Aunty Sharon folded her meaty arms and shook her head so that her super-sleek bobbed wig wobbled with indignation. ‘No, love. You said it gives you wind. And that tinned ham’s rough as arseholes. I wouldn’t have ate it.’
Amid the riotous family reunion that had temporarily seen a truce between Letitia and Aunty Sharon, George helped herself to a blob of antibacterial gel and allowed herself a satisfied smile. Massaging the gel in thoroughly between her fingers and under her nails.
‘What you grinning at, girl?’ her mother said. Sneering at George’s father who was sitting at the side of her bed in a day chair. ‘And what’s he got to be so happy about, and all? It’s like the two of yous is in cahoots.’ She wagged her finger between them. No shellac nail extensions on them today.
‘We saved your life,’ George said. ‘Your mate Stijn is banged up for good. Anyway, are you even going to ask about poor Jan?’
‘Who the fuck is Jan to me? What do I give a shit about some old hippy white feller?’ She grabbed dramatically at her throat. Jabbed her thumb in Michael’s direction. ‘If it weren’t for Julio bleeding Iglesias, here, dicking around with that wasp killer when he should have been cutting me down, I wouldn’t have big marks on my sodding neck. I’m gonna have to wear a scarf now! How can I wear a low-cut top to bingo, if I’ve got a fucking scarf wrapped round my neck? It’s diabolical, is what it is.’
‘Papa’s a bona fide hero,’ George said, reaching out to squeeze her father’s hand.
Letitia treated her ex-partner to a sour, downturned smile. ‘An hero? Maybe you could get a job in pest control killing invisible wasps, darling, but I don’t think you’ll be getting a call back to audition for the next Batman film. Certainly not with them legs. Know what I mean?’
Aunty Sharon stood with a flourish, all dressed to impress in her Designers at Debenhams Sunday best with her bloated feet stuffed into her favourite Betty Boop shoes. She marched over to Michael and clamped his head into the sort of hug George had craved all the while she had been travelling with the transportistas. The sort of hug that made anyone feel safe.
‘Take no notice of her, love,’ Sharon said, patting his newly cropped hair. ‘She’s got that PSTD.’ She lowered her voice. ‘She ain’t changed, you know. She still wins Olympic gold at being a cow. But I’m glad she’s alive. And you got a diamond of a girl in our George. You should be very proud.’
George’s father nodded, blinking fast and blushing. ‘I am. I’m the luckiest man in the world.’
‘Oi!’ Letitia shouted over Tinesha and Patrice’s heads to her sister. ‘Get out the way, you disrespectful little rarseclarts! I’m trying to have a conversation with your mother, here.’ She reached out, swatted her niece and nephew with the hospital lunch menu. ‘Did you just call me a cow?’
‘Nah.’ Aunty Sharon kissed George on the head. She didn’t smell of baking or the stale, dry-ice smell of the titty bar today. She smelled of her expensive perfume that Tinesha had bought her for Christmas. ‘You got defective ears on top of all the other shit what’s wrong with you,’ she said, sitting heavily back on her vinyl armchair so that the air in the cushion hissed out noisily like a well-aimed cuss.
‘I’ve only got four years to live!’ Letitia said, her bottom lip wavering though there was no sign of tears. Calculating her next move.
George cleared her throat, drinking in with no small degree of satisfaction the sight of her entire family, gathered together at short notice in that cramped hospital room. Relieved that Jan was down the hallway, already complaining that the doctors were trying to poison him with untested pharmaceuticals. And there was Van den Bergen, visible through the window, chatting to one of the doctors in the corridor about Elvis’ condition, no doubt.
‘Well,’ George said. She rose from her seat, ushering Aunty Sharon, Patrice and Tinesha to their feet. ‘If you’ve only got four years to live, Mother Dearest, how about you spend five minutes talking to your long-lost baby-father. We’ve all got some place we need to be, haven’t we, Aunty Shaz?’
‘Yeah,’ Sharon said, linking her by the arm. ‘I need a smoke and I’m having cake withdrawals. We’re going to the caff. I’ll bring you back a slab of chocolate-flavoured arsenic, if you behave.’ Chuckling mischievously. They walked in unison to the door.
‘Smuggle me some cigs in, will you, Shaz?’ Letitia called out. ‘The doctors said I mustn’t get stressed, innit? And get your face scrubbed, girl!’ A comment clearly intended for George. ‘You look like a bleeding mental case with that magic marker all over your mush. They’re gonna take the piss out of you something rotten when you get home.’
‘Bye, Letitia,’ George said, grinning at her mother; turning to wink at her father.
He smiled back at her and raised a thick, black eyebrow, exactly as he had done when she had been a child.
In the middle of a busy hospital corridor, surrounded by her family, standing by the side of Van den Bergen, George considered the journey she had embarked upon. Reflected on where she was now, in relation to where she had been some fourteen months earlier – a girl in a restaurant who had lost everything and had gained only an eye and a bellyful of blind panic. She had followed a trail that had led her halfway across the world in pursuit of the truth and in pursuit of justice, under the guise of investigating the mysterious deaths of six young people. There, high in the peaks of Honduras and Chiapas, deep in the jungle of the Yucatan and lost in the middle of the Caribbean Sea, she had faced her worst nightmare. Her only real fear. Not anxiety about dying, but the fear of being utterly on her own.
There, in the midst of that bustling hospital ward, George McKenzie, the consummate loner, realised that she was anything but alone. For now, at least, there was nothing left to be afraid of.
Acknowledgements
The Girl Who Had No Fear sprang from three sources. The first was my bez, Louise Owen, who insisted there was a story in city canals that mysteriously claim lives. You nagged the fuck out of me, Weez, but you got there in the end! Well done. The second was my friend, Max Barber, who told me all about the risks men take at gay chem-sex parties in pursuit of hedonistic fun. I hope I’ve done your observations justice, Max. The third was my ex-husband, Christian, with whom I’ve shared wonderful trips to Mexico and continue to share a great love of all things Central American. Thanks to those three friends for their inspiration.
As ever, the people who make my writing possible are as follows:
My children, Natalie and Adam, who make me want to be a better woman and write better stories, which, one day, they will be old enough to read.
My wonderful partner in crime, Caspian Dennis. Where I’m the bullshit, he’s the business, but more importantly, he regularly fixes my head when the going gets tough with words of wisdom, huge laughs and medicinal gin. If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t be reading any of this. Thanks also to the other folks at Abner Stein – world’s best literary agency, especially Sandy, Ben, Laura and Felicity.
My editor Phoebe and the outstanding team at Avon, HarperCollins – Oli, Helen, Helena, Natashas H & W, Hannah, Ellie and Louis. It is their forward-thinking and excellent taste that has brought you a series starring a character quite as kickass, unapologetic and savvy as George McKenzie. I salute them.
The amazing book-bloggers, who are so giving of their time in reading and reviewing my novels.
The online book clubs, whose members are such passionate and discerning readers.
Those who have stuck with the George McKenzie series from the beginning and those who are just discovering it for the first time with The Girl Who Had No Fear. You are definitely the best readers ever, and I owe you a huge debt of gratitude. I promise to write bigger, better, faster and importantly, more George stories just for you!
The cockblankets, who improve life immeasurably. And no, these aren’t unusual pets or erotic toys.
My writing buddies, Wendy Storer and Steph Williams, for ongoing support and tremendousness.
Winner of
the 2015 DEAD GOOD READER Award
for Most Exotic Location
HE’S WATCHING HER. SHE DOESN’T KNOW IT…YET
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About the Author
Marnie Riches grew up on a rough estate in Manchester, within sight of the dreaming spires of Strangeways prison. Able to speak five different languages, she gained a Master’s degree in Modern & Medieval Dutch and German from Cambridge University. She has been a punk, a trainee rock star, a pretend artist, a property developer and professional fundraiser. In her spare time, she likes to run, mainly to offset the wine and fine food she consumes with great enthusiasm.
Having authored the first six books of HarperCollins Children’s Time-Hunters series, she now writes crime thrillers for adults.
About the Publisher
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The Girl Who Had No Fear Page 35