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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘Nicky, a word if you please,’ he called, deciding his moment of precious peace was up.

  The water splashed as Nicky heaved himself out. As John gazed at the boy, who in his opinion looked like a wet Greek god, he couldn’t help thinking that his old man would’ve been proud of him. John didn’t often let his mind wander to Chris because it hurt so very much. Chris had been more than a lieutenant to him, he’d been like a brother. He’d had to do what he’d done, but it didn’t make the pain of dealing with it any better.

  Nicky picked up his half-drunk rum and pineapple cocktail and lay back. ‘Has Mum asked you to give me the third degree?’

  ‘She’s only worried about you.’

  ‘I ain’t going back Dad,’ Nicky said stubbornly.

  ‘Between me and you son, I never wanted you to go from the off. I’ve never trusted a geezer who had his head stuck in a book too much, unless it’s the accounts of his business. A man should know how to use his hands other than for turning a page, know what I mean?’

  Nicky sipped his drink. ‘That’s what I told her. I ain’t one of them poshos. No word of a lie Dad, there’s this one, when he talks it’s like he ain’t even moving his lips. And then I can’t make out what the eff he’s going on about.’

  A huge smile transformed John’s face. ‘I remember this one time, me and your old fella were in that club I used to own, The Alley, one Saturday night. There were a bunch of upmarket blokes in there. Anyroads, one of ’em, Toby Farquhar La-di-da-da or something, made the mistake of handling your mum’s aris.’ Nicky was wrapped with wonder like he was a little kid hanging on a bedtime story. ‘You should’ve seen her knock him flying. Cut his leering face to shreds with her rings.’

  His tone became sombre. ‘See, that’s the thing about your mum, she had it tough when she was growing up. Sometimes the only way she could defend her honour was with her fists. She don’t want that for you. Neither did your other dad.’

  Silence sat uncomfortably between them at the mention of Chris. ‘If you ever want to know about him,’ John finally said, ‘you come to me.’

  ‘What was he like?’ There was a slight hesitation in Nicky’s voice.

  Puffing on his cigar John started reminiscing about Nicky’s blood father. For a good half hour he had his son creasing up with funny stories, his mouth and eyes going wide with amazement at their daring exploits.

  ‘I wished I’d known him for longer,’ Nicky said quietly when silence descended again. ‘I can’t even remember his face.’ His voice shook at that simple statement.

  ‘Don’t matter. Where you have to remember him is in your heart. And talking of hearts, your mum has got it into her nut that some bird is at the root of why you want to say ta-ra to university.’

  Nicky went straight into denial mode. ‘No way. I—’

  ‘You know what Chris said to me once: ‘‘I can always tell when my Nicky is telling a porkie. His voice goes high and he starts talking like the clappers’’.’

  Nicky groaned, knowing the game was up. ‘Her name’s Angel.’

  ‘And is she the reason you ain’t going back?’

  ‘Not really . . . well kinda. I felt like a total wanker in uni, but she makes me feel . . .’ John noticed the poor lad’s ears pinked over. ‘Nice. Good. Makes me laugh.’

  ‘Your mum might feel better if she knew more about this Angel. Why don’t you bring her round for tea one night.’ Seeing the sceptical expression on his son’s face he added, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll tell her to be on her best behaviour.’

  There was no doubt about it, John decided, his boy looked like he was head over heels for the first time.

  Twenty-Seven

  Tiff couldn’t believe her luck. The hottest girl in The Bow Bells was coming on to her with the force of a runaway train. Not bad for a Wednesday lunchtime. Toot! Toot! You can get on my track any day of the week babe! Tiff’s usual type was short-cut blonde, but this one was all wavy long dark hair, sexily flicked over one shoulder.

  ‘I’ve seen you at The 343,’ hottie said, naming a club Tiff often went to up West, an exclusive lesbian hangout. She’d have to be blind to miss the blatant invitation in the woman’s caramel eyes.

  Tiff wasn’t sure if she was in the mood for some lovin’, but she certainly needed something to take her mind off her money troubles. She’d been lying low and looking over her shoulder trying to avoid serious damage.

  ‘I’m not looking for no long thing.’ Tiff made her position clear. This was one sexy Susie, but she wasn’t the settling down type.

  The woman smiled back as she dramatically flicked her hair off her shoulder, her shimmering, pink nails flashing. She leaned into Tiff, boobs first. ‘Do I look like an everlasting type of girl, sweetie?’

  Nuff said; they took it back to Tiff’s drum across the road. She was in pure bliss as they got their kit off in record time and started snogging on her bed.

  The woman suddenly crawled backwards, purring like a kitten. ‘I’ve got a few toys with me. Let me get them. Why don’t you shut your eyes for my surprise?’

  Tiff was into that. She closed her eyes.

  ‘You have been a naughty girl Tiffany,’ growled a rough, male voice.

  Her eyes slammed open to find two men standing in the doorway. One was black, the other white, but other than that they were almost the same. They were decked out in matching navy Hugo Boss suits and skinny, burgundy ties, polished, black ankle boots and snarls that slashed their mouths like scars. Tommo and Errol.

  Tiffany snatched up the duvet over her naked body. ‘What do you want?’

  The woman from the bar materialised behind the men and said, ‘Sorry about this darlin’. It’s just business.’ Then the bitch was gone.

  Tiffany knew she’d been royally stitched up and would have to drum up some of that old Tiff street magic to tough her way out.

  The men inched closer in unison like robots. Tommo said, ‘It’s always such a bummer coming looking for money.’

  ‘And you owe us quite a bundle,’ Errol chipped in, ‘so where is it?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware fellas, I still have another month to deliver the cash.’ Tiff kept her voice nice and calm.

  ‘You what?’ they burst out together.

  ‘That’s what the fella behind the bar at The Bad Moon told me when he gave me the loan. It’s him you wanna have a pow wow with. When I’ve got the readies I’ll slap it into your eager hands.’ She knew she was spouting utter bollocks, but it was worth a try.

  Errol turned to his partner and mimicked her voice, ‘When I’ve got the readies I’ll slap it into your hands.’

  ‘Oh she will, will she?’ Tommo added with a strange wriggle of his head. He ripped the duvet back.

  She quickly put her hands over her boobs and bush. ‘I ain’t scared of ya,’ she threw out defiantly. And she wasn’t. She’d been in plenty of scraps in her time including being hung out of a window. If Tweedle dick brain and Tweedle numb nuts thought she was bricking it they didn’t know Tiffany Miller.

  Tommo tutted at Errol. ‘I hate it when they get like this.’ He gave Tiff his full, menacing attention again as he started to undo his belt. ‘You ever had a hard dick up that cunt of yours?’

  ‘Bet she never has.’

  Now she was scared. Shock shivered through her. No way. That wasn’t going to happen. Tiffany inched back. ‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement.’

  He undid his zip. ‘I like this arrangement. We fuck you every which way till Sunday and then you still give us our money.’

  Tiff sprang off the bed, but Errol caught her by the arm and chucked her back. She trembled as they stood over her. ‘Please, don’t do this.’

  Her answer was Errol grabbing both her arms and pinning them to the bed. Tiff fought like a banshee, but she couldn’t dislodge him. Tommo got his cock out. It was ugly. Looked like something the butcher would sling on the offal heap. He grabbed her kicking legs and shoved them apart. She cried out as he ground his hip
s against her.

  ‘Never had a dyke pussy before,’ he mocked her.

  His mate sniggered. ‘I heard they have canines. Rip your tackle right off ya, so better watch out.’

  Tiff whimpered and sobbed, knowing there was no way to get out of this. She’d only ever been with a boy once when she was fourteen. She’d hated it then and knew she would hate it now. Just the thought made her want to puke.

  The man moaned as he took his cock and started masturbating. Tiff was shaking like crazy; she couldn’t believe this was happening to her. He groaned for God knows how long and then a sickening splash of wet hit her tummy. The shame of it almost made made her cry. But she stemmed the tide of tears. Not on her life would she give them the pleasure of seeing her blub.

  There was a knock at the front door. He got off her and did himself up. He leered down at her. ‘The next time, if you don’t give us our dough, we’ll take you somewhere where the geezers won’t give a fuck whether your cunt’s as sharp as that tongue of yours.’

  ‘Give a fuck,’ the other giggled, ‘that’s funny.’

  The knock came again, more furious this time.

  They left a trembling, shattered Tiffany on the bed. She heard the door open and close. She curled up into a ball and now allowed herself to cry. She’d really got herself into the shit this time. But where was she going to get the money to get out of it?

  ‘Tiff?’ Her head jerked up when she heard the soft voice.

  ‘Stacey? What you doing here?’ Snot ran from Tiff’s nose. She grabbed the duvet to cover what the man had left on her body, but from the look in Stacey’s kind eyes she knew she’d already figured it out.

  Her former bestie marched in. ‘What did those baboons do to you?’

  ‘I owe ’em money. A lot.’

  Stacey shook her head. ‘Errol and Tommo are a right pair of proper nutters. The only reason they let me in was coz they knew my dad.’ Mickey Ingram might be living it up in Portugal but people still remembered that his family were off limits.

  ‘They were gonna rape me. I’m in trouble. Big trouble.’

  Stacey’s face grew sad as she took Tiff into her arms.

  ‘I thought you were in a bit of a pickle,’ Stacey said after Tiff had spilled her guts, ‘that’s why I popped around.’

  They sat in the den, each nursing a glass of lemonade shandy topped with ice. Tiff wasn’t sure how she felt about her former best mate being in her gaff, but she was glad she’d come around when she did. Who knows what might’ve happened if she hadn’t started knocking at the door?

  ‘But I don’t get it,’ she said slowly, ‘how did you know those nutters were here?’

  ‘I didn’t. When you came to see me about the loan for Jen, I suspected that was pure bollocks, so I checked our blacklist and there your name was. I came around to see if you needed some help.’

  Tiff’s heartbeat sped up, seeing all her troubles solved. ‘You mean you can get the dosh for me?’

  Stacey put her glass down and shook her head sadly. ‘No can do. It’s against the company’s policy. I’d give it to you from my own pocket. Trouble is I’m not packing that kinda cash.’ She looked around the room. ‘But I don’t get it. You’ve got all this gear and rent this drum, so how come your pockets are bare?’

  Tiff shrugged, humiliated that she was having to explain herself. Anyone else she’d have told to mind their own, but not Stacey, especially after she’d saved her from those goons. ‘I got in over my head.’ Seeing the other woman’s raised eyebrows she stubbornly added, ‘Ain’t nuthin wrong with wanting a taste of the good life.’

  Stacey sighed. ‘Only it ain’t the good life if you’re up to your neck in debt to a couple of heavies who will fuck you over to get their dosh back. It seems to me that the number one question you need to be asking is how you’re gonna get out of this muck-up?’

  Tiff thought for a while. ‘You know what they say, Stacey girl, where there’s a will there’s always a door marked exit.’

  Twenty-Eight

  ‘Courtney,’ Jen cried as soon as she got in from the hairdressers.

  She’s already been in the sitting room and couldn’t see her daughters anywhere. If Courtney had gone AWOL again she’d . . . Jen opened her girls’ door to find Little Bea reading, as per usual, and her sister sitting cross-legged plugged into her CD player.

  She pointed at Courtney. ‘Right, get them earphones off. Me and you need to have a word.’

  Little Bea put her book down and gazed at her mum in wonder. ‘Cor Mum, I like your hair.’

  Jen self-consciously puffed up the ends. As she’d promised herself, she’d used some of the money from Naz’s job to give herself a little makeover. Nothing too much, just enough to make her stop feeling like a drab. It was a short-styled Keira Knightley do, dyed a plum red, spiked at the crown with longer layers combed sideways. She’d never had such a short crop before and at first she’d felt naked, but seeing the look of approval on Bea’s face made her feel all modern.

  ‘What did you say?’

  She turned back to her other daughter. No comment about her hair. Oh, well! ‘We need a word.’

  Less than a minute later they were on the sofa together, Courtney slouched slightly back in her usual disrespectful pose.

  ‘Tomorrow you’re off to see a counsellor.’

  ‘You what?’ Jen pressed her lips together with satisfaction when that got Courtney sitting up. ‘I ain’t seeing no counsellor. There’s nuthin wrong with me.’

  Jen became stern. ‘You will see her and that’s final. I’ll drop you off. Her name’s Sally Foxton. She sounds nice.’ Her voice softened. ‘You need someone to talk to.’

  Courtney shoved up in a huff and a few seconds later Jen heard her bedroom door slam. She didn’t get up like she usually would. After what she’d put herself through to get this counsellor Courtney was going whether she liked it or not. And now she was finally sorting her girl out it was time for her to insist the houses got divvied up five ways.

  John was about ten miles from home, the rain really coming down, when he clocked that the motor behind was following; well, that’s how it looked to him. The other car was a tasty bit of kit, a black Merc with smoked glass windows. John set his mouth into a grim line. Whoever was tailing him was a prized plonker because by the time he got through with their high-end car it would only be fit for the knacker’s yard.

  John wanted to make sure that he had the right of it so he took his motor into a sharp turn down a country lane. His mood darkened as the car behind followed. He knew it could only be the owner of the gold, or someone he’d paid to tail him. John knew one thing – he was going to be very, very sorry.

  He flicked his gaze down to the baseball bat tucked under his driver’s seat for emergency situations. He brought the car to a skidding halt, picked up the bat and stormed out into the rain. Then he belted towards the Merc, which had shuddered to a stop.

  He held the bat menacingly high as he confronted the occupant. ‘Open the fucking door, or I’ll smash this piece of crap to pieces.’

  There was a click and the driver’s door opened up. With a growl he shifted closer.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ he said as he saw the shooters the two women in the back were pointing at him.

  The man in the driver’s seat asked, ‘Johnnie, is there a problem?’

  There was only one person who called him Johnnie. He switched his gaze to look at Uncle Frank.

  ‘I didn’t know you were back in town, Uncle Frank. I would’ve rolled out the red carpet. It’s a bit late to be calling.’

  They were making their way to the bar and snooker room. John was a bit uneasy because it wasn’t like Uncle Frank to not let him know when he was visiting. This man meant the world to him. They’d met when a young John had tried to pick the older man’s pocket. Of course he didn’t know that he was choosing the wrong mark; if anyone knew about scams it was Uncle Frank. He’d grabbed John by the shirt and given him a cuff around the head. Uncle Fran
k had seen that he was half starved and taken him to a basement brothel in Bethnal Green where the ladies had fussed over him. When John had found out who it was he’d tried to roll he’d been scared out of his bony wits. Uncle Frank was a living legend in The Green. He was a man who would give his last bob away but also one that you crossed at your peril.

  He must’ve seen something special in John because when John fell out with his drunk of a father, and word reached Uncle Frank that he was sleeping in any dark doorway he could find, the older man had taken him in hand. Uncle Frank liked the ladies but had no wife, so they’d become a pair. Where you saw Frank McGuire you saw his ghost John. Everything he’d learned about the business he’d learned at this man’s knee.

  ‘It’s never too late to catch up on my old mucker’s news,’ Uncle Frank answered as he wandered over to the black-and-white photo of the Henry Cooper and Muhammad Ali fight. ‘I was there that night back in ’63.’

  The other man had told him the story many times but John played along. ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘He was called Cassius Clay back in those days.’ Frank became wistful at his memories. ‘That was a night my lad. Packed it was. When Henry hits him with his famous left hook, which was called ’Enry’s ’Ammer, and Clay goes down, you should’ve heard it, thought the bloody roof was gonna blow off.’ He gave the photo one last look and then parked himself down comfortably on the leather chesterfield.

  John turned to the bar. ‘What can I get ya?’

  Frank tapped his nose. ‘Shouldn’t really you know – doctor’s orders. But seeing as it’s you, I’ll have a Bacardi. You remember how I like it, don’t ya?’

  John chuckled. ‘What do I look like? Someone who lost their brain?’

  Frank winked at him. ‘So, what’s happening in Johnnie Black’s world? How’s that wonderful Dee of yours doing?’