by Carol Rivers
Just as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Nibbles gave a roar of a bark. Spot turned on his heel as the screeching and snapping of teeth alerted him to the shapes in the shadows. One was coming straight for him. The other, almost invisible and yet far larger, was poised by the closet.
When the first blow fell, Spot took it hard on the right side of his face. He rolled back and fell against the wall and just managed to stay on his feet. The second and third blows came in quick succession. And that was when the other shape moved forward.
Spot swallowed the blood that had filled his mouth and barely gasped as something hard and forceful hit the back of his knees.
It was an old trick, he knew, to fell the enemy. And he found to his dismay that the crippling pain in his calves took away any strength he had left in his legs. Protecting himself on the ground was almost impossible. One steel-tipped boot after another sliced into his chest.
The beating went on, while Nibbles did his best to intervene. The growling and hissing was almost uncanny from the depth of his little dog’s belly.
Until a boot found its mark and, as Spot sprawled there, his vision clouded by agony, he heard the pitiful screech of his tiny protector.
‘You scum,’ growled a voice close to him. ‘Where’s the money?’
Spot rasped in a breath as two large hands grabbed his coat lapels. He could smell the evil on the man’s breath and his stomach revolted.
‘Don’t know what you mean,’ he gagged as he fought for breath, the knuckles closing around his throat.
‘Last chance,’ spat Ronnie Hook, and Spot felt the spittle land on his face. ‘Or am I gonna kick it out of you? Or maybe I should find the bitch first and do the same with her as I done to the dog?’
Spot stared into the outline of the face a few inches away from him. He nodded and gulped. ‘All right, I’ll tell you. Come closer.’
The man laughed and breathed foulness over Spot’s face. Although it was agony, Spot lifted his head as if to whisper his answer, but instead he used every ounce of strength in his short, strong neck.
Chapter Thirty-One
Molly woke with a start. She stayed very still, afraid to move as the now distant – but not too distant – familiar explosion pulsated through the whole building. Where had the V-2 landed this time? Closer, certainly. And the aftershock seemed to be rumbling on, as if it might reach Roper Street. She knew the thought was ludicrous, but even so, she was riveted to the bed.
There were other noises too. What were they? Was it Mr Stokes, rousing everyone in the neighbourhood, alerting them to danger?
She still hadn’t managed to climb out of bed when Cissy appeared, standing in her nightdress at the open door that Molly left ajar for the children.
‘Molly! Did you hear that?’
Molly pushed back the covers. ‘A V-2? Where did it land, I wonder?’ she breathed as she put on her dressing gown and slippers.
‘This side of the river, I think,’ Cissy whispered. ‘Close enough to rattle the knobs on the end of me bed.’
‘Is Harry asleep?’
‘Yes, so are Mark and Evie. They seem to sleep through anything these days.’
‘They’ve had enough practice.’ Molly went to the window and peeped out from behind the blinds. ‘It’s too dark to see anything. Let’s go down for Spot.’
‘Wait for me, I’ll get my coat on.’
A few minutes later, Molly and Cissy were standing at the top of the staircase. Just as Molly took the first step down, there was another noise. Not a rumble or thud, or anything like the tremor that had woken her, but another noise, indistinct and alien.
‘Spot?’ she called. ‘Are you down there?’
Nothing came back, only an unbroken silence.
‘Spot!’ Cissy cried, squeezing Molly’s arm. ‘Where are you?’
They waited, listening, the only sound their breathing, until Molly stepped back onto the landing. ‘Why isn’t he answering?’
‘Dunno,’ Cissy whispered. ‘He might have gone to the lav.’
They waited, staring down the staircase into the pitch-black darkness of the glory hole. After some minutes, Molly declared, ‘Something’s wrong.’
‘Oh, God,’ Cissy breathed. ‘I can’t hear Nibbles either.’
‘We’ll have to go down and see.’
‘But what if it’s—’
Molly pushed Cissy towards the kitchen. Silently she went to the drawer. She slid out the rolling pin and, after a moment’s careful thought, the carving knife.
‘Which one do you want?’ she asked Cissy.
Cissy gave a groan. ‘Dunno. I’ve only ever used a knife to cut bread.’
‘Me too. But I’d rather have something in me hand than nothing.’ She gave the rolling pin to Cissy.
‘Do you think it’s Ronnie down there,’ Cissy said, her voice breaking, ‘waiting for us? And what has he done to Spot?’ She let out a choked sob.
‘Do you want to stay here to find out?’ Molly asked in an urgent tone.
‘No,’ Cissy replied. ‘My old fella might need me. Go on, I’ll be right behind you.’
Stealing forward, Molly led the way to the landing. She looked quickly over her shoulder and could see Cissy’s white, tense face in the darkness. Gripping the carving knife tightly, she gave a nod.
Every stair seemed to creak.
The well of the glory hole was just a black void in front of them. She stopped again, narrowing her eyes and slowing her breath. They shuffled into the shop and looked at Spot’s empty chair.
‘He ain’t here,’ Cissy whispered over Molly’s shoulder. And then a cold breeze wafted in and Molly’s stomach lurched.
‘The back door’s open.’
‘Oh, lord,’ said Cissy. ‘What we going to do?’
‘Look,’ said Molly, as her knees went weak as water.
Together they moved stealthily forward, inching carefully towards the yard door. A few feet away, Molly could feel the cool current of air slipping around her bare ankles. There was no sound anywhere; in the dead of night even the river traffic slept. She paused and saw a few inches of gloom stealing in.
‘We going out there?’ Cissy asked in a faint voice.
‘You stay here,’ Molly answered. ‘If I don’t come back, run in and lock the door.’
‘You’ve got to be joking!’ Cissy spluttered. ‘Where you go, I go.’
They stood again listening until, stepping forward very slowly, they entered the yard. Molly didn’t know what she was expecting: perhaps an attack like the ones at the cinema? Would it have been wiser to hide upstairs? But what then? And what had happened to Spot and Nibbles?
Her unspoken thoughts were answered by a choked groan.
‘Spot, is that you?’ she called, her voice threaded with alarm.
‘Spot!’ Cissy called and clutched Molly’s arm tightly. ‘Spot, where are you?’
The unsettling sound was repeated and Molly stepped towards it, her ears and eyes alert to the other noises now: a shuffling and dragging and, perhaps, a stifled sob.
Cissy saw Spot first. Dropping the rolling pin so that it clattered noisily away, she threw herself on him as he rocked to and fro on the ground.
Molly could see very little under the star-filled sky, but what she could discern was the drooping shoulders and bent head of her friend and protector. In his arms, a glint of white came from the still form he cradled.
‘Spot, oh Spot! What happened? Who done this?’ Cissy wailed in the darkness.
Molly knelt by her friends. She couldn’t see much, but what she could see alarmed her. Spot’s face was swollen and ugly, his thick, dark, wiry hair almost standing on end. In his arms was the shaking form of Nibbles, the whites of his tiny eyes wide in fright.
‘They done us over,’ groaned Spot. ‘Was waiting for me.’
‘What made you come out here?’ shrieked Cissy. ‘You’ve told us enough times not to open the door!’
Spot shook his head silently, a sob escapin
g as he rocked the tiny dog. ‘Poor little bugger. He didn’t stand a chance.’
‘Is he dead?’ asked Cissy breathlessly.
‘As good as,’ Spot rasped.
Molly looked around. Was anyone lurking in the shadows? ‘Spot, we must go in,’ she said urgently. With painful slowness, Molly and Cissy helped him to his feet and linked their arms around his waist.
Every time they paused, Molly peered into the darkness. Was someone about to pounce? The knife was in her dressing gown pocket. Would she have time to use it?
At last they entered the glory hole. Molly quickly shut the door and drew the bolts.
‘Don’t think I’ll make them stairs,’ Spot said weakly. He sagged against them.
‘Course you will,’ Cissy insisted. ‘You’ve got a lot of strength in them short legs of yours. Best foot forward, my love.’
It was with many stumbles and much pushing and prodding that they climbed the steep staircase, until with a last effort they dragged Spot onto the landing. Here he collapsed and Molly prised the little dog from his arms.
‘Oh, Gawd!’ exclaimed Cissy as she turned on the light and the injuries to Spot became clear. He lay prostrate on the floor, out cold. His lips were bloody, and both eyes had sunk under purple, fleshy flaps of skin. But perhaps worst of all, thought Molly, as she comforted a quivering Nibbles, was the blood that saturated his clothes, staining his white shirt crimson and drying into spikes in the matted muddle of his frizzy hair.
The morning light blinded him and there were pains in every joint. Thick and salty blood oozed from the gap in his front teeth.
‘It’s all right, handsome, one less tooth in your gob only adds to your good looks. Can you sit up?’
Spot opened his sore eyes fully to the sight of four children and his wife all gazing down at him. He tried to smile but both his mouth and his ribcage hurt like the blazes.
‘Blimey,’ he managed. ‘At long last I’ve got an audience.’
‘Did you fight them all off, Uncle Spot?’ asked Mark, his dark eyes wide in admiration.
‘How many was there?’ said Simon from under his thatch of red hair.
‘Shut up, you two,’ said Susie, pushing the boys aside, and taking Evie’s hand, she said severely, ‘He might want to go back to sleep again.’
‘Don’t think so,’ returned Spot as Cissy leaned forward to help him sit up. ‘How long have I been out?’
‘Two days, on and off,’ Cissy said with a smile. ‘Now, kids, go down to Molly and tell her that Sleeping Beauty has woken.’
‘I reckon it was that last kiss you give me,’ Spot said when they were alone, and he tried to make himself comfortable in Cissy’s large bed. ‘What’s this on me head?’
‘A bandage. And it’s got to stay there till you get up.’
‘Who says so?’
‘I do.’
‘In which case, I won’t argue.’ He grinned through the pain. Then suddenly, as everything flooded back, he asked hoarsely, ‘Nibbles?’
‘I’m glad to say the little perisher is on the mend.’ She drew up a chair and smiled. ‘Though I think his ratting days are over.’
‘I thought he’d copped it.’
‘So did we. But yesterday he perked up. The kids fed him and now he’s asleep on the bed with Harry.’
Spot was unable to speak from relief. Suddenly tears filled his eyes. It was painful even to weep.
Cissy leaned forward and thrust her arms around him. ‘Oh, my little darling,’ she whispered. ‘I love you.’
Spot inhaled a short breath, trying to stop his embarrassing emotions. ‘Say that again, will you?’ he tried to joke. ‘I’ll write it down and get you to sign it.’
Cissy looked him in his swollen eyes then placed a tender kiss on his bruised mouth. ‘That’s it,’ she said plonking herself back on the chair, ‘you’ve had your five minutes of glory. Now you can tell me what happened.’
Just then, Molly came in. She put her hands to her mouth and stared at him. ‘Oh, Spot, you’ve had us so worried.’
‘I’d have woken up quicker if I’d known I was going to get all this fuss,’ he said, and Molly smiled sadly.
‘How do you feel?’
‘I’ve had better days.’
‘What possessed you to go outside in the middle of the night?’ Cissy demanded.
‘I wanted to see where the V-2 had fallen, but Hook and his mate were waiting,’ Spot explained remorsefully. ‘I calculated he would try at Narrow Street again, not here. I had it all set up with Cheng and Li. We was gonna take it in turns watching – the whole neighbourhood was in on it.’
‘You’re sure it was Ronnie Hook?’ Molly asked.
Spot nodded. ‘I’m sure.’ He didn’t want to frighten them by telling them what Hook had threatened.
‘So there’s no doubt?’ Molly said and glanced at Cissy. ‘No doubt at all?’
Spot stared at them the best he could through his puffy eyes. ‘It was Hook and his mate all right.’
‘Do you remember what happened?’ Cissy asked with a frown. ‘I mean, what made them stop bashing the daylights out of you?’
Spot had never admitted his long-kept secret to anyone, and he wasn’t about to do so now. Not if he could help it. If Cissy knew where he’d picked up his bad habit, she was certain to think less of him. He wasn’t proud of his misspent youth. Certainly not of the gang he’d got mixed up with before going straight. But if he hadn’t learned a few tricks of the trade then Hook wouldn’t have left any of them alive.
‘Dunno,’ Spot lied. He put up a hand to his bandage. ‘Me head’s hurting. P’raps I will have forty winks more.’
‘You can kip when you’ve told us the truth,’ Cissy insisted, and nodding to Molly she added, ‘Show him the evidence.’
Molly reached into her overall pocket and brought out a brown paper bag. Spot was trying to get his brains together as she carefully opened it. He had a bad feeling. When she came to stand beside him and showed him the contents, he knew it was all over.
He stared at his bloodied cap, now dyed a deep crimson red, and the blood-spattered, viciously sharp points of the razors sewn into the peak. ‘Ah,’ he said and sank back against the pillow.
‘Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?’ demanded Cissy.
Spot hung his head. Even that movement was painful. ‘I didn’t have no choice,’ he murmured.
‘Do you realize what damage you could do to a person – or persons – with them razors?’
Spot daren’t look at his wife.
‘Well,’ said Molly, ‘you’d better read this.’
Once again he watched as she put down the brown bag and reached into the other pocket. She took out a rolled newspaper. With deliberately slow strokes, she placed it on the bedcover in front of him. ‘Can you read it or shall I do the honours?’ asked Cissy.
Spot’s eyes went straight to the headline: NOTORIOUS ESCAPEE MURDERER ARRESTED BY STEPNEY POLICE. He looked up at Cissy, his jaw falling painfully open.
‘“Ronnie Hook, a south London gangster and murderer of a prison guard, together with another escapee from prison,” ’ read Cissy, swiping the newspaper from the bed, ‘“were found in a warehouse last night, a trail of blood leading the police to their hideout. Hook had been seriously injured and was taken to hospital, while the other man was returned to custody. It is thought Hook fell foul of another gang member who used the unprincipled slasher method to fell his opponent. This practice is frowned on as a vicious form of fighting by street thugs and gangs. Hook was blinded in the fracas. A detective constable working on the case was also detained on charges of collusion with criminal elements in order to profit from stolen goods.” ’ Cissy put down the newspaper. ‘That was Longman. I always knew he was up to no good.’
‘You were right all along, Cissy,’ Molly agreed. ‘I should have listened to you in the beginning.’
‘So, what have you to say for yourself, Horace Fryer?’ Cissy demanded.
�
��I didn’t mean to blind him. I’m sorry, but it was him or us.’
Cissy jumped from her seat and once again threw her arms around her husband. ‘Oh, Spot. We’d have all been up a gum tree if it wasn’t for you.’ He was smothered in kisses and declarations of love once more.
Molly took his hand and said with a rueful smile, ‘Spot, you are a dark horse.’
He grinned – also painfully. ‘I’m just a little squirt, I have to have something up me sleeve. A razor headbutt was me only defence.’
‘In your cap, you mean,’ said Cissy, taking his face between her hands. ‘I’m so proud of you.’
‘Are you?’ he asked bewilderedly. ‘Even though I’m one of them vicious thugs they write about?’
‘Yes,’ teased Cissy, ‘and you should have told me you what you were before I married you. But seeing as you’re now my hero, I ain’t complaining.’
Spot felt the salty tears run down his cheeks. As Cissy kissed them away, he looked up into Molly’s soft, sweet face. He hoped she didn’t think badly of him. But his chequered past was a long time ago, when he was just an ignorant kid.
He’d changed now and had only worn the razor cap at nights when he kept watch in the shop. Though with the news today, it did look as though he might never have cause to wear it again.
BOOK FOUR
Chapter Thirty-Two
Sidcup, a month later
It was a cold but clear October morning when Molly sat in Lyn’s garden with her father. There was no wheelchair this time. Bill was using his stick and had triumphed in the pipe war, Molly realized, as he puffed away in the clear morning air.
Each day for the past week they had followed a pattern: breakfast with the family and then a short walk down the pretty lane that ran beside the house; Bill’s exercise for the day. Then a rest in the garden before lunch, while the four children, Mark, Evie, George and Elizabeth, went to play in what was still called a nursery, but was in fact the upper floor of Lyn’s vast attic room, furnished with just about every conceivable toy, books, paints, crayons and board games.
