Goodnight Lady (27 page)

An added bonus was that he could pay back a few debts of his own tonight, starting with Micky Campbell. He hated the Campbells and they hated him.

At this moment Micky was terrified because for the first time ever he was on his own, without a weapon, his brothers or his formidable mother, who was the real brains behind the Campbell businesses.

He and Marcenello watched as Briony, Tommy and Mariah walked down to Gilda’s little terraced house. Gilda the Pole was a woman of uncertain age with a pronounced limp who catered to the lower echelons of the docks, the African sailors and the Chinese. She was a small woman with a beautiful peach skin, and the worst temper this side of the water.

She was called ‘the Pole’ because she’d had polio which had left the limp, and had no other known last name.

The women’s heels tapped on the pavement and Tommy heard the sound with his temper bubbling up inside him. When he got Briony home he was going to slap her face for her, hard. When she had walked into that marquee he had felt such a fool. So annoyed he could easily have throttled her.

This was men’s work, they were dealing with the lowest of the low, and as much as he respected her cunning and her bravery, he couldn’t forgive her for turning up there with those Arabs and that bleeding lanky bitch Jurgens! It made him look soft. As if he held on to her apron strings. His temper was so hot he nearly knocked Gilda’s neat green front door into the hallway when he hammered on it.

Willy had seen their approach through the small front room window, and taking a gun he ran out to the kitchen, telling Gilda to open the door and try and stall them.

As she opened the front door, she flicked her head and said: ‘He’s trying to do a poodle out the back door. He’s got a gun, and the hump. What more can I say?’

Outside in the yard Willy looked at the three men waiting for him and, hearing Gilda’s opening words at the door, knew he was finished. He was supposed to have an armed guard here and there was no one but Lane’s men. He looked around in the hope a couple of his minders would appear from the woodwork, but he knew instinctively that they were long gone. He didn’t hold out any hope that any were sitting outside or watching from the road. The Jews had abandoned him. They obviously knew something he didn’t. He could try and shoot his way out but he would be dead in seconds. It was the end of the line and he knew it.

He had been so close to achieving his aims! So very close. Now it was all falling down around his ears. The thought amused him even in his terrified state and he began to laugh. As Tommy appeared at the back door, he grinned at him.

‘Hello, Tommy boy. I hear you’ve been looking for me?’

Then, as Tommy watched, he put the barrel of the gun in his mouth, curling his tongue around the metal and still laughing as he pulled the trigger.

He had cheated them of his death and they were still none the wiser as to who had been backing him.

 

Going to the lifeless form, Tommy began to kick it in his rage. Briony and Mariah walked out with Gilda. Turning to Briony, Tommy bellowed: ‘You lot had to stick your beaks in, didn’t you? Well, he’s brown fucking bread now, so that’s an end to it. If you don’t mind I’ll sort out Campbell and the others. Or do you want me to put me hand up and ask permission first?’

With that he pushed through them and went out through the house. Jimmy and Abel looked at one another, eyebrows raised, before they left.

Mariah put her hand on Briony’s arm.

‘He’s upset.’

Before Briony could answer, Gilda shouted: ‘So what? I’m upset! That fat bastard was paying me a small fortune for staying here. Now I’ve got to get the Old Bill and report a fucking suicide!’

Looking at the little woman in front of her, standing awkwardly with all her weight on her good leg, Briony started to laugh. A laugh that rapidly turned to tears. Taking her by the arm, Mariah walked her back to her car.

Pulling away from Mariah, Briony went to Tommy and said in a low voice: ‘All right, big shot, so you’re annoyed, but think on this. Where the fuck are the Jews? They were supposed to be protecting him, remember? Someone got here first, mate. Bolger thought he was running out to help and security. There wasn’t a soul there but us. Think about it. Come on, Mariah, we’ll leave the big boys to their little games.’

When the women left, Tommy got into Mariah’s car. It was being driven by her minder, Big John. Nodding at Kousan, Tommy said to the men: ‘As you can probably see, I’m fucking fuming so don’t bugger me about because I ain’t in the mood. I’ve got two dead men and no explanations. So have a good think before you open your traps!’

Campbell and Marcenello had no intention of aggravating Tommy Lane any more than was necessary.

They both began to talk at once.

Ma Campbell was sixty-eight, with a face like a walnut, and black hair liberally sprinkled with grey worn piled up on her head in a neat French pleat. As always she was in a shapeless grey dress, covered over by a large apron which crossed over her pendulous breasts and was tied in a neat bow around her waist. Her feet were swollen, and bulged out of carpet slippers cut at the side to allow her bunions free rein. She had just made her husband and herself a ham sandwich, and was settling by her kitchen fire waiting for her boys to come home and tell her the evening’s doings.

As the door knocker was slammed against the wood she heaved herself out of her chair. Walking along her hallway, she bellowed: ‘All right, all right, for fuck’s sake! I ain’t deaf!’

Pulling open her front door she closed her gaping mouth as she saw Mariah Jurgens and Briony Cavanagh standing there. She drew herself up to her full height and stood aggressively before them.

‘Well, well, well, if it ain’t the bleeding Tarts’ Society on me step!’

Briony and Mariah pushed her into her hallway in a flurry of bad language and shoves.

‘Who you bleeding pushing, you pair of whores? My boys won’t take no sodding nonsense, mate. They’ll cut your tits off if you touch me.’

Briony grabbed the woman by her immaculate French pleat and practically ran her into her kitchen.

‘Shut up, Ma, before I lose me rag. Your Micky is at this moment in a car with Kousan the Arab and Tommy Lane, and I don’t hold out much hope of him coming home.’

Da Campbell, as he was known, carried on eating his sandwich without glancing at them.

‘Everyone knows you’re the brains, Ma, so why don’t you just calm down and tell us what we want to know? Believe me when I say we’ve had enough for one night and we’re rapidly losing our patience.’

Ma Campbell was so incensed her face was a bright red and her hands were visibly shaking.

‘I don’t know fuck all! Now get yourselves and your cheap perfume out of my clean kitchen.’

Mariah slapped her across the face, hard, making her head roll back on to her shoulders.

‘You bitch! Raise your hand to me, would you?’

As Ma made to grab at Mariah, Briony took hold of her arm and twisted it up her back.

‘Shut up, Nancy!’ Da Campbell’s voice was loud in the room and the three women stared at him.

‘You bastard! You’d do a deal over your boy’s life, wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you?’ The last two words ended on a scream.

Taking another bite of his sandwich, Da wiped his hands over his mouth and said through the food: ‘If Kousan’s got Micky, he’s a dead man. I told him to steer clear of the screaming Ab Dads but he wouldn’t listen. It’s the other four boys I’m worried about now. What’s gone on tonight?’

Briony pushed the old woman from her and shoved her into a chair. The tiny kitchen was silent as she began to talk.

‘Ronnie Olds is dead. So is Willy Bolger. Me and Tommy come out in the open tonight, and believe me when I say we ain’t having any more nonsense. This is our manor from tonight. There’s no room any more for wasters or ponces. Anyone wants to work the East End, they’ve got to come to us. One of my girls was cut up and I ain’t taking that lying down. No one touches me or mine and that goes for your precious fucking sons. It’s all over, finished with, but I have to know who the big man was, who Bolger was cultivating, because I won’t rest easy until I’ve cut the bastard. You understand me? I want him, and I’ll trade the rest of your boys for him.’

Da Campbell nodded, it was what he’d expected. Unlike his wife he had no personal feelings about anything. His boys were an extension of him and his own quest for survival; he was quite happy to sacrifice Micky for the good of the rest. Kousan had been one of his son’s biggest mistakes and without doubt his biggest enemy. He had a grudging respect for these two women because to get the Arabs working side by side with you was an achievement.

Da Campbell swallowed the last of his food. Standing up he went to the fireplace. He picked up his pipe and tapped it against the bricks.

‘I saw Bolger about a week since. He was with a gentleman, and I mean gentleman. I worked for him once-around the same time as your old man Briony, actually. Do you know, I remember you when you had the shit still running down your legs! Always had that flaming red hair though, even as a baby. Who’d have thought you’d have turned out like you did?’

Briony wasn’t listening now. She knew who he was talking about but until she heard him voice the name she wouldn’t rest.

‘Who was the man? Tell me his name.’

‘It was Henry Dumas. I was going down the Old Kent Road, up by The Apples and Pears. You can put on a good bet in there without the hag of getting paid out with an hammer. I saw them together. Now what would them two want with one another? I thought. But I knew straight off. My Micky was a prat. He should have taken Bolger’s money and wasted the little shit. Never liked ponces, never. Dirty two-faced bastards, the majority. Whoring’s a woman’s game, the money’s too easy. Bad as my boys are, they don’t live off no tarts. You ladies know the game better than any man, I’ll bet. And you’ve got the muscle behind you.’

Ma Campbell listened to her husband and then turned on him viciously.

‘Hark at him! The bleeding oracle. By Christ, Da, you’ve sunk low before but, dear God, tonight you’ve sunk to the depths. Your son is sitting somewhere with that Arab bastard and you’re telling this pair of whores what they wanna know!’ Her voice was drenched with tears. Micky was her first-born, her baby. She knew he would never walk in her house again, never be there when she woke up, never speak to her again, and it broke her heart. Mariah patted her shoulder gently.

‘Don’t you touch me! I’ll never forgive you for the news you brought here tonight. My boy’s dead. My beautiful boy ...’

Briony stared at the woman before her, at the tears bubbling out from underneath her closed lids, and felt a stirring of pity inside her. If her son was to die, was to die in fear and terror, without her near to try and help, to try and protect him, she would feel the same as this old woman before her. As bad as Ma Campbell was, and God himself knew she was a vicious woman, she loved her children. She had robbed, schemed and threatened to give her boys what she considered a good life. That meant plenty to eat, good clean clothes on their backs, and shoes or boots on their feet. Unless you were born as low as them, you couldn’t understand in a million years what an achievement that was.

‘You’ll see me other boys come home, won’t you now?’

Briony nodded at the man, who bit his lip and half smiled. ‘Then there’s nothing to do now but wait for the body to turn up.’

Mariah touched Briony’s arm and silently the two women left the house, the only sound the heart-wrenching sobbing of Ma Campbell, which followed them out into the night.

 

Briony sat in her bedroom with a large glass of brandy in her hand and a cigarette dangling from her lips. She looked ugly and full of hate. Since finding out about Henry Dumas, she had felt a canker growing inside her. With every second the clock ticked, the feeling grew. She was now full of it, it consumed her until she was ready to burst. Everything she had ever suffered at his hands was there in front of her eyes in crystal clear detail. His flabby body, his roughness as he took her, the putrid stench of his breath on her face.

She’d been a child, and she had thought as a child. She had thought to save herself and her family from poverty by letting him have her. But he should have known how wrong he was, her father should have known! How could she have realised what she was doing? All she had wanted was the warmth of the house, the good food, the cleanliness. She had wanted it for herself and her sisters, and Dumas had made use of that. But what a price she had paid, still paid.

He had taken her child, and before that he had taken her very heart. Had helped strangle every natural instinct she possessed. Until now she was empty.

But she would pay him back. Dear God, she would pay him back tenfold, a hundredfold for what he had done to her. What he had tried to do to her.

She heard Tommy enter the house and held her breath. The front door was banged hard; she could even hear him throw his coat across the banisters, the buttons making a snapping sound as they hit the wooden balustrade. She heard him stamping up the stairs, heard Mrs Horlock’s light tread on the landing and her voice as she spoke to him.

‘What’s all the noise? What’s going on? Briony’s not fit for man or beast, like a madwoman ...’

‘GO TO BLEEDING BED!’ Tommy’s voice echoed around the hallway, sending the old woman scurrying away.

Briony tensed in her chair, waiting for the onslaught that was to come. Tommy opened the bedroom door and it banged against the dado rail with a sickening thump.

She watched him as he walked into the room, his face set, his hair standing on end as if he had received a massive shock.

‘You mare! You showed me up tonight, Briony. Never have I felt so embarrassed, so small. You charged in there like I didn’t mean anything, I was nothing! I don’t work for you, madam, let’s get that straight. We’re a partnership! A partnership. I ain’t your fucking lackey, I ain’t no one’s lackey.’