Born Evil

by Kimberley Chambers

  Astonished by her date’s popularity, Debbie had the most exciting evening of her life, but sadly the cab journey home was too much for her. The numerous cocktails proved fatal and unfortunately she slung her guts up in the back of the black cab.

  ‘I’m really sorry, mate,’ Steve said, bunging the driver fifty quid, plus the fare, as he chucked them out in the middle of nowhere.

  ‘Oh, God, Steve. I’m not used to drinking such large amounts,’ Debbie managed to say, retching at the same time.

  ‘Shhh, you’re okay, babe. Just bring it all up and you’ll feel better. Stick your fingers down your throat if you have to,’ he replied, rubbing her back as if she were a newborn baby.

  Twenty minutes later, Debbie felt more with it and a lot more sober. After gratefully taking some chewing gum from Steve, she apologised over and over again.

  ‘I don’t know what you must think of me. I haven’t been out for ages … I’m so sorry if I’ve spoiled the evening.’

  ‘Shut up, you dopey cow,’ he said, and took her in his arms.

  Holding her close to him, Steve kissed her gently on the forehead. He’d had a great night, probably the best night out with a bird he’d ever had, and he certainly wasn’t gonna be put off by a bit of vomit. Deciding she looked well enough to travel again, he hailed another cab.

  Outside Debs’s house, he asked the driver to wait a minute while he made sure she got in all right.

  ‘Do you fancy a coffee, Steve? My mum will be in bed by now and you’re more than welcome to come in,’ Debbie offered.

  Looking at his watch, Steve decided against the idea. ‘It’s nearly four o’clock, Debs. I’d better shoot. Mickey’ll have me up at the crack of dawn once he sees his car never made the journey home. I’ve gotta fuck about picking that up.’

  Debbie felt a slight pang of disappointment. She was dead tired herself, but would have liked a kiss and a cuddle. Praying she hadn’t put him off by making a show of herself, she took the initiative. ‘What you doing tomorrow night then? I could cook you a nice dinner, if you like, to say thank you for a wonderful night out.’

  He smiled and dropped a kiss on her nose. ‘That’d be nice, Debs, really nice.’

  Debbie breathed a sigh of relief as they arranged to meet at eight o’clock that evening. Jumping back into the cab, Steve gave the driver directions for the short journey home.

  ‘That your girlfriend, mate?’ the driver asked nosily.

  Feeling like the King of England, Steve slung his arm across the top of the seat. ‘Yeah, mate, that’s my girl,’ he said confidently.

  The driver looked at his fare in the mirror. He was tired and chatting kept him awake after a long shift. ‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but you look really well suited. I see all sorts in this job, but I rarely see anybody as happy as you two seem to be.’

  Steve smiled. ‘Well suited ain’t the word, mate. I love that girl and very soon I’m gonna make her my wife!’

  TWENTY-ONE

  JUNE BUTTERED TWO slices of wholemeal toast, put the eggs into dainty little cups, stirred the coffee and took the laden tray upstairs to Debbie.

  ‘Wakey, wakey. Well, how did it go? I’ve been like a cat on a hot tin roof all morning – you know what a nosey cow I am. Where did he take you? Do you really like him?’

  Sitting up in bed made Debbie realise just how severe her headache was. The sight of her breakfast was the final straw. She ran, gagging, towards the bathroom.

  A disappointed June headed back downstairs to keep an eye on her naughty grandson. Glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall, she noticed it was midday. ‘Shit,’ she mumbled as she remembered she’d promised Peter she’d be home by lunchtime for the surprise he had in store for her. Not knowing what to do for the best, she decided to use Debbie’s phone to let him know she was going to be late.

  Ever since she’d stood up to Peter over his attitude to her kids, he’d treated her with more respect and given her more leeway. On a personal level he had virtually nothing to do with Debbie or Mickey, but he always enquired after them and seemed happy to listen to whatever stories June told him about her children. Charlie was a different story, though. Understandably, he hated her grandson with a passion. Resigning from his council position had affected Peter deeply. He kept himself to himself now. He avoided Masonic parties, scarcely ever played golf any more, and rarely went out without her.

  Having him under her feet all the time secretly drove June round the bend. He was the old-fashioned type who insisted the man should wear the trousers in the home and, to keep the peace, she found it easier to let him do so, no matter how much it grated. The only thing that had changed was that she now put her own kids first, as she should have done in the first bloody place.

  June dialled her home number and waited patiently while it rang. Peter was going to have the right hump, she knew that, but what else could she do? Debbie was upstairs spewing her guts up, and she could hardly leave Charlie downstairs on his own to wreck the joint. Taking the child home with her was a definite no go. Peter had banned him from the house for life.

  Finally there was an answer. ‘Hello, Peter speaking.’

  June braced herself. ‘Oh hello, love, it’s only me. I’ve got a bit of a problem. Debbie’s got gastroenteritis … she can’t stop being sick. I’m going to have to stay here and look after Charlie, there’s no one else to have him.’

  Peter was annoyed, very annoyed. He had been looking forward to this afternoon for weeks and had planned it with his usual precision.

  ‘June my dear, today of all days you must not do this to me. I’ve made a lovely picnic for us and I’m taking you somewhere very special. If you let me down, my love, I won’t be a happy man, especially after all the trouble I’ve gone to to arrange this.’

  June held the receiver away from her ear. He was so bloody patronising sometimes. No wonder he’d always got on her kids’ nerves. Deciding to stand her ground, she spoke calmly but firmly.

  ‘My daughter needs me, Peter. Where were you meant to be taking me anyway? Can’t we do it another day?’

  Not liking his surprises to be spoiled, but realising he had no other option but to let her know what she would be missing, Peter said proudly: ‘Today, my dear, I am taking you to see the home of the one and only Winston Churchill. I have organised a tour around the house and grounds, and we will enjoy our picnic sitting romantically in his garden.’

  June could feel her blood boiling. A surprise for her? She didn’t bloody think so! She’d been dragged up in the East End of London and had never taken any interest whatsoever in politics. She listened politely whenever her husband spoke about them, and had always shown a proper interest in his one-time political career, but secretly it bored her shitless. To her, politics was a complete and utter load of old bollocks. They were all lying bastards, and once they got into government ended up breaking every promise they’d bloody well made in the first place.

  Fuming to hear about her so-called surprise, June let him have it. ‘If you think for one minute that I’m going to put a trip to a dead politician’s house in front of helping out my own daughter, my flesh and blood, you’ve got another think coming! As for the actual surprise … I couldn’t think of anything worse. It’s all about you, isn’t it, Peter? You’re the one who’s into politics, not me. So why is it my fucking surprise?’

  Shocked by her outburst and atrocious language, Peter spoke calmly but with a hint of sarcasm. ‘Do you have to swear, my dear? You sound like a fishwife. Is it really so terrible that I made us a lovely picnic and arranged a pleasant day out? You can be very ungrateful at times, June. As for young Deborah, are you sure she’s not suffering from alcohol poisoning rather than gastroenteritis? It was only last night she was out partying. Bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’

  Lying through her teeth, June hit back at him. ‘How dare you! That poor little cow never goes out, and when she does she hardly drinks. I know my own daughter, and I know when she’s ill …
and I certainly don’t need you calling me a liar. I may not be a perfect parent, Peter, and I’m the first to admit that my kids have their faults, but at least we’re a family. We care about each other. You’ve been a terrible father, you have. I’ve never known a man have less contact with his child, except for my ex … and he was an arsehole. You don’t speak to your Dolores from one year to the next, so you’re certainly not in any position to be judging other people’s family values.’

  Annoyed that she’d brought up his strained relationship with his own daughter, Peter became even more sarcastic.

  ‘Your family is like something off that bloody soap opera, EastEnders or whatever it’s called. Prison sentences, unwanted pregnancies, domestic violence – there’s always a bloody drama! And as for that evil little grandson of yours … he’ll prove to be the biggest drama yet. I may not speak to my Dolores as much as I should, but that’s because she’s extremely busy. Unlike your brood, she’s made something of her life. The girl is a top-class lawyer and has done fantastically well for herself, thank you very much. Which is more than I can say for the Dawson tribe.’

  Insulting her was one thing, June could take that with a pinch of salt, insulting her kids was a different story.

  ‘Well, if me and my kids aren’t good enough for you, Peter, you know what you can do. Divorce me, you wanker, see if I fucking care!’

  June slammed the phone down and flopped on to Debbie’s sofa. They’d rowed before, but never like this. Shaking with temper, she headed out to the kitchen in search of alcohol. She found half a bottle of wine in Debbie’s fridge and poured herself a glass. She needed to calm down. Annoyed with herself for letting her guard slip and showing her common side, she took a long sip from the glass.

  Dressed up in his cowboy outfit, Charlie had been playing in the garden, shooting imaginary Indians. Hearing raised voices, he’d sneaked into the kitchen and heard the whole row. Seeing his nan sitting at the table looking sad, he decided to try and cheer her up.

  ‘I don’t like Granddad. I hope he dies, Nanny.’

  Not quite believing her ears, June couldn’t help but scream at the child. ‘Get out of my fucking sight! I’m not in the mood for you, Charlie. Believe me, I’m not.’

  By the look on her face, he knew she meant business. Giggling to himself, he headed outdoors to shoot more Indians and, hopefully, next-door’s cat.

  Debbie had heard the commotion downstairs and decided it was time she got up and pulled herself together. Feeling slightly better, she chucked on her dressing gown and went to face the music.

  June cried as she relayed the whole story.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Mum. This is all my fault. I feel okay now, you get home to Peter and sort things out.’

  ‘Are you sure, love?’ June asked, already picking up her handbag.

  ‘Positive, Mum.’

  Cursing herself for losing her temper, June waved to her daughter and started the short walk home. Peter annoyed her, wound her up no end, but in her heart she loved him and would be devastated if they were to split up. Now she’d calmed down, she felt terrible about the nasty things she’d said to him. She didn’t lose her temper often but, when she did, she lost control completely and swore like a washerwoman. As the old saying goes: You can take the girl out of the East End, but you can’t take the East End out of the girl. Furious with her own big gob, she headed home to try and put things right.

  Walking around Tesco with the hangover from hell and Charlie was no mean feat, but somehow Debbie managed it. As she unpacked her shopping she smiled to herself and began to look forward to the night ahead. Sirloin steak, sautéed potatoes, mushrooms and beef-flavoured rice was her chosen menu, followed by a shop-bought apple pie and cream. She hated bloody cooking, but Steve was well worth the effort.

  ‘Mummy, I’m hungry.’

  As she sat down next to Charlie, she watched him greedily devour his chicken nuggets, chips and beans. Smiling at his appetite, Debbie gently ruffled his hair and decided that now was as good a time as any to have a quiet word with him.

  ‘Mummy’s friend Steve is coming over later, Charlie, and I was thinking … if you’re a good boy, Mummy will let you stay up for a bit. Maybe we can all play some games, or watch a cartoon together. What do you think?’

  Charlie’s previously happy expression instantly changed to a dark one. ‘Don’t want him here. Don’t wanna play games. Don’t wanna do nuffink.’

  Debbie handed him his vanilla ice-cream and tried to bargain with him. ‘Please, Charlie. Be a good boy for Mummy. Steve’s a nice man when you get to know him and Mummy’s got to have friends, hasn’t she?’

  With his bottom lip pouting spectacularly, Charlie threw his spoon on to the floor. Looking at his mother out of the corner of his eye, he decided to be naughty. He knew she hated him saying bad words, so he thought of the worst thing he could say.

  ‘Are you sucking his cock, Mummy?’

  Horrified, Debbie grabbed him by the arm. ‘You naughty boy! Get up them stairs and into that bedroom – now.’

  ‘Nooooo,’ Charlie screamed, knocking the ice-cream bowl on to the floor and smashing it.

  Debbie locked him in his bedroom, cleared up the mess in the kitchen, sat down at the table and poured herself a much-needed hair of the dog. Her child was enough to make a saint scream and she was at a complete loss as to what to do with him.

  To seek professional help was totally out of the question. He’d already made a mug out of one psychiatrist and, at forty quid a shot, it was a rather expensive hobby. Racking her brains, she tried to think of the answer. Suddenly it came to her. What Charlie really needed was a man around the house. Someone who would take no shit off him, and really take him in hand. The boy needed to be taught manners and respect. She knew he would never listen to her. Mickey wasn’t around a lot, but when he was Charlie played up a lot less, which only proved her point.

  What her son needed was rules and discipline, and it was too late in the day for her to enforce them. With a man’s backing she could do it, but not on her own. Sipping her wine, she decided that Steve was the ideal candidate to sort Charlie out. He was a no-nonsense sort, just what her son needed. Whenever Steve had come round for dinner in the past, she’d made sure Charlie was safely tucked up in bed. He’d only had contact with the child when he’d popped round in the daytime. Hopefully, now, things could be different.

  Daydreaming of her happy family life-to-be, Debbie went upstairs to get ready. Pleased with her efforts, she went downstairs to make a start on dishing the dinner up. Steve would be here soon. A typical bloke, he was always starving and wanted feeding on the spot. Happily stirring the rice, she turned the radio on.

  ‘You Are the Sunshine of My Life’ was playing. Singing along with the soulful voice of Stevie Wonder, Debbie thought how appropriate the song was. Maybe it was a sign of good things to come, her turning on the radio at that particular moment.

  As the doorbell rang, Debbie stopped singing. Smiling, she put the wooden spoon on the table and went to greet the man she hoped would bring some much-needed sunshine into her own life.

  TWENTY-TWO

  BILLY MCDAID LAY BACK on the uncomfortable wooden bench and stared at the graffiti on the scuffed paintwork of the walls.

  His game was up, he had no doubt about that. He also knew that very shortly the police at the Glasgow cop shop where he was being held would see through the false name he’d given them and then the fun would really start. He’d been pulled in for a drunken brawl and could kick himself for being so bloody stupid.

  From the moment Billy had stepped off the train, battered and bruised from the hiding he’d taken from Mickey, he’d kept his head down and his nose clean. Hating Glasgow more than life itself, due to the memories that it held, he had returned only reluctantly, not knowing where to go or what to do. After sleeping rough for a couple of nights, he had decided to pay his Auntie Mary a visit, to see if she could put him up until he sorted himself out.

  Mar
y was his mum’s older sister. Complete opposites, his mother and aunt had never got along. Because of this, Billy had never had a great deal to do with his aunt, but on the odd occasion he had bumped into her she’d always been warm and kind to him. The day of his brother’s funeral stood out in his mind particularly. His mother didn’t even show up. It was his aunt who had held him, soothed him and wiped away his tears.

  ‘If you need anything, laddie, anything at all, you come and see me. You know where I live and my door is always open to you,’ Mary had told him. He could tell, by the look in her eyes, that it was a genuine offer. He could also tell that she felt sorry for him as she was well aware what kind of an upbringing he and his brother had had.

  When he knocked on her door that day, he felt and looked like a tramp. Praying that she hadn’t recently moved house, he was overcome by relief when she opened the door, made a fuss of him and welcomed him in with open arms. Things had looked up for Billy from that day onwards. After a lazy few weeks where he had done nothing but sleep, let his injuries heal and enjoy his aunt’s wonderful cooking, he picked himself up and found a job, working locally on a building site. Normally work-shy, he was reasonably content with his new life. He liked the lads he was working with, they were a good laugh, and having a break from the drugs and drink had more or less cleared his head.

  The main problem he had was himself. For Billy good things never lasted. His short attention span meant he got bored very easily. Unfortunately for him, boredom equalled trouble. Living with his aunt was good at first, she made him feel safe and secure, but gradually, as the weeks turned into months, he’d become more and more restless and had craved a part of his old life back. He wasn’t being ungrateful; his aunt had been wonderful to him, and he would never bite the hand that had fed him so kindly. But, yearning to be the old Billy again, he made the fatal mistake of moving out of his Auntie Mary’s and into a bed-sit with a guy he’d palled up with at work.