Wishing and Hoping (16 page)

‘She danced at the Blue Genie, but only once. I said we'd give her a chance, but the punters didn't like her much.'

‘You didn't date her?'

‘Christ, Marcie!'

‘I'm only asking!'

She watched his fingers course through his hair again, her heart aching to touch him and to hear the truth.

‘I may have had a drink with her about a year or so ago, when she was auditioning. That was all.'

‘You did? Then why didn't you tell me?'

She couldn't help the sudden anger in her voice. He'd denied knowing the girl. Now he was saying he had known her and that in fact he'd been out for a drink with her. It brought home one very obvious fact: it was all very well loving someone and depending on them, but did she really know the man she had married? Was he telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth as they said on
Perry Mason
?

Resting his head in his hands, Michael sighed deeply.

‘I can't believe this is happening. Everything was going along so well. We had a great future you and me.' He looked up suddenly as though startled from a deep sleep and even deeper thoughts and fears. ‘I need you to believe in me, Marcie. I need you to be my eyes and ears on the outside. I've got enemies, Marcie. You above all people should know that. My father for a start; he's never forgiven me for getting him and Roberto put in stir. As for Rafferty . . .'

Marcie looked at him. This man, her husband, had pleading in his eyes and sincerity in his voice. She'd come here uncertain whether he was telling the truth but she couldn't help believing him. He looked so desperate, so totally dependent on her. Besides that he was the father of her son and had officially adopted Joanna and given her his name. Would a deceitful man do something like that?

Making her mind up was pretty straightforward. Children needed two parents and this marriage had to work. She sat back resignedly.

‘So what do you want me to do?'

His sudden surge forwards was met with a warning hand on the shoulder from one of the screws.

‘Not too close, Jones. No touching.'

Michael retreated only as far as he had to and took a deep breath. His eyes held hers.

‘I won't pretend it's going to be easy for you, so I've worked out what will be best. I'm hoping Jacob can get me off, but it could take some time. If I hadn't fallen asleep and stayed in the club in full view of everybody, there would be no case to answer. However –' he shrugged ‘– that's water under the bridge. Until I'm released I've got to protect you and the kids. So this is what I've decided. Keep the commercial properties, but sell the club. Speak to Jacob about likely purchasers. He's got his ear to the ground. Try and avoid selling it to Rafferty. I hate the bastard. I wouldn't be surprised . . .' His voice trailed away. She didn't need him to finish the sentence. She knew what he was insinuating.

‘Should I go along and ask him outright?'

He looked alarmed. ‘No! On no account do that.'

‘And your father? I hear he's out of prison. Should I ask . . .?'

‘No!'

Again his loud response attracted the attention of the screws.

Marcie shook her head, not at all happy with what he was telling her to do. ‘But you love the club the best. You said it was just the beginning of an empire that we were to share.'

She hadn't exactly been keen about him getting involved in nightclubs just like his natural father. She herself had been considering getting rid of the sewing room where she made costumes for exotic dancers. It was still her dream to design and make fashionable dresses, but that was all it was, a dream. She was just a girl from Sheerness who had left school and got a job selling candyfloss on the seafront. What chance did she have?

Michael's look turned pensive as though he were mulling something over, debating with himself whether to confide in her. To some extent the thought of him having to decide whether to entrust her with whatever it was made her bristle. She told herself to calm down, after all he was under pressure and worried.

Marcie swallowed her doubts and agreed to do as he said. ‘I wouldn't be able to handle the club and my own business anyway,' she added, though knew she was lying. Keeping the club for him was her way of believing in him. When he came out everything would be as it was. Very shortly he would be released
from prison. She had to believe that. There was no point in jumping from the bridge until she had to.

Michael did not detect the fact that she intended disobeying him. He was nodding thoughtfully.

‘Keep making your theatrical costumes. You're good at what you do, and, besides, I think everyone should have their own little bit of independence.'

His smile was fleeting but did not fool her. His eyes were heavy with worry.

Her heart went out to him.

‘Michael, are you getting enough to eat?'

Her question pulled him up with a start. If it were possible, he looked even more alarmed than he had when she'd argued to keep the nightclub.

‘I'm fine.' His eyes flickered. His jaw snapped shut.

‘You look . . .'

‘I'm just tired.'

She hadn't expected him to snap like that. There was something he wasn't telling her. The opportunity to ask him what was wrong was drawing to a close. She wasn't quick enough to ask what the problem was.

Visiting time was short, sweet and soon over. Responding to command, the visitors – mostly women, some there with young children – turned away from the men they'd come to visit. For their part the prisoners rose reluctantly. Even when their bodies were making for the door that led back to the cells, they
glanced over their shoulders until there was nothing left to see; until the door had slammed shut between them, their loved ones and the outside world.

Only the sound of excitable children accompanied the visitors as they made their way back towards the prison gate. The women said little though one or two stole sideways glances at the clothes she was wearing.

She'd taken special care with her appearance. Her coat was navy blue, the collar, cuffs and belt bordered in yellow braid. It was a very chic outfit – very fashionable.

The coat had been plain. She'd added the braid herself.

Being admired was of no interest to her. Feeling empty and sick inside, she filed out with the others.

‘Never mind, love. It'll all come out in the wash.'

She jerked up her head. The speaker was one of the prison officers, one who was senior to the others. He winked as he said it.

‘I hope so.'

‘I'll see he comes to no harm,' he added.

She didn't meet the look in his eyes. She didn't see the meaning there. Despite the fact that her father had been in prison, she wasn't familiar with what went on. Her grandmother had shielded her from that. She'd never visited and her father had never talked about it. Besides, all she had in her head was getting Michael out of there.

‘He's innocent,' she said.

‘They all are.' There was an undeniable smirk on his face when he said it.

Marcie didn't like his comment, but was too pre occupied to react.

Although tinged with traffic fumes, the air outside the prison smelled far sweeter than it did inside. Even so it was hard to banish the stench of it from her nostrils. She promised herself a hot bath perfumed by her favourite bath salts when she got home. Her car being in the garage for new brakes, she'd come here by taxi and would go home the same way.

Nearing the edge of the pavement, she looked around for one.

‘Excuse me.'

The last thing she'd expected on stepping out from the prison was to be hailed by a big man dressed in a badly cut suit. He was chewing gum.

‘Mrs Jones? Michael's wife?'

She stopped and looked at the speaker. He had shoulder-length hair and was wearing a kipper-sized tie. She decided that she didn't know him.

‘Yes. I am. Who are you?'

‘That don't matter, love. It's my boss that wants a word with you.' It was hardly an invitation – more like an order.

Taken unawares, she looked beyond him to where sunlight bounced off a shiny black car. Quite a lot of
cars were parked outside. She was vaguely aware of an equally ostentatious car pulling in somewhere behind this one. It must be a day for them, she thought. Perhaps a judge was visiting the prison. She turned back to the man.

‘Who is your boss?'

‘Mr Patrick Brian Rafferty, of course.' He proclaimed it as though everyone in London had heard of the name.

‘I've never heard of him,' she responded loftily. Rafferty! The pompous little Irishman who was trying to take over her husband's club!

‘But he knows you and wants to introduce himself.'

‘Look, I've got to get home . . .'

‘It won't take a minute. Mr Rafferty insists.'

Marcie was in no mood to conform to anyone's insistence unless she could turn it to her own advantage. If the circumstances hadn't been so dire, she would have quoted her father's favourite saying:
What's in it for me?
On the other hand and despite Michael's warning, it wouldn't hurt for her to have a word with him.

Holding her head high, she addressed the man chewing gum.

‘I'll speak to him if he can give me a lift home.' She spoke firmly, not at all like the little girl she had been such a short time ago. The little girl she'd been was no more. The old Marcie had died around the
time Joanna had been born. In this world she had to be strong for herself and those she loved.

The big man smirked. ‘Play your cards right and you might be lucky.'

‘I'll bet.'

Cupping her elbow, he eased her gently but firmly towards the shiny car. She let him do that, intrigued to meet this man who had tried to bully her husband into making him a partner.

The big man opened the door of the car.

‘First I want your assurance that you'll drive me home after this. My kids are waiting for me.'

‘Of course, my dear. Come along in. Sit yourself down and make yourself comfortable.'

She slid into the back seat. The interior smelled of new leather and old cigar ash. The man sitting in there was wide and took up most of the back seat. She was left sitting in roughly one third of it.

She looked at him, prepared to shudder, but holding it firmly at bay.

Paddy Rafferty's hair was sandy coloured and his eyes like chips of smeary glass, a dirty tan colour that could only loosely be described as hazel.

‘My name's Rafferty. Patrick Brian Rafferty.' He offered her a meaty hand enclosed in a soft kid glove.

She kept her hands in her lap and looked him straight in the eye. ‘What do you want from me, Mr Rafferty?'

His smile was crooked and as sincere as a rattlesnake about to strike.

‘Well, first off I'm pleased to meet you at last. I heard you were quite an attractive woman, but on meeting you, I see the description is inadequate. You're quite a looker, Mrs Jones. Quite a looker indeed!'

His accent reminded her of Mickey Rooney in an old black and white Hollywood film, false and overdone.

‘Are you a business associate of my husband's?' she asked.

His smile made her feel as though she was a meek and mild sparrow and he was a big cat about to pounce. Snake! Cat. He was a hunter that crept up on its prey.

Up close he smelled strongly of cologne; an attempt to cloak the smell of cigar ash, Marcie decided. She wondered about the gloves and didn't like his smile.

He hesitated before responding. She instinctively knew that the way he undressed her with his eyes was meant to unnerve her, to make her vulnerable. She steeled herself to ensure she gave no sign of fear.

Seeing her looking at him so defiantly, he finally took the cigar out of his mouth. ‘You could say that. Mickey and me were about to become partners when this unfortunate incident occurred. Such a bloody shame, me darling! A terrible shame to leave a lovely
girl like you burdened with business worries when all you really want to deal with is bringing up your darling little kids.'

‘I can cope,' Marcie responded hotly. ‘I'm not stupid.'

‘Dear, dear, dear.' Rafferty shook his head in time with the words he uttered. ‘A lovely young woman shouldn't have to cope. Business is a dirty game, Mrs Jones, a dirty game indeed. It certainly isn't for the likes of lovely ladies like you. No, no, no.' Again he shook his head in time with each word. ‘Mrs Jones, me darlin', I think you should reconsider your position. Nightclubs attract danger and violence. It's also a place where women are exploited. Now would you really want to get involved with something like that?'

Sally being exploited crossed her mind and almost made her laugh out loud. Sally
loved
what she did. She was skilled at dancing and taking her clothes off. By her own admission she'd set out to be exactly what she was.

‘You're pathetic, Mr Rafferty.'

His look hardened as he took in the insult. ‘Careful, Mrs Jones. I have been courteous with you. Please pay me the same respect and be courteous with me.'

‘I don't like being regarded as a silly little woman, Mr Rafferty. Please do me the honour of treating me with the same respect you would a man.'

He thought about it then nodded. ‘You're right,
Mrs Jones. Of course you are right. I apologise,' he said with a curt nod. ‘However, please consider what I'm offering here. Peace of mind, Mrs Jones; the chance to shelve business worries in exchange for enough money to see you and the little Joneses all right. Not a fortune, mind you, but a fair offer.'

‘Fair to you, Mr Rafferty?'

‘Fair to all concerned. As I said, Mrs Jones, nightclubs can be violent places and are full of sin. We all get tarnished with sin if we live day in and day out with it.'

‘Is that why you're the way you are, Mr Rafferty?'