by Jake Arnott
‘Easy, Jack,’ he says. ‘Not in here, eh?’
I shrug him off. No, not in here. I make for the door.
‘I’m confiscating this material.’ Mooney talking to Wally behind me. ‘It’s far too strong.’
Out on the street. Walking back to the Zodiac. Rage in my eyes. I’ll get that cunt. Wait for him to come out. Brown paper bag under one arm. Dirty fucker. Taking his work home with him no doubt. Doesn’t see me. Goes to his car parked across the road. Pulls off. I follow him.
It’s starting to get dark. Mooney’s heading west. Through Victoria. Chelsea. Maybe he’s going to see Harry. Wait a minute. He’s pulled into a little square. Parks up in front of this big house. I recognise it. Where from? Mooney’s going to the front door. Grey-haired man with puffy face opens up. Bow tie askew. It’s that posh fucker me and Harry and Trev went to see that night. Lord something or other. One of Harry’s friends in high places. Thursby, that’s it. What’s going on?
Curious. I wait for them to go inside. See a light go on in the front room. Go up to the house myself. Ease the front gate so it doesn’t squeak. Tip toe up to the front door. Slip the Yale lock and creep slowly inside. Easy does it.
I’m in the hallway. Dark. Little wedge of light fanning out from under the door to the front room. Voices. Sidle up to the crack and listen in.
‘We haven’t heard from our friend the butcher in a while.’ Mooney’s dull, flat voice.
‘Yes, well, that was rather unfortunate.’ Thursby’s rich, fruity tone. ‘I thought that the body was being disposed of properly.’
‘I didn’t know that he was going to get awkward. Anyway, he seems to have disappeared himself. And the inquiry’s over. So all that remains is our little arrangement.’
‘Yes. I’ve got the money here.’
‘I don’t just mean the money.’ Mooney’s voice whining, hateful. ‘I’ve had to deal with you and your friend’s disgusting little vices. I’ve had to clean up the mess. That boy was still breathing when you called me over. I had to strangle the little fairy myself.’
Thursby sobbing quietly.
‘Please . . .’
‘I have your filthy sin on my hands. I have to find my own redemption for that. All around me is filth and degradation. I’ve done your dirty work. So, you and your friends owe me. Not just in money but in influence. In patronage, if you like.’
Thursby blows his nose. Sniffs.
‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t mean anything just now. But a time might come when I’ll be calling up favours. Remember that.’
‘Of course.’
‘So, it’s over for now. You’ll have to live with your conscience, Teddy. My sins are those of expedience. I’m surrounded by foul obscenity and the corruption it causes. My job is to contain it. I’ll be going. You’ll be hearing from me.’
Sounds of Mooney getting up to go. I back off. Make for the door through to the kitchen. Get behind it. They come through into the hall.
‘Just one thing, George.’ Thursby.
‘Yes?’
‘Harry Starks was around here. About a week or so ago. Asking questions. I thought we were keeping him out of this.’
‘Ah, well, I got Harry to check on a few people. Make sure they were keeping quiet about the whole thing. He got a little over zealous. That’s all.’
Thursby sees him to the door. Coldly polite goodbyes. Thursby wanders back through into the front room. Hear the soda siphon shh. Think. Mooney in on the Suitcase Murder. First thought: tell Harry. Gloomy bulb throws light on grubby kitchen. Dirty plates stacked in sink. Empty whisky bottles and box of Complan on the kitchen table. Tell Harry. He’ll want to know. But Harry’s gone into one. Black mood. No sense from him for a few weeks. Maybe never on this one. Yeah, Harry will want to know. But he won’t thank me for telling him. He’s in with Mooney for fucksakes. Think: I got something on this cunt Mooney. But that’s dangerous for me. He wouldn’t hesitate in having me done. Lined up with some powerful fuckers now. He’s right, I’m just a second-rate thug. Think: I’ll have to think about it.
Thursby’s out in the hall. Wandering about. Pissed. Getting ready to hit the pit. Turning off lights. Hand reaches around kitchen door. Click. Darkness.
Think: let’s have a shufti in his front room. Wait till Thursby’s upstairs then tip toe through. Turn the light on. Pick up a few bits of silver. Use a tablecloth to gather it up in. The drunken lord’s forgotten to double lock the front door so I ease the Yale open quietly and fuck off back to the Zodiac.
Too many pills. Dope myself with booze but feel like I’m sleeping with my eyes open. Like the speed’s given me X-ray vision. See through my own eyelids. Nightmares coming anyway. Madge yakking at me just before I pushed her. Weasel Face choking blood all over the caravan floor. Little Jack, age six, holding up jam jar full of tadpoles turning into bits of body. Mooney strangling a blond-haired boy.
Sleep through the day. Wake up, it’s the night again. Time all to cock. Like it’s running backwards or something. Lose track. Sometimes not sure whether it’s dusk or dawn. Dull greyness in the window. Is it getting lighter or darker?
Think about Mooney. Feel frightened by it all, somehow. Imagine myself getting done and chopped up. No body, no case. Stick to the East End. Want to avoid the Twins though.
Start going to boozers where I’m not known. Dodging anything connected to them. Still manage to bump into the odd face. My bottle’s going. Fear of the Other Two. Don’t want to show it so I mug them off in front of people they know. ‘I’m not afraid of the Twins,’ and even: ‘I’ll fucking kill them.’ Bravado. Makes me feel better at the time. Feeds the fear later.
Going mad. Start to have nightmares about them. Can’t stand it. Got to face them. Straighten it all out somehow. Go back to the Regency. Chinese restaurant on the middle floor. Some of the firm sitting at a long table like that picture of the Last Supper. Waiting for Jesus to arrive. Or Judas. Sit in the corner a bit away from them. A few nods in my direction. Moody grins. Wary.
Then suddenly it’s heads up, someone’s arrived. Everyone’s sitting up straight. One of the Twins has just walked in. Difficult to say which one it is at first.
‘All right, Reg?’ says one of the firm.
He nods and, seeing me, comes over. Glad it’s not Fat Ron. At least with Reg you’ve got some chance of talking things through. Hold on to the table so that he doesn’t see me tremble. Smile. Try to act relaxed. Fuck, this is it.
‘I want a word with you, Jack,’ he says.
Chicken Chow Mein. Weird fucking nosh. Noodles, bean sprouts, bamboo shoots looking like fucking entrails. Strips of meat like bits of gut. Bring back horrible thoughts. Don’t care because most of all right now I feel relief. Reggie’s gone through it all. All the lairyness and me being out of order in places they’ve got a part of. All the mugging them off and not giving enough respect. All the drug deals and other scams I never cut them into. The Payne hit not mentioned directly but the gist is, we all keep well shtum about that. And I’ve sat there and nodded and said, ‘Yeah, I’ve been out of order. I’ve not been well, my nerves are shot to pieces. But I’m going to change. I’m going to behave myself from now on.’ I’ve said I’m sorry and I feel a lot better for it. Reggie’s handed me fifty quid. Two weeks’ pension. Back on the firm. I belong to them now.
Feel better already. I am going to change. Sort myself out. The Twins aren’t bad lads after all. Reg even paid for this chinky meal. No more lairyness, Jack.
Finish the grub and get off home. It’s all going to be all right now, I feel sure of it. Have a shit and this chow mein’s floating in the pan. Entrails. Gone straight through me. Try not to think what my insides are like. But I’m going to get healthy again. I’ve been fucking myself up. Going to cut down on the booze and get off the pills. Suddenly feel tired. First time I’ve felt properly sleepy in weeks. Yawn. Sleep waiting for me like an old friend. No bad dreams this time. No. Everything’s going to be all right.
Wake up mid morning well rested. Saturday. Tidy the flat up a bit and get myself some dinner. Money in my pocket so I have a bit of a flutter on the horses. Watch the racing on the telly. Manage to pick a couple of winners. Things are looking up. Collect my winnings and watch Dr Who.
Saturday night. I can go out and have a good time now. Put on my my best check suit. Brown trilby with brown hat band. Look sharp, feel sharp. Jack the Hat’s back. Get into the Zodiac and zoom off up to the Regency.
The Regency’s packed. Full of mouthy hooligans showing off, trying to impress the birds. Wankers. Still, I’m in a good mood. As long as none of them spills beer on my suit. Behave yourself Jack. Stay away from trouble. Look around to see who’s around. See the Lambrianou brothers. Chris grins. Tony looks a bit shifty. Go over and say hello.
‘What are you having, Jack?’ Chris offers.
‘Lager,’ I say. Keep off the heavy booze early on, that’s the idea.
He brings me a pint over and introduces me to a couple of chaps from Notting Hill. Tony’s sloped off somewhere. Acting a bit suspicious. Something’s up. I can feel it.
‘I don’t trust your brother, Chris,’ a whisper to Chrissy.
He looks at me all shocked.
‘Come on, Jack. He’s as right as rain.’
Shake my head.
‘I don’t know, Chris. I don’t trust him.’
Chrissy smiles.
‘I’ve lived with him an awful long time, Jack. He’s all right. Believe me.’
Yeah. Just the old bottle playing up again. Don’t need to worry any more. It’s all been straightened. I’m on the firm. The Lambrianous are on the firm. Nothing to worry about.
Tony’s back. Been for a piss or something.
‘There’s a party at Blonde Carol’s,’ he says. ‘Plenty of birds and the rest of it. Let’s go there.’
‘Party?’ I say. ‘What party? Come on, let’s all go.’
So we push our way through the mob and out onto the street. Chrissy suggests we go in his motor but it’s blocked in.
‘Come on,’ I say. ‘We’ll go in mine.’
So we all pile into the Zodiac. Me and Chris in the front and Tony and the Notting Hill lads in the back.
‘You know where we’re going, Jack?’ asks Tony.
‘Yeah. I know where Blonde Carol’s is.’ I laugh. ‘Me and her go back.’
Blonde Carol. Had a thing with her a couple of years back. She knows how to throw a party. Suddenly feel frisky. Feel sure I’m in for a good time. Never know, might get lucky. Might be able to get it up. It’s been a long time.
We’re there already. It’s only around the corner anyway. We pile out. Me taking the lead.
‘Come on lads!’ I call out.
Up the steps to the front door and in. Soul music coming up from the basement. Go downstairs. Chicka, chicka chicka.
‘Where’s the party?’ I say. ‘Jack’s here. Where’s all the booze. Where are all the birds?’
Go into the basement room. No birds. No booze. Just a couple of boys dancing together. Fat Ron sitting on a sofa watching them. Leering. Toad-like eyes blink over at me. Reg is behind me. Pulls a gun. Cold metal against my head. Fuck.
Then a click. The gun just goes click. Poxy Kray automatic gone and jammed again. Click. Like a joke gun. Half expect a little flag with BANG on it to come out of the barrel. It’s just a joke. That’s what it is. Just meant to scare me. Any minute now everyone’s going to laugh. We had you there, Jack. I look to Ron. He ain’t smiling. Heavy-lidded eyes glaring at me. The boys have stopped dancing. People standing around stock still, like time has stopped. Soul music blaring on. Chicka, chicka, chicka. Chrissy sitting on the stairs, starting to weep. No joke. Look at Fat Ron. Ugly lips flatten out like he’s about to say something.
Fuck. What have I done? I’m sorry. Whatever it is, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it. You’ve got it coming to you, Jack the Hat. Sorry.
‘Do him!’ Ron hisses.
4
The Rank Charm School
Oh, we shall allow them even sin, they are weak and helpless, and they will love us like children, because we allow them to sin. We shall tell them that every sin will be expiated, if it is done with our permission . . .
Dostoevsky, The Grand Inquisitor
It was then that I realised I’d never be Britain’s Blonde Bombshell.
Spring 1962, and I’m in the Kentucky Club on the Mile End Road. The Krays are hosting a party for the premiere of Sparrers Can’t Sing. Joan Littlewood’s sentimental Cockney comedy. Flashbulbs popping as the Twins line up with Barbara Windsor. And I think, well there it goes. Spend all this time waiting for Diana Dors to get past it and now someone’s got there before me. Ronnie Kray’s cooing around a gang of minor celebrities, trying to herd as many of them as he can into the frame.
‘Fancy being in this one, Ruby?’ someone calls over.
Shake my head. No thank you. Don’t fancy it. Don’t fancy being a false smile in the background. Don’t need reminding that my career’s going nowhere. Why did I bother coming? I hate going to these sort of parties on my own. My agent, bullying on the phone, ‘contacts dear, contacts’.
Interesting mix of people, I suppose. The Joan Littlewood Theatre Workshop crowd slumming it prole style. East End villainy dressed up to the nines. The Krays crowing. Their big night. Even if Princess Margaret only came for the premiere and not to the party. Heavy-looking faces in dark suits congregating in little groups accorded by a protocol of respect. Gangsters on their best behaviour, struggling to make small talk with starlets and comedians.
And I’m swanning around, trying to keep the smile going. Trying not to look like my career’s up the swannee. Poise, deportment, all that Charm School crap. I need a drink. Push my way through to the bar. Pass by someone I vaguely recognise from somewhere. Slicked-back hair and slightly battered features. Piercing eyes that click with mine as I go by him. Where do I know him from? Then it drops. Oh fuck, I think, him. Another bloody reminder. Glance back carefully. He’s with a young man, not much more than a boy really. Well, that makes sense. He’s watching. A shiver of fear, I try to suppress it. Concentrate on getting to the bar.
‘Gin and tonic, please.’
‘Let me get this.’
A hand waves a note over the counter. I look around. Him.
He’s not with the boy any more but with one of the faces that I’ve spoken with earlier. Jimmy something.
‘Ruby,’ says Jimmy. ‘Let me introduce . . .’
‘Oh, it’s all right,’ I cut in. ‘We’ve already met. Harry, isn’t it? Harry Starks.’
Grinning at recognition brings out a thin scar line in his cheek. He’s more thick set than he was back then. It makes him look all the more impressive.
‘Yeah,’ I say, with a sneer. ‘We go back. Don’t we Mr Starks?’
Go back. Three years earlier.
Peter must have sent him. I don’t know whether he’d followed me or just been lying in wait somewhere. I’d come back to the flat and he walked up as I was unlocking the front door. I tried to get in and lock the door behind me but his hand was on the frame blocking me. He leant against the jam and muttered to me softly.
‘We need to talk, Miss Ryder.’
It would have been stupid to offer any resistance. He was a lot bigger than me. He could have simply pushed me inside and followed me in without much fuss.
‘You better come in then,’ I said.
We went in through the hallway. I slumped into an armchair as he padded around the room.
‘Why don’t you make us both a drink?’ I said, thinking: act friendly, charm him off.
As he poured two large scotches his eye caught a publicity photo on top of the cocktail cabinet. Me with blonde beehive and Diana Dors décolletage. The one I’d used for the quarter page in the young actresses section of Spotlight 1958. He picked it up and wagged it at me.
‘You an actress then?’
He seemed impressed as he pass
ed over the drink.
‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ I shrugged. ‘Just walk-ons mostly.’
‘Walk-ons?’
‘Yeah, you know, background work. You walk on, say a few lines, walk off again. A bit like what you do I suppose.’
He frowned and then let a mirthless grin spread across his face.
‘Yeah,’ he nodded and sat down in the chair opposite. ‘That’s a good one.’
He held up the photo and studied it with a shrug.
‘Well you got the looks for it,’ he said. ‘You want to take care of them.’
A cheap line. I sneered. He shrugged.
‘I mean it. You could go places.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘That’s a good one.’
Not the most illustrious of acting careers. At eighteen I’d been spotted by one of J. Arthur Rank’s talent scouts at a Butlin’s beauty contest. I got a year’s contract with the Rank Organisation’s Company of Youth. £20 a week. We were sent to this studio in Highbury to learn elocution and deportment. How to be stars. The Rank Charm School they called it. But after a year of walking about with books on our heads we found there wasn’t much work to be had. I had a few walk-ons. Did a Lux soap commercial. I got a small speaking part in Violent Playground in 1957 but it wasn’t the big break that I had imagined.
When the castings and the cash started to dry up I took a job in the Cabaret Club in Paddington. Dancing on stage. The low lighting hid the peeling decor and the tattiness of the sequined costumes. When you weren’t dancing you could sit out in the audience and get an extra £5 hostess fee. You weren’t supposed to make any other arrangements with the customers but most of the girls did. If you were discreet the management didn’t seem to mind. I was reluctant at first but the money was so easy. You didn’t always have to sleep with them anyway. One punter had me whip him with a leather belt while he masturbated. I learnt a few tricks that weren’t taught at the Rank Charm School.
The man leant forward in his chair a little and gave me a stare that was piercing and yet seemed to require little effort from him. His nostrils dilated slightly and a frown furrowed a line where his eyebrows met. He wasn’t grinning any more.
