by Roberta Kray
‘I’m fine.’
Iris frowned. She neither looked nor sounded fine. Usually they got on pretty well; they weren’t exactly bosom buddies but had developed what she liked to think of as a decent working relationship. At the very least, Alice was usually fairly relaxed with her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing,’ she replied with unusual brusqueness. But then, having second thoughts, she shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Could I ask you something?’ It was a purely rhetorical question so Iris didn’t bother to reply. ‘Have you ever . . . I mean . . . have you ever done . . . have you ever . . . I don’t mean anything illegal but . . .’
Iris waited patiently, willing her to spit it out. She didn’t believe her capable of anything even faintly immoral; Alice was one of the most upright people she had ever met. After a few seconds had passed, she gently urged her on. ‘But?’
‘Well, have you ever done something that you knew was—’
Unfortunately, William Grand chose that very moment to walk into the kitchen. Iris silently cursed him for his bad timing. He nodded at them both, switched on the kettle and hovered while it boiled again. Unlike Gerald, he didn’t consider tea-making to be part of Iris’s duties and always made his own. He looked over his shoulder at Alice. ‘Everything all right with Mr Bayle?’
She lowered her head, avoiding his gaze. ‘Yes, all done. He’s ready for viewing.’
‘Good, that’s good. I’ll have him moved.’ He paused as if about to say more, gave her an odd look and then turned abruptly back to the kettle.
Iris glanced from one to the other, sensing an atmosphere. Alice was blushing bright red and she wondered, not for the first time, what made her tick. The woman must be in her early forties, but still had all the awkwardness of a teenager. However, Toby was right - there was a certain frisson between her and William Grand. Well, so what if there was? Alice could do worse. If she liked the quiet sort, then William wasn’t a bad bet. Iris made a brief study of him, ticking off the usual boxes: he was the right age, early forties, a bit on the grey side but nice-looking enough, solvent and interested.
Maybe, in the interests of love, she should make herself scarce.
But before she had the chance, Alice grabbed her mug, muttered some garbled words about having things to do and rushed back downstairs.
William, who was looking rather pink himself, departed shortly after.
Iris stared down at her uneaten sandwich and sighed. The course of true love, as she was more than aware, rarely ran smoothly. Should she go after Alice? She decided not. For one, the contents of the basement always made her feel uncomfortable and for two, the moment had passed. Whatever Alice had been trying to say, she was clearly not in the mood to proceed with it now.
Iris dumped the sandwich in the bin, and with nothing else to do went back to work.
The afternoon rolled by with more speed than the morning. Gerald Grand was back in the office and, like the devil, believed in making work for idle hands. As such, she had a heap of filing dumped on her desk. The phone was busy too, a response perhaps to the publicity over Lizzie Street’s funeral. By four o’clock there were three new funerals booked in with all the accompanying arrangements to sort out. There were also a couple of viewings that fortunately passed with none of the drama of the last one. With bereaved relatives to deal with, flowers to order and plenty of paperwork, Iris didn’t have time to dwell on her own worries.
When five-thirty came around, she still had an hour to kill before her meeting with Jenks. She could go home and wait, but was worried that Luke might be there; it was unlikely - he never usually got back before seven - but not impossible. And if he was there, how was she going to explain why she needed to go out again? If she told him the truth he would try to talk her out of it or, at best, insist on going with her. And she didn’t want that. This was something she had to do alone.
Iris gazed up at the two high windows. For privacy’s sake, the lower ones were obscured so no one could see in. Snow had started to fall, drifting gently down from the sky. She watched as the flakes fell lightly against the panes, clinging briefly to the glass before melting away. Stay or go? If she went, she’d only be walking around in the cold for the next hour or so. Better to stay here in the warm. There was, much as it grieved her, plenty of filing left to do.
Iris strode briskly down Market Road, hearing the thin layer of ice crunch under her boots. There was still ten minutes before her appointment, but having worried so much about being early, she was now afraid of being late. She followed the road down to the large square where a general market was held every Saturday. In the centre, known to the locals as the Monny, was the War Monument, a tall, concrete obelisk flanked on all sides by a flight of steps.
Despite the weather, a few drunks were lounging around on the steps, either disinclined to give up their regular spots or simply too inebriated to move. Iris slowly circled round, making sure that Jenks wasn’t there. She glanced at her watch. Still eight minutes to go. Withdrawing to the north side, she shook out her umbrella and went to stand in the covered area outside the cinema, joining a couple of other girls who were probably waiting for their dates to arrive.
From here she could easily monitor the two entrances to the square and she kept her eyes peeled while her thoughts began to wander. It had never been entirely clear to her why her father had left. Mild interrogations of her mother - she always got upset, even tearful, if Iris pressed too hard - resulted only in the repetitive and by now almost word-perfect response: ‘Things weren’t working out between us, darling. It was no one’s fault, but we decided it was better to split up.’ None of which adequately explained why he hadn’t been in touch again. Some men could leave their children without a backward glance, but not him - he had not been the type, she was certain of it. Iris could still feel her small hand held securely in his. He would never have abandoned her like that. There was something she hadn’t being told. And Jenks, surely, had confirmed that suspicion last night. Why else would he have approached her?
Iris, feeling the cold, stamped her feet on the ground and made another fast survey of the square. Unlike Luke, she never felt nervous when she was walking around this area alone. The difference was that his head was full of horror stories about the East End - most of them historical - and hers full of nice, safe memories from her childhood. In truth, neither of them was right: he was too cautious and she was probably too careless.
This evening, however, she couldn’t see any danger in what she was doing. There were plenty of other people, mainly commuters cutting through the square on their way home. Some were walking straight across, others stopping off for a drink at the pub on the corner. The Hare & Hounds was doing brisk business; as the door opened and closed, a brief snatch of the Stereophonics floated out across the air.
As she waited her thoughts began to race. Michael, his mouth loosened by drink, had once hinted at another kind of trouble as regards her father but, when she had questioned him, had instantly backtracked, admitting only that Sean may have had some financial problems. Her dad, she knew, had been no angel - in his younger days he had spent time in jail for theft - but had cleaned up his act when he’d got married. Or had he? His criminal record was something else that her mother didn’t like talking about.
Iris checked her watch again. It was bang on half past six. Where was Jenks? She had already decided that when he arrived she wouldn’t do anything stupid like going to a quiet place with him. Whatever he had to say, he could say to her in public. That’s if he ever turned up. She was starting to worry about that.
And she wasn’t the only person who was worried. Although one of the girls had been met by her boyfriend, the other still remained. She was a blonde skinny teenager, only fifteen or sixteen, dressed in blue jeans, a denim jacket and the kind of cut-off slogan T-shirt that exposed her bare midriff to the elements. Her wide black-lined eyes briefly met Iris’s but then quickly veered away again. She placed a hand on her hip and tried to look casual. Iris could unde
rstand how she felt; being stood up was bad enough, having it publicly witnessed was a humiliation too far.
Another ten minutes passed.
By now Iris was starting to despair. She suspected the worst: Jenks wasn’t going to show. If she had any sense, she’d cut her losses and leave. But what if he’d been held up? What if he was on his way? The chance was slight, but it wasn’t impossible. She’d give him another five minutes.
A lanky teenage boy appeared, offered a sullen muttered apology to the remaining girl and led her into the cinema. The girl glanced back over her shoulder as she went inside. Iris couldn’t tell if the look she gave her was pityingly sympathetic or simply gloating.
She stamped her cold feet on the ground and raised her eyes to the sky. This was ridiculous. She should go. But still she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it. Instead she cut across the square and walked very slowly, almost at a snail’s pace, around its perimeter. The snow fell softly around her. She made several more circuits until her watch read seven. By now she knew it was pointless. Jenks wasn’t coming.
Despondently, Iris wrapped her arms around her chest.
It was time to give up. It was time to go home.
Chapter Nine
Albert Jenks was backed up against the wall, his mottled hands raised in a shaky gesture of defence. His face was still stinging from the slaps. A steady trickle of blood flowed from his nose; he could taste it on his lips, on his tongue. His breath was coming in short, fast bursts and each exhalation increased the pain in his chest.
‘Yer . . . yer old man won’t be ’appy about this,’ he managed to splutter.
Danny Street cocked his head and grinned. ‘Oh, no need to be worrying ’bout that, Weasel.’ He left a disconcerting pause. ‘Who do you think sent me?’
An icy chill swept down Albert’s spine. He cowered in the corner, his eyes never leaving Street’s. ‘I don’t get it,’ he whined.
‘Lizzie can’t protect you no more. She’s six foot under, case you ain’t noticed. Poor old bitch. Always thought she were so fuckin’ smart but . . .’
Albert opened his mouth, but quickly snapped it closed again. Usually, he could worm his way out of any tricky situation, but at the moment everything he said only increased the younger man’s hostility. Danny Street wasn’t normal. You couldn’t reason with him; he wasn’t right in the head. Best not to give him an excuse to lash out again.
Danny frowned, took a few steps back and gazed critically around the room. It was sparsely furnished with a battered green sofa, a table, an old tasselled lamp and a couple of chairs. The carpet was threadbare. A pair of flimsy curtains, pulled tight across the window, prevented anyone from seeing in. The room was overly warm - the central heating was on high - and the heat accentuated the stinking odour of fear and sweat. ‘Bit of a shithole, Weasel, if you don’t mind me mentioning it. You didn’t spend all that extra cash on home improvements, eh?’ He snorted at his own joke. There was an overflowing ashtray balanced on the arm of the sofa and he reached out and deliberately flipped it over. His voice had become low and menacing. ‘You think he don’t know what you’ve been up to?’
Albert shook his head, the action increasing the terrible ache in his temples. He drew his sleeve across his nose and looked down at the blood. ‘W-what do you mean?’
‘Don’t fuck me about!’ Danny’s eyes flashed bright with anger. He took three fast strides, his right hand raised and clenched into a fist.
Albert instinctively cried out and covered his face, waiting for the blow that never came.
Only inches away, Danny stopped and laughed again. Leaning forward, he hissed into Albert’s ear. ‘Didn’t take you as the nervous sort, Weasel. You gettin’ jumpy in your old age?’
Albert knew he’d been rumbled. It had been a mistake, a bloody big mistake, to get involved with the likes of Lizzie Street. He should never have told her that the O’Donnell girl was back living in Kellston. He’d been greedy; that was the beginning and end of it. He’d seen a chance to make a few extra quid, and with Terry off the scene . . .
‘How much did she pay you?’ Danny whispered. ‘What’s the going rate these days for a double-crossing, lowlife grass?’
‘I never told her nuthin’ important. I swear.’ Albert laid his hand on his thumping heart. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple jumping wildly in his throat. ‘She just . . . just . . . she said Terry never talked no more, didn’t tell her stuff.’
‘And why do you think that was?’
‘Dunno,’ Albert muttered. Then, as he caught sight of the big man’s fist twitching again, he sensibly added, ‘Because he don’t trust her.’ He looked up pleadingly. ‘It was only a few quid, son. I shouldn’t have done it, I know I shouldn’t, but things have been tight since your old man went away. I’ve only got me pension.’
‘He’s still paying you, paying you to keep yer big gob shut about his private business.’
Albert nodded. He couldn’t deny it. But the small monthly allowance he received was barely enough to pay his bar bill. Once he’d been Terry Street’s eyes and ears, doing the rounds of the local pubs and clubs, listening in to conversations and picking up all those tiny but essential snippets of information. Not much on their own, but if you had the nous to put them together . . . And Albert had always had a talent for that. He could sniff out something dodgy in a matter of seconds. Not only had he possessed the crucial ability to merge into the background, but had also known, at least by sight, every local villain in the neighbourhood. If there was a job going down, it had never taken him long to suss it out - and his employer had paid generously for the information. But that had been then. Times had changed and it was getting on for ten years now since Terry had been banged up.
Danny Street shoved his face into Albert’s and glared at him. ‘You never ’eard of loyalty, arsehole? You betrayed him. Dad told you to keep her away from her. And what did you do?’
Albert shrank back, taking refuge in repetition. ‘It weren’t like that. It weren’t. I were only playin’ her along. I never told her nuthin’ important.’
‘So what did you tell her?’
A series of sharp stabbing pains rolled up Albert’s arm and through his chest. His breathing felt shallow and constricted. While he struggled to reply, Danny turned his attention to the room again.
‘You hear about people dying in dumps like this. Not being found for weeks, months even. Getting eaten by cats and all. You got a cat?’ He pulled a mock sympathetic face. ‘Ah, shit no. You ain’t got no one, have you, Weasel? No friends, nuthin’. No one gives a fuck about you. You could be rotting here for years before the council finally turn up to collect the rent. Although I suppose the smell might eventually bother the neighbours.’ He gave a light shrug of his shoulders. ‘But then again, would they notice the difference? You’ve been stinking out the place for the past twenty years.’
Albert had one last chance and he had to make the most of it. He took a deep breath and heaved the words out. ‘Lizzie only wanted to know about the girl.’
Danny stared back at him. He looked genuinely baffled. ‘What are you talking about? What fuckin’ girl?’
Until this point Albert hadn’t been certain about how much Danny knew, but now the answer was clear - sod all! He didn’t have a clue. This simple fact not only revived his courage, but also gave him the leverage he needed, something to bargain with. His hopes immediately revived. There was still a chance of getting out of this with his skull intact. For the first time that evening, a tentative smile found its way on to his lips. ‘Ain’t Terry mentioned her?’
‘You’re talking shite,’ Danny said. His eyes were beginning to blaze again. ‘Why should he be arsed about some bloody girl?’
‘For the same reason Lizzie was.’
Danny took a threatening lunge forward. ‘Meaning?’
Albert jumped back, his spine pressing hard against the wall. He was too old, too tired for this kind of stuff. Even in his youth he’d relied entirely
on his wits. His voice leapt up an octave or two. ‘You’ll never find out if you don’t listen, son.’
Danny’s face crunched into indecision. His instinctive urge was to try to beat it out of him, but some remaining seed of rationality held him back. A dead Jenks wouldn’t be able to talk. Instead, he bared his teeth, wrapped his fingers around Albert’s throat and spat out an order: ‘Tell me!’
‘Let go of me first.’
Danny’s fingers tightened for a second, but then gradually loosened again. ‘Start talkin’, you pathetic streak of piss or I’ll put yer fuckin’ head through the window.’
Albert moved away from the wall, rubbing resentfully at his throat. He staggered over to the armchair and stood behind it. It might not offer much protection, but at least it was something. He stared at Danny. How Terry had managed to spawn such an ignorant piece of scum was beyond him. Terry Street was a bastard, there was no disputing that, but he’d always been a charming bastard.
‘Well?’ Danny snarled.
Albert’s tongue snaked out and made a fast circuit of his dry, cracked lips. He wasn’t sure how much to say. Too little and Danny would squash him like a bug, too much and he would have Terry to answer to. ‘It’s to do with your Liam, ain’t it?’
At the mention of his dead brother, Danny’s face grew even harder. ‘What about him?’
Albert quickly shook his head. ‘I can’t say more than that. Talk to yer old man. He’ll tell you. He’ll put you straight.’
‘And how am I supposed to do that? Give him a bell? In case it’s slipped your mind, he’s not staying in a fuckin’ hotel!’
As Danny advanced on him again, a new, even more violent pain spread suddenly through Albert’s chest. With a choking sound, he jerked back and crumpled. He could feel his knees buckling as he slowly collapsed on to the floor. The room was starting to dissolve.
Danny Street leaned over, his eyes wild and angry. He began to shake him. ‘What are you doing? Wake up, you fuckin’ bastard! Wake up!’
