Austerity Street

by Belinda Bennett

  ‘They know people had been in her flat,’ Davey said as they dodged cars on the road that ran past the entrance to The Farm. ‘They’re knocking on doors right now, trying to find out who it was. What if someone saw us?’

  ‘They didn’t,’ Jacob assured him. ‘They couldn’t have.’

  ‘But what if they did? What if the police come looking for us?’

  Jacob waited until they were on a wide pavement that led to the shopping precinct before offering a response. ‘I don’t know. David Turner was there before us - and for a lot longer. Surely, there’s more chance that someone saw him than us?’

  ‘We were careful going in. I remember that. But, what about when we made a run for it?’ Davey recalled the way they had both landed with a thud on crumbling concrete at the back of Number 3. What if the noise prompted someone to look out of a window?

  ‘I don’t even want to go there,’ Jacob told him. ‘If we were seen, we were seen. And, if there are consequences… Well, we’ll have to deal with it. For now, I just want to keep my head down and try to forget about it.’

  The precinct was unusually quiet. The only other people around seemed to be coming and going from Mr Patel’s shop, buying bread, milk and other essentials that annoyingly seem to run out when they are needed most. Jacob perched himself on the bench that David Turner had grown fond of since his reign at Joan Smith’s had come to a crushing end.

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever forget it?’ asked Davey, quite certain he wouldn’t. Not ever.

  ‘Nah. It was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen,’ Jacob sighed. ‘Did you notice, she was turning green? And her eyes… They were, like, wide open.’

  ‘Don’t.’ Davey figured, the dreadful memory would fade - if he wasn’t reminded of it.

  ‘Isn’t that your mum?’ Jacob pointed off to his right, where a side street met the main road.

  Davey turned a sharp ninety degrees to follow Jacob’s hand. It was her all right. He wished it wasn’t, but he couldn’t deny it. ‘Yeah, that’s her.’

  ‘Bit early for a skirt that short, isn’t it? Is she on the pull, or what?’ Jacob looked at his best mate, waiting for an answer. He watched him bow his head and shuffle his feet before looking back over at Carole-Anne.

  ‘Don’t look,’ Davey whispered.

  Jacob couldn’t help himself. Carole-Anne was leaning provocatively into the driver’s side window of a beat up VW. She seemed to exchange a few words with the driver before kicking off her high heels. She picked them up and ran around to the passenger side, opening the door and getting in.

  ‘Who’s that she’s with?’

  Davey shrugged his shoulders.

  Jacob followed the car with his eyes as it sped off up the side street and headed down towards an abandoned car lot.

  ‘She’s not… I mean, she’s…’ Jacob couldn’t bring himself to say the word prostitute.

  Davey made sure he didn’t have to. ‘Yeah. She is.’

  When he was old enough, and big enough, he’d make damned sure she never had to sell her ass. He’d see to it that any waster who tried to latch onto her got what they had coming. He’d see them off in such away that they’d never come sniffing around her again.

  ‘It’s that John, her boyfriend. He makes her do it,’ Davey confided. ‘He doesn’t know it yet, but she’s going to kick him out.’

  Jacob didn’t know what to say. He had a look of the incredulous about him. Poor Davey, he was thinking. At the same time, he wondered if that’s what his mum was up to when she wasn’t around. Although, she had never once come home flushed with cash. Just ugly black eyes and raging hangovers.

  ‘Hiya,’ Davey smiled at a young woman as she walked in front of them holding a little girl’s hand.

  Justine flashed him a smile in return, tightening her grip on Millie’s fingers. She didn’t know the lad, but vaguely recognised him. She thought she may have passed him once or twice in a stairwell. Like most residents, she hardly ever chanced using the decrepit lift.

  ‘Who's she?’ Jacob whispered, nudging Davey’s arm.

  ‘She lives on the second floor. Don’t know her name.’

  Twelfth Floor - Number 113

  ‘I’m coming! I’m coming!’ Laura reluctantly abandoned the shopping she had been unpacking. A cracked pane of glass in the door she approached revealed the blurred outline of a proverbial bad penny. If she could stand the noise of metal rapping on metal and a desperate-sounding voice screaming through the letterbox, she would have ignored the intrusion. Carole-Anne Bennett was the last thing she needed right now.

  ‘At bloody last! I thought you were ignoring me.’

  Laura Coombs was brushed aside by a force of nature that travelled from the doorstep to her kettle in less than five seconds.

  ‘God, I need a brew,’ Carole-Anne sighed, helping herself to a badly chipped mug that had been hogging a space on the draining board for days.

  ‘What’s up?’ Laura asked, not one hundred per cent sure she wanted to hear the answer.

  ‘I need to keep my head down somewhere - just for a couple of hours. I won’t be any trouble.’

  Laura watched, a look of suspicion creeping across her face, as her old mate from school poured herself a drink, using the the last of her coffee.

  ‘It’s all right, we’ll share,’ Carole-Anne assured her, feeling Laura’s eyes boring into the back of her head. ‘I’m not a greedy cow. I just need to calm my nerves. A few sips is all it will take.’

  ‘Calm your nerves?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve got a mate coming round to get John out of my flat,’ she said in a lowered tone. ‘I want to be sure every trace of him is gone before I go home. I’m sick of men.’

  ‘Oh, it’s like that is it? I’m surprised you’ve put up with that loser for so long.’

  Carole-Anne yawned. It had been a long day. ‘You live and learn, Laura. He wasn’t too bad. Not at at first anyway.’

  ‘He’s a ponce, Carole-Anne. Always has been and always will be.’

  Laura spoke with conviction. She’d known John most of her life, and she couldn’t think of a nice word to say about him. He was a user in the fullest sense of the word. Someone like Carole-Anne, a vulnerable single parent with string of broken relationships behind her, was easy meat. She was his ticket to an effortless life on the cheap.

  ‘He isn’t going to be doddle to get shot of. You do know that, don’t you?’

  Carole-Anne nodded. ‘Why do you think I’m here?’

  Laura returned her attention to the two neglected-looking bags of shopping, both collected from the food bank on her way home from work. She separated tins and packets, arranging them into two neat groups on her kitchen table. The only thing she left in a carrier bag was a packet of rice. She didn’t fancy a clean-up operation if the packet split. She planned to transfer everything to allocated shelves in her food cupboard when Carole-Anne had shoved off.

  ‘Pay day?’ Carole-Anne enquired, gesturing toward the food.

  Laura wanted to cry. ‘Food bank,’ she admitted.

  ‘But, you work. How come you’re going to the food bank?’

  ‘Long story,’ Laura wheezed, stifling a cough.

  Carole-Anne sat herself down at the kitchen table. ‘I’m not going anywhere for hours.’

  Laura pulled up a chair. ‘I want to know how you are going to get John out of your life first. I mean, he’s not going to be turning up here looking for you - is he? I don’t want any trouble.’

  Carole-Anne shook her head. ‘He won’t be anywhere on The Farm, I promise you.’

  ‘So who is this ‘friend’ that is supposedly going to be getting him out of your flat? I can’t see him shifting without some persuasion.’ Laura had visions of a violent confrontation taking place on her doorstep. Or, worse, John bashing his way in. This could get really ugly.

  ‘Nobody you’d know, but someone who isn’t going to take any of John’s crap.’

  Laura knew it. ‘Oh, Carole-Anne - it’s no
t one of your punters? Tell me, it’s not. They’ll have got what they wanted for nowt and fed you a right pack of lies. He’ll still be there in another six months.’

  Laura watched Carole-Anne’s face as her brain computed what she had just heard. ‘No!’ she eventually replied, sounding offended. ‘No, it isn’t a punter. Just a good friend.’

  ‘Not just a good friend you give blow jobs to in return for favours? Be honest, Carole-Anne. I don’t want you kidding yourself.’

  ‘Well, maybe.’

  ‘Christ, you idiot!’ Laura jumped up from the table. ‘Nothing is going to happen.’

  ‘It is. I promise.’ Because she couldn’t be sure that she was telling the truth, she walked over to a window that overlooked the entrance to The Farm.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Laura snatched up some tins from the table and transferred them to a bare cupboard.

  ‘Looking out for Tone. He should be here any minute with some mates.’

  Laura sighed. ‘If you say so…’

  ‘Anyways, how come you’re going to the food bank. You didn’t tell me.’

  ‘They’ve cut my bloody hours at work,’ Laura sniffed. ‘I’ve gone from forty to twenty-five. Apparently, I am not working enough hours now to claim tax credits.’

  ‘Who told you that? Surely, you can get something?’ Carole-Anne was certain Laura must be able to claim a benefit of one type or another.

  Laura joined her at the window, watching nondescript birds circle the tower like vultures. ‘I hope they don’t shit on my window,’ she said, thinking she should never have taken a job with a zero hours contract. ‘Pissing liars. They told me, I’d never get less than 40 hours.’

  ‘Well, I told you not to get a job in a supermarket. They always cut hours after Christmas. You’ll be stuck on crap pay until Easter now.’

  Laura was tempted to apply four housing benefit, but was fairly certain, with her Jimmy all grown up now and in the Army, she would be subject to the bedroom tax. Besides, she knew stuff all about computers and wouldn’t know where to start when it came to filling out a claim.

  It wasn’t as if she could even get a second job. ‘All my hours are spread over six days. Not one of them is long enough to get more than a fifteen minute break. It’s the biggest piss-take.

  ‘Life’s frigging crap, isn’t it? I’ll be on the pigging streets with you, at this rate.’

  Carole-Anne laughed. ‘Not on my spot, you won’t.’ She gave Laura a cursory once over with her eyes, surmising she would be no competition anyway. She looked ancient.

  ‘What are you like? Your ‘spot’!’ Laura laughed back.

  As she noted the roof of a beat-up old VW crawl into The Farm, Carole-Anne smiled. ‘Anyways, all that is going to be behind me now.’ She pointed at the car. ‘That’s Tone.’

  Laura pressed her porous nose against the glass and looked downwards as four red doors opened.

  ‘Yes!’ Carole-Anne punched the air.

  The four men who emerged from the car meant business. Even from where they were standing, Carole-Anne and Laura could both see they were well-built and, just from their demeanour, emanated from the wrong side of the tracks. One of them popped open the boot and a fifth man joined them, brushing himself down.

  ‘Christ,’ Laura mused. ‘You weren’t messing when you said this Tone would get rid of John. I don’t think he’ll put up much of a fight, do you? It must have been one hell of a blow job.’

  Carole-Anne flashed Laura a disapproving glance. Cheeky cow. John had to go, there was no question about it, but she no longer felt inclined to punch the air with delight. She felt pensive as she contemplated trouble with a capital ‘T’.

  Seeing the posse made her wonder if involving Tone had been a good idea after all. If John made it out of her flat alive, he’d get her back one day. And that scared her.

  ‘Do you think I’ve done the right thing? Involving Tone?’ She turned to face Laura with a look that betrayed her thoughts.

  ‘Probably not,’ Laura replied, unable to take her eyes of the men as they confidently strode like a pack of wolves towards the building. ‘But, hey, John does have to go. He’s taking you for a mug, Carole-Anne. It’s not just you you’ve got to think of. What about Davey?’

  A wave of guilt washed over Carole-Anne. Davey was the one person she hadn’t been thinking about. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time she gave a stuff about her son. John had made his life a misery - and she had done nothing.

  ‘He’s not at home, is he?’ Laura asked.

  Carole-Anne shook her head. ‘Nah, he’s out with that Jacob somewhere. They’ve been knocking around together quite a bit lately. They’re out all hours of the day and night.’

  ‘I hope he’s not getting himself into trouble. I mean, it’s not as if you’ve been paying him much attention.’

  Laura said exactly what she thought. It had crossed her mind more than once that Davey could end up falling in with the wrong crowd. Carole-Anne had no time for the boy. She was always too wrapped up in herself. And men.

  ‘My Davey?’ Carole-Anne scoffed. ‘You sound like John. The twat only went and said he thought Davey may have had something to do with that old bid’s death. You know, the one on the ground floor.’

  Laura looked shocked. ‘Why would he say that, Carole-Anne? You don’t think…’

  ‘No, I don’t! I know my Davey. He’s a good boy.’

  The tap on the door was subtle. In fact, it was so quiet, Laura only just heard it.

  ‘Who the bloody hell’s that?’ she asked Carole-Anne. ‘You didn’t tell anyone you were at mine, did you?’

  ‘I may have,’ Carole-Anne admitted.

  ‘Fuck! Well you can answer the pissing door, then.’

  Laura deliberately busied herself as Carole-Anne whispered through a crack in the open door. She couldn’t hear what was being said and didn’t go out of her way to strain her ears. If it wasn’t for her Jimmy, she’d open a window and jump. She couldn’t remember life being so bleak. Not for her. For Carole-Anne. For most of the residents at The Farm.

  Fucking life.

  ‘Thanks, Tone. No, don’t worry. My lips are sealed.’ Carole-Anne closed the door and re-joined Laura, who was clasping the lip of a stainless steel sink as if to steady herself.

  ‘I’m off now. John’s gone. Everything all right?’

  ‘Okay, and yes. See you around, Carole-Anne.’ She didn’t want to be furnished with any of the gory details. And, even if she did, she doubted Carole-Anne would be overly forthcoming.

  As she listened to Carole-Anne going out the door, Laura looked down. The five men she’d seen entering the block to remove John were standing by the VW laughing. One appeared to slap another on the back, while someone else handed out bank notes like confetti.

  That must be Tone, Laura thought. Carole-Anne sure knows how to pick ’em.

  The men separated, walking off in different directions. All except ‘Tone’. He jumped back behind the wheel of the VW and sped off.

  Tenth Floor - Number 93

  Carole-Anne was on her third bucket of soapy water when she stopped scrubbing away the last reminder of John. Her knuckles were raw and stinging from slathering wet towels into his blood. The stain on the fag-burned carpet, right in front of the telly in her living room, was the first thing she saw when she got home. Now it had mostly been soaked away, a brown mark was all that remained.

  That’ll have to do, she thought. It’s nothing an old rug won’t cover.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘Davey!’ she gasped, clutching a hand to her chest. ‘You made me jump.’

  She tossed the towel she had been holding onto a pile of blood-soaked linen, waiting on a metal tray to be washed at ninety degrees.

  ‘Well, what’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she whispered, hauling herself from all fours to her knees.

  Davey pointed to the towels. ‘How come there’s blood then? Where’s John?’

 
‘He’s gone.’

  ‘Gone where?’

  ‘Just gone.’

  Davey leaned closer to the stain, his eyes straying to the bucket. ‘That water’s red. You haven’t killed him have you?’

  He clamped a hand over his mouth and legged it to the bathroom.

  Carole-Anne remained on the floor, listening to him retch. ‘He’s not dead,’ she called out. ‘Davey, he’s not dead.’

  The sight of bodily fluids, albeit watered down, reminded him of the one thing he didn’t want to be reminded of. Joan Smith. Or what remained of her.

  ‘Davey…’

  By the time she heard the toilet flush, Carole-Anne had rammed every sodden towel into a washing machine and emptied the bucket into the sink. She was spraying neat bleach on metal when Davey poked his white face around the kitchen door.

  ‘You can come in,’ she barked at him.

  ‘So?’ he whispered.

  ‘He’s gone. I got some mates to turf him out. There was a scuffle, that’s all. He won’t be coming back.’

  Carole-Anne knew for certain that she was speaking the truth. Tone said John had been whimpering like a baby when he was packed off out the door with his clothes in bin bags and a hand clasped to seriously bloody nose. He was warned, he’d get more than a punch or two in the face if he dared to bother her again.

  ‘I want to be a better mum to you. I mean, no more men. Just the two of us.’

  Davey smiled. He wanted to believe her. But she never kept promises. Never.

  ‘Until you bring home the next one,’ he chanced.

  ‘There isn’t going to be a ‘next one’, Davey. I’ve had enough. I want us to be able to be a family. A proper family.

  ‘I’ll go to all the events at your school, help you with homework and we can even watch the soaps together. Just me and you, curled up on the sofa.’

  For the first time in years, she wanted to be the mother she had never been. It wouldn’t be easy, because money was tight, but she was determined to make a real go of it.