by Emmy Ellis
“Darrian isn’t the sort to go with you if he’s seeing someone else,” Willa said. “He’s as loyal as they come, a one-woman man.”
“Are you saying I’m lying, that he hasn’t been coming on to me? Like I imagined it or something?”
“No, just that I find it hard to believe. As far as I’ve seen, he’s always been respectful. What’s he doing?”
“Smiling at me, acting nice.”
“Bloody hell, that’s called being an adult and keeping things cordial, not that he wants to get back in your knickers. Darrian was with you for ten years, and never once did he stray, so I can’t see him doing it to the new woman either.”
“So why leave me then if he wasn’t playing around?”
“You know why. The drinking, the way you gob off all the time. You’re out of hand. There’s only so much you can put up with, love, and he’d had enough. Christ, even I felt sorry for him, and that’s saying something, me being anti-men.”
Willa was the sole person who could speak to Mum like that and get away with it. Anyone else would get a slap around the face and told to ‘fuck off out of it’. Aniyah had witnessed many a scrap, Mum storming into the street to have a fist fight, pulling women’s hair out by the roots. She’d done it every time someone called Aniyah a half-and-half, too, standing up for her the best way she knew how, her punches doing the talking.
Aniyah had stopped telling her when people called her names.
Mum loved Aniyah but found it hard to show it sometimes. Shona had said loving someone meant treating them well, being kind, and doing all you could to ensure they were happy. Aniyah had listened in on one of their chats while she’d sat on the sofa watching Eastenders, Dad and Shona in the kitchen.
“Could you love someone and be horrible to them? Could you?” Shona had asked. “There’s not a hair on that kid’s head I’d want to harm, nor would I want to make her cry, yet Jackie? She’s not fit to parent Aniyah, she doesn’t deserve such a lovely child.”
“I’ll sort custody, all right?”
“Make sure you do. I’d love to call her my own—and she will be, no matter that I’m not her real mother. I cry every time you have to take her back, worrying about what she has to put up with. I know you don’t want to separate her from Jackie, but is the life she’s living a good one? Not from what I can see, and not from what I’ve heard.”
Aniyah’s face had got hot, and she’d blinked away tears. It was so nice to be wanted, yet her emotions were torn. Mum wasn’t the best, but she was still Mum. What would happen if Aniyah left her? And she would, given the chance—being at Dad’s was a hundred times better than at home—but an uncomfortable feeling had squirmed in her gut, telling her if she wasn’t living with Mum, that would be wrong.
But no one at Dad’s place called her names…
She sighed, leaning her head against a jacket, Mum’s fake black-and-white fur that she put on when she went out for the night. Aniyah had to keep those nights secret, never telling Dad she didn’t have a babysitter like Mum had told him. The lie was that Willa came round, when in reality, Mum was with Willa down The Angel.
Aniyah didn’t like lying, but if she told the truth, Dad’s smile would disappear like it did when Mum had a go at him, and Aniyah didn’t ever want to do that to him if she could help it.
“Face it, he tried, you fucked it up, and he’s gone, started again with someone else,” Willa said. “Now it’s time for you to clean up your act and do the same. Sort yourself out, stop drinking during the day, and for God’s sake, wash your hair once in a while, and your clothes. That goes for Aniyah’s, too, because you don’t give me her uniform on a Wednesday for a go round in the machine—are you going to bother getting yours fixed? Kids are quick to pounce, and if you keep sending your daughter to school with a dirty, smelly uniform at the arse end of the week…that’s why I do the washing for you, not to help you out, it’s for her.”
“All right, all right.”
“Well, someone has to knock a bit of sense into you. That kid doesn’t deserve being treated like this. Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“In the cupboard most likely, and how sick is that? The poor mite tries to get a bit of peace by going in there. It’s abuse, Jackie, plain and simple, and if you don’t sort it out, us being friends or not, I’m going to tell Darrian, for Aniyah’s sake. Christ, since he left, you’ve let yourself go—and your parental responsibilities.”
“You cheeky cow.” Mum didn’t shriek it, like usual, just said it, as if she knew Willa had told the truth.
“It’s a fact, though. Think of your daughter. If you don’t, you’ll lose her.”
“You’re always so right, aren’t you?” Mum sounded beaten. Quiet. Sober.
Aniyah hugged Dad’s coat tighter. The smell of him wafted up, and she took comfort from it. She pressed the light button on the side of her Barbie watch—Shona had bought it, but Aniyah had to say it was Dad—and worked out the time like he’d taught her.
Ten minutes, that was all, and he’d be here.
“Look, I need to go,” Willa said. “I’ve got a kid of my own to see to.”
“He’s a teenager.”
“So? He still needs feeding.”
Footsteps, coming closer, probably Willa walking down the hallway.
“She’s black,” Mum said.
“Who?” Willa asked.
“Darrian’s bird.”
“And?” Willa said. “What the fuck is up with that?”
“His mum will be pleased.”
A sigh. “Don’t talk daft.”
“You don’t understand,” Mum wailed. “I was never accepted into that family, not really.”
“Bullshit. Elsie and Len were always good to you.”
“Oh, just go. Piss off. And thanks for the kick up the arse.”
“Anytime.”
The front door opened and closed, then the one to the cupboard swung wide.
“Out. Your dad’s due.”
Aniyah clutched the coat so most of it wasn’t visible. If Mum saw it, she’d get rid of it, but hopefully she was too distracted for it to register.
Mum lurched away, and Aniyah tucked the coat into the darkest corner, came out of the cupboard, and smoothed down her school uniform.
Willa had dropped off a bag of washing. Mum said the laundrette down the way was too expensive. Aniyah delved into it, taking out her favourite things—a pair of jeans and a pretty pink blouse. There were no creases, so Willa must have ironed them, too.
Aniyah smiled. She’d look well nice for Dad, smell clean an’ all.
The times she spent with him and Shona were the best.
Maybe she wouldn’t mind leaving Mum after all.
Chapter Three
Kevin Robins had gone to visit his old dear. She still lived in the street he’d grown up in, refused to move, even though he’d offered to buy her a swanky house in a better part of the city. She was on a different patch to the one he ran, and it rankled.
He stretched his legs out on the sofa. At least she’d let him replace all of her furniture. She’d always kept a nice house, tidy, clean, and many a time he’d come in as a kid to find her doing the ironing in front of the telly. She was a good woman, the best, and no longer had to go to work. He paid her a wage, cash in hand, and told her to enjoy her life instead of toiling.
Times past, with his father out of the picture, Mum had been on the dole, although she’d taken to helping other people out, neighbours who didn’t have it in them to clean and whatnot. She’d go round there and do it for them, a tenner for the whole house.
She was always on hand, that was her nature.
These days, she did a lot of charity work, doing a stint or two a week in the Heart Foundation shop, assisting with the church jumble sale once a month. God, Kevin remembered going there, Mum poking through the piles of clothes, searching for the decent gear. By the time she’d washed and ironed them, you’d never know they’d belonge
d to someone else.
That life, that level of scrimping and saving, had taken him to where he was today. He’d learnt early on that people ruled patches of London, gangland fellas who killed and punished, took money from working girls, ran drugs, offed whoever got in their way. One bloke, Cardigan, was known for running card games in the backs of his pubs, coining it in, the games fixed so he won more often than not. Another, Harris ‘Cricket’ Kingsley, had kidnapped homeless men and sold them off as sex slaves, raking it in. The bloke had lived in a mansion.
Hard bastards, respected men.
He’d wanted to be one of them.
And here he was.
“That was a lovely dinner,” he said to Mum. “As always.” Sometimes, bangers and mash or cottage pie and peas was a welcome change to all the fancy shit he ate these days. Sometimes, going back to your roots refuelled your soul. Sometimes, while here, he felt like a kid again, protected by the woman who’d stood by him no matter what.
“What have you been up to lately, or don’t I want to know?” she asked.
She knew what he did—didn’t like it but understood his reasons for doing it. That was the thing about her. While it might go against the grain, her morals, she always saw things from every side. All right, he didn’t tell her he’d killed people, that he tortured a few in his attic, but there were some things you just didn’t tell your mother. She was under the impression he was a kind leader, one who took protection money and kept people safe.
“Same as usual,” he said. “Money for old rope, making sure people on my patch can rest at night. Easiest cash I ever earned.”
He’d joined the ranks of the previous leader’s gang, old Jerry, working his way up from thirteen, running drugs, passing messages, and later, as Jerry had learnt to trust him more, he’d done other things. Killing. Maiming. All in a day’s work. He was thirsty, eager to become the right-hand man—and he had. A young one, granted, but in the end, Jerry had given his leader title to Kevin.
The way things usually worked, was if a leader died, one of the others from a different patch took over. It was weird how they came together on that one thing—there was even a list of who was next up for a vacant spot, for fuck’s sake. To stop that happening, Jerry had stepped down. Cancer had been eating him alive, so he’d had the warning that his time was drawing to a close.
The other leaders didn’t like it, but that was tough. Jerry had found a loophole and utilised it. Many of the others called Kevin a fake, but he didn’t give a shit so long as he’d got what he’d wanted. He was top dog on Jerry’s estate, and that was all that mattered.
“I hear things,” Mum said. “About turf wars and fights, people killing each other. All these stabbings on the news—are they to do with the patches?”
He didn’t need her worrying. He’d promised her a life of peace. “Nah, just kids forming their little gangs and acting out. Nothing to do with the real gangs. And anyway, I don’t operate mine like that.” Liar. “So don’t you go fretting.”
“That’s good. I said to her next door you weren’t the type. She said you were, that you’d been rough as a lad, picked on her son.”
Kevin’s anger surfaced. “Well, she can go and fuck herself. She’s a state, same as the woman who lived there before her. What does she know? She’s a crack addict. Must be something about the house.”
“Kevin!”
“Well, she is.”
The house next door was a sore spot, but he wouldn’t entertain thoughts of it now. This was his downtime, an evening spent with Mum. Nothing was allowed to spoil that.
“Shall we watch that film then?” he asked.
“All right. Let me go for a wee first.”
He smiled. God, he loved that woman.
Chapter Four
Sid Dempsey wandered back down the corridor and into the pub proper. Debbie had booked him in for nine o’clock with Lavender, so he had nearly two hours to kill. He didn’t want BDSM, didn’t even want to have sex with her, but a cover story was a cover story, and if it got him what he wanted, that was all that mattered.
Asking Debbie about Mickey and Harry hadn’t got him far—she’d fobbed him off time and time again. Although her warning—and that was what it was—about him getting into hot water should have been a deterrent, he never was one to listen to sound advice. His mother, God rest her soul, had told him he was a dog with a bone, and he was, always had to chew and chew until he got to the juicy marrow inside.
In this case, the marrow was an answer to a question that had bugged him for a while: Where were Mickey and Harry? Had they been offed like the rumours suggested? And if so, who’d killed them if it wasn’t The Brothers, the obvious pair to pin it on?
Mickey and Harry were Sid’s mates, and he didn’t like not knowing.
He propped the bar up, waiting for Lisa, the manager Debbie had appointed, to bring him a pint. He’d make it last, didn’t want brewer’s droop when with Lavender, had to keep up appearances. It wouldn’t be difficult to shag her, she was a tasty sort, but he might struggle with being whipped or paddled. Still, if he got in with her, became a regular, she might know something and let it slip.
Then again, Debbie kept her cards close to her chest so might not have shared anything with Lavender, but if the whispers were to be believed, Debbie knew something about Mickey and Harry.
He’d find out in the end.
A man entered, making a beeline for the bar, and stood beside Sid. In his expensive-looking grey suit, his sharp white shirt, and a black tie, it was clear he was loaded. He took his wallet out. The fella had money, his flipped-open wallet with a wedge in a slot proved it, and Sid’s interest piqued, his eyebrows rising. Why was someone like him in The Angel? His sort were few and far between around here, most folks working class, no airs and graces, no plums in mouths.
“Nice wallet,” Sid blurted. He hadn’t meant to say that, was just admiring the soft brown leather and wishing he had one like it. Shit.
The man’s eyebrows quirked. “Err, thanks?”
Sid smiled, could have kicked himself. “Unusual for someone like you to be in here. Just passing?”
“Um, no. As it happens, I’m looking for someone. I was told she works here, but I can’t see her.” The man’s blond, swept-back hair shone beneath the lights, him bobbing his head up and down, side to side. An attempt to find who he was after?
“I’m a regular. Might know who you want to see.”
“Miss Sutton.”
Oh. Well, that was a turn up, the very woman Sid had an appointment with—at least, that was her surname anyway. He had ways and means of finding out the girls’ proper names. They weren’t really flowers, that was just something they’d made up for punters. “What do you want her for?”
The man frowned and levelled his gaze on Sid. “I need to tell her something important. I used to work with her, actually.” He cast his attention around the pub again. “Can’t see her working here, to be honest, considering her profession, but apparently she does.”
Normally, Sid would tell him she did, and what she did—he doubted this fella knew her actual ‘profession’—but seeing as he wanted her on his side, he’d keep his mouth shut. He could be nice sometimes. “I can ring her for you, if you like.”
“Could you? That would be most kind.”
Sid chuffed out air. This bloke was well posh, saying shit like that. “Give me five minutes. What’s your name, by the way?”
“Charles Lambrough, she’ll know who it is.”
“Right. I’ll nip to the gents, then give her a bell.”
Sid sloped off to the end of the bar and walked through the double doors and down a corridor. Another door to the left, beside the toilets, was marked PRIVATE for the purposes of any nosy bastards who didn’t know the girls sold themselves behind it. He pushed through, into a narrow hallway, and scooted to the door at the end. Bell push pressed, he waited for Debbie to answer.
She did, giving him the death stare. She probably tho
ught he’d come to ask if he could get his jollies earlier than arranged.
“What now?” she asked.
“I need to see Lavender.”
“I know. Nine o’clock. If you’re going to be a pest like this, I’ll just cancel your slot and not let you in here again.”
“No, it’s not like that. Some bloke’s in the pub, looking for her.”
Debbie paled and clutched the jamb. “What?”
What’s up with her? “Yeah, a blond fella. Says he used to work with her. He’s after a Miss Sutton—that’s her surname, isn’t it?”
“How do you bloody know?”
He winked. “Ways and means.”
She scowled. “Did you get a name for him?”
Sid nodded. “Can I tell her?”
She clearly internally debated it for a moment, biting her bottom lip. “For fuck’s sake. Wait there.”
She closed the door, and he stared at it, imagining Debbie scuttling into Lavender’s room, passing the info on in a whisper. A couple of minutes passed, Sid cleaning out his nose, then he remembered there was a camera and his delving would be recorded. He stopped his task and held his hands behind his back.
The door opened again, and Lavender stepped out, pulling it to behind her, eyes wide. “What’s going on?”
Sid filed away her expression—she was worried, that much was obvious, with her tight mouth and quick breathing. What had he stumbled on here then? “Some dick in a suit called Charles Lambrough is in the pub, asking after you.”
She swallowed, flinching a little. “Did he say why?”
“Said he had to tell you something important.”
“Shit.”
If he acted like he’d protect her, she’d trust him more. “Shall I get him to sling his hook?”
She glanced down at herself. He got the gist of her thoughts—she wasn’t exactly dressed casually. Anyone who didn’t know what she did for a living would think she was out on the pull. Whatever the profession Lambrough thought she was in, Sid would bet it wasn’t this one. Or maybe he’d used her in the past and was being discreet?
