Nameless by Jessie Keane

to have to call a halt to the sex stuff. He was moody over it, of course; all men were like that. Take their toys away and they turned from charming to nasty in an instant.
    ‘This “Blind Carol” business,’ said Betsy.
    Charlie shrugged, looking unconcerned. ‘Well, she ain’t exactly blind, but she’s so short-sighted she might as well be. She worked in one of the Dean Street clip joints Tranter used to police with his boys, as a hostess, stinging the customers for cash – you know what, the silly sods could pay up to five hundred quid for a bottle of watered-down Scotch!’
    Charlie sneered at the thought of such foolishness. With Charlie, everything was about what a thing cost. What was that old saying? He knows the cost of everything, and the value of nothing.
    ‘All on the promise of a quick bunk-up with a tart like that. Anyway, Bill Read went in there one night and, when he realized the Scotch was diluted, he worked her over. Right there in the club. The cheeky little fucker wouldn’t have had the nerve to do it if he hadn’t known Tranter was off the scene. He must have heard we were taking over the area, but he thought he’d chance his arm, see? He’s pushed us once or twice before, but this time he was throwing down the gauntlet good and proper, really taking the piss. He scared her witless, ruined her looks. We couldn’t have that.’
    Betsy nodded. It had been less about the damage to this poor Carol and more about Charlie’s offended pride. But she supposed it was nice, the way he stepped in to protect the girl, whatever his motives. Betsy felt a fuzzy feeling of warmth at his valour. She hugged his arm against the side of her body as they crossed the street. She’d felt put out lately, what with Ruby being so often in a huddle with Vi; she felt hurt and rejected, and in need of company. But at least she had Charlie.
    ‘We ought to be looking at rings, soon,’ she said shyly, smiling hopefully up at his face. ‘D’you think it’s time you talked to Dad?’
    Charlie nodded. Yeah, he’d get her an engagement ring, but after that she’d better start putting out again. And he’d talk to her father if it meant keeping her sweet – not that he needed to. Charlie Darke didn’t need anyone’s permission to do anything. He could do whatever he fucking well liked.
    He called on the widow Tranter that afternoon – he dropped in most weeks, gave her a wedge, had a cup of tea. It was nice, sitting at the table with her, eating scones she’d baked because she didn’t have to worry about rationing, everything was available on the black market to those in the know, and Charlie Darke was in the know all right.
    Charlie Darke was a big man now and he felt that respect was due to him. So it irked him that Mrs Tranter accepted his dosh, entertained him politely, but seemed in no way impressed by him.
    ‘You miss him?’ he asked her, as they sat at the table.
    ‘What? Micky?’ Her mouth tilted up in a sour smile. ‘Why would I?’
    Charlie shrugged. ‘He put bread on the table.’
    ‘You’re right,’ she agreed. ‘He did.’
    ‘You don’t seem heartbroken he’s gone.’
    She shrugged. There was something so casual, so accepting and yet so closed off about her that it was really starting to annoy him.
    ‘People lose loved ones all the time in a war. That’s what happened to me. The fool was out and about doing deals and a bomb fell on his head. So what?’
    With that she took the teapot out to the scullery for a refill. He watched her go. She was stocky, robust; no hot little sylph like Betsy. Her hair was mousy brown and pulled back into a bun like someone’s granny would wear it. Why didn’t she take more care of her appearance, for the love of God?
    After a while she came back with the refill, placed the pot on the table, pulled the little hand-knitted cosy over it. Her steady ginger-toned eyes met his.
    ‘At least,’ she said, ‘that’s the tale. Ain’t