Dog Roses - Chapter Twelve

CHAPTER TWELVE

Bryan Chester pleaded guilty to manslaughter.

      The trial only lasted a week.  Most of the time was taken up with character witnesses for the defence testifying that Chester was, essentially, a nice guy provoked into committing a crime of passion that went tragically wrong.  I, for one, was not impressed, especially since Billy was being portrayed as an arrogant yob whose motives for intervening had been less than altruistic. According to the defence and some prosecution witnesses, you’d have thought Billy’s set-to with death had been nothing more than an attention-seeking stunt. True, he had paid a terrible price. Such, though, these good people would have us believe, is the attitude of many young men to mortality in so far as they think they are invincible and will grab any opportunity to prove it.

      I was upset, angry and felt physically sick. At the same time, I was relieved that no one seemed to be paying much attention to my own role in events.

      Time and again I almost leapt to my feet and shouted, “Billy gave his life to save mine, you bastards! He was no yob. He was a wonderful, wonderful person. I loved him and he loved me.”  In my mind’s eye, I became passionate and past caring in the witness box. Instead, I did and said nothing above and beyond what I was asked and played the passive, impartial eyewitness to perfection. No one would ever know the true extent of Billy’s sacrifice. I would have to live with that for the rest of my life.

      Oh, but how dare Billy do this to me, how dare he? 

      So it was throughout the trial. Outwardly calm, inwardly I ran the whole gamut of love and hate, saved only from frequent hysterical outbursts by imagining Matthew Jordan’s smile and clinging to it for dear life.

The prosecution made poor Doreen out to be the very kind of “floozy” she despised. I felt sorry for her. Nor did I have less sympathy for Harry, portrayed as the wronged husband, latest victim of a serial womaniser. The prosecution produced several women eager to relate every lurid detail of affairs with Chester over a period of years. While the defence was anxious to emphasize he was single and fancy free, this argument carried little weight since it transpired that all his former lovers were married at the time.

Chester, it has to be said, cut a tragic figure in the dock. He kept his eyes rooted to the floor and only looked up, briefly, when Doreen took the witness box.  Dressed in a red shirt wide open at the neck and a brown suit, red socks glaring from black shoes, he reminded me of a picture I’d once seen, in some anonymous book, of a witch being burned alive at a stake. Had there ever been a male witch, I wondered? I felt stirrings of pity for the man. But these did not last long. Scenes Billy and I had shared kept running through my head like a silent newsreel.

The jury took less than three hours to find Chester guilty. The judge spoke of ‘extenuating circumstances’ and wasted little time sentencing him to seven years in prison.

As in the witness box, it was thoughts of Matthew Jordan that helped me through the hustle and bustle of aggressive reporters and cameramen swarming across the court steps once sentence had been passed, leaving us free to get on with our lives as best we could. 

It was chaos on those steps. Clive, never one to miss a photo opportunity or contrive others, grabbed my arm and wasted no time telling everyone how he had rescued me from the horror of witnessing a friend’s cold-blooded murder by appointing me manager of his latest enterprise, The Constellation. “Everyone is calling it The Connie already,” he informed a growing audience. “It will be just what this town needs to restore life after…Well, death.” The pun surprised even him but he kept a straight face and everyone looked suitably impressed. The local rag even used it as a headline the morning after The Connie’s opening night.

I saw Maggie Dillon posing for photographers in a slinky green dress of crushed velvet. I looked around for Nick Crolley. Thankfully, there was no sign of him.  Once or twice I spotted Maggie and Clive apparently in earnest conversation. She was plainly flirting with him. I frowned. My respect for Clive’s business acumen was healthy enough, but Maggie was no mean force to be reckoned with, especially when dressed to kill.

Shaun and Lou hadn’t been in court to hear sentence passed. Shaun’s evidence had been brief, clear and to the point. Only someone who knew him as well as I did could tell that his insides were being cut up for mincemeat by every word spoken, just as mine were. Whenever Billy’s name came up, his eyes would mist over but his voice never faltered and I dare say few people even noticed. I only did because I was looking for it…and sharing every gut-wrenching second of that day with him.

The pain of that day in court was almost too much to bear. I vowed afterwards that I would not let Billy’s memory touch me like that again. It was time, I decided, to let go. But could I really do that, I wondered? Did I really want to? My head urged me to take the commonsense view and my heart was only too willing to let Matthew Jordan slip into the empty space Billy’s death had left there. Nor did I believe in ghosts. Yet, it was as if Billy’s ghost was even less willing to let me go than I him.  At the same time, a fierce, instinctive loyalty to Billy left me powerless to fight it.  I felt as though I were being hounded into a corner and bitterly resented it. Hadn’t my system taken enough of a battering for one day, one lifetime even?

 I looked around for Doreen, intending to offer some encouragement although just what form of words this might take, I hadn’t a clue. In the event, it turned out that she and Harry had been bundled unceremoniously out of a little known side-exit, the motive for which proved to be less obvious than I at first naively supposed. All would soon be revealed in one of the more vociferous, not to mention gossipy Sunday newspapers.

Meanwhile, I had a club to run.

The next few days were a mad rush to get everything ready for Opening Night. I saw little of Matthew apart from the odd hour or so at his flat when I was invariably too exhausted, excited (or both) to handle more than a cuddle. It was enough. We talked a lot or, rather, he talked and I listened. Sometimes we would discover likes and dislikes in common that we hadn’t expected and this would reinforce a bonding process to which we were gladly if tacitly committed. When we kissed, it was with more than passion but a feeling that we belonged to each other, a sense of coming home…

I felt under no pressure to have sex with Matthew, although a flawed reasoning argued how it had to be as effective a way as any of letting Billy’s ghost see I had moved on. Whenever Matthew and I made love, I was so happy I wanted to cry, but never did. His lips would brush mine with disarming seductiveness yet with such caring and kindness that, as his arms closed around me, all I wanted was to stay that way forever.  Within the parameters of forever, though, Billy Mack was never far away.

Matthew would often tell me that he loved me. He knew I felt the same way about him, I was sure of it.  What need for words? At least, that is what I’d always tell myself whenever they tickled my throat, stuck to my tongue, stubbornly refusing to be spoken while tugging at every nerve. Sometimes, on a pebble beach at the back of my mind, I fancied I could almost see and hear Billy Mack laughing at me. It was a light, fond, teasing sound. At the same time, I thought I detected a possessive note. I didn’t feel in the least threatened by it, and only vaguely disturbed. Billy would never hurt me, ghost or whatever. So could it be that he was just watching out for what was his?

Oh, I’d shrug off such imaginings quickly enough and reprimand myself for being a nerd. Even so, if Billy’s ghost intended that I shouldn’t tell Matthew how much I loved him, it succeeded.

Sandwiched between the trial and Halloween celebrations at The Connie (people were, as predicted and encouraged, already calling it that) Clive casually dropped another bombshell.  I was having to co-ordinate both a catering and brewery delivery at the time. It was bad enough that each should turn up much earlier than arranged, but arriving within minutes of each other meant I had to take charge of things myself until Shaun and Lance, our chef, could be located.

Clive’s arrival was both unexpected and ill timed. Nor did it allay either my suspicion or my temper that, hanging proprietarily on his arm, grey-green eyes darting everywhere, was none other than Maggie Dillon. “Everything looking good, eh, Rob?” he demanded ebulliently, following this up with a broad, patronising smile.

I frowned. Clive in this mood was always a sure sign something was up. “I’m busy,” growled.

“That’s why I like to see, my staff earning their keep.”

“This really isn’t a good time,” I protested.

I can see that. So I’ll come straight to the point.” The foxy eyes were sharper than ever, “I’ve just hired this young lady.”

“You’ve what?” I exploded.

“Keep your hair on, Rob. You’ll get your money’s worth,” said Maggie with a dry laugh.

“Excuse me, but it’s my money’s worth we’re talking about here. Let’s not forget that, eh?” Clive glared briefly from one to the other of us before breaking into an ominous smile.

“Can we discuss this?” I was furious.

“Of course we can, but not here. In my office...”

“Not now. You can see how busy I am!”

“So get un-busy,” Clive snapped and promptly waved Shaun over, who had just appeared. “Ah, Shaun, just the man we need. Deal with this little lot, will you?” It was not a question nor did Shaun imagine it was and nodded. “Good man.” He turned to me. “You have to delegate, Rob, delegate. How do you expect to run a show like this if you don’t delegate? What’s the first rule of management, eh? I’ll tell you. Delegate, or be buggered. So, suppose you tell Shaun here everything he needs to know then join us in my office, okay…in, say, five minutes?” Without waiting for a response, he turned to Maggie, “I’ll call you later.”

“Do I still have a job?”

“I said so, didn’t I?” with which parting shot he turned his back on all three of us and strode purposefully away.  

If I expected Maggie to react angrily to this summary dismissal and stand up to Clive, I was in for a big disappointment. She stood stock still for a moment, icily regarding Clive’s retreating back. Abruptly, with a nod first to Shaun then me, lips quivering with what might have been anger or amusement, it was impossible to tell, she wandered off in the opposite direction, hips swinging.

Shaun and I regarded each other open-mouthed, and then burst out laughing. I relaxed. Delegation was not, I reflected, such a bad idea after all. As for Maggie Dillon, time would tell how things would turn out there.
In my mind, I had already conceded nothing I could say would make Clive back down. It took only a few minutes to brief Shaun, who had not only sussed the situation at once but also summoned the absent Lance on his mobile phone. “Give me the damn delivery notes and leave this little lot with me. Lance will be here pronto to deal with caterers and I’ll see to everything until he shows his ugly face.  He glanced at his watch and back at me with a grin. You have about forty seconds…

It was my first major run-in with Clive.  Needless to say, just as I’d anticipated, I lost hands down both to his temper and experience. “You can’t do it,” I protested, “You cannot hire Maggie Dillon. She’s a troublemaker, and I don’t want her on my team.”

“Oh, really, is that so?” He glared at me behind a desk in his own private office, podgy fingers tapping irritatingly on its stained wood surface.

“Yes, it damn well is!” I retorted and glared back. “And what about her boyfriend, have you thought about that?  Trust me. Nick Crolley is poison.”

“He’s a nasty piece of work by all accounts,” Clive agreed smoothly, “All the more credit to you for hiring a good bouncer. Besides,” he added pointedly, “I think you’ll find Crolley’s on his way out as far as Maggie’s concerned.”

“Oh?” But he refused to be drawn.

“Was there anything else, Rob, before I have my say?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, there is,” I fumed, “You should have discussed it with me first. Nor do I appreciate being rubbished in front of my staff. I either run things here or I don’t.”

“So who’s suggesting you don’t?” His tone was deceptively mild. I could only bluster and would have stormed out if he hadn’t suddenly risen to his feet with an alacrity and expression that kept me glued to my chair. “It’s my staff, we are talking about, my staff, and that includes you,” he snarled without raising his voice, “Watch my lips, Rob. Without me, it’s you who’s the rubbish around here and you’ll do well to remember that.”

He sat down again, a wicked glitter in his beady eyes giving the lie to a benign smile. “Ever heard the one about who pays the piper plays the tune?”  It was not a rhetorical question. I nodded, dumbly. “Good. Now, I’ve enjoyed our little chat, Rob. Oh, and do me a favour, will you? Keep an eye on Maggie and see that she settles in nicely. She’ll be a great asset to the place, you’ll see.  Now, don’t slam the door on your way out. We don’t want the staff getting any rubbish ideas, do we?”

“You’re the boss,” I muttered between clenched teeth.

“Got it in one,” he giggled.  It was an almost girlish sound although nothing in the least effeminate about it. Moreover, it sounded a warning in my head that I’d be a fool to attempt having the last word. Even so, I stubbornly refused to flinch from his direct, speculative gaze.  Yes, I felt humiliated. But hadn’t I seen Bo Devine reduce staff to cringing spectres of their usual selves with a single curl of the lip? Such memories came to my rescue now, inspiring me with an iron determination to salvage a vestige of self-respect.

“Will that be all?” I asked quietly, drawing on those same survival instincts that had seen me through the trial. .

“For now,” he agreed and licked his lips with such self-satisfaction that I suspected he meant to provoke me further. Instead, I even managed a smile before leaving the room at a leisurely if exaggeratedly nonchalant pace. 

I thought I heard more giggling as I closed the door quietly behind me. “Damn you Clive!” I muttered, close to tears, but not before making sure no one was within earshot.  To distract myself, I proceeded to examine my objections to Maggie joining a team I had already begun to think of as my extended family if not consciously until now. Her presence would be sure to spoil everything. Yet, even as I all but convinced myself this was true, I couldn’t help wondering if it was Maggie herself to whom I was objecting or her continuing association in my mind with Billy. Clive Rider was right about one thing. Ed Mack was more than a match for the likes of Nick Crolley.  It remained to be seen, however, whether or not I was more than a match for Billy’s ghost.

I sought out Shaun. “What on earth’s got into the man?” I wanted to know, “It’s always business first and last with him. So why is he messing with Maggie? He’s old enough to be her father, for crying out loud.”

“No one messes with Maggie,” Shaun observed with a grin, “But that’s his funeral. You know what they say, there’s no fool like an old fool.” Before I could reply, he mumbled something about things to do in the cellar and was already on his way. My head chef, Lance Porter, chose that moment to descend on me, waving his arms frantically and demanding to know why there was no hot running water in the kitchen. I judged it was no time to ask where the hell he had been earlier when I needed him and promised to see to it at once.

I groaned, asked myself how could be expected to open on time at this sorry rate, and went in search of the plumber, last seen in the Ladies loo.  Maggie Dillon, I was beginning to realize, for now at least, was the least of my concerns.

A sense of impending disaster followed me about like a playful leopard all day. Everyone mugged in and worked like Trojans to get the Halloween decorations up and ready…Shaun, Lou, Ed, bar hands and restaurant staff alike. Even Clive entered into the spirit of things by clambering up stepladders to hang pumpkins, encouraged no doubt by Maggie’s reappearance and her obvious delight in shouting directions. “Right a bit. No, now left a bit. Nearly there, it just needs to be a teeny bit to the right. Yes, spot on!” Her voice, bubbling with enthusiasm had the effect of egging everyone else on too. Had I perhaps misjudged her, I wondered?

Shaun joined me. Together, we watched Clive descend and fall into Maggie’s open arms.

 “She’s after his money,” Shaun hissed in my ear, “Mind you, who can blame her? Let’s face it, Rob. The guy’s loaded. Maggie’s never had it so good.”

“Nor has he by the look of things,” I observed drily. We both burst out laughing. Clive spotted us and gave a cheery wave, our earlier altercation clearly put aside. I waved back, ignoring Maggie’s self-congratulatory smile. As I watched them move away, hand in hand, an awful premonition came over me that I could not identify except by its presence. Briefly, it kept company with a pumpkin dangling from the ceiling directly above my head.

I shook my head, blamed a gut-wrenching, nauseous sensation on Opening Night nerves and followed Shaun into the front bar.