Dangerous (11 page)

‘Want you to go down the Smoke and catch up with Jacko,’ said Ivan. ‘The moody bastard ain’t been in touch for a long while, as you know. Ma’s chewing my arse over it. The cunt can’t be doing
that
well or he’d be rubbing all our noses in it by now. Get down there, will you? Check he’s OK.’

Fulton nodded his big ugly head. ‘Will do,’ he said, and he went straight home and packed a bag. He was bored with the doors up here anyway, he could do with a change. He knew Ivan was getting grief off Ma over Jacko, and the only reason he was sending him to London was to shut her up; Ivan didn’t really care one way or the other where his younger brother was or what he was getting up to.

Neither did Fulton.

But it would make a bit of a break.

22

Frank Hatton was no model husband. Clara imagined that model husbands didn’t hawk up yellow phlegm every morning, fart loudly in bed, or pick their nose in full view of their wives at the dinner table. But she blanked all that from her mind because he was as good as his word: he looked after them, her and Bernie and little Henry.

Frank hadn’t even moaned too much when she’d insisted they move shortly after the wedding. He’d sold the house he’d lived in all his life, the house his parents had lived and died in, and found another, a more presentable little two-up-two down in a better area, miles away from the messy Houndsditch slums where the impoverished Dolans had spent such a short but traumatic time.

Hatton had seen to it that Clara had enough for the housekeeping, that they all had plenty to eat, and after the initial shock of the realities of marriage he’d made few demands on his wife – thank God! – in the bedroom. She’d worried over that at first, sacrificing her virginity to this grey, unappealing man; but it was nothing. The fact that he was old, and often drunk, was good in one respect: it was always quickly over.

He was a good-natured drunk, only wanting to whistle as she propped him up and brought him home from the pub, and then to sleep; he was rarely aggressive. And there was no sign of a child as a result of his inexpert fumblings; something else to be grateful for.

So, all was well. The Dolans – now the Hattons – had money for food, they didn’t need to fear the rent-man’s knock at the door, there were no bailiffs hammering to be let in to take their remaining worldly goods away. Life was . . . pretty much all right. And then
it
happened.

Clara always knew the exact amount of cash she had in her purse at any given time, and yet one day there it was: her purse, which was usually closed and on the kitchen table where she left it to pay the tradesmen who came to the door, was lying open. There were a few pennies scattered around on the floor, as if the person who’d opened it had been disturbed in the act. Clara picked the loose change up, put it back in the purse, counted. A pound note was missing.

‘You been in my purse, Frank?’ she asked her husband over his tea that night.

In the front room, Connie Francis was singing ‘Who’s Sorry Now?’ on the radio. Soon, Frank said, they’d have a television. And stereo was the coming thing in radio; they’d have one of those too.

Bernie had cooked the dinner – pie and mash. Clara didn’t mind helping with the preparation or the washing, but Bernie always threw her back into the bulk of the work around the house. She’d grown quiet, little Bernie, and seemed more jittery, more easily startled than ever, since they’d moved in here. Fourteen now, she was filling out, becoming pretty, but she wore dark long-sleeved clothing all the time. She seemed to have no interest in fashion as Clara did.

Clara tried to encourage her younger sister, lending her Louis heels and trying out the bright red Gala of London lipsticks she wore herself on Bernie. But Bernie always wiped it off. Clara worried about her, feared she was still mourning Mum even after all this time – and what comfort could she give her? None. Not really. Bernie didn’t even seem interested, as Clara always was, in the news of the day: Donald Campbell’s thrilling exploits in his hydroplane
Bluebird
, or even that Hillary had beaten Fuchs in the polar trek. None of it seemed to spark Bernie’s interest at all.

Henry, on the other hand, had come out of his shell in an almost aggressive way since passing his twelfth birthday, becoming sullen and mouthy by turns. He took particular delight in taunting Frank’s dog, Attila. Henry needed a dad, thought Clara, a
proper
dad, not an old man who wasn’t interested in him. But there was nothing Clara could do about that, either. Their father was gone. And if Clara saw him, right now, she would spit in his face for what he’d done to them.

‘What the hell would I do that for, go in a woman’s purse?’ Frank was offended.

‘I wondered, that’s all. There’s a quid missing. Must’ve mislaid it.’

Clara tried to put it to one side, but it niggled at the edges of her mind for days. Then Bernie came down one morning. She looked troubled. She was shuddering, hugging herself, biting her lip – all normal, for Bernie. Her nerves were bad, and seemed to be getting worse.

‘I found this under Henry’s pillow while I was making the beds up,’ she said, and held out a pound note in her trembling hand.

Henry was out in the backyard, standing just out of reach of the chained, lunging Attila. It amused Henry, how the dog tried to get at him, snarling and choking itself, while he calmly played, bouncing a ball off the wall. Clara, in a rage, went straight out to Henry and smacked him hard across the face.

‘Clara—’ said Bernie, distressed.

‘You took this out of my purse,’ said Clara, grabbing Henry’s arm and shaking him. ‘You
stole
off me.’

‘I didn’t!’

‘And will you stop tormenting this poor bloody dog! Yes, you did. Admit it! Say you did!’

But Henry said nothing. Clara looked at the boy, mystified. ‘Why would you do a thing like that? Steal off your own family? If you’d asked me for money, I’d have given it to you. You didn’t have to
take
it.’

Henry wrestled his arm free of his older sister’s clutches.

Clara turned away in disgust. Was there anything worse than a thief? Yes, there was. A thief in your own family. Dad had thieved off them, then left them to it. The thought that Henry could do that too was devastating.

‘You mustn’t be so hard on him,’ said Bernie.

‘Better than being too bloody soft,’ said Clara.

Probably it was Bernie’s bland acceptance of her brother’s many little foibles that had brought them to this pass. She had been indulging him too much, never pulling him up when he stepped out of line. He wasn’t a baby any more, to be endlessly indulged. He was in long trousers, and he ought to know better.

‘Well
someone
needs to be,’ snapped Bernie.

‘What does that mean?’ returned Clara.

‘You don’t have a pleasant word to say to him. Or to any of us, come to that.’

Clara eyed Bernie mulishly. Hadn’t she done enough? It tormented her that she had been propelled into a sham marriage with a man she didn’t love, could
never
love or even respect. Frank was nothing but a mean penny-pinching bastard with filthy habits. All of it –
everything –
was down to this boy, and her sister too. She had done what she had done to protect them, to keep them safe, keep them together. But the price had been high. Too bloody high, perhaps. She was in a cage of their making. And now – for God’s sake – Henry was
stealing
off her. Hadn’t she endured enough, without this?

Later, she decided that she would talk to Henry about it being bad to steal off your own, before his light fingers landed him in trouble at school. She probably
was
too hard on him. She would try not to be. Christmas was coming, a time for goodwill to all men.

Yeah
, thought Clara.
But what about me?

23

1959

‘What you mean, you didn’t see him?’ asked Ivan Sears, slapping the newspaper down onto his desk when Fulton came back from his visit to London. ‘Jesus, can you believe this shit? Buddy Holly’s dead. Killed in a plane crash. Richie Valens too. And the Big Bopper. Never bloody know, do you? Not safe to go out the door.’

‘You kidding?’ Fulton asked.

‘Nah. Here it is.’ Ivan tossed the paper over the desk so Fulton could see for himself. ‘So what’s up about Jacko?’ Ivan was getting bloody fed up with all this. No Christmas visit from Jacko, no card, and eating his turkey at the groaning family table while getting his ear bent by Ma. Where was her baby boy? What was Ivan going to do about it? Pa had a heart condition now, he wasn’t going to last forever.

Ivan told Ma he
was
doing something about it. He didn’t give a shit if Jacko had vanished off the face of the earth, but he was sick of Ma going on about the little tit. Now it was February, and
still
Ivan was getting bother. And here was Fulton, having missed the family Christmas himself, back with no result.

‘He
left
his digs,’ said Fulton. ‘Ages ago. But the old tart remembered he still owed her rent. She wanted me to pay it, the brassy old cunt. I told her to fuck off.’

Ivan frowned at this. Him and Fulton and Jacko had grown up together, done National Service together, done time in the slammer, taken up boxing, been bloody good at it too, a few cups, a couple of trophies; but then the call of crime, of dodgy deals, had whispered to them of bigger gains.

They’d kept in touch, more or less: the two younger brothers had even met up now and again, got a beer in Jacko’s local down south. Not Ivan, though; if Jacko wanted to be friends again, he was going to have to come to Ivan – no
way
was Ivan going to make the move. But Fulton had been down there. Now for too long there had been no calls, no meetings, no fuck-all from Jacko. Dead silence. Nothing else. And Ma was
still
being a pain over it.

‘You ask around?’ Ivan demanded.

‘Course I did. No bastard’s seen him, honest.’

Actually, Fulton hadn’t searched too hard. He’d never had much time for Jacko; in Fulton’s opinion Jacko was too impulsive and he didn’t have the brains of a louse.

Ivan sucked his yellow tombstone teeth at this. And then he said: ‘Go on back down. Take another look.’

Fulton Sears went back to London and spoke to Jacko’s landlady again. Ivan was the boss of the family and he supposed he’d better toe the line, make some effort. This time maybe he’d take a closer look, actually find that troublesome little fucker, or Ivan would have him forever going up and down to the Smoke like a whore’s drawers.

‘He ain’t here! How many more times? Now clear off – unless you’re going to pay the rent he owes me,’ she said bitterly.

‘No. I ain’t,’ said Fulton. ‘You ask me again, you mouthy old bitch, I’ll kick your arse.’

He left her there and went down to what he knew to be Jacko’s local, the Bear and Ragged Staff. He ordered a pint and waited while the place filled up; soon he recognized a couple of Jacko’s drinking pals he’d met once before; Stevey Tyler and Ian Bresslaw.

‘Jacko? That you, you old bugger?’ asked Stevey, frowning at Fulton.

‘I ain’t Jacko. I’m Fulton, his older brother. You remember me?’

‘Oh!’ Stevey’s face cleared. ‘Jesus! You don’t half look like him, don’t you. Yeah. Sure I remember you.’

‘Come to find Jacko. Ain’t heard from him in a long while. You seen him around?’

The lads shook their heads. ‘Pint, is it? You want a whisky chaser with that? Nah, we ain’t seen him since we done over a club, the Blue Bird, years back. Used to be one of Lenny Lynch’s old clubs. Feller called Redmayne owns it now. We scarpered early on ’cos we was gettin’ the worst of it. Thought Jacko was followin’ on, but turns out he wasn’t. We thought maybe he’d had enough and was back off up to Manchester. We knew he’d taken over the Dragon in Greek Street, but that’s in new hands now, I heard. Here’s the drinks, mate.’

Stevey pushed Fulton’s pint glass toward him, and his chaser. Fulton picked up the glass, smashed it on the edge of the bar in a shower of glass fragments and foaming beer, and whacked it into Stevey’s face.

Crimson blood spattered out and Stevey fell back, bellowing in shock and pain, minus most of his nose. Ian’s face was blank with horror as Fulton, mountainous and mean-eyed, turned toward him. Ian held up his hands, shook his head.

‘I don’t want no trouble,’ he yelled. Patrons were scattering and the barman was yanking down the metal shutters around the bar.

‘You should have thought of that before you ran out on my brother,’ Fulton snarled, spittle flying. ‘You useless cunt. Who stayed with him then? Who would know what happened after you yellow scumbags legged it?’

‘Jamesy. Jamesy might know,’ gabbled Ian. ‘He was there! But we ain’t seen him much since.’

Stevey was writhing on the floor, screaming and gurgling past the blood, his hands cupping his shattered face.

‘Jamesy who?’ demanded Fulton over the din.

Ian told him, and gave him an address.

‘You’re lucky I’m in a fucking good mood today,’ said Fulton, and brushed past the terrified man and went out the door.

And that was when Fulton saw her, for the very first time.

They would be beauty and the beast, like in the fairytale; that’s what Fulton Sears thought, when he saw her at the door of the pub, holding up her elderly companion. Her dad, probably, the legless old bastard.

But just look at her!

Fulton couldn’t
stop
looking at her. Oh, he knew he was ugly. He was a big, big man, barrel-chested and round-stomached, bald, with a nose knocked off-kilter too many times in the ring and a matching set of cauliflower ears. He was nothing to look at. But a cat could look at a queen, wasn’t that true?

There was gleaming back hair falling all around her shoulders, her skin was like alabaster, and those eyes of a deep, melting violet-blue! She had a trim body, shapely, large-breasted and big-arsed, not boyish. Mid-height, not too short.

Beautiful.

Suddenly, passing the young woman in the doorway, all Fulton’s urgency to find his brother became a lot less pressing. As she turned, supporting the old drunk, something fluttered to the floor.