Cold Bath Lane
Jody’s Story
Lorna Dounaeva
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Also by Lorna Dounaeva
Afterword
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
In a few hours, it would be daybreak. But for now, a blanket of darkness masked the ugliness we had left behind. Smoke rose from the house, and inside, the flames crept up the walls, spreading along the woodwork and devouring the curtains. Devouring the bodies. We had made no attempt to hide them.
1
They used to say the sun didn't shine in Cold Bath Lane. The factory towered over the houses like the Grim Reaper, casting a dark shadow over the street. Clouds of smoke and soot mingled with the smells of the Slaughterhouse and the whole neighbourhood reeked of rotting flesh. We kids were invariably dirty. Even when we'd had a bath, the mud and soot clung to us like a second skin.
I remember one time, Mum called us in for tea and a cat stuck its head out of a hole in one of the boarded-up houses. None of those buildings were entirely empty. The wildlife always found a way in.
“I think it’s a stray, can we keep it?” I asked, as we ducked under the washing lines that hung across the street.
“The last thing I need is another mouth to feed,” Mum said, looking frazzled. She had a warm smile, but I don’t remember a single day when she looked relaxed. I always wondered why she couldn’t enjoy herself more.
“I’d rather have a dog,” said my brother, Sam.
“Cats are better than dogs!”
“Didn’t you hear me? I said we weren’t getting either,” said Mum.
But it didn’t matter. Sam and I could fight over anything. It was rarely anything important, just stupid stuff like who got to drink the cream from the top of the milk.
We wolfed down charred fish fingers and oven chips for tea, with blobs of brown sauce on the side. Sam rabbited on about the Stone Age project he was doing at school, and Mum nodded absently, stifling a yawn.
“Jody, don’t eat with your fingers. Use your knife and fork.”
“What time’s Dad coming home?” I asked, picking up my fork.
“Not yet,” Mum said. I don’t think she knew any better than we did.
“Who wants a bath tonight?”
“Not me.”
“Nor me.”
“Right then.”
She rose from the table, her huge stomach jutting out in front of her like a panto horse. “You can wash up, Sam. Jody, you dry.”
We both groaned, but we did as we were told. Sam rubbed the soap suds all over his hands and blew bubbles at me. We soon forgot what we were meant to be doing, as we battled to make the biggest bubble.
“Finish up, you too,” Mum said, as she steamed her way through a huge pile of ironing. She was a slave to that iron of hers, constantly pushing it back and forth across the ironing board.
I hung up the kitchen towel and went over to the window. I often saw planes and helicopters flying low over the city, their lights blinking overhead. I searched for stars, but the sky was too busy, what with all the smog and the streetlights.
“Jody, will you shut that window?” Mum yelled. “You’re letting all the cold air in.”
Sam and I played snakes and ladders after that. I had six squares to go. Six squares and I would win. I blew on the dice for luck and rolled it across the table.
“Snake!” Sam yelled. “Snake! You have to go down the snake.”
”No! Let me roll again!”
“As if!”
He took my counter and made it slide all the way down the snake. It slid and slid, coming to a stop halfway down the board. My nostrils flared with anger. I was ready to punch him one.
“Who wants a butterfly cake?” called Mum from the kitchen.
“Me!” We yelled in unison. All at once, the game was forgotten and we thundered into the kitchen. I got there first and snatched the best one for myself.
“Careful,” Mum warned.
I burned my hand a little on the baking tray, but I pretended not to care.
We wolfed down our cakes and demanded more.
“You can have one more each but leave some for tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Mum!” Sam grabbed the next biggest one, and I grabbed the second biggest and we both stuffed them into our gobs. Mum picked up the baking tray with her oven gloves and whisked the rest away.
“Hey, what’s the occasion?” I asked, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. It wasn’t often Mum baked. Between her job at the factory, and looking after the house, she didn’t have any time.
“No special occasion,” Mum said with a smile. “Just because.”
She stopped and stroked her stomach.
“You’re getting really fat,” I commented. “Has the baby finished growing yet?”
“Not by a long shot,” she said with a smile. “You ain’t seen nothing yet!”
“Do you want to play trains?” Sam asked, as we left the kitchen.
“OK.”
I tipped the train tracks out all over the floor.
“Don’t make too much mess,” Mum said. “It’ll be bedtime soon.”
Neither of us paid her any heed. We laid out the train tracks all over the living room floor and delighted in pushing the trains over the bridges and through the tunnels yelling ‘choo choo.’ Inevitably, Sam crashed his train into mine.
“Oy!” I yelled, as my train came off the rails.
“Your passengers are all dead now!”
I put my train back on the tracks and smashed it into his.
“Your train’s on fire,” I told him. “Bang, bang! It’s exploded everywhere. Uh-oh, there goes the bridge!”
Within minutes, our beautifully laid tracks were a mess of pieces, and we were ramming the trains into tables and chairs, causing as much destruction as possible.
“Right, kids. Into your pyjamas, both of you,” Mum said.
“Can we have a hot cocoa?” I asked. “Please?”
“Get a wriggle on, then.”
Sam and I dashed up to our room to change, and when we came down, the entire train set was miraculously back in its box, and the table and chairs upright again.
“Oy, where’s our cocoa?”
“Coming,” Mum yelled from the kitchen. A moment later, she brought out two steaming mugs. I grabbed the red one before Sam could. I loved watching the little wisps of steam as they rose up into the air.
“Read us a story, Mum?”
“Just a quick one,” she said, glancing at the clock.
I looked too. Dad sometimes came home at this time, but other days he didn’t get in until after
midnight. There was really no knowing.
Mum picked up The Gingerbread Man from the shelf and settled at the table. It was an old favourite. Shortly afterwards, there was a rumble at the door.
“Go on, up the stairs with you,” Mum said. “That’ll be Dad now, and he’ll be wanting his tea.”
“Night, Mum,” I said, slinging back my cocoa.
“Night,” said Sam, and we both legged it up the stairs.
A little while later I heard Dad on the landing. There was a creak as he entered our room.
“Why are you kids in bed already?” he boomed. “Don’t you want to see your old Dad?”
I peeked out from under the covers.
“Course we do,” I said. “But we’ve got school in the morning…”
“So bloody what?”
He snapped on the light and sat down heavily on the end of Sam’s bed.
“You’ll never guess the day I’ve had,” he said, his face red and animated. “There was a big fire on the other side of town. A tumble dryer exploded, and a whole family was trapped in their bedrooms. Mum, Dad, and three little kids. The youngest was a baby and the eldest was no older than you, Jody Bear.”
I looked at Sam and saw that his eyes were open wide.
“What happened? Did you save them?”
“Doug went in first. He got the old man out and the ma with her baby. The baby was screaming blue murder but I think he’ll be alright. But once we got them outside, she started bawling hysterically because the other two kids were still trapped in their bedroom, way up in the attic. They didn’t even have a window to climb out of. The only way to get up there was with a ladder.”
I hung on his every word.
“Did you get them out?”
“It weren’t easy. The smoke was really thick. I only had a few minutes, then I would have to turn back. I made my way up to the attic and shouted up to the kids to see if they could hear me. I saw the little boy’s head peer down and I bellowed at him to jump.
‘It’s too far!’ he said.
‘You’ve got to jump,’ I said. I had minutes to spare and I thought they weren’t going to make it, when I heard some scrabbling and the girl half jumped, half fell into my arms. I called to the boy to follow, but he wouldn’t budge. We had to go, but I didn’t want to leave the little lad up there.”
“What did you do?” I asked. “Did you get him out?”
“I told him I was coming up the ladder and he had to come forward and take my hand. I had seconds to spare. The boy leaned over. He weren’t going to jump, so I gave the ladder a shake and he came tumbling down, right into my arms. I handed Doug the girl, and I took the boy on my back, and we got the hell out of there. Just in time, we were because the next moment, the whole place went up in smoke.”
“Wow Dad, you’re a real hero,” Sam said.
“You could have been killed,” I added.
“Yeah, but I weren’t, was I? And we got that family out.”
I didn’t like it. The thought that someone could die so easily. It frightened me.
“Tell us about the time you saved the puppies, Dad,” Sam said, fully awake now.
Obligingly, Dad launched into another story, but after a bit, his voice trailed off and his eyelids started to droop. Finally, he rolled off the bed and onto the floor below.
“Dad, are you alright?”
We both jumped out of bed and ran to him. He snored loudly, face down on the floor, his bum in the air.
“Aw, Dad!”
I fetched a blanket to cover him up with, and switched off the light.
2
“Jody, wake up!” Sam nudged me hard, dragging me from my slumber.
“Wassat?”
“C’mon, we’ve got to get to school.”
I looked down at the floor. Dad must have woken in the night and made his way back to his own room. I went to my parents’ bedroom and peered in. Sure enough, there he was, snoring away, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes. Mum’s side of the bed was empty. She had some really early starts at the factory.
Sam and I wriggled into our school uniforms, racing to see who could get ready first. Sam won that morning. It was amazing how scruffy he made his school uniform look: tie and shirt hanging out, one trouser leg tucked into his sock.
We trudged downstairs and made ourselves breakfast. We spilled milk and cereal all over the table, and got quite a bit on the floor too, but there was no time to clear up. Once we’d bolted down our Weetabix, I grabbed my key off the hook and wore it on a piece of elastic around my neck, tucked under my school jumper.
“Race you down the road,” Sam said.
“Wait!” I grabbed my homework off the sideboard and slipped it into my satchel. Sam was already halfway down the path.
“What are you waiting for?” he called to me, as he wove his way down the lane.
Rain drizzled gently, soaking the paper that peeled from ancient billboards. The street was lined with faded shop signs, and public houses that no longer existed. All that remained were blacked out windows and shutters pulled down over abandoned shops. Older children scampered past, their hoods pulled up against the wind and rain. Some jammy gits were dropped off right in front of the school so they could swan into class with smooth hair and shoes that didn’t squelch from the puddles.
The best thing about school was Dawn Cheeseman, who liked to wind me up by letting her long, chestnut-brown hair spread out all over my desk. I would get her back by elbowing her when she least expected it, causing her to make squiggles all over her work. I liked the way her grey eyes twinkled with mischief. I was never bored with Dawn. We got on like a house on fire.
The worst thing about school was my teacher, Mr Blackthorn. I had always been one of the brightest in the class, not as clever as Amy Bell, who was a total boffin, but not far behind. My other teachers had all loved me, but Mr Blackthorn didn’t care how good I was at maths and spelling. He constantly complained about how blotchy my handwriting was, and how I failed to make it to school on time.
“If you're late again this week, you can stay in at dinnertime and do lines,” he’d warn me. And inevitably, I would be late again. At nine years old, I wasn’t the most organised person in the world, and making it to school on time was an eternal struggle.
Mr Blackthorn wasn’t the understanding type. He would lob tennis balls at the wall behind me to make me jump. And he thought nothing of picking on me in front of the class.
“Stop gossiping, McBride!” he’d bark. “Why has your homework got ink all over it? Why haven’t you polished your shoes?”
He picked on me more than anyone else in the class. He didn’t like me, that was the problem. And he made no attempt to hide it.
He was also the type of teacher who loved to dole out homework. Every weekend, he loaded us down with more worksheets and spellings to learn. The worksheets he gave me were much harder than the ones he gave Dawn. Sometimes, I would ask Sam for help, but as anyone will tell you, he had pie for brains. Mum was too lazy to help me and, Dad didn’t see the point of homework.
“Schoolwork is for school,” he would say. “What are they paying the teachers for, if they expect us to teach you?”
“You’re late again,” Mr Blackthorn said, as I slipped into my seat beside Dawn.
“Sorry,” I muttered. I glanced at the clock and saw that I was only a fraction late. For anyone else, Mr Blackthorn would have overlooked it but with me, he was always waiting to pounce.
I lifted the lid of my desk and pulled out my exercise books and pencil. Mr Blackthorn was still looking at me.
“You need to learn better time management,” he said.
“Yes, Sir.”
“You will stay in at playtime.”
I nodded miserably. I already knew the penalty for being late.
“And you can empty all the bins after school.”
“But I was only a minute late!”
I hadn’t meant to talk back. It just seemed so unfair to be lum
bered with the hated task. There were children in the class who behaved much worse than I did. Kids who bullied and copied and swore their way through school. I never saw Mr Blackthorn picking on them.
“You will do it for the rest of the week!” he roared.
I caught the gleam in his eye as he said this. All my classmates stared at me and one or two of them giggled. At that moment, I hated him. Truly hated him, with all my heart.
We never knew if anyone would be home when we got in from school. It didn’t matter, we could make our own beans on toast if need be. That was normal round our neck of the woods. All the parents were out, getting work wherever they could. The 1980s were a prosperous time for some, but not for the inhabitants of Cold Bath Lane. One by one, the houses around us had been boarded up, as more and more families left. Each time it happened, I prayed someone nice would move in next door, but instead, the empty houses were taken over by squatters. There were dozens of them, living in the disused buildings.
“Are squatters nice people?” I had asked Dad, when they moved in next door.
“Nice?” he had looked outraged. “No, my girl. Squatters are the scum of the earth. You keep away from them, you hear?”
On this particular Friday, Dad was home when I got in, and since Sam was out kicking a football around with his mates, I had him all to myself. We sat at the table, munching corned beef sandwiches. I told him about Mr Blackthorn and the problems I was having with him.
Dad looked at me with his large, soulful eyes and I knew that he understood.
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