Widows

Without touching the shotguns, Dolly wrapped and replaced them in their hole in the ground. She slowly stood. It’s all here, she thought as she looked around; everything Harry used in his robberies — the cars, the vans, the cutting tools, the gloves, the shotguns. This was all hers now. Dolly reached into the pocket of her oil-stained coat, brought out her diary and opened it to the page of shorthand notes she’d made after leaving the bank. Everything Harry needed to commit the next robbery was in those ledgers, in her diary and in this lock-up. She clicked her pen open and drew a strong, bold tick next to her note, ‘2 S-O’; two sawed-offs. As she smiled down at that tick, she could almost feel Harry smiling with her. ‘That’s my girl,’ he’d say.

Dolly walked through the rest of the cavernous, dank, warehouse. It was enormous. She headed toward a small room at the far end, which looked as though it had been built out of old partitions from a legal office. The once polished wood was now badly peeling and the cracked windows were cobwebbed and dusty. She turned the handle on the grubby door and stepped inside. Looking down at her hand, she saw that she’d picked up oily fingerprints in almost the exact same pattern as her own. She imaged they were Harry’s actual fingertips touching hers.

The office was stark: a sink and a small portable gas stove, a desk, a couple of mismatched wooden chairs and numerous girlie pictures stuck to the wall. Used mugs and moldy half-eaten biscuits told Dolly that this was where Harry and his team must have planned the robbery that went so terribly wrong. Dolly picked up the dirty mugs and took them over to the filthy sink. She turned the taps on and they made a knocking sound as the pressure built, trying to force the water through the pipes. Suddenly a brown rusty liquid spurted out, bouncing off the porcelain and onto her coat, causing her to jump back. She dropped the mugs into the sink, cracking two and snapping the handle off the third — three broken mugs: Harry’s, Terry’s and Joe’s. The tears Dolly had held just beneath the surface for so long welled up and, in the privacy of Harry’s office, she allowed them to flow. The relief was so overwhelming that she felt lightheaded and weak, gripping the sink for support. She fought the emotions but it was no good; the floodgates were opened and there was no closing them. Her devastating sadness at losing Harry was sapping her strength and she struggled to keep herself upright as she gripped the cold porcelain sink. With her head bowed, she could see Wolf sitting at her muddy, oily feet and she suddenly remembered a moment when Boxer had been at his lowest ebb, living in the gutter, and Harry had pulled him out. ‘All I see is dog shit,’ Boxer had said to Harry through his drunken haze. ‘Wherever I look, all I see is dog shit.’ Harry had lifted Boxer’s head and replied, ‘Then look up, Boxer, my old mate. If your head’s down, dog shit’s all you can see. So, look up.’ Of course Harry hadn’t been Boxer’s mate at all, but he always knew the right thing to say.

When Dolly finally lifted her head, the tears had stopped and Wolf was on his feet waiting for her next move. She glanced one last time at the three broken mugs, picked up her little dog and squeezed him tight, ignoring his dirty, muddy, oily fur. ‘All right, darlin’,’ she whispered. ‘Mummy’s all right now. Everything’s all right now.’

Chapter 7

Linda arrived on the dot of ten at the Sanctuary health spa in Floral Street and instantly realized that her very best outfit, which she’d ironed specially after getting Dolly’s phone call, didn’t even come close to the fabulous clothes the other women were wearing as they floated by. They’ve probably never done a day’s work in their lives, she thought and was just about to walk out when the snooty receptionist asked if she was the guest of a member. When Linda mentioned the name of Mrs. Rawlins, she was welcomed with open arms.

On the obligatory guided tour, Linda didn’t know where to look. She’d never seen so many half-naked women before and she didn’t like it. The changing rooms were the worst: everything came off in there and people just strolled about as though they were at home. In fact, Linda didn’t even walk around naked at home in case the window cleaner saw in through her nets or the bailiffs knocked.

The prices in the food bar were extortionate and she thought about nipping out to the cafe opposite for a bacon sarnie and coffee, but the assistant told her that all she had to do was mention the name of Mrs. Rawlins and everything would go on her tab. Linda shrugged. She wasn’t used to getting something for nothing.

‘Go on, then,’ she said, pointing at a sandwich. Cheese would have to do.