Free Dangerous by Jessie Keane Page A

that’s over, gone and done.’
    Bernie’s face was white as snow. ‘So . . . where will they . . . ’
    ‘The council will bury her,’ said Clara.
    Bernie put her hands to her mouth as if Clara had struck her. Tears ran down her cheeks.
    ‘But we won’t know where,’ she gasped.
    ‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Clara flatly. ‘She’s gone.’
    She had to turn away from the pain on Bernie’s face, back toward the window. As she stood there, considering what options they had left, she could see her reflection in the mucky glass, faded like an old Venetian mirror.
    Clara had no illusions about the sorts of things she could do to raise money, to keep the family together. She could get a job in a club tomorrow, stripping. She had a good face, a thick waterfall of black hair and a body that would fit the bill, she knew it. She was five feet eight inches tall, nine stone in weight, with richly curving hips, a small waist and full breasts that were neither too small nor too large. But she was revolted by the thought of doing that. Not when there was another way.
    ‘Clar?’ Bernie’s voice was very low.
    ‘Yeah, Bern?’
    Clara didn’t look round. She was afraid if she did that Bernie would see that she was almost at the end of her rope; she felt like her whole being was coming apart, that she was spinning, helpless, in a black turmoil of grief and despair. But she
had
to keep thinking, figuring out what their next move should be. For all their sakes.
    ‘Was it my fault, that Dad left? Did he go because of me? Because of something I said?’
    Clara turned around and stared at Bernie in surprise.
    ‘
What?
’ Then she saw the numb miserable certainty of guilt on Bernie’s face. She went to her and grabbed her frail shaking shoulders and shook her lightly. Trust overemotional Bernie to get the wrong end of the stick. ‘No, Bern. Don’t think that, don’t ever think that. He got himself in a mess with the business, that’s all and . . . well, the authorities could have got involved, so he had to go. It was nothing to do with you, nothing at all.’
    Bernie nodded and seemed satisfied with that. At least, Clara hoped she was.
    ‘Go and check on Henry, make sure he’s all right,’ said Clara, patting her sister’s shoulder.
    With Bernie gone from the room, Clara worked it all through in her mind again.
    She was doing the right thing.
    The only possible thing.

16
    Bert Shillingworth was up in the dead of night, making one of several trips to the loo. He was seventy-six years old and he felt it. Everything ached – his back, his legs, his whole damned body. His bloody eyesight was going. Since his wife died, he hadn’t slept well. It sounded stupid, but he missed her snoring! Now, apart from the cat, there was only him in the little flat above the tobacco shop he ran in Soho. He was glad of Tabs the cat, of another heartbeat under the roof when the nights were long and lonely.
    Bert used the pot he kept under the bed to save him a trip all the way down the stairs to the outside lavvy in the backyard, then he heard a motor revving out front. Middle of the fucking night, didn’t the bastards ever sleep around here? All these clubs and strip joints and prossies and pimps hanging about on corners, music blaring out – and not
good
music, not like in the war, not ‘Run Rabbit Run’ or ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’. No, this was new stuff, and he hated it. The place was getting worse, going to the fucking dogs.
    With Tabs winding silkily around his legs, Bert tottered over to the window, yanking the curtain back. He looked out just as a car screeched to a halt outside the Blue Banana club, opposite Bert’s shop. Someone got out of the car, moving quickly. There was a flare of fire, the sound of glass breaking, and then
whoomph!
The place was alight. The man jumped back in the car, and it sped away.
    ‘Fuck me,’ said Bert.
    The fire brigade came out, and the police (some of whom had been drinking in the Blue