Goodnight Lady (19 page)

‘Hello, Bri. I’m just going over the final numbers one more time. Want to hear them?’ Kerry called.

Briony nodded and took a seat at one of the tables at the edge of the dance floor. She glanced around her as Kerry sorted through her music and was once more assailed with a feeling of happiness. She was more than satisfied with the place. The decor was brilliant: the walls painted a very pale gold and adorned with photographs, head and shoulders shots of the most beautiful women of the day. The largest was of Anna Pavlova, her eyes staring out across the room. Briony had also had musical scores framed and hung on the walls. The tables all had white cloths of pristine Irish linen and the glasses that sparkled behind the long carved wood bar were all good quality crystal.

It had cost a small fortune, but one of Briony’s main beliefs was that you got what you paid for. Well, this was a jazz club, one of the first in London, and she had planned it on a grand scale.

She had hired a quartet of black American musicians who were thrilled to work at the new club, and even more thrilled with their wages. She dragged her eyes back towards the stage as she saw Kerry walk forward. She noticed the eyes of the pianist, Evander Dorsey, watching her closely. Their whites seemed to glow with the look and she smiled to herself. If he liked Kerry he would play even better. Everything had its good side for Briony. The fact he was black and looking at her sister did not shock her as it would have done others. She took everyone at face value. Always had and always would.

Kerry cleared her throat, and as the first few bars of the music struck up, Bernie slid into a seat beside Briony.

She watched the instinctive swing of Kerry’s body. Unlike herself, Kerry was buxom and small-waisted. Her breasts looked too big for the fragile ribcage. She was also tall, her height giving her the grace to carry off the figure God had given her. Her short black hair, freshly bobbed, framed her face to perfection. Briony looked at her younger sister with a mixture of admiration and pride. Pride because it was she, Briony, who had made her sister’s career possible. And it was she, Briony, who had looked after Kerry until now when she was making a name for herself with this new music called jazz. Unlike the majority of white women singers, Kerry could sing the blues, and everyone who heard her was spellbound. Briony knew that she was going to be big, much bigger than anyone had thought possible, and the knowledge was like balm to Briony.

Kerry’s voice when she began to sing was as clear and haunting as the words of the song she sang:

 

The deep soulfulness of the voice carried across the room. Briony watched as the pianist shook his head in wonderment and delight and knew then that tonight her sister’s career would be made. Her success was assured, and along with it the success of the club. Kerry would be their draw.

 

Ginelle Carson walked as if she owned the world. In fact, she felt as if she owned a small part of it. Ginelle was now a main attraction at Briony’s top house. She had appeared in a couple of Briony’s films and now her notoriety added to her value as a good-time girl. She was dressed in a long brocade evening coat and silver high-heeled shoes. She pulled her shoulders back as she stepped off the kerb and tottered slightly. A large arm came out and steadied her. Ginelle turned to face the man and smiled at him professionally. Her lips were a deep orange crescent and her eyes heavily made up, her youth hidden beneath a veneer of sophistication. She automatically put a hand up to her short cropped hair and patted it unnecessarily back into place.

‘Thank you.’ Her voice still held its East End sharpness, but she was working on it. The man gave her a smile that quickly faded.

‘We’re going for a little walk, love.’

Ginelle stopped dead and looked at him closely. Something in his voice made her heart beat faster. She tried to pull her arm from his but it was held in a vice-like grip.

‘Here, leave go! Give over!’ Her voice was rising and there was no trace of her refined tones now.

The man frog-marched her across the busy road and towards a waiting car. He bundled her inside without ceremony and the car pulled away from the kerb.

Ginelle had regained her composure by now.

‘What the bleeding hell’s going on here? Stop this car and let me out now!’

Her abductor turned to face her. Slapping her hard across the face, he said: ‘Shut your trap before I punch your head in now instead of later.’

It was said in a low voice, completely devoid of emotion. Ginelle stared into the hard face and felt a sinking sensation somewhere in the region of her bowels.

But she shut up.

One thing in Ginelle’s favour, she was clever enough to know when she was in trouble and knew instinctively that tonight she was in the worst trouble of her life.

The thing that puzzled her was, why? What on earth had she done? She racked her brain for the remainder of the journey, staring vacantly at the red neck of the large man in front driving the car.

 

Ginelle was dragged from the car on the quay of the East India Docks. She stood in her ridiculous heels as various foreign sailors walked past, all looking at her with admiration tinged with fear, because of the two large men beside her.

They walked her between them, towards a small cabin that smelt strongly of molasses. Tearing her arms away, Ginelle began to run, her shoes giving the two men an unfair advantage.

The bigger man laughed as he caught up with her. He dragged her roughly back towards the cabin. By now she was shouting and screaming. Something inside Ginelle told her that if she entered that cabin it would be the end of her, and with a strength born of desperation she fought the man, her crimson-tipped nails flying dangerously close to his face. Taking back a large hairy fist he dealt her a blow to the side of the head that left her sprawling on the floor in the dirt and the mud, her ears ringing.

Men were watching the proceedings with shining eyes. Her dress had risen up in the tumble and her stocking tops were exposed; her silk drawers, freshly washed and pressed, smeared with dirt. Picking her up by her coat, the big man half dragged, half-pushed her towards the cabin.

Ginelle was looking around her at the sailors, beseeching them with her eyes. She realised in a daze that some of the men were London dockers, all watching her and not one doing anything about it. They thought she was a dockside harpy. They didn’t realise she worked for one of the most exclusive houses in the smoke, Briony Cavanagh’s Mayfair house. That Tommy Lane was her boss along with Big Briony, as she was known, even though she was so tiny. That she commanded a fortune from men because she was a star of certain films shown to a select clientele, men who paid money to see her, and afterwards to bed her. She was someone of account, she was not a sailors’ darling, she was important, important enough to be on first name terms with her employers.

She opened her mouth to shriek these facts to the spectators, but a filthy hand closed over her mouth and she was dragged struggling inside the cabin. The men watching all went on their way, the pretty young girl gone from their minds already. A prostitute being beaten by her pimp was an everyday occurrence here, part and parcel of dockside life.

Inside the cabin it was dim. Ginelle registered first the smell, the deep scent of molasses, and underneath another of dankness and dirt, that brought back the filth and squalor she had been brought up in. It was a slum smell, a sweet, bitter, cloying smell that stuck to the clothes and never entirely left the nostrils.

Sitting behind a small wooden crate was a man whose face was lost in layers of fat. His eyes were like slits. Ginelle felt a final sinking of her heart as she realised who he was.

Willy Bolger was a pimp with a reputation for nastiness, violence and his perverted sense of humour. He was obese, his arms and legs looking too short and feeble to be any use, yet he was surprisingly fast with a knife. His teeth were pristine white, small and pointed as if he had chiselled them into shape. Now he smiled at Ginelle, who shuddered.

He shook his head slowly, languidly, as if he had known her for years, as if she was a recalcitrant child. The smile even displayed a sort of affection.

‘Please, sit down.’ He looked at the big man. ‘Get the lady a chair!’ The word ‘lady’ was said with exaggerated politeness. The big man dragged up a small three-legged stool and slammed Ginelle down on to it hard, jarring her already bruised spine.

‘Forgive Seamus, he’s no manners at all, my dear.’

Ginelle sat there, her hands icy cold, even in the foetid warmth of the cabin.

‘What do you want with me?’ Her voice was small. She sounded like the child she was for all her expensive clothes and make-up. Willy linked his fingers together on the crate in front of him and grinned again.

‘I am going to hurt you, my dear. Nothing personal, believe me. But I want to get a little message over to a certain lady, and you, so to speak, are going to be my messenger. Hold her there, Seamus.’

He held Ginelle’s shoulders in his vice-like grip, but there was no need. She had collapsed with fright, her body held up only by Seamus, because as Willy had spoken he had unlaced his fat fingers and picked up a large knife.

Willy walked towards her and tutted. He had hoped she would have stayed conscious long enough for him to hear her scream at least once. Sighing hard with disappointment, he picked up a wooden pail which was used by the night watchmen to relieve themselves and threw it into her face.

Ginelle spluttered to life, the urine stinging her eyes. Then, humming softly between his teeth, Willy started cutting, and was pleased to hear her scream, not once but many times as he removed first her nose, then her ears.

Seamus watched the proceedings with a bored air. His eldest daughter was getting married and he had to take her to see the priest later that day. Now he’d have to go home and change first. Blood was an absolute bastard to get out, and his wife would have his guts.

Ginelle slumped to the dirty floor, her clothes staining crimson, the brocade of her coat soaking it up like a sponge.

 

Tommy looked around the club and smiled. The Windjammer’s first night was better even than they had hoped for. It was packed to the rafters with people, the atmosphere was electric and the cash was pouring in over the bars. Tommy lit himself one of the cheap cigars which he still had a penchant for, and smiled delightedly.

The whole place stank of money and he loved it. He nodded and waved to different people as he made his way through the tables. The resident band, which was to play between Kerry’s sets, had struck up with the ‘Black Bottom’. Girls - some debs and some shopgirls - leapt on to the wooden dance floor and began to jiggle around, their dresses shimmering in the lights. There were more than a few bright young things, hanging off the arms of young men who had been boys in the war and were now the new monied generation. If nothing else the war had taken down a few of the class barriers, but Tommy knew with his latent shrewdness that it was only a beginning.

He scanned the room again and saw Briony. She looked stunning in a gold sheath dress that emphasised her fashionably boyish figure and was the exact shade of the walls. The glorious hair, that he loved to caress in the darkness of the night, was piled on top her head. She looked beautiful to him. She would always be beautiful to him.

He frowned as he saw who she was sitting with. Jonathan la Billière was an actor, or so he said anyway. Tommy had never heard of him. He was one of Rupert’s little band, which meant he must be as queer as a fish.

Rupert Charles was the typical bad boy, handsome and rich. His father had died in the war, leaving a fortune to Rupert’s mother, a ridiculous woman much given to wearing clothes too young for her and with an appalling taste in men, and to Rupert, a rather spoiled young man who had never had anything to do with the actual making of money, only the spending of it. Now he financed movies as he liked to call them, and everyone thought he was quite the thing, and fought to claim friendship with him. Rupert in turn loved the notoriety of Briony and fought to become a crony of hers. It made Tommy smile sometimes, the double standard, but not tonight, because Jonathan was watching Briony with an intent gaze. It seemed he wanted her. Perhaps he wasn’t queer after all. Tommy could see the tell-tale expression. He knew it well. But Jonathan wouldn’t have her. Even if she succumbed and slept with him, he wouldn’t have her. Not in the way he wanted. Knowing this pleased Tommy.

He dragged his eyes from them and made his way back to the offices. He wasn’t in the mood tonight for all that theatrical old fanny. He needed a couple of stiff drinks.

 

Being a Friday evening, the Mayfair house was packed. The girls working nights started at six-thirty at weekends. Many men arrived at six, retired to bed at six-thirty and arrived home to take out their wives around nine-thirty. So at seven-thirty the house was already buzzing. Winona, the head girl, was counting out money in her office when a repeated ringing on the bell brought her out personally to answer the front door. Heidi, the young girl paid for this job, was at that moment helping one of the ‘young ladies’ to brush out her hair. Winona opened the large front door wearing her plain black dress and professional smile. It died on her lips as she saw a crate left on the doorstep and no one in sight.

She walked out of the house and down the front steps, searching the street for a messenger or someone who could have left the heavy crate. The street was as usual quiet and empty, except for a few motorcars. Turning, she walked back up the steps and sighed loudly. She called down the back stairs for two of the men who worked there, and between them they hefted the crate through to the offices. Winona finished counting her money before she once more turned her attention to the crate. There was no address on it, no message, nothing. Briony had not mentioned any deliveries. She frowned in consternation. The new club was opening tonight so Briony wouldn’t thank her for calling her away over a crate, but something wasn’t right here.