Dillon grabbed her arm and dragged her towards him until his dark, dangerous eyes were two inches from hers.
'You want to have a go at me, do it when he's not around -'
Susie yanked her arm free. 'He bloody lives here?
'You want to talk?' Dillon murmured, raising his eyebrows. 'Well, I'm all ears.' He went past her, kicking the door shut, turned about, folded his arms. 'What do you want to know?'
'Oh stop this, Frank,' Susie pleaded. 'I can't take this!'
'What do you want to know, Susie? Want to know about the job?' Susie flinched as Dillon lunged forward. He made a grab for the carrier-bag propped against the end of the sofa and ripped it open, holding up a chauffeur's uniform of dark jacket and dark grey slacks with knife-edge creases. He bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a smile.
'Okay. Exchange one uniform for another, all right? You think this is what I want? You think I came out for this?'
When she had her breathing under control, Susie said quietly, 'It's a job. At least you can pay the rent.' She swallowed, her face nearly crumpling. 'You – you did take the rent money from the drawer, didn't you? Oh Frank, you're not playin' the horses, are you, you promised me…'
Dillon carelessly let the clothing fall in a heap over the back of the sofa. He said huskily, 'I'll pay the rent, Susie, I'll pay it and anything else you want.' His eyes bored into hers. 'In answer to your question, no, I did not put a cent on a bleedin' horse… even if I did it's my business, not yours.'
He went to the door and threw it open, and Susie thought, if he yells for Steve just once more I'll scream. But he didn't, instead he almost fell over the Hoover.
Susie took a pace forward, trying one last appeal.
'You have so much time for everyone else… I need some too, Frank!' Dillon glared at her over his shoulder. 'Think about it, will you?'
Between tight lips, only just audible, Dillon muttered: 'Everyone wants a piece of me, and I need some space, okay? I need -'
What he needed was lost as Susie swept her hand out and slammed the door, this time in Dillon's face. A second later it crashed back on its hinges from Dillon's kick, and he stood in the doorway, the blood draining from his face, fists clenched.
'Don't ever do that again!' Dillon snarled, eyes glittering.
Susie held up her hands and backed away, her insides shrivelling at this proximity to a wild man with so much naked violence pouring out of him she could almost smell it. Or perhaps it was her own fear. Frank had never struck her but now she saw him fight for control, his hands rigid fists.
'I'm sorry.' Susie said quietly.
Dillon walked out, this time closing the door quietly and firmly, somehow it was worse than if he had slammed it. Susie buried her face in the cushion and burst into tears. She knew she couldn't take it much longer, she had tried, no one could say she hadn't tried, but she was beginning to wish he had never left the Paras.
CHAPTER 11
With the tip of his finger, Dillon touched the bonnet of the Mercedes-Benz 300SE three-litre and watched the little round patch of condensation evaporate from the flawless silver surface. The caged wall lights of the underground garage gave the car a ghostly, almost supernatural aura. Thunderbirds are go! Dillon thought, and felt a little tremor of excitement and apprehension.
He was conscious of Jimmy watching them both from behind the wheel, no doubt revelling in their awe and trepidation – and of course envy too – because who else but Jim'll Fixit had the clout and the contacts to graciously bestow such a favour?
'What do you think?' Dillon said, a bloody sight more nervous than he cared to admit.
Steve gulped air and rifted, 'It's up to you – you'll be driving.'
'What d'you mean? You're driving, mate. I've never driven an automatic'
'Okay but…' Steve shrugged indifferently. 'I've got no licence.'
Dillon's head came round in three distinct movements, his eyes burning holes through the air.
'Banned,' Steve burped. 'Three years, drunk driving…'
Dillon turned away, and hissed under his breath, 'Banned, you pillock!' Here they were with a job all lined up, he depending on Steve having never driven an automatic himself, and now Steve blurted or burped out he was bloody banned from driving. Dillon faced Steve, looked back to Jimmy, and in a low voice warned Steve to keep his mouth shut, not to let on to Jimmy, just drive the Merc out, he'd take over after a practice.
Jimmy beckoned to them. They leaned in, inhaling the rich mingled odours of Cuban mahogany, deep-pile carpets and whole-hide leather in Antique Burgundy. 'Telephone…' Jimmy indicated the handset in its walnut box, 'you got everythin', even clean-air spray – and if you want a tip, use it. Nothin' worse than gettin' into a car reekin' of stale farts.' With a look of dire warning he tossed the keys to Steve. 'But so much as a scratch – an' I'll have your balls.' He tapped the steering-wheel. 'Thirty grand's worth of motor.'
'Okay, it's simple,' Steve told Dillon fifteen minutes later, having driven the car to a piece of waste ground. They'd swapped seats and Dillon was frowning at the unfamiliar controls while Steve played driving instructor.
'Just remember not to use your left foot… this is Reverse, this is Park, then 'D' for Drive… that's it.'
He folded his arms and settled back as Dillon pushed the stick into Reverse and pressed the accelerator. The fat wheels skittered stones and dirt as the silver Mercedes shot back at high speed towards a brick wall, Steve unfolding his arms quick to stop his head bashing against the wooden fascia. Dillon slammed down on the foot-size brake pedal and they skidded to a halt, rocking on hydraulic suspension, inches away from the wall.
Gasping and choking from the shock, Steve wiped his forehead, weak with relief that Dillon hadn't crumpled anything at first attempt. Then he was thrust back deep into the leather seat as the car suddenly hurtled forward, heading towards a pile of rubble. Steve covered his eyes. But Dillon reckoned he was getting the hang of it, even starting to enjoy himself.
Taffy made his preparations. He placed a blanket, crosswise, on Megan's single bed, and with neat, orderly movements stacked her toys and dolls in the centre of it, added the pictures off the walls to the pile, finally the toddler's fluffy animals, plastic bricks and colouring books. He gathered the four corners together and quickly and expertly knotted them, then carried the tight bundle out and dumped it on the landing.
Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump -
The drumbeat in his head pounded out its unrelenting rhythm. The phantom drummer was at it too, repeating the same riff over and over and over again. But Taffy stayed calm. It was all very clear and simple. No sweat. He knew what he had to do.
Megan crouched at the top of the stairs, biting her knuckles as she watched Daddy, singlet and shorts under the dressing-gown flapping at his calves, go back into her bedroom. He'd stripped down the bed and now he was dismantling the cot. He took it apart like a Bren gun, working with military precision and economy of effort, gathered the pieces and stacked them neatly against the banister rails.
Megan cowered away but Daddy completely ignored her, went back into the empty, bare room and closed the door. As a welcome change the phantom drummer was now practising triple rolls, but the thump-thump-thump continued as before, as always, as ever.
On Radio 5, Danny Baker was slagging off a new film with undisguised glee while Susie Dillon tidied away the breakfast things. She wiped her hands on the tea-towel and hurried through the living-room, using her fingers to comb back her hair, checking on the way that Kenny and Phil were still decent and presentable. She grabbed her coat from the hook and called up the stairs, 'Frank? Frank, I'm taking the kids to school – did you hear me?'