by Carol Rivers
‘So what happened to the ship?’ Bernie enquired as he surreptitiously joined the group.
‘PLA condemned it. Took it off to the knacker’s yard.’
‘Anthrax?’ Bernie asked.
‘You could smell the rot a mile off,’ said the man. ‘I wouldn’t like to be the patsy who tried to pull one over on the authorities.’
‘And the crew?’ Bernie said.
‘Bloody Soviets! But they say the finger is pointed at someone local and, whoever that punter is, they’ll slaughter him for giving Her Majesty’s men the hag.’
Bernie couldn’t have agreed more.
Especially as he knew who the culprit was.
Unable to wait any longer, Ruby made her way to the Bayswater Road. She was going to confront Nick and ask for the truth, even if it was what she didn’t want to hear. Better knowing than not, she had decided.
The big block of flats was easy to recognize and she entered the glass front door and studied the bell plates. She searched for the name Brandon, but couldn’t see it, though there were one or two unmarked bells.
Well, she would just go up and knock on the door. Glancing in the large, brass-framed mirror, she studied her reflection: an attractive blonde in a navy-blue coat with blonde hair styled down to her shoulders. Navy-and-white button earrings – discreetly visible, a light coating of powder on her nose and a pale apricot lipstick. Confident of what she saw, she entered the lift and felt her heart leap. She knew she had to be strong and not let her emotions get the better of her.
She exited the lift and walked along the cold, cheerless passage. Nick had been so kind and attentive, taking care of her that night Charles attacked her at the Manor. But on Monday she had seen a different side to him. Which one was real? she wondered.
Ruby stopped at the plain, unvarnished door. She stood still, trying to compose herself. There was no noise of traffic as the small, square-paned window at the end of the passage was securely shut.
She raised her hand to press the bell. Then she noticed the door was slightly open. Her heart missed a beat. Pushing the door with her fingertips, Ruby peered in. The small hall was deserted. ‘Nick, are you there?’ she called uncertainly.
There was no answer.
Closing the door softly behind her, she walked into the lounge. ‘Nick?’ she called again. Only silence greeted her.
In the kitchen she saw an empty wine bottle and several glasses on the drainer. She touched the glasses lightly, remembering the nights they had spent together in each other’s arms.
Pushing the memory aside she returned to the lounge. The pictures on the wall – her pictures – and the cushions, those they’d bought together, were all still there, and the radiogram and stack of records.
Retracing her steps, she went to the small bedroom. The bed was bare. There were no pillows or covers. Her legs felt weak as she hurried into Nick’s bedroom. The bed was unmade. The door swung open on the wardrobe.
It was empty.
All his suits, shirts, socks, shoes – everything – gone! For several minutes she stared at the vacant shelves. His smell was still there, as if only a short while ago he had been standing where she was standing.
Ruby went to the drawers beside the bed. They, too, were empty. A crushed Gauloise was lying in the ashtray. She stared at it, breathing in all that she could of the man who had made love to her so passionately in this bed.
Her final search was in the bathroom. No razor, soaps or personal effects. A half-used tube of toothpaste stood on the hand basin.
Ruby went back to the lounge. The silence was almost painful. The flat was just an empty shell.
‘His clothes were all gone,’ she told Kath, who had been surprised to see Ruby turn up at the Windmill and had taken her into the dressing room that, so early in the morning, was deserted. Kath had pushed away the costumes and Ruby sat down on a stool in front of the long mirrors, refusing to let the tears fall.
‘Did you knock on his neighbour’s door?’ Kath asked, passing Ruby a cup of strong tea.
‘No. What would be the use?’
‘So where do you think he is?’
Ruby shrugged. ‘Bernie said he’d probably leave London.’
‘Is Bernie certain it was him at the docks?’
‘Yes. And anyway, as I’ve explained, after what happened at the warehouse, there’s no reason not to think he’s in a lot of trouble.’
‘Just thank your lucky stars he didn’t implicate you too.’
Ruby put down her tea with a gasp. ‘What if he’s been arrested?’
‘It’s sure to be in the newspaper.’
‘Hello? Can I come in?’ A young man poked his head round the door.
Kath sprang up. ‘Clem, I want you to meet Ruby.’
Ruby smiled and held out her hand. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’
‘Vice versa.’ Clem grinned shyly. Ruby liked this gangling young man who seemed to be very fond of Kath. And with a slight stab at her own heart, she knew by the way they smiled at each other they were in love. Kath looked radiant. This could have been her, if only Nick had been genuine.
‘Come and have coffee with us,’ Kath said, sliding an arm through Clem’s. ‘We’ll cheer you up.’
But Ruby declined. She knew they wanted to be alone together. Kath had found someone to love and her whole life was changing. Ruby knew Kath didn’t need her any more. Well, not as she had before, anyway.
‘Call round to Penny’s and we can chat,’ Kath told her as she saw Ruby out. ‘Clem has a very nice brother if you’re interested.’
Ruby just smiled.
There had only been one man for her. But it seemed that man was now gone – though she was beginning to think he had never really existed!
Chapter Thirty-One
Bernie gripped the stone-filled sock secured tightly by string that was in his pocket. The weapon wasn’t much of a defence, but it had proven effective when he was younger. Pete and him had landed up in one or two skirmishes. Sometimes they’d had the stuffing knocked out of them, but they’d always come up smiling. Well, not smiling exactly, but with their teeth intact.
The wartime youths had been a far cry from the louts of today. There had seemed a reason for defending your turf in the early 1940s, as there was so little of it. The Luftwaffe hadn’t left much to fight over, so knocking seven bells out of a rival camp was the norm. There was no hard feeling because the foreign buggers had been the enemy. Not the kids from other parts of the East End, or even over the water. But now it was different. There was a harder class of criminal, like McBride.
Bernie could even stomach the Soviet as he wasn’t British, but McBride was a disgrace to the country, a thug. He’d no values, no standards and certainly no scruples. Given half the chance he would have hurt Ruby to get the information he wanted. And the irony of it was, she didn’t have anything to tell him. She was a kid and saw what she wanted to see. And for the past year, she’d had eyes for no one except the man Bernie was planning to have a serious word with tonight.
Cautiously, he made his way to the warehouse; the night wasn’t pitch enough to obstruct his view. The moon reflected an even path along the broken stones and up to the warehouse. The front door was closed and he gently leaned a shoulder against it.
‘Bugger,’ he cursed when it refused to give. He knew by the glass skylights reflecting light that someone was inside. And that had to be Brandon. Perhaps there was a back entrance?
Careful where he trod, Bernie made his way to the rear. The soft noises of the night surrounded him; the docks at rest, the gulls still picking at the water as it rolled into high tide. A hoot or two from the boatmen, the faint hum of the city.
He listened for voices. None that he could hear. No night watchman on the prowl, as he’d expected. If he could only get his hands on Brandon!
Then something moved behind him. He made to turn but he was too late. An arm went round his neck, a knee buckling his back and the cold tip of a knife at his n
eck.
He was helpless, trapped, unable to move as the point of the knife trailed round to his Adam’s apple. He knew that one clumsy movement and he’d be spurting blood from his jugular faster than a leaking water main.
‘Where’s yer dogs?’ a rough voice demanded in his ear.
‘What dogs?’ he coughed, pulling at the arm so he could breathe. But it was clamped like a vice around his neck.
‘You got just one chance, son. And this is it. You and your animals had the better of us on Monday. Answer up now and you might not live to regret it.’
‘Monday?’ Bernie repeated. ‘I wasn’t here Monday.’
‘Cobblers. Those animals are vermin. It’s them or you, chum.’
‘You’ve got the wrong bloke,’ Bernie rasped, realizing he’d been mistaken for the night watchman. ‘I ain’t particular about dogs meself.’
‘A comedian, eh?’ snarled his captor and Bernie knew the end was in sight if he didn’t act quickly.
‘All right, all right,’ he agreed quickly. ‘I’ll show you where I keep ’em.’
‘No clever moves, or the blade goes straight to your ticker,’ the man threatened and Bernie took a quick breath. The arm relaxed, and he was pushed forward. A silver moon spun out of the clouds at that moment and he felt in his pocket for the sock. As he trod slowly over the rubble, the knife followed him.
‘Get along there, you bugger. And you’d better not be wasting my time.’
Bernie went a little faster and, stumbling, he realized the ground was even rougher round this side of the warehouse. It was fly-tipping paradise and he spotted two piles of rubbish in front of him. He took a long stride, praying the man behind wouldn’t notice. All he needed was a split second to unbalance the sod. Bernie slid the sock and its weighted stones furtively from his pocket. He sidestepped the obstacle and the man behind cursed as his boot rammed into the waste.
Bernie’s first blow took the wind from the man’s lungs, the second scored a notch in his forehead. Bernie watched as the big ox stumbled and fell. There was a satisfying groan and Bernie was on him, throwing his hardest punches. He heard the crack of bone and the splatter of tearing flesh. And he punched and kicked, breathless and sweating, until at last he rose unsteadily to his feet.
He looked down at the concussed man, saw the knife beside him and went to pick it up. But even before his fingers touched the handle, a hand gripped his shoulder from behind and he was hauled backwards, feet splayed out in front of him and his hands clawing at the air. Then something large and heavy sliced his scalp in two and he was lying on his back looking up at the stars.
The last he remembered was the blow to his balls and the jeering voices around him. His last thought was, as he squirmed in torturous agony, that he could hear hell’s own hounds dragging him down into the fire.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’
Babs sniffed as Ruby helped her to her chair in the front room. ‘Just a bit of a cold.’
‘Maggs said you didn’t eat your dinner.’
Babs smiled wearily as Ruby tucked the blanket over her. ‘Didn’t fancy stew.’
Ruby knew Maggs was a good cook. But even Maggs was concerned that Babs wasn’t eating. When she’d arrived home yesterday from the West End, Maggie had said that Babs had been off-colour. And now, studying her mother’s pale face – paler than usual – Ruby could see Maggs was right.
‘I’ll cook your favourite,’ Ruby said as she knelt at the hearth and slipped the poker between the scarlet flames. ‘Sausages and mash. And we’ll eat together in here, in front of the fire. Pity Dad’s at work, it would have been nice, just the three of us.’
Babs turned up the collar of her dressing gown. ‘Ain’t Maggs coming in?’
‘No, I’m having a day off from work.’ Ruby stood up, smothering a yawn. She hadn’t slept a wink. She scoured the newspaper before bed, but found nothing. Even though she knew the truth about Nick, the questions kept tumbling over in her mind. Had he deliberately led her on? Had he just used her without even liking her!
‘You’re a good girl, do you know that?’ Babs said, giving Ruby a start. ‘You always was, but you had your brother to look after you.’
Ruby felt a stab of pain. She missed Pete so much. He would have helped her through the heartache. ‘Yes,’ she agreed softly, ‘he always did.’
‘When I’m better, we’ll go down the market, shall we? Like the old days when you was a little girl?’
Ruby sat down. ‘Would you really like that?’
‘I used to take you all the time.’
‘I know. I remember.’
‘You was such a pretty little thing. Golden curls and those big hazel eyes of yours.’
‘They’re your eyes, ain’t they, Mum? People said we was alike.’
‘It upset me when you went away to Devon.’
Ruby felt sad. Her mum hadn’t talked about Devon for ages. What was she thinking? What was going on in her mind? It was as if the real Babs was trapped somewhere in that body, the mum that Ruby remembered, always laughing and mucking about with their dad. ‘I missed you and Dad too.’
‘Everyone had to send the kids away, you know. It was the Blitz and then there was the doodlebugs and rockets. Seemed it was always raining bombs. And one day one of them could have fallen on us.’
‘Yes, it must have been very frightening.’
‘Not as frightening as the thought that we might not see you again.’
Ruby took her mum’s hand. ‘You’ve never said that before.’
‘I should have said, then.’
Ruby sniffed. ‘Me and Pete missed home. It was like we did something wrong being sent away. That’s why we found it so hard.’
‘You never did nothing wrong. You was perfect kids and we was so proud of you. But the war crushed us. And me and your dad was terrified, not knowing what to do for the best. Your dad wasn’t called up as he had a reserved job in the docks, and there was lots of women on their own, without their husbands. I should have been grateful I had him home. And I was. But my heart ached all the time for my babies.’
‘That’s a lovely thing to say.’ Ruby brushed away a tear.
‘I wish I’d told your brother too.’ Babs let out a long sigh. ‘I should have. And that’s why I wouldn’t let him go. There was so many things left unsaid. Still, he came last night and everything’s all right now.’
‘Last night?’ Ruby repeated. She felt scared. Was her mum delirious?
‘He stood by the bed,’ Babs said with a smile on her face. ‘And kissed me. I’m happy now I’ve seen him.’
‘Mum . . . ?’ Ruby sniffed again.
‘Don’t worry, love, I’m happy now. And I want you to be.’
Ruby sat in silence until her mum fell asleep. She listened to her soft breathing and slowly drew a tuft of grey-blonde hair behind Babs’s ear. Ruby sat, quietly holding her mum’s hand and thinking over what she had said. Did Pete come in a dream? If he had it must have been very real to Babs.
‘Thanks, Pete,’ she murmured to herself. ‘You put a smile on Mum’s face today.’
A calm stillness surrounded them. Ruby felt an invisible weight lift from her shoulders. Babs’s face was serene as she slept, the lines of grief disappeared.
Ruby suddenly remembered the happy family her mum had described. It was the war that had changed everything. After it, she and Pete were grown-up. Her parents had lost the kids they’d said goodbye to. Just as she had lost sight of the mum she had known, due to Babs’s sickness.
She hadn’t thought of it in that way before. She stood up and smiled. Her mum looked at peace again.
Wally Wagman lifted his hand and silenced the three starving dogs at his side. They watched his every move, waiting for the next command, knowing they wouldn’t be fed until he was satisfied.
Wally stood still in the darkness of the wharf, listening to every small movement. As much as he wanted payment – and Brandon had dodged him so far – no way was he going anywhere near
the warehouse. Not until he knew the score. Those ruffians he’d chased off earlier in the week had dispatched his fourth dog, the oldest and least savage, but still his favourite. They’d slit her throat and she’d been gone even before he found her. But not before she’d done some damage, as still in her teeth were shreds of clothing. That young miss of Brandon’s had had a close shave. And she had his dogs to thank for her escape. Not that he’d get any thanks. The place tonight looked deserted.
Stepping slowly forward, he folded his fists, protected by the brass knuckles, and beckoned the dogs to follow. Their ears were bolt upright. They stole beside him, the hackles on their backs as stiff as yard brooms. One signal from him and they’d fly at any movement. But if those boys were tooled up, shooters at the ready, the iron bar under his overcoat and his dogs would count for nothing.
‘Steady,’ he whispered to his hounds, and they stood, motionless, sniffing the air. He watched them. No indicator to them of human presence. They were hungry and alert, but undisturbed. Wally walked forward. Again he listened, and not a whisper. This late at night, there was only the river lapping down at the wharfs. A dock dolly or two falling out of the pubs. The whistle of the wind through the derelict buildings. Not even the cry of a last hopeful gull. Just the night sky above him and a deserted feel.
As the moon threw more shadows over his path, he moved stealthily towards the entrance. The breeze was cutting up rough and his dogs shivered with its energy.
Once more he tightened his fists. The brass knuckles were heavy and cumbersome around his fingers, but he was taking no chances this time. Inside his overcoat were his tools of the trade, buckled to the lining. The steel baton, a sheath knife and a set of razors sewed into the cloth to match those in the peak of his cap.
As he neared the small door, he saw the crack of light and froze. It was open an inch. The locks and bars were wrenched away. There were gaping holes in the wood. He turned swiftly, looking behind him to the left and right. Not a movement. Wally slipped out his steel weapon and his animals growled, eager to enter. But he instructed them to wait and they did, bristling and seething, impatient to be freed.
