needed people, needed adoration, and he was a man who got what he wanted. .
She had always thanked God for Georgio, thanked Him because He had seen fit to give him to her, little Donna Fenland. A nobody. Georgio had even stood by her when she had lost the babies, and she knew he had dearly wanted children. Being a mixture of Greek and Irish Catholic, it was a certainty he would want children. Yet he,had not discarded her in favour of a fertile woman, had never once brought the subject up, even when they had rowed. Which wasn’t often. She was scared to row with Georgio, scared to give him any excuse not to want her.
Now she was deprived of him as she had always feared she would be. But it was the police and the courts who had taken him away, not some large-breasted, blonde model type with hormones bursting out
58
59
them of her every orifice. That had been Donna’s biggest fear all her married life. Yet she almost wished he had left her now; in a funny way, she wished he had gone off with another woman. That would be preferable to thinking of him stuck in that prison on the Isle of Wight. Her Georgio, her free agent. Georgio who had a boat, Georgio who always liked to travel, Georgio who walked across the fields every Sunday after his dinner because he liked being in the air, liked his freedom.
She bit back the tears, their hot saltiness making her cough. Walking to the mirrored wardrobes, she stared into her own face. The eyes were black-rimmed, but still a deep blue. Her cheekbones were prominent, more so now she had lost so much weight. Her lips were dry and cracked from where she cried in the night, and chewed on them to stem the heartwrenching sobs of loneliness. Leaning her forehead on the cool glass, she took a deep breath. Georgio would be home once his appeal was over with; he would be home. She said it over and over like a mantra. She had to believe that, she had to.
If she ever stopped believing it, she would take a length of rope and hang herself. It was no idle threat; it was the truth, a deep inalterable truth.
Without Georgio Brunos, she was nothing.
She was hanging on by a minute thread. If Georgio lost his appeal the thread would snap and with it her reason. Her earlier joy on waking was gone now. The thought of her husband’s pleasure in her work, in the businesses, gone also. Because if he didn’t come home, the businesses, the house, the cars, all they possessed, were nothing.
All she had ever wanted in her life was him.
Donald Lewis was fifty-two years old. He wasn’t a big man in stature, but what he lacked in size he made up for in reputation, and his reputation was one of the hardest. It had taken the Sweeney, the Flying Squad and the Serious Crime Squad eleven years of intensive work before they had brought him in. He was involved in every racket known to man, and a few that were as yet unknown to the police and public in general. He was an international villain, having seen the action over the Pond as a viable proposition before most of his contemporaries. He dealt in anything and everything, from women, to drugs, to boys, to guns. He was noted for his almost surgical cleanliness, and also his dry sense of humour. He liked young men, handsome young men, and his stint in Parkhurst had been likened to a busman’s holiday by the screws.
Lewis’s sheer force of personality gave him the edge over bigger, more violent men; that and his sadistic mind. He was dapper, almost
60
feminine in his dress. He was also shrewd. Donald Lewis had been unable to write his own name before going into Hollandsy Bay Borstal at fifteen; there he had had the three Rs beaten into him, and had never looked back since. He had a natural hatred of any kind of authority, a hatred of women, and also a hatred of most of his contemporaries. Diagnosed as a psychotic, he had spent a lot of money to make sure he wasn’t transferred to Broadmoor. Though the regime was much more relaxed there, you had next to no
She had always thanked God for Georgio, thanked Him because He had seen fit to give him to her, little Donna Fenland. A nobody. Georgio had even stood by her when she had lost the babies, and she knew he had dearly wanted children. Being a mixture of Greek and Irish Catholic, it was a certainty he would want children. Yet he,had not discarded her in favour of a fertile woman, had never once brought the subject up, even when they had rowed. Which wasn’t often. She was scared to row with Georgio, scared to give him any excuse not to want her.
Now she was deprived of him as she had always feared she would be. But it was the police and the courts who had taken him away, not some large-breasted, blonde model type with hormones bursting out
58
59
them of her every orifice. That had been Donna’s biggest fear all her married life. Yet she almost wished he had left her now; in a funny way, she wished he had gone off with another woman. That would be preferable to thinking of him stuck in that prison on the Isle of Wight. Her Georgio, her free agent. Georgio who had a boat, Georgio who always liked to travel, Georgio who walked across the fields every Sunday after his dinner because he liked being in the air, liked his freedom.
She bit back the tears, their hot saltiness making her cough. Walking to the mirrored wardrobes, she stared into her own face. The eyes were black-rimmed, but still a deep blue. Her cheekbones were prominent, more so now she had lost so much weight. Her lips were dry and cracked from where she cried in the night, and chewed on them to stem the heartwrenching sobs of loneliness. Leaning her forehead on the cool glass, she took a deep breath. Georgio would be home once his appeal was over with; he would be home. She said it over and over like a mantra. She had to believe that, she had to.
If she ever stopped believing it, she would take a length of rope and hang herself. It was no idle threat; it was the truth, a deep inalterable truth.
Without Georgio Brunos, she was nothing.
She was hanging on by a minute thread. If Georgio lost his appeal the thread would snap and with it her reason. Her earlier joy on waking was gone now. The thought of her husband’s pleasure in her work, in the businesses, gone also. Because if he didn’t come home, the businesses, the house, the cars, all they possessed, were nothing.
All she had ever wanted in her life was him.
Donald Lewis was fifty-two years old. He wasn’t a big man in stature, but what he lacked in size he made up for in reputation, and his reputation was one of the hardest. It had taken the Sweeney, the Flying Squad and the Serious Crime Squad eleven years of intensive work before they had brought him in. He was involved in every racket known to man, and a few that were as yet unknown to the police and public in general. He was an international villain, having seen the action over the Pond as a viable proposition before most of his contemporaries. He dealt in anything and everything, from women, to drugs, to boys, to guns. He was noted for his almost surgical cleanliness, and also his dry sense of humour. He liked young men, handsome young men, and his stint in Parkhurst had been likened to a busman’s holiday by the screws.
Lewis’s sheer force of personality gave him the edge over bigger, more violent men; that and his sadistic mind. He was dapper, almost
60
feminine in his dress. He was also shrewd. Donald Lewis had been unable to write his own name before going into Hollandsy Bay Borstal at fifteen; there he had had the three Rs beaten into him, and had never looked back since. He had a natural hatred of any kind of authority, a hatred of women, and also a hatred of most of his contemporaries. Diagnosed as a psychotic, he had spent a lot of money to make sure he wasn’t transferred to Broadmoor. Though the regime was much more relaxed there, you had next to no
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