by Julie Shaw
She looked down at Joey, who was stirring now the pram was suddenly stationary, and wondered for the umpteenth time whether the sight of him would change anything for Mo. Not with her – she was done with him. She was unshakeable on that point. But as a fatherless child she had a strong sense of outrage that while he cruised around in his fancy drugmobile, dispensing favours to those who pleased him, his son – his flesh and blood – had no such advantages. No, he was forced to live in a shithole, with his penniless mother. It was all wrong. All wrong. It was criminal, in fact. There should surely be a law, shouldn’t there? If there was any kind of justice. To make shits like him support their offspring.
Her anger made her stronger. She started walking once again. He must see Joey. Must be made to meet his warm, innocent gaze. Try to hold it, if he was man enough. At least for long enough to understand that he had a fucking responsibility.
Joey’s eyes were closing again, so she shook his rattle as she walked. Another gift from Nicky, the thought of which made her bullish; thank God that Joey had a half-decent uncle, at least. ‘That’s it, baby,’ she cooed at him, determinedly not looking over at Mo now. And was rewarded with both the eyes and a beatific smile. ‘That’s the way,’ she said, smiling back at him. ‘Let’s show him, shall we? Let’s show him just how beautiful you are.’
More so than she was, she thought miserably, despite knowing she shouldn’t even care now. But she did. Whatever else she wanted it was for Mo to realise what he’d lost. But here she was, looking shit, the sour tang of Ajax probably still clinging to her. In grubby jeans and Nicky’s elderly bomber jacket. Which probably stank as well, she thought wretchedly – she wouldn’t know, would she? Because her senses were so dulled now. It also drowned her, hanging off her shoulders like her dull, uncut hair.
Smoothing her fringe back, she crossed the small stretch of road that still separated them and wondered quite what she might usefully say to him, given that ‘fuck you’ was probably best saved for another day.
She regrouped as she approached him, finding strength in the fact that, close up, he did look a little ruffled. Nothing like scared, or even anxious – just ever so slightly off balance. She could tell from the way he quickly scanned the area around and above them, including the balconies, and she knew in that instant that it was because above all things, Mo had to have the upper hand whenever in public. He aspired to it anyway, but on the street it was essential. And she suspected, most of all, that he was expecting a row off her. Which is why she decided not to give him one.
‘What you doing round here?’ she asked, feigning surprise. ‘Not your usual neck of the woods.’
He took another drag from his cigarette while he studied her. Then threw it to the ground and screwed the heel of his boot into it. At no point did he so much as glance at the pram. Then the familiar slow drawl. ‘The fuck’s it gotta do with you?’ he asked her amiably.
Christine felt the adrenalin flooding through her and gripped the pram handle tighter. He’d been almost like a father to her, for such a long time, and then a seducer. A groomer. Shape-shifting seamlessly from one to the other, she realised. ‘Why are you being suck a dick?’ she asked, the words seeming to come from her mouth unbidden. ‘And why don’t you look at your son?’
That’s what really struck her. That she’d known Mo for years – he’d been a constant at home right through from her early adolescence. She knew his mannerisms. Knew his style, and how he got what he wanted. So she really didn’t expect what happened next. Quick as lightning, he shot out his arm and grabbed her by the throat, then squeezed steadily, his face expressionless, almost until her eyes bulged.
‘You silly little fucking slag,’ he hissed, his face looming so close that she could smell him. The same smell. The same aftershave. It took her back, even as he gripped her, to the night he’d come on to her. And on to her, and on to her, telling her she was beautiful and that he ached for her. Had ached for and ached for and couldn’t stand it any more. That same night she caved in and gave in to him, high as much on his adoration as the alcohol he’d plied her with so steadily. As dizzy with lust as she had been from the wine. That night when a part of her knew, even as he feverishly tugged her clothes off, that it would destroy everything. That she should fight him.
That night when she hadn’t.
He shoved her against his car, loosening his grip only once it was clear how hard she was struggling to breathe, her hands pinging off the pram handle automatically, for fear of toppling it.
‘My son? If I hear you say anything like that again, I’ll kill you,’ he said slowly. ‘You got that?’ He let her go then. Put the back of his hand against his mouth and cleared his throat politely. ‘Now fuck off, and take your little bastard with you.’
Christine glanced up to the balcony automatically. Was anyone witnessing this? Nicky, maybe? But no. As she should have realised. He’d already checked that no one was around. She grabbed the pram handle again, glad Joey had been unable to see it either. Though the thought re-fuelled her anger, just imagining how things could so easily pan out. She’d heard more than enough stories about men who knocked their women around. She didn’t want that for Joey. She wasn’t having that for Joey. She was as well rid of Mo as was her mam. She turned the pram. ‘Fuck you, you black bastard,’ she said through gritted teeth.
She heard him laugh. ‘Black never stopped you before,’ he said. ‘… By all accounts.’ She carried on walking as he continued to taunt her. ‘What’s next? Bit of rough? Toothless dope heads? You know – what with you shacked up with old blow job himself. Classy. You mucky, fucking tart.’
Christine didn’t turn the pram around and back through the entrance doors as she normally would. Just used it to force the doors open. Her eyes pricked with tears and her whole body shook now. What a bastard. What a wanker. What an evil fucking shit. Now she did back up, in readiness for bumping the pram back up the stairs. He was exactly where she’d first spotted him, lounging against his flashy car, another fag already on the go. She paused to wipe her nose against the sleeve of Nicky’s jacket. Now she could smell it. It smelt of rancid chip fat and smoke. Of sweat and utter hopelessness and poverty.
‘Whoah! Slow down a bit, will you, sis? Hold your horses!’
It was dark. Proper dark, which had happened without her noticing, any more than she’d noticed the comings and goings that had punctuated the bright afternoon. ‘Gi’s it here,’ she commanded, keeping tight hold of the crack pipe, her mouth already watering at the popping sound that came from it, as once she had responded at the sound of the ice-cream van.
So this was what it was all about. This is what she’d been missing. Why had she never realised just how good it was? She felt euphoric. Loved the warm, rosy glow that now enveloped her. Loved the sense of peaceful contentment. She glanced around her. She was among friends. That was all that mattered, ever. The flat was filled with friends – rich with friends, dripping with friendship. Friends who all cared about her. Friends who wanted nothing more than for her to be happy. Her and Joey. Who was content, too. Fast asleep in the bedroom. Sleeping the sleep of the contented while they partied on without him. And there was music – a little cheesy, but then that was Brian for you – and the booze and drugs were seemingly never-ending and she didn’t know where one moment ended and another one began. All she knew was that she was safe, warm and loved.
Christine had never known anything about coke. She’d only ever known enough to know she didn’t want to touch it – bar the odd spliff Nicky pressed on her, she really didn’t do drugs. They were altogether too scary.
‘But do this,’ Nicky’d said, when she’d come up, snivelling and gulping, from the car park. ‘Honest, sis, do this. It’ll make you feel better. Do it. I promise. It’ll help. It really will.’
It turned out that Nicky had seen everything, such as it was, and had been quick to reassure her it was nothing. ‘Course he’s not going to kill you!’ he said, even smiling as he said it.
And despite him laughing at what she’d said – ho, ho, ho, wasn’t it funny?! – she’d then started sobbing all over again.
But then, when she’d stopped, and she’d made up Joey’s bottle, there seemed a definite satisfaction, even if the logic of it was shaky, in accepting Nick’s offer of a try of some coke – some of the coke Mo himself had graciously supplied to them. ‘Like, to get him back,’ Nicky said. ‘Because it’s pure and we’re going to cut it, and it’s kind of like it’s Mo who’s paying for the party.’
Which it wasn’t. Far from it. He’d be pocketing a decent profit. But the idea still appealed to her, in a ‘stuff him’ kind of way. And she’d taken it, snorting it first, using a rolled-up fiver to suck it up her nostrils from the coffee table, just as she’d seen Nick and Brian do, and bit by bit everything had gradually got better. And better still. Better than things had seemed in a long while. And within the hour it had become her new best friend.
Like pretty much everyone else, Christine was oblivious to the doorbell, the music drowning everything else out. Brian had bought himself a birthday present (as no one else had) of a record. Which he kept playing, over and over. Time had warped now. Christine wasn’t sure if the song was on repeat or just going on and on and on. It was called ‘Tainted Love’ and it felt so appropriate. Dancing along to it felt almost like a rule.
There were fewer people now. She was dimly aware of a couple of people leaving, but there still seemed a lot of bodies strewn around. There were a couple comatose on the futon, and at least four or five laid out on the floor, limbs splayed as if slung there, like a row of carcasses in an abattoir. But half a dozen of them were still smoking and dancing and giggling, because it was a party, wasn’t it? And she had to, had to, had to dance. And it didn’t seem to matter – was hilariously funny even – that one or other of them would periodically lurch and knock something or other over. The coffee table had long since been toppled onto its back.
It was Brian, in the end, for whom the knocking filtered through. He was suddenly at the record player, having slid the volume slider down to zero, plunging the room and Christine’s senses into silence.
He put a finger to his lips and Christine giggled. ‘What’s up, you divvy? Turn it back up!’
Brian’s upper body swayed. ‘Someone’s banging at the door,’ he slurred. She thought she could actually see his brain trying to focus. ‘That’s the coppers, that,’ he said. ‘I’d know that knock anywhere.’
Behind them, unknown to them, for fuck knew what reason, someone else had already gone and opened the door.
‘Indeed it is, lad,’ said the policeman who now stood before them. There were two more behind him. They looked dark and stern and huge. Christine found herself wanting to giggle again. She clamped her mouth shut.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Nicky asked, looking pained. ‘This is a private party. We’re not doing owt wrong.’
Christine, gathering her thoughts, stole a glace to the coffee table, which was conveniently resting on a pile of detritus that included the pipe, the crack cocaine and what was left of the weed.
‘There’s been complaints,’ one of the officers said, casting his eyes around the room. ‘The music. Folk running in and out. You’re causing a disturbance.’
Christine struggled to pull her mind to order. Someone had flicked the light switch – one of the coppers most probably – and in the sudden glare her thoughts immediately went to Joey. The place must stink of weed, she knew, and if Nicky got arsey they could get arsey too. Start looking around. Then they could all be in big trouble.
She stepped forward. ‘We’re sorry, officer,’ she said, adding a bright, apologetic smile. It’s his birthday,’ she said, gesturing towards Brian. ‘And it’s all just gone on a bit longer than we thought. We’re about done, though. No more music. We’ll wrap it up.’
Christine had no idea how deformed and slurred her words might have sounded. But they’d come in the right order and apparently at the right time, because the officer to the left of the trio winked at her. She wasn’t sure if he was being fatherly, or something else (she did have a skimpy top on), but either way she made the most of it and smiled shyly back. ‘It’s Brian’s birthday party and it’s gone on longer than we thought. We’re about finished now, though, so, no more music, is that okay?’
‘Right, well …’ said the first officer, who was obviously in charge. ‘So long as it’s home time for everyone. And I mean it. No ramping it up again once we’re gone, okay? You’re done.’ He looked at Christine, presumably assuming she had the power to achieve this. ‘We’ll be parked downstairs for a bit, okay? And I expect everyone to leave quietly.’ He then looked at Brian again. ‘You’re Brian Giles, aren’t you?’ he asked, as if it had only now occurred to him. ‘And this is your flat.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
Brian nodded. ‘Yeah, it is, mate, and like she said, it’s home time.’
‘Right, Brian,’ the copper said. ‘I’ll hold you to that. And you can count yourself lucky that we’ve got another call to make in here and are too busy to deal with the fact that it stinks like a bleeding cannabis factory.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Or you’d be getting a warrant for your birthday, and all.’
The party guests left soon after, and, true to the copper’s word, the police car sat four floors below them, for as long as it took to chivvy the last revellers out, half of whom were in such a deep, drug-enhanced sleep that it was like trying to wake the dead.
It was a good half hour before the three of them had the place to themselves again, and, fired up by their lucky escape from what Brian kept deadpanning was ‘the long arm of the lawwwww’, even did a little cursory clearing up.
Then they flaked out on the futon, all three of them. Christine felt a little nauseous now, a bit dizzy, and in dire need of a glass of water, but finding it impossible to complete the thought process that would see her actually go and get one, let the spinning in her head float her away.
‘Fucking great party,’ Brain said.
‘Agreed, mate,’ Nicky answered.
‘A great night,’ Christine added. ‘Bloody brilliant!’
And though she was dimly aware of a sound that might be Joey grizzling in the bedroom, she couldn’t complete the process that would actually see her get up and see to him. So she drifted off to oblivion, the smile still on her face.
Chapter 12
Apparently there was going to be a tornado. Or so they were saying on the telly, anyway – in fact, several of them were on the way, and Nicky glanced out of the flat window reflectively. The quarter light was open, despite the bitter cold. Though he couldn’t remember who had opened it, much less when.
It was getting dark, and with the flat unlit, he was drawn back to the glowing screen – smiling to himself at the agitated-looking reporter, wondering idly what it might be like to have a tornado blow through Bradford. Would the flats stay up? Or might they be all blown away? Off to Oz. Now that would be pretty trippy.
He’d no energy to move, and had no idea where Brian was currently, but a snuffle from close beside him made him turn his head. Christine had been out for the count for ages – whether from drugs or lack of sleep he had no clear idea. He was only just coming round from the monster fix of heroin he’d taken – as far as he could recall – before dawn, and which had taken up most of the day.
A red triangle sign was flashing up. And the words ‘Severe weather warning’. ‘Set to hit almost anywhere in the UK,’ the weather man was saying. ‘Most likely strong and in clusters.’
He shook his sister awake, so he could share the compelling news with her. ‘Hey, sis,’ he said. ‘Look. We’re going to be hit by tornadoes. Look! I’ve never seen a tornado before. It’ll be good.’
She mumbled something but seemed disi
nclined to move. Her lips were dry from sleeping so long with her mouth open.
Nicky ran his tongue around his own lips. He was pretty parched as well. He needed to stand up, go into the kitchen and get himself a glass of water – all of which still seemed too much effort. He managed it eventually, however, pausing only to ping the living-room light on, which produced a predictably angry whimper from Christine.
It was shit, this kind of come-down. Just about everything felt like too much effort. And seeing the state of the kitchen only made the impression worse. That was the thing, Nicky decided, as he fished around in the washing-up water for a glass to rinse out. It was the scale of it that caused the problem. The thing that stopped him from starting. If it was a manageable amount of mess he could deal with it – would deal with it – God knew, he felt guilty enough that Chrissy ran around him and Brian the way she did.
But there was just so much mess, and it occurred to him that she didn’t do that quite so much now. That, actually, these days, she was often as pissed up and stoned as they were.
He spied Joey’s bowl – or, rather, the bowl Christine habitually used for him. It was caked with something – perhaps Weetabix – and it crossed Nicky’s mind that, with Christine completely out of it, it might have been a long time since he’d been fed.
Yet the baby was quiet. Not a peep – well, not as far as Nicky could hear, anyway. Which struck him as odd. Shouldn’t he be screaming blue murder?
He drained the glass he’d filled, then refilled it and drank thirstily again, before shuffling off to Christine’s bedroom (he no longer saw it as his) dizzy from the effort, and anxious about what he might find, and wondering if a snort of coke would help things along.