Bad Girl (12 page)

Helen was in bed, lying on her back with her hands behind her head. She knew without glancing at the luminous green dial of the alarm clock that it was just after eleven. The bedroom was at the front of the flat, overlooking Station Road, and the customers were starting to leave. People always talked too loudly when they had the drink in them. Sometimes there was shouting, rows and fights, but tonight it wasn’t so bad.

She was tired, but she couldn’t sleep. She was thinking over the day and the deal she had made with Frank Meyer. Three more weeks and then she could leave if she wanted to. He had promised to drive her anywhere, but where would she go? Perhaps by then Gran would be better and she could return to her life at Camberley Road.

After the two of them had left the cemetery, Frank had walked her up to Moira’s and stayed for a cup of tea. Helen had watched him surreptitiously from over the rim of her mug. He was the kind of man, she thought, who made you feel safe: big and solid, with an easy manner. Maybe, when she was older, she would marry a man like Frank, someone who was kind and funny and never mean to her. That was if she ever got married at all. Would anybody want a girl with bad blood?

After Frank had gone, Moira had leaned across the table and laid a hand over hers. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, love? That Joe Quinn’s a nasty piece of work. If you want me to have a word with him…’

But Helen shook her head. ‘It’s fine. Really it is.’ She couldn’t bear the idea of anyone else getting involved. All she wanted to do now was to try and forget about it. Her grandmother, who adhered to the stiff-upper-lip school of thought, had always disapproved of people who ‘made a fuss’. She had been raised to put a brave face on things and not to whine about what you couldn’t change.

Moira, sensing her awkwardness, changed the subject smartly. ‘So how about something to eat, then? You must be starving.’ Before Helen could reply, she had jumped up and started bustling round the kitchen. ‘What about an omelette? You go and put some music on while I get them ready.’

Helen had flipped through Moira’s extensive collection of LPs, examining the covers while she tried to decide what to play. It was mainly soul music – Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, James Brown – with a bit of pop thrown in. She had chosen Aretha Franklin’s
Soul ’69
and they had listened to it while they ate their lunch.

Afterwards, she and Moira had taken their chairs outside to the rickety fire escape that led down to the alley. They had sat in the sun and chatted about nothing in particular. For the first time that day, Helen had actually started to relax. Joe might be her enemy, but she wasn’t completely alone. She had Tommy and Moira on her side, and Frank Meyer too.

At four o’clock, they had walked back to the Fox together. Moira had stopped by the back door and laid a maternal hand on her arm. ‘You can always come to mine, Helen. If you’re worried about anything, or if you just want to get away from here for a while. You’re always welcome.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Would you like me to come in with you?’

Helen had shaken her head. She was anxious about entering the pub again, scared that she might walk straight into Joe, but she had to do it some time. And she had to do it on her own. ‘Thanks for lunch. I’ll see you soon.’

After Moira had left, Helen had unlocked the back door and stepped gingerly inside. She had held her breath while she listened for any noises coming from the bar or from upstairs. All she could hear was the faint sound of the television. After a few minutes, she had climbed quietly up the stairs.

As it happened, she’d had no need to be worried. There was no sign of Joe in the living room, and everything was calm. Her two cousins had shifted up to make room for her on the sofa and even Yvonne had made an effort to be nice.

‘You okay, love? Sit yourself down. I’m just making tea. It won’t be long.’

Food, it seemed, was the common answer to any upset. No one had come straight out and asked her about what had happened, but she could tell that they all knew. Karen and Debs had given her curious sidelong glances, clearly eager to ask for all the gory details but probably under strict instructions not to do so.

They had eaten tea on their knees, eggs, chips and beans, and everything had been fine until Tommy had come back. As soon as he’d stepped through the door, Yvonne had started sniping.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘A bit of business,’ he said.

‘Yeah, and we all know what kind of business that is.’

Tommy had raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘The kind of business that keeps this family fed and clothed, woman. What’s your problem?’

‘My problem is you disappearing and not telling me where you’re going.’

Helen had bowed her head, not wanting to listen. She hated it when they bickered; it reminded her of her mum rowing with Gran, and that in turn reminded her of everything she’d lost. For her uncle, however, it was like water off a duck’s back. He gave an indifferent shrug and headed for the kitchen.

Helen had gone to bed early so that she could pretend to be asleep when Karen joined her in the room. Out of earshot of Yvonne, her cousin might be tempted to start asking questions. Now, an hour later and still awake, she turned over and lay on her side, gazing at the thin stripe of light that ran along the bottom of the door. The landing light would stay on until Tommy locked up and came upstairs.

From the bunk above, she heard Karen’s light snuffling snores. There was the sound of laughter from outside, and then the clatter of an empty tin can as it rolled along the road. She closed her eyes, willing oblivion to come. Her body felt heavy and exhausted, but the events of the day continued to haunt her. Her eyes blinked open again. Had Joe come in yet? What if he was still angry and he… No, if she started thinking like that, she’d lie awake all night.

It was only when she heard Tommy’s heavy tread on the carpet outside the door that Helen finally relaxed. She was safe so long as her uncle was close by. Joe wouldn’t come for her when his son was around. There was a murmur of voices from the master bedroom, and then it went quiet. She closed her eyes again and began to drift into sleep.

Helen had just dozed off when she was woken abruptly by a huge crash. There was the distinctive sound of breaking glass, followed by a soft whooshing noise. She sat bolt upright, her heart hammering in her chest. It had come from downstairs, either the first floor or the bar.

Seconds later, she heard Tommy thumping along the landing. ‘For fuck’s sake!’

Helen leapt out of bed, opened the door and leaned over the banisters. She saw the top of Tommy’s head as he turned the corner on the first-floor landing and lunged down towards the pub. There was a thin, crackling noise and smoke started to drift up the stairwell. Oh God, the Fox was on fire! For one crazy, panic-stricken moment, she thought that Joe was trying to kill her, before reason kicked in. He was hardly likely to burn down his own pub, especially when his two granddaughters were fast asleep in the flat above.

Yvonne came out of the bedroom, her fingers fumbling with the sash on her pink silky dressing gown. ‘Get Karen,’ she yelped as she rushed into Debs’s room.

Helen dashed back, jumped on the bottom bunk and reached up to shake Karen awake. ‘Get up, get up! Quick! There’s a fire!’

Karen half climbed, half fell out of bed, and the two of them ran out on to the landing. Yvonne grabbed her daughters’ hands and started pulling them down the stairs. Helen followed behind, her legs feeling weak and shaky. They stumbled down the two flights into the smoky atmosphere of the ground-floor hallway.

As Yvonne yanked the key off the hook in the hallway and began to fumble with the lock on the back door, Helen looked across at the entrance to the bar. The central pillar was alight, blazing fiercely, and there were other, smaller scattered fires. Tommy, dressed only in his jeans and trainers, was spraying the floor with the fire extinguisher, trying to stop the flames from spreading. His back was gleaming with sweat, his shoulders grey and ashy.

Helen felt another wave of panic rising in her chest. What if he got caught in the fire? What if he couldn’t escape? From where she was standing, she could see the gaping hole in the window, its edges sharp and ragged. She heard an ugly splintering sound and saw one of the tables collapse to the ground. The acrid smell of smoke filled the hallway.

‘Come on,’ Yvonne urged, finally getting the door open. She quickly pushed her daughters out into the cool night air and then grabbed Helen’s arm and propelled her out too. She called over her shoulder. ‘For God’s sake, Tommy, get out of there! Leave it!’

But Helen suspected that he’d take no notice. Tommy loved the pub and he’d do anything to try and save the place. As Yvonne dragged them all towards the far side of the car park, Helen kept looking back, willing him to run out through the door, to do exactly as his wife told him for once in his life.
Please, Tommy
, she silently begged.

‘Stay here,’ Yvonne ordered, before flopping clumsily down the street in her slippers towards the red phone box on the corner. There were two phones in the pub, one upstairs and one down, but there hadn’t been time to use them.

While she was gone, the three girls huddled together and gazed helplessly at the burning building. The orange glow of the fire could be clearly seen through the back windows of the bar, the flames licking at the glass. From where they were standing, they couldn’t see any sign of Tommy. Karen started to cry, a thin, mewling sound like a frightened kitten.

‘He’ll be all right,’ Debs said, trying to comfort her.

‘Your mum’s gone to call the fire brigade; they’ll be here soon,’ Helen offered, although in truth she had no idea how long they would take. She wished Frank Meyer was on his way too. He’d know what to do. He wouldn’t let Tommy get hurt. Hopping from one foot to the other, she hugged her chest with her arms. Perhaps she was being punished for not going to church. She stared up at the starlit sky, making a private deal with the God she had ignored for the last couple of months.
Please don’t let him die. Please keep him safe and I’ll always be good.
When she thought of fire, she thought of hell and damnation. She thought of her mother going to sleep and never waking up.

Yvonne returned and went as close to the back door of the pub as she dared. By now the smoke was billowing out in thick black clouds. ‘Tommy!’ she yelled again. ‘I’ve called the fire brigade. Get out of there!’

Helen strained her ears but couldn’t hear any reply. She lifted a hand and chewed on her fingernails. They should never have left him alone. He was going to die. He was going to burn to death. She watched, terrified, as Yvonne retreated, beaten back by the smoke. And then, just when she thought there was no hope remaining, Tommy suddenly came barrelling out of the pub with a jacket over his head. He got as far as the centre of the car park before his legs gave way beneath him and he crumpled to the ground.

The girls were on him in a second. ‘Dad? Dad? Are you okay?’

Tommy sat on the concrete, his head between his knees, his body racked with great heaving coughs. His fair hair was singed at the ends and blackened by the smoke. There were cuts and burns across his shoulders, back and arms. After a while, the coughing began to subside and he gulped in the fresh night air.

While the girls fussed around Tommy, Helen stood back. Her instinct had been to run straight to him, but she had fought against the impulse. She might be family, but she wasn’t his daughter. Relieved as she was, she didn’t want to push in where she might not be wanted. Instead she briefly squeezed shut her eyes and whispered,
Thank you, God. Thank you, God.

‘What about Grandad?’ Debs asked, whirling round to stare at the pub.

‘He’s not home, hun,’ Yvonne said. ‘You don’t have to worry.’ She looked down at Tommy and scowled. ‘What the hell were you thinking, you moron? You could have been killed in there!’

It was another ten minutes before two fire engines, their sirens shrieking, arrived at the Fox, along with an ambulance. By now a small crowd had gathered, a group of neighbours and people who were just passing by. They stood around in clumps, pointing and whispering as they viewed the spectacle.

A middle-aged woman with her hair in curlers laid a blanket around Helen’s shoulders as she sat perched on the low wall of the car park. Up until that point she hadn’t even realised she was shivering. Becoming suddenly self-conscious about the fact that she was dressed only in her pyjamas, she wrapped the blanket tightly around her.

As the firemen fought to extinguish the blaze, she sent up another prayer that the Fox wouldn’t be destroyed. It was probably asking too much – whatever limited credit she might have had must have been used up by now – but she had to try at least. It occurred to her that everything could be her fault. Perhaps she had more than bad blood – perhaps she brought bad luck as well. Misfortune seemed to follow her around. First her mother, then her gran, and now…

Helen gave a tiny shake of her head. The fates might not have been kind to her recently, but the blaze at the pub wasn’t down to any accident. She had heard the crash of the window breaking just before the fire started. Someone was out to hurt the Quinns. They had only partly succeeded this time, but what about the next? Her stomach turned over. This might be bad, but she had a feeling that things were going to get worse.

Tommy sat quietly in the corner of the living room, drinking a beer while he listened to his father rant and rave. It was three days now since the Molotov cocktail had been hurled through the front window of the Fox, setting the place ablaze. The word on the street was that the Gissings were responsible, and not one member of that family had come forward to refute the accusation.

Joe, egged on by his entourage, was busy plotting revenge. If the Gissings wanted a war, he was more than happy to oblige. An eye for an eye was his mantra, and his retribution would be suitably violent. The Gissings owned a nightclub in Shoreditch, and his intention, for starters, was to burn it to the ground. Such was his rage that he was unable to sit still, and continuously paced the floor from one side of the room to the other. ‘Fuckin’ bastards! Fuckin’ bastards!’ he repeated endlessly. His face, flushed with booze, was a bright florid red and his eyes were dark with hatred.

From downstairs came the sound of hammering and sawing as a team of builders worked to repair the damage to the pub. Tommy was torn between the desire for revenge – his own kids had been put in danger by the attack – and the anxiety of embarking on a full-scale battle with the Gissings. Once Joe retaliated, the violence would escalate rapidly, and when that happened, it wouldn’t just be buildings that were targeted. There could be no backing down without losing face; the battle would continue until one family or the other was finished.

Tommy glanced over towards the kitchen, where Mouse was busy making mugs of tea for the workmen. Yvonne had taken the girls and gone to stay at Carol Gatesby’s house until the pub repairs were finished. She could have stayed put – the flat was still perfectly habitable, apart from the lingering smell of smoke – but he hadn’t tried to dissuade her. With all the shit going down, he preferred them out of the way. It was one less thing to worry about.

Mouse, however, had refused to leave, although he wasn’t sure why. He thought she would have jumped at the opportunity to get away from his father, especially in his current mood. He wondered how much she understood about what was really going on. She hadn’t asked a single question about the fire, and he couldn’t figure out whether she thought it was accidental or simply didn’t want to talk about it. On balance, he favoured the latter. She might be the quiet sort, but she had eyes and ears.

Fat Pete leaned forward in his chair and slapped his palms against his thighs. ‘I’ll take a couple of the boys over there tonight, suss the place out.’

‘Yeah,’ said Joe. ‘The sooner the better.’

Terry Street, who had been sitting as quietly as Tommy until this point, leaned forward too. ‘They’ll be expecting you.’

‘So what?’ Joe snapped impatiently. ‘Who gives a fuck?’

By which he meant that when they did retaliate, they’d be tooled up. Tommy felt his guts tighten. He wasn’t afraid of a scrap – in his younger days he’d have been more than up for it – but this one would end in major casualties. If the truth be told, he could do without the grief.

Terry gave a thin smile. ‘I heard a rumour that Lennie Gissing’s been cosying up to the filth.’

‘And?’ retorted Joe impatiently. There wasn’t a firm in London that didn’t pay off the law. It was all par for the course.

‘Thing is, I did a bit of asking around, and it turns out the geezer’s not local. He’s a DI called Tony Lazenby, and he works out of West End Central. I mean, the Gissings ain’t got any interests up West, so what the fuck’s the connection?’

Tommy’s ears had pricked up. ‘Hang on. What does he look like?’

Joe gave a snort. ‘What the hell does that matter?’

‘’Bout forty,’ said Terry, ignoring Joe’s comment. ‘Six foot, solid-looking, brown hair, thinning a bit at the front. You know him?’

‘Not me,’ Tommy said, ‘but I reckon it may have been the same fella who was sniffing round Shelley Anne on Saturday night. She’s working at the Dog and Duck now, over at Finsbury Park. He came into the pub just after she’d started her shift and she clocked him for the filth straight off but didn’t let on. She played along, you know, just to see what he was after. He said his name was Tony. He was doing a lot of digging, asking her stuff.’

‘What sort of stuff?’ Terry asked.

Tommy gave a shrug. ‘Oh, who she was seeing, how it was going, that kind of thing.’

Joe stopped pacing for a moment and stared at his son. ‘So he was chatting her up, so what? Won’t be the first or the last time some copper tried to get into a slapper’s knickers.’

Tommy glared at him. ‘She ain’t no slapper,’ he snapped back, although he wasn’t sure if he was defending Lynsey or Shelley Anne.

‘What else did he say?’ Terry asked, before the exchange between father and son could escalate into a full-blown row.

Tommy continued glaring at Joe for a few more seconds, and then glanced over at Terry. ‘Said he thought he knew her from somewhere else, Hackney maybe, or Kellston. She told him that she used to work here at the Fox, and that seemed to interest him a lot. Anyway, she called me on Sunday after she heard about the fire, reckoned there might be a connection.’

‘Bit of a coincidence,’ Terry said. ‘Don’t you reckon, Joe?’

Joe gave a shrug and went over to stand by the window.

Tommy hadn’t thought too much about Shelley Anne’s call before. Like his father, he had pretty much dismissed what she’d told him as some guy trying his luck. He was having second thoughts now. And shit, if this inspector had teamed up with the Gissings, it would mean even bigger trouble. What if the guy started poking his nose into Tommy’s business and found out about the long-firm fraud in Romford? It could result in all his plans going right down the Swanee.

‘It don’t smell good, Joe,’ Terry continued. ‘Fact, it stinks. It might not only be the Gissings who’ll be waiting if you go for the club. Could be the filth, too.’

Joe Quinn looked over his shoulder. ‘What did you say that geezer’s name was again?’

‘Lazenby, Tony Lazenby.’

Joe’s forehead crunched into a frown, and his face took on a strained expression, as if he was struggling, through the haze of booze, to retrieve the name from some lost corner of his addled brain. ‘Lazenby,’ he murmured.

‘You heard of him?’ Terry asked.

Joe gave an abrupt flap of his hand. ‘Shut it, I’m trying to think.’

A silence descended on the room. When Joe Quinn gave an order, everyone obeyed. For a while, the only sound came from two floors down, a monotonous hammering that never seemed to end. The minutes ticked slowly by, and then suddenly Joe’s face cleared and he slapped a fist triumphantly against his thigh. ‘Jesus,’ he snarled. ‘Lazenby, bloody Lazenby.’

‘What is it?’ Tommy asked quickly.

Joe gave a growl. ‘That precious sister of yours might be dead and buried, but she’s still causing grief.’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘Yeah, I remember him now.’ Joe gave two abrupt nods of his head. ‘Lazenby used to work with that no-good bastard Alan Beck. The two of them were in Vice. They hung out together, too. Yeah, that’s who he is.’

Tommy stared at him in surprise. How could Joe have known who Alan Beck hung out with all those years ago unless he’d done some pretty intensive digging? It had always been his belief that his father had cut all ties to Lynsey after she walked out that fateful night, but that clearly wasn’t the case. He wondered what his motives had been – to simply check out his daughter’s husband, or something more sinister? Well, whatever his plans, he hadn’t gone through with them.

‘I still don’t get it. I mean, I know about—’ Terry stopped, not wanting to invite Joe’s wrath by even referring to the fact that his daughter had got herself knocked up by a copper. ‘But why should he be out to target you?’

‘He’s the filth, ain’t he,’ Joe retorted sharply. ‘He don’t need a fuckin’ reason.’

Tommy wondered if the news of Lynsey’s death had stirred up old resentments in Tony Lazenby. Beck must have whined to him about his lousy marriage to a villain’s daughter, and about how he’d been forced into it. Perhaps, with Lynsey gone, Lazenby had decided to focus his anger on her family instead.

‘So the bastard’s looking for a fight,’ Joe said. ‘Well, we’ll fuckin’ give him one!’

And all end up in clink in the process, Tommy thought. His old dread of prison rose like bile into his throat. The moment they turned up at the Gissings’ club, the law would be all over them like a rash. ‘It’s a stitch-up, for Christ’s sake. We lift a finger and they’ll have us bang to rights.’

‘What’s the matter, son?’ his father sneered. ‘Haven’t got the bottle for it?’

Tommy glared back at him, trying not to rise to the bait. His father had all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop. Act first and think later. Which was all very well when you were dealing with lowlife thieving scumbags or the collection of protection money, but not so smart when it came to dealing with the law.

‘Sure it’s a stitch-up,’ Terry said, grinning from ear to ear. ‘So why don’t we give ’em a taste of their own medicine?’

‘What are you thinking?’ Tommy asked, eager to encourage a less self-destructive approach.

‘I’m thinking why bother to fight your own battles when you can get some other sucker to do it for you.’

‘Go on.’

Terry took a swig of beer and stood the bottle carefully on the coffee table. He glanced over at Joe. ‘Didn’t you say that Lennie Gissing had a run-in with Mickey Stott a few weeks back?’

Joe gave a nod. ‘What of it? Those two are always at each other’s throats.’

‘Exactly,’ Terry said. ‘And as the Gissings are looking to take over Kellston, it won’t come as any great surprise if their next target is Mickey Stott’s gaff. He’s got a pub on Lincoln Road, ain’t he? Be a shame if those Gissings gave it the same treatment as this place.’

Joe narrowed his eyes as the likely outcome of such a scheme slowly sank into his head.

Tommy didn’t say a word. It was a brilliant idea, inspired. Mickey Stott was a drug dealer, a man verging on the psychopathic, and he wouldn’t think twice about wreaking revenge on the Gissings. However, as his father was likely to reject the idea out of hand if he expressed any enthusiasm for it, Tommy wisely kept his mouth shut and waited for the great man to work out the virtue of the plan for himself.

Joe turned his head away and gazed out of the window. He lit a fag and sucked in the smoke. He scratched at his balls. The rest of the room maintained a reverential silence. Finally, just as Tommy was beginning to lose hope, he barked out a laugh and said, ‘Those sonofabitches are going to regret the day they ever crossed Joe Quinn.’