Getting a Life (New City Series Book 4)

by Stefanie Simpson

  Institutional non-working poor. That’s how Rebecca saw it, conditioned to stay put, apathetic, careless with mind and body, and trapped in it. Only a small portion of Manderly was like that, but they floated downward into criminality, not their fault, but unable to do anything about it.

  She learnt early if she wanted out, she had to work harder than everyone else and did just that.

  Rebecca had nothing but contempt for her father, even from that age. She hated him and all the adults who let her down. She asked for help more than once, but she was a Manderly girl. There was no one to help her; she had to do that herself.

  It got worse when she was thirteen when she grew tits. Mark watched her wherever she went in the house, and she took to pushing her little bed against the door at night. Rebecca didn’t mention him to Mrs Hulston.

  When she was fifteen, things took a turn for the worst.

  David became a drug dealer to feed his habit; heroin, coke, pot, uppers, downers, speed, and e. The people who came to the house were scarier than he was, and Rebecca spent more time away from home than there. A few friends let her couch surf, but sometimes she slept in the park, or when she got her shop job, Mrs Patel invited her upstairs and fed her, and more than once she slept on their little fold out bed in the living room.

  She was a small and wizened woman, with big kind eyes. Rebecca loved her bright saris and gold jewellery, and Rebecca loved the couple. Mr Patel was quiet, but Mrs Patel ruled the house and taught Rebecca to cook. She told Rebecca about her son, who was married, and how they came to England in 1978, a young family with nothing.

  Her husband had opened the shop in ‘89, and they liked it, even if people were ignorant. She hated English weather, and missed her family, but not her in-laws. She’d tell Rebecca about India as they sat at the kitchen table cooking. Rebecca learnt how to make proper Indian food. Mrs Patel said she made very good chapattis.

  Rebecca hadn’t been home for five days when she slunk in. David and his ‘business partners’ were in the living room, she smelt the cook of heroin that her step-mother took, and bags of pills and white powder lay about. Her head ached immediately at the smell. Her stepmother – dishevelled and decidedly stoned – staggered out and dragged her in. She was berated for smelling of curry, and David – jittery and angry as ever – kicked the shit out of her.

  She lay on the floor with David standing over her, she heard laughing, someone tried to get her to smoke something, but she turned her head and crawled out the room. Blood dripped on the carpet, pain shot through her, sharp and dull at the same time. David gave a final kick on her bottom, making her cry out. They all thought it was hilarious.

  Rebecca held a wad of wet tissue to the bleeding cut under her eye and spat blood out as she leant over the bathroom sink, she caught sight of her bruised and swollen face, and anger took over.

  Often, she didn’t have the words for explanations and couldn't fight for herself. At that moment a cold reality set in. No one would fight for her; she had to do it.

  It was outside of enough. She packed her backpack, leant out the front bedroom window, threw it down, and climbed out. She edged herself down to the concrete plinth that jutted out over the front door, landed on it and jumped down. She didn’t care that it hurt.

  She walked into the police station and up to the man on the desk.

  He eyed her bruised and swollen face as she eyed his uniform.

  “I’d like to report an assault. I’m sick of being beaten up, but I know you don’t care, and won’t help me, but if I tell you he’s a drug dealer to boot, will you do something then?”

  He raised a brow.

  Half an hour later, she was in a small room in a comfortable chair with a cup of tea.

  “Do you want to see a doctor?”

  “If you like.”

  The social worker’s face focused on Rebecca when she told her and the sergeant about David.

  The worst parts, the things she feared most, sat under the surface, and she wanted to scream and shout, accuse and demand justice, but all she did was sniffle.

  But her stepmother and Mark would still be there, and she refused to go back. Rebecca clung to the social worker and told her everything, and she never went home.

  With a deep sigh, she looked up at Alice. “Every time I begged for help, I was ignored, no one listened or helped me until then. The only people who cared about whether I lived or died were the Patels. My social worker did her best, and I went to a group home for teenagers. It was hard. I never spoke or drew attention to myself. But I was determined not to end up like my family. I was out of Manderly, and I didn’t like the home, but I coped. Got a part-time office job with the help of a nice teacher and worked at the shop while I was in school. Then Mr Patel died. It was so sad. Mrs Patel went to live with her son. Their shop has been knocked down now.”

  “Did you ever see your family?” Alice’s voice was full of soft concern.

  “A few times, not on purpose. I’d run the other way. Once, I saw dad, and he chased me down the street. He didn’t stay in prison long that time.”

  “What happened to make you leave?”

  “I have a cousin.” The memory made Rebecca uncomfortable, and she only told part of the truth, no one needed to hear all of it. “Mum’s sister – you know, I don’t ever remember seeing her, there was so much that happened that no one told me about, and I still don’t know what happened to my nan. Anyway, her daughter, Ashley, was sweet. Only three years younger than me. I do remember her being at nan’s a few times, and I remember being at her house, I remember her dad, but not my aunt.

  “I bumped into her when I was out shopping. We started talking. Not about family and we were tentative, but after a while, it felt like she was fishing. It rattled me. I was careful not to say where I worked or lived. She saw I was doing well. She, on the other hand, looked worn. I thought she was different. I had no one, and I thought how nice it would be not to be so alone, to have a family. I wanted to let the past go. She invited me over.

  “When I got there, I realised I’d been had. David was there with Mark and his mum. I argued and saw drugs. I tried to run. Mark pulled me into a room and put his hands around my throat. They saw it all. Who does that? Who is so damaged that they allow that to happen? I managed to get away, fight him off, but there were so many people there, all high, and he was so off his face I think that’s the only reason I managed it. I punched Mark in the whatsits and made a run for it. Tracy, my stepmother, caught me by the neck and tried to pull me inside. I was beaten up right there in the street.”

  She shuddered at the memory of Mark and the tattoo on his neck. The smell of his cheap deodorant, the lingering smell of drugs on his clothes. She remembered his fingers biting into her skin as he tried to pull her jeans down. Trying to kiss her with his weight pinning her to the kitchen counter.

  “Someone called the police. In the end, it was the drugs he got the most time for. Guilty on all charges. The judge looked at his past, at everything. Tracy claimed he brainwashed her. Managed to avoid being charged. Can you imagine that? After what she did. She beat me because she hated me, not because anyone made her.”

  “I’m sorry it happened to you.”

  “Thank you. I’d never feel safe there. So, I thought I’d have a fresh start. Hope for better things.”

  “Well, you can stay if you want to, and please call me Alice.”

  “Thank you, I’d love to.”

  “Well, I’ll give you the tour and see the room first, let’s see what you think.”

  The living room was large and comfortable, with a William Morris patterned suite and curtains, warm oak furniture, books, knitting, photos, plants; all the warm clutter of a loved room. There was a large old-fashioned stereo and a moderate TV. The kitchen was large with the big rectangular table in it, and the dining room next to it was small but formal, and seldom used. There were boxes and paperwork cluttering it.

  Upstairs were
three main bedrooms, and the fourth bedroom over the garage had its own bathroom.

  It would be hers with pale peach walls, light wooden furniture, and a large bed. It had little French windows, which opened onto a balcony overlooking the back garden.

  It really was very lovely. Dated, but in an almost fashionable again kind of way. “It’s perfect.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you sure you don’t mind doing things for me, I mean, it’s a big house.” Alice carefully moved down the stairs as she spoke.

  “All you need is a spring clean.” Rebecca followed Alice back into the kitchen and cleaned away the cups before joining Alice at the table again.

  “When can you move in then, dear?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.” Rebecca got halfway through the word ready when the front door opened.

  Alice muttered, “Oh no.”

  A man with dark hair, light tan skin, and grey eyes came in, and he wore a suit but no tie, along with a sour face. Rebecca flushed at the expression on his face. She felt like she had done something wrong. He didn’t acknowledge her, but she acknowledged him.

  He was younger than expected, Alice must have been nearly eighty, and he looked about thirty. He was a stern, proud looking man, but so handsome. She swallowed.

  “Is this one of them?” He put his hands on his hips.

  “Well hello, son, nice to see you too.” Alice crossed her hands on the table in an elegant reprimand.

  There was a beat of silence.

  “Well? Is she? Do you even have a reference?” He turned to Rebecca.

  “Art, enough.”

  “No mum, this is preposterous. What on Earth made you do such a reckless thing?”

  Rebecca slunk down into her chair.

  “Arthur Lindon Hulston, stop it.”

  Alice looked at Rebecca who was quite pale. The man cleared his throat as he stood in the kitchen, taking up all the space. Rebecca couldn’t look away from him; this wasn’t who she expected.

  “Do you have a reference, dear?” Alice spoke softly, her face catching the sun as she leant forward, and Rebecca noticed that mother and son shared the same eyes.

  She nodded, fumbling in her bag, and pulled out a card. She slid it over to Alice, but Arthur stepped forward and picked it up.

  “D.I. Edwards? A detective?”

  Rebecca finally met his glare. “Who better than a respected member of the police to vouch for me. You cannot object to that?” Her voice was flat and slight, but it didn’t tremble, and she was proud of herself. Rebecca turned back to Alice. “I’ll go. If your son won’t allow you a lodger, I’ll understand. Thank you for the tea and the chat.” She snatched the card back from Arthur and left, quietly shutting the door behind her.

  Torn, Rebecca loved the house and Alice seemed lovely, but the son would leave her in fear, and she swore never to live that way again. She began the trudge back when she realised there wouldn’t be a bus for an hour.

  A sleek luxury car pulled up beside her after she’d been walking for ten minutes. Window wound down, Arthur glanced at her as he crawled along.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t stop but hurried her pace. He stopped, got out and caught up with her. “Wait. Please. I am sorry. Mum told me she was getting a lodger, and I lost my temper. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. She seems to like you, and she’s set her mind on it. I won’t lie to you; I don’t like it, but if it makes her happy, then so be it. I’ve been told to fetch you and your things and take you back if you want to.”

  She didn’t want to get in the car with him, she really didn’t. Part of her knew it would be a mistake to move in with Alice, but she was out of options. “I’ll walk and take a taxi in the morning.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re strange, and I am getting in no car with a man I don’t know.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  “Assault is not about attraction, it’s about anger. You’re very angry.”

  Shock registered on his face, and she carried on walking.

  “Wait.” He unlocked his phone, called his mum, and handed it to Rebecca.

  “Dear, Arthur is an obstinate man, but a good boy, come here. Come home.” Alice’s quiet voice sounded fragile on the phone.

  Rebecca cleared her throat, so she wouldn’t cry, and pushed her fear away.

  He opened the passenger door for her and got in himself. She cautiously slid in and passed back his phone. She was silent and stared forward as he moved off, one hand on the seatbelt buckle, and one on the door handle.

  “Where are we going?”

  She gave him directions, and he drove to the small bed and breakfast.

  Arthur rubbed his eyes at a traffic light and sighed. He looked tired.

  He waited in the car while she collected her things and came back out. She declined any help as she wheeled the two huge cases, and the holdall bounced on her side.

  The silence was unbearable, and she jumped when he spoke.

  “Have you got a job?”

  “Not yet, I will, I can pay rent with what I have anyway. I’ve only just got here.”

  He parked in the driveway and turned to her. “Let me be clear, whatever happened in your life, do not bring my mother into it. If you have some scheme in mind, I’ll find out, I’ll know. You hurt her, or even so much as upset her once, and I’ll make sure you pay. There aren’t any valuables in the house.”

  Rebecca stared dead-faced at him and again refused his help with the bags.

  “Oh, you came back!” Alice beamed at Rebecca, but she only nodded and struggled with her luggage. “Arthur, help her, don’t just stand there.”

  “I’d rather he didn’t, thanks.” Rebecca disappeared up the stairs, and she felt him watch her.

  She put her things down and puffed out a breath when he appeared in the doorway. “Sorry, I brought the rest of your things up.”

  She only nodded as he put them down and left.

  Rebecca didn’t even make the bed up, and went to sleep, forcing back the fear that crawled up her spine and filled her legs. It was a familiar feeling, and she hated it.

  In the morning, at six, she woke up. She heard someone shuffling about and came to. She remembered yesterday and Arthur. She shuddered.

  Peeling out of the unmade bed, she threw off the coat she had slept under, and went and made tea for Alice and coffee for herself.

  “Well, I’m sorry about yesterday,” Alice ventured.

  “No, it’s fine. I don’t like men so much, and especially ones that don’t like me.”

  “It can take him time to open up to people. He’ll warm to you soon enough, you’re too lovely not to.”

  “Thanks, but I won’t hold my breath. Anyway, I need to go buy pillows and a duvet.”

  “Oh no need, there are some unused ones in the little bedroom, I buy these things and forget about them. In fact, there are sheets and things too, so take anything from the spare rooms.”

  “Thank you, Alice. Today, I’ll get my room sorted, then, I’m going to do the kitchen.”

  “Oh, you needn’t do that today.”

  “I’d like to. Besides, I want to do something.”

  “As you like dear, but it’s your home too.”

  Rebecca spent the morning cleaning the bedroom and arranging it. It was a bright January day, and though cold, she wore a tight t-shirt and little red shorts with blue piping because Alice had the heating on high. She looked like someone out of the eighties with pink rubber gloves, her hair up in a messy bun, and a pair of flip-flops.

  She toted Alice’s housekeeping bucket around with her, along with one of her few possessions, a little bright cyan DAB radio.

  She sang along to the nineties radio station all morning, only stopping for a late breakfast.

  At eleven, Alice made it upstairs and took in the room. “Well, you’ve made this lovely.”

  Rebecca
smiled. She’d found new pillows and duvet, and a pale yellow and grey paisley set of sheets. The thin grey carpet was rough, and she found a rolled up Chinese style rug in pale pinks and greens. She rearranged the dressing table, chest of draws, and wardrobe, to make the room feel bigger. She had found a cream bedroom chair and put it by the French window. The room looked dated but tonal and clean. She really liked it.

  “Can I ask you a question, Alice?”

  “Anything.”

  “Why don’t you use this room?”

  “Ah, well, it’s too bright in the morning, even with the blinds and curtains. I wake at the first hint of light. Artie and I always preferred the front bedroom, because it was warmer in winter. The girls shared this room when they came to stay.” She explained when she saw Rebecca’s questioning brow. “Artie, my husband, had a cousin, awful woman. Her daughter Maddie is as bad. On husband number three. Each one has a little more money and slightly better pedigree. When Maddie was little, she and her best friend Vicky would come and stay for a few weeks for the summer. Arthur always got on with them well, and they were inseparable. I always worried he was lonely as a child, and it was nice to have a house full, even if the girls were, well, spoilt.”

  They had a light lunch, and Alice sat in the kitchen watching Rebecca empty out all the cupboards. She washed the nets, cleaned the windows and scrubbed the tiles. Between the two of them, they threw out a bin bagful of out of date food. Alice decided on things she no longer wanted; chipped cups, and mismatched odds and ends of dinner services, long unused.

  The kitchen was in utter disarray with Alice in the front room napping while Rebecca scrubbed years of crap from the cupboards, and it started to look brand new. She stood on a little step ladder cleaning the plinth on the wall cupboards, belting out an approximation of a song on the radio, dancing as much as she dared on a ladder.

  The music was so loud that she didn’t hear the door go or hear it close.

  Arthur pulled a face at the music in his mum’s house. He ignored his sleeping mother in the front room and turned to the kitchen.