No Mercy

by Roberta Kray

  Eli was approaching the west side now, with its overgrown tangle of grass and weeds. ‘You’ll not get rid of me that easy,’ he muttered. He headed down the narrow, twisting path, his strides long and steady. His boots made a dull thump against the dry earth. Above him, the sky was a clear sheet of blue without a cloud in it. The sun’s rays warmed his shoulders and the top of his head. From beyond the walls he could hear the sound of traffic, but it was no more than a distant buzz. Here, in the place of the dead, the external world was of no consequence.

  When he came to the grave, he stopped and stood gazing at it. ‘Lucy,’ he murmured. He did not expect a response and did not receive one. It had been a long time since she’d last spoken to him. His eyes narrowed a little as he stared at the polished headstone. He’d preferred it when the plot was overgrown and hidden, before the girl with the long brown hair had come and cleared away the blanket of ivy. Even with the sun shining down, the ground now seemed cold and exposed.

  Eli took a pouch of tobacco from his pocket and slowly, carefully rolled a cigarette. He placed the skinny fag between his lips, struck a match and lit it. While he smoked, he thought about the past, about those long-gone summer days when Lucy would come to the cemetery. A vision, that’s what she’d been, the most beautiful woman he had ever set eyes on.

  He could have told her – although she wouldn’t have listened – that no man was worth it. Broken hearts could be healed, could be glued back together. Hope could be found with the passing of time. His own heart began to thump as he thought about the day he’d found her lying in the silvery water. Shallow, it had been, barely deep enough to drown a child. Her fair hair spread out like a fan. Her eyes still partly open. Her white dress wrapped around her like a shroud.

  For a moment he could feel again the tug on his shoulders as he’d half pulled, half dragged her out. Already knowing that it was too late. That had been the first, the only time he had touched her. Her skin smooth and pale and icy. Her mouth slightly open, her curved lips parted as if waiting to be kissed.

  He had studied that mouth for longer than he should. And although no sound had come from it, he had heard the whispers on the breeze. Grief had played out its notes on the still summer air. A terrible accident, that’s what they said later. But he knew hopelessness when he saw it. He knew desperation and despair.

  Eli shifted from one foot to the other. His sunken cheeks hollowed into caverns as he pulled hard on the cigarette. His chest tightened as he held and then expelled the smoke. It drifted for a while, a thin, aimless cloud, before dissolving into nothingness. His gaze slid down to the dark roses, their colour red as blood.

  ‘Lucy,’ he murmured again.

  It was only then that he stepped forward and laid his hand on top of the stone. Eli believed in justice. Not in courts and police and barristers and judges, but in a natural law, a law that righted wrongs no matter how old they were. What goes around comes around – and that bastard had, eventually, got what he deserved.

  So what was happening now? There was a stirring, a shifting, as if Lucy Rivers was slowly waking from a long and dreamless sleep. Over and over she drew him back to her grave, but then presented him with silence. The breath caught in the back of his throat. Something was unfinished. That was what he sensed. The past was catching up and loose ends were starting to unravel.

  14

  Lena Gissing took the two mugs of tea out on to the roof terrace and put one on the small circular table beside her husband. It was Saturday morning, twenty past nine, and the temperature was rising by the minute. She sat down on the sun lounger and looked out across London. Usually the panoramic view would be enough to put her in a good mood – queen of all she surveyed – but today it did nothing to lift her spirits.

  ‘What?’ asked Tony.

  She frowned. ‘What do you mean, what?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing’s the matter.’ She stretched out her long, smooth legs and examined her scarlet toenails. ‘Why should anything be the matter?’

  ‘Because you’ve got a face like a wet weekend.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, you’ve got a face like the backside of a bus, but you don’t hear me whining about it.’

  Tony gave a snort and went back to reading the football news in his paper.

  After the trouble with Louise, it had been Lena’s intention to check the books and make sure that none of the other girls was taking liberties. But her files, all carefully coded, remained unopened on the table beside her. It wasn’t hard to suss out when someone was moonlighting. If the housekeeper didn’t pick up on it, then a quick look through the takings would be enough to show if a girl’s income had suddenly gone down. It was important to keep on top of things, to not let anyone take the piss, but this morning she couldn’t concentrate.

  Instead, she gazed out over the rooftops of the houses, the tiles bathed in golden light. In the distance, she could make out the dome of St Paul’s. She watched as the cars travelled along the streets, a stream of bright little boxes with glinting windscreens. Kellston was already busy, the market in full swing, and from up here the people looked as small as ants. She flexed her toes and ran her fingers through her hair. She blew across the top of her tea and sipped it absent-mindedly.

  A minute passed, and then two. Lena sighed and glanced at Tony. ‘I heard a rumour,’ she said.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘About Jay Cato.’

  Tony Gissing lifted his eyes from the newspaper and looked at her. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s coming out soon. A few months, six maybe.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. Thought you might like to know, that’s all.’

  Tony shifted on the lounger. He had his shirt unbuttoned and his dome of a stomach, covered in dark hair, protruded into the air like some great abnormal growth. ‘Why should I give a toss about that piece of shit?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ she snapped back at him. ‘He’s spent ten years banged up. He ain’t going to be happy about it.’

  ‘And he ain’t going to do nothin’ about it neither. He’ll be on licence, won’t he? If he comes anywhere near you, they’ll haul him straight back to the slammer.’

  Lena shrugged and smoothed down her hair. Last night, she’d dreamed about Jay Cato and he was still inside her head. ‘He’s crazy. Who’s to say what he might do?’

  ‘What you heard, then?’

  ‘Not much,’ she said quickly. ‘Only that he’s coming out. It might not even be true.’ She wasn’t going to tell him about the Lucy Rivers grave. He wouldn’t understand why it got under her skin, why it made her flesh creep. Anyway, that was something she was going to sort herself. She didn’t want Tony getting in the middle of it, making trouble where it wasn’t needed.

  ‘No problem, then, is there?’

  ‘No.’ Lena’s mouth tightened as she pressed her lips together. She wasn’t even sure why she’d mentioned it. Except that she’d wanted to say his name out loud. Jay Cato. Jay Cato. As if the more she said it, the easier it would become. She’d spent the past ten years pretending that he didn’t exist, blocking him from her thoughts, but now he was back, taunting her with those bloody flowers and…

  ‘Unless there’s something you’re not telling me.’

  Lena gazed at him from behind her shades. ‘Like what, for instance?’

  ‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t be asking.’

  From beyond the glass doors that led out on to the terrace came the sound of the kettle boiling and the rattling of plates.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ she said. ‘Don’t tell Adam.’

  ‘He’ll find out soon enough.’

  ‘Not now,’ she said with a warning note in her voice. ‘Not today.’

  Tony gave her another of his looks. ‘He won’t thank you for keeping it from him.’

  ‘I’m not keeping anything from him. I don’t know yet, do I? Not for certain.’ She glanced over her shoulder towards the kitchen. ‘What’
s the point of stirring up…? I’d rather wait, wait until we’re sure.’

  ‘It’s your call. I ain’t going to interfere. All I’m saying is —’

  ‘Yeah, I hear what you’re saying.’ Lena knew from his tone that he thought she was making a mistake, but Adam was her son, not his, and it was up to her to make the final decision. Adam was twenty-four now, fully grown, but there was still no good way and no good time to reveal the news that the man who’d murdered his father was coming out of jail. ‘I’ll deal with it.’

  Tony took a slurp of tea, put his mug down on the table and went back to reading his paper.

  Lena lit a fag and went back to gazing at the view. Except now she wasn’t seeing the rooftops or the cars or the little scurrying people – all she could see was Cato’s face as he stared up at her from the dock. She was sitting in the gallery of the Old Bailey, watching his eyes as the verdict came in. Guilty. And that was justice, wasn’t it? That was only fair. If you did wrong, there was always a price to pay.

  Five minutes later, Adam came out on the terrace with a plate of toast and a large white mug. ‘Mornin’,’ he said, slumping down beside Lena.

  She gave him a nod. ‘Good sleep?’

  Adam glanced at his fancy Rolex watch as if she was passing judgement on the time he’d got up. ‘It’s not late,’ he snarled defensively. ‘I didn’t get in till after one.’

  ‘I only asked if you slept well.’ The smell of coffee floated over to her and made her feel slightly sick. Or maybe it wasn’t the coffee. Sometimes when she looked at her son, all she could see was Brendan Vasser: the same tawny-brown hair, the same cold eyes, the same sneer that played around his lips. ‘No need to bite me head off.’

  Adam shrugged, shoved the toast into his mouth and started chewing noisily.

  Sometimes Lena felt like nature had played a trick on her. It was as if, while her son was in the womb, all her DNA had been discarded, leaving only Brendan’s. Everything about Adam, from his physical appearance to the very core of his personality, had Vasser written all over it. Yeah, he was his father’s son all right, and that certainly wasn’t a compliment. She loved him – she was obliged to do that much – but she didn’t actually like him. He was clever and cruel and manipulative.

  ‘We’ll need to get them motors sorted soon, Tone,’ Adam said, speaking across Lena as if she wasn’t there. ‘Can’t hang about. Boat sails on Thursday.’

  ‘Tuesday,’ Tony said. ‘We’ll have all the chassis numbers changed by then.’

  It was Lena who had set up the whole business – nicking luxury cars and shipping them out to Eastern Europe – but she had passed the running of it on to Adam. Now he had a carefully chosen gang of thieves targeting the well-heeled residents of the Home Counties. Tony had dealt in stolen motors for years, but hadn’t had the nous to go upmarket. It was Lena who had put it all together, who’d stepped it up a gear. In her view, cars were no different to the girls she employed – not worth the bother unless they were high end, classy and could bring you in a hefty profit.

  While her husband and Adam talked business, Lena returned to studying her son. Even his gestures, she noted, were Vasser’s: the way he ate and drank, the way he moved his hands, the way he spoke. It was like having Brendan sitting right beside her. As if she could never really be free of him, as if he continued to haunt her even after all these years. The thought of that sent a shudder down her spine.

  It had been the best day of her life when she’d heard that Brendan Vasser was dead. She could still remember that feeling now, the rush of elation, the joy, the knowledge that she was finally free. She had been the merriest widow in the East End. Watching the coffin slide back behind the blue velvet curtain had come a close second. Consigned to the flames, he could no longer hurt her. His power was gone. He was finished, done with, on his way to hell.

  There had, however, still been the ashes to deal with. If it hadn’t been for Adam, she’d have flushed his sorry remains down the nearest toilet, sent him swirling into the sewers and the shit, but instead she’d taken the container to the cemetery and scattered the contents over the Vasser family grave. Adam had been with her, his face pinched and solemn. She supposed he had the right to say a decent goodbye to his father, even if that father hadn’t been worth pissing on in a fire.

  ‘Boys are coming over later,’ Tony said to Adam. ‘Might nip over to the Fox. You gonna come and have a pint?’

  ‘Sure,’ Adam said. ‘Why not?’

  Adam had his own flat but still stayed over at the Heights two or three times a week. And it wasn’t for the company, she thought. It wasn’t ’cause he missed his dear old mum. No, he only did it to keep his finger on the pulse, to make sure he wasn’t missing out on anything. Keeping an eye on her like Brendan had always done. And keeping his stepfather sweet too, even though he couldn’t stand the man or his idiot sons.

  Ryan and Luke Gissing were slightly younger than Adam, twenty and twenty-one. They still lived with their mother over in Chigwell. And there was no reason why they shouldn’t. The house was plenty big enough for the three of them. She should know. It was her hard-earned cash that had helped pay for it. Still, it had been worth the expense to shut the bitch up and get the divorce pushed through quickly.

  Like their father, the boys were both short and squat and ugly. Hardly a brain cell between them either. What was it with small men? It was as if they always had something to prove, that they learned from an early age to overcompensate for their lack of height. Still, Ryan and Luke were easier to deal with than Adam. She knew how to flatter men, how to manage them, and they were both too stupid to realise what she was doing.

  ‘Yeah,’ Adam said. ‘Be good to catch up.’

  Lena threw him a glance. Adam had nothing but contempt for the Gissing boys, but he was smart enough to hide it. In the criminal world, it was always useful to have some mindless muscle, someone to do your dirty work for you. That way, when the law came sniffing around, you could present a clean pair of hands and there was sod all they could pin on you.

  ‘You heard about Terry Street?’ Adam said. ‘He’s been in the Fox again, looking for Joe Quinn.’

  Tony gave a grunt. ‘Geezer’s losing his marbles. Joe’s been brown bread for… Jesus, must be forty years or thereabouts. Back in the seventies, I reckon.’ He scratched his chin where the morning growth was starting to prickle. ‘Yeah, ’74, ’75, something like that.’

  ‘Makes you think, though, don’t it?’

  Tony, to whom the concept of thinking was alien, failed to get the drift. ‘Eh?’

  Adam’s mouth slid into a thin, patient smile. ‘Gonna be a gap in the market soon, ain’t there? Terry’s away with the fairies, and his two boys… well, Danny’s doing a stretch, and Chris ain’t got the heart for it. Writing’s on the wall, Tone. Kellston’s up for grabs and someone’s going to muscle in before long.’

  Lena gave an incredulous shake of her head. ‘You want to go to war with the Streets? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘I didn’t say nothin’ about a war. There ain’t gonna be no war. Terry… well, he don’t know what day of the week it is, and that only leaves Chris. Right now he’s running the whole show on his own, and there’s only so much any man can do. He’s juggling, see, and one by one he’s gonna start dropping them balls. Why shouldn’t we be there to pick them up?’

  ‘I don’t care how many bleedin’ balls he drops. We stay out of it, right?’

  ‘Nah, hold on a sec,’ Tony said. ‘The lad could have a point.’

  Lena gave another exasperated shake of her head. The Streets and the Gissings had a history going way back, a history where the Gissings had always come off second best. ‘Shall I tell you what the real point is? The minute you start moving in, you’re going to have Old Bill crawling all over us. Is that what you want – the law poking their noses into every business we run, every deal we make? They’ll be breathing down our necks twenty-four seven.’

  Tony shifted in hi
s seat again. ‘Still,’ he said, clearly tempted by the carrot that Adam had dangled under his nose, ‘there could be a way.’

  ‘Sure,’ agreed Adam slyly. ‘There’s always a way.’

  Lena glared at him. ‘Yeah, and we’ll all end up in the same place as Danny Street. Is that what you want, to spend the next ten years of your life in the slammer?’ Men just didn’t get it when it came to keeping a low profile. They needed to strut and brag and flaunt their success. Respect. That was the stupid word they bandied around, taking offence at every slight, real or perceived, and responding more often than not with their fists.

  ‘No need to get the hump, Mum. I was only stating the obvious. And if I can see it, everyone else can too.’

  ‘So leave it to everyone else. Let them fight it out with the Streets. We’ve got a good thing going here, plenty of cash and no bother from the law. And that’s the way I want to keep it. Right?’

  ‘Sure,’ Adam said. ‘I hear you.’

  ‘Tony?’

  Tony raised his arms as if in surrender. ‘Loud and clear, love. Loud and clear.’

  But she noticed the two men exchanging a glance, a quick look of understanding. They’d shut up for the time being – anything to placate her – but later, over a few pints, they’d undoubtedly return to the subject. The trouble was that Ryan and Luke were dim enough to fall for Adam’s patter. He’d have them wrapped round his little finger in five minutes flat.

  And Tony wasn’t much better. Some people, no matter how much they had, always wanted more.

  Lena leaned back and closed her eyes. All this talk about Terry had reminded her of Lizzie Street. Lord, she still missed her, still grieved for the friend she had lost. It was Lizzie who’d taught her about business and how to take care of herself. Back in the eighties, Terry had been a real name in the East End, top of the pile, Mr Big, but the marriage hadn’t been a happy one. Lena had understood what that was like.