No Mercy
Authors: Roberta Kray
Through her marriage to Reggie Kray, Roberta Kray has a unique and authentic insight into London’s East End. Born in Southport, Roberta met Reggie in early 1996 and they married the following year; they were together until Reggie’s death in 2000. Roberta is the author of many previous bestsellers including
Broken Home
,
Strong Women
,
Bad Girl
and
Streetwise
.
The Debt
The Pact
The Lost
Strong Women
The Villain’s Daughter
Broken Home
Nothing But Trouble
Bad Girl
Streetwise
Reg Kray: A Man Apart
Published by Sphere
978-0-7515-5377-2
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Roberta Kray 2014
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
SPHERE
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
Table of Contents
Lucy Rivers stood under the railway arches, sheltering from a thin, drizzly rain. Her shoulders were hunched, her face pale and tight. She shivered. It was getting dark now and the hope was seeping out of her. He had to come. He must! She peered along the narrow street, willing him to appear through the gloom. Please, she silently begged, her hands clenching into two tight fists. Please, God, let him come.
She checked her watch again. Already it was half an hour after the time they had agreed, and with every minute that passed she felt the knot in her stomach grow tighter. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was racing, thumping in her chest. Briefly she closed her eyes, but when she opened them again, the street was still empty.
There was the rumble of a train as it approached and slid smoothly into the station. She thought of the travellers mingling on the platform, beginning their journeys or ending them – people leaving and people coming home. Tonight she was supposed to have been starting on a journey of her own. What chance of that now? Tears pricked her eyes and she roughly brushed them away.
She glanced at her watch again. She looked down at the pavement. All her meagre possessions, everything she owned, were packed into the small, shabby suitcase standing by her feet. Her hands had been trembling with fear and excitement as she’d packed the case in the early hours of the morning before slipping out to the yard to hide it behind the bins. At work, she had barely been able to concentrate, her fingers clumsy on the keyboard, her mind a million miles away from the words she was typing. And with everything she had done, every simple action, every routine chore, she had thought, This is the last time I will be doing this.
There was a sound, footsteps, and her heart gave a leap, but it wasn’t him. She shrank back into the shadows as a tom with her arm linked through a customer’s tottered by. The clicking tap of the prostitute’s heels echoed on the pavement. The woman’s voice was high and brittle, her artificial laugh carrying on the damp evening air.
Gradually, the quiet settled around Lucy again. From somewhere behind came the light, steady drip of water. There is no point in waiting, she thought, but still she couldn’t leave. Another five minutes. She would give him that. Half an hour was nothing. He could have been held up. Or an accident, perhaps. What if he was lying in hospital, unable to get in touch with her? What if he was – No, she would not allow herself to think of it. A world where he did not exist was too painful to imagine.
The minutes dragged by, five, ten and then fifteen. She rummaged in her pocket for loose change. She could go to the phone box at the station and call him. But what if he came while she was gone? Anyway, she knew that it was pointless. She would get no answer if she rang. Either he was on his way or he wasn’t coming at all.
Although the street was empty, she still felt self-conscious, as if the very bricks in the wall, the pavement slabs and even the air that she breathed bore witness to her humiliation. She hung her head in shame. It was obvious what had happened. He had changed his mind. He had weighed up the pros and cons and decided she was not worth it. In the final reckoning – for she would not be the only one who was leaving everything behind – the price had proved too high.
As soon as the thought entered her head, she tried to push it away. It
couldn’t
be so. All the things he had said, the promises he had made. Surely they must have meant something. He was the one who had suggested they run off, who had made all the plans, who had convinced her that this was the only way they could be together.
We can do this, Lucy.
But men lied and that was the God-honest truth. They gazed into your eyes and swore that black was white. She only had to look at her dad to know this for a fact. He lied about money, about where he’d been and what he’d done, about all the cheap little tarts he slept with. She would smell the perfume on his clothes when he came home, the overly sweet scent mixing with the ugly stink of fags and booze.
She paced ten feet to the left, turned and went back to where she had started. She shifted unhappily from one foot to the other. ‘Where are you?’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Why? Why are you doing this to me?’ She lifted her eyes to the darkening sky and knew that she couldn’t wait any longer. It was almost an hour now. People didn’t turn up an hour after they were supposed to.
If she didn’t go home soon, she’d have trouble explaining where she’d been. There would be questions, an interrogation. She would get a grilling from her stepmother, Jean. She had promised to be back from work by six and already it was past the hour. Her emotions welled up inside her, a swirling pool of grief and pain, of shame and shock and anger. How could he have betrayed her like this? He had taken her love and trust and thrown them both away.
With a heavy heart, she picked up the suitcase and began to walk. As she trudged along the street, her legs felt leaden. She glanced back over her shoulder, still hoping even though she knew it was hopeless. She couldn’t help herself. In her mind, she had an image of him hurrying towards her, his mouth full of apologies, his arms reaching out…
But no, that wouldn’t happen now. She realised that. The dream was shattered. She had envisaged the two of them together for always, but it wasn’t going to be. It was over, finished. She had been cut adrift. The breath caught in her throat and the tears began to flow.
As she passed the station, she stopped and looked in through the entrance. There was nothing to prevent her from leaving on her own. She was eighteen, old enough to take care of herself. She could buy a ticket, get on a train, go anywhere that her money would take her. Except that wasn’t very far. And what then? To be alone in a strange place would take more courage than she currently possessed. An hour ago, she had thought herself brave, fearless, a woman rather than a girl. Now she felt like a child again, small and defenceless and scared of her own shadow.
A lad walked past and grinned at her. ‘Cheer up, love. It may never ’appen.’
Lucy, jolted from her introspection, gazed blankly back. Yesterday she would have been ready with a smart retort, but at this moment she had nothing. ‘Fool,’ she murmured, although she was not entirely sure if the comment was directed at the boy or herself.
Her gaze shifted towards the row of three phone boxes, one of them empty, and she wondered again about calling him. She was clutching at straws, but that was all she had. What if something
had
happened and he was waiting for her to make contact? It was possible. Anything was possible. Before she could change her mind, she rushed over, pulled open the door and stepped inside.
Dropping the case down by her feet, she grabbed a couple of coins from her pocket. She picked up the receiver and dialled the number with a shaking hand. It began to ring at the other end. ‘Come on,’ she urged, as she pressed the phone to her ear. It rang and rang and rang. Long after she knew that it would not be answered, she continued to stand there with the sound echoing in her head. Eventually, she put the receiver down, gave a sigh, wiped the snot from her nose with the back of her hand and wearily set off for home.
Crossing the road, she was careless of the traffic and deaf to the protests of honking horns. She went to the corner and began to walk up Kellston High Street. The rain was coming down harder now, soaking into her coat and drenching her long, fair hair. Most of the shops had closed, their iron shutters pulled down for the night, but a light was still shining from Connolly’s. As she passed the café, she peered in through the window, automatically scanning the faces of the customers in case he was sitting there. But of course he wasn’t. Why would he be?
She traipsed along the street until she came to Rose Avenue. Here she stopped again, her face twisting as she gazed down the row of identical terraced houses. She could see the light on in number 26 and knew that their visitor must have arrived. The front room, the parlour, was only ever used for special occasions.
A part of her wanted to turn round, to retrace her steps and hurry back to the station. Anything was better than what awaited her at home. She hesitated, aware of the sound of her own lightly panting breath. What now? She still had a choice, but her emotions were too tumultuous, too confused, for her to think straight.
A bus went by, heading for Victoria. That was near to where he lived. She could go to his flat, see if he was there, demand some answers to the endless questions that were rolling through her mind. But he wouldn’t be there. Or if he was, he wouldn’t come to the door. And by the time she got there and back – probably with nothing to show for it – it would be
really
late and she’d be in even more trouble than she already was.
She stood for a minute, paralysed by indecision. As her eyes darted left and right, she worried about seeing someone she knew. How would she explain the suitcase? Her fingers tightened round the handle. In these parts, the women had nothing better to do than gossip; they took pleasure in other people’s misfortunes, in other people’s mistakes. She could imagine their eyes, shiny with malice. She shuddered at the thought of being ridiculed, of her humiliation being exposed to the world.
In the end, aware that the longer she stood there, the more likely she was to be observed, she made the choice and set off for home. She felt sick inside, hot and cold, almost dizzy. She wished she had the strength to go it alone, but she didn’t. As she cut down into the alley that ran along the back of the terrace, she recalled the tom she’d seen earlier. Perhaps once, years ago, that woman had dreamed of something better too.
It was dark in the alley, only a faint light slipping from the kitchen windows. She heard the rattling of dinner plates and the muffled sound of voices. Keeping her head down, she walked as quietly as she could, desperate to escape the notice of the neighbours. The rain was starting to gather, forming puddles on the uneven surface of the path. In her haste, she stumbled, twisting her ankle.
‘Damn it!’ she cursed, before quickly limping on.
When she came to the open gate of number 26, she paused again, checking that no one was watching from the window, before hobbling into the cluttered yard. She slid the suitcase in behind the bins, then leaned down to rub at the swelling flesh of her ankle. She was glad of the pain. It helped to distract from the grinding ache in her chest, from the knowledge that her life was in ruins. But then, as she approached the back door, she had another rush of hope. What if he had left a message? Something cryptic that no one else would understand. Maybe he had pushed a note through the letterbox. Or got someone else to do it.
She burst through the door, eager now to get inside. The kitchen light dazzled her for a second and she raised a hand to shield her eyes against the brightness.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
Her stepmother, Jean, a thin, waspish woman, was placing the lid on the best china teapot. ‘Oh, decided to honour us with your presence, have you? What time do you call this? You were supposed to… And the state of you! Jesus, you look like a drowned rat.’
‘It’s raining,’ Lucy explained unnecessarily. ‘And I had to… to stay late at work.’ She wondered if the lie showed on her face. ‘There was nothing I could do about it. A last-minute order came in and we all had to stay. And then I had to wait ages for a bus. I got back as fast as I could.’
‘He’s been here half an hour,’ hissed Jean, glancing towards the front room. ‘Tidy yourself up, for God’s sake. What’s he going to think?’
Lucy gave a shrug. She didn’t care what he thought. And she didn’t give a damn how long he’d been waiting. She slid out of her wet coat and hung it over the back of a chair. Her eyes raked the room, searching for a note, but there was none in sight. She was desperate to ask the question on her lips, but equally afraid of the answer she might get.
‘Er, did anyone call round for me earlier?’
‘Like who, for instance?’
‘Anyone.’
‘No.’
‘Are you sure? No one came round?’
Jean’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Who you expecting, then?’
‘Nobody.’ Lucy gave a quick shake of her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I was just wondering. We’re supposed to be going out Saturday, me and the girls. I thought one of them might have —’
‘Well, they didn’t. No one did.’
Lucy stared hard at her. Was she lying? Jean was more than capable. It was ten years now since she’d married her father and the evil cow had started sniffing around before poor Mum was even cold in her grave. It hadn’t taken her long to get her claws in. Still, the one consolation was that neither of them had got what they’d bargained for: he had found himself hitched to a nagging harridan who made his life a misery, and Jean had been landed with a no-good bastard who squandered his cash on tarts, booze and gambling. The two of them deserved each other.
Jean glared back at her. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’ Lucy slumped down at the table, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. This morning, over breakfast, she’d been convinced that it was the last time she’d ever have to see the woman, the last time she’d ever have to listen to her vile grating voice. So much for that! So much for all her stupid dreams! She felt a lump growing in her throat and quickly tried to swallow it. She mustn’t cry. If she started, she might never stop.
‘So what’s with the face?’
Lucy put her elbows on the table and rubbed at her eyes. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day.’
‘Well, don’t just sit there. Get upstairs and smarten yourself up. And put some lippie on. You look like a bleedin’ ghost.’
Lucy wished she was a ghost. To be dead and buried was all she wanted. The dead couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, couldn’t weep. Slowly she got to her feet, wincing at the pain in her ankle.
‘And I wouldn’t go making any plans for Saturday,’ Jean said. ‘You play your cards right and there could be a much better offer on the table.’
‘Maybe I don’t want a better offer.’
