by Martina Cole
‘All right, Malc?’
Patrick brought the machete down on the man’s big dreadlocked head. He split the skull with the first stroke, then attacked again in a frenzy. Malcolm was half-dead on the floor, his life’s blood slipping away, as his two other men stepped out to see what the commotion was.
Patrick’s two sidekicks attacked them and the noise was loud and brutal. Upstairs Stanley was holding the boy in his arms. He could hear the commotion and bundled the child into the wardrobe as quick as he could and put a chair against the door. Then he ran to Malcolm’s bedroom and grabbed a gun from the hiding place in the window recess.
They caught him at the door. The machete hit him full in the face and the gun went off but injured no one.
The whole house was a blood bath. Patrick was naked. He had stripped off in the garden as had his two accomplices. They could hear Georgie crying and the mortally wounded Malcolm could hear him calling for his daddy.
‘Your daddy is dead, boy!’
Patrick was laughing as they walked back down the stairs. In the large secluded garden he and his men hosed each other down and then got dressed again. Malcolm was still alive and watched them leave.
Patrick waved to him merrily. He liked the fact that Malcolm could not survive those injuries, no one could, and half admired him for hanging on as long as he had. But he also enjoyed Malcolm knowing who had beaten him, who had taken what he owned. It appealed to Patrick.
Malcolm was worried for his son, all alone upstairs, wondering if they had killed him as well. It was a terrifying and lonely death. He had crawled to the bottom of the stairs before he died. His last thought was to get to his child.
Mikey had driven Marie to the Old London without a word. She had sat beside him, knowing that whatever the call had been about it concerned her. Which meant it was about one of her children. Consequently she was too scared to ask him and he was obviously too scared to tell her.
When they’d finally parked he turned to her and said, ‘Tiffany was found this morning. She’s bad, Marie. The hostel phoned your work. She’s asking for you.’
He saw Marie’s face go even paler than usual.
Ten minutes later they were in the ICU and she was looking down at her daughter’s battered face. Tiffany was beaten so badly she was barely recognisable. At the sound of her mother’s voice she tried to open her eyes.
‘Mum?’
Her voice was stronger than either of them had thought possible.
‘I’m here, Tiff. Just relax. Try and rest, love.’
Tiffany shook her head weakly.
‘No. Listen, Mum, I’m bad. You have to promise me that if anything happens, you will take my baby. Take my Anastasia, please?’
Marie took her hand gently and Tiffany squeezed it tight.
‘I’m sorry, Mum. I should have listened to you. Pat gave me to his mates, Mum. Last night. They taped it – he has the tape. He was laughing, Mum. He’s mad. Said he was going to take my baby, too, and that he was going to get you and Jason.’
She was crying and as Mikey looked down at that broken body he felt rage stir inside him.
‘Is she talking about Patrick Connor?’
Marie could hear the disbelief in his voice. She nodded.
‘He’s done this to her before. I told you he put her on drugs and took every bit of her self-respect. Like he did me.’
‘Fucking hell!’ Mikey was in absolute shock. ‘I’ll fucking kill him meself.’
Tiffany opened her eyes again.
‘I am sorry, Mum, for all the trouble I’ve caused.’
Marie kissed her daughter’s forehead gently.
‘Don’t worry, sweetie, Mummy will sort it out, OK? I promise you, everything will be OK.’
She was shaking with anger and knew that if she had Patrick in front of her now she would tear him apart with her bare hands. If she had been there over the years this would never have happened. This was her fault and no one else’s. She had let down both her kids, but whereas Jason has fallen on his feet in many respects, this poor little girl had not. She had been left to the care of councils and foster homes, finally abandoned to fend for herself when she wasn’t equipped to take care of a kitten, let alone herself and a child.
She had been easy prey for Patrick Connor and Marie knew only too well he would have got a buzz out of Tiffany’s being her daughter and his son’s sister.
Well, he had better watch his back because he had to deal with her now. Fuck Mikey and all the rest of them. She wanted him herself and she would enjoy taking that bastard down.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mary Watson stared into her son’s face. ‘I am telling you now, boy, you get rid of that Lucy and you get rid of her soon. How I have stood the shame and degradation of the neighbours knowing she’s living here, I don’t know!’
Mickey Watson was caught between a rock and a hard place. As much as he loved Lucy, his mother was such a strong personality he was terrified of upsetting her. Since he was a boy she had dictated his every act: what he wore, what he did, who he played with and where he worked. It was hard to break the habit of a lifetime.
Also he was afraid that Lucy was like his mother. She was very domineering at times, even though she wasn’t brave enough to front up Mary Watson. Since her dad had shot one of the Blacks Mickey’s mother had been almost demented from the gossip that had been going around. People were glad to see her get some of what she doled out so often. She was now the subject of the gossip by her association with Lucy and that was not what she wanted at all. Mary was the gossip queen of East London and had prided herself on the fact that she was whiter than white, which gave her the right to slaughter everyone else as and when it pleased her. To be on the receiving end of the wagging tongues was hard for her and on one level Mickey understood how much it was upsetting her. For all her faults, and they were legion, she was as straight as a die, he had to give her that much at least.
He glanced at the black bin bags in the hallway. She had packed all Lucy’s stuff and was now telling him she wanted his fiancée out. But where was Lucy supposed to go? She spent most of her time up the hospital with her mum, though she was back at work part-time now. He was bewildered by it all, if truth be told, and wasn’t really sure what the fuck he wanted from either his mother or his fiancée.
If he was honest with himself, Lucy was getting on his nerves. She was like his mum in many respects, bossy and short-tempered. Even in bed she was in charge and there was definitely nothing out of the ordinary there. The same routine each and every time, it was boring him.
He watched as his mother opened her mouth again. But he was long past listening to her. He knew the gist of what she was saying, that was more than enough for him. She was like a cracked record, going on and on and on about the same bastard thing, morning, noon and night.
He pictured himself taking back his arm and clumping her one right across the face. It made him smile and she shouted at him nastily, ‘Like fucking Dilly Daydream you are! With your stupid smile and your stupid gormless bloody face. Why don’t you act like a man? Why am I plagued with men who are fucking useless? Like your bleeding father you are, a gutless ponce . . .’
Her voice went on and on once more.
Mickey listened once more with half an ear and wished his mother would just dry up and blow away.
‘I am warning you now, boy. You tell your lady love that she is out and you tell her today. I have had enough of the lot of you.’
‘But where will she go, Mum?’
Mary rolled her eyes to the ceiling in an exaggerated manner.
‘What do I care? Just give her the bad news. I want her out and that’s the end of it. If you had half a brain you’d have given her the elbow long ago.’
His mother had spoken. That was that.
Mickey felt almost relieved if he was honest.
Patrick was euphoric. He had never felt so good in all his life.
Blood being what it was, he was still find
ing dark brown stains all over his body. He knew he needed to get showered and changed so was making his way to the gym in Spitalfields. Afterwards he’d have a large brandy and a joint to calm himself down.
He felt absolutely fantastic. Like he had been reborn. So good was the feeling that he didn’t even see the colour change at the traffic lights ahead. He heard an insistent honking coming from behind him and glanced into his mirror.
It was three blokes in a white Transit. He smiled to himself before he stuck up two fingers in a blatant act of aggression. He was daring them to do something about it, and hoped they decided they were going to. He was running on adrenaline and it felt good.
The lights were on red again. They all had to wait once more for them to change.
He saw a large man get out of the driver’s side of the Transit. He was heavy, more fat than muscle, a forty-five-year-old skinhead. Patrick could see the blue and red of his tattoos even from this distance. He watched as the man ambled towards him, his heavy body encased in a white sleeveless T-shirt and baggy jeans covered in paint splatters.
Patrick could just see this man in his local pub, a pint in one grubby hand and his big flabby mouth going. He obviously thought he was hard. He had to think that or he would not have bothered to get out of the Transit in the first place. Thought he was a diamond geezer, a bit of a face. Well, he and his mates were about to get the shock of their stupid pointless little lives. Patrick was up for it. More than up for it.
More to the point, he wanted it. Wanted the man to force his hand. Wanted to take this bastard down, quickly and efficiently and violently. He was grinning with the knowledge that he had the upper hand. He had a machete, he had a hammer, and he had something none of these blokes would ever have: the fucking bottle actually to kill someone. These were ice creams, local bullyboys. Well, they could fuck off. He was ready, he was willing and he was more than able. As the man walked towards him he was practically giggling.
Patrick opened the car door just as the other man got to the driver’s side window. The man looked into a pair of piercing blue eyes in a black face and that in itself threw him. He opened his mouth to speak, displaying yellowing teeth and a thickly coated white tongue.
But Patrick got in first.
He opened his coat and let the man see his blood-stained machete, then he said in a low voice, ‘Do you really want some of this, mate? Do you want your old woman to know you were beheaded at a set of fucking traffic lights because you were an impatient cunt?’
The man, a decorator from Canning Town called Stevie Bowler, looked once more into those piercing blue eyes and saw a man who was ready to kill over nothing. It speedily occurred to him that his own natural aggression was more than matched by this black man in the BMW. He weighed up the pros and cons of taking the man on and decided against it. This was a man on the edge and it showed. From his belligerent stance to his practically daring Stevie to damage him, this man wanted a tear up far more than he did. Stevie was just being a hard man in front of his mates. This bloke was a hard man, that was the difference. He had no one else with him yet he was willing to break open heads for what was, in fact, nothing at all.
A fucking machete! He couldn’t believe it. And this bloke was ready to use it, wanted to use it. He was more than up for it. You could see it in his eyes. This should have been a war of words, a few fucks flying about and maybe a slight fracas. But this bloke was ready to kill over something that was childish and stupid and Stevie wanted none of it.
It occurred to him that he was as bad, getting out of the Transit in the first place. What the fuck was he trying to prove? He had a nice little wife and nice kids and this bloke was willing to extinguish his life without a second’s thought over something so trivial it should never have mattered to either of them.
Stevie’s eyes were glued to the machete. It had recently been used, he could see that much for himself. He stepped back slowly. Turning, he made his way back to the Transit van. It was the brownish stains on the machete that had been the deciding factor. It was very obviously blood, and more than likely human blood. Well, it was not going to be his blood, he was determined on that.
He got into his Transit and they drove away after a few moments. He had never felt so relieved in his life. His friends, asking what the fuck had occurred and getting no information whatsoever, wondered what was going on. But Stevie’s face stopped them from enquiring. They guessed it was a heavy situation and it quietened them all.
As they turned towards the Becton flyover a radio news announcement stated that four men had died in a bloodbath, all killed with machetes. Police were looking for two black men and a white man with bleached blond hair.
Stevie pulled over and jumped from the white Transit. He brought up his lunch – three pints of beer and a cheese roll he had eaten not an hour before. His friends were still unaware of what he had seen and exactly what had happened, and he was not about to tell them.
All he knew was that he had had a very lucky escape, and the knowledge left him almost faint with relief. He suddenly realised what mindless violence really meant, and that he had nearly become the latest statistic because of his own foolishness and arrogance.
It was a sobering afternoon.
Tiffany was dying and she knew it. Her kidneys were packing up and her liver was so badly damaged it was not functioning. Her face and body were bloated and they had put her on life support. Marie held her daughter’s hand and wondered at a God Who allowed something like this to happen. Hadn’t her daughter had enough thrown at her in her short life without this? Dying like an animal, used and abused and finally thrown away like rubbish. The fact that Patrick had put her daughter in a rubbish bin had been the hardest fact of all to take. Her lovely child degraded even further as she lay dying amongst the filth. How had God allowed that to happen to this beautiful girl? Where was He when she was being beaten and raped? How did God distinguish between those He would give to and those He would take from? Marie hated Him at this moment in time because she needed Him and knew He was not going to help her. No one would help her or her child.
But still she prayed, prayed as she had never prayed in her life. Even when she had been awaiting the verdict from the jury she had not prayed as she was praying now. She looked at her child, the daughter she had abandoned without realising just how much she had loved her. Drugs had been everything to her then as they had become to the dying girl before her. Two wasted lives.
What was the attraction really? What made someone put a chemical before everything and everyone? The belief that getting so out of it you couldn’t repeat your own name made problems disappear was outdated and, worse than that, it was a cop out. Her daughter had left real life behind just as Marie had. Tiffany had opted for the pretend world of drugs, dingy night clubs and the scum of the earth. Just like Marie. Why had she allowed history to repeat itself, why hadn’t she tried to get out sooner? Fought the courts for contact with her children? She had thought she was doing the best for them by getting out of their lives, when all she was really doing was giving her daughter to a man who preyed expressly on young girls without family or anyone who cared. Patrick had taken her child as he had taken her, and this was the result: Tiffany dead at nineteen, her body and mind ravaged by crack and a series of beatings that would have killed most people already. Even the doctors were amazed she had hung on so long.
She could not have a transplant because her body would not take the anaesthetic. Also, being a crack addict, she would not be considered a worthy donee.
Her daughter’s beautiful hair had been ripped from her head, and her face was a black mass of bruises. Her whole body was broken, another victim of Patrick Connor’s evil. She had a perfect boot print across her face. But the police would not be able to pin it on him, he was far too clever for that. He wasn’t going away for the likes of Tiffany. She was old news by now as far as he was concerned, Marie knew that.
Patrick took people and he used them. When they were no good to him a
ny more, he destroyed them without a second’s thought.
Tiffany had slipped into a coma. As she held her daughter’s hand Marie wished her to a better place. Wanted her somewhere where no one could ever hurt her again. She pictured green fields and bright sunshine for her child. She hoped to God that was what she got wherever she was going. Marie prayed it would be somewhere warm and beautiful, somewhere Tiffany could laugh and relax and be a normal young girl. ‘Please let her find peace and happiness,’ she prayed. God Himself knew there had been little enough of it in her life up to now.
Marie wished she could go with her, be there with her to keep her company, keep her safe. But she had promised her daughter she would try and take on Anastasia, and that was a promise she was determined to keep. She was a different person now from the girl she had been when she had murdered Bethany and Caroline. She was clean, was decent. Even taking on Mikey had ultimately been for her daughter. She had gained a valuable friend there when in fact all she had wanted was a nutter to take on Patrick for her. Mikey had been with her through all this heartbreak. Another man would have run a mile.
Now she was going to fight for her grand-daughter, would not let her get lost in the system which seemed to breed girls like poor Tiffany, fodder for pimps and drug dealers. She would fight for the child and maybe she would redeem herself through Anastasia. Make up for all her past mistakes with her daughter’s child. It was the least she could do.
But first she had a date with Patrick Connor. In fact she was quite looking forward to it. She wanted to see his face when she told him what she thought of him. As she made him suffer as he had made her child suffer. Wanted him to know it was Marie Carter who was going to take him out of the ball game. Violence solved nothing, she knew. But this time it would make her feel a whole lot better.
First, though, she had to watch over her child as she took her last breath. Watch her son’s heart break as he lost his sister, knowing that it was his own father who had brought Tiffany to this.
