Threat Page 3

  ‘Then why…?’

  ‘There’s knives and forks on the draining board.’

  She goes and picks them up and puts them on the table. I go to her and take her hands in mine.

  ‘I want nothing from you.’

  I see tears welling up in her eyes and I put my arms round her and pat her back. There’s a pop from the frying pan and I sit her down, turn off the gas, dish up the food, put the plates on the table and call Georgie. When she comes in, I say,

  ‘Julie, this is my sister Georgie.’

  Georgie looks warily at her for a moment and then nods a greeting as she sits at the table and puts an exercise book down beside her.

  ‘Doing your homework?’ Julie asks.

  Georgie nods and butters a slice of bread.

  ‘Georgie’s taking her mock O levels,’ I say.

  Julie looks confused.

  ‘They’re like a practice for the real exams they take in the summer.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Didn’t you have them at your school?’ asks Georgie.

  ‘I don’t know. I was gone before they had exams and that.’

  I think Georgie wants to ask why but she sees Julie looking uncomfortable and decides not to. I say, ‘Your family moved away didn’t they?’

  Julie nods and we eat in silence until I hear a knock at the front door. I go and answer it and Lizzie’s there. We kiss and hold each other for a second then she says,

  ‘Do you want to go to a club opening tonight?’

  ‘That Rembrandt place in Berkeley Square?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  A night out with Lizzie is just what I feel like after today. Georgie’s used to being on her own in the flat but there’s Julie to think of.

  ‘I’d like to but I’m not sure I can.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There’s someone here.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘A young brass I got out of a bit of bother earlier.’

  ‘What’s she doing here?’

  ‘Nowhere else to go.’

  ‘Give us a look then.’

  I smile and open the kitchen door a bit.

  ‘Mmm nice, looks clean. Bring her along if you like,’ says Lizzie.

  ‘Maybe. What time do you want to go?’

  ‘About ten?’

  ‘Ok.’

  She pecks me on the cheek and leaves. When I go back into the kitchen the girls are sitting in silence. Georgie drinks the last of her tea, stands up from the table, puts her plate in the sink and walks past me.

  ‘Working?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she says as she closes the door behind her. I sit at the table and take a last mouthful of bacon. Julie’s looking down at her plate and I can tell she’s uncomfortable.

  ‘She’s got a lot of work to do.’

  Julie nods. She looks as if she’s trying to say something but can’t find the words.

  ‘You all right?’ I ask.

  She looks at me and I can see tears in her eyes. ‘I’m thinking about Don.’

  ‘Well don’t.’

  ‘If you knew him…’

  ‘I don’t need to.’

  ‘If he finds me he’ll…’

  She puts her head in her hands and starts crying. I put down my knife and fork, go round to the other side of the table and pull a chair up next to her. I look down at her bowed back and see how thin and delicate she looks. She’s too young to be a street girl. If Don doesn’t find her and beat her half to death, some other worm’ll get hold of her and bleed the life out of her. I sit down and put my arm round her. She turns towards me and puts her head on my shoulder. I think for a minute then I make a decision. I pick up my handbag, go to the bathroom, close the door and unscrew one of the panels round the bath with a nail file. I take the bundle of notes I got from Bert Davies out of my handbag, count off two hundred quid and put it in my pocket. I wedge the rest of the money behind the bath and screw the side panel back on. I go back in the kitchen and take Julie’s jacket off the back of the door.

  ‘Put this on.’

  ‘Eh?’

  I hold her jacket out for her and she stands up and puts it on. I pick her handbag up off the floor where she’s left it by her chair.

  ‘Come on.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  She lets me take her arm and I lead her out of the flat and into the lift. When we get into the car I lock both doors and pull onto Maida Vale. I turn right off Edgware Road at the lights, left at the roundabout and pull into the Paddington Station slip road. I park the car by the entrance to the station, take the money out of my pocket and put it in her handbag. She looks at me in surprise.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m giving you two hundred to get out of London.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s that or end up dead.’

  ‘But…where do you want me to go?’

  ‘Have you got any relations anywhere?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well then you go wherever you fancy, where nobody knows you. Get yourself a place to live and a straight job and forget about whoring. Give yourself a chance of having a proper life.’

  She’s looking at me as if I’m talking Chinese then she opens her handbag, looks at the money, then at me again.

  ‘You’d do that for me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I can see she knows that I mean what I’ve said. She closes her handbag, and asks, ‘Could I go somewhere by the sea?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She’s quiet for a moment.

  ‘I went with mum and dad once. We was on the beach. It was lovely.’

  ‘Do you remember where it was?’

  She shakes her head. ‘I was only little. We went on the train.’

  ‘Let’s go and have a look.’

  We walk into the station and along the platform to the booking hall. I look at the big clock and see that it’s just after eight. We join a group of people staring up at the departures board. I ask her if she recognises any of the towns but she shakes her head. I see that there’s a train to Brighton in five minutes and one to Bournemouth in ten. I’ve heard that Brighton’s a tough old town so I ask a bloke next to me if Bournemouth is on the sea. He looks a bit surprised and then he tells me it is so I take Julie to the booking hall and buy her a one-way ticket and a platform ticket for me.

  The train’s waiting at the platform so we show our tickets at the barrier and walk along past the first class carriages. She gets on the train and I shut the door behind her. She turns, lets down the window and leans out. There are tears in her eyes. I hold her hand. ‘When you get there, go straight to a hotel or a bed and breakfast for tonight and then you can sort yourself out some proper lodgings tomorrow.’

  She nods, pulls me towards her and puts her arms round me. She holds on to me for a moment then she pulls back, and looks at me with her sad eyes.

  ‘Why are you being kind to me?’

  A whistle blows and there’s a blast of steam from somewhere underneath us and we’re all wrapped up in it, coughing and laughing as the train pulls away. I let go of her and watch her getting smaller and smaller until the train curves off on the track and she’s gone.

  I walk back along the platform towards the barrier. I’ve no idea if I’ve done the right thing, but at least she’s out of danger for now.

  • • •

  I can hear the phone ringing as I walk along the corridor to the flat. I open the door, drop my car keys on the hall table and pick up the receiver. It’s Bert.

  ‘Rina?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You need to watch your back.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Stepney.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You give a bloke a kicking didn’t you?’

  ‘What if I did?’

  ‘And had a young tom away?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The geezer you slapped was one of Bielsky’s and he’s
been asking around about a bit of blond crumpet your age with a right hook.’

  Feliks Bielsky is a slum landlord who owns large areas of Notting Hill. He lets houses and flats to whores, West Indians and Irish after he’s forced out the white people by threatening to beat the shit out of them if they don’t make way. He’s a dangerous man with some heavy muscle. I check that Georgie’s door’s shut before replying.

  ‘Does Bielsky know about it?’

  ‘If he doesn’t, he will.’

  ‘Yeah. Cheers Bert.’

  Soon after our Jack died one of Bielsky’s enforcers tried to throw me, Georgie and my mum out of two ratty old rooms that we were renting off him in Notting Hill, but I done a jeweller’s in Hatton Garden and made enough to buy a flat in Portland Road off Bielsky and moved us there. I bought it through someone else because I didn’t want anyone to know I had money at the time, as the police were sniffing round about the killing I’d done to keep Dave Preston from grassing me up for Johnny’s murder. I met Bielsky then, but I doubt if he’ll remember me five years later. He’s got an office down Westbourne Grove and another one in Soho. The pimp isn’t a problem but Bielsky could be.

  My watch says it’s nearly ten and if I’m going out with Lizzie I need to get dressed. I look in on Georgie and tell her I’m going out, then I go in my bedroom, open my wardrobe and wonder what I want to wear to the club. I take out the Dior evening dress that I bought earlier. I hold it against me, look in the mirror, and decide it’s a bit formal. I look at a couple more things then I decide on a brocade sheath dress with low neckline in a deep red with the Coveri stilettos that I got today. I slip into a black bra, panties and suspender belt, and a pair of ultra-sheer nylons. I slip a blade into the suspender belt, and put on the dress and the shoes. Once I’ve done my hair and makeup, I say goodbye to Georgie, put on my black velvet coat and walk along the corridor to Lizzie’s.

  As I get near, her door opens and a really fat woman with a large head and a big mop of black hair comes out. She closes the door, gives me a sour look, pulls her coat round her and waddles off towards the lift as fast as she can. I knock on the door. Lizzie opens it and gives me a long look.

  ‘You look beautiful my darling.’

  She pulls me inside and into her arms. I melt into her and feel her warmth and softness and her sweet taste. She takes me to her bedroom and I sit on the bed while she changes into an off the shoulder chiffon dress with a flared skirt and a fresh pair of nylons. When she puts each leg up on the bed beside me to clip her stockings into her suspenders I just want to tumble her into bed and let the club open without us.

  ‘Who was that who just left?’ I ask.

  ‘She’s a Russian athlete.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘With all that weight?’

  ‘It’s muscle, silly. She’s a shot-putter.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘They heave this iron ball about.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘The Olympics and that.’

  ‘Fuck.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘What does she…?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  • • •

  I reckon we’re best in a taxi to Berkeley Square, in case the pimp who’s after me knows my car and happens to be in the West End tonight, so I flag one down on Maida Vale. The driver’s a shrivelled up old boy in a flat cap, smoking a fag. I tell him the address. He grunts, puts the flag down and we get in. As we pull away he angles his driving mirror so he can see up our skirts. Lizzie sees him do it, puts her arms round me and snogs me. The old boy swerves the cab and nearly hits a lamp post.

  Lizzie leans forward and says,

  ‘Do you want me to drive?’

  The old boy chucks his fag out the window. ‘Fucking three wheelers!’

  Lizzie shuts the glass partition.

  ‘What’s he on about?’ I ask.

  ‘Three wheel trike – dyke.’

  ‘Saucy old git.’

  4

  We round a corner and drive along the north side of Berkeley Square. The cab stops in front of the club and we get out and walk up the steps. The doorman tips his hat to Lizzie and shows us into the foyer. We walk under a big archway with a statue of some Roman bloke in a toga set into the wall above it. A couple of heavy looking types in evening suits clock us as we cross the marble floor.

  One of them stops me and asks me how old I am. When I tell him I’m twenty he waves me on and we check our coats in at the cloakroom. We go up the wide curved staircase and I’m looking at the pictures of people from the olden days on the walls. There’s one of a girl and a boy in a sailor’s suit sitting on a bench beside a pond. The girl looks a bit like Julie, though I reckon her life was a bit different. We make our way through a babble of upper class voices, braying laughs and chirruping women wearing Norman Hartnell, towards a curved bar at the back. Men inspect us as we pass. One of them catches Lizzie’s eye, quickly turns his back, takes the arm of the woman he’s with and moves swiftly towards a side room where people are playing cards. Lizzie laughs.

  ‘Oops.’

  We get to the bar and I order a whisky, and a gin and tonic for Lizzie. While the barman’s pouring I notice George Preston with Bert and a few of his firm at the end of the bar. George is with a beautiful young redhead who he’s ignoring completely while he listens to a grey haired old man with a plummy voice telling a story. The old boy delivers the punchline and gets his laugh from George and his minders. I turn away as George looks along the bar and we pick up our drinks and move off towards the main room. There’s a kidney-shaped table in the middle with people seated at it playing cards and others standing behind them watching. As we move forward to watch the action I feel a hand on my arm and a voice says,

  ‘I believe I owe you a drink.’

  I turn and see the man with the Austin Healey who I stopped from taking a beating in Park Lane. His cheekbone is a bit swollen and I can see he’s tried to cover up a black eye with powder.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ I reply.

  ‘Oh but I insist,’ he says.

  Lizzie turns and looks him up and down. He smiles at her.

  ‘Your friend here saved me from getting bashed up by a very angry cabbie this morning.’

  ‘She’s stronger than she looks.’

  ‘I’ll say. May I buy you a bottle of champagne?’

  ‘Why not?’ says Lizzie, before I can speak.

  The bloke calls a passing waiter and orders a bottle of Bollinger. He’s tall and good looking, maybe thirty years old, thin and whippety with a strong jawline and a mop of black hair that falls over his forehead and nearly covers his deep blue eyes. He gestures towards the card table.

  ‘Do you play Chemmy?’

  ‘Not likely,’ I say.

  ‘Most sensible of you. Lord Kilgowan’s down about thirty thousand and counting.’

  He nods towards an old geezer with a moustache, sideburns and a red face who’s at the table and looking glum with a pile of markers next to his cards.

  ‘Do you play yourself?’ I ask.

  ‘Not since a chap at Oxford relieved me of my entire Michaelmas term’s allowance in one evening.’

  ‘Bad luck,’ says Lizzie.

  ‘Not sure it was entirely above board actually.’

  ‘He’s not here is he?’

  ‘As a matter of fact he is. It’s that ginger-haired chap over there.’

  ‘Rina could duff him up for you.’

  Our man has a good laugh, puts out his hand and says,

  ‘I’m Nicholas Boulter by the way. Call me Nick.’

  The champagne arrives as we’re introducing ourselves and we move to a side table. While Nick is pouring, an argument starts at the card table between the dealer and one of the players. Nick looks over.

  ‘Old Biffy Stratherne getting his knickers in a twist.’

  Other players and spectators get involved and a woman in a black evening gown starts s
houting and throws a drink in a bloke’s face. Two minders appear and hustle her out. The player who started it throws down his cards and stomps off towards the bar. An elegant looking type who’s been standing behind the dealer and watching the game steps forward, calms everyone down, apologises on behalf of the house and offers drinks all round. Waiters appear and take orders and the game goes on. A couple of girls who were on the edge of the ruck come over to our table. One of them puts her arm round Nick.

  ‘What time are we leaving darling?’

  Nick looks at his watch.

  ‘Couple of hours or so?’

  The girls nod and move off again. Nick looks at us and says, ‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’

  He walks over to the table and speaks into the ear of a player who’s seated next to the dealer.

  The man glances in our direction and says something to Nick, who joins us again.

  ‘I know this is a bit out of the blue and we’ve only just met and all that, but I’m wondering if you two charming ladies might feel like a trip to the country?’

  Lizzie looks at me and replies. ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Well, you see that gent next to the dealer that I was just talking to?’ We nod and he continues, ‘That is Jonathan the Viscount Brigstock, who’s got this country cottage in Hampshire called Ringwood Hall. He’s having a few friends down for the weekend and he’d be absolutely delighted if you’d like to come along.’

  Lizzie smiles at him and says, ‘Why not?

  She’s clearly got her eye on drumming up more business among the gentry and I’m thinking that since I’ve just nicked one of Bielsky’s girls and that bald-headed pimp is looking for me it might not be a bad idea to get out of town for a couple of days.

  ‘Why not?’ I say.

  ‘Jolly good,’ says Nick as the waiter arrives with the Bollinger. ‘We can go in my car.’

  ‘It’ll be a bit of a squash in that two-seater of yours,’ I say.

  ‘I’m driving the Bentley tonight,’ says Nick.

  ‘Mmm, lovely,’ says Lizzie as she raises her glass.

  ‘Cheers Nick.’

  As we clink glasses I see Bert Davis come in from the bar. He comes over, leans close to me and says, ‘You’re wanted.’

  I excuse myself and follow him through the bar and along a corridor to a door at the far end. He opens the door, shows me in and closes it behind me. George Preston is sitting at a desk with a bottle of whisky and two glasses in front of him. He’s over six foot with broad shoulders and a large head. He used to be a boxer and although he’s not young he looks in good shape and quietly dangerous in his handmade suits. He gestures to me to sit and gives me a hard look.