by Martina Cole
Now she would have to go back to the wine bar, make her apologies by ordering the most expensive wines and murmuring a few noises that sounded contrite, and then it would all be over and she could get back to normal.
No way would she be barred, they wouldn’t dare, but she felt she should make all the appropriate moves for appearance’s sake. That was the upside to being married to Nick Leary: no matter what she said or did it was quickly forgiven. Nick’s name got her whatever she wanted, and a lot of the time whoever she wanted.
She would go out looking like she was too expensive for everyone around her, which in truth she was. The jewellery too was part of her armour against the rest of the world, like the cars and the house.
She opened her jewellery box and saw the array of diamond rings, bracelets and watches. There was not a piece of designer bling she did not own. Yet it meant nothing to her. She remembered back to when she was first with Nick, when he had still loved and wanted her, and the little diamond ring he had bought her with his wages off Romford market.
It was a diamond chip really, but it had meant they were engaged.
Her mother had got out a magnifying glass to look at it, for a laugh, but it had not been funny and Tammy remembered Nick’s face then. He had been angry and embarrassed because at the time it had cost and meant so much it wasn’t right to mock it. ‘So much’ meant something very different today. She had everything a woman could want, materially at least. Yet she wasn’t happy, and knew in her heart she never would be happy, not in the way other people were, and now she was at a stage where even things didn’t make her happy any more.
At least not for long anyway.
The next ring she’d been given had indeed been a rock, and she still had it, still wore it in fact, even though she could never insure it because it had been kited. She’d had the satisfaction then of seeing envy in her mother’s eyes at the life she was getting for herself. Her mother had resented the houses, the cars, and Tammy’s whole way of life, and somehow her resentment had made it all worthwhile.
So how was it, all these years later, that her mother ran a poxy little bar in Marbella with her toy boy and Tammy now envied her? At least her mother was getting a regular rogering, but then so was she, except hers was no longer coming from the man she’d expected it to come from. From the man she loved. The man she had married. In fact, she often wished Nick was a womaniser like her friends’ husbands. That would at least have been a normal worry, something she could have coped with.
She put the TV on and looked on her Sky Plus for the Will and Grace she had taped. She loved them and their humour, liked their uncomplicated world. She could watch the same episode over and over again, and Nick, though he moaned, loved the programme as well.
She often fantasised about living like they did on American TV where everything was always neatly resolved and fun, and they all dressed phenomenally well and had great apartments and enjoyed their lives. They ate huge amounts of food too and never put on weight. It was the business as far as she was concerned.
If only Tammy’s problems could be solved in half an hour with a few great one-liners and a laugh, how much easier life would be.
Well, she had the one-liners, but unfortunately they were of the narcotic kind.
She could hear the low rumble of her husband talking downstairs and smiled. Billy Boy was all right, she liked him, and he had been pretty good in the kip if she remembered rightly. Tammy smiled slightly at the memory. He’d been into oral sex. Well, so had she. It had been quite memorable in its own little way.
Then she immersed herself in the programme as she applied too much make-up and snorted too much cocaine. Looking in the mirror without the usual smile she displayed to the world Tammy saw the signs of ageing: the deep grooves by the side of her mouth caused by her discontent and the crow’s feet that looked more like vulture’s feet to her at the moment. She forced the smile she knew would banish the look and maybe convince herself and her world that she was happy for a little longer at least.
Going to the fridge integrated into her wardrobe, she poured herself a shot of vodka. Knocking it back, she quickly poured another.
Was this always to be her life now she wondered. Then she laughed. The coke was getting to her, she could feel the buzz and along with the buzz she could feel the idea of taking a long holiday coming over her, and had a hunch she would be going on it alone.
Suddenly she didn’t want Nick cramping her style, depressing her, and their villa in Marbella was empty. They hardly went there now. It had been a retreat for her and the boys once, but the boys got on her nerves when Nick wasn’t around because he had always been the one to keep them amused. For some reason her own kids got on top of her. They wanted more than she was willing to give, and if Angela had really gone on the trot then what was she supposed to do when the holidays came round again? The nanny was fucking useless in most respects. James especially walked all over her. They couldn’t stay at school all the time though, could they? She would have to look into it. They seemed settled enough there and she really didn’t have the energy for them any more.
She would use the excuse that her nerves were still in tatters after the terrible event, when in reality she never gave that boy more than a fleeting thought. But it really was time for a change of scene.
She was always running away from her problems, and they were always problems she had caused for herself, and as Nick tried to point out it didn’t matter where she ran or how far because she would still be there.
But she was going to learn to look out for herself more. That was her trouble, she was always looking out for everyone else. It was time she started to be selfish, time she started looking after number one.
Now Tammy had made her decision she felt better inside. It was about time she put herself first.
Happy now, she planned her holiday, conveniently forgetting her sons and her life in England. And the worst of it all was she was actually starting to believe what she’d told herself. Even in her worst drug-induced fantasies she had never gone that far before.
Kerr was in the flat with Tyrell and Willy. He had been so glad to see Willy at the Cross that somehow it had eased the fear inside him.
As they had left the station a man had approached them and Tyrell Hatcher had growled at him and seen him off like a Rottweiler. The look on his face as he had cursed at the nonce made him seem a different man from the one he was now. Kerr envied Sonny for having had him as a father, a role model, though it hadn’t saved him in the end.
Tyrell Hatcher seemed like a good man. Now as he gave them both beers and smiled at them with his expensive white teeth, Kerr felt himself starting to relax.
He was still flying, and Tyrell guessed that fact.
The boy had the sunken eyes of an addict. They looked so deep and so beautiful, when in fact it was just the result of the heroin he’d taken. It was what made people trust addicts, those eyes, until they got to know them properly and realised that it was the drug that made them look like that, nothing to do with their own personality.
‘You coming down yet?’
The boy nodded, ashamed to admit he was an addict.
‘You got more?’
He nodded again, looking at Willy who shook his head to assure him Tyrell wasn’t after anything.
If the four-minute warning went off this boy and all his kind would just make sure they had a fix in case they survived it. In a way Tyrell envied them. Everyday worries did not intrude on their lives like they did on everyone else’s.
He said sternly, ‘You want to fix, you go for it, but you don’t get so blasted you can’t talk to me, right?’ He was pointing at the boy with one finger, warning him he knew all the dodges. Tyrell had been there and done that with Jude. He knew his case and he wanted the boy to understand that. Junkies were born liars, they lied about everything, it was second nature to them.
‘You try and bullshit me and I’ll give you the biggest clump of your fucking life, right?�
� He poked his dreadlocked head into the boy’s face to bring home his point. ‘I am talking massive hurt, do you understand me?’
The boy nodded once more. He believed him and that was all Tyrell was interested in. With addicts you had to be a greater force than their drugs; if you achieved that you were halfway home.
Willy patted the seat on the sofa next to him and Kerr sat down there gently, as if he was frightened to make a noise. Willy understood that. He knew it was a long time since this boy had been in a straight place where there was food in the fridge and a TV that worked. Where you were not terrified by every knock on the door or any new faces. He had felt the same himself.
He wanted to tell Kerr to relax and everything would be OK, but he couldn’t, Tyrell had taken on the mantle of the man in charge and so he should. It was after all his drum. Willy had no intention of fucking things up for himself. He was hoping for a few more nights in a place where he could read in peace and a man didn’t want anything from him.
Kerr sipped at his can of Red Stripe. He was pleased the man had given it to him, it was a friendly gesture even though he could see Tyrell was obviously used to getting his own way. Sonny had talked about his dad a lot and Kerr saw that he had actually underplayed his father, unlike most of his acquaintances who boasted endlessly about their backgrounds, good or bad. Kerr had liked Sonny Hatcher and no one had thought he would die the way he had, but how was he supposed to explain that to the boy’s dad?
Kerr decided it was up to him to take some kind of control so he said quickly and nervously, ‘What are you after, man?’
Tyrell was still getting over his amazement at this boy’s youth. He was big for his age and from a distance looked older, intimidating even. Close up you could see the youth shining out of him. But the boy still had the look of a junkie, that nervousness and furtiveness.
Tyrell knew the boy had priced up everything in his flat as a matter of course and was filing it away for future reference because that was what addicts did. They always had their mind on the future, and the future for them consisted of getting money in whatever way they could. They did not care who they trampled on in the process.
Was that how poor Sonny had ended up in Nick Leary’s house?
Tyrell took a deep drink from his can of Red Stripe and said coldly, ‘Where’s this Justin then?’
He did not bother with any preliminaries, dwelling on Sonny’s death. He knew the best way to keep this boy in place was to fire questions at him and not give him any time to think about the answers.
‘Who wants to know?’
It was said with bravado. Before Tyrell could answer, Willy said simply, ‘Tell him, Kerr. Just for once do something that’s right, eh?’
His words carried more weight than all the punches or threats in the world, and both Kerr and Tyrell were aware of that fact. But Kerr shrugged as if he had no idea what Willy was talking about.
‘No one ’as seen him for a long time.’
Kerr had the English black boy talk, he said ‘arks’ instead of ask, and ‘behint’ instead of behind. It was an accent that irritated Tyrell who was a real Jamaican Englishman. He wondered if boys like this even knew Jamaica was part of the British Commonwealth. He doubted it very much. This boy had no passport, British, European or otherwise. But how the fuck did he think his family got over here in the first place? Tyrell knew it was unfair to be angry with him but he couldn’t help it.
Willy was listening and nodding as Kerr explained the situation.
‘What do you mean, no one has seen him? Has he left the area? Gone away, got nicked, overdosed? What?’
Tyrell knew all the things that happened to junkies.
‘The last time I saw Justin he was with Sonny, it was a couple of days before he died.’
‘Do you think he knew what Sonny was going to do?’
The boy shrugged. He was dressed in the baggy trousers that were so popular these days. They hung low down on his hips and Tyrell wondered if he knew the fashion came from a prison in America where the majority of the prisoners were black and on Death Row, and where they were not allowed belts in case of suicide so their trousers hung off them.
It was this kind of thing that had sent him mad with Sonny. This was not what they were supposed to be about. He pushed the thoughts aside and lit himself another joint.
‘What - you fucking stupid boy, with your stupid Attica trousers and your stupid fucking talk? Answer me, for fuck’s sake, you think I got all fucking night?’
Kerr didn’t answer, just sat on the sofa staring down at his can of beer.
‘Well, answer me, boy, you a fucking retard or what?’
Tyrell was getting fed up with pussyfooting around everyone, especially these kids. They were adult enough to ruin their lives, why couldn’t they just answer a question?
Willy, though, answered it for Kerr when he said simply, ‘He’s scared, look at him. He’s terrified.’
It was only then that Tyrell realised there were tears dropping from the boy’s chin on to his hands, clasping the can of Red Stripe as if his life depended on it.
Billy looked at Tammy as she breezed into the room ready for her outing. Her mobile was glued to her ear and she was wearing the equivalent of the crown jewels if they had been made in Essex. A diamond-encrusted Rolex, Gucci diamond earrings, and at her throat a choker that had cost more than a four-bedroomed detached house. Her hands sparkled with rings, and she was wearing a plain black dress with high-heeled Jimmy Choos.
She didn’t realise just how astonishing she looked. The jewellery ruined the beautifully cut dress, though both men knew it would be pointless telling her that. Nick walked over to his jacket that was lying on the chair and put on his sunglasses for a joke, holding up his arms as if blinded.
‘Fuck me, Tammy, where you going - the Oscars?’
But he knew this was her armour against the world, and in fairness it was a small price to pay to make her happy even if it never lasted longer than it took for the novelty of whatever new toy he bought her to wear off.
She was thrilled by his reaction and it showed.
Billy looked on in amazement at the way they interacted with each other. She kissed her husband goodbye lingeringly while he could have been kissing a maiden aunt. It suddenly occurred to Billy then that Nick was almost sexless. He chatted birds up, talked to them, said all the right things, but no one had ever actually seen him play away. And Tammy was a bit of all right if she shut her trap; he personally had fucked worse over the years. Some right old boilers had danced on his ample hips, and yet here they were, her on her night out - well, day and night out - and wearing enough tom to finance the Cuban economy, and Nick wasn’t even batting an eyelid.
She was also half-drunk and stoned yet he was going to let her drive?
‘You all right driving, Tammy?’ Billy prompted.
She smiled over at him as she answered gaily, ‘I’ve driven while worse than this, mate, but I’ll cab it back.’
She was taking their new Mercedes sports. Would pull up outside the wine bar in it and make her entrance.
Billy didn’t answer her, he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t like women drivers at the best of times. The thought of a head on with Tammy Leary did not appeal to him at all.
She left in a cloud of perfume and smiles and Nick rolled his eyes as he said honestly, ‘She is a fucking nightmare. She’s going back to the wine bar where she got arrested yesterday for having a tear up. The tom’s all part of her act.’
He was explaining himself and they both knew it.
‘Now then, where were we?’
Nick was pouring yet more drinks even though Billy still had his from earlier. ‘Not for me, mate, I’m still drinking this one.’
It was said in such a way as to be critical but friendly. Nick had the rushes from the coke and could hear his heart beating in his ears. His hands were shaking and he was consciously trying to act normal. He wished Billy would go so he could sort himself out and se
e what the fuck his mother was going on about.
He kept looking at his watch. He wanted to get out soon. He had an appointment and was determined to keep it whatever Billy Clarke thought.
Hester and her husband Dixon were worried about Angela. She was smiling at the children, and the kids were loving it. Yet in all the years they had been part of her family, Angela had avoided them whenever possible. It wasn’t so much that she was racist as she didn’t believe in mixing the races; no amount of talking could convince her that Dixon was as English as she was.
But for the first time today she was all over them.
It was unexpected, that much was for sure.
