Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘Are you sure you’re eighteen?’

  It took a huge effort on Tiffany’s part to stay a lovely girl and not yell, ‘Oh bloody hell, mate, not you too.’ Instead she answered sweetly, ‘Yes, I’m eighteen; I’m doing business studies at East London College.’ She always claimed she was doing business studies in these situations; it sounded so respectable.

  He looked doubtful but he fetched the voddy, put it on the counter and then turned to pull the B&H off the shelf. An amateur would have grabbed the bottles and run while his back was turned but she wasn’t an amateur and she wanted the ciggies. As the guy rang up the register, Tiffany pulled her dress up to her waist to expose her underwear and then put her hand down the front of her drawers. She pulled out a flick knife from its hiding place, released the catch and, as the blade sprang, she pointed it at her supplies. ‘What’s this lot come to? Twenty squid? Not worth getting shanked for is it?’

  The man’s expression reminded her of her mum’s when she was acting up: the same weariness and resignation. After a few moments, he raised his hands by way of surrender and Tiffany gleefully grabbed her loot and ran for it. As the door closed, he’d recovered enough to yell, ‘You’re banned!’

  Doubling back, she walked through side streets to get to the local cemetery, a place that she often felt was her real home. The youths who gathered there never asked why she hadn’t been to school, they never told her what to do and, most importantly of all, they never, ever asked her if she was sure she was eighteen.

  The wrought-iron gates were permanently chained shut while the council tried to work out what to do with the disused site. But further down, the high Victorian wall had been caved in where a lorry had hit it. The local authority had half heartedly filled the gap with wire fencing and tape but kids had soon found a way through and made the rambling and overgrown wasteland Mile End’s premier nightspot for teenagers who had nowhere else to go and couldn’t stomach being lonely.

  For despite all the mates she had here, Tiffany was lonely, and bored. Bored, bored, bored. There was nothing to do, so what alternative did she and the kids like her have but to make up their own excitement – create their own, private place. She liked the booze and the occasional puff because it gave her an adrenaline buzz; it made her feel like she was living a life. Now she had this job going from East London to West, her life had moved up the excitement scale.

  In the distance, obscured by gravestones, monuments, trees and undergrowth, she could hear shouts and laughing voices, mixed in with the pulsing beat of Livin’ Joy’s ‘Dreamer’ from an ancient ghetto blaster. For those who wanted to come out and play, it was just a case of follow the noise and you can’t go wrong. But Tiffany had another reason for coming out this evening. She had a job to do with her envelope, and there was someone she needed to see there who could help.

  Five

  Babs popped a couple of Benzos as she watched Dale’s Supermarket Sweep on the VCR, but she couldn’t settle. The pills were for what her doctor called ‘anxiety’. Sometimes Babs felt like her whole life had been one long stress trip. Some would say that she’d brought that on herself, but no one had the brass balls to say it to her face. She sat down, got up, tidied the room, sat down again. Five minutes later she was back on her feet. She made a brew with a splash of Gordon’s, tidied the kitchen and sat down again. Babs was house proud. No one was going to come into her drum and say she was bringing up her girls in a doss house. The dross on the estate might be happy to have folk think their living quarters deserved a visit from the environmental health, but not her.

  Still, she knew that tonight’s spring cleaning blitz had nothing to do with being house proud. When she was feeling antsy, she tidied up; not that there was anything left to do. Her nerves were shot to pieces by one thing – worrying like crazy about her youngest, Tiffany. She had that awful, unsettled feeling in her tummy, the one she always got when she knew her Tiffany was up to no good.

  Her girl had a heart of pure gold, but she was trouble. Whether it was in the West End or Mile End, if there was a problem, her Tiff was smack-bang in the middle of it. It had been a crazy hope to ask Jen to keep an eye on her. Jen couldn’t control her sister, and she had her own life to lead anyway. Babs suspected she had been a bad mother to even think that her youngest would be safer in the adult world of bars and nightclubs with Jen than with that bunch of teenage no-hopers who hung around in the cemetery. But the awful thing was she might be right. At least she had her sister with her in the West End, to stop her falling prey to any bad ’uns and the places they went to were policed by staff and bouncers. No one policed the cemetery, not even the police.

  When teachers, neighbours and the coppers told her to get a grip on her kid, her answer was always the same. ‘What can I do? Please, tell me, what can I do?’ She couldn’t keep the girl under lock and key 24/7. She couldn’t force her to act proper. She couldn’t warn her where this behaviour might end. Plus, she just got a mouthful for her trouble. Jen’s theory was that Tiff would have to learn from her own mistakes, but Babs was afraid that by the time she did, it would be too late; that had been the story over the years for so many of the local kids walking a wonky line. They’d wake up one day in their twenties or thirties and realise they were in a dead end with nowhere to go – if they weren’t already banged up in Holloway or The Scrubs. Babs was desperate for that not to happen to her youngest but she didn’t know what to do to put the brakes on it.

  They had been a close family once. Tiffany had adored her big sister, trailing after her every chance she got. Once upon a time those two had been as thick as thieves. Then Tiffany had gone to that piss-poor secondary school and nothing had been the same again.

  She drifted to her kitchen and peered out of the window onto the communal balcony, willing her girl to magic out of thin air. Fat chance of that happening. But she did see one of her neighbour’s kids who knew Tiffany well, walking along past the window, his head bobbing up and down as he went. She went to her front door and called out to him. ‘Have you seen my Tiff tonight?’

  The kid paused too long before saying, ‘No.’

  Right. Babs went onto the balcony. ‘Is she down the cemetery?’ That horrible, sick sensation in her gut told her Tiffany was in the one place she didn’t want her to be.

  The boy didn’t make eye contact this time but stuck like a rat on stinking rubbish to his story. ‘No.’

  Satisfied that at least she now knew where her daughter was, Babs got her coat, popped another happy pill and headed out across The Devil’s Estate, taking care not to catch anyone’s eye.

  On a side street in Soho, Nuts led Jen and Bex down a narrow flight of steps to a basement entrance guarded by a solid oak door. He rang the bell, a slot opened and two eyes peered out.

  ‘Welcome to the Alley Club,’ Nuts said to the girls, as the slot closed and the heavy door was unlocked and opened to reveal an entrance hall and, beyond that, a badly lit space that seemed to roll back forever. The girls could see a bar and a small dance floor where a few couples were grooving to M People’s ‘Moving On Up’. Nuts made a great play of knowing everyone as he weaved his way through the crowd, proudly whispering to Jen, ‘That guy’s a singer . . . she’s in movies . . . he’s an actor . . .’

  Jen didn’t recognise anyone, but she had to admit that this fella was putting in a real effort. Bex meanwhile had looped her arm through Nuts’ arm. He may be after her gorgeous mate, but she figured he’d soon get tired of Jen’s snob-with-a-gob attitude and settle for her instead. She’d got used to playing second fiddle to Jen over the years. Bex was good-looking and her curves looked shit-hot in her outfits, but Jen always went one better. That was how it was and they both knew it.

  When they got to the bar, Nuts decided he wasn’t waiting his turn and waved his hands in the air and called out to one of the girls serving. ‘Hey, darlin’, how’s it hanging? Can you sort us some snorts here? Being glamorous is thirsty work – you know what I mean?’

  Fla
sh git. But Jen smiled. She did like a confident man. He insisted on buying some over-the-top cocktails that looked more like something raided from the Amazon Jungle with fruit and leaves hanging off them. He produced a large wad, which he was careful to make sure that Jen saw.

  ‘Is John in tonight?’ he asked the barmaid.

  The barmaid didn’t look comfortable, but she quietly answered him. ‘Yeah, he’s around.’

  ‘Cool, I’ll catch him later.’

  As they left the bar area to look for a seat, a waitress bumped into them and spilled a lime-coloured drink down Nuts’ jacket. He shouted at her with such blistering venom it shook Jen up: ‘Oi, darlin’, do you know how much this suit . . .’

  But when he caught the fierce expression on her face, he quickly snapped his mouth shut. The woman was a stunner. Black – well, mahogany brown really – with a Naomi Campbell style full-length weave on. The owner of the club thought uniforms were naff so the waiting staff could wear what they wanted, and this one was decked out in a scarlet leather cat suit and heels that only someone with a perfect body and perfect kiss-my-behind attitude could pull off; this woman clearly had both. One hand was studded with bulky rings on four fingers. There was a flash of dark green in her mostly brown eyes and a piss taker might have said that that flash of green, along with the scarlet leather, made her look like a set of traffic lights. But it was clear no one would dare take the rise out of this chick.

  She looked Nuts up and down, curling her royal plum-coloured lips before snarling, ‘You got a problem?’

  Nuts didn’t have a problem; in fact, he promptly apologised, although the incident hadn’t been his fault. He used a silk hanky to wipe his suit. The waitress looked at him like he was dirt under her kitten heels. She looked at Jen, gave her a knowing smile and shook her head to show what she thought of the guy. Then she was gone.

  Nuts looked over his shoulder and whispered, ‘Bitch’ as she went, although he took care to make sure she didn’t hear him. But he was also unable to resist the temptation to watch her pert, tight backside for a few seconds as he did so. My oh my, that booty knows how to work the room.

  Nuts escorted his guests over to a sofa where he sat down between them. He was now anxious to get rid of Bex but wasn’t sure how to do so without looking too obvious. ‘John’s the owner,’ he explained, ‘a good mate of mine actually.’ He looked around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. ‘Although, if I’m being straight, he’s well dodgy. A major league Face, he runs his crew out of this club. He’s got a finger in everything: you know, motors, naughty deals, the works. He’s tried to persuade me to set up shop with him, but I’m not interested, I’ve got other plans.’

  Jen nodded, took a sip of her drink and asked pointedly, ‘So, are you well dodgy too then?’

  ‘Me? Dodgy?’ Nuts crossed his heart. ‘Are you pulling my chain or something? I’m as straight a winner as Oxfam’s ‘‘straight guy of the year’’ award.’

  He was pleased to see her smile. Not ear-to-ear like a moron, but just a smile that tilted the corners of her delicious mouth. He might not have her hook, line and sinker but at least she was looking at the hook.

  ‘No, I’m going to the top alright,’ he carried on, ‘but I don’t need to break any laws to do it. I’m starting my own firm.’ He looked around the club with pride. ‘And when I’ve made my pile, I’ll probably come back here, buy this place and get John to work for me.’

  Nuts waited patiently for Bex to go to the ladies and when she did, he seized his chance. He snuggled in close to Jen and suggested, ‘Listen, why don’t you and me lose your mate and head off somewhere a little more cosy?’

  He felt her body stiffen. ‘I don’t think so. Actually we’ll be heading home soon.’ She performed a yawn for him and explained, ‘It’s past my bedtime.’

  His lips were only inches from her cheek. ‘I’m glad you mentioned bedtime, it saves me having to do it.’

  ‘Sorry, it’s not your night, I’m afraid.’

  ‘OK, how about I call you then?’

  ‘I’m not on the phone.’

  ‘I could meet you somewhere?’

  ‘I’m very busy at the moment.’

  He pleaded with a smile, ‘Oh come on, babe, gimme a break. I’m working my arse off here. I’m fully house trained, Scout’s honour.’

  She turned and gazed into his big blue eyes that looked like a puppy desperate for a pat on the head. And she did kind of like him. It didn’t seem to matter how often she knocked him back, he kept bouncing up and that’s always flattering. He seemed determined to make something of himself and if you took things at face value, it appeared he was already on his way. He was good-looking and a cut above the caveman East End yob she was used to, who she refused to go out with. Her dreams didn’t include having a yob as a daddy to her kids. But there was something about this bloke that wasn’t quite right; she couldn’t put her finger on it. It was like her mum had always warned her: the flasher the mouth and clothes, the lamer the heart and soul. But when he took a lock of her hair between his fingers and rubbed them together and whispered again, ‘Gimme a break . . .’ she nearly weakened.

  Their moment was broken by the sound of shouting over on the dance floor. They both turned to see the Naomi Campbell-wannabe waitress in a violent argument with a man and his friends.

  ‘You grab my arse again and you’ll be leaving minus your fingers,’ she growled.

  The man let out a raucous laugh, winking at his mates. ‘Come on, black beauty, you should be grateful for my attention. It’s a step up from being a waitress.’

  Without another word, and as other revellers scattered, she clenched her fist and threw a right-hander that caught the well-built man square in the face and sent him reeling backwards. He crashed into a table and chairs where he collapsed in a heap, clutching his bleeding nose and face where her multiple rings had gouged out his skin. As a group of the club’s heavies emerged from the shadows to restore order, the woman turned on her victim’s friends.

  ‘Do you want some too, eh? Do ya?’ She kissed her teeth – the Caribbean equivalent of tutting, with knobs on – dripping derision and disdain.

  It seemed they didn’t want some. They backed off and raised their hands. The woman turned and delivered a violent kick to the arse-grabber’s ribs. ‘Learn some fucking manners, you damn fool.’

  ‘Come on, we’re out of here,’ Nuts said alarmed and grabbed Jen’s palm in his. ‘John doesn’t like trouble in his club and that bird looks like proper trouble and no mistake.’

  Six

  ‘Oi, Miller?’ the woman growled. ‘I want a word with you.’

  There were only two reasons anyone walked around The Devil’s Estate after dark – either they were looking for trouble or they wanted to avoid it. As soon as Babs heard the voice, she knew she’d found trouble. She stopped walking down the slip road off the estate, that led to the cemetery, and stared hard at the middle-aged woman coming towards her in a right huff.

  The woman was Melanie Ingram. She lived in a block on the other side of the estate – thank God – and looked like a reject from the 1980s: big shoulder pads, even bigger teased hair and huge, wild, gobstopper-sized eyes. This mad bitch saw herself as the Joan Collins of The Devil’s Estate. Christ almighty, Babs didn’t need this now. There had been bad blood between both families since Babs’ husband, Stanley, had been around. Really bad blood.

  Babs stood with her arms folded while the other woman crossed over. They stared each other out for a few moments before Melanie snapped, ‘Keep your skank kid away from my girl or there’s going to be a blow up.’

  This fat slapper didn’t scare Babs Miller. Her husband would have done, but he wasn’t around anymore. ‘Oh really? From what I hear, your daughter’s well trouble on her lonesome and don’t need no one else. Is it true that she’s got her own team of social workers now? That’s a shame, isn’t it?’

  Melanie Ingram drew closer. ‘Whoever you’re hearing those fuck-off stori
es from, you want to tell them to shut their lying gob. But it’s gonna be true if she hangs around with your thieving, smacked-up kid. So you tell her straight from me, if she doesn’t stay away from our Stacey I’m going to come around your gaff and show her what it’s like. Do you understand?’

  Babs tutted. ‘Hmm – the slacker the bird, the harder the patter. I’ll tell you what, sweetheart, any time you feel like coming around and showing anyone what it’s like, feel free. We’ve all got our problems and I fancy taking mine out on an old trout like yourself. By the way, how’s that old man of yours? Still popping home from time to time, well bladdered, and giving you a kicking, is he? Or is he too busy now with his much younger piece of snatch?’

  Melanie Ingram shook with anger. She was so close now that Babs almost passed out from the stale beer fumes coming off her. ‘I mean it. Keep her away from my Stacey.’

  ‘Why don’t you get back on your broomstick and fly away?’

  Bab stood her ground. She wasn’t going to bottle it. She wasn’t scared of this sorry excuse for a woman who’d been beaten left, right and centre by life. If she put one finger on Babs – one little touch – everyone would find out who put the name Devil in this estate: she would beat the living daylights out of her.

  But she was saved from having to roll up her sleeves when Mel stomped off. In all the years they’d been scrapping, Babs and Mel had never actually come to blows; it was almost as if they had an unspoken agreement not to go there. And there were times when Babs realised how stupid their feud was; both women were in the same boat really, with two tearaway teens who kept head-butting life. But then again she and Melanie Ingram had a history. A bad history.

  Babs shook off the past as she continued her journey to the cemetery. Her heart sank and her pace quickened when she saw two cop cars parked by the entrance. The police had unlocked the gate and were trying to manage the growing crowd of teenagers inside who wanted a ruck and were goading the boys in blue with insults from all sides: