Stay Dead (19 page)

But oh God. Sarah!

‘Dolly! Wake up girl, stick the kettle on, will you? This tea’s stone cold,’ said Celia.

Dolly tuned back in. She stood up and did as Celia asked, feeling a cold shiver run right up her spine. Things were changing here at the knocking shop, and she hated that.

Limehouse, 1963

Dolly would never forget the day Annie Bailey showed up on Celia’s doorstep. It was not long after Tory got himself shot to death, and the rumours were rife. Max
Carter, Max Carter, that’s what everyone was saying. Max Carter did it. He was guilty as sin. And then there were other rumours, even more shocking ones; Max Carter had got married the day
after Tory Delaney’s death, but on the night that Tory had been killed Max Carter had also bedded his soon-to-be bride’s sister. Somehow, this had become known to the Bailey family
– and the shit had hit the fan big-style.

‘Christ, that bloke’s been busy,’ was Darren’s opinion, shared with all the girls at the kitchen table. He made a fanning gesture with his hand. ‘I’ve seen
him, you know. This Max Carter person. Hot as hell, that one. Shame he’s straight. That man is gorgeous.’

‘Do you think it’s true? That he did all that?’ asked Dolly, fascinated.

Darren shrugged. ‘Who knows? Could be. He don’t give a shit for anyone, that man. He’s been shoving the Delaney boys for months now and I reckon it’s about time they
shoved back. And the girl? This Annie Bailey sort? He’d do that without a moment’s thought.’

And then, this exotic-looking girl arrived – Celia’s niece, by all accounts – and Celia Bailey took her in. Despite all her worries about Sarah and Dad and the changing
situation with the Delaneys, Dolly glimpsed Annie and thought,
Just look at her. Talk about Lady Muck.

Dolly herself was no beauty, and when she saw beauty in others she resented it. Annie was dark-haired, tall, with bone structure any girl would kill for and a stately, upright way of carrying
herself. She had fabulous dark green eyes and a great body, shown off by a brief white PVC mini-mac and white kinky boots.

‘That’s her,’ Aretha said to Dolly and Darren, as Celia led Annie up the stairs.

‘Who?’ They looked at her in confusion.

‘Jeez, keep up will you? That’s her.’ Aretha leaned in so that Celia shouldn’t hear them gossiping away down in the hall. ‘That’s Annie Bailey,
that’s Ruthie Carter’s sister, that’s the one who was fucking Max Carter the night before he married Ruthie, the night they also say he killed Tory Delaney. Christ, don’t
you know anything? Her mum threw her out when she found out about it, and Celia’s taken her in. Bet that went down well with dear old Mum, don’t you?’

‘She’s a working girl then?’ asked Darren, eyes like saucers.

‘Nah, Celia’s her aunt, her father’s sister. I don’t suppose anyone else would have her after what she did.’

‘This Annie’s sister took it bad then?’ said Ellie.

‘Bad?’ Aretha gave a guffaw of laughter. ‘Ruthie Bailey told their mum straight off, I heard, and the mother went crazy and kicked Annie Bailey’s high-toned arse
straight out on to the street. They ain’t got a clue she’s come here. Celia and the mother don’t talk, haven’t for years. Word is, Ruthie Bailey – no, Ruthie
Carter
– is taking to drink just like the mother, she’s that upset about it all.’

In the days that followed, Dolly watched Annie. She carried herself like a queen. Which of course she wasn’t. Dolly knew that. She was no better than any of the workers here, she was a
tart, surely? No, she was worse than that. She’d fucked her brother-in-law, betrayed her sister. She was the lowest of the low.

One evening, Dolly went up to the room where Annie was hiding out, keeping out of everyone’s way.

Guilty as sin, thought Dolly as she went up the stairs. Ellie’s Dansette was playing Cliff Richard, and Darren and Ellie were in there, singing along, both of them out of tune like a
couple of cats howling on a roof; they couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. They were all at a loose end tonight except Aretha, who was banging away with a client like a good ’un. It was
raining; that always put the punters off.

Dolly was about to go and join Ellie and Darren when she saw Annie heading into her room.

‘I know you,’ said Dolly, pausing there. ‘Word is, you fucked your sister’s bridegroom the night before the wedding.’

Annie hesitated. After a moment she said in a low husky voice: ‘Whatever the “word” is, I’ve got nothing to say about it.’

‘Oh, go on,’ crowed Dolly. ‘I could do with a laugh.’

‘Fuck off,’ said Annie Bailey.

‘I’m only taking an interest.’

‘Who asked you to?’

Dolly’s smile dropped from her face. She moved in closer. ‘I could tell you the things I’ve heard,’ she said.

‘Such as?’

‘They say your sister’s on the bottle. Took it all bad.’

Annie’s face remained blank. ‘Says who?’

‘Says everyone. You know, you ought to be nicer to me,’ said Dolly. ‘I could get word to your sister that you’re living in a knocking shop. How would that go down? You
wouldn’t be so fancy then, would you, with her thinking you were making your living flat on your back.’

Annie slapped her, hard. Dolly stood for a moment, shocked, transfixed by the nerve of this cunt, then she launched herself at Annie, flinging the door wide and knocking the taller woman back
on to the bed, clawing at her hair. Annie hit her again, even harder, and Dolly let out a screech of surprise, trying to get her nails hooked into Annie’s face.

Annie grabbed Dolly’s wrists and pushed her back, and then there were shouts and Darren and Ellie were there, yanking Dolly off. Dolly was shrieking and spitting, but between them they
managed to drag her out of Annie’s room and back on to the landing.

‘You’ll be sorry you did that,’ screamed Dolly.

‘What the hell’s going on out here?’ asked Aretha, joining the gathering on the landing wearing a very small white towel.

‘They were fighting,’ said Darren, both shocked and excited.

‘Well, pack it in,’ hissed Aretha. ‘I’ve got a solid-gold punter in there and he’s getting nervous. He thought the sodding Old Bill were out here raiding the
place.’

Darren tossed his blond head and took a step back. Through the half-open door he glimpsed a man tied face-down to Aretha’s bed. There was a whip on the floor. The man’s naked
buttocks were striped with pink lines.

‘Nice arse,’ said Darren.

‘Get your thieving eyes off it,’ advised Aretha, stalking back into her room. ‘Keep it down, OK?’

‘Come on, girls,’ said Ellie with an encouraging smile at Dolly and Annie. ‘Shake hands and make up, all right?’

Dolly took aim and spat neatly at Annie’s feet.

‘You’ll be fucking sorry,’ Dolly promised, and she went off to her room, slamming the door behind her.

As Dolly saw it, there was nothing else she could do. Forget Her Royal Highness Annie Bailey coming in here queening it over all the mere mortals, that was nothing. It
soured Dolly’s mood, but her mood was sour anyway, after what she’d been through and what she’d seen.

Dad and Sarah, walking down the street.

And – oh God – the expression on Sarah’s face. That haunted Dolly. Made her wake in the night, moaning in terror for her little sis. Sometimes, she succeeded in blanking it
from her mind, but it always crept in, always came back and tormented her.

Supposing what happened to me happens to little Sar?

The baby came into her brain again, the dead baby with Dad’s face.

No. She couldn’t allow it. She couldn’t let Sarah go through the same horror. She wouldn’t.

So one morning when Celia was alone in the kitchen, having her ‘elevenses’, Dolly went in there, closed the door behind her and said to Celia: ‘I have to talk to
you.’

Celia was making tea, squinting past the thin spiral of smoke coming up from her posh ciggie holder. ‘All right, Doll. You want a cuppa?’

Dolly shook her head and sat down at the table. She’d barely kept down her breakfast; she couldn’t face tea, not right now.

‘What’s up then?’ Celia asked with a brisk smile, coming to the table with her cup and saucer and sitting down.

Dolly took a breath. She didn’t know how to start.

Celia looked at Dolly’s face. ‘In your own time, lovey,’ she said more gently. ‘What is it then?’

Still, Dolly could barely form the words. She felt like they would choke her.

‘What is it, you want to come off the game?’ Celia sipped her tea. ‘That don’t matter, Doll. Don’t you fret. You can dust around, get the bloody Hoover out, it
ain’t the end of the world. You’re one of the family now, we won’t turn you out.’

‘It’s not that,’ said Dolly, but she was touched.

‘Then what? Come on, I won’t bite.’

‘Celia . . . when we first met, when I was out on the streets . . .’

‘Yeah. Go on then.’

‘I was on the streets because I couldn’t stay at home any longer.’

‘Right.’

Dolly bit her lip, looked down at the table. She felt a hot wash of shame sweep over her; whenever she thought of being back there, she felt again the humiliation of it, the embarrassment,
the awful guilt.

‘Take your time,’ said Celia, watching Dolly’s face with concern. ‘Whatever you got to say, you won’t shock me, Doll. And I won’t judge. You must know that
by now.’

‘It started when I was nine, nearly ten,’ said Dolly, her mouth dry while she could feel sweat breaking out on her brow.

‘What did?’

Dolly took a big breath and began to speak. As she spoke, Celia’s forgotten fag burned down to nothing in its ivory holder, the ash dropping unheeded on to the table. Dolly spoke for
almost a quarter of an hour, and when she was finished she looked like someone had whipped all the life out of her.

‘Holy Christ,’ said Celia when silence fell at last. ‘You poor little cow. I always wondered what had gone on with you, Doll, but I didn’t think of that. The rotten
bastard.’

‘There’s worse,’ said Dolly.

‘What the fuck could be worse?’

‘He’s doing it to my little sis now. To Sarah.’

‘How do you know that, Doll? You been back there?’

‘I stood down the street . . .’ Dolly hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘I saw him, how he was with her. And I saw her face. I know it’s happening, Celia. And
it’s got to stop.’

Celia noticed her fag had gone out. She scooped the ash up, put it in her Capstan ashtray, shook out another cigarette from the packet, stuck it in the ivory holder and lit it. ‘Fucking
hell, Doll, what a shocker.’

‘Celia.’ Dolly’s chest was tight with tension; she felt she was going to be sick, having to tell all this; it was like living it all over again. ‘We got to get the
Delaneys involved with this.’

‘Yeah.’ Celia nodded. ‘Sure we can do that. They can give the old cunt a shot across the bows, make sure it don’t happen any more.’

Dolly’s face was hard all of a sudden. ‘No. That’s not good enough. Not
nearly
good enough.’

‘Doll . . .’

‘He has to die,’ said Dolly.

It happened when the railway workers were taking a carriage needing repairs into one of the far sidings. Arthur Biggs was at the controls of the big steam engine, backing it
up, his mate the fireman on the footplate with him. Further back, the senior guard, the signalman, the porter and a pointsman were chatting to the shunter, Sam Farrell, who was directing operations
in his usual Big-I-Am manner, sending hand signals up to the driver, saying all was well.

Sam was relaxed and in charge. He loved being in charge, and he was blankly astonished when the senior guard, one of his oldest work pals, grabbed his arm and kicked him behind the knee,
taking his legs from under him.

‘What the fuck you doin’, boy?’ he demanded, falling on to the track, grazing his hands and knees
.

Wincing with the pain in his leg – Jesus, that kick had been hard – Sam knelt there and looked around. None of the others were shouting a protest, they weren’t saying to the
guard, ‘Hey, what’s up with you?’ They were just watching, and their faces were grim. What the hell was going on?

Sam scrabbled back to his feet, ready to come out swinging at the senior guard. And then he saw that the engine, belching steam and chugging hard like the deafening breath of an ancient
monster, hadn’t slowed down.

‘What the f—’ Sam started.

He knew – everyone knew – that once the driver couldn’t see the shunter’s hand signals, that was the safety feature, that was when Arthur was supposed to shut her off,
slap on the brakes. But Arthur hadn’t done that. The engine was still backing up; it was coming straight for Sam.

He screamed as he saw clearly what was about to happen. And then the engine’s massive weight smashed into him, flattening his chest and stomach, shattering his ribcage, whipping the air
out of Sam in an instant, sending blood spurting out of his mouth in a torrent. His scream was cut short as his heart was squeezed to nothing and stopped beating.

‘Fuckin’ hell,’ said the senior guard, going pale as Sam’s blood spattered thickly down on to the tracks.

Arthur slammed on the brake and then him and the fireman came running back. They stopped short as they saw Sam Farrell pinned there, his head tipped forward on to his caved-in, blood-soaked
chest. A ghastly odour was rising from Sam, the open-drain odour of a burst stomach and mangled intestines. The driver turned away from the sight, gagging at the smell, and heaved up his breakfast
on to the platform.