That’s when Jen’s nightmare started. The same month her belly started to show he clouted her one, right across the mouth. She’d fallen against the table, hand protecting her unborn kid, hurt more from the surprise than the blow. How hadn’t she seen this about him? Only the coming baby had stopped her from feeling such an almighty failure. Bex was the only person she had told; Jen was too ashamed to tell Babs or Tiffany. Bex said she should boot him out, but Jen couldn’t do that; they were having a kid together, for crying out loud. No way was she going to become a single mum like some of the no marks on the estate, even before her kid was born. In the end, she’d given birth to her beautiful, precious baby girl while her baby’s dad was banged up.
Jen slipped out of the past as she spotted Nuts coming across the road, a single carrier bag in his hand. She didn’t get out of the car, instead she waved her hand from the open window so he knew where she was. He now wore his hair in its natural colour, a solid brown, above a slightly redder complexion, from too many jars down the pub.
Nuts had a big grin on his chops when he got into the passenger seat. ‘Let me have a look at my orchid,’ he said, using the nickname he’d given her years back. He looked like he’d missed a dinner or two but those blue eyes of his were still the same: bright and shining. His gaze settled on her chest and he started licking his lips like a starving man. ‘Jen, do me a favour, love . . .’ His hands went to the buttons of his trousers.
Was he having a laugh? As if she’d give him a blow job in public. ‘We need to get back. The girls are itching to see their dad.’
‘Oh come on, Jen, I ain’t had none in a month of Sundays.’
Jen cast him a dirty look before she got her motor into gear. It still astonished her what a selfish prick he was; didn’t he get the trouble and strife she and the girls had had to endure, while he was banged up? Her placement at Madam Dominique’s had helped her secure a job in a fashion outlet on Oxford Street, but then the place had gone bust and she was now working part-time as a cashier at a large supermarket down the road in Bromley-by-Bow.
‘So, how are my little angels?’ he asked as they drove home.
‘Good. Courtney’s teacher said she’s a star pupil and Little Bea got a prize at the end of last term for some history project she did.’
Courtney was their eldest at nine years old and had Jen’s light hair and her dad’s blue eyes. Little Bea was seven and was the spit of her dad. Little Bea’s real name was Sasha but everyone called her by her nickname because as a toddler she’d trailed after her Nanna Babs any chance she got. Jen felt such pride just thinking about her girls. They never gave her any backchat or bother – not like many of the other kids on The Devil – and they were the apple of their Nan’s eye. Poor Little Bea had cried a bucketful when her dad wasn’t able to come and see her receive her prize at the special end of year school assembly. Little Bea might’ve swallowed her mum’s lie but Jen suspected that Courtney didn’t buy into it.
When they arrived on the estate, Nuts took in his surroundings, an expression of wonder on his face like he expected the place to have turned into Buckingham Palace while he was inside. Fat chance of that happening. In fact, the place looked worse; the council had stopped doing so many repairs and Jen suspected they had moved some of their more troubled families in. The Devil’s Estate did what it said on the tin and always would.
They headed home, which was now on the sixth floor of one of the high rises, a short walk from her mum’s.
‘Where are my two princesses?’ Nuts announced, coming into the flat like Father Christmas with his body slightly bent and his arms out-stretched, like he was about to say, ‘Ho-ho-ho!’
Courtney and Little Bea were in the sitting room being looked after by their nan. Babs hadn’t changed much over the years and while other women her age were piling on the pounds, she had got slimmer. Her daughters tried to tell her to lay off the booze, but she’d always wave her hands at them, saying they were worrying about nothing. Now she appeared anxious as her grandkids looked at each other and slowly moved towards him.
‘Go on, girls,’ Babs encouraged, gently nudging Courtney forward. But the girls took their time, looking like they were walking to their doom.
‘What, you don’t know your old dad anymore?’ Nuts said. He turned accusing eyes onto Jen. ‘What you been telling them about me?’
But before she could answer, Courtney said, ‘Hello, Dad.’ Nuts held his arms out and their nine-year-old went into them. He made a big drama of nuzzling her neck as he lifted her off the ground and twirled her around. He did the same to their youngest. Both girls still looked like they’d rather be somewhere else.
‘Right,’ Babs said, ‘Come on, girls, we’re going over to mine for a bit.’
Once the kids and Babs were gone, Jen had to deal with the same tension that came into her home every time her old man came back home. Sometimes she just wished he wouldn’t.
‘You must be starving. I’ll pop some tea on.’ Jen quickly started moving towards the kitchen, but Nuts grabbed her arm.
‘I’m hungry, alright.’ Then his lips and hands were mauling her. Jen sighed; she knew the routine inside out. Get her on her back on the sofa. Boobs jiggling in the air, knickers around her ankle, his dick shoved home. He never lasted more than ten seconds. He made it to eight this time.
As he panted heavily, his body squashing hers, Jen warned him, ‘This is the last time, Nuts. You get banged up again, you’re on your own.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Yuck, he was slobbering all over her ear.
‘I mean it.’ He could suck on her ear as much as he wanted as long as he got it into his thick head that life was going to have to change.
Thirty-Nine
Dee stared at Marilyn with such amazement and love as she stood in the driveway, she thought she was going to cry with tears of joy. Marilyn was her beloved 1950s classic Italian Pirano FS convertible sports car – the motor she’d dreamed about for years. The car was gorgeous. A sleek black with white trim around the two doors, hexagonal front lights and a hood she kept permanently detached. A hood was no good to her; she wanted people to see her flashing around town. She’d named it Marilyn in memory of Marilyn Monroe. A stunning car deserved to be named after a stunning woman.
John had given her the dream car soon after she’d called him out on it during those early days of their marriage. She could remember the night as if it had happened yesterday. He’d played it cool when she asked where they’d be going to celebrate their anniversary, saying that he was taking her for a slap-up bit of nosh at a restaurant in Mayfair. But after the meal, he’d blindfolded her – to Dee’s delight – and guided her out back. Then he’d undone the blindfold and, voila! There Marilyn had been, like a baby waiting for its momma, wrapped up in red ribbon and a massive pink bow on top. Dee’s heart had almost stopped. She couldn’t believe it. It wasn’t just a car, it was a symbol of finally making it to the top. She, Dee Clark, motherless, fatherless, with only a Bible-bashing fanatic to steady her early life, had finally made it. Dee had given John such a seeing to that night, by way of a thank you, he’d complained about only being able to walk bowlegged the next day.
Dee slid her fingertips along Marilyn’s satiny side and let out little sighs of electric-shock pleasure. She closed her eyes as her fingers glided to the other side of the car. Abruptly Dee stopped. She moved her fingers again – no, that didn’t feel right. Dee shoved her eyes open and looked at her car and almost fell backwards. There was a long scrape along the bodywork of the motor. Someone had hurt her Marilyn.
Dee stormed back inside the house, yelling at full blast. ‘Which one of you sorry bastards did it?’
She found John and Nicky in the bar room. ‘Which one of you,’ she pointed an accusing finger, ‘messed with Marilyn?’
She didn’t wait for an answer as she picked up the nearest thing to her – a glass vase – and threw it at them. Both men dived for cover, as they always did when volcano Dee blew. Even Banshee
cowered behind the sofa. Dee went ballistic, throwing anything that came to hand, including her stiletto heels. Finally, she upended the single sofa that John and the cat hid behind. Banshee meowed furiously as she belted out of the room, a ball of fur running for its life. A heavy breathing Dee looked down at her husband. She saw the guilt written all over his face.
‘You bastard.’
John held his hands up. ‘Hold on a minute, babe, it was an accident. I was going to get it fixed.’
Dee stamped her foot. ‘You tosser! How could you do that to my Marilyn? She’ll be disfigured for life.’
‘One of my mates’ dad is a plastic surgeon,’ Nicky said from across the room, sniggering.
‘You little shit.’ Dee picked up a pint glass and threw it him. Nicky neatly ducked and went the same way as the cat, scarpering out of the room.
John stood up and took a shaking Dee into his arms. ‘It’s alright, love,’ he soothed her. ‘We’ll sort it – her – out. I know a brilliant garage that will do her up a treat. I’ll take her—’
Dee pushed out of his arms. ‘No, I will. Give me the address.’ She stabbed a finger in his chest. ‘From now on, you stay the hell away from my Marilyn.’
She marched into the hallway and yelled up the stairs, ‘Nicky, get your coat. We’re going for a ride.’
Tiffany wearily threw her screwdriver into her toolbox after fixing a tricky gearbox. She was tired of being a grease monkey. There had to be more to life than doing up people’s poxy motors in Watson Garages Ltd, tucked away under the arches near Bethnal Green overland station. Tiffany had dyed her still short hair pitch black. She could usually be seen out ’n’ about in three-quarter-length trousers or jeans and a pair of Nikes. Now she wore the deep green overalls that marked her as a mechanic.
She found it hard to recall how much she’d once loved this job to bits. The sentence she’d received for her part in the car ringer crime ten years ago hadn’t been getting banged up in one of those secure units for naughty girls, but a twelve-month stint doing community service at an East End garage. Her mum had wept with tears of joy and gratitude; if Babs had been allowed, she’d probably have kissed the hand of the judge and curtsied at the same time. She could still hear the judge’s voice as he pronounced sentence on her: ‘Since you enjoy working with your hands and obviously like cars, we should put this to good use.’ And that’s how she’d ended up working for Richard ‘Richie’ Watson for that first year. Turns out, the judge had his luxury Rolls serviced by Richie.
Tiffany had gone into a right strop about it, at first; getting her hands dirty with oil was not a good look. Plus, in the past, she and her mates from the cemetery had made a real song and dance of pointing and laughing their heads clean off at those community service Muppets as they picked up rubbish in the streets. But, to her surprise, she’d soon found out that she liked working down the garage. Pulling stuff apart and sticking them in the right place again gave her a real sense of pleasure and achievement. And the biggest thing of all – she wasn’t bored out of her tree anymore.
Richie had taken her under his wing, showing her the ins and outs of the business on the shop floor. He’d been so impressed he kept her on after her community service stint was finished. Mum was really proud of her. In that first year, she’d still sneaked out to the cemetery, but not as much as before; the gang didn’t have the same vibe and Stacey wasn’t allowed anywhere near her. The one time she had managed to have a quick word with her friend, she’d been shocked by how terrible Stacey looked and knew instantly that she was still taking that hard shit. She’d tried to explain how she had set Stacey’s old man up to get him out of her life, but her mate hadn’t wanted to know; she’d turned her back on Tiff and walked away. That had really hurt. She hadn’t tried to see Stacey again or gone back to the cemetery.
Tiffany wiped her hands, threw the rag on top of the bonnet and then pulled out a fag. There were signs up everywhere in the place about flammable liquids but – sod that – she needed a nicotine rush, like now. Life in the garage had become one big bore fest since Richie put up his spanner forever and passed the business to his two sons. A bigger pair of Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumb Arse, Tiffany had never met in her life. They went about business like they shared a single brain cell, so what had once been a profitable business was now on the slide. The younger brother had pulled her aside last week and had the cheek to announce that her wages were being cut. They must think she was stupid or something; she knew all about the off-the-books bizz they did – switching number plates; filing off serial numbers; cars entering one colour and leaving another. Richie would never have stood for that kind of carry on. By rights, she should let her fag drop and watch the bloody place go up in a ball of flames: her two-fingered salute to the slap in the face the brothers were giving her.
Well, she’d had enough and was looking to new horizons – something that could finally get her out of this, and from her mum’s thumb at home. Whoever heard of a twenty-six-year-old still at home? It was unnatural. She couldn’t even have her girlfriend stay overnight. ‘If that’s what you are, that’s what you are, but that other stuff ain’t going under my roof,’ was how Babs put it. OK, she was the first to admit, she’d had a string of girls over the years, preferring the fun of the casual hook-up to long-term commitment. But still, she wanted to make out in her own bed. Tiffany was disgusted with the council who’d told her she didn’t qualify for priority housing, not like Jen who’d gone to them with a big belly. After Richie’s sons had started playing up, she’d tried changing careers through an evening course, but that had gone nowhere. Was it too much to want her own roof and four walls? To get respect at work? She vowed to get it and that meant she was going to have to say ta-ra to the garage.
Tiffany sucked hard on her ciggie. How was she going to find the route to a load of dosh? Going back to ducking and diving in the cemetery was a no-go because the place now had an education centre that the local schools used for the kids. Who’d have thought the cemetery would turn into (in the words of the council) a nature reserve? That made Tiffany laugh; the way she heard it, you could still find plenty of strange creatures come dark. Including Stacey. Tiffany didn’t like to think about her former best mate. It made her too sad.
Just as she was getting ready to lock up, she heard a car roar into the garage.
‘We’re shutting up,’ she shouted as she walked from the office back into the workroom. She stopped and whistled when she caught sight of the car. Fuck me, never seen one of them before. She’d only seen it in motor mags. A convertible Pirano FS. Sleek, slim, in classic black, this one was a limited production, which meant it was worth a mint. Now that’s the kind of car she wanted to be seen burning the road up in. The black woman wearing shades behind the wheel looked pretty sleek and slim too. Beside her, in the passenger seat, sat a sulky-looking white teen sporting a black baseball cap with ‘Missy Elliott’ written in white on the brim.
‘You’ll have to come back tomorrow.’
‘I don’t do tomorrows,’ the woman snapped back.
That voice . . . Tiffany stepped closer. She knew that voice. Where did she know it from? The woman grinned as she slid her long legs out of the car and pulled off her lilac-tinted Oakley vintage sunglasses.
‘Well, well, well,’ the woman said slowly, ‘if it isn’t the ghoul from the graveyard.’
Tiffany’s mouth fell open as she stared at a woman she hadn’t seen in ten years.
Forty
‘Get this man another pint,’ Kevin O’Connor yelled to the gathering of men, his arm slung around Nuts’ shoulder.
When Nuts came out of the Big House, Kev always made sure that he got the welcome home he deserved. His closest friend got the boys together and they took a trip to Sally’s, off Commercial Street. Sally’s was a clothing outlet in the daytime and the upstairs was a knocking shop come night. ‘Touch My Bum’ by the Cheeky Girls was playing on a large video screen on one wall, but it was the two naked women – one
Asian, the other white – getting dirty with each other on a black, leather sofa, who were making Nuts salivate at the mouth. Now that’s the fireworks a bloke needs when he gets out of prison.
‘Bet you’re as hard as a rock,’ Kev shouted. ‘Can’t wait to get your nuts off.’ Then he laughed raucously. ‘Nuts. Get it?’
Kevin was spot on. Shagging Jen earlier had been like having his dick mangled; she was that dry. Her cunt had grown a set of teeth. That was no way to welcome your man back home. Jen was no fun anymore. He’d have to remind her who was boss. His pint of whiskey arrived and Nuts sipped as one of the other tarts in the room came over to him, wiggling her assets. She was all double-D plastic boobs and glitter, wearing only a metallic thong and a silver necklace with the name Monica across it. She was offering him sex on a plate, and he could smell it from here. Maybe he should bring Jen to Sally’s, to teach her a lesson or two about how to keep her man happy. He grabbed the tom’s arse as soon as she was over him and sucked hard on a raspberry ripple. Bloody hell, he couldn’t wait, he had to have her. They were soon bouncing, groaning and moaning while the boys watched and cheered him on. Yeah, this is what it felt like to be a man.
‘Come on, Nuts, come on Nuts . . .’ the men chanted to the tune of ‘Come On Eileen’.
Nuts let rip, blew his load, digging his nails into the woman’s super-soft arse. He hadn’t taken two breaths before the woman had been dragged off to do someone else.
Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama Page 23
