Acid Row

by Minette Walters

  She must have been mad to leave Amy with them . . . ‘Well, at least she’s got a mother,’ she spat. ‘Where’s yours, Kimberley?’

  ‘None of your sodding business.’

  Anger made her vicious. ‘Of course it’s my business. I wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t abandoned you to have babies with someone else.’ Her eyes flashed. ‘Not that I blame her for leaving. What do you think it feels like to be known as the mother of Miss Piggy and Jabba the Hutt?’

  ‘Bitch!’

  Laura gave a small laugh. ‘Snap. But at least I’m a thin bitch. What’s your excuse?’

  ‘Leave her alone,’ said Barry angrily. ‘She can’t help being heavy. It’s rude to call her Miss Piggy.’

  ‘Rude!’ she echoed in disbelief. ‘My God, you don’t even know the meaning of the word. Food’s the only word you understand, Barry. That’s the reason you and Kimberley are heavy.’ She put sarcastic stress on the words. ‘And of course you can help it. If you used some energy to clear up once in a while you’d have some excuse – ’ she pointed an angry finger at the dirty plates – ‘but you stuff your faces all day, then waddle away from the trough as if some servant is going to clear up after you. Who do you think you are exactly?’

  She had promised herself she wouldn’t do this. Criticism was corrosive, eating away at self-esteem and ravaging trust. In rare moments of accord between her and her husband – distant memories now – Martin had claimed it was a disease. Cruelty’s in the blood, he said. It’s like a herpes virus. It stays dormant for a period, then a trigger sets it off.

  ‘It’s my house. I can do what I want,’ Barry retorted furiously, his feet thrashing against the carpet as he tried to gain purchase to struggle out of the sofa.

  It wasn’t clear what his intentions were, but it was funny watching him. Even funnier when she placed a mocking hand on his forehead and pushed him backwards. ‘Look at you,’ she said in disgust as he fell against the cushions. ‘You’re so fat you can’t even stand up.’

  ‘You hit him,’ accused Kimberley triumphantly. ‘I’ll phone Childline . . . that’ll learn you.’

  ‘Oh, grow up!’ said Laura dismissively, turning away. ‘I didn’t hit him, I pushed him, and if someone had taught you to speak English properly you’d understand the difference. That’ll learn you makes about as much sense as Barry saying this is his house.’

  There was a perceptible rush of air as Kimberley surged out of her chair and made a grab at the woman’s shirt.

  Laura’s instinctive response was to deliver a stinging slap to the girl’s face and wriggle out of her grasp, but there was a split second of mutually recognized hatred before she had the sense to take to her heels.

  ‘BITCH! BITCH!’ the furious youngster roared, pursuing the woman down the corridor towards the kitchen. ‘I’m gonna fucking KILL you for that!’

  Laura slammed the door and leaned her shoulder against it to keep Kimberley out, her heart thumping against her lungs. Was she mad? She was no match for the girl in terms of bulk, but she used the strength of her grip to stop the handle turning, betting on Miss Piggy’s fingers being slippery from stuffing chips into her mouth. Even so, it was a war of attrition which only came to an end when the lower panels began to crack under the assault from Kimberley’s boots, and Barry shouted that their dad would have her guts if she broke it again.

  Gingerly, Laura relaxed her cramped hold as she felt the onslaught die away. She pressed her back against the wood and took a few deep breaths to calm herself. ‘Barry’s right,’ she warned. ‘Greg’s only just finished painting the door since the last time you two fought over it.’

  ‘Shut up, bitch!’ howled the girl, with a last, dispirited thump of a beefy fist. ‘If you’re so bloody perfect, why does your daughter call you “Cunt”? Think about that the next time you “ooh” and “aah” when my dad gets his pathetic little dick out. Christ, even your daughter knows you’re only sleeping with him to keep a roof over your head.’

  Laura closed her eyes, remembering Martin’s laughter the first time Amy had used the word. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, he’d mocked. ‘Rent comes expensive,’ she murmured. ‘Sex is free. Why else would I be here?’

  Kimberley must have had her ear pressed against the wafer-thin door because every nuance of her voice came breathily through it. ‘I’ll tell Dad you said that.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ She stretched her arm towards the wall-phone, but, with her back against the door, it was beyond the reach of her fingers. Why hadn’t Amy told her she went to Patsy’s . . . ? Did she use it as a refuge . . . ? ‘But he won’t be angry with me, Kimberley, he’ll be angry with you. He was so damn lonely after your mother went he’d have moved a toothless granny into his bed if she’d been willing. Whose side will he take if you try to force me out?’

  ‘Mine and Barry’s when I tell him you’re using him.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said Laura wearily. ‘He’s a man. He couldn’t care less why I’m sleeping with him just so long as I go on doing it.’

  ‘You wish!’ the girl jeered.

  ‘How many other women have been here, Kimberley?’

  ‘Bloody loads,’ she said triumphantly. ‘We only got stuck with you because you dropped your knickers for him.’

  ‘And how many of them came back a second time?’

  ‘I couldn’t give a shit. All I know is you came back.’

  ‘Only because I was desperate,’ she said slowly. ‘If I hadn’t been, nothing on earth would have persuaded me to come here.’ She listened to the girl’s heavy breathing. ‘Do you seriously think your father doesn’t know that?’

  There was a perceptible pause. ‘Yeah, well, he didn’t have to make do with a tart,’ the girl said sullenly. ‘He’s never even asked me and Barry what we think about it. He can’t . . . you’re always in the fucking way . . . rabbiting on about your job . . . getting Amy to show off her stupid dancing.’

  ‘In the kitchen maybe . . . never in the sittingroom. You’ve made it clear I’m not welcome there.’

  ‘Yeah, right!’ There was what sounded like a choked-back sob. ‘I suppose you’ve told Dad he’s not welcome either.’

  ‘I didn’t need to. You and Barry have done that pretty successfully on your own.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By never turning the volume down . . . never greeting him when he comes home . . . never eating with us . . . never getting up until after we’ve gone to work . . .’ She paused. ‘Life isn’t a one-way street, you know.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Work it out for yourself.’ Laura flexed her fingers to ease the muscles. ‘I’ll give you a hint. Why did your mother refuse to take either of you with her?’

  Kimberley fired off again. ‘I hate you!’ she snarled. ‘I wish you’d just piss off and leave us alone. Dad won’t like it, but the rest of us’ll be fucking ecstatic.’

  It was the truth, thought Laura with an inward sigh, and if Amy hadn’t pretended she was happy, they’d have gone sooner. ‘Don’t worry about it, Mummy . . . I keep telling you, everything’s fine when you and Greg aren’t here . . .’ Laura had believed her because it made her life easier, but now she was cursing herself for her stupidity. ‘Why does Amy go to Patsy’s house?’ she asked.

  ‘Because she wants to.’

  ‘That’s not an answer, Kimberley. What Amy wants isn’t necessarily good for her.’

  ‘It’s her life,’ the girl declared mutinously. ‘She can do what she likes.’

  ‘She’s ten years old and she still sucks her thumb at night. She can’t even decide between fish fingers and sausages for tea, so how can she make choices about her life?’

  ‘That doesn’t mean she has to do what you say . . . She didn’t ask to be born . . . You don’t fucking own her.’

  ‘When have I ever said I did?’

  ‘You behave like it . . . ordering her around . . . telling her she can’t go out.’

  ‘Can’t go
out alone,’ Laura corrected. ‘I’ve never said she can’t go with you and Barry as long as you stick together.’ She clenched her fists angrily. ‘God knows, I’ve explained it to you several times to avoid accidents. Amy’s been here less than two months and still has difficulty remembering the address or the phone number. How is she going to find her way back if she gets lost?’

  ‘She can’t get lost going to Patsy’s,’ said Kimberley scathingly. ‘They only live five doors away!’

  ‘She shouldn’t even be there.’

  ‘She’s a cry-baby,’ muttered Kimberley sulkily. ‘It gets on your nerves after a while. I reckon there’s something wrong with her. She’s always in the toilet moaning about her stomach hurting.’

  Laura pulled the door open abruptly and forced the girl to step back. ‘Then I want my money back, Kimberley, because I’m damned if I’ll reward you for something you haven’t done.’ She checked her watch. ‘You’ve got five minutes to have Amy in this house, and another five to put together the fifty quid you’ve had off me for two weeks of non-existent babysitting.’

  Something in the woman’s eyes persuaded Kimberley to take another step backwards, closer to her brother, who was watching from the sitting-room doorway. ‘I’ve spent it.’

  ‘Then we’ll go to the nearest cashpoint and you can take it out of your savings.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? What if I refuse?’

  Laura gave an indifferent shrug. ‘We’ll sit on our cases and wait for your father to come home.’

  Kimberley’s thought processes were slow, particularly when there was no linkage of ideas. ‘What’s cases?’ she asked stupidly.

  ‘Luggage?’ suggested Laura sarcastically. ‘Things you pack clothes in?’ She lowered her hands to her sides, pretending to lift heavy objects. ‘What people carry when they wipe the dust of a house off their feet?’

  ‘Oh, that kind of case.’ Her eyes gleamed suddenly. ‘Does that mean you’re leaving?’

  ‘As soon as I have my money.’

  Kimberley snapped her fingers at her brother. ‘Where’s that fifty quid Dad gave you for food?’ she demanded peremptorily. ‘I know you’ve still got it, so give it here.’

  Barry looked nervously towards Laura. ‘No.’

  The girl took an angry swipe at him. ‘Do you want your fucking arm broken?’

  He moved out into the corridor, bunching his fists and preparing to defend himself. ‘I don’t want her to go . . . not till Dad gets home anyway. I don’t reckon it’s my fault, so I shouldn’t have to take the blame for it. Dad went apeshit when Mum left . . . and you just made it worse by saying you were glad she was gone. You’re so fucking stupid you’ll probably do the same again . . . and I wouldn’t blame Dad if he lammed into you . . .’cept he’ll lam into me, too, and that’s not fair.’ For a normally taciturn child, the words tumbled out of him. ‘I told you to look after Amy properly but you wouldn’t listen ’cos you’re lazy and you’re a bully. Do this . . . do that . . . lick my fucking arse, Amy . . . but if you tell your mum I’ll give you a walloping. The kid’s frightened of you. OK, she’s a bit of a pain, but the way you carry on it’s not surprising she cried a lot. Your trouble is no one likes you. You should try being nicer . . . then you’d have a few friends and you’d feel different about stuff.’

  ‘Shut up, creep!’

  He inched along the corridor. ‘I’m going to look for Amy,’ he said, pulling open the front door. ‘And I sodding well hope I see Dad in the road because I’ll tell him it’s your fault.’

  ‘Cunt! Prick!’ shouted Kimberley after him, giving the wall a violent kick. ‘Fucking little coward!’ She turned a red, angry face towards Laura, shoulders hunched like a boxer’s. But there were tears in her eyes, as if she knew she’d just lost the only person who had ever been loyal to her.

  >

  Police Message to all stations

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  27.07.01

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  18.53

  >

  IMMEDIATE ACTION

  >

  Missing Person

  >

  Laura Biddulph/Rogerson of 14 Allenby Road, Portisfield, reports 10-yr-old daughter missing

  >

  Child’s name: Amy Rogerson (answers to: Biddulph)

  >

  Height: 4′ 10" approx. Weight: 60 lb approx.

  >

  Description: slim, long brown hair, dressed in blue T-shirt and black leggings

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  Last seen by neighbour leaving 14 Allenby Road at 10.00

  >

  May be making for father’s house in Sandbanks Road, Bournemouth

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  Father’s name: Martin Rogerson

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  Notify all vehicles/beat personnel

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  Further information to follow . . .

  >

  Police Message to all stations

  >

  27.07.01

  >

  21.00

  >

  UPDATE – Missing Person – Amy Rogerson/Biddulph

  >

  May be making for The Larches, Hayes Avenue, Southampton

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  Resident there with mother for six months until April

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  Owner/occupier – Edward Townsend – temporarily absent on holiday

  >

  Notify all vehicles/beat personnel

  >

  Further information to follow . . .

  Five

  Saturday 28 July 2001 14

  Allenby Road, Portisfield Estate – 01.15 a.m.

  RELATIONSHIPS INSIDE 14 Allenby Road had broken down completely, and the policewoman in charge of support and counselling suggested moving Laura Biddulph to a vacant ‘safe’ house to prevent war breaking out. Irrationally, in view of the emerging evidence that Amy had been vanishing every day during the past two weeks, only to return home at night, Laura had clung to the hope that she was with her father. But when she was informed that a search of Martin Rogerson’s house had produced nothing and the police were satisfied he had been at his office in Bournemouth all day, hope gave way to fear and she turned on Gregory and his children.

  She lashed them viciously with her tongue, and police curiosity about what she was doing there grew. Even the least critical among them could see there was a glaring disparity in age, class, education and physical attraction between her and Gregory Logan and, while there was no accounting for chemistry, her openly expressed revulsion for him and his family gave the lie to any close feeling between them. As the night passed she became more and more distant, sitting huddled against the kitchen door and denying admittance to anyone except police personnel. Red-eyed with exhaustion, she cradled a radio in her lap and lifted her head with a jerk every time Amy’s name was mentioned. When the counsellor suggested she go upstairs for some much-needed rest, she gave a small laugh and said it wouldn’t be wise. Unless the police wanted Kimberley Logan dead, of course.

  The girl’s noise was getting on everyone’s nerves. With apparently limitless energy, she had bawled on and off for hours to a second WPC about how no one loved her, how miserable her life was and how she had never meant to hurt anyone. She refused to leave her room, refused to be sedated and could not, or would not, give any information about where Amy had been during the last two weeks, saying it wasn’t her fault if the girl had lied about being with Patsy Trew.

  Her brother sat morosely in front of the television, stuffing his face with imported police sandwiches and claiming it was Kimberley who was lying. According to him, she had known since Wednesday that Amy wasn’t with her friend. Patsy had come to the door – a fact borne out by Patsy herself – saying she hadn’t seen Amy for days and wanted to know where she was. Kimberley had told her to ‘fuck off ’ because it was none of her business. ‘Amy doesn’t like you any more,’ she’d told the child, giggling when Patsy burst into tears and ran away. ‘Jesus, Amy’s a sad little bitch,’ she’d told Barry on her return to the sitting-room. ‘I
bet she’s skulking in a hole somewhere so she can pretend she’s got friends. No wonder she’s so bloody skinny. She only gets fed when the tart gets back.’

  A detective sergeant had asked Barry why he hadn’t mentioned any of this to Amy’s mother. Kimberley would have given him a dead arm, he said, or, worse, kept him out of the kitchen. Did Kimberley give Amy dead arms? He shrugged. Only once. After that, Amy took herself off every day. Why did Kimberley do it? Guiltily, he wriggled his massive shoulders. ‘Because Amy cried when we called her mother a cunt,’ he admitted. ‘It got on Kimberley’s nerves.’

  Their father, a fifty-year-old bus driver with a beer gut and a bad complexion, did his poor best to mend fences. Every so often he called to Laura through the kitchen door to say the police had brought more sandwiches – as if food were the language of love. He seemed incapable of demonstrating any real affection, and the counsellor wondered when he had last taken any of them in his arms and given them a hug. He asked few questions about Amy – more out of fear of the answers, she thought, than because he wasn’t interested – and preferred to rant about police wasting their time on speeding drivers when they ought to be tracking down paedophiles. If he had his way the bastards would be ‘castrated and strung up with their dicks in their mouths’ – a medieval punishment for heresy – ‘because perverts ought to feel pain when they die’. She asked him to keep his voice down, fearing the impact such statements would have on Laura Biddulph, but like his daughter he needed to make a noise in order to feel brave.

  A search of Amy’s room compounded the problem for the police, as nothing appeared to be missing apart from the blue T-shirt and black leggings she was thought to be wearing. She was a tidy child who had a place for everything, and it was doubtful she had run away because everything she valued – teddy bear, favourite bracelet, velvet hair ribbons – had been left behind. Even her money box, containing five pounds, and the little store of books hidden under her mattress. Why did she keep them there? the police asked her mother. To stop Kimberley trashing them out of spite, said Laura.