Charlie (53 page)

Her plan was an excellent one as it turned out. Few businessmen were able to resist the little girl with long dark hair, vivid blue eyes and a pale pinched face, who stood outside the banks in Threadneedle Street with her small ragged brothers. On a good day, if it was wet and cold, she’d get as much as ten shillings before the city emptied for the evening. They would ride home on the bus, buy saveloys and chips, and when they got home she’d light the fire to dry their clothes and all three of them would climb into the double bed they shared.

Young as she was, Daphne not only managed to meet the few shillings’ rent each week and buy food, coal and clothes for them, but even managed to keep their father from giving them good hidings by slipping him a few bob to go down the pub. The boys would listen to her stories about how one day they would have a real house, with carpets on the floor and horses in the stables, and go into Bloom’s in Mile End Road for hot salt beef sandwiches every day, and they believed her.

It was one freezing cold and foggy Saturday afternoon in February of 1939 when the twins were eleven, going on for twelve, that they discovered the real reason why Daphne hated their father. Until then they’d thought it was just his drinking and brutality and because he’d made their mother run away. But that afternoon as he gave the boys twopence each for sweets and ordered them out, Mick saw a look of terror on his sister’s face. Down in the corner shop, he did his best to put that expression on his sister’s face out of his mind, and concentrate on whether aniseed balls or coconut flakes were the best value. But he found he couldn’t, and even at risk of getting a good hiding from his father, he went back home, taking Baz with him.

The door was bolted on the inside, but there was a crack at the bottom where their father had booted it in one night. Mick peered in. He could see the old iron bed in the living room, and his father was lying face down on it, his naked backside pumping up and down. It wasn’t until he heard a pitiful cry that he realized Daphne was trapped beneath him.

Mick was incensed. He had seen sailors doing this with tarts down by the docks, and then it was something for him and Baz to laugh about. But this was quite different, it was wicked for a father to be doing it to his daughter. He wanted to break down the door, scream and shout so neighbours would come and put a stop to it. Yet he didn’t, just let Baz take a look, and then both of them ran away in horror to discuss what they were going to do about it.

Baz had remarked just a short while ago that the decision they made that Saturday afternoon was the only one they’d ever made in their lives without consulting Daphne. They resolved to kill their father.

Late that same evening when Daphne was fast asleep, they crept out of the bed they shared with her, let themselves out silently and went down to the Prospect of Whitby, their father’s favourite pub on the waterfront, and peeped through a window. Even in a crowded bar he stood out because of his massive shoulders, big belly and the purple tinge to his face. He was very drunk already, swaying as he gulped down another pint. They knew he’d be the last person to leave at closing time. He always was.

The twins ran back up the alleyway, hid themselves behind some crates and waited. The fog was so dense now they could see only a few yards to either side of their hideout. A stream of drunken men came by later, shouting and bawling to each other. Many of them paused to urinate but the bitter cold soon had them moving on.

Danny came some time later – they heard him singing ‘Danny Boy’ long before he reached the alley. Mick tightened his grip on the stick, Baz crouched, holding the brick in readiness. Danny lumbered into the alley, caught for one brief moment under a weak gas lamp. His face looked yellow in the light, his jacket was slung over his shoulder, too drunk even to feel the cold. As he reeled towards the boys, Mick slid the long stick out, then as Danny approached it, he lifted it slightly, to trip him.

It worked. He fell flat on his face, cursing blue murder. Baz leapt out behind him and whacked him hard on the back of his head with his brick.

Looking back now as a grown man, Mick found it funny to think two skinny kids of eleven imagined they could kill a grown man with just one blow from a brick. But they believed they had, because Danny was motionless when they left him.

If it had been summertime when they chose to do it, he would probably have reeled in the next morning with nothing more than a bad headache. But as it was, the temperature was well below freezing that night, and wearing only a shirt and trousers he froze to death before his body was found next morning.

The policeman who called to tell them must have been surprised at the boys’ lack of reaction to his news. They said absolutely nothing because they were too stunned to hear Danny Dexter had died from exposure rather than a blow to his head. Daphne actually smiled, offered the policeman a cup of tea, and said she hadn’t got any money for a funeral so could he arrange for the Welfare to pay for it.

They may never have mourned their father, but his death was to have a dramatic and lasting effect on all of their thinking. Daphne was driven to find a better life for herself and her younger brothers. For the boys it was the inception of a career which would be based on violence.

‘Who is this girl, Mick?’ Daphne asked in her deep, husky voice when she came to speak to her brother.

Both Baz and Mick were very proud of their sister. Not only was she exceptionally beautiful and smart, but she had acquired class, taught herself to look and sound like a real lady. It didn’t bother them that she passed off her brothers as mere employees. They understood what drove her.

‘Dunno,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to get ’eavy till I’d spoken to you. She’s probably just some nosy little bleeder.’

‘Well, how old is she? What does she look like?’ There was a note of exasperation in Daphne’s voice as though she wished that for once he could make a decision for himself.

‘Eighteen, nineteen,’ he said. ‘She’s a Chink!’

His sister gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘A Chink?’ she repeated. ‘Oh no!’

Mick was surprised by her reaction. ‘Whatcha mean? D’you know her?’

‘Is there anything between your bloody ears?’ she snapped. ‘Are Chinese girls so common in Kent that it didn’t occur to you it might be Jin Weish’s daughter?’

Daphne’s insulting manner didn’t bother him, she always spoke to him like that. But he was shaken by her opinion as to who the girl was. ‘Weish’s kid! No, it can’t be, sis, ’ow the ’ell would she find ’er fuckin’ way ’ere?’

‘I can’t imagine,’ Daphne replied, and unusually, her voice wavered with uncertainty. ‘No one knows about that place. No one.’ She didn’t speak again for some little time, and Mick could hear her breathing heavily.

‘It might not be her,’ she said eventually. ‘So we’ve got to be very careful. Take her a cup of tea. Act like you’re the caretaker, a real job’s-worth, and tell her you’ve called the police and they are coming round to question her as soon as they can. But be nice to her, ask her name and stuff. That should keep her quiet until Baz and I can get there. You’d better give the boy tea and a sandwich too, but for Christ’s sake be careful he doesn’t get out. I’ll make up my mind what to do when I get there.’

Mick’s stomach was rumbling even more as he put the phone down. His memories of Jin Weish were disturbing ones. He was the only bloke his sister had ever tangled with that nearly made her come unstuck. If his daughter had found her way here, then it looked as if she could be every bit as smart as he was.

Both he and Baz loved their sister and they followed her orders out of loyalty, yet they both knew she was a witch. There had been many times in the past twelve years when they wished they could break the chains she held them with and start a new life without her.

Back in the old days when she worked the clubs and fleeced men, they’d both understood her motivation. She was fighting for a better life than the one she’d been born to and she used the only weapons at her disposal.

Yet somewhere along the line, around the time she’d bought her first house, she’d turned evil and it had gradually eaten away all the good in her. Nothing softened her now, not a starving child, a cripple or a blind man. Mick didn’t dare contemplate what she might do to these two kids. Her usual tricks of blackmail or maiming those that got in her way wouldn’t be enough this time.

The basement storeroom Charlie was locked in had once been servants’ quarters. It was a long narrow room with two small barred windows up on ground level, with a lavatory leading off it. It was cold and damp and held nothing but two old easy-chairs and shelves along one wall. Mick approached it gingerly, holding a mug of tea in one hand, bracing himself as he unlocked it.

‘I brought you a cuppa tea,’ he said, barring the way out with his body so the girl couldn’t dart out. ‘I phoned the police to say I had a prowler and they’ll be round to see you as soon as they can.’

He felt sorry for her once he got right into the room. She was slumped in one of the chairs looking forlorn and frightened, her eyes swollen from crying.

‘Cheer up, girl,’ he said, leaning back on the door. ‘If you ain’t got nuthin’ to ’ide, they’ll soon let you go. I ’ad to phone them, see. It’s me job to look after this place. Mrs Randall would go spare if she found out I hadn’t done me job.’

Charlie was cheered a fraction by the man’s gentler attitude. Although he had the build and stance of a boxer, without the cap and jacket he’d been wearing earlier he didn’t look so fierce. She thought he must be around forty-something and his strong cockney accent was kind of appealing. ‘I was lost,’ she repeated. ‘I know I should have gone out again when I found I was in someone’s garden, but I thought I could just nip round the side of the house to the road.’

Mick thought she was a pretty little thing, whoever she was, and he wished he’d sent her off with a flea in her ear in the first place. But now Daphne knew she was here, he had to do as he’d been instructed. He didn’t dare disobey her.

‘For all I know if you’d found a door or winder open you might ’ave nipped in and nicked sommat,’ he said with a smile. ‘Mrs Randall would ’ave me ’ung, drawn and quartered if that ’ad ’appened.’

‘What’s she like, your Mrs Randall?’ Charlie asked, wiping her eyes. She thought the man was relenting a bit, he was even quite nice-looking when he smiled. Maybe if she got on the right side of him, he’d change his mind and let her off. He couldn’t really be anything to do with Daphne Dexter or he wouldn’t have called the police.

‘A right old bag sometimes,’ he said with a chuckle.

‘How old?’

‘Oh, about seventy,’ he replied. That was his standard answer for anyone who asked him about his employer. ‘Now, ’ow’s about telling me yer name?’

‘It’s Charlie Weish,’ she said. She didn’t see much point in lying, she’d have to admit it soon anyway.

Mick was stunned. Not only was Daphne right, but the kid hadn’t got the sense to say another name. ‘You’re kiddin’ me!’ he exclaimed, then remembering he mustn’t give the game away, ‘Charlie’s a boy’s name,’ he added quickly.

She explained its Chinese origins and he said it sounded pretty. Then he asked where she lived.

‘In London. I had the day off from work and I thought I’d go walking in the country.’

Mick could think of nothing more to ask her. ‘Well, I gotta go now, Charlie. I got loads of jobs to do,’ he said, opening the door behind him. ‘Drink yer tea and keep yer chin up. I kinda wish I ’adn’t been so ’asty calling the boys in blue, but now I ’ave I gotta go through wif it, ain’t I?’

Charlie nodded glumly. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Look at it this way, they’ll probably give you a lift back down the train station once they’ve sussed you out.’

Mick felt shaky as he went back upstairs. It was bad enough that Daphne had dragged him and Baz into bringing the young lad here, in their view it was crazy and unnecessary. But now the girl had found her way here too, they had double trouble.

Hurting women wasn’t his game, especially pretty young ones like her. But like it or not, he knew he’d soon be called on to do it, because Daphne couldn’t afford to let her go. To top it all he had to go and take food to that lad too. The young bastard must have heard him come in this morning, he’d been hammering and banging on the door ever since.

*

Andrew had taken up a position on the top step of the cellar steps the moment he’d heard heavy male footsteps much earlier in the day, and he’d remained there, ears pricked for any further sounds.

The cellar door had become his only way of keeping track of days. He’d discovered that if he turned the light off for a moment, if it was daytime there was a weak glow at the top and bottom of the door. He’d done this at regular intervals since he’d arrived. Therefore, by his reckoning, it must be Monday now, and as the light was sharper today, sunny and bright outside.

He didn’t think there had been anyone in the house above all weekend, because judging by the noise he’d heard this morning, a car scrunching on gravel, then a key turning in the lock and feet on what sounded like a tiled floor, it would be impossible for anyone to come in or out that way without him hearing them. Until then it had been as silent as a grave.

It seemed to him that the house must be very big, with thick walls, because after that initial noise today, he’d heard nothing more, not so much as a creak. All he could do was sit and wait, and hope that before long the man might come to him.

Mick came through the door to the hall carrying a small tray with a pint mug of tea, two thick rounds of cheese sandwiches and a plastic lemonade bottle of water. As there wasn’t a sound coming from the cellar now, he guessed the lad was waiting behind the cellar door hoping to force his way out the minute someone opened it.

Mick smiled to himself. The kid couldn’t know that the door opened outwards, or that there was a chain on the outside, and besides, he had his flick-knife in his hand ready.

He put the tray down on the floor, turned the key in the lock and opened it with the chain still on. ‘Oh no you don’t, son, I’ve got a knife,’ he said as the door shuddered against him. He made a slashing gesture down the crack with his knife to make sure he was taken seriously. ‘I’ve got you some food ’ere. So if you try and act big I’ll just take it away. I might even give you a stripe to remember me by. So move back down those stairs and let me put the tray in.’