Blood Daughter: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Three (Flesh and Blood series)

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  She got in his face. ‘When? Bloody hell, the second coming will be here before you finally tell Mum what’s what.’ Spit flew from her mouth. ‘What are you scared of? That Babs will paddle her little boy Kieran’s bum if he dares to ask her a question?’

  His face turned purple at the insult. ‘Jen . . .’

  But Jen was in her own bitter world, too far gone to leave well alone. ‘You need to start manning up. I want that money for my kids. Dee’s pissing all over you—’

  His hands gripped her arms like bands, so suddenly she didn’t see it coming. He heaved her close to him until she was on her tiptoes. Froth bubbled at the corner of his mouth as he finally let rip. ‘The last person who had the brass to tell me to man up ain’t among the living anymore, know what I mean? I said I’d have a whisper in Babs’ ear and I will. Same goes to your loud mouth cretin of a sister Dee. We’ll have our day of reckoning – on my terms.’ His hands tightened. ‘You wanna be careful, Jennifer. You’re living it up at a great height now, so you wanna be careful of tripping up. It’s a long way down.’

  Instead of being scared witless her eyes blazed back. ‘Is that what you wanna do? Belt me one?’

  His hands abruptly fell from her like they’d been burnt. ‘I never said—’

  ‘Go ahead,’ she goaded him, her breathing harsh. ‘Do your worst. I’ve been beaten from one end of Mile End to the next and I ain’t just talking about my ex-arsehole of an old man. That’s how my family have been treating me for yonks, like something that needs kicking to the kerb.’ She shook her hair back. ‘Well, I ain’t putting up with it no more. I’ll say it again, Kieran – and you can shout the odds as much as you like – if you’re a man, start behaving like you’ve got a dick and a pair between those thighs of yours. Dee’s rubbing your face royally in the crap to the max. Do something the fuck about it.’

  Courtney hid by the balcony doors on the floor listening to her mum and that Kieran talking. She didn’t like her mum’s new fella, not one bit. Alright, so he bought her and Little Bea lots of prezzies and flashed the cash, but she didn’t like the way her mum behaved all desperate around him. She didn’t like her mum’s new hairdo either; made her look like a flippin’ skinhead. She did have to admit that Kieran never laid a hand on her mum. Her dad had treated her like a personal punch bag. She wanted them to have more money so she could buy clothes her mates would envy but she didn’t want Kieran to be the one supplying it.

  ‘Can I turn the film off? It’s boring,’ Little Bea called out.

  Her younger sister was curled up on the sofa, book tucked close to her, one hand already reaching for the remote.

  ‘Do what you want,’ Courtney threw back sulkily. ‘I don’t even wanna be in his crummy flat.’

  Little Bea turned the telly to one of the satellite crime channels and her face gleamed as she watched a programme called Snapped: Women Who Kill. The show took Courtney storming back to the terrible memories of the day her grandfather had died. Her tummy clenched and she started sweating. She quickly picked up the glass next to her, filled with coke but also brandy she’d swiped from Kieran’s drinks cabinet, after him and her mum had gone on the balcony.

  Desperately she guzzled the drink down as her ears pricked up at her mum and Kieran’s conversation. Aunty Dee? Bomb? Gold? Share of the houses? What houses? Her mum and wonderful Aunty Dee had had a barney and weren’t talking to each other. Courtney knew all these problems were down to her. If she’d told her mum about her secret maybe none of this would’ve happened. She hated watching her family fall apart. Finishing her drink, Courtney decided she had to do something about it.

  Then she rose to her feet as her mum and him came back in the room.

  Mum stared at the TV in horror. ‘What the hell’s this you’re watching?’ Her face grew outraged when a very grisly crime scene came on the screen. She got the remote, snapped the telly off and then rounded on her youngest. ‘This is your doing, ain’t it?’

  Courtney watched her mum march over to her little sister. She snatched up Bea’s book, a hardback of the latest Harry Potter, and flicked it open to find the real book she was reading.

  Courtney caught her baby sister’s skittish gaze. You’re done for now.

  Their mum flicked to the front cover. ‘Christ almighty, Lady Killers!’ She pierced her youngest with a disapproving gaze. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you’ve been reading all this time. I only let you because it’s helped get you such blindin’ grades.’

  Little Bea looked at her and whispered, ‘Did you know that they never caught Jack the Ripper?’

  As her mum started kicking off again, Courtney stiffened her resolve. Her family was really cracking up and she knew what she had to do.

  Fifty-One

  Tiff had pleaded with Dee but she wouldn’t see reason and go home. Instead she’d made her drive to the garage in Bethnal Green where Tiff had once earned a crust as a mechanic. Tiff would always be grateful to the former owner, Richie Watson, for taking her under his wing and making a woman out of a tearaway. Now his two sons were in charge, a right pair of chancers who’d steadily run the old place down. Well, that’s how Tiff saw it.

  When they drove into the garage Tiff noticed that it was deserted except for one man; clearly Dee didn’t want recorded whatever they were doing here by more than one set of ears. The man was one of Richie’s sons, Big Ron. There was nothing big about him except that gob he liked to run. He was standing next to a covered vehicle.

  As soon as they got out of the car he was all over Dee. ‘Mrs Black, my heart nearly broke when I heard about Mister Black.’ Tiffany rolled her eyes. What a drama queen!

  Dee went up to him. ‘My John said that you’re a man who knows when to keep that,’ she touched her mouth, ‘shut.’

  He puffed his chest out. ‘He got that right. My mouth can sometimes let me down, but not when it came to John’s business.’

  Dee eyed him shrewdly. ‘Now that wouldn’t happen to be coz my old man knew a secret or two that you wouldn’t want broadcast in the East London Advertiser?’

  He blanched. ‘Mrs Black, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Clearly trying to distract her, he acknowledged Tiff for the first time. ‘So how’s my little Tiff doing?’

  She folded her arms and stared him out, stubbornly keeping her mouth zipped. Since when had she been his little anything? As soon as Richie had passed the business on, his sons had treated her like she was a pack donkey, working her from dusk until dawn. Little shit!

  Dee stared at the covered car. ‘Did you have any trouble getting it?’

  He chuckled away. ‘I know everyone Mrs Black. A few choice words in the right ear and it’s in the palm of my hand.’

  He grabbed the edge of the cover and pulled. Tiff’s mouth dropped when she saw Dee’s car. Fucking hell, it was a total write-off. The top was crushed and the windows smashed to pieces. Good grief, how had Dee survived this crash with only a few cuts and bruises?

  Tiff frowned. ‘I don’t get it. What are we doing here?’

  Big Ron gave her a scathing look. ‘I see not much has changed. You never got it then and you don’t get it now.’ He finished with a sniff.

  Tiffany opened her mouth to give him what for but her sister got there before her. ‘So what’s your verdict?’

  Big Ron hunkered down near the tyres. He might be a knobhead but Tiffany had to concede he was an expert on cars. He pointed to the tyre. ‘To the untrained eye it looks like you’ve got a flat, but someone who’s been in the business as long as me knows that—’

  With dread, Tiffany finally understood what was going on. She could see the evidence herself. She completed his sentence in a daze. ‘Someone shot out the wheels of your car.’

  As soon as they got indoors Dee yanked off the neck brace and threw it across the hallway.

  ‘Dee, I don’t think you should be doing that,’ Tiff warned.

  But her sister took not a blind bit of notice as she stalked up th
e stairs. Alarmed, Tiff followed her. Dee had refused to answer her questions on the way home. She’d set her face into a chilling mask that could only mean trouble.

  ‘This is getting out of hand Dee,’ she said quickly. ‘Someone’s gonna get hurt, maybe the baby. Tell Kieran where his fucking gold is.’

  Dee snapped round so forcefully that Tiff stumbled back. ‘I don’t know where it is. But believe me, if I did Kieran would be the last person I’d get on the blower to.’

  ‘How do you know it was him that did that to your motor?’

  Dee screwed her mouth up, which wasn’t a pretty sight. ‘Believe me, I know.’ She pointed to a framed photo of her, John and a young Nicky on the wall. ‘Do you see that?’

  Tiff was puzzled. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s wonky. I’ve got a thing about all the pictures being hung straight.’ She walked over and put it right.

  ‘Maybe it got like that after that guy shot up the place. Mind you, there’s been so much toing and froing around here, a picture out of place is the least of it.’

  Dee made no comment as she took herself into her bedroom. She went to her dressing table and opened up a beautiful, satin green jewellery box. She took out four chunky rings and placed them on top of the dressing table.

  ‘I used to wear these back in the day. If anyone gave me any jip I’d clobber them and these beauties here would cut their face.’ She picked them up. ‘When I married John I put them away. You know, a sign that my punching-people-out days were over.’

  Setting her mouth into a determined line she placed each ring on a finger of her right hand and vowed, ‘If Kieran comes after me again, it’s game on.’

  Fifty-Two

  ‘Will you friggin’ listen to me . . .’ Babs tried to get a word in edgeways as she spoke to Pearl Hennessy the following day.

  She had the volume on Loose Women hiked up to mask the forbidden conversation she was having. She was taking a real chance doing it during the daytime.

  ‘Will you give it a break for a minute,’ she slammed out. She looked heavenward as Pearl was finally mercifully silent. ‘Now listen—’ But she got no further because C Wing Queen Knox Benson abruptly swung into her cell and closed the door. Startled, Babs tried to shove the phone out of view and cut the call at the same time, but her splinted finger made her clumsy and it clattered onto the floor.

  ‘I’ve warned you to be watchful with that,’ Knox said. ‘You could get the lot of us in deep shit.’

  Babs leaned down but the other woman got there first and covered it with her foot. ‘That belongs to me now.’

  ‘Eh? I thought you said our mutual friend gave it to me for my exclusive use?’

  Knox scooped it up. ‘Get you, exclusive use. Where do you think you are? In the VIP lounge at some ex-clu-siff club in Benidorm?’ She rolled her eyes like Babs was the stupidest person alive. ‘That was then and this is now. Word is that the kangas have got some fancy machine to monitor if anyone is making calls from a mobile and jamming signals. So unless you want another couple of years added to your stretch you’ll let me do a vanishing trick.’

  Babs chewed her bottom lip. The mobile had been her lifeline to the world outside – although her daughters were currently giving her calls the bum’s rush – and after the battle lines had been drawn around John’s deathbed she needed to know what was going on. And, of course, there was the gold.

  The door opened. Knox spun to face Babs and shoved the mobile down her bra.

  ‘Alright Miss,’ Babs greeted Mrs Morris, one of the nicer POs on the wing. She was new to the job, an eager beaver who believed much more in rehabilitation than punishment.

  She looked suspiciously between Babs and Knox. ‘Benson, you’re not giving Babs here a hard time?’

  ‘Me Miss?’ she answered sweetly, her eyes widening innocently. ‘We were just watching Loose Women together. That Gloria Hunniford has got a right lovely voice.’ She shifted her gaze to Babs. ‘Be seeing ya Miller.’

  Mrs Morris moved closer. ‘Are you sure everything’s fine?’

  Babs nodded. As much as she liked the occasional natter with this kanga she didn’t fancy a one-to-one now. But the PO said, ‘You’re needed upstairs. The Governor wants a word.’

  Mrs Field was smiling. The treat she was giving her poodle looked much tastier than the muck they served the girls in the dining room, Babs thought.

  ‘Ah, Miller,’ she said once they were alone. To Babs’ surprise she waved her hand at the chair on the opposite side of the desk. She’d never been seated in the presence of the Number One and didn’t know if this was good or bad. She parked her bum on the edge of the chair.

  ‘This came for you today.’ The other woman pulled an envelope from the top of a pile of paperwork and passed it to her.

  Babs held it gingerly. ‘What is it Miss?’

  No emotion showed on Mrs Field’s face. ‘Best thing to do, in my experience, is to open it and see.’

  Babs nervously fumbled with her broken finger before getting it open. Inside was a piece of paper, which she took out and opened up. Her heartbeat went into overdrive as she realised what she was reading.

  Her head jerked up. ‘Miss, it says here that I’ve got my jam roll . . . I mean parole. They’re gonna let me out in two weeks’ time.’

  For the first time ever the Governor smiled at her, making the hard lines of her face much softer. ‘You’ve always admitted to the crime and conducted yourself well in prison.’ Babs thought about the mobile phone and thanked God for sending her a nut job like Knox who kept her ear to the ground. ‘The board feel that you have made very good progress and, above all else, that the time is right for you to rejoin the world outside and make a go of your life.’

  The tears gathered in her eyes. ‘But I thought after you stopped me going to work outside there was no way you’d vouch for me.’

  The other woman gave her a penetrating stare. ‘I’ve been in this job a long time and that day you came back with a broken finger . . . well, let’s just say that my fishy tale radar was on high alert. But on the whole your record shows you’ve kept your head down and your fingernails clean.’ Then she chuckled. ‘Except at the memorial gardens, of course.’ Babs didn’t feel much like laughing but let out a trilling hehehe to keep the Number One buttered up. ‘And you’ve got a lot to thank Margaret Sparks for. She wrote a stellar letter of support to the parole board.’

  Good ol Mags! What a mate! When she got settled she was taking Mags for a slap-up girls’ night out. Babs wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘Thank you Miss. Can I give my family the good news?’ She quickly added, ‘From the phone in the hall that is.’ Stupid. Dumbo. What did you go and say that for. Now she’s gonna think what other phone could you be chatting on about.

  Babs was rescued from her slip-up by the opening of the door. One of the POs, looking slightly harassed, said, ‘Sorry Mrs Field, we’ve got a bit of a situation in the reception.’

  The Governor beckoned her forward and the other woman whispered in her ear, so that Babs couldn’t hear. Not that she was taking a blind bit of notice. All she could think about was one word. Free. Fucking, bloody, bollocks free. She’d be back in the bosom of her family. Wake up and go to bed anytime she wanted. Go down to The Roman and Whitechapel Market. Have a natter with her mates down The Knackered Swan.

  ‘Miller.’ Babs snapped out of her wonderful thoughts. The smiling woman of a minute ago was gone. ‘Miss, is something up?’

  ‘It seems your wish to inform your family has come true much sooner than any one of us would’ve anticipated.’

  Fifty-Three

  Nicky was on his way home to drop off his dirty washing, listening to his fave CD – 2Pac’s Greatest Hits – when he got the call from his new pal Mal.

  ‘Alright matey.’

  Nicky’s heart started beating like crazy. ‘Are we on?’

  ‘It’s a definite.’

  Mal gave him a time and a place. Nicky knew he was cutting it fine but he needed to ge
t a new set of clothes so he continued on his way home. Flo had gone postal, so he’d told her straight, she could always do his laundry for him. He thought that would shut her up. He’d heard The Commander chuckling away at their row. He liked Flo’s granddad; he was kinda cool in an old man style.

  He stopped at a zebra crossing to let a pretty girl cross, clocking her soft brown skin, thin, braided extensions swinging down her back and a perky, curved bum. He was feeling so high about finally getting a taste of London’s underworld he called out, ‘Alright baby girl. Need a lift somewhere? I’m going your way.’

  She kissed her teeth long and hard at him. ‘Piss off, you cocky little toerag.’

  Charming! He tooted his horn merrily. Nothing could dim his day. But underneath he knew he was faking it, smiling on the outside but grieving deep inside. He missed his dad something terrible. John had meant the world to him. His blood father had entrusted him into John’s care and he had done a bang-up job of bringing him up. He knew his mum was bitterly disappointed in his decision to scarper – although she hadn’t needled him, which he was grateful for – but he couldn’t stand it at home one moment longer. He liked Flo. She was a good laugh when she wasn’t having a go.

  He banged on his horn at a van in his way. Slowly the van moved round and let him be about his business. When he passed, Nicky leaned out of the window and shouted, ‘Wanker!’ but he got no response. He turned up Tupac’s ‘Me Against The World’ and sneered, ‘Sunday afternoon driver’ at the van in his rear view mirror. Nicky started shaking his shoulders as he got into the groove. It was only a few minutes later, when he checked his rear view again, that he realised that the van was following him. Then he remembered that this part of Essex was the wrong place to be calling a bloke a wanker.

  He grew alarmed as the van kept pace in his rear view. The driver looked like a typical Essex van man with a baseball cap pulled down and he had a mate in the passenger seat, a geezer who looked like an Essex van man’s sidekick. Their vehicle was big and hogged pretty much all the narrow road.