An uneven footstep approached.

‘Hello, our Dor,’ said a familiar voice.

Dora looked up. It was her sister, June, eyes alight with spiteful gratification.

‘What a fucking turn-up,’ said June with a satisfied smile, and sat down beside her.

64

‘What the hell do you want?’ asked Dora.

June shrugged. ‘Just to tell you that it was me who set Donny Maguire on you,’ she said.

‘What?’ Dora hadn’t expected that. She’d written to her mum giving her address at the pub, and she’d thought that dopey warm-hearted Freda had ignored the warnings of discretion in Dora’s letter and had instead been blabbing Dora’s location all around the town.

‘Yeah, it was me.’ June looked very pleased with herself. ‘I picked the post off the mat and gave it to Mum but I saw your writing on the back, and the address, and I passed the address on to Donny Maguire.’

Dora stared at her sister. She’d always known June hated her, but this time the stupid mare had actually put her in danger of her life. She could have died because June wanted to get one over on her.

‘Just Donny?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘Did you tell anyone else?’

‘Yeah, I did, as it happens. There was a big bloke with a scar hanging around when I came out of work, he was asking where you were too. Looked like he could cut up rough, so I told him and he went on his way, quite happy.’

‘You cow,’ said Dora.

So June had been responsible for bringing the wrath of Bruno down upon her head. She’d never forget that night, seeing him standing there in the doorway while she was trying to escape the choking smoke of the fire. He’d set it, and she should have died in it. It was pure luck that June had told Donny, too – because Donny had saved her.

Yeah, but saved you for what? she wondered.

Because . . . Donny was acting weird around her now. Sort of . . . like he owned her, almost. When they’d come back down to the Smoke with the baby, he’d taken her to a first-floor flat in a small block over Clacton way, saying it was a police safe place. She had nowhere else to stay, so what could she say to that? It seemed nice enough. Donny had arranged for a girl to come in and babysit Angel while Frank’s trial was under way. Donny had arranged everything. Buying Dora the new clothes she stood up in – which were all she had, now, after the fire. And he’d got

her some stuff for the baby, shopped for food, brought back newspapers that said Oliver Hardy was dead and myxomatosis was running wild in the country and that twelve thousand dock workers were out on strike. Like she wanted to know about any of that.

‘You calling me a cow? Talk about pot and kettle,’ said June, standing up, looking surly. ‘You’re the only cow around here, our Dora. Disgusting, the things you been getting up to. You’ve had the kid now, aintcha? Got back into your fancy clothes. Given the poor little mite away have you?’