Staying Out

By Jean Shorney

Christina O'Donnell is beautiful and feisty, brought up into an impoverished existence in the criminal world of London's East End.
Set against the backdrop of 1980's London underworld, Christy is released from prison after perpetrating an armed robbery with her lover, Rick Marelli.
The money is still out there, and Christy knows that if she can get to it, she can escape the underworld. As she continues her search, the network of criminal tentacles close around her.
Can she keep running, or should she stay to make a life with her new lover? A new lover unaware of her past.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M-Y Books
• Release date: Aug 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781909271753

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Linda O’Donnell was stunned to discover her sister-in-law slouched ungainly in her best armchair, with her bare feet sprawled on the table in front of her, watching a soap on the television. Christy sipped from a half emptied bottle of dry Martini and was smoking profusely. The air was polluted with it and Linda was compelled to open a window.

Hiya, Lin. Christy greeted her in a voice badly slurred from drink. Wincing visibly, Linda willed herself to remain unaccustomedly calm and tolerant. Barry was on his feet immediately at his wife’s entrance as if he were a soldier in readiness for bed inspection by a superior officer. Darting shamefaced glances at Linda, Barry instinctively directed more reproachful ones at his kid sister.

So that’s it, is it? Linda rounded on Barry fiercely. Aren’t you supposed to be responsible for her? speaking as if Christy were not present in the room. Despite her drunkenness, Christy couldn’t fail to be vexed. Barry slipped what he hoped was a conciliatory arm about his wife’s waist, a little plumper these days than when they were first married. After seven years and four miscarriages, Linda’s only consolation issued from frequent food binges.

Christy dealt her sister-in-law a critical once over, decided Linda had grown a lot fatter, looked older and her short blonde hair was fashioned in much too tight a curl, which served to accentuate her age. Linda was 36, two years her husband’s senior, which made her thirteen years older than Christy.

Yeah, ‘course I’m responsible for her. Barry said adopting an unaccustomed authoritative air for Christy’s benefit, voice hardening. Put that bottle down, Sis, for God’s sake! he commanded. Don’t you think you’ve drunk enough and smoked enough? Besides all that stuff is bad for your health.

Giggling and winking conspiratorially at her brother undeterred by the chilling expression on Linda’s face, Christy tossed him the packet and the remaining two cigarettes inside. Her eyes moved to Linda, aware of the angry clenching of her fists, face flaming crimson with rage at this flouting of her authority.

So ain’t you gonna ask me how I’ve been, Lin? How was the food? The weather? Christy giggled once more.

Barry’s stomach churned nauseatingly. Whether it stemmed from the drink, he didn’t know. The evidence of pride almost ringing in his sister’s voice at her rather sarcastic reference to prison. As if it had really been just one big laugh. A game to her. The robbery. The security guard getting topped. Prison.

Linda stared at Christy without an ounce of sympathy or feeling whatsoever. The little bitch was drunk. Flaunting herself, proud of what she had done, no doubt. Linda decided to take charge of the situation. Barry was obviously incapable.

Briskly she retorted. All right, I’m here now. While I’m forced to give you a home, Christina… Linda fixed Barry with a withering look, you’ll do exactly as I tell you. And you Barry, I’m surprised that you could sink this low!

Barry’s face had literally drained of all colour. Wh… what d… do you m… mean? And what was worse, that damned stutter was back. A little dr… drink wouldn’t hurt.

Before he could prevent her, Linda snatched the bottle from Christy’s hand, marched with it into the kitchen and promptly emptied what was left of its contents down the sink.

Bitch! Christy muttered hotly under her breath.

Look, you do what she says, okay? Barry said sharply, all six foot three of his lean muscular frame towering over her where she relaxed in the armchair. She’s right. I am responsible for you. To see you keep your dates an’ stuff with the parole officer. And above all to make sure you stay out of trouble. That includes laying off the booze. He wagged a finger at her meaningfully.

Christy’s mouth tightened. Oh for God’s sake, Bar. Cut out all this big brother crap can’t you? I know what I have to do. And let me tell you something, sobering up a fraction I didn’t swap one bloody prison for another. I’m out now and I intend staying out!

At the sink Linda arched her back like a feline about to spring, tears dangerously close to the surface. She had only been in the house a few minutes and already she had had a run in with Christy. But then she had invariably been on the defensive with her, hadn’t she? It was nothing new. Even at the outset when she had begun dating Barry. At 27, Barry had only been the second man in her life, the first having left her stranded at the altar. It had been a long while before she had dared to trust another man after that. In Barry O’Donnell, however, despite his tall muscular build, she had soon discovered the little boy lost, making him a candidate for her own inherent mothering.

Then Barry had been 25, Christy 14, and their brother Steve, 17. Worlds apart from their steady going older brother, Linda recollected Steve as a stony faced youth with an enormous chip on his young shoulder. Invariably he carried a flick knife poking out of the back pocket of his jeans. Christina the irascible tomboy seldom, if ever, seen in dresses. She favoured jeans, t-shirts or worn, moth eaten looking jumpers that Linda would have thrown out to the dustman ages ago.

Because Linda was not part of the impoverished way of life in the East End, which she also found difficult attempting to fit into. She had been raised and educated at a private school near Windsor, as befits the only child of a middle class industrialist. It was Christy who saw her as a potential target, much to Barry’s consternation, for risqué jokes about posh ladies. She would adopt a suitably cultured accent for her benefit, reminiscent of Eliza Doolittle in Shaw’s Pygmalion.

Linda hated visiting Barry’s home as much as Linda’s parents disliked the lower class cockney young man visiting their palatial Windsor abode. Now Barry had insisted on making a home for his wayward ex-con of a sister. The one and only time she had ever known Barry to have put his foot down about anything against her wishes. Oh God, how was she going to cope?

Linda was instinctively conscious of Christy’s presence beside her at the sink. She caught herself stiffening accordingly, like a dog with its hackles raised at something to which it feels particularly averse. Look, I’m sorry if I upset you Lin. Barry suggested I apologise. Christy muttered with an ill-disguised grudging tone.

Linda might have known she would not have taken it upon herself to do so and wondered how someone as obviously considerate and tactful as her husband could have such a despicable brother and sister. Linda refused to as much as glance at the girl when she spoke. Barry and I have agreed to give you a home until such time as you can find suitable accommodation for yourself, Christina Linda told her haughtily. The least you can do is show us some respect. We’ve already seen you in your true colours. Barry is prepared to give you a second chance to make something of yourself. He obviously cares a great deal about you, so don’t go throwing it all up in his face, will you?

‘Bitch,’ Christy mused inwardly. With her bloody arrogance and her fancy words like she had swallowed the fucking dictionary or something. The worst thing Barry had probably done in his life had been to marry this stuck up cow. Steve had thought so too. But Christy smiled sweetly at her nonetheless.

Look, I apologised didn’t I! I suppose Barry does care about me which is more than anyone else does, particularly Mum. Christy’s voice hardened deliberately. Someone poisoned her against me, that’s for sure!

Linda began unloading the groceries from each of her two carrier bags on the kitchen table. Well it wasn’t me if that’s what you’re thinking! Linda said quickly. Besides, what reason would I have for doing so? Your home is really with your mother. Barry and I have our own life to lead.

Christy made a face behind her back and began to examine an unfamiliar label on one of the tins of beans Linda had taken from her bag. High fibre?

Linda snatched the can of beans from her hand and put it on the shelf squeezed in between wholemeal spaghetti and low calorie bran cereal. She continued unloading her shopping bags, lifting innumerable cartons of low fat yoghurt from their plastic confines and committing them to the fridge along with a bag of rather squashed tomatoes and a four pound pack of oven chips. Barry and I intend staying healthy be eating the right foods for a change. You should do the same. I expect the junk they served you in prison couldn’t have been up to much.

Yeah, you’re right about it being junk. Christy warmed to the conversation. Why? Do you think I went on hunger strike?

I thought it was because you were protesting about something or other. Linda said superciliously.

Christy grinned. Yeah, it was. The food. The chips were always soggy. We used to think they were left over from the day before. The more grub you let on your plate the more leftovers you ended up with the following day. We even suggested marking a chip just to see, so one of the girls did. She stuck her thumb into one of the fatter soggier ones. Christy grinned unmercifully when saw Linda making a face. She left this big imprint in the chip. The next day one of the girls on our table got it on her plate.

In spite of her being on the defensive as far as Christy was concerned, Linda had to smile at the story. Christy, satisfied now that she had Linda’s undivided attention, continued a somewhat coarse description of prison life. Only the meagre good bits of course. Not the pain and agony after slitting her wrists. Nor the loss of her baby during an equally painful miscarriage.

Barry, listening outside the kitchen door, failed to suppress a smile, pleased that his wife and sister should be getting along quite so well. Obviously in spite of her four years’ incarceration, his kid sister had lost none of her inherent and infectious Cockney sense of humour.

Jimmy Lascar turned the stuttering Kawasaki motorcycle into a cul-de-sac adjacent to a seedy night club, the Magenta, off the Mile End Road. Leather gauntlet clad hands driven into the pockets of his biker jacket, determinedly Jimmy mounted the iron back stairs.

How many times had he been here now during the past few weeks? He had actually lost count. He still owed. But he needed the cash badly, even if it meant he could appease Sharon and nothing else. What a fucking mess. An 18 month old kid. Another on the way. Sharon already five months gone. It wasn’t going to be easy bringing up two babies in that cramped little flat.

The bearded face was blistered by sweat. The bald head shimmering almost opalescent in the flow from a fading bulb suspended from the ceiling high in the shadowy room. Because of his ill-proportioned, 25 stone bulk, the man behind the inordinately polished desk swivelled his newly acquired red leather upholstered chair around with meticulous care. It was if the seedy club was a respectable Belgravia office instead of a slum building. Big Ed. Real name Edward Dewar. His sprawling chins engulfed a quivering unpleasant smile when Jimmy moved into the room in response to Dewar’s staccato, Come in.

The smile broadened considerably. Well, well, if it ain’t Jimmy boy himself! he declared loudly, gimlet blue eyes sharpening like ice cold diamonds in the bullish features when he took in Jimmy’s appearance, the battered old leather jacket. Possibly the only one he owned. He had seldom seen him in anything else. Tight patched Levi’s. The young man so obviously down on his luck. The kind of person vultures like Bid Ed Dewar lunched on. Spat out when the going got rough.

An unconcealed loathing for the fat man crossed Jimmy’s sweating face. But in his position he reasoned there was little else to do in spite, but humble himself and at least be pleasant to the guy, however unwillingly.

Dewar stuffed a fat Havana between his wide blubbery lips. Nonchalantly flicking a solid gold Calibri to the end of the cigar he leaned his bald head against the soft leather headrest. So what brings you here Jimmy boy? Got something for me have you kid? He grinned in earnest.

Jimmy sensed Dewar hoped he wouldn’t have anything for him, so that the fat man would be able to savour the deliciousness of breaking both his arms and legs just for the sheer bloody hell of it.

Jimmy’s heart pounded uncomfortably against his shirt. I’m sorry Mr Dewar. It’s just that it ain’t quite so easy as I thought to raise the cash right now… He was aware of Dewar’s heavy face, devoid of expression. Sharon’s expecting another kid. We have to pay a hundred quid a week on that pokey flat. You know how it is, his voice trailed helplessly beneath the other man’s stony stare.

‘Course I do, Jimmy Boy, but Dewar’s tone carried very little sympathy. Got kids of me own. ‘Course they’re all grown up now. Davy’s my youngest, coming up fourteen, but I’ve been there. Only some of us got ambitions and others ain’t. Jimmy was well aware of the meaning behind his words, the ill concealed mockery behind them.

So you don’t have anything for your Uncle Ed then?

Jimmy hedged. Look, I… I’m sorry. I know I already owe mon…

Four hundred and fifty quid at the last count, Dewar interrupted him harshly. So what have you come here for if it ain’t to pay me?

I was hoping you’d see your way clear to upping the loan for me, that’s all, Jimmy dared, clearing his throat uneasily. S… say another hundred? I’ll pay it back, I promise.

Dewar’s eyes blazed so ferociously, Jimmy observed the whites almost disappearing into the lids, his heart thundering accordingly. Sweat draining from every pore at the audacity of what he had asked, Jimmy wiped the palms of his hands down the hip of his jeans.

You’ve gotta nerve, boy, asking me for more fuckin’ readies when you still owe me four hundred and fifty. You ain’t even paid me back a penny of that dough yet. What do you think I am kiddo, a fuckin’ bleedin’ charity?

To avoid the fat man’s penetrating blue eyes, Jimmy stared morosely at his broken blackened finger nails, telling their own story of too many lengthy hours working on the bike. Look, I just thought, that was all. I know I can’t pay you back right now.

So why don’t you sell that heap of metal you call a motorbike? Dewar leered at him. Throwing his head back and laughing savagely, mockingly. It might fetch you fifty for scrap.

Sell the Kawasaki? His last vestige of transport? His beloved bike? So, it well past its best, unable as he was to get spares, it was all he had now. He dealt Dewar a particularly poignant look. It failed to wash with the merciless gangster, of course.

But that’s impossible! I can’t sell the bike. Jimmy winced at the humbled tone present in his voice.

Then, Jimmy Boy, Dewar sprang his heavy bulk from the chair with amazing agility for a man of his stature, you pay me five hundred and fifty by the end of the month! Reaching into a side drawer of his desk, Dewar extracted 20 five-pound notes and tossed the money across the polished desk in Jimmy’s direction. He slyly watched the young man determinedly stuff the money into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Thanks, Mr Dewar. I will pay it back soon, honest. he murmured gratefully.

Jimmy moved to the paint flaked door quickly before Dewar changed his mind. But Dewar barred his way, his massive frame providing little means of escape for Jimmy’s contrastingly slim build. Dewar savoured his words with a particular relish.

Oh you’ll do that, Jimmy Boy. Like I said, by the end of the month, which goes to show how pretty lenient your Uncle Ed can be, ’cos if you don’t he paused, his voice hardening ominously, Mr Chadwell ain’t gonna like it one little bit. And if Mr C gets upset you’re liable to find yourself in hospital with that pretty boy face of yours cut to ribbons. Even your old man, if you had one that is, won’t be able to recognise you beneath all the bandages you’ll be needing.

Louise O’Donnell entertained the initial swing of colour to her powdered cheeks the moment ex-detective superintendent Tom Reynolds draped the skein of genuine pearls around her neck. At 52 she had, to all intents and purposes, settled down to life as a widow. To see Patrick O’Donnell dead these four years from drink induced liver disease had come as no surprise to Louise. If Tom had entered her life whilst her Irish husband had still been living, there would have been little chance of getting married. A Catholic divorce was positively out of the question for Louise.

They’re lovely, Louise enthused but they must have cost you a packet!

Grey eyes twinkled in the spade bearded face. Tom Reynolds, looking older than his 61 years, wore his hair closely cropped to his bullet shaped head as almost to be shaven. In spite of his rather overweight frame he was a man who liked to dress well. Saville Row suits, expensive Gucci shoes, Harris tweeds being the order of the day. His first encounter with Louise O’Donnell had, surprisingly at least for a homely Cockney woman like Louise, been at a public art gallery. Louise, having forgotten her umbrella, had been inside sheltering from the rain. Tom Reynolds, an art connoisseur, had been there to view. Louise had literally bumped into him. They got chatting. Both were from entirely different backgrounds. Tom’s family heralded from a long line of both police officers and soldiers. Despite this, on the spur of the moment Tom asked Louise to lunch.

How much longer could she continue calling herself ‘Donnelly’? Or how soon would it be before Tom put two and two together and clocked the woman he was dating as the mother of two blag merchants involved in the murder of a security guard four and a half years ago?

The pearls look lovely with the white silk, he complimented. The white silk dress accentuated the slender curves of her newly slimmed down figure.

That afternoon it had hurt badly to turn Christina away. To disown her because of her own need to cultivate her relationship with Tom. Not only that, Christy was bad news. It was unforgivable, what had happened to that poor security guard.

Lou reflected on the day Vic Simmons, then Detective Sergeant Simmons, accompanied by two other plain clothes officers had burst into her living room. Steve was there, so was Christy. They were all sitting down to a quiet evening meal. Only the merest flash of an ID card from one of the officers indicated any respect for their impromptu entrance. Two of the officers, one of them Simmons, thrust drawn pistols in her son and daughter’s direction. Louise gasped, observing both of them freeze momentarily before Christy leaped up from her chair, green eyes darting about frantically for a possible exit. Steve pulled a flick knife from his jeans, springing the blade in the face of one of the officers in the hopeless endeavour to resist arrest. Hopeless because the officer grappled for the knife after throwing Steve to the floor. The other policeman blocked Christy’s chosen escape attempt through an open window. She spat like a wild cat at the police, demanding her rights, protesting her innocence.

Simmons read them their rights after accusing Christy and Steve of taking part in an armed raid on the security truck in which a guard was blasted to death by a pump action shotgun. At the time it was not properly known who had fired the shot. Neither gang member it seemed wanted to incriminate Christy or Morelli in the guard’s murder. Since Steve was wheelsman he was immediately exonerated from blame. He’d also insisted that he had not been armed during the raid. The other two gang members, Martin Lucas and Billy Sherrin, although unwilling to take the rap for murder, were not prepared to own up that Morelli had carried it out so cold bloodedly either. Lucas testified to being unarmed during the raid, Sherrin to carrying a .38 pistol. Only Christy and Morelli had carried shotguns. Tyler’s companion, the other security guard, testified in court that the slimly built person he had at first mistakenly believed to have been a youth, but was in reality a girl, had issued several warnings throughout the raid whilst she held the guards at gunpoint, something about getting their fucking heads blown off if they attempted any heroics.

That same evening Rick Morelli was cornered in the rundown caravan located near the docks and belonging to an old man named Arnie Rosenbaum. A shoot-out ensued with Morelli discharging a Magnum revolver at the police, injuring two officers. Apparently Morelli had overturned an oil lamp, or a police bullet shattered it. No-one really seemed to know.

I’ve already booked our table for tonight, we mustn’t be late Lou, Tom interrupted her uneasy thoughts and Lou shivered suddenly. Immediate concern crossed his bearded features. You all right Lou? In answer she dealt him a tentative smile. Now that I’m done up like a dog’s dinner I can’t afford to be anything else but all right, can I! she said with an enforced attempt at cheerfulness.

Rick Morelli was alive, his handsome bronzed Italian features suffusing a lascivious smile at sight of her naked form lying on the bed. He had never appeared so apparently virile or attentive, his hard hot body coved hers, the ejaculation flowed inside her.

The Filth thinks you’re dead. She heard her own voice, an echo of wild laughter underlining her words. He laughed too. Throwing back his thick dark mane of shoulder length hair he moved in to kiss her lips.

I told you no prison can hold Rick Morelli. That goes for death too, babes. The Filth? What do the motherfuckers know? They think I was killed in the fire. They oughta know they can’t kill me that easy.

His lips burned beneath hers, Christy drowning in his kisses, curling her arms around his neck passionately, threading her long red fingernails in his profusion of thick black hair.

Suddenly, inexplicably, he was no longer there. The room unexpectedly strangely empty left her disappointed. Alternatively Christy imagined she could still hear the sounding echo of his laughter, disembodied and mocking. Rick wasn’t dead. He had spent half his life outwitting the law, so why shouldn’t he cheat the Ultimate Destructor as well?

Sweat beaded her face behind the close fitting balaclava hood rolled down over it. The sawn off shotgun gripped rigidly between black gloved fingers tracking each and every movement of the two white faced security guards in the van, both guards shaking badly, hands escalating in sheet terror, Christy openly aware of Rick Morelli’s tall frame beside her, his handsome face concealed behind the balaclava mask, spitting orders and threats from the narrowed mouth slit. Seconds later the pump action shotgun exploded despite the fact that neither of the guards had made a move. A ripple of crimson fire accompanied by a rapid volley of bullets, and the guard’s dark blue uniform swiftly flowered red, a gaping hole erupting crater-like in the centre of his chest, dead level with the heart region, blood spurting reminiscent of some terrible scarlet fountain. She had not seen so much blood, ever. Another bullet jerked the guard deliberately off his feet, slamming him back like a lifeless doll against the metal interior of the van. Another shot followed another, deafening echoes disrupting that terrible awesome stillness, Rick pumping the shotgun harder and harder until blood streaked the guard’s smooth skinned features unrecognisable. A gooey mess that she imagined to be bone and tissue admixed with his brains spilling out of another gaping crater at the side of his head.

A woman was screaming hysterically. Christy yelled for her to stop, realising she had been the one who had been screaming all along, jerking awake abruptly to discover the fine lawn nightdress she had borrowed from Linda to be saturated raggedly in her own perspiration despite her hands shaking clammily.

The door opened quietly. His dark hair unkempt and awry about his head from sleep, Barry moved into the room, securing the belt of his brown bathrobe about his waist.

CHAPTER 2

Filled with concern for his sister, Barry moved closer to the bed. He slipped his arms protectively about her thin shoulders. You’re shaking. He stated the obvious. What was it? A bad dream or something? Barry regarded her pale features, enormous green eyes heavily ringed with darker shadow patches. Her skin felt chilled, clammy beneath his palm on her cheek. He watched as she fought for self control. For all her outwardly tough act his kid sister was still vulnerable, still capable of breaking down like any other female and showing emotion.

Christy huddled into the strength of her brother’s arms. It was awful. She looked into his face helplessly. Barry decided how frightened she appeared, a fragile butterfly in his grasp, her long auburn hair cascading curtain-like over her shoulders, spilling on to her small almost non-existent breasts. His heart was going out to her. Barry cuddled her protectively closer. Judging by her appearance no-one in a million years would have imagined she had pulled an armed raid or toted a sawn off shotgun. Christy buried her head in her brother’s warm chest whilst he gently began stroking her hair.

You want to tell me about it? he offered quietly. Christy swallowed hard. It isn’t really true what I said. All those cracks I made about the blag. I didn’t mean any of it, honest. Her voice issued partially muffled by his robe. What I said about enjoying it and everything. It was all an act. She started to cry, long pent up frustrated tears of helplessness.

During her four years’ incarceration in Holloway Christy had scarcely shed a tear either for herself, for the loss of her miscarried baby, even for Rick Morelli since there had no-one there to relate to or to understand. Now things were different. She had Barry now. Barry, who had been like a father to her, in spite of his youth throughout her growing years.

When Rick shot that security guard I was as scared as hell, I really was, in spite of what I said. She shivered involuntarily. Barry clutched her tighter automatically. There was so much blood and everything. Voice trailing, she raised her eyes to his face tearfully. The guard looked like he thought Rick had been bluffing. They implicated me because I threatened to top the guards too if they didn’t do as they were told. But that was all a big act too. I couldn’t have pulled that trigger, honest, I couldn’t have.

He rocked her gently as if she were little more than a child in his arms. It’s all over now, he placated. You did your time for it. All you have to do now is start afresh. Forget the guilt! I know it won’t be easy, but I’ll always be here to help whenever you need me.

Will Mum ever forgive me?

Barry paled. She will in time, I reckon, he attempted to reassure her, but there was very little faith behind his words.

Linda appeared in the doorway suddenly. What’s all the fuss about? she demanded, securing her robe tightly about her ample hips, shattering the rapport which had sprung up between brother and sister. The beginnings of jealousy were flowering inside Linda on witnessing how close they were, Barry with his arms around Christy’s shoulders, she with her head on his chest. How long had it been since he had cuddled her with such care?

Instinctively aware of his wife’s jealousy, the look of outrage on her face, Barry slipped his arm quickly from beneath Christy.

I had a nightmare, that’s all. Christy muttered. Still on the defensive with her sister-in-law, she reached for a faded blue candle-wick robe, one item remaining from her own