Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  ‘Stop,’ Nuts barked as they reached a beautiful, quiet clearing where as a child he’d romped around while his nan sat on a log drinking Sanatogen’s Tonic Wine straight from the bottle. ‘Take all your clothes off.’

  The other man’s face went even paler as he started to beg, ‘Please. I don’t know what this is about, but I’m sure we can get this all sorted out like gentlemen—’

  Nuts stormed up to him in three, big strides. ‘You want me to take your fucking eyes out with my bare hands you’re going the right way about it.’

  Liam furiously threw off his jacket, so Nuts stepped back until the other man stood naked as the day he was born. Nuts wrinkled his nose at the flabby skin on display. ‘On your knees.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Isn’t that what you told Jen Miller to do? Get on her knees so she could suck your diseased dick?’

  Liam shook his head like crazy. ‘She got it wrong. I would never—’

  Nuts pulled back his fist . . . Liam got on his knees. He shook so badly that Nuts thought he was going to fall down. ‘You’re a dirty old man through and through, preying on young girls who are just looking to better themselves. I should really cut your tackle and balls off . . .’

  Liam started crying; great, hulking sobs that shook his body from head to toe. Nuts leaned down and whispered in his ear, ‘It doesn’t feel good, does it, when someone has control over you? They can do what they want and there ain’t a bloody thing you can do about it.’

  Nuts pulled himself straight, suddenly feeling a wave of disgust that he was breathing the same rotten air as this pathetic man. He got on with what he had to do. A few seconds later he started peeing all over him. Liam collapsed as he bawled like a baby.

  Nuts kept up a steady stream as the words poured out of his mouth. ‘That’s all you’re good for, Liam boy – to be pissed on. Makes you feel dirty, don’t it? That’s how every girl you’ve ever forced to touch you feels. Dirty. If I was you, I’d hand in my notice tomorrow and never set foot in the East End again, because let me tell you, if I set eyes on your ugly mug again and hear that your willy’s been going walkabout, you’re going to find out what I can really do with a blade.’

  Satisfied he’d put the fear of God into this snivelling excuse of manhood, Nuts finished up and cheerfully whistled as he walked away.

  Twenty

  ‘I want to see the guy in charge,’ Tiffany demanded boldly to Man-donna in the Pied Piper.

  Tiffany might be giving it the big ‘I Am’ to his face, but inside she wasn’t so full of it. When the message had arrived for her to pick up another package she got dead worried about the cops, and Mickey Ingram. If she put a step wrong she knew that Mickey was going to have her. She could still hear Stacey’s screams and moans in her head, sending a chill through her. What an animal. If he was willing to give his daughter a kicking, what would he do to her, someone who was no blood relation? He wasn’t the type of geezer she could walk up to and say she wanted out. And Tiffany wanted out. Revenge on Stacey’s dad would come later. For now, saving her own skin was enough and that meant having a little chat with the man in charge. She’d triple checked once she got near the pub, to see if there was any law around, and when she decided the coast was clear she’d gone in there and made her demand.

  The buffed, smooth-skinned man in front of her let out a nasty laugh. ‘The guy in charge? You mean the landlord?’

  ‘No, I mean whoever’s running the envelope business.’ Tiffany was hanging tough but it was coming out wrong and she knew it. ‘I ain’t taking nothing until I have a bit of face time.’

  ‘Oh I see; you want to talk to him do you?’

  Tiffany’s confidence grew and she nodded, like she was the big girl on the block. ‘That’s right.’

  Abruptly her contact turned and started walking away.

  ‘Hold up, where are you going?’

  ‘I thought you wanted to talk to the boss?’ he answered without turning back. ‘Better follow me then, hadn’t you, sweetheart.’

  Tiffany followed him to a corridor in the back and up a narrow staircase until they hit the top floor. He stopped at a door and shoved it open. Hand still on the doorknob he ordered, ‘In here then.’

  She hesitated for a few seconds, then got her confidence back into gear and waltzed past him into the room. The room was empty except for a wreck of a chair, a battered-looking table and partially opened window.

  Tiffany swiftly turned back around, saying, ‘What the heck—?’

  But she never finished because he grabbed her by the back of the head and frogmarched her towards the large, single window. Tiffany was completely taken by surprise by his actions; he’d looked more like a fella who was interested in a tub of Nivea than getting into a ruck. Tiffany fought him all the way, her fists punching any part of him she could reach, but he might as well have been made out of stone for all the notice he took of her flying fists. When they reached the window he pushed it fully open with one hand and tipped her head out into the cold air.

  Tiffany’s heart dropped in her chest. Her life flashed before her eyes. She remembered the number one lesson she’d learned about life – never, ever, show you’re afraid. But fear nearly crippled her when he started lifting the lower half of her body up. If she was going down, she was going down fighting. She tried to thump him a good one in the balls but he held his body back and at an angle that made it hard for her to connect to him. She flicked a foot backwards to kick him in his belly, but all she met was empty air. He pushed her once, twice, then she was hanging out of the window.

  ‘I thought you were alright and didn’t ask silly questions.’ He growled. ‘And now you come strolling in here, as cool as you like, and ask to speak to busy people who are out of your league. I’m afraid that’s rank bad manners. Now why don’t you catch some air and have a think about what you’ve said?’

  The blood rushed to Tiffany’s head making her dizzy as she viewed the world upside down. She’d seen the world from this position once before when she and her mates had played Dare Ya on the roof of her block. But no one was being dared here.

  Her arms hung heavy and hurt as they swung by her side. Her hair stuck out, including the wisps on the back of her neck. She clawed against the walls, scraping some of the skin off her palms, as if that was going to save her. She was terrified but she still had enough spit to scream, ‘I’m going to rip your bloody head off.’

  Above her came a snigger and the loosening of the grip on her ankles. She dropped lower until she was hung out by her feet, like a piece of meat in the butcher’s. She cried out as she bounced into the wall and then back out again.

  ‘Having a think about things down there, are you? Is the fresh air clearing your head?’

  ‘Sod you!’ she screamed back.

  One of his hands released her so that she was dangling by one leg. Tiffany’s heart fell lower into her body. Mistakes happened in these kind of games. Victims ended up dead. If her broken body was found in the courtyard below, the staff would sort a story out: ‘She was a suicidal druggie, officer. We tried to save her, but what could we do?’ Then she’d be forgotten. Only her mum would know better, stroking her hair down the morgue and whispering, ‘Stupid girl. If only you had listened to me, Tiff, you’d have never come to this.’

  ‘Have you done some thinking?’ her tormentor shouted.

  Tiffany held back the stream of curses in her mouth. ‘Yes, I’ve done some thinking, I’ve done some thinking.’

  He had the nerve to laugh at her and grabbed her other leg so she was more secure. ‘Just do your job, love, and keep your snout where it belongs. And don’t come up here again with any silly requests, wasting everyone’s time.’

  ‘I only wanted to talk to him—’

  He shook her. ‘You don’t need to talk to anyone. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yeah, I get it.’ Her tummy started to roll; if she didn’t get inside soon she was going to puke.

  ‘That’s more like it. You see? I knew you could be a goo
d girl if you put your mind to it.’

  She let out a thankful breath as he started reeling her back in. Inside she collapsed against the wall, her legs too shaky to hold her up. He loomed over her like a figure from a nightmare. ‘Do you know how many people would kill to get a job like yours? There’s a queue a mile long of them. Fuck off downstairs and wait for me by the bar. And don’t make me do that again, or you really will get to meet the big guy – and there won’t be any talking going on, let me promise you.’

  Tiffany got to her feet and staggered towards the door. On the next floor down she bumped into two women who were holding hands. They looked shocked by the state of her. One of them asked with mother hen softness, ‘Are you OK? What happened?’

  But Tiffany wasn’t in the mood to explain herself to no one. She’d been a prize plonker. Even at her age, she should have known better than to ask to see the top dog. And there was always the danger that word would get to Mickey Ingram and then she really would be in the doo-doo. She slumped up against the bar, her weakened legs barely able to support her weight. The place had filled up since her little adventure upstairs. As she waited for the envelope, she noticed a woman she hadn’t seen before sitting on her own in the corner, watching her intently while stirring the drink in front of her. Tiffany avoided her gaze.

  Man-donna arrived with her envelope, but nothing else.

  ‘Oi, where’s my dosh?’ Tiffany cried out.

  He pasted a nasty grin on his face. ‘It’s been decided that little girls who come in here shouting the odds don’t deserve no pocket money. Your reward is that you’re still able to walk.’

  Tiffany didn’t argue. Through tight eyes she watched him go off to the other side of the bar and start chatting to someone else. She wasn’t interested in who he was jarring with, and the guy’s face was obscured in any case. She needed to try another tack and she wasn’t sure what that was going to be.

  As she left the pub, she couldn’t resist turning to check out the woman who’d been eyeing her up. She was still there, watching Tiff with hooded, clinical eyes. A paranoid Tiffany picked up speed, reached the door and opened it, turning once again to look at the woman. But this time, the woman was gone.

  On the other side of the bar, John Black’s guy Knobby only half-listened to Jeff as he stared hard after Tiffany’s retreating figure. He knew the teenager hadn’t seen him, but he’d seen her.

  Jen was halfway through washing her hair when there was a knock at the front door. She groaned. Why, oh why, did someone have to come now? She’d been feeling really down about her fashion dreams going down the pan and was trying to pep herself up with that conditioner Bex had gone on about – the one that promised to give her Cindy Crawford look a bit of ‘bounce and shine’.

  ‘Mum!’ she yelled, before remembering that Babs had gone across the road to her cleaning job. There was no point shouting for her sister who would only curse back at her.

  The knock came again, so she wrung out her hair and headed for the door.

  ‘Nuts!’ she exclaimed. He was suited and booted and had a big grin plastered over his face. She touched her dripping hair self-consciously, knowing she looked a real fright.

  He bustled inside without her asking, but made no move to go to the sitting room. Instead he proclaimed, like he was in front of an audience. ‘Get your coat, my one and only, we are going on a trip.’

  Jen frowned, ‘What are you going on about? You said you would call me.’

  ‘Ah ha, all will be revealed if my queen will allow me to escort her to my chariot.’

  Jen couldn’t help grinning back; he did make her laugh. Not that that meant she was going to start dating him or anything.

  ‘Even if I wanted to – which I’m not saying I do – I couldn’t go out with you; I’m flippin’ dripping all over the shop.’

  ‘Shop,’ he gave her a hundred watt smile and raised a finger dramatically in the air. ‘The magic word.’

  ‘Magic . . . ?’ Jen shook her head in confusion, with a touch of frustration. ‘I haven’t got a clue—’

  ‘Please, Jen.’ His smile had disappeared replaced with that lost puppy expression that squeezed her heart.

  ‘But I look like I’ve been dragged out of the canal in Vicky Park.’

  Those gorgeous blue eyes of his began to glow. ‘You could have chickenpox all over your face, babe, you’d still look heaven to me.’

  Nuts certainly had the patter to turn a girl’s head, which she liked. None of that moronic ‘How about it then?’ that came out of the mouth of the likely lads around here. ‘OK, but I’ve got to blow-dry my hair first.’

  Twenty minutes later, with Jen dressed to kill and Meatloaf’s ‘I Would Do Anything For Love’ playing on the car radio, they were motoring away from Mile End towards . . . well, Nuts wouldn’t reveal where they were going. They kept up a steady stream of chatter until Jen realised they were in the West End.

  ‘You taking me to that swanky club again?’ she asked, buffing up her hair.

  ‘Better than that.’ He mischievously winked at her.

  Jen didn’t know what he was up to, but he’d taken her mind off the disaster that had become her never-gonna-happen fashion career and she was grateful for that. Her face lit up when she realised that they were just off her favourite place in the world: Bond Street. If you were starting in fashion this is where you wanted to be – among the high-end, exclusive fashion shops. Oxford Street did clothes; Bond Street did designer. She’d often come down here on her own, wander around with her head stuck in cloud nine, staring dreamily into the shops. Sometimes she would close her eyes and see herself dolled up, all pretty and elegant, working in one. Then her eyes would sadly open. A girl from the East End was more likely to get an invite to the Queen’s tea party than end up working on this oh-so-famous London street.

  Nuts parked his Merc on a side street near a small Greek restaurant. ‘You bought me all the way here for some nosh?’

  He just smiled. She was getting a bit tired of him smiling and not letting on. ‘Your palace awaits you.’ Jen rolled her eyes and got out of the car after him. Nuts grabbed her hand and hustled her quickly along the street and then turned into Bond Street. The place was teeming with people and the occasional flash car with a chauffeur in peak cap standing beside it. This was the life – if you had plenty of poke in your pocket. Jen couldn’t help the excitement that throbbed through her as her eyes darted around. Gucci, Versace, Lagerfeld – they were all here.

  She couldn’t stop the excitement in her voice as she turned to Nuts. ‘Is that what we’re doing here? You going to buy me a classic bit of clobber?’

  Nuts just laughed as he pulled her along, then he took her into another side street and stopped halfway down, outside a designer shop. It was called Dominique, the name in bold, gold letters underneath a large pane window that showcased designer women’s wear and some jewellery. Inside a security guard was stationed near the glass door. Before Jen could question Nuts, the security guard smartly opened the door and he pulled her into Dominique’s. The soft light from the fancy light fittings and central chandelier gleamed on the ultra-clean, marble-tiled floors. Clothing was laid out like it was art and there were rows of neatly folded clothes on teak wooden shelves. Two shop assistants were fluttering over a customer who was a walking advertisement for money.

  ‘So this is the young girl you told me about?’ Hearing the soft, French accent, Jen spun around to find an old woman with a silver-topped walking stick standing near an open side door. The woman might be old but she stood straight and breathed old-style Hollywood glamour. Her grey-haired, 1920’s flapper-style bob lay around a strong face, its only make-up red, red lips. Her dark brown eyes were as fresh as a person’s half her age and her triple-tied pearl necklace showed off her long neck and simple black dress. Now that’s how Jen wanted to look when she got older.

  Nuts gently walked Jen closer to the woman. ‘This is Madam Dominique, who knows the fashion industry from top to botto
m. She’ll show you the ropes, Jen, during your work placement here.’

  Jen’s mouth opened, but no words came out. She couldn’t believe what he was saying. He didn’t mean . . . ‘You’re having me on, Nuts?’

  ‘No he’s not, my dear,’ Dominique answered as she slowly ran her eyes over Jen, assessing what she saw. She moved slowly towards Jen and then placed a long finger under Jen’s chin, lifting her head slightly. The older woman stayed like that, her gaze looking Jen over as if she was administering a test. ‘You look familiar . . .’ But she shook her head as she lowered her hand. She looked Jen directly in the eye. ‘You’ll do. For the time you are here, I will teach you much of what I know. You start tomorrow, at eight-thirty on the dot.’ Then, with an elegant turn, she moved back towards the door and left the room.

  Jen was incapable of speaking. This was a wind-up, right? This couldn’t be real. Someone had offered her a placement. On Bond Street. In a designer shop. And Nuts . . . Dizzy with joy, Jen flung her arms around him almost toppling him over.

  ‘Hold up, girl,’ he said with a laugh, ‘this is a respectable establishment.’ He grabbed her hand again and they exited the shop.

  Once back on the street Jen finally found her tongue. ‘I can’t thank you enough. Me, on Bond Street! I can’t wait to tell Mum.’ The joy slipped away from her face. ‘But I can’t take it, because I’m not in college anymore—’

  ‘You don’t need to worry about that scumbag tutor of yours. I saw him straight.’

  ‘You didn’t do him a mischief did you? If the cops come after you—’

  ‘They won’t,’ he reassured her. ‘Let’s just say he’s learned the error of his ways. You go back to college because he won’t be coming back.’