Carole watched the little tableau: mother, daughter and grand-daughter.
Tiffany put her daughter back into her high chair and Anastasia resumed eating her egg. As long as no one shouted she was OK. She had heard too much shouting in her short life and was already aware of what it could lead to. Did lead to.
Marie looked at her daughter for long moments.
‘Pat Connor of all people.’
The disgust in her voice was unmistakable.
‘What’s the matter, Tiff, couldn’t you live without making my mistakes? Couldn’t you learn to make new ones for yourself ?’
Tiffany couldn’t answer for a while. It was surreal seeing her mother in her own home. It was the weirdest thing that had ever happened to her. Marie was acting like a proper mother, too, trying to help her. What the fuck had brought her here today of all days? But she knew. Carole had opened her big trap. Well, Pat would put paid to her when he found out.
‘He loves me, which is more than you ever fucking did.’
‘Is that right? Well, sweetie, he loved me once, gave me a child as well. Jason, your brother. He also gave me my first fix and set me on the road to destruction. Got me my first trick as well. Him and his best mate did. He is such a generous bloke he even gave me my first black eye and knocked out a few of me teeth. But, hey, we all know how good he can be as well, don’t we? What a nice bloke he is deep down.’
‘He’s good enough for me. Unlike you, I can handle him. I got me money, got a job. I don’t spunk it all up on meself, like you did.’
‘Does Patrick know you’re playing happy families? You stupid little mare!’
Marie shook her head.
‘Get a fucking grip, Tiffany. Didn’t you learn anything from the fucking abortion that was my so-called life? He’s scum, and he’ll make you scum, you and this little mite. It’s what he does. What he’s good at. And if you don’t sort yourself out soon you will let history repeat itself once more. Christ, for someone who hates me so much you like my life well enough to walk in the same fucking shoes. Are you a bit stupid or something?’
She picked up the crack pipe from the table.
‘I saw plenty of these in nick, Tiff, saw what they did to people there. I know what drugs can do. I can’t ever make up for my life, what I did, but I can try and stop you going the same way.’
Tiffany lit herself a cigarette. She needed it, needed the kick of nicotine because she daren’t get the kick of crack. Not in front of her mother. She looked at Marie with cold eyes but didn’t answer her.
Marie tried to talk more gently, hoping her daughter would listen. But Carole butted in first. ‘Listen to her, Tiffany ...’
It was Carole’s voice that seemed to set the girl off.
That Carole, who had brought her into contact with Pat and had served her up on a plate to him in her own grubby little flat, could now bring the past to her home sent her into a rage so acute she could almost taste its bitterness.
‘You wait till I tell Patrick about this, he’ll kill you both. He told me all about you two. The way you would fuck for a fix until in the end he had to drum you out of everything. He knew you were nothing but pieces of crap. Told me about coming home and finding me and little Jason alone, no food in the house, nothing. You gone for days on end with her, Mum. She told me all about it as well. Your so-called mate. It’s too late for the concerned mother act, twelve years too fucking late. Now go away from me. Leave me alone. I couldn’t care less if you died, OK? I feel nothing but contempt for you. He takes care of me in the only way I have ever known, so pat yourself on the back, Mum. You bred another whore.’
‘Look at your face, Tiff.’
‘Look at yours, and hers for that matter. It’s happened, deal with it.’
Marie shook her head again.
‘This is what living with violence leads to. I took a hammering because of what I did thirteen years ago. I deserved this in a way, though violence solves no problems. That’s why wars flare up over and over again. You are bringing up a small child in this atmosphere of sexual tension and violence. If you won’t learn by my mistakes, please don’t learn by your own or one day you will be saying all this to your own kid there. Believe me, I know what I am talking about.’
Marie’s voice broke, tears so close she had to turn from her daughter and gather herself together.
‘That’s right, turn your back on me. You were always good at that. Me and Jason were always secondary to you and what you wanted. We still are. You could have found us if you’d really wanted to. You just never did. Now you’re jealous because you know about me and Pat. Well, tough shit!’
‘Listen to her, Tiffany, she means well.’
The girl wiped a hand across her nose.
‘Get stuffed, Carole. You two-faced fucking witch!’
Anastasia had stopped eating and was watching them all warily.
Marie found it painful to look at the child who was so like Jason and yet equally like Patrick. It was Patrick’s eyes that looked out at her, but without the hatred. Though that would come with the years, if the child’s father had anything to do with it.
‘I love you so much, Tiff . . .’
It was the wrong thing to say, completely the wrong thing to say.
Tiffany took Carole roughly by her arm and marched her to the front door. Marie followed.
The girl opened the door.
‘Get out, and stay out. Fucking preaching to me! You have some nerve, the two of you. “Murdering whore” is how me granny referred to you once, and she told me that what was bred in the blood came out in the bone. And she was right, except I am going to be someone. My child will not be used and abused. I will make money and then use it to make my life better. So keep all your old shit to yourself, you need it much more than I do.’
Marie stared into cold eyes, full of hatred of her, and felt the futility of her own life and the hopelessness of Tiffany’s.
This was all her fault. If she had been a better person all those years ago her daughter would be a good clean-living girl now with proper boyfriends and a decent job. Instead it was like looking in a mirror.
Marie saw a pad and pen on the hall table and scribbled down her address and phone number.
‘If you need me, call me. I’ll be there for you, Tiff, I promise. I’ve been clean twelve years. I’m a different person from the one you remember. I can be there for you, if you’ll let me.’
‘Piss off.’
The door was slammed in her face.
Tiffany looked through the spy hole at her mother’s tears and hardened her heart. Marie was all talk; she had always been all talk. Promises and crap, that was her mother. She was not like Tiffany; she was in charge of her own life and always would be. The words sounded hollow but she said them again and again like a mantra.
She went to her bag and took out her little tin.
She needed a hit more than anything; it had been such a stressful day. As she burned the crack and inhaled it she felt the tensions disappear. Felt her shoulders relax. Felt her mind clear.
As she inhaled she saw her daughter watching her with big brown eyes. Anastasia pointed at the little crack pipe and said clearly, proudly, ‘Mummy’s pipe.’
Tiffany had held a memory for many years. She remembered the dark living room of her mother’s flat. The curtains were always closed even on the hottest summer day. Marie had slept late as usual and Tiff had picked up her mother’s fix case. She was pretending to inject herself when her mother walked into the room. She could still feel the sting of her mother’s hand across her face and behind. Could remember running terrified on fat little legs into her bedroom, her tears loud and noisy.
Suddenly she knew why her mother had been so upset.
Like her mother, she had somehow convinced herself that her lifestyle would not affect her daughter. But of course it had, as Marie’s own disintegration had affected her. She pushed the thought from her mind as she pushed away anything she didn’t want to think ab
out. But Anastasia’s words haunted her all day.
Patrick looked at the girl and shook his head.
‘She’s ugly, Jonny. How can I earn off her?’
Jonny laughed, his fat face quivering with mirth.
‘Show him your tits, love.’
The girl dutifully lifted her baggy top. She had a squint and prominent teeth, but she also had large firm breasts that would be her fortune until they drooped.
‘She can hardly walk round with her tits out on display, can she? She’s still a cheap shag.’
‘Granted, granted, Pat. But she has a couple of lethal weapons up her sleeve. Anyway the older blokes like the ugly birds.’
‘Not the older blokes I know. They like to look at the mantelpiece, know what I mean? I charge dear for half-decent shags.’
Jonny smiled gamely.
‘I hear you have your fingers in so many pies you need a few transplants to keep up with them all.’
Patrick’s expression froze, the amiable façade gone.
‘And where do you hear that from then?’
Jonny knew he had dropped a clanger and tried to make amends.
‘Leave it out, Pat, you can’t go around shooting up half of fucking Brixton and expect it to be kept quiet. You are a face now, a real one. Carlton Margolis wants a meet with you, and they don’t come much heavier than that.’
‘If he wants to cut a deal, I’m listening. You tell him that from me.’
Jonny nodded his head so hard it nearly rocked from his shoulders.
Pat smiled. He liked the notoriety he was earning. He liked the fact that everyone was talking about him even though he knew that it could eventually lead to his downfall. It was what he had always craved. All his life he had wanted to be somebody. Had wanted to be known, had wanted to be respected. From a child, when he had first found out what it was like to be ignored, to be looked down on because of who you were before people even knew you personally, it had been his dream. Now he was realising it.
He got it through fear and through violence, but he was sensible enough to know this was the only way he was ever going to achieve his aims.
As he saw the fear he instilled in Jonny he felt a sense of achievement. It was the same when he dumped on women. He loved dumping on women. Loved to hurt them, physically and emotionally. They were all whores, and he liked to prove this to himself and to them. He made them all see themselves as they really were. As he would the poor child in front of him, who’d been unlucky enough to meet up with Jonny and even unluckier that Jonny was selling her on to him.
They did the deal quickly and it wasn’t until Jonny was leaving that Patrick asked what her name was.
Jonny grinned as he answered, ‘Her name is Shayla but she answers to Pig.’
He was still laughing as he walked out of the door.
Shayla didn’t react to any of it. But once they were alone she smiled timidly at Patrick. He admitted she had a certain childishness about her that some of his weirder clients would appreciate. The gang bangers would love her.
‘What you smiling at, Pig? You smile when I tell you to smile, OK? Don’t even think of taking anything on yourself, girl. If I tell you to shit, you shit. If I tell you to fuck, you fuck. And that’s the end of it. Do you understand me?’
Shayla nodded, her face and eyes devoid of expression.
Patrick felt like the main man again. He revelled in the strength he possessed because of his spitefulness and innate hatred of other human beings.
He felt good about himself once more.
Now all he had to do was pick up his daughter’s mother and her humiliation would be complete. All in all it had been a good day’s work.
Chapter Eight
Anastasia was crying and getting on her mother’s nerves. It was bad enough that Tiffany had to go to a man tonight, that she was out of crack and had experienced the weirdest day of her life. Her mother turning up at her home had blown her away. On top of it all Anastasia was playing up and Tiffany knew that Pat would be annoyed with her. He liked his daughter like a little lamb around him. As long as she smiled and treated him like a god he was happy. If she cried or played up his answer was to leave or to give her grief.
As she tried to put her mother and her old life out of her mind, memories invaded Tiffany’s senses. Smells, pictures, sounds.
When she looked into the mirror to apply her shadow she saw her mother’s eyes looking back at her, the same shape and colour; saw the same bone structure. Saw her mother as a girl, a girl like her, with two kids and Pat Connor hanging round her neck. But her mother had been a fighter, she wasn’t. Unlike her mother, though, she was getting it together. It was all for the money and for her daughter. Unlike her mother she would own her own home, send her kid to a good school, feed her regularly and love her above all else.
She would keep by Patrick Connor until he finally pushed her away. She could never push him away, he wouldn’t let her. When Patrick had had enough of her he would drop out of her life, she knew that. But while he was still in it she would take the goodies on offer and make her money work for her. She had her lap dancing, she would make a career out of that. As for Pat, her eyes were being opened on a daily basis. The love for him was fast disappearing, but the need for him was still strong. She needed him to protect her and her child from the outside world. In her chosen profession, predators were rife. Tiffany was convinced she was better off with the devil she knew, one who would provide her with a few rocks and a few good times. She was as hooked on him as she was on the crack, and deep inside she knew it.
Anastasia’s voice broke into her reverie and she turned to look down at the child. She was holding up a video she had destroyed and when Tiffany realised it was one of Patrick’s she felt a rush of anger so acute it took all her will-power not to knock her daughter on her arse.
It was one of Pat’s blueys. Unlike most men, Pat’s videos had him as the star attraction. He liked to video himself with girls on their first outing. He had one of her that he showed to friends and ‘colleagues’. She realised now that he showed them to prospective clients, men who were looking for that little bit extra. And in Patrick’s vids that little bit extra was mandatory.
She took the video from her daughter’s hands, snatched it roughly, and the child’s eyes filled with tears. Tiffany picked her up and hugged her tightly, something she remembered her own mother doing to her. Marie was always either kicking or kissing her. Either giving her the earth or telling her in no uncertain terms to fuck off out of it - that expression had been her favourite. Then she would be remorseful and want to love Tiffany all over again. It was a pattern she’d known all her life. Now it was being repeated in her relationship with her own child, and with Pat. The knowledge grieved her. She looked at the clock and panicked. He would be here soon and the babysitter hadn’t even arrived.
She took Anastasia through to the lounge and put on a Disney video then rushed back to the bedroom and resumed getting ready. She knew that what she was going to do tonight would mean crossing another line, and she also knew she had to do it. In a part of her she knew that Patrick would leave her over it and that itself in some ways made what she was about to do easier. He was a better pimp than a lover, and she was realising that. But, oh God, she loved him. She loved the man he had been at first when she first knew him. The man who had swept her off her feet and taken her to heights of passion she never knew existed. But she realised that for the sake of her child - her child, not his - she had to get off the roundabout once and for all. Tonight was the beginning of the end. Soon he would be her pimp, and that was all. He would mercy fuck her now and again but she would not have to live with the pressure she had now, the constant fear of what he was going to do or say.
The fact she had finally admitted she was going to go on the game full-time took a load off her. She saw herself doing the lap dancing and the extras for five years, in which time she would accrue enough money to start a business herself.
Her mind
was so muddled she drank a glass of white rum down neat to try and give herself some confidence. If she thought about it all too much she knew she would freak herself out and that was the worst thing that could happen to her tonight. Because even if she wanted to back out, she knew she couldn’t do it. Pat wouldn’t let her. He owned her.
There was a knock at the door. She heard the loud calling of her friend Beatrice and as she answered the door slapped a smile on her face.
Keep smiling, Tiff, she told herself over and over. Just keep smiling and taking the money, it’s all just a means to an end.
How else was a girl like her ever going to get her hands on real money anyway? She had no qualifications, nothing. It was work in a factory for a pittance or make a career out of sex. She’d chosen the latter and busily convinced herself that what she was doing was for the best.
Leroy McBane was ugly. He was extremely thin, almost emaciated, and he was also dangerous. His trade was drug dealing, but his hobby was women. Young women, old women, he didn’t care as long as they did what they were told. And if they didn’t want to do it, so much the better.
As he set up the video camera he was whistling through his teeth and his live-in girlfriend was getting ready to go out with her friends.
Sarah was obese, a huge bleached blonde with a very pretty face and a lively personality. Leroy kept her like a pet. She made him laugh and was the only woman ever to understand him and his needs. As long as he took care of her she didn’t mind what he did. She had produced two children, both looked after by her mother though she visited them every day. He saw them for a few hours on a Sunday. The arrangement suited them all.
Sarah for her part enjoyed her association with him. When she had met him five years earlier she had found something good in him that baffled her, her mother, and even Leroy. She made him feel good about himself. She was also a scream and that was part of her charm. She was from a white middle-class family which again strongly appealed to Leroy. She could talk well when she needed to and he liked that. It was a strange relationship that worked on many levels.
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