Billie Jo

by Kimberley Chambers

  After drinking the restaurant dry of champagne, Michelle was in her observant mood. Sitting quietly, she surveyed her group of friends. They'd all met working out together at their local gym, and over the years had disclosed their innermost secrets to one another. They'd joked that one day, when they were older, they would sit down and write a book about their unusual lives.

  Hazel Short was the first not-right that Michelle had palled up with. Forty-three years old with long blonde hair and a body to die for, Hazel had seemed quite normal at first. She was a typical Essex bird with a bubbly personality to match, but they say you should never judge a book by its cover and this turned out to true, as Hazel turned out to be anything but normal. After marrying young to an ageing ex-bank robber called Stan and producing three children in quick succession, Hazel was very happy with the cards she'd been dealt. With plenty of money shoved into offshore accounts for a rainy day, Hazel was the brains behind Stan's thieving. Stan would nick it and Hazel would stash it and together they made a very good team.

  As time went on Stan moved into the pub protection game. Within a year, things went tits up and he got a ten stretch for torturing some poor bastard in the back room of a boozer along the Barking Road. Six months into his sentence, Stan keeled over with a heart attack and promptly snuffed it. Overnight Hazel became a very rich lady indeed.

  Julie Beale was the next not-right to become Chelle's friend. At forty-six years old, with the voice of a man and the body of a Russian shot putter, at first glance she could seem quite scary. An ex-prostitute, Julie had spent the latter part of her working life employed as a madam at a massage parlour in Ilford. A substantial inheritance left by one of her regular clients had led to her taking an early retirement.

  The final member of the Fab Four went by the name of Suzie Robinson. At thirty-five years old, she was the baby of the gang. Happily married to Richie who owned a scrapyard in Rainham, Suzie had seemed quite square compared to the rest of them. It wasn't until one evening when they'd been caning the wine all day, that her story bubbled to the surface. She had done a year in Holloway for an offence to do with her first husband, Trevor. Once released, Suzie left him and ran off up north with the eighteen-year-old brother of one of her former inmates. Sick of feeling like his mother, Suzie had had enough within a year and headed back down south. A year later, she married her current husband, Richie.

  Michelle's thoughts were interrupted by Georgie the owner telling them that their cab was outside.

  Sitting in a backstreet boozer in Stepney Green, Terry began to get agitated. Giving Davey Mullins the nod to go up to the bar, Terry moved towards the lying little bastard sitting opposite him.

  'Look, don't fuck with me, kid. I know for a fact your story don't ring true, 'cause I've checked it with the other lads. No one else could have had that money away, bar you. Don't take me as some kind of a cunt, believe me that'll be the worst mistake you'll ever make. Now, you've got until next Saturday lunchtime to get the money you've chored back to me. Think yourself lucky, Paul, that I'm good pals with your uncle, 'cause believe me, you wouldn't have such an easy ride if me and Archie weren't muckers. Now, I know where you live and I'm sending Davey Boy to pick up the dough. Once you've paid, I want you to get out the area. If I ever see your ugly mug again, Paul, I swear as God's my judge, I'll gut you like a fucking fish.'

  Paul Cox could feel his bowel loosening as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Terry Keane frightened the life out of him and in all his twenty-seven years, he'd never met anyone with such evil eyes, piercing blue and pure fucking evil.

  He could visualise himself being chopped up into little pieces and ending up in concrete, propping up one of the flyovers along the A13. He knew in that instant that he wasn't cut out for this kind of work, dealing with these kind of people. He'd only got involved as a favour to his Uncle Archie, who was currently in the Scrubs taking a holiday at Her Majesty's pleasure. Archie had needed someone he could trust for a while to take over the reins and Paul had offered to lend a helping hand. Realising he'd made a big mistake by being light-fingered, Paul downed his bottle of Becks and rose unsteadily from his seat.

  'Look, I'm really sorry, Tel. I'll have your money back by Saturday, I promise.' On exiting the run-down pub, Paul found the nearest kerb and retched.

  Michelle looked at the minicab driver and snarled, 'You're taking the piss. You ain't getting thirty-five, you robbing bastard. I'll give you a score.' Ali hated being a minicab driver. He made his own fares up as he went along. The worse the customer, the more he charged. Snatching the money, he breathed a sigh of relief as the abusive, drunken women got out of his car. Furious, he opened his window. 'I know where you live, you English bitches. I will be back.' Pulling her trousers down, Michelle gave him a flash of her fat arse. Hazel, Julie and Suzie opted for wanker signs.

  In stitches, the girls spilled into Hazel's kitchen. 'I'll be back,' Hazel said, mimicking an Indian accent.

  'Fucking Delhi's answer to Arnie Schwarzenegger,' Chelle screamed. Crying with laughter, the girls fell onto Hazel's kitchen floor.

  Over in Stepney, Terry's face was like thunder. He'd had a proper little deal going for years now, with an old boy from Bethnal Green who answered to the name of Archie Cox. Archie and Terry had originally been introduced by Terry's old boss, Benny Bones, and over the years they had built up an honest and trustworthy friendship. The little scam they had going had brought in bundles over the years and until recently was infallible. Buying up write-offs from salvage yards that were badly damaged but not mangled beyond recognition, the motors were loaded onto recovery trucks and driven out to the remote outskirts of Cambridgeshire, where they owned a couple of yards in the middle of nowhere. They would then call on the services of the top-class young car thieves who were on their payroll, to go out and steal the exact same model. The stolen vehicles would immediately have the number plate removed and swapped for the write-offs. They would then be driven out to Cambridgeshire in the middle of the night where three trustworthy mechanics would swap all the parts over, change the chassis number and make them reasonably untraceable. In reality, the original vehicles were stripped down and ceased to exist. The newly built motors were then shipped abroad to start a new life.

  Terry and Archie didn't bother with any middle of the range motors, all the vehicles involved were top jolly, including Mercs, BMWs, Jags and Range Rovers to name but a few.

  They had over a dozen salvage yards dotted across the south-east that notified them of any suitable vehicle and readily accepted a large backhander for their trouble. It was an easy little scam, and very profitable, but just lately things had started to get a bit on top of them.

  Archie Cox, who organised all the shipping and was also the man that had all the contacts, had started to become greedy. At fifty-eight and already as rich as any fucker would ever need to be, Archie had decided to retire at sixty and head off to live in his villa in sunny Marbella.

  Being a gluttonous bastard and also becoming a bit careless in his latter years, Archie decided that he could improve on his income and he recruited a few extra lads to do some motors up locally. He was hoping his new venture would pull in at least another fifty grand a month.

  Terry had adamantly wanted nothing to do with Archie's new idea. He'd told him he must be bonkers to change a system that had worked so well for years and he'd insisted he was playing with fire. Archie should have listened to the advice he was being given, as six months later the Old Bill raided a yard just off the Bow Road and found three of the ringers. Archie was jailed for four years.

  Terry wasn't surprised when he heard about the arrest. Archie had played too close to home. He had no worries about the old boy opening his mouth. He was one of the old school and would rather have his bollocks cut off than grass up a mate. Terry felt so sorry for the poor old sod. He couldn't understand why a man who had the credentials of Baron Rockefeller would choose to be so greedy in his last couple of working years. Nothing like that would ev
er happen to him while he had a hole in his arse; he was far too clued up to go down that road.

  Years ago, Terry could easily have taken over Archie's contacts and run the show himself, but he'd chosen not to. He'd rather pay the old boy a percentage, which is what he'd done for the last fifteen years. Archie took sixty per cent of the profits and Terry took forty. What's ten per cent if it keeps your name out of the equation?

  Not once had Terry ever been hauled in by the Old Bill. He was sure the filth was aware of him as he had his finger stuck in many pies, but he was a background man and that's the way he liked it. He made sure that he kept well away from the dodgy motors, the thieves and the yards. He had a lackey boy to do all his shit jobs for him and this was probably the reason why he'd kept his nose clean for so many years. In Terry's world you had to trust your instincts, and at this present moment he had a real bad feeling about Archie's quivering wreck of a nephew. If Paul got his collar felt, he'd sing like a songbird, his type always did.

  Terry decided to get Dave or one of the other lads to pay Archie a visit in the Scrubs. Someone had to inform the poor old sod that his nephew had turned out to be a wrong'un. Terry wouldn't go personally; the less he was linked with Archie the better.

  Noticing his pal had something on his mind, Davey Boy aimed a playful punch at him. 'What's up, Tel? You don't seem yourself tonight, mate, you're knocking 'em back like they're going out of style. What's the matter?'

  'I'm all right, mate. I'm just stressed. That cunt Cox has put me in a bad mood. If he weren't Archie's nephew, I swear I'd fucking kill him. You know what I'm like, Dave, I hate being had over.'

  'Don't worry about him, Tel, the geezer's a cock.'

  Terry gulped at his drink. He felt weighed down with worry.

  'That's what worries me. Now Cox has been working with us, he probably knows too much. Archie's a fucking nuisance bringing him into the fold.'

  Dave shrugged. Terry rarely went on a downer, but when he did, he was hard to snap out of it. Dave decided to change the subject. 'We've got old Albie's wedding next week, ain't we?'

  Terry sighed. He was dreading the occasion. 'Wonderful, I'm taking Chelle with me. All her gym cronies are going. There's bound to be some fucking fiasco, you mark my words.'

  Taking a sip of his Budweiser, Dave smiled at his pal. The poor bastard looked like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. 'I'll get my Lisa to sit with Chelle and keep an eye on her. She'll be fine, you'll see.'

  Terry wished he could share his friend's optimism. Michelle behave? That was a joke. It was odds-on that the fat cow would show him up in some way, shape or form. He hated weddings, he really did. Every time he attended one it reminded him of the biggest mistake that he'd ever made. Still, he wouldn't have to suffer it much longer. This time next year, he and the wildebeest would be separated and awaiting their divorce.

  Unknown to Michelle, Terry had been preparing for the occasion by offloading many of his assets. Chelle knew nothing about what he owned and what he didn't. All she knew was that he had two houses, which he rented out to students, the car lot and their own house.

  What Chelle didn't know was that, over the years, he'd purchased four other properties, which he'd rented out. Most of the tenants had been Albanian or Bosnian and the DSS had eagerly paid whatever rent Terry had demanded.

  When Archie got arrested, Terry wondered if it was wise to have so many properties in his name, just in case someone came sniffing around. It was that thought, and the fact that he didn't want Chelle to get her grubby paws on them, that had made him decide to get rid of them. He'd sold all four of them on the cheap in cash-only deals to fellow business associates of his with the tenants still intact.

  Davey Mullins was looking after half of his cash for him. The other half Terry had hidden in the safe at the car lot. He'd told no one it was there, not even Dave. He trusted Dave more than life itself, but in this day and age you could never be too careful. Money did strange things to people.

  The minute he walked out the door, Chelle would find herself the best brief money could buy. She would then try and cane him for every penny he had. Terry was as sure of this as he was sure the Pope prayed. He knew he'd have to cough up a large pay-off settlement for her, but considering the fat lazy bitch had never done a day's work in her life, there was no way he was letting her get her mitts on anything she didn't know about. Terry couldn't wait until his life consisted of just him, Billie and Jade. In his eyes, that day couldn't come quick enough.

  THREE

  'Well, Dad, how do I look?'

  Terry turned around to face his daughter and sighed inwardly. For the first time in his life, he saw his daughter as a young woman, instead of a child. She looked absolutely stunning, but instead of being pleased Terry felt a wave of dread wash over him as he realised his little baby, who he thought would look like a little girl for ever, had shot up a few inches overnight, sprouted breasts and had turned into a right little cracker.

  If Terry could have had his way, he'd have kept her in bunches and ankle socks until she was at least twenty-one. He knew deep down that he had to let Billie grow up, but the thing that worried him was the thought of grown men lusting after her. She looked so much older than her tender fifteen years, and he'd personally mutilate anyone over the age of twenty-one who even dared to look at her in a sexual way.

  Swallowing his thoughts, he smiled at her. 'You look lovely, Bill, really lovely.'

  Billie walked up to him and gave him a big hug. She knew her dad hated her growing up and had been expecting him to throw a fit over the adult-looking outfit she was wearing. A fitted dress, high-heeled shoes, lipstick and mascara would normally send her dad into a frenzy. Thankfully, today he seemed quite calm.

  'Right, I'm ready, do I look all right?' Michelle sauntered into the room in a black trouser suit, matched with leopard skin bag, shoes and hat.

  'You look really nice, Mum, doesn't she, Dad?'

  Terry glanced at his daughter and admired the fact that she was such a good liar. Looking his wife up and down, he chose to be polite. 'You look nice, Chelle.'

  In fact, in all honesty, he'd seen her look a damn sight worse. Due to her weight gain, Chelle normally looked like a bundle of shit tied up ugly. This outfit, which had set him back three hundred quid from a boutique in Loughton, kind of flattered her.

  Terry smiled at his wife and daughter. 'Ready to make tracks then?'

  'Yep,' they both replied in unison.

  Angie Smith became Mrs Bones at two o'clock that afternoon at Langtons Register Office in Hornchurch. The evening reception was being held in a function room in Upminster and another hundred guests were expected to join in the celebrations. Albie Bones was Benny's younger brother. Angie would be wife number four.

  Terry stood at the bar with Davey Mullins, chatting to a couple of blokes who owned a car site in Brentwood. Auctions were the topic of conversation and Terry was bored shitless by the two Larry Largenuts he and Dave were lumbered with. Excusing themselves, Terry and Dave headed to the toilets. Avoiding the bar like the plague on the way back, they decided to join the girls.

  'All right, ladies? Enjoying yourselves are you?'

  Before anyone had a chance to acknowledge them, Chelle piped up. 'You all know my husband, don't you, girls? The one and only Charlie Bigbananas. Two hours I've been sitting here and he's only just bothered to come and talk to me and see if I'm all right.'

  Terry gave his wife a pitying look. 'Don't start, Chelle, not tonight. I'm tired, Billie's here and I'm really not in the mood for your fucking antics. Your eyes are rolling, how much you had to drink?'

  'I've only had a few. Keeping tabs on me are you?' Chelle replied cockily. Michelle rarely gave it the big-'un indoors. She was far too scared that Terry would walk out the door and not come back. Things changed, though, as soon as she met up with her gym pals. As soon as Chelle was in their company, her personality changed completely. She liked to give it the big-'un, make out she wore the trous
ers and ruled the roost. Instead of looking cool, she made herself look incredibly stupid. A complete prat in fact.

  Terry sat quietly, sipping his JD and Coke, surveying the situation. The karaoke had now started and Benny had been the first one to get up singing with his rendition of 'Mack the Knife'. Terry smiled to himself whilst weighing up the women around him.

  Lisa was a typical Dave-type of bird. Blonde, young, tarty, she was as common and as thick as two short planks. He'd only just moved his last bird out a few weeks before he'd met Lisa, then within a month he'd moved her in. Davey Boy was one of these blokes who hated living on his own and Terry had lost count of the amount of birds he'd had living with him over the years. The one thing they all had in common was that they were all in their twenties, brainless and dressed like whores. Terry glanced around at the rest of the table.

  Hazel Short, Terry had quite a lot of time for. He'd known her old man Stan quite well and knew that Hazel had been the brains behind Stan's bollocks. She was well clued up, was Hazel, and definitely no man's fool. Stan had been dead for years now and Hazel's fortune just went on growing and growing.

  Suzie Robinson, Terry wasn't quite so sure about. She came across as pleasant enough but he'd always hated her current old man Richie, so he had his reservations about her.

  Julie Beale frightened Terry more than any woman he'd ever met in his lifetime. He'd always imagined that she'd been born a boy, had her bollocks chopped off, took hormone tablets, grown tits and overnight had renamed herself Julie. He knew that for years she'd plied her trade at the local wash-and-wank shop, and he couldn't believe that any man could be that desperate to want to fuck someone that looked like Giant Haystacks with tits.

  'Right, can I have Michelle and the gang up on stage please.'

  'Come on, girls, that's us,' Chelle said excitedly, galloping towards the karaoke.