Anyone Who Had a Heart (21 page)

His reference to the yellow shirt and black velvet jacket brought a smile to her face. He was wearing an oversized tartan cap – the sort favoured by street urchins a century ago, though his wasn’t ragged, of course, merely stylish.

She thought again how much he resembled his father in that he sometimes made statements as though they were questions. That was fine in itself, though she was beginning to suspect that there was really only one answer she could give – the one he wanted to hear.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow – once you’ve explained that you’ve fallen in love with a flash bloke with a good wedge in his pocket and a matching flash car.’

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Who said I’d fallen in love with him?’

He ran his fingers down the side of her face, cupped her chin and shook his head. ‘I did. I’m irresistible. Didn’t you know that?’

Before she had chance to get out of the car, there was a banging on the window.

‘Marcie Brooks! You fucking cow!’

The last person she’d expected to see was Rita Taylor bashing the car window with her fist.

Roberto too was taken by surprise. ‘Who the hell’s that?’

Marcie gave no answer. Her insides were turning to marshmallow.

Roberto got out of the car and went round to the passenger door. Michael got out from the back.

‘Hey. Hey. Easy now.’

Michael grabbed hold of the flailing fists, pulling Rita away from the car. Marcie seized the opportunity to open the car door.

The girl who had once been her closest friend – a fact that Marcie had lived to regret – struggled against the strong arms that held her.

‘Now, now,’ Michael was saying while effortlessly holding Rita’s arms to her chest.

Rita would not be calmed. Her face was contorted with rage. She looked so much bigger than Marcie remembered. The girl that had been prettily chubby was now obese.

An oblong of light fell out of the cottage and onto the garden path.

‘What is going on here?’

Rosa Brooks was standing in the cottage doorway with Joanna in her arms. Marcie was filled with alarm. She hadn’t told Roberto yet. It would be such a shock.

Rita’s rage was firmly directed at Marcie. She was calling her all the bad names under the sun and mostly referring to her morals. Between rants she turned her angry face upwards to Roberto.

‘I shouldn’t have nothing to do with her if I was you, mate. She’s a tramp that one. Led my dad on she did, then done him in. They say she didn’t, that he got into a fight. But I don’t believe that. She killed him. That fucking tramp killed him.’

Other doors were opening and other lights were turning on in bedroom windows.

‘Marcie Brooks is a fucking slut,’ Rita shouted to those who’d chanced putting their head out of the window.

‘Let her go,’ Marcie said to Michael.

‘Are you sure?’

Marcie nodded. ‘She lost her dad. He used to take the two of us around together. She’s gone a bit loopy since he died.’

In her mind she could see Alan Taylor lying on the beach. She’d been very good at keeping the vision at bay, continually telling herself it was an accident. That’s how she coped.

Rita lunged again. This time Roberto caught her and kept a firm grip on Rita’s arms. His cheek was pressed against hers and he was trying to calm her down.

‘Come on now. You’ve had a bit to drink, girl.
Calm
it down. Right?’ He looked over at Marcie. ‘She smells as though she’s supped a brewery.’

‘The stupid cow!’

Suddenly Marcie didn’t care what came out. She was ready for whatever Rita had in mind and if she mentioned her dad again, she’d tell it as it was. That he was a rapist. That he liked young girls. Goodness knows what Roberto might think, but it couldn’t be helped.

She braced herself for whatever happened.

‘Go on then, Rita. Hit me. That’s what you want to do, isn’t it? Hit me. If you dare.’

Roberto let go of Rita’s arms. She charged again, shrieking like a banshee as she lumbered forwards.

Marcie sidestepped, grabbed Rita’s hair as she went by and swung her off balance.

Rita howled and came for her again.

Marcie clenched then raised her fist. This time when Rita charged she held her podgy hands out in front of her, her sharp nails gleaming with red varnish.

As the clawed hands raked into Marcie’s shoulders she brought her fist up. There was a sickening crunch as her knuckles made contact with Rita’s chin. Rita’s bottom teeth crashed against her top ones and her head went back. She tottered to one side, grabbing the hedge before crumpling to her knees.

The people of Endeavour Terrace weren’t the sort to go calling the police for every little problem.
To
their minds it looked as though the matter had been settled to everybody’s satisfaction. Rita had come huffing and puffing with vengeful intent and had been soundly despatched.

Marcie met Roberto’s eyes. He looked surprised.

‘She’s mad.’ It was all she could think of to say. ‘I’m sorry though. I’m not violent. I’m not like that.’

At first he beheld her silently. Then he smiled. ‘You could have fooled me, babe.’

‘That’s her car,’ someone said, pointing to a Mini Cooper ‘S’.

Roberto took charge of the situation. ‘Michael. Deal with the car. If someone points me in the right direction, I’ll take her home; you follow on behind.’

Marcie heard Michael mutter, ‘As always.’

Two or three neighbours were helping Rita to her feet. She was quiet now, her head wobbling on her shoulders.

Michael put his arm around her and guided her into the front seat of the Maserati.

Roberto looked on, hands resting on slim hips. ‘She’ll revive enough to show me where she lives.’

He kissed Marcie on the cheek. ‘Take care, darling, and have a nice weekend. Perhaps it’s better if I see you back in London on Monday.’

A sudden panic made her look towards the cottage gate. Her grandmother was still standing there with Joanna. The little girl was holding out her arms.

‘Mummy!’

Roberto didn’t notice. But Michael did. She saw the look of surprise on his face, his quick glance at her, another at his half-brother.

The last thing she wanted was for Roberto to find out about Joanna – before she had time to explain it to him herself.

Michael was looking at her. It was barely susceptible, but he shook his head before looking away.

It was a joy to be home. ‘This is so wonderful,’ she crooned between kissing her daughter’s head and hearing the new words the toddler had learned in the small space of a week. ‘I’m glad you kept her up for me.’

Her grandmother was watching her with quick, quizzical eyes.

‘Even if I hadn’t, she would have been woken up by all the noise.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘The young man – he is Sicilian?’

Marcie wondered how she could possibly know that, but countered that there wasn’t much her grandmother didn’t know. One look at a person and she had them categorised so she might as well explain.

‘Victor Camilleri’s son. His parents came originally from Sicily I believe, though they’ve lived in this country for some time. The other boy is his half-brother.’

‘Do they go to church?’

‘Mrs Camilleri goes to confession and mass three times a week. More sometimes I think.’

Heat was emanating from the old kitchen range. Rosa Brooks nodded herself asleep.

Joanna was sitting on her mother’s lap. Marcie hadn’t had the heart to put her to bed just yet. She’d missed her so and couldn’t bear the thought of letting her go.

She was playing with the white bow at the front of her mother’s navy-blue dress, chuckling and talking baby talk to herself.

The knock at the cottage door was muffled as though whoever was knocking was in two minds whether they really needed to or not.

Marcie glanced at her grandmother who was peacefully sleeping.

‘We’ll answer the door, shall we?’

Her daughter’s eyes sparkled at the whispered suggestion. Even if she couldn’t understand what was being said, her mother’s secretive tone sounded fun.

The last person she’d expected to see on the doorstep was Michael.

‘I got lost,’ he explained and looked sheepish. He was wearing his glasses.

Marcie stared. Joanna cooed.

‘I won’t say anything. I thought I should come back and say that.’

Marcie felt as though her tongue had stuck to the roof of her mouth. It was hard to swallow.

‘I take it she is yours,’ he added in response to her silence. ‘Yes. She must be,’ he said when she didn’t answer. ‘I heard her say “mummy”.’ He shook his head. ‘Don’t worry. Roberto didn’t hear. Do you want me to tell him for you?’

She stared more blindly and shook her head.

‘No,’ he said, also shaking his head. ‘I figured that.’

The way he looked at her was very worrying. She saw concern in his eyes and knew it was for her. She explained how to get to Rita’s house so he could drop off her car and find Roberto. A few moments passed in silence.

‘Marcie, you need to tread carefully.’ His voice was husky, even guarded.

‘He’ll understand,’ she blurted.

For a moment neither of them said anything. Then Michael managed a weak smile. ‘Of course he will.’

ROBERTO HAD SAT
Rita in the passenger seat with her head lolling backwards and her eyes rolling in her head. By the time they were nearing the place he’d been told she lived, her head was resting heavily on his shoulder and she was snoring.

He lost Michael at some traffic lights. Easy to do seeing as he was driving a Maserti and Michael was driving a Mini Cooper ‘S’.

Bringing the car to a halt, he nudged at Rita’s head with his shoulder.

‘Hey! Wake up.’

Groggily she opened her bleary eyes then groaned and touched her jaw.

Roberto could see that she still wasn’t quite with it. My, but Marcie had landed her one hell of a punch. Marcie wasn’t to know but the sight of her lashing out like that was strangely arousing. He loved fiery women, women who would fight back if a bloke gave her a bit of a slap. Oh yeah, he liked that alright. A virgin at first, then a firebrand; yes, Marcie Brooks could suit him fine. He’d marry her of course. She’d belong to him. He’d still indulge
his
huge passion here and there with one of the girls he came across in his business. That was the name of the game so to speak; make them feel as though they were the only girl in the world. Reel them in like a fish until they were well and truly hooked. Then have them working on their backs. Not streetwalkers of course, but high-class girls with clean bodies and bright minds. Give them a bank account and a clothes allowance, and they would do anything he wanted. But not Marcie. Marcie was a virgin. His virgin and the girl he would make his wife. He hadn’t asked her officially yet, but in time he would.

He clasped the nape of Rita’s neck so that she could at least keep her head still. If she kept her head still she should be able to focus better.

‘Hey! Is this your place?’

He swivelled her head to face the bungalow he’d been told she lived in.

Rita groaned. It sounded like yes, but he couldn’t be sure.

‘Did you say, yes?’

Her head lolled back and her eyes rolled again.

Roberto swore. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’

Her head whipped from side to side as he slapped one cheek then the other.

‘Come on, you stupid bitch! Talk to me.’

The slapping he’d given her seemed to work. Her
eyes
fluttered open then narrowed as her sight began to clear.

‘Who are you?’ She winced, gingerly touching her jaw. ‘Ouch.’

‘I’m the mug who gave you a lift home. Is this where you live?’

He jerked his chin at the bungalow. The place was in darkness. He decided that even when it was lit up it was an ugly place, flash but tasteless, the sort of place where the Rita Taylors of this world would live.

‘Come on. Let’s get you indoors. You got a key?’

She nodded and the pain from her jaw kicked in. ‘Ouch! I think I’ve got a loose tooth.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Roberto as he helped her out of the car. ‘You took a big one right on the chin.’

She stood on the pavement and frowned at him. ‘Marcie Brooks?’

‘Marcie Brooks. Come on. Let’s get you indoors.’

The thought of Marcie landing that ace of a punch made him ache with desire for her. He’d ached with desire for her from the first moment he’d seen her; who wouldn’t? She was a stunner with her blonde hair and peaches and cream complexion. As for her figure – well – she certainly had curves in all the right places, thank God! One thing he could admit to for sure and that was that he wasn’t a Twiggy man. No straight up and down girls for him. He liked a girl with hips and a bosom. At least with a bosom
you
could tell the front from the back. Not like Twiggy. Skinny cow!

The interior of the bungalow was exactly as he’d expected it to be. Flash carpet, flash furniture and even a padded cocktail bar in one corner. How crap was that?

It stunk of neglect and there was litter everywhere. He could see that Rita wasn’t one for housework. Slummy cow!

Rita slumped down onto a stack of orange cushions jammed at one end of a brown settee.

Pinning her elbows to her knees, she leaned forwards, head in hands and moaned.

‘That cow! She used to be my best friend.’

Roberto paused by the door. He had been meaning to go once he’d made sure she was OK. He’d half considered trying it on with her, but her curves had long since turned into layers of fat and were now too much even for him to handle.

He’d had no idea that Rita and Marcie used to be best friends, but the idea intrigued him. They were best friends who’d fallen out. When Roberto Camilleri fell for a girl, she had to be his and his alone. To that end he wished to know everything there was about her. Like his father he was of the old school that believed a woman’s place was in the home and that she should live for her husband and her children alone, never for herself. Even his mother’s dress
shop
had been at his father’s instigation. Victor Camilleri knew his wife well enough to see when she was restless and might be tempted to kick over the traces and even upset his life if she were given half a chance. And so he’d ordained that she design and make dresses to sell in a shop, her shop, or rather his father’s, because everything in women’s lives was owned by men. Women were not capable of owning and should not be encouraged to do so.