by Roberta Kray
‘It’s no trouble. I’m going there anyway. And you don’t want to be getting the bus in weather like this.’
Helen, who was sitting behind Terry, could see his dark eyes in the rear-view mirror. She could see them but she couldn’t read them. What kind of verdict did he want today? As Joe’s right-hand man, he must be looking for some sort of vengeance. She wondered if he thought Tommy was innocent or guilty. The latter, she suspected, although that in turn made her wonder why he was being so helpful.
Terry kept up a steady stream of chat as he was driving, trying to distract Yvonne from the ordeal ahead. Carol joined in too, leaning forward so she wasn’t excluded from the conversation. Only Helen was silent, her thoughts spinning in her head, her emotions bubbling so close to the surface that she was afraid of bursting into tears.
She found herself thinking about Moira, wishing that they hadn’t fallen out. She’d not heard a word from her since Tommy had been arrested. That was over six months ago now. She should have swallowed her pride, put aside her anger and gone round to see her. It was at times like this that you needed your friends.
By the time Terry drew up outside the Old Bailey, Helen’s heart was drumming in her chest. She clambered out of the car, her legs weak and shaky, her stomach starting to churn again. Gulping in the cold, wet air, she tried her best to steady her nerves.
‘I’ll park the motor,’ he said. ‘You go on in. I’ll see you later.’
For a moment the three of them stood motionless on the pavement like lost children abandoned by a parent. Then Carol took control. Taking Yvonne by the elbow, she gently propelled her towards the entrance to the building. As Helen tagged along behind, she gazed up at the dome topped by a bronze statue of a woman, a sword in one hand, a set of scales in the other. What kind of justice was Tommy going to get today?
It felt like forever before they were eventually allowed into the public gallery. There had been a slow-moving queue as everyone was searched and their bags examined. Then, after they had got their seats, there was another long wait before the court officials and the lawyers drifted into the room beneath. Helen noticed Terry Street arriving, but he didn’t come to sit with them. Instead, after giving a nod to Yvonne, he joined Fat Pete and Vinnie across the other side.
When the accused were brought into the dock, a ripple ran through the crowd. Helen looked first at Tommy. He was thinner, she thought, than the last time she’d seen him. The first thing he did was to gaze up into the gallery, his eyes searching for familiar faces. When he finally found them, he gave a small smile. But there was a glimpse of disappointment there, too. He’d been hoping, she realised, to see his two daughters sitting alongside Yvonne.
Connor was angry and impatient, his emotions out of control. As if unable to stand still, he shifted from foot to foot, glaring at the cops and the lawyers, unable even at this late stage to resist the impulse to try and intimidate. She could see his chest quickly rising and falling as if he was about to explode.
Of the three, Frank was the one who seemed the most composed. Or was he simply better at hiding his feelings? He stared out impassively across the courtroom. Helen willed him to glance up, to be aware that she was there, rooting for him, but he didn’t once lift his gaze.
When the jury came in, Helen scrutinised their faces. Did they look towards the dock or did they avert their eyes? About half and half, she reckoned, so that didn’t help much. Eight men and four women shuffled into their seats, adjusting jackets and smoothing skirts before eventually settling down.
Everyone stood up when the judge made his entrance. Not long to go now. They all sat down again. Helen lifted her hand and chewed on her knuckles. It was Connor first. After a few preliminaries, the foreman of the jury, a tall, thin man with a pair of half-moon glasses balanced on the end of his nose, rose to give the verdict. The judge asked the usual question, his tone neutral, almost bored, as if he had made the request too many times before. Do you find the defendant guilty or not guilty of murder?
There was only a second’s delay. ‘Guilty.’
Connor’s face twisted with rage. ‘No!’ He slammed his fist down and then pointed at the jury. ‘You fuckin’ bastards! I didn’t do it! I swear I didn’t do it!’ As the screws dragged him out of the dock, he was still screaming at them. ‘I’ll kill you! I’ll kill the whole fuckin’ lot of you!’
In the gallery, there was a murmur of voices from the firm. Joe Quinn’s killer might have been brought to justice, but there was little to celebrate. He’d been murdered by his own flesh and blood. Helen glanced across at Terry. He had his head bent towards Vinnie, nodding as he listened to what the other man had to say. She only watched him for a second before looking back towards Tommy.
Tommy’s face had visibly paled. She saw him take a deep breath and briefly close his eyes. It was, she thought, a kind of gathering-in before his own fate was decided. Beside her, Yvonne crossed and uncrossed her legs, unable to sit still. Helen twisted her hands in her lap, then leaned forward, saying a silent prayer. Please God, let the jury find him innocent.
The foreman waited for the question, fiddling with his tie while he kept his gaze fixed firmly on the judge rather than the dock. His response to the question was swift and brusque. ‘Guilty.’
Helen heard the gasp escape from Yvonne’s lips at the same time as she saw Tommy’s shoulders slump. A look of horror, of disbelief passed across his face before he bowed his head. Frank placed a hand on his arm and murmured a few words. Helen wrapped her arms around her chest as panic swept though her body. It couldn’t be happening. It was wrong, evil, a travesty of justice. Not Tommy. They couldn’t lock him up for something that he hadn’t done.
The shock of it had barely begun to sink in before Frank Meyer received a guilty verdict too. Unlike Tommy, he showed no surprise. He gave only a small shake of his head, a gesture that seemed more resigned than anything else.
And then, before Helen knew it, both men had been led away. A howl of despair caught in her throat. She covered her face with her hands and wept.
40
It was over a week now since the sentencing, but Helen still hadn’t even begun to accept it. How could she? She was walking around in a fog of disbelief. Ten years. It was brutal. It was impossible. Her eyes would fly open in the middle of the night, and for hours she would stare blindly into the darkness, wondering if Tommy and Frank were awake too.
Connor, of course, had got life, but she couldn’t bring herself to feel any pity for him. If he’d pleaded guilty, even to manslaughter, the jury might have accepted that his brother had known nothing about the killing. But Connor’s lies had been corrosive. In the end, the jury hadn’t believed a word he’d said.
A bright winter sun was shining as she walked along the high street. Even the weather was wrong. It felt like a mockery for the sun to show its face when the two people she loved most were banged up in some stinking cell. She thought ahead to all the seasons that would need to pass before they were free again. A thin groan escaped from between her lips.
All around her people were going about their business, oblivious or maybe just indifferent to what had happened. Another bunch of thugs who had got what they deserved. Wasn’t that what most of them thought? They bought their groceries, went in and out of the bank, stood and chatted on street corners. She felt an involuntary spurt of anger, wanting to lash out. Didn’t they care that two innocent men had been sent down for a crime they hadn’t committed?
Helen went into the Spar, picked up a basket and pulled the shopping list from her jeans pocket. She sauntered up and down the aisles, not in any hurry to return to the Fox. The flat was weirdly quiet. The four of them walked around on tiptoe, as if someone lay dying in one of the bedrooms.
Yvonne, who had spent most of the last week drinking vodka in her dressing gown, had finally got dressed this morning, done her hair, put on her slap and announced that they had to get on with things. Although she and Helen had never had the best of relationships,
Helen was aware of the need for them to pull together. That was why she had offered to come out and do the shopping. The fridge was almost empty and the list was a long one.
It was almost one o’clock when Helen got back to the pub, a couple of carrier bags hanging from each arm. She went around the rear of the building, pushed open the door and climbed the stairs. The jukebox was playing in the bar, Bryan Ferry singing ‘The “In” Crowd’. There was the usual buzz of conversation, the familiar chink of glasses. She didn’t work the Saturday lunchtime shift, but she’d be back on duty in the evening.
She went to the kitchen and dumped the bags on the table. ‘Yvonne?’ There was no reply. She went back into the living room. ‘Yvonne?’ She turned, intending to go and unpack the groceries, but then stopped dead in her tracks. An old brown suitcase was leaning against the wall. Her old brown suitcase, the one that had lived on top of the wardrobe for the past four years. She frowned, confused as to what it was doing there.
Yvonne suddenly appeared at the door with a fag in her mouth. ‘Sorry, love,’ she said, with an expression that was about as far from apologetic as one could get. ‘But it was never meant to be permanent, was it?’
Helen stared at her. ‘What?’
‘It’s going to be hard enough staying afloat without another mouth to feed. I just can’t do it. That bloody lawyer took every last penny we had.’
Helen glanced towards the suitcase again, the light slowly dawning. ‘So you’re kicking me out? Is that what you mean?’
‘Well, it’s not as though you don’t have family of your own. You can go back to Farleigh Wood. You’ve still got relatives there. I’m sure your aunt won’t mind.’
‘And have you talked to Tommy about this?’
Yvonne gave a shrug, folding her arms across her chest. ‘Tommy’s not here, is he? And he’s not going to be, not for a bloody long time.’
Helen stared at her in disbelief. She couldn’t leave the Fox. It was her home, the only place she felt safe and secure. ‘But what about the pub?’ she asked, aware of a pleading edge to her voice. ‘I can help out. I can do more. I can—’
‘I’m selling it,’ Yvonne said. ‘Me and the girls, we can’t stay here. Not after what’s happened. We need a fresh start. I’m going to flog the place and then we’re off to Spain.’
‘Spain?’ Helen repeated, dumbfounded. ‘How can you go to Spain? What about visiting? How are you going to see Tommy if you’re living hundreds of miles away?’
‘He doesn’t need us to visit him,’ Yvonne snapped. ‘He’s got his fancy piece for that.’ She took an angry drag on the cigarette, her eyes full of bitterness and venom. ‘No, it’s for the best. The sooner we get away from here, the better. Terry Street’s already made me an offer and I’m going to accept. We’ll be off as soon as the paperwork’s gone through.’
‘Tommy won’t let you sell it. Does he know? Have you told him?’
Yvonne gazed scornfully back at her. ‘He hasn’t got a choice, love. The pub’s in my name, not his. They wouldn’t give him a licence, not with his criminal record.’
Helen, flustered as she was, could still see that there was no point in further argument. Everything had been decided. She understood now why Terry Street had gone out of his way to be so helpful. And she understood too why Pym had warned her to watch her back. ‘So what are you saying – that you want me to leave right now? Right this minute?’
‘It’s for the best,’ Yvonne said again. ‘There’s no point in dragging in out. I’ll explain to the girls when they get back from work. I’m sure they’d have liked to say goodbye, but… Well, they’ve been through enough. You understand that, don’t you? It’s nothing personal, love, we all just have to move on.’
Helen had a panicky feeling in her chest. She was about to be thrown out on to the street and there was nothing she could do about it. Where was she going to go? Janet didn’t want her – she’d made that perfectly clear four years ago. And since then the only communication between them had been an exchange of cards every birthday and at Christmas. She was on the verge of blurting this out, but pride held her back. No, she wouldn’t give Yvonne the satisfaction.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘If that’s what you want.’
Yvonne took a drag on her cigarette and gave a weary sigh. ‘It’s not what I want, Mouse. It’s just the way it has to be.’ She walked over to the table, laid the cigarette in the ashtray and took her purse from her bag. ‘Here,’ she said, holding out three five-pound notes to Helen. ‘Take this. It should keep you going for a while.’
Helen stared at the money, wanting to refuse it but knowing she’d be a fool if she did. Reluctantly she reached out a hand and took the notes from Yvonne. She shoved them in her jeans pocket and turned away. So this was it. The end of her life at the Fox. She picked up her suitcase, took a deep breath and walked out of the door.
41
Outside, Helen screwed up her eyes against the bright winter sunlight. She could barely believe what had just happened. She felt shell-shocked, angry, confused, disoriented. Where was she going to go? What was she going to do? For a while she stood at the back door with her suitcase at her feet. She felt utterly and completely lost. Yvonne hadn’t even had the grace to give her time to get organised, to make other arrangements. One minute she was living at the Fox; the next she was homeless.
She took another deep breath. What she mustn’t do was fall apart. She wasn’t a child any more. She was fifteen, almost sixteen, and more than capable of taking care of herself. Except it didn’t feel like that at the moment. She was scared, that was the problem. It was a quarter past one on a November afternoon, and in a few hours it would be dark. Reaching down, she picked up the suitcase and began to walk.
As she crossed the car park, Helen glanced back over her shoulder. She remembered the first time she’d come here, sitting quietly with Tommy in the white Cortina, thinking that this was the last place on earth that she wanted to be. But then gradually, over the years, it had become the only place. She loved the Fox almost much as Tommy did. It would break his heart when he found out that Yvonne had sold it.
She blinked back the tears, not wanting to get sentimental. The pub was just bricks and mortar, nothing else. It was only the people who lived in it that mattered, and now that Tommy was gone, the building had lost its soul. She gave it one final, regretful look before heading for the high street.
As she trudged past the shops, she tried to work out what to do next. There were hostels for homeless people, she thought, but she didn’t know where they were and she didn’t have the courage to stop and ask anyone. Would she be allowed to stay in one anyway? Perhaps she was too young. They might take her and put her in a home. No, she wouldn’t be able to bear that. She would rather sleep on the streets than be taken into care.
It was only as she was approaching Connolly’s that she suddenly thought of Moira. But she couldn’t ask her for help. How could she? She had pushed her away, refused even to speak to her. She felt ashamed now of how she’d behaved. It was hardly surprising that for all the time Tommy had been on remand, Moira had remained silent. Not a single phone call. Not one visit to the pub. She had decided, perhaps, that the Quinns were more trouble than they were worth.
And yet Helen couldn’t quite believe this. Moira, above all else, had a big heart. Surely she wouldn’t turn her away in her hour of need? But still she hesitated, racked by guilt and remorse. It would be unfair to just turn up on her doorstep, saying she was sorry, expecting her to put a roof over her head. Or was that just her pride speaking? She wasn’t good, she knew, at asking for favours.
Stopping outside the café, Helen peered through the window. She saw Paul Connolly behind the counter, and a waitress weaving between the tables, carrying a tray. She couldn’t see Moira, though. And then she remembered that it was Saturday, and that Moira didn’t usually start her shift until the evening.
She began walking again, wondering if Moira still went to the cinema in the after
noons.
She remembered the last film they’d seen together, The Great Gatsby. She thought of Jay Gatsby floating lifeless in the pool. She thought of Joe Quinn bundled in the boot of a car with his skull caved in. She gave a shudder, sickened by the horror of it all.
Despite the sun, there was a cold wind biting at her face and fingers. Where were her gloves? She had had them when she was out shopping. She must have taken them off and left them in the kitchen at the Fox. She wondered what else she might have left there. She glanced down at the suitcase, aware that Yvonne had done the packing. Was the photo of her parents there? And the shell-covered box? And the old sock with thirty pound notes folded neatly inside it? She was going to need that money now that she was out here on her own.
Helen crossed the road as the undertakers’, Tobias Grand & Sons, came into view. She stood back on the pavement and stared up beyond the gold-lettered sign to the window above. Moira’s living room overlooked the street, with the bedroom and the kitchen at the rear of the building. There was no sign of life. She dropped her gaze to the undertakers’ window, covered by wide net curtains. There was no sign of life here either. Death lay hidden behind the discreet shield, bodies waiting to be buried, silk-lined coffins waiting to be filled. She felt another shiver run through her.
Next to the entrance to the undertakers’ was the door to Moira’s flat. Helen put the suitcase down, raised her hand, paused only for a second and then rang the bell. Above the noise of the traffic she listened for the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Nothing. She rang again, wondering if she should walk round to the cinema and try to catch her there. And then, just as she was about to leave, the door suddenly opened and Helen found herself staring at someone she had never seen before. The girl was about nineteen, with long, straight wheat-coloured hair and pale blue eyes that still looked full of sleep despite the time of day.
