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CHAPTER ONE: RED RIGHT HAND 1919
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THE AIR WAS THICK with smoke and fog the morning Helen's brother died. Helen remembered it well; the pungent taste of ash on her tongue, clogging up her lungs, heart, mind. For a staggering moment, she felt like she was dreaming, as if the piece of paper crumpled in her fist was merely a figment of her imagination, her nightmares. But as Helen also knew, dreams were a concept created on false hope and promises. This was no dream, but a cruel version of reality.
Frank Mavis had been dead for a month. Really, the smoke and fog had nothing to do with it. After a series of delays with the post, Helen was only just finding out. His funeral took place on the 12th of March, Florence's letter had informed her. Florence had hoped for her to be there, to support herself and the children... Through a small huff of amusement and cigarette smoke, Helen caught a glimpse of the calendar that hung behind her kitchen door.
April 7th.
"Thanks for nothing, Florence," she muttered into the emptiness of her house. She didn't hesitate to burn the note, watching as the flames curled at the paper edges until the scrawl of death and tear stains of heartache were illegible.
Really, deep down, she knew Florence wasn't the one to blame. Helen had only met her brother's wife three times in the several years they were married. The first occasion just so happened to be when Helen turned seventeen. Frank brought along a date to the celebrations, a girl he'd met in the next town over.
We're engaged, he had informed his family not five minutes into her special night.
For that, it came as no surprise to Helen when, nine months later, she accompanied Frank to the hospital to meet her first-born nephew. That was the third time she met Florence, and the last, for the second was, of course, their wedding and now that Frank was gone, Helen had no reason to ever see the woman again.
For a crippling instant, tears pricked behind her eyes. She was quick to blink them away, staring into the heat of the flames until she was sure she'd smothered down her sobs. Then she turned away, steady hands pouring a jug of water into the fireplace. Yet another plume of smoke rose through the chimney, creating a darkening cloud above the tiny corner home on Watery Lane. Helen watched it as she stepped out onto the street, instinctively peering down the road to where a line of men waited to be let into the infamous Shelby Betting Den. She hastily averted her eyes when the door swung open, clutching the soft fur folds of her coat as she headed for the one place she knew would provide a distraction to her sorrows.
"Mornin', Miss Mavis," Harry Fenton greeted from behind the Garrison bar. It was reasonably busy that morning, a group of men including Freddie Thorne were sitting over in the corner by the door. Freddie nodded at Helen once, smirking when she looked away from him and back towards Harry. He had a dishcloth in one hand, a glass with beer dregs in the other. Helen smiled at him.
