‘I-I was on my way home,’ she said, hating herself for the stutter.
‘Then I’ll escort you. A woman such as yerself shouldn’t be walking abroad at this time of night, and whoever let ye go off on yer own is a rat. Isn’t that the truth!’ He took her arm in a proprietorial way and, although Bella inwardly berated herself for not resisting, she allowed him to lead her from the fair ground. She was aware of the pressure of his hand upon her elbow, the swing of his body as he walked beside her. He was clearly the kind of man used to taking charge and she couldn’t find it in herself to argue.
He didn’t ask her why she’d been upset, or who she’d been with at the fair and she didn’t tell him. Bella glanced back once, with the half hope that Dan might again materialise out of the darkness, but there was no sign of him.
They spoke not one word throughout the length of Cross Lane and most of Liverpool Street. It was only when she stopped at the corner of Jacob’s Court that he looked down at her with a slight frown.
‘I didn’t think you lived here.’
‘How do you know where I live?’
‘I don’t,’ he calmly corrected himself. ‘I assumed that a woman like yerself would live somewhere better. Posher.’ His gaze flickered over her, clearly admiring what he saw and some pulse in Bella’s stomach fluttered with pleasure that he should find her as attractive as she found him.
‘You know nothing about me.’
‘Indeed I don’t. But I’d like to. Can I see you again, Bella?’ And before she had time to think of the consequences, she’d agreed to meet him the following Sunday evening in The Hare and Hounds on Broad Street.
Dan was waiting for her at the door, full of apologies for their quarrel. ‘I was as much to blame as you,’ she admitted as they went into the house together, each anxious to give the impression that everything was fine.
‘Have you two had a nice time then?’ Violet asked, setting a mug of tea before them both the minute they walked into her kitchen. There never seemed to be a moment in the day when she couldn’t lay her hands on a pot of tea, and if she noticed any awkwardness between them, Violet was shrewd enough not to comment on it.
‘Lovers tiff,’ she informed Cyril as she climbed into bed beside her husband.
‘They’re getting on well then?’ he drily remarked.
It wasn’t until Bella was curled up beside the children, drifting off to sleep that she remembered Quinn had used the shortened form of her name. And she hadn’t even realised she’d ever given it to him.
Billy Quinn spent Sunday afternoon on the canal bank with his cronies as usual, taking part in one of their favourite occupations: gambling. He held a school there regular, putting a few of his best mates ‘on crow’ to keep a watch out for any rozzers idling by. Not that Billy Quinn had too many fears in that direction. He usually got wind in good time of any likely prowlers from the local nick, and several bobbies were ready enough to turn a blind eye in return for a useful tip now and then.
He enjoyed his afternoons by the canal. They might almost be in the country were it not for the dusty grass, well flattened by lovers, soot-tinged dandelions and glimpses of coal tips between the bridges. A few yards further along he could see a group of men playing pitch and toss. On the far bank a whippet race was in progress, a lively crowd of onlookers eyeing up the dogs and judging where to place their bets. He was doing good business as a result. Len Jackson was busily collecting money, handing out tickets and chatting folk up as he persuaded them to lay down more than they’d intended. Quinn had carefully stationed himself beneath one of the canal bridges, the blackened brickwork scrawled with rude messages forming a secure back drop to the game of chance he was conducting.
‘Find the Lady’ was his chosen game for today, and no matter how carefully the punters might watch his clever, flying fingers, they never chose the right card, not unless he wanted them to. Now and then he’d allow them to win, in order to keep up their interest and draw them deeper into the game. Once they were hooked, he took them for every penny.
His mind, however, wasn’t entirely on his work this afternoon. While he went through the motions, flicking, tossing, shuffling, running through the patter, his mind was turning over plans. Assessing, rejecting and finally devising a scheme in his wily brain that might serve his purpose nicely.
Billy Quinn knew exactly what he wanted. Status. By this he meant power and respect. He needed to be a person of note in the community. Tales of bookies acting as philanthropists were rife in the streets of Salford and although that particular cap didn’t fit him well, he meant to try it on. But only when he had the wherewithal to afford to do so. It took money to buy power and status. A lot of money. And before he started lending it out piecemeal to the feckless, useless masses, he meant to set himself up in style first. A good house in the Polygon, a motor car to drive about town, flash suits, cigars … he could see it all.
He wasn’t looking for the kind of power that came with the old style Scuttlers, the rough sort who held sway over their particular gang and swung belt buckles and clogs in street fights. He’d done a bit of that, of course, in his time, but Billy Quinn wanted the kind of power that carried with it respectability. Of a sort. The kind of status that brought people who otherwise wouldn’t have given him the time of day to come knocking on his door, asking for favours, donations and contributions to their various good causes. Billy Quinn meant to buy his place in the community, once he’d bought himself the life style he coveted.
He coveted Jinnie Cook, had always enjoyed her. There was an innocence about that doe-eyed, elfin-faced girl which excited him. Although their coupling had become more or less routine, a physical necessity, it provided its own degree of pleasure. The fact that she refused to come back permanently still galled him. Maybe he’d take his revenge one day. Silly little tart.
But was it enough? Were his needs changing?
Jinnie Cook had led him to a much richer prize, one that would serve his purpose better. As luck would have it, she’d led him to a woman who could assist him in his quest for respectability and status far better than Jinnie ever could. This woman was not only class but a comely piece as well, no doubt about that. The light in her eyes had quite warmed the cockles of his heart. He was pleased with how well he’d managed ‘accidentally’ to bump into her. Not for a moment had she any idea that he’d been keeping an eye on her ever since that day when he’d followed Jinnie and her lover from Seedley Park. Oh, indeed, he’d set his sights on a different woman now. Isabella Ashton was the one he meant to have.
He was late. Bella waited outside the public house, afraid to go in alone yet feeling painfully conspicuous as various groups of shabbily dressed men eyed her with open curiosity as they went inside or hung around the door. Stomach churning, she asked herself for the hundredth time what she was doing here. She should go now, escape while she could, before he arrived.
‘I didn’t think ye’d come. Like to slum it, do ye?’ He was standing before her, a smile of arrogant satisfaction on his handsome face.
Bella swallowed, hating the thrill of excitement almost akin to fear that beat within. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’ She lifted her chin in defiance yet meekly allowed him to lead her inside and without demur accepted the gill of dark brown stout he brought her.
Afterwards he took her to the Salford Hippodrome to see a troupe of wrestlers. Bella had never experienced anything of the sort before: the smoky atmosphere, the clamour of rowdy enthusiasm that was almost tangible; the stifling warmth of so many none-too-clean bodies packed closely together. The wrestling, however, came as a surprise; more like circus acrobatics than serious sport. She watched, fascinated, even found herself shouting out along with the rest of the spectators. And Quinn, she noticed, would often be approached by men in caps and mufflers, discussions would take place, money quietly change hands and tension would mount. She could sense it in him, along with his relief when the right man won. His profits for the evening were such, he bragged, that he could afford to take her out to supper to celebrate.
‘Is it fixed?’ she dared ask as they sat eating oysters after the performance.
‘Not a question ye should ever ask of a bookie.’ He glowered at her, as if the question had offended him.
Bella hastened to rectify her slip, feeding him an oyster by way of apology. ‘Then I won’t.’
‘Didn’t I take you for a sensible girl. Wrestling is a new sport. I hope it catches on since I reckon I could do well out of it. Billy Quinn is going places, girl, make no mistake about that. Folk of your class wouldn’t appreciate the importance of making one’s own way in the world, of being at no other man’s beck and call, because you’re too used to being the ones in charge.’
Bella laughed. ‘Of course I appreciate it. I understand perfectly.’
‘Amuses ye, does it, that I have ambition?’ The soft Irish brogue had turned harsh, grating.
‘No, I admire ambition in a man.’
Their eyes met and held. ‘There’s plenty that I admire about you too.’
After that his natural animosity seemed to dissolve and, as they ate, he told her about his family in Ireland, about how he came to be in Salford following the many jobs, disasters and misfortunes he’d endured on the way. Bella listened, fascinated by this insight into a different world. Sometimes his fingers would brush hers as they both reached for bread, or he would pause in his tale to consider her carefully, his face unsmiling, and she would find herself blushing like a schoolgirl.
When he walked her home Bella ached for him to hold her hand or put his arm about her waist. He did neither. Instead of taking her to Violet’s front door he led her instead down the back entry. ‘I’m more used to back doors,’ he told her by way of explanation. ‘And if yer going to be my girl, tis well ye get used to it.’
Bella laughed in disbelief. ‘Who said I was going to be your girl?’
‘I do.’
‘Oh, and what you says goes, does it?’
‘Usually. Are you going to be the first to prove otherwise?’
‘I might,’ she said, affronted by his arrogance even while it excited her. She’d never met anyone quite so self assured. ‘You certainly have a very high opinion of yourself.’
‘Mebbe because I deserve to? Ye’ll get used to it. Ye’ll be like all the rest, eating out of me hand in no time.’ And giving a ripple of soft laughter he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
She went to him hungrily, opening her mouth to him, letting his tongue caress hers and the burst of emotion inside her was tumultuous. He half lifted her against the damp back yard wall, fumbling expertly with her clothing, his calloused hand rough and cold against her bare breast but she didn’t stop him. She couldn’t. She wanted him to caress her, to hurt her, to devour her, and Bella thought she might die of ecstasy if he didn’t take her there and then. But it was he who broke away first.
They were both breathing fast, eyes wide and dark with desire. ‘Ye’d best get some of that stuff ye give out at your clinic afore we go any further, girl. I doubt I can keep me hands off ye fer too long.’
It was the following evening and Jinnie experienced the usual bolt of alarm to find Quinn waiting for her in the back entry on her way home from work. She longed with a passion that was almost crippling to be rid of him. If only she’d managed to summon up the courage to talk to Edward. If only she were strong and brave like Bella.
To be given a taste of a new life only to be trapped by Quinn again she could weep, she really could, at the injustice of it. And all because Bella had been forced into making that stupid lie in order to get her family’s approval. For the first time in her miserable life Jinnie felt that she had some sort of security and a future, one she was fiercely determined to hang on to. She’d learned years ago to stand her own corner, to fight for what she needed to stay alive. Near starvation had driven her to hunt for food in rubbish bins and she’d flattened any other kid who’d got in her way. Despite her diminutive size Jinnie had learned, along with most in these streets, how to use her clogs as a weapon, and her fists too if need be. But never against Billy Quinn. He was one battle she could never win.