‘We’ve been known for causing trouble, and wrecking things and nicking things, but not beating people up.’
‘Well, you’re part of this so you’ll have to do what I say.’
Claire sighed. It was her turn to pull the duvet over her head. She knew Rachel wasn’t listening.
But she had tried.
CHAPTER TEN
Ruth reached for her wine glass again, sighing when she saw it was empty. She staggered through to the kitchen to fill it up, only to find the bottle empty too. She couldn’t afford to drink wine but after the day she’d had, it had gone into her shopping basket as if it were an everyday essential. Three for a tenner that she hadn’t really got: one of them must work out as free, surely? So, in theory, she was really only about to start on her first bottle, not the second.
It was nine thirty on a very murky, very lonely, Tuesday evening. Ruth opened the bottle and took it back into the living room. She poured a glassful and drank it immediately. She wanted to be drunk, over the edge; pass out paralytic as soon as possible. She couldn’t take the pain caused by the images flashing through her mind since she’d bumped into Gina that morning.
Tears pricked her eyes as she thought of Glen. They had been married for seven years when he’d been killed. He’d been an electrician for one of the major electricity suppliers. The money was good, giving them a lifestyle far better than any tenant of Stanley Avenue could expect. But good money also meant overtime and being on call. That night, Glenn had been called out to fix a broken power line. Afterwards, he rang to say he’d be home soon and to get the kettle on because he was chilled to the bone. The winter temperatures had dropped to minus five. Ruth told him she’d be ready with hot chocolate and cheese on toast.
But Glenn never made it back. He’d been driving the work’s van; another driver in a truck coming towards him had lost it on a bend, slid straight into him, pushing him over the side of a bank. According to the police, the van had rolled over a couple of times but Glenn wouldn’t have known about it as a bump to his head seemed to have killed him outright.
Going to the front door and finding two policemen with bad news had been the worst thing that had ever happened in her life. At twenty-eight, her world and her future had been crushed. Everything she knew had been taken from her; and she had two small boys to look after.
After the funeral, over the next few months she spiralled further and further into depression. As the money stopped coming in, the mortgage went into arrears, the bills started to pile up, and eventually the house was repossessed. She and the boys went to stay with her parents. During this time, Ruth struggled to get on with the day-to-day mundane things and it was only a matter of time before she cracked. Luckily, her parents took control of caring for Mason and Jamie. Ruth couldn’t look after herself: there was no way she could see to two demanding boys as well. But slowly, she began to cope again. Eventually, she moved into a flat – the boys moving in with her on a permanent basis a month later – and she began to enjoy spending time getting to know them again. Being a mother was an important job, one she’d loved before she lost Glenn, her soul mate.
Oh, Glenn. She picked up the photo frame she’d been hugging to herself for most of the day and then took another swig of her wine before trying to focus on the room. She’d made it as homely as possible with what she had but still it looked sparse. It looked, and felt, like a house not a home. And that was her fault because she’d gone and lost the only man who had shown an interest in her since Glenn had died.
Ruth had started to self-harm about six months after she’d moved in with Martin. She could remember the day quite clearly: it had been the first time he’d hit her. He came home from the pub to find his dinner in the oven, shrivelled up because he was late, but he lashed out at her when she’d moaned at him. A crack across the mouth and a face-full of mashed potatoes had made her run to her room. She began to pick at a scar that she’d got from a burn on the oven door. Bit by bit, she picked at it until the half inch scar became a two inch mass of pus and blood. She ended up going to the doctors and he gave her some antibiotic cream. She remembered clearly the sting of the cream, putting it on every hour rather than the intended twice a day. Hurting herself blocked the pain she was feeling. For those few minutes, the anguish she felt took away everything else. The pain sometimes became so intense that she cried, but she didn’t stop. It was meant to try and wipe out her abysmal existence; it was her punishment. She couldn’t cope with Mason; she couldn’t cope with Jamie; she couldn’t cope with herself. Hell, she couldn’t even cope with life.
She took another gulp of the wine, the urge to self-harm becoming stronger with each passing minute. She slapped at her face, trying to ease the throbbing inside her head. She needed to hurt herself: she knew it would make her feel better. Stuff the do-gooders who thought it was a terrible thing to do. Stuff the people who stared at her arms as they caught a glimpse every now and then.
She picked at the most recent scar on her arm. It hadn’t had time to heal yet: she doubted it ever would at this rate. She dug her nails in, then picked, picked, picked until she saw the blood ooze out. There was blood underneath her fingernails: it satisfied her somewhat. But it wasn’t enough. She fetched her craft knife.
‘Mum, don’t do that.’
Ruth looked up a few minutes later, trying to focus on the figure standing in front of her. Was it Mason or was it Jamie? And what the fuck were they doing out of bed?
‘Mason?’
‘Put down that thing. I hate it when you do that.’
‘Do what?’
Mason pointed. ‘That.’
Ruth looked down at her hand. She’d bought the knife from a craft shop in the town; it had been a godsend, perfect for the job at hand. As she looked at it more clearly, yet again it was covered in blood. She smiled; it made her feel so good.
‘Oh, that,’ she said, putting it down on the table. ‘It’s nothing. I’ve just found it down the side of the cooker. It must have been left behind by the people who lived here before.’
‘I know what you do.’ Mason stepped towards her. ‘I know you cut yourself. I’ve seen you lots of times. Why do you do that, Mum? Why do –’
Ruth grabbed Mason’s arm and pulled him nearer. She didn’t notice her son pull away from the stench of her breath.
‘You’ve been spying on me, you little bastard!’
‘No, Mum. I –’
‘Have you told anyone?’
‘No! You’re hurting me!’
‘You’d better not say anything to anyone. ANYONE, do you hear?’
‘I haven’t.’ Mason was crying now.
Ruth pulled him nearer still; she was having trouble focusing on him. Why wouldn’t he stay in one place?
‘If you do tell someone, they’ll put you and your brother into care. You’ll end up in a children’s home, with lots of other naughty kids and you and your brother will be split up. Because it’s your fault that I do this. You and your brother. You won’t behave yourself. You’re always up to mischief. Always doing something that you shouldn’t. There’s no way anyone would want the two of you, anyway. You’re nothing but a bloody liability.’
Mason stood still now, tears pouring down his face. ‘I – I only wanted a drink of water,’ he whispered.
It was enough to bring Ruth out of her trance. She pushed him away from her. ‘Go on then and be quick about it.’
Mason did as he was told and was gone in seconds. Ruth grabbed for the craft knife, picking it up by the blade and relishing the feel of it pressing into the skin on her fingers. Stuff them, she thought as she settled back into the settee. Stuff Mason, and Jamie. And Martin. And that fucking Gina Bradley.
As she drew the craft knife across the inside of her arm, for a second as she saw the red line getting thicker and thicker, she felt that little bit better.
While Ruth watched the blood drip out of the cut and onto her T-shirt, Gina was trying to focus on the cards fanned out in her hand. Sh
e peered at them with resignation. They weren’t good enough to win. She contemplated whether to call it a day or have another lager.
Pete put his cards down onto the table one by one, a triumphant grin on his face. He reached for the pile of coins on the table in front of him, but John placed a hand over his.
‘Not so quick, my friend.’ John spread out his cards. ‘Look at ‘em and weep, my son,’ he grinned, pulling the money towards him. ‘I win again.’
‘You lucky git,’ Pete cried as he shuffled the cards again. He looked at Gina. ‘Another game?’
Gina shook her head. ‘You’ve had all my fag money so far.’
There was a knock at the front door. All three of them looked up in surprise. It was way past midnight.
Gina got to her feet just as another knock rang out, this time much louder. ‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’
‘Where is he?’ Caren pushed past her and into the house.
‘Well, hello, to you too,’ Gina smiled lazily. Oh, she was going to enjoy this.
‘Jeez, what a mess,’ Caren muttered quietly as she walked through the living room and into the kitchen.
‘Oy, I heard that, you cheeky cow.’ Gina followed close behind her.
‘Caren!’ John smiled at her before returning to look at the cards in his hand.
Caren stood over them, folding her arms. ‘John, it’s gone midnight again. How long are you going to be this time?’
‘As long as it takes to win this fat fucker’s money.’
‘Less of the fat, you cheeky bugger,’ Pete laughed. He flicked his eyes up to Caren and then back to his cards. ‘He won’t be long now, so hurry back home, little wifey.’
John fanned his hand out on the table. ‘Beat that, loser.’
Pete looked back at his own cards before admitting defeat. He threw them down. ‘You are one hell of a lucky bastard.’
‘He won’t be, by the time I’ve finished with him.’ Caren waved a hand in front of John’s face. ‘Remember me? I’m standing by your side.’
‘Chill out,’ said Gina, sitting back down at the table. ‘We’re playing for ten pence pieces, not ten pound notes. He won’t bankrupt you again, if that’s what’s worrying you.’
‘I knew you shouldn’t have opened your mouth about it,’ Caren hissed.
Looking awkward, John shrugged the comment off. ‘I’m having a night out with friends. A few beers and a laugh, that’s all.’
‘Have you no sense of pride?’ Caren lowered her head to his level. ‘Why would you ever call these two friends?’
‘Hey!’ snapped Gina.
Pete shuffled the cards again. ‘I’d quit while you’re ahead, if I were you, Caz.’
‘All I’m saying is you’ve got to get up early in the morning and –’
John sniggered. ‘What do I have to get up for? All you do is nag, nag, nag.’
Caren baulked. ‘This isn’t the time to get into a full-blown row.’
‘No, I suppose not.’ John sighed. ‘You’ll more than likely keep that for tomorrow.’
Gina sat grinning as she watched the exchange with intrigue. A plan began to form in her mind, just exactly how she could get one up on Caren after all.
Silence engulfed the room as Caren stood fuming. When John didn’t look up for a few seconds, she snapped. ‘Fine, have it your way. But if you’re not home in fifteen minutes, the bolts will be across and you’ll have to sleep here.’
John looked up in alarm but Caren was already heading out of the room. He went to shout after her but noticing Pete staring at him, shrugged and grabbed the cards. He began to shuffle out a new game, hardly jumping at all as the front door slammed moments later.
‘Another beer, boys?’ Gina rushed over to the fridge.
‘Now, you see?’ Pete slapped her bottom as she went past. ‘That’s how a woman should treat you – with respect.’
John said nothing. He picked up his hand and gave it the once over. Typical; his luck had changed.
As Gina removed the bottle tops, leaving the one that dropped to the floor, she turned back to the table and noticed the scowl on John’s face. Bleeding hell, she hadn’t realised how hen-pecked he was. Maybe she should try and persuade them to do this more often. Then, if she could get Caren to lock him out again, maybe she could take advantage of the situation. She smiled deviously. Caren had handed her husband over on a huge serving platter. Pretty soon, he’d be hers for the taking.
She held up her bottle in the air. ‘Cheers,’ she cried.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Caren was in the kitchen when John came downstairs the next morning. It was nine thirty: she’d been up since six.
‘Can I come in?’ he asked, holding his hands up in surrender.
‘If you must.’
He tried to touch her arm as she moved past him but she slapped it out of the way. Noisily, she piled the dishes in the sink, glad that the radio was on to avoid the inevitable silence.
‘I’m sorry, I was out of order. I had too much to drink. I’m a total idiot.’
‘You missed off selfish bastard.’ Caren wiped at her hands with the tea towel. ‘And don’t forget the I’m with my mates again so fuck off wifey bastard. You made me look like a right nag.’
‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘You could have fooled me. Gina was relishing every second of it. I wish I’d leaned over and wiped that smug look off her face.’
John smirked: he knew that was never going to happen. Caren’s tongue was lethal but a fighter she wasn’t.
‘I am sorry,’ he said again. ‘Sometimes I want to forget things for a while. And where better to forget normality than across the road. It really is a weird place: all those boxes of stuff everywhere. And clothes piled high; magazines and mugs and… I couldn’t wait to get out, if I’m honest.’
‘I can’t understand why you have to forget things by going over there. I mean, why can’t you sit with me in the evening?’
‘After the mood you’d been in all day?’ John scoffed.
Caren sighed. He was right: she’d been in a foul temper yesterday. She hadn’t got a particular reason to feel angry, but she’d been really crabby with him. In fact, she recalled, ashamed at herself now, she’d wanted to pick a fight with him because she was so fed up. No wonder he’d slammed out to get some peace.
‘How about I make it up to you this evening?’ she offered. ‘I’ll cook up something special and we can check out the television, watch a film.’ She grinned. ‘I’ll even let you choose.’
‘I thought you’d be really mad.’
‘I am really mad, but I don’t want to fight. So…’ she reached for his hand and placed it on her breast. ‘A film and good food – unless you can think of anything else you might like to do?’
Rachel put a finger to her lips and turned to look at Claire. ‘Over there.’ She pointed into the distance. By the side of Shop&Save car park sat two girls, their backs towards them.
‘Ready?’ she whispered to Claire.
‘Ready.’
It had taken five nights of stalking, coming out early to check on their prey, before they’d managed to get Hayley and Shell alone without Stacey Hunter. They knew Stacey wouldn’t be far behind but she didn’t need to be in this fight. This was payback for the two of them running to Stacey the minute their backs were turned.
They weaved in between the parked cars and across to where they were sitting. Before they could react, Rachel and Claire grabbed a girl apiece around the neck, pulled them backwards and down onto the gravel. Rachel tackled Hayley, the stronger one of the two. She sat astride her and punched her in the face. Hayley struggled to gain ground but it was a no-win situation. All she could do was buck her legs to see if she could knock Rachel off balance.
Claire, however, had failed to keep Shell down on the ground. As Shell landed a punch to the side of her head, she rushed at her, fists and feet flying at the same time.
Rachel aimed another fist at Hayley’s face
and struck her in the mouth. She noticed a splattering of blood across her knuckles and looked up. Hayley’s top lip had split. Knowing she had the upper hand, Rachel took a moment to catch her breath. Then she punched her one last time before getting up to help out her sister.
Claire was pulling Shell around by the hood of her jacket, trying to knock her to the ground again. Rachel grabbed Shell’s hair as she swung past her and thumped her in the face. Shell dropped to her knees in an instant. Rachel drew back her foot to kick her but Claire put a hand on her arm.
‘NO!’
Rachel turned with a glint in her eye that Claire had learned to recognise as the danger zone.
Ignoring it, Rachel kicked Shell in the stomach.
Claire pushed Rachel to one side. ‘Back off, Rach!’
‘Move out of my way.’
‘No. There are people everywhere!’
Rachel looked around her. A group of lads at the far end of the car park stood watching. A man and his dog walking past stopped to wonder what was going on. An elderly couple hurried to the safety of their car.
Claire held her breath, knowing enough to recognize the situation was hardly under control. She’d been there so many times before, thinking that Rachel had calmed down only for her to turn back and kick the unsuspecting victim and continue with the fight. But the lull in action was long enough for Shell to pull herself up, and stagger off with Hayley.
Rachel stared after them but didn’t move to follow. Claire let out her breath again. She clenched and unclenched her hands, felt the ache. Her left eye was swelling by the second; Shell had caught her good and proper. She glanced in their direction but they’d already disappeared out of sight. No doubt one of them would be on the phone to Stacey, telling of how the Bradley twins had caught them off guard. She wondered how long it would be before someone jumped the two of them. She sure as hell wasn’t looking forward to it. But for now, it was over.
Rachel, suddenly more calm and collected than she’d been in a long time, felt that feeling of superiority wash over her. ‘What the fuck are you lot staring at?’ she shouted to the lads who were still watching. They all turned away. One thing she knew, not a one of them would dare speak out, talk about the incident. They were too scared of what she’d do to them. She pulled her sister close and they walked off together.
Fighting for Survival (The Estate, Book 3) Page 10