Fighting for Survival (The Estate, Book 3)

by Sherratt, Mel

  ‘What’s up?’ Claire asked as she drew level with them both. She looked from one to the other.

  Laila chewed at a fingernail.

  ‘What’s up?’ said Rachel, although she’d already guessed.

  Laila swallowed. ‘I don’t know how to say this, because I know you’re my mates, and I know I’ll probably get a good bollocking off you, and I’ll probably deserve it for giving up on you, but I don’t want to be in the Mitchell Mob anymore. I’m joining Stacey.’

  The words were said so quickly that it was hard to decipher where one sentence finished and the next began. Laila stood there, her breath coming in short bursts. She clenched her fists in readiness for the fight to come.

  After a few seconds, she realised nothing was going to happen. She dropped her hands.

  Claire placed a hand on Rachel’s arm as she took a step nearer to Laila.

  Rachel looked back with a smile. ‘It’s okay; I’m not going to do anything.’ She looked next at Laila. ‘We were coming to tell you that we’re not fighting anymore.’

  ‘What?’ Laila frowned.

  ‘We’ve had enough – of all the fighting, of all the ganging up on each other. We were coming to tell you and Ashleigh first and then go and find Stacey – see if we could have some sort of truce.’

  ‘Are you mad? She hates you two.’ Laila pointed at Rachel. ‘Especially you. She’s only waiting for us all to go back to her and then she’s going to beat the fuck out of you.’

  ‘I’d like to see her try!’

  ‘Rachel!’ said Claire. ‘We promised.’

  ‘Promised who?’ said Laila.

  ‘Never you mind,’ snapped Rachel.

  ‘She’ll find out eventually,’ said Laila. ‘Stacey always does.’

  Suddenly Rachel clicked in. ‘You’re the snitch in the camp! While Stacey gathered together the rest of the mob, you were in on it all the time!’

  ‘Not all of the time.’ Laila looked down at the pavement for a moment. ‘She’s too hard for me, Rach. I can’t deal with her by myself. You two will always have each other. Stacey doesn’t like that. You know she wants to be top dog –’

  ‘More like top bitch,’ Rachel spat out.

  ‘I wouldn’t let her hear you saying that.’

  ‘She doesn’t bother me,’ said Rachel.

  They all knew she was lying.

  Across the street, music started up from inside the Reynolds’ house. Someone inside had cranked the volume to full.

  ‘So what happens now?’ Laila shouted above the noise.

  Rachel got out her phone. ‘I’ll text Ashley, see where she is. Then we’ll have a meeting.

  Caren paced up and down the living room. It was nearly half past eight and Sam was supposed to have arrived for eight. Surprised that he was coming at all, she now had her doubts reaffirmed. Something was wrong.

  ‘He’s not coming, is he?’ John said for the umpteenth time.

  Caren was about to reply when the doorbell rang. John glanced at her before going to the door. Donna came into the living room first, followed by a man who fitted the image of the photograph they’d been shown last week.

  Caren stood up, unsure how to greet him. ‘Hi, Sam.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Caren, John’s wife.’

  Sam shook her hand slightly before slumping down on the settee.

  ‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ said John, for want of something to do.

  ‘Lager.’ Sam’s eyes flitted around the room before turning to watch the television.

  ‘We’ll have coffee,’ said Donna.

  Before Caren could offer to help, Donna beat her to it. She watched her follow John into the kitchen, realising too late that it left her sitting with Sam. She smiled at him as he caught her eye. He raised his chin slightly in acknowledgment before staring intently at the next product that came on.

  Bloody typical, thought Caren. An advert for panty liners.

  ‘John says that you live over in Graham Street?’ She made small talk. ‘Have you got your own place?’

  ‘You have to have kids to get a decent shack on this estate, so I live at home with the olds,’ Sam replied, without taking his eyes from the box. ‘I ain’t got any kids. Well,’ he sniggered. ‘None I’ll admit to, anyway.’

  Caren smiled but inside she was horrified. Suddenly all the suspicions she’d had began to rise to the surface again. Surreptitiously, she studied him. Sam was supposed to be twenty-one but he looked younger than that. His eyes were blue: John’s eyes were brown. His hair was blonde: John’s was dark brown. And Donna’s hair was bottle blonde: her roots were dark. He was quite small: John was tall. At a guess, Donna was around five foot four, give or take a heel; neither small nor tall. It wasn’t easy to surmise.

  Sadly, she realised, Sam’s whole demeanour spelt out loser. This didn’t look good; it looked suspicious. Was John being set up to believe this was his son? And if so, what on earth for? She couldn’t put her finger on anything.

  John and Donna came back into the room, carrying two mugs apiece.

  John placed his down on the coffee table.

  ‘Why didn’t you use a tray?’ Caren asked.

  ‘I didn’t know where they were kept.’

  Donna giggled. ‘Like father, like son. Sam isn’t domesticated either.’

  ‘John’s not too bad.’

  ‘Sounds like you’re under the thumb mate,’ Sam snorted.

  John smiled a little. ‘Where do you work, Sam?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Finding it tough to get something? I did too. I haven’t been at my current place for long but I hated every day that I didn’t have a job.’

  Sam shook his head. ‘I don’t want a job.’

  ‘But what do you do with yourself all day?’ questioned Caren. ‘This estate hasn’t got a lot to offer.’

  ‘I do a bit of this; a bit of that.’

  ‘Maybe you could put a word in at your place for him, John.’

  ‘I’d be pleased to, if anything else comes up.’

  ‘I’m happy as I am.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘I hear you’ve set up a mobile nails business,’ Donna interrupted Caren purposely.

  ‘There’s no money here, if that’s what you’re after,’ Caren snapped.

  ‘Caren!’ said John. ‘Donna didn’t mean anything like that.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I heard you went bankrupt,’ said Sam.

  ‘You hear a lot of things about us, don’t you, Sam?’ said Caren. ‘I wonder where you get your information from.’

  Sam folded one leg over to rest it on his knee, nudging the coffee table in the process. A mug fell to the floor, hot coffee splattering everywhere.

  ‘For Christ’s sake.’ Donna sat forward and pulled a tissue out of her pocket. She began to dab at the flooring. ‘You’re such a clumsy bastard.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Caren stood up, face like thunder. ‘I’ll get a cloth.’

  ‘Stick the kettle on again, Caz, and make Sam another.’

  Caren couldn’t help herself when she sighed loudly. Why was it always her that had to do everything?

  But Sam misunderstood its meaning. ‘Don’t bother,’ he retorted. ‘I can see I’m not wanted here.’

  Donna stood up too. ‘I think we’d better go. Maybe we could call again? Perhaps next time it won’t seem so… awkward.’

  The minute John had seen them both out, he rounded on Caren. ‘What the hell’s wrong with you? You were out to have a dig from the moment he walked in.’

  ‘She’s playing you, John. They both are.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Sam isn’t your son.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he be?’

  ‘He looks nothing like you. In fact, he’s the total opposite to you.’

  ‘No, he isn’t!’

  ‘Why can’t you see what they’re doing!’

  But John wasn’t having any. ‘You had no intention of maki
ng him feel welcome, did you? You’d already made up your mind before he got here. You didn’t want him in our house, so you went out of your way to be spiteful.’

  ‘Spiteful?’ Caren hissed. ‘Why were you so long in the kitchen with Donna?’ Caren watched John’s mouth drop. ‘You were gone ages and left me having to make small talk with your so-called son. What were you discussing back there in the kitchen?’

  ‘Nothing! I was showing her the coffee maker we brought with us.’

  ‘Like I believe that!’

  ‘What do you think I was doing? Getting re-acquainted with her over the kitchen table?’

  Caren’s eyes filled with tears. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I didn’t think that at all.’

  Suddenly the rage was gone. John drew her into his embrace. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m really disappointed. It didn’t go as well as I wanted it to.’

  That’s because he’s not your son, she wanted to add. But instead, Caren stayed quiet. She’d had enough for one day. Besides, until she figured out what the hell was going on, it was as well to keep it to herself. She’d do some digging of her own.

  And she knew exactly where to start.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  ‘So how are you feeling now?’ Josie asked Ruth as she sat in her living room. After trying on four separate occasions over the past week, she’d finally managed to get in for another visit.

  ‘So, so,’ said Ruth. In actual fact, she hadn’t set foot outside the door since the fight with Gina. Luckily, Caren had kept to her word and, instead of taking her shopping, she’d brought some essentials back for her when she’d feigned illness. Quite frankly, she looked too much of a mess to go out in public so it must have been easy for Caren to agree rather than try and persuade her to get a little fresh air.

  ‘Have you been to see the boys?’

  ‘No, I don’t want to upset them.’

  ‘I’m sure they’d be pleased to see you rather than be upset.’

  ‘How would you feel if your mother left you in an office for someone else to look after? I’m not going to be the most popular of people.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I bet they’d like to see you.’

  ‘Am I allowed to see them, after what I did?’ Ruth ran a hand through her hair, pulled at it. ‘Why did I do it? Why did I give them away?’

  ‘Because you couldn’t cope at that particular moment in time,’ Josie tried to appease her. ‘It doesn’t mean that you’ll never be able to see them again.’

  ‘You have an answer for everything.’

  ‘It comes with the job, I’m afraid. I’m nosy too – are you going to tell me how you got that black eye? I heard there was a bit of trouble with the Bradleys earlier on in the week.’

  ‘Oh? I never heard anything.’

  ‘And you got those bruises by keeping yourself to yourself?’

  ‘That’s none of your business.’

  ‘I know,’ said Josie, ‘but humour me. Like I said, I’m nosy.’

  Ruth smiled; she couldn’t help it. No matter what, Josie always made her feel at ease. She had a way about her that felt like she enveloped you in a fluffy blanket and smothered you with enough hope and optimism to get you through the day.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she told Josie.

  Josie raised her eyebrows questioningly.

  ‘Really,’ reiterated Ruth. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘So Gina didn’t hit you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t say that! Please! You won’t say anything, will you? I deserved what I got.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ Josie pointed to Ruth’s face. ‘She’s an animal for doing that and she needs locking up.’

  ‘I’m not going to grass on her!’

  ‘I know you’re not, and I wouldn’t expect you to either. It’s just that sometimes I wish someone would give her a taste of her own medicine, make her hurt for a while. Honestly, that woman and her family have been the bane of my life for a –’ Josie stopped. ‘I’m sorry, Ruth. I shouldn’t have said that to you. My feelings got in the way. It was unprofessional.’

  ‘It’s true, though, she isn’t a nice woman.’ Ruth grimaced. ‘Mind, I made a mess of my life too.’

  ‘You talk as if it’s over.’

  ‘Newsflash – it is.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. There’s always hope, no matter what.’

  Ruth had to stop herself from laughing aloud manically. Josie Mellor was always so positive. She always thought she could bring out the best in people. It was a good trait to have, but it was wasted on her.

  Optimism was something she’d given up on a long time ago.

  ‘This party was such a good idea,’ said Caren to Rachel and Claire. They were in her kitchen getting things ready for the evening ahead. ‘I can’t believe how many women are going to come.’

  ‘It’s the talk of the avenue,’ said Rachel. She was putting glasses out on Caren’s worktop.

  ‘I reckon it’ll be the talk of the estate,’ added Claire.

  ‘I hope it is. I…’ Caren frowned. ‘How do I tell you apart?’

  ‘I’m Rachel,’ said Claire.

  Rachel nudged her. ‘I’m Rachel.’

  ‘No, I’m Rachel.’

  ‘No, I am!’

  Rachel touched her nose with her finger. ‘There’s really only one of us.’

  ‘Yeah, she’s a ghost.’

  Caren shrugged, none the wiser.

  Claire pointed at her jumper. ‘I’m always in red or white. Rachel is always blue or black.’

  ‘And I have a scar, here.’ Rachel pointed to the side of her face.

  Caren passed them a multi pack of crisps. Then, surreptitiously, she watched as they filled the bowls set out on the worktop. Since moving into Stanley Avenue, she’d always felt intimidated by them – more to do with their surname rather than their behaviour – but as she watched them chatting away, she had to admit that maybe she’d been wrong. Or maybe she’d judged them, as other people did, on the outfits they were wearing. They wore hoodies and tracksuit bottoms, with trainers. Their hair was short, faces void of make up. Yet, if they made more of themselves, they could be real beauties.

  She remembered what she wanted to ask them.

  ‘Do either of you know Sam Harvey?’ she asked, trying to keep her tone light.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rachel. ‘Why?’

  ‘He’s been asking to do some odd jobs. I wanted to check him out.’

  ‘He’ll make money any way he can. He’s work-shy.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I don’t think he’s ever had a job in his life.’

  ‘He is only eighteen,’ said Claire.

  Caren froze. ‘I thought he was older than that.’

  Claire paused and looked at Rachel for confirmation.

  ‘No, he’s younger than our brother. Danny is twenty-one.’

  ‘Have you ever met his parents?’

  Rachel helped herself to a handful of nuts. ‘I don’t know what happened to his old man but his mother, Donna Adams? She’s a right slapper. She works in the massage parlour in town. Red Lace, it’s called. I think she does more than massages, if you catch my drift.’

  ‘Not a very stable life for a child to be brought up in.’

  ‘That’s probably why he turned into an idiot,’ said Rachel.

  ‘And you’re sure he’s only eighteen?’ Caren pressed one more time, hoping she didn’t sound too suspicious.

  ‘Positive.’ Rachel grinned. ‘You’re not after a toy boy, are you?’

  ‘In my dreams.’ Caren glanced at her clock on the wall. ‘Right, you two, thanks for your help. I’m off to have a bath now so I’ll see you back here in an hour?’

  Once the girls had left, Caren wondered what was going on. If Sam was only eighteen, then he couldn’t be John’s son unless he really did have an affair. And if he wasn’t John’s son, then what were he and Donna up to? Were they after money thinking that John would pay up because of all the missed years? Fat chance the
y had of that.

  As soon as the party was over, she’d have a word with John, try to put things to him delicately because he probably wouldn’t believe her, and then she would see what happened next. In the back of her mind, she hoped that whatever games were going on between Donna and Sam were finished. Sam had clearly been unwilling to play the doting son and Donna throwing cow eyes at John every two seconds had been another dead giveaway; it was a strange predicament.

  What had they on John?

  An hour later, Claire stood examining her nails while she waited for Rachel to come downstairs. Her sister had been choosing an outfit for the past half hour, something Claire had found highly amusing as she’d done the same – usually they’d grab whatever clothes were close at hand, clean or dirty.

  ‘Are you sure you’re not coming over the road, Mum?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ said Gina. ‘You know I can’t be bothered with all that crap.’

  ‘But wouldn’t you like to be pampered, make the most of what you’ve got?’

  Gina waved a hand from her head to her feet. ‘I’ll never be able to make anything out of this blob. It’s too late.’

  ‘But it’s free,’ Claire tried to entice her. ‘When have you ever missed out on anything that’s for nowt?’

  Gina didn’t bite. Instead, she lit a cigarette.

  Rachel joined them a few minutes later. She wore a bright blue T-shirt over a black long-sleeved T-shirt, dark jeans and ballet pumps. Gina’s eyes nearly popped out on stalks. She’d got them each a pair for Christmas but she’d never seen them on either girl yet.

  ‘At last!’ Claire sighed. ‘There’ll be no time for us if we don’t get over there soon.’ Then, as they got to the door, she stopped. ‘Wait! I’m going to put my pumps on too. They’re better than wearing these manky trainers.’

  Rachel tutted. ‘Hurry up then.’

  ‘Looks who’s talking. I waited ages for you to get ready.’

  Rachel sat in the chair that Claire had vacated. ‘Are you coming across, Mum?’

  Gina sighed. That was the trouble with having twins; sometimes things had to be explained twice.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she replied. ‘There’s bound to be something interesting on the telly.’

  Rachel was old enough to catch the sarcasm. ‘She’s not the enemy.’