Chapter 20

TWENTY

Archie was in fine form the next morning; resentful shopkeepers and publicans were already handing over their hard-earned money with the veiled threats of violence, arson, or worse, from the Bruisers, and the promise to keep away any other gangs who dared encroach on their territory. He was confident that Violet was close to accepting his proposal, and John was still winning fights for them at night in the cellars of pubs and warehouses, though his body was beginning to feel the toll. But all in all, the Bruisers were well on their way to being in total control of the East End.

Tommy, however, showed little enthusiasm as they strolled along the docks towards the hulking masses of the warehouses in the distance. Seagulls scolded overhead and hydraulic cranes whirred as they lifted massive crates from ship decks to the wharfs below. He scowled at the dockers shouting to one another until Archie clapped him on the back.

“What’s with the mug, eh, Tommy?” he asked. “Sun’s out, and we’re gonna make some money today.” He grinned over at John, who had his hands in his pockets, feeling the weight of the notebook and small pencil he had brought along to record the events of today for evidence. “And my Violet’s comin’ around, ain’t she?”

John cast a sly smile over at the Bruisers’ leader. “I told you she would.”

Tommy shook his head. “I don’t trust Brill, Archie. We killed two of his men – you think he’s gonna let that go?”

Archie snorted. “Edward Brill ain’t even a proper gangster anymore – he’s gone soft, thinks he’s better than us ’cause he opened a few schools and he’s got bloody reformers singin’ his praises.” He laughed as they came to the office door of the first warehouse, a giant red brick building dotted with small windows along the fa?ade. He didn’t pause in his stride, merely pushed the door open and walked inside as though he already owned the place. A clerk seated at a small desk piled high with papers glanced up, startled, his eyes widening behind thin wire-framed spectacles. Archie sauntered right up to the man who rose, uncertain, from his chair. They no doubt made a frightening trio, and John was careful to keep his expression impassive as Archie stopped and jerked his head in the clerk’s direction.

“The owner of this place here?”

The young man’s gaze skipped from Archie to where Tommy and John stood behind him, then back again and he slowly nodded.

“Mr. Best is in the back supervising the new shipment.”

Archie stared at the clerk, as though waiting for him to continue, but he maintained a befuddled silence until Archie raised his eyes heavenward and gestured towards the door at the back of the room.

“Be a good lad and go fetch him for me, wouldya?”

The clerk dipped his head and hastened from the office, surely glad to be away from the three tall, menacing men who had arrived without so much as a knock on the door. Tommy was still scowling as Archie turned back to them and he cut his brother a sharp look of warning.

“Stop being such a bloody pessimist, Tommy. Johnny’s not worried, are you, Johnny? He redirected his gaze now to John, who shrugged.

“I ain’t worried. Seems like Mr. Brill is smart enough to know when not to mess about. Not if he values his life.”

“You see, Tommy? There’s nowt to worry about, not if Edward Brill knows what’s good for him.”

The younger Neville brother looked unconvinced, and he sent a hostile glare towards John who, for his part, remained expressionless.

The door to the warehouse swung open at that moment and a stout, hard-faced man of middling years entered the office. The clerk was nowhere to be seen, and he closed the door behind him as he turned to the Bruisers with a look of resignation on his face.

“You must be Mr. Neville,” he said, not bothering to extend a hand as he nodded towards Archie. He sighed and proceeded without waiting for a response. “You’re here for your cut, I suppose?”

Archie grinned. “That I am, Mr. Best, that I am. Not to worry, though, eh? I know them Bethnal Boys been givin’ you trouble – be assured my lads’ll keep ’em out of your way. For a price, of course.” Archie’s grin was knowing as the warehouse owner’s expression hardened.

“I’ve been keepin’ them out of my warehouse just fine by meself, Mr. Neville. Not sure I need you or your” – he paused and sent a withering glare towards Tommy and John before he continued – “men. Brill said you’d come by, but I don’t think we’ll be needin’ your services.”

John swallowed as a charged silence filled the little room. A terrible energy fairly crackled off Archie as he drew himself up to his considerable height and fixed Mr. Best with a frightening glare. Impressively, the other man showed no reaction to this, but John’s heart had begun to pound against his chest, knowing what was to come.

“I don’t think you understand, Mr. Best,” Archie spoke slowly, his voice deceptively calm. “This is not an offer. It’s a hundred quid, every month, to keep your business safe. Otherwise, who knows what could happen?”

Mr. Best’s lips curled. Clearly, he was a hardened docker, unmoved by such threats, and he shrugged.

“We’re doin’ just fine on our own, Mr. Neville. I know what Brill said, but I ain’t got a hundred pounds for ye.”

Archie closed his eyes, then, and shook his head. John’s heart now beat a rapid tattoo in his chest, and he could practically see the rage rolling off Archie in white hot waves. The next words he spoke were, tragically, utterly predictable.

“Johnny,” Archie said, turning his gaze. John looked up, expectant, and knew the command that was coming his way. “Be a good lad and show Mr. Best here what happens when he don’t pay us to keep him and his business safe.”

John made one last attempt at stopping what he knew would have to happen.

“Didn’t Mr. Brill say we weren’t to hurt nobody?”

Archie’s expression grew dark. “He also said no one would stand in our way, didn’t he?”

And at that, John feigned an indifferent shrug and started towards the warehouse owner, who was glaring at them and had clearly been expecting this reaction, for he started to reach towards his belt for the cosh John knew was hanging there. He caught it, mid-stride, as the man swung back to bludgeon him with it, wrenching it away as he lined up with his free hand to deliver a vicious hook, then stepping forward into Mr. Best’s retaliatory strike to head-butt him in the jaw, slamming him into the door to the warehouse.

The other man was clearly no stranger to fighting, but John was a professional, and he struck without mercy, knowing if he tried to pull a single punch, Archie would have his head, and the whole operation would fall apart just as it was coming together. His muscles burned and his head swam as he rained down dispassionate blows, his knuckles becoming raw as Mr. Best’s face dissolved into a bloody pulp. Knowing it would come to this didn’t ease the horror of beating an innocent man nearly to death, but the operation must succeed. This must not be allowed to happen again, and John’s breath was ragged as he finally stepped away from Mr. Best, who was now lying crumpled in a heap in the corner of the room, blood spattered on his shirt, his eyes swollen shut, gasping a curse from bloodied lips.

John stood for a moment, panting, staring down at the man as the Neville brothers looked on before wordlessly taking their leave. He hesitated for a moment, his hands shaking, his chest tight, before he, too, turned and left the warehouse.

Night was falling, and Violet rose to light the lamp beside her bed before she settled herself back down on the narrow mattress and took up her sketchbook once more. There was a newfound sense of purpose as she scratched her pencil over the page, capturing not John, or railyards or docks, or even the cherub which had been her muse during her brief stay at Bradford House, but the people of the rookery. Something about that boy selling the papers had inspired her, and she drew with urgency, as though her hands could not keep up with the images coming to mind. Soon, her book was full of sketches of that boy in his ragged coat and carefully patched trousers, and before long, she had moved on to the two women with the baby who had admired John. When she was done with that, she began drawing the women she had worked with at Cora’s, their faces and smiles and pain seared into her memory.

She was careful this time, however, to keep an ear out for creaks on the stairs coming down to her room, and when she heard the telltale sound, she quickly tucked her pencil back into its case and slipped it under her mattress along with the sketchbook. The bolt squealed and the door opened a moment later, revealing John Barrow holding a covered tray. Her heart, damnable little thing, skipped a beat at the sight of him, but she quickly suppressed that emotion and rose with a polite nod as he came into the room and set the tray down upon the table. It wasn’t until he straightened and met her gaze that she saw something strange in his eyes. Something… harrowing. Without thinking, she took a step towards him.

“Are you alright?” she asked, noticing that his knuckles were bandaged and reaching for him. “What happened to your hands?”

He shook his head, looking away from her as he pulled his hand back and rubbed it on his thigh, as though he would rub away her touch. He cleared his throat and shook his head again.

“Had a fight…” His words caught at the end, and he swallowed, refusing to look at her. Worried now, she reached out and took his fingers in hers again, tugging them so he was obliged to look at her. With her free hand, she touched his cheek, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he leaned into her caress.

“What fight?”

The muscles in his jaw tensed before he opened his eyes, squeezing his fingers around hers.

“I had to do it… I knew I’d have to eventually, but I… Archie was there, I couldn’t hold back.”

Violet’s heart was racing as she brushed her thumb over the sharp angle of his cheekbone. She didn’t have to ask. She knew what had happened. Someone had said no to Archie. Edward Brill had told them there was a chance not everyone would fall in line, and it had finally happened. She rose up on her toes and, cupping John’s face in her hands, she pressed a kiss to his mouth before pulling away just enough to meet his gaze.

“We knew this might happen… You did what you had to do; we can still make this work. Mr. Brill will take care of him.”

John’s eyes squeezed shut again and his head moved slowly to the side, still bracketed by her fingers.

“I really hurt him, Violet.” His voice was a hoarse whisper, and she kissed him again, not knowing what she could say. They had been aware it might come to this, but it didn’t make it any less painful. She pressed her lips to his once more, unsure how else to ease the deep furrows in his brow, nor the lines etched into the corners of his mouth. Her fingers slid into his hair, pulling him closer as his fingers trailed over her hips and his breath stuttered out. Again and again, she kissed him, as though she could pull the grief from him, as though she could take away the memory of whatever punishment he had been forced to mete out in pursuit of a bigger goal; one that would hopefully put an end to all such violence. His fingers were pressing into her waist, pulling her into him, and suddenly, all the walls she had built around her heart to keep the pursuit of her goal to return to Paris as her one and only priority, crumbled like so much dust.

What magic had he woven to be able to do this to her? Violet had spent a lifetime building barriers against these feelings, giving away her body without ever giving away herself, and one soft sigh against her cheek from this man was enough to make her question everything she had known about herself. She wasn’t made for love… no one could ever feel that way for her, despoiled as she was. But as his fingers slid up, thumbs tracing over the curves of her breasts, she began to wonder, deep in the sheltered recesses of her heart – could he feel that way for her?

No! she cried out to herself, even as his mouth moved over hers. Don’t fall for it again. You’re going back to Paris, and he must stay here. This cannot be and you must end it now. He doesn’t feel the same; he never will.

Violet wanted to scream at that voice. Maybe he could; maybe he was simply trying to keep them safe. But it didn’t matter at this moment, for he was not in the right state of mind. He was shaking as their hands moved over one another, but it felt so very good, and it would be so very easy to let him have her again, to ease his pain, to bring them pleasure, and she swallowed back a moan as his fingers fisted in her hair and his hips tilted into hers, allowing her to feel the hard ridge of his cock. Desire exploded inside her, but somehow, her rational mind prevailed, and she eased away with a longing sigh.

“John,” she whispered as his fingers tightened in her hair, as though he would hold her there before he let out a shuddering breath and released her.

“We’re so close now… don’t lose hope,” she added as she reached up to brush a lock of his dark blond hair back into place. His brow furrowed and his lips pressed together, but he nodded.

“You’re right, of course – I won’t. I can’t stay… I’m working security tonight and I’ve reports to write before I go to Whitehall at the end of the week.” He leaned in towards her, closing his eyes as though he would kiss her again before he sighed. “I can taste that promotion, Violet… but it’s so hard to believe I’ll actually get it. If something goes wrong…”

Violet brushed her fingers across his temple, drawing his gaze to hers before offering an encouraging smile. “Everythin’ is in place. You’re gatherin’ your evidence. We just stay the course, we keep givin’ Archie what he wants… and soon, he’ll just be a bad memory.”

John finally smiled, very faintly, and lifted his hand to capture her fingers, bringing them to his mouth to kiss them.

“We’ll meet in Paris after this… you can introduce me to all your artist friends.”

Violet wanted to smile at this – wouldn’t that be lovely? Wouldn’t it be so nice to show him all she had made of herself? But he belonged here. She knew that, and it was too painful to let herself believe that there could be anything more between them after Archie was gone. She would not see him again, not in Paris, not anywhere. And yet… the grief in his eyes was too much to tell him no, and so she kissed him, very softly, and whispered, “Yes. We’ll do that.”

He nodded, giving her a small smile before he backed out of the room and closed the door, locking it behind him. Violet stared at it for a long time after he was gone, her throat burning as she tried to hold back whatever terrible, uncomfortable emotion was trying to work its way up from deep inside her. Leaving him behind would be difficult, she could not deny that. Even thinking about their being parted made her ache and… maybe she did love him. But Violet would not allow herself to be heartbroken again. Not after falling for someone like Archie, not after the shame of letting herself be taken in by someone who had turned out to be a monster. And not after being told, for years, that her past made her unworthy of such an emotion, anyway. So, she would do what she did best – she would close her heart to any more of these inconvenient feelings. Her life was waiting for her, and she would not let anyone – not even John Barrow – get in the way of her returning to it.

But that did not mean she could not help him. She still wanted him to succeed, and if that meant getting that promotion, then she would do whatever she could to ease the way for him. And she knew, in the upper circles of British society, that meant having a name behind you. Perhaps several. There was only one person Violet knew could help her with this plan, so she reached under her mattress for the little sketchbook and carefully tore a page from it before digging out a pencil and sitting down to write a letter.

Dearest Della…