Bad Girl (25 page)

Outside, Helen screwed up her eyes against the bright winter sunlight. She could barely believe what had just happened. She felt shell-shocked, angry, confused, disoriented. Where was she going to go? What was she going to do? For a while she stood at the back door with her suitcase at her feet. She felt utterly and completely lost. Yvonne hadn’t even had the grace to give her time to get organised, to make other arrangements. One minute she was living at the Fox; the next she was homeless.

She took another deep breath. What she mustn’t do was fall apart. She wasn’t a child any more. She was fifteen, almost sixteen, and more than capable of taking care of herself. Except it didn’t feel like that at the moment. She was scared, that was the problem. It was a quarter past one on a November afternoon, and in a few hours it would be dark. Reaching down, she picked up the suitcase and began to walk.

As she crossed the car park, Helen glanced back over her shoulder. She remembered the first time she’d come here, sitting quietly with Tommy in the white Cortina, thinking that this was the last place on earth that she wanted to be. But then gradually, over the years, it had become the only place. She loved the Fox almost much as Tommy did. It would break his heart when he found out that Yvonne had sold it.

She blinked back the tears, not wanting to get sentimental. The pub was just bricks and mortar, nothing else. It was only the people who lived in it that mattered, and now that Tommy was gone, the building had lost its soul. She gave it one final, regretful look before heading for the high street.

As she trudged past the shops, she tried to work out what to do next. There were hostels for homeless people, she thought, but she didn’t know where they were and she didn’t have the courage to stop and ask anyone. Would she be allowed to stay in one anyway? Perhaps she was too young. They might take her and put her in a home. No, she wouldn’t be able to bear that. She would rather sleep on the streets than be taken into care.

It was only as she was approaching Connolly’s that she suddenly thought of Moira. But she couldn’t ask her for help. How could she? She had pushed her away, refused even to speak to her. She felt ashamed now of how she’d behaved. It was hardly surprising that for all the time Tommy had been on remand, Moira had remained silent. Not a single phone call. Not one visit to the pub. She had decided, perhaps, that the Quinns were more trouble than they were worth.

And yet Helen couldn’t quite believe this. Moira, above all else, had a big heart. Surely she wouldn’t turn her away in her hour of need? But still she hesitated, racked by guilt and remorse. It would be unfair to just turn up on her doorstep, saying she was sorry, expecting her to put a roof over her head. Or was that just her pride speaking? She wasn’t good, she knew, at asking for favours.

Stopping outside the café, Helen peered through the window. She saw Paul Connolly behind the counter, and a waitress weaving between the tables, carrying a tray. She couldn’t see Moira, though. And then she remembered that it was Saturday, and that Moira didn’t usually start her shift until the evening.

She began walking again, wondering if Moira still went to the cinema in the afternoons.

She remembered the last film they’d seen together,
The Great Gatsby
. She thought of Jay Gatsby floating lifeless in the pool. She thought of Joe Quinn bundled in the boot of a car with his skull caved in. She gave a shudder, sickened by the horror of it all.

Despite the sun, there was a cold wind biting at her face and fingers. Where were her gloves? She had had them when she was out shopping. She must have taken them off and left them in the kitchen at the Fox. She wondered what else she might have left there. She glanced down at the suitcase, aware that Yvonne had done the packing. Was the photo of her parents there? And the shell-covered box? And the old sock with thirty pound notes folded neatly inside it? She was going to need that money now that she was out here on her own.

Helen crossed the road as the undertakers’, Tobias Grand & Sons, came into view. She stood back on the pavement and stared up beyond the gold-lettered sign to the window above. Moira’s living room overlooked the street, with the bedroom and the kitchen at the rear of the building. There was no sign of life. She dropped her gaze to the undertakers’ window, covered by wide net curtains. There was no sign of life here either. Death lay hidden behind the discreet shield, bodies waiting to be buried, silk-lined coffins waiting to be filled. She felt another shiver run through her.

Next to the entrance to the undertakers’ was the door to Moira’s flat. Helen put the suitcase down, raised her hand, paused only for a second and then rang the bell. Above the noise of the traffic she listened for the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs. Nothing. She rang again, wondering if she should walk round to the cinema and try to catch her there. And then, just as she was about to leave, the door suddenly opened and Helen found herself staring at someone she had never seen before. The girl was about nineteen, with long, straight wheat-coloured hair and pale blue eyes that still looked full of sleep despite the time of day.

‘Yeah?’

Helen gazed blankly back at her for a moment. ‘Er, is Moira in?’

‘Who?’

‘Moira, Moira Sullivan.’

The girl shook her head. ‘Sorry. Never heard of her. Are you sure you’ve got the right address?’

Helen felt her heart sink. ‘She used to live here.’

The girl gave a shrug. ‘Sorry,’ she said again.

‘You don’t know where she’s gone, then?’ Helen knew the question was pointless even as she asked it. The girl didn’t have a clue who she was talking about.

‘No idea,’ she said, and closed the door.

Helen picked up the case again and trudged back across the road. Maybe Paul Connolly would have Moira’s new address. But why had she moved? She’d lived in that flat for years. What if she was dead? she thought suddenly, with a jolt. What if she’d got sick and gone to hospital and never got better? Although she knew it was unlikely, Helen was so used to losing the people she loved that this bleak possibility continued to dog her thoughts as she retraced her steps, pushed open the door and stepped inside the steamy café.

She went up to the counter, where a woman was paying for her food. She could feel her stomach twisting as she waited to be served. The woman, an elderly lady, was taking forever, counting pennies out one by one from her purse. But eventually it was done and Paul Connolly turned his attention to her.

‘Yes, love. What can I get you?’

‘Tea, please,’ she said.

‘One tea coming up.’

As he filled the mug from the big metal urn, Helen put her elbows on the counter and asked as casually as she could manage, ‘Is Moira working tonight?’

‘Moira?’ he repeated, and then shook his head. ‘No, love. Moira doesn’t work here any more. Not for months.’

Although relieved that there wasn’t worse news, Helen still struggled to hide her disappointment. ‘Oh, do you know where she’s gone?’

‘Sorry, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘She moved away a while back.’

Helen gave a nod. ‘Thanks.’ She paid for the tea, picked up the suitcase and the mug and carried them both over to her favoured table. Pulling out a chair, she slumped down listlessly. So, she was too late. She should never have allowed herself to hope. Moira was gone and she would probably never see her again.

As she gazed out of the window, Helen suddenly remembered the letter she’d received, realising now what it must have been about. Moira had been writing to say that she was leaving. Maybe she had included her new address, or a phone number. But Helen would never know. She had ripped it up without even looking at the contents, and chucked it in the bin. How could she have been so stupid, so childishly unforgiving? Well, she was being punished for it now.

She took her time over the tea, glad at least to be out of the cold. The sun had gone in and the light, even though it was only two o’clock, was beginning to fade. She knew that she had no other choice but to throw herself on the mercy of her aunt. The thought of this filled her with such dismay that she wanted to put it off as long as possible. Should she ring first? There was a phone box outside the café. But if she called, Janet might find an excuse as to why she couldn’t come. It was probably best to just turn up.

It was half an hour before Helen finally left Connolly’s. She lugged her suitcase back across the street – it seemed to be getting heavier with every step she took – and went to stand by the bus stop. She would need to go to Chingford and from there get another bus on to Farleigh Wood. Ten minutes later, a Chingford bus arrived. Helen shuffled forward in the queue, but just as she was about to get on, she changed her mind and stood aside. She wasn’t ready yet. She would wait and get the next one.

Three more buses came and went, but Helen still couldn’t bring herself to do it. She could imagine the look on Janet’s face when she turned up unannounced. Her aunt was not the type of person who would refuse her entrance, but it would be done grudgingly and it would be made clear that she wasn’t welcome. At the thought of this, Helen moved away from the bus stop, leaned the suitcase against the stretch of wall beside Moira’s old flat and gazed dolefully along the high street.

An hour later, she was still standing there when the door to the flat opened and the girl with the long straight hair came out. Helen watched as she crossed the road and went into the Spar. As if oblivious to the cold, she was dressed in a fringed brown suede miniskirt and a bright yellow blouse. A few minutes later she was back, clutching a bottle of milk in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other.

As the girl approached the door, she stopped and looked at Helen. ‘Still here, then?’

Helen gave a light shrug, trying to smile but not quite succeeding.

The girl glanced down at the suitcase. ‘So what’s the deal? You running away?’

‘No.’

‘Your parents kick you out?’

Helen shrugged again. ‘Something like that.’

‘What’s your name, then?’

It was on the tip of Helen’s tongue to say Mouse – the name she had got so used to over the past four years – but at the last moment she stopped herself. That part of her life was over. It was time to start again. ‘Helen. Helen Beck.’

‘I’m Lily,’ the girl said. She handed over the pint of milk. ‘Here, hang on to this for a sec.’ She dug into her back pocket, took out a key and unlocked the door. As she stepped inside, she glanced over her shoulder at Helen. ‘Well, come on. Don’t just stand there. Do you want to come in or not?’

The inside of Moira’s old flat was familiar and strange at the same time. The same furniture was there, although the curtains were different and all the books and ornaments had gone. It was also a lot untidier. Magazines were strewn across the coffee table, along with dirty glasses, empty wine bottles and an overflowing ashtray. The gas fire was on, making a soft hissing noise. Helen put down the suitcase and handed back the pint of milk.

‘Excuse the mess,’ Lily said. ‘I had a few mates round last night. You want coffee?’

‘Thanks.’ Although Helen would have preferred tea, she was grateful for anything hot. While she’d been hanging round the bus stop, the cold had crept into her bones.

Lily went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Then she came back into the living room, crossed her arms over her chest and looked at Helen. ‘How old are you, then?’

‘Sixteen,’ Helen lied.

Lily’s eyebrows shifted up as if she didn’t quite believe her. ‘My mum kicked me out when I was fourteen. Well, not my mum so much as her fancy man. Not that she made any objection. To be honest, I was glad to get out of there. He was a real creep, couldn’t keep his hands to himself, if you know what I mean.’

Before Helen had a chance to reply, Lily had returned to the kitchen. There was the sound of running water and the clatter of cutlery being thrown into a bowl. Helen stood in the middle of the room, not quite sure as to what to do next. The invitation had been so unexpected that it still felt faintly unreal.

‘You going to sit down, then?’ said Lily as she came back with a couple of mugs of coffee. She shifted the dirty glasses to one side and put the mugs on the table.

Helen perched on the edge of the sofa, carefully watching the girl while pretending not to. ‘Thanks.’

Lily curled up in the armchair like a cat, ripped the cellophane off the pack of cigarettes and offered one to Helen. ‘Smoke?’

Helen shook her head. ‘No thanks.’

Lily lit one and leaned back. ‘So this mate of yours – Maggie, was it?’

‘Moira.’

‘Yeah, Moira. That’s it. She used to live here, did she?’

Helen gave a nod.

‘It must have been a while ago. I’ve been here for… God, it’s almost six months now.’

‘We kind of lost touch,’ Helen said.

‘So what’s the plan? What are you going to do now?’

Helen’s plans, such as they were, wouldn’t have filled the back of a postage stamp. ‘I don’t know. I’ve got an aunt in Farleigh Wood. I was thinking of going there, but…’ She didn’t need to finish the sentence for Lily to understand what she meant.

‘But you don’t get on with her.’

‘Not really,’ Helen said. She took a sip of the coffee. It was strong and sweet, with a bitter aftertaste.

‘So what’s the deal with the parents? Why’d they kick you out?’ Lily took a drag on the cigarette and smiled. ‘Hey, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It’s none of my business, right?’

Helen hesitated, not sure as to how much to say. ‘It’s kind of complicated.’

‘It always is, love.’ Lily stared at her for a few seconds, then asked, ‘You got any money?’

Helen looked warily back at her. Was this why she’d been invited in? Was the girl going to rob her, steal all her money and then throw her back out on to the street? She thought of the three five-pound notes in her jeans pocket and the saved cash that might or might not be in the suitcase. ‘Not much,’ she said. ‘A couple of quid.’

Lily tilted her head to one side and laughed. ‘There’s no need to look like that. I’m not a bleedin’ mugger.’

Helen blushed furiously. ‘I know. I didn’t—’

‘I was just thinking we could get some cider, have a drink. I’ve got a stinking hangover. It’s the only thing that gets rid of the headache. I just spent the last of my cash on fags, but I can pay you back tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ Helen repeated, thinking that she didn’t even know where she’d be tonight, never mind the next day.

‘Sure. I mean, you need somewhere to stay, don’t you? You’re welcome to kip on the sofa if you can stand the mess. I’ve got spare blankets and stuff.’

Helen stared at her, wondering if she’d heard right. ‘Do you mean it? I can really stay here?’

‘Course you can. You know, until you get yourself sorted.’ Lily glanced towards the window. ‘You don’t want to be out there on your own, love. It’s not safe. There’s all sorts wandering the streets at night. So what do you say? You fancy that drink or not?’

Helen didn’t have to think twice. With her only other alternatives being an embarrassing plea to Janet Simms, or sleeping under a bridge in a cardboard box, the choice was an easy one. She jumped up, her despair fading into something more akin to hope. ‘Shall we go and get that cider, then?’

Two hours later, Helen was lying stretched out on the sofa. She wasn’t used to alcohol, and it had gone straight to her head. It had cut through all her inhibitions, too. Now she was talking to Lily like she’d known her all her life. She’d already told her about her childhood in Farleigh Wood, and now she’d moved on to what had happened at the Fox.

Lily, who never seemed to watch or even read the news, was totally unaware of the drama that had taken place. ‘So he was murdered by his own son?’ she said, her eyes wide and incredulous.

‘Yeah, and now Tommy’s in jail too, even though he didn’t have anything to do with it. Yvonne’s going to sell the pub and go to Spain.’

‘Nothing like sticking by your man. She sounds a real piece of work.’

‘She’s that all right. And when he comes out, he’s going to have no pub, no home, no nothing. How could she do that to him?’ The booze was drawing Helen’s emotions to the surface. She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. ‘She’s such a cow.’

‘You okay, hun?’ Lily asked.

‘Yeah, I’m okay.’

‘Well, you’re best out of it, from the sound of things. What you need is a fresh start. Life’s too short to be stressing about the past.’ Lily took a large swig of cider. ‘That bitch sounds just like my mum. She used to put me in care every time she got a new bloke. I was in and out of them homes like a bloody yo-yo.’

Helen turned her head to gaze at her. Lily seemed so smart and confident that it was hard to believe she’d had such a background. ‘What about your dad?’

‘What about him? He’s a complete waste of space.’

‘My dad was a copper,’ Helen said.

‘You’re kidding?’

‘No, for real. I don’t remember him, though. I was only young when he died.’

‘Oh well, at least he had a job. My old man never did a day’s work in his life.’

‘I’ve got bad blood,’ Helen said. ‘That’s what Joe Quinn said.’

Lily gave a snort. ‘There’s no such thing,’ she said. ‘You’ve just been unlucky.’

‘Unlucky,’ Helen said. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’

The two girls looked at each other and burst out laughing. Suddenly, with a friend to share things with, life didn’t seem so grim. Helen knew that she was drunk – they were both drunk – and she was glad of it. She didn’t care about tomorrow, or how she might feel. The booze slid through her veins, giving everything a rosy glow.

‘Have you thought about a job?’ Lily said. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I can find work in a bar or a caff. Maybe I can get some shifts in Connolly’s.’

‘That won’t pay much, not at your age.’

Helen knew this was true. Although she had a bit of money in reserve, it wouldn’t last long when she was having to fork out for rent and bills and food. ‘I’ll think of something.’

‘I know how to make some decent cash,’ Lily said. ‘If you’re interested.’

‘Yeah? How’s that, then?’

Lily gave her a sly smile. ‘Well, what is it that all men want?’

Helen stared back at her in horror. ‘No way, I’m not—’

‘Oh, I don’t mean
that.
Haven’t you heard? There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’