‘No, I was just getting home and I spotted John pulling off in the van.’
Caren’s heart sank but her smile remained firmly in place.
‘Yeah,’ said John with a smile that was in no way false at all. ‘You’ll never guess where he and Gina live? Right opposite us – number twenty-five. How cool is that? It’ll be just like old times.’
Old times? Caren shuddered involuntarily. She’d worked hard to forget the old times. There had been no love lost between her and Gina at school and, even though people change, she’d heard that Gina had remained the same small-minded bitch that she’d always been. She knew that she’d had three kids in quick succession, knew that she hadn’t worked a day in her life. She’d heard that Pete was known around the estate for not keeping his dick in his trousers, though looking at him now, with his clothes hanging off him, his scruffy hair and skin in need of a good wash, she wondered why any woman would take a fancy to him.
Oh, God, this was going to be a nightmare.
Turning away, she cast her mind back to when she’d last seen Gina Bradley. She’d been in Woolworths a few years ago, getting presents for Christmas. Gina had come walking – no, waddling – towards her, looking like she expected her to stop and make small talk as their eyes locked. She recalled being thankful that she’d made an effort to keep in shape over the years and took great pleasure in seeing Gina’s resigned look as her eyes then swept from Caren’s head to her toes and back again quickly. Caren had then walked straight past as if she didn’t know her, a smile playing on her lips. She wasn’t a vengeful person but it had felt so good, so liberating.
Once she heard John and Pete leave the room behind her, she let out the breath she’d been holding. Trying not to cry, she forced herself back down onto the floor and began to scrub away with vigour.
This situation was going from bad to worse. What had she done to deserve this!
Gina stood in her bedroom window, hoping that no one could see her as she watched the goings-on across the road. When Mum first told her about Caren, she’d had to see for herself. The two of them had stood at the window, gawping at the items of furniture that had come from the van. There had been some proper posh stuff, things Gina and Barbara had only ever been able to dream of owning. And although Barbara had lots of fun imagining what items were going into what rooms, every time something else came from the van, Gina’s heart sank at the realisation that Caren must be loaded. But then again, she was back on the Mitchell Estate. She would have to find out why.
Since Mum had gone at about one o’clock, her trip into town forgotten, Gina had stood there but still she hadn’t seen Caren. That was hours ago; her legs were aching but she didn’t dare move in case she missed anything. She couldn’t believe it – her arch-enemy, moving in directly opposite; their front doors practically parallel to one another. They would see each other every day. Gina quivered at the thought. Rewind the years and Caren Williams had been Caren Phillips. They’d known each other since infant school but they’d never really liked each other. Gina could still remember Caren looking down her nose at her when she’d become pregnant at fifteen. She had just left school – well, she hardly went to school really – when she gave birth to Danny. She was barely sixteen. Caren was going out with John then, boasting about how she planned to marry him and buy a house before she started a family.
It had been worse when she’d had the twins three years later; she and Pete married hastily when they were three months old. Gina had thought she’d have time to get her figure back after the birth but she was fat and round on the one wedding photo they had. She hated it.
Everyone thought she and Pete wouldn’t last but they had proved them wrong. Sixteen years later and they were still married, although Pete had hardly been the loving, doting husband. Rumours around the estate were that he’d shag anything that moved but Gina wasn’t sure if they were true or not. He’d confessed to a couple of affairs and she’d seen off the women each time with a good fist fight. Despite that, no one really knew whether or not they were happy and Gina wasn’t telling.
Suddenly, she jumped back from the window as the front door opened. She watched as John jogged down the path and opened the boot of a small white car. Within seconds, he closed it again and ran back into the house. Gina had seen enough for her heart to start racing. Back when she was fourteen, she’d had an enormous crush on John and that bitch Caren had got to him first.
But why would John have looked at Gina when he could have Caren?
Caren was tall and svelte with long, blonde hair and fair skin. She was an only child – not like Gina being the eldest child of three – and had the latest trainers, the latest school bag, the latest everything. Gina always had the cheaper brands. She remembered crying for two weeks over a pair of Adidas trainers she’d coveted and being mortified when her mum came home with something similar but with two black stripes instead of the trademark three.
Gina, her sister Leah and brother, Jason, had been called names throughout their school years. It hadn’t been a happy time for any of them. Scruffy Gina, she’d been known as. Along with smelly Gina, thick Gina, stupid Gina, ginger Gina. And the worst ones: slapper Gina, scrubber Gina, shagger Gina. It had been horrible getting pregnant so young, but it was her mistake and she had stood by it, even when she’d come away from school without an exam to her name. She hadn’t needed qualifications anyway; she’d never worked since leaving school.
When Pete showed an interest in her, Gina had thought all her Christmases had come at once. It didn’t matter that her coat was brown when everyone else’s was red. It didn’t matter that she had no money to go shopping for the latest clothes and make up. At fourteen, Gina fell in love. Yet as soon as John had shown an interest in Caren, Gina had wanted him too. To the point that she’d got very pissed on cider and threw herself at him. When he wouldn’t kiss her, she offered to give him a blow job. But John hadn’t wanted to know: he’d laughed at her, embarrassed by her actions. Besides, Caren had stolen his heart anyway. Gina had felt so humiliated seeing them together. John would always be sitting by Caren; her legs would be draped over his as she sat on his knee. Or he’d be standing behind her, arms encircling her tiny waist, pulling her in close.
She sighed heavily. Where had she gone wrong? Three kids and a useless pratt of a husband wasn’t much to shout about. Back at school, she’d wanted to be a hairdresser. She had intended to go to college, get her own vehicle and go mobile. Unfortunately, she hadn’t reckoned on a thin blue line changing all of that, shattering her dreams, breaking her illusions. And everything continued to go wrong from that day forward.
Was it any wonder she was trying to come up with a reason for Caren to be back on the estate? It couldn’t be by choice. No one would ever come back here if they didn’t have to. Something must have gone wrong in her oh-so-perfect life. Bizarrely, even that thought couldn’t summon a smile.
Even though she had seen John earlier when Pete came home, Gina still couldn’t drag herself away from the window. Curiosity was burning up inside her to see if Caren looked as good as she remembered. The last time she’d seen her in town, Caren had blanked her as she’d walked towards her in Woollies. Gina hadn’t been bothered - there was nothing worse than seeing your rival looking a million dollars in a long, black winter coat, leather, knee-length boots, skinny jeans and a white jumper that actually looked white. Even more so when you were wearing shabby old jeans and manky trainers, with no make up and mop hair. Caren had strode past her in a cloud of musky perfume as she’d slinked away to hide behind the greetings card stands.
That had been about three years ago. It was going to be strange to see her again after so long – and on a regular basis too. Whenever Gina needed to go to Vincent Square, Caren could be in the garden. When she went to collect her benefits, Caren could be in the post office sending parcels to friends overseas. When she went to the chemist to pick up her asthma inhaler, Caren might be there treating herself to a new lipstick or body lo
tion. When she went to the butchers for the cheap cuts, Caren might be buying the best cut of steak.
Gina pushed her nails into her palms. Now she would always have a reminder of how appalling she looked against Caren. Gina with the mop of ginger hair; Gina with the body of an Oompa-Lumpa - a waist measurement that was way past the healthy limit - Gina with the lines of a smoker prominent around her mouth, Gina with the clothes that looked like they came from a charity shop. Gina with the husband who didn’t give enough of a shit to try to cajole her into doing something about it.
Suddenly, Caren appeared in the doorway. Gina felt tears prick her eyes: Caren hadn’t changed one iota since that day in Woollies. Her skin was tanned, her nails painted. She still had the long, flowing hair but it was tied out of the way with a pink scarf that matched the shade of her lipstick precisely. She wore light-coloured tight jeans, Chelsea boots popping out from beneath them. Checked shirt sleeves were rolled up out of the way.
She watched Caren glance up and down the avenue. Her arms were folded and she seemed to be drinking in the mood of the place; it was clear that she didn’t look very happy. Gina could almost see an invisible cloak of anxiety shrouding her.
For the first time that day, she smiled. If Caren Williams thought that Gina was going to welcome her into the avenue with open arms, she had another think coming. Her family had the monopoly on Stanley Avenue, and nothing ever got past them for long. She’d make it her business to have the low down on why Caren and John had come back.
And then maybe it was time to have some fun.
‘How come you get to be the boss again?’ Claire asked her twin sister as they walked to their usual hangout - the car park of Shop&Save across on Vincent Square. It was nearing eight o’clock; they were off to meet up with the rest of their gang. Now the nights were drawing in there were more opportunities to cause mayhem once it was dark.
Rachel peered from behind her hood, her face barely visible to the outside world. ‘What do you mean?’
Claire faltered, unsure what to say now that she had voiced her feelings. ‘I mean, since Stacey got sent down, you think you’re in charge of the gang. Why can’t it be both of us?’
Rachel grinned and threw an arm around Claire’s shoulder, pulling her close. ‘Don’t be daft, you nutter. I don’t run the gang – we do.’
‘It doesn’t feel like that.’
Rachel pushed her away playfully. ‘We could have some real fun with them, if you like?’ When Claire frowned, she continued. ‘We could play one against the other; get the low down on who they like best.’
Claire looked away.
‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘You always want to know who’s the best.’
‘Don’t go all moody on me,’ Rachel whined. She held a ten pound note at each end and wiggled it about. ‘I’ve lifted this from Mum. Let’s go and get some lager.’
As they ran across Davy Road towards the square, they made a car slow down by running in front of it, giggling and laughing. Looks wise, if it wasn’t for a small scar to the right of Rachel’s eye where their brother, Danny, had pushed her from the seesaw at the age of five, it was hard to tell them apart. Compared to their mother, who was five foot and a dot, they were a few inches taller. They both had short, red hair. Their trousers were always baggy, always inches too long and bunched up at the ankles. They wore no jewellery, no make up: no bling was allowed in the Mitchell Mob, except for piercings. Sometimes it was as hard to tell their gender as it was to tell them apart.
Gang wise, it was hard to distinguish them from any of the other girls. The Mitchell Mob, as they called themselves, dressed in a uniform of dark hoodies, top of the range trainers and baggy jeans or tracksuit bottoms. They all rode mountain bikes, swapped around consistently to hide their identity further. If any of them were in trouble, it was hard to prove.
As a gang, each one of them had their own identity, but to an outsider, they were a bunch of girls out to cause mayhem. Pack mentality almost always took over and any innocent bystander walking past could become their latest prey. Tonight, there were five girls waiting for them in their usual spot outside the doorway of Shop&Save. It was the perfect place for them to cause maximum trouble. They could also scrounge cigarettes and the odd can of lager from people coming out. That was, until they were moved on – they were always moved on eventually, either by the store manager or the local police. It depended on how rowdy they became.
The girls were sitting on the low railing separating the car park from the walkway. So far the promised rain for the evening had failed to materialise but that, and the added menace of darkness falling, meant that it was fairly quiet.
‘What’s up?’ Rachel asked as she stood in front of them, her hands shoved deep in her pockets.
‘Nowt really,’ said Ashley Bruce. She was small and thin, with black hair cut into a severe bob, several earrings dangling from both ears. ‘It’s boring. There’s no one about yet.’
Rachel glanced up and down Davy Road, wondering if Ashley meant victims for them to taunt or the boys. Rachel had arranged to meet Jake Tunnicliffe at quarter past eight – unless he stood her up again like last week, the bastard.
‘Heard about Stacey?’ Louise Woodcock chirped up from the end of the railing. Her right foot swung back and forth in a semi-circle over the crumbling surface of the path.
Rachel’s green eyes narrowed at the mention of Stacey’s name. Stacey Hunter was her enemy. ‘What about her?’ she asked.
‘She gets out soon.’
‘Already?’ said Claire. ‘I thought she had at least another three months to do.’
‘Let out on good behaviour.’
‘More like she’s been sucking up,’ Rachel said deliberately.
The other girls laughed; even so, unease at the revelation could clearly be sensed. Stacey Hunter had been sent down for nine months for getting caught after mugging a woman and leaving her with a front tooth missing. For Rachel, it had been pure poetry as her biggest threat was locked up for a while. After battling it out with Louise, she and Claire had taken over and made headway with the membership. Now, instead of five members, there were seven of them - soon to be eight, if the rumours about Charlie Morrison were true. Rachel had been working on her for a month to join the Mitchell Mob.
‘I suppose she’ll take over again when she’s out,’ Louise said with a taunt in her voice.
Rachel shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. This is mine and Claire’s patch now. Right, girls?’ She stared at each one of them; sitting together they looked like a line of blackbirds on a telephone wire.
One by one, in uncomfortable silence, they nodded agreement.
‘Good.’ Rachel squeezed in between Shell Walker and Hayley Jones. ‘Anyone got any fags?’
‘Naw,’ said Hayley.
‘Me neither,’ said Shell.
‘My old man only had two so I couldn’t lift any,’ said Louise.
‘So whose turn is it?’ As all eyes went to the ground, Rachel sighed. ‘I suppose it’ll have to be me then. Claire, watch my back while I get some, would you?’
Claire nodded, catching the disrespectful look that came from Louise. Even though she and Rachel had the upper hand, it made her feel uneasy. Louise had brought up Stacey getting out next month, and if it was obvious to her that she was looking forward to it more than she was letting on, it would be obvious to the others.
She ran to Rachel as she stood outside the doors of Shop&Save, hoping to blag the odd cigarette here and there until she had enough. She glanced back at the gang again, huddled together in a circle now. They looked like they were in deep discussion about something or other – or someone or other. A shiver ran through her body.
It wasn’t easy being Claire Bradley when your opposite had nerves of steel.
CHAPTER FOUR
On the Sunday evening of their first weekend on Stanley Avenue, Caren was snuggled up on the sofa watching television when John appeared in the doorway. He was
dressed in a white long-sleeved shirt over the top of dark jeans. Freshly showered, she could smell the tang of his aftershave from where she was sitting. All at once she felt a tingle of excitement - maybe she could entice him into having a quickie before he went out. But her smile morphed into a frown when he picked up his wallet and put it in his back pocket.
‘Surely you’re not off out already?’ She looked at the clock: it was just past eight thirty. ‘You said it would be for a quick pint.’
‘I thought I’d make a night of it.’ John avoided her eye as he piled loose change into his pocket. ‘Haven’t been out in a while and it’ll be good to catch up with Pete and a few of the old crowd.’
‘Nice of you to ask me along too,’ she sulked, knowing full well that she wouldn’t have gone regardless.
John bent down, resting his hands on her thighs. ‘It’s only the one night.’ He stuck out his bottom lip, looking very much like a five-year-old. ‘I’ve been a good boy lately, haven’t I?’
Caren tried not to smirk. God, he smelt so good. She ran her hands up and over his back.
‘Don’t be too late,’ she told him, not wanting to start another bickering match. They’d been doing their fair share of that since the move – silly things over something and nothing.
‘I won’t.’ John leaned forward to kiss her.
‘And don’t make too much noise when you come in,’ she yelled just before the door shut.
She went through to the kitchen, cursing again as she eyed the bare walls stripped and ready to be wallpapered with something more decent than the ancient woodchip that had taken an age to remove: the ghastly stuff had come off like chewing gum. Now that the units had been cleaned, they were fairly decent, despite the one drawer handle hanging on precariously, but they were nothing compared to the kitchen in their last house. Caren had been so proud to show it off to friends, host dinner parties there, drinks after work - now she wouldn’t dare tell anyone her new address. Call her a snob but she’d rather let people think she’d dropped off the face of the earth than tell them she was back on the Mitchell Estate.
Fighting for Survival (The Estate, Book 3) Page 3