by Ruth Jacobs
“What are we doing with these?” Nicole asked.
“Put his body parts in ’em after we’ve chopped him up.”
“What are you on about?” Shelley said.
“I can’t do it. I’m sorry, but I can’t cut up a corpse.” Nicole backed away.
“How else are we gonna feed him to the pigs?” Len slipped over sideways, landing hard on the concrete.
“We’re not doing that. Look at him. He’s off his head. If we were gonna cut him up, we would have put him in my boot,” Shelley said.
“I’m having you on, love. ’Course we’re not butchering him.” Len chuckled as he pushed himself off the floor. He picked up a heavy-duty bin liner and ripped it down the middle, creating an irregular shaped sheet. From the floor, he picked up Shelley’s wide roll of brown parcel tape and brandished it in the air. “We’re gonna gift-wrap the cunt.”
***
The Ford Transit van swerved out of Bracewell Road and onto North Pole Road. There was a jolting sound from the back. Either Len or the body had collided with the interior of the van, or perhaps each other.
On the next turn, into Scrubs Lane, Shelley strived to control the vehicle. She’d never driven anything larger than a jeep and felt nervous at the wheel. Driving a van would have been a worry in itself under any circumstances – but in this instance, the pressure was increased. She couldn’t afford the appearance of an erratic driver and worse still, a crash.
“Has he fallen asleep?” Shelley looked to her friends who were squeezed next to her on the front seat.
Angel turned around. “You can’t see into the back, but he’ll be all right, babe. Just keep your eye on the road.”
“How much longer?” Tara asked when they reached the junction of Scrubs Lane and Harrow Road.
“We’ve past Meanwhile Gardens already but I’ve gotta drive round. I only know one way in,” Shelley said.
“Why don’t you ask Len?” Nicole suggested.
“The state he’s in. What’s the point?” Shelley replied.
“I heard that. Where the fuck are you? We should be there by now,” Len shouted from the rear.
“We’re on Harrow Road.”
“You’re mental! There’s always Old Bill down here. I told you to go the back way. You’ve gone right round the houses. Fucking hell.”
Eventually, Shelley arrived on Golborne Road. She pulled up at the side of the Brutalist, concrete high-rise block – Trellick Tower. Though it was quiet, they were not alone. Other junkies and hookers seemed to favour the location.
Shelley turned off the engine, opened her door and jumped down to the street. She walked to the back of the van and swung open the doors. Len was sitting up, holding a lighter under a spoon. She climbed inside, kicked the rapist’s body out of the way with her Nike TNs, then sat down.
“Tell us when they’ve gone,” she shouted to her friends in the front.
“That’s for me,” she mouthed to Len as she pointed at the spoon and then to herself.
He took out a syringe. “I ain’t got another spoon,” he whispered.
“Not my problem.”
“You have got a fucking problem. I’m doing you a favour and you’re being a cunt.”
“Keep your voice down. What do you expect? You weren’t supposed to come back.”
“I wouldn’t have unless I had to.”
“Why did you have to?”
“It’s a long story and I’m not fucking whispering it here.”
“Save me some.” Shelley opened the doors and slipped out of the back. She rushed around to the front.
“We shouldn’t be hanging round here. By the time they’ve gone, there’ll be more people going to work,” Angel said.
“Give it a few more minutes and see what they do.” Shelley picked up her handbag from the footwell.
“It’ll be daylight if we leave it much longer,” Nicole said as Shelley was closing the door.
Clutching her handbag to her chest, Shelley ran around the van and returned to the rear. Once inside, she took out her thin paperback and found the foil. She held it out to Len and he sprinkled on some heroin.
While he injected his fix, she used the tube, which she’d saved since her last chase in the bathroom the morning before, and sucked up the fumes.
“Who let one go? It stinks in here,” Angel said.
Shelley looked wide-eyed at Len.
“Mine don’t smell like that,” Nicole said.
“I don’t fart,” Tara added.
“Don’t be stupid. Everybody farts,” Nicole replied.
“Someone’s been eating some weird shit,” Angel said. “I’m not breathing in any more crap today.”
Shelley heard one of the front doors open. Worriedly, she looked at Len and he began packing his tools into his long, black wallet. She folded her foil and hid it in The Escaped Cock. The back doors were opened, and just in time Len slid his wallet into an inside pocket of his jacket.
“Which one of you was it?” Angel waved her hand in front of her nose before stepping back. “They both look guilty as sin.”
***
Inside Meanwhile Gardens, it was deserted. The five of them carried the dustbin liner and parcel-tape bound cylindrical package through the undergrowth. The fellow hookers and junkies didn’t seem to have paid them any attention when they’d left the van, donning balaclavas and carrying the parcel, which was probably distinguishable as a body. Perhaps they too were fellow killers, though it was more likely that their minds were consumed by the customary junky and hooker preoccupations.
“What if someone sees?” Nicole said as they came out from the copse and onto the footpath by the Grand Union Canal.
“We can’t walk any farther. It’s nearly light.” Shelley looked over at the blocks of flats with their balconies backing on to the other side of the canal. With the sky paling, she could see the colours of the clothes, the bedding and the towels that were hanging over the washing lines. “Do you want to go? We can manage,” she said to Nicole.
“I’ve got no idea where I am,” Nicole replied. “Can’t we just get it done quickly?”
Len directed them to lay the parcel on the grass. He rushed off, then reappeared, carrying bricks.
“Where did you get them from?” Shelley asked.
“I stashed them here the other day.”
“You do know that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” Tara said, with one hand resting on her hips. “But I like it.” She giggled.
Len knelt on the grass, placed a brick on top of the body and secured it with parcel tape. “Gimme a hand then.” He looked up at the others.
They all crouched down and within minutes, they’d attached numerous bricks. Shelley wondered if the tape would hold once it was wet.
When they lifted the body, Shelley struggled; it was far heavier with the added weight. They walked the few steps across the path then dropped the body into the canal. There was a huge splash and something louder, a thump. They ran back into the bushes.
“How deep’s the water?” Angel asked, looking at Len.
“I don’t know. I don’t usually go swimming here.”
“This ain’t no joke, man. What are you on?” Angel said.
Shelley gave Angel an I-told-you-so glance.
“Do you think anyone saw us? It’s so light,” Nicole said.
“No one will recognise us like this,” Tara replied.
“What’ll happen to the parcel tape in the water? Won’t it stop being sticky?” Shelley asked as they walked back to the van.
“I ran some tests in the lab. Don’t worry ma’am, everything will be fine.”
“This isn’t funny. You need to stop fucking around,” Angel told Len as they approached Trellick Tower. “What about your mate’s van? Is there CCTV that could pick up his plate?”
Shelley felt the onset of an episode of shaking. She hadn’t thought of CCTV. She should have done. Recently, she’d noticed new cameras appearing in previously unmonitored
streets. They’d also been popping up in some of the shops she used regularly and some of the hotels she worked in. Would there have been CCTV at The Lanesborough?
46. Smackhead Kitchen Klepto
“Who do you think lives in a house like this?” Len said in a plummy accent as the Transit van turned onto Bracewell Road.
“A smackhead chef or a kitchen-klepto.” Tara sniggered.
Shelley yanked the steering wheel. The Transit van jerked and ran up on the curb. She heard the impact in the rear. Under most circumstances, she would have been pleased to see Tara happy, but the inappropriateness of the situation riled her. Moreover, they were blatantly having a laugh at her expense.
Shelley kicked open the driver’s side door. Standing in the Monday morning light, she remembered they were supposed to be keeping a low profile. She looked around. Apart from the parked cars, the road was empty and all the houses had their curtains drawn.
Maintaining her vigilance, she walked to the back of the van and opened the doors. Tara and Len slithered out onto the street.
“We’ll clean up. You get yourself home and get some kip, love,” Len said, patting Shelley on the back. He curled his arm around Tara’s waist and the two of them sauntered up the road towards his house. “Laters,” he called out, turning round to wave at Shelley and the others.
“Nighty night.” Tara turned and waved. They looked like an unfortunate couple walking off the set of Blind Date. Cilla wouldn’t need a new hat for them.
Angel reached for Shelley’s hand. “Don’t let her upset you, babe. She doesn’t mean to. It’s just her way.”
“I’m surprised he’s not too fucking council for her,” Shelley said.
“Do you want me to stop at yours tonight?” Nicole lit a cigarette.
“I’ll be waking in a couple of hours to get to Praed Street. We won’t get much sleep.”
“I don’t think I could sleep now anyway,” Nicole said.
Shelley turned to Angel. “Do you wanna come with us?”
“If you want me to. I feel so bad about what happened. I’m so sorry. If I could’ve done something different...” Angel wrapped her arm around Shelley’s shoulder.
With Angel on one side of her, and Nicole linking her arm on the other, Shelley walked with her friends down the road towards her car.
“What if we were seen on CCTV?” Shelley asked, opening the door of her 350SL.
“I doubt it, babe,” Angel said.
Angel followed behind Shelley’s car. Shelley dropped off Nicole to her Chimaera where she’d abandoned it on Saturday night. Then they drove in a convoy heading for Hampstead.
Alone in her car, Shelley felt apprehensive. Fear pervaded her about being caught on tape at Trellick Tower and at The Lanesborough, and the depth of the canal, and whether parcel tape remained effective in water.
She blasted her Pink Floyd Dark Side of the Moon CD to drown out the noise in her head, but it didn’t work. A hit was required to stop that – temporarily providing a break from caring. But how would she score and manage to use in her small flat with both her friends present?
***
As soon as they arrived in Shelley’s flat on Willoughby Road, Nicole disappeared into the kitchen to put on the kettle. From not wanting to be left by herself, Shelley was now anxious to be without her friends. Although they knew about her habit, she couldn’t call Jay while they were there, and she had no heroin left. There was nothing except the skunk Nicole had.
After bringing the tea to the other two in the lounge, Nicole rolled a joint. Shelley glanced at her phone – 6.57 a.m. Even if she were to call Jay, she couldn’t do it until she’d gone to the clinic. Once she had heroin, the chance of her actually going to Praed Street was close to nil.
“What time does the drop-in open?” Shelley asked.
“Ten, I think.” Nicole passed Shelley the joint. Shelley took an extended toke. Added to her concern for the lack of ‘A’ class drugs was her fear of attending the clinic. The staff would know something was wrong because she’d only recently been checked. Usually she could lie: blame a split condom with a punter, or an overenthusiastic boyfriend – not that she ever had any boyfriends, but she could tell a story and tell it well. In this instance, however, lying would not come easy. It never did after a rape.
Shelley took a hard pull on the joint and held her breath for several seconds before exhaling. She averted her eyes to her wrist. The dot-to-dot puzzle she’d created was scabbing over. Farther along, in her hand, she saw a plump, blue vein. In her mind, she pictured a syringe full of heroin and crack; the needle sliding in; pulling back; watching the blood percolate in the barrel; pushing in; feeling the rush.
“Are you all right, love?”
“Yeah.” No, I’m desperate for a hit. “I think I wanna be on my own now though. I’m sorry,” Shelley said, offering the joint to Angel.
“You shouldn’t be on your jacks, babe.” Without taking a toke, Angel passed the joint to Nicole who sat between them on the sofa.
“I’m not letting you go to the clinic by yourself and I don’t want you going back on the heroin when I’ve gone either.”
“For fuck’s sake, Nic. What do you expect? I’m a junky.”
“I know that’s why you want me to leave.” Nicole jumped up from the sofa. “You’d rather be with your heroin than with me. Is it a better friend? Am I that bad that a damn fucking powder is better?”
“It’s not like that. I’ll get ill,” Shelley said, looking up at Nicole who was standing in front of her.
“I know. I’ve seen it, but you have to stick it out.”
“She’s right. I know a few girls who’ve done it. You go cold turkey,” Angel said. “And there’s meetings you can go to. Step programmes.”
“I don’t believe in all that self-help bollocks.”
“What else are you gonna do? You’ve been cold fucking turkey loads of times but you just give up.”
“What do you know about it?”
“I’ve seen you. Shivering, sweating, disappearing for ages in the loo, coming back with your eyes pinned, scratching. I’m not an idiot. I’m your friend, Shelley, supposed to be your best friend, and you don’t even confide in me. What does that say about me?”
47. Getting the Sack
Nicole dropped Shelley off outside her flat after she and Angel had accompanied her to the Praed Street Project earlier that morning. Nicole seemed to accept the inevitability of Shelley scoring, though she’d insisted they meet later in the week to discuss her getting clean.
Added to Nicole and Angel’s proposals of assistance were those of the Project – a referral back to Dr Fielding, a treatment centre, or the option of a methadone prescription. Going in with her friends had led to the truth being exposed, of not only her junk addiction, but also the rape. Why Nicole needed to be honest in that respect, Shelley didn’t know. Did she want to report it, they'd asked, offering to support her. Reporting a rape committed by a man she’d since murdered wasn’t pointless, it was madness. Thankfully, Nicole’s honesty didn’t stretch to the whole weekend.
Shelley sat on the sofa and took her mobile from her handbag to call Jay. On seeing the record of the thirty-six calls she’d missed on Saturday between 8.25 p.m. and 9.42 p.m., she reset the settings to delete them.
“When can you be here?” she asked Jay.
“Soon come,” he said in his velvety voice.
She made a joint from the skunk Nicole left her and poured herself a glass of neat gin. His ‘soon come’ could mean anything. Although she’d stressed the urgency – without divulging the details – that most likely meant nothing. Any junky desperate for a fix would say anything to hurry a dealer.
“Are you running an express delivery service?” she asked when Jay entered her flat twenty minutes later.
“My days! I knew something was up. What’s happened to you?”
“Nothing.” Shelley turned away from him and walked over to the sofa. He went into the kitchen and she
heard the kettle boiling. What was he up to with this newfangled tea-making business?
Shelley rolled another joint. She didn’t yet have her real drugs from Jay, but it wouldn’t have made a difference; she never shot up in front of him. He wasn’t a user himself, just a dealer, and since taking over from Ali two years ago, he’d clearly made a success of it. To be a nineteen-year-old boy driving a BMW M3 and not be a trustafarian or a joyrider was quite a feat.
“Are you doing this for all your customers now?” Shelley asked, taking the steaming hot mug from Jay’s hand.
He sat down beside her. “I’m not serving you up no more,” he told the oak floorboards by his feet.
“You are joking.” The tea in Shelley’s mouth sprayed back into her mug. Using the long sleeve of her pyjama top, she dabbed her wet chin. “What did you come here for, then?”
“To see how you’re doing... and you’re ill,” he said with some hand-wringing.
“Of course, I’m ill. If I wasn’t sick, I wouldn’t need any gear.”
“It’s more than that.” He swivelled his baseball cap one-hundred and eighty so the peak was at the back of his head. He turned to look across at her. Was that pity in his eyes? “You need help... You were a stunner when I first met you, and now...”
“So I’ll put on some make-up.” She took her lipstick and compact from her handbag.
“And some weight. You’re anorexic.”
She opened the compact and looked in the mirror. “How would you know? I could be bulimic.”
“With an empty fridge.”
Mid-application, her upper lip twitched, causing the red to smear outside her lip line. “If you’re not gonna sell to me, what are you here for?” She threw the closed compact on the table and as it made contact with the wood, she knew inside it had shattered.
“So I’m only your dealer, not your friend?” He spoke softly. “I’ve known you since I was a kid. You’re not just some random skaghead, not to me and Ali.” He stood up from the sofa and turned his cap back round the right way.