by Julie Shaw
‘I can try,’ Carol Sloper said. ‘But don’t make her any promises. I can’t work miracles.’
But you still all play God, Josie had the wisdom not to say.
Chapter 20
It was the back end of January and, once again, bitterly cold. It had come out of nowhere – the icy air swept down from the far north, but far from prettying the place up with fresh snow, it just re-froze what was left of the last lot. Piles of banked sludge, grey and filthy, blocked the pavements and narrowed the roads, and created a very different kind of Dickensian scene now – one that seemed to accentuate the poverty and grime, highlighting all that was wrong with the neighbourhood.
Christine, however, was happy. Well, using her new definition of what constituted ‘happy’, which was easy to achieve if you followed one simple prescription. Spend as much time as possible pissed or stoned. She knew it wasn’t sustainable – there was a part of her brain that knew that very well, even without Josie’s constant badgering and nagging. But, for the moment, it was a way of living that made living bearable, which was presumably why so many people with shitty lives embraced it so readily.
That her life was shit was no longer in any doubt. It had been shit before – even with Joey, it had been bloody difficult. But there had always been that glimmer of hope that, eventually, it would get better. That a flat would be found for her, that she could get back to some kind of work, even that her mam would one day stop being such a bitch to her.
But the glimmer was gone now. Not only extinguished but trampled on, too, via the news that a sour, middle-aged woman had been the main agent of her current misery – and more than that, that she’d absolutely no redress. No right of reply. Not a vestige of power. That she held the power – that malicious old witch. Which she obviously did because Carol Sloper had proved it. Just swept in and stolen her Joey. It was just like Josie’s mam had always said. You couldn’t trust anyone, especially the social. They were a law unto themselves.
Well, fuck them all. Fuck the lot of them. They had ripped out her heart and they would all have to live with it. While she took herself off to a place where the pain couldn’t reach her.
And today, her heart gone, she felt happy. Because today was the day that Brian was being released from Armley Jail, after serving just half of his sentence. He had kept his nose clean, and, courtesy of an HMP travel warrant, was getting the train across from Leeds. He was planning to meet Christine and Nicky in the Listers at some point in the afternoon, where she assumed he’d waste no time in reacquainting himself with the business of getting his nose dirty again. A proper party. And Christine was definitely in the mood to party. What else was there left, after all?
‘Come on, Nicky!’ she yelled as she banged on the bathroom door. The pub was calling, there being nothing to drink or smoke in the flat. ‘What you up to in there? Putting on my mascara?’
Nicky opened the door and put a hand on his hip. ‘Why, of course,’ he said, fluttering his eyelashes. ‘How do I look?’
‘It’s not so much how you look, Nick, it’s how you smell – like a whore’s bloody handbag. Now, are you done? Let’s get going. I’m gagging.’
Nicky wriggled a hand into his jeans pocket and pulled out a small wrap. ‘Don’t be in quite such a hurry, sis. I’ve got this, to take the edge off. Nice bit of Lebanese Black.’
She’d been wrong, Christine realised. Perhaps she hadn’t been quite as happy as she’d imagined. She clapped her hands and grinned at Nicky. Now she was.
They shared the joint en route, huddled close together, linking arms to help keep the cold out, as they weaved through the maze of flats and out on to Manchester Road.
It would be a while before Brian arrived but there was no point in waiting. They’d both had their giros – Nick had saved up a bit from the last one as well – and it made a lot more sense to sit in the pub and drink than waste money putting the fire on back home.
It also felt good to be a proper part of something. For all the wretchedness of the last few months, there were these small pockets of gladness – she was a part of the group now, felt more a part of the estate. And when one of their own came out of nick – which seemed to be a regular occurrence – a piss-up of epic proportions was always the order of the day. And she was a part of that. It felt good to be included.
The mood in the Listers was jovial. Already half full with regulars, it was welcoming and fuggy, as all the workers from the mills and factories drank with enthusiasm and commitment, trying to down as many pints as they could manage before legging it back to work.
Not that work was a concept Christine currently had much use for. Now and then she thought wistfully of the life she no longer had – and could, she knew, return to, if she could work up any enthusiasm. But the feelings never lingered; they were washed away all too readily, by the vodka bottle, or a nice comforting joint. Nick did his bits here and there – nipping out at odd hours to do things she never asked about, and invariably coming home with an unexpected take-away, or a couple of bottles, or some dope or some coke – but there seemed no pressing need for her to do likewise. Not any more.
They had a drink and then another, shouting at each other over the blare of the juke box, and feeling the warmth of the alcohol seeping into their bones. Nick had a thing about one of the barmaids, which was endlessly entertaining. He was quite a looker, no doubt about that, and had an impressive range of chat-up lines, too, but he was also handicapped by his penchant for large middle-aged women – the ‘maid’ in question wasn’t only old enough to be his mother, she was a mother – of ten-year-old twins. ‘It’s Oedipus,’ Josie had explained to Christine a while back. ‘No doubt about it. He’s looking for someone to mother him.’
Christine smiled to herself, watching him in action. If that was the case, it was buried deep in his subconscious. He certainly wanted her to do something for him, but ‘mothering’ wasn’t it.
Weaving back with their third drinks, Nicky’s expression had changed, though. From one of unrequited lust to one of obvious displeasure.
‘What’s up?’ she asked as he put her drink down in front of her.
He gulped an inch off of his. ‘Guess who’s in?’
She craned her neck to try and see, but there was a solid wall of people in front of them, the pub having really filled up now. It was still mid-afternoon, but it was also a Friday, and with Brian due shortly, plenty of locals would have managed to skive off work.
‘Who?’ she said, taking a glug of her own drink. The bubbles from the Coke tickled her nose.
‘By the bogs,’ Nicky said, gesturing with a nod. ‘Rasta Mo. I never feel quite comfortable when he’s knocking around. You never know quite what might go down.’
‘You don’t feel comfortable?’ Christine turned, and now she saw him too. The effect on her was physical. Though not in the way Olivia Newton-John was always bloody singing about. It was visceral. A fury. The yanking of an internal knot. He was with one of his drug-dealing mates – an older man, thickset and very black – almost tar-black – who went by the unlikely name of Troy.
She put her glass to her lips again and drank it down in one. Then rummaged in her pocket for a five-pound note.
‘Fuck him,’ she said, enjoying the way the word felt on her tongue. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘work your charms on Rita over there. Get us another vodka. I’m going to need one.’
Nicky took the note and held it aloft. ‘Just ignore him. Let’s not let him ruin our day, eh?’
‘Not a chance of that,’ she pointed out, feeling tearful all of a sudden. That’s how it went. She thought she was safe from herself, then something would break through, from deep inside her. She sniffed. ‘Since he’s already ruined my entire fucking life.’
Nicky gave Rita their drinks order, and then squeezed Christine’s arm. ‘Come on, sis,’ he said, as the drinks were banged down in front of them, then led her away, over to a table on the far side of the bar.
Hidden by the cigarette machi
ne, Christine continued to watch Mo, taking satisfaction that he couldn’t see her doing so. He looked as dapper as he always had, flashing his pearly-white teeth, his hair in its perfect dreadlocks, swaying in time to the rhythm of the jukebox, his clothes – always colourful, always perfect, always pristine – shouting his status above the lesser noise of dun and grey and rust. She tried to remember what she’d seen in him, as a person she’d once liked and looked up to. And couldn’t. Just this huge welling of betrayal. Then he turned and she automatically shrank back in her seat, as if skewered, and though he’d not seen her she felt exposed and small and hurt.
She downed her third double vodka almost without realising. Her head was buzzing now, her temples throbbing to the soundtrack of Bob Marley. ‘Funny that,’ she observed as Nicky returned with yet another drink. ‘D’you think he clicks his fingers and the record changes?’ She realised she was having difficulty turning her thoughts into words.
‘I think my luck’s in,’ Nicky told her.
‘What, with Rita?’
‘She only winked at me, didn’t she?’
‘You’re deranged.’
‘Honest, I swear, sis. And she had that look on her face.’ Then he nudged her. ‘He’s seen you.’
Christine stiffened. She risked a glance. He was staring straight at her, looking as if he’d just stepped on a dog turd. ‘So fucking what?’ she said. ‘It’s not his fucking pub. We can go where we like.’
She stared back, conscious that Mo had pointed her out to his friend now. Then they laughed, sharing some joke. She stood up.
‘Hey,’ Nicky began, as she picked up her drink. ‘Sit the fuck down, Chrissy. I mean it. We don’t want trouble, not today.’
She registered his obvious reading of her mind, and with a strange pleasure. ‘There won’t be any trouble,’ she said. She was angry now. Very angry. What with the Leb and the vodka she was flying, and she knew it. She skirted the table. Why exactly did they call it Dutch courage? What did the Dutch have to do with it, anyway?
She felt her brother’s hand tugging at her jumper. She ignored it. She felt unstoppable; suffused with a drive to speak her mind the likes of which she’d not felt since her baby had been taken. Her beautiful baby. Their baby, who had deserved so much better. She turned and smiled at her brother, oddly pleased with the anxiety etched on his face. ‘I just need to have a word, Nick.’ Now the words came out effortlessly, clearly. ‘I think he has a right to know, don’t you? That his son’s gone into care? His son who he doesn’t give a fuck about. Don’t you?’
‘No, Christine, I don’t,’ Nicky said, reaching to grab her free hand now. ‘Don’t spoil it today, sis. Sit back down.’
Christine lifted her hand and held it up in front of her, palm facing him. ‘Don’t, Nick. I mean it. I need to do this.’
He rolled his eyes, but let her go. And it was as if a sea parted to let her across the floor to meet her nemesis.
Who looked at her with contempt now. ‘Just fuck off back to your druggy brother, love,’ he said the instant she approached him.
Troy sniggered, and Christine felt the colour rising in her cheeks. But it was anger. Not embarrassment. She was a long way beyond that now. ‘Not before I’ve said my piece,’ she said, her voice level and low. ‘Your son has been taken into care, you piece of shit. Just in case you were wondering.’
Mo looked her up and down, slowly, taking in every detail. Once she might have cared what he thought of her tired jeans and grubby jumper. No more. ‘Son? I don’t have a son. At least, not with you, girl. I mean, who in their right mind would lay down with this? You get me, Troy? This tramp must have me mistaken with some other black man, eh?’
The words bounced off, like rain on a newly waxed car. ‘You weren’t calling me a tramp when you were desperate to get inside my knickers, you black bastard. You black raping bastard.’ There. She’d said it. ‘Nothing big about that. Having to force yourself on girls. No wonder my mam told you to fuck off. You’re nothing but a useless, lying ponce.’
Mo laughed. Long and loud. Swishing his hair around, like a woman, his big white teeth mocking her, he laughed, but she knew she’d struck a nerve.
‘You’re a funny fucker, you are, girl,’ he spluttered, rolling his eyes at her. ‘Your mam fucked me off? Did she? Let me educate you, tramp. You know food? You know, like pizza? You know it has a sell-by date on it? Well, that’s your mam, right? She was way, way past hers. Her fuck me off? Do me a favour. She tell you that, did she? Too fucking old. Too fucking ugly. Which is why she had to be shown the fucking door. I hear her new favourite place to be is the fucking chemist. Probably carrying a dose big enough to infect Yorkshire, the slag.’ He hoicked a finger. Troy laughed again. Like a girl. Like he was Mo’s adoring girlfriend. ‘Now do me a favour and fuck off before I throw you out on your fat arse.’
Christine’s glass seemed to rise all by itself. Not for her. Not even for Joey. No, this was entirely for her mother. And her aim was true. Despite the disparity in their sizes, she managed to dump the entire contents, very accurately, all over Mo’s precious dreadlocks.
‘You lying piece of shit!’ she yelled, loud enough to startle even her. ‘My mother was always too fucking good for you, and so am I! And so’s my Joey! And you can stuff your fucking hair up your arse, to stop all the filthy shit that spews from it! Bastard!’
He’d have hit her, she was sure of it, even at the risk of cramping his style, but Troy leapt between them, throwing his arms out to form a barrier. She could smell him. Smell chip fat on his sick-brown leather jacket. ‘Don’t, mate,’ he urged, in his thick Jamaican accent. ‘She’s not worth it. She’s trying to play you, man. Come on, let’s go.’
Mo managed to jab a finger into Christine’s sternum. She saw with great pleasure that his happy yellow top was now a sad shade of old piss. ‘Next time, girl,’ he growled, ‘you won’t get off so easy. Keep out of my fucking radar or I’ll fucking kill you. That’s a promise.’
‘You already fucking did!’ she screamed as they stalked out of the door.
Chapter 21
The silence in Mo’s wake was deafening. But only momentarily. Soon Christine was being back-slapped and congratulated – the subject of unexpected respect – and borne back to where Nicky stood, shaking his head and simultaneously clapping, on a tidal wave of unrestrained admiration.
She could hear it and see it but felt trapped in a bubble, in which all that existed was the sight of Mo’s sodden dreads, and the look of hatred in his black, heavy-lidded eyes.
‘I need another drink,’ she told her brother, raising the empty glass she still held.
‘You deserve a bleeding drink, love,’ someone called from behind her. ‘Have one on me!’
‘And on me!’ said another man, to the side of her. And suddenly everyone was laughing. She wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d been raised up and carried down Manchester Road on people’s shoulders, such was the pleasure with which her impetuous act of courage was received. It stunned her.
It also made her realise, through the ever-thickening veil over her thinking, that Mo cast a shadow wherever he went. She’d not properly appreciated that fact before, she realised. The Mo she’d known, growing up, had been a very different animal. Now she saw him for what he really was. A thug and a gangster. Just an animal. A vile, emotionless monster. She resolved to draw a line in her head under everything that had gone before. A fresh drink appeared in her hand. She downed it.
After that, a kind of joy soon set in. She had vanquished the beast, she was among friends – she was even dancing! And with Nick, who was regaling her with the important revelation that he’d heard Rita the barmaid would shag anything that moved, which put him right off. He had standards and all that.
The idea of Nicky having standards – Nick, who’d happily piss in the kitchen sink – was hilarious, so that when Brian arrived, shortly afterwards, she was laughing so hard that she was doubled up.
‘Quit that, you dozy ma
re,’ Nicky admonished. ‘Look who’s here!’ And when she saw Brian she felt a powerful wave of emotion. A kind of loving loyalty that she hadn’t realised she felt.
Brian looked so different that she almost didn’t recognise him. Prison must have been good for him, she thought, as she stared. He just looked so clean. She’d never seen him that way before, ever. Shaven face. Short hair. Smart white shirt. Decent trousers. He’d put weight on as well. He looked transformed.
‘Fuck,’ Nicky said. He’d obviously seen the same thing as she had. A brand new, squeaky-clean Brian, like something off an advert, fresh from Her Majesty’s Giant Person Laundry. The thought tickled her.
Brian walked straight up to her, and grinned. ‘Cat got your tongue, you little divvy?’ Then he reeled her in for a bear hug, which almost brought her to tears. ‘Hey,’ he whispered as he squeezed her. ‘You know Vinnie? Vinnie McKellan? Josie’s brother? Course you do. Well, he told me. He was inside with me and he told me. I was gutted. Proper gutted. I’m so fucking sorry, Chris. You okay?’
Christine liked this new Brian. She hoped he lasted. Odds on he wouldn’t, but she hoped so. ‘I’m okay,’ she said, feeling shy under his scrutiny all of a sudden. She turned on a smile. ‘Let’s not dwell on it. It’s your day today.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Oh, I’m so glad you’re home,’ she said, meaning it. ‘Come on, Nick. There’s a bloke here whose belly thinks his throat’s been cut. Do the honours.’
‘I got money, I do.’ Christine turned, already sensing the bulk behind her. Bri’s mate Mally. ‘I got money.’ He was waving a wad of notes in his hand. The penny dropped.
‘You’re the tatie man!’ she said. ‘That’s where I’ve seen you. I knew I’d seen you about. What a small world. I didn’t realise you were a mate of Brian’s.’
Mally smiled, then looked down towards his feet, obviously shy of her. ‘I’m his buddy,’ he said proudly, ‘I want to buy him a drink, I do.’ he grinned, revealing a collection of complicated brown teeth. ‘He’s been away on his holidays, he has.’
