Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  While she waited, Helen thought some more about him. Once a month she was taken to Chingford cemetery to lay flowers on his grave. Her father was a hero. That was what Gran said. He’d died in the line of duty, a serving police officer murdered by a pair of violent thugs. Helen had the same dark brown hair as him, and the same grey-green eyes. Although it made her feel guilty, she couldn’t help wishing she looked more like her mum. She wanted her eyes to be brown, her hair to be long and straight and blonde.

  She heard the front door close and quickly turned her attention back to the window. She watched as the policeman walked smartly down the drive, hesitated for a moment, glanced back at the house and then got into his car. She waited for her gran to call her downstairs. A couple of minutes passed, but nothing happened. She heard the light ting as the telephone was lifted and knew that a call was being made. Carefully she opened the bedroom door and crept out on to the landing.

  Helen heard the murmur of her grandmother’s voice, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. She leaned over the banister, straining her ears. She thought she caught her mother’s name being mentioned, but couldn’t be sure. Was it Auntie Janet on the other end of the line? Another ting signalled the end of the call and she quickly retreated to the bedroom.

  Five minutes passed, and then ten. What was going on? Excited at the thought of seeing her mum again, Helen couldn’t keep still. She danced from one side of the room to the other, stopping at the window to gaze out at the street before retracing her steps. Her stomach made a tiny grumbling sound, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since lunch.

  She went to the door again, opened it, peered and listened. Nothing. She frowned, disturbed by the silence. Usually she would have been summoned by now. Too impatient to wait any longer, she made her way downstairs. She looked into the living room, but it was empty. She went on to the kitchen and gently pushed open the door. Her grandmother was sitting at the table with a cup of tea by her elbow.

  ‘Gran?’

  Joan Beck’s eyes narrowed in confusion. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘You should be in school.’

  ‘School’s finished, Gran.’

  ‘Finished?’

  Helen glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Over an hour ago. We walked back together, remember?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’ She gave a faltering smile. ‘You’d better get yourself a drink.’

  Helen went to the fridge and poured a glass of milk. This wasn’t the first occasion her grandmother had acted strangely. The episodes had started after Grandad had died, over a year ago now. Usually they didn’t last long, a few minutes of vagueness, of absent-minded confusion, but sometimes – like last month, when Gran had got up in the middle of the night, turned the oven on and started cooking – they were more prolonged.

  ‘Gran?’ she asked tentatively. ‘What did the policeman want?’

  Her grandmother seemed baffled by the question. Her hands rose, hovering briefly in the air before fluttering back down to the table again. She glanced at Helen and then out of the window. Her brown eyes were vague and unfocused. ‘The policeman,’ she murmured, as if struggling to understand.

  ‘You know,’ Helen prompted. ‘The man who was here earlier. He came about Mum. Is she coming tomorrow? Is she coming to stay?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think so, dear.’

  Helen felt a sharp stab of disappointment. ‘But I thought—’

  But she never got a chance to articulate her thought. Her grandmother pushed back her chair, slowly got to her feet and wandered off towards the hall. ‘Now where did I put that shopping list?’

  Helen finished her milk, washed out the glass in the sink and placed it neatly on the drainer. Then she went out into the garden, where she leaned against her grandfather’s shed and wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. She didn’t like it when Gran acted oddly. It made her feel unsteady, unsafe, as if the ground was shifting beneath her. Like at the fairground, when you got off the ride but your knees continued to feel wobbly.

  She thought about the policeman again. Why wasn’t her mum coming? It was weeks now since she’d last seen her. And only one phone call since then. I’ll see you soon, baby, that was what she’d said on the telephone. Helen worried at her lower lip. The sergeant had asked Gran if she was Lynsey Beck’s mother. She’d heard it with her very own ears. So something must be going on.

  The old wooden shed was warm from the afternoon sun. She turned, pushed open the door and stepped inside. It smelled musty and abandoned. There was a row of tools hung up on the wall, a lawnmower in the corner, flowerpots and seed trays stacked on the shelves. Nothing had been touched since her grandad had died. She ran a hand along the edge of the table, picking up dark smears on her fingertips. There was dust in the air, and cobwebs had gathered in every nook and cranny.

  Helen could feel the shadow of her grandfather’s presence. He had been a quiet man, but a kind one too. He’d also been the peacemaker in the house, bringing calm to the stormy relationship between his wife and daughter-in-law. Yes, even her mother had liked him; he was the only one of the Becks she’d ever had any time for. Everything had changed now that he’d gone. Nothing would ever be the same again.

  She backed out of the shed and closed the door behind her. As she glanced towards the house, she saw Janet through the kitchen window. Their eyes met and her aunt beckoned her inside. Helen walked up the path, wondering what she was doing here. Janet had two small children of her own and usually only came around at the weekend. She remembered the phone call Gran had made earlier, and a sense of uneasiness stirred inside her.

  By the time Helen stepped into the kitchen, the two older women were already seated.

  ‘Come and sit down,’ Janet said solemnly. ‘I’ve… we’ve got some news for you.’

  Helen glanced from her aunt to her grandmother before obediently pulling out a chair.

  ‘Now you’re going to have to be a brave girl,’ Janet said. ‘You can do that, can’t you?’

  That was when Helen’s stomach really sank. You only ever had to be brave for bad news, not for good. She managed a small nod, despite her inner trepidation.

  ‘You see…’ Janet began, but then abruptly stopped. Her hands wrestled with each other on the table, and her eyes darted away from Helen’s face, as if she couldn’t bear to look at her.

  It was her grandmother who took over, her voice a little shaky. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident, dear. It’s your mother.’

  Helen felt a flutter of panic in her chest. ‘Is she… is she in the hospital?’ That was where they took people when they were ill or hurt. The doctors made them better. Or at least sometimes they did. She had a sudden vivid memory of her grandad propped up in the hospital bed, the sheets stiff and white around him. His wasted body had seemed far too thin for the pair of blue and white pyjamas he was wearing.

  Her grandmother shook her head. ‘No, dear.’ She gave a long sigh. ‘I’m sorry. She’s not in the hospital.’

  ‘She’s in heaven,’ Janet said softly. ‘She’s with Jesus now. He’s taking care of her.’

  Helen felt a pain like a knife slicing through her. No! She wanted to stick her fingers in her ears, to block out the words. If she couldn’t hear them, then it couldn’t be happening. What right did Jesus have to interfere? Why couldn’t he find someone else to take care of? She didn’t want her mum in heaven. She wanted her here, smiling and laughing, making plans to go up West.

  ‘It’s a shock, I know,’ her grandmother continued. ‘Terrible news. And of course we’re all extremely upset, but… Well, we can only do our best and try to carry on. You’ll have to be a brave girl for your mum, Helen. I know it’s not easy, but it’s what she would have wanted.’

  Helen had a lump the size of a boulder in her throat, a hard stone of grief that had lodged in her windpipe. She was faintly aware of Janet’s hand reaching out to touch her own but then slowly retreating. The Becks weren’t comfortable with displays of emotion. ‘Ca
n I go upstairs?’ she eventually managed to croak. She wanted to get away from their scrutiny, to grieve in the privacy of her own bedroom.

  ‘I don’t think—’ Janet began, but her grandmother interrupted her.

  ‘Of course you can, dear.’

  Helen rushed out of the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time, hurtling into her room and launching herself on to the bed. She curled into a ball and waited for the tears to come, but nothing happened. It was as though something had frozen inside her. After a while, she sat up again, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her mother was gone, gone for ever. Dead. How could that be? She didn’t even know how it had happened. An accident. That could mean anything.

  As she sat gazing bleakly down at her feet, she noticed a tiny flattened clump of blossom protruding from the sole of one of her sandals. Carefully she peeled it off and held it in the palm of her hand. If only she could turn the clock back, return to that moment when she had turned into Camberley Road and marvelled at the row of cherry trees. Then, in her head at least, her mother had still been alive. For the first time in her life, she understood the meaning of the saying that ignorance is bliss.

  It was then, suddenly, that the tears began to flow, slowly at first but getting faster and faster until her body was racked with heaving sobs. She buried her face in her arms, not wanting anyone to hear.

  5

  Tommy Quinn pushed his breakfast around the plate, the untouched bacon and eggs already starting to congeal. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and the smell of the food was making it worse.

  ‘What’s wrong with it, then?’ Yvonne asked from across the table.

  He shoved the plate aside. ‘There ain’t nothing wrong with it. I’m just not hungry.’

  She took a puff on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke in a quick, resentful stream. ‘You could’ve thought about telling me that before I started cooking. You think I haven’t got better things to do than slave over a hot stove all morning?’

  Tommy took a slurp of his tea and glared at her over the rim of the mug. ‘Don’t start. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s my sister’s bloody funeral today.’

  ‘Well, don’t think I’m coming with you.’

  ‘Nobody’s asking you to.’

  She tapped her fag in the vague direction of the ashtray. ‘It’s not as though you’ve even seen her for years. I can’t see why you’re bothering.’

  Tommy stared at the tiny cylinder of ash that had landed on the table. He thought of the crematorium, of a body laid out in a coffin, of the flames that would engulf a young woman’s flesh and bones. The thought of it made his stomach turn over again. He should have made more of an effort, tried harder to heal the breach between them. But Lynsey was stubborn like him. She’d never admit that she’d made a mistake. Once she’d married that copper, there was no going back.

  ‘What time are you leaving?’ Yvonne asked.

  Tommy glanced at his watch, pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Now.’

  ‘Now?’ she repeated, scowling up at him. ‘I thought you said the funeral wasn’t until one.’

  ‘I’ve got a bit of business to sort first.’ He wasn’t actually due to meet Frank Meyer for another hour, but he wanted to get away before he said something he’d regret. Tommy neither loved nor even liked his wife, but preferred to keep things on an even keel. After fifteen years of marriage, he knew all there was to know about her, and most of it did his head in.

  ‘Don’t be late,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to open up. If you think I’m doing it again, then—’

  ‘I’ll be back in plenty of time.’ Since Connor had been arrested a few months ago, Tommy had been running the Fox on his own. It was hard work, but that didn’t bother him. He’d grown up in the pub and was more than happy to be living there again. Yvonne, on the other hand, couldn’t stand the place. Given a gallon of petrol and a match, she’d have gladly razed it to the ground.

  He took his black jacket off the back of the chair and slipped it on. As he walked out on to the landing, he gave a small nod of satisfaction. Yes, it was good to be back. This was where he belonged and where he intended to stay. For the past seven years they’d been renting a semi on the south side of Kellston, but Tommy had never felt comfortable there. It had always seemed more like Yvonne’s house than his, a place where he had eaten and slept but never really felt at home.

  Connor’s arrest – for demanding money with menaces – had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. It had given Tommy the excuse he needed to move back to the Fox. Someone had to keep an eye on Dad and his cronies, or they’d drink all the profits away. At least that was what he’d told Yvonne. And money was tight these days, so what was the point in shelling out for rent when they could live above the pub for free? The flat was big enough for all of them, and with the business to run it made sense, financially and practically, to live on the premises.

  Tommy jogged down the stairs, eager to be away from his wife. If it hadn’t been for the girls, he’d have kicked the marriage into touch years ago, but he didn’t want to be one of those part-time fathers who only saw their kids at weekends. Thinking of his girls reminded him that Lynsey had a daughter too, a child who no longer had a mum or a dad. Helen, that was her name. She must be eleven by now. Jesus, his own niece and he’d never even seen her.

  He headed outside to the car park and climbed into the white Cortina. For a change, it started first time, and he drove down the road on to the high street and parked outside Connolly’s. He was early, but it didn’t matter. He just wanted to drink a mug of tea in peace without Yvonne giving him earache.

  The caff was pleasantly warm, smelling of damp coats and cigarettes. On his way to the counter he nodded to a few of the fellas but didn’t stop to chat. He didn’t want to have to listen to their expressions of sympathy: Sorry to hear about your Lynsey, mate. How many times had he heard that over the last week? And as soon as his back was turned, they’d be gossiping like women, raking over old history about how Lynsey Quinn had got knocked up by a copper, and noting that even her own father wasn’t going to the funeral.

  Tommy got a brew and went to sit in the corner by the window. The glass was steamed up and he cleared part of the pane with the palm of his hand. He stared up at the sky, dark and heavy, the grey clouds swollen with rain. Hard to believe that only a few days ago the sun had been shining.

  It had been raining, he remembered, on the Friday night Lynsey had come home all those years ago, bringing with her the kind of news that no self-respecting family of villains wanted to hear. If only the poor cow hadn’t got herself pregnant. She’d have got over Alan Beck in time, seen him for the scumbag he really was. Tommy hated bent coppers even more than straight ones. You chose one side or the other – that was his philosophy – and didn’t dabble in the shades of grey.

  He lifted his mug to his lips and sighed into the tea. Why hadn’t she packed her bags when it had all started to go wrong? But he already knew the answer to that. Lynsey was too proud to come crawling back. She’d rather have thrown herself in the Thames than admit to Joe Quinn that she’d made a mistake. Every now and again he’d heard snippets of news from Moira Sullivan, the only person Lynsey kept in touch with – that the baby was a girl, that they were living out Ilford way, that the marriage wasn’t a happy one.

  Later, after Beck had got his just rewards, there had been all sorts of rumours about what Lynsey was doing. Tommy’s mouth turned down at the corners. They were the type of rumours he didn’t want to dwell on. Maybe if he’d made the first move, if he’d gone to talk to her, things could have been different; but he hadn’t, and that was the end of it. It was too late to start stressing over might-have-beens.

  He sensed a movement and looked up. The tall, broad-shouldered figure of Frank Meyer was striding towards him.

  ‘You’re early,’ Tommy said.

  Frank looked at his watch and smiled. ‘Says the man who’s been sitting here for how long?’ He pulled out a chai
r and took a seat on the other side of the table. ‘I dropped by the Fox. Yvonne told me you’d already left.’

  ‘Yeah, well, there’s only so much grief you can take of a morning.’ Tommy fingered his tie, feeling overdressed in the casual surroundings of the caff. ‘You’d think she’d give it a rest today of all days.’

  ‘What time do you have to be there?’

  ‘One o’clock.’

  Frank looked towards the counter, caught the eye of Paul Connolly and ordered another two brews with a quick gesture of his hand. Then he turned his attention back to Tommy. ‘Joe’s not changed his mind, then? He’s not coming with you?’

  ‘What do you think? He never gave a damn about her when she was alive, so why should he bother now? The bastard can’t even be arsed to go to her funeral.’

  ‘You want me to come along?’

  Tommy was touched by the offer. Even his own wife wasn’t prepared to set foot in the crematorium. It was at times like this that you found out who your real friends were. He thought about it for a moment, but then shook his head. This was something he needed to do on his own. ‘Nah, it’ll be fine.’

  ‘Well, the offer’s open. Just give me the nod if you change your mind.’

  Tommy had only known Frank Meyer for a year or so, but in that time he’d come to trust him. They’d first met in the Red Lion in Bethnal Green. It had been a Tuesday, a cold night, and Tommy had been doing a bit of business in the area. He and Yvonne were at each other’s throats over something and nothing, and not relishing the prospect of round three, he’d nipped into the pub for a few loin-girding Scotches before heading home.