Leaving John was hard. Harder than Noreen thought it would be.

‘Does this mean the wedding is off?’ His face was full of pained panic. Noreen felt a stabbing in her stomach just looking at him.

‘Of course not, John. Don’t be ridiculous! I’m just delaying it by a few months.’

That was a lie. Noreen had no intention of coming back any time soon. As soon as the decision had been made Noreen had been able to think of nothing else but getting away. She loved her family, and she loved John but the big lights of London were calling her. It was as if the idea had been there in her heart all along, and it had taken the engagement to bring it to life.

‘I need to go away and be independent for a while before I settle down. You understand that, don’t you? You had your time off training with the guards in Tipperary.’

‘That’s hardly the same thing as running off to London to do God knows what!’

‘It’s something I need to do, John. I’ve never been outside Carney in all my life. I just need to have my own adventure. Then I’ll be back.’

John didn’t look convinced.

‘What do you mean by adventure?’

He knew exactly what she meant and so did she. Afraid she might actually put words to it, John changed the subject.

‘London’s a dangerous city. You won’t be safe.’

It was an unconvincing argument. Noreen was the most capable person he knew. She would be fine without him. They both knew that, too.

‘I’ll be grand. Lara’s there. She can show me the ropes.’

‘Does she know you’re coming?’

It would not have surprised John for Noreen to go chasing off to London on her own. Despite seeming like a sensible girl, his fiancée was prone to giving in to flights of fancy – like making love before they were married. That was when this whole going to London nonsense had started. It was his fault for showing her what lay ahead. They should have waited until after the wedding. He should have held off. He should have said no to her. He was a weak fool, no wonder she was running from him. Thank goodness her father had tipped him off the day before. He was worried, John supposed, that he might lose his temper, although John would never have done that. He imagined Frank had been furious, but he was as wrapped around Noreen’s finger as much as John was. Frank had promised he would cancel the priest to spare John the embarrassment. Really, it was Noreen he was sparing.

‘We’ll defer it for a few months anyway, John. She’s her mind made up, and you know what she’s like. Best let her go. She’ll be back soon enough.’

John consoled himself that Frank knew his daughter. Then remembered that Frank didn’t know they’d had sex. He certainly didn’t know about the orgasms.

‘When will you be back?’

Noreen looked at John, and her heart filled up. Was she crazy, leaving this fine man?

John’s physical strength and practical approach to life made him an excellent guard. The week before, he and Sergeant Gerry had been on patrol and found Skinny McHale, who had drunkenly fallen off his bike a mile from his own house. Inaccessible by car. Gerry told Noreen how John had thrown Skinny over one shoulder, his bike over the other and walked them both across the bog. Skinny’s wife had been in the next day complaining that they hadn’t left him to rot in the ditch so that she could claim a lucrative widow’s pension. Gerry, who had trained and lived for a while in New York, confided in Noreen that it broke his heart seeing John’s talents going to waste in this rural backwater.

John himself didn’t seem to mind. He did not have any illusions about his job or his life. John knew he was good at his job because he was strong, sensible and reliable. The same qualities that would make him an excellent husband. Of course, like all country guards, he said he would love a good murder or some proper crime to sink his teeth into, but he didn’t have any notions about going abroad looking for it. John was happy enough with his life: picking up drunks from the side of the road, ushering people around funerals, checking up on car tax for the five people that owned cars in the village, bothering the odd illegal pitching distillery that operated in the mountains and making sure that the local publicans were discreet enough not to get caught after hours of drinking. If it seemed pedestrian to some, well then that was fine by him because, to be honest, he got all the excitement he needed being engaged to Noreen Lyons and keeping her out of trouble.

And now, Noreen knew she was taking that away from him.

Why was she doing this to lovely John? Sitting in her parents’ kitchen, with a mug of tea on the range beside him and his guard cap in his lap, he was clearly sorry for himself. All six foot two of him was sagging, his long limbs collapsed into her father’s chair, the fine square head and big chest all crumpled up. Part of Noreen longed to curl herself up into his lap and stay there forever. But her mind was made up. This was something she had to do. The ticket was booked. She was going. If she had to look at John’s face for much longer she was in danger of changing her mind, so she drew a deep breath and said as coldly as she could.

‘I don’t know.’

She would not be pressured to stay. This was her decision, her life.

‘Noreen.’

He said her name like a poem, searching her face. His eyes were begging her to stay without saying anything out loud. She could reach out, take him upstairs to the bedroom and make all this go away. But Noreen was determined.

‘I see,’ he said. She could have reassured him. But she couldn’t lie.

John stood up, put his cap on and reached the door. ‘Take care of yourself, Noreen.’

Noreen heard the subtext – ‘Because I won’t be there to take care of you’. The snide implication ignited a small spark of fury. It gave her the determination she needed to face the gruelling coach, boat and train journey that would take her to London.

❊

Noreen arrived at Euston station in the late afternoon. As she walked through the station concourse she found herself among hundreds of people rushing past each other in straight lines. Each person was different from the next: a man in a pinstripe suit with a bowler hat and briefcase, a young woman in a skirt so short it looked like she was running about in her pants, an older woman wearing a smart suit with a pillbox hat and gloves like she was going to a wedding. A cockney man was shouting, ‘Ee’ning Stannit!’ while he waved newspapers in the air at passers-by. Some handed him a shilling and snatched a paper out of his hands with scarcely an acknowledgment. A man with coal-black skin wearing a bright orange suit sauntered across to the huge clock hanging over their heads. A tall, beautiful woman with long, brown arms in a brightly printed dress ran towards a platform. Noreen stood in the middle of this extraordinary, exotic scene, astonished by the activity around her. All these people, all in a rush to get somewhere, each and every one minding their own business. None of them talking to each other. She had never seen anything like it. There she was, a suitcase at her feet, clearly a stranger in town, yet nobody stopped to ask if she was alright. The very idea was ludicrous. For the first time in her life, Noreen was invisible. Anonymous. It was a strange feeling. She wasn’t sure if she liked it.

Noreen hadn’t eaten since a rather unpleasant sandwich on the boat and was absolutely starving. She thought about finding a cafe and having a fry up but then decided against it. She had best go and find Lara first.

Noreen had not contacted Lara and told her she was coming. She was afraid Lara might have moved from the address she had from her last letter six months ago. They had been great friends while she was dating Matthew and for a while after he had let her down, Lara had stayed in touch regularly. When she arrived in London Lara had taken great care to let Noreen know how well she was doing. She wrote her long letters telling her about her exciting new life and glamorous job.

I’m working in a nightclub – can you believe it? You should come over, Noreen! Coleman is always looking for good people to work behind the bar.

Noreen had paid no notice then but the seed had been planted and now she had come to reap the harvest. Lara was always going to do well for herself, Noreen had never had any doubt about that. Lara just had that ambition in her. She always pushed Noreen as well, reading between the lines of her chirpy letters. Noreen was well aware that this was partly in hope that she relay the message to her brother; that he would know how well Lara was doing, that she was utterly over him. But Noreen could tell Lara wasn’t happy without Matthew. Not really. Because Lara had been head over heels in love with him. Literally daft about him. It was painful to watch. Publicly, Noreen crucified her brother for dumping such a brilliant, attractive woman. Privately, she knew her twin brother better than he knew himself. Lara was not his soulmate and never had been. Lara was fantastic, but she was too much for Matthew. Too passionate, too artistic, too ambitious – too much of everything. She dwarfed him. As much as it pained Noreen to admit it, the love had never been mutual. Matthew had been right to leave her when he had before getting shoehorned into a marriage that would have made him unhappy. Although the priest thing? That was something else. Matthew’s vocation was still a mystery to Noreen. In truth, it was that which had driven a wedge between them more than his leaving Lara. Noreen liked to know what was going on. She certainly didn’t like being kept out of the loop with people she was close to. Not knowing something so fundamental about her own twin, being told about his vocation alongside everyone else, had been humiliating and hurtful. She was still furious with him. Not calling Lara to tell her that she was coming was more a reflection of her estrangement from Matthew than her fear of being rejected by his ex-girlfriend.

She dug Lara’s letter out of her bag and checked the address.

Kings Road, Chelsea. She had no idea where that was and did not feel like asking anyone, so she walked out of the station and hailed down a black, London taxi.

Driving through the London streets, past the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben, made Noreen feel like she was in a film. Her excitement peaked, shredding into nerves as the taxi driver let her off outside a huge, red-bricked building. A glossy, studded black leather door had a gold plate to the side of it that read CHEVRONS.

‘Do you know where you’re going from here?’ the cab driver asked. He seemed somewhat sceptical when she gave him the address. Now he seemed a little nervous about leaving her here.

Insulted by his assumption that she didn’t know where she was going, Noreen snapped, ‘Of course.’ She threw two pound notes in his tray, then said with a great flourish, ‘keep the change!’

When he drove off, she stood for a few moments outside the ridiculous-looking door looking for a bell or a knocker. She found neither. She knew that Lara lived above the club, but the building seemed vast, with dozens of windows, and she had no idea how to even get upstairs. She checked her watch and saw that it was seven o’clock. The club had to be open. Anywhere that sold alcohol would be up and running by six at the latest. So she started to bang.

Ironing Board Arthur was stuck on his own in Chevrons. All the staff, even Coleman, had gone to the opening of Lara’s new boutique. The shop was sure to be filled with beautiful women and Arthur was left behind holding the fort. As usual. The wiry, balding forty year old was Coleman’s muscle. Anyone who didn’t know him might have mistaken Arthur for a fool. He wasn’t pretty and his overly polite, convivial manner tended to earn him mockery from those who did not know him. Customs had already been in today, sniffing around, asking questions about the provenance of the whisky. Coleman was not happy – and if Bobby Chevron found out, there would be big trouble. Drawing attention to the little things was how you got caught for the big things. Coleman liked a handy price but the goods had to be above board. The bloke that had been supplying them with their cut-price spirits needed the frighteners put on him and he was due in that afternoon to get his cash. Brian, the bar manager, had been sent home. They didn’t involve him in any dirty work. That’s the way it was at Chevrons. Everything above board. Everything nice and tidy. Unless you were in the know, and then things could get a little messy. That was what Arthur was there for. Cleaning up the messy stuff.

Arthur heard a banging from upstairs. Stupid prick was early to collect his money. Quickly, he chose a cricket bat from his collection of weapons behind the door at the bottom of the maroon-carpeted staircase that led down from the club. With a bit of luck the sight of the bat, in addition to Arthur’s mad face, would be enough to get this guy to talk. He wasn’t in the mood for a fight. It was a bit early yet. Arthur did a bit of fast, shallow breathing – in out, in out – to get himself worked up. Then he ran up the stairs, pumping up the adrenalin. That fella was pounding at the door. The police would be coming if he got much louder. ‘Shut the fuck up,’ Arthur hissed as he opened the door, reached out and pulled in… a bird.

Not a bird like Shirley or Ethel either. But an actual woman-bird. Like an ordinary bird. A wife-type bird.

Arthur yelped and his hands flew off her as if she was emitting electricity. Which, with the unexpected sudden manhandling he had given her, Noreen practically was.

‘Hey!’ she said. ‘There is no need for that!’

Arthur was speechless with embarrassment. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded, angrier than he intended.

‘Well you’re a charmer aren’t you? Planning a game of cricket?’

Here was a real live cockney gangster, brandishing a cricket bat. How thrilling! It never occurred to Noreen that she should be scared. She had been manoeuvring large, gun-toting alcoholic farmers out of her father’s pub since she was fourteen. This odd-looking whippet and his cricket bat were no problem to her.

Arthur mouthed soundlessly at her. Noreen shook her head.

‘Not much of a talker, are you? Didn’t your mother teach you any manners?’

He found his tongue. ‘Don’t have a mother.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone has a mother.’ Arthur gave her a nasty, dead-eyed look then shrugged. He had torn through a man’s skull for saying less. With an ironing board in the prison laundry. It was where he got his unique handle.

‘Somebody should teach you some manners. Your father?’

‘Don’t have no father either.’

Noreen tried to look him straight in the eye. Arthur looked away and she followed his head around as he avoided her. No mother? No father?

‘Siblings?’

‘No.’ Arthur was feeling uncomfortable. What sort of a game was this?

Noreen sighed, giving him a steady gaze. ‘That is terrible.’

Arthur agreed. It was terrible. He suddenly had an overwhelming urge to cry but swallowed it back instead and barked, ‘What do you want?’

‘Are you Coleman?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said. Arthur felt a small delight at being mistaken for his suave boss. ‘He’s not here.’

‘Never mind. I’m actually looking for my friend rather than him. Lara?’

A friend of Lara. She must be alright then. Some of the English girls took Lara as a bit snooty, but Arthur liked her. She was posh, and Irish, which was a weird combination, but there was no point in holding either of those things against her. Also, Coleman was in love with her. He never said it, but he was. Arthur watched. He could tell. But it wasn’t fair to hold that against her either. It wasn’t like she was asking for it. Since she had started working there, about six months ago now, the place had changed. The fashion crowd had started frequenting Chevrons. Men in polo necks and brightly coloured trousers. It wasn’t Arthur’s scene but the arty crowd were no trouble and that made his job easier. Also, Lara was nice to him. She treated him like a proper person, not like some of the other girls. They knew he was a bit soft with women so they took the piss. Especially Shirley, who looked down her nose at him and made him run about, getting her fags, picking up her washing and that. Lara was running a business, making clothes as well as working in the club, and she never made him do anything for her. She even offered him cups of tea, and sometimes that nice girl she lived with, who worked in the cafe across the road, gave him free dinners. Now Coleman had given her money to open one of them fashion boutiques. Shirley was jealous but it served her right. Lara deserved some success. She was a bloody hard worker.

‘Lara’s not here either. I’d take you over to her but…’

‘You’re expecting someone.’ Noreen smiled and nodded at the cricket bat. This is so bad, Noreen thought, being thrilled by the certain knowledge that a terrible act of violence was about to be perpetrated. He ’ad it comin’ she said to herself.

Really, it was like she was in that film, The Wrong Arm of the Law, that she had seen in Carney picture house last week. This little man was a crabby version of Peter Sellers. Well. That may be a stretch – but still – she was in London! It was all so exciting.

‘Lara’s having a party down the road,’ he said. ‘I can tell you where it is but like I said…’

‘You’ve got business to attend to.’

She said it gently. Mocking him a little, but in a kind, soft way.

Arthur beamed at her, which was actually a little terrifying. He then explained how to get to Lara’s new shop, That Girl, which was just a few doors down on the Kings Road.

He noted that Lara’s friend wasn’t exactly dressed for a party but she didn’t seem to mind. The suitcase meant she would be hanging around for a while, maybe staying with Lara in the flat upstairs. Arthur didn’t know if that was a bad or a good thing. As he watched her portly frame disappear down the Kings Road, he decided on the latter.