Jack's Back

by Mark Romain

  She tried to pull herself up onto the bed, but another wave of pain washed over her, and she stumbled into the side of the dresser, scattering makeup onto the threadbare carpet.

  Tracey squinted at the blurred hands of her cheap wristwatch through a pain-induced haze. By a sheer act of willpower, she forced herself to focus on the tiny numbers:

  00: 55.

  Her pimp would be here any minute now. If she was lucky, and she put herself about a bit, she should just be able to scrape together the money she needed to buy enough crack to see her through until tomorrow night. Claude would have a few rocks on him, and Tracey definitely needed a hit before she would be fit for work, if that was the right word for it, selling herself in some dim and dingy alley for thirty pounds a time.

  The fly in the ointment was that Tracey didn’t have any money to pay for that all important first rock, and Claude Winston wasn’t the type of man to let her have anything in advance. Claude looked after number one. Everyone else was there for him to screw, one way or another. That was his philosophy.

  The bedroom door opened a fraction, and a sleepy-faced child cautiously poked her head around it. An infectious smile immediately lit up her young face as she caught sight of the woman kneeling by the dresser.

  “Hello mummy,” she said, rubbing the sleep from her eyes with her knuckles.

  “Go back to bed, April,” Tracey managed, using her sleeve to wipe a string of dribble from her chin.

  “But I heard a scary noise,” April protested. As she stepped into the room something scrunched under her foot, and she bent down to retrieve a tube of lipstick, which she examined inquisitively under the weak glow of the room’s forty-watt bulb.

  “Put it down,” Tracey said, irritably.

  “Can I play with it, mummy?” the girl asked, brushing the long blond hair from her face. Clad in a pair of tomato red pyjamas that had little yellow teddy bears imprinted all over, the child possessed a purity of heart that her mother could no longer recognise or appreciate.

  “No, you bloody can’t.” Tracey snatched the lipstick from her hand and viciously threw it onto the dresser.

  Tracey’s eyes clouded. “What did you say you wanted?” she demanded impatiently.

  “Mummy, a scary noise woke me up. Pooh was scared too, and he wants to stay with you tonight?” She indicated the worn bear tucked into the crook of her right arm. It had been a constant companion since she received it on her first birthday, four years previously.

  “No,” Tracey said, averting her eyes from the child’s piercing stare.

  “Pleeeeeeaase!” April’s tiny, tired voice was both hopeful and demanding.

  “NO!” Tracey all but screamed. She didn’t need this. Not now! Why did the kid have to pick this night to have her nightmare? Couldn’t she see that Tracey had more important things to worry about? “Look, I’ve got to go out to work, so stop pestering me and go back to bed.” Her voice rose dangerously as she tottered on the verge of hysteria. Suddenly, the room reminded her of the stifling cell she had recently vacated; the very walls seemed to be closing in to suffocate her. Tracey staggered to her feet; dismissing her daughter’s outstretched arms, ignoring her tear-filled eyes.

  Where the hell was Claude? She needed some stuff. Right now! Tracey pushed past her child. Oblivious to the pain her rejection had inflicted, she stormed out of the bedroom without a backward glance.

  Tracey’s mother, Rita, had been fast asleep, but the shouting woke her up and she rushed across to her daughter’s room as fast as she could, arriving just as Tracey charged out. Powerless to do anything, Rita could only watch in anguish as Tracey stomped off along the narrow hall. After grabbing her coat from the back of the door, she stormed out without saying a single word.

  The street door slammed violently.

  Little April was sitting on her mother’s bed, hugging her teddy and trying very hard not to cry when Rita walked in. “What did I do wrong, Nanny?” April asked in that angelic little voice of hers. She looked so sad, and it broke Rita’s heart. “It’s alright baby. Come to Nanny.” Rita’s voice was thick with emotion as she fought back tears of grief. Dear God, she prayed, help me to be strong for the child’s sake.

  April fell into her Grandmother’s outstretched arms and began to cry, her little body racked by giant sobs. It just isn’t fair, Rita thought, as she carried the girl back to her own room and tucked her into bed. It was hard enough for an adult to cope with having a drug addict in the family, let alone a child. She found herself shaking with anger. How could Tracey do this to them, her own flesh and blood? Wishing she knew how to make things better, Rita sat on the edge of the bed, stroking her granddaughter’s hair and whispering soft words of reassurance. Gradually, the sobbing faded and blessed sleep came, wrapping the child in its protective embrace.

  Little April hadn’t been planned. The father had vanished, never to be seen again on the day that he found out Tracey was pregnant. Tracey, consumed by her inadequacies, had been an absent parent from day one, leaving Rita to raise the child alone. As she tiptoed out of the child’s bedroom, all Rita could think about was what would become of her beautiful granddaughter if anything ever happened to her.

  ◆◆◆

  Tracey slammed the street door shut and repeatedly jabbed at the button for the lift. She knew she ought to feel bad about the way she had treated April, but all that mattered now was finding a way to persuade Claude to give her some crack. Perhaps if she offered to blow him in the car park, he would let her have a little something on account. She doubted it though. He had long since ceased to find her even remotely interesting in that way.

  The lift door opened and she went in. The light in the small metal box was dim and flickered constantly. She half expected it to go out before she reached the ground, five floors below. The inside was covered with graffiti, and the smell of urine was overpowering. This place really was a shit hole. It always had been, but at least when she had been a kid the lifts had been cleaner.

  As she emerged from of the lift and entered the main lobby area, Tracey noticed two skinny white youths sitting by the stairwell. The older of the two couldn’t have been more than fifteen. They both had dirty, matted hair and looked like they hadn’t washed or changed their clothes in days, the dirty bastards. They gave her a nervous glance, weighing her up. “What you staring at, you fucking pussies?” She shouted aggressively, making sure they saw her as a threat, and not a potential victim. They turned away quickly, and she sucked her teeth at them in disgust.

  Tracey couldn’t help wondering what the fuck their parents were playing at, letting them out at this time of night, and then she spotted the bright red sores around their mouths and noses and caught a whiff of the glue fumes. Suddenly everything made sense. Solvent abuse had become commonplace around here. Well, let them get on with it, she thought as she left the block. Life was tough, and she had her own problems to worry about.

  Tracey stopped at the edge of the kerb, shifting her weight impatiently from foot to foot as she watched the traffic going by. She nodded at the elderly woman from number twenty-three, who was walking her little Jack Russell on the small green in the middle of the estate. As she watched, the mutt squatted and began to defecate. Its owner patiently leaned against the sign prohibiting dogs and ball games and waited for her pet to finish its business.

  Where the hell was Claude? she wondered. There was hardly any traffic on the road at this time of night so there was no excuse for his being late. Why did he always keep her waiting when she needed the gear? It was as if he sensed her need and deliberately kept her on tenterhooks. That would be just like Claude. He was a cruel man who took pleasure from other people’s suffering. She wrapped her flimsy jacket tightly around her shoulders, hugging herself to keep warm against the autumnal chill. It had been a very wet month, and although the sky was currently crystal clear, she suspected that before too long it would cloud over again and piss down.

  She had just started to pace up and down
when the black BMW 3 series with tinted windows pulled up beside her and the passenger door was pushed open.

  “Get in, bitch,” a deep, gravelly voice ordered.

  ◆◆◆

  Claude Winston was a physically imposing man. The Jamaican stood well over six-foot-tall and weighed in at a smidgen under nineteen stone. True, he was carrying some flab, but only a fool would underestimate him because of that. The beaded dreadlocks he sported were his pride and joy; no one touched the dreads. Tonight, he wore a black three-quarter-length leather coat, a black silk tee shirt, and black trousers. He liked black. It was his trademark.

  Winston liked to think of himself as an entrepreneur who dealt in marketable commodities. The commodities in question were drugs and women, and he was pleased to announce that business was booming.

  As the car moved off Tracey turned to Winston. “Claude, I’m really hurting. Can you let me have a little something in advance? I’ll pay you back as soon as I turn a trick, I promise.”

  She did her best to sound provocative, and as she spoke, she gently placed her hand on his left leg and began to slide it upwards towards his groin.

  Winston didn’t reply. He didn’t even look at her. Fucking cheek, he thought, gritting his teeth. It was bad enough that she’d had the front to phone him up and beg for a lift, without expecting him to throw in a freebie on top. And what the fuck was the stupid little slut doing over in south London anyway? She should have been out grafting hours ago; her laziness was costing him money.

  Tracey was almost at the end of her tether, and instead of putting her out of her misery, as he could have done so easily, it looked like Winston was just going to ignore her.

  It was too fucking much!

  She had to shout to be heard above the car’s sound system which was blaring out the live version of Bob Marley’s ‘No woman no cry’.

  “Claude, sweetie, don’t do this to me. I’m good for it. You know I am.”

  She tried to undo his fly. When she had first started working for Claude, two years ago, he had liked for her to suck him while he drove her to work. It had given him a buzz. Maybe that would loosen him up a little, make him more amiable towards her.

  He slapped her hands away.

  “Stop squirming, you worthless bitch, and save your breath. If you want the merchandise you pay for it up front like everyone else. What do you think I am? A fucking charity?”

  Tracey sat back up and turned to look out of the nearside window so that he wouldn’t be able to see the desperation in her face.

  As they turned onto Tower Bridge Tracey glanced down to her left at HMS Belfast. As a child, London had seemed such a wondrous place, full of excitement and adventure. Her father, who was a bit of a history buff, and the local pub quiz champion, had regularly treated her to days out in London. They had spent many a happy Sunday afternoon exploring the Capital’s famous sights together. Her father was a font of knowledge and seemed to know everything worth knowing about every landmark they ever visited. Tracey hadn’t thought about her dad in years, yet suddenly, she could hear him, clear as a bell, recanting with great pride how the retired WWII Cruiser’s revolutionary new radar system had played a major role in sinking the Scharnhorst during the famous Boxing Day battle of 1943.

  London Bridge provided the backdrop for the Belfast, and to its right stood the pencil-thin Monument. Beyond that, she spotted the cupola roof of St. Paul’s Cathedral. And there, right in the distance, stood the bizarre, aerial infested Post Office Tower. She welled up as she recalled her dad telling her that Anthony Wedgwood Benn, whoever the fuck he was, had once proclaimed it symbolised 20th Century Britain.

  The London she knew now was a very different place from the magical one her father had shown her, a dark and violent place that brought her nothing but pain and despair, a place controlled by pimps and gangsters. Now, not even the cherished memories of those distant, happy days could ignite a spark of happiness inside her chest.

  They caught a red light at the Tower, and Tracey forced herself to endure the long wait by counting the small cross-shaped slits in the massive stone structure on her left.

  The lights changed to green and the BMW moved off with a lurch.

  Tears of desperation streamed down Tracey’s face.

  She needed a fix, NOW!

  Winston reached across to the Blaupunkt, pressing a button to rewind the Marley tape. Apart from a dull whirring noise as the tape rewound, the car was filled with an awkward silence that was so loud it was almost deafening.

  A few year-long seconds later, there was a loud click from the cassette player and Bob began to sing again. Winston adjusted the volume until the bass vibrated through her entire body.

  ‘No woman no cry’.

  Her mind raced as she fended off another bout of stomach cramp. Surely, he wouldn’t send her off without a fix? There had to be a way to persuade him.

  But how?

  She was running out of time.

  ◆◆◆

  When Rita finally returned to her own bed she couldn’t sleep. Instead, she found herself wondering where her daughter was and what would eventually become of her. Would she even bother to come back home in the morning, or would she gravitate back to the East End squat where she had spent most of the last year dossing?

  Rita knew that things couldn’t carry on like this for much longer, and a familiar coldness engulfed her fragile body in its icy grip as she contemplated Tracey’s probable fate. She tried to rationalise the growing fear, to dismiss it as the mindless dithering of an old woman, but deep in her heart, she knew exactly what would become of Tracey unless something drastic was done. The dreadful realisation made her ageing flesh crawl.

  ◆◆◆

  Somehow, Tracey survived the drive around the outskirts of the City and into Aldgate High Street without breaking down. Music continued to blast out from the German car’s powerful speakers, making her head hurt. It seemed to be throbbing in time to the beat.

  Boom, boom, boom.

  Tracey wanted to scream, but she forced herself to take a deep breath instead and looked at her face in the vanity mirror. Shit! Her mascara had run. Why hadn’t she bought the waterproof stuff the prissy sales assistant had recommended?

  As they turned into Commercial Street Tracey made one last effort. “Claude, I just need one rock, to take the pain away. Please! Just one measly rock! C’mon Claude, just this one time,” Predictably, he ignored her, and in growing desperation, Tracey’s trembling hand reached out towards his arm, gripping it tightly, a drowning swimmer clinging to a lifeline in a storm.

  “Please, Claude,” she begged him for compassion, knowing in her heart that the concept would be repugnant to him. He brushed it off and gave her a warning glance. She knew it was dangerous to push Winston. He wouldn’t hesitate to hit her if he thought she deserved it. She had seen what he was capable of more than once.

  Winston glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. All he felt was contempt. She was a pathetic little junkie whose life was a wreck. He might sell the stuff to others, but that was business. Only a fool would mess with that shit, and he had no time for fools.

  Winston wondered how long it would be before he had to get rid of her. She was starting to become a real pain. Imagine asking him for credit!

  Silly fucked up cow.

  Even if Winston felt any sympathy, which he didn’t, he would never let it show. He had a reputation as a hard, ruthless operator to think about. Going soft would be bad for business. Not that there was any chance of that.

  He slowed down along Commercial Street to observe the competition and quickly spotted several girls from rival stables plying their trade.

  As he entered his own territory his practised eye picked out a steady stream of punters with ease. It wasn’t hard to spot them as they as they cruised past the girls, looking to score.

  He pulled the BMW up by Quaker Street, and nodded at two of his girls across the road, lingering outside the used car sales lot. He t
urned to Tracey, looking at her properly for the first time that evening.

  “Right, off you go, bitch,” he said harshly. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, plenty of time to earn the money to buy what you need from me.”

  She started to protest, to beg, but his hand reached out with surprising speed for such a big man. Fingers the size of sausages dug into her upper right arm. He twisted it hard, pulling her towards him, his patience at an end. His face was inches from hers now, and his foul warm breath bombarded her as he whispered: “It’s not good for your health to argue with me, bitch. Now go and earn me some fucking money or I’ll tear your skinny white arm off.”

  Tracey gasped with pain as her shoulder nearly popped out of its socket.

  Winston had expected a submissive response and, under normal circumstances, that’s exactly what he would have got, but Tracey’s dysfunctional mind had pushed her over the edge, making her as unpredictable and as emotionally volatile as nitroglycerine.