Anyone Who Had a Heart (25 page)

The fact that he’d actually paid for the stolen
flowers
was not entirely surprising. Michael harboured an innate sense of right and wrong. It was touching, even endearing.

‘I’m certainly learning who to trust in London. And on Sheppey for that matter.’

It was all becoming clear. Rita had told Roberto everything, had probably even insinuated that Joanna was Alan Taylor’s child.

Michael sighed deeply and cupped his own drink with both hands as he sat down beside her.

‘So let me guess, Roberto wanted you to forget about your kid if you wanted to continue the relationship with him.’

‘Yes.’

Michael rested his head against the back of the sofa, his eyes closed.

‘You were the lucky one. He thinks you should be grateful to be chosen by him. Not like the other girls. They’re taken on for a totally different reason.’

Marcie frowned. ‘You mean Carol and April.’

The veins on his neck blossomed like spring twigs when he jerked his head in a tight nod. ‘Them. And others.’

‘They’re taken on to serve in the shop.’

He shook his head. ‘No. Can you dance?’

Marcie shrugged. It seemed an odd question. ‘Yes. I suppose so.’

‘And you look good and people – men in
particular
– find you attractive. You don’t speak badly either. Some girls have to have elocution lessons their accents are so bad.’

Marcie kept staring at the side of his head. ‘Tell me.’

At long last he sighed and looked sidelong at her.

‘The girls taken on in the sewing room and the shop are usually less than twenty years old with absent or negligent parents. And, as I’ve already told you, they’re always beautiful. My father makes the rules and his wife, Gabriella, carries out his wishes. She’s Sicilian. That’s all she’s required to do. After a while, once they’ve been assessed …’

Marcie felt a cold chill trickling down her back like melting ice. The girls were brought in to do more than sew. They were being groomed to entertain.

‘First they dance in one of our strip clubs and then they are introduced to rich patrons. It’s only unsullied girls they want, not cheap prostitutes. The girls don’t do so badly I suppose. Their “sponsors” set them up in expensive apartments with plenty of money. But once you’re in … well … it’s difficult to get out. And in return for your good fortune, my father expects feedback. These rich geezers are in the know in business and banking. My father makes the most of the information. He likes to have a foot in both markets – legal and illegal. Get it?’

‘So why are you telling me all this?’

He seemed to muse on that, his grey eyes looking straight into hers then down into his glass.

He raised his eyes again. His look was intense and totally unassuming. It was like being caressed without being touched.

‘Because I’m not my father’s son,’ he said. ‘I’m not like him at all. I can’t change him or stop what he’s doing – I’ve tried. So instead I’ve decided to go back to my studies and strike out on my own. Strictly legit. I’m going into commercial property – buying shops and letting them out. I only came here to collect my things. Take care, Marcie Brooks. If you want to take my advice, get out while you can. The bright lights of London aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.’

The next morning she smouldered with anger one minute and despair the next. What was it with men?

In the early hours of Sunday morning she was lying awake, staring into the darkness and numb with fear. By Sunday evening her fear had turned to a simmering anger which came to a head halfway through Monday morning. Ostensibly she was going out for doughnuts to have with their mid-morning coffee in the sewing room. Instead of finding herself queued up in the cake shop, she found herself standing in line at the local nick. The police sergeant behind the desk had slicked-back grey hair and watery blue eyes. He also had a
line
of people waiting for attention. The queue gradually shuffled forwards but only slowly. When it came to the turn of the woman in front of her, she began to get cold feet.

‘I’ve lost my Henry,’ she said in a high-pitched voice, the sort that sounded as though she was perpetually hysterical.

‘Right, madam,’ said the sergeant after licking the end of his pencil. ‘And your husband’s full name?’

‘My husband? Archibald Lester Framlingham.’

The sergeant turned his watery eyes on her. ‘I thought you said his name’s Henry.’

‘Not my husband. My cat. Henry’s my cat and he’s gone missing. He ran out when the coalman came through the passage with a hundredweight of nutty slack on his back. Henry’s not used to going out you see …’

Normally Marcie would have listened enthralled and amused for the next instalment, but her mind was elsewhere. She could still feel the wet mud soaking through her clothes, and still had the bruises on her inner thighs. Roberto had not been gentle. Far from it.

Her eyes darted around the gloomy police reception noting the curling corners of posters warning about thieves and fuzzy photos on wanted posters.

The door opened and let in the brighter light of day from outside. Suddenly she wanted to be out
there
and not telling some stranger what had happened to her.

‘Yes, miss?’ The sergeant with the watery blue eyes was looking straight at her, pencil impatiently poised, ready to write down details of her and her problem.

She felt as though her knees had turned to jelly and that she wanted to stuff her hands even deeper into the big patch pockets of her Crombie jacket.

‘I …’

‘Yes?’

She swallowed. She couldn’t do this – or could she? Roberto had raped her. The best place for him was prison – the louse, the rotten, snotty louse!

‘Miss?’

She glanced over her shoulder. The queue had vaporised like morning mist. The only person in the waiting room was the old lady wanting the police to find her cat.

You were raped
.

‘A man … he … um …’

The sergeant eyed the long legs exposed by her ultra-short mini-skirt, made a swift assessment then sighed and put down his pencil. ‘I don’t have all day to waste on young women just popping in to kill time. Do you want to make a statement or what?’

His manner was brusque. She felt herself reddening.

‘What will happen to him if I say he … that a man took advantage of me?’

Wispy grey eyebrows rose towards his hairline and wrinkles as deep as a ploughed field waved across his forehead. He exhaled a blast of onion-scented breath as though he didn’t really want to bother with this.

‘The boyfriend was it? You were kissing and canoodling as young folk do. You gave him the come on signals and then cried wolf when he responded.’

‘No! That isn’t what happened at all.’

She was appalled, not least because the door to the outside had swung open a few times to admit more people, more customers for the sergeant to take note of and dismiss. The people were arguing amongst themselves and appeared to be making complaints against each other. They were also wearing carnations and looked as though they’d been to a wedding.

‘She’s been jilted,’ a woman in a flowery dress shouted in the direction of the sergeant. The younger woman beside her exploded into floods of tears.

Marcie ogled the scene, finding something of amusement but also pathos and sympathy. The younger woman’s dress strained over a five-month pregnancy.

She was pulled back to the task in hand by the sergeant behind the desk.

‘Well,’ he barked, ‘are you going to make a complaint against your boyfriend or are you going to kiss and make up? In which case don’t waste my time. I’ve got more important things to do than dealing
with
young girls who can’t keep their knickers on! If you didn’t wear such a short skirt these things wouldn’t happen.’

Cheeks ablaze, Marcie fled.

Even the outside air wasn’t enough to cool her hot face or dry the tears that stung her eyes. How could she have been so bloody stupid! No matter how she’d worded it, she would carry the can.

You went for a drive in his car? Just the two of you? He’d found out that you had a child out of wedlock. Well, then what do you expect with a reputation like you’ve got?

She wanted to run away. She didn’t want to go back to work. She didn’t want to go back to living with the Camilleris or with her father.

What are the options, she asked herself. In her mind she ticked them off just like her grandmother ticked off the items on a shopping list.

First, the Isle of Sheppey. No. It wasn’t possible, neither for herself nor for Joanna. Rita Taylor would not let it drop, shouting the odds with her foul mouth and her nasty accusations. The rotten cow would always be a nuisance both to herself and her daughter. She was also missing her baby. Joanna too must leave Sheppey, but where would they go? Finding accommodation that would take children in London was almost impossible, especially for someone who didn’t know the city that well. So who did she know here
who
did know the city? The only people besides her father were the two girls she’d met at a home for unmarried mothers.

The rest of the afternoon in the sewing room felt hot and oppressive. Every so often she looked up at the battery-operated clock ticking away on the wall. The seconds passed like minutes, the minutes like hours.

Gabriella asked her what was wrong.

‘Just a bit of a headache,’ she said with a tight smile.

‘I won’t be home this evening,’ Gabriella Camilleri said to her. ‘Victor and I have a church function to attend. The bishop is visiting and we’ve been invited to meet him.’

Marcie was relieved that she would have the flat to herself. She prayed that Roberto wouldn’t come round once he knew his parents weren’t there.

When the doorbell rang she jumped a mile. She opened it to find Michael was standing there.

‘I won’t come in. I only wanted to ask if you were OK.’

He looked thoughtful, almost plaintive, as though he was in some way responsible for what his half-brother had done to her.

‘Roberto,’ she said, her eyes flickering along the hallway behind him.

His smile was reassuring and warm. ‘He’s down at Limehouse as the guest of a Chinese gambling club. They want protection. He’s arranging it.’

Marcie knew that the only protection the Chinese required was from the Camilleris. They paid, they got protected; in other words the Camilleris and their stooges didn’t go in and break up the joint.

She sighed with relief and found herself saying, ‘Look, I’m truly grateful for you being such a good friend, and I would invite you in, but not tonight. There’s something I’ve got to do and besides, quite frankly I’d prefer to be alone.’

His smile wasn’t so bright. ‘A friend. Well, I suppose that’s a start. But I’d like to be more than that – when you’re ready. If you ever are ready that is.’ He’d been leaning against the door jamb, but now he straightened up, resigned that he had to leave. ‘So I’ll leave you in peace.’

After he’d gone she recalled his sad smile but hardened her heart to it. He’d been kind to her and she had time for him. However, she wasn’t yet ready for anything else, even though it did occur to her to ask him to help her find accommodation and a job – one that paid well. He’d probably direct her towards a nightclub. Most of the girls who earned good money danced half naked in one of the Camilleris clubs.

It was tempting, but she didn’t feel she wanted to do that. There had to be something else. So at least
for
now she’d pass on asking for his help. So that night she wrote once again to both Sally and Allegra and hoped and prayed that this time one of them would write back.

ROSA BROOKS CLUTCHED
at her black patent handbag with both hands and took as shallow breaths as possible. She disliked hospitals at the best of times; there were good intentions in such places but also a certain emptiness like that left behind when souls have flown.

Rather than leave Joanna with Babs, who was becoming surlier and scruffier than ever nowadays, she’d left the toddler with her next-door neighbour, a grandmother who couldn’t stop loving children.

No one else was likely to visit Garth Davies except her. He had no family, no home and no friends except the ones he’d made at number ten, Endeavour Terrace.

The strong smell of carbolic persisted from the very moment she’d entered the front door of the mental hospital where Garth was incarcerated. Cared for was not the right word for it she’d decided even before she’d got here. Such institutions as this were little more than prisons with their heavy doors, their high ceilings and windows that were barred from the inside.

A nurse dressed in a dark-blue dress and a small
white
cap asked her if she was a relative. She lied and said she was his great-aunt, the only family he had left in the whole world.

The clumpy heels of her stout walking shoes thudded on polished brown floors and echoed off walls that were painted dark green to shoulder level then eau de nil the rest of the way.

The windows had wire-enforced panes so far up; the light came in but nobody could look out.

‘Garth? You have a visitor.’

Garth’s face lit up like a Christmas tree. ‘Auntie Rosa!’

Rosa gasped. ‘What’s that he’s wearing?’

The fact was she knew exactly what it was. Garth was wearing a thickly padded jacket with belts and buckles. His arms were pinned to his sides, hugging himself in an embrace it was impossible to escape.

‘It’s a straitjacket,’ said the nurse, her plump hands folded in front of her.

‘I know what it is,’ snapped Rosa, fixing the ruddy-hued face with sharp, disproving eyes. ‘Garth is not dangerous. Why is he wearing it?’

‘It’s for his own good.’

‘Then you will explain to me
why
it is for his own good?’

The nurse took a deep breath and held it – almost as though she is trying to look bigger than what she is, Rosa thought to herself. Her sharp-eyed look was
unrelenting
. The nurse caved in and released Garth from the restraining jacket.