You might not feel it now
But when the pain cuts through
You're going to know and how
The sweat is going to fill your head
When it becomes too much
You'll shout aloud
'George?'
'George?'
'Mmphff...'
'George?' I try again, giving him a gentle prod with my elbow.
'What?' he mumbles into my hair, still asleep.
'Turn over. I need to lie on my back.'
George exhales deeply and doesn't move for a moment, then he slackens his grip around my middle. He's holding me higher up than he would normally because of the girth of the bump. His arm brushes against my breasts accidentally as he retracts it, which isn't surprising - they are bigger as well, to match. George rolls onto his back with a groan and appears to slip back into sleep immediately.
I roll over too, wincing at the tender ache in my lower back, caused by lying in one position for so long. I lift my hips to arch my spine, but it doesn't help much. I should get up, start getting dressed - that also takes me quite a while at the moment - but I think I will have to lie here and wait for the pain to pass first.
I turn my head. George lies on the pillow next to me. It's still early. The dull grey light of a winter's dawn comes from the gaps in the blinds at the window, just enough to see him by; perfectly still, asleep, with his shaggy chestnut hair - actually reasonably short for a Beatle currently - covering his eyes. I want to lean over and touch him, brush his hair off his face, feel his soft skin under my fingertips, but I don't.
We didn't share the bed after the kiss, after the day I packed to go to Minnie's and George asked me to stay. For a few nights, George slept on the sofa, without discussion or complaint.
The Beatles worked last weekend, trying to finish the film. They lost a few days when George walked out and I think everyone wants to put the whole thing behind them as soon as possible now. Minnie's party was on the Saturday, two days before her actual birthday. I couldn't find her before we left. I don't know where she went after she screamed at that poor girl.
George and I got a taxi back from Cotchford Farm. George had originally planned to drive, but he'd drunk a bit too much and I think after the scene Minnie caused he was past caring if a taxi driver saw him going home with a heavily pregnant girl.
When we got home, he simply followed me into the bedroom, got undressed and climbed into bed with me. I should have protested, I suppose, but I didn't. I've missed him. Missed his presence, reassuring and warm and safe. I sleep better with George next to me. And it wasn't like before. He didn't lie with his back to me, pretending I wasn't there. George pulled the covers over us both and lay close behind me, snaking his arm around my now non-existent waist, like he used to in the days when we were lovers, holding me tightly.
'I'm sorry,' George whispered in the dark.
I assumed he meant for getting into bed with me, for unthinkingly snuggling up to me and holding me, but he didn't move.
'It's okay,' I whispered back. 'Stay here tonight if you want to. I don't mind. You don't have to sleep on the sofa.'
George didn't reply. A couple of minutes passed. I waited for his breathing to become deeper as he fell asleep. I didn't want to go to sleep yet. I wanted to savour being this close to him for a little longer, even though I know it didn't mean anything, he was drunk and tired, it wasn't significant, but I still wanted it.
'No. I'm sorry for the girl,' George said, suddenly, louder.
'The... girl?'
'The one in the green dress. I can't remember her name. The girl Minnie attacked. She twisted her ankle, you know, when Minnie nearly pulled her over.'
'Oh,' I replied. 'I'm sorry for her too then. Minnie was only standing up for me. She gets a bit... over protective sometimes. She'll be okay, though, won't she? The girl? Her ankle will be better in a few days?'
George is silent again for a moment, then he sits up behind me, resting his weight on his hand. 'No, you twit,' he said, and pulled me over so I lay on my back, facing him. 'I'm apologising to you for the girl. It wasn't what it might have looked like. I was just talking to her, and... alright, there might have been a bit of flirting, but that's as far as it was going. I wasn't about to kiss her or take her upstairs or anything.'
'Oh,' I said, surprised and sounding a bit strangled. 'Okay then.'
'It's true,' George said, earnestly. 'I didn't mean to upset you. I just wasn't thinking. I was... I didn't know where you'd gone and... Well, anyway, I'm sorry.'
'It's nothing to do with me, is it?' I said. 'It's none of my business what you... do... with anyone.'
'Yes, it is,' George says, gently. 'You know it is. You've been honest with me, and if Paul's face was anything to go by - everyone else too - so I can at least be honest with you as well.'
The bedroom is dark but I can see George's face by the light invading through the cracks in the slats of the blind at the window.
'I still love you too, Hannah...'
I could already hear it in his voice, the But...
'I will always love you,' he continued. 'And I will look after you and look after our baby too, I swear that. You don't have to worry about money or... or anything, ever again... But--'
I was expecting it and it still cut like a razor blade.
'...But when you...'
'I know,' I said, quietly. 'I understand, George. You don't have to explain.'
He sighed. 'I can't keep going round in circles with you. If we... What if we did try again? How long would it be for this time? Before something happened? Before you pull away from me again? I... I just don't know if... if I want to keep going through that.'
'No,' I said, plainly. 'I understand.'
George moved up the bed, closer to me. 'I don't know if we should get back together,' he said and gingerly put his hand on my shoulder, stroking my skin with his thumb. 'But...' He smiled in the dark and moved to wipe a tear from my cheek that I hadn't even notice fall. 'But I am not going to do anything which would definitely mean there isn't a chance for us get back together.'
'What?' I asked, confused.
'I'm not looking for anyone else. No new girlfriend. I haven't been with anyone else. I haven't and I won't.'
I swallowed. There was a rock-like lump in my throat choking me. I turned my head away from him.
'I promise,' George said, leaning over me, mistaking my reaction for disbelief. 'It's true, Han. I haven't.'
'Okay,' I whispered.
'Hannah,' George tried again, not satisfied. 'Please...'
'It's fine, George,' I replied, shortly. 'I said I understand, didn't I?'
'I know I go out a lot, but it's not to do that. It's to... have a break. Get some perspective. Drown my sorrows.' He smiled, hopefully. 'I think I need to cut down on all that too.'
I gave a slight nod. 'Let's just go to sleep then.'
'And the other night, when I didn't come home. I wasn't with anyone then, either. Well, I was, but it was Ringo.' He pauses like he expects me to laugh or say something. I close my eyes. 'I ran into Ringo, in that new club in Soho. Talked his ear off about how I'd kissed you and then... Well, that's where I was. With Ringo. No one else. You can ask him if you like.'
'No, it's alright. I believe you.'
He stays still for a moment longer, then I feel him lie down in the bed again, behind me.
'Han, I'm sorry,' George says, plaintively, as if I'm angry with him for something. He reaches and places his hand on my side. 'I just... need time, I suppose... I--'
'George, I understand,' I snapped and shrugged him off. 'I don't want to talk about it.'
'All I mean is...' His voice trails away and neither of us move for a moment, then he moves closer to me, putting his arm around me properly, tighter than before. 'Don't give up on me, Han.'
*
So what does that mean? Don't give up. What does he want me to do? Anything? Or just to wait until he's worked out whether he can stand to be near me anymore or not?
Because that is what I think it as the bottom of this. I told him everything and now he thinks the same about me as I do myself. I expected a reaction, something along these lines, but I thought he would want to get as far away from me as possible, not that he'd want to keep me here with him.
I don't know what to do. I can't go on like this. I usually try not to think about the past, about what we were supposed to leave behind, and what followed us anyway. I don't regret telling him, but maybe it was unfair to him. He speaks differently to me now. He treats me differently. I don't know if anything will ever be the same. I need to know what he's thinking, but every time I think he's going to bring it up, it's too horrible to hear and I run away. I can't help myself. I just don't want George, of everyone, to say that to me.
Maybe I should just ask him. I will have to do eventually.
But not today. Today is not the right time.
'I can feel you watching me,' George says, a wide smile breaking across his face. He opens his eyes, looking at me sideways. 'Go back to sleep for a while.'
'I can't. I have to get up.'
He closes his eyes again and shuffles down under the covers. 'Then get up, and let me sleep,' he says, cheekily.
'I will in a minute. My back hurts.'
George opens his eyes again. 'Are you okay?'
'Yes. Just comes and goes a bit. It's from lying in one position for so long. And from being pregnant. I can't wait until it's over now.'
George smiles. 'Want me to rub your back for you?'
'It's okay.'
'Turn over,' he says, waving his hand.
I do as he asks and with another tired moan, George raises himself up and massages my back for me for a minutes. I don't know exactly what he does, but it works. The pain fades.
'Thank you,' I tell him.
'All part of the service,' George says, yawning as he lies down again. 'What time is it?'
I check the clock next to my side of the bed. 'Half past eight.'
'Another four or five hours kip then.' He rearranges his pillow.
'No, sorry,' I tell him. 'You can't sleep in today. The midwife is visiting this morning.'
'What time?'
'Uh... ten. I think.'
'That's ages away.' George folds his arms over his chest and closes his eyes, intending to go back to sleep.
'You don't want her to catch you here though, do you?'
'I'm not bothered. She's not coming to see me.'
'Don't you have to be at the studios early today too?'
He sighs and opens his eyes again. 'Yes,' he says, gruffly. 'Thanks for reminding me.'
I smile. 'I'm sure you'll be fine. It's like riding a horse.'
'It's not a question of that. And the phrase is riding a bike. You never forget how to ride a bike. Horses can run off with you, rear up and chuck you off or do whatever the hell else they like.'
Yesterday the Beatles decided they would perform a short concert on the roof of the Apple building. It'll be recorded and serve as the finale of the Get Back film. George isn't mad about the idea, but as he was so insistent they shelved any notions of tours or playing to a live audience, he couldn't really argue his way out of it. They need a suitable ending, and this will mean it's more or less finished, which I think they'll all be relieved about.
I push myself up carefully and swing my legs over the side of the bed. 'You must be a little bit excited about it?' I ask, looking over my shoulder at him. 'You haven't played live in years.'
'Excited is not the word,' George says, flatly, and sits up, the covers dropping down to his waist, leaving him barechested.
George doesn't wear pyjamas or anything to sleep in, unless he's away from home. He prefers to sleep in just his boxer shorts, or when we were having the affair, often he'd sleep in nothing at all. I liked sleeping like that too. The feel of his naked skin on mine as he held me, limbs entwined together, listening to the steady beat of his heart when I rested my head on his chest. Again, I feel an urge to move over to him, kiss him, run my hands over his chest and then down, under the covers, reaching for his...
I blink and turn away as I feel a blush rise on my cheeks. I'm glad he can't hear the thoughts in my head. Even if things weren't as they are, I doubt sex would be very practical, or even possible, at the moment.
'I bet you'll feel differently when you actually do it,' I say, offhandedly, standing up. 'I always liked performing live, for proper audiences. It wasn't ever quite the same at Esmeralda's Barn. Everyone was eating and drinking, talking to their friends. They didn't really pay attention to the shows.'
'You come and do it instead then.'
I give him a thin, sardonic smile and go to fetch my teal cord dress from the back of the bedroom chair.
'You could come,' George says, his eyes following me. 'Come and watch. The others will be there too.'
'Who are the others?'
'Maureen and Yoko. Maybe Linda.'
'I can't, though, can I?' I say, gesturing to the bump.
'Well, never mind that. Everyone knows about the baby, and the film's nearly done. We'll announce it properly next week.'
'Next week?' I ask, apprehensively.
He nods. George has been promising this for a while, but somehow it still feels unlikely that it's going to happen. I just can't imagine it. Everything will be out. Everyone will know. No more denial of the baby's existence. No more being cooped up in the flat all day. No more having to keep my distance from George in public.
'I can't, anyway. I have the midwife coming, remember?' I move towards the bedroom door, taking my clothes with me to get dressed in the bathroom.
'We're not doing it 'til lunchtime. About twelve. So the people who work in offices around there can come out and watch it. You'll be finished by then, won't you? She won't be here for two hours.'
Oh no. I stop as I reach the door and turn back to him. 'I can't, George.'
He twists his mouth in annoyance. 'Right, okay. Forget it then.'
'Any other time would be fine.'
'We won't be playing on the roof any other time,' he says, testily.
'I'm sorry.'
'It's not important.' He lies down in the bed again, on his side, putting his back to me and pulling the covers up to his neck.
'Once the baby is born, I promise, I will go to anything you want me to, I'll do anything you want--'
George makes a contemptuous harumpfh noise.
'If... If I'm finished in time, I'll come down then, but I don't know if...'
'Don't bother if you don't want to.'
'It's not that. I'd love to see you play but... Please don't be angry.'
George softens and twists his neck to look at me. 'I'm not,' he says, plainly. He sits up again and pats the space on the bed next to him. I really do need to start getting ready or I'll be too late, but I cross and sit on the side of the bed again. George turns over so he's facing me.
'I'm sorry,' he says, softly and absently reaches to stroke his hand over the bump.
He does that quite often, without thinking and without warning usually. I don't mind though. It's his baby inside there. I think it's when he's reminding himself that it's real, it's happening, and it'll be here soon. George hasn't had very long to get used to the idea of being a father.
'I don't mean to keep taking it out on you,' he says, apologetically. 'Once this bloody film is finished, things will be easier. I... I would like it, if you'd come today though. Couldn't you rearrange the midwife?'
'I wish I could,' I say, sincerely, pained. 'I'll come if I can. If I can get there in time, I will.'
George gives me a thin smile and withdraws his hand. Then he leans his head forward, towards me and for a second I think he's going to kiss me on the lips, but instead he moves and kisses the top of my head.
'Now it's nearly done, and we're gonna tell the world about the baby, I think we should have a talk too,' he says, uncharacteristically serious. 'About what we're gonna do when it gets here.'
I nod. But not now, I add in my head. Not now, because I have to go. 'Okay. Tonight?' I say, standing up again.
'And,' George adds as he sits back against the bed's headboard. 'About us too.'
I stop. 'Us?'
'We can't go on like this, can we? Living in... limbo. Neither one thing nor the other.'
I blink at him. 'The midwife is coming. I have to get dressed,' I say hurriedly, turning away from him.
'Hannah--'
'Tonight. We'll talk tonight,' I say, firmly, not looking back as I close the bedroom door behind me.
*
No one ever tells me anything.
They think by keeping it all secret from me that they're protecting me, but they're not. They're putting me at risk. Ricky didn't tell me who the Krays were and what they did. Ricky didn't even tell me what his own family did. Still do, I imagine. But not knowing put me in danger. I walked in on things, not least of all, Joey's murder. Lack of knowledge can be dangerous.
I've always been a reader. Reading is knowledge. I read a lot while I was away, but I avoided newspapers - anything that might have mentioned things to do with my life back here - but I see now, I should have done the opposite. Since I've returned, I've read as much as I could find - on the Krays, on what they've been accused of, on Bobby and his brother's court case too, although the information on that was scarce.
I've been to libraries to read old newspapers. Joey was right, the papers were afraid to report what crimes and dealings the Krays had. Instead, they're full of stories about how generous the twins were to charity, work they did in the local community and what fabulous nights they hosted at Esmeralda's Barn and their other clubs. Anyone would think they were heroes, not villains. They left out so much. It's all coming to light now though, now they've been arrested; the crimes, the 'disappeared' people, the bribes and the bent coppers.
I found the article about Joey and politician too. It mentions the Lord - Lord Bootham, and Ronnie Kray but it doesn't name Joey. He's referred to as the 'young man involved' most often, and occasionally by less polite terms. As Joey said, no picture was ever published. It's written in a sensationalist and scandalised manner, designed to sell papers. It suggests Ronnie Kray might have been trying to buy influence in parliament by hosting these 'men's parties'. Booze, drugs and boys.
In a way, it's trivial, sensation without substance, but this is the newspaper story that planted the seed of suspicion in Ronnie Kray's mind. Joey gave journalists information about me and George, about my sister and my father. He told me he wasn't the one who gave that story - the Lord and Ronnie Kray - to the papers, but I could believe that he did. And for that reason, Ronnie thought it was Joey passing information to the police, but it wasn't. That wasn't Joey.
Court one at the Old Bailey will host the Kray Twin's trial. Although they are charged with one count of murder each, of different victims, they are to be tried together.
I've read Bobby's letter so many times now, I know it off by heart. I still keep the paperback copy of Paradise Lost in the large patch pockets of my parka.
...distance yourself from me. Do not come and see me. Do not write, do not even admit you know me...
He didn't specifically say not to come to the trial, but I don't think he'd be very happy to know I am here.
He won't even know. I'll sit in the public gallery to watch and then slip away again. I've read everything I can find. Now I want to hear the truth, the entire truth, straight from the horse's mouth.
I thought George was never going to leave this morning. He was dragging his feet, not wanting to go, and I felt so bad refusing to go to the studios with him. I don't need to watch the whole thing today. If the important part is over early enough, I could try to get to Savile Row in time. I didn't tell George I was coming here. I'm not lying to him about it - I just haven't told him. If he asks where I've been today, I will tell him the truth. It still makes me uneasy though. I resolve to tell him everything when he gets home tonight, when we have the talk.
I rushed out as soon as George's car had disappeared down the road, but I was still late arriving. There was already a large queue for the public gallery. When I finally reached the front, it was nearly full. I just managed to get in before they closed the doors on it, disappointing quite a few others who'd arrived after me.
The public gallery is high up, overlooking the court below. The courtroom is smaller than I imagined it would be. Dark mahogany and walnut wood is everywhere; covering the walls, the floors, the partitions between the defendants and witness boxes. I push my way through towards the front so I can see. I'm so huge now, most people move out of my way without much protest.
When I reach the front, I have to stop and put both hands on my hips as pain, which has been rising through my lower back and around my stomach, intensifies. It's an odd pain. It's like a period pain but stronger. I've been having them since last night. They come and go. I thought it was just because of how I was lying in bed, but they've continued all morning. Yesterday, I had a bad stomach, although I'm not sure that's the correct description. It didn't hurt, I didn't feel sick, but the muscles in my abdomen kept feeling tight and uncomfortable. It's true that the midwife was supposed to visit me at the flat today. I called her and asked her to come tomorrow instead. I hope that wasn't the wrong thing to do.
This pain is stronger than the previous ones. Maybe it's cramp? It might be because I've been on my feet for so long. I screw my eyes up against it and hiss through my teeth until it starts to abate. When I open my eyes again, a man, a journalist I think, sitting on the end of a row of seats next to me, is staring at me.
'Are you alright?' he asks. He clutches a notepad and pen. I study his face, checking if he knows who I am - the woman George Harrison had an affair with, pregnant and attending the Kray twin's trial - but there's nothing there. No spark of recognition.
'Yes, I'm fine,' I reply, with a smile. 'Just back pain.'
'Would you like to sit here?'
I accept gratefully and we shuffle around in the limited space so I can sit in his chair. I could have done with going to the bathroom before we start but if I leave now, I don't know if I'll get back in. I must have already been ten times this morning anyway. It's the bump doing it. He's becoming so large, he presses on my bladder and makes me run to the loo all day long.
'You'll have to hold on,' I whisper to the bump, and the man who has just vacated his seat for me gives me a look like he thinks I'm crazy, then follows it with a weak, sympathetic smile. I smile back at him again. Another two or three weeks and this pregnancy business should be over. I can't wait for it being finished with.
I sit and wait. The trial is due to start at ten. It's quarter to now. I'm tired. I haven't slept very well for the last couple of nights, even with George there. Lying down soon becomes uncomfortable. I can't find a position to sit in for any length of time either. I keep George awake too, shuffling and turning in bed. The bump seems to have moved, somehow. It means I can't walk fast or all that easily. I had to walk all the way from St. Paul's tube station to here. No wonder my back hurts.
Shortly before ten, everyone starts filing into the court below and the public gallery falls silent. The Krays sit with their barristers, not in the dock, like I expected. They look as bold, confident and self assured as they always did. They're dressed immaculately in sharply tailored three piece suits, crisp white shirts and square end, skinny ties. Everything matching, of course. But their smart clothes can't hide what they really are.
I think of poor Frances. I wish she was still alive to see this. If they're found guilty, then she would have been free, wouldn't she? Not only of her husband, but from his odious brother too.
Ronnie sits with his elbows on the table, chatting and laughing with someone. He guffaws, like a braying donkey. Meanwhile, Reggie rocks back in his chair balancing on it's back legs as he talks to someone sitting behind them. A thin, tall man in a pinstripe suit. One of their team of lawyers. They have a whole team of them. They speak for a few minutes, then Reggie claps his hands together, laughing raucously too.
They don't look like people about to facing life sentences. They look like they haven't a care in the world.
That thought makes my blood run cold. They can't be expecting to get off, can they?
It's not Joey's murder they're standing trial for today, but the two separate murders of men I haven't heard of before. I hoped, however, that seeing them get sent down might go someway to assuaging the guilt I feel about Joey, and the helplessness that I can't do anything to change what happened or get justice for him. If they're cleared, instead, I don't know what I will do. Will I need to leave London again?
The jury arrives, everyone stands for the judge and finally the trial starts properly. As soon as it does, the Kray's fan club, their friends and family who occupy eight or nine seats on the front couple of rows of the gallery, start to jeer and heckle. The judge has to threaten to have them removed if they don't stop interrupting. Among them are the twins mother, Violet, and Aunt Rose, dressed in smart skirt suits, silver bouffant hair piled high on their heads and handbags clutched tightly on their laps. I recognise them from a couple of occasions they came to watch me sing at Esmeralda's and they came backstage to meet me. They were nice, jolly, chatty women then, but they look hard-faced and stern today.
I turn my head away and put my hand up to shield my face, hoping they won't notice or recognise me. Maybe this was a bad idea.
At first, everything is painfully slow. A lot of statements are read out and the two sides - prosecution and defence - make opening speeches. It's at least an hour before they start with any witnesses. There are a couple of quick witnesses first and then finally, what I am here for.
'The prosecution calls Robert Teale.'
Bobby walks in and for a moment, again, I fail to recognise him. With the exception of the time I visited him in Maidstone prison, I don't think I've ever seen him dressed in at least a shirt, tie and tailored trousers, but today he is dressed down, casual almost, in a brown suede jacket which is slightly big on his lithe frame, a knitted polo shirt and dark brown trousers. It's odd. Everyone else here, from the court reporters to the defendants are dressed formally; suits and ties and shiny, black leather shoes.
He doesn't look like himself, and then I realise, that's the point. He doesn't look like the others. He doesn't look like a gangster. He's setting himself apart from them.
They confirm who Bobby is and swear him in, then he takes a seat and the questioning starts.
The prosecution goes first. Bobby explains how he met Ronnie and Reggie - the same story as he told me when I visited him at the prison - and what had happened on the night of the first murder, a man named George Cornell had been killed. Bobby hadn't been there, but Reggie had called him up to go and collect them.
'And what happened when you arrived?' the prosecution barrister asks.
'Reggie got into the car with me and Alfie and David, and said, "Come on, kid, we've got to get off the manor,"' Bobby replies. He leans forward to the microphone each time he answers, then sits back.
'What does that mean?'
'We've got to get away. So we drove off and then Alfie asked Reg what the matter was. Reggie said, "Ronnie has just shot Cornell."'
'Did you know who Cornell was?'
'No, not at that time. But Reg explained he was some face who'd been working for the Richardson's gang from South London.'
'Face?'
'A gangster.'
'And what had he done to offend so badly?'
'I'd heard he'd beat Ronnie in a fight once, but I don't know if that's true. He's also supposed to have been mouthing off about the Krays, calling them names, calling Ronnie a "fat poof."'
'Did you ever hear Ronnie admit to killing Cornell?'
'Yes. When someone said Cornell had been rushed to hospital, Ronnie said he hoped he was was dead, and that dead men can't speak. Always shoot to kill.'
'Lies!' Ronnie erupted. A murmur went round the courtroom and the judge had to bang his gavel. It's not a lie, though. He said the same thing when Frank Heath shot Joey. Bobby just stares straight ahead, ignoring him.
After the prosecution it was the defence's turn. Their questions were harsh, trying to trip Bobby up, but he answered coolly and calmly.
'You are identified here as 'Mr B'? Why do you feel the need to conceal your identity? What are you trying to hide?' the defence barrister asks, accusingly.
Bobby shifts his weight and pauses before he answers. 'I'm not concealing anything, Sir. My name is Robert Teale.'
Without warning, a vicious pain starts in my back again and rapidly spreads round to my stomach and down to my legs. It takes my breath away. I have to lean forward and wrap my hands around the rail of the barrier in front of where we sit. A few people turn to look at me.
The man sitting next to me whispers, 'Are you alright, miss?'
I nod and smile as the pain fades away, almost as abruptly as it arrived. 'Yes,' I whisper back, and looking around I add, 'Sorry, sorry.'
I sit back, wondering if I should get up and leave, but I feel okay again now.
The prosecution has continued, questioning why and when Bobby had turned informant.
'Did you get any money for it?' the barrister asks.
'Not a penny. I didn't expect any,' Bobby replies, plainly.
One of the Krays snorts loudly. Another murmur goes around the room.
'Then what were you doing it for?' the barrister presses, disbelievingly.
'Because it was obvious to me that these people were running around like animals and because I happen to know that they were going to kill a number of people. Someone had to do something.'
'Is it not the fact that you did not make a statement to anyone about the supposed knowledge of yours until July 1968? Two years after the event? Why was that?'
'It would have put my family in jeopardy,' Bobby says, bowing his head slightly. 'Yes, well, it's obvious, isn't it? A man walks into a pub and shoots another man in cold blooded murder. Am I going to make a statement and wind up dead myself? Or get my family killed?'
Another pain, just as sharp as the last, rises through me again and this time I can't help stop myself from crying out. I instinctively cover the bump with my hands. Everyone looks around. Some people speak to me, but I can't catch their words. I'm consumed by the pain, ferocious and savage and acute. Someone touches me, putting their hand on my shoulder. I suck several deep breaths in through my nose, then slowly, the pain passes.
I straighten up and look round, smiling apologetically, and turn back to concentrate on the trial. I can feel my cheeks burning. As I look down at the court again, Bobby is staring up at me. He shakes his head at me, disapprovingly pressing his lips together.
'Going back to the time after the shooting,' the defence begins again.
'Sorry?' Bobby asks, turning back to him.
'Maybe you have somewhere more important to be?' the barrister asks, curtly.
Everyone turns around, searching for what Bobby was looking at, including the Krays. Up in the public gallery, their family are craning their necks. I try to lean back, out of view, but it's impossible, they've all seen me.
'It's just his tart, come to watch him lie,' Reggie says loudly to the room. 'That's not her husband's baby either, is it, Bobby?'
Bobby doesn't respond, the only thing he moves is his eyes, over to Reggie. Reggie smirks at him. I feel bizarrely hurt. I never had much of a relationship with Ronnie, but I thought Reggie liked me. He always spoke to me when I saw him. He was always kind to me. Before.
The defence continues questioning Bobby, but I can't take in what's being said properly. There's whispering around me too. I shouldn't have come here. I check the time on the courtroom wall. It's half past eleven. If I wait for a suitable break in the trial, I could leave and maybe make it to Savile Row in time to see George and the others play.
'After the shooting,' the defence says. 'You have told us that you communicated with Scotland Yard...'
Another pain. It doesn't come on so quickly this time, but grows and grows. It's the worst one yet. It lasts longer and it's absolutely excruciating. I nearly fall off my chair, as I wrap my arms around the bump and cry out, unable to bite it back.
'Could someone help her?' Bobby says, from the dock. 'Please? Help her!'
All at once everyone is on their feet. The courtroom becomes a rabble of noise; voices, shouting, chairs scraping on the floor and the judge banging his gavel to no avail. I can't speak. The pain surrounds me and I have to allow the people crowding around me to lift me up. Two men carry me from the viewing gallery between them. As they pull me up, I realise I feel wet, more than a little damp, between my legs. I daren't look down to confirm, I daren't reach to feel, in case it's blood. I know it's going to be blood.
As soon as the thought enters my mind, I start to panic.
I'm bawling as the two men set me down on a wooden bench in a corridor outside the courtroom. Sobbing desperately, partly from the pain still shuddering around my back and across my abdomen, but now more from shock and fear that I'm going to lose the baby. There's not even that long to go, I can't lose him now. It's so unfair. Everything I've been through, that I've put George and Minnie and everyone else through during the pregnancy and it will all be in vain. The baby is going to die anyway.
'Has anyone called an ambulance?' one of the men who carried me outside shouts, to no one in particular.
'Please,' I cry to him, trying to grab hold of his hand. 'Please help me. It's the baby--'
He stares at me, horrified and looks around again. 'Has anyone called an ambulance?! Please?!'
There's a lot of people crowding around. They followed me out here, reporters and photographers who were covering the trial. There's a couple of flashes of camera bulbs, but I barely acknowledge it.
'Can anyone help this woman?!' the man standing over me demands. I have my hand wrapped around his wrist. I realise I'm digging my nails into his flesh and release him. 'Is there a doctor in the house?!' he shouts.
'Ambulance is coming!' someone else shouts back.
Another pain grows, spreading through me. This time I don't hold back. I wail, like an animal, from the intense pain and more from the fear and dread. It's at least a full minute before it subsides this time.
The man is still stares at me, almost as terrified as I am.
'Help me, please,' I sob.
'I'm sorry, miss,' he says, gruffly. 'I'm not a doctor, I'm just a clerk.' With that, he starts to back away from me. He's swallowed up by the crowd milling around me in seconds.
A lot of people are crowded around, gawping at me, but no one seems to want to come too close. They don't want me to grab them like I did that man. They just want to watch, they don't want become involved. I look from face to face, but no one is willing to help me.
For a moment, I think I see someone I know. At the back of the crowd, I'm sure I see Frank Heath, raising his head, tipping his jaw towards me. I only get a glimpse of him before he turns away. He looks different - a dark stubble of a beard, hair freshly shawn military length short, but I think I'd know those cold, dark eyes anywhere. I stared into the same eyes when he was yelling at me in the backyard of the house in Golders Green, moments after he'd shot Joey. It was like staring into a deep, black abyss. I couldn't understand what he was saying, but I couldn't tear my eyes from his.
The shock of seeing him is enough to jar me from my panic for a few seconds and make me pause. He's gone. Was it him? Or did I imagine it? He's supposed to be in prison.
The pain in my back begins again. Rising, surrounding, demanding my attention, forcing any thoughts of Frank Heath from my mind. I wrap my arms around the bump as I groan. He feels hard, unnaturally hard.
'Someone, help me,' I cry, tears blurring my vision.
This is my fault, isn't it? I was wishing for the pregnancy to be over, saying I couldn't wait until it was finished with, and why? Just because it made my back ache to walk from the tube station to here. Because I can't join in at parties that I loathe anyway. Because it was inconvenient.
I'm sorry, please be alright, I plead with the bump silently. Please don't die. Don't die now.
'It's okay, love,' a voice says next to me. 'Try and take deep breaths. It'll help with the pain.'
I blink, trying to focus on the source of the voice. Another man, with dark hair and hazel eyes. He wears a dark navy uniform with a peaked cap. The badge on his sleeve says 'Ambulance'. He sits down next to me on the bench, as casually as if we've met by chance in a park.
I grab for his hand, relieved when he lets me take it. 'Please, don't leave me,' I sob, desperately.
He laughs good-naturedly. 'Don't worry, love. I'm not going to.'
'Thank you,' I reply, and he laughs some more.
'Can you walk?' he asks.
'I... I don't think I can... It's the baby... I think it's the baby.'
'Yes, love. I know it is.'
'Help me, please.'
'We're going to,' he says calmly, and looks over his shoulder. 'We need the stretcher,' he says to another uniformed man that I didn't notice until now. 'She can't walk it.' He straightens up, trying to take his hand away from me. I yelp and hold on to him.
'I need to fetch the stretcher for you,' he says to me, patiently. 'Can I have my hand back?'
I shake my head. 'Please don't leave me.'
He wets his lips and sighs. 'Bill,' he says to his colleague. 'Can you get it on your own?'
It seems to take forever for us to navigate out of the building. Even when they're carrying me on the stretcher, people follow and crowd us, getting in the way. I have to let go of the ambulance man's hand when they take me out, but he reassures me he's still going to be here, I'm going to be alright. It's not me I'm worried about though. It's the baby that I need to hear will be alright. I haven't dared look down. If I see blood I'm going to collapse completely, and the pain keeps coming in waves.
They carry me into a white ambulance, waiting outside the Old Bailey. It looks like an old fashioned ice cream van with a red cross on the side. They put me onto a thin bunk inside and slam the doors. The ambulance men stay with me as the van starts to move, the siren wailing it's way through the center of London.
'What's your name, love?' the man asks me, after a couple of minutes.
'Ha... Hannah...' I manage to reply, tearfully.
'Hannah what?' the other ambulance man says, curtly, behind him.
The man turns away from me. 'Just check her purse for some ID.'
As he turns back to me, another pain spreads quickly from the base of my spine, intensifying through me, around my stomach. I put my hands on the bump and it feels hard, rock hard solid. The pain lasts longer again this time. I half-groan, half-cry, missing what the man says to me.
'Where does your husband work, Hannah?' he says, as eventually the pain subsides enough for me to focus on what he's saying.
I frown, confused. Why he asking me that? I don't know where Ricky is. 'Nowhere...' I reply, vaguely.
'Is there someone we can contact for you?' he clarifies.
I close my eyes. George, I think. I want George. If I lose the baby, will he ever forgive me? I won't forgive myself.
'My sister,' I say, opening my eyes again. My voice wavers. 'Minnie James, there's a... a...' Pain again, echoing through my body, but not as bad as the last one. 'Her phone number's in the book in my bag.'
He turns away to talk to his colleague. A few of minutes pass, and then the pain returns again, even more fierce than before. The man gives me his hand again and I squeeze it as hard as I can, grateful for this kind stranger.
'Don't worry, love, nearly there, then they'll give you some gas and air.'
'What's wrong?' I ask, desperately, when the pain fades. I can't see properly, my vision blurred by tears again. I blink hard. 'Please tell me. What's wrong with the baby?'
The man smiles. 'There's nothing wrong, love.'
'What is it then?' I ask, confused. 'It hurts. I think there's something wrong. Something's happened to the baby...'
'Everything is normal. You're fine.'
'No, it can't be...'
He frowns and puts my hand in both of his, leaning down to me. 'Don't you know what's happening?' he says. 'You're in labour, darlin'. The baby's coming.'