by Linda Regan
The woman gagged.
‘Say you’re sorry.’
Jason turned back to see the woman slumped on all fours, vomiting and crying as she tried to do as she was bidden.
Yo-Yo gave a nod, and one of the others stepped forward, a knife gleaming in his hand. Everything seemed to dissolve into slow motion. The woman looked up, opened her mouth to plead, then screamed out as the knife entered her body. She tumbled back and hit the wall behind her, clutching her stomach. Blood soaked through her fingers and ran over her hand.
The gang scattered, leaving Jason pressed against the fence, staring at Haley who was crying out for help.
He had to make a quick decision. A lot would depend on it.
TWO
Detective Inspector Georgia Johnson tapped the end of a bundle of papers on the wide boardroom table, then turned the pile up and tapped the other end. She carefully pushed the neat bundle into the green file in front of her on the table, then clipped the two poppers to close the folder and keep the papers safe. The words SOUTH LONDON GANGS had been written in large letters across the front of the file with a black marker pen. The same pen was tucked inside the file, clipped to the edge, in case she needed it to alter it. New gangs grew up all the time in this area, and meetings were called to keep everyone up to speed with the gang-related fights, stabbings, and more recently firearm usage. It didn’t matter how many of these meetings the police called; Georgia thought they went nowhere. She hated sitting around talking about postcode gangs and drug-related crime; she wanted to get out there and stop it.
But she kept her thoughts to herself. Being a DI in a busy South London station meant many meetings and much paperwork, as well as catching criminals.
Georgia was just thirty, quite young to have climbed to the position of Detective Inspector, and she looked younger than her years. She had started at the bottom as a cadet, and worked her way up through exams and experience, beating many other candidates to each post on her way up. Around here, being a woman no longer held you back in the force. Not only was she a high-ranking female police officer; she was also brown-skinned. Despite the official line on the absence of race or gender discrimination, she knew both still existed among her colleagues, but she was tough enough not to care, and clever enough to use the disadvantage to her advantage. Life had taught her that she couldn’t change some things, but she could make them work for her. She never let her vulnerability be seen.
She was as ambitious as she was handsome, and had her sights firmly set on a DCI job. She came from a family of achievers and she wasn’t going to let the side down.
Her work clothes were blue jeans that fitted snugly around her slim hips, a clean T-shirt, usually white, and a black leather jacket or coat. She was well educated and from a good family; there were three brothers and one other girl, and she was the youngest. The rest of her family had all gone into medicine. She was born of a white English father and a mother who was half Jamaican and half Indian. Her father, Henry Johnson, was a GP, the head doctor in a local South London practice. Her mother had been a pharmacist, and her brothers were all now consultants at various hospitals. Her sister’s career was closest to her own; she had gone into forensic medicine, and worked in a laboratory near Brighton testing new formulas.
From an early age Georgia had wanted to be a physiotherapist, and had worked hard at the science subjects at school with the aim of going on to do a medical degree. But all that had changed one night when she was fifteen. She’d spent the evening with her school friend revising for their exams, and decided to ignore her parents’ rule about not walking the streets alone at night. She left with the taxi fare her parents had given her in her pocket, planning to save it towards the pair of shoes she’d seen and dreamed of having. It was only nine o’clock and home was only fifteen-minute walk – if you took the short-cut, across the tree-lined common. It was dark and isolated, but she didn’t mind the dark. So she set off to walk, thinking of those shoes.
She had walked briskly, unaware she was being followed, until a strong hand, reeking of stale fried food and tobacco, slid across her face and gripped her mouth. She found herself being dragged backwards, and before she knew it she was behind a large copse of trees, in dark shadow, out of sight of anyone passing on the common.
She kicked out hard as the dragging started, but lost her balance and fell to her knees. The stones and tree roots felt as if her mother’s sewing machine was dropping its needle in and out of her knees and shins, and a potato peeler was at work on the rest of her legs. Dirt and grit lodged in her bleeding flesh; it smarted and stung as if a hive of bees had descended on her. On top of that was the agonizing pain as her twisted and dislocated muscles rebelled against the force, and the pressure of the stinking hand crushing her young face made her terrifyingly aware that her life could be hanging by a thread.
Everything happened so quickly. The base of the tree trunk scratched her eye; then came the shock as he ripped her white knickers off and pushed himself into her.
She’d read and talked about sex, but had no experience of it. It felt like a concrete brick being thrust inside her, and it hurt like hell. Almost as bad was the way his knees gripped her bony hips, and the grunting and spitting as he pushed at her.
Mercifully it was over quickly, but the smell of autumn earth, mouldering leaves and animal faeces affected her still. Even now, as the season changed and the first few leaves fell, the memories and the migraines started.
After he had raped her, he told her to stay where she was for at least half an hour; he would be watching, and if she moved he would know, and come back to kill her. He would also kill her, he added, if she told a soul what had happened. She was to say she fell over crossing the common.
She didn’t tell: not because she believed he would kill her, but because she thought it was her own fault. She had been told never to walk home alone, and she had disobeyed. Besides, what good would it have done? They would never catch him; she hadn’t seen his face, and though she would never forget his gruff, tobacco-roughened voice, unless she heard it again, she would never know her attacker.
From that evening she changed, vowing never to allow herself to be vulnerable again. She lay in bed at night, that voice reverberating around her brain. If you move before half an hour is up, I’ll see, and then I’ll have to kill you. Each night she told herself she had got through another day, and she would keep on surviving.
She hadn’t known at first that she was pregnant, and would have to have to face the humiliation of a cheap abortion, which would ruin any chance of having her own child.
Her sister had given her the money. Georgia told her she owed it to someone, after a bet. They both knew it wasn’t the truth, but neither ever mentioned it again. Her sister was a student at the time and had her own bank account. Georgia paid her back out of her first pay cheque from the police, and still neither of them mentioned what the loan had paid for.
Georgia never told anyone, nor did she talk about the pain and indignity of the abortion. It was devastating, but giving birth to the child of the foul-smelling monster who raped and abused her was unthinkable. And it was all her own fault for disobeying her parents. She kept the guilt to herself, not only about the termination, but also the way it left her damaged and unable to bear children. But she changed her mind about her career choice.
At fifteen she headed for a career in the police force. She was going to catch criminals and put them where they belonged – behind bars. She no longer went out after dark, but spent her evenings at home studying. She achieved excellent grades in her school exams, then went on to university, where she didn’t involve herself much in student life, but left with a first class degree. She was accepted into the Met as a police cadet, and shortly afterwards transferred into CID as a trainee.
She met stiff competition in a department dominated by white males, but she could handle that; it only made her more determined. And she was doing just fine. Her experience that dark night had made her
a fighter and a survivor. Now, at nearly thirty-one, she was a detective inspector with her sights set on going much further, proving that everything served as a lesson in life.
She had no steady relationship, just a string of broken ones. The ambition she harboured drove her to work too hard to keep a relationship going, and none of the men she met understood that. The result was a succession of casual encounters when she needed to de-stress; she never let anyone close.
DCI Banham had called this morning’s meeting for an update on gang violence, and to share new information they had on gangs. The DCI reminded them that no matter which crew thought they were cleverest, they were going to learn different, because the biggest gang of all was the police, who also had the training. Georgia argued that everyone knew the Brotherhood were responsible for the recent police shooting, but no resident would speak out against them, so the result was that they were getting away with it. DCI Banham told her to be patient; he reminded her about the Buzzards, the last gang that thought they ran the Aviary. Someone had come forward with information on a post office hold-up and the police had rounded up the whole gang, and they were all behind bars. Banham also told her they had an informant on the estate, and it was now just a matter of time. He went on to assure them that the members of the Brotherhood responsible for the shooting of PC Elvin would be brought to court. He told them to concentrate on Stuart Reilly, street name Yo-Yo, a big twenty-stone bloke who ran the gang. Reilly was behind it all, and all the other gang members were merely his puppets. He added that he was bringing in a gang expert from the West End to help.
The Brotherhood terrorized their neighbourhood, and it was important for the residents of South London to see that street crime wouldn’t be tolerated and that the police always won.
The meeting was finished. As Georgia headed over to the new coffee machine that made real Starbucks coffee, her mobile burst into a brass band chorus. Her phone was set up so that when Onward Christian Soldiers sounded out, it meant the call was urgent: the Hat team, the on-duty murder squad detectives, had been called out to a death, which was suspected or confirmed as murder.
Sergeant Stephanie Green pushed the front door shut with her foot. The home-delivered curry smelled delicious. The kids were out so she didn’t have to prepare a meal; instead she had bought a takeaway lamb biriani in the hope that she wouldn’t get called out by the Hat team and could enjoy a night in front of the television. Two teenage children and her demanding job as a sergeant in the murder division meant she rarely saw the television. Tonight’s three soaps and detective drama didn’t appeal, so she had pre-recorded a programme about car maintenance, which she really enjoyed, but rarely got the chance to sit and watch.
She put her curry on a tray, turned up the central heating and drew her hair from her face, securing it at the back in a ponytail with the elastic band from the curry boxes. She had a wide, Germanic face with a rosy complexion, and large, perceptive grey eyes, which needed minimal make-up – just as well, because they hardly ever got any. Her naturally fine shoulder-length fair hair was badly highlighted with thin bronze streaks, and looked as if marmalade peel was woven unevenly through it. She dressed in boyish clothes, often with trendy caps, and people in the department sometimes questioned whether her sexual preferences leaned toward the female of the species. Not for long, though; they soon heard the stories of end-of-investigation piss-ups in the pub, where she got tongues wagging by downing far too many vodka and tonics and snogging the face off any of the male detectives who were up for it. The next day she always said she didn’t remember a thing. She knew the men on the team had a nickname for her: Sighs and Thighs. Sighs because of the noise she made during sex, and thighs because hers took up most of the bed. Stephanie didn’t care. DI Georgia Johnson liked and trusted her, and always made sure she was on her team.
Stephanie carried the tray through to the armchair in the living room and picked up two cans of non-alcoholic beer. Things were better around here now the kids no longer needed her to taxi them around. Ben hadn’t long turned fourteen, but Stephanie didn’t worry so much when he went out with sixteen-year-old Lucy because she looked out for him. Ben was a typical boy, going through a rebellious teenage phase. Lucy was the opposite; she was the sensible one, and had plans to join the police force after university.
Stephanie often wished Ben had a father’s influence in his life, but their father had been a waste of space when he lived with them. Nor had he done anything for them since he had left; he never even remembered birthdays or sent Christmas cards or gifts. Stephanie had to be both mother and father, and sometimes she felt exhausted.
Tonight they had gone to a party together. She hoped they would come home together, but she suspected Ben might give Lucy the slip. If he did, Lucy would use her inherited detective skills and track him down, so Stephanie could relax. Right now she had the television to herself, a large lamb biriani and two non-alcoholic beers. The diet could start on Monday. There was no one in her life to lose weight for, so why bother? She enjoyed sex, but there were lots of opportunities without a relationship – plenty of chances to socialize in the department, and indeed everywhere else in the station. She knew she had a reputation for being up for it, but she didn’t care.
She realized she had let herself go. Being five foot four and eleven stone wasn’t good for her job, her sex life or her health, but tonight she wasn’t thinking about it. She would watch her car maintenance programme in peace and her lamb biriani was delicious. She was a happy bunny.
Then the phone rang.
Chantelle Gulati was still pretty, although the vibrant eyes that reminded Jason of chocolate Maltesers had dulled recently. Her full, pert mouth was now dry and cracked.
When she was a child it had constantly bubbled with giggles, revealing the narrow gap between her front teeth; these days, her open, child-like face rarely found reason to smile. Her body was still well-toned and muscular, albeit a little skinnier, but she no longer worked at keeping in shape; her dreams of dancing around the world on a cruise ship had faded as a craving for cocaine, and now a taste for a pipe, steadily increased, taking with it her self-respect.
Yo-Yo Reilly had been her friend at first. He had sympathized with her over Jason, confiding that his own mother was in Holloway, so he fully understood the empty pain when that special someone was out of reach. He had told her she was beautiful, that he dreamed of her, and if she ever changed her mind about Jason that he would be waiting. In the meantime he would settle for her friendship.
He gave her a present of an eighth of grass, good stuff, telling her it would help her chill and take the heat out of her day, making the burden of waiting much lighter for her. He showed her how to roll herself a nice thick joint, and even supplied the papers to do it. When she said she wasn’t sure, he reminded her it was the same as alcohol but without the calories; no harm, just an escape, to dull the pain and help her sleep at nights while she waited for Jason. She liked that idea.
The joints that followed were presents too, from Yo-Yo, the friend who cared, understood and sympathized. The odd E had gone down well too. Then came the cocaine. Only occasionally, he told her, for special times. It gave her a huge high, but she could handle it. Then he’d introduced her to the joy of a pipe: a little sight of heaven, he promised – and she was hooked. That was six months ago, and now all she thought about was that little sight of heaven. These days they were no longer presents; they came at a very high price. As the need for them accelerated into desperation, her debt soared. Yo-Yo’s crew, the Brotherhood, were the sole suppliers around here. No one would dare to tread their patch or undercut their rates. The reputation of the Brotherhood gang had spread across London; other gangs had tried taking them out, but had soon learned better. Anyone who dared to take them on lived, if they were lucky, to regret it. At best they bore a scar in the shape of a spider somewhere on their body; at worst they lay six feet under, a bullet lodged in their brain. No one messed with Yo-Yo Reilly or anything bel
onging to him. The Brotherhood were his crew, and Chantelle was now his puppet.
Her continued need for the pipe meant she now worked the streets around the estate for Yo-Yo, with her friend Luanne. At first she just screwed Yo-Yo in return for drugs, but then he brought members of the Brotherhood in for some action and she was too scared to refuse. Then he told her he was bored with her, and she had to work to earn her way. That meant going out on the streets with the other girls, and offering herself to passing motorists. When she begged him not to make her he turned nasty and gave her the first of many punches in the face. He’d split her mouth open, and worse, told her she’d get no more drugs until she showed she was grateful. He was doing her a favour, he told her, by showing her a way to make money to pay for her habit. He forced her to apologize and tell him he was right, that he was always right. Then he had made her sink to her knees and beg him to let her whore for him. Whoring was competitive, he explained, and she had to learn to use her assets to their full advantage; then he made her suck him off slowly and meaningfully. He promised to help her get work as long as she paid him a cut; but if she crossed him, he’d really hurt her.
Now she was one of the girls she used to feel sorry for in the old days, when she passed them on her way to dance classes. The days when she was happy and free, and Jason was around. She used to watch those girls as they stood at the kerb, offering their bodies to the cars that crawled the area, and her heart had gone out to them.
She should have seen it coming. Aunt Haley had warned her time and time again: Keep away from drugs. Drugs had been her mother’s downfall, had led her to an early grave, leaving Chantelle with only strict Aunt Haley to look after her. Jason’s mother had gone the same way. That was why he’d always said he’d sell, but never use; and he never had. Yet for her it had all happened before she realized. It seemed like one day she was happy, and the next she was craving a pipe and working the streets to pay for her need. Yo-Yo had assured her that that no harm would come to her because she was one of his girls, and Yo-Yo took good care of his whores – for another fat fee.