make other friends, but she didn’t really have the heart for it. And anyway, it had soon become clear that she didn’t fit in. There were the ‘nice’ girls like Andrea, who didn’t want to be associated with someone from a family like the Quinns, and then there were the rougher ones, who, perhaps because of the way she spoke or the way she acted, wouldn’t accept her either.

  Helen had taken to hiding out in the library whenever she had free time at school. This excused her from the horror of standing alone in the playground but did little to enhance her reputation. She had become known as a swot. Such a label could have made her the target of bullies, but ironically, she’d been saved from this fate because she was a Quinn. No one messed with the Quinns. That was common knowledge.

  Knowing that she wouldn’t get back to sleep now, she pushed back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She sat there for a moment staring at the photograph of her parents. It had pride of place on the small chest of drawers that had been emptied for her. The sight of her mum’s face still sent a pain through her chest, the thought of never seeing her again almost too much to bear.

  ‘Mouse?’

  Helen glanced up towards the upper bunk. ‘Yes?’ She couldn’t remember exactly when her name had morphed into Mouse. It was Debs, she thought, who had first started it, teasing her about how quiet she was. Now everyone had taken it up.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Nothing. Just going to the loo.’ Helen pulled on her underwear, her jeans and a T-shirt. She pushed her bare feet into her sandals and stood up.

  ‘Mouse?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Who do you like better, David Cassidy or Terry Street?’

  ‘David Cassidy,’ Helen said. Then, concerned that this might not be the right answer, she quickly added, ‘But it’s close.’

  Before Karen could interrogate her any further, Helen slipped out of the room and padded along the landing to the bathroom. Terry was nice enough, good-looking and funny, but she didn’t share the crazy crush that both her cousins had on him. Whenever he was in the flat they’d stare at him all wide-eyed like he was some kind of film star. Even Yvonne became fluttery in his presence.

  Helen locked the door and went to the loo. Then she washed her hands, brushed her teeth, splashed water on her face and rubbed it dry. She stared into the mirror for a moment, not liking what she saw. Her gran had always said that it was what was on the inside that was important, but she already knew that what you were judged on first was your appearance. It might not be right, but that was the way of the world.

  She left the bathroom and went downstairs. Just before she reached the landing, she peered cautiously over the banisters and listened for any signs of movement. The last thing she wanted to do was to run into Joe Quinn. His bedroom, unlike the other three, was on the first floor. He didn’t usually get up until late morning, but there was a first time for everything.

  When she was sure that the coast was clear, she walked smartly through the living room and into the kitchen, where she made a peanut-butter sandwich and shoved it into a carrier bag. Her plan was to make herself scarce for a while. At around nine o’clock she’d come back and help Tommy bottle up before the pub opened. She liked the satisfaction she got from filling the shelves, arranging the beers and the mixers in neat straight lines. But most of all she just liked hanging out with Tommy. He was the one sure ally she had in the household.

  Helen ran down the next flight of stairs and let herself out of the back door. Although the sun was shining, its warmth had barely registered. She enjoyed the feel of the cool breeze against her skin. Later, the air would be filled with exhaust fumes, with the smell of frying, with all the various human scents and stinks, but for now it still seemed fresh and new.

  She jogged to the corner and then slowed to a walk as she turned on to the high street. It still amazed her how she had the freedom to come and go exactly as she wished. She was hardly ever questioned, and on the rare occasions that she was, she would always claim that she was visiting the Mansfield Estate to see her friend Ella. She had plucked the name from the air, some lingering memory perhaps of her mother’s love of Ella Fitzgerald. No one was interested enough to wonder why the mysterious Ella never came to the Fox.

  Helen crossed the road and strolled on to the green. This patch of land, about twice the size of a football pitch, was the nearest Kellston had to offer in the way of a park. It ran between the high street and Barley Road, a stretch of grass with a few scattered shrubs and trees. She had the place to herself – even the local dog-walkers hadn’t risen from their beds – and went straight over to her favourite seat. This wooden bench, set off to the left, was positioned beneath a lilac tree. She looked up. The violet blossoms, once so pretty, had now faded to brown and were hanging limply from the branches.

  The reason why she always chose this spot was that her mum had often sat here when she was young. Or so Moira Sullivan had told her. Moira had told her lots of things, about where the two of them used to go and what they liked to do. Tommy didn’t talk much about his sister – he went all gloomy and quiet whenever her name was mentioned – but Moira’s face would light up whenever she shared her memories.

  Sometimes, after school, Helen would go round to Moira’s. She lived above the undertakers’, Tobias Grand & Sons, at the far end of the high street. The funeral parlour spooked Helen, but the flat was neat and cosy. She liked to hang out there, to eat chocolate biscuits and listen to Moira’s tales about the past.

  Thinking about the biscuits made her stomach growl. She took out her sandwich and chewed it slowly while she decided what to do next. Since arriving in Kellston, she’d spent hours wandering the streets. She was familiar with the bright colours and sounds of the market, the neat rows of identical terraces, the maze of alleyways and the dim, threatening corridors of the Mansfield Estate. The latter, with its three high towers, both drew and repelled her. Although the place was unnerving, she couldn’t resist going there.

  Helen chucked her bread crusts on the grass, watching the scruffy pigeons strut over to share her breakfast. When all the food was gone, she stood up and headed back to the high street. Recently she had started to explore further afield, travelling west into Shoreditch or east into Bethnal Green, but today she didn’t have the time. She would stroll up to Connolly’s, she decided, and see if Moira was working this morning. Sometimes she did a weekend shift.

  Now that it was past seven, the street was getting busier. The shops were still closed, but the market would be opening in an hour. Already the vans were starting to arrive, packed with fruit and vegetables, with flowers and clothes and kitchen goods. As Helen idly watched them turning into Market Road, she found herself thinking about what she’d learned since joining the Quinn family: to keep her head down, never to speak unless she was spoken to, to keep out from under Yvonne’s feet, to
always avoid Joe Quinn. Since that first time they’d met, he hadn’t said two words to her, but whenever their paths crossed she would see the loathing on his face.

  Helen shook her head, trying to dislodge the image from her mind. She crossed the road, drew adjacent to the café and peered in through the window. Paul Connolly was behind the counter frying up eggs and bacon, but there was no sign of Moira. Helen delved into her pocket to find the shilling that was lying there. No, she mustn’t call it a shilling. It was a bob. And sixpence was a tanner. Every day she was learning new words, some of the language of Kellston being as foreign to her as French.

  Anyway, she had more than enough money to buy a Coke. She was thirsty, but still she hesitated. Through the glass she could see the other customers, and they were all male. She felt too intimidated to go in. The men leaned forward, their sturdy elbows on the tables, their big hands grasping the white mugs. A fug of cigarette smoke hung in the air.

  One of the men got up to leave, and as the door opened Helen caught a snatch of Mungo Jerry’s ‘In the Summertime’ coming from the radio. She wanted to be brave enough to go in, but she wasn’t. Everyone would look at her and someone might even speak or make a joke. Her chronic shyness was an almost intolerable burden. She wished she was more like her cousins, outgoing and talkative and unafraid of life.

  Reluctantly she turned away and ambled back towards the market. She spent almost an hour wandering between the stalls, watching the sellers as they laid out their wares, listening to the bangs and the clatters and the easy banter. Recently she had bought a couple of cheap T-shirts here, including the red and white one she was wearing now. Tommy gave her ten shillings a week pocket money, most of which she tried to save and which she kept hidden in an old sock in her chest of drawers. She had no idea what she was saving for, but the money made her feel more secure.