Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘Good lad.’ Kevin thumped him on the back as Nuts sorted his jeans out. ‘I want to thank you again for keeping your gob shut.’

  ‘I ain’t no grass, Kev.’

  Kevin pulled out a spliff. ‘Yeah, but there are those who would have blabbed rather than do another stretch.’

  ‘Partners don’t do that kind of shit. When I was inside, one of the guys got a snitch tat across his forehead with a toothbrush shank for letting his tongue wander. The scumbag got what he deserved.’

  Kevin let out a puff of smoke. ‘I got another job coming up. Good money—’

  Nuts shook his head. ‘No can do. I promised Jen I’ll keep it clean. She says I’m out on my B-O-T-tom next time. My girls didn’t even look like they knew me, when I got home. Mind you, screwing Jen was like jacking off to “The Sound of Music”.’

  Kevin laughed. ‘You down the job centre? That will be like Mother Teresa as one of Sally’s girls.’ He popped his hand in his pocket. ‘I’ve got one of these for you.’

  Nuts looked at the mobile phone. ‘That’s our hotline,’ Kevin continued. ‘It’s pay-as-you-go.’

  ‘Kev, I can’t do it mate.’ But Nuts held tight to the phone. ‘If Jen finds out—’

  ‘But she doesn’t have to know,’ his friend whispered persuasively. He touched the side of his nose. ‘Strictly between me and you.’

  He passed the spliff to Nuts who was soon puffing away. Nuts wasn’t looking forward to joining all the other Muppets looking for work at the job centre. All those forms, and the questions that nosey lot down there asked you. But still, he’d promised Jen he was going straight . . . Then all his thoughts disappeared as one of the girls knelt between his legs and started multi-tasking with her mouth and hands.

  ‘Sorry, but I can’t touch your motor,’ Tiffany said, arms stubbornly folded.

  ‘You what?’ Laverne’s eyes were brimming with fury. She pointed to her mouth. ‘Read my lips; you’ll bloody fix it if I have to shove your head in the engine and use your teeth to give it a new serial number.’

  The threat was water off a duck’s back to someone like Tiffany. ‘No can do, lady, because you told me, point blank to my face, if I ever saw you again to keep walking. You remember, that whole ‘‘You don’t know me, I don’t know you’’ thing. We’ve got history, you may recall?’

  Laverne looked nervously at the kid in the car, obviously to see if he’d heard, but he was hooked up to his earphones, nodding his head away, totally lost in a world of music on his portable CD player.

  Now it was Laverne’s turn to fold her arms, one of her legs thrust out cockily to the side. ‘I could take my motor somewhere else.’

  ‘You can do that if you don’t want the job done properly. Decent garages are like decent men, around here.’

  Instead of doing her nut, the other woman smiled as she pulled out a roll of notes like a magic wand. ‘Forget the history. You get my Marilyn spanking new again and this wonga’s straight in your pocket, no questions asked.’

  Tiffany didn’t even blink at the name this woman had given her car. There were always punters coming in with idiotic names for their motors – Poppy, Alfred and the worst, the absolute worst, had been Mamma Mia.

  ‘What’s your real name?’ Tiffany asked. ‘You’re as much a Laverne as I am a Lavinia.’

  The other woman squinted at her, her mouth tight. Then her lips relaxed. ‘It’s Dee.’

  ‘So how much you offering?’ Tiffany got back to business.

  ‘Five and two zeros. That’s if you get it done pronto.’

  Tiffany was impressed with the money. She looked over at the damage on the car. ‘Someone key it?’

  Dee’s eyes blazed. ‘Well, it didn’t scratch its own itch, did it? Now are you doing it or what?’

  Tiffany got down to work, while the kid – who Dee told her was her son Nicky – stayed in the car. Tiffany didn’t even blink at the news that a white boy was her son; in the East End she’d got used to seeing all types of families. Dee sat on a high stool with her endless legs crossed at the ankles and a brew that Tiffany had made her in her hand. Tiffany got the job done in fifty minutes straight.

  ‘Strange job for a girl – being a grease monkey I mean.’

  ‘Didn’t have much choice,’ Tiffany explained, as she wiped her hands. ‘The judge dumped me here to do community service. I’ve tried some other things in the meantime. I did an evening course to get me into youth work with troubled teenagers but they threw me off – I was too rough with the boys on the placements they sent me on, apparently. Imagine that, eh? Too rough for the boys round here.’

  Dee unlocked her legs, suddenly very interested in Tiffany’s career path. ‘Too rough?’

  ‘Yeah, I didn’t take no crap from the little bastards – so the course coordinator decided I wasn’t ‘‘sensitive’’ enough and he kicked me out. The prick.’

  ‘No crap, eh?’ Dee looked over at her car. Nicky had his feet up resting on the dashboard, no longer listening to his music, and was adjusting his cap in the rear-view mirror which he’d bent round for the purpose. Dee screamed, ‘Get your dirty trainers off my car!’

  Nicky was unimpressed and without looking around sneered, ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

  Dee turned back to Tiffany and explained in a hush tone, ‘My boy’s very delicate.’

  Tiffany cocked an eyebrow. ‘Yeah, I can see that.’

  After a think and some hesitation, Dee went on. ‘Did you get a certificate for this youth work thing you went on?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Hmmm. But bits of paper don’t prove anything, do they?’ She paused and studied her son. Then both women looked at Nicky who was now adjusting his seat so it went right back, ready it seemed to take a nap.

  Dee turned back to stare at Tiffany. ‘Alright, Tiffany, let’s be honest here – how do you fancy doing some freelance youth work?’ It was obvious what she had in mind. ‘The thing is right, we got my boy into one of them private schools, but they don’t get him. They can’t handle someone like my little Nicky. He’s too sensitive and artistic.’ Dee’s face got all dreamy. ‘He’s going to be a musician. When my boy plays the piano, he is killing it; it brings tears to your eyes. They’re all a bunch of posh bastards up there – stockbrokers, money people, you know the type. They say he’s anti-social. Yeah alright, he did whack that kid with a hockey stick, but you can’t let people take liberties, can you, babes? Before you know it they’ll be in his effing trousers. He only goes around using his fists because he’s so sensitive, so he over reacts, doesn’t he? I think that Beethoven was the same. OK, so he’s skipped a few classes, but he’s bored – he’s too clever for them.’

  Tiffany suspected that when Dee’s son played the piano he was killing it a way his mum didn’t mean. Artistic? Sensitive? More like a trouble-making toerag, Tiffany thought. And I should know, I was one.

  ‘We’re not paying ten grand a term to hear that, are we? You know what I mean?’

  Tiffany’s mouth did partly fall open at that. Ten Gs, to send some little bastard to school? She looked at Dee and started to take notice. The shades weren’t just sunglasses, they were vintage. The dress that showed skin top and bottom was no Top Shop off-the-peg rig. The foxy, huge hoop earrings were platinum, through and through. And the heels weren’t knock-off from down The Roman, but up West designer. Dee was living the type of life that Tiffany wanted. Desperately.

  ‘Oh yeah, I know what you mean. The school I went to didn’t get me,’ Tiffany quickly agreed. ‘Fobbed my old mum off with the same kind of bollocks. She kept telling them the only reason I flung chairs around was because they needed to have more lessons where I could use my hands. A bit of woodwork, some cooking. But did they listen to her? You know what they did once?’ Dee leaned in. ‘They banned her from school for four months, just because she tried to say my art teacher wasn’t any good – that’s why I was drawing on the walls. Alright, so she was a touch loud and leery, but what’s a mum to do when no one�
��s listening to her? I mean, come on, it’s parents who know their kids the best, right?’

  Dee straightened up, popped off the stool and walked over to Tiffany. ‘You work here full or part time?’

  ‘PT,’ Tiffany lied.

  ‘Alright, I’ll tell you what I’ll do. You come up our place one evening and I’ll introduce you to my boy and you see if you can act as a good influence on him. I’ll be honest with you, babes, I’m at my wits’ end. He’s going through counsellors like a dose of salts. Now you, you would get him. You speak the same language. I’ll make it worth your while, don’t worry about that.’

  Tiffany did smile then. Oh yeah, you’ll make it worth my while alright.

  A piercing sound like an air-raid siren abruptly cut across their conversation. Nicky was pressing the horn on his mum’s car and not letting go. Dee took out some more notes and, over the noise, shouted, ‘Here’s another onner on top, for the advice. Come around to mine in two weeks’ time, on Friday. Wish it could be sooner but we’re going for a little family break in Spain. Me and John will be ever so grateful.’

  All Tiffany’s other thoughts dropped from her mind, replaced by the name ‘John’. Her mind skidded back to the past. Wasn’t John . . . ? She frowned, trying to recall his last name. Oh yeah, John Black. He was the geezer Laverne/Dee had instructed Tiffany to get out of the firing line with the Plod, at the cop shop.

  ‘Is John the same John who was involved in that malarkey—?’

  Dee cut in, her features stern. ‘We don’t chat about our business in public,’ her considerable chest proudly puffed out, ‘but yeah, that’s my John.’

  ‘Does your old man know I was acting as a runner for Mickey Ingram?’

  ‘No, he doesn’t and I’d be grateful if you didn’t mention it. In fact, don’t mention anything to do with the old days; it ain’t just my boy who’s a bit sensitive.’ Almost guessing the next question Tiffany was going to ask, Dee added, ‘And don’t worry about Mickey Ingram. Once he got out, he found a new perch in Portugal with a new lady and two little ones.’

  Tiffany anxiously rubbed her lips together; she needed to think. She’d been well out of the ‘other’ life for years and had no plans to go back. But Dee wasn’t asking her to start toting an AK47, she just wanted someone to put her kid straight. But the old Tiffany couldn’t help pressing the fast-forward button in her mind – if you get in with the family . . .

  ‘I’m in,’ she said simply, just as Nicky stopped his racket.

  Dee’s lips spread in a satisfied smile. The women exchanged details and struck a price that left Tiffany grinning from ear to ear.

  ‘You still into girl-on-girl action?’ Dee asked.

  ‘What if I am?’ Tiffany answered defensively. Over the years she’d met many people, especially on The Devil, who just didn’t get her preference for women. But she didn’t hide what she was. She’d have one answer for any knockers – stuff you! She looked Dee straight in the eye, hoping she wasn’t going to have to say the same to her.

  ‘It will be good if you are, because I don’t want my Nicky hanging with some older bird who pushes her strawberry creams in his face. You get me?’

  Tiffany smiled with relief. ‘No need to worry there; your Nicky’s family jewels will be in safe hands.’

  Dee popped on her shades and got in her classic sports car as Nicky popped his earphones back on. ‘One more thing, I like to be called Mizz Dee.’

  Tiffany watched the woman and boy drive away and grinned. Mizz Dee was about to become her meal ticket out of this dump and off The Devil.

  Forty-One

  Two weeks later, on Friday morning, Nuts slapped some cash down on the kitchen table, startling Jen. She looked at the tens and twenties suspiciously. ‘If you’ve been on the rob again—’

  ‘’Course I haven’t. I’ve found myself an honest bit of labour.’ He popped on a pleased-as-punch smile.

  That’s when Jen noticed that he was togged out in a suit. It was the same colour as the one she’d first seen him in: powder blue. Jen was still wary; she’d heard all those tales of men dressing the part for some job that didn’t exist. When they got married, Nuts’ fancy job in the city had never materialised; his tale was that he’d left it because he wanted to set up his own firm, but Jen knew that was all lies. Nuts couldn’t tell a stock market share from a pork pie. What his ‘business’ was he never told her and, in truth, she never asked as long as he put cash on the table.

  ‘Got another job in the city then?’ she said acidly.

  She never even saw Nuts move. Before she knew it, he had grabbed her by the front of her dressing gown. ‘What’s a man got to do to prove his worth to you? What do you want – for me to show you my balls bleeding?’ His fist was clenched tight, his face red with fury and violence coming off every part of his body.

  Jen quickly shut her eyes, her heart pounding, body trembling. She knew what came next: his fist slamming into her body. It was never her face though; it wouldn’t do for the neighbours to know what really went on behind their four walls. She waited, horrified that the girls might walk in any minute. They were still getting ready for school. If Nuts was going to give her a hiding, he always took care that his daughters were not around. ‘It ain’t right that my princesses should have to see their dad teach their mum some manners,’ was the way he put it.

  If someone had said that she’d end up with a wife beater, she would’ve told them where to get off. No way would that happen to Jennifer Miller. Jen Miller had been swanning around like Lady Muck, turning her back on all the local lads because she said they were riff raff. No, Jen Miller was holding out for a prince, a real gent to take care of her, to create a happy home with even happier kids. But Jen Miller had got it wrong. Her prince had turned into a very violent frog.

  She just didn’t understand where her wonderful Nuts had gone. The charming man who’d driven her around in a plush motor, nicked flowers to impress her. The man who’d defended her honour against her wannabe rapist tutor. God knows she’d tried, tried her hardest to be a good wife, but nothing ever seemed to be right for him. His dinner was too hot; she’d popped on the telly too loud; his white shirt never looked white enough. It had taken her years to admit to herself that she’d hooked up with a monster. And poor, soft-hearted woman that she was, she was too ashamed to tell anyone other than Bex that her marriage was a living hell, full of pain.

  He punched her just below her ribs and then twisted his free hand in her hair and snapped her neck back. The pain was awful and tears sprang to her eyes, but she didn’t cry out; she couldn’t let the kids know what was going on. He marched her across the room and squashed the side of her face into the wall.

  ‘I’m tired of this, Jen,’ he growled, ‘tired of it. A bloke should feel like a king in his own home.’

  Please don’t let the girls come in. Please . . .

  ‘I didn’t mean nothing by it, Nuts.’ She hated the begging, the reasoning, the taking the blame.

  Then his hand dropped away and his other hand came up and gently smoothed her hair, like she was the most precious thing to him. ‘I’ve got a job down at a car dealership in Romford. The boss knows I’ve done time and says that my skills with cars will come in handy. I’ll leave the address if you don’t think it’s kosher.’

  He stepped back and gingerly Jen pulled herself off the wall. She could hear the girls laughing in their bedroom. Thank God they hadn’t had to see their father treat their mum like a bag of crap.

  ‘You look smart,’ Jen finally said. And he did. He looked like the Nuts she’d once known. Of course, Jen told herself, she should never have doubted him. He was the girls’ dad and he wanted the best for his daughters.

  ‘That money is a down payment from the boss because I explained that times have been a bit hard and my missus needs money for the kids.’

  ‘That was good of him.’

  ‘I love you, girl.’ Jen’s heart dropped. When he said that to her, it made all the pain go aw
ay.

  ‘I know. I love you too.’

  Long after he’d gone Jen sat at the table, rubbing her side, staring at the money. She let out a sigh of pure relief. Her jailbird of a husband had finally found a job.

  Tiffany looked around with wonder when the electronic gates of Dee’s house opened to let her in. She’d suspected that her new employer would have a fuck-off house, but nothing like this. She’d seen similar places like this on reality TV and in celeb magazines. Tiffany pressed the bell and tried to look like she’d seen gaffs like this in real life, plenty of times.

  Tiffany had expected a housekeeper with grey hair tied back in a bun to answer, but it was the lady of the house herself who came to the door. She held a white cat cuddled against her chest. The cat gazed at Tiffany and purred.

  ‘Banshee likes you. Glad you’ve come, babes.’ Dee ushered her into a large hallway that was pure white on ceilings and floor. ‘Since you’re going to be working here, let me give you a bit of a tour downstairs.’

  And for the next half hour, Dee swanned around her home with Tiffany, like she was the Queen of Sheba. Tiffany was excited by the wealth on display. She’d never seen so many rooms in her life. A swimming pool with water the colour of a tropical sea led into the gym room next door; a kitchen, with one of those old-fashioned stoves; a movie room – which Dee simply called Hollywood – which also had a fruit machine; a family room with a large fish tank across one wall; a snooker room and, Dee’s fav room, the bar, done up like an old-style pub. This was the life and Tiffany wanted it.

  They came to a room that had a sign that read ‘Gangsta’.

  ‘This is Nicky’s day room,’ Dee explained. ‘He’s been suspended from school – it weren’t his fault, alright. Me and John are working with the school to take him back sooner rather than later. He’s keeping up with his studies though.’

  Keeping up with his studies? Tiffany wasn’t convinced. Behind the door, she could hear the bleeping and blooping of a computer game being played and the hectic rhythm of So Solid Crew’s ‘21 Seconds’. Dee tapped on the door. She didn’t get an answer but she went in anyway with Tiffany in tow. The boy was huddled over a desk, punching away at his keyboard taking down the aliens who were invading Planet Earth, his shoulders moving to the music coming from a high-tech mini stereo system.