‘Why would anyone do this, Tom? Why?’
It was the first time in years he had seen Briony shaken, and it saddened him.
‘I don’t know, Bri. But I have a feeling we’ll find out soon enough, love. This is a message of some sort. What we have to do is find out who sent it.’
She nodded and stared at Ginelle’s remains again, remembering the girl’s laughter of the week before, remembering when she had come to her for a job in her ragged dress and her mother’s shoes. Remembered her chatter, her unaffected pleasure in life, and felt rage once more for the destruction of a young life.
‘Yeah, Tom, we’ll find out who sent the message and then I’m gonna muller them. Me personally. No one, but no one, touches me or mine... So whoever sent this so-called message better start saying their prayers because, as Christ is my witness, they’ll need all the fucking prayers they can get!’
Chapter Eleven
Molly was brushing out Rosalee’s hair. Unlike years before, when it had been cropped to keep the lice at bay, Briony had insisted on having her sister’s hair left to grow. Now Rosalee sported a mass of thick blonde curls.
‘Would you keep still, Rosie darlin’!’ Rosalee was fidgeting, moving her head from side to side and making low guttural noises which annoyed the life out of Molly.
Eileen walked into the kitchen and Molly smiled, a real smile that encompassed the girl from head to foot.
At twenty-eight Eileen was much better. Her nerves were still bad, but she had stopped her wandering and the nonsensical conversations were long gone. She even had a beau of sorts, a friend of Abel’s who took her for long walks and listened avidly to all her chatter. He was a good deal older than Eileen, but Molly wasn’t against that. Eileen needed a man who was settled. A man who would look after her.
‘I’ve had a really good time, Mum. Joshua took me to Bow. We shopped in the little market and stopped for pie and mash. And I bought some material, I thought I might make meself a dress.’
Molly was amazed at those words. Although Eileen was clean, God knows she was forever washing, she still had that unkempt look about her. The shapeless garments she wore were such a part of her that the thought of her wearing anything even remotely nice was like music to her mother’s ears.
‘But Briony is always offering you money for clothes and you turn it down.’
Eileen faced her mother.
‘I don’t want anything from Briony thank you very much. I know she means well, but the thought of wearing anything bought with the money she makes...’
‘Oh, all right, Eileen love, leave it, leave it. You make yourself something nice if that’s what you want.’
Molly sighed heavily. It was still a sore point with Eileen about Briony, and Molly, who had once been her daughter’s most ardent opponent, was now her most ardent supporter. The girl had taken the bit of money from the Dumases and turned it into a small fortune. Also, Molly could deny no longer her own involvement in both her daughters’ downfall. Though the word ‘downfall’ was certainly not how she would describe Briony’s life.
‘Kerry’s not been then?’ Eileen tried to make amends.
‘To be honest, I don’t think she remembers where she lives!’
This was said with pride and without any malicious feeling against Eileen who didn’t work, let alone keep herself. It was this fact that galled Molly most about her eldest daughter. She balked at accepting Briony’s money but had no intention of going out and earning any for herself. Molly didn’t say this though, because now Eileen was back on her feet she didn’t want to rock the boat.
Bernadette came down the stairs and both women smiled at her. ‘Did our Kerry come home, Bernie?’
‘I ain’t her keeper, Mum, only her dresser. She probably stayed overnight with someone.’
She poured herself some tea and smiled craftily to herself. She knew who Kerry had stayed with all right, but she’d keep the knowledge to herself a while longer.
‘How did it go last night? Was it a success?’
‘Oh, yeah. Kerry went down a storm. Everyone was raving about her. But it’s funny, Mum, Briony was called away quick like. She looked rough I can tell you. I reckon there was hag at one of the houses.’
Molly put down the brush and went to the table to pick up her mug of tea. ‘What do you mean, trouble?’ Her face was clouded.
‘What kind of trouble do you normally get in those places?’
Eileen’s voice was low and Molly stopped herself from clouting her. Sometimes Eileen’s holy Joeing, as she called it to herself, really got on her nerves.
Bernie laughed.
‘Look, stop worrying, you know our Briony. If there’s trouble it will be sorted by now. It was a shame really because she missed most of the opening. Oh, Mum, you should have seen some of the people there! Really rich like, their clothes... Even the air in there smelt nice, with all the perfumes and that.’
Molly nodded, pleased. This was more like it, this was what she wanted to hear. ‘Were there any titles there?’
Bernie pushed her face close to her mother’s and smiled. ‘The place stunk of titles, Mum, it was really, really impressive. Our Briony is gonna make a bloody fortune.’
Molly sipped her tea and grinned.
That was more like it all right. She lived now in Briony’s shadow, loving her notoriety, enjoying the stir her daughter created. People spoke about her in tones of awe. She was both loved and feared, and that, as far as Molly was concerned, was exactly how it should be.
Evander looked down at the girl asleep in his bed and felt his heart constrict. What the hell had he done? She was no more than a child really, for all her body and her incredible voice. She was a white woman. He had spent the night with a white woman.
Now hold on, a voice whispered at the back of his mind. You ain’t in the States now.
But if certain people knew about them, it would be like the States all over again. There was something about a black man and a white woman that incensed people. Women as well as men. He had grown up under that cloud and had thought to die without ever knowing the pleasure of a clean white woman. Oh, he had slept with white women before, poor white trash who had gone to the bad and were thought diseased so sold their body only to the black boys.
All this talk about niggers over here... about how niggers could dance, niggers had natural rhythm. They liked your music and your soulful songs, they liked to be seen with the black musicians, it made them look very hip, but if they thought you were sleeping with one of their women they’d turn like a pack of bloodhounds. What was it that Shakespeare guy had said? There’s an old black ram, tupping your ewe? Well, that was exactly what Evander had done. And he had loved every second of it!
Kerry was worth anything they might throw at him, though. The smell of her, the feel of her silky black hair, was like nothing he had ever experienced before. And she had been a virgin, that was the most fantastic part! A virgin. In the darkness of the night before he had been too carried away with wanting her to think of the consequences. Now, as she lay asleep and the sun burned through the dirty windows, the thought made him feel physically faint though he was aroused again.
‘Evander, my love. Come back to bed.’
He looked at her face and saw her staring at his enlarged member with the same fascination as he had stared at her. He watched as her long thin white fingers caressed him, running down the length of him and caressing his genitals, and groaned out loud. He knelt beside the bed and caressed her large white breasts with their pink nipples, and knew he was lost then. Any sensible thoughts were gone now, completely overshadowed by the milky white skin and the wet pinkness between her legs.
Briony and Tommy were sitting down to lunch but Briony just pushed her food desultorily around her plate.
‘Last night was a resounding success anyway, Bri.’
She nodded.
‘Good. Kerry went down well.’
‘Look, Briony, worrying about it ain’t gonna make it. g
o away.’
She shook her head.
‘I tell you, Tommy, every time I think about Ginelle, I feel a rage in me. I can’t stand this hanging around, waiting for the next move. Suppose they touch one of the other girls?’
‘We’ve got them all watched. Fuck me, Bri, even King Street Charlie couldn’t get in one of the houses at the moment.’
‘I think we should tell the girls. They have a right to know.’
Tommy pushed his plate away in temper.
‘Oh, yeah? Start a general exodus, why don’t you? The less the brasses know the better. They’ve got mouths like the parish ovens. It’d be all over the smoke by tonight. “Briony and Tommy have got trouble. Big trouble.” Once word like that hits the pavements every little ponce with dreams of the big time will be out mob-handed. We’ve gotta play this one close to our chests, wait and see what develops. If it was a loony, say a bloke with a grudge, he wouldn’t have had her delivered to the house, would he? That was personal.’
‘Did it ever occur to you that it could be a customer? A bloke who’s got a grudge all right. It’s all right for you, ain’t it? You ain’t gotta go round and give Ginelle’s mother the bad news, have you? You ain’t gotta go round and tell her that her daughter’s died. I’ve got to make up a story that she had an accident or something. How can I tell the woman that her daughter, her main bread winner, was cut up like a fucking piece of meat on a butcher’s slab!’
Briony stared at Tommy hard then. Something in what she’d said had sparked off a train of thought. Now it had gone. Disappeared as quickly as it had come.
‘What’s the matter, Bri?’
‘Just then something came to me mind, and went again.’
Tommy got up from his seat and walked around the table to her. Putting an arm around her, he pulled her to him.
‘Look, love, just try and relax. As soon as we get word, whoever it was is history.’
Briony nodded sagely.
‘Oh, they’ll be that all right, Tommy. I’m gonna pay this one back myself. Personally.’
He held her close. Never had he seen her so intent on anything in her life. It was as if Ginelle’s death was a personal affront. As if the girl was a daughter or a sister. Tommy would never realise the feelings Briony had for her girls. She loved them. Each and every one.
‘It had to come now, didn’t it, when we was branching out? I’m supposed to be seeing Nellie Deakins this afternoon. If word’s got to her ear then I’ll be a laughing stock.’
Tommy kissed her cheek, a wet smacking kiss.
‘Nellie’s an old has-been, Bri. Christ, I used to work for her meself when I was a boy. No one will hear anything about any of this, I guarantee that. We have to sit on it, just be patient. Then once we know what we’re dealing with, everything will come right. OK?’
She nodded. But the thought of Ginelle wouldn’t let her rest.
Mariah Jurgens was a big woman. Her grandfather, it was said, had been a large and troublesome Swedish sailor; her mother and grandmother were what was termed Bog Irish. Her father unknown. Mariah had the white-blonde colouring of her grandfather and the Irish temperament of the women in her family. Six feet tall in her stockinged feet, she had a body the like of which was rarely seen. Twenty years before she had been a highly sought-after courtesan. Her huge breasts and tiny waist, coupled with her sheer height and unusual colouring, had been prized by rich men. She had known her high price was for her sheer novelty value and had enhanced it with a pair of shoes especially made with high heels so that she looked even taller than she actually was. The fact that the majority of her clients were small men had made her laugh as she salted away the guineas; as she felt like laughing now, at the little man in front of her. She watched him take a pull on his cigar. It smelt expensive and was nearly as big as the little man himself.
‘So, Mariah, what do you say?’
She spat into the fire and shrugged nonchalantly.
‘Let me think it over, I’ll get in touch with you tomorrow.’
She watched the man frown and felt the urge to laugh again. ‘You do realise what I’m offering you?’
She nodded, serious once more. ‘I do.’
‘So what’s to think about?’
‘Mr Bolger, I always think over everything before I commit myself. It is, to my mind, the only way to do business.’
‘As you wish, Mariah. I will expect your answer in the morning.’
He stood up to leave and she stood too. Towering over the man, she put out a large hand with fingernails painted bright red and grasped his tightly, emphasising the size and strength of her own. He left the room and Mariah rang her bell. It was answered by a young blonde, at whom Mariah smiled sweetly.
‘Bring me some decent brandy and something to eat.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The girl was nervous. Mariah changed with the weather. From being a big cuddly woman she could turn into a demon from hell in an instant. Mariah was known as a woman who could ‘turn on a coin’, so unstable was her temper. It was something she nurtured in her madam’s role, a trait that was mandatory in her profession.
She relaxed back in her seat, her mind racing. Bolger was as bent as a two-bob clock. So he was, in reality, offering her something he eventually wanted to take back from her. She had settled that in her mind immediately. He wanted something that Briony Cavanagh had, and that meant he was willing to take on Tommy Lane. That in turn told Mariah he had a lot more backing than usual.
Bolger was just a small-time pimp, really. He now had visions of hitting the big time, and this could only be brought about by an alliance with someone else. An original thought in Bolger’s head would die a slow death from loneliness. No, there was a bigger fish involved in this, a much bigger fish, but who? The girl came back with the brandy and food. Thanking her, Mariah told her to send in Big John. While she waited for him she wrote a note to Briony Cavanagh, asking her to visit her establishment at seven that evening. Two bitches had always had more going for them than one dog, and she had heard through the grapevine that Briony Cavanagh was as sharp as a razor.
Sandy Livingston walked along the Caledonian Road with his youngest son, Pete. The boy was so like his father it was startling to see them together. Pete was only fifteen, but already he was as tall as his father. Both men had watery blue eyes, ruddy complexions and the sandy hair and eyebrows that gave the older man his nickname. Pete loved his father. He knew he was notorious as a heavy, that he was paid huge sums to hurt people, and looked forward eagerly to the day he could join Sandy in the family business. His eldest brother Joseph was already making a name for himself, as were Martin and Eddie, his other two brothers. The Livingstons were a force to be reckoned with around Silvertown, or anywhere in the East End in fact.
Sandy saw the woman approach out of the corner of his eye. He automatically faced her and nodded in a friendly fashion.
‘Hello, Miss Cavanagh.’
Briony smiled lazily.
‘Hello there, Sandy. Come inside a moment, I want to see you.’
Sandy looked surprised at the request but followed Briony into the tiny terraced house without a thought. He knew Tommy and through him Briony Cavanagh. He respected her, a thing that was previously unheard of as Sandy Livingston had never respected another woman in his life, not even the wife who had borne his sons with the minimum of fuss and then looked forward to nothing but the back of his hand at least once a week.
Pete followed his father into the tiny house with exaggerated nonchalance, hands pushed into the pockets of his trousers in a parody of his father and brothers. Inside the house they were startled to see Tommy Lane and two big Arabs standing in the front room.
‘Hello, Tommy. All right?’
Sandy looked around him, a trickle of fear running up the base of his spine.
Pete watched as the two large Arabs grabbed his father and pinned his arms to his sides.
‘What’s going on here? You leave my old man alone!’
Pete
was frightened now. His big dad, whom he took such pleasure in bragging about, was scared - and this fact terrified the boy. Briony pushed him out of her way and dismissed him.
‘Shut your trap and you’ll be all right.’ She looked at Sandy. ‘He’s like the spit out of your mouth, ain’t he, Sandy boy?’ Her voice was low now, even friendly.
Sandy licked his lips with a yellow-coated tongue.
‘Look, Miss Cavanagh, I don’t know what’s going on here, but I swear, whatever I’m supposed to have done... well, I never done it!’
Briony and Tommy laughed. Briony slipped her hand into the waist of Sandy’s trousers and took out the large boning knife he kept there. She took it out of its leather sheath and stared at it for a few seconds before placing the tip at Sandy’s throat.
‘You could do a lot a damage with this, Sandy, cut someone to pieces. But then, that’s what you do best, ain’t it? Cut people? For a sum of money?’
‘I swear on my boy’s life I ain’t cut no one you wouldn’t want cut...’
‘Shut your mouth and listen! I’m gonna ask you something and if you lie to me you’re dead, Sandy, dead as a doornail. I ain’t joking.’ Briony held a finger up to his face. ‘Did you cut one of my girls, Sandy? The truth now, I want the truth. A little blonde bird called Ginelle. As God is my witness, you lie to me and I’ll cut your fucking throat meself.’
Sandy looked down at the tiny woman in front of him. He met her hard green stare and swallowed deeply before he answered.
‘No. I ain’t cut no brasses. I swear to you I ain’t cut no brasses! Not for yonks.’
Briony nodded slowly, watching his fear and sniffing it into herself, trying to assuage the rage inside her.
‘Then who has, Sandy? All you cutters know one another, you all talk. Who is cutting up my girls? You give me the name and I’ll see you all right, boy, but I must have a name.’
Pete watched his father battle it out with himself. He knew that grassing was the worst thing a cutter could do. Because cutters were the bad men, the really bad men, and they were the hardest. Hard men did their time, kept their heads down, and emerged from prison with their reputations intact, happy to take on the mantle of hard men once more. He held his breath as he watched his father.