by Julie Shaw
Now she laughed. ‘Nick, you’re priceless, you pissing doylum!’
‘Well, whatever you call it.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think we can spend the vouchers on hairdressers. It has to be toys and stuff. Baby clothes. And I think stuff from British Home Stores, if I remember rightly, so’s we can get some Christmas decorations. And a Christmas pudding. That would be nice, eh? It’s fine. I don’t need a “hairdo” anyway.’
‘But you’re getting one. My treat,’ he said, decided. He had a few quid put away for the rent, so he’d use some of that. He could easily put it back when he got his next giro, which would be double bubble, on account of the Christmas break.
Course, they’d struggle come January. But January felt a whole world away.
It was heaving in town, even more than he’d expected. Like the whole of Bradford had chosen this particular Saturday to do every single bit of Christmas shopping. But they managed – in truth, he was pulled along not only bodily, but by the infectious nature of Chrissie’s unbridled joy, over the simple business of buying a few toys and decorating tat. He didn’t think he’d ever properly understand women. And it was something of a miracle that, shopping done, they’d managed to get her an appointment in the salon on John Street. And he was doubly happy that he’d made his gesture, just from the shine in her eyes, as various mates from the market came up to say hello, fussing over Joey like he was a proper little prince. He knew just how hard she’d taken it when that old Harris bitch had mouthed off at her. So this was good. This was double good. His nausea had even lifted. He could even face having something to eat.
Still she fussed, though. ‘Are you sure? I mean, it’s such a lot of money. And are you sure you’re all right having Joey for the hour? I can always take him in with me.’
‘No, you’re not taking him in with you. Last thing the lad needs is to be stuck in a bleeding hairdressers. No, he’s coming to the Wimpy for some bloke time, with his uncle. Aren’t you, fella?’ he said, chucking Joey under his chin. And it felt pretty good, that. With his uncle.
In the end she was done in less than forty-five minutes, and they’d done bloody well. She looked transformed. Perhaps come-downs from coke were half in the mind. She looked as well as she’d ever looked. Like her old self. Better, even.
She slid into the seat opposite him, automatically checking on Joey as she did so, smiling the special Joey-specific smile he’d come to recognise, as he ordered her a hot chocolate before they set off for home.
‘You look lovely,’ he said.
‘Yeah, yeah …’
‘No, really. I mean it.’ He leaned forward, the next question already forming on his lips. ‘Are you happy, sis? I don’t mean the haircut, I mean, in general like.’
She didn’t answer straight away, looking like she was seriously thinking about the question. ‘Let’s just say I’m happy today,’ she said eventually. ‘Aww,’ she added, looking again at her sleeping baby. ‘But we got some lovely stuff, didn’t we? I can’t wait to see his face when he opens his little fire engine. And he’s going to look the bee’s knees in all his new clobber, isn’t he?’
Her drink came, and she picked up the teaspoon and stirred furiously. Her eyes were shining when she looked up again, and Nicky had to fight back an urge to take her hand and squeeze it. She’d bat him away, for definite. Because he knew that, right then, it would probably make her cry. Fuck it. He was choking up himself.
‘Come on, slack-arse,’ he said instead. ‘Get drinking that up. We’ve a long walk back and the waiter was telling me before that there’s a dump of heavy snow on the way.’
‘Snow? Oh, wouldn’t that just be brilliant, Nick? Wouldn’t it? His first Christmas and some proper Christmas snow!’
‘Don’t bank on it,’ he said. ‘More likely it’ll be gone again by Christmas. Just piles of filthy slush by then. You wait.’
Christine buried her face in her mug and re-emerged with a moustache. ‘Another tenner says it won’t,’ she said, licking the foam away. ‘It’s all going to be perfect. For Joey.’
It had started snowing on their way home and it didn’t stop all evening. And it carried on snowing, for days after that. All week it fell, transforming Park Lane into a beautiful Dickensian winter scene, disguising all the dirt and rot that lay beneath. According to the news, it was set to last, too – was apparently going to be the worst winter on record. Which meant they were practically housebound, Nicky only venturing out if he absolutely had to. For drugs, or to get milk for the baby.
It was a happy kind of week, though, and, because Josie’s Paula had gone down with chickenpox, Christine didn’t have to venture back to the hated mother and baby group, and instead seemed to move almost serenely round the flat, carefully wrapping Joey’s presents, constantly humming Christmas carols, and in raptures when Smiffy from upstairs turned up unexpectedly, with a gift of a little Christmas tree she’d shoplifted from Debenhams, complete with a box of posh baubles.
So it was only right – that’s what Nick kept telling himself, afterwards, anyway – that they invited her, plus a couple of other mates, to a knees-up the following Saturday, once his stint with the probation officer – now recovered – was done.
And she’d come bearing gifts again – a litre bottle of vodka. Which went perfectly with the bit of Russian blow he’d procured, and got the party off to a flying start, while the snow continued to fall, forming drifts down in the car park, almost burying the few cars, frosting the windows and piling up prettily on the balcony.
It was the snow, Nicky decided, that probably did for them. That and the dope and booze that was soon coursing through everyone’s veins. Either that, or he was back on some weird, surreal trip, because when the hammering began it came entirely without warning, muffled by the winter wonderland beyond the windows, and simultaneously drowned out by Olivia Newton-John on the radio – not to mention Christine and Smiffy and her gobby mate Claudia, all competing, it seemed, in some mad kind of dance-off, gyrating around the room as if possessed.
‘Let’s get physical’ – those was the last words he heard before the hammering stopped and, with what sounded like a gunshot, the door suddenly burst open. And somehow there was a brace of coppers in the room.
The next thing Nicky noticed was the swirl of icy air, which had piled in all at once, like it was rushing through an airlock. How the fuck were there coppers standing in the middle of his living room? And then he noticed her, close behind them. Carol Sloper. And another woman. He didn’t know who she was. He swallowed, realising he didn’t need to. He’d know her anywhere, anywhere. With or without the Sloper woman. Everything about her screamed social services.
Then Christine’s voice. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ He heard that clearly. Saw one of the plods grab her arm and try to talk to her. Instinctively, he went to her. Grabbed her other arm and held it tightly. Saw Carol Sloper come around, an expression on her face that scared him. He flapped a hand towards Claudia. ‘Turn it off. Turn it off!’ Then, trying to gather himself into some semblance of sobriety, turned to the copper.
‘Hey, what’s happening?’ he said mildly. ‘What’s all this about?’
Carol Sloper took a step and also tried to put her hand on Christine’s arm. Christine yanked it away, though, her eyes wild. ‘I’m truly sorry, Christine,’ she said. ‘But this is it, I’m afraid. I’ve given you chance after chance, love. And I can’t give you any more.’
She looked around her then, as if to fully register what she was seeing. The lads sprawled on the futon. The dope gear on the coffee table. The empty vodka bottle – how did it get to be empty so quickly? It wasn’t even dark yet. And then she turned back to Christine, and now she did take her arm. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said again, and she looked like she meant it. ‘But this is no life for a little boy. We’ve come to take him.’
Chapter 16
There was a moment – a long moment – when Nicky watched his sister and thought she might just kee
p it together. It was a strange moment, too, because he was already braced for the explosion. Did they not realise? There was no way in the world she’d let them take Joey. She would die before she let them. She might kill before she let them. If he knew anything – and, even in his drug-muddled mind, that thing he definitely did know – it was that Christine loved Joey with a love the likes of which he’d never seen. She was not like their mother. She would not let them take him.
So this stillness – the absence of reaction – felt strange. She was standing blinking at Carol Sloper, her features in relative repose.
But it was to be short-lived. Christine’s brows drew closer together.
‘Take him where?’ she asked. ‘Because if you think I’m going to let you take him to that bloody mother and baby group in this weather …’
Shit, Nicky thought. She doesn’t realise. That’s what it is. She’s too far gone. She doesn’t understand what the bitch means.
Carol Sloper was already shaking her head. ‘Christine, listen,’ she said, the words coming out all clipped and sharp now. ‘I’ve come to take him. Take him into care, Christine. Do you understand that?’
That did it. Christine gaped. Shook her head, almost as if to clear it. As if what she thought she’d heard obviously couldn’t be true. Then she shook it more forcefully. ‘No …’ she began. ‘No, you can’t. Not in this weather. No, you can’t!’ Seemingly ignoring the gaping door, she stabbed a finger towards the window. ‘Have you seen what it’s fucking like out there! You can’t take a baby out in that! He’ll die of cold!’
She began turning around then, this way and that, as if suddenly unable to get her bearings – a sick parody of the dancing they’d been doing only moments before. ‘No, you can’t,’ she said, and it was now almost as if she was talking to herself. ‘No, you can’t. I won’t let you. I’m his mummy – it’s not happening.’ Then she stopped. ‘It’s not happening!’ This time a shrill, half-hysterical scream.
‘Christine!’ Carol Sloper again, her voice sharper still. Nicky wanted to punch her lights out. Anger was welling in him. Anger and a kind of horrified despair. He wasn’t going to be able to stop this. He clenched and unclenched his hands. There was nothing he could – or should – do. It would only make it worse.
He placed a hand on Carol Sloper’s forearm. ‘Does this absolutely have to happen?’ he asked her. ‘Is there anything we can do? Joey’s fine, honest … he’s fast asleep. I only checked half an hour back.’ He tipped his head back. ‘Go see if you like. He’s fine. I don’t understand why –’
It was the pity in her eyes that upset him the most. ‘I’m sorry, Nicholas. It’s happening. We’re taking Joey into care. So the best thing you can do now is support your sister, okay? Now – Christine, love. Listen to me …’ And her attention was back with Chrissie, who, before Carol Sloper and the other woman could get a decent grip on her, keeled over onto the carpet like she’d been shot.
All three rushed to gather her up, the coppers standing back impassively. ‘Please,’ he whispered again to Carol. ‘Please, not like this. Not coming up to Christmas. Not now. It’s too cruel. She’s been really trying, too. We both have. Joey’s fine.’
Now one of the police officers did step in, and tugged at his sleeve. Nicky fumed. He wasn’t being pushy or aggressive or resistant, or anything, but even so … Fucking coppers. It was hard to contain his rage.
‘Leave it, lad,’ he said. ‘All right? It’s a done deal. End of. Like the woman said,’ he added, casting an eye around, taking in the damning details of their little gathering. Nicky was all too aware that one of the other lads – who’d been retching in the corner – had barely made it from the room before throwing up, wholesale, and knowing the sound of it, so obvious, since he’d not shut the bathroom door, would soon be followed by the sour, fetid smell.
He had another moment of clarity and it felt wretched. The copper was right, wasn’t he? Bottom line. This wasn’t any life for a kid. Why the fuck hadn’t he seen that before now? Why? For all Chrissie’s love for Joey, that he was safe, warm and happy was so much a case of luck over judgement.
Fuck, he thought, enfolding Chrissie in his arms while they went to take the baby. Fuck.
But Nicky had underestimated his sister’s raw, physical strength. Apparently inert while some formal statement was made to her by the Sloper woman – about Joey being placed in a foster family until ‘such date when social services have determined a final outcome’ – what? – as the pair hurried off to the bedroom, it took her no time at all to escape his clutches, not least because he didn’t want to hurt her.
‘You can’t fucking do this!’ she screamed, lurching across the room in pursuit of the two women. It was the bigger of the two coppers – with no such concerns – who got a decent grip on her. Even then, it needed the other copper to help restrain her.
‘Don’t make this any harder than it needs to be,’ the first one warned. ‘It’s not going to help you any to upset the baby.’
Christine made an animal kind of growl as she writhed to free herself from him. ‘Not the baby!’ she screeched at him. ‘He’s my fucking baby! Joey!’ she screamed. ‘Joey! It’s Mummy! Joey, Joey! Baby! I’m here! I won’t let them! I promise!’
Then her voice seemed to crack and she seemed to fold up in their grasp – a rag doll, lolling between them on jelly legs.
From the bedroom came the sound of Joey’s bewildered, frightened crying then. It felt like being stabbed. Nicky dropped down in front of Christine, who was now knelt on the floor, face shrouded by her hair, the two policemen, presumably realising she had nothing left, having finally relinquished their grip.
He placed a hand either side of her head and lifted her face so he could look at her. ‘We’ll get him back, okay? There’s nothing we can do now, but we’ll get him back. Deep breath now. You’ve got to think, sis. Okay? Think about Joey. Keep calm now. But we’ll get him back. I promise.’
Which broke his heart to say, because he’d seen the look in that Sloper woman’s eyes. Seen what she’d seen. So he knew no such thing.
He had thought, in his naivety, that he was on top of it. That she was on top of it, as much as anyone could be in the middle of such a fucking nightmare. Perhaps it was the booze and drugs, both contributing to the dulling of her consciousness, that meant that, in the end, it had been quick and reasonably calm.
The two women had emerged from the bedroom, Carol Sloper holding Joey against her hip, the other woman cradling a bundle of clothes and cuddly toys, while Nicky was in a funk of indecision about what to do with his now silent and apparently passive sister. Did he heave her up, make her say goodbye to Joey? After all, fuck only knew when she’d next see him. Or did he lead her away, urge them to get the fuck out as soon as possible, thereby making the whole thing a great deal less upsetting for both his sister and his nephew?
He had no idea. But in the end he didn’t need to make the call on it, because Christine, eyeing the two women, did something completely unexpected. She leapt to her feet, but rather than lunge for Joey, which was what Nicky expected, she went up to him, apparently calmly, placed a shaking hand on his head and kissed him. Then, glowering at Sloper, and then the other woman, stalked off past them into the bedroom, returning with Joey’s crocheted cot blanket, and his beloved Eeyore, both of which she plonked onto the second woman’s pile with a look of haunting despair.
He was as proud of her right then as he’d ever been.
He was also aware of Smiffy and Claudia stirring, as if they’d been in some kind of time lag, both of them muttering, none too quietly, about it being a fucking crime. About bitches and the social and how they had no bloody right … and to an extent and a volume that Nicky felt moved to turn around and tell the pair of them to shut the fuck up.
And then they left, the four of them, filing out into the hallway, the last copper making a big show of feeling around the now knackered door frame. ‘There’ll be someone along to fix that, lad,’ he
told Nicky. ‘Within the hour, I expect. Not that we’ve an obligation to,’ he obviously felt he had to add. He glanced at Christine. ‘But, well, you know. In these kinds of circumstances …’
Nicky had never felt the weight of responsibility press down on him quite so hard. The door was one thing, but what the hell was he supposed to do now? How did he deal with her? What was the plan?
But, actually, in the short term, it didn’t look like it was going to be hard. He sent the guys and girls home – despite the vomiting one making a big fuss about not knowing where the fuck he could go – and all Christine seemed to want then was to lie on the futon in his arms, sobbing and sobbing, right through the man coming to sort the door frame, until eventually, at around ten in the evening, she went to sleep.
No, it was in the small hours when it all kicked off proper. He must have slept himself, and pretty awkwardly, as he had major pins and needles. When he was shocked into consciousness by the sound of screaming.
Christine was no longer beside him, but on her knees again, in front of the little Christmas tree, and he could see her reflection in the window. She looked possessed, and he struggled up and across the room to her.
The sight of them was enough to almost derail him. That and the conversation they’d had just a couple of days before about how Joey could roll over and might soon be crawling, and whether it was safe to leave all the carefully wrapped presents in such tempting reach. That and the drugs gear, she’d added. ‘We’ll have to sort that,’ she’d said to him. ‘Can’t leave any of that shit around once he’s up on his feet!’ And they’d had a half-serious talk – no, a proper serious talk – about how they’d need to make some heavy-duty New Year’s resolutions. Fuck, he thought now, sniffing tears away.
‘Hey, sis, come on,’ he urged, tugging on her shaking shoulders and pulling her back to lean against his chest. Her hair smelt of grease and smoke and cheap body spray. She felt tiny. Insubstantial. The proverbial bag of bones.
