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

by Dreda Say Mitchell

  Babs did gasp then as she wondered how Stan’s mum knew so much about her.

  But she didn’t get a chance to ask her because Shell Miller’s temper went into full flight. ‘I thought as much. Well, he’s fucked up as usual. I ain’t hiding away. I’ve got my pride; I can show my face anywhere. Always have and always will. Good day to you.’

  Charlie added, ‘Fuck off, Stan! Fuck off, Son!’ and with that, Shell Miller marched towards the makeshift bar.

  Dazed, Babs looked down and realised she was still holding out her hand to be shaken. She felt her eyes welling with tears. The gobbing had been bad enough but for her and Desiree to be abused by her brand new mother-in-law – although there was nothing brand new about Shell Miller – was too much. She wasn’t having it any more. She was going to give Stan’s mum what for.

  She turned, leaping out of the way as Stan’s mum threw a bottle. It just missed her. ‘You call this a fucking bar,’ Shell Miller roared. ‘You’d get more booze down a Sally Army sing-a-long.’

  That set off another person chucking a bottle, which landed on the record player, putting a shattering stop to the music. All hell kicked off, despite poor Beryl and Cheryl trying to maintain order. Freeloaders piled in to nab booze before it ran out. In the midst of the sea of people crowded around the fast-disappearing drinks, Babs could see a raised hand. On the end of it was an excited Charlie in his cage squawking. ‘Fuck off, son! Fuck off, son!’ at the revellers. The first punches were being thrown and shouts and threats issued.

  Despite being downright disgusted by Stan’s offensive mother Babs decided she had an obligation to rescue the old windbag. When she reached her, she attempted to pull her out of the brawl.

  The old woman wasn’t having it. ‘Here me dear, look after Charlie and hold this while you’re at it.’ She passed her coat to Babs and rolled up the sleeves of her cardie. She pushed a man who was eyeball to eyeball with another wannabe drinker and said to him, ‘Did you just pinch my backside?’

  The bloke looked at her in disbelief. He gestured at the man he was eyeballing and told her, ‘Pinch your arse? I’d rather pinch his.’

  It was war. Shell’s sturdy arm flew at the guy’s face and hit him square. She seemed surprised and disappointed that he hadn’t gone down and kicked him in the goolies before punching him again. She reached down, picked up a bottle and began beating him around the head with it. Then she straightened up, yelling, ‘Come on then! Who wants some?’

  Shell delivered a few random blows to the other fighters within range and even as the sirens began wailing outside she appeared reluctant to leave her ruck. But when the first cops burst in, truncheons drawn, she hurried over to where Babs was standing and took her coat. ‘Gotta go, love. The magistrates told me that it was prison next time.’

  She took Charlie, who was fluttering around his cage. ‘Good do. You can’t have a decent reception without a punch-up.’ Before she went, she asked, ‘Where is my wretched ungrateful son anyway?’

  ‘He had business.’

  Sheila gave her a beady look. ‘Business is it?’ She nodded as if this only confirmed her suspicions. ‘You’re young, I can see that. You’ll find out what he’s like soon enough.’

  Charlie backed her up by squawking, ‘Fuck off, Stan! Fuck off, Son!’

  Sheila looked at her mynah with pride. ‘You should listen to what my Charlie says. He knows how many beans make five when it comes to Stan.’

  As soon as Babs got indoors she headed for the bathroom and scrubbed her face. And scrubbed. And scrubbed. She gazed around the bathroom and thought everywhere looked messy, so she tidied up. Then she did the same to the sitting room, and the kitchen. And then, in a frenzy, she tidied up all over again.

  Thirty-Two

  Instead of being with his new bride, Stan was in Eastbourne. Clever Cleo had got hold of the address at last. He wasn’t surprised to find that the B&B Mickey and Mel had his brother holed up in was a total rathole, all peeling paint and stained windows. He popped on a green tweed hat and pulled it low before he entered. A young woman was at the reception. She was cross-eyed, which wouldn’t have been too bad but her unfortunate eyes were magnified by the thick lenses of her glasses.

  He gave her his winning smile. ‘I’m Frank Fanacapan, luv and I’m here to see Mr Peter Miller. He’s expecting me, but told me to meet him in his room.’

  As soon as he dropped Pete’s name the woman looked jumpy. He didn’t need to be told that his brother had already made a nuisance of himself. He went up to the room. When his brother opened the door he looked like a wreck. Stan wrinkled his nose; the stench of booze was strong, stale and offensive.

  Pete was already sobbing, slumped on the bed, by the time Stan closed the door.

  ‘You’ve gone and done it now, haven’t you,’ Stan said.

  Pete lifted his ravaged face. ‘I didn’t mean to. I don’t even remember. It was the drink; I swear on my life.’

  Yeah, like it always is. Stan parked himself on the bed near his brother. ‘What’s done is done. I’ve spoken to Mickey and his missus and everything is in hand.’

  Pete sniffed. ‘They’ve been well sweet, letting me stop here for so long, but I’m going stir crazy. It’s too quiet.’

  Yeah, they deserve the bloody Nobel Peace Prize. ‘The problem is, you really dragged me into it this time. The only way I could make this go away is to become Home Secretary.’

  Pete got all distressed again. ‘I don’t know why I can’t remember any of it. My mind’s fucking blank.’

  ‘Stop worrying.’ Stan tightened his fingers into his brother’s shoulder and rocked him slightly. ‘What do you say we go for a walk and get some fresh air into you?’

  A few minutes later they were in the driving rain, walking towards the deserted Seven Sisters cliffs.

  ‘Remember when Dad used to take us to Brighton?’ Stan said.

  Pete chuckled. ‘Yeah. He’d buy us ice creams and sit us on the beach while he went off to get his leg over with his bit on the side.’

  ‘The dirty old fella,’ Stan said, laughing back. It felt good to be having a laugh with his brother again, just like they used to as kids. ‘What was the name of that last one?’

  Pete chuckled hard. ‘Doris Beauregard—’

  ‘Budgie,’ they said together, the nickname they’d given her.

  ‘The slapper from hell,’ Pete added. ‘She was always moaning, lipstick smeared against her top teeth. Looked like she’d been sinking her gnashers into Dad’s neck and drawing blood.’

  They were silent for a while, lost in the memories of their childhood, some tough and hard, but others soft and gentle.

  Pete’s joy seemed to trickle away when they got to the cliffs. ‘I know you blame me for what Mum did.’

  The wind buffeted Stan’s face as he moved towards the cliff’s edge, his brother following. The sea looked murky and dark. ‘It weren’t your fault,’ Stan insisted. ‘She did what she’d wanted to do for a long time.’

  ‘She does love you,’ Pete said quietly, moving to stand beside his older brother.

  Stan’s mouth tightened. ‘It don’t matter Pete. Let’s drop it.’

  But he wouldn’t. ‘I heard her telling Charlie once that she wished she’d sent you to hospital. A mum who hated her kid wouldn’t want to get him medical treatment.’

  Stan’s rage grew. He didn’t doubt that Pete had heard their mum telling her mynah bird all about it, but his brother didn’t know the hospital she’d been referring to was a nut house for kids. After the incident he’d gone a bit off the rails and any sane parent would’ve sat their kid down and found out what the problem was. But, oh no, not his malicious witch of a mum. She’d been thinking of offloading him to the funny farm.

  Stan put his arm around his brother’s shoulder again and stepped closer to the cliff edge. His voice softened. ‘I want you to remember that I love you and I’ll love you until the day you die.’

  Pete’s eyes glowed. ‘I love you too, Stan.�
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  Stan’s arm tightened. ‘It’s getting a bit Baltic out here, let’s go back.’

  His arm dropped away and his brother turned around, but Stan didn’t. He whispered, ‘It’s time we got this situation sorted out.’

  Stan pushed his brother off the cliff. He watched Pete’s head smash against the cliff face and finally his body fell, twisted and bloody, onto the beach below.

  ‘I love you,’ Stan whispered, the chill of the air seeping into his bones. ‘But you were like a dog that needs to be put down for his own good.’

  As he walked away in the dark he couldn’t hold back the tears.

  Where the bloody hell are you, Stan? Babs asked for what felt like the millionth time.

  Some wedding night this was turning out to be. Stan hadn’t put in an appearance for his reception or his roast tats but she’d convinced herself he’d come home soon enough. What man left his bride on her tod on their wedding night?

  Earlier Babs had decided to get all sexy, rigged out in a lacy red negligee with an elasticated back so it would be easy for Stan’s wandering hands to get access. She’d waited and waited for her groom but he was a no show. Then she’d come over all worried. What if something had happened? Here she was, flaunting herself like Lady Godiva does the East End when her husband could be in a ditch somewhere. But it was too late to call the office . . . Babs took a slug from the bottle of gin by the bed as her mind raced away. There was eff all she could do. If he wasn’t back by morning she’d pop over to Soho.

  Babs flopped back on the bed. The mixture of alcohol and anxiety sent her to sleep and she plunged into a nightmare. In it, there was a knock at the door and when she answered it, Desiree was there but she was covered in spit and waving bye-bye to her mother. In her dream, she was screaming at her. Her screams turned into a high-pitched trilling sound. Trill! Trill! Trill! The noise coming from her mouth wouldn’t stop.

  Babs woke, gasping with horror and sweat. The trilling sound was still going.

  The phone. It must be Stan.

  She legged it into the hallway. The clock on the wall said five in the morning.

  ‘Is that you, Stan?’ Her heart was beating so fast. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Mrs Miller?’

  Babs frowned. ‘Who are you? What are you doing calling at this hour?’

  ‘It’s Nurse Chapel from the hospital.’ Her voice sounded grave. ‘You need to come to the baby unit.’

  Babs’ heart dropped. ‘Is something wrong with Desiree?’

  ‘You just need to get here.’

  ‘Fucking tell me,’ Babs yelled.

  The nurse paused, then, ‘I’m afraid your daughter has taken a turn for the worse—’

  Babs slammed the phone down and raced into her bedroom. Worse. The word went around and around her head like a whirlwind. She struggled to put her discarded clothes on. She was in such a state she didn’t even put the light on. God, her baby, her baby.

  Bang! The loud knock sounded like thunder and made Babs jump. Stan. Please let it be Stan. I can’t deal with this on my own. She belted for the door in her bra, knickers and slip. She pulled it open and froze. Two men were standing on her doorstep.

  ‘Has something happened to Stan?’

  One man was tall, with shoulder-length hair. If he’d put the effort in he might have been considered quite handsome. He was chewing gum with a very nasty sneer on his face. The other one was shorter, round and no amount of effort could hide the fact he was an ugly little runt. The strands of his hair had been swept over his almost bald head like rat’s tails. He was leering at Babs as if trying to imagine what she looked like in her birthday suit. She self-consciously covered her bra with her hands. She didn’t like the look of these two.

  ‘I think you’ve got the wrong house.’ She tried to shut the door but the sneerer slammed his palm against it, sending it flying back.

  Babs trembled. ‘Get away from here.’

  They ignored her and stepped inside. Babs ran for the bedroom. They came after her, not running, but taking long, measured strides. Babs jumped on the bed and in her haste tripped and landed on her back. The bedroom light flicked on. Babs sucked in her breath as the men advanced.

  They stopped at the foot of her bed, looking down at her menacingly. Babs tried to draw a breath but no air went in and no scream came out.

  The leerer tapped ash onto her bed. ‘I’m Cricket and he’s Horner and you’ve been a naughty girl, Babs. Very naughty.’

  Cricket? Horner? She’d never heard of them in her life. How did they know her name? Then Babs remembered her baby. ‘I need to get to the hospital.’

  She lunged up, but Sneerer grabbed her hair and snapped her head back. Terror chilled her blood as she looked into his bloodshot eyes.

  He shook his head and tutted. ‘Very naughty. Now get your drawers on, sweetheart, we’re going for a drive.’

  Thirty-Three

  Babs got the shock of her life when she saw where Cricket and Horner had taken her – to a police station.

  What the effing hell was going on?

  ‘I need to get to my baby,’ she begged as they manhandled her out of the car. At least they had let her get dressed.

  Neither man took a blind bit of notice of her as they led her into the station. The place was quiet except for a drunk snoring, slumped sideways in a chair.

  The officer at the desk said, ‘Who have we got here then, Detectives?’

  Detectives? Babs’ mouth fell open. These two thugs were cops? Now she knew she was in serious bovver. You couldn’t trust the coppers; they were a dodgy lot like any other gang. Everyone knew that most of them were as bent as a nine-bob note.

  Detective Cricket and Detective Horner of Her Majesty’s Metropolitan Police Force dragged her down the stairs. She lashed out at them and begged by turns, ‘Get off me; I want my baby, my baby’s sick. Please, please let me go. I’ve got to go to the hospital.’

  Horner told her, ‘Don’t worry about any babies, love . . . you’re in deep crap . . . best place for the kid . . . quacks can do miracles these days . . . shut the fuck up, will ya?’

  They shoved her into a room and slung her into a chair. She made a move to escape but Cricket held her down. Horner produced a bottle of Jack Daniels and two glasses and plonked them on the scratched desk.

  Babs screamed, ‘I’m entitled to a lawyer.’ They didn’t even answer her and she wasn’t surprised. She knew plenty of people who had been picked up by the coppers, asked for a brief and got a kicking instead.

  ‘I’ve got to get to my baby.’ Tears misted her eyes, her voice hoarse. ‘Please.’

  Cricket grabbed her hair and turned her face towards his. ‘Look, sweetheart, do you want us to call the duty quack and get you pumped full of sedatives? Would that help your baby? How about you pack it in, answer a few questions – and then you can go. We’ll give you a lift up the hospital if you like.’

  Horner put his feet up, took out his silver box of snuff and sniffed deeply. He let out a satisfied ‘ahh’ and then took a slug of whiskey.

  Babs was shaking and out of her mind but she was so scared, she shut up.

  Cricket slowly released his grip. He took out a Manikin cigar and lit up.

  Horner winked. ‘He’s alright luv; he gets a bit grouchy so early in the morning. He’ll be chuckling away about this later.’ He picked up a file from the desk. ‘Now – you know what we’re after, don’t you? We need to talk about that knocking shop that you’ve been running down in Mile End.’

  Babs realised she was laughing like a mad woman. ‘Mile End? Knocking shop? What kind of crap is this? Let me go – please.’

  Cricket’s cheeks ballooned as he puffed away. Horner was no longer in winking mode. ‘There won’t be any baby if you wanna play tricky. We want to wrap this up fast and then go for a big brekkie. We know it’s you. You’ve been running a scrubbers-for-money racket out of that place you own.’

  Babs felt a trapdoor opening under her but she couldn
’t understand why. ‘Place I own? I can barely afford the rent on my own gaff.’

  ‘Oh dear . . .’ Horner opened his file and passed her a couple of documents. ‘That’s funny – the deeds say different. That’s your signature isn’t it?’

  It was. She stuttered, ‘Yeah – I mean, no. I never signed that. I’m being fitted up. All I own is the clothes on my back. Now take me to the hospital!’

  Cricket made a tutting sound. ‘I told you she’d try and wriggle out of it. Typical Mile End slapper.’

  Horner put the deeds back in his file. ‘So you had no idea you were running a disorderly house out of your own properties. You expect us to believe that?’

  ‘Properties?’ Her eyes bulged. ‘Talk to my old man Stanley. He’ll tell you. I swear on my kid’s life.’ Babs teared up, thinking of Desiree in the hospital. ‘I swear, I don’t know nuthin’ about any toms or any houses.’ Then she remembered going to see Cleo. ‘You mean the house that Mickey Ingram owns—’

  Both men burst out laughing, Cricket slapping his thigh in his glee.

  Horner leaned in close, whiskey fumes making her nose wrinkle. ‘So you’re not above trying to stitch up an innocent bloke? You do own the houses; we’ve just proved that. And we’ve got statements from some of the poor girls you’ve been pimping and they put you squarely in the frame.’ Babs’ mouth fell open. ‘You’ve been living off immoral earnings; you know what that means, don’t you? It’s a very serious matter.’

  Babs begged, ‘Please just talk to Stan, he’ll tell you. If you have got any statements, they’re all verbals.’

  Horner looked at Cricket. ‘Shall I show her?’

  ‘Well, we shouldn’t really. We’re officers of the law. It’s strictly against regulations. But maybe just this once . . .’