by Helen Black
‘You’ll have to get down to the doctor’s,’ I tell Mam. ‘Say you want to get rid of it.’
‘I don’t know that I agree with abortions,’ says Mam.
I sigh. ‘Well, then, let’s tell Dad all about it. I’m sure he’ll take it in his stride.’
Mam drinks her tea and rubs the bruise at the top of her arm.
Jay pressed Liberty into a plastic chair in his office and put a glass of water in her hands. Gratefully, she drained it in one long gulp, forcing her throat to open.
‘Another?’ Jay held up a bottle of Evian.
‘Please,’ Liberty answered.
He refilled the glass and turned to the door. ‘Give me a minute.’
As he slipped outside, Jay gave her another glance, forehead creased with questions. Liberty knew how he was feeling. How was this possible? How, after more than twenty years, could they meet like this? In a place like this? She looked around her brother’s office, which was in the far corner of the club. In truth, it was more of a storeroom than an office. A desk, behind which a mammoth mirror, with a heavy wooden frame, hung on the wall. The other walls were covered with ceiling-to-floor shelves, groaning under the weight of magazines, DVDs, condoms and Christ knew what else. Liberty fingered the nearest box full of tubes of strawberry-flavoured lube. Was this Jay’s life? Sex toys and wank mags?
When he came back into the room, Jay was still wearing a mask of bewilderment. ‘Mel says you’re not here to see me,’ he said.
‘I didn’t know you worked here,’ Liberty replied.
‘I don’t.’ Jay stood tall. ‘I own it.’
On the one hand it seemed an odd thing to be proud of. A shithole of a clip joint on the wrong side of Leeds. On the other hand, the last time Liberty had seen her brother he’d been a skinny sixteen-year-old, with a chin full of blackheads and a charge sheet full of words he couldn’t spell.
‘Mel says you came to see one of my girls.’ Jay ran his hands through his hair. ‘Daisy Clarke.’
Liberty nodded. ‘I’m sorry, if I’d known you . . .’ She let her words hang in the air between them, like a bubble about to burst.
‘What? If you’d known this was my place, you wouldn’t have come?’ he asked.
Liberty let out a long breath. Put like that it sounded so cold, so blunt, and yet they both knew it was true. She’d made a new life for herself and put the past behind her. And, from Jay’s tanned face and well-defined muscles, so had he.
‘Come on, then,’he said. ‘What gives with Daisy Clarke? I don’t suppose it’s her sparkling conversation you’re after.’
Liberty smiled. Jay had always been a joker. Even when they were growing up, trying to swim through all those endless rivers of shit, he’d made them laugh. Like the time they were all called into the judge’s chambers to say their piece and the judge had been sitting behind this huge mahogany desk, fingers steepled, a grave look on his face, and Jay had let rip with the biggest, smelliest fart, so loud it had reverberated off the walls, making the judge’s glasses fall down his nose.
‘I’m a lawyer,’ said Liberty. ‘I just want to ask her a few questions.’
‘A lawyer?’ Jay let out a low whistle. ‘You always were the brainy one.’
Liberty rolled her eyes. She’d heard it a thousand times. She was the brainy one. Jay was the funny one. Crystal was the pretty one. And Frankie? Well, he was the baby, the one they all loved the best. ‘How is everyone?’ she asked. ‘Did you keep in touch?’
Jay took a step back as if he’d been pushed. ‘Course we did, Lib. Only you took off.’
Liberty’s stomach clenched, the muscles pressing in on the guilt that pooled in there like toxic waste. She had left them here. Yes, she had had her reasons, a lot of them bloody good ones, but she had left them here all the same.
‘Crystal and me run the business together,’ Jay said. ‘She’s got a head for figures and she knows how to get a good deal.’
Liberty laughed. As a kid, Crystal had been a girly girl. All auburn curls and soft lips.
‘I’m telling you,’ said Jay. ‘Since she came on board, we’ve opened four more clubs and a ton of other stuff. She’s hard as nails is Crystal.’
‘And what about Frankie?’ Liberty asked.
Jay’s smile faded. ‘He’s all right.’ From the look on his face, their baby brother was clearly far from it. ‘We look after him the best we can.’ His eyes darted around the room. ‘Look, Lib, shall we get out of here? Get something to eat? Then you can tell me why you’re really here and why you want to talk to Daisy the fucking Dog.’
Sol pulled up outside the Black Cherry, just in time to see Jay Greenwood leaving with a woman. Not his wife and not one of the dolly birds he usually had in tow. This one was smartly dressed in a grey suit and heels, dark brown hair bouncing in glossy waves to her shoulders. The sort of woman who made you look twice. What was that about? He watched them walk up the road away from the club, then made his way inside.
‘Hello, Mel,’ he said, to the woman sitting at the bar.
Mel looked up from the pile of twenties she’d been counting and quickly pushed them towards Len the barman, who popped them under the counter. ‘Sol.’ She got to her feet. She must be over sixty now, and lined as a pickled walnut, but still dressed like she might turn a trick if she needed to. ‘The boss isn’t here.’
‘So I gather.’ He jerked his thumb towards the door. ‘Just seen him with a new lady friend.’
Mel swung her hands onto her hips, making her leopard-print blouse gape open. She was less than five two, even in her heels, but gobby as they came. ‘Do you want something, Sol?’ She stared at him. ‘A bit of fun with one of our girls? A little loan, maybe?’
Sol grinned. Plenty of coppers had reciprocal relationships with places like the Cherry. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. But Sol didn’t play that game and Mel knew it. ‘Kyla Anderson,’ he said. ‘Remember her?’
‘Doesn’t ring a bell,’ Mel replied.
‘Worked here a while ago.’ Sol took a seat next to the one Mel had vacated and waited for her to get back on her own. ‘Sometimes used the name Kiki.’
‘Oh, her,’ said Mel. ‘She didn’t work here.’
A group of men arrived, laughing and shouting as they parted the drape. One of the girls went over to greet them, flicking a long plait down her bare back where it tickled a huge tattoo of a snake wrapped around a crucifix, its mouth open, fangs dripping with blood.
‘I heard she did,’ said Sol.
Mel didn’t blink. ‘Well, you heard wrong. She came here looking for work but I told her to sling her hook.’
‘Why?’
‘We don’t use junkies,’ said Mel.
Sol raised an eyebrow and tried not to laugh.
‘I’m not saying the girls here are angels.’ Mel glanced at the woman leading the men to a table. She was facing Sol now, displaying another tattoo on her thigh: a smoking pistol tucked into a lace garter. ‘What they do in their own time is up to them. But we don’t have the ones who can’t go a couple of hours without a fix. Jay runs a tight ship.’
Junkies aside, Jay Greenwood did indeed run a tight ship. Until a couple of years ago, he’d been no one. A petty criminal who’d barely set off the radar. Then, out of nowhere, he’d bought the Cherry and a few other clubs. Soon enough he had websites set up, selling all sorts. Everything above board. Or so it seemed. There were rumours, of course. Some of the outlandish ones, Sol discounted. (Jay Greenwood might be many things. But a hitman? Nah.) He would not be surprised, though, if the clubs were being used to launder money made from running girls, guns or drugs. Probably all three. There’d been a few efforts to put a case together, but there’d never been the will from the top brass – or the budget to go with it – for a proper job. ‘So you didn’t even give her a try?’ he asked.
‘No point.’ Mel slid off her stool. ‘I could see what she was and Jay wouldn’t thank me for having her round the place. Now, I’ve got to get
back to work, Sol.’
He stood. His time was up. He’d get nothing more out of an old pro like Mel.
As he moved to leave, Mel called to him. ‘Who was it told you she worked here?’
He smiled and shook his head. There was no way he was giving up Daisy’s name. There was also no way that Daisy was wrong about Kyla working here. She’d been too sure. Which begged the question of why Mel was lying.
Frankie chopped out a line of ching with a Nectar points card. He didn’t have a good enough credit history for a credit card, and Crystal wouldn’t let him open a bank account – she’d had to bail him out with the last one – so he didn’t even have a debit card. He snorted the white powder up from the toilet cistern and felt it burn the back of his throat. These days, it didn’t give him the buzz it used to. That was the trouble with using rock – everything else seemed like shite in comparison.
There was a thump on the door.
‘What?’ he shouted.
‘He’s gone,’ Mel yelled back.
Frankie pocketed the Nectar card and sniffed hard. He’d come over to the Cherry to tap up Jay for a bit of cash, but he’d just missed him apparently. Instead the frigging police had walked in so Frankie had made himself scarce. The worst they could do was nick him for a bit of personal, but who needed the aggro?
He opened the door and hawked up a throat full of gunge, spat it into the toilet bowl and walked out. Mel wrinkled her nose at him and flushed it.
‘What did he want?’ Frankie asked.
Mel folded her arms and screwed up her face. ‘He wanted to know about Kiki.’
‘What did you tell him?’ Frankie asked, rubbing his bottom teeth.
‘Have a guess.’
He wanted to smack that cockiness right out of her, but he couldn’t. Jay loved the bones of the sour-faced bitch, looked out for her like she was his mother, instead of some poisonous old tom. If Frankie touched one hair on her head, Jay would go bat shit. He walked over to the bar as if he owned the place. Which he did, in a way. Jay was always banging on about how this was a family business and Frankie was most definitely family.
‘Give us a beer, Len,’ he said.
The barman gave a slow nod and pushed an opened bottle of Becks towards him. Frankie took a gulp and almost spat it out. Warm. Who could stomach warm frigging beer? Last summer, he’d spent a month in Marbella. Jay had sent him. Told him to lie low after a bit of trouble with some bird. He’d been a bit pissed off at being sent away like some naughty school kid, but when he got out there, well, he wasn’t pissed off any more. The sun shone all day, beating down on the white sands. Not that he’d spent much time on the beach after he’d discovered the bars and clubs, where not only was the beer as cold as Christmas but it was poured into iced glasses. That’s right. The glasses had been put in the freezer.
Night after night, he drank and danced. Did as much posh as he could lay his hands on, and drank and danced some more. He got a name for himself as a bad boy and made friends with some of the local faces. Lads from London who knew how to make a few quid and how to spend it. Cars, girls, clothes, drugs.
One night he’d ended up at a party in some massive villa. One of the lads, whom everybody called Brixton Dave, convinced a bird to let them snort lines off her thighs. At first she thought he was taking the piss, but soon she was lying on a sunbed by the pool, skirt hitched up, giggling, as Brixton Dave chopped up coke on her sun-kissed skin. ‘That tickles,’ she’d said, when he ran the edge of a rolled-up fifty across the inside of her leg. Top bloke, Brixton Dave.
Frankie wanted that life all the time. With the businesses doing so well he shouldn’t have to come crawling to his brother for a fiver. It was time for Jay and Crystal to stop treating him like a kid and let him do the necessary. He needed to show them that he knew what he was doing, so he’d already started to put the wheels in motion to get together a sweet little deal. When his brother and sister saw the money coming in, they’d have to give him respect.
He smiled at the thought of it, and caught the eye of one of the girls arriving at the club. She wasn’t as good-looking as the Lithuanians, a bit more battered around the edges.
‘All right, Frankie.’ She sidled over to him. ‘How are you keeping?’
‘Not so bad, Daisy,’ he said. ‘You?’
She pointed to a black eye she’d tried to cover up with makeup so thick it could have cemented bricks, then leaned in to him so close he could smell Juicy Fruit on her breath. ‘I’m feeling a bit shit, to be honest,’ she said.
She looked shit, if he was honest. Her hair needed a wash, her lips were chapped and her see-through top showed only bones and saggy tits.
One of the Lithuanians wandered past, all high cheekbones and smooth thighs. She winked at Frankie but he didn’t wink back. She was a looker, all right, but she didn’t have something that Daisy the Dog would have, no doubt, and that was a blue rock of crack burning a hole in her back pocket.
The sweet and sour prawns were beyond salty. Liberty was on her sixth glass of water. She pushed one of the battered balls across her plate. It left a smear of sauce so orange it would have made William Blake proud.
‘You not hungry, then?’ Jay asked her. ‘You used to love a Chinese.’
She gave a nervous laugh. ‘It’s just all been such a shock.’
He nodded and helped himself to another spoonful of egg fried rice. For the last hour, they’d talked. Liberty had told him about the Rance case, and Jay had told her about a club he was hoping to buy in Sheffield, all the while shovelling down his food. He finally stopped chewing when his phone beeped. ‘Fuck,’ he muttered, as he checked the message. ‘Fuck’s sake.’
‘Everything okay?’ Liberty asked.
Jay’s face had darkened and he pushed away his food. ‘I’m sorry, Lib, but something’s come up and I’ve got to go.’
They both stood, and the moment became awkward. How were they going to leave this?
‘Well, you know where I am,’ Jay said.
Liberty gave a tight smile. They could part now and never see one another again. She would go back to her old life as if none of this had happened. It was obvious that her brother was doing just fine without her. ‘Bye, then,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the bill.’
Jay waved a hand dismissively. ‘I don’t pay in here. Local businesses, you know?’ He paused for a second. Liberty thought he might speak but he didn’t. Instead he made for the door. This was it, then.
Suddenly Liberty grabbed her purse and ran after him. ‘Jay, take this.’
He frowned at her. ‘Behave yourself. I don’t need any bloody money, Lib.’
‘Are you daft or what?’ she said, and handed him her card. ‘These are my details. Phone number and whatnot.’
He took the card and read it. ‘You changed your name, then?’ She shrugged. ‘That’s why we couldn’t find you.’
Liberty gunned the engine and peeled away from the lights. What an unbelievable day! First the hell-hole of the prison and the interview with Rance. Then the meeting with Jay. In a strip club. It was like the Christmas edition of EastEnders.
She needed to lie down and would have given anything right there and then to be at home in bed. Penelope, the cleaner from Zimbabwe, changed the bedding religiously on Mondays and Fridays. Liberty could almost feel the crisp, clean cotton of the pillowcase against her cheek and smell the lavender water Penelope used in the iron. When she graduated next year, she’d get herself a better job, of course, and Liberty would miss her. Now she’d have to make do with the hotel room. Hopefully, the minibar would be well stocked. Maybe Jay’s influence would stretch as far as the Radisson and she’d get room service on the house.
She frowned. Jay would have been well within his rights to refuse even to speak to her. She wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d taken one look at her, turned on his heel and left the club or kicked her out on her arse with a few choice words for good measure. The fact that he hadn’t done either of those things was testa
ment to the sort of person he’d become. Over the Chinese banquet for three, it had dawned on her how much Jay looked like Dad. Not that she’d mentioned it – he probably wouldn’t have thanked her but the thick dark hair and clear unlined skin brought back instant memories of Jimmy Greenwood, although Jay was far quicker to laugh.
Neither Liberty nor Jay had mentioned Dad. Well, what was there to say? The old bastard probably chased Jay around in his nightmares, just like he did Liberty. More than thirty years that man had been giving her sleepless nights.
A flash made Liberty jump. She looked in the rear-view mirror. Speed camera. For the love of God, could things get any worse?
Chapter 4
July 1985
Dr Peters is a dickhead. He keeps asking question after question, his head tilted to one side. To be honest, Mam’s not helping matters with her hands patting her belly and her eyes full of tears. I sigh.
‘Mrs Greenwood.’ Dr Peters leans forward in his chair. ‘Perhaps it might be better if your daughter waited outside.’
‘I want our Lib to stay.’ Mam gulps.
Dr Peters reaches across his desk to where he’s got a box of tissues. Not one of them man-sized ones. No, this box is square and the cardboard is pale blue with flowers on. There’s a tissue poking out and he offers it to Mam. It’s a sort of lilac colour and I wonder if it smells nice. It looks like it should do. Mam takes it and gives her nose a snotty blow.
‘It’s just that this is a very sensitive matter,’ says Dr Peters. ‘I’m not sure a child . . .’
I’ve had enough now. We’ve been here all morning. ‘She’s got to have an abortion,’ I tell him. ‘It’s not my dad’s baby.’
The doctor goes pink.
‘And there’s no way she can pass it off cos the fella she was with is black,’ I say.
‘And is the father of the child aware of the situation?’
I shake my head, so he looks back at Mam.
‘Are you still in contact with this person?’ he asks her, and she bursts into tears.