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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Dee felt a wave of shame. She’d given her old mum such a rough ride since making contact with her. All she’d done was bombard her with me-me-me questions. She’d had no idea her mum had been duped into thinking she was a goner. What a shitty bastard this Stanley Miller was. Babs hadn’t even had her mum and dad to lean on. At least Dee had Bible-bashing Cleo to look after her.

  ‘How did a God-fearing woman like Cleo get mixed up with your old man?’

  Babs turned away. Ah, more secrets. ‘It ain’t for me to tell. You’ll have to ask her.’ She caressed her daughter’s cheek. ‘I will be forever in her debt for bringing you up. I wanted to take you back when I found you, but I couldn’t do it. You were already calling her Mum and she loved you to bits.’

  Dee frowned. ‘Why didn’t you come back and see me?’

  Babs sucked her breath in hard. ‘Pretend to be your Auntie Babs? I couldn’t do it. I’d have ended up in the nut house. I left it up to you, hoping and praying that you’d try to find me.’

  Dee got angry again. ‘But I . . .’ She bit her tongue and held back her frustration. Her mum had been through one of the hardest things a mother could ever experience and she was about to give her a hard time too. She couldn’t do that and sleep well tonight.

  ‘It feels good to hear the truth. Why don’t you tell Jen and Tiff all about Stan? It’s killing me seeing how sad they are. Secrets hurt, Mum, they hurt bad.’

  Babs took Dee’s hands urgently. ‘Stan’s a master shit stirrer. I’m not letting him near my girls because they’re going to end up hurt worse than they are now, believe me. He’s a bold-faced liar and a cheat.’ She pulled out the photos Stan had had the nerve to give her, pushing his cushy life into her face. ‘He’s been living it up while I’ve had to scrape every penny I could.’

  Dee studied the pictures. ‘Where’s this, then?’

  ‘His place in Spain.’

  Dee held onto the photos. ‘I’m gonna hang onto these. It’s making you upset. Don’t let him get to you. You’ve got a very special birthday coming up this week and we want you to have a bollocks-good time. That’s all you should be thinking about.’

  ‘But don’t you get it?’ Babs pleaded. ‘He’s after something, and nothing, not even his own flesh and blood, is going to stand in his way.’

  Babs looked so tortured that Dee pulled her into a tight embrace.

  ‘You’ve got to promise,’ Babs begged, ‘that you’ll watch your younger sisters’ backs. That evil fucker will be coming after them.’

  Sixty-Four

  ‘You’re jerking me, I ain’t going in there.’ Nicky had been too busy chatting on his new flip-top Motorola to notice that his mum wasn’t driving them home to Essex. He only realised where they were going when she parked up outside Auntie Cleo’s, her foster mum’s.

  ‘Stop with the earache and exit the motor,’ Dee told him sternly.

  Nicky began dialling another number. ‘I ain’t going in to see the mad bird. I’ll wait for you here. Oh, and put the radio on for us.’

  Dee grabbed her son by the ear. ‘I’m upset. You know what that means. Do you want to make me fizz some more?’

  He put his mobile away sulkily and got out of the car. ‘What have I got to come for? I’ve got a gig tonight . . .’ But when he caught his mum’s eye, he shut it.

  Dee pressed the bell on the door of the house in Forest Gate, where she’d grown up. Cleo Clark opened the door with a joyful smile. Cleo might be fifty-odd but her brown skin was wrinkle-free. She wore a very respectable dress over a still-trim body.

  Cleo held out her arms. ‘It’s an answer to prayer! Only last week our emergency prayer group held a special meeting for all those who might need some help. I put Jimmy up and here he is! A lost sheep gone to the bad who needs leading home!’

  ‘My name’s Nicky, not Jimmy . . .’ The poor lost sheep struggled as Cleo wrapped her octopus-like arms around him, ‘and I ain’t gone bad either. Well, not really.’

  Cleo ignored him, showering him with kisses and praises to The Almighty. Then she clocked the look on Dee’s face. ‘Is there a problem? Is your lost sheep a drug addict?’

  The question brought back all the reasons why Dee had done a runner when she was sixteen and cut ties with her for years. Cleo had been the kindest, most caring mother a person could want, but her unwavering religion had made her overprotective. A young Dee wasn’t allowed to do this, do that, couldn’t see this person, that person, until she’d felt like she was suffocating. When she’d taken up with a lad Cleo condemned as a ‘bad seed’, Dee had had enough. She packed up her shit and scarpered without leaving any clues. She’d felt rough; she knew her foster mum would be worried sick. But she’d had to do it or Cleo would’ve come after her and dragged her back, quoting the Lord’s word every step of the way.

  Cleo had been right about that lad, but Dee hadn’t cared. She was free. Free to pursue all the things Cleo said were the devil’s work; money, make-up, dancing – yes, dancing! – and booze. It was only after Cleo had appeared outside John’s club in Soho that Dee had begun to think about reconnecting with her. Back then, she’d been trying to do the same with her biological mother. She’d decided, one mum at a time. She’d waited till she was truly sure of her relationship with Babs before knocking at Cleo’s door.

  Dee said, ‘No, he’s not the problem. It’s another lost sheep that’s turned up.’

  ‘Come on through – Dominique’s here.’

  Dominique, Auntie Cleo’s friend, had been a regular visitor during Dee’s childhood. Dee had wonderful memories of playing dress-up in the gorgeous clothes she’d bring her from her up West boutique – though Cleo had given many away, proclaiming them too wicked for a decent girl to wear. On any other occasion Dee would’ve been happy to see her, but not today. She needed some time alone with her foster mother.

  Dominique sat comfy on the sofa, her walking stick propped up by her side. Dominique’s bobbed hair was completely silver now and the skin on her face had grown slack with age. She smiled with pleasure when she saw them.

  ‘Desiree,’ she cooed. Dominique was the only person who insisted on calling Dee her full given name.

  Cleo assured her, ‘You can say anything in front of Dominique. A problem shared is a problem halved. Now, what’s up?’

  Dee pointed her finger at Nicky without looking. ‘Put the phone away.’ She sighed. ‘Stan’s back.’

  Cleo flicked a quick glance at Dominique and set a puzzled expression on her face. ‘Which one’s Stan?’

  ‘Remember, I told you that Babs’ ex is this Stanley Miller geezer.’ Dee never called Babs ‘Mum’ to Cleo; it felt disrespectful of the woman who’d brought her up. ‘He turns out to be a right piece of work. Dumped his family donkey’s years ago. We’ve just come from one of Babs’ grandkids’ birthday bash – and he turns up bold as, like he’s just back from popping down the shops.’

  Cleo painted on a shaky smile. ‘Yes, I know the name – Babs’ ex, of course!’

  Dee noticed the uncomfortable glances the women were exchanging. She was no fool; something was going on. She leaned forward, her gaze stabbing them one after another. ‘You two know him, don’t you?’

  Cleo gave Dominique a final look, which Dee suspected was to tell her to keep her mouth shut. ‘I told you we know the name. Anyway – that’s good, isn’t it? The family back together again? Praise be!’

  This was too much for Dee. Her anger ricocheted around the room. ‘Family? Back together? Do you know what Babs just told me? The little fucker put his ring on her finger and told her I was dead, like I was trash. And I reckon he’d have been just as happy if I’d ended up in a weighted sack in the river!’

  Cleo avoided her eyes. ‘Dee, this was all a long time ago . . .’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me any of this?’

  Cleo tried to rally. ‘My understanding was that Babs couldn’t cope and I was asked to look after you – which of course I was only too happy to do. You brought so much
joy into—’

  Dee rose to her feet. ‘Cut the crap!’

  Cleo gave up the ghost. She raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if calling for help, but finally looked across at the woman she loved like her own daughter. ‘That’s more or less what happened. Stanley Miller is a bad seed.’

  Dominique broke in. ‘An evil seed.’ She looked at Cleo. ‘You – we – should tell Desiree the full story.’

  Dee’s mouth fell open. ‘This involves you as well?’

  It was Cleo who answered, her voice as weary as her face. ‘It’s not pretty.’ Her gaze wandered to Nicky, which Dee took to mean she didn’t want him earwigging.

  ‘Listen to that Missy Elliott CD I gave you,’ Dee ordered her son.

  ‘I’ve gone off her,’ he said, clearly more interested in the revelations to come.

  Cleo said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, ‘I’ve got a great gospel CD you can listen to.’

  Nicky quickly took out his CD portable and put his headphones in.

  Cleo started her story. ‘You know I was always going on at you about being rebellious. Well I was the same when I was a girl.’ She cast her gaze at Dominique again, who nodded encouragement. Cleo took a deep breath. ‘I ended up like Mary Magdalene before Christ took her hand. I became a prostitute.’

  Dee’s mouth tumbled open in shock. She nearly started hyperventilating when Dominique added, ‘I was her madam. Called Dorothy back then, though most called me Daffy.’

  Bible-basher Cleo a tom, and that little old lady running a brothel? Dee didn’t believe it.

  ‘But I never forgot the truth and the light that is the way of Christ.’ Cleo pulled a chain with a key on it from around her neck. ‘This opened the drawer in the brothel where I kept my Bible so no one could nick it. The place was run by a man called Mickey Ingram—’

  ‘Bloody hell.’ Dee had got Mickey banged up when the cops took down her husband John’s car scam op back in ’93. She still had nightmares about him finding out her part in that, and in what had eventually happened to Chris, John’s right-hand man and Nicky’s real father.

  ‘Sounds like you know him?’ Cleo asked.

  Dee brushed her off. ‘Not really. His missus lives on Babs’ estate and they don’t see eye-to-eye.’

  ‘Stanley Miller was mixed up with it all,’ Cleo continued. ‘I wanted out.’ Tears appeared in her eyes. ‘On the outside I was tough, but inside I was crying. I was so ashamed.’

  Dee flew over to her foster mum and put her arms around her. She’d known a few girls who’d ended up on the game. No way was she condemning the woman who’d fought tooth and nail for her. And who was she to talk; she’d made some pretty dumb choices in her time. Ones she hoped John and Nicky never found out about.

  Cleo sniffed. ‘Stan had a brother I was close to. His name was Pete. Total tank head and all mouth, but he wouldn’t have hurt a fly. There was some story about him and Mickey and Mel.’ From the way she avoided making eye contact, Dee figured there were some things she still didn’t want to reveal. ‘Anyhow, Stanley offered me a way out—’

  ‘Was that taking care of me?’

  ‘Sort of. It started out as one thing and ended up with you living here.’ Her voice became fierce. ‘Stan told me some bollocks story about Babs not wanting you. It was a different world back then.’ The exact same words her blood mother had said.

  ‘Is that why you never told me about Babs when I was little?’

  ‘I was scared. Frightened that you’d leave me once you found your mum. I didn’t know if Stan was still around and I didn’t want you anywhere near him. I never once regretted having you.’ Cleo caressed Dee’s cheek. ‘You brought salvation into my life. I’d been living in such a dirty world and you made me feel clean again.’

  A lump formed in Dee’s throat. No one had ever said something like that to her.

  Dominique spoke, and for the first time Dee heard the steel in her voice. ‘I knew your Grandfather George. He got me started in the fashion world, which meant I could leave the trade in women behind. He was a good man—’

  Dee spat bitterly, ‘That bloke turned his back on Babs when she needed him. He’s no granddad of mine.’

  Dominique replied, ‘Both him and Babs realised their mistakes later. The point is, if Stan’s back, it means big trouble.’

  Cleo’s face turned gloomy. ‘Whatever dirty pie you can stick your finger into, you’ll find Stanley Miller’s digit there already. Blackmail, violence, theft, extortion — the story is he finally had to leg it because the Old Bill were after him for the murder of his own brother.’

  ‘Murder?’

  Cleo became vague again. ‘So they say . . .’ There was a long pause before she added, ‘He really is the spawn of Satan.’ She kissed the key around her neck, as if to ward off evil spirits.

  Dee rose to her feet, her face determined. She snapped her fingers at Nicky to follow her. ‘If he’s looking for trouble, then I’m going to give him some.’

  Dominique thumped her walking stick on the floor. ‘You can’t go up against Stanley Miller. That man has an extra gene that’s called toxic.’

  Dee stood proud. ‘That bastard screwed me over the moment I was born. And now he’s going to pay. In full.’

  Sixty-Five

  The old place sure has changed, Stan thought as he limped into the Knackered Swan. The pub was packed and noisy, with the Black Eyed Peas’ ‘Where Is The Love’ softly playing in the background. As more people clocked who’d walked through the door the place got quieter and quieter. Eventually there was total silence.

  The landlord greeted him as soon as he reached the bar. ‘Well fuck me sideways, Stanley Miller. Thought you were a goner.’

  They shook hands. ‘Alright, Jacko. Takes more than rumours to put me down.’

  Jacko gave him a pint on the house. ‘So where you been ducking and diving all these years?’

  ‘Ducking and diving? Not me, mate. Strictly legit is my middle name these days.’

  Jacko leaned in close, bushy eyebrows pushing together like a pair of caterpillars cosying up to each other. ‘No disrespect intended but you don’t look too bright—’

  ‘Yeah, that’s why I’m back.’ Stan took a drag of bitter. ‘Gonna be cocking up my toes soon. I needed to make peace with Babs and the girls.’

  Jacko tutted, like he’d heard this story one too many times in his establishment. But Stan was no longer listening. He’d spotted a familiar face. ‘Well, well, well,’ he muttered. He left his pint behind and took himself on a little trip down memory lane.

  ‘Fuck. Off,’ Mel Ingram greeted him.

  ‘Is that all the love you’ve got for me after all these years?’ Stan didn’t wait for a response. He sat down opposite her. She looked bad: really bad. It wasn’t that she was fat – Stan was into big and beautiful, like most men – she was a total mess and reeked of stale sweat and booze. Worst of all was the dead look in her eyes. It was like she was just waiting to be put six feet under.

  ‘I heard you were back, you miserable rat.’ She took a slug from her rum and black. ‘I says to myself, “Stanley fucking Miller, back! That cunt must be after something.’’’

  Stan gazed at her sadly. ‘Why does everyone keep saying that?’ Mel scoffed and polished off her drink. ‘Can’t a guy just wanna return to the bosom of his family?’

  She laughed so hard her triple chins looked like they were dancing. ‘The only family a geezer like you has is himself. You might be able to pull the wool over the eyes of birdbrain Babs, but I know you too well.’

  ‘So where’s Mickey, your knight in shining armour?’

  ‘Don’t give it the old innocent one, you know the fucker has been making babies with his new senorita—’

  ‘Thought he was in Portugal.’

  Mel sniffed. ‘That’s what he wants the world to think. I know different.’ Her sharp gaze pierced Stan. ‘That’s the thing about me – I know all of it. Every deal we did, every paper we signed, every player we t
ook down. So what are you really back for? You’d better tell me, coz I’m gonna figure it out anyway. And when I do,’ she leaned over to him, ‘you better watch your back.’

  Stan appeared to take not a blind bit of notice of her warning. ‘Listen,’ he said, a slow smile spreading across his face.

  At first Mel appeared baffled, then her face creased into a smile when she heard what he did – David Cassidy’s ‘How Can I Be Sure’ playing softly.

  ‘’Member that tune, Mel, babe? ’72. First time I heard it was with you and Mickey in the Lilac Room.’

  Mel’s face lit up, making her look like she was a young woman again. She started to sway. ‘Ah, yeah. I had my mink coat on.’ Her hand moved as if she was wearing it still. ‘We had two bottles of Bolly and steak.’

  Stan held out his hand. ‘May I have this dance?’

  ‘Don’t be bloody daft—’

  ‘Come on, you silly moo.’

  A giggling Mel placed her hand daintily in his and he pulled her up. With faltering steps, Stan slow-danced her around the pub. People started clapping and some of the older folks sang along.

  ‘Fuck Mickey,’ Stan whispered in her ear, ‘you’re still a woman who knows how to have fun.’

  Mel’s face came over all like a kid at the funfair. ‘You fancy coming over to mine for a snifter?’

  Stan rubbed her back. ‘Ah, wish I could, but I think my missus would take that the wrong way.’

  ‘You blokes don’t hang around, do ya?’ She was back in bitter mode again. ‘Mickey gave me the old heave-ho as soon as a new model came on the scene.’

  ‘That’s his loss.’ He gave her considerable bum a considerable squeeze. The punters laughed so hard it nearly took the roof off. Mel took it in her stride and laughed along as well. When the dance was done, they bowed to their audience.

  ‘Nice seeing you again, Melanie,’ Stan said, leaning on his stick. ‘You take care of yourself.’

  The Annies had long since been replaced by a new breed of pill. Babs popped another Benzo. She washed it down with a good mouthful of gin and started scrubbing the spotless cooker. Since that effing wanker had showed his ugly mug today, she’d been popping pills left, right and centre. She knew if she didn’t stop, she’d probably end up getting her tummy pumped. But her nerves were shot to pieces and the memories . . .