No Regret: the brand new novel from the legendary author, page 4
‘Where are you going?’ cried Maggie. ‘You’re supposed to help her.’
‘No, darlin’,’ Bea called over her shoulder, ‘I don’t need this kind of trouble. I ain’t getting nicked by the Old Bill for anyone.’
Terror surging through her, Maggie dashed to her mother’s handbag, took out her purse and ran back out into the road. She kept running until she saw a phone box. Yanking open the heavy door, she picked up the receiver and dialled O.
Between gasping for breath and fighting back the tears, she struggled to get out the words. ‘Operator? Hello, Operator . . . I need . . . I need to get a number . . . and be put through to it.’
She gave the name and address and waited for what seemed like hours until finally she heard the ringing tone. As soon as she heard the voice on the other end, she took a coin from her mother’s purse and pushed it into the slot.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me, Maggie – Maggie Riley. I need your help—’
Chapter Six
Luca Romano had a lot on his mind as he sat at the window table of his coffee bar in St Martin’s Lane. Not least of his worries was a nasty dose of the clap. His penis was on fire, and the blisters under his foreskin were itching so much it was making it hard to concentrate on anything else. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, Sofia wouldn’t stop nagging him about their forthcoming wedding. The way she was going, it would end up costing more than Princess Margaret’s do a couple of years back. And it wasn’t as if he even wanted to marry the miserable bitch his parents had selected for him.
Like so many Italian parents, the Romanos wanted their son to marry a nice Catholic virgin from back home. That part Luca hadn’t minded; in the West End, finding a virgin was like finding a chicken supping a pint – it was never going to happen. So he’d been happy enough for them to choose a bride from a good family, someone who’d be a proper Italian wife and give him proper Italian sons to carry on the Romano name.
He’d been less happy when Sofia was sent to London to stay with him and his parents until the wedding. To say she was a disappointment would be putting it mildly. Worst of all, she just wouldn’t shut up. Always bending his ear about something else she wanted him to buy for her. It was driving him to distraction at a time when he needed to be focusing on more important matters, such as how he was going to deal with Rory Sheehan.
During the years his father had spent grooming him to take over as head of the family business, Luca had been taught the art of running a protection racket. The secret was to make it seem like a mutually beneficial arrangement where, provided payments were made on time, there was nothing to fear. Vincent Romano had been respected by the businesses he protected because he never demanded more than they could afford to pay, only putting up prices when profits increased.
Word had it that Rory Sheehan was bleeding his clients dry. And, when they failed to pay, the retribution he delivered was sadistic. The only thing keeping them from looking elsewhere for protection was their terror of what Sheehan would do when he found out. And that was making it difficult for Luca to gain a bigger share of the Soho market. He’d tried to come to some sort of agreement with Rory, but the guy wouldn’t listen. If Luca wanted a slice of Soho action, there was only one way to get it: war.
Taking another sip of his coffee, Luca turned his gaze from the Mods standing next to their Lambrettas across the street to the bustling activity inside the cafe. Trade was good; the place was packed with office workers and typing-pool girls, chatting away to the accompaniment of the coffee machine pumping out steam on the counter, the aroma of espresso mingling with cigarette smoke. And unlike the pubs, which were curbed by licensing laws, the coffee bars could stay open for the late-night crowds.
At that moment, a group of men entered the coffee bar, their suits cut from the finest Italian cloth. Though his Romano cousins had embraced the English lifestyle a little too eagerly in Luca’s opinion – three of them hadn’t even bothered showing up today, probably still sleeping it off after partying all night – he knew he could count on them to lay down their lives if it came to it.
No words were spoken, just an exchange of nods before Luca stood up, knocked back the last of his coffee, brushed down his pinstriped suit, then marched out the door with his men.
A minute later, they piled into the waiting black Jaguars and set off for Dean Street.
Chapter Seven
Maggie had been waiting for the knock on the front door. She flung it open and immediately burst into tears. ‘I . . . I . . . I didn’t know who else to call. I’m sorry.’
‘You did the right thing.’ Rory Sheehan smiled and cupped his hands around her face. ‘I’m glad you called.’
Looking over his shoulder, he nodded for Malcolm to follow him. ‘Where is she?’
‘Through here.’ Maggie led them down the hallway into the kitchen where her mum lay motionless on the rusty bed. Only the slightest movement in her chest showed she was still alive.
Rory took one look at her, then turned to Doris. ‘Still butchering women, I see. When will you learn?’
‘I was helping her.’
‘Helping? Look at her. My mother would turn in her grave if she saw this. You’re scum, Doris. I’ve a mind to sort you out once and for all.’
The menace in Rory’s tone made Doris back away, but he’d already turned to give Malcolm his instructions.
‘We’ll take her home and then get my doctor to have a look at her.’
‘She can’t go home,’ Maggie protested. ‘I don’t think my da knows. He mustn’t find out. You won’t tell him, will you? Please don’t tell him.’
‘Maggie . . .’ Rory gently wiped the tears from her face with his thumb. ‘What did I tell you yesterday about me being a man of my word? Your secrets are safe with me.’
He took off his jacket and wrapped it round her trembling shoulders before turning back to Malcolm. ‘We’ll take her to the Murphys. They’ll look after her.’
Kathleen’s head lolled back as Malcolm lifted her from the bed. Blood dripped onto his shoes and left a trail along the linoleum.
‘Maggie, go to the car with Malcolm – I’ll be out in a minute. I just need a word with Doris.’
Hearing this, Doris shrank back against the wall next to the gas cooker. Rory waited until he heard the front door shut, then moved in closer to her. He lifted the kettle from the stove and, finding it lukewarm, struck a match and lit the burner. ‘Now then, Doris, I’ve told you before not to do this’ – he indicated the bloodstained knitting needles lying next to the bed – ‘because, being a good Catholic boy, I see it as a mortal sin.’
Doris swallowed hard. ‘I only do it because these women need me. They’ve got nowhere else to go. They come here cos they ain’t got no other choice.’
Rory laughed, a sound with no humour in it. ‘So you take their last money to butcher them. Don’t pretend you care what happens to them – we all know you’re only in it for the money.’
‘That’s not true – I do care. I’ve been there meself, so I know how it is when you’re desperate. Yes, I charge, but we all need to earn a crust. That doesn’t make me a wrong ’un.’
‘Save it, Doris.’
Steam billowed in the dim light as the kettle came to the boil. He picked up one of the bloody rags and used it to lift the kettle, holding it out in front of him.
‘We both know you won’t stop your sinful ways unless I make you . . . So put your hands out.’
‘No, Mr Sheehan, please—’
‘I said, hands out . . . or we can always find another, more permanent, way to make you stop.’
Sitting in the back of the car, with her mum’s head in her lap, Maggie heard a piercing scream. A moment later, Rory came out smiling. When he got to the car, he crouched down so he was level with the open window next to her.
‘Hold your hands out,’ he said, reaching into his trouser pocket while laughing at some private joke. Then he dropped the gold St Christopher necklace into her palm. ‘I’m sure your mammy will want that back.’
Maggie looked at it in wonder, then at him. ‘I don’t know what I can do to thank you.’
Getting into the front passenger seat, Rory flicked down the vanity mirror and looked at her in the reflection. ‘Oh, I’m sure I can think of something.’
Chapter Eight
The smell of fried eggs and greasy bacon hit Luca as he walked into the cafe on Dean Street. The walls were stained yellow from years of cigarette smoke, and the square clock above the counter ran fifteen minutes slow. Behind the scratched glass of the display cabinet, fruit scones sat on plates next to meat-paste sandwiches. Behind the counter, the proprietor froze as he watched Luca and his men filing through the door.
The only customers were an elderly couple sharing a pot of tea and buttered toast in the corner, and a young woman with a beehive sitting alone at a window table.
Luca gestured with his head for them to leave and the door was held open by one of his men. The moment they’d gone, Luca flipped the sign from open to closed.
‘Stan, it’s good to see you again.’ He smiled at the owner, who was now visibly shaking. ‘I was wondering if you’d come to a decision after our little chat last week?’
Hearing what was going on, Stan’s wife, Mildred, came in from the storeroom at the back. She was a solidly built woman, taller than Stan, with thick arms and ankles. She wore slippers, and her paisley nylon dress clung to her droopy breasts. Her thinning grey hair was scraped back, her only make-up a shocking smudge of violet lipstick.
‘We paid Rory yesterday.’ Mildred’s voice was less defiant than her face was.
‘But I’m not Rory, am I?’ Luca smiled. ‘Do I look like fucking Rory?’
‘We can’t pay both of you,’ Stan protested weakly. ‘We ain’t got that sort of money.’
Luca walked around, partly to distract himself from the burning itch at his crotch. ‘I’m not asking you to pay us both. I’m asking you to pay me.’
‘But we can’t.’ Stan looked like a cornered animal. ‘Even if we could afford it, we daren’t. Rory . . .’ He trailed, off too terrified to say more.
Luca nodded. The steamy heat of the cafe was stifling. ‘Which is why you need to start paying us, Stan. That’s what we’re here for: to protect you.’
Stan wiped the dripping sweat from his forehead with the bottom of his apron. ‘You don’t know what he’s like, Mr Romano. The Devil himself couldn’t protect us from Rory Sheehan.’
‘Maybe he couldn’t, but I can.’ Luca spoke slowly.
Stan’s fight-or-flight instinct kicked in and he tried to make a run for it, but before he could make it to the storeroom Gianni and Aldo caught up with him. They dragged him back, slamming him face down onto the chipped counter.
Luca pulled out his stiletto blade and cut through Stan’s apron strings. ‘One thing we pride ourselves on in Italy is being a gentleman.’ He glanced at Mildred, who stood stony-faced. ‘Doing a runner, leaving your wife to face the music, isn’t what I’d expect of a gentleman.’ He put the knife away, helped Stan up, and patted him on the back as if they were old friends.
‘Sit down. I want to explain how things are going to work.’ He pulled out a chair for Stan.
When the old man just stood quaking in his shoes, Gianni gave him a shove that launched him into the wooden chair, his weight causing it to creak.
Luca’s smile never wavered. He straightened his cuffs. ‘This is how it’s going to be. From today, you no longer pay Rory.’ Luca leaned forward. ‘And you’re going to tell him that you don’t need him any more.’
The colour drained from Stan’s face. ‘Please, I . . . Mr Romano, I can’t.’
‘You can, and you will.’ He nodded to his men who pulled batons from their sleeves. They swung at the glass cabinet, sending a shower of shards across the cafe. They knocked over the tea urn, sending scalding water spraying everywhere. Mildred let out a cry. Cups and plates were smashed against the wall, a teapot, narrowly missing Mildred’s head, broke against the mirror, which cracked and shattered. Then they turned their attention on the tables and chairs, kicking them until the wood splintered.
‘Next time,’ Luca warned, ‘it won’t just be the fixtures and fittings.’ He nodded towards Mildred, who crouched in the corner. ‘Think about your wife, your business. Make the right choice . . . Ciao.’
They left the cafe as quickly as they had entered, leaving Stan and Mildred sitting in silence amid the wreckage.
‘We need to speak to Rory.’ Stan eventually broke the silence.
‘You ain’t going to tell him that we don’t need his protection any more, are you? Don’t be a fool, Stan.’
‘No. We tell him we need it more than ever.’ He touched his face where a shard of glass had nicked his cheek.
‘Either that or we leave.’ She sounded desperate.
‘And go where? This is our home. This is all we’ve got.’ Stan’s voice cracked and he wiped his face with his apron, not wanting his wife to see him cry. Twenty years they’d been here, they’d even survived the Blitz, but Stan had a sick feeling that told him they wouldn’t survive this.
Chapter Nine
It was late by the time one of Rory’s men dropped Maggie off in Camden. She’d wanted to stay in Hampstead at the Murphys’ boarding house. They seemed like good people; Mrs Murphy had given her some clothes to change into, since her own were covered in blood. And once the doctor had finished treating her mother and departed with Rory, who had to attend to some urgent business in Soho, the Murphys had insisted she stay for dinner. The roast beef and potatoes they’d served up had been the best meal she’d ever had. She’d felt safe there, and it had been a huge relief to see her mum tucked up in bed, sound asleep.
Before he left, Rory had promised to tell her dad that Mammy had suffered a nasty fall and some friends of his had offered to let her stay with them for a day or two, until she was back on her feet again.
Turning the corner into Chalton Street, Maggie stopped dead when she spotted Pam walking towards her. At first it was as if she’d been struck dumb, but then she saw the smirk on Pam’s face and before she knew it she was launching herself at her.
‘You stay away from my da!’ she yelled, grabbing a fistful of Pam’s hair.
Pam lost her footing on the wet pavement and they both went down, rolling on the ground, scratching and kicking. Maggie scraped her knee in the fall and could tell it was bleeding; she hoped she wasn’t going to ruin the clothes the Murphys had given her, but she was in too much of a blind rage to stop now. Clenching her fist, she struck out at Pam’s jaw.
Breaking free, Pam staggered to her feet and wiped the blood from her split lip. ‘What’s got into you? You’re not right in the head, Maggie Riley.’
In the distance, someone was shouting at them to stop, but Maggie wasn’t finished yet. Grabbing the lid from a nearby dustbin, she swung it with all her strength. The edge caught Pam’s nose and blood exploded from it as she staggered backwards.
Still holding the bin lid, Maggie stood panting. ‘You stay away from him, you hear?’
Pam’s eyes were full of hatred. Despite the blood pouring from her nose, she sneered, ‘I’ll do no such thing. Your da is a real man, and generous with it.’
Maggie stared at her through her tears. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about! You’ve no idea what he’s like.’
‘I reckon I do,’ Pam smirked. ‘Best man I’ve ever had.’
‘But I thought we were friends,’ pleaded Maggie, anger giving way to confusion and hurt.
Pam strolled up to her and pushed her face into Maggie’s. ‘I was never your friend. You’re nothing more than dirt under my feet.’
‘I’ll tell your mum what you’re doing.’
‘My mum won’t believe a word you say.’ Pam laughed cruelly. ‘But I bet your dad will believe me when I tell him you’re soft on a black boy.’
‘Pam, you wouldn’t. No, please. You know what da would do to me . . . what he’d do to Thomas.’
‘You should’ve thought about that before you got so friendly with him.’ Gloating, Pam turned and began to walk away.
‘Pam, please!’ Maggie ran after her, clinging to her arm. ‘Da will kill me.’
‘Best start digging your grave, then.’
Chapter Ten
Maggie was beside herself with worry. The one consolation was that Rory had said her dad would be needed in Soho to do a bit of work for him tonight, so at least Pam wouldn’t be seeing him until tomorrow. But the thought of what would happen when he learned about her and Thomas had her stomach in knots.
On reaching the canal path she came upon a group of men passing a bottle between them. Picking up her pace to get past them, she ignored the whistles and catcalls, hoping they wouldn’t follow her home. It was a relief when the Cow and Bull came into view and she saw a familiar figure huddled against the wall.
‘Thomas?’
Even in the dim light, Maggie could see the terror on his face when he looked up at her. ‘Thomas, what’s wrong?’ She crouched beside him and reached for his hand, but he pulled away, turning his face from her.
‘Has my da done something to you?’ she whispered. ‘Has he hurt you?’
‘Your dad? No. It’s got nothing to do with him.’
Sighing with relief, she asked, ‘What is it, then?’
‘I’ve done something bad. I’ve done something really bad.’
‘What?’
He shook his head, refusing to meet her gaze. ‘Thomas, you know you can tell me anything.’
‘I’m working for Rory now,’ he said flatly.
‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ She squeezed his hand.
Raucous voices drifted out from the pub doorway.
‘Come on,’ Maggie urged, helping him to his feet. ‘We can’t stay here.’
He shoved his hands in his pockets. ‘I’ll walk you home. We can go through the back streets, and if we see anyone I’ll scarper.’
