by Julie Shaw
But Lucy had allowed herself the luxury of optimism. Ill-judged, perhaps, but she didn’t think so. She had grilled Jimmy’s dad, with whom they all lived now, pretty mercilessly, and, though he’d never tell her anything he shouldn’t – he mustn’t – it was the spaces between the words that mattered to her most. And if he didn’t think she’d be going back to prison – and it seemed he, who knew the real Paddy Allen best, didn’t – then that was good enough for her.
Jimmy caught up with her, and the three of them filed through the ornate glass and wooden doors into the enormous central chamber. It was an imposing place, dominated by a grand central staircase, up and down which various barristers and court officials scurried. And, as they milled around, Lucy was shocked to see so many familiar faces, too; not least various members of Gurdy’s family, who’d been present throughout Paddy’s trial, many of them, women and men alike, weeping openly. But today they looked different. They were here to see justice finally done, and their acknowledgement of Lucy – like they were all in the same unfortunate club – bolstered her confidence further. She hoped Vicky would register their presence here too, and feel the dignity and strength of their support.
Jimmy passed Chantelle to Lucy while he went over to the cork board that listed the day’s proceedings, and she made her usual small protest. ‘Back, JimJim! Back!’ she squeaked indignantly. Never Dad. People often said so – all that ‘Daddy’s little angel’ stuff, often – but they corrected them always. Their time wasn’t yet. God willing, somehow, it would happen when it happened. Or if not, they would adopt. She stroked Chantelle’s head. Maybe sooner rather than later.
‘JimJim!’ Chantelle squeaked again. Lucy shushed her. But then, hearing the echo in the vast space above them, she began upping the volume on every random noise she could think of, causing Lucy to wish she’d done the sensible thing and left her back at home with her mam. Instead she pulled out Chantelle’s dummy from her ready-for-anything baby bag (soon to be Vicky’s bag – her gift) and slipped it hastily between her lips.
‘Here you go, baby,’ she said, wondering if she’d even be taking her home tonight. She pushed the thought aside. That was the plan, wasn’t it? ‘Let’s go find your mamma.’
It was warm in the court, so Lucy began unbuttoning Chantelle’s coat immediately they sat down. It had only been a matter of weeks since they’d both been there to see Paddy sent down and Lucy could still visualise him, standing in the spot Vicky would soon inhabit – his last hurrah a pathetic attempt at a scowl which spectacularly failed to hide the fear and mortification on his face.
Lucy tried not to enjoy the memory too much. She was mostly just so glad Vicky hadn’t had to take any part in it. True to her prediction, though Paddy had changed his plea to guilty once he’d been informed that Vicky had told the truth, he had tried to take Vicky along with him. Tried very hard indeed. Right up to the last, he had tried to stick the knife in and implicate her, telling lie upon lie upon lie. So, right up to the last, hung the wretched, scary spectre, that Vicky would have to face him in court.
And then, at the eleventh hour, a complete turnaround. ‘Finally,’ Jimmy’s dad had said. ‘Cordingley has knocked some ruddy sense into him. Not that it’ll help him much at this stage.’
And it hadn’t. Though Paddy had retracted what he’d said in all matters related to Vicky, the run-around he’d given everyone, plus his clear intention to have Vicky tried as an accomplice, meant the judge took a particularly dim view of him. Quite rightly. And had sentenced him accordingly.
Seeing Vicky properly after so long was a shock. It might have been anyway, of course, because her incarceration couldn’t help but change her. But even putting aside the way she seemed so insubstantial between the two prison warders she was flanked by, her hands cuffed, and the raw, brutal power of the scars on her face (which weren’t so much scars as a crude rearrangement of her friend’s previously pretty features) Vicky looked to be a shell of the person she used to be. Gaunt and pale – in grim contrast to the livid pink striations around her mouth and cheeks – she looked a good couple of stone lighter, as if she was made of sticks instead of bones. She had an air about her, even so, and Lucy wished she could preserve it. It was one of strength. Of acceptance of whatever was coming next.
‘God,’ Lucy hissed at Jimmy, as she passed a wriggling Chantelle to him. ‘I hope they’re kind to her. Please God, let them be kind.’
Lucy followed Vicky’s progress to the dock, where she was instructed to stand behind Perspex, keeping her eyes on her friend the whole time. She was almost willing Vicky to see them, and was eventually rewarded by her making eye contact, and then seeing a gasp – which she couldn’t hear – as Vicky saw Chantelle.
Lucy exhaled in relief at her friend’s answering smile. She’d done the right thing. Even if the worst happened and Vicky was taken down to serve a further sentence, she would at least have a chance to hug her daughter. Who might well, it was true, respond as Vicky had repeatedly said she would; with mistrust and fear at this ghoulish-looking virtual stranger, this scraggy, haunted girl, in her baggy prison clothes, with little hair to speak of, just the odd weedy sprouting, if the contours beneath the bandana were to be believed. It was true – Chantelle might even scream or cry or try to run away. But something told Lucy it wouldn’t happen. Vicky was altogether too present in Chantelle’s young life. Through the picture books she made for her, the letters she’d written and sent for her and, most of all, through the tapes she made of her reading her own stories, written just for Chantelle, out loud. Her voice was all. A mother’s voice. A voice Chantelle would recognise. And, hey, you had to start somewhere, didn’t you?
She turned to Chantelle and lifted her up in the direction of Vicky so that her friend could see her.
‘Look, baby,’ she said through tears she hadn’t even realised she’d been shedding. ‘Look, sweetie – Mamma! That’s your mamma over there.’
There was no time for Chantelle to voice a reaction, however, as just at that moment an usher stood up and shouted ‘Stand please!’ as he introduced the judge.
Despite the damning evidence against her – the vomit at the scene, her being identified as being the passenger in Paddy’s car driving away from the scene and other forensics – Vicky’s defence lawyer had done a sterling job. And the act of violence Paddy had orchestrated from his cell in Armley Prison only strengthened her case. Her lawyer told of a manipulating, evil, cruel and possessive boyfriend, who had controlled her the whole of the time they’d been together, and of how horrified she had been to witness her best friend being murdered while she could only beg and plead for his life.
She had just that morning been found guilty of the charge she had pleaded guilty to. Of being an accessory to Gurdy’s murder. However, justice had prevailed, and the extenuating circumstances were so overwhelming that the judge had already intimated he’d be lenient with her.
Even so, it was as if the whole court held their breath as he gave Vicky a custodial sentence. ‘But because of time already served,’ he added, while Vicky sobbed in the dock, ‘you are free to leave this court straight away.’
Everyone in the court seemed to rise up as one, and the taut silence was replaced by the white noise of relief. It was only then, looking behind her, that Lucy fully appreciated just how many people had turned out to be present at Vicky’s sentencing. Yes, Paddy’s trial had been splashed all over the local papers almost daily, both as an example of the kind of thing drug abuse could lead to, and as an opportunity for those who made such things their business to mount a campaign against the crime barons of Bradford. (Rasta Mo had even turned up on the day of Paddy’s verdict. ‘To send a message,’ Jimmy’s dad had said sagely. ‘That he’s untouchable. And no doubt a warning to Allen too. Arrogant bastard,’ he’d added. ‘Little does he know …’)
But this turnout – this support – she’d not expected at all. Much less the throng of reporters and photographers who were waiting out the front, when
she, Jimmy and Chantelle finally emerged.
Vicky, Lucy saw immediately, was already ahead of them, having been hurried out to the front by her solicitor. There were flashbulbs going off and she could see Vicky cringing – yes, there was obviously something to celebrate, but this was the last thing she needed.
‘Here, take the baby,’ Lucy said to Jimmy. ‘I need to go and help her.’ Then she headed off, trying to push her way through the throng of people, anxious to protect her friend from all the flashbulbs and questions.
She felt her arm grabbed. ‘Hey, you’re the friend, aren’t you? I remember you from the Allen trial. It’s you, isn’t it?’
Lucy turned to find herself looking at an ageing reporter, pencil behind his ear, reporter’s notebook in his hand, like he’d just beamed down from a 1970s cop show. She nodded. ‘But I have to go. I have to get her away from all this.’
‘Course,’ the man said, lifting his other hand to reveal a huge previously unseen camera, which popped in her face.
‘What on earth are you doing that for?’ she asked him, blinking the brightness away.
‘For the spread, love,’ he said. ‘This is going on the front page of the Telegraph & Argos. Bit of a story, this one is. Warms the cockles.’
‘Yes, well, that’s fine,’ she said, ‘but can you let me by, please? I need to get to my friend. You okay, mate?’ she called then, catching Vicky’s eye over the sea of people. She was on the steps still with her solicitor and, seeing Lucy, she raised a thumb.
‘I’m on my way,’ she mouthed, but once again her progress was arrested. ‘Friend or sister?’ the same reporter persisted. ‘Someone’s now saying you’re sisters.’
‘Sisters,’ Lucy confirmed, feeling her face break into a smile, remembering something that had stuck with her since as long ago as she could remember. That a friend was both the best thing you could have and the best thing you could be.
She waved again at Vicky and cupped her hands around her lips. ‘Blood sisters forever!’ she yelled as loudly as she could.
Then turned to the startled reporter. ‘And there’s your headline.’
Epilogue
And the heavens shall declare his righteousness:
For God is judge himself.
Psalms 50:6
Lights Out
As I lay here in my eight by twelve
And I punch my fucking head
I scream at the useless cunt I am
Someone’s going to end up dead
That slit of a window stifles me
And the stench is making me sick
Why was enough never enough?
Why was I such a prick?
Fuck off with your banging, the rest of you scum
I do not belong in this cell
My mates and my parents, they fucked up my life
And I cannot live by a bell
I’ll tear off my shirt and I’ll make it a rope
While I sort out the thoughts in my head
In seconds the noose will be where it belongs
And someone will end up dead.
On 20 April 1992 Paddy Allen was found hanging in his cell in Armley Prison, Leeds. He was pronounced dead at the scene. The poem was found in the pocket of the jeans he was wearing.
Acknowledgements
As always I’d like to thank our amazing team at HarperCollins, you do such a fantastic job and I’m so humbled that you believe in me. And dear Andrew, agent extraordinaire and then some, always fighting our corner and forever our champion. Last but by no means least, my super talented, super patient, partner in crime, the very beautiful Lynne Barrett-Lee, who is so much more than a co-author, and I’m proud to consider her my friend.
Also available in the Notorious Hudson Family series.
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Also available in the Notorious Hudson Family series.
Tap here to buy the full eBook now.
Also available in the Notorious Hudson Family series.
Tap here to buy the full eBook now.
Also available in the Notorious Hudson Family series.
Tap here to buy the full eBook now.
Also available in the Notorious Hudson Family series.
Tap here to buy the full eBook now.
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