Jailbird Detective

by Helen Jacey

  Brandy and ciggies. My kind of tea party, Dr. Seldon.

  Betty doesn’t stint, pouring the amber liquid to the top of the cup. ‘When all this is over, maybe I sell up. Go somewhere else. Somewhere there is sunshine.’

  She waves the cigarettes at me and I nod. The box flies through the air and I catch it. There’s an old bent matchbook on the edge of the sofa. Faded print advertises Lonnie’s Cabaret Club in Beak Street. I’d been there. Seventeen years old, and wild with it. I remember opium smoke swirling into my brain in a back room. Billy finding me at it, furious, dragging me home.

  Betty hands me a cup. My official reunion with alcohol.

  Betty sits down on a small stool, studying me. To toast or not to toast? She takes the plunge. ‘To a better life.’ Not to victory. I wonder what it means to her, one who has been branded an untrustworthy Eyetie.

  I raise the cup and then sip. It is hot and sharp on my throat like a blade slicing my tonsils. The only cure is a bigger glug.

  She is saying, ‘You know about the bomb in your street?’

  I nod. ‘How many?’

  ‘Thirty, forty? It’s a tragedy.’ She makes the sign of the cross, briefly closing her eyes.

  I light up, praying Kettle was far away at the time. The nicotine hits the back of my throat and I splutter like a kid.

  ‘You know where Billy is?’ I bluff, attempting another drag. ‘I’m not here to cause a scene. He owes me dosh from a long time ago. I need it.’

  I wait for it. Dead, alive, near or far.

  Betty surveys me. ‘You don’t know?’

  ‘No. What?’ I exhale, better this time, but now I just feel sick. I meet her eyes, arching my brows. ‘Not gone and snuffed it, has he?’

  ‘No, Billy isn’t dead! He has rooms, above the Jack & Jill. Don’t say I tell you this.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I somehow say. He’s alive. He’s nearby. I’m one step closer to running. ‘Has he got a girl?’

  ‘Maybe. One or two. I do not see him so often.’ Betty spins her tumbler in her hand, avoiding eye contact.

  ‘I feel like a tramp. Could I buy a dress? Perhaps lipstick and rouge? I can settle up with you tomorrow once he’s coughed up.’

  Betty looks me up and down. ‘You do not have to pay me.’ She gets up and leaves the room again.

  After a while, she returns, saying she’s put some things out on the bed and that she is running me a bath. It’s unexpected. Do I look that dirty? She reads my thoughts and explains travelling by train is unpleasant. She either pities me, the half-starved filthy wreck in from the cold, or suspects I’m on a mission to get Billy back and she’s on my side. Those few warm inches of water are like a bath in paradise after the gray scum in Holloway. Betty has left an old razor and coal tar soap on a towel. I use the razor on my leg stubble, skinning my ankle at once. The blood floats into the water, forming dancing scarlet ribbons.

  Drying myself, I catch my reflection in a broken piece of mirror left nailed to the wall. Skin and bone. My face is darker than my body, thanks to the spell of recent Spring sunshine in the prison garden. One weak ray and I tan faster and deeper than everybody else. Mulatto blood, I’d been told by the nuns. Mulatto had sounded exotic to my childish imagination. Vagabonds, brigands and pirates on the Seven Seas – like me, free spirits. Violet had been white as daisy petals and I inherited her mousy hair. It was only when I saw Jean Harlow and Ida Lupino in the picture house that I yearned for ivory skin and platinum hair, cursing my unknown ancestry. My face was plastered in white powder, my eyes daubed in kohl, and my hair a cheap bottle blonde by seventeen.

  I dollop some cold cream on my cheeks. It is waxy and smells of freesia, but feels like an oil slick on my face after years of nothing.

  A pale blue dress lies stretched out on the counterpane on the bed, with some nylons and garters. I examine the dress’s label. A Loretta Model, Mayfair.

  I hold it against me. Nothing fancy but well made, with pleats on the bodice and pale blue buttons up to a pretty collar edged with blue lace. The lace is repeated on the three-quarter length sleeves. A bit simple for my taste, but then again, what is my taste now? At least the dress goes with Ellie’s dove gray hat.

  Betty has left out some old makeup. Powder in a gold compact, and waxy mascara. I pat creamy powder over my face, restoring paleness. The lipstick is dry and stiff, but red enough. It tastes slightly rancid. There is no rouge, so I use a crumb of lipstick and rub it hard onto my now oily cheekbones. I fluff up the curls Lena gave me. It’s as if she knew I’d be having an outing.

  I finish with the red nail lacquer, making a bad job of it after five years’ without practice. Then I sit on the edge of the bathtub, blowing on my nails.

  In the mirror, I admire my reflection. Somebody fresh and innocent looks back.

  Not bad for an old lag.

  I return to the sitting room to stuff my clothes into the bag. I use Dr. Seldon’s hanky to wipe the teacup I’d held before Betty comes in. There can be no trace of my presence here, even if she later talks.

  ‘You look like Lauren Bacall,’ Betty says, at the doorway. I have no idea who that is. I slip the gray jacket over the dress.

  ‘Ta-ta, Betty. Thanks.’ I mean it. She’s given me a fighting chance. Maybe likes me more than I remember.

  It is dark now, and a violet sky hangs low on the Camberwell Road. The air is thick from smoke, the smell of celebration, not V-2 carnage. Teenage boys drag broken bannisters, ripped floorboards and doors towards huge blazing bonfires that spit orange flecks into the night sky. People huddle around them. New shrines to the god of victory.

  I reach the Jack & Jill, a big pub with two bars. The double doors of the saloon bar are open and people spill out like entrails of humanity onto the street, drunk and emotional.

  I stick to the shadows, head down, dreading familiar faces. I’m in Billy’s territory, I’m the interloper. Someone drops a glass and everyone cheers. Another group holler a song I don’t know. The din of the singing swells as more join in.

  Around the side, a drunk takes a piss against the wall. He can barely stand, spraying everywhere. He hears me and turns, smiling toothlessly.

  A dark exterior stone staircase leads up to the three flats, one on each level. The first two flats are boarded up. I keep going, my legs now like lead.

  On the top floor, a dark wooden door shuts the world out, its two glass panels painted in the usual thick bitumen. No bell, no knocker. To the side, a cracked stone planter decorates the entrance. Was it ours? From outside my front door in Suffield Road? I used to grow pansies and marigolds in it in summer. This escaped the bomb? Odd if Billy lugged the thing here.

  I put my ear to the door.

  Run back down the stairs, forget this. Pick up a stranger. Anything but this!

  My mouth is sandpaper, I have a leaping frog for a heart. My knuckles give a short rap. I stand back, shocked I’ve actually done it. Mindlessly, I bend down and feel the dry earth in the planter. I crumple the dried leaves of a dead geranium plant. Underneath, moist shoots trying to sprout. Fragile things, seeking out the light. They are probably doomed to die before they’ve had a chance.

  The door opens. Billy’s eyes. Two pools of blackness.

  Dark as the barrel of the gun he points in my face.

  10

  ‘In accordance with arrangements between the three great powers, tomorrow, Tuesday, will be treated as Victory in Europe Day and will be regarded as a holiday’.

  We both ignore the announcement. Billy hobbles over to a drinks cabinet. His limp is more pronounced.

  Watch yourself. He didn’t offer you any pity.

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Betty.’

  If he is annoyed, he doesn’t show it. ‘Not in a good way, Betty. Lost her boyfriend.’

  She hadn’t mentioned a boyfriend. But I hadn’t asked. I’m just a freeloader from the past.

  Billy and I look at each other. Long gone, the sharp-suited spiv with the boyish
smile of my memory. His skin is an unhealthy putty color and his black hair has thick strands of gray. He’s unshaven, a field of black and white stubble replacing the thin moustache he previously sported. The red and green silk dressing gown, a well-preserved Jermyn Street number, is the one constant. He always dressed well. And he always liked the finer things in life.

  In turn, his eyes glance at my made-up face, over the blue dress. The whole look could be having some kind of effect. But I’m not his Ida anymore. I am too thin, and maybe I look a little fast.

  I look around. Antiques and a large Chinese rug dominate the sitting room floor, lending the place a sense of luxury. ‘War’s been good to you,’ I say, pointlessly.

  He is pouring a large amount of scotch into two cut glass tumblers. On top of Betty’s brandy, I’d better go easy.

  ‘Can’t complain.’ He nods to the large, velvet sofa. I shake my head. ‘I don’t have long. Going out.’

  ‘Suit yourself. What do you want?’

  I lean against the wall. ‘That’s nice, after all these years. Where’s Kettle?’

  ‘Hit by a car near the Green. Couple of weeks after you were sent down. Think he was looking for you.’

  So my cat is dead. The last tie.

  Don’t show it hurts.

  ‘You bury him?’

  ‘Yeah, under the crab apple. Now he’s under the rubble. Have a butcher’s at Suffield? Evil bastards.’

  The crab apple. With its endless fruit that rotted and made the backyard smell like a brewery. Nothing could kill that shrub, not even a bomb. I bet it is pushing up the rubble even now. But Billy’s referred to the Jerries as evil, and he means it.

  ‘He didn’t like being left alone,’ I state, as uncritically as possible.

  Billy walks over with the drinks and hands me a glass. I carefully avoid his fingertips and his gaze. ‘He wasn’t left alone. Maudie took him in.’

  Maudie. I remember her. The old lady two doors down.

  ‘Yeah, she snuffed it, too, when the bomb dropped. Loads got it.’ Billy answers my thoughts. ‘Turns out you were better off inside.’

  He lifts his glass. ‘To victory.’ He sounds like he means it but it could be sarcasm. I say nothing. Victory so far is just a means of escape.

  To Kettle.

  Billy raises his glass again. ‘And to your freedom.’ He’s really going to town. Provocative. He wants me to get mad, storm out. He wants to avoid coughing up.

  He limps over to an armchair and lowers himself stiffly into it. ‘When did you get out?’

  Be cool. You need him.

  ‘What’s it to you? I’m out. That’s all that matters.’

  He utters a grunt that is hard to read. I don’t let it bother me. I examine my red nails. They are rather lumpy. I’ll do better next time. Buy some top-notch polish.

  Billy picks up a cigar, biting the end off. He spits it out into a glass ashtray before lighting it. I open the pack of cigarettes Betty gave me and light up.

  A wall of smoke divides us. ‘So. Out in the big wide world.’

  ‘Yes. Offered me probation, but I didn’t fancy it.’

  He is incredulous. ‘What? Nick addled your brains?’

  I exhale. ‘Obviously I never talked. Today I gave them the slip and I won’t be sticking around. Give me what you owe me and I’ll be gone.’

  I get up and pick up an ashtray from a side table. Cigarette butts lie at the bottom, like dead fish. A couple are ringed with red lipstick, vibrant and recent. I don’t care. I take the ashtray with me and return to leaning against the wall.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ He’s staring at me, trying to make sense of me without showing it.

  ‘A hotel in Piccadilly.’

  He snorts but plays along. ‘Very nice. So you want lolly?’

  ‘Yes. And a new passport.’

  He blows out a smoke ring, another old habit. It floats upwards before dissipating. ‘The country’s a fortress. You’d be mad to try it.’

  Coming from the man who broke every rule in the book, this is rich. I quip back at him. ‘Nothing ventured, eh?’

  He waves his cigar. ‘How much do you reckon I owe you?’

  ‘Let me see. Loss of liberty. Keeping my mouth shut. I’m going away and I can’t very well get a job. Something for Betty, for the frock. All adds up.’

  Another half-smile. He is unreadable, a black leather book with the pages bound. Good thing I haven’t come for any answers.

  ‘Where are you going? America?’

  ‘I was only over the River if you wanted to ask me anything.’

  Another shrug. His black eyes absorb me.

  I am on the verge of snapping but somehow keep my voice level. ‘I gave up wondering a long time ago what went on, what you knew, what you didn’t. You were happy to leave me to rot. Maybe you’d just got bored. We weren’t exactly getting on. Still, might have been kinder to just jilt me than set me up as a gunrunner.’ I give a sarcastic smirk. ‘If you must know, I’m going to Devon.’

  ‘A country girl? Come off it.’

  ‘People change.’

  ‘They don’t. Ever.’

  ‘So you were always a Judas?’ Is it my imagination or does that sting him?

  Too late for guilt, Billy. Far too late.

  A sudden pain in my left temple. Tension, exhaustion, booze and hunger impacting like a bullet.

  ‘You always wanted to go to back to America, until life with me got in your way, remember? Wasn’t that what you used to fling at me? That you only stayed in this dump for me?’

  ‘Forget the history lesson. It’s tedious. Just give me what you owe me. If you need time, I can lie low. Just don’t dilly-dally.’

  He sees right through the bluff and sniggers. ‘Oh, yes. Lie low. You’ve got nowhere to go.’

  ‘That’s my problem. Cough up and you’ll never have to see me again!’

  The singing from the pub downstairs is at top volume, a braying medley of The Lambeth Walk and Jerusalem. Our standoff while the whole world outside celebrates is silly, really. My life is inconsequential in the bigger scheme of things. The soldiers’ faces at the station come back to me. They have a reason to hate, but do I? I’d been fed and watered, never had to kill anyone, never had anyone die in my arms, never had a foot cut off because of gangrene. This fear of a bomb falling compared to dying in combat? A piece of cake.

  Our little tiff is just a storm in a teacup in comparison.

  Never mind. Let’s have a drink, let bygones be bygones.

  Billy exhales another gray plume of smoke. ‘Things aren’t always as they seem. You of all people should know that. As for your stretch? Unlucky.’

  Unlucky.

  All the apology and explanation I’ll get.

  Billy stands up, leaning heavily on his cane. ‘I’ve got a place where you can wait. I need to sort a few things out. We’ll go now. That racket outside should help.’

  Billy goes over to a bureau and pulls out a brown paper bag. ‘Yours.’ To save him limping over, I walk over and take it from him.

  He doesn’t stand back as I peer inside the bag. Papers. My birth certificate, a photo of Kettle and another of me at seventeen. And letters, a whole bundle of them. The pathetic, pleading letters that my mother Violet had written to a cad who had rejected us both but that she had never sent. Why had she lugged them around her whole life? Pathetic. I wouldn’t be like her. And had Billy seriously poked about a smoldering bombsite to save these? Or had he taken them with him on the same day he set me up?

  In a flash of anger, I toss the lot in the fire. ‘Good riddance.’

  ‘Ida!’ he snaps. ‘What the hell you do that for?’

  He said my name. It’s too intimate. It changes things. ‘You think I want them on me?’

  Out of nowhere, his arm reaches out. Impulsive. Possessive. I spin around. ‘Don’t touch me. And don’t pretend to give a damn,’ I hiss.

  It must be the booze, but I feel a surge of desire. Irrational, uncontrolla
ble, a chemical reaction to his presence. My body is fickle, with a very short memory for betrayal. Maybe bodies can love forever. Muscle memory. Our eyes meet. I say, ‘Want to fuck?’

  He doesn’t flinch. ‘Nick improved your manners. Thought you might prefer the ladies now.’

  ‘Well, make do and mend, and all that.’

  ‘Anyone special?’

  ‘There was a beautiful Australian blonde called Lena.’

  ‘Lena, eh?

  If the thought excites him, fine by me. Billy instantly drops his cane. He pulls me towards him, crushing me, his mouth devouring mine. His stubble scratches, his cologne smells of lemons. New cologne, one I don’t remember.

  Then he pulls away, serious. ‘We should leave now.’

  ‘Why? Lady friend coming?’

  ‘Not that.’

  ‘I’m in no hurry.’ I whisper. I want him now, this minute.

  Billy’s desire is debating with reason. Maybe I’m forbidden fruit, or he is disappointed my anger had been so quickly replaced by lust. Catholic boy that he is, desire wins. His hand reaches out for me, but I pull away. ‘Give me five minutes.’

  I head to the hall and find the bedroom.

  The room is oddly similar to our old one. A bottle of tablets sit on a bedside table. I quickly open the drawer. Another gun. A dark and well-polished revolver. No change there, Billy is still well stocked. I check the barrel piece.