Blood Daughter: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Three (Flesh and Blood series)

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  John sipped his ‘diet cola’ before mumbling, ‘Old age pension? Well, that’s hardly worth hanging around for nowadays, is it?’

  ‘Your one is. Go and throw the booze down the sink and do yourself a juice, one of those green ones with spinach.’

  John looked relieved when his mobile went off. He checked the number, took the call and began laughing. ‘Alright mate? Yeah . . . I’ve just been watching it on the news. What a bunch of amateurs. Nah . . . they won’t have known it was there. I’ll tell you bruv, if there’s one thing harder than stealing bullion, it’s getting rid of it afterwards . . . I know! That’s what I just told the missus. I mean seriously, no one’s gonna touch that are they . . .?’

  He walked over to Dee and gave her his glass of brandy and Coke. He held his hand over the phone and told her, ‘I’m off to the gym to have a few turns on my exercise bike. Happy now?’

  ‘Who’s on the blower?’

  John shrugged. ‘Just a mate, that’s all. Blimey, coming to something when a bloke can’t take a call from a mate . . .’ The tone of his voice changed. ‘Someone was telling me they saw Nicky in London the other day having a whale of a time with a real lively crowd.’

  ‘Well that someone must be on crack coz you know Nicky’s in Sheffield doing us proud at university.’

  ‘That’s what I told ’em.’

  As he turned to leave Dee shouted, ‘Oi,’ and pointed at him. ‘And lay off the sauce.’

  Dee knocked back John’s brandy as her thoughts turned to Nicky. Fancy her having a boy at university. She loved their adopted son to bits. He hadn’t really taken to school, but after Babs had been sentenced he’d surprised her by putting his head down during his GCSEs and getting some good grades. Now he was studying Media Studies, whatever that was.

  On an impulse she got her mobile out and gave him a ring. ‘Nicky baby?’

  ‘You alright Mum?’

  She could barely hear him – Rihanna’s ‘Unfaithful’ was playing loudly in the background. ‘You at a rave or something?’ Although she didn’t want him to have a life that was all work and no play she hoped he weren’t taking the piss. That college course was setting her and John back a pound or two in fees and the like.

  ‘Nah, just in the student bar with a few mates, chillin’ after a late night lecture about how the media can manipulate the public . . .’

  A delighted smile made Dee’s face glow as she listened to him chatting away, although she didn’t fully understand what he was talking about. But that’s what he was meant to be doing at uni – becoming a smart arse.

  ‘Look Mum,’ he said hurriedly, ‘Got to run. Love ya. And Dad.’

  And before she could utter another word he cut the call. Her fingers tightened around the phone. Who would’ve thought that small boy her and John had rescued from his nan’s flea-infested home after his dad’s death – which she didn’t allow herself to think about – would turn into such a boffin. Nicky had done the family proud and as far as Dee was concerned he could do no wrong.

  Nicky threw his mobile on the bed and smiled at his girlfriend, Angel.

  ‘Was that your mother?’ she asked him.

  He blushed slightly. He didn’t want Angel thinking he was a mummy’s boy. ‘Yeah, she just wanted to catch up with me.’

  She turned her eyes to him and he caught his breath. Those baby blues of hers did him every time. They’d caught his attention that fateful night he was out raving. She was as sexy as hell but it was her eyes that drew him, large and wide and glittering with fun and life. And naughties.

  ‘You’re going to have to tell her the truth sooner or later,’ she said quietly as she caught his hand. Her thumb felt like a gentle kiss as it caressed his palm.

  ‘Let’s make that later. Much later.’ His own eyes glinted with mischief as he pushed her back on the bed.

  She let out a squeal of pure pleasure as he got down and dirty on top of her. Nicky had played the field hard, but this woman was something special. Unlike a lot of his previous ladies she made him laugh and knew how to push his have-a-good-time button. And she never talked about forever after. In fact, he was the one who was starting to think of forever after with his beautiful Angel.

  Seven

  The following Wednesday, a jubilant but nervous Babs was escorted down the corridor by a prison officer. She couldn’t believe she’d managed to wangle a private visit with her daughters. She’d given the governor some BS about being on the verge of self-harming if she didn’t see her girls. Babs hadn’t held out much hope of it working, but the Number One had been sympathetic and caved in.

  She snapped smartly out of her thoughts when she heard jeering. Ahead in the corridor stood three fearsome inmates. It didn’t take her long to suss who was Queen Bitch. She was a large woman with hair shaved at the sides and spiked in the middle and tats popping all over her body. She was what Babs thought most prisoners would look like when she’d entered the system.

  ‘I see new meat has arrived,’ tattoo woman said in a sarky, sweet voice with no smile.

  ‘Fuck off Benson,’ the officer ordered.

  ‘Woo-hoo,’ the women all chorused nastily back.

  Benson wasn’t letting up. ‘She your new girlfriend Miss?’

  The officer was not amused. ‘I’ve told you to do one.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Benson sneered.

  The group swaggered towards them, their hard gazes fixed on Babs all the way, sending chills through her. That Benson looked like a right animal.

  ‘I’ll be seeing you Babsie,’ Benson called in a sing-song tone as they moved past.

  She knows my name. Babs swallowed deeply. She didn’t need any aggro in here. So far Kieran hadn’t sent a new guardian angel to protect her. If it hadn’t been for the fearsome Mrs Regan watching her back under Kieran’s say-so in HMP Shithole, Babs wasn’t sure how she’d have made it through. Babs knew how to give as good as she got, but in here brawling was no holds barred.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Babs asked, desperately trying not to show how much she was bricking it.

  They’d reached the empty visiting room. The kanga answered, ‘That’s Paula Benson, aka Knox Benson. They call her Knox because she can knock someone out in two blows. Stay well clear of that one. She’s nothing but trouble.’

  Jen’s feet were murder by the time she neared the prison. The tip of her left wedge pinched the corn on her big toe. Half a bloody hour it had taken her to walk the two miles from the railway station. She’d wanted to take a cab but she didn’t have the cash to spare on a luxury like that. Dee and Tiffany had both offered to give her a lift but then Jen felt she had to offer them petrol money and she hated it when they said, ‘Oh, don’t worry about it, save your pennies for yourself and the girls.’

  She couldn’t handle their pity or being poor. It’s another knock back every day when you’ve got no dosh. And what made it worse? Her sisters were always flush. No stomping a couple of miles for those two; they’d both be turning up in their motors. Dee in that fuck-off convertible, Tiff in her hot hatch. Good for them, of course, but it just rubbed her nose in it how badly she was doing, busting a gut bringing up two kids on a dump like The Devil’s Estate.

  Jen was limping by the time she saw her sisters waiting outside the gate. Dee was a knockout, as per usual, the white, lacy tunic over her leggings showing off the richness of her brown skin. She was blinged out in large hooped gold earrings, twisted chain and Blahnik mirrored heels. Her weave was done up all Beyoncé flyaway girl style. Tiff’s jet black hair was held back in a Croydon facelift – a stretched-up ponytail that pulled on the skin of her face – and she wore designer skinny jeans and ballet pumps. Tiffany might’ve moved on from her tearaway youth but the strapline on her T-shirt still hinted at her days of being a bad girl – ‘My Chemical Romance’. She was also sporting a nose ring these days.

  Jen became very self conscious of her off-the-peg dress and yonks old jean jacket. Her sisters wore oversized shades while her eyes were re
d-lined from sleepless nights.

  ‘Wotcha Jen. Like the dress.’ That was Tiffany.

  ‘You’re looking good girl,’ added Dee.

  She took a deep breath. She knew they were both lying out of their rear ends; she looked like a chavette and she knew it. ‘Yeah. Whatever. Are we doing this or what?’

  While Tiff passed over her V.O. to the officer at the reception, Dee whispered, ‘How’s my two princesses? Do they need any help with anything?’

  God give me strength. Jen clenched her teeth in extreme aggravation. She knew that Dee loved her girls to death and was a bang-up aunt, but she hated it, loathed it when her half-sister made her feel like she couldn’t take care of her own kids. This was how it always was. Jen refused any help from her sisters for her sake but she didn’t feel able to refuse it for her Courtney and Little Bea. At the same time, she was too proud to say yes and too poor to say no so they all kept up the fiction that the money they gave her was a loan, although they knew that Jen would never be able to pay it back. Sometimes Jen hoped that a wealthy and handsome prince would sweep her off her feet and allow her to tell her sisters where they could stuff their cash. But she was old enough to know princes only existed in fairy tales. And if they did exist they wouldn’t be caught dead near The Devil.

  ‘That’s nice of you Dee. Later eh?’

  Mercifully, it was her big sister’s turn to show her V.O. After Jen was done they put their valuables and forbidden items, such as mobile phones, in private lockers in the Visitors’ Centre. As per usual, Dee started making noise about having to leave her mobile behind.

  ‘Give it a rest will ya,’ Jen snapped. Her head was throbbing like crazy.

  Dee gave her a killer look that would’ve stopped most people in their tracks. ‘Something wriggling round the hairs of your va-jay-jay? You’ve got a right cob on you.’

  Jen’s shoulders sagged slightly. ‘Sorry. I’m just dead on my feet is all.’

  Dee’s face creased with concern. ‘You want me to look after the girls for you? I can take ’em shopping up West.’

  Again with the help! ‘No ta,’ she let out evenly. ‘I thought we were here to visit Mum, my kids can manage thanks.’

  Then she marched back over to the reception in case her mouth got her into some serious shit with Dee; her half-sister wasn’t a woman to cross. Jen joined the line for security. As the person ahead of her went through a high-pitched screech sounded from the metal detector.

  ‘For crying out loud,’ Jen mumbled, her patience wearing thin. What could the problem be now? Someone’s tongue stud? It turned out to be much more serious than that – a mobile phone. The offender was dragged off shouting the odds to anyone with an ear that they’d forgotten to put it in a locker. Yeah, likely story.

  Ten minutes later, Jen and her sisters were shepherded into a small room. Even Jen had to laugh when she discovered that they had a private room to meet their mum. It seemed what they’d read about this open prison being cushy was true.

  Their mum was already waiting for them and her face lit up when she saw them. ‘Come here,’ she announced, her voice cracking, opening her arms wide. After she’d given each a tight hug they settled down. ‘How are the girls? Courtney doing alright?’

  Jen couldn’t understand why her mum always asked after her eldest more than Little Bea. Babs hadn’t seen her grandkids since she’d gone down. She refused, resolute that she didn’t want them seeing their Nanna Babs locked up.

  Jen hesitated before saying, ‘Oh, they’re good.’ But she couldn’t help adding, ‘Well, you know, as good as girls of that age can be. There’s always gonna be a few wrinkles to iron out as they grow up . . .’

  Babs stared knowingly at her three daughters. ‘I know exactly how many wrinkles you need to iron out of girls of that age or indeed any other. Been there myself. But they’re happy?’

  Jen hesitated again. ‘Yeah, they’re alright.’ She didn’t want to burden her mum with how Courtney was getting out of hand. There’d be time enough for that when Babs finally got out, sooner if she wangled parole. Then Jen had to put up with Tiffany and Dee telling their mum about their latest well-funded adventures. Dee and John had been to Istanbul for a long weekend while Tiffany was planning on getting a new car, something a bit ‘sportier’. Jen listened in resentful silence until the subject was changed to their mum’s new home.

  ‘I’ve no complaints here ladies. You wanna see my room – some on The Devil would likely wanna trade places with me. Far less argy-bargy in this joint. Although there are one or two . . . or three who think they’re Top Dog.’

  Dee cut in, ‘Get the Number One to sort their arses out.’

  Babs shook her head. ‘It don’t work like that in here. People who tell tales end up with a snitch badge on their lapel and no one wants that.’ She covered Dee’s hand. ‘I’m alright love. Keeping my head down just like I did before.’ She pulled her hand back, no doubt remembering the rule about no physical contact. ‘They’ve sorted me a lovely job to prepare me for life on the outside. I’ve started working at a memorial garden a couple of miles away. Don’t know how that’s supposed to prepare me for a new career. Not much call for gardeners in Mile End. Still, better than playing table tennis with the other girls. I’m a bit crap at that.’

  Tiffany was excited. ‘So, come on Mum – what did the jam roll board say?’

  ‘It’s gonna be a while before I hear which way it will swing, but I’ve done a proper portion of my time and have got an unblemished record, so it should be a done deal.’

  Jen seethed silently. Babs could’ve told her this on the phone. She loved seeing her mum, but the truth was she didn’t have the type of spare dough needed to come up here just to hear her mum natter bloody away about her new career clipping roses in a friggin’ park. She stared up at the watermarked ceiling and wondered what she could have spent the train fare on instead.

  She’d had enough of this run around. Her chair screeched as she stood up. ‘Well, this has been fun Mum but I’ve gotta get back. I had to switch to the evening shift to make up my hours.’ Tiff and Dee got to their feet as well.

  Their mum sat up too, her face looking very solemn between them. ‘There’s something else I need to discuss with you.’ Suddenly her face brightened into a smile as broad as Mile End Road. ‘My boat’s come in and I intend to spread the love around. Now sit yourselves back down and cop an ear on. I think you’ll like what you’re about to hear . . .’

  Eight

  Babs felt like the cat with the cream when her daughters parked themselves round the table again. She wanted to rub her hands in glee; they were going to be chuffed to bits at her news. What person in their right head wouldn’t be? She’d used the cover of the parole to mask the real reason for this family sit-down, as her news needed to be managed face to face. She loved her girls but they were so different. Dee had a big personality, big heart, but also a big temper. Tiff was sharp, but – Babs hated to admit it – she could be a sly one at times; you couldn’t always turn your back on her. And Jen . . . sadness tugged at Babs’ heart. Her Jennifer was too soft-hearted for her own good. Look how that dickhead of an ex-husband had treated her before Jen had finally given him his marching orders. The poor love looked like life wasn’t worth living anymore. What would it do to Jen if she ever discovered her and Courtney’s secret? Just thinking it made Babs’ tummy knot up.

  She set a huge smile on her face. ‘I’ve got some cracking news ladies. As chance would have it I’ve come into possession of some property.’

  ‘Whatcha mean, property?’ Tiff interrupted, her face full of doubt.

  ‘Like a caravan?’ Jen added.

  ‘Me? In a camper van?’ Dee wrinkled her nose in distaste and kissed her teeth. ‘Not in this life or the next.’

  Babs held her hands up. Once she had their full attention again she continued. ‘It’s a couple of houses. In London.’

  ‘Where in London?’ Tiffany had her sly look on.

  ‘That d
on’t matter.’ She didn’t want to answer any awkward questions about how the houses had ended up in her possession. ‘And I tell you why it don’t – I’ve decided to shift ’em and split the money equally between my three lovely daughters to do with as they wish. With a bit of luck and the right buyer, they should fetch nearly a million apiece. Now then, what about that?’

  There was a stunned silence. Tiffany rubbed her hands as she rocked back in her seat. ‘Fucking hell! That’s . . .’ her eyes roved around as she did the sums in her head, ‘two-thirds of a mill each. Fucking fantastic. When’s my share coming?’

  Jen and Dee didn’t utter a word, which worried Babs again. They should be jumping all over the gaff like her youngest, but they both looked like someone had stolen their winning lottery ticket. They’re probably in shock, Babs decided, just like she was when she found out about the houses.

  ‘Ease up girl,’ she answered eager beaver Tiff. ‘The places need freshening up so I’m having them done over first. Probably stick ’em on the market later this year, I’d imagine.’

  That wiped the happy-clappy expression right off Tiff’s face. ‘Later this year? That’s stupid, that is. Get one of them estate agents round there pronto and let’s cash in.’

  Babs sighed inside. Typical Tiffany. ‘If they’re done up first, we can get the best price for them. Best price means more money and you do want maximum wonga . . .’

  ‘Yeah, but . . .’

  Babs cut across her and turned to the other two. ‘Don’t you agree girls?’

  Dee raised her hands in disbelief. ‘I’m sorry Mum but where did you get two million quid’s worth of bricks and mortar from? That don’t make no sense.’

  Babs was ready for this. She was the only person left alive who knew where the houses came from. The real owner, her late ex-husband Stanley Miller – God rot his soul – had signed them over to her in the ’70s as part of a scam he was running. She hadn’t realised at the time. Of course in those days, two, run-down Georgian houses in the East End were virtually worthless, which probably explained why he forgot about them when he fled to Spain. When he returned, twenty-odd years later, they were worth a fair bit of poke and he’d run another scam to get his greedy mitts back on them. Him and that evil bitch Florence – the bastard in more than one sense of the term. It was only when Babs was on trial for killing Stan that her brief had found out that legally the houses were hers.