Blood Sisters

by Julie Shaw

  ‘Here you go,’ she said, bringing Leanne’s coffee back out, and placing it on the reception desk as Mrs Gallagher was paying. ‘I’m going to carry on cleaning in the back while I drink mine. Give us a shout when my Paddy gets here, will you?’

  ‘Will do,’ Leanne replied. Then she grinned at Mrs Gallagher. ‘In fourteen and a half minutes and counting …’

  Forcing herself to ignore it, Vicky returned to the back room. Leanne was okay, really. Just a flirt and a bit of a know-all – which was fair enough, Vicky supposed, since she’d been there two years, and knew so much more about everything than Vicky did; she’d reached that precious milestone – she was even allowed to cut and perm now. And Vicky enjoyed it for the most part, particularly on those days when it was just the girls in, the boss, Francis, being a force to be reckoned with – he ruled the salon like a dictator.

  The washing machine whirred to the end of its spin cycle, so she pulled towels from the drum and began folding them. No, on balance, working here was just fine. And who knew? Once she and Leanne got to know one another better, perhaps she’d have a new friend as well.

  Or maybe not. She emerged with a fresh pile of towels to find Paddy leaning casually against the counter. On the other side of which was Leanne, busy cashing up, apparently, but clearly busier laughing at something Paddy had just said to her, and in that simpering fashion every girl knew so well.

  Vicky marched across to the cubbyholes the towels were stored in. ‘I thought you were going to call me,’ she said to Leanne as she pushed the pile in. Then, because she couldn’t stop herself, ‘but you’re clearly too busy.’

  The words dropped out of her mouth and felt heavier than she’d intended.

  Paddy laughed, then, as if specifically to wind her up, leaning across the counter. ‘I told you she was jealous to death,’ he said.

  The towels safely stashed, Vicky stalked across the salon to fetch her jacket. ‘You’re such a div,’ she told Paddy, who was now standing grinning at her. ‘As if I’m bloody jealous of you!’ It was pointed. It was meant to be. Paddy’s jealousy was legendary. A bloke so much as glanced at her and he could turn caveman in a second. She swung her coat around and pulled it on, smiling sweetly at Leanne. ‘Take no notice of this idiot, Lee,’ she said, regaining her composure. ‘He fancies himself as a bit of a ladies’ man.’ She then turned to Paddy and slapped him on the back. ‘Come on then, loser. Let’s get home and ready to party.’

  Paddy winked and saluted as Vicky shoved him out the front door. ‘Don’t hate me, Vic,’ he pleaded, while ducking another slap. ‘I can’t help it if the birds all love me, can I?’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself,’ she huffed, even though she wasn’t even cross with him anymore. Possession, after all, was nine-tenths of the law and, as Vicky so often reminded herself, it took two to tango, and her Paddy, much as he loved to flirt with girls, had never expressed any desire to tango with anyone else but her.

  Paddy had parked his latest old banger down on Ivegate. It was a bright blue Ford Capri with naff go-faster stripes down it, and despite looking like it belonged in some ancient 1970s TV cop show, it was his pride and joy. Though that was mainly down to the fact that it had a brand new Pioneer tape deck installed in the dashboard, which meant that, coupled with the speakers he’d installed front and back, he could play his beloved Northern Soul music whenever he was driving. Well, blast it out for all to hear, more accurately. He was a bit like the crocodile that swallowed the clock in Peter Pan – you could always hear him coming before you saw him. Not least because he was fast becoming a dying breed – apart from her (and Vicky knew that it was only because of him anyway) Paddy was the only person she knew who still listened to it.

  And looking at him now, as they made their way down Ivegate towards the car, she could see he was hoping they’d be playing it at Vikram’s party. Despite the heat, he was wearing his long leather trenchcoat, over baggy black trousers and a white Fred Perry T-shirt. And as ever, she conceded, he carried it off.

  ‘What should I wear, Pad?’ she asked, once they were both in the car and the music was blaring at the max. She’d learned over time that it was always worth getting his input, in part because she liked to look good for him, obviously, but also because you never knew what ‘good’ might comprise. Sometimes he liked to show her off, and have her dress to the nines, but others – if he was in one of his periodic grumpy moods, he’d tell her she looked slutty if she turned out like that, telling her to tone down the make-up and cover herself up, reminding her that she was his, and his alone. What she’d never quite worked out was what either mood was based on. Mercurial, that’s what her mam called him. Changeable, like the weather. She wasn’t sure quite what that meant but she kind of got the gist of it. He was unpredictable. Which was probably why he still excited her so much.

  However, anything for a quiet life. Which apparently tonight meant the black mini-dress she’d bought the previous weekend. Her first well-deserved purchase as a full-time working girl. ‘And those shiny high heels,’ he added. ‘Give ’em all something to gawp at, eh, babe? We’ll be the best-looking couple there, that’s for sure.’

  Not that any of that mattered to Vicky, and she was just about to say so, when he added, ‘Not that your dopey mate and her fucktard of a boyfriend are any sort of competition. Gurdy tells me they’re invited, more’s the pity.’

  ‘Paddy!’ Vicky complained. ‘It’s not a frigging competition!’ She swivelled in her seat. ‘And please don’t start tonight, babes. Promise me, okay? I want to make up with Lucy – not cause another frigging row. It’s a party, so let’s just all have a laugh, okay?’

  He looked offended. ‘Me? Start anything? Like I’m the one who has anything to prove?’

  ‘No, I know,’ she said, reaching between her legs for her handbag as Paddy parked up outside her house. ‘But I also know you. Couple of drinks …’

  ‘Cross my heart,’ he said, pulling the key from the ignition. ‘Come on, let’s get you in and get you out of that work gear.’

  ‘And straight into my party gear,’ she added. ‘You can stay downstairs with Mam. She’s got some cider in. You can have a drink with her. She’ll enjoy the company.’

  Even as she said this, Vicky knew it wasn’t going to happen. ‘Alright, Mrs Robinson?’ Paddy called as he followed her into the hall. Then, in Vicky’s ear, as he grabbed her arse fondly, ‘I’d much rather watch you strip out of that apron …’

  Which meant it would take her twice as long to get ready. And it did. Two hours later, after a slow undressing, an obligatory romp on the bed and then a hurried re-dressing, she was finally ready for Vikram’s party, albeit slightly flushed.

  It was a nice place, the Coach House, where the do was being held, but, for some reason, it had always been known as Mucky Willy’s. Not that anyone she’d asked could ever tell her who Willy even was, let alone in what sense he’d been mucky. Still, tonight it was all looking tarted-up and elegant, with Vikram, Gurdy and their parents looking equally festive, standing in the foyer, all togged up for the occasion.

  Vicky could have kicked herself, watching other guests ahead of them, bearing elaborately wrapped gifts. She’d written a card, and popped a tenner in it, but why hadn’t she thought to bring an actual present? She had to make do with gushing about how beautiful Gurdy’s mam’s sari was and telling Vikram they were looking forward to buying him a couple of birthday drinks. Though as soon as she’d said it she could have kicked herself again at the look on his mam’s face – the senior Banerjees were both teetotal.

  Paddy seemed to have no such concerns. With Gurdy’s mam and dad busy chatting to some elderly relative, he shook hands with Vikram and pulled him in close. ‘Now then, me little Paki mates,’ he said, grinning at both brothers, ‘point me to the bar, my son – this one has proper worn me out.’ Ah, so he was in that sort of mood, then.

  She slapped Paddy in the stomach with her handbag, as was her usual response. A small part of her loved
the way he alluded to her being so sexy, but the larger part – the much larger part – hated it, and made her squirm. And she could see Gurdy squirming too, so she threaded her arm through his. ‘Take no notice, pal – he’s all talk,’ she whispered as they walked inside. ‘More importantly, are Lucy and Jimmy here yet?’

  Gurdy nodded and pointed. In fact, it looked like everyone was here. Vikram not only had a family that seemed to stretch from Bradford to Leeds, he was popular too and had lots of mates of his own. Most of which, Vicky guessed, were his fellow workers from Fields Printers, the large factory between Clayton and Lidget Green where he worked, which was famous for printing cigarette packaging.

  And despite the relative earliness of the hour still the party was in full swing, the dance floor packed and throbbing and long queues at the bar, and, with the curtains closed and the disco ball scattering the room with coloured diamonds, Vicky felt a surge of happiness, despite the ache in the balls of her feet. This was going to be a great night, she just knew it.

  But Vicky’s confidence looked like turning out to be short-lived. No sooner had she spotted Lucy and Jimmy, and raised a hand to wave a greeting, than she felt Paddy’s hand grip her arm.

  ‘Hey, you’re with me tonight,’ he hissed at her, while still smiling at the barmaid. ‘Let’s do the sensible thing, yeah? Leave the fucking numpties where they are.’

  Vicky shook his hand off, and he didn’t resist, thankfully. ‘Oh, Paddy, for God’s sake, don’t start! I only want to go say hello to Luce. She’ll think I’m being funny if I don’t.’

  ‘Then she can come talk to you here,’ he said firmly. ‘I mean it, Vic. You’ve got to let her come to you. That’s the way to play it. And if she wants to, she will,’ he added. ‘Won’t she?’

  Vicky wished she’d never mentioned her and Lucy’s last conversation. Why had she done such an idiotic thing? She should have realised she was only giving him ammunition against Lucy. She made a mental note never to do it again.

  She looked at Lucy again, making what she hoped was enough of an apologetic face for Lucy to understand how her hands were tied, but not so much that Paddy would notice and think she was taking the mick. Lucy made a face back, and this time it was entirely unmistakable. She’d seen Paddy stop her going over and it was clear how she felt about it. Her expression said, Yeah, I get it, you’re a doormat and your boyfriend is a dick.

  Well, sod it, Vicky decided, stung. It was all so bloody childish. Were it not for the fact that it would probably turn into a fist fight, she’d like to bang her best friend and her boyfriend’s bloody heads together. So she turned instead to the drinks Paddy was lining up on the bar. Perhaps getting something down her would chill her out a bit.

  As was his way, he’d got a row of shorts lined up on the bar – three whiskies for him and two vodka and limes for her. ‘Come on, Vic,’ he said nudging her, ‘get them supped up.’ He downed his three in turn. Three tips of the head, three bobs of his Adam’s apple. He then picked up his pint. ‘Can’t have you lagging behind, can we?’

  Vicky felt her spirits sink. Paddy liked his drink, but unfortunately it didn’t like him much, and she could already spot the tell-tale signs that he was going to be in the mood for bother. Not least that he kept glancing across the dance floor to where Lucy and Jimmy were sitting, despite his earlier reassurance that, because they weren’t worth the effort, he intended to ignore them.

  He downed the pint, too, and immediately held the empty glass up, after another. It would only take another couple of drinks before he was well and truly pissed. Great.

  ‘Slow down a bit, babes,’ Vicky said, stroking his arm. The last thing she wanted was for him to show her up in front of everyone. ‘Tell you what, forget the pint – why don’t we go have a dance?’

  It was always touch and go, such a suggestion; Paddy never like being told what to do. But he was still just on the right side of belligerent. Plus he did so love to dance, and here he had a big audience.

  ‘Good idea,’ he said, grinning as he set the empty glass down on the bar. ‘But first,’ he said, grabbing her hand and tugging her out onto the edge of the dance floor, away from the bar queue, ‘I’ll go get that DJ to put something decent on, seeing as I’m all dressed up in my best dancing gear.’

  Vicky groaned inwardly. That meant Northern Soul, of course. And much as she loved him, and loved dancing with him, too, this would go down like a lead balloon. If the DJ agreed – which he would, because Paddy would charm him – the dance floor was likely to empty in moments, leaving only the hard-core Soulies stomping around.

  She watched disconsolately, her eye naturally travelling from Paddy over to Lucy, making an automatic connection. Lucy would know exactly what she was thinking right now and would probably sympathise. But she didn’t appear to. In fact, her own gaze seemed to sweep right over Vicky. Preoccupied by something else, she clearly hadn’t seen her, and, later, when they unpicked everything, she’d regretfully – so regretfully – know this to have been true.

  As it was, Lucy’s non-look was immediately followed by her dipping her dark head to Jimmy’s blond one, and whispering something in his ear, which made him laugh. And at exactly the point when Paddy returned to her from his visit to the DJ. From such tiny sparks, she thought wretchedly, watching his gaze following hers, do whole bloody infernos explode.

  ‘What’s that fucker laughing at?’ Paddy demanded. He’d let go of her arm now and was staring straight at Jimmy.

  ‘How the hell should I know?’ she said, trying to distract him. ‘Come on, “Nine Times Out of Ten” – great choice. It’s my favourite.’ She grabbed both of Paddy’s hands and started to try and swing him to the rhythm. Unfortunately, right at that moment, Jimmy decided to laugh even louder. And now she caught his gaze, which seemed to ask, ‘What the hell?’

  ‘No, fuck that!’ Paddy said, and his tone made Vicky’s gut clench. ‘He’s taking the fucking piss.’ He stalked across the floor of dancing couples which, as she’d predicted, was already thinning, heading straight for Lucy and Jimmy’s table.

  Jimmy stood up as Paddy reached him, Vicky hot on his heels. Paddy was big and imposing and could intimidate pretty much anyone if he wanted to, but Jimmy was big too. And he could handle himself, even if in a less obvious way – as a copper’s son, he’d had to learn to since he was small.

  And it looked as though he was in just as much of a mood for trouble as was Paddy, because as he closed in, Jimmy was already rolling up his sleeves.

  And in they went, nothing said, both girls looking on helplessly, while, almost as if choreographed to go along with the music, fists began to fly and connected with faces, then both of them falling to the floor in a rolling heap of knuckles, legs and hair.

  It would take a brave man to separate them, but a determined female was in with a shot, at least, and when Lucy moved forward that was exactly what Vicky thought she was doing – trying to haul her boyfriend off and stop the fight. But, to Vicky’s consternation, she was actually having a go at Paddy herself, kicking at him and calling him a bastard as he writhed on the floor.

  Vicky was stunned into paralysis for a long, long moment, unable to quite accept what she was seeing. ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ she finally screeched at Lucy. ‘Stop that, for fuck’s sake!’

  But since Lucy made no sign of taking the least bit of notice, she waded in too, grabbing a fistful of Lucy’s mop of hair, and yanking it back so she could better press her point home. She then slapped her, an unexpected rage coming over her from God knew where. Slapped her hard – shockingly hard – across the face. ‘Grab your fucking boyfriend!’ she yelled at a now startled Lucy. ‘You kick my Paddy again and I’ll rip your head off, you hear?’

  But there was no need. By now Gurdy and Vikram had hurried over and between them had already half-hefted Jimmy away. Vikram looked daggers. Like he was an inch away from slugging Paddy himself. ‘You just couldn’t help yourself, could you?’ he yelled, as Paddy spat blood from h
is mouth. ‘You fucking imbecile. You cretin. Showing yourself up as usual!’

  Paddy wiped the back of his hand across his lips. Then, to Vicky’s dismay, he didn’t apologise – he grinned. Even jogged on the spot slightly, arms swinging by his side, his attention not on Vikram, but still very much on Jimmy. ‘Teach you to be a clever little bastard, won’t it?’ he spat.

  ‘Get him out of here,’ Vikram said to Vicky, yanking a thumb in the direction of the entrance. ‘It’s my fucking birthday and I’m not having you idiots ruin it.’

  Vicky started to apologise, but again Paddy’s hand was on her arm. ‘I see how it is,’ he said to Vikram and a visibly shaken Gurdy. His voice was ice. ‘Be my absolute fucking pleasure.’

  Chapter 5

  There was really nothing for it but to leave. Despite Vikram assuring both of them that he knew it had been Paddy who’d started it, Lucy couldn’t countenance staying a second longer. She looked a complete state, for one thing. Her tights were laddered, her white court shoes now had a red polka-dot pattern, and her hair, she could feel, was like a rat’s nest. But it wasn’t just how she looked. It was how she felt: she felt shame. She’d felt everyone’s eyes boring into her. Everyone judging her. As well they might have. What had she been thinking, wellying in the way she had? Was her hatred of Paddy Allen that strong that she could no longer contain herself?

  She felt tears prick in her eyes. She was shaking still. Jittery. All that unspent adrenalin still coursing through her veins. She jumped in shock as Jimmy banged the pub door open with his foot. Followed him out into the car park, where it wasn’t even dark yet. Looked around anxiously. No sign of Vicky and that bastard Paddy, thank God.

  ‘Oh, babes, I can’t believe this,’ she cried, only now taking in the full, horrible extent of it. If she looked a state, Jimmy looked like a car crash. His trousers ripped, his shirt streaked with red, buttons missing. His best white shirt, too, the one she’d bought him for his birthday. She knew Paddy had belted him hard – Christ, she’d heard it – but it had obviously been even harder than she’d thought. The blow – or blows, the bastard – had split both his nose and lip open. And just as red raw now was Jimmy’s anger.