by Roberta Kray
Helen suddenly realised that it hadn’t been Frank they were talking about at all. She glared hard at the two men before turning her back and hurrying away. ‘Bastards,’ she hissed softly to herself as she pushed through the crowd. Her face was still hot, her heart drumming in her chest. For the past couple of years – ever since Joe had moved out of the Fox – she’d been able to relax, but now Connor was stirring things up again. She wished he was dead. She wished both of them were dead.
Once she was safely at the bar, Helen looked back towards the corner. The two of them were hunched over the table, deep in conversation. Plotting. They were always plotting. Things had been good until Connor had come back, but now all that was changing. She knew with a dull, despairing certainty that something bad was going to happen, and there was nothing she could do to stop it.
25
Tommy lay on his back, gazing up at the ceiling. With his eyes he traced a series of hairline cracks that radiated from the light fixture like a spider’s web, wondering if they were superficial or indicative of a deeper structural problem. What if one day the whole ceiling collapsed while he was lying here? He had a sudden mental image of the cracks joining up, becoming wider and deeper until finally all the hard white plaster shattered and came tumbling down in a heap. Perhaps he should have a word with the landlord.
Tommy frowned and lowered his gaze to the crown of Shelley Anne’s head. He studied the dark roots at the parting of her blonde hair and the swaying movement of her breasts as she tried to suck him off. She was doing all the right things, even making those little throaty noises that usually turned him on so much, but today nothing was happening. He shifted up on to his elbows, hoping that a better view might kick-start his libido. The problem was that he had too many other things on his mind.
He tried to relax, to sweep away the niggling worries, but no sooner had he dismissed one problem than another popped up to take its place. Until a few weeks back, everything had been A1, his life nicely sorted, the future looking rosy. Even Yvonne had stopped giving him grief. A fur coat, a Cartier watch and a two-week family holiday in Spain had finally silenced most of her ongoing complaints about the Fox. She’d done her nut, mind, when he’d first told her he was buying the place. That was a couple of years ago now. Jesus, where had all the time gone? If he had that kind of money going spare, she’d said, he could damn well buy a decent house for his wife and kids to live in.
Tommy tried to get her voice out of his head. It wasn’t helping any. He closed his eyes for a moment, but then all he could see was Connor looming over him, his face dark and angry and filled with reproach. Ever since his brother had been released, he’d been gunning for him, blaming Tommy for not sorting the witnesses, not sorting the jury, not even sorting the bleedin’ bail.
Tommy breathed out a sigh. It pissed him off that he was getting all the flak. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t tried. It was hardly his fault if the fixer had returned his cash and the witnesses had all been under police protection. Even the jury had been impossible to nobble, the few weak links and their families being carefully guarded by the filth. And anyway, why was the finger being pointed exclusively at him? The old man hadn’t been any more successful in his attempts to get him off the hook and yet Connor wasn’t throwing any blame in his direction. Still, that was likely to change. Connor and Joe had always been tight, but their relationship was a stormy one.
Tommy shifted his position slightly and scratched at his chest. Yeah, the honeymoon period would soon be over. It might be all sunshine and roses now, but it wouldn’t last. Before long, his brother and his father would be at each other’s throats again. And that, although it might get Connor off his back for a while, wasn’t anything to look forward to either.
Aware that the afternoon encounter was beyond saving, Tommy gently patted Shelley Anne on the shoulder. ‘Give it a rest, eh, hun?’
She released him with a show of reluctance, her big blue eyes containing a slightly hurt expression, as if her inability to bring him to climax reflected badly on her womanly skills.
‘What’s wrong, babe? What’s up?’
‘Well, we know one thing that isn’t,’ he said, trying to make a joke of it. ‘It’s getting late, love. I have to get back to the pub.’ He swung his legs over the side of the bed, strapped his watch back round his wrist and reached down for his Y-fronts.
Shelley Anne watched him while he got dressed, sitting sideways on the eiderdown with her pale legs bent at the knees. ‘It’s not late. It’s only five past three. What are you rushing off for?’
‘I’m not rushing off. I just…’ He stood up and pulled on his trousers. ‘You know what it’s like at the moment. When Connor’s around, there’s always trouble. I just want to keep an eye on things.’ Quickly, he slipped on his shirt and fastened the buttons. ‘It’ll settle down in a week or two and then we can get back to normal.’
‘Why should it?’ she asked.
He glanced over at her. ‘What?’
‘Why should it be any different in a week or two? Your Connor’s got a screw loose. That ain’t gonna change no matter how long you wait. He’ll still be a pain in the arse by the time Christmas comes around.’
Tommy gave a shrug. She had a point. ‘Yeah, but in a few weeks he’ll have found someone else to be pissed off at.’
‘You reckon?’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘And until then, I’m gonna watch my back.’
Shelley Anne unwound her legs, slipped off the bed and draped her arms around his neck. ‘I could do that for you,’ she whispered in his ear. Her lips found his mouth, her tongue flicking against his. ‘If you really want me to.’
As she pressed herself up against him, Tommy felt a stirring in his groin. Perhaps after all there wasn’t that much urgency about getting back to the Fox. He gave in to temptation for a while, moving against her body, his hands rising to fondle the soft roundness of her breasts. It was only as her fingers scrabbled to undo the buttons on his shirt that the image of Connor leapt into his head again. If ever there was a passion killer, it was that. Pulling away, he gave a quick shake of his head. ‘I’m sorry, hun. Sorry, but I’ve really got to go.’
‘Okay, but call me, huh?’
Tommy grabbed his jacket and made for the door. ‘I will. Bye, love.’ He took the stairs two at a time, left by the main front door and half walked, half jogged along the street to where the black Ford Capri was parked. Before he got in, he had a quick look round to make sure that he hadn’t been seen by anyone he knew. Part of the attraction of his relationship with Shelley Anne was the fact that it was a secret. Even after all these years, he still enjoyed the idea of eating forbidden fruit.
He turned the key in the ignition and the engine sprang instantly and smoothly into life. Although he loved the new Capri, he still felt a twang of regret when he thought of his old unreliable Cortina. The trouble was that you got used to things, got attached to them and then missed them when they’d gone. Well, some things. He wouldn’t miss Yvonne if he ever managed to get rid of her.
Tommy indicated and pulled out into the line of traffic. Another couple of years, he reckoned, and he’d have enough to pay her off. By then the girls would be at the age where they were pretty well leading their own lives. Not that he would ever stop worrying about them; every day they went up West to work he was haunted by the fear of IRA bombs. What if they were in the wrong place at the wrong time and… No, he couldn’t bear to think about it.
There was a smattering of rain against the windscreen. He glanced up at the forbidding grey skies and shuddered. He knew that you couldn’t live your life always being afraid of what was around the corner, but these were dangerous times. And it wasn’t just the dire political situation that was weighing on his mind. With the return of Connor, there was bound to be strife. His brother was unpredictable and uncontrollable. He’d gone on a week-long bender after he’d been released, boozing and whoring, but now he was back full of anger and bitterness and armed with enou
gh recriminations to start a third world war.
Tommy tapped the wheel as he waited for the traffic lights to turn to green. Connor was already asking awkward questions about where the cash had come from to buy the Fox. He’d fobbed him off with the same story as he’d told his father – that he’d got lucky in a game of poker – but he sensed that Connor wasn’t entirely convinced. He didn’t want him to know about the long-firm frauds he had going with Frank Meyer. Once Connor started poking his nose in, things were bound to go pear-shaped. The frauds needed patience, and his brother had the attention span of a gnat.
Tommy grinned as he thought about the Romford deal. It had taken two years, but it had been worth it in the end. Now they had another on the go in Dagenham. If this went one went as smoothly as the last, he’d make enough to pay off Yvonne, a generous divorce settlement that she wouldn’t be able to refuse. And why should she? It wasn’t as if there was much love lost between them these days. A good chunk of cash would enable her to buy a fancy house and have all the clothes and holidays she wanted, while he got on with doing what he liked best – running the Fox.
Tommy’s smile faltered a little as he considered what he’d do after a divorce. Would he marry Shelley Anne? He knew that was what she expected – and probably what she deserved after waiting all this time – but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be tied down again. He was realistic enough to know that an illicit affair, with all its seductive stolen moments, was a damn sight different to living with someone twenty-four hours a day. It wouldn’t take long for the magic to disappear.
Fifteen minutes later, Tommy pulled into the car park of the Fox. After getting out of the Capri, he stood for a moment gazing up at the pub. Sometimes he still couldn’t believe that he actually owned it. Every brick, every fixture and fitting, every glass and bottle: it was all his. He couldn’t say for sure why he had such an attachment to the place, but he thought it was connected to the happy times he’d spent here as a kid. For five glorious years, from when he was seven to when he was twelve, his father had been banged up and his mum had run the pub on her own. It was the only time he’d ever heard her laugh. Tommy sighed. He would never stop missing her, just as he would never forget how badly Joe Quinn had treated her.
Tommy unlocked the back door and walked into the narrow passageway. Out of habit he sauntered through to the bar, even though opening time wasn’t for another hour and a half. A quick glance told him that Mouse had been busy. The room was spotless, the bar polished and gleaming. He smiled. She was a grafter, that one, with the same affection for the pub as he had. It made him sad that neither of his daughters seemed to care about the place, but that was life and he’d just have to accept it.
Tommy was about to leave and go upstairs when he heard a thin scraping noise, like the sound of a chair moving against the floor. ‘Mouse?’ He waited a moment but there was no response. ‘Mouse, is that you?’ He leaned down behind the bar, picked up the baseball bat and headed quietly towards the adjoining room. If some little scrote was trying to rob him, then he’d be sorry he’d ever got up this morning.
As he slid through the doorway, Tommy was holding his breath. What if there was more than one of them? Well, it was too late to worry about that now. He took two steps into the room, his eyes darting left and right, his ears tuned to any hint of a movement. He could feel his heart pumping in his chest. And then it came again, that scraping noise, followed by what sounded like the clearing of a throat. It was emanating from the third and smallest room at the back of the pub.
This time Tommy didn’t stop to think about the consequences. With the adrenalin coursing through his veins, he lifted the bat to shoulder height and charged forward, ready to do battle. He saw the intruder immediately; the guy had his back to him and was kneeling on the floor, scrabbling around under one of the tables. Tommy was within striking distance when the man suddenly turned his head and gazed up at him, his eyes widening as he saw the baseball bat.
‘Shit, man, what are you doing?’
As Tommy realised who it was, he stopped dead, his arm still in mid air, poised like a freeze frame in a movie. It was his brother. It was Connor. The breath rushed out of his lungs in one almighty stream. ‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Dropped me lighter, didn’t I?’ Connor, who had an unlit fag hanging from the corner of his mouth, held up the silver Zippo with a grin of triumph. ‘You gonna put that thing down or what?’
Tommy glared back at him but lowered the bat. ‘I meant what the fuck are you doing here?’
Connor got slowly to his feet, with all the studied care of a drunk who was trying to look sober. ‘Well that’s a fine welcome if ever I heard one.’
Tommy glanced towards the table, where there was a half-empty bottle of whisky, a couple of glasses and an overflowing ashtray. ‘Not that it ain’t bleedin’ obvious. You do remember that you don’t live here any more?’ It had been a relief when his father had decided to move into a fancy new flat down the road, and an even bigger one when Connor had decided to join him. ‘You can’t just waltz in here whenever you feel like it.’
Connor gave a snort and slumped down on the bench. ‘Christ, you don’t begrudge your own brother a few drinks, do you? I reckon it’s the least I deserve after four years in the slammer.’
And Tommy knew that what he really meant was that he owed him. Connor was never going to forget the Quinn family failure to get him off the hook. ‘How many times? I tried, okay? It ain’t my fault if the filth had it in for you.’
‘Hey, did I say a word? I get it, okay. I’m over it. It ain’t a problem.’ Connor patted the space on the bench beside him. ‘Sit down, for Christ’s sake. Let’s have a drink together. We haven’t had a chance for a proper chat since I got out. And put that bloody bat down. You’re making me nervous standing over me like that.’
Tommy looked at him with suspicion. Connor wasn’t the type to either forgive or forget, so he must be up to something. Carefully, he leaned the bat against the leg of the table and then pulled up a chair. He watched as his brother poured out a couple of whiskies.
‘So who’s been rattling your cage?’ Connor asked.
‘What do you mean?’
Connor pushed the glass across the table. ‘I mean, what’s with the weapon? You expecting visitors?’
‘Nah, I just didn’t expect to find anyone here.’ Tommy took a sip of the whisky. The bottle had come from his better, more expensive stash of malt. ‘I gave a shout. Why didn’t you say something?’
Connor lit up and took a long drag. ‘Do I look like I’m called Mouse?’ He tapped his cigarette on the ashtray and glanced up again. ‘What the fuck kind of name is that anyway?’
Tommy gave a shrug. ‘You could have ended up with your skull caved in.’
‘Yeah, right.’ The mocking tone suggested that even if Tommy had gone for him, it wouldn’t have been his head that ended up in pieces. Connor looked around the pub and nodded. ‘Still, you’ve done a good job on the old place. Very nice.’
‘I like it.’
‘You’ve got her well trained.’
Tommy frowned. ‘What?’
‘Lynsey’s brat. I saw her cleaning up earlier.’ Connor took another long drag on his cigarette and then laughed loudly. ‘A born scrubber, that one, just like her mother.’
Tommy slammed the glass down on the table, anger blazing in his eyes. ‘Leave it out, Connor! You’ve got no fuckin’ right to—’
‘Hey, no need to go off on one. I’m only saying. It’s in the blood, man. She’ll turn out just the same as Lynsey. You wait and see. She’s a liability. She’ll be knocked up before you know it and then you’ll have another mouth to feed.’
‘You’re a sick bastard. You know that?’
‘Christ, you’re touchy, ain’t you?’ Connor laughed again. ‘You shouldn’t take stuff so serious. I’m only kidding around.’
‘Well it ain’t funny,’ Tommy said. ‘So keep your filthy opinions to yourself.’ He stared at
his brother with disgust, wondering not for the first time how the two of them had turned out so differently. It was as if his father’s genes had been poured undiluted straight into Connor’s body, all the hate and spite and venom pooling in his veins. There wasn’t an ounce of decency in the man.
Connor knocked back the whisky and poured himself another. ‘Come on, bruv, keep up. You’ve barely touched that drink.’
‘Some of us have to work tonight.’
‘Don’t call it work, do you? Piece of piss running this place.’
Tommy thought that was rich. Even when Connor had been managing the pub, he’d barely lifted a finger. ‘You reckon?’
Connor leaned back, laid his left arm along the top of the bench and gave Tommy a long, sly look from over the rim of his glass. ‘You know what I’m still trying to figure out? How the fuck you ever got the cash together to buy the Fox.’
‘You know how. I’ve already told you.’
Connor pulled a face. ‘You told me some pile-of-shite story about winning at poker, but that just don’t add up. No offence Tommy boy, but you’ve always been crap at cards. And you ain’t the luckiest guy in the world, either.’ He gave a low, unpleasant snigger. ‘I mean, I’m talking to the bloke who got himself landed with the lovely Yvonne.’
Tommy twisted the glass between his fingers. ‘I ain’t complaining,’ he said, maybe a little too quickly. ‘And everyone gets lucky once in their life.’
‘Nah, it don’t add up. It don’t add up at all. I’ve been thinking about it real hard, and I reckon I’ve sussed it out.’
‘There ain’t nothing to suss.’
‘Sure there is.’ Connor tilted his head and gave him a cool look. ‘I’ve got eyes, bruv. I’ve got ears. I know what your game is. You think I’m stupid?’
