by Emmy Ellis
“Mrs Didders,” Mum said. “It’s a go.”
There had been many a chat about her, the old dear who lived at the end of the street in the big house at number one, Justice Road’s octogenarian, whatever that was. Rebecca didn’t ask questions—not many anyway, because it meant a slap if she’d queried something when Mum was in one of her moods—so the octo thing had never been explained.
“She’s hidden it under her mattress,” Mum went on. “So off you go.” She handed over a little clear bag with white powder in it. Some of it was fine, but there were chunks, like tablets hadn’t been crushed right.
Rebecca took it, a lump filling her throat. She’d had the plan drummed into her so often she knew exactly what to do. Didn’t mean she wanted to, though, because she liked Mrs Didders, even if she was a bit boring. She stuffed the baggie in her skirt pocket, turned, and shuffled up the hallway, poking her head in the living room doorway. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Will nodded. His shoulders slumped. He was probably relieved he didn’t have to go with her. That was never the plan, but sometimes, Mum changed the rules.
“Be careful,” he whispered.
“Always am.”
Rebecca grabbed her satchel off a hook on the hallway wall—she took it so it wasn’t anything strange should neighbours be questioned later: “Oh, she usually has that satchel, nothing odd there.” In it, some beeswax polish in a yellow tin and a bottle of Fairy; sometimes Mrs Didders didn’t have what Rebecca needed.
She left the house and skipped to the old lady’s place. The story went that it used to stand alone years ago, a Victorian thing with lots of land around it, cows and sheep in fields, but as the years went by and the ownership changed hands down the family line, the land got sold off to developers. Now, it was a tall monster amongst squat neighbours, and all the kids reckoned it was haunted.
No one went to her door on Halloween.
It had taken all Rebecca’s courage to go inside the first time at the start of this summer holiday. She’d been scared out of her mind in case a ghost popped out at her. But nothing had happened except for Mrs Didders pouring her a cloudy lemonade and giving her a digestive biscuit. It reminded her of being at Nan’s.
Rebecca went there to help out, that was what Mum had told her to say to the elderly woman, her offer a bit of community spirit. She did some washing up, ran the hoover around, and polished the knick-knacks with a soft egg-yolk-coloured cloth. All the while, Mrs Didders followed her, giving instructions but mainly chatting about the old days. Her favourite subject was The War, and it even sounded like she said it with capital letters it was that important to her. That was why Rebecca needed the powder. She couldn’t be followed today. Not all the time anyway.
She climbed the seven steps at the end of the garden path, and at the top looked down the street from her elevated position. No neighbours were out, but it didn’t mean they weren’t peering through their windows, safe behind their nets. It didn’t matter if they spotted her, Rebecca had been coming here for three weeks, and she’d keep coming afterwards, too, to ‘maintain the charade’, so Mum said.
Anthony came out of Rebecca’s and didn’t wave, but he stared, walking backwards for a while. He’d be excited. He’d get a cut of the ‘proceeds’, another of Mum’s words.
Rebecca pressed the fancy bell button, which reminded her of a white marble, its shiny gold surround shaped like a photo frame, one she wiped to a shine along with the matching letterbox.
Mrs Didders always took ages to answer, and today was no exception. She couldn’t move fast and used one of those walkers, a silver cage.
The door opened, and Mrs Didders smiled down with teeth that every now and then came loose and fell out, sometimes caught with a withered hand, other times not, and they rolled down over her sagging boobs to land in her lap. Rebecca hated it when that happened, it always had her tummy turning over, the teeth and pink plate shiny from spit. Mum said she probably didn’t use that paste stuff, whatever it was.
“Oh, you’re an hour early this week.” Mrs Didders shifted back, her cage smacking into a small table with a phone and an address book on the pine surface.
“I need to do extra housework at home, that’s why, so got to get done quick.” Rebecca smiled back. “Is that all right?”
“Of course it is, love. You’re such a good girl.”
I’m not. I’m really not.
Inside, Rebecca closed the door and hung her satchel on the dark-brown newel post. It had a big ball on the top, and at first, Mum had said for Rebecca to thump Mrs Didders so her head went to one side and smacked against it, but Anthony had said no. There’d be trouble if they did that, as the old girl would tell the police.
“Go with the powder,” he’d said.
As usual, Rebecca started in the kitchen. Mrs Didders sat at the large table in the dining area—she had an actual dining room, too, which was greedy for one person, Will reckoned—and got on with the washing up. They talked—or Rebecca listened while the old lady nattered on and on—and then it was hoover time.
It took an hour, and Mrs Didders used her stair machine to ride up to the first floor. There was a top storey, too, but Rebecca never bothered cleaning that; it wasn’t used, just a couple of bedrooms and a bathroom, and Mrs Didders’ son sent someone round every six months to deal with the dust up there.
Back downstairs, Mrs Didders sitting on her flower-patterned chair in the living room, Rebecca did the polishing. She liked the brass birds, the china ornaments, and while words floated from her host’s mouth—D-Day, Normandy, my dad was a hero—Rebecca thought about the ‘stroke of good luck’ Anthony had told Mum. He’d walked past this house, Mrs Didders talking to Mrs Florin, and he’d picked up news that money was coming, that Mrs Didders wouldn’t put that amount in the bank, she wanted it in cash. Then today, more news. The money had arrived and was under the mattress.
Which mattress, though? There were so many.
Job done, Rebecca said, “Shall I make your cup of tea now?”
“That’d be lovely. Let me just get up.”
“You can stay there if your legs are hurting.”
“But you’re only eight, and the kettle, it gets so hot…”
“I won’t spill it, honest. I make loads of drinks for my mum.”
Mrs Didders sighed and nodded. “All right then.”
On wobbly legs—this was it, she was doing the bad part—Rebecca went into the kitchen. It seemed to take ages for the kettle to boil, but she poured the water on the teabag then added the powder. Anthony said it didn’t taste of anything, so that would be okay, but when she poured in the milk, there was a dullness to the liquid instead of the usual shine.
What if Mrs Didders noticed? Her eyes were still sharp; she’d told Rebecca while she’d been lost in her head just now that she’d forgotten to polish the golden dog with the ruby eyes.
She poured herself a cloudy lemonade and placed four digestives on a plate, as was their little custom. Everything on a silver tray that had rust spots in places, she carried it into the living room and put it on the coffee table. She handed Mrs Didders the tea and sat on the sofa, munching a biscuit. Between sips, the woman treated her to a repeat of the time soldiers hid in a trench and waited for the bombing to stop. Someone got the bottom of their leg blown off, and young people of today didn’t know they were born. Rebecca smiled and nodded, wishing she didn’t know she’d been born either—it’d be nice if she wasn’t one of Mum’s kids.
About five minutes later, Mrs Didders’ words slurred, and her eyes drooped. Once they closed, Rebecca took the tray and rushed to the kitchen to wash up. Anthony said she had to use bleach on the cup first, then Fairy after. She did that and put everything away, dropped the powder bag in her satchel, and returned to the living room.
Mrs Didders was snoring.
Rebecca ran upstairs and checked under the old woman’s mattress. The money wasn’t there, and her tummy did a strange flip through fear
. She couldn’t mess this up, the gang were relying on her. She bolted around the house, panicked, looking beneath them all, and finally found a package, wrapped tight in a carrier bag, secured around and around with Sellotape on each end, beneath the one in the small room on the top floor. She ripped a hole in the bag and spied Queen Elizabeth’s face.
It felt wrong in her hands, that bag with its solid wedge inside, but if she didn’t take it, Mum would beat the shit out of her, and Anthony wouldn’t be happy either, not to mention Benny. She flew down the two flights and stuffed it into her satchel, buckling it on the tightest hole, then checked on the woman in the chair.
She was breathing, so that was okay, her bottom lip rippling every time air came out. It smelt of tea.
Mrs Didders had fallen asleep before, so it was nothing new.
Rebecca collected her satchel, moved to the kitchen, and used a tea towel to turn the key in the back door. She left it open, like Anthony had said, and walked down the wide hallway and left the house, waving to Mrs Florin, who was on her way towards the garden path clutching a pink cake tin to her chest, a criss-cross pattern on the lid. Rebecca snapped the door closed, her stomach in knots. She couldn’t afford to let Mrs Florin in, who didn’t have a spare key, so that was okay, but seeing her sent Rebecca a bit funny, like she’d done wrong.
And she had.
On the pavement, she smiled. “She fell asleep again.”
“Oh dear. I made her a Victoria sponge. I’ll come back later. Did you enjoy your visit?”
No. “Yeah, but I forgot to polish the golden dog.”
Mrs Florin laughed. “Did she tell you off?”
“Not really, she just said I hadn’t done it.”
“That dog’s worth a fortune. It’s real gold, you know. Solid all the way through.”
“What about the ruby eyes?”
“Yes, they’re real, too.”
Rebecca wished she’d known that before. She could have put it in her satchel, and the police would think there’d been a robbery, like Anthony wanted, what with the back door being left open and the money packet gone. She could have sold it and used the ‘proceeds’ to run away with Will. But that was silly thinking. She was only eight, and where would they go?
No, best the dog stayed where it was.
“Tarra then,” she said and ran up the street, the satchel banging on her side with every step, each thud seeming to whisper: Thief, thief, thief. At least Mum would be in a good mood now. Rebecca had done something right, and all would be well in their world.
For a while.
Chapter Three
The Brothers, George and Greg Wilkes, stood in Debbie’s room at the parlour. It was eight o’clock in the evening, and they were meant to be at Leonardo’s, the new restaurant on the patch, letting the owner know he’d have to pay them a weekly sum so his sparkly business was protected. George had had to phone the bloke and tell him they’d be late. A bit of a pisser, but there you go. Spanners in the works happened sometimes.
“We’ll get someone to fix that fire exit by the bogs.” George massaged his temples, something he did to alleviate stress, although at this moment, it wasn’t working. These parlour girls were more trouble than they were worth, bringing shit to their door, and he’d had a bellyful of it recently. Still, that was part and parcel of running The Cardigan Estate, and at least they’d had a breather since that Rosie bollocks.
Debbie, sitting on the double bed, smiled tightly, her features pinched where he’d said the wrong thing and she was probably battling not to snap at him. He liked Debbie, she had balls, was a decent sort, and she needn’t worry about calling it how it was with him.
“Spit it out,” he said. “No holding back.”
“I’m quite capable of arranging that myself, you know, fixing the door and any other thing to do with the parlour and The Angel.”
Greg, George’s twin, nodded. “We know, but we’re looking out for you. Get off your high horse in case you fall off. They say it’s a painful landing. So, the door needs repairing, and that will mean employing someone to open it when punters come to the parlour after The Angel’s shut—or they could use the door beside this room instead. If not, you’ll need cameras installed outside and inside in the toilet corridor, and we’ll hook it up to the current app we’ve got running. Oh, and keep the CCTV on at all times at the parlour door from now on. Saves you remembering to switch it on as soon as you enter. That way, we’ll always know who’s there.”
Debbie sighed, still bristling. “I do switch it on normally, but tonight Orchid wanted to book some time off, and I was dealing with her. I was sidetracked.”
“And look where that got you,” George said. “What the fuck’s the deal there, with Orchid? Why would three masked men want her? What’s she bloody done to warrant that?”
Debbie shrugged. “I don’t know, she hasn’t opened up to me about her past. I don’t grill them for info when they take a room here. You’ll have to ask her. Thank fuck she dyed her hair this morning.”
“Eh?” George frowned.
He didn’t like playing guessing games. He preferred people stating the facts, not skirting around the issue, beating around those bushes folks were so sodding fond of. The main culprit who did that was Rod Clarke, the dodgy copper they had on their books, although he wouldn’t be doing that again since George had beaten the crap out of him, teaching him a valuable lesson—you don’t fuck with The Brothers, regardless of whether you were in the police force. Copper or not, you didn’t get away with anything.
“They asked where the woman with purple hair was,” Debbie said. “They’d been watching her last night, so the main one said.”
“Fucking brilliant.” Greg’s sarcasm lingered. He moved to the window and parted the curtains. “You ought to get metal bars put on here, and on the ones in reception and the girls’ rooms.”
“I will.” Debbie let out a long breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. “What I did hear as they left was that they don’t know where she lives, so that’s something.”
“Novices,” George muttered, appalled at how some people operated. How did they expect results if they went about things half-arsed? “Who doesn’t follow a target home?”
“We can’t all be like you, mega diligent.” Debbie smiled. “Can they find Orchid through her bills and whatever?”
George shook his head. “Nah, all our flats are in our names, utilities included. Most of them are used as safe houses for people who don’t want to be found, or like Martin, just needing a permanent place to lay their heads. I should have known something was up when she put in a request for one.”
Greg huffed out a laugh. “Who doesn’t ask potential tenants why they want one of our gaffs?”
George stared at him. “Is that one of your crappy digs?”
“You’re a clever bastard, working that out.”
Anyone else, and George would have decked him. “Shut your face. You didn’t ask her either.”
“Fair point.” Greg paced, a fingertip to his bottom lip. “So, she’s safe there, safe here, what with her hair being dyed and her using a different flower name—Sunflower now, is it? They obviously didn’t recognise her. The thing that’s getting me is, why don’t they know what she looks like? I mean, it seems all they had to go on was purple hair. She can’t look that different.”
“She does to me,” Debbie said. “But I see what you’re saying. Whoever they are, they have limited info.”
“They knew they were searching for an Orchid.” George scratched his chin. “So they found out she worked here, that she’s even going by that name. By asking questions? They had to have done that. So someone, in The Angel maybe, opened their gob. I want to know who that is.”
Greg sniffed. “Let’s put ourselves in their shoes and imagine it was us looking for her. We’re after someone with purple hair. London’s massive. How do you know where to start searching?”
“Someone might have tipped them off?” Debbie suggested. �
��Someone who knew which area she’s in?”
“A grass in her own camp,” George mused. “Nasty.” He moved to the door and opened it. “Get her in here so we can have a chat.”
Debbie got up and walked into reception.
George closed the door. “I told you before this would be a recurring theme, didn’t I, when we were helping Rosie. All these girls…they’re running or hiding from something, you can bet your last quid on it. The question is, what the fuck is Orchid running from if three men in balaclavas with bastard shotguns turn up?”
“I don’t know, but we’re duty bound to sort it if we can.”
George’s nerves played up. Duty bound. Yes, they were, and it was the one thing regarding running the estate he didn’t like sometimes. “Hmm.”
The door opened, and Orchid came in. Shit yeah, she did look different. Funny what a change of hair colour did for you, and her makeup was bolder, elongating her eyes. He thought of that Marla woman, the weirdo who’d spied on Rosie. She’d dyed her hair red then black, and Rosie hadn’t twigged who she was at all.
Orchid sat on the bed, the door swinging shut in slow motion. “Sorry about all this.” She fiddled with her hands in her lap.
“What’s going on?” George asked. “And no bullshit either. We can’t help if we don’t know all the facts.”
“It’ll be something to do with home, where I come from. I…I’m in London to get away from this gang.”
“Oh, fuck me sideways,” George mumbled. “Go on.”
“It’s not a leader thing, not like round here, they’re just a gang who rob, sell drugs, that sort of thing. My…my mum’s part of it, my brothers, too. I was in with them.” She paused and glanced between George and Greg. “I didn’t want to be, but I was part of it from when I was small. Mum forced us to work for the gang.”
“You what?” George imagined a little girl stealing stuff, and his blood boiled. “So how come they don’t seem to know what you look like, the three wankers who came tonight?”