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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Babs gritted her teeth as her cleaning intensified, vicious, manic strokes that sent pain shooting up her arm and scratches into the steel. Why did he have to come back? Why couldn’t the toerag leave them alone? Her mind was about to shatter. She threw the Brillo pad down. She was going to stop him in his tracks and she had a secret weapon.

  Babs settled her shoulders back before picking up the phone. ‘Kieran, is that you, luv?’

  ‘Babs? What you doing phoning so late? Is something up?’

  Kieran Scott had gone from The Devil Estate’s bad boy to one of London’s up-and-coming Faces. He even had a club behind him; at least that was what Babs had heard. She never asked him what he did, because she didn’t want to know. Whatever it was, Kieran was living the high life; as far away as you could imagine from the dirty boy she’d met all those years ago.

  Kieran growled. ‘If anyone’s hurt you . . .’

  Most folk saw him as a thug, plain and simple, but they would think again if they saw the way he handled Babs. Kieran would lay down his life for her. He’d been protective of her since she’d taken him under her wing. Babs had almost called him up to sort out that worthless shit, Nuts, Jen’s soon-to-be ex. She was tempted to tell him Stan was back and bothering her. That was all it would take to get Kieran moving. Probably to drop Stan off a building.

  ‘Just wanted to know what you were up to,’ she said at last. She didn’t want to drag Kieran into this. She was going to have to figure a way to shut Stan down herself.

  ‘You sure?’ he asked. ‘Because ...’ Kieran let out the last word on a long moan of pleasure.

  Babs was disturbed. ‘You alright, son?’ Then she heard a woman giggle. Another moan from Kieran. Babs’ face grew hot with embarrassment. ‘Sorry . . .’

  ‘No, it ain’t you that needs to be sorry . . .’ His voice was rough, but gentle. ‘I’ve got a bit of company, that’s all.’

  That got Babs smiling. It would warm her heart no end to see Kieran settled. After the horrors of his childhood he needed a good woman to make him the centre of her life.

  ‘You want me to come around?’

  Definitely not. As soon as he saw her face he’d know something was up. ‘I just wanted to hear your voice. Take care, luv.’

  Babs slowly put down the phone. Fancy that: Kieran with a lady friend. She leaned against the wall and let out a long, weary sigh. Why was Stan back?

  Babs downed some more gin and took another Benzo.

  A pissed Mel left the boozer to weave her way home. That old fart Stan had bought back memories she’d thought long buried. Worst of all, the fucker had made her feel young again. Fancy taking her hand like she was the Queen and getting her to have a bop in front of everyone.

  Mel started singing ‘How Can I be Sure’ under her breath and twirling around like she was back in bad boy Stan’s arms again. Back in ’72. Back in her mink.

  One, two, three. One, two, three, she chanted as she twirled and twirled and twirled . . .

  Something hit her solidly in the forehead, shoving her to the ground. She cried out in pain.

  They hit her over and over again, until she was an unmoving bloody mess.

  Sixty-Six

  ‘Hello, darlin’, any chance you could give me engine the once-over?’

  Tiffany wasn’t surprised to hear her dad’s gruff voice the following morning. She’d been expecting a visit sooner or later from mister lowlife.

  ‘No,’ Tiffany said, not looking up from under the bonnet of a GTi. She still did the odd spot of work down Richie’s garage, despite the windfall she’d come into recently. She couldn’t let anyone know about that, after all.

  Tiff bet her life that Little Richie, who ran the place with his bellend brother Ron now their old man was retired, was observing all the goings-on as he usually did. Sure enough she heard, ‘Tiffany, my girl, that is no way to speak to one of our customers. Why don’t you—’

  She hitched her head up to look at him, the small puffed-up penguin. She wouldn’t have to take his bullshit much longer.

  ‘It’s personal,’ she told him. She saw her father from the corner of her eye. He looked happy, leaning out of the window of a battered hatchback, but he looked even more knackered than he had at the party. His face was like a skull with a sausage skin pulled over it, dusted with mustard. If it hadn’t been for the smile, she might’ve thought about calling 999.

  Instead she folded her arms. ‘Alright, Big Ron, I’ve got this.’ When he disappeared, no doubt to earwig from the office, Tiff turned her full attention on her father. ‘Hello, Stan, what a nice surprise.’

  ‘Call me Dad, Tiff. You owe me that, surely?’

  Tiffany tapped her spanner in her palm. Owe him? Was he high or something? He came hobbling back into her life after doing a bunk for most of it and this arsehole thought she owed him? Was going to start calling him Dad?

  ‘I’ve got my hands full here . . .’ Something crossed her mind. ‘How did you know I was working here anyway?’

  Stan switched off the engine and got slowly out of his motor with the help of his stick. ‘I asked around. I still know Faces around these parts. You know what they say, you can take the geezer outta the East End but you can’t take the East End outta the geezer. Thought you’d be married with a parcel of nippers by now.’

  Tiffany let out a slow, mocking smile. It was time to shock Stan out of his pants. ‘Probably would’ve if I had a thing for fellas. I like my other halves nice and curvy, like my motors.’

  To her irritation he didn’t even blink. ‘One of that lot, are ya? Knew a few back when.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘Aww, those were the days. Soho . . .’

  Tiff cut her eyes at him and then got back to work. ‘I’ve got nish to say to you. You can save your breath. You look like you could use all the breath you can get.’

  She sneaked a glance at him and caught him looking down, his face forlorn. ‘As I expect your mother told you, things ain’t looking too clever for me.’ When she didn’t reply, he let out a sour cough. ‘She didn’t tell you, did she?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s nice, that is. Not telling her own daughter that her father’s only got three months to live? Charming . . .’

  That shook Tiff up slightly. Then again, maybe it was one of those Stanley Miller specials her mother had warned her about. Anyway, so what if the geezer wasn’t long for this earth. He hadn’t been there for her when she was growing up, so sod him. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘We’ve all got to go sometime,’ he said. ‘When your time’s up, it’s up. It does mean I need to get my personal affairs in order before I go. Make sure my family, especially my grandbabies, have in death what I couldn’t give them in life.’

  He was deffo scamming. Tiff was sure of it. She was supposed to rattle off some sympathetic questions now. But it wasn’t going to happen. She knew his type – she was one of them. Conning was second nature to her. Now Tiff knew where she got the gene from.

  When she stayed schtum, Stan released a knowing, cold snigger. ‘Babs ain’t told you about that either, has she?’ She could see he’d clenched his fists. He fumed, ‘Your mum’s really done a number on you and your sister. She hates me – I get that, maybe she’s even right to. But to take it out on you two? That’s properly out of order.’

  Tiffany was careful with what she said. She would bet her life he was a fake, but then again, if he really was a crook he might be leaving a few quid behind. A girl could always do with a few dollars more. It would be a bit of compo for all she and her sister had never had out of him.

  She pulled herself straight and gave him the eye. ‘OK, Stan, you wanna leave me and big sis and her kids a few sobs in your will – give yourself a pat on the back, we ain’t gonna stop you. Just don’t bother us, alright?’

  His laugh started small but grew louder and louder like she’d told him the best shaggy-dog gag in the world. ‘A few quid? You’re having a proper joke, babe. It’s a few mill. And that’s just the cash; that don’t include my
properties, cars, wine and the rest of it. I’m a very wealthy man.’

  At the mention of millions Tiff’s heartbeat jacked up, but she made sure it didn’t show on her face. He could still be conning the overalls off her. ‘Fair enough. Just split it fifty-fifty between me and Jen and maybe we won’t spit when we hear your name.’

  Stan drew closer to her. He looked haunted. He searched the garage as if worried someone might overhear. ‘I wish it was that simple. Trouble is, it ain’t. I’m trying to set up a trust fund for Jennifer’s girls. A little bit of that, just over half a mill, I’ve set aside for you, your sister and your mum as a way of saying sorry.’ He pointed his finger at her. ‘Make no mistake, the majority of the money is for my grandkids. But I want you, your sister and your mum to be the trustees to make sure Jen’s daughters get that money when I’m gone. All it’ll take is a couple of minutes signing the paperwork.’

  Despite not being able to get the words ‘half a mill’ out of her head, Tiff said, ‘If you want to leave Courtney and Little Bea your golden egg you’re going to need to find another way of doing it. I’m telling you straight, me, Jen and Mum won’t be signing dick. In the meantime, I’m working, so piss off – and don’t come back. We’re not interested.’

  Her dad’s face turned tragic. ‘Fair enough. I suppose after all the crap your mother’s poured into your ears since you were little, it was too much to hope you’d take me at my word.’ He gave her a card. ‘I’m staying there. If you change your mind, call me. But I promise you this – one way or another, I’m going to make sure you all get something for the heartache I’ve caused.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  He got back into his motor and started the engine. ‘Speak to your sister and then give me a tinkle. Help me out by helping yourself out.’

  He drove out of the yard. Tiff looked at the card. Imperial Hotel, Park Lane. She knew the place; it was frequently name-checked in the tabloids as the place where the showbiz big nobs stayed. It looked kosher, but as Tiffany knew, you can get cards printed anywhere.

  She went back to work but couldn’t settle; those bloody three words kept fizzing around her head. Half a mill. Half a mill . . . He’s probably scamming you. Yeah, but what if he’s not? It wouldn’t leave her alone. She sat, staring into space, in a flash Japanese Range Rover for a solid five minutes, before getting out her Nokia.

  ‘Jen, I need to speak to you, like, now.’

  ‘Could I pop over and have a word with you and John?’ Babs asked her eldest on the phone.

  She felt like the walking dead; she hadn’t managed to get much kip last night. Her tongue felt dry from too much gin and her head was a touch off-centre from the pills. But it was the only way Babs could deal with her bastard of an ex roaming around, just waiting for his opportunity to wreck her family a second time. Not on her bloody watch.

  Dee seemed surprised her mum was asking, but said, ‘Depends when you want to come?’

  ‘Now?’

  Dee didn’t answer straight off. ‘I suppose so, we ain’t doing anything.’ Babs’ relief faded fast when her daughter added, ‘as long as you don’t want to chat about return man Stan. I never wanna hear about that bloke again.’

  Babs’ heart sank. ‘Well . . . I was hoping . . .’

  ‘It ain’t happening, OK.’ Babs could almost see her daughter wagging her finger in the air. ‘John already knows something’s up. If he tumbles what that baby-dumping-fucker done, he’ll go gunning for him. I can’t have that; we’re a clean-living family nowadays. Did I tell you we’re involved in the harvest festival? I don’t want “church-goer butchers bloke” in the local parish newsletter.’

  Babs couldn’t imagine Dee at a harvest festival. She’d probably end up chucking a can of Heinz soup at anyone who dared not listen to her. ‘Please, luv. He’s come back to destroy us. I know him, that’s what he’s does.’

  ‘No, Mum.’

  ‘I just want to know where he’s been for the last twenty-five years. Your John knows people; he can ask around. Stan must’ve been up to something.’

  There was a long silence before Dee said again, harder, ‘No. If you mention him chucking me overboard when I was a baby, John’ll fly off the handle. You’ve never seen him go ballistic. Believe me, it ain’t a pretty sight.’ Dee’s tone softened. ‘You should have your feet up, think about your birthday. Don’t worry about Stanley Miller; he’ll get what’s coming to him.’

  A dejected Babs put down the phone. She should be looking forward to her girls taking her out for her fiftieth, but she couldn’t muster up any pleasure. While Stanley remained at large all she could feel was something awful looming.

  Dee punched her mobile off as John put a comforting arm around her. They were in the main room of their plush house in Essex. John had held her all night after she’d told him how Stanley Miller had destroyed her childhood. Dee hadn’t wanted her mum to know she’d dished the dirt. She wanted her to stay well out of it. If anyone was going to sort Stan Miller, it would be her.

  ‘You OK, babe?’ he asked.

  Dee laid her palm over his. John had blown a fuse when he heard the story. He’d wanted to find Stanley and blow his fucking brains out. But Dee had made him cool off. She was going to make Stanley Miller rue the day he’d been born, but they had to play this one carefully.

  ‘We need to find out what that arsehole has been up to all these years. That means contacting someone in Spain.’

  John poured himself a brandy and Dee a glass of Bolly. ‘Uncle Frank will know what’s what.’

  Uncle Frank was a former Face, now retired and lapping up the sunshine in Spain. He wasn’t John’s blood relation, but when things had got tight when John was a kid, Frank Reynolds would see him right.

  Dee sipped her fizz while John got on the blower to Uncle Frank in Malaga.

  Sixty-Seven

  ‘What about these?’ Jen asked her younger sister.

  Tiff looked at the birthday banner in Jen’s hand. ‘Don’t be daft, that says, “Happy Birthday Princess”. Mum’s turning fifty, not five.’

  Babs thought they were going off up West tomorrow, but Tiff and Jen had got together with Dee to organise a surprise birthday bash instead. Hitting fifty was one of the great markers in life and had to be celebrated properly. Dee was sorting the booze and grub and they were getting stuff to decorate the Knackered Swan, The Devil’s local. Dee had wanted the party to be somewhere swish and upmarket, but Jen had persuaded her that Babs needed to feel nice and comfy on her big day.

  ‘I just thought they would be a nice touch,’ Jen said. ‘You know, make her feel ultra-special since Dad had the nerve to show his mug again.’ She saw the stubborn look on Tiff’s face and dropped them back on the shelf.

  Jen wheeled their well-stocked trolley to the next aisle as Tiffany said, ‘Talking about Dad—’

  Jen put the brakes on with a screech and turned in irritation. ‘Don’t go there, Tiff. I don’t wanna know. That man caused our poor mum a bellyache of trouble and we agreed to have sod all to do with him.’

  ‘But he came to see me—’

  ‘He what?’ Now Jen was really narked. ‘I hope you told him where he can stick his walking stick.’

  Tiff looked her sister right in the eye.

  ‘Mum never told us everything—’

  Jen sneered, ‘Un-bloody-believable. He’s already got you wrapped around his crooked little finger—’

  ‘He’s bloody dying.’ Jen gasped. She hadn’t been expecting that. She might despise the old duffer, but dying . . . ‘He says he told Mum at Court’s party, so why didn’t she tell us?’

  Jen banished her sympathy for a bloke who had never been any kind of a father. ‘Listen to ya. Mum must’ve had her reasons. The prick’s probably yanking your chain to make us feel sorry for him.’

  ‘Come on, Jen, you saw his face. Looked like it had been dipped in custard. He’s got three months to live.’

  Jen’s eyelashes fluttered uncontrollably, her mouth wobbl
ing. She had zero love for the father who had abandoned them, but three months left to live . . . that was a hard thing for anyone to swallow. She felt cold.

  ‘He’s loaded,’ Tiff revealed. ‘Got a fuck-off villa in Spain and a friggin’ yacht. He wants us to go and have a chat with him in his Park Lane hotel.’

  ‘Park Lane?’

  ‘He says he’s set up a trust for Courtney and Little Bea. He’s put aside a little dosh for me, you and Mum, but the real money is for your kids.’

  Jen smacked her lips together. ‘And you believe him?’

  Tiff shrugged. ‘Dunno. But I tell you what, if there’s money coming my way, I’m willing to hear him out.’

  Jen should’ve guessed Tiff’s motivation – hard cash. Her sister had nearly wrecked their lives when they were younger, ducking and diving with the wrong crowd for more poke to shove in her pocket.

  ‘I don’t want nothing to do with his money, even if he says it’s some trust – whatever that is,’ Jen declared and almost bumped into Tiff as she started angrily wheeling the trolley.

  ‘Think of the girls.’ Tiff was dug in like a pesky mosquito that wouldn’t give up until it was sucking on blood. ‘You work all hours at that supermarket and I know you take in ironing on the sly to get some extra pennies.’ Jen’s face pinked. She didn’t like people knowing about the ironing; made it sound like she couldn’t take care of her kids. Mind you, it was better than dossing off the social.

  ‘Think about what Court and Little Bea’s lives would be like if you could get your hands on some cash any time.’

  Jen picked up a decorative, plastic tablecloth roll. ‘I think we should take some of this—’

  Tiff grabbed it and chucked it back on the shelf. ‘Think about it. Courtney can have those swimming lessons she’s always wanted. Little Bea can attend those gymnastics classes. And what about you? Maybe you can find some work in the fashion industry again.’