Women and War

by Janet Tanner

  When she had put Margaret into the cot she had stayed with her for a while, singing softly and not very tunefully until the child’s eyelids had begun to droop. There had been no need for her to do it, she supposed. For all that she had been moved from pillar to post throughout her young life, Margaret seemed a very happy child. She did not seem to miss Tara or even her nanny, smiling with her little rosebud mouth at whoever happened upon the horizon. Alys had remained with her even after she was asleep and for almost the first time she had been aware of a sense of deep regret that she would never be able to have a child of her own. What a wonderful feeling it must be to look at a small perfect human being and know that it had been created from your own act of love and born of your body. Lucky, lucky Tara. She had Richard and Margaret. But foolish Tara to spend them so carelessly.

  If they were mine, thought Alys, I would never ever let them go.

  Now, satisfied that Margaret was sleeping peacefully, she crept back to the door. After the rosy light in the child’s room the landing was a passage of darkness. She was halfway along it when her senses screamed to her something was wrong – something was not as it should be. She froze, twisted, saw the dark solid shadows leap in the blackness, opened her mouth to scream and felt a hand clamp across it.

  ‘Don’t make a sound and you won’t get hurt.’ The voice was low and urgent and above the level of her ear, indicating that the man, whoever he was, was much bigger than she. She tried to struggle and felt the strength of him, massive and immoveably rocklike. The way he was holding her she could not move a muscle except her feet. Wildly she kicked out, felt her heel connect and the hand tightened against her mouth.

  ‘Bitch! Any more of that and I’ll break your bloody neck!’

  Another form materialized out of the darkness. ‘ Who is it?’

  ‘Just some bloody sheila.’ He shook her. ‘Where’s the baby, huh? Tell us where the baby is and we’ll leave you alone.’

  Behind the muffling hand Alys squeaked indignantly, fear and shock dissolving into white hot anger as she realized these were no ordinary intruders but the very men they were supposed to be protecting Margaret from. How in hell had they found her? Oh, easy enough for some enterprising private eye, she supposed. They hadn’t exactly hidden her away. But she was amazed that anyone should go to such lengths.

  She was throbbing all over now with discomfort and she struggled again but the big man pinioning her merely held her more securely than ever, jerking her against the doorpost so that it provided a straight-jacket down her right side. The rim of the jamb bit into her cheek; if he pushed her harder she thought her cheekbone would splinter.

  ‘Now listen to me.’ The second man materialized out of the shadows moving as softly as a cat. ‘ We’re not going to hurt the kid. We just want to take care of her. So tell us where she is nice and quiet – no noise to wake up the rest of the house – and you won’t get hurt.’

  Alys’ mind was crystal clear now and the thought uppermost in her mind was how close, how terribly close, they were to Margaret. Just a few steps from the door to her room – and that was ajar. If she woke, whimpered, cried out, there was no way they could avoid hearing her. Somehow she had to get them away.

  ‘Right. Tell me now. And remember – any funny business and you’ll regret it.’ The hand was lifted just far enough to allow her lips to move but ready to clamp down again at the first suggestion she might try to raise the alarm.

  ‘Downstairs,’ Alys said. Her voice was muffled.

  ‘Downstairs?’ He sounded incredulous.

  ‘Our spare room beyond the living room. Nanny can’t manage stairs.’ She prayed they did not know the nanny was in her early twenties, the keenest jiver in Victoria.

  The hand was over her mouth again. ‘See if she’s telling the truth!’

  One of the shadows moved and she heard the man going down the stairs but her captor held her fast. She had the feeling he was enjoying himself, enjoying her helplessness. The seconds ticked by. Oh God, what now? Any moment and the other man would be back knowing she had lied.

  With a superhuman effort Alys jerked her head and as the man’s grip slipped slightly she sunk her teeth into the heel of his hand. He tore it away, swearing, and she screamed – ‘John! John!’

  Oh, let him hear, please let him hear! Surely not even he could sleep through this!

  ‘Bitch!’ The man punched her. Her head cracked against the door jamb and both sides of her face went ice cold numb. She screamed again – and saw the light go on in their bedroom.

  It seemed then that everything happened at once. Footsteps running back to the stairs; John rumpled from sleep silhouetted in the doorway of their room wearing his blue and white striped pyjamas; something cold and sharp pressing against her throat. And in the quiet of the night Margaret’s sudden frightened wail.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ John asked. His words were drowned by the second man’s thundering footsteps on the stairs. She saw him emerge from the well, every inch a hoodlum.

  ‘In there,’ her captor hissed. ‘The baby’s there. Get her.’ John took a step forward and the blade bit at her throat. ‘Keep back you – or she gets it!’

  Horror, pure and stark, flooded her. There was nothing they could do. If John interfered her throat would be cut. In that moment she did not care – nothing mattered but saving Margaret – but she knew John would not do it. She was still too precious to him. Helpless, she watched the second man enter Margaret’s room to emerge with the terrified child in his arms. At the foot of the stairs he shouted back: ‘Right. Clear. Come on – let’s go!’

  Her captor edged as far as the top of the stairs, the knife still at her throat. Then down, very slowly, step by step. Did they intend taking her with them? She almost hoped so. At least she would be with Margaret.

  Halfway down the man pushed her aside and ran. She lay half stunned and saw John racing down towards her, leaping over her tumbled body, giving chase now she was no longer in danger. The man turned, dropping the knife, and she saw the glint of a different metal.

  ‘John – be careful! He’s got a gun!’ she tried to scream but no words came from her dry mouth.

  And in any case her warning would have been too late. The gun cracked, a blue flash in the half-dark, and John was arrested in mid flight. Like a slow motion tableau she saw his hands go to his stomach. He took another step or two and the gun flashed again. He fell, his body crumpling, and went down on his knees. Somehow she was up and beside; him, looking down at the stain spreading scarlet on the blue and white pyjamas. And now she had found her voice again and was unable to stop screaming and sobbing.

  ‘John-John-John!’

  She dropped to her knees beside him. He was still conscious – just – his face ashen, his eyes full of agony.

  ‘I’ll get a doctor. I’ll – oh God, what have they done to you?’

  With an effort his lips moved. His voice was a curious gurgle yet his words were strong and lucid.

  ‘Never mind a doctor. Too late. Ring the police. Tell them the bastards have got Margaret.’

  Red Maloney’s house in Elizabeth Bay was bathed in morning sunshine. Tara, her eyes red from crying, walked up the front path and rang the bell, remembering the first time she had come here young and desperate. It seemed like a lifetime ago but in reality nothing had changed. Red had won again just as she suspected he would always win.

  The doorbell echoed through the house and Tara stood waiting tensely, reliving the horror of the night before. The shrilling of the telephone had woken her from sleep, turning her cold with unpleasant anticipation. She lay rubbing her eyes as Dev got up to answer it, saw his face change, heard his barked ‘What?’

  She sat up in bed. ‘What is it? What has happened?’

  He shushed her to silence with his hand. ‘Yes – yes – oh, my good Christ!’ He replaced the receiver and turned to her. His face was like stone. ‘Tara, something terrible has happened.’

  ‘What?’ she wa
s shaking all over. He hesitated and she knew. ‘Margaret!’ she screamed. ‘Something has happened to Margaret! She’s dead, isn’t she? Oh, my God! My God!’

  He took her by the shoulders. ‘No, Tara, she’s not dead. But Red Maloney has her. At least we think so. Two of his hoodlums have been out to Buchlyvie.’

  ‘And they let them take her? But they were supposed to be looking after her! Oh, how could they? How could they …?’

  ‘They tried to stop them.’

  ‘Then they didn’t try hard enough. Oh Margaret …’

  ‘John is dead,’ Dev said.

  ‘John?’ she looked blankly uncomprehending. ‘Oh John – Alys’ John.’

  ‘Yes. He has been shot and killed.’

  ‘I don’t believe it. This can’t be happening.’ But she knew it was. Once before she had seen a man gunned down by Red’s henchmen. It was real – all too real.

  ‘Tara!’ Dev shook her gently. ‘The police have been alerted. They will find Margaret.’

  She shook her head. ‘ I doubt it. Red is too clever. Oh, I told you I was frightened, Dev. I told you he was ruthless. Why wouldn’t you believe me?’

  ‘Be sensible, Tara. What more could we have done? And they will get her back. They must.’

  ‘And if they do, what then? Red can find us wherever we hide. He’s proved that. There’s only one answer. I shall have to do what he wants.’

  ‘Go back to him?’

  ‘I don’t think I have any choice. I can’t take gambles with my child’s safety.’

  Most of the rest of the night they argued, discussed, tore to pieces the details of the whole ghastly business. And when morning came Tara called a cab and drove over to Elizabeth Bay.

  The door was opened by one of Red’s minions. He smiled slyly when she told him who she was and a few moments later she was ushered along to Red’s gymnasium. History repeating itself, she thought.

  In spite of the early hour Red had been working out with weights. As he saw her come in he gave the barbell a last heave then carried it to a shelf and stowed it.

  ‘Well, Tara, what a surprise!’ His voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘What can I do for you?’

  She faced him squarely. ‘I think that you know very well why I am here.’

  He reached for a tracksuit jacket and pulled it on over his singlet. With his bulging muscles and tattoos covered he looked only marginally less threatening.

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I want my daughter,’ she said.

  He smiled. It was not a nice smile.

  ‘And I want you. So – do we have a bargain?’

  ‘I despise you.’

  ‘Very possibly.’ He smiled again. ‘But I seem to remember you came to me under protest once before. It wasn’t so bad, was it?’

  ‘Oh Red,’ she said softly, ‘how can you do this to me?’

  ‘Easily. You better than anyone should know I always get what I want. Come here.’

  She took a step towards him. ‘I want to see Margaret first.’

  ‘Oh Tara, surely common sense must tell you she is not here yet. Melbourne to Sydney in just a few hours? Oh no. But she is being well taken care of I assure you. You need not worry about Margaret.’

  He reached for her, pulling her close. She smelled the sweat fresh on his body from his exertions. Once, almost against her will, he had excited her. Now she felt only revulsion.

  ‘Tara, Tara. In spite of what you did I still want you. You should be flattered.’ He bent his head, kissing her full on the mouth. As his tongue parted her lips she fought the urge to push him away. There was no other way. Margaret was all that mattered now. His hands moved over her body, unfastening the buttons of her blouse with practised ease.

  ‘Take it off,’ he ordered.

  ‘But …’

  Sounds of a commotion infiltrated the gymnasium.

  Voices raised. One familiar. Tara jerked around as the door burst open.

  ‘Dev!’

  Standing there in the doorway, his face dark with anger, he looked every bit as threatening as Red.

  ‘What the hell …?’ Red began.

  Dev ignored him. ‘It’s all right, Tara. The police have caught up with Margaret. Alys just telephoned.’

  ‘Oh!’ It was a sob of pure relief.

  ‘So come on. There’s no need for you to stay here with this bully boy.’ He turned to Red. ‘I’d watch it if I was you. Be prepared for another stint in gaol. A man has been killed, you know.’

  ‘You bastard – get out of here!’ Red stormed towards Dev. ‘ Tara stays!’

  His huge fist shot out connecting with Dev’s jaw. Dev reeled then came back at him and the two men were trading blows, rolling and lurching around the gymnasium while two of Red’s minions watched in amusement and Tara in terror. First one, then the other seemed to have the upper hand; they were evenly matched. Red’s hands were around Dev’s throat; Dev fought him off, back against the wall. As Red gave way slightly Dev wrapped his hands around the wall bars above his head, jack-knifed and thrust his feet like twin pistons into Red’s belly. The big man staggered back and collided with the shelving where the weights were stored. It rocked wildly.

  What happened next seemed to Tara to have been captured forever in a slow motion film imprinted on her mind for all time. The weight Red had been using when she arrived rolled slowly to the edge of the shelf just above his head. Horrified, she screamed a warning and one of the hoodlums started forward. Too late, both of them. The weight shot over the edge of the shelf. Alerted Red glanced up. The barbell caught him full in the face and crashed with him to the ground. For a moment the onlookers resembled a tableau in wax then they rushed towards the man who was pinned to the floor of his own gymnasium.

  There was nothing any of them could do for him. It was obvious at the very first glance. The weight had snapped Red Maloney’s neck. The moment it hit the ground, he was dead.

  The two funerals took place on the same day.

  Red’s funeral in Sydney was a flashy affair, a procession of huge black Cadillacs following the flower-decked hearse. The men all wore black suits, ties and Homburgs, the women tight-fitting black dresses, hats and thick veils.

  John’s was a simple family gathering and the tears that were shed, though less conspicuous, were a great deal more genuine.

  Afterwards, Alys stood alone at the graveside, white-faced and silent, remembering the man who had been her husband. Richard left her for a few minutes, respecting her grief and her need for a private farewell. Then he crossed the turf to join her.

  ‘Alys, I am so sorry. Nothing I can ever say could tell you how sorry I am.’

  She nodded, not looking at him. ‘ He was a good man. It seems so unfair. To die like that.’

  ‘I feel so damnably responsible. If it had not been for us, for Margaret …’

  Don’t blame yourself,’ she said. ‘No one forced us to have her. We did it because we wanted to.’

  ‘I know. But still. If there is anything I can do, anything at all …’

  Her eyes were blurred with tears. ‘Just be there, Richard. Please – just be there.’

  ‘I will,’ he said. They stood for a moment looking down at the coffin with its fresh sprinkling of earth. Then Alys bent, picked a rose from the simple bouquet which lay on the fringing mound of soil and dropped it into the coffin.

  ‘Goodbye John.’

  Richard copied her action.

  ‘Goodbye John, and thank you.’

  Then he put his arm around Alys turning her back towards the path and together they walked across the firm turf to join the other mourners.

  Chapter Three

  Tara’s show at the Capitol was an even greater success than she had dared hope. The critics raved about her, calling her a new singing sensation, every seat to the end of her run was sold, and some resold at double and treble their original price, and crowds gathered each night outside the stage door to catch a glimpse of the star who could truly be called ‘
Sydney’s own girl’.

  Some of her success was due to the insatiable curiosity of the public, Duke Craigie maintained. The dramatic story of the kidnapping of Tara’s daughter and the death of Red Maloney had made big headlines and without a doubt some of the audiences had flocked in to see for themselves the woman at the heart of the scandal. But having come as voyeurs they remained to applaud and Duke Craigie congratulated himself on his talent for spotting rising stars and began to make plans for a new venture, a musical show which would sweep across the continent, helping Australians to put behind them the austerities of war and making a household name of its star, Tara Kelly. The most exciting musical director in Australia was working on the score, Dev had drawn up plans for some spectacular lighting effects, lavish costumes such as those that had stunned the world in the pre-war Hollywood musicals were planned and already Duke Craigie was conducting auditions for the forty-strong chorus.

  Tara knew she should have been excited by it all, but she was not. One thing alone mattered to her, one question dominated her every waking moment and sometimes invaded her dreams too – how much longer would it be before she could have Margaret with her once again?

  As the days passed her impatience grew. Leaving Margaret with Richard had seemed the sensible answer while the attention of the press was centered on her, but it had not been easy for her. With the terror she felt for Margaret’s safety so fresh in her mind she could hardly bear to have her out of her sight and she ached for the feel of the firm little body in her arms and the silky whisper of hair against her cheek.

  When the curtain fell on her final performance at the Capitol it seemed to Tara there was no need to delay fetching Margaret a day longer. She had a week all to herself before starting rehearsals for Duke Craigie’s extravaganza – plenty of time to go to Melbourne and back. Her heart sang at the thought of it. But she avoided mentioning her plans to Dev until the very last moment – and when she did she was prepared for his expected objection.

  They were in his apartment enjoying a quiet drink to round off a pleasant evening spent wining and dining at Angelo’s, the most exclusive nightclub in Sydney, and Tara had chosen this moment to break her news, hoping Dev might be mellowed by the potent mix of wine, whisky and good food.