Bad Blood (Tales of the Notorious Hudson Family, Book 5)

by Julie Shaw

  But it was like trying to soothe a terrified, captured animal. ‘Oh, Nick, his presents! His presents! I never gave them his presents! I can’t bear it. I can’t bear it,’ she said, sobbing, then jerking forward again suddenly and pounding her little fists into the carpet. ‘I can’t fucking BEAR IT! I CAN’T!’

  In the end, it really seemed there was nothing else for it. She railed and screamed for so long and so desperately and loudly that he didn’t know quite what else to do. But even as he poured the neat vodka and set up the line of coke, he wished, like he’d never wished for anything as much in his young life, that he had something more to offer her. That he did know.

  Chapter 17

  Christine couldn’t remember a time when she’d felt so much pain. Waking up in the dark, in her bed, her breath clouding in front of her, her first thought had been that she’d dreamt it. That the events of the previous day were just a trick her mind had played on her – a sick joke, courtesy of the demons in her drug-scrambled brain. Then she’d sniffed – her nose seemed to constantly stream these days – and, reaching for the roll of loo paper she kept beside the bed for the purpose, her gaze fell on the empty cot and the fact of it hit her like an out-of-control juggernaut.

  She’d sobbed herself back to sleep then, wanting only oblivion. She’d no idea where Nicky was, and couldn’t summon the wherewithal to leave the bed and find him, and with so little light coming through the heavy old curtains she had no idea what day it was, let alone what time, when she felt herself being shaken awake.

  ‘Sis, you’ve got to eat something.’ It was her brother. She’d been dimly aware of some previous comings and goings, but had feigned sleep when he’d spoken her name. But he was now more insistent, and clearly not about to leave. ‘Sis, you have to. It’s been two days. You can’t just hide in here for ever. You’ll make yourself ill –’

  ‘Like I care?’ The response was automatic. Did he get it? Probably not. She wanted only one thing. To disappear.

  ‘Bollocks,’ he said, placing a mug and plate on the bedside table, shunting baby wipes and cream and wrinkled magazines to the floor. ‘Absolute bollocks. Do you want him back or don’t you? And what about his presents? What happened to that? I thought you were going to speak to that Sloper woman and get Joey his presents. Come on –’ He yanked the curtains back, and an eerie pinkish glow filled the bedroom. ‘You’ve stewed in here long enough. More than long enough.’ His voice boomed in the space. ‘Now, eat that and drink that. And we’re going to go and sort it.’

  Two slices of toast, thick with margarine. A cup of warm milk. Even in her agony, love for her brother suffused her thoughts. Even as her instinct was to tell him to fuck off and leave her alone, a part of her knew how much she needed him and cherished him.

  She sipped, feeling nauseous as the milk flooded her mouth, and along with the bile came the same thoughts that had haunted her constantly. That some other bastard family had her Joey, that some other woman would be bathing and cuddling him, dressing and undressing him, feeding him and changing him, all the while thinking ill of her – she could see that so clearly – and thinking, in her ignorance, that he was somehow better off, ripped from the breast of the mother who’d given birth to him, and who loved him more fiercely than she ever, ever could.

  The milk stayed down, and a tentative nibble on the toast confirmed that, actually, her insides were screaming for nourishment, even as her heart sobbed for Joey.

  ‘What time is it, Nicky?’ she asked his retreating back.

  ‘Half past nine,’ he said. ‘Tuesday. And –’

  ‘Tuesday?’

  ‘It’s Tuesday. And I got change for the phone box, and the snow’s easing off a bit. So as soon as you’ve eaten and got yourself dressed, we’re going down to the phone box. And put something warm on. It’s absolutely freezing out there.’

  Christine had never seen snow like it. Nick reckoned he’d heard on the telly that it was the worst winter of the entire century and she believed it. Never in her life had she seen the city so transformed. It was staggeringly beautiful. A wonderland, peopled by red-cheeked and joyful children – it being so bitter and, with the roads impassable, and the temperature still falling, there was no question of anyone getting to school. And, had it not been so cold – some twenty below freezing, so Nicky said – she’d have indulged herself with a constant train of distressing thoughts. Of snowmen and snowballs, of stalactites and stalagmites, and all the wonderful things she and Joey could be doing – Nick, too – in this sparkling white landscape. But as it was, as they trudged through the trodden path through the almost thigh-deep snow, she could think of nothing but the distance between them and the red roof of the phone box on Manchester Road.

  That and Carol Sloper, the agent of her devastation. And who now – Nicky was adamant on this point – must be placated. Must be spoken to in a voice so at odds with the pain searing her insides that she wasn’t sure she could carry it off. How could she stay calm when her child had been ripped from her? But she must not swear, or shout, or rant. Nicky was adamant on that point as well. She must simply ask, nicely – plead politely that she be given one last chance.

  But, at the same time, she had to accept the grim probability that she would not get him back any time soon. So she must also beg Carol Sloper to be allowed at least to see Joey. At least to hold him and tell him she loved him and give him his presents. That surely couldn’t be too much to ask, could it?

  Nick was in step with her, his arm linked in the crook of her elbow, supporting her, though the snow was so deep there was really no danger of them slipping. Even if they did lose their footing they’d simply whump gently into a snowdrift. Which made it all the more wretched; it seemed so wrong for there to be so much beauty all around them, and a cold stone of dread in her gut.

  She’d not realised how hard she was crying till Nicky told her. ‘Hey, sis, you’ve got to stop that. Come on – chin up, before you go and set me off and all.’

  She felt a flash of anger. And self-pity. What did Nicky have to cry about in comparison to her? She had fucked up so horrifically. She couldn’t stop thinking about it. Even their own mother – she of Olympic-champion-standard non-mothering – hadn’t messed up like she had. Nicky and Christine had never been dragged off into care, had they? The shame of it was so hard to bear. She hated that too – the inevitability of her mother finding out. Of her dry, bitter laugh – Christine could hear it in her head – and of her doubtless satisfied snort of ‘I told you so’.

  She wiped her nose on her sleeve, realising she couldn’t even feel it. ‘Don’t you dare,’ she told her brother. ‘I’m relying on you totally.’

  And even as she said it, she knew just how much that was true. Where exactly would she be without him now?

  The phone box stank of piss but was at least a few degrees warmer, and though it took several attempts to fumble the phone number from her pocket, by the time she’d done so Christine had sufficient feeling in her fingers to dial.

  She also managed to compose herself, via Nicky’s stern directions. She must first ask what the chance was of a meeting to discuss getting Joey back and, if that wasn’t a goer – for the foreseeable future, anyway – she was to ask if she could at least see him, to give him his presents.

  The number rang for an age. Just kept on and on and on. But at last, the familiar click happened and the money clattered through.

  But it wasn’t Carol Sloper at the end of the phone. It was a woman who introduced herself as Jane something. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ she said, when Christine explained who she was and asked for Carol Sloper. ‘But she won’t be back in the office now till after the New Year.’

  A few seconds passed before Christine was able to digest this. ‘But that’s over three weeks!’ she said finally. ‘How can I … how can she be away so long? I need to speak to her.’ She could feel her pulse thumping in her temple.

  ‘She’s on a course, love,’ the woman told her, her previously clipped
tone a little gentler. ‘And she’ll be off for Christmas after that. Is there anything I can do?’

  The throbbing in Christine’s temple increased. She was struggling to catch her breath now. ‘My baby – what about my baby?’ she asked. ‘I need to talk to her about him. I need to see him. I … When will I be able to see him? I know I’m allowed –’ She felt Nicky’s grip on her arm tightening, and realised she was gabbling. ‘My friend was in foster care and she had visits. I know I’m allowed visits. When can I have one? I’ve got all his presents. Is there anyone else who can arrange that?’

  She clamped her mouth shut and breathed the icy air in through her nose. How could Carol Sloper take her baby and just fucking disappear? How could she do that?

  ‘Well, look, sweetheart,’ the lady began. ‘I understand how you feel. And it’s me you want. I’m the one looking after Carol’s caseload while she’s away from the office. And what I can tell you’ – her voice was all sweet now, like syrup – ‘is that your Joey is with a lovely young foster family, who are taking extremely good care of him, so you’ve no need to worry, okay? I’ve got it all here. He’s settled in very well over the weekend and is happy. So, as I say, you’ve no need to worry about him. They’ve two little ones of their own, so I’m sure he’s having a fine time.’ Christine heard some papers being shuffled. She had a file. She had the business of Joey’s happiness written down in a file. As if it could be anything like that easy to know if her Joey was happy. And she was still nattering on. ‘Now, I’m not sure about all the ins and outs and what’s going to be happening in the long term, but for now – just for now, love – I do have to let you know that there isn’t any contact on the table.’

  Contact on the table? What the hell did that mean? ‘I don’t understand,’ Christine told the woman.

  ‘Sweetheart, what it means is that you can’t see him just yet.’ There was another pause. ‘Look, I tell you what I’ll do. How about I leave a note on Carol’s desk in case she calls into the office? And if she doesn’t – though she probably will – I’ll try to get a message to her that you need to speak to her, how about that? I do understand, love. And I’m sure Carol will too.’

  ‘But I need her now,’ she said, struggling to keep her voice level. ‘I need him to have his presents. He needs to know I’m here. Needs to know I love him. Needs to have his presents to open on Christmas Day …’

  ‘Like I said, sweetheart, you mustn’t upset yourself. I’ll do my very best to let Carol know that. But, if it works out we can’t get them to him quite then, no matter. After all, he’s only a baby, isn’t he? It’s not as if he’ll remember and hold it against you or anything, will he?’

  Christine wasn’t even aware that she was falling. Not consciously. Not of dropping the receiver, or of the cry that came out of her. Only of Nicky’s grip and how, as she ended up wedged with her back to the glass, he let go, and took up both the receiver and the thread of the conversation, the words ‘won’t remember’ stabbing at her heart.

  All hope was lost, clearly. Every vestige.

  ‘Babes,’ Nicky said, grunting as he pulled her to her feet again. ‘Listen, stop that, okay? Are you still dizzy? Come on, lean on me. Let’s get home out of this fucking cold. She’s doing her best, okay?’

  ‘Best?’ Christine shook him off. ‘Best? They’ve stolen Joey!’

  ‘They have not,’ Nicky said, pushing the phone box door open and allowing in the swirl of icy cold. ‘She just promised me, okay? Promised faithfully that she’ll get hold of Carol Sloper. Says if she doesn’t come in by tomorrow night, she’ll pop round her house on the way home. She can’t do more than that, now, Chris, can she? Can she? That’s above and beyond, that is. Come on. Let’s get you home. And stick those hands in your pockets before you get frostbite. Hey, and make sure you cross your fingers, kid.’

  As if that was going to make any difference.

  Christine was barely aware of the days passing. The snow eased off, but still lay, growing harder and greyer, as if determined to match the darkness in her soul. The run-up to Christmas came and went in a haze of booze and drugs, Nicky, rightly or wrongly (and all out of ideas), having decided, despite his earlier resolution for them both to ease off a bit, that what his sister needed was a distraction. And Christine was only too happy to be dragged from one pub to the next, in an anaesthetising haze. She hardly even noticed the people they were with, let alone whether she liked them – she just made sure to get in sufficient a state that all thoughts of Joey stayed deep down in the depths of her mind. If she never sobered up, or so she reasoned, she wouldn’t have to come to terms with any of it. No more hurt. No more anguish. No more pain.

  No more fucking Christmas. Which she more or less achieved, at least, because the day itself came and went unremarked. They’d been up in Smiffy’s flat on Christmas Eve – Christine was ever more disinclined to stay in Brian’s – and it had been dark before either she or Nicky had even woken up. And as the first thought that came into Christine’s mind was that Carol Sloper had abandoned her, she wasted no time in badgering her brother to roll a couple of enormous joints, to ensure that what was left of it would be gone again as soon as possible, and the image of the presents, still gathering dust in front of the stupidly cheerful tinsel tree, sent its marching orders too.

  ‘I am so sorry, love. I really am.’

  Christine stared at the apparition currently outside the flat door, wondering if she was hallucinating or something. Logically, she knew she wasn’t – since that one time, which had frightened her, she’d not been anywhere near the mushrooms – but at the same time, she had just smoked a joint on an empty stomach, so who knew?

  She knew what day it was, at least. It was the day after Boxing Day and she and Nicky were getting ready to go out. There was a party on at the Spicer Street Club, a proper Canterbury Estate knees-up that half the estate flocked to every year.

  But no, Carol Sloper was very real. Christine could smell her, and she smelled almost exactly like she looked; unremarkable, floral and vaguely sweet. ‘Can I come in, then?’ she said then. ‘Have a chat? See how you’re doing?’ She looked past Christine, into the living room, towards the tree. ‘Pick up Joey’s presents, maybe?’

  It was the way she said it. Apologetic, yes, but in the same mildly rueful tone she might use wishing someone a belated happy birthday. Not of someone who’d taken a beloved child away. That was what really set Christine’s hackles rising.

  ‘Where is he?’ she wanted to know, having allowed Carol Sloper to follow her into the living room. ‘Where have you taken him?’

  Carol stepped politely into the room, looking momentarily as if she might be about to pass comment on the tree, but obviously thinking better of it. Instead she placed her briefcase on the carpet beside her and looped some stray hair behind her ear. She was wearing a raspberry-coloured beret. Christine wanted to rip it from her head. ‘Christine, love,’ she said, ‘you know I can’t tell you that. The foster carers have a right to privacy, as I’m sure you understand. So I’m obviously not at liberty to give out their address.’

  ‘What about my rights?’ Christine said. ‘Don’t I have any?’

  Carol Sloper sighed. ‘Of course you do,’ she said, sounding like it was a tedious fact of life she had to deal with. ‘But you must be aware, there are reasons why we have to respect foster carers’ privacy. After all, some of the children placed with them come from … well, some of them … A few of them …’ She tailed off then, seeming to think better of saying anything more about that subject, as well. ‘Anyway, the main point,’ she continued, ‘is to apologise for taking so long to come and see you, and that you’ll be pleased to know that Joey is well, and that his foster family tell me –’

  ‘Don’t call them that!’ Christine couldn’t stop the words tumbling out of her. ‘Don’t call them that. Not in front of me. They’re not his family!’ She stabbed her own chest. ‘I’m his family. Me and my brother are his family! They’ve just taken him f
rom me because you – you and whoever that other woman was – you just came and took him! How could you do that? And you cared so little – so fucking little – that you couldn’t even be arsed –’

  Carol Sloper raised a hand, as if directing traffic. ‘Please don’t swear at me, Christine.’

  ‘Don’t swear at you? Have you any idea what you’ve done to me?’

  ‘Christine, don’t think for a moment that I find any of this easy.’

  ‘But you manage it just fine, don’t you? Can’t be that hard, can it? Just march in here, with the fucking pigs, just up and take him – for no reason! Why did you do that? Just come in like that? When he was fine. When he was sleeping. When he was fucking happy. WHY? Because you don’t have a fucking heart, that’s why!’

  ‘Christine!’ Like a whip crack this time. She was vaguely aware of the sound of Nicky coming out of the bathroom. Carol Sloper was looking daggers now. Well, let her.

  ‘Look, young lady,’ she said, ‘you can consider yourself very lucky that I’m here at all. I’m on holiday, as you well know, and if you’re determined to take that attitude –’

  ‘Attitude?’ Christine couldn’t help herself. ‘You have taken my baby. How else am I supposed to be? Jumping for joy? Grateful?’

  ‘Sensible. And a hefty dose of humility wouldn’t go amiss either, young lady. The courts will decide if and when you will be allowed to see Joey, based largely on what I report to them, and you need to accept that. You had chance after chance – it’s not like you weren’t warned. But your lifestyle, and choice of so-called friends, has obviously always come first. That’s what I wanted you to be thinking about, Christine. That and how you might conceivably turn things around. Though judging from what I’m seeing here,’ she added, looking pointedly towards the mirror on the coffee table, the pack of Rizlas, the torn-up strips of card, ‘you’ve already made your choice in that regard.’ She then pointed to the presents under the tree. ‘Now, do you want Joey to have these?’