No Regret: the brand new novel from the legendary author, page 3
His family sold their few possessions to scrape together the money for a cremation, then paid for his ashes to be posted to his grandmother in Spanish Town, because Michael’s last wish had been to return to Jamaica.
But somewhere between the smog of London and the sunshine of the Caribbean, the package containing all that remained of Michael Bennett got lost in the post. He never made it home.
‘So you’re not soft on each other, Thomas? Is that what you’re saying?’
‘No, sir,’ Thomas lied.
The truth was the only time he felt happy was when he was with Maggie. With her, he could forget about all the bad stuff. The hunger, the squalid little flat, the Teddy boys who’d beaten him up. It was ironic, considering how dangerous it was to be seen out with a white woman, that in her company he could relax and feel safe for once.
Just being with her made Thomas feel better.
Rory took a step closer so he was just inches away. He tilted his head and observed him as if weighing up the truth of his statement. Finally, he spoke: ‘That’s good, Thomas, that’s good, because Maggie Riley is not to be touched by you – or anyone else, for that matter.’
Then he stepped back, the menacing expression gone from his face. ‘Anyway, that’s not why I invited you here today . . .’ He delved into his pocket, pulled out a packet of Capstan full-strength cigarettes and tapped two out, then offered one to Thomas.
‘Thank you, but I don’t smoke.’
Rory continued to hold out the cigarette for Thomas to take. The look on his face was a reminder that nobody in their right mind said no to Rory, so he took the cigarette, put it to his lips, and leaned in to Rory’s cigarette lighter.
On his first draw of smoke, a cough ripped through Thomas, making his eyes water.
Rory roared with laughter. ‘We’ll make a smoker of you yet, lad. As me dear mother used to say, “A man that doesn’t smoke is like a dog that doesn’t bark – don’t trust him.”’ He lit his own cigarette, narrowing his gaze at Thomas through the cloud of smoke. ‘Right, let’s get down to business, shall we? How would you like to come and work for me?’
‘You?’ Thomas blurted.
‘You make it sound like that would be a bad thing?’ Rory frowned.
‘I . . . I . . .’ This was the last thing Thomas had expected.
‘Lost for words, Thomas?’ Rory took another drag on his cigarette.
Thomas wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. He remembered the night Rory brought him home after he’d been beaten up. His mother had welcomed the stranger who’d saved her son, inviting him into her home, but when he gave his name her eyes had widened. Rory Sheehan’s reputation as a hard man preceded him everywhere he went.
‘When was the last time you ate a decent meal?’ Rory asked.
Thomas thought of the tinned kippers and porter cake Maggie had given him last week, but knew better than to bring her name into the conversation.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘If you work for me, Thomas, you’ll never be hungry again.’ As if to prove his point, Rory drew a wad of five-pound notes from his pocket and threw it down on the table. ‘Take it.’
Thomas’s eyes skimmed the notes, his mind struggling to keep up. There must be at least a hundred pounds . . .
Rory nodded. ‘Go on, take it.’
He’d never seen so much cash. Before the heart attack, when he was working all hours on the London Underground, his father’s wages only came to eleven pounds a week. One hundred pounds would almost buy a ticket to Jamaica. If only tickets home were as cheap as the inbound voyage, all three of them could travel home for that money.
‘I said, take it. And there’ll be plenty more where that came from if you come and work for me.’
Whether it was a good idea or not – and his gut told him it wasn’t – Thomas knew he had no choice but to accept the offer. He reached for the money; it still looked like a small fortune, but he suspected the price he’d have to pay would outweigh any benefit.
‘Thank you, Mr Sheehan.’
‘You’ve got good manners, Thomas. I like that. You’ll do well in Soho.’
Soho?
Thomas had never been there, couldn’t afford to visit the jazz clubs and coffee shops, much as he would have liked to. He’d also heard about Soho’s seedier side: the strip joints and the women who hung around in doorways or posted signs offering ‘French lessons’.
‘You’ll like it there, Thomas. It’s not like Camden – no blacks, no Irish – you’ll be able to mix with whoever you like. And, once word gets around that you work for me, no one will give you any bother. So what do you say?’ He held out his hand to Thomas. ‘Shall we shake on it?’
Thomas nodded and shook Rory’s hand. As he was about to let go, the grip on his fingers suddenly tightened.
‘If there’s one thing I expect from the men who work for me, it’s loyalty. I take it that won’t be a problem?’
Thomas’s mouth went dry. ‘No, sir.’
‘Good.’ Rory released his hand and strode towards the thick velvet curtain that ran along the wall. He pulled it back to reveal a wooden door. Grinning at Thomas, he opened the door and waved for him to enter.
Fighting the urge to run, Thomas stepped into a room that at first glance looked as if it was waiting for the decorators to arrive. The furniture and the floor were covered by canvas dust sheets, but the man standing in the middle of the room was no decorator.
Malcolm was Rory’s right-hand man, never far from his side. Like his boss, he was of Irish descent. Tall and imposing, his face was made up of hard angles, heavy brows and dark eyes. He was always well dressed and today was no different. But his immaculately tailored blue suit looked out of place alongside the three naked men huddled behind him, their hands tied behind their backs, gags across their mouths, sheer terror in their eyes.
‘Do you recognise these men, Thomas?’
Rigid with fear, it was all he could do to shake his head in reply.
‘Look again, lad.’
Trembling, he glanced at Rory. ‘I don’t know who they are, Mr Sheehan.’
‘No matter.’ Rory wrapped an arm round Thomas’s shoulders and squeezed. He pointed at the men. ‘These are the men who attacked you.’
Thomas’s head shot round to face Rory.
‘This lot need a taste of what they dish out,’ Rory snarled. He pulled his flick knife from his pocket, pressed the button to expose the sharp, jagged blade, then handed it to Thomas. ‘I won’t have it said that Rory Sheehan allows people to get away with attacking his men.’
Thomas stared at the knife in his hand, his eyes filling with tears.
‘Is there a problem?’ Rory’s voice was smooth.
‘No . . . no.’ Thomas blinked away the tears.
‘Good. That’s what I like to hear, because it wouldn’t do for you to let me down. Not in front of people. That wouldn’t do at all. So get stuck in, lad. It’s a lovely knife, that – sharp enough for what you need to do. I always go for the stomach meself.’
The tallest of the three men lost control of his bladder and urine began to run down his leg, puddling at his feet.
Rory’s eyes flashed. ‘You filthy, fucking dog!’ Snatching the knife from Thomas, he launched himself at the man, slashing down at his penis. He collapsed in a pool of blood, writhing in pain. Although the gag silenced his screams, Thomas could hear them loud and clear.
Rory handed him the knife. ‘Right, now it’s your turn.’
Thomas could barely see the knife, but he could feel the blood dripping down the blade onto his fingers.
‘They said in the war, the first kill was always the hardest. After that’ – he winked at Thomas – ‘easy peasy. Because if they’re not dealt with, next time it might be your mammy they hurt, and you wouldn’t want that, would you?’ The smile he gave didn’t reach his eyes, which locked on Thomas with a dead stare. ‘And I’m sure you wouldn’t want anyone else to hurt her either.’
Thomas got the message. He raised his arm and plunged the knife into the man’s stomach, again and again.
Chapter Five
Doris Turner stood on her doorstep, a roll-up dangling from her lips, her grey hair tightly wound in curlers. ‘Kathleen, I’m sorry to be seeing you again. Still, these things happen.’
She was a small, round woman who’d seen both wars and hadn’t thought much of either. Born and brought up in the East End, she had refused to evacuate from her two-up, two-down terrace off the Whitechapel Road even when the bombs dropped. ‘If I’m going to be carried off in a coffin,’ she’d told her husband, ‘it’s going to be from my own front door.’
Spotting Maggie standing behind her mother, Doris smiled, showing off an overcrowded mouth of teeth. ‘I take it this is your girl.’
‘It is.’ Kathleen nodded.
‘Fine-looking lass, you’ll have to watch her.’
‘When I need advice from you, Doris Turner, I’ll ask for it.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Doris laughed, stooping to pick up the milk bottle on her doorstep. ‘I suppose you’d best come in, then.’
As she followed her mother through the front door, Maggie’s eyes darted around the hallway, taking in the brown wallpaper and the ceiling haphazardly daubed with green paint in an effort to cover the patches of mould.
‘Come through to the kitchen – excuse the mess.’
She wasn’t kidding about the mess. The torn net curtains were thick with grime, but what little light managed to penetrate revealed a rusty cooker coated with a thick layer of grease, a cracked and stained linoleum floor and greyish underwear dangling from a washing line that had been strung from the window to the door.
‘Hold on, darlin’, let me turn that down.’ Doris limped over to the wireless, which was blasting out the Isley Brothers’ ‘Twist and Shout’, and twiddled the volume knob. Then she flicked on the light.
Her brown eyes narrowed as she took a deep drag on her roll-up and studied Kathleen Riley. ‘I didn’t think I’d be seeing you here again. No offence, but you ain’t no spring chicken any more, love.’ Noticing the look on her visitors’ faces as they spotted the bowl on the kitchen table overflowing with bloody rags, she added, ‘Like I say, you’ll have to excuse the mess. I didn’t have time to clear up after me last guest.’
She moved the bowl to the draining board, then reached for the kettle. Glancing over her shoulder at Maggie, she nodded up at the shelf and said, ‘Get them cups down for me, love. They’re me best ones.’
But as Maggie picked up a sticky, cracked teacup, trying to avoid coming in contact with the filthy counter underneath, her mother snapped, ‘I’d just like to get it over with, thank you, Doris.’
‘Right you are. Let’s get the business out of the way, then,’ said Doris, holding out her palm.
Kathleen opened her battered faux leather handbag and began to fumble through the contents.
At a loss as to what business they could possibly have in a shithole like this, Maggie turned to her mother in alarm. ‘Mum?’
‘Be quiet, Maggie!’ Kathleen snarled at her.
‘Innocent as a lamb, ain’t you, pet?’ Doris shook her head. ‘I’m sad to say, there may come a time when you’ll be glad you’ve met me, darlin’.’
She took the envelope Kathleen had pulled from her handbag, opened it with a dirty fingernail, and peered inside.
‘You’re short, I’m afraid.’
Maggie watched in confusion as her mother raised her hands to the back of her neck, unfastened the cross of St Christopher that had belonged to her late mother, and dropped it into Doris’s hand. ‘That should cover it.’
Doris examined the gold cross and chain. ‘I suppose it will have to do,’ she sighed, slipping it into her pocket along with the envelope. ‘Right, you know the drill: get yourself ready.’
‘Mum?’ Fear creeping up her spine, Maggie tugged at her mother’s sleeve.
Face twisted with rage, Kathleen swung round and slapped her on the side of the head.
‘Didn’t I tell you to keep that mouth shut? Do as you’re told for once.’
‘Leave the poor child be, it’s only natural she’d have questions.’ Doris gave the girl a pitying look. ‘Are you all right, love?’
‘She’s fine. I only brought her here because I’ll need help to get home afterwards. I can do without her bloody questions.’
Not wanting her mother to see the tears welling in her eyes, Maggie turned her head away. It was then she noticed the bed on the far side of the kitchen table. As she took in the stained, damp-looking mattress, the smell hit her. Till then, she’d been trying not to breathe in the rancid stink of grease and sweat and mould, but now she was aware of something that reminded her of the slaughterhouses off Caledonian Road. Her eyes widened as she saw a tray next to the bed which held a bunch of knitting needles, their tips covered in a dried reddish-brown stain. Next to them lay crooked hooks, like the ones that her mother used when she crocheted and darned Da’s socks.
‘You should explain to her what’s happening,’ said Doris. ‘She knows how babies come into the world; she needs to know how they go out of it—’
‘I’ll do no such thing,’ huffed Kathleen. ‘And I’ll thank you to keep your nose out of it, Doris Turner.’ Turning to her daughter, she snapped, ‘Go wait in the hallway.’
Not wanting another clout round the head, Maggie did as she was told, but she left the door slightly ajar so she could hear what was going on.
‘Come on, Kathleen, by the time you move your arse, we’ll be christening the bloody baby! . . . Don’t look at me like that, I’m only joking. You know me – I’d laugh at me own funeral. Now get a move on, take them knickers off and lay down on the bed.’
Maggie felt a wave of embarrassment wash over her. She’d never heard anyone speak to her mother like that. Putting her eye to the crack in the door, she saw her mother take off her coat, step out of her knickers and lie down on the mattress. Then she pulled out her rosary beads and once again started muttering the Seven Sorrows.
Doris cackled as she lit the stove under the kettle, and brought over a towel and the bowl full of dirty rags. She nodded to the beads. ‘It’s a bit late for that now. I reckon He’s forgotten about the likes of us . . . Come on, open your legs . . . wider.’ And in the dim light, she wiped her fingers on her stained apron while looking down at Maggie’s mum, now motionless on the bed, only the sound of her shallow breathing giving away her fear.
Doris picked up a length of rubber tubing and a funnel, placing them by the bed next to the knitting needles. Next, she took the kettle off the flame before it began to boil, and placed it on the floor beside the bed. Then she reached into a cupboard and brought out a bottle. ‘You want some gin to help you relax?’
Kathleen grabbed the bottle that Doris was holding out and gulped down several mouthfuls before handing it back.
‘Right,’ said Doris. ‘I don’t want this to hurt you any more than it has to, so take a deep breath, lie back and think of England, and let’s get on with it.’
With that, she attached one end of the funnel to the tube, and inserted the other end between Kathleen’s legs.
Maggie could see her mother’s fingers gripping the side of the mattress as Doris poured warm water into the funnel. She heard a series of groans, followed by a scream, and then another.
On the fourth scream, unable to stand it any longer, Maggie flung open the door and rushed in.
‘Get out!’ Her mother’s face was twisted in pain, drips of sweat beaded on her forehead. ‘Oh Jesus! Oh Christ!’ Then she screamed again.
‘What’s happening? Why’s she making that noise?’
Doris gave her a sympathetic glance. ‘Your mum’s pregnant, love . . . but not for much longer.’
Maggie’s mouth opened and closed. She stared at her mother, who lay clasping her stomach. Then her eyes rolled back and her breathing grew ragged.
‘Mammy? Oh my God!’
Blood was pooling on the mattress between her mother’s legs. Her body writhed as she howled in agony.
‘You need to help her . . . YOU NEED TO DO SOMETHING!’ Maggie shouted.
Doris’s face suddenly turned ashen. ‘What do you expect me to do, love? I only know how to get the thing out, I ain’t a doctor.’
‘I’m going to call an ambulance.’ Maggie scrambled for the door but Doris gripped her arm.
‘Do you want us all to go to prison? Because that’s what will happen if you go spouting your mouth off.’
‘What do you mean?’ Maggie looked from the woman to her mother, now whimpering on the bed.
‘It’s a crime, love. Surely, you know that much?’
‘Then what are we going to do?’
Doris let go of her arm. ‘Run to number 23 – it’s the yellow front door halfway along. Ask for Bea. Tell her that Doris needs her help . . . and quick.’
Maggie raced up the street and hammered on the door. Too desperate to wait, she turned the doorknob and when it opened she burst in, running down the hallway and into the kitchen.
‘What the hell—’ A woman in a quilted lilac dressing gown spun round as if she’d just been given the fright of her life. Seeing Maggie’s blood-soaked clothes, she blurted, ‘Holy Mother of God, what’s happened – and more to the point, who the fuck are you?’
‘Doris sent me. It’s my mum, she needs your help.’
Her panic forgotten, Bea picked up her fag from the ashtray and followed Maggie out of the house.
The moment they entered Doris’s kitchen, Bea strode across to the bed where Kathleen lay motionless, her eyes closed, her legs spreadeagled, the pool of blood on the mattress spreading beneath her. Muttering to herself, she turned to look at Doris, who was standing by the kitchen table, pouring herself a large mug of gin. ‘You need to get her some help or get her out of here. She’s dying.’ And then she turned on her heel, making straight for the door.
