Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series)

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Babs would not be put down. ‘So where’s the cash from all this business you’re doing? We’re always on our uppers – except when it comes to your suits and shoes of course.’ It was true. They were always scrimping and scraping but he claimed business was booming.

  ‘You have to speculate to accumulate.’ He added snidely, ‘You change the girls and leave me to do the thinking.’

  There he went again, treating her like she was as thick as an MFI plank. He was always doing it, slapping her down. It got Babs mad. Really mad. But before she could say her piece, he carried on, ‘I promise that six months from now we’ll be moving out of this khazi and into our own house. I might even be able to splash out on the girls’ schools. They’re not going to be serving in shops.’

  It was always the same – six months from now, a year from now, two years from now. It’s coming! It’s coming! It’s bloody well coming! Babs was growing tired of it. She clocked the ring on the finger next to his half-finger. Chunky gold, with tiny jewels in the front that looked to her like diamonds.

  ‘Where did you get the cash for that rock on your finger?’

  Stan abruptly twisted away and walked towards the bottle of whisky on the sideboard. ‘It’s on H.P. I need to look a bit flash to impress the people I’m making deals with.’ He gazed at her and took a swig. ‘That’s business, darlin’, it’s all show. You wouldn’t understand. You take care of the home front and leave the serious to me. What was all that noise about when you came in?’

  ‘Mickey and fucking Mel Ingram have moved on to the estate.’

  Stan shrugged. ‘So what?’

  She lifted Tiffany to her shoulder and patted the baby on the back. ‘After what we did to them, Mickey might come gunning for you.’

  Stan just laughed. ‘I ain’t scared of that poxy mutt. Anyroad, he knows where to find me. He’s small time, he ain’t going up against me; he ain’t that stupid.’

  ‘Nah, that Mel’s still got the right hump with me. She went into the whole finger across the throat routine like she’s in the mob.’

  Stan put his glass down. ‘Don’t worry about it. Mickey’s a bottle job; he ain’t got the nuts to come after me, or his missus after you. If you see them, blank ’em.’

  Babs gently eased a sleeping Tiffany onto the settee. ‘Right bunch of nutters and oddballs at the funeral. Including Maggie’s old codger aunt who told me she could feel Denny in the wind and waves. She fair gave me the creeps.’

  Stan wasn’t interested. ‘All families have them. She should go on the stage. Pubs have nights with mediums these days. She might make a few quid. There’s always some mug who’ll pay a fiver to get in touch with the other side.’ Stan noticed her silence and burst out laughing. ‘Oh, don’t tell me you’ve done it? You really are an idiot. Who were you trying to get in touch with?’

  Babs looked hurt. ‘There’s a woman up Ilford way who does sessions. After we lost Desiree, I went to see if she could get in touch with her.’

  Stan shook his head. ‘You’re only hurting yourself doing stuff like that. Did she make contact?’

  A sad expression came on to her face. ‘Nah. The medium thought Desiree was a bloke – so I left.’

  Stan raised his eyebrows in disgust. ‘Perhaps she should have gone outside and spoken to the trees and leaves and they’d have told her. People like that make a mint out of gul-lible plonkers like you. How could you be so stupid?’

  Babs said nothing. Apart from her baby’s death, she was forbidden even to mention the events of six years earlier. The few times she’d done it, she soon found out how angry it made him. Stan was not a nice man when he got a cob on. But this time, it was as if there was a force that made her add, ‘Strange, though.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That they never found Denny’s body.’

  Stan looked at his wife the way he would at a kitten that had done its business on the carpet. ‘Do you get a cheap thrill out of fucking me off?’

  Stan walked out of the room. In horror, Babs watched him go, knowing what she and the little ones were going to endure next. Why hadn’t she kept her big trap shut? Why had she kept pushing him? She didn’t care about herself, but the kids . . . Now he was going to punish her for letting her mouth run. Sometimes she wished Stan was one of those husbands who thumped you one and got it over with. But that wasn’t Stanley Miller’s style. He wanted her to remember it when he thought she’d stepped out of line.

  Stan used a spanner to lock off the hot water and pulled the fuse for the central heating. He took the 50ps piled up on the gas meter, knowing she only had loose change in her purse. Then he went out and left his wife and children in the freezing flat, just as his mum had locked him in the cold outdoor toilet when he was young.

  Forty-One

  ‘Pack it in or me slapping your legs will be the least of it,’ Melanie Ingram yelled at her two eldest children.

  Ten-year-old Donna and seven-year-old Tommy were going at it with fists and kicks, scrapping over the Simon Says toy that Mickey had bought them. If Mel heard that toy blare out, ‘Simon says’ one more time, she’d friggin’ well show it what Mel says when she smashed it against the wall.

  ‘We’re only mucking around,’ Donna responded.

  ‘Don’t give me any of your cheek.’ Mel emphasised her warning by picking up her slipper. She couldn’t stand the sight of her Donna. Her boat had grown to look more and more like her dad’s. Mickey idolised that girl and Mel was jealous, pure and simple. Always buying her fancy things, like he used to for Mel back when.

  Both kids scarpered, taking their prized toy with them. Mel’s face softened as she turned to look down at her baby Stacey tucked up on the sofa near her. The kid was a little angel, delicate and small with fine blonde hair. What Mel liked most about the newest addition to her family was that she was peaceful.

  Mel got up and poured herself a generous measure of Bacardi as Mickey came banging into the room. She could smell the cheap perfume coming off him from where she stood. He didn’t even try to hide the fact he’d been screwing the brains off some loose piece. She weren’t stupid, she knew that Mickey had been exercising his dinkle away from home more or less since they tied the knot, but at least he’d tried to hide it back then. Now he was out and out blatant; didn’t give a monkeys. Mel had always been able to pull Mickey’s strings, but that had ended when they got stitched up by Stan Miller and got banged up in Holloway and the Scrubs. Mickey had come out a new man, no longer meek and mild when she crooked her little finger but lording it around like the mutt’s nuts, ducking and diving without her by his side. Mel hated the Millers; they had destroyed the grip she wielded over her man. Worst of all, she’d had to flog her beloved mink to put a few more pennies in her purse now she didn’t have a free hand in Mickey’s wallet.

  ‘Look at the state of ya,’ Mickey shot at her, his nose wrinkling in disgust. ‘You’d give the winos on this estate a run for their money.’

  Mel knew she was a bit of a dog’s dinner. Her looks had started going in prison and she’d put on weight carrying Stacey that she just couldn’t shift. She was doing that grapefruit diet to shed the pounds. Grapefruit diet? More like piss diet. She was in and out of the bog like it was her second home. Mind you, that was down to the booze too.

  ‘What you going to do about that fucking Stanley Miller, that’s what I want to know,’ she slapped out at him. Then swallowed a good mouthful of Bacardi.

  Mickey swaggered across the room, not taking a blind bit of notice of Stacey; he’d never really taken to the new baby. He bypassed Mel and went for the malt whisky. ‘Don’t you worry about Miller, he’ll be getting his when I’m good and ready.’

  Mel shoved her hands onto her hips. ‘“When I’m good and ready”,’ she mimicked. ‘You’ve lost your bottle, that’s what. You’ve had donkeys to sort this out. Instead of shafting them, you’re letting them take the piss. You’re bricking it—’

  He belted her so her head crashed into the wall. Blood
streamed from her mouth. The new Mickey liked to raise his hand to her. She could see the pleasure in his dark, moronic eyes. Well, Mel had grown up in a home where getting clumped was a natural part of life, so if he thought that hitting her was going to shut her up, he was mistaken.

  He ranted at her. ‘I’ve told you to leave it alone—’

  Mel pulled herself off the wall. ‘But Mickey—’

  ‘No,’ he yelled. ‘Alright, so we lost the business and got banged up; it’s over. And it needs to be over – because if he ever even gets wind of what really went on between his brother and that girl, he’s going to come after us with all he’s got.’

  Mel knew what he was saying was true, but she couldn’t let it go. Her life wouldn’t be the total shithole it was if it weren’t for them fucking cunt Millers. As she wiped the blood from her mouth, she vowed she was going to make them pay.

  Mel Ingram started doing what she did best – plotting and planning.

  Forty-Two

  Both baby Tiff and three-year-old Jen were crying the place down the following morning. It was so cold. The girls had slept in their coats tucked up next to Babs with all the blankets heaped around them. But they’d woken up to a freezing flat. Of course Stan wasn’t around. I bet wherever the bastard is, he’s nice and toasty, Babs thought bitterly.

  She couldn’t understand why he punished her and the girls this way. She’d never heard the like. Sure, she knew of families where the man’s fist did most of the talking, but cutting the hot water and heating off – what the fuck was that about? And she had sixteen pence in her purse, not enough for the gas meter. She couldn’t put the kettle on or even boil some water because the cooker ran on gas. She had to give Jen some Robinsons orange squash and bread and jam and Tiff, Farley’s Rusks mashed up in cold milk.

  There was only one way to get the heating and gas working – go begging to the neighbours for a few coins, which she hated. Carrying Tiff, and holding Jen’s hand, she knocked on Beryl’s door.

  ‘Well, hello, my lovelies,’ Beryl cooed to the girls.

  Babs felt so embarrassed. It wasn’t the first time she’d come begging, but it didn’t make the shame any less. ‘You couldn’t see your way to giving me a couple of quid and a few fifty p’s? Only it’s—’

  Beryl smiled. ‘Of course luvvie. Be back in a jiffy.’

  To Babs’ surprise she came back with a Campbell’s tomato soup tin, minus its lid.

  Babs gazed at it as she lifted Tiff higher on her shoulder. ‘What’s that?’

  Beryl just smiled and handed it over. Babs’ breath caught when she saw fifty-pence pieces piled almost to the top. She shook her head. ‘I can’t take your stash—’

  ‘It’s not my anything. I had a little win on the gee-gees so I says to myself, “I’m gonna give that nice girl with the lovely kids on my landing some gas money so that when that dick of a fella of hers takes the money and turns the heating off she’ll have some put by.’’’

  The blood drained from Babs’ face. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Walls have ears. My old da would sometimes take the coal away and lock us in our rooms to freeze our bollocks off. A fella bashing up a woman isn’t the only way he can make her life a misery. When the kiddies are old enough, you find yourself a little bit of work.’ She leaned in close, her expression dead serious. ‘It’s not good for a woman to have to lean on a man all the time.’

  An hour later Tiffany was in the land of nod and Jen was organising a tea party for Mister Silly and her dolls in the lovely warm flat. The blower went. Stan kept the purse strings tight but he insisted they have a phone; said he needed to be available for business.

  ‘Who is it?

  ‘It’s Doreen, Maggie’s neighbour.’

  Babs resisted the temptation to slam the old dog down. Doreen McAlister was a busybody of the first order who loved to jar about everybody else’s business but her own. What the hell could she want?

  ‘Maggie had a good send-off,’ Babs said. ‘It was nice to see so many people turn out.’

  ‘It was good of you to show your face; I know she would’ve appreciated it. By the way – did you meet that bloke, Mark, at the graveside?’

  ‘Nah.’ Babs frowned. ‘Who’s he then?’

  ‘Well, that’s the problem, no one seems to know. Only he popped round mine later and was asking all kinds of questions about Denny. Did we know where she was, he wanted to get in touch with her, stuff like that.’

  The awful memories of her best mate’s end came flooding back. Babs shuddered. ‘I hope you told him to do one. Maggie wouldn’t have wanted people nosing around.’

  ‘Told me he was a friend of the family and wanted to catch up. But if he was a friend of the family he’d know she vanished like a puff of smoke in ’72. And that most folk think she’s a goner.’

  ‘Did you tell him that?’

  ‘Yeah. He said he’d been abroad for a while. When I asked him how he knew the Brookses, he came over all airy-fairy and didn’t really say. Strange.’

  Babs had a bad feeling. ‘What did he look like?’

  When Doreen described him, it was obvious who she was talking about. ‘He told me his name was Richard.’

  ‘Don’t surprise me. He looked more like a gangster’s heavy than a friend of the family. He gave me the right creeps. You don’t think he’s anything to do with Darren, do you? I don’t want him round here again.’

  Richard/Mark had certainly been a bit tasty chasing off the toughs who’d given Darren a kicking. He’d also been a bit tasty . . . Babs wiped the last thought from her mind. ‘How’s that child molester doing?’

  ‘Cracked ribs and a fractured skull, the way I heard it.’

  ‘Serves the perv right. Should’ve broken every last one of his fingers to remind him to keep his mitts off young girls.’

  There was a long pause and Babs guessed there was worse to come. ‘Thing is, this guy was asking after you as well.’

  Babs nearly dropped the phone. ‘You what?’

  ‘He asked a ton of questions about you. He asks me, do you know this Babs who was Maggie’s daughter’s best mate? Do you know where she lives? Thought he was gonna ask what your fave tipple was next. And he asked after Stan and where he was these days too.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I showed him the door and told the geezer to mind his own.’ Her voice lowered. ‘He looks a bit handy, know what I mean? Thought it best to tip you the wink.’

  As soon as the call was done, Babs was on the blower to Stan. The last thing she needed was some hard merchant asking about 1972. But she got the same old same old palaver on the phone – Stan was nowhere to be found. The girl running his office said he was ‘out’ and couldn’t be contacted. But Babs thought otherwise; she knew all of his tricks.

  From the early years of their marriage, Babs had got fed up with him always being out when she rang him at work. Plus the fact that she didn’t actually know where he worked. All he’d say was that he was ‘in property’. What that property looked like or where it stood was a bit of a mystery. When pressed, he got on his high horse and fumed, ‘I’ll tell you what – when I ask you about the hoovering you can ask me about my work – OK?’

  In the end, she’d given up calling. But this time it was urgent. She left a message about Richard, which the bored woman on the other end seemed a bit pissed off that she had to take down. ‘Mr Miller is a very busy man, but I’ll pass it on if he comes back.’

  ‘Don’t come the madam with me. I know how busy he is; I’m his wife, remember.’

  Babs popped a couple of Annies – one for her head, the other to steady her nerves – then made herself a cuppa with a finger of gin and began to fret about the guy at the funeral. It was at times like this she really needed Stan around and, sod’s law, it was times like this he never was. Moments later though, Stan was on the line. When Babs had told him about Maggie’s funeral, he’d grunted, but now he was very interested indeed.

  ‘Alright
, ring Maggie’s neighbour and tell her if she sees the geezer again, she’s to call me at once. I’ll make some enquiries at my end.’

  Babs couldn’t help being sarky. ‘What’s the point? You’re never there.’

  ‘I’ve said I’ll ask around.’ With that, he put the phone down.

  She called Doreen back, muttering curses.

  ‘I was just about to call you,’ the other woman whispered excitedly. ‘The guy’s back again. He’s sitting up the end of the road in a Ford Granada.’

  Forty-Three

  Babs decided to find out in person what this Richard fella was about. She borrowed a couple of nicker from Beryl’s gas money, dropped the girls off at Cheryl’s and took the tube down to Whitechapel. Since ’72 she’d tried her hardest not to come back to her old manor. The place was chocka with sad memories.

  She passed the Blind Beggar and Blue Anchor pubs and turned into the street where Maggie Brooks had done fuck all about her old man trying to molest her daughter. Babs didn’t realise she was shaking until she spotted the Granada parked up on the pavement. She decided this was work for Stan, not her. She’d get to Doreen’s and give Stan a bell.

  But as she passed the Granada, she couldn’t resist taking a gander at the driver. Her heart skipped as there was a quick blast on the horn. She kept walking and heard a shout behind her. ‘Hello again!’

  Babs turned and saw the guy leaning out of the driver’s window. ‘Remember me? I’m Richard – Richard Smith – we met at Maggie’s funeral.’ His hair blew easy in the breeze and Babs saw his eyes were a soft grey.

  He seemed a lot more cheerful than he had been at the graveside. Babs looked up the street at Doreen’s house and began to slowly walk back to the car. After all, it was daylight and she had a good pair of lungs on her if it came to screaming.

  ‘Hello. What are you doing here? Keeping the place under surveillance like Starsky and Hutch? Or are you more the Huggy Bear type?’

  He chuckled. ‘I’ve been trying to track down Maggie’s relatives but no one seems willing to help.’