Raven, page 13
Ned held up his hands, and shook his head.
‘Good. Now keep your ugly trap shut and let Georgina get on with what she has to do,’ Charlotte snapped, proud of herself for putting Ned in his place. With David dead, Georgina needed their support, not bickering around her. And though Charlotte realised that she was being selfish, she couldn’t help feeling relieved Georgina would be away for a while. She was finding the oppressive and gloomy atmosphere in the flat hard to live with. Yes, she was mercenary, but she wanted to celebrate Tim’s hopeful return to good health and she couldn’t do that with Georgina in mourning.
*
After parking his stolen vehicle directly outside the pub entrance, Thomas Kelly swaggered in, looking down his nose at the pub’s customers as he sauntered towards the bar.
The landlord was quick to put a pint of ale on the counter. ‘I heard that you were back, Mr Kelly. Nice car. I take it that business was good in London?’
‘Can’t complain, my man, can’t complain.’
Thomas had a reputation in the area – one that he was proud of – but he desired more. He wanted his name to mean something in London too and even more so in Liverpool. Yet things hadn’t panned out as he’d planned in London, and in order to take over the Portland Pounders, he needed control of David Maynard’s businesses.
He supped his ale as Titch ambled through the door in his usual clumsy manner. It irked him. How was he supposed to build his empire with useless great lumps like Titch around him? Ralegh wasn’t much better. The pair were acceptable as a bit of muscle but he didn’t think that they had half a brain between them.
‘Boss,’ Titch greeted, his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets as he glanced around the pub.
‘Do I need to ask if there were any problems?’
‘No, Boss. We did exactly what you said.’
‘Right. Now go and check on the girls. I bet the slags have been slacking while I’ve been away. Tell them I’m back. Warn them. Slap a few of them around to remind them who they work for.’
‘Yes, Boss,’ Titch answered with a nod of his head.
‘Well, don’t just stand there.’
Titch hurried out. Thomas was glad he’d had the forethought to send the man to sort out his prostitutes. Thomas felt sure that his whores working the docks would have taken the piss while he’d been away. But a swift backhander from Titch would keep them on their toes. They earned him good money so he didn’t want them roughed up too much. But Titch knew how much pressure to put on the women without going over the top. After all, a tart battered black and blue would be no good for business.
‘One of your girls was in here last night,’ the landlord said.
‘Touting, was she?’
‘No, nothing like that. She was flashing her cash and saying she’d had a windfall.’
‘What sort of windfall? I hope it weren’t my money that she was throwing around.’
‘I don’t know, but she had too much to drink and said she doesn’t work for you anymore. She had a few choice words to say about you too. Swearing like a navvy and dragging your name through the mud. I threw her out in the end.’
‘She fucking what? What silly little slag was it?’
‘That little redhead, the one with an upturned nose.’
‘Clara?’
‘Yes, that’s her. Mouthy little thing.’
Thomas slammed his pint down on the counter and stormed out of the pub. He leapt into his car and sped towards the docks. He saw Titch en route and stopped beside him. ‘Get in.’
‘What’s wrong, Boss?’
‘Clara. That’s what’s fucking wrong,’ Thomas seethed.
He put his foot down, impressed with the speed he could get from the car. Within minutes, he arrived at the Avonmouth docks, which sat on the Bristol channel. It was a place where Thomas had always felt comfortable, probably because his father had owned a big house on the Liverpool docks. The burly, mostly rough men who loaded and unloaded the boats, the different smells from the goods being imported, the hustle and bustle and heavy lifting machines, the grand cargo ships – all these things were familiar to Thomas.
Though he had an inherent fear of the water that had derived from an incident he’d witnessed when he had been about five years old. He remembered it clearly: the woman, only young, about his age now, floating face down, her arms gracefully swaying in the water above her head. His father had punched the woman, catching her hard under her chin, which had lifted her feet from the ground. She’d tumbled backwards and fallen off the wharf and into the flotsam of the River Mersey. The woman hadn’t cried out for help. She hadn’t even struggled to try and keep her head above water.
Thomas could remember peering open-mouthed over the edge and down at the drowned woman until his father had dragged him away by the scruff of his neck. ‘Shouldn’t we pull her out of the water, Dad?’ Thomas had asked. His dad had nonchalantly replied, ‘No, son, she isn’t worth getting wet for. Come on, let’s get home for our tea.’ Thomas wondered if that early, vivid memory was the first time that he’d witnessed a murder. He couldn’t be sure but he did know that he’d been wary of water since that day.
Thomas pulled up alongside two of his prostitutes. He noticed how they both almost stood to attention when they saw him.
‘Where’s Clara?’ he asked through the car window.
‘I don’t know, Mr Kelly. We haven’t seen her for a few days.’
‘If you see her, tell her I’m looking for her.’
‘Yes, sir, Mr Kelly, we will.’
He drove on, unsurprised to see that soldiers were still heavily present on the docks and doing the work of the striking dockers. He’d been wary of the soldiers when they’d first arrived, but had soon come to realise that the young men had just the same needs as the dockers. Business hadn’t declined as he’d expected. In fact, his tarts had never been busier. If he had any say in the strike, which he didn’t, he’d like the dockers to stay out for as long as possible. The longer the soldiers did their jobs, the more his pockets were lined with their hard-earned pay.
He soon spotted another woman who he pimped. This one – he couldn’t recall her name – was a slovenly cow and partial to the booze and drugs. When he stopped beside her and she turned to look through his window, he recoiled at the grotesque sight of scabs around her mouth. Again, he asked after Clara. But the woman claimed ignorance.
As Thomas drove away, he said to Titch, ‘Get rid of that one. She’s filthy.’
‘I’ll tell her to move on.’
‘No, I said, get rid of her! Sling her in the drink for all I care. I don’t want her filthy disease associated with my name.’
After a fruitless search of the docks, Thomas left Titch to continue to look for Clara on foot, while he drove back to the pub. Once again, the landlord was ready with a pint of ale. But the thought of Clara soured the taste. The woman needed finding, and when she was found, Thomas would cut out her dirty tongue. Clara would never again bad-mouth the name of Thomas Kelly. He’d make sure of that!
14
Clara Coxon held her hand out expectantly at Larry and fluttered her lashes that were thick with mascara.
‘Bugger off, Clara. You ain’t told me nothing new.’
‘Oh, go on, Larry. Just see us all right for a few shillings. I’ve got five hungry kids at home and now I’m out of a job because of spouting my mouth to you.’
Larry sighed, rolled his eyes and pulled out the coins from his pocket. ‘’Ere, now bugger off until you’ve got something worthwhile to tell me.’
Clara shoved the money into her jacket pocket and cooed, ‘Aw, thanks, Larry. You’re a proper gent. I’ll see you soon, darling.’
‘Only if you’ve got info. I don’t want to hear no more of your sob stories.’
Clara blew Larry a kiss and sashayed away, glancing over her shoulder to offer the man a wink before she snuck out of the boarding house. Cor, she fancied Larry something rotten but he didn’t seem interested in her. Well, he was for what she could tell him about Thomas Kelly but that seemed to be as far as the man’s attraction went. Not that she could blame him for turning his nose up at her. He seemed like a nice bloke, well-off too, with his shiny shoes and smart suit. He was nothing like the beer-swigging, stinking, toothless men who she had opened her legs to for money.
Larry was different. He wasn’t posh, not like the king. Yet he had style and manners, whereas she, at just twenty-three years old, already had five young kids and not two ha’pennies to rub together. Of course, her kids’ fathers were nowhere to be seen. One had been in the merchant navy and probably had a girl in every port. Her middle child’s dad was in gaol and would be for a long time to come. The twins’ father had buggered off with a woman from Wales.
Clara scuttled along the street, her thoughts still turning. When it came to her eldest daughter, well, God only knows what happened to her father. She hoped that he was dead. She prayed that she’d never bump into him again. Not that she was even sure that he was the father – it could have been either of her attackers. The encounter, nearly ten years ago, had been terrifying. Clara was just thirteen at the time and running an errand for the man on the coffee stall at the end of the dock. While she was happily skipping along on that summer’s day, without a care in the world, strong hands had suddenly grabbed her and shoved her into an alley, behind some pallets.
Before she could regain her wits, two men were on top of her. One held her down to the ground, pinning her arms, as the other had pulled down her knickers. She’d tried to fight, kicked really hard, but at less than five feet tall, she’d been no match for the brute who had climbed on top of her and raped her. Clara still cringed at the memory. The pain had been intense. She hadn’t been able to scream out for help because a big hand that stunk of tobacco had covered her mouth. And then, just when she’d thought it was over, the men had swapped and she’d been raped a second time. That had been Clara’s introduction to sex.
Life hadn’t got any better after the rape. Clara had been too ashamed to tell anyone about it, and when her belly had started to swell with child, her father had thrown her out of the house. Her mother, a fragile woman, never dared to defy him. So, with no shelter and no money and nobody to turn to, Clara had been forced to do what she’d seen so many women do in the Bristol docks – she’d sold her body for cash.
Clara jingled the coins in her pocket that Larry had given her. There was enough to feed her kids for at least a week. They were in for a treat tonight! She’d be more careful this time. The last lot of cash that she’d earned from Larry was already gone. She cursed herself for knocking back too much beer the night before and now, not only was she suffering with a thumping headache, but somehow, drunk, she’d managed to either lose her money or some sly sod had robbed her and she hadn’t noticed. Probably the latter, she assumed, knowing that the area was steeped in poverty and frequented by plenty of unsavoury characters. And to be fair, she’d pinched a fair few bob in her time from unsuspecting drunken sailors. What goes around, comes around, she thought bitterly.
Clara came out of the greengrocer’s loaded with potatoes, cabbage and carrots. She also had a few bananas that she’d hidden under her skirt when the grocer wasn’t looking. She called into the butcher’s and bought half a dozen sausages. When she’d asked for an extra one for free, the butcher told her to clear off, but that was no more than she expected. Now, laden with food for a good meal tonight, Clara paused to look up the steep hill that led to home. It was quite a trek to the top and she knew that by the time she reached the top, she would have worked up a sweat and her calves would be burning. But she liked living up there, especially on a clear day when the views across the sea were spectacular. Oh, there’d been many, many times when she’d daydreamed about sailing away across the blue oceans to a better place, to a land of milk and honey.
‘You’re brave walking around here as bold as brass.’
Clara was snapped out of her thoughts and turned to see Rosie, an older woman, who worked the docks for Thomas Kelly. Rosie had taken on the role of mother to Mr Kelly’s whores and had been the person who’d shown Clara the ropes. Back in those days, it was Mr Roland Harris they’d all worked for. Clara had thought him bad enough, but when Thomas Kelly had taken over, she’d soon discovered that in comparison to Kelly, Harris had been a pussycat.
‘Kelly’s looking for you and he’s none too happy.’
‘You haven’t seen me, Rosie, right?’
‘No, my dumpling, I haven’t seen you, but keep your head down.’
‘I will, thanks, Rosie.’
‘If you spot a classy-looking black and cream car, hides yourself. It’s him. He’s sitting behind the wheel like he thinks he’s royalty or something. I wouldn’t mind but he probably bought that car with money earned from us lot lying on our backs.’
Rosie’s country Devon drawl was more pronounced than that of the locals. It gave her a homely and warm sound that matched her plump pink cheeks and deep brown eyes. But Clara knew that behind that maternal image, Rosie could be a fierce woman who wasn’t afraid to jump into any brawl outside the pubs.
As Rosie walked off, Clara lowered her head against the wind that always blew straight down the hill. Never up, always down. That had baffled her since the day she’d first moved into the house, three years ago. Nevertheless she climbed to the top, thankful that Kelly didn’t know where she lived, and outside her small home, one of her twins pulled open the front door, running out to meet her.
‘Mummy, Mummy,’ four-year-old Humphrey squealed. Clara had named him after her favourite film star, Humphrey Bogart. In fact, all of Clara’s five children had the namesakes of a star from the silver screen. Humphrey’s twin brother was named Gregory. She’d called her six-year-old son Clark and her nine-year-old daughter Greta. The baby of the family, one-year-old Ginger, named after Ginger Rogers, was the only name that she regretted registering. Because of the docks and the goods brought across the ocean from exotic lands, everyone assumed that Ginger was named after the spice. Clara wished she’d opted for the name Judy instead.
‘Have you all been good for Greta today?’ Clara asked as she handed Humphrey the cabbage to carry.
‘I have, but Clark and his friends took Ginger’s pram out and rode it down the hill. Greta shouted at them to bring it back but they didn’t and it got a bit broken and Clark has cut his head.’
Clara sighed. A broken pram was all she needed. It had been second-hand but as she couldn’t afford to buy another one, she hoped it was still usable.
Inside the two-roomed house, Greta was standing with her arms on her hips and her young face was creased into a frown. She looked like a miniature mummy with her brood around her. ‘You’ve heard then?’ Greta asked with attitude.
‘Yes. Is Clark’s head all right?’
‘He’s got a nasty bump and a big scratch but he’s fine. But the same can’t be said for the pram. It’s fucked.’
Clara was used to hearing her daughter use foul language and had given up on reprimanding the girl. Greta had picked up the swear words from Ginger’s dad. At first, Clara had found it amusing, but when Greta started dropping fuck into every sentence, it wasn’t so funny.
Greta, being a headstrong and mature girl for her age, hadn’t taken any notice of Clara chastising her. So she’d given up and turned a blind eye instead. ‘I’ve brought some food, so give me a hand in the kitchen.’
Greta huffed and trudged through to the tiny kitchen that had a stove with only one gas ring that worked, a stone sink and one tall cupboard where their food was stored, though most of the time it was empty. Upstairs, the sound of Clark and Gregory fighting reached Clara’s ears. It was Greta who went to the foot of the stairs and hollered, ‘Keep it down up there. You’ll wake Ginger.’
And right on cue, probably due to Greta shouting, Ginger began crying. Greta stamped up the bare wooden steps to fetch the baby and Clara began peeling the potatoes. She loved her children, each one of them unique, but all with strong characters. Though it was Greta who was more of a mum to them. The girl had grown up fast with the burdens of motherhood on her shoulders. Clara, instead of bathing and seeing to her children’s needs, felt more like the man of the house. The one out working and bringing home the housekeeping. It wasn’t an ideal situation but it seemed to work for them and they were a happy family. And that’s how Clara wanted to keep it.
But at the back of her mind, the thought of Thomas Kelly niggled. Rosie had been warned that he was looking for her, which had left her with a feeling of foreboding. Something was telling her that she’d never be free of him – unless Larry delivered on his promise to take the life of the man. If he did, she’d never have to worry about Thomas Kelly again, but that felt like a far-off dream.
*
‘Bloody hell, this ain’t like any of the bridges in London that cross the Thames,’ Johnny exclaimed as they passed over Brunel’s Clifton Suspension Bridge. ‘And we ain’t gotta pay to cross the likes of Albert Bridge or Battersea Bridge. Bleedin’ liberty this is, charging us to drive over this one.’
Georgina looked to her left and out of the car window. The Avon Gorge was a sight to behold, yet the stunning outlook saddened her as realised that she would never be able to share this view with David. She’d never share anything with him again. They passed over the River Avon below.
‘Shit, how high up do you reckon we are?’ Nobby asked.
‘I don’t know, mate. Two hundred, maybe three hundred feet. Whatever it is, it’s a bleedin’ long way down,’ Johnny answered.
Georgina noticed a crack in his voice and wondered if Johnny was scared of heights. She also saw that he was gripping the steering wheel as if his life depended on it. Who’d have thought that Johnny, full of banter and happy to pull his gun and shoot any man, would be afraid of heights! If she wasn’t so deeply wrapped in sorrow over David’s death, she might have found the energy to tease Johnny about his fear.
