Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  Helen wasn’t sure why she was able to forgive Tommy but not Moira. Perhaps it was because Tommy was a bloke and they always got things wrong. She had viewed Moira as her closest friend, told her things in confidence and believed they had a special bond. But all the time this great dark secret had been lurking in the background.

  Now, when she walked down the high street, Helen always avoided Connolly’s and the undertakers’. In fact, she rarely went down the street at all, preferring instead to take a circuitous route along the winding back alleys and so not risk the chance of accidentally bumping into her. Of course Moira could have just turned up at the pub when she was working, but somehow Helen knew that she would never publicly force the issue like that.

  Tommy, whenever he got the opportunity, still nagged her about it. ‘At least hear her out, love. Moira’s got a good heart. She never meant to… She’s really cut up about this.’

  But Helen remained adamant. ‘What’s she going to say that I haven’t heard already? It’s a waste of time.’ She knew that she was being stubborn about it, unfair even, but she still felt too badly hurt to even think about making up.

  Although there was nothing left to clean or polish, she continued to prowl between the rooms like a cat marking her territory. So many things changed, and rarely for the better, but at least the Fox remained the same. Yet again her life had been turned upside down, but within the four walls of the pub she retained some sense of security.

  As she came to the last and smallest of the three rooms, Helen dropped the cloth on the table and sank down into a chair by the fireplace. On the shelf to her side was an old paraffin lamp, and with peculiar fondness she remembered the blackouts of the previous year. Despite the lack of electricity, Tommy had refused to close the pub, choosing instead to light it with lamps and candles. There had been roaring log fires and even an old piano rolled down the street from Mrs Cohen’s house to replace the silent jukebox. The locals, without the company of the TV or the warmth of their two-bar electric fires, had come in droves, making their way from their homes by torchlight.

  Helen smiled as she recalled those evenings. There was something about adversity that brought out the best in people. It was that spirit of the Blitz thing. Instead of complaining, everyone had pulled together and the atmosphere had been warm and friendly. She leaned back and sighed, her smile slowly fading. It was not good, she thought, to be always looking over her shoulder, searching for happiness in times that had gone. She would end up like one of the old women who came in here, sipping on their glasses of gin, their rheumy eyes yearning for an age that had passed.

  Briskly Helen rose to her feet and went through to the main room. She had to keep busy. That was the trick. For as long as she was occupied, there wasn’t time to dwell on the past. And with tonight being a Friday, keeping busy shouldn’t be a problem.

  Tommy was behind the bar, whistling softly as he poured the float into the till. He looked up and gave her a tentative smile. ‘Hi, Mouse. You okay?’

  ‘I’m good, thanks. You?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty good.’

  She was aware that there remained a sense of awkwardness between them, that they were not completely relaxed with each other. It would pass eventually, but in the meantime, they were still communicating in a rather strained and overly polite manner. Today, she had gone to school and stayed there, so she hadn’t seen Tommy since last night.

  ‘I was thinking I might go over the cemetery tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Put some flowers on the grave. You want to come with me?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘After closing, then?’

  Helen nodded. ‘Okay,’ she said again.

  Tommy looked pleased, as if her decision to accompany him was one more step on their journey towards reconciliation. He closed the till and started laying the ashtrays out across the bar.

  Helen looked towards the corner where Joe and his gang would gather later in the evening. Friday was milk-round day. The protection money would be collected and brought back to the pub, the cash passed over discreetly in plain brown envelopes. Some of it would go straight out again in wages, backhanders to the local cops and to the wives or mothers of the men who were in jail. The rest would find its way into Joe Quinn’s pocket. Whenever she saw Joe, a shiver ran through her. She could never quite shake that suspicion that he’d had something to do with her mother’s death.

  Connor, thankfully, hadn’t stayed at the flat for long. A few weeks after the incident with the bat, he’d moved back in with Joe. Although there was no love lost between the two men, they still preferred to live together. That way, each could keep an eye on what the other was doing. That, at least, was Helen’s interpretation. She could think of no other reason for their cohabitation.

  The rows, of course, hadn’t stopped. Whenever they were in the pub, Connor watched his father with dark, suspicious eyes. And Joe always took pleasure in finding ways to wind him up. It was rare that the two of them managed to get through an evening without a quarrel about one thing or another. There was so much tension bubbling under the surface that eventually it would have to blow. With any luck Helen wouldn’t be around when the big bang finally happened.

  She glanced back towards the bar, wondering if Frank would show tonight. Lately, she had taken to avoiding him whilst trying not to make it obvious, a tricky balancing act that was none too easy to pull off. She couldn’t help wondering if, like the others, he had known about the murder. It he had, then it shed a different light on his niceness to her, a niceness that was born of pity rather than any genuine liking. She couldn’t bear the thought of being pitied by him.

  A few weeks ago, she had spotted Frank in the cemetery. She had been to visit the lion – its great stone solidity still a comfort, even if her dreams of Narnia had long since disappeared – and had seen him striding along the main thoroughfare. Quickly, she had slipped back between the trees. There was something about that determined stride that spoke of a man on a mission. Where was he going? Torn between curiosity and her desire to avoid an awkward meeting, she’d waited until he’d swerved on to one of the narrower paths before making the decision to follow him.

  Like a furtive private eye, she had moved cautiously forward, skulking behind bushes in case he glanced over his shoulder. But he hadn’t looked back, not once. After a few yards he’d veered on to the grass and stopped abruptly in front of a white marble headstone. She could only see his back, but even with that limited view she was aware of the tension in his body. There was a rigidity about his pose, a sense of breath being held, of resolve being stiffened.

  A few minutes passed before he crouched down and laid a small posy of flowers at the foot of the stone. He stayed in that position for a while, his head bowed, before slowly rising to his feet again. His hand lifted slightly and dropped back to his side, then he turned and walked away.

  Helen had waited until he was out of sight before emerging from her hiding place. Tentatively she’d approached the grave, almost on tiptoe, as if the sound of her footsteps might carry across the cemetery. As she’d read the words on the stone, a soft gasp had escaped from her lips.

  ELEANOR ANNE MEYER

  Beloved wife of Frank

  Died 5th May 1963, aged 24

  Rest in peace

  Helen had stood there for longer than he had, reading and rereading the inscription as this new and revealing piece of information had established itself in her mind. Frank had been married and his wife had died. Today was the anniversary of her death. Her sadness at the woman’s young age, at his loss, was accompanied by a more uncomfortable emotion – a feeling of guilt. He hadn’t chosen to share the tragedy with her; what she had learned had been acquired through snooping. It was another reason why she had been avoiding him lately. Every time she looked at him, she was reminded of what she knew.

  ‘A penny for them?’ Tommy said, suddenly breaking into her thoughts.

  Helen shook her head and forced a smile. ‘I’d be robbing you.’

/>   He gazed at her curiously for a moment, then glanced down at his watch. ‘Five o’clock. You ready?’ he said.

  ‘Go for it.’

  Tommy walked across the bar, pulled back the bolts and swung open the door. And another night began at the Fox.

  32

  Terry Street put on his gloves, took the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe, laid it on the bed and flipped open the locks. Carefully he removed the bat, the handle still covered with the film of polythene he’d wrapped around it months ago. He held it in his hand for a moment, feeling the weight and imagining the sound it would make as it arced through the air towards its target.

  He placed the bat in a navy blue sports bag on top of a clean pair of trousers and a shirt, then zipped the bag up. How did he feel? Excited, apprehensive, slightly nauseous, if he was being honest with himself. But he had no intention of backing out now. This was his one big chance to grab what he wanted. He glanced at his watch – almost time. One drink to steady his nerves and then he’d be off.

  He poured himself a stiff Scotch, sat down on the couch and ran through the plan. Preparation: that was the most important thing. He’d already made the call from a phone box on the Caledonian Road.

  ‘Joe, I need a word alone before you go to the Fox tonight.’

  ‘Yeah, what’s the deal?’

  ‘It’s good, but I’ll tell you later. How about I pick you up around half eight? We can talk on the way.’

  And Joe, who was always paranoid about who might be listening in on the line, hadn’t pressed him any further. ‘Half eight, then. And don’t be bloody late.’

  ‘I won’t. Oh, and could you do us a favour? Don’t tell Connor about this, will you? If he knows something’s in the pipeline, he’ll be on my back all night trying to find out what’s going down. Let’s just keep it between the two of us for now.’

  ‘I don’t tell him nothin’,’ Joe had grunted before replacing the receiver.

  Terry put his glass on the coffee table and checked his pocket for the keys. One for the Jaguar and one for the cellar at the rear of the Fox. Both had come courtesy of Connor, who hadn’t even noticed they’d been missing for the half-hour it had taken Terry to get the copies made and the originals returned to his jacket.

  Although confident that it would work, Terry was smart enough to know that no plan was foolproof. He had made five practice runs and on only one occasion had something unexpected happened. A drunk, with his head between his knees, had been throwing up outside the cellar door. Had the run been for real, the plan would have been scuppered, but the chances of lightning striking twice were slight. Anyway, if there were any problems, he always had the choice of abandoning the project and leaving it until another day.

  Thinking of it as a project enabled Terry to remove any personal feelings he might have for Joe. He respected the man for building up the firm from nothing, but that was about as far as it went. Brutal and charmless, Joe Quinn had few redeeming features. He was an ugly man with a black soul. All things considered, Terry would be doing the world a favour by getting rid of him.

  He glanced at his watch again, knocked back the rest of his drink, then grabbed the bag and went out of the door. It was dark now, with a chill in the air. Ignoring his own car, he walked around the corner to where the white van was parked. He’d picked it up for a song – cash, no questions asked – and would dump it when the deed was done. Battered but familiar, it was the kind of vehicle that nobody looked at twice.

  He climbed into the van, took the bat out of the bag and slid it under the seat. Later, he’d remove the film and leave the weapon for the cops to find. Was Lazenby ready? He’d better be. Terry neither liked nor trusted the man, but he knew that he needed him. A cop with influence in the West End could make a real difference to a firm. No surprise raids or midnight knocks on the door, no interference with the toms. Soho was the cash cow of London, and he intended to milk it.

  Terry made his way over to the south side of Kellston, where Joe had set up home in a fancy block of flats called St George’s Court. It was a three-storey building with balconies on every floor, a marble-tiled foyer and a wide front lawn. There was no sign of the Jaguar. That was good. It meant that Connor had already gone on ahead to the Fox. He was always there on Friday nights, hand outstretched as the dosh came in from the milk round.

  Terry pulled in to a parking space in front of the block and killed the engine. He checked that the coast was clear – no one going in or coming out of the flats – then got out of the van, walked quickly to the front door and pressed the buzzer for Flat 6. There was a full minute’s delay before Joe deigned to answer on the intercom.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s me. It’s Terry. I’ll wait for you down here.’

  He went back to the van and lit a fag. His hands weren’t shaking, but a thin trickle of sweat was running down the back of his neck. He knew that he would always remember this night, either as the final step on the ladder to success or the time he got himself banged up for life. Either way, nothing would ever be the same again.

  It was another five minutes before Joe ambled out of the flats. He was a solid, fat man with an immense beer gut and several more chins than nature intended. Despite his weight, he could be fast on his feet when he needed to be. It didn’t do to underestimate him. Tonight he was dressed in a beige lightweight summer suit with shirt and tie.

  Terry flashed his lights and Joe walked over to the van and opened the passenger door. He leaned down with a scowl on his face. ‘Why the fuck are you driving this heap of junk?’

  ‘Because the Merc’s in the garage,’ Terry said. ‘Some bastard reversed into me over Hackney way. Anyway, fuck the motor, are you getting in or not?’

  As if it might be contaminated, Joe stared dubiously at the rust and the worn upholstery before eventually climbing in. ‘Jesus,’ he said, sniffing noisily, ‘it stinks in here. Where d’you get this fuckin’ death trap?’

  Terry jumped a little at the words, as if Joe, perhaps subconsciously, knew what he was planning. He pulled hard on his fag and threw the butt out of the window. ‘It ain’t a death trap, boss. She might not look too pretty but she runs like a dream. Anyways, it’s just a lend off a mate until I get the Merc back.’

  Joe pulled a face as if it was beneath his dignity to be seen in anything so shabby. ‘Some mate,’ he snorted.

  Terry pulled the van out on to the drive and started back towards the Fox. Now that the first part of his task had been completed, his heart had started to thump in his chest. He gripped the wheel, trying to steady his nerves. Start talking, he told himself. Start talking before Joe picks up on the vibe. ‘I was up West last night and bumped into Liverpool Larry at the Bell. He was with a geezer called Mendez. You ever heard of him?’

  Joe shook his head. ‘There a point to all this?’

  ‘Sure there’s a point. Mendez is Liverpool’s supplier, a sharp guy, Colombian. I reckon we could do business with him.’

  ‘We already got a supplier.’

  ‘Not a reliable one, though. How many times have we been let down in the past year or so? And every time there’s some wannabe ready to slide in and fill the gap. Supply and demand, boss. There’s a fuckin’ big demand and we ain’t got a regular supply.’

  Joe didn’t look convinced. He had reached the stage in life where he wanted things to be safe and easy and comfortable. ‘You don’t know this guy from Adam. Could be the fuckin’ law playing silly buggers.’

  ‘Nah, he ain’t the filth. Liverpool can vouch for him. They’ve been doing business for over a year now. Anyway, I said I’d talk to you, see how the land lies. I’ve got a number if you’re interested.’

  While Joe mulled it over, Terry’s brain began to race. They were minutes away from the Fox. Had he covered every angle? Would he have the nerve to go through with it? He thought about the blood. Splatter was what he had to be wary of, blood and bone flying through the air. The spare clothes in the bag were just in case he had
to get changed.

  ‘Is Connor at the Fox?’ Terry asked.

  ‘Where else would he be?’

  Yeah, predictable, that was the Quinns. They had never quite mastered the art of surprise. Terry left a short pause before asking, ‘He didn’t want to know what you were doing, then?’

  ‘Sure he wanted to know, but it ain’t none of his business.’

  Terry gave a nod. Good. Something else ticked off the list. He’d been counting on the pleasure Joe always took in winding up his son. ‘He’ll be well pissed off. I’ll keep shtum about the Colombian until you’ve had time to think it over.’

  The traffic lights on the corner of Station Road were on red. Terry pulled up, praying to God that the coast would be clear when they got to the pub. There was still time for him to change his mind, but he knew where that would leave him: attached to a firm that was rotting at its roots. Joe wouldn’t relinquish power until he was in his grave.

  The lights turned to green and Terry moved off, indicating right. He swung on to Station Road and then took another right into the dimly lit car park of the Fox. The entrance to the pub was round the corner and invisible from here. His heart was still pumping, the adrenalin streaming through his body. Keep your cool. Don’t blow it. The steering wheel was damp from where the fear was leaking from his palms.

  Quickly his eyes raked the space, alert to any customers arriving or leaving by car, searching for stray drunks or crack-happy toms who might be doing business in the gloom. Everything was quiet. And yes – his luck was in – the silver Jag was parked in its usual place by the cellar door.

  He pulled the van up next to it, creating a visual barrier between the car and the street. This way, no one passing by on Station Road would be able to bear witness to what was going to happen next. ‘Christ, Joe, what’s that?’