Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  She smirked as she watched Big Bastard and Crooked Nose return to their cop-mobile. Tiffany laughed hard at them when she realised their plain clothes saloon had been given a ticket while they’d been giving her the third degree.

  When they were gone, she returned to the pub and peered in through one of the windows. Behind the bar, her guy was having a serious convo on the phone. She guessed straightaway what had happened. There never had been a package for her to pick up and the local cops had been tipped off that a ‘vulnerable’ teen would be emerging from the pub, because someone wanted to see how she behaved under pressure. She assumed the person who’d ordered this charade was the gangster from Shadwell. Tiffany had been on the streets long enough to know how these things worked.

  Thirteen

  When Dee left the Alley Club early on her second day in the new job, she headed straight home to change out of her suit and into dull, casual clothes that made her look like a bit of a Doris. It wasn’t easy because she didn’t keep clothes like that in her stable, but eventually she found an old pair of slacks that she’d done some decorating in and a naff T-shirt she bought years back down Petticoat Lane Market (or The Lane as most people called it). In the bathroom, she scrubbed off all her Bobbi Brown and Fashion Fair face paint and roughed her hair up, so she looked like one of those washed-out housewife characters on Jerry Springer who really should have been barred from inflicting their cry-baby crap on anyone’s telly.

  Before she left she stared dreamily at a ripped page from one of her mags, taped to the wall. It was a snap of a classic 1950s, two-seater Italian sports car: the Pirano FS. She closed her eyes, breathed deep and hard, and imagined herself in the driver’s seat, her long, smooth legs stretched out. She felt the sleek, soft leather seat heating up her hot, brown skin. Her hands gripped and glided around the steering wheel. The motherfucking speed blew her jet black hair into the breeze . . . Dee opened her eyes. This wasn’t just a car she was looking at; it was her two-finger salute to anyone who’d ever had the nerve to say that Dee Clark was only going to end up in one place: the gutter.

  ‘Pirano.’ The name of the car rolled soft, smooth and slow off her tongue; it came out of her mouth as ‘Peeee-rrran-oh.’ It sounded like a cocktail straight from heaven.

  She almost bounced as she headed out, her confidence in her plans for John at an all-time high. But opening the door, she stopped dead in front of the person standing on the landing.

  ‘Hello, Dee,’ said her mum.

  Jen was dead excited as she walked through the doors at Eastfield College on Whitechapel High Street, struggling with the large, black, zip folder that held her best fashion sketches. The building didn’t have the style or flare of the Whitechapel Library and Art Gallery, just down the road, but it didn’t need it; this was the place her dreams were going to be made. Well, that’s what her tutor William ‘call me Liam’ Gilbert told her anyway. He said that her work was exceptional and she was coming here in the evening so he could give her some additional tutoring, along with a select few other students. Plus, he said he could organise the month-long work placement she needed in a proper fashion outfit. She was going to take any extra help she could get, if it meant she’d make it in the fashion world and wave ‘bye-bye’ to The Devil.

  When she entered the second floor art room she was surprised to see only Liam at his usual place behind the long desk at the front. He was one of those middle-aged men who tried to make himself look younger with gelled-back hair and a stud earring. The ‘Magnum’ ’tash totally spoiled the look but, hey, if the guy wanted to make a prize plonker out of himself that wasn’t her business; more important was what he could do to fast-track her fashion ambitions.

  ‘Where’s everyone else?’ she asked as she looked around the room.

  Liam stood up, displaying low-riding, youthful, baggy jeans that were all wrong for his frame. ‘They couldn’t make it. But I’m not surprised. No commitment. Not like you, Jenny.’

  She didn’t like him calling her Jenny but she was afraid to tell him because he might take it the wrong way. But his remark about her commitment perked Jen up even more. If there was one thing she had in spades it was commitment. From the age of ten she’d been committed to getting off that dump of an estate.

  Liam smiled slowly, showing his slightly coffee-stained teeth. ‘I’m glad to see that you bought your portfolio. Bring it over here and you can take me through some of your sketches.’

  Jen eagerly walked over to him and laid her portfolio on his desk. He stood very close to her, but she took no notice; she was too caught up in showing him her work. She unzipped the folder and set aside the small bag of pins. ‘I’ve got other portfolios at home, but this one I call my celeb collection,’ she gabbled away excitedly. She could feel his moist breath on her neck as she showed him the first sketch. ‘This one takes its inspiration from Courtney Love’s super-short baby doll dress.’ She shifted her finger and pointed. ‘I’ve changed it, so it’s not just plain buttons on the front, but military style buttons. Gives it a hard edge as well, if you wear the dress with Doc Martens.’

  His hand, sporting his wedding ring, came to rest on the desk near her hip as he shifted himself behind her. ‘And this one,’ Jen continued as she flipped to another sketch, ‘is that Sharon Stone, showing-off-all-your-curves dress – the one she wore in Basic Instinct, you know where she . . .’ Jen’s face went pink. The last thing I should be talking to my male tutor about is some woman flashing her fanny.

  ‘Oh, I know,’ he whispered by her ear. Jen inched slightly forward. She hadn’t realised he was that close to her. It made her feel kinda uncomfortable; probably just wanted to get a better view of her work. ‘Anyway,’ she continued, but her voice slightly shook. ‘I added a zip down the middle.’

  ‘Very inventive, Jenny. Very intense.’ Bloody hell his voice was practically down her ear hole. Why was he talking so soft and breathless like he’d been running for the number 25 bus and missed it? ‘Makes it so much easier for a man to zip the dress down from the front and take it off.’

  Hang on a minute . . . That’s when she felt him lean into her and rub . . . No way. Her mind wouldn’t let her take it in. He couldn’t be rubbing his rock-hard dick against her bum? Yuk! WTF.

  She froze, her heart thundering in her chest. ‘Mister Gilbert, what the effing hell are you doing?’

  Instead of moving away he pressed deeper into her, his breathing more ragged and hoarse. She tried to wriggle free, but he clamped his arm around her middle and slammed her tight to him. She fought but he wouldn’t let her go. She could smell the nasty sweat coming off him, mixed with Old Spice and garlic.

  ‘Come on, Jenny, let’s not play silly buggers here.’ His tongue licked her neck as his fingers dug into her arm. ‘You knew that we would be on our own. You’re up for it as much as I am—’

  ‘Piss off am I up for it,’ she spat, wriggling but only succeeding in rubbing herself deeper against his hard-on. She started feeling scared, the sweat breaking out on her forehead. What if he raped her and she couldn’t stop him? People would probably say she was asking for it; what did she expect, meeting a fella on his own?

  Stuff what other people thought. Jen gritted her teeth. ‘You better get your filthy knob and mitts off me mister or I’m . . .’

  He let her go, which surprised her. But she didn’t hang around to find out why as she gathered up her portfolio. ‘I could make things happen for you, Jennifer,’ he coaxed softly; her hand shook as she zipped her portfolio shut. ‘I know people in the fashion world, from the West End to East London. I know a place that will be more than eager to take a girl like you for your work placement. With a click of my fingers’ – he did just that – ‘I could open up a whole new world for you.’

  Instead of fleeing she stopped as his words sank in.

  A whole new world.

  ‘It’s all waiting for you, my sweet girl.’ His tone was low and seductive. ‘All you’ve got to do is come and take it.’ He unzippe
d his jeans and his erect cock sprang free.

  Jen stared at it, revulsion pulsing through her, then back at him. This man could make or break her. All she had to do . . .

  Jen made her decision. ‘If I do it this once you’ll help me?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ He smirked. ‘Now come here and get on your knees and get that pretty mouth of yours ready for what it’s been begging for weeks to do.’

  Jen carefully placed her portfolio down and slowly stepped towards him, her breath catching deep in her throat. One of her hands was tightened into a fist. She smiled shyly. ‘A girl likes to feel what she’s getting.’

  He leaned his head back and sighed as her hands reached towards him. In one quick move Jen violently yanked his zip up. As the metal caught into his skin he jumped in the air and let out a noise that didn’t sound human. Jen opened her hand and stabbed one of her pins into his drooping willy. His scream was piercing this time as he dropped to his knees.

  ‘You perv,’ she spat at him. ‘I might be desperate to get out of Mile End, but I ain’t that desperate. I feel sorry for your wife.’ And with that she grabbed up her work.

  ‘No one will believe a girl like you, you know,’ he yelled at her, ‘so don’t even think about going to the college authorities. Who are they going to believe? A poverty-stricken girl like you or a respectable lecturer like me?’

  Jen didn’t wait around to hear anymore. By the time she got to Aldgate East tube she was softly crying. He was right, no one would take her word over his. A girl from The Devil? You must be joking. There was no way she was coming back to this college. But what was going to happen to her dream? Of making it off the Essex Lane Estate? As the district line train pulled away, Jen sat tight and devastated in a seat, a single sentence twisting around her head to the rhythm of the train.

  A girl like you.

  A girl like you.

  Fourteen

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Dee asked her mum with attitude. ‘We agreed to meet on Friday.’

  She’d only recently met her mum for the first time and still wasn’t sure whether she liked her. How do you like the woman who dumped you as a kid and then got on with the rest of her life? But she’d been the one to hunt her mum down, not the other way around, so she couldn’t exactly slam the door in her face.

  Her mum looked worried as she took in Dee’s slapdash clothing and messed-up hair. ‘You don’t look too good. Not ill are you? Not got that nasty bug that’s been doing the rounds?’

  The only nasty bug at the moment is you. Dee felt bad as soon as the thought stormed through her head. The reason she’d found her mum was to get to know the woman and, if she was honest, discover why her mum had given her up.

  ‘I’m fine. Like I just said, what are you doing here?’

  Her mum stepped inside and gazed around her gaff. ‘Just wanted to see where my baby is living.’

  ‘I’m not your baby,’ Dee answered in a voice that could chill the sun. Dee so wished now she hadn’t given this woman her address, but she’d come over all ‘Surprise Surprise’ when she was reunited with her mum; as sentimental as heck. She’d even dreamed of them taking a Caribbean cruise, sipping cocktails in the bar, watching the beautiful sunset together. Well, the sun hadn’t set when they’d met for the second time. That’s when Dee found out that her newly discovered mother was going to keep the door shut on much of her past, including the first few months of Dee’s life.

  Dee wasn’t in the right frame of mind to deal with this right now. ‘I’m on my way out so you can’t stop for long.’

  Dee didn’t offer her a seat, too conscious that she needed to go over to her mate’s to pick up her toddler. Whatever her mum wanted she needed to hurry it along.

  ‘You’ve turned into a really gorgeous girl. Look just like . . .’ Her mum shut up.

  Dee stuck her fists on her hip. ‘Like my dad? The same dad that you won’t tell me anything about?’ She desperately wanted to know who her father was. Although her mum was white, all the world saw when they looked at Dee was a black woman and so it was natural that she wanted to know more about her black dad. She wasn’t stupid enough to have built him up to be a saint, but just to know his name would be something very special for her. But her mum wasn’t playing ball.

  Her mum’s voice was soft. ‘Dee, let’s not do this, honey. We’ve already been around the houses about this. All I want to do is get to know you.’

  ‘Well I’d like to get to know the man who shoved a load of sperm up you.’ Dee knew she was being crude, but this woman didn’t deserve her respect, not if she didn’t have the common decency to cop to who her father was. ‘All I want is a name.’

  But her mother ignored her question as she strolled from the passage into the front room. ‘Own this place do you? Or renting from the council?’ She turned back to Dee and smiled. ‘Because you look like a girl who’s on her way up.’

  ‘No thanks to you, since you didn’t bring me up. What was the trouble, Mum? Scared shit of bringing home a – what was it some of the kids at school used to call me – oh yeah, a half-caste little bastard?’

  The other woman’s face sagged. ‘I’m sorry, so so very sorry that happened to you.’

  Dee didn’t want her pity; all she wanted was her gone. ‘Well I’m a big girl now and anyone who has the brass balls to fling crap in my face will get a fistful of rings.’

  ‘Any chance of a cuppa or something stronger? Let’s sit down and have a nice little chit-chat about—’

  ‘Sorry, Mum, you need to leave.’ Dee headed for the door and held it open, ‘I’ve got business to take care of.’

  Her mum gave her flat one last look and then walked to the door. As she stepped out she said, ‘I really wish I could tell you his name—’

  Dee slammed the door.

  The muffled sound of her mother’s voice came through the door. ‘We still on for Friday then?’

  Dee leaned against the door. ‘Yeah.’

  As the other woman’s footsteps faded away, Dee just stayed rooted to the door. Just seeing her mum drained all the energy from her. She’d grown up in a good family with a woman who took her job as surrogate mum seriously, but somehow that didn’t make up for not being held close to her own flesh and blood. Dee shook off thoughts of the bad times, headed back to her bedroom and stared at the photo of the Italian sports car. She couldn’t wait for the day when that woman saw her driving it and Dee would make sure she understood that her baby-dumping self would never get to ride in it.

  As much as Dee bad-mouthed her mum in her head, she couldn’t let her go. Once found, how do you let go of the woman who gave birth to you? The idea that her mum would think she was some no-hoper was crushing. Dee was going to show her what a success she’d made of her life and that meant reeling in the loaded John Black. Dee got her brain back into gear with the plan she was going to carry out – getting John’s current gangster groupie, Trish, out of the way.

  Dee got into her small run-around and headed over to her mate Marsha’s. She’d always owned a car, whether she was skint or flush; it was not a good look to be seen on public transport. Marsha had initially refused point-blank to loan her toddler Kyle, but when Dee explained that she’d been claiming child benefit for a kid that didn’t exist and the social were coming round to check in an hour, Marsha hadn’t felt able to refuse. Dee was narked at having to give an explanation but when Marsha brought her son out for the loan and she copped an eye on the angelic child, she melted into joy and smiles. It was something she had in common with John; they both had a weak spot for kids. For a few moments, while she lifted the boy into her arms, Dee forgot why she was there. She desperately wanted a child of her own, to create a person that she could rely on one hundred per cent. But she needed the right bloke, and that meant one with the right type of bank balance.

  Down on the street Marsha fixed the child into the front seat, fussed over him and made sure his seat belt was secure.

  ‘I want him straight back
here afterwards, Dee, you understand?’

  Dee reassured her with one of her heart-stopping smiles. ‘A couple of hours, tops – you know what the social are like; they’ll soon get fed up and piss off. They only want to see a kid in my drum. They’re not going to question Kyle are they? Even they’re not that sadistic.’

  It was a very different Dee that drove little Kyle across London. She sang songs with him, told jokes and rolled the car on the road to keep him amused. It was only when they got to their destination that she became serious again. She led him up the stairs of a new-build block of flats and when she reached a front door on the top floor, she picked him up and hugged him in her arms.

  ‘Now, Kyle, we’re going to play a little game called Let’s Pretend. I’m going to pretend to be angry and my friend is going to pretend to be upset. Do you get it?’

  Kyle got it. He knew all about Let’s Pretend. So did Dee.

  She knocked on the front door. A woman in a red, silk dressing gown answered it with a towel wrapped loosely around her shoulders. She was just what Dee was expecting: a bottle blonde chick in her twenties, with peachy skin; slim, but well upholstered and with all the fittings that a simple man like John would appreciate.

  Trish looked at Dee and then at Kyle. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  Dee made her voice shake with overblown emotion. ‘You might well ask who I am. I have the dubious honour of being your boyfriend’s wife and this is our son Tarquin. I suppose you’re going to tell me you didn’t know about us – you home-wrecker.’

  Some of the colour drained out of Trish’s face. ‘His missus? You’re joking; he hasn’t got a wife. He said he’d rather stick his todger in a mincer than do the going-to-the-chapel lark again.’

  Dee hugged Kyle tighter. ‘That’s what he told you, is it? You realise that’s what he tells all his slags, while me and little Tarquin are sitting crying a river at home. And you were dumb enough to believe him? What kind of idiotic fuckwit are you anyway?’