Her life had gone from pleasure and enjoyment to a fearful journey in a few hours, and she just did not know what she should do for the better. She could only try to save whatever dignity she could, and salvage her life in the aftermath of all this hate. And it was hate that had caused it all. Hate. She had felt it coming off him in waves.
But it was her feeling of utter helplessness that was the worst thing, of knowing she had no way out of her problems, knowing she was in effect owned by someone she hated.
She was still sobbing an hour later when the milkman delivered her milk.
Jimmy was worried. He could not get Maggie on the phone.
The Blacks were being stroppy, the chemist spoke little English and all in all he was fed up. But as always, he was trying to be positive.
Being positive was another one of Ozzy's lectures. He reckoned that the great thinkers had all debated whether positive thinking really worked, and it seemed it did.
'Be serene. It is not what happens to you, it is how you deal with it.' Now that was one of his Maggie's old dear's sayings. Her mother was full of shit, but he liked that one and when he had quoted it to Ozzy they had laughed together.
He felt the rage subside then. He was trying so hard to stay positive while all the time he wanted to be at home with his wife and watch her face as she opened her anniversary present. He had left it for her in the garage, on the seat of her car.
He pictured her going in there all smiling and smartly dressed – she always looked good, old Maggie – and seeing the leather box on the passenger seat of her Merc.
He knew she would be over the moon.
He wished now that he had got a mobile phone. A lot of people were getting them these days. Like Ozzy, he was worried about them since they were too much like evidence, but if he had one now he could phone his Mags and tell her he loved her. No court could hold that against him, surely.
Maggie had a car phone, but he had never called it because it cost a fortune and also because he could never remember the fucking number.
He was not really a gadget person, but he had a feeling that the sooner he became one the happier he would be.
He had left messages on all the answerphones for Maggie, at his home and at the salons, with his number in Glasgow. She had still not rung and he knew she must have found her present by now.
There was no way she wouldn't like it. Maggie loved a bit of tomfoolery, and this was top-notch gear. Hatton Garden, nothing skanked or off a fence. He had never had a dodgy item in his home in his life. Another Ozzy warning: never, ever put skank in your house or your motor, always keep receipts for proof of purchase, and try to make a scene while purchasing anything, nicely if possible, so you were remembered if ever anything came on top.
Also: never live beyond your means, always stash cash away from your drum unless you could prove where it came from, and never, ever get into any kind of dialogue with Old Bill or other lags you didn't know personally or who had a wanker's recommendation.
It was sound advice, and he realised that now more than ever.
If they raided his drum this morning there was nothing in there that could be used against him. Maggie's salons justified their earnings, as did his rented properties and his legitimate businesses of fifteen court bailiffs and two separate security businesses. These were run by a couple of blokes who had come highly recommended, and who were as bent as a corkscrew but who had never in their lives had a serious capture. They were strictly small-time and he gave them a good living, a better living than they could ever have dreamed of, and they were seriously grateful to him because of that.
Ozzy was a wealth of wisdom and he loved him and his sayings.
Never have a dog and bark yourself – ergo, why threaten someone when you could get someone else to do it for you. Unless it was personal, of course.
Never shit on your own doorstep, you only slipped in it and broke something eventually.
And his favourite, like the Hollywood moguls always said, and which was true for the modern-day criminals, never get caught with a dead girl or a live boy.
That one had made him roll up. Until of course Freddie had made the truth of that statement apparent.
He just hoped this latest drama would all be sorted in the next few days so he could go home and have a nice night with his wife.
He loved Maggie and he knew he was lucky to have her. But he wished she would ring so he could relax.
The locksmith was leaving as Lena pulled up outside the house in a cab. She saw her daughter paying the man, and was surprised that she looked so haggard. Maggie wasn't ill surely, she had looked great yesterday, and they were supposed to be going over Lakeside to do a bit of shopping.
She hoped Maggie was OK. She fancied a day out, and she liked Lakeside. It pissed all over the high street as far as she was concerned.
She paid the cab, miffed that Maggie had not come bowling out with the money as usual. In fact she could have sworn that her daughter had not even noticed her. She walked up the drive. This was a lovely place and she never failed to enjoy its splendour. Jackie was a lost cause, a pain in the ring, but Maggie, she was like something from a film, a celebrity or something. She had made such a success of her life and Lena never failed to remind herself that one child at least had managed to wash off the taint of the council house. It was glory by association for her, and she loved every second of it.
She had to knock on the door, which showed her just how preoccupied her daughter must be.
'Who is it?'
Lena was perturbed. 'Who do you think it is, you stupid mare? We had a date, remember. Open the fucking door and get the kettle on.' She was laughing loudly as always, then she stopped, remembering she was in a nice street now and that Jimmy, even more than Maggie, frowned on the effing and blinding she was so used to. She looked around her and then relaxed. This place wasn't overlooked so she was safe.
The door opened slowly and Maggie smiled wanly.
'You look like death warmed up!'
Maggie could have cried. This was the last thing she needed, but in her confusion she had forgotten her mother was supposed to be coming over. 'I feel really rough, Mum.'
'Anniversary hangover, more like!'
Maggie shook her head sadly and she looked on the verge of tears. 'You know Jimmy had to go to Scotland, remember.'
Her voice was quavery, and she sounded blocked up, ill.
Lena was concerned. She looked rough, bless her. She looked awful, in fact.
She bustled about taking her coat off and getting her cigarettes and lighter out of her bag. In the large kitchen she put the kettle on herself, and then sat at the scrubbed pine table. Once she had lit up, she was ready to rock and roll. 'You got the flu, mate, you can see it from here.'
Maggie tried to smile once more. 'I have a really bad headache, Mum, I don't think I can cope with shopping.'
Lena was disappointed but her daughter looked terrible, and she said gently, 'Go to bed and I'll bring you up a cuppa and a bit of breakfast, eh?'
Maggie shook her head. 'Just the tea, thanks.'
'Why was a locksmith here, anyway? You lost your bleeding keys again?'
Maggie sighed heavily, and Lena looked at her in concern once more. The girl was obviously sickening for something, and she seemed worn out and depressed. It was in her eyes, they were dead somehow. Her daughter looked uncannily like her sister, wiped out and grey skinned, and that alone was enough to alert Lena to trouble of some kind. She suddenly felt really worried. Her baby looked very ill, from the dark circles under her eyes to the pasty pallor of her tanned skin. She looked yellow, like she had not slept for days.