Christmas Child: an absolutely heartbreaking and emotional Victorian romance by Carol Rivers (i wanna iguana read aloud .txt) 📗

He wasn't going to cough up a penny owing to the amount of booze she had thrown down her gob in the last two hours.

He squinted at the face before him, grotesque in the blackout, all caked make-up and smudged lipstick. Her cheap perfume now filled him with disgust. She saw his expression and laughed in his face.

He gripped her jaw hard. 'Spread your legs woman, or I'll do it for you.'

'Not out here,' she refused stubbornly. 'Them bombers'll be back soon.'

He loosened his buttons. 'Sod the bombers, you cow. Now hold still and damn the bloody raid.' He pulled up her skirt and forced himself between her legs. He entered her roughly and she stilled at once, as he knew she would, eager for him to finish his short, sharp thrusts. He placed his hands on the wet wall and groaned aloud at the disappointment of it all.

'Pay up, you bugger,' she demanded as she rearranged her clothes.

'Pay you?' A soft mist curled over the cobbles as he pushed her away. 'You've drunk me bloody dry, you witch.' He kicked her hard and she fell on the cobbles.

She was still cursing as he staggered away. He felt no sympathy for a woman daft enough to work the docks alone. Consoling himself for the unsatisfying encounter, he pulled up the collar of his jacket and strode into the high street.

A long walk back to Bow Street … but he intended to give Mary Doyle another chance. She'd been a nice little earner and he liked his life of leisure. He had managed to avoid enlistment with a little dodging and weaving, but the drawback was her kids, although the girl was growing up fast and would make him a few bob on the docks. Jack grinned lustily as he turned into Bow Street.

He'd have Mary on her knees and begging him to stay. Nine days away from her nagging had shown he didn't care. The whore would welcome him with open arms.

Mary Doyle sat in front of a cracked mirror dressed in a black silk blouse and tight green skirt. Her hair fell loosely on her white skin and the look in her eye told him she was far from pleased at his arrival. Jack also noted she was not on her knees, at least, not to him.

'What's going on?' he demanded as he slammed the door behind him. He looked suspiciously around expecting to find a punter. So she'd been doing trade behind his back had she, the bitch?

'Would you listen to him?' Her smoke-roughened voice was deriding as she glared at him. 'The galloping great eejit returns!'

He strode towards her and grabbed her arm. 'Where is he? Where's the devil hiding?'

She looked at him and laughed. 'The only devil in this room is right before me eyes.'

'Cough up, you lying bitch!'

She shrugged carelessly. 'I wouldn't waste me breath on you, Jack Router. Just look at the state of you.' She shook her arm free, her voice scathing. 'As far as I'm concerned your bitches can have you. Rita warned me you was a conniving, scheming bastard and so by Jesus, you are too.'

It was a reflex action. An instinctive blow that lifted her off her feet and across the bed. A blow that would have felled any man and Jack was more than surprised to find her still moving. He hit her again and again and kept on punching as she covered her face with her arms. When his hand was sore with the effort, he tore away her blouse. 'Mary Doyle, you think yourself so fine. Well, from now on changes are going to be made.' He felt a swell of desire at the sight of her huge breasts. 'Boot me out, would you? We'll see about that.' He squeezed her neck and her eyes bulged from their sockets.

'You hear me, Mary, you hear what I'm saying? You'll never toss off a punter again without paying me a cut.'

He was laughing at this thought when suddenly his head jerked back. It was an odd sensation, one he had never experienced before. He seemed to be going backwards and wondered if the drink had finally got to him. But he hadn't had that much. The brass had cleaned him out today and he'd had to curb his thirst. Then he felt an excruciating pain, a grip of iron around his neck. The pain intensified and his arms were impaled to the wall. A series of blows to his kidneys and a crunch on his face.

A figure was dancing in front of him. Or was it two? He blinked before trying a swipe, but was flung back on the wall again. His legs buckled. The taste of his own blood was in his mouth.

The last thing he remembered was begging them to stop. But he knew as sure as a tart was a tart he was a goner as the dull drum of planes overhead outweighed his screams.

Bella held Terry against her, listening to the beat of the planes as they drowned the gurgling screams inside the cottage. Ronnie had told them to stay outside until the business was finished. The sky was glowing pink over the houses and smoke filled the night air.

When Ronnie and Micky appeared again the man hung between them, arms outstretched over their shoulders as though he'd been crucified, like the figure of Jesus that Bella had seen on the broken cross in Mary's room.

'Look after your mum,' Ronnie told her jerking his head toward the cottage.

'What's he done to her?' Bella asked nervously.

'Nothing you've not seen before, kid.'

'I told you, I'm not a kid.'

'No, you're not any more,' Ronnie agreed, dragging the man into the road.

'Where you taking him?' she called, scrambling to her feet.

'For a walk. A long one.'

'Is he coming back?' Bella's eyes went wide in the hope she'd never see Jack Router again.

'Go on in now,' was the only reply she was given, so she watched them leave, listening