Anyone Who Had a Heart (36 page)

At mention of Marcie and Michael Roberto’s stance altered. His jaw shifted from side to side as though he were grinding his teeth.

‘Marcie and Michael? Are you havin’ me on?’

Hearing Roberto’s tone, Tony immediately knew he’d made a grave mistake mentioning Michael.

‘They’re good friends.’

Roberto bent down, blowing smoke into Tony’s face. The sight of his eyes sent a chill through Marcie’s dad. This bloke wasn’t just nasty, he was vicious, as vicious a piece of work as you’d ever get this side of the river.

‘Is he screwing your little girl, Brooksy? Is he having
carnal
relations with her?’

Tony stared. A warning signal went off in his brain. Say nothing. Don’t dig yourself a deeper pit than you’ve already done. I shouldn’t have told him about her new place, he said to himself. At least he hadn’t given Roberto her exact address, had he? He’d merely told him how well Marcie was doing in her new
venture
, and how she was living and setting up her business upstairs from a trophy shop in Balham. Christ, what the hell have I done? he thought, they could find her.

Roberto’s face wasn’t far from his. The clean-cut features looked demonic in the half-light coming in from the street outside.

‘You sound like a fucking pimp, do you know that, Bertie? Still, not surprising seeing as you’re running a team from Daisy Chain. Does your mother know what’s going on? Does she?’

Roberto stabbed the burning cigar onto his cheek.

‘Don’t call me Bertie! Right!’

‘So what do I call you? Pimp?’

The lighted cigar again, this time for longer. Tony winced and gritted his teeth.

Roberto was snarling. ‘Let’s get this straight, Brooksy. None of these girls are forced into reaping the benefit of a lasting relationship with a rich and powerful geezer. It’s just suggested to them as a way to get the things they want in life. Nothing like that was ever suggested to Marcie. Scouts honour,’ he said, giving a two-fingered salute. ‘And by the way, it ain’t been Michael screwing your daughter. It was me. I screwed her something chronic and she groaned with pleasure like the fucking little slut she is!’

Tony rubbed at the ache in his ribs, but it was nothing compared to the anger he was feeling now.
Taking
the car had been a spur of the moment thing. He’d been involved in London’s underworld long enough to know what went on there. Live and let live, that was his motto, but losing Ella had upset him. And now this. He’d survive this ordeal. In fact he’d go out of his way to survive it. And then he’d go looking for Roberto and when he caught up with him …

‘Get up.’

It was Roberto rather than Malcolm who helped him to his feet. Tony eyed the young Camilleri warily. Something was on here.

Roberto brushed at the shoulders of Tony’s leather jacket then rested his hands there. He looked into his eyes as though they were the best of old friends, friends who had fallen out over a very small matter.

‘So. Michael. You approve of this?’

Tony could eat humble pie if he had to and lie as though he were telling the truth. He did all that now. ‘I told her to lose the bloke, but you know how girls are nowadays,’ he said with a nervous smile while gripping his aching ribs. ‘After all, he’s not you is he? He’s not a Camilleri.’

Roberto’s smile was slow to cross his face but Tony was glad to see it.

Roberto’s mouth curled into a cruel sneer. ‘No, Brooksy. You are right. He is not a Camilleri.’

Tony knew better than to disagree with him.
Revenge
, as they say, is best eaten cold. And that’s what he would do. He would wait and take his revenge cold. Bent almost double with the pain of his broken ribs, he waited until they were gone.

There was a payphone down in the hallway. Gripping the banister tightly, he struggled down the stairs, each step sending a stab of pain to his ribs.

By the time he made the hallway the sweat was dripping off him and his cheek felt on fire where the cigar had burned his flesh. Worse than that were his ribs. He could barely breathe.

‘You alright, Mr Brooks?’

The old lady on the ground floor was peeping out through a six-inch gap in her door.

‘Fine. I need to phone my daughter.’

He managed to get the piece of paper out of his pocket with her number on plus the necessary coins. It was an effort to put the lot onto the phone shelf and one or two coins fell onto the floor. He glanced at them briefly. There was no way he could bend down to pick them up.

‘Do you mind?’ he asked the old lady and pointed to the coins. ‘It’s a matter of life and death …’

The busy flock wallpaper closed in on him and the red patterns became black and then no pattern at all. The receiver was left swinging. Mrs Allen from the ground floor picked it up and called for an ambulance.

* * *

Victor Camilleri swung his arm. Allegra gave one loud cry as she fell sideways. She landed on top of the teak coffee table where recently she’d quaffed champagne with Marcie and Sally.

‘Who were you phoning, you fucking whore? Your boyfriend? Are you screwing around behind my back?’

‘No!’

She screamed as he brought his crippled leg back again. This time it slammed into the table leg. The wood splintered. The coffee table crumpled beneath her weight and both she and it hit the floor.

She shook her head, her hair, usually so glossy, sticking in wet tendrils around her wet cheeks and crying eyes.

‘There’s no one. No one!’

He grabbed a handful of her hair. Her neck straightened. Her chin went higher as she tried to alleviate the pain of having her hair pulled out by the roots.

‘You’re lying, you slut! Do you think I don’t know what girls like you want? A bit of fresh meat now and again! Yes? Is the old man getting too saggy for you? Too slow to come in the sack?’

Tears and snot mixed on her beautiful face as she shook her head vehemently, terrified as to what he would do next.

‘I would never do that. I love you.’

‘So who were you phoning? Who were you fucking phoning?’

‘A friend. A girlfriend.’

‘A girlfriend, huh! So what’s her name, this girlfriend you wanted to phone.’

‘Sally! Her name’s Sally.’

When he hit her this time, she fell to the floor and didn’t get up. It was safe on the floor. Safe and dark.

ALLEGRA HAD TAKEN
to calling into the workshop in Balham three times a week and usually arrived at around lunchtime, drifting in on a cloud of Chanel perfume and perfectly attired. From the first moment they’d met Marcie had envied her class and her money. She always seemed to lead a hectic social life and even hinted at a rich fiancé. It occurred to Marcie that the fiancé was unduly possessive. Allegra had hinted that he was a very jealousman.

‘I expect your parents are excited about the wedding,’ Marcie had said blithely.

A frozen pause had flitted across Allegra’s beautiful face. ‘Yes,’ she blurted. She did not go into detail.

Marcie dismissed the fragile moment. She didn’t question how Allegra could afford such an opulent lifestyle, presuming her family supported her. It wasn’t until later on that she found out the truth.

Today was Wednesday. Allegra always came in on Wednesday, but today she was late.

Sally was lounging back in a chair, her feet up on a cutting table. Her arms were folded across ample
bosoms
thrusting rebelliously against a yellow sweater and she was yawning.

‘I’ll make the tea,’ said Renee, one of the part-timers who bragged that she’d been one of the Windmill Girls. The Windmill Theatre had boasted of never closing down during the war. It also boasted semi-naked showgirls forming still-life tableaux – dancing was forbidden. Renee seemed a bit short to have been one of their showgirls but she was a whiz on a sewing machine.

Marcie tucked a blanket around Joanna who had fallen asleep in an old Victorian nursing chair. She glanced up at the clock.

‘Allegra’s late.’

Sally opened one eye. ‘P’raps she’s gone off to the French Riviera with some toff she’s picked up.’

Marcie laughed. ‘I can’t imagine Allegra running off with a toff.’

‘I would,’ Sally said gloomily. ‘Pete’s alright, but I can’t even get him as far as Brighton. It’s Southend or nothing with him. He told me he’s a “Kiss me Quick” sort of bloke. I said to him how France might turn me into a sex kitten like that Brigitte Bardot.’

Pete, Sally’s beau, was a policeman and a bit of a Steady Eddie. Marcie had been surprised to know that she had a second boyfriend, a reserve for when Klaus, her rich lover who paid all the bills, wasn’t around.

‘So what did Pete say?’ Marcie asked while taking the pins out of a heart-shaped G-string.

Sally pulled a disgruntled face. ‘I don’t think he was listening. He said he didn’t like cats.’

Marcie looked at her. ‘Are you kidding me?’

Sally burst out laughing.

Marcie joined her before once again looking up at the clock.

‘She’ll ring if she can’t get here,’ said Sally who’d noticed her looking.

‘It’s not working. Mr Griffiths downstairs has contacted the Post Office.’

Sally reached for a pair of lilac ostrich feathers that she was considering having stitched into a headdress. ‘I think the lilac,’ she said after viewing herself in a mirror. ‘Is the teeny-weeny ready? I think I’ll try it on.’

The teeny-weeny was the G-string.

‘Drink your tea first,’ said Marcie. ‘Otherwise you might scald your assets.’

Out in the small kitchen where the hot water heater above the sink made gurgling noises like a drowning goldfish, Renee was humming to herself as she filled the kettle, put tea into a large brown pot and opened a packet of custard creams. The steam from the kettle dampened her iron-grey curls so that they clung like limpets to her forehead. Her cheeks
turned
ruddy from the hot steam and she felt warm and happy.

Heading fast towards fifty, she could still hold a tune but her looks were long gone. The hourglass figure she’d had in her youth had widened and thickened to the proportions of a cottage loaf. Instead of Paris fashion she wore a full-figure apron that crossed over at the breasts and tied up around the middle.

She was just pouring hot water from the kettle to the pot when the door from downstairs opened. Surprised to see a man up here, she presumed he’d lost his way.

‘If you’re wanting trophies for your darts league, it’s downstairs,’ she told him.

He took off a pair of sunglasses. She noticed they had pink lenses. His shirt was pink too. His expression was as dead as stone. ‘What’s your name?’

Realising she’d made a mistake, she stalled answering. This man wasn’t dressed like a darts player.

‘Renee,’ she said and managed not to sound wobbly.

He put his arm around her. She flinched. His arm was heavy on her shoulders, but only because he was bearing down on her. She tried not to feel frightened, but she was.

‘Well, Renee, look at me. Do I look like someone involved in a pub darts league?’

Feeling a great need to head for the loo, she shook her head slowly.

‘Quite correct, Renee. Now, tell me this, is Marcie in there?’ He jerked his chin towards the door on the other side of the hallway.

Renee nodded.

‘Right.’

He regarded the flowered cups and saucers sitting with the sugar, milk and shiny brown teapot. The tray was made of tin and decorated with a picture of the
Flying Scotsman
– the steam locomotive that held the speed record from London to Edinburgh.

‘Finish making that tea, Renee, then take a seat. I’ll do the honours.’

He pushed her towards a metal-legged chair once she’d finished and picked up the tray. She sat down as stiffly as a jointed marionette made of wood.

Renee felt that her heart was beating so loudly she could hear it echoing in her head.

‘Let’s give old Marcie a little surprise shall we?’ he said.

Then he was gone. Where once she’d been warmed by the steam, Renee now felt cold. Her hands began to shake. She threw them over her face. She didn’t want to see what would happen. But she knew it would be bad.

Sally was still musing about her current stage outfit and planning for future stage routines. ‘I’m thinking that I’d like leopard skin for my next routine. Imagine
if
you will me strolling on stage with a real leopard on the end of a gold chain – or one of those other things – a cheetah and me in a matching skin hiding the bits that count. What do you think?’

Marcie stood like Lot’s wife – as still and white as a pillar of salt. She was staring at the person who’d appeared in the open doorway.

‘Tea for two,’ Roberto exclaimed. He jerked his head at the door leading to the metal stairs at the back of the building ‘You can get out,’ he said to Sally. ‘Two’s company, three’s a crowd.’

Sally didn’t need to be introduced. She’d seen the Camilleris arrive in clubs they didn’t own. Managers and owners alike knew who they were. So did the girls. Even if she hadn’t known him, the look on Marcie’s face was enough to tell her who this was.

‘I’m stopping right here,’ Sally said grimly.

Joanna, who had been sound asleep on the sofa, chose that moment to wake up and call for her mother.

‘Take the kid with you,’ Roberto added, looking irritable that Joanna had had the temerity to interrupt his dramatic entrance.

Marcie picked up her daughter and held her tightly to her chest. ‘My child stays with me.’

She felt like a tigress protecting her cub. Whatever it took she would not give in to him.

‘We’ve got some talking to do.’

‘We’ve got nothing to talk about. I don’t want you. I don’t want anything to do with you.’ She cuddled Joanna closer.

Roberto’s eyes darkened beneath the broad brim of his hat. He wasn’t used to being given the brush off. He glanced again at Sally. ‘I thought I told you to clear off.’

‘Sally is my friend. She’s staying.’

‘She’s your friend?’ He pointed a disdainful finger. ‘That old brass. She’s a stripper. Do you know that?’

‘Yes. What would the Camilleris do without strippers? She takes her clothes off and you make money from it.’