Wishing and Hoping (23 page)

Samantha Kendal was imposing, glamorous and as hard as nails. She threw Carla a warning glare. ‘Leo has been good to me. I won't chance hurting him. Besides, it's only a matter of time.'

Carla had lied to Marcie about her mother's husband but felt no guilt. She'd failed to mention a lot of other stuff too – in fact she'd done a lot of lying on her boss's account.

Leo was a lot older than Sam when they met and married. After being raped by Alan Taylor, the new
woman who'd merged from the carcase of the old was bereft not just of memory but of some of her basic characteristics. It was as if the kinder part of her had been overruled by her strength and the determination to overcome anything. The good fairy had turned into something darker, something she herself sometimes found difficult to live with and was almost surprised at.

Sam Kendal was taller than her daughter, still attractive, her figure upright and not prone to middle-aged spread like Carla.

Carla watched her as she stalked the room. She feared but also admired her. The way she paced made her look as though she were the commander of an army contemplating the strategy of battle. In a way she was. Leo was knocking eighty-five. Not having any sons to carry on in his criminal wake and being unwilling to share responsibility with any of his closest partners, he'd decided that Sam would be the conduit for his will. Sam had been running things for a long time.

As it turned out the arrangement worked well. Sam fitted easily into the groove he'd carved for her. Leo respected her and, on seeing that he did, the hard men that worked for him respected her too. She had the maturity and she had his backing. She was a woman, but not one to be messed with and nobody ever did.

Sam smoked through an ebony cigarette holder. As she did so her finely plucked eyebrows dipped into a gentle frown.

‘Paddy Rafferty needs his claws clipped,' she murmured thoughtfully.

‘Needs gelding from what I hear,' muttered Carla.

‘That can be arranged.'

Carla knew she wasn't joking. Although Sam looked like an upper-crust model from a
Harpers and Queen
magazine, she would do what had to be done.

‘And the Camilleris had better watch it,' Sam added.

Carla knew that the Kendal outfit was more than a match for the Sicilians. The former had a lot of clout in the East End; people looked to them to sort things out more so than they did the police. It was rumoured that women and kids could walk in safety wherever the Kendals ruled. And Sam was the head of the outfit.

Carla envied Sam her poise, her clothes and her power, but mostly her clothes. Not that she was dowdy herself. She wore a plain shift dress beneath her fur coat. It was of good quality and classy, but Sam outshone her.

Sam Kendal was dressed in a pink Chanel suit. The jacket had neat brass buttons, was boxy and edged with navy-blue braid. The skirt was short, though respectably so. Sam Kendal had taste and the
money to pay for it. Her earrings and the gold choker she wore around her neck were by Christian Dior. Since marrying Leo Kendal she could afford the best. Her world was a galaxy away from the Isle of Sheppey, memories of which had only started returning a few years back and were fragmented. Memories about her daughter, Marcie, had been buried deepest of all, but little pieces were coming back.

No one, not even Carla, knew that she'd began returning to Sheppey a few years back. She'd found her way to the beach and, although she remembered the cottage in Endeavour Terrace, she had stayed away, afraid of being seen.

As it turned out, she'd seen her ex-husband, Tony, in the pub with his new wife. She'd also seen Marcie. Worse than that, she'd seen Alan Taylor fawning over her daughter just as he'd once fawned over her.

Seeing what he was doing had filled her with blind fury. She'd seen him accost her daughter on the beach. Marcie had pushed him. She'd seen him fall, seen Marcie run off.

The day had been dull, fast drifting into winter. There had been few people about. Even if there had been, nothing would have stopped her pressing him that bit more firmly onto the piece of rough wood sticking out of his head. He hadn't been moving but he had been breathing. But not once she'd done that. He'd breathed no more.

Worrying about Marcie and doing this balancing act between her and Leo gave her pins and needles in her head. She loved her husband and her daughter and was fiercely protective of both of them.

Thoughts of Marcie gentled her; so did knowing that she was now a grandmother – a very glamorous one at that.

Sam stopped and faced Carla. The light from the window behind her shone around her body.

Like the bloody Virgin Mary, thought Carla.

‘I've considered a number of options,' said Sam. ‘Number one, I did consider letting you be my agent but then I decided it wasn't a good idea. You worked in clubs but you never ran them – not like that. And how would I protect her? No,' she said shaking her head whilst blowing out a cloud of blue smoke, ‘I have to use someone who will have no choice but to protect her.'

‘She isn't too keen on having a partner.'

Sam pulled her mouth into a half-smile. ‘I didn't think she would be. I bet she hasn't told her old man she intends to keep the club.'

‘Bet your life she hasn't,' said Carla with a knowing laugh. ‘Whether you like it or not, she's a chip off the old block, Sam. She's you to a T – or at least how you used to be.'

It pleased Carla to see Sam's smile broaden. She'd known Sam in the good old days when they were
young, before she'd married Tony, and before she'd lost her memory.

Sam had been Mary, a pretty little girl with blonde hair and big blue eyes full of hope and innocence. Well that had certainly long gone thanks to the likes of Tony Brooks and then that bastard Alan Taylor. Both of them were small-time crooks and neither of them had treated the lithesome beauty that well. Only Leo had done that.

‘So what have you got in mind?' asked Carla.

Sam tapped the stalk of the cigarette holder against her chin. As she did so, Carla admired the wrinkle-free complexion of a woman halfway through her forties. Sam would always be one of those women who aged well, unlike Carla who used too much make-up and dyed her hair mercilessly every month.

‘The Blue Genie is in the market for fresh bouncers. I will ensure that the manager takes on a few of my own hand-picked team. Kevin McGregor is a good bloke. Trustworthy. Did you know he used to work for us?'

Carla shook her head. The Kendal family had very long tentacles; it was amazing who they knew and who they could use.

Carla carried on. ‘You will suggest to my daughter that she have a bodyguard with her at all times; if not Kevin McGregor himself, then a member of staff.'

‘Even at home?'

Sam looked contemplative. ‘If I could do more I would. Paddy Rafferty is a wild card. I can give him a warning, but he's a greedy sod since he muscled in on the property game. He's also a male chauvinist pig. Never mind burning my bra, I'd like to bloody strangle him with it. He knows that Leo is weak and dying. Paddy has no respect for women and I can't let him know just yet that Marcie is my daughter, not until Leo is gone. I know for a fact that he's got a few city councillors in his pocket so I have to tread carefully. Leo expects me to take care of his business and, besides, he still doesn't know about Marcie. Worse still he doesn't know that I was married to Tony Brooks!'

THE SMELL OF
disinfectant and food boiled to mush was instantly oppressive. The kitchens couldn't have been close by, yet the smell crept over everything.

Marcie had finally owned up that she intended keeping the Blue Genie.

Michael was furious. ‘I told you to sell it!'

Marcie met Michael's glittering eyes. ‘Would you have preferred Paddy Rafferty owning it, or being my “partner” as he suggested. Though we both know what he meant by that!'

‘Of course not!'

‘You know what he was implying, don't you?' Marcie asked hotly feeling her cheeks turning red.

‘The bastard! Of course I do. I'm not bloody stupid!' He sighed deeply. ‘Don't torture me like this, Marcie.'

She only just stopped herself from reaching across the table. As it was the brushing of her fingertips against his earned her a barked order from one of the screws.

‘No touching!'

Marcie curled her fingers into the palm of her hand and made a fist.

She apologised for being thoughtless. It must hurt him badly to think that she was attracting sexual overtures from Rafferty whilst he was in here, unable to help her.

All the same, she was convinced she was right to keep the club. She attempted to explain. ‘I couldn't do it, Michael. The Blue Genie is your dream and I felt that as long as I can keep that dream going I can wish and hope that all of this is just a temporary nightmare. The two are combined somehow. Don't ask me how. I just know.'

‘You're going to be working day and night, or are you thinking of closing your sewing room?'

‘I'll see how it goes. I might have to.'

‘I thought you loved designing and making the outfits?'

She nodded. ‘I do, but . . .' Deep inside she was still unsure why she wanted to keep the club. It had something to do with the dream, the sparks flying from the sign and the cheery image of the half-naked genie turning into something more sinister. She wouldn't tell him that. ‘I couldn't sell the club. Somehow it would be so final. The Blue Genie was supposed to be one of many stretching far into the future . . .'

‘I might not have any future,' Michael snapped. ‘You're my wife, Marcie. You're supposed to love, honour and obey!'

The loudness of his voice made her jump. A few other visitors and prisoners looked their way. A prison officer threw him a warning look, unfolding his big arms as though about to spring into action and exercise physical restraint.

Marcie had bravely hoped that Michael would see her point without her having to tell him about the dream.

She tried again. ‘I've got everything under control. I've even sorted out your filing. You never were much good at that.'

She gave a little laugh, hoping it might lift his spirits. Instead he glared at her.

‘You've been snooping in my drawers? You've got no right doing that. A bloke's got a right to some privacy. Bloody women! You suck the lifeblood out of us! All of you. You're all the same!'

Marcie stared at him. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if the comment was as much for Linda Bell as for her, but she couldn't.

He wasn't bearing up well at all and her heart ached at the sight of him. His face had turned gaunt since he'd been inside and there was a nervous wariness about him. There was a fuzzy yellow-purplish place on his cheekbone and shadows beneath his eyes. The corners of his mouth were down-turned, plus there was a small cut. When had that happened? And why hadn't she noticed before?

‘Michael, is everything all right?'

He glared at her. ‘Are you kidding? I'm banged up in here! Of course I'm not all right.'

‘It's just that you look . . .'

‘Quit nagging,' he snapped.

She swallowed hard. Only once had he ever spoken to her that way before.

She looked at him as though seeing him for the very first time. Something was very wrong here.

He sat looking down at the table, seemingly far away. Again she was tempted to reach out and touch him, to tangle her fingers in his thick, dark hair.

She kept her fist clenched, staring at the top of his hung head.

It was a strange silence, both locked in their own thoughts.

Michael spoke first. ‘How are the kids?'

Marcie took a deep breath. ‘Fine, except that Joanna keeps asking for you.'

‘What have you told her?'

‘That you're away on important business and will be back as soon as you can.'

‘Soon? Christ! That's pushing it. Perhaps you'd better tell her that I won't be able to give her away on her wedding day.'

The cynicism was not like him, but Marcie decided it was best not to comment on it.

‘Jacob will get you out,' Marcie said as cheerfully as she could. ‘If anyone can, he can.'

‘That gun was not mine,' Michael said, his eyes holding hers. ‘And that shirt, I didn't put it there, Marcie. Honest I didn't.'

PADDY RAFFERTY LAY
in bed wearing a pair of cotton gloves that helped soothe his aching flesh as well as hiding its red rawness from curious eyes.

His wife was away visiting her sick mother and, as the old saying goes, when the cat's away the mice do play. Well, Paddy was playing and Sheila Ashton had made him hard, harder than his wife ever could.

At present the white-fleshed stripper – though like all of her kind she preferred to be called an exotic dancer – was bending over, her big buttocks exposed to his gaze.

She was in the process of putting on the tiny pair of bikini briefs that were supposed to cover her private bits. They were made of purple gauzy stuff and hid nothing from his view. The cheeks of her rear remained smiling through.

She made a show of putting on her brassiere just as she would when she was up on stage only then of course she would be taking it off. When putting it on, it would have been simpler to fasten it at the front before turning it, slipping her boobs into the cups and sliding the straps over her shoulders; but
Sheila had an audience, an audience of one and that was him: Patrick Brian Rafferty.

Sheila was an expert at taking her clothes off – and putting them on. She did private performances for Paddy at least four times a week and more when his old woman was away – like now.

He liked the way she squealed when he raked his gloved hands over her. He liked the way she slid up under the bedclothes from the foot of the bed and did delicious things to his body all the way up. Sometimes he bent her over his knees and slapped her with his gloved hands – the leather ones. She said she loved it, but then she would say that. She was a professional scrubber and he paid her well.