Dangerous Lady (3 page)

He got into his car and drove off. On 2 May 1950 he had brought Maura Ryan into the world.

Chapter Two

1953

Sarah Ryan glanced around her kitchen. A feeling of satisfaction swept over her. It looked beautiful. Taking a deep breath she sighed with contentment. She had not felt this happy for years. The table was laden with food. Turkey, ham, a large joint of beef, all carefully prepared and waiting to go into the oven. The kitchen was filled with the aroma of mince pies and sausage rolls cooking to a golden crispness in the oven.

She was startled out of her reverie by a loud crash from above. Her mouth set in a grim line, she went to the kitchen door. Opening it wide, she shouted as loud as she could: ‘I’m warning you lot, one more noise and I’ll come up there and scalp the arses offyer!’

She stood listening for a few minutes, trying not to smile. Then, assured that the children were all in their beds, she went back to her preparations, humming a little tune. Her last task was to lay thick strips of bacon across the turkey. Finally she stepped back from the table to admire her handiwork. Then, picking up the poker from the hearth, she banged it three times against the back of the fireplace. A few seconds later the banging was answered by two sharp thuds. Going to the sink she filled the kettle with water and placed it on the gas. As the kettle

came to the boil she heard the back door open and popped her head into the scullery to see her friend Pat Johnstone kicking snow off her shoes.

‘Get yourself in, Pat, I’ve got the kettle on.’

‘Oh, Sar, it’s brass monkey weather out there tonight!’

Coming into the kitchen, Pat dropped into an easy chair by the fire. She looked around the kitchen, impressed.

‘By Christ, you’re well set up this year.’

Her voice held a hint of jealousy. Sarah poured the steaming water into the tea pot and smiled at her friend.

‘Michael brought the lot in this morning. I couldn’t believe it meself when I saw it! There’s sweets and biscuits as well as nuts and fruit. He’s a good boy.’

Pat nodded her head, reckoning up the cost of everything in her mind. She realised that what was being said about Michael must be true. You couldn’t buy all this working at Lyons bakery or the Black Cat factory. Crime certainly did pay by the looks of it.

‘And there’s presents for all the kids,’ Sarah chatted on happily, unaware of the animosity she was creating. Pouring the tea into two thick white mugs, she gave one to her friend. With a tea cloth around her hand she opened up the oven and took out the mince pies and sausage rolls, placing them on the top of the stove to cool as she put the turkey in to cook. Her movements were quick and confident. She straightened up, wiping her forehead with the bottom of her apron, and then went to the dresser to open the drawer. Taking out a package, she passed it to Pat.

‘I nearly forgot! Happy Christmas.’

Pat Johnstone took the package and placed it on her lap. She looked at Sarah’s face with troubled eyes.

‘I didn’t get you nothing, Sar … I ain’t got the money.’

Sarah dismissed this. ‘Oh, shut your face and open it.’

Slowly Pat tore the brown paper apart. Then her hand went to her mouth. Her voice shook as she tried to speak. ‘Oh Sar! Oh, it’s lovely. Sarah patted her friend s shoulder gently. ‘I knew you’d like it!’

Pat pulled the white blouse out of the wrapper and held it to her cheek, rubbing the soft material against her skin. ‘It feels like silk!’

‘It is silk. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was for you.’ All the terrible things she had thought earlier rose up in Pat’s mind. Jealousy of her friend had been steadily mounting in the last few months. It had started the day three months previously when Michael paid to have the house stoved. Sulphur candles had been burning for days, leaving the house free of vermin, then the whole place had been painted from top to bottom. Like most of the women in the street, Pat Johnstone had been angered by it all. By Lancaster Road standards, the Ryans had gone too far up in the world, making them aliens. If it wasn’t for the fact that Michael Ryan was now a force to be reckoned with, the other families would have tried to force them out.

All this flickered through her mind in a split second and she felt ashamed. She had gone to school with Sarah, and they had helped one another over the years. Now Sarah was remembering her friend and Pat felt she didn’t deserve it. ‘It’s absolutely gorgeous, Sar.’

Satisfied that her friend was happy, Sarah sat opposite her and took a quarter bottle of Black and White whisky from the mantelpiece. She poured two generous measures into their cups of tea.

‘This’ll keep the cold out, Pat. God himself knows we need it in this weather.’ Picking up her mug, Pat toasted her friend. ‘Merry

Christmas to you, Sarah … and many more.’ ’”

Settling themselves into their chairs, warmed by the whisky, the two women began the serious business of the day: gossiping. Michael Ryan walked down the Bayswater Road. He walked, as always, as if he owned it - head held high, even in the driving snow. At eighteen, Michael was magnificent. Over six foot two, he was built like an athlete, his dark brown overcoat emphasising the spread of his shoulders. He still had thick black unruly hair, which he now wore cut in a DA. His eyes, deepset and a striking blue, seemed to drink in everything around him. The only softness about his rugged face was in his lips. They were full and sensuous like a woman’s, though at times they gave him a hint of cruelty. Women and men were drawn to Michael Ryan, and he knew it. He used it to his advantage as he used everything.

Now he watched the women lounging against the railings of Hyde Park. Even in the snow on Christmas Eve the streetwalkers were out.

A few of the younger girls, new to their beat, looked at him with interest. One opened her coat to reveal a scantily clad body. Michael looked her up and down, his lips curling with contempt. He wouldn’t touch a tom with a barge pole. An older woman, - seeing the exchange, laughed out loud.

‘Cover yourself up, girl. Before you get frostbite of the fanny!’

The other women laughed, glad of some light relief. Michael carried on walking. He didn’t really mind the prostitutes. In fact, he admired them. To his mind theirs was a business, like any other. Supply and demand. What he didn’t like was the way some of them looked at him as

a potential John. He liked to think that people put him above that kind of thing. He crossed the road, dodging the traffic skilfully. The snow was easing up and last minute shoppers were everywhere. The Portobello Road had been packed.

He walked into the warmth of the Bramley Arms. Pushing his way among the men he went to the bar, nodding a greeting here and there. Over the last year he had worked hard to create an image for himself and it was paying off. People were deferential towards him. He snapped his fingers at the barmaid and ordered a brandy. He didn’t particularly like brandy, but it was part of his image. It set him above other people. The men at the bar moved to give him room.

He sipped his drink. Ranging around the crowded bar, his eyes settled on a group by the window. He picked up his drink and made his way over to them. One of the men glanced at him, giving a double take as he realised who it was.

Tommy Blue felt a knot of fear somewhere in his bowels. The four other men at the table with him sensed his panic and stopped talking to look at the newcomer. Seeing Michael Ryan smiling at them, they seemed to crowd together, hunching in their seats. Enjoying the terror he was creating, Michael drank his brandy in one gulp. Then, wiping his hand across his mouth, he placed his glass gently on the table.

‘I’ve been looking for you, Tommy.’ , His voice was quiet. Tommy Blue felt his heart sinking. He tried to smile, his lips trembling.

‘I think me and you had better have a little walk.’ Looking around the table at the other men, Michael Pointed at Tommy.

‘I’ll be waiting outside for you.’

Turning, he pushed his way to the door. Outside he leant against the wall of the pub. He bit on his lip, the feeling of excitement in his breast causing his heart beat to pound in his ears.

A group of Salvation Army singers were making their way along the road. Pulling a pack of Strands from his pocket, Michael lit one. The strains of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ gradually grew closer. He pulled hard on the cigarette. He would give Tommy Blue five minutes before going in after him.

Inside the Bramley Arms, Tommy was rooted to his seat.

‘How much do you owe, Tom?’ This from Dustbin Daley, a totter from Shepherd’s Bush.

‘Forty-five quid.’ Tommy’s voice was low.

One of his companions whistled.

‘I’d better get out there … otherwise he’ll come in after me.’ Getting up unsteadily, Tommy made his way to the door.

Dustbin Daley shook his head. ‘He must be bloody mad.’

The others agreed with him. Their earlier high spirits were gone now, out of the door with Tommy Blue.

Tommy shivered as the cold hit him. He was wearing a thin jacket, torn in places, and a thick multi-coloured scarf.

Michael threw his cigarette on the slush-filled pavement, and ground it out with his boot. Pushing himself from the wall he grabbed Tommy’s jacket and pulled him along the road. The Salvationists were alongside them. A young girl pushed a tin in their direction. She smiled at Michael as she rattled it.

‘Merry Christmas, sir.’ Her eyes held open admiration.

Pulling his coat open, he pushed his hand into his

trouser pocket, and taking out two half crowns dropped them into the tin. The girl flushed with pleasure.

‘Thank you, sir. Merry Christmas.’

Nodding at her, Michael resumed piloting Tommy Blue along the pavement. The tambourines and the singing faded into the distance. The two men walked in silence for. five minutes. Tommy Blue could not feel the cold now. He couldn’t feel anything. Fear had completely taken over. Tommy Blue was on automatic pilot. All he could do was wait. The beer he had been drinking steadily all day was now weighing heavily on his stomach.

Michael slowed down in Treadgold Street. The laundry here was known affectionately as the bagwash. Michael himself had brought his mother’s laundry here on many occasions. Now it was deserted, shut up for the Christmas holidays. Taking a key from inside his coat Michael opened the double doors of the building and pushed Tommy inside. Pulling the doors shut behind him, he turned on the lights. Tommy stood immobile.

Taking out his pack of Strands, Michael lit one slowly. He pulled deeply on the cigarette and blew the smoke into Tommy’s face.

‘You’ve made me very cross.’ As usual Michael’s voice was quiet.

Tommy’s face seemed to come to life. He blinked his eyes rapidly.

‘Look, Mickey, I …I tried to get the money. I swear it!’

‘Shut up, Tommy. You’re beginning to annoy me.’

Dropping the cigarette he grabbed Tommy’s scarf, forcing him backwards until he was against one of the huge machines. Bringing his right fist back over his shoulder he punched Tommy in the face with considerable force. Tommy’s nose seemed to collapse underneath the blow. Michael let him drop on the filthy floor. Groaning,

Tommy curled himself up into a ball, his hands covering his head. Michael kicked him in the back, the force of the blow sending Tommy across the dirt-strewn floor. Picking up one of the large wooden podgers the women used to push down the bagwashes, Michael prodded Tommy the shoulder.

‘Hold out your arm.’ Michael’s voice held no emotion whatsoever. Tommy was blubbering.

‘Please … please, Mickey, I’m begging you.’ He looked

up at Michael, his face bloody and awash with tears

‘Don’t do this …1 swear I’ll ge-get the money somehow.’

Kicking him in the legs, Michael brought the podger

down on Tommy’s shoulders.

‘If you don’t put your arm out, I’ll break your bastarc back for you. Now put your arm out!’

Michael’s voice echoed around the laundry. Slowly Tommy placed his arm on the floor, his whole body jerking with fear. Twice the ‘podger’ smashed down on his elbow, shattering the bone. Tommy screamed with pain He was struggling to keep conscious as red-hot waves of nausea washed over him. He threw up on the floor, ee mixed with bile steaming in the cold. ,

‘Get up, Tommy.’ Michael’s voice was quiet again, Slowly he dragged himself to his feet, his arm hanging awkwardly against his side, the sleeve of his jacket gradually staining crimson. Droplets of blood ran over fingers and dripped on to the floor. He leant against the machine, crying quietly.

‘You’ve got seven days, Tommy, that’s all, to find the money. Now piss off

Michael watched Tommy stagger from the laundry, checked himself over to make sure there was no blood on his clothes. Then, whistling to himself, he washed the podger clean and put it back where he’d found it, against

on the far wall. Then, still whistling, he turned off the lights and locked up. Joe the Fish listened avidly to everything Michael said to him, nodding his head now and again and every so often muttering, ‘Good … good.’ When Michael had finished, Joe smiled at him. ‘The arm was good and broken?’

‘Yeah. Smashed to smithereens!’

Joe the Fish sighed. He had a distaste for violence, but in his business it was a necessity. He looked at Michael Ryan sitting opposite him. He liked the boy, could see himself in Michael. The boy had the same urge to better himself. That had been Joe’s ambition as a young man. Like Michael he had started out as a ‘breaker’ - a heavy until he had built up his own business. Now he was a respected member of the community. He owned shops, clubs and market stalls, from Petticoat Lane to the Portobello Road. His most lucrative business, though, was the bets. Joe had been a bookie for over twenty years, gradually moving into loan sharking. He had realised as soon as he had employed Michael that he had found himself a kindred spirit. Michael was innately honest. If he said the punter had paid him fifty quid, Joe knew that was what had been paid. Most of the breakers kept a portion for themselves, knowing that the unlucky punter would eventually pay that portion once again. Michael Ryan, though, had his own set of principles. He might beat a roan up so badly he needed hospital treatment, yet Joe knew that in Michael’s mind, keeping any money back would be tantamount to stealing. Joe liked him. He liked the way Michael looked at his home. He liked the respect that Michael afforded him.