by Julie Shaw
Bridewell was the name of the cells down in town. So that, presumably, was where Nick and Brian were headed too. He glanced at Carol Sloper then. ‘I think that’s us done, love,’ he told her. ‘Unless you need us for anything else?’
Carol Sloper shook her head. ‘Thank you. I can take it from here, thank you,’ she told him. Then she nodded towards Christine. ‘Assuming there’s definitely no plan to arrest her too?’
The male officer shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he told her. ‘Can’t say for absolute definite, but from what we’ve got from witnesses, I doubt it. It’s a first for this one, and from what the neighbours are saying, a one-off. So we’re happy to leave her in your capable hands – if we need her for something else, we know where she is.’
Brian’s friend Anthony, growing restive in the hands of the two police officers, began trying to wriggle his way out of their grasp. ‘Watch it, sonny,’ the policeman said, his voice now markedly different, and it occurred to Josie, without a shred of accompanying compassion, that if he kicked off he’d get more than a clip round the ear on his way from the flat to the car park.
But her attention was now focused back on her friend. Who was now dribbling. Josie could hardly bring herself to look at her.
‘Now can you tell me what’s going on?’ she asked Carol Sloper.
Carol seemed to be struggling with what she should and shouldn’t tell her. Sighing as Christine groaned, her head lolling against the futon, she gestured that Josie get up. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Follow me.’
Christine wasn’t going anywhere, so Josie did as instructed, anxious now, seeing the look on the social worker’s face and the fact that she’d yet to hear from Joey. Asleep, she told herself. He must just be asleep. Had anything bad happened, she’d have known it immediately. There’d have been no smiles from any policemen.
But it was her nose, rather than her ears, that would first be assaulted. By a stench as familiar and gross as it was intense; the smell of cannabis, ammonia and shit.
She put a hand up to her nose and mouth, as did Carol Sloper. Then saw Joey and immediately lowered it.
‘Oh no,’ she cried, rushing forward to pick him up and cuddle him – something she became all too aware she couldn’t do. He was squatting in his disgusting cot, staring at her, completely silent, his face streaked with tear tracks, his body with faeces – and, unbelievably, it looked like he’d been eating it, too; it was smeared all around his mouth and his chubby fingers seemed caked in it.
She felt her own tears – tears of rage – threatening to spill. Yes, she’d seen it all before. Seen it more often than she’d cared to. Because babies born to druggies – her own crappy sister included – enjoyed a level of parental ‘care’ commensurate with most druggies’ level of care for themselves in general. They were stoned, they were happy. They really didn’t give a fuck. So, oh, yes – nothing new here. Nothing she hadn’t seen before. She’d seen poverty as well – and how it compounded an already grim problem. Mothers whose only care was the care they took in selling their bodies to pay for gear – and, should the opportunity arise, when the kids were a bit older, selling their ‘services’ to get gear as well.
She cast miserably around for something she could pick Joey up in. This – this fucking shit – was something else. Christ, they were almost of an age. Had shared almost the same backgrounds. Yes her mam might be a head case, but that wasn’t the whole of it, not by a long chalk. Whatever else was true, Christine had been given a half-decent start and had had plenty of promises of help from friends. She could have asked Josie, and several like her, for anything she needed. And she knew it. She knew it. There was no excuse for this. Heartbroken that she couldn’t even pick Joey up in that state, she swung round to the social worker.
‘Christ!’ she said, exasperated, ‘what the fuck’s been going on here?’ even though she doubted Carol Sloper could begin to answer. Then a thought hit her. ‘Christ, you’re not taking him into care, are you? Not today?’
She must either have been shouting, or it was simply a miserable coincidence that they heard an anguished wail from the other room. Carol Sloper turned and went back and, finding nothing with which she could usefully hold the baby, Josie followed. Perhaps there would be something in the living room. A stinking coat some druggy friend of Brian’s had left behind, if she was lucky.
Christine, giddy and disorientated, was trying to stand. ‘Not my Joey,’ she wailed, tears streaming down her face. ‘Please don’t take him into care, please. Oh, please.’
Josie didn’t trust herself to speak. Carol Sloper, on the other hand, seemed to find her composure.
‘Calm down, lovey,’ she said, ‘nobody’s doing that. Not today. We just need to find out what happened. You need to talk to me, Christine, and talk to me honestly. I’m not the bad guy, remember? I’m here to help you.’
‘No you’re not!’ Christine shouted, suddenly animated. Though still not, it seemed, registering Josie’s presence. ‘No, you’re not!’ she said again, seeming suddenly more lucid. ‘You just make everything harder. Just make everything so much harder! So I can mess up, and you can swoop in. And steal my baby!’
Christine’s voice was becoming hysterical, and Josie had heard enough. ‘Christine,’ she barked, ‘knock it off and bloody listen! The woman just told you – she isn’t here to take Joey! But I swear to God, girl, you’d better think about what you say next. Because as God is my witness –’ she stabbed a finger towards the bedroom – ‘if any harm had come to that boy in there, I would have killed you myself.’
Christine looked at her, wide-eyed, as if trying to focus. As if only just realising that Josie was there. And having done so, she thrust her arms out, as if for a hug. ‘Oh Josie, oh, Josie – oh, thank God you’re here, mate. Is my Joey all right? Is he okay?’
Josie hugged her, then lowered her back down onto the futon. ‘I swear down, Jose,’ Christine said, meekly allowing herself to be manoeuvred, ‘I don’t even know what happened, honest I don’t. They were all in here partying, and I was trying to get a bit of sleep. I had a headache. That was why. I had a headache, that was all. And all I remember was looking for some aspirin. And I took it and – I don’t know. I don’t know what happened! Next thing, I woke up and all hell was breaking loose. The police, the noise, everything. I couldn’t even get off the couch to check on Joey – couldn’t move. I swear, Jose. You have to believe me!’
Carol Sloper looked as sceptical as Josie felt. She also took a notebook and pen out of her briefcase. ‘So, you’re saying that someone else drugged you?’ she asked. ‘Is that it?’
Christine shook her head. ‘No, I’m not saying that. I’m saying that what I thought was an aspirin clearly wasn’t. But I didn’t know. I swear down. I don’t know what it was.’
‘Or where it came from?’ Carol Sloper was still busy writing.
Christine shook her head. Looked at Josie. Her skin was like parchment. The colour of washing-up water. She struggled to sit more upright, to see what Carol Sloper was writing. ‘See,’ she said, pointing at the notebook. ‘And you can write this down, too. This is what happens when I don’t get the help I was promised. If I’d have got my flat, like they promised me they’d get me, Joey and me wouldn’t have to live here, would we? I could get childcare. Get my job back, get sorted!’ Her voice cracked. Carol Sloper kept on writing.
Josie spied some sort of wrap, and picked it up. She had to hand it to Christine. Whatever the truth was, she was playing this perfectly. The way Christine was telling it, Josie wouldn’t have been surprised if she came out of this with a new gaff and a Mother of the Year award.
‘I’ll go sort Joey,’ she said, brandishing the tatty old shawl thing, all too aware that the person on whom all this centred was still in the bedroom, covered in shit.
‘No, no, no,’ Carol Sloper said. ‘That’s for Christine to do. Alone. Go on,’ she said briskly. ‘Time for you to walk the walk, love. Clean that baby up, dress him and feed
him, the poor mite. That’s assuming you’ve anything to feed him with?’
With Christine occupied and out of earshot (and on no account could Josie help her) she listened as the social worker explained what would happen next.
‘Whatever Christine thinks, I have no intention of removing Joey from her. Though he’s at risk and will obviously be recorded as such. To tell you the truth, I have grave concerns about Christine’s ability as a mother, especially with the situation she is currently living in. But she deserves a second chance and I’m comfortable in giving her one. And a stern talking to, obviously, because she needs to recognise the seriousness of her predicament, not to mention the fact that there will not be a third.’ She closed her notebook. ‘And you can help. As her friend, you can help. She clearly looks up to you. Impress upon her that she’s in a serious place now. Perhaps, if you can, give her a hand with things as well.’
‘Oh course,’ Josie told her. ‘That goes without saying. I know Nick – her brother – wants to do his best by her, but this is the last place she should be. The last place he should be.’ And in that instant her feelings become clear. If Christine was doing drugs, doing hard drugs, and often, Josie would be as decisive as it looked like Carol Sloper was going to be. She would have no qualms, she decided. She would support his removal. She couldn’t, and wouldn’t, sit by and do nothing. Make excuses for her friend when a baby was at risk. She left the flat feeling guilty, but strangely resolved, shaking out her coat to try and blow the taint away.
Chapter 14
Christine shivered as she cupped her hands under the icy water from the bathroom tap. She didn’t think she’d ever felt so bone-cold. It wouldn’t be much better in the living room at this time either, because the gas fire only heated up the area directly in front of it, though at least at this hour she and Joey would have it to themselves, Nicky having decamped to Brian’s bedroom.
It had been a close call, what had happened, and it had scared her. Brian in prison – he’d got six months for possession and intent to distribute, as had his two druggy mates, Anthony and Phil. Thank God Nicky had got off so lightly; he could so easily have gone down too, but they’d thankfully dealt with him leniently. As it had been his first drugs offence, he’d got away with a community service order, which meant a weekly session with a probation officer – every Saturday for the next four months – which he was to spend cleaning the parks across Bradford.
But it was still a wake-up call – not least because, for the foreseeable future, anyway, it would be just the two of them responsible for all the bills. ‘Lucky’ was what Nicky’d called it, because he’d been bricking it, big time, but his solicitor had not only helped him evade a custodial sentence – because of Joey, he’d also persuaded the powers that be to let them be added to the tenancy of the flat.
Christine wished she could feel lucky, because it could have been so much worse, but now they were ‘official’ tenants, how did that leave her? She wasn’t sure how all these people communicated with each other – only that they did. How else did Carol Sloper know all about their comings and goings? And she’d bet a pound to a penny she’d now be shunted down the housing list – if she was ever really on it in the first place. A tight knot of dread followed her everywhere now, and try as she might not to, she could only find one way to make it better. Pushing it away. Burying her head. Making it go.
She gazed into the cracked mirror above the porcelain sink and raised her fingers to the dark circles under her eyes. She knew she looked shit, and knew also that patting the bags that hung beneath them would not be banished – not even lessened – by dabbing at them with the freezing water. She did so anyway – she had to get herself washed and dressed, not to mention Joey – because Josie would be calling for her in less than half an hour, and if she wasn’t ready and looking respectable she’d give her hell.
‘You look like you’ve seen your arse this morning,’ her brother greeted her as she walked back into the living room. He was squatting on the piece of carpet that served as a rug in front of the puttering fire. ‘What’s up with you?’
‘Shut up, simple!’ Christine snapped as she reached onto the coffee table for a Rizla paper, then thought better of it, chastising herself, then picked it up anyway. It was okay. It would calm her. It would smooth down the edges. Plenty of time yet for the smell to go away. ‘Roll us a spliff, Nick,’ she added, ‘while I go sort Joey out. You know what Josie’ll be like if I keep her waiting.’
Nicky took the paper and started to sprinkle some tobacco onto it. He looked and smelt like he’d slept in his clothes. ‘I don’t know why you have to go to the bleeding baby meeting anyway,’ he muttered. ‘What’s the point? What’s it for?’
‘It’s not a “baby meeting”. It’s a mother and toddler group,’ Christine corrected. ‘And I have to go. You know that. Just like you have to go and sweep the streets. I have no choice. That’s the deal. Whether I like it or not. Or that Carol Sloper’ll be on to me again.’
‘How will she even know?’ Nicky persisted. As if it made any bloody difference to him. He just didn’t seem to get it – the potential shit she was in. She heard Joey calling and the knot moved and pulsed in her stomach. Just at the thought of the power Carol Sloper had over her. And Josie too. Nick didn’t realise, but Christine was under no illusions. If she let Josie down, there was no two ways about it. She’d grass her up. She’d said she would. And Christine knew she meant it.
Nicky passed her the joint, such as it was, which was meagre. Then the lighter. She lit it and took a drag. ‘I’ve got to go, Nick. You don’t realise. I’ve got to do right by Joey.’
‘Like you haven’t up to now? He’s all right, isn’t he?’ He really seemed to want to know. Just as, at the same time, he didn’t seem to want to remember that party – that fucking party – and Joey being caked in his own shit. And how bad she felt. Didn’t Nick feel bad about that? She felt wretched. But he was all right, wasn’t he? Now he was. Nothing bad happened. And it wasn’t happening again.
Christine blew a stream of smoke out, feeling stronger. ‘He’s fine, Nick. I just need to …’
‘To what?’
‘To … to get my head together. Get more organised. Get …’
Nicky turned to look at her. ‘Get what?
In answer, she stabbed the spliff out. ‘Fuck it, Nick. Get shot of this!’
Under his astonished gaze, Christine went into the kitchen and mashed some Weetabix into milk in the bowl she kept for Joey. Another of Josie’s orders. That she kept his stuff clean and separate. Like she had any idea how hard that was, living here. Brian’s shit still everywhere, and Nicky thinking washing-up was some sort of alien fucking activity.
She smashed the Weetabix to a pulp and took it into the bedroom, where Joey greeted her with the same beatific smile he always had. His hair was growing now – thick and long, though not as curly as his father’s. She mused for a moment about how life might be different if Mo hadn’t been Mo. How different it might be if he took some interest in his son. She smiled despite herself. He might even start making dreads for Joey, too.
But he didn’t and he wouldn’t. It was just them and Nicky. ‘Hey, baby,’ she said, as he held his hands out for the bowl, then plopped back down in his cot ready for her to feed him. ‘Mum-my,’ she cooed at him. ‘Mum-my. M-m-m-Mummy.’ One day soon, she knew – one day soon, he’d manage to say it. And perhaps one day she’d have enough saved to get him a high chair, too, so he could sit in it and properly feed himself. So much mess. Always mess. It was so hard to keep on top of.
‘See? He’s eating well, anyway.’ It was Nicky’s voice. Christine turned. He’d got up and followed her in.
‘I forgot to say,’ he said, leaning against the door jamb while he smoked his own spliff. ‘I saw mum.’
Christine feigned indifference. ‘Saw her where?’
‘Down the Listers. She looked a right state. I mean, really shit. Lost a bunch of weight, too. June McKellan said she’s
ill.’
Christine digested this as she wiped Joey’s chin. Registered the stab of something – what? Just the business of Nicky seeing her. Just that wrench that not once had she been round, or sent a message. Just that realisation that, actually, she didn’t care. Didn’t love them. ‘Ill how?’
Nicky shrugged and took another drag. ‘I didn’t ask, did I?’
‘Didn’t ask June? Didn’t she say?’
‘I didn’t speak to June, did I?’
‘So how’d you know mum’s ill then?’
‘One of the lads said June told him.’
‘And you didn’t think to ask?’
‘Why the fuck would I want to ask?’ He smiled grimly. ‘She might get me confused with someone who actually gives a shit, mightn’t she? Besides, if she’s that ill, what’s she doing down the fucking Listers?’
‘So did she see you? Try to talk to you?’
‘Yeah, she ran over and bought me a pint, sis. Course she didn’t speak to me.’ He took another drag and shrugged. ‘I just thought I’d tell you, is all. Didn’t expect twenty questions.’
‘You won’t be getting them, either. Why should I care?’
Nicky shrugged again, and ambled off, while another sentence formed in Christine’s brain. Yeah, but you do. You fucking do. Just like I do. You DO. Yet for some reason she couldn’t seem to ever say it. Not out loud. It was like it wasn’t allowed. For either of them. The big taboo.
Twenty minutes later, Josie was helping Christine bump the pram down the steps, their breath forming clouds in front of their faces.
Christine didn’t want to – didn’t really mean to – but out it came anyway. ‘Nicky says Mam’s ill. Is it true, Jose? Said he saw her in the Listers and she was looking really crap. Said your mam said.’
