Gypsy Girl (28 page)

I shrug with my good shoulder. “I made money. How else was I going to do that? There’s no jobs around for girls like me.”

Rocky throws his hands in the air again. “And Maltese Joey made lots more!”

He’s forgetting one thing. “There’s always been bare-knuckle fights,” I say. “And our men are the best. It’s our history.”

That makes him even angrier. “So? It’s time to change. Do you want to get crippled, or killed? Do you want to knock someone out and then find out there’s no first aid to help them?”

I don’t. I’m hearing what he’s saying, and I’ve probably always known the truth about the fights. But I want Rocky to shut up.

So I make up my mind. “Scar-face,” I say.

He stares at me. “What?”

“The last club we fought in. Remember the manager, the one with the scar where someone put a knife in his mouth and pulled, so he looks like one side of his face is always smiling?”

“Yes.”

“That’s Maltese Joey.”

Total silence falls. Miss Stroud is staring at me. Rocky sits down. He’s frowning. “How could you know that?”

“Because he told me.”

Miss Stroud leans forward. “Why would he do that?”

I can tell she doesn’t believe me. “Because I’m a girl and he’s a creep. He hit on me the first time I went there. He started talking big, trying to impress me. He thought I was just this girl, that I’d never be a threat to him.”

I’ve stunned them both. Miss Stroud shakes her head, a smile appearing. She looks over at Rocky. “Simple as that. The idiot keeps himself out of the limelight, then tries to impress a girl young enough to be his daughter!” She gives a laugh. “Girls should be ruling the world because sometimes men are so stupid.” She looks at me, and I think I can see admiration in her eyes. “Thanks. This could be our lucky break.”

“I can come and help you get him,” I say.

Rocky grabs my hand. “No. This is our fight now. You keep out of it. Go with Bartley. Get away from here.”

I pull my hand away. “Everyone’s telling me to do this, or do that. I’ve got my own ideas.”

He frowns. “What are they?”

I might as well tell him. Maybe he’ll understand. “I’m going to find Hudson McCloud and get vengeance.”

Suddenly they’re both sitting bolt upright.

“No. You forget him,” says Rocky.

“He tried to kill me. He’s a psycho! And I’ll get him, you’ll see.”

Miss Stroud leans forward, no smiles now, and points a finger at me. “You do not do that. You leave him to us.”

“The police let him get away!”

“I know. Unfortunate.” She scowls. “Bloody boy-racer cars. But you leave him to us. We’ll find him – not you.”

I’ve had enough. “You can’t tell me what to do,” I tell her.

“Yes, she can,” says Rocky, deadly serious now. “It looks like McCloud is running something big. At first I thought you were just being your usual self and annoying the neighbours.”

“Thanks.”

“But when Bartley told me someone was following you, and I saw that Jeep at the church, I got suspicious. I called Miss Stroud. She came over, took the registration number and got a glimpse of the big guy with the ponytail.”

“I went and checked. His real name’s Victor Polanski,” she says. “He’s from Eastern Europe originally. Everyone calls him Pony. He’s been suspected of all sorts of gang-related stuff, fights, manslaughter, blackmail, never got charged with any of them. Until his luck ran out yesterday.”

Mustn’t think about Pony.

Rocky sees my face change. He takes my hand. “You could’ve got killed. Don’t scare me like that again.”

“International Express is part of a police operation now,” says Miss Stroud. “McCloud is helping us with our enquiries. When Milo regained consciousness, we arrested him. He’s talking in exchange for a lesser sentence. He doesn’t know much about McCloud’s business, but he’s told us about the plan to kill you and Gregory. He’s blaming it all on Hudson, of course.”

“So McCloud will pay for what he did?” I ask her.

“Yes.”

I see Hudson grinning at me in my mind. “And what about Hudson?”

“He’s gone to ground somewhere. You don’t have to worry about him. He’s not going to risk coming anywhere near you.” She points a finger at me. “So forget him and leave it to us. You’re tough, but you’re not tough enough to go after him, do you hear me?

Seems that everyone’s got opinions about how tough I am today. None of them know the truth, though. I collapse back onto my pillow. “OK. Don’t go on about it. I get it.”

Miss Stroud nods. “Good. We’ll find him, don’t worry.” She gives me a reassuring smile, but I’m not interested in being reassured. I change the subject.

“They poisoned me granny. Did you find out what it was?”

“We’re thinking one of the new designer drugs. No one knows what’s in them. Mephedrone’s been out on the streets for a while, but they change all the time. Some of them are probably more harmless than alcohol. But the problem is they’re not like cocaine or weed, which have been around for years. You don’t know what you’re buying, it could be mixed with something poisonous, it could be lethal. The people who make them don’t care.”

“Granny found that out.”

“We’ve got forensics going over the barn and the other buildings. Soon as we find traces of the drug, we can match it with your granny’s blackberry liqueur. McCloud will get done for this, don’t worry. We’ve already found evidence that the company is shipping stolen goods.”

“So all you have to do is stay out of trouble now,” says Rocky. “And leave Hudson alone.”

This time I don’t argue. “OK.”

They don’t look as though they believe me, but what can they do?

“I thought you were going out with each other,” I say, to change the subject. They both laugh.

“She wishes,” says Rocky. “But seriously, me go out with a gavver? Leave it out.”

“He wishes.” She grins at him. “He insists on calling me Miss Stroud. I think he’s got a teacher complex.”

They’ve only been here minutes, but Rocky is already looking twitchy. He hates hanging round indoors. He’s like me. He likes to be outside, doing things.

“You can go now,” I tell him. “I’m tired.”

He stands up, fixes me with this stern look. “No more fighting, Sammy-Jo. It’s over for you now.”

In my mind I see the bright lights above the cage, the people crowding round, shouting me name, “Gypsy Girl!” The thrill of walking into the centre and waiting, not knowing if this is the time I get beat. Bouncing on my toes, getting myself ready, and the roar as we start fighting.

“You sure you don’t want me to help you get Maltese Joey?” I say.

“No!”

Rocky looks like he wants to shake me. I don’t push it.

“OK, don’t go on at me.”

Rocky looms over me. “I’ll know if you start hanging around the fights again. I’ll tell Samson, and he’ll go crazy. Even worse, he’ll be disappointed in you again.”

I nod. Anything to shut him up. “Gypsy Girl doesn’t exist any more. Maltese Joey’s clubs will never see me again. I hope you catch him.”

Rocky still doesn’t look totally convinced, but Miss Stroud drags him away. I expect she wants to start planning how to get Joey. Soon as they disappear I find a dressing gown and creep out, telling the policeman I’m going to the toilet. He watches me as I shuffle along towards the ladies’. My legs are shaky, but I can cope with that. Soon as I’m level with Gregory’s room I take a quick peek inside to check that his parents have gone for now, and sneak in.

He doesn’t see me at first. He’s lying with headphones on and his eyes closed. The bruises on his face are murky purple, acid yellow and sickly green. The nurse told me that his cheekbone is cracked. And I have a horrible feeling his nose might be a little crooked from now on. For some reason, I think it will suit him. I have the urge to go and kiss his wounds and stroke his hair back from his forehead, but I don’t. I perch on the edge of the bed. When he opens his eyes and sees me, his face break into a smile and then stops, because it must hurt.

“You should be mad at me,” I say. “I got you into that mess.”

“No. I’m not mad at you.” He attempts a smile again. “Mad about you.”

I don’t say anything to that. He holds my hand. I start crying. It’s seeing him looking so battered. Sixteen years and I hardly ever cried, and now I can’t stop. We carry on holding hands, but nothing has changed. Even though we’ll be staying around for Granny Kate’s funeral, sometime soon we’ll be leaving. And sometime after that the summer will be over and Gregory will be going back to college.

And me? Where will I be? I think I know now.

I hold his hand. It’s warm and dry, fingernails bitten, the knuckles scraped red raw, the back tanned to a golden colour but covered in scratches. For now this is enough. I’m too tired to think of the future.

Later they come looking for me, and I have to go and have more tests, to see if the nerves in my arm are OK. They put little stickers all over my body, and a net of them over my head, all attached to little wires that lead into a machine. They stand around the machine, two doctors and a couple of nurses, “oooh”ing and “ahhh”ing, and tell me my reflexes are off the scale, and so is my muscle strength. They tell me I’ll have to have physio and take it easy for a while. No fighting. That’s what they think. I can already feel the strength coming back to me.

When they wheel me back to my room, I look into Gregory’s, but he’s gone.

A nurse tells me his parents have taken him to a private hospital.

A couple of weeks have gone by. It’s still sunny. I walk up the drive to the big house, and knock on the door. The last time I was here I got thrown out. I wonder if it’s going to happen again. I’m not dressed so extreme now. Jeans with a check shirt that covers the bandage on my shoulder. I’ve tied the shirt at my waist, though, so there is a bit of my tanned skin showing above the top of my jeans. No heels this time, only sandals.

The door opens immediately. It’s not Gregory. I never thought it would be. It’s his mother. She looks nervous and hostile, and I’m not surprised. A war has broken out between Mr Langton and my father. Gregory says we’re the opposite of Romeo and Juliet. When they died, it brought their families together. But we lived and now ours blame each other for what happened.

“Yes?” she snaps, with a face like she’s been drinking vinegar.

“We’ve just had my granny’s funeral,” I say.

The horses and the funeral carriage left from the field this morning, to go to the church. It was a proper Smith funeral. Granny Kate went to her final rest in a glass coach pulled by two black horses with black plumes on their bridles. Smiths from all over came to pay their respects.

“Yes, I know,” she says. “And I’m sorry for your loss. But really, we can’t have you coming here and bothering Greg—”

“I’m not,” I tell her, quickly. “I want to ask you a favour.” She looks likes she’s got a bad smell under her nose now, but I carry on. “See, it’s an old tradition to burn the trailer when someone dies. We want to take Granny Kate’s trailer into the field next door and burn it. My auntie says I have to ask your permission.”

The burning is my idea. In the days since I got out of hospital, I’ve helped me sisters to clear out Granny’s trailer. We’ve looked through all her old photos and put them in a box to keep. We’ve carefully wrapped up her old Crown Derby plates and cups, and stored them in boxes. And now the empty trailer stands with its door open, and the Queen Anne stove cold, never to be lit again. The old mirrors no longer reflect Granny Kate, just the dusty air and the bare shelves and cupboards.

But whenever I walk by, I swear I can smell blackberries. I thought it was just me, until Sabrina grabbed my arm and said she could smell them, too. Somehow, even though Granny is dead and gone, it didn’t seem as though she was resting peacefully. I remembered when she used to tell us about the old days, and how the burning of the trailers would allow the departed souls to carry on roaming. Granny needs to be able to go on her way.

Mrs Langton doesn’t know what to say. She wants us gone. I think this is the only reason she doesn’t argue. “I suppose that’ll be all right. But you’ve still got to leave afterwards.”

“Yes, I know.” She starts to shut the door in my face. “Wait. There’s one more thing. Would old Mr Langton like to come to the burning? He knew Granny Kate. He remembered her.”

“And her wine nearly killed him,” she snaps.

If she thinks she can make me ashamed, she’s wrong.

“She would never have made poisoned wine if it wasn’t for Mr McCloud – the man
you
sold the barn to. You thought you knew him. Just shows you can’t always judge people by the way they look, or what job they do.” I peer over her shoulder. “At least your grandfather is out of hospital and getting better. Not like my granny.”

Mrs Langton’s eyes narrow. “How do you know he’s out of hospital?”

Oops. “I’m guessing. Didn’t see no funeral here.”

She doesn’t believe me, but what can she do?

I back away. “Anyway, tell him he’s welcome to come and pay his last respects.”

As I reach their gate, I glance back at Gregory’s bedroom window and smile to myself.

We hitch the old trailer to the Mitsubishi and drive it to the centre of the field, everyone following behind. We’ve taken out the beautiful old mirrors because we’re going to fit them into the gym back at our place, so that we can remember Granny Kate when we look in them.

We gather in a ring around the outside. There’s a big crowd of us. There’s Bartley next to Beryl. And Rocky standing with Miss Stroud. She’s changed her leather jacket for a long black coat. We’re all in black. My father and Bartley go inside the trailer with cans of petrol and soak the seats and the floor. But before they can throw a match and run, we hear someone shouting.

It’s Mr Langton. His car’s parked at the gate, and he’s striding over to us. I suspect he hasn’t been home and he hasn’t spoken to his wife.

“I told you to pack up and go after the funeral,” he says, striding up to my father.

“The funeral’s not finished yet,” me daddy tells him.

“Looks like it is to me. I’ve given you enough time, but now you have to move.” He sniffs the air. “Why can I smell petrol?” He notices the matches. “You cannot seriously be going to set fire to that caravan!”