In fact, her mother would cheerfully have had the whole population of Asia in her street rather than the next new arrivals, the McDuffs, a crowd of swearing, screaming Irish. But they had bought the house and that was that. If their Friday night cabaret annoyed everyone else, it sent her mother demented: the night out at Bingo and then the pub and the fight afterwards in the street.
Mrs McDuff could give as good as she got so the couple were evenly matched and her husband often came off the worst. Their son was in prison for armed robbery, and so Mrs McDuff saw herself and Louise as kindred spirits, which did not go down well at all.
‘Marie is going to regret ever leaving prison, you realise that, don’t you?’ Karen gloated.
Lucy shrugged.
‘Big deal. Can I have an in on the paper scam then?’
Karen laughed.
‘No! What would we want you in on it for? How could we trust you for a start?’
‘What do you mean? Of course you can trust me.’
Karen looked her over and obviously found her wanting.
‘You just grassed your own sister up. I wouldn’t trust you as far as I could throw you now, love.’
She saw the look of confusion on Lucy’s face.
‘You just don’t get it, do you?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘Get what?’
‘You’re scum, Lucy. Whatever Marie did she’s still your sister. I’d have her any day of the week over you, love. She was out of her nut when she topped everyone. But you are as sober as a judge and you still want to tuck her up. I’d have had more respect for you if you’d told me where to get off.’
‘If she’s so great then why do you want to give her a hiding?’
Karen sighed heavily.
‘You really are that thick, ain’t you? It’s family, ain’t it? Family loyalty. Bethany was me cousin and she was topped so I have to have something to say about that, don’t I? My mum took her kids in so they didn’t go into care. It’s what you do, isn’t it?’
Lucy didn’t answer.
‘Your mother should have took Marie’s kids – people would have thought more of her if she had. Stuck-up bitch she is! You can tell her that from me. She is really disliked round these parts. She should have looked after them kids and made some sense out of it all. They hadn’t done anything wrong, had they?’
Lucy felt as if she was getting an education in life in double quick time. All those years they’d thought everyone had admired the stand they had taken when in fact it was the opposite.
But her mother had not wanted the kids, especially the boy. He was half-caste but too dark for her to cope with, and the girl was Marie all over again. Big trap as well as stroppy.
If her mother knew what people really thought it would kill her. She set such stock on what others thought of her. How she was perceived.
That was the trouble, they all did, Lucy included. For all the good it had done her. As Karen walked away she felt the urge to cry.
Tiffany listened with half an ear to the girl beside her. She was wittering on about how much money there was to be made in Manchester. Her sister had gone up there and was now the proud owner of a convertible and a big black pimp who was the dog’s gonads.
‘I was telling Pat Connor about it last night and he’s going to look into it.’
She had Tiffany’s undivided attention now.
‘You saw Pat last night?’
The girl, Lauren, nodded craftily.
‘Went to a party near Praed Street with him. Had a right laugh.’
The girl’s long blonde hair was tossed back as she spoke. Tiffany knew she was trying to wind her up and smiled evenly.
‘I hope you used a condom, love, he’s got the big syph.’
She saw the girl’s face pale.
‘It’s them Russian birds, see. All dosed up to the eyebrows, ain’t they? He’s been buying them from Jimmy the Greek to work the black rooms.’
Tiffany was smiling sweetly now.
‘Looks like you better get your arse down the Old London and have a check up, eh?’
The girl screwed her eyes up and laughed.
‘You’re a fucking wind-up!’
Tiffany opened her eyes wide and said innocently, ‘Am I?’
Then she walked from the room.
In the toilet she pressed her forehead to the cold tiles and sighed. He was a bastard if he was pulling from her own workplace. But inside she knew that was what Pat did. He put a girl in then moved in on the action. It kept the girls fighting and made sure he got all the gossip. Prostitutes grassed one another up without a second’s thought. It was in their nature.
She felt the familiar sickness inside her and made herself walk back into the girls’ changing room. She picked up her bag nonchalantly and went back to the toilets. As amenable as the club owners were about grass and cocaine, crack was strictly off limits. It was a fighting drug, even more so than coke or speed. Previously mousy girls had turned into demons after a smoke. It was the downside. The euphoria was so short-lived it was over in a moment and then the craving was twice as bad as before.
In the few weeks since she had been introduced to it Tiffany knew it had taken a grip on her. She also knew that was exactly what Pat wanted. But the need for it was too great now. It was put above everything else.
As she inhaled the little rock she felt only blinding pleasure and all else was conveniently forgotten.
Even Anastasia.
Marie got off the train and walked wearily out of the station into the cold night air. It was just after six and dark as hell. The street lighting was bad, but she knew the route well now as she had been walking it for so long. She was looking forward to a bath and an early night. It was Friday and while everyone else would be getting ready for a night on the town, she was still under a six-thirty curfew.
It didn’t bother her, though, not tonight. She was tired out and tomorrow she was going to see her father. He would have news of the kids, she hoped.
As she turned the corner, she felt someone behind her. She’d half turned to see who it was when something hit her heavily on the side of her face.
She crumpled to the pavement.
She knew that feet and instruments were raining blows all over her, but was powerless to stop them. She curled up into a ball and covered her face. It was all she could do.
People watched but did nothing to help her. They just hurried on their way. After what seemed like hours she was pulled to her feet.
Karen Black looked into her face nastily.
‘This is for Caroline and Bethany, you murdering cunt!’
Her fist encased in a knuckle-duster hit Marie square between the eyes. She slumped to the ground then, losing consciousness.
Karen and her two sisters carried on the beating for another five minutes. Finally, spent and sweating, they spat on the prostrate form before running off. They knew they were in the clear. No one was going to call Old Bill. Not until they were well and truly off the scene. It was the law of the street and as far as they were concerned, it was a good law.
A Hindu woman and her daughter finally got an ambulance. They stayed with the unconscious woman until help arrived and then disappeared.
Kevin had just finished his dinner when the phone rang. He picked it up casually and said hello. Louise stood watching as his face turned paler and paler.
‘Where is she?’
She saw him nodding. Then he put the phone down and went to get his coat.
‘What’s wrong? Is it Lucy?’
He shook his head sadly.
‘No. What you on about, woman? It was one of the workmen. Mrs Harper’s kitchen’s flooded and she’s doing her crust. I have to go round there now.’
He rushed out of the door and into his van, Louise’s eyes following him distrustfully. If he was seeing another woman again that would be it. He thought she didn’t know about his other life but she did. He was like all men – his cock was both god and brain to him. Well, he had a short s
harp shock coming to him if he thought he was going to start all that crap again. If this one was another screamer, he’d be looking for someone with a bollock donor card before the week was out.
She dialled 1471. Number withheld. Well, that told her all she needed to know.
She poured herself a large medicinal port and sat down to await his homecoming. Her eyes strayed to her son’s photographs. If only Marshall had lived, how different it would all have been.
Marie opened her eyes painfully and then closed them immediately. Her whole body was screaming and she felt sick. She tried to open her eyes again but all she saw was the starkness of the white ceiling above her.
‘How are you, love?’
Her father’s voice was quiet. She tried to smile but it was too painful. Instead she squeezed his hand and drifted off to sleep again.
‘Are you sure she was mugged?’ he asked.
Kevin’s voice was controlled now, the edge of fear gone since he had seen her for himself.
‘Well, her bag’s not gone for a start. She probably fought for it.’
Amanda Stirling stared into his face.
‘Do you think it’s not a mugging then?’ she asked. ‘Only if it was something else it could get her locked up again, you see.’
He stared at her in complete incomprehension.
Amanda looked earnestly back at him.
‘If it was, say, a beating because she had done something, or was involved in something, then that something would have to be illegal, wouldn’t it? And if she’s involved in anything illegal at all then she goes back inside.’
He realised then the enormous burden his daughter carried in order to enjoy her new ‘normal’ life.
Amanda continued, ‘She can go back inside just for associating with her old friends, or anyone with a criminal record. She has to be on her guard twenty-four hours a day. The police are treating this as a mugging but if you think it’s something different then you have to tell them.’
Kevin carefully made his face a blank.
‘Nah. It was a mugging, of course it was. Why would anyone want to do her? She ain’t even seen anyone, I know that much.’
The probation officer nodded sadly.
‘She’s a nice woman. I think she’s paid the price and deserves to be left alone now.’
He didn’t answer her but knew she still thought there was more to it than met the eye, as he did. Well, his daughter could do nothing about it but he could. He had been handy in his day and would ask about, see how the land lay. See who he could find who might have some news for him.
It was a world he had left years ago but it was a world he was willing to enter once more if it would help his daughter, lying battered and bruised in her hospital bed. Louise might have made them respectable but old habits died hard.
Whoever had done this had better watch out. Kevin Carter was going to get them.
Karen Black was in the pub. Her face was flushed with excitement and her breath was coming in short shallow bursts. It had gone like a dream and she was the Queen of the Friday night fight. Everyone knew what she had done because she had told them all about it. Drinks were being bought for her and the backslapping was phenomenal. Her husband was proud of her, her brothers were proud of her, and the regulars and friends in the pub were all toasting her.
‘Fucking whore got what she deserved! When I think of Caroline and Bethany . . . Now she’ll know what it feels like, won’t she?’
She was so high on adrenaline and hate, she was euphoric.
‘Yeah, she’ll know what it’s like to have a baseball bat round the head. I hope she fucking dies in the Old London, I really do.’
She didn’t really, not deep down. She would rather die herself than be banged up for a big lump but it was all part of the act. Part of the persona.
‘I’ve done me bit for British justice so who’s going to have a drink with me then?’
Karen was shaking from her taste of violence. Real violence. It was heady stuff.
Her brother Luke, a large skinhead with tattoos, grinned as he passed her a vodka and Red Bull.
‘I wonder what Pat Connor will have to say, Kal? Gonna take him on and all?’
He was laughing at her and she knew it. Trust Luke to piss on everyone’s fireworks.
‘He can fuck off and all. I did it for this family, mate. For justice.’
Her niece Tamara smiled sadly.
‘Me mum would have been over the moon, I’m sure.’
Karen was nonplussed.
‘I did it for you, Tams, for what you lost.’
Tamara sighed heavily.
‘What did I lose, eh? A skaghead mother. And what did I gain? You lot. Thanks a fucking bunch.’
Karen watched her walk from the pub.
‘Ungrateful little bastard!’
Luke laughed again.
‘Runs in the family.’
‘Bollocks to the lot of you!’
Luke’s laughter followed her out of the pub.
Chapter Six
Alan Jarvis opened the door to the Portakabin with a flourish. The girl with him tripped over the step and practically skidded into the room. They were both drunk and laughing.
‘Got any drink here?’
Her voice was heavy with booze and amphetamines. She was already shrugging off her Romford Market shaggy coat to reveal a plump overheated body.
‘I have some Scotch.’
‘That’ll do. Why do you bring girls here - are you married?’
Her voice had the dulcet tones of a South London council estate. She was rough even for him.
He nodded. It was easier that way. He couldn’t say that the last time he had brought back a bird to his flat she had robbed him the next day. But he blamed himself for leaving her sleeping. He should have routed her when he left.
‘What’s your wife like?’
Her voice was genuinely interested which meant she saw herself as a contender. He felt the urge to laugh again.
He frowned instead.
‘She’s big, aggressive. Lairy bitch she is. She beat up me last bird.’
He watched as the girl digested this bit of information.
‘Came right in this office she did, with her brothers.’
Alan was warming to his theme.
The girl was looking wary and he turned away to pour himself another drink. Steady on, he told himself, you don’t want her doing a runner till you’ve finished the night’s work. But the truth was, he didn’t want to fuck her. Not here anyway. Where Marie worked. Where he sometimes brought his kids when he had to work on a Saturday.
He sighed. If he wasn’t careful he was in danger of becoming a clean-living man. He knew it was mostly the thought of Marie that was making him hesitant. She had got under his skin. Little birds with no brains and no morals were losing their allure suddenly. He wouldn’t even weigh out for a cheap hotel. They weren’t worth the fucking hag half the time.
She was snorting a line of amphetamine and afterwards hawked deep in her throat. The noise made him shudder. She was far rougher than his usual birds. The knowledge made him sad.
He thought of Marie in hospital, her body broken by muggers, and suddenly any urge to fornicate left him completely.
What was he doing? Fifty odd years old with a young girl who would shag anyone if they supplied her with enough narcotics.
He sighed heavily and caught sight of himself in the mirror above the sink. He looked what he was, a silly old fucker, still chasing skirt at this advanced stage in his life. It was laughable.
‘Chanel ...’
‘It’s Chantel, Alan, I keep telling you that!’
Her voice was hard now, as were her eyes. He knew she would tap him soon for some money, dressing it up as cab fare. First, though, he had to give her one and at this moment in time he wasn’t sure if Charles Atlas himself could lift it.
Usually by now his cock had had enough of the inane chatter and wanted to get the main business out of the way. But
tonight it was dead. He was dead. If he could have anyone he wanted it would only be Marie.
The knowledge threw him completely. He turned back to Chantel.
‘Hurry up, Alan, I want to get home!’
Her lipstick was smudged and her face was glistening with sweat. She was speeding out of her nut. Her little tits were heaving where she was getting the rushes. He knew that sexually she would get nothing out of any encounter she had tonight. She was too far gone. Now she was kneeling in front of him, trying to unzip his jeans.
He smiled down at her as she tried desperately to make him hard. Suddenly it was all too much and he started to laugh. But it wasn’t happy laughter; it was a deep, sad sound which soon turned to tears until he was crying like a baby.
The whole of his life rose up before him, all the failures. His marriage. His gambling. His business. On top of all that he knew he was heading for a twenty-year stretch if it all fell out of bed. And he also knew without a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn’t cope with it like Marie had. It would break him, tear him apart. He would top himself rather than do that much bird. He cried harder, snot running from his nose and his eyes aching with tears waiting for release.
Chantel was terrified. Whatever else she had expected from tonight it wasn’t this. He was supposed to be a face, a hard man. A lunatic, more like.
He was sobbing, really sobbing.
Ten minutes later she had a ton in fivers and a cab coming to pick her up. She stood out in the freezing cold, waiting for it. Anything was better than listening to him crying his bleeding eyes out.
Fucking blokes! None of them was worth a wank.
Tiffany was at home. Her babysitter was ill and she had had to cry off from the club. Anastasia was asleep and she looked down at her daughter lovingly. She really was a beautiful child.
Closing the door quietly behind her, she went into the lounge and turned on the TV. She was feeling ill a lot lately. Her eyes felt heavy, itched constantly. Getting up quickly, she went into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine; she drank it down in one gulp. It helped relax her. Deep inside she knew what she needed was a pull on her little pipe. She wondered if she should ring Pat and get him to drop off a rock or two, but dismissed the idea out of hand. Anyone would think she was addicted.
Faceless Page 9
