Stay Dead - [33]

He’d sobered up a little.

‘I don’t know what happened,’ he said, examining and then opening a TV concealed inside a large ornate Georgian doll’s house. ‘I was with you in the pub, then we went outside… Jesus, look at this. Ain’t that neat.’

‘You passed out in the gutter. And you know what? It suited you so well, I left you there,’ said Annie, sitting down on the bed.

He turned and looked at her. ‘Thanks for fuck-all then,’ he said. ‘Anything could have happened. I could’ve choked, or died of the cold.’

‘It’s June, and you were spark out, on your side. Not choking.’

‘You wouldn’t give a toss if I was.’

‘So true. So what do you want, Jackie? It’s the middle of the night, in case you haven’t noticed.’

‘You got any drinks in here?’ he asked.

What the fuck. If he wanted to kill himself, she wasn’t his damned mother, was she? Annie sighed and pointed to an antique writing desk. Jackie went over, found and opened the fridge concealed there. It was stuffed with chocolate bars, miniature whiskies, brandies, vodka. Jackie grabbed a whisky with an unsteady hand, didn’t bother to enquire about a glass. He unscrewed the cap and necked it in one swallow.

‘That crap’s going to kill you,’ Annie told him.

Jackie shrugged, lobbed the empty bottle in the waste bin, and swiped another full one before closing the door.

‘Look, I’m makin’ an effort here,’ he said, coming and sitting down on the bed. He bounced up and down a couple of times. ‘What size is this? It’s comfy.’

‘Jackie.’

‘Hm?’

‘Watch my lips. If you’re up to it, we have things to do. Never mind the damned décor.’

‘What things?’ he asked, his eyes wandering around the room.

Jesus, is this it? wondered Annie. Is this the best I’ve got to play with?

The answer was yes.

‘Important things. Things that require you being sober, not pissed out of your head.’

‘Yeah?’ Jackie looked at her, his face working. ‘You think I’m a loser, don’t you?’

‘You got that right.’

‘I’m not,’ he said.

‘Oh really? Prove it.’

‘How the fuck am I supposed to do that?’

‘First you get on to our tame coppers in the Met. There’s still a few on the payroll. Tone’s on it too, but turns out he’s unreachable right now, and anyway two heads are better than one. See what’s cooking on Dolly’s case. See what the narks are telling them.’

‘I can do that,’ said Jackie. ‘I can be your strong right arm, count on me.’

Annie looked at him. ‘The only strong thing about you is your smell. Just fuck off and do it, will you?’

32

Limehouse, 1958

Dad got rid of the aborted baby. He brought up newspapers and wrapped the thing up and took it away. Then he came back with clean linen and a bowl of hot water, flannel and towels, and left Dolly to make the bed and clean herself up.

Still in pain, she slept after that; no one came near. She slept all through that day and into the next, and when she woke at last the pain was gone, the enema had finished scraping out her insides and she had nearly stopped bleeding too.

It was over.

Dolly felt huge relief at that, along with massive guilt. She thought of the stained-glass angels in the church windows again, but her mind shied away. She ought not to be thinking of those angels, not her, she was wicked, bad to the bone.

But… was it really over?

The baby was gone, but where did that leave her?

Dad had looked as sickened as she did when the baby came away, she knew he’d seen himself, his own features, in the poor kid’s face. Well, good. He ought to suffer. Christ knew, she had suffered enough and none of it was her fault. Or… was it? Was it something she had done, trying to make herself look pretty maybe, had that somehow forced him to do the man-and-woman thing with her? Was it her fault, really? Had her wickedness infected him, made him do those bad things?

And there was something even worse loitering at the back of her mind. Once she was up and about and well again, would he pick up where he’d left off, start all that again, maybe even – and now she sat up in the bed, horrified – would he make her have another child, take another trip to the Aldgate woman? Would she have to endure another day and night of agony, only to deliver another dead horror?

It could happen. Dolly thought it really could. This awfulness could happen again and again until she went like Mum, totally off her head. And she couldn’t allow that. She wouldn’t.

Dolly’s mind was spinning in small trapped circles. Terrified though the idea made her feel, she knew she had to do it. It was the simplest of plans, really. And she didn’t have a choice in the matter, not any more.

She gave it a couple of weeks, enough to get her strength back, to return to her usual robust state of health. All the while, she was careful to tell Dad how rough she felt, that her insides hurt, just in case he should think of resuming the stuff he liked to do with her upstairs. She told him about the washing powder in the bowl and the enema, and could almost have laughed to see how it turned his stomach. He was revolted by female stuff, the mess and gunk that came with periods and babies and the results of him having his fun.