by Kerry Kaya
“Left you!?” Angie’s mouth dropped open, and picking up her wine glass, she chugged back the contents. “I see,” she spat, “so even after everything that went down, he still left you for that little slapper, did he?”
Avoiding her mother’s gaze, Cathy nodded her head. “I expect so, but let’s face it, Donna the bitch that she is, wasn’t the only woman he was carrying on with, was she?” At the back of her throat, she could feel a sob waiting to release itself, and she swallowed quickly, willing herself to calm down. “I really don’t want to talk about it anymore,” she continued. “I just want to forget all about Terrance Matlock.” She touched her swollen tummy. “I’ve got enough on my plate, what with this little one. He or she doesn’t need a father like him. He was a useless bastard anyway, a proper wanker.” She gave a chuckle that bordered on hysteria. “At least you were right about that, Mum. He was one useless fucking ponce, wasn’t he?”
Angie narrowed her eyes. It didn’t escape her notice that her daughter spoke in the past tense when referring to her husband. Still, perhaps that was a good thing. Her girl was finally putting Terrance firmly behind her. She sighed. All along, she’d known that this would happen. Her son-in-law was typical of the men where they came from—shag a bird, get her in the club, and then fuck off, that was their motto. She better than anyone, knew that to be true. Just look at Samson; he’d not only walked, but had ran as fast as his feet could carry him when she’d told him all those years ago that she was expecting.
She tilted her head to one side. “Did you see Paul?”
Cathy’s heart thundered in her chest. “Paul?” she repeated back.
“Paul Mooney.”
“No.” Cathy shook her head from side to side. She could feel her cheeks blush pink and was sure that her mother would be able to see right through her lies. “Why would I have seen Paul?”
Angie shrugged her thin shoulders. “He came looking for you, that’s all. Thought you might have seen him.”
“No.” She glanced once more at the wine. Her throat felt so dry.
“I don’t suppose that husband of yours left you any money either?”
Cathy shook her head; money was the last thing on her mind.
“No, I didn’t think so.” Pursing her lips, Angie took a crisp ten-pound note out of her purse. Oh, she knew Matlock’s type, all right. “First thing Monday morning, you need to get on to the Social, darling. You’re gonna need money to pay the rent, and what not.”
“I thought I could get a job, nothing too heavy. The bookies are always looking to take people on, and I’ve always been good at maths.”
Angie threw her head back and roared with laughter. “And you know full well the only reason the bookies are always looking for new staff is because of how many times it gets turned over.” She shook her head. “The poor buggers are left traumatized by all accounts.” She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. “I suppose having a sawn off shoved in your face would do that to you though. Anyway,” she said, her voice rising, “you can’t work. You’re about to have a bloody baby.”
“I’ve still got two months to go.” Cathy chewed on the inside of her cheek, thinking it over. “It could fit in nicely with my little cleaning job.”
Angie shrugged her thin shoulders. “You’ll think of something, Cath. Here, take this.” She passed across the ten-pound note. “Go and get us both a drink, dry white wine for me, oh, and you can keep the change.”
Cathy did as her mother bade, and standing at the bar, she took a moment to close her eyes and take a deep breath. She could do this, she told herself, as she pushed away the familiar sense of panic that threatened to envelope her. She could keep up the pretense that Terrance had upped and left her for another woman.
Her thoughts turned to Paul and tears filled her eyes. Had he already disposed of her husband’s body, she wondered? When she opened them again, she spotted Stella Mooney staring toward her and inwardly shuddered. Stella could be a hard bitch when she needed to be. She took after her brother in that respect, and if the look she gave her now was anything to go by, then by rights, Cathy should have dropped down dead.
There and then, Cathy decided that she was done playing the victim. She lifted her chin in the air, blinked away the tears, and then returned the stare. Stella was the first to look away, she noted, and although it may have been a small feat, it felt as though it was somewhat of a victory. She mentally chalked one up for herself.
* * *
“I still can’t believe it. Little Cathy, eh?” Jason gave his best mate a sideways glance. He watched Paul’s shoulders tense and knew instinctively that his back was up, as it always was whenever Cathy’s name was mentioned. He swiftly changed the subject. “I think I’m going to ask Stell to marry me.”
“What?” With the shovel raised in midair, Paul turned his head.
“I’m thinking of asking your Stella to marry me.” Jason gave a slight shrug of his shoulders.
Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Paul slumped down on the muddy bank, and with the shovel held between his legs, he cocked his eyebrows. “Seriously?” He flicked his eyes over the grave they were digging. “You choose now to bring up the fact you’re going to ask my sister to marry you?”
Jason gave a light chuckle, and leaning on the shovel, he nodded down at the deep hole. “Seems as good a time as any. I mean, the grave has already been dug, you know? Just in case you fancy tipping me in on top of Matlock.”
“Leave it out.” Paul shook his head and snorted with laughter. His sister was like a firecracker and she had a wild side to her. She was afraid of no one and she had a smart mouth on her, too. It was a dangerous combination. Their old mum had often remarked that Stella could never be tamed, but somehow, his best mate had managed to do just that. Well, to a certain degree anyway. He stood up and resumed digging for a moment, and his eyes twinkled mischievously as he looked across at Jason. “But you so much as even think about hurting her, and I won’t think twice about digging a second grave.”
Jason threw his head back and roared with laughter. “It ain’t you that scares me. Let’s face it, Stella is more than capable of digging the grave herself.”
Paul grinned; his mate had made a valid point. “You’d best stay on her good side then, eh?”
“That’s the general plan, mate.” Jason winked back.
Chapter 9
Stella angrily swiped a lock of loose red hair out of her face. Dressed in her fluffy pink dressing gown, she should have felt like a princess. After six months of meticulous planning, today was her wedding day, and as she had her makeup expertly applied, she growled at the nervous woman who stood over her with a makeup brush in hand.
“For fuck’s sake, will you just give me two minutes to breathe?” she yelled.
“Stella,” her mother, Cynthia Mooney, snapped. “What the fuck is wrong with you today?” She turned to look at the woman who had been paid a hefty sum of money to apply her daughter’s makeup. “I’m sorry, love. She isn’t usually as bad tempered as this. Just give her a few minutes to calm down. Why don’t you go and help yourself to a cup of tea, and then come back and try again?”
The girl all but raced out of the room, all the while, wishing that she hadn’t agreed to do Stella Mooney’s makeup. However, it was too late to back out now, wasn’t it?
“Now, what has got into you?” Cynthia asked, once the girl was out of ear shot. “If it’s last minute nerves, well, that’s perfectly normal, darling, and it’ll soon pass.”
Without answering, Stella threw her head back against the head rest and puffed out her cheeks. If only it was last minute nerves; if only that was the root of her troubles. She bit down on her lip. She could feel the first set of tears fill her eyes, and she wiped them away, smudging her makeup in the process.
“It’s not that, Mum,” she finally answered.
“So what is it then?” Cynthia crouched down beside her daughter and looked up into her beautiful face. To this day, she still wond
ered how on earth she had managed to produce such stunningly beautiful kids. “Come on, darling, you can tell me anything, you know that.”
“Where is he, Mum?”
Taken aback, Cynthia pushed herself to her feet. “Who?”
Stella rolled her eyes. “Jason, of course.”
“Well,” Cynthia narrowed her eyes, confused by her daughter’s question, “with our Paul most probably. He is the best man, after all.”
“Yeah, and that’s what worries me.” She stood and snatched up the telephone receiver, then pressed redial for the umpteenth time that morning. “It just keeps ringing and ringing.”
Cynthia shook her head. “Stop your worrying, Stell,” she smiled, “you’re going to ruin your makeup if you’re not careful.”
Stella rolled her eyes for a second time; her makeup was the least of her worries.
* * *
Cathy admired her reflection in the bathroom mirror, and letting out a long sigh, her shoulders drooped. She wished now that she hadn’t agreed to accompany Paul to his sister’s wedding. It wasn’t as though Stella even liked her that much. In fact, she was pretty certain that Stella positively loathed her. Oh, she had never said as much, of course, but she’d seen the glares the red-headed woman shot in her direction whenever she was in close proximity.
A tiny cry from the bedroom caught her attention and she smiled as she made her way toward her son’s screams. “Mummy’s coming,” she called out.
He was a handsome little baby, was her Kieran, and she loved every single inch of him. The only downfall was that he also happened to be Terrance’s double, but the love she felt for her own flesh and blood made her ignore that little fact.
“Hey, what’s all this?” She scooped her son up into her arms, and pushed her face closer to his, peppering his little face with butterfly kisses. He smelled of his own special little scent, mixed with traces of talcum powder. Her heart melted all over again. “Come on now,” she smiled, “let’s get you dressed.” On a tiny plastic hanger that hung on the wardrobe door was a little blue and white satin sailor suit that Paul had bought especially for the occasion. “Oh, you are going to look like a little smasher,” she grinned happily.
As she began to dress her baby, she thought back to the weeks and months after his birth. She’d cried bucket-loads, and once the tears had started, they hadn’t seemed to want to stop. Her mum and the health visitor had seemed to think that she was suffering from post-natal depression, but she wasn’t, not really. She’d cried for Terrance, and as much as he’d been a liar, a womanizer, and a ponce, he’d still been her husband and she’d loved him once. She carried the guilt of his death around with her. It was always there, hanging over her like a thick black cloud, and she supposed in a way that it always would.
Her thoughts wandered now toward Paul. He had been her rock in the weeks and months after her husband’s death. He had even helped her to acquire the little job in the book makers. She had a feeling that it was all thanks to him putting out the hard word that, for the first time in years, there was never so much as a whiff of trouble in there. Well, at least not on the days that she worked anyway. The little toe rags had even stopped stealing the pens.
She glanced in the direction of the lounge and frowned. She would have thought that she would have heard from him by now. He usually telephoned her several times a day, checking up on her, as he called it. The thought made her smile. Oh, he had been her rock all right. They were indebted to one another. Terrance’s death and his subsequent removal would always be proof of that.
* * *
Ten miles away, Paul and Jason were at Dougie Ward’s home, The Manor.
As they stood inside the cold room, Jason hissed in Paul’s ear. “Stella will have my guts if we are late.” He glanced down at his watch, then raised his eyebrows expectantly toward his best friend. “Where the fuck is Mad … ” He stopped himself just in time and began again. “Where the fuck is Dougie?”
Looking across to Lucas Vaughn, Paul shrugged his shoulders. Just like Jason, he himself wasn’t happy. They were supposed to have been in and out within minutes, and thirty minutes later, Dougie still hadn’t made an appearance. He knew it was a mind game on Dougie’s part, and as a result, he was livid.
“Where is he?” he snapped.
Lucas shrugged his wide shoulders. The hint of smile played out across his lips, and as he opened his mouth to speak, he quickly snapped his lips closed again when he heard Dougie’s booming voice come from behind him.
“Hello boys.” Dougie’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he peered out from behind his heavy. “Sorry I kept you so long.” He moved forward and opened out his arms theatrically. “But as you can see, I was a bit busy.”
Paul stared at the man in front of him and was positively taken aback. Dressed in what could only be described as cotton theatre scrubs with a long, thick, red rubber apron tied around his waist, Dougie looked like a mad scientist. He suppressed the urge to laugh, even if it was more out of shock than anything else.
Twisting on the tap, Dougie began to methodically wash his hands. “Cleanliness,” he grinned, “is very important.” He looked down at his fingernails, and taking a small hard-bristled brush, he set to work, dragging the brush backward and forward. “You’d be surprised at just how much blood gets underneath these.” He let out a long sigh as he held out his hand to show them exactly what he meant.
Dumbstruck, Paul nodded his head. He caught Lucas’s eye and gave a nervous cough. “I don’t mean to rush you, Mr. Ward, but it’s my sister’s wedding day.”
“Is it now?” Dougie was all smiles, but still he didn’t hurry himself. Once he’d patted his manicured hands dry, he held out his hand toward Ernest and took from him a large holdall. “Excuse Ernest,” he grinned. “He would offer his congratulations, but sadly he is minus a tongue, and therefore is unable to speak. He’s a mute, you see.” He shook his head and the smile left his face as he raised his eyes heavenly in mock sadness. “You see, Ernest here, well, let’s just say that he annoyed me one day, and well,” he mimicked a slicing action, “as a result, Ern lost his tongue. Ain’t that right, Ern?”
Ernest nodded his head manically and opened his mouth wide, showing that he was indeed minus a tongue.
Beside him, Jason blanched and Paul gave a slight shake of his head to erase his fears. He had heard the rumours of how Ernest had lost his tongue, and it had happened years before he had even met Dougie. “I’ll bear that in mind, Mr. Ward.” Paul smiled, warily.
Dougie smiled in return. “Wise choice.” He looked down at the leather holdall in his hand as though weighing up the contents before passing it across.
Paul reached out his hand.
Tutting loudly, Dougie shook his head from side to side, causing the tiny hairs on the back of Paul’s neck to stand up on end. It was common knowledge that Dougie Ward was more than just a little bit cuckoo. In fact, to put it mildly, he was a fucking lunatic and would make the inmates of Broadmoor look relatively sane. “Not so fucking fast, sunshine. I think I’ll take that one first.”
Paul looked down at the holdall on the floor beside his feet. He stooped down to pick it up when he heard Dougie tut a second time.
“Ernest will take care of that.” He grinned then, a slow manic grin. “The mute bastard has to earn his keep somehow, doesn’t he?”
Straightening up, Paul glanced toward Lucas. Throughout the entire exchange, the heavy’s expression had remained impassive and he wondered briefly how the hell he managed to spend a considerable amount of time in Dougie’s company without going crazy himself. Taking a step away from the bag, he watched as Ernest snatched it up with large claw like fingers. Talk about surreal. Just moments in Dougie’s presence, and he was beginning to question his own sanity.
The exchange finally complete, Paul and Jason practically fell over themselves to get away from the mad bastard.
“Fuck me.” Once they were outside, Jason took a sharp intake of breath. “The bl
oke is a fucking nutcase.”
“I know.” Looking over his shoulder, Paul chewed on the inside of his cheek. He was clearly rattled and it showed.
“Do you reckon there were bodies in that fridge?”
Paul shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t have a clue. The only thing he knew for certain was that he had to finish what he’d started, and a lot sooner than he’d intended. “Come on,” he sighed. “We’ll drop this lot off with that old fucker Samson, then shoot off home. Like you said, Stella will have your guts if you’re late.”
They climbed into Paul’s car, and on the drive back to Barking, they were both quiet, both lost in their own thoughts.
* * *
Stella had never felt so relieved. She collapsed into the chair with the phone glued to her ear. “Where the fuck have you been?” She listened to Jason’s reply and clicked her fingers toward the makeup artist. Setting the phone down beside her, she smiled widely. “Looks like I’m still getting married after all.”
Cynthia rolled her eyes. As if there had ever been any doubt about that. Jason loved the bones of her daughter and she knew instinctively that there was no way on earth that he would have disappeared on their wedding day. Her Paul would have made sure that that never happened.
* * *
Cathy smiled shyly as she opened the front door to Paul. Her hair was loose and the blonde locks tumbled down her back in cascading waves. She wore a sleeveless pale-blue dress with an embroidered sweetheart neckline. Around her waist, accentuating her figure, she had secured a thin silver belt.
“Will I do?” she grinned.
Nodding his head, Paul let out a soft whistle. “You look the business, Cath.”
