Wishing and Hoping (3 page)

Their neighbours treated them with courtesy rather than friendliness. Warily they eyed the sleek Jaguar parked in the drive and whispered guardedly about the fact that this couple was terribly young to be able to afford such a lovely home.

Michael had already set himself up before Marcie had met him. With a keen mind and the vigour of youth he'd driven himself ever onwards to do better for himself – and to do better than his father, Victor Camilleri.

Just because he owned property and a nightclub didn't mean that Michael was out to all hours all the time. The club had a manager and an agent and a lawyer handled the property portfolio, but still he went out of his way to check them all now and again. Tonight he had gone to the club with some business associates.

The light in the hallway downstairs eventually came on and she heard that first stair creak beneath his weight. The house felt different when he was home. It was as though the very walls themselves were sending her some telepathic message that they'd warmed up. She felt warmer herself once she knew that Michael was back.

She knew that out of habit he'd look in on Aran and Joanna first before coming to bed.

Marcie lay back on her pillow, eyes wide open. This was the best bit of the day – him coming home.

Some women couldn't live with the knowledge that their husband spent three nights a week at a nightclub where hostesses tripped around on four-inch stilettos and strippers danced naked on a floodlit stage. But she loved Michael and, what's more, she trusted him.

Marcie switched on the bedside light as Michael came into the bedroom.

Blinking, he held one hand in front of his face to deflect the sudden glow. ‘Do me a favour, turn it off.'

His tie was already loosened and he looked tired. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. His face looked puffy – not as firm as it usually was.

Lying on her side, her head supported on her hand, Marcie eyed him quizzically. Even at this time in the morning, he wasn't usually like this. It was something that had always amused her about him; the time on the clock was of no consequence. If the work was there, then the work got done.

‘You look tired. Is something wrong?'

‘Nothing that I can't handle.'

He managed a smile, but Marcie wasn't fooled. She'd fallen in love with the gentleness she'd seen in this man and for the fact that he was so different to
most of the men she'd known. He didn't smoke and wasn't a great drinker. Neither was he a braggart, which her father could sometimes be. He was a ‘steady Eddie' as her father would say. Sometimes she knew very well that what he really meant was boring. But she didn't think Michael was dull. She loved him and hoped it would always be so.

Most times when he came home tired he was still happy. There were always business worries, but he was usually able to put them to one side until the morning. Tonight the concerned look was more weighty, as though he didn't know what to do about it.

She reached out for him. ‘Michael? What's wrong?'

Shaking his head, he sat down on the edge of the bed and covered his face with both hands. ‘Nothing you can do anything about,' he murmured through his fingers.

Her hand stroked his shoulder. ‘Michael, we're married. Your problems are my problems.'

It came as a complete surprise when he shrugged away her gentle touch, a touch meant to reassure and to soothe.

‘For Christ's sake, stop fucking nagging me!'

Shocked, Marcie drew back her hand, clenching her fingers into a fist. Her heart beat wildly, its thudding echoing inside her head.

Michael had never spoken to her like this before. OK, they hadn't known each other for much more
than three years, but it was long enough so she could say with her hand on her heart that he'd never lost his temper.

‘I wasn't nagging you,' she responded, unable to stop the hurt from filtering into her voice. ‘I care when you're unhappy or worried.'

‘Well don't,' he shouted, flinging himself up from the edge of the bed.

The sound of Aran crying filtered through from the other room.

Now it was Marcie's turn to be angry. ‘Well that was bloody clever of you, wasn't it?'

She flung the bedclothes back, got out of bed and stormed out, mad at him for being angry with her and at herself for feeling so hurt, for needing him so much.

It angered her even more to see Aran's little face screwed up and red. Clasping his warm body against hers, she cooed sweet words against the side of his head. ‘Never mind, my little precious. Never mind. It was just that nasty old Daddy shouting at Mummy.'

Reassured, the tautness left the baby's body and the softness of sleep and being secure returned.

She suddenly became aware that she was not alone. Michael was standing in the doorway, one arm resting against the frame, the back of his hand against his forehead. His expression was one of remorse.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘You're working too hard,' she whispered while returning the baby to his cot.

He raked his hand over his chin. The slight stubble that wouldn't now get shaved off until the morning made a rasping sound.

Not for the first time she thought how handsome he was and how lucky she was to be married to him. Heads turned when Michael entered the room. She sometimes wondered whatever he'd seen in her, a small town girl, when he could have had any girl in London or anywhere else for that matter.

His arms pulled her to him so that her head rested against his chest. She wound her arms around him, smelling and feeling the warmth of his body, the slight sweat of a man who was tired and wanted only to sleep.

‘I'm sorry,' he said again. ‘It's been a hard day.'

‘Or even a hard day's night?' she said, hoping to lighten his mood.

‘The Beatles have a lot to answer for,' he said immediately understanding that she was trying to cheer him up.

‘I wasn't really nagging, was I?' she asked earnestly.

‘No. Of course not. You're right. I'm tired. I need a break. We both need a break. How about we take the kids and nip down to see your gran at the weekend? How would that be?'

‘Great if the weather holds.'

He hugged her tighter. ‘Then that's what we'll do.'

They didn't make love that night, and Marcie had not expected to. She was content to stay in his arms and feel his warmth. In time, once she'd told him how her day had been – which wasn't terribly exciting, being about the kids mostly and the things they'd done – she fell asleep. Michael was home and all was well with her world.

Tired as he was, Michael lay wide awake, the events of the evening going round and round in his head. Nothing could have been worse than that his business should attract the attention of Paddy Rafferty. Marcie's dad had been the first to bring the news.

‘What are you gonna do?' he'd asked.

‘Tell him to sod off. What the hell do you think I'm going to do?'

Basically that was exactly what he'd done, though in retrospect it didn't seem such a good idea. Playing for time might have made more sense, but Rafferty had brought out the worst in him.

Tony had given Rafferty the message. ‘But he won't like it,' he'd warned.

Michael had been unrepentant. ‘I don't care. This place is mine and if it does ever get redeveloped, it's my sweat that's gone into the place and my money. I'm certainly not sharing it with the likes of Paddy Rafferty!'

Michael had specifically stayed away from the
places where his father owned clubs and branched out on his own. Now he'd attracted a different problem. Paddy Rafferty had a bad reputation. A day or so later, the ugly man with the pitted complexion who always wore gloves had stood in his office and told him – not asked him,
told
him – that he wanted half of the building housing the nightclub, though not right away.

‘With a view to future potential,' he'd said to him, his eyes raking the bare brick walls of Michael's very modern office.

‘No chance.'

Paddy had smiled coldly. ‘You're in my territory, Mickey, my boy. When the time comes for this place to be redeveloped – which it will do – then you need a partner who knows the ropes. I've got friends in high places . . . the planning department at London City Council, even some politicians. Mark my words, Michael. This place will get redeveloped one day and when it does you'll have earned a fortune. And old Paddy Rafferty will be there to help you. Trust me, Mickey. You'll be in need of a friend – to smooth the way, so to speak.'

Michael's face had darkened and he been barely able to control his anger.

‘My name's Michael, not Mickey. And this is London, not a bog in Ireland.' His tone was as uncompromising as his body stance.

Reading him correctly, Paddy's pale watery eyes had seemed to ice over.

‘Insults about meself I'll forgive. Insults about Ireland I will not.'

‘Stuff you and stuff Ireland! Get out.'

Rafferty glowered, his bottom lip quivering as though in the first stage of rabies and considering what or who to bite.

He pointed a hooked finger. ‘I'll give you a few days to make up your mind, Mickey,' Paddy went on, attempting to bring his flaccid lips back into a smile, his eyes glassy and cold. ‘By the way, did you know that I knew your mother? That was before Victor got her up the spout with you, of course. I was never that careless as to let any slapper get her hooks into me. But fair dos to the old broad, she was a good lay . . .'

Michael had been sitting behind his desk, Paddy standing in front of it. A steeplechaser couldn't have jumped the desk better. Ordinarily he would have gone round the desk, but Michael was so incensed he leaped up onto the desk top; the second leap took him down on the floor facing Paddy who looked dumbfounded.

The left hook to Paddy's chin was followed by a right. Paddy went down with blood pouring from his mouth and a chip of tooth hanging on his chin.

Paddy's shock was so great that he lay there for a moment as though trying to take it all in. Once it hit, his scowl was deep and the finger that pointed at Michael was like a sword aching for the blood of retribution.

‘I'll have you for this, Jones. Damn you, I'll have you for this!'

Pumped up with adrenalin, Michael stood over him. There was no way he was going to take any lip about his mother. No way at all. His attitude towards Rafferty was one of total contempt.

‘Oh, yeah,' he'd said, so filled with anger that he totally ignored Tony Brooks shaking his head in warning. ‘So how about the gloves come off, hey, Paddy? How about it?'

There was only Tony, Michael, Paddy and one of Paddy's henchmen in the room. All the same there was a stunned silence as Michael whipped off Paddy Rafferty's gloves and they all surveyed the horror beneath.

The skin on Paddy's hands was pink and white and his fingernails were non-existent. The fire that had destroyed his hands had also damaged his ligaments so that his fingers curled in on themselves, like talons and not like hands at all.

Paddy was a legend for protecting his hands, for not allowing anyone to see them. It was rumoured
that he even wore his gloves in bed – even to the bathroom.

‘Two days, that's all I'm giving you,' Paddy snarled as the man with him helped him to his feet. ‘Just two days. After that I'll destroy you.'

After he'd gone, Marcie's father glanced over his shoulder before closing the door. If the circumstances weren't so serious, Michael would have laughed. Tony was acting like James bloody Bond not some small-time crook from the Isle of Sheppey. He was less than cool though. Sweat had broken out over his forehead. James Bond never did that.

‘He'll do you,' Tony gasped. ‘Not just a bit of a going over, he'll do you personally good and proper. He plays for high stakes, that bloke.'

Michael still hadn't been perturbed – not until he'd been informed that two of their dancers had been cut up, their blood used to write a message on the mirror of their dressing room.

‘Two Days.'

Michael had been shocked. OK, he'd expected himself or the club to be a target, but not two of his employees. The girls were – or had been – pretty. He felt responsible. His main worry then was that if he didn't give in Marcie and the kids could be targeted next. He'd told himself not to be foolish, that they lived in a safe suburb where people went to work in the City. Things like that didn't happen
in such areas – and Rafferty wouldn't be able to find out their address. Then he'd found a dead cat tied to their front gate. There was no note. There didn't need to be. Paddy Rafferty knew where he lived.

ROSA BROOKS STOOD
at the front door of her cottage. The sun had taken the opportunity to peer out from behind a cloud. The red bricks of her home sparkled with sea salt when the sun was brightest.

Rosa's face was turned in the direction of where her granddaughter Marcie and her husband were unloading their children and baggage for a weekend stay. She hadn't told anyone about her encroaching blindness and she wouldn't tell them now. She'd also sworn Garth to secrecy, treating the event like some kind of game.

‘It's a secret,' he'd said.

‘Not to be told,' Rosa had warned him. ‘Not until it's your birthday.'

As Garth had no idea when his birthday was, it didn't seem much of a problem.

Her old heart had leaped with joy when Father Martin, a likeable young man who had replaced Father Justin O'Flanagan, had come with the news.

‘Your granddaughter phoned me,' the young priest had explained.

She'd thanked him accordingly and then engaged
Garth to help her get things ready: the old cot out for the baby, the blankets and sheets to be aired, the bedrooms swept and the old range working flat out to warm the house and cook the roast dinner she intended serving.