Before Babs or anyone could do a thing, she’d stormed over to her son and cuffed him one across the face. The boy didn’t even flinch, obviously used to the back of her hand.
He might be this woman’s flesh and blood, but Babs wasn’t standing for that.
She went to Kieran and stroked his unruly hair, as if trying to take the hurt away. ‘There’s no need to take it out on him,’ she protested. The place had gone deathly quiet.
Lou growled and her mean brown eyes squinted in displeasure. ‘Well, you’ve got a brass nerve, thinking you can tell me what to do with my effing boy.’
Babs stood her ground. ‘There ain’t no need to show him up in public. He’s such a nice kid—’
Lou barrelled right up to her. ‘How would you know? You got a thing for kids?’ She sneered, ‘I’ve heard about people like you. I should report you to the coppers.’
Babs wasn’t taking that from no one. ‘You do that and I’ll tell them all about how you’re busy shagging shit you’ve found on the street while your lad is out and about at all hours, instead of being at home with a hot meal inside him.’
‘You—’ The other woman raised her hand.
‘I dare ya,’ Babs goaded.
They stood face-to-face, belly-to-belly. Instead of hitting her, Kieran’s mum grabbed him by the shirt he’d worn for four days on the trot and practically dragged him to the exit. At the door she twisted around and bellowed at Babs, ‘Stay away from my kid. He don’t need another mum, he’s got one at home, thank you very much.’ Then she snarled as she scanned the other women’s hostile faces. ‘Look at the lot of ya, having to use a public washhouse. Some of us have got washing machines at home.’
Cheryl chucked back sourly, ‘That ain’t much use if you can’t pay the electricity.’
Under all that warmth and kindness there was something hard about Cheryl: as if she’d been through troubles that had toughened her up. Kieran’s mum must’ve seen it too because she didn’t mouth off, just dragged her son into the night. Two hard slaps against skin were heard as soon as the door shut. There was no sound of Kieran crying.
‘You alright?’ Beryl asked as the women clustered sympathetically around Babs and her unborn baby.
She nodded. ‘How can a mum treat her child like that?’
‘Like I said the other day, pet,’ Cheryl said quietly, ‘this world is full of all sorts. But heed his mum’s words – stay well clear of him. That Scott brood are a thoroughly bad lot and there ain’t anything you can do to stop Kieran growing into their likeness.’
‘We’ve got a massive problem. Pete’s on the wagon,’ a flustered and pissed-off Mel told Mickey from the phone box on the corner of Mile End Road.
Mel had been horrified when she discovered Pete had gone dry. Mind you, it was her and Mickey who had got the ball rolling by whinging about him to Stan. At first, when she’d bumped into Daffy down Roman Road market and heard that Pete had been sober two days straight, she hadn’t believed it. But when she saw Pete, he was twitchy, uncomfortable and unable to concentrate but also very clearly sober.
When she suggested, in a flirty-flirty manner, that they take a little trip to the local, he’d muttered something about being too busy.
Her old man burst out laughing. ‘Give over. He ain’t on the wagon. There ain’t a wagon been built that could keep him on it. He’ll be pissed again later.’
‘You want to take the chance, do you? He’s well on his way to being a teetotaller. If he kicks the drink, we’re screwed.’
‘Have you told the girl about the party?’
Mel swore, ‘You know I have.’
‘Get in touch now and tell the bint the bash is tomorrow night. Tell her if she doesn’t show, she can kiss fuck off to her modelling career.’
Twenty-Two
The next day, Cleo was painting her toenails strawberry red when Pete opened the door and waltzed in. She waved her brush at him. ‘Ever heard of knocking?’
He looked distracted. ‘Yeah, sorry about that. Come on, look lively, you know we’ve got a special on tonight. It’s a special-special. I can’t afford any fuck-ups.’
She groaned and went to her wardrobe to select a Diana Ross-style wig. Then turned and really looked at Pete. His face was drawn and a touch haggard but his eyes had some of their old glitter back. Cleo hadn’t seen him like that since way back when. ‘If you don’t mind me being blunt, you seem to be clear-headed again. That’s every night this week. Have you given up or something?’
The redness of his skin deepened. ‘I’m not always blotto, sweetheart; I’m just a party person. I wouldn’t call that a problem – I’m not an alkie or anything.’ He turned away to avoid her stare. ‘Although I probably could do with cutting back a little. Who couldn’t?’
Cleo caught his arm. ‘I prefer you when you’re on the wagon. You can be quite the little gentleman when you want to be, I remember from the first time round.’ She leaned in and kissed him. He opened his lips and deepened the snog. Without the alcohol on his breath he tasted sweet and clean, just the way Cleo always imagined her dream man would.
She eased back and got on with business. ‘So this geezer isn’t a special-special because he’s a perv, right?’
‘Nah. I need you to make sure he has a good time. Put on a really eff-off show, if you know what I mean? Actually, this’ll interest you; he specifically asked for a black bird.’
Cleo folded her arms and twisted her lips. ‘How very flattering.’
‘So you might want to play up the black angle for me.’
She kissed her teeth. ‘What do you have in mind? Wearing a grass skirt and calling him master?’
‘Oh come on, luv, give me a break. I hear he’s very posh and loaded, he might slip something down your knickers by way of a tip. Along with the extra I’m giving you.’
‘Oh great – it’s knob-a-snob night. They’re the worst.’
‘There’ll be trouble if anything goes wrong.’
Cleo arched her eyebrows. ‘With your brother?’
Pete was alarmed. ‘Who told you I had a brother?’
‘Alright, don’t get out of your pram; I just heard. I don’t care about your relatives. The others are saying that Mickey and his missus have got some party thing going on tonight. You know anything about it?’
Pete shook his head. ‘Nope. I’ve been keeping away from Mickey’s old girl. She was acting a bit strange yesterday. All over me like a rash.’ A visible ripple of disgust went through him. ‘She gives me the willies.’
Cleo chuckled. ‘Sounds like she’s after your willy. If you don’t want any bovver tonight, make sure you keep our special-special snooty snob away from that crowd.’
Pete changed the subject, his face turning shy. ‘Do you mind if I ask you a question?’ When she said nothing, he carried on. ‘Have you ever thought of getting out of the skin trade? You don’t really fit in with it – you know what I mean?’
Cleo sighed. ‘That’s all I think about, darling, all day and especially all night.’
‘Here we are, sweetheart,’ Mel announced in her most cultured voice as she and Denny reached the front door of the brothel.
Mel was dressed to the nines, minus her trademark mink. She wore a full-length black dress, lime green platform heels and a plastic rose stuck behind her ear.
‘Do I look alright?’ Denny asked, self-consciously smoothing her hand over her hair.
You look like a prat, Mel wanted to say, but kept it to herself. She despaired of the girl’s rig-out. The psychedelic tunic that just about covered her bits, the long, yellow Isadora Duncan scarf and a snakeskin bracelet that made her a dead ringer for a Sixties hippy chick. It was the Seventies, for crying out loud. At least the way she’d styled her hair in two pigtails put Mel in mind of a young Brigitte Bardot.
She put her arm around the girl and hugged her close. ‘You look a treat. There’s no need for all this trembling. Stick with me and you’ll have the night of your life. And don’t forget you�
��re here to impress Mickey.’
Mel knocked on the door, which was opened by a perky-looking Daffy dressed like a waitress. Daffy sent her a sour look on the side. Mel had had a stand-up row with her earlier when she’d told Daffy how to dress. Who did the bitch think she was? Bloody royalty? Mel had laid the law down and told her point blank if she didn’t do what she was told, she was out on her arse. And where would a cripple like her find work then?
Mel quickly drew Denny into the VIP lounge so she didn’t get too close a butchers at the rest of the house. The room was where the girls paraded around in little more than their birthday suits to entice the clients to take a better look upstairs. This evening they were decked out in tasteful gear to give the impression they were models too. Simon, their only male tom, was doing a fake stint as a waiter alongside Daffy. Classical music by a composer whose name Mel pronounced as Chopping played in the background.
‘Ah, there’s my beautiful girl,’ Mickey announced, waving his arm in the air.
Mel had personally made sure there was no fuck-up with his appearance this time, selecting a simple suit and tie.
‘Come and sit with me,’ Mickey carried on.
As soon as a clearly nervous Denny sat beside him he put his arm around her shoulder. Mel gave the other girls the wink and they all sat down and started chatting away. She’d warned them to keep the talk clean and above board.
Denny’s eyes darted around. ‘Where’s the famous fella who owns the place?’
Mickey swung into action, squeezing her arm reassuringly. ‘He’s on a movie shoot. He’ll be dropping in later specially, to meet my new girl.’
Mel nudged Mickey when she realised that Pete had come in.
Mickey raised his arm in an exaggerated greeting. ‘Pete, you old bastard! Come and join us. I want you to meet my latest signing at the agency, the girl who’s going to be on every billboard and magazine stand in The Smoke. Come and say hello to Denise.’
Pete stared at him. ‘I can’t stop—’
But Mel jumped in. ‘Don’t be silly. Surely you’ve got five minutes to say hello.’
Mel wriggled to make space, while Mickey began frantically winking at him. ‘Pete mate, how’s your new film coming on? Did Michael Caine take the part or can’t your cheapskate studio afford that kind of money?’
Pete looked confused.
Mickey turned to Denise. ‘Only kidding, baby. Pete could afford to hire Marlon Brando if the old ham’s career wasn’t going down the crapper.’ He turned back. There was more winking. ‘Isn’t that right?’
Pete looked at Mel for support. She rolled her hand quickly to tell him to play along. Pete stammered, ‘Err, yeah. That’s right, we could afford him.’ Good man.
Mickey patted him on the shoulder. ‘’Course you could. Remind me, what’s your poison? Vodka martini?’
Daffy hovered in the background, her lip curling, until she caught Mel’s glare and pasted a blinding smile on her chops.
Pete looked at her and then back at Mickey and stuttered, ‘I’ll have a barley water.’ He patted his belly. ’Trying to shed a few pounds, you know.’
Mickey was horrified. ‘Barley water? Have you turned ginger?’
Mel turned to Daffy. ‘He’ll have a vodka martini.’
The fake waitress mouthed, ‘What’s that?’
Mel angrily mouthed back in turn. ‘Make it up . . .’
When the drink arrived, Mel and Mickey stared at Pete intently. ‘Down the hatch, son!’
Pete took a few sips and a lump of ice into his mouth. Then let most of the liquid flow back into the glass. But Mel saw the eyes of a man who’d come home after a difficult few days away. Mel beckoned for Denny to follow her into the hallway as Pete picked up the glass again and cradled it in his hands.
It was getting late. Cleo began to think her nob was gonna be a no-show. The noise from Mickey and his wife’s shindig downstairs was still going on. She’d declined Mickey’s offer to join them – she would’ve if it hadn’t been for the ‘special’. She got off her bed and opened the window to take in some of the chill night air. The square was quiet and dark. Cleo had heard that Mickey paid the local kids a regular retainer of fifty new pence to knock out the street lamps with stones and keep it that way. But she wasn’t sure he needed to. The lamps round here were out most of the time anyway and no one seemed in a hurry to repair them.
Then she noticed a car trying to work its way around the square. There was something strange about it; its headlights weren’t on. It came round the square twice and came to a rest about twenty yards down the road before creeping forward and parking outside the house, its engine still running. It was a Bentley. A figure climbed out and then the car moved off to park on the other side of the square.
The man who emerged wore a long overcoat and a flat cap pulled down over his face. It was too dark to see anything else. He looked furtively around a few times before quickly going up the steps to the front door. Cleo heard a bang of the door downstairs, and sighed as she shut the window. ‘That’ll be Lord Nob then.’
But it seemed she was wrong. There was no sign of her special guest and no sign of Pete either. Pete had better not bloody well be lounging about downstairs in the party. She flopped back on her bed and began to doze. But then she was woken with a start. There was shouting and what sounded like a struggle on the stairs. What the fuck! She jumped up and went out onto the landing. At the top of the stairs two men were entangled and exchanging words. It was difficult to tell which one was supporting which. As Cleo went towards them, she realised one was the geezer in the flat cap from outside, and the other was Pete. He was swaying like a sapling in the breeze.
Cleo bit her lip with regret. She liked Pete. When he was clear-headed, he was one of the few men she did like. And now this.
‘Can I help you two gentlemen?’
The nob introduced himself. ‘Good evening, Miss. My name is Tom. This young man is supposed to be helping me find a lady called Cleo. But I seem to be helping him instead . . .’
Cleo took Tom by the arm and suggested he wait down the landing for a few moments. Then she grabbed Pete by his lapels. ‘What the hell happened to you?’
He was gently rocking. His eyes looked desperate, but he sounded cheerful enough. ‘I’ll tell you what’s happened bird – I’ve become a movie mogul. Go down and ask Mickey, he’ll tell you! Ha ha!’
Cleo scrunched her face up at the nonsense, then settled her features into glamour puss mode as she realised Tom was taking a close interest. She seethed quietly, ‘Look mate, if you’re fallen off the wagon, that’s up to you, but you’ve got work on here. You’re supposed to be at the controls.’
‘I know, I know, I’m going . . .’
‘You better had.’
Cleo left him to it, fixed a sexy smile on her face and wiggle-jiggled down the landing. ‘Sorry for the delay.’
Tom didn’t seem interested in the delay. ‘My word, you are a full-figured young lady.’
His lecherous eyes were already going over her flesh. There was a lot of it on show. She wore a red mini-dress with a plunging neckline and a pair of mauve platform shoes. She’d put on one of her mile-high Afro wigs after Pete had advised that her client liked ‘African ladies’. His beady eyes bulged as if he was being strangled as he took her in. ‘My word . . .’
‘Why don’t you join me in the executive suite to examine my full figure more closely?’
The executive suite was like all the other rooms in the house, except the carpet was a little newer and the curtains a little less stained. But it still smelt of mildew and rotten wood. As Cleo had discovered, a lot of men liked it like that. It was like they got off on the sleaze and dirt. While Tom made himself comfy in an armchair, she very slowly poured drinks to give Pete time to get the broom cupboard next door set up. She handed Tom a glass of cheap brandy and sat in his lap so her dress rode up her thighs. ‘So you like black girls? What is it you like about them? It’s just a colour, after all.’
Tom was flummoxed. ‘Err . . . well . . . I suppose it’s because . . .’ But he never got the chance to explain why. Through the wall came the sound of an almighty crash and a shout of, ‘Oh fuck!’
Both Cleo and Tom were startled, but it was Cleo who guessed what had happened. She excused herself and went to investigate, rushing next door to the broom cupboard. Her suspicions were proved correct.
‘You twat,’ she cursed softly. In a corner she found Pete spread out on the floor, nursing a cut to the forehead. On a desk nearby were the controls he was supposed to be working. A camera was set up to film through a hole in the wall and there were a series of switches for microphones scattered around the room. She didn’t know who had ordered the filming and recording – Pete was clearly the monkey, not the organ grinder.
‘Pete?’
He struggled up, one hand clasped to his head. ‘Don’t worry yourself, this is easy, I’m alright. Go and ask Mickey, I’m a movie mogul!’
It was clear he wasn’t up for doing any more work that night. His voice was too loud and Cleo began to worry that Tom would smell a rat rather than being one. She whispered, ‘Are you sure?’
Instead of answering, Pete slumped to the floor with another crash. He called out, ‘Stan thinks he’s the clever one but I’m clever too. For a start, he’s not a mate of Michael Caine like me. Ha Ha!’
In despair Cleo began to manoeuvre him towards the door as quietly as she could. She whispered, ‘Stan?’
‘It weren’t my fault he was locked in the outside khazi and our mum didn’t love him . . .’ He hiccupped. ‘But he blames me, see . . .?’
Stan was clearly the brother.
She got Pete out on the landing. ‘Go downstairs. Talk to someone. Anyone.’
While he staggered down the landing, she went back into the broom cupboard.
She stared at the equipment. ‘What a fucking balls-up.’
She didn’t have a clue how the stuff worked, but she had a regular who went on and on about the films he made, including the boring technical bits. Cleo didn’t want Pete getting into trouble. She flicked all the switches and was relieved to hear a tape machine begin whirring away under the desk. Next to the desk was the camera. She peered through the lens and could clearly see the bed next door. She could also see that Tom was starting to look suspicious and nervy. She hurriedly scanned the apparatus. When she pressed one of the levers, the camera hummed into action and the roll of film began to revolve.
Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series) Page 13
