and bra, then took a dress from the wardrobe. He’d heard they were wearing them short since he’d gone down, but this was ridiculous. Not only was it half-way up her thighs, but crocheted into the bargain so you could see through it like the tablecloth Aunty Mary had kept in the parlour when he was a kid.
She stood at the dressing table and started to brush her hair, perhaps the most womanly of all actions, and the Gunner felt strangely sad. He’d started off by fancying a bit of the usual and why not? He’d almost forgotten what it tasted like and the business with Doreen had certainly put him in the mood. But now, lying there in the loft with the rain falling, he felt like some snotty-nosed kid with his arse out of his pants, looking in at what he could never have and no one to blame but himself.
She tied her hair back with a velvet ribbon, crossed to the door and went out, switching off the light. The Gunner sighed and eased back slightly and below in the yard there was the scrape of a foot on stone.
Jenny Crowther was twenty-two years of age, a practical, hard-headed Yorkshire girl who had never visited London in her life, but in her crocheted minidress and dark stockings she would have passed in the West End without comment.
“Feeling better, love?” her grandmother enquired as she entered the room.
Jenny nodded, rubbing her hands as she approached the fire. “It’s nice to be dry.”
“Eh, Jenny love,” the old woman said. “I don’t know how you can wear yon dress. I can see your knickers.”
“You’re supposed to, Gran.” The old woman stared in blank amazement across a gulf that was exactly fifty years wide and the girl picked up the empty coal scuttle. “I’ll get some coal, then we’ll have a nice cup of tea.”
The coal was in a concrete bunker to the left of the front door and when she opened it, light flooded across the yard, outlining her thighs clearly through the crocheted dress as she paused, looking at the rain. She took an old raincoat from a peg, hitched it over her shoulders, went down the steps and lifted the iron trap at the base of the coal bunker. There was no sound and yet she turned, aware from some strange sixth sense of the danger that threatened her. She caught a brief glimpse of a dark shape, the vague blur of a face beneath a rain hat, and then great hands had her by the throat.
The Gunner went over the edge of the platform, hung for a moment at the end of the block and tackle, then dropped to the cobbles. He moved in fast, smashing a fist into the general area of the other man’s kidneys when he got close enough. It was like hitting a rock wall. The man flung the girl away from him and turned. For a moment, the Gunner saw the face clearly, lips drawn back in a snarl. An arm swept sideways with amazing speed, bunched knuckles catching him on the side of the head, sending him back against one of the trucks. The Gunner went down on one knee and the girl’s attacker went past him in a rush. The judas banged and the man’s running steps faded along the back street.
As the Gunner got to his feet, Ma Crowther called from the doorway, “Make another move and I’ll blow your head off.”
She was holding a double-barrelled shotgun, the barrels of which had been sawn down to nine inches in length, transforming it into one of the most dangerous and vicious weapons in the book.
Jenny Crowther moved away from the wall, a hand to her throat and shook her head. “Not him, Gran. I don’t know where he came from, but it was a good job he was around.”
The Gunner was impressed. Any other bird he’d ever known, even the really hard knocks, would have been on their backs after an experience like that, but not this one.
“Which mob were you in then, the Guards?” he demanded.
The girl turned to look at him, grinning instantly and something was between them at once, unseen perhaps, but almost physical in its strength. Like meeting like, with instantaneous
She stood at the dressing table and started to brush her hair, perhaps the most womanly of all actions, and the Gunner felt strangely sad. He’d started off by fancying a bit of the usual and why not? He’d almost forgotten what it tasted like and the business with Doreen had certainly put him in the mood. But now, lying there in the loft with the rain falling, he felt like some snotty-nosed kid with his arse out of his pants, looking in at what he could never have and no one to blame but himself.
She tied her hair back with a velvet ribbon, crossed to the door and went out, switching off the light. The Gunner sighed and eased back slightly and below in the yard there was the scrape of a foot on stone.
Jenny Crowther was twenty-two years of age, a practical, hard-headed Yorkshire girl who had never visited London in her life, but in her crocheted minidress and dark stockings she would have passed in the West End without comment.
“Feeling better, love?” her grandmother enquired as she entered the room.
Jenny nodded, rubbing her hands as she approached the fire. “It’s nice to be dry.”
“Eh, Jenny love,” the old woman said. “I don’t know how you can wear yon dress. I can see your knickers.”
“You’re supposed to, Gran.” The old woman stared in blank amazement across a gulf that was exactly fifty years wide and the girl picked up the empty coal scuttle. “I’ll get some coal, then we’ll have a nice cup of tea.”
The coal was in a concrete bunker to the left of the front door and when she opened it, light flooded across the yard, outlining her thighs clearly through the crocheted dress as she paused, looking at the rain. She took an old raincoat from a peg, hitched it over her shoulders, went down the steps and lifted the iron trap at the base of the coal bunker. There was no sound and yet she turned, aware from some strange sixth sense of the danger that threatened her. She caught a brief glimpse of a dark shape, the vague blur of a face beneath a rain hat, and then great hands had her by the throat.
The Gunner went over the edge of the platform, hung for a moment at the end of the block and tackle, then dropped to the cobbles. He moved in fast, smashing a fist into the general area of the other man’s kidneys when he got close enough. It was like hitting a rock wall. The man flung the girl away from him and turned. For a moment, the Gunner saw the face clearly, lips drawn back in a snarl. An arm swept sideways with amazing speed, bunched knuckles catching him on the side of the head, sending him back against one of the trucks. The Gunner went down on one knee and the girl’s attacker went past him in a rush. The judas banged and the man’s running steps faded along the back street.
As the Gunner got to his feet, Ma Crowther called from the doorway, “Make another move and I’ll blow your head off.”
She was holding a double-barrelled shotgun, the barrels of which had been sawn down to nine inches in length, transforming it into one of the most dangerous and vicious weapons in the book.
Jenny Crowther moved away from the wall, a hand to her throat and shook her head. “Not him, Gran. I don’t know where he came from, but it was a good job he was around.”
The Gunner was impressed. Any other bird he’d ever known, even the really hard knocks, would have been on their backs after an experience like that, but not this one.
“Which mob were you in then, the Guards?” he demanded.
The girl turned to look at him, grinning instantly and something was between them at once, unseen perhaps, but almost physical in its strength. Like meeting like, with instantaneous
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