Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series)

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Powerless, the bouncers looked on, before one turned to Cleo. ‘Well?’

  She tutted before hurrying over, doing that wiggle-jiggle walk that Pete loved so much. ‘Petey! My precious Petey! Baby-baby! What’s the matter?’

  His face lit up like a little kid when he saw her and he instantly dropped the chair. ‘There you are. Where you been? Look at this mess. Why is it me who’s always left to sort things out? Why can’t anyone else cope? You tell me that, eh?’

  The harder he found it to cope, the more Pete whined about others coping. She put her arm around his waist. ‘What’s happened? Tell your little Cleo all about it.’

  All the rage drained out of him. ‘I’ll tell you what’s what. Two blokes come in here causing trouble and those two over there don’t wanna know, so it’s left to muggins here to sort it out.’ He yelled at the bouncers, ‘Thanks for your help, boys. If you’ve ever got a problem in future, don’t call me, I’m not interested.’

  It was clear the patience of the men was nearly exhausted. Cleo jerked her thumb to suggest they leave. She turned back and carried on schmoozing the dumb idiot. ‘I know, baby, but there’s no need for you to take things on. Look, park yourself down and I’ll get you a snifter.’ She gave him a saucy wink. ‘One of Cleo’s specials.’

  But there was nowhere to sit down and the drinks were a wet mess on the carpet. Cleo upended the sofa and drew him down on it. When she sat next to him, he leaned his head heavily on her shoulder, blowing whisky fumes all over her. ‘Why don’t you tell your baby exactly what happened?’

  Then Cleo switched off while Pete prattled on non-fucking-stop. When he finally stopped for air she jumped in with a whispered, ‘I can’t believe our two guys left you in the lurch like that.’

  Tears appeared in his eyes. Tears meant her job as his sob sister was nearly over. Cleo’s heart lurched. She hated seeing him crying. When he wasn’t smashed out of his nut, Pete was such a bang-up bloke. He wailed, ‘You’re the only one who understands me.’

  Cleo nodded with true sympathy, but she also wanted to wallop him a good one to knock some sense into him. Instead, she got up and began looking for a bottle that wasn’t broken. When she found one, she half escorted, half carried her charge to the stairs, doing the wiggle-jiggle all the way. She threw Daffy a squinty-eyed meaningful glance as she went.

  In her room, she flopped Pete down on the bed and patiently spoon-fed him Scotch like a baby. She made clucking-caring noises at the halfwit babble spewing from his gob. It took a good half hour and a good half bottle before the witless twat finally passed out.

  When she heard him grunting and snoring, Cleo shook her head sadly. ‘You tosspot.’ She caressed his cheek affectionately and smoothed his tousled hair away from his eyes. ‘What am I going to do with you?’

  Cleo so desperately wanted out of this life, but she needed readies for that and this place paid a pittance after she coughed up for her keep. She really should’ve listened to her mum years back when she’d told her point blank that the guy she was with was no good. ‘No good’ hardly did justice to the battering she’d taken from him once he’d started pimping her arse out to his mates. Cleo had managed to flee literally with the clothes on her back. She’d been too ashamed to go back home. Besides, her mum had already cursed her out as a Jezebel fit only to dwell with Satan, so what else could she do but go on the game?

  But she didn’t have to do it for the rest of her life, did she? What she needed was money. And fast. That’s why she had to keep Pete nice and happy – because of the specials that brought in extra cash. And if she was truthful she had a soft spot for him.

  Cleo went downstairs again, but hid when she saw Mickey had turned up. He was deep in it with a ranting Daffy, shouting as she put him straight, thumping her cane against the wooden floor. ‘You need to do something about that clown Pete and you need to do it fast. We get influential guests in here and if he shows ’em up or takes a swing, you lot are going to find yourselves in very deep water indeed.’

  Four

  Caffs, snooker halls, clubs . . . Babs had been to the lot, with no sign of Nev. Worse still, she was palmed off with variations on the same story.

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Haven’t seen him around for a while.’

  ‘Neville? I heard he moved in with the blonde up Westbourne Grove.’

  ‘Neville? I heard he moved in with the brunette down the Elephant.’

  Babs was properly pissed off and her feet were screaming bloody murder by the time she only had one more place to check out – the Go Go Girls Modelling Agency run by this Stanley Miller fella. It was up West, in Soho, a place she’d never been. Her dad had once warned her, with a shiver, that that part of London was full of aggro; a cesspit infested with pimps, tarts and foreign criminals. Babs suspected it was a fool’s errand anyway; the slippery Neville would probably have cut out of there as well. In fact, given how much time he seemed to be spending on his various birds, it was amazing the two-timing berk had the energy to work at all.

  Despite feeling washed out, she took the tube to Piccadilly Circus and started towards Soho. You prat, she thought as she froze in her tracks, you ain’t got a clue where you’re going. So she hailed a black cab and asked the driver to take her to the Go Go Girls Modelling Agency.

  The cabbie burst out laughing. ‘Modelling agency? Everywhere’s a modelling agency round here – if you know what I mean?’ But when he clocked the grim look on Babs’ pale face, he turned serious. ‘Alright, let me see what I can do.’

  When he saw a cab coming the other way, he tooted his horn and leaned out of his window to talk to the other driver. ‘Do you know the Go Go Girls Agency, mate?’

  After a brief chat, he turned back to Babs. ‘It’s on Chancery Row.’ He frowned hard at her. ‘Are you sure you wanna go there, sweetheart? You seem like a nice, respectable girl to me.’

  Babs read between the lines of what he wasn’t saying – Chancery Row was not nice or respectable. She swallowed and then nodded before she lost her nerve. ‘Yes, I do.’

  He turned back around. ‘None of my business, of course.’

  As they drove, the streets of the West End turned from theatreland and cinemas to sleazy places advertising non-stop striptease, massages, saunas and dirty mags. It made Babs feel uncomfortable, but a thrill of excitement went through her all the same. This was a naughty world where good girls like her shouldn’t be.

  When they reached Chancery Row, a seedy street in the back end of Soho, the driver refused to take her money, just told her to take care, like she was his own daughter.

  Babs shook in the daytime chill as she walked up and down. There was no sign of any modelling agency. But there were other things creeping her out – sex bookshops, ‘private’ cinemas and tatty cards with women’s names handwritten on them sellotaped next to doorbells. And rubbish, piled up in doorways. In despair, Babs came to a halt outside an empty building and stood motionless, unsure what to do next. Then a heavy door swung open and a middle-aged woman appeared, caked to her hairline in make-up and wearing an outfit that Babs considered the fashion equivalent of a dirty mag.

  ‘Sorry, luv, you can’t tout your business there – that’s Sasha’s patch.’

  It took a few moments before the penny dropped. The nerve of the woman! ‘I’m not a . . . err . . .’ Babs stopped faffing around and got on with it. ‘I’m looking for someone.’

  The woman sashayed onto the street. ‘Looking for someone? You ain’t the filth, are ya?’ Then she looked Babs up and down, laughed and answered her own question. ‘No, of course you’re not. Who do you want?’

  ‘Stanley Miller at the Go Go Girls Modelling Agency.’

  The woman gave her an arch look and then pointed a cherry-red fingernail down the road. ‘See that barbers? It’s the black door next to that. Give it a knock, but don’t necessarily expect an answer.’

  Babs trudged down the street to the black door. Her luck was in; it was wedged open
with a brick. Behind was a flight of wooden stairs leading up to a landing. Babs walked up the stairs like a condemned prisoner mounting the gallows and found a door with the agency’s name pinned on it. She turned the handle and entered an office. It was empty except for a desk with a black telephone and a transistor radio on it. Behind that, a woman sat filing her nails and humming along to David Bowie’s ‘Life On Mars’. She seemed to have been pickled in the Sixties, sporting a beehive, Biba knock-off blouse, mini skirt and a pair of white vinyl go-go boots.

  ‘What the hell do you want?’ she asked roughly, flapping her huge false eyelashes.

  ‘I’m looking for Neville.’

  Babs knew what she was going to say before she said it. ‘Never heard of him.’

  She changed tack. ‘Stanley Miller?’

  ‘Ain’t heard of him either – how the hell did you get in anyway?’

  ‘The door downstairs was wedged open.’

  The woman looked upwards with an accusing glare. ‘It’s about time I had words with that lot on the second floor.’ Then she turned back to Babs. ‘Well, ta-ra and sorry I can’t help. Shut the door on your way out, there’s a good girl.’

  It was the end of the line. Babs wasn’t taking this shit from people any more; there was only so many brush-offs a girl could have. She’d gone from pillar to post to find Nev and brainless Beehive wasn’t going to fob her off. ‘I’m not going nowhere until I see Stanley Miller.’

  Hatchet-face stood up, fixing a menacing stare on her unwanted visitor. ‘Alright, little girl, you’ve had your bit of fun, now sod off. Or would you like me to have you thrown downstairs?’

  She looked like she meant it but Babs didn’t care. ‘I want to see Stanley Miller.’

  Clearly pissed off, Beehive marched around the desk and grabbed her by the scruff of the neck, dragging her across the floor.

  All the day’s anger, fear and despair exploded in Babs’ fist as she took a swing at her attacker and caught her one on the cheek so hard it sent the woman flying. She landed on her back, legs all over the place and beehive wobbling to the side. Shocked, she looked up, touching her bruised face with her fingers. Then she clenched her fists and growled, ‘Oh? Like a ruck, do you? I’ll give you a ruck, sweetheart . . .’ Then she flew at Babs, getting her hands round her throat, shaking her like a rag doll.

  ‘What’s all this, then?’ a man’s voice boomed.

  Babs only saw who it was when the mad bitch loosened her hands and her vision came back into focus. Her breath caught in her throat. Gordon Bennett, this geezer was a right sort. Tall, decked out in an immaculate three-piece navy blue suit, a silk hanky in his pocket and handmade leather shoes. He smelt of Brut, her favourite aftershave, and sported a carefully Brylcreemed feather haircut. He could have been a Hollywood star.

  Beehive told him, ‘Don’t look at me like that, Stan. This bitch came in here looking for trouble, so I gave her some. She asked for it, believe me.’

  So this was Stanley Miller. Now she’d clocked him, no way in hell was she going anywhere until she got some answers.

  He ignored the other woman, giving Babs his full attention. ‘What’s the problem, darlin’?’

  Weariness caught up with Babs. She crumpled on the floor blubbing her heart out. Through her tears, she was impressed that Stanley Miller got on the case straight away, ordering the other woman to get a glass of water. Then, with a gentle touch, he helped her to her feet and took her into his office.

  Babs’ mouth fell open. The room was a proper knockout. A beige chair with dips and curves like a woman’s body sat behind a gleaming mahogany desk. There was a leopard-print sofa, a pink and purple lava lamp, a globe minibar with drinks and glasses inside. Babs had never seen anything like it in her life. It was glamorous with a capital G.

  Stan sat her down on the sofa and then poured her a glass of brandy from a crystal decanter. He parked himself next to her and asked her name. ‘Alright, Babs, don’t upset yourself. What’s the problem? How can I help?’

  ‘I’m looking for Neville. He said he worked here sometimes.’

  Stan looked blank, leaning back slightly. ‘Neville? I don’t know no Neville.’ Babs got deflated all over again. But she brightened up as Stan tapped his fingers to his forehead. ‘Oh . . . Neville. That Neville. Yeah, I’m afraid he don’t work here no more.’

  ‘But he told me he was a photographer.’

  Stan shook his head, but grinned. Flippin’ hell, what a killer smile. ‘A photographer? Neville’s been called a lot of things but I’ve never heard him called one of them before. I had to give him the push. He was a bit unreliable. What do you . . .?’

  His eyes drifted to her belly and only then did she realise that her hand was laid protectively over it.

  Stan lost the killer smile. ‘Put you in the club, has he?’ Babs started crying again. Stan hugged her like a father. ‘Look, there’s a lovely place around the corner. Why don’t you let me buy you some nosh and then I’ll get you a cab home?’

  Babs stuttered, ‘Alright.’

  ‘Hold up a minute,’ Stan said. From the knowing expression on his face, Babs knew he’d put two and two together. ‘Neville’s a coloured boy – does that mean you’re carrying a coloured baby?’

  Babs stopped crying for a moment and looked down. That’s why she was in Big Trouble twice over – she was up the duff and the daddy was black.

  Stan clasped his hands together. ‘My word. You are in a pickle, aren’t you?’

  Five

  Melanie Ingram sat on the bonnet of the Jag, resting her arms on the bodywork so she could lean back like a model, turning her face towards the watery sun. She was wearing the beloved knee-length mink coat she took every opportunity to flash around town in, even when the weather wasn’t right. The car was right and the coat was right. It was only the road that was wrong. A shabby street in Mile End wasn’t the right spot for a classy bird like her. At least, that’s what Mel told herself. She belonged in the south of France – not parked up by a row of knackered terraced houses boarded up with corrugated iron. She dreamed of a world where blokes wore navy blazers, peaked caps and drank dry martinis with those green things in – not one where van drivers slowed down, looked at her tits and shouted, ‘You don’t get many of them to the pound!’

  A man came round the corner and stopped in horror. ‘Oi – what are you doing sitting on my jam jar? This ain’t the fucking motor show.’

  Mel turned her head and peered over her psychedelic sunglasses at Mickey. That was another thing. She had the wrong husband as well. They’d both grown up in Bethnal Green, in houses too packed to have enough space for themselves, so they’d had to make their names on the street. She’d been nifty with her fingers as a young ’un, lifting stuff from pockets, shops and residences as well. But what she’d loved most of all was the rush she got from doing the old five-finger discount in jewellers. All that glitter and sparkle got her heart going just thinking about it. Mind you she’d almost come a cropper that time she’d palmed a ring belonging to a South London Face’s missus, which was in the jewellers being mended.

  That was how she’d met Mickey properly. Despite them bunking off the same school she’d only really seen him around, never been given a proper intro. People had told her to see Charlie Dalton if she wanted to get the Face off her back, so she had. He’d done the business on her behalf and she’d started seeing him between the sheets. But she’d also taken a shine to his mate Mickey. She was soon seeing Mickey on the side as well, until Charlie caught them bang to rights – banging. She really should’ve stuck with Charlie, or John Black as he’d started calling himself: she’d heard he was going places. Upmarket, dodgy places. Ah well, a girl could dream . . .

  ‘You took your effing time,’ she griped at Mickey, chucking him a dirty look.

  They got into the Jag and he drove away at speed; he didn’t like people seeing him near the knocking shop. When she repeated her complaint, he looked unhappy. ‘Yeah, well, I had a problem t
o sort out, didn’t I?’

  Her tone turned bitter. ‘Let me guess – has the gas been cut off? Are the neighbours playing music too loud? Am I getting warm?’

  Mickey ground the gears. ‘Don’t take the rise luv, it don’t suit you.’

  In fact, it suited her all too well. ‘I can’t think what else it can be . . .’ She stuck her finger in her mouth and stared into space like she was having a good old think.

  ‘Ummm, let me have another guess . . .’ She brightened. ‘Oh, I know! Has Pete been on the sauce again? Is he going round taking a swing at the punters and the Toms before falling over in a puddle of his own piss again?’

  Mickey growled, but kept his eyes on the road. ‘Pete just likes a few wets. He’s alright.’

  Mel fished in her handbag for some lippy. ‘Alright? He’s gonna kill someone one day – you know that, don’t you? And who’s gonna be left to clear up the mess? Mickey Muggins, that’s who. You’ve got to tell his brother the drunk’s got to go. If you don’t, I will.’

  ‘I can’t do that. He sticks up for Pete. He’s about the only person in the world he looks out for. He won’t do it.’

  ‘Oh, give over, the slimy little weasel doesn’t care about anyone.’

  Mickey shook his head and sighed. ‘Nah, it’s different with Pete, it’s a family thing.’ He looked in the rear view mirror as if worried that someone might be listening. ‘They’re a funny family. The mother is a nutter and their old man was a drunk who used to slap them around all the time. Pete used to stick up for him. When he was old enough, he knocked their twisted old man out and the kickings stopped. He owes Pete. That’s how it is. To be honest, it’s about the only human thing in him.’ He glanced in the rear view mirror again before adding, ‘Don’t tell him I told you that. He’s very sensitive about it.’

  Mel sneered back. ‘My heart is breaking. It doesn’t help us, though, does it? Why doesn’t he get Pete a job as a traffic warden? He knows people on the council.’