Billie Jo (2 page)

Seeing the living-room door ajar, he made that his first
port of call. He knew that since Michelle's drink problem
had escalated out of control, she rarely made it upstairs
any more. He normally either found her flopped across
the kitchen table, or lying comatose on their white leather
sofa. He peeped through the crack of the door and like
a fortune-teller predicting a tarot card reading, there she
was, sprawled out like a beached whale recently washed
ashore.

'The state of that and the price of fish,' he said quietly
to himself. When they had first got it together, Michelle
had been beautiful. Now, he found it hard to believe
what had become of the girl he'd fallen in love with and
married.

Michelle was out for the count. Lying flat on her back,
the button and zip of her jeans were wide open, with mounds
of fat bulging over the top. Terry inwardly chuckled. The
thing that amused him most was the fact that apart from
doing five gym classes a week, she was an honorary member
of both Weight Watchers and Slimming World. It seemed
the more she tried to diet and keep fit, the fatter she became.
Hazarding a guess, he'd say she'd put on at least two stone
in the last year alone. He'd often told her that she should
go to the gym and her slimming classes and ask for her
fucking money back. She must be the only woman in Britain
whose before and after photos looked like they'd been
switched the wrong way round.

Suddenly stirring, Michelle woke up and spotted him.
Within seconds, she'd leapt up like a banshee.

'You no-good fucking bastard. Who is she? Tell me
who she is! I'll fucking kill her.'

'Calm down, it's not what you think. I've had business
to deal with.'

Terry grabbed hold of her wrists to stop her lashing
out at him and tried to pacify her. Chelle was having none
of it. She could tell when he was lying, always had been
able to.

'You lying cunt.' Running into the kitchen like a woman
possessed, she grabbed the biggest knife she could find.

Billie Jo had been sound asleep until the commotion
downstairs started. Her parents had always rowed but just
lately their arguments were becoming worse and more
frequent.

'Put the knife down, Chelle, don't be so stupid,' she
heard her dad say.

'Don't call me stupid, Terry. If I find out you've been
cheating on me, I'll cut your fucking bollocks off. I swear
on my life, I'll do a Mrs Bobbitt on you.'

Billie ran down the stairs at the mention of the word
knife and was horrified to see her mum pointing a big
one at her dad. 'Mum, no please, don't hurt Daddy,' she
screamed.

Momentarily, her daughter's presence was enough to
throw Michelle off balance. Grabbing the knife, Terry
shoved her against the wall. He rang Davey Mullins and
handed Michelle the phone. 'Ask him where we was. Go
on, you fucking nutter, ask him.'

Comforting his hysterical daughter in his strong arms,
Terry gently led her up the stairs. 'Ssh, stop crying now,
Billie. It's all over now, babe. It was only a silly misunderstanding.
Now come on, sweetheart, we're going out
later, me and you. You don't wanna be all red-eyed now,
do you?'

Once she had spoken to Davey Mullins, Chelle regained
her senses. If Billie hadn't come downstairs, she wasn't
sure what would've happened. The way she'd lost it, she'd
probably have plunged the knife straight through Terry.
She'd certainly felt capable of it. Unsteadily, she made
her way back into the living room. The thought of him
leaving her was too distressing to even contemplate. She
still loved him deep down, always had and always would,
and the thought of him being with another woman made
her turn into someone she didn't recognise. The jealousy
she had felt earlier was indescribable. She'd felt a sense
of panic, as if her heart was being pulled out of her chest.
She wasn't totally stupid. She knew he didn't love her
any more. She also knew that if it wasn't for Billie Jo,
he'd have fucked off long ago. That's why she drank so
much, to blot out the truth.

It had been oh-so-different in the beginning. An only
child, Chelle had been spoilt rotten and used to getting
everything she wanted from a very early age. She was
twenty years old when she'd met Terry in a local pub and
she'd known instantly that he was the man for her.
Handsome, wealthy and definitely a face, she'd made a
play for him and got him. It hadn't been difficult back
then. She'd possessed the looks, charm and acting ability
to snare whoever she wished.

Within a year, Chelle's façade had started to slip.
Desperate not to lose Terry, she'd purposely fallen pregnant.
Billie Jo being born was her trump card. The child's
birth enabled her to hang on to the man she loved and
the lifestyle she craved. If he'd left her then or now,
she would be nothing, a no-mark. She couldn't and
wouldn't let that happen. She'd kill him before she allowed
him to walk out that front door.

Deciding a change of tactic was needed, she pondered
over what to do next. She'd been playing Mrs Nice Wife
recently and it had been getting her nowhere. A different
game-plan had to be put into play.

Still too drunk to think straight, she guzzled the
remainder of the wine, before sobbing in a crumpled heap
on the sofa. If he was going to get rid of her, trade her
in for some newer model, she was determined to go out
with the biggest bang possible.

Terry made sure Billie was OK and then got into bed
in one of the spare rooms. He could hear Michelle crying
downstairs. She'd played the drama queen act for so long
during their marriage that she was now an expert at it.

How the fuck has my life ended up like this? he thought
silently, as he drifted back to his past. His childhood had
been awful. The eldest of three boys, he'd been born into
poverty. His father was a drunken brute, who had resented
him from the day he was born. His mother was a typical
downtrodden Irishwoman who did her best to avoid her
husband's violent temper.

Terry's salvation had been starting work. At thirteen,
he had got a part-time job at a car lot in Romford for
a guy named Benny Bones. Being a streetwise kid, Terry
was a fast learner and within months had mastered the
trade off by heart. Benny was a cockney through and
through. He knew every song, saying and villain that
had ever come out of the East End of London. Terry
loved his accent, stories and slang. He'd never felt Irish
and having never really lived there, he classed himself
as an Englishman. Irishmen reminded him too much of
his drunken father.

Within a year of working for him, Terry had Benny's
repertoire off to a tee, so much so that customers used
to think they were father and son. In Terry's mind they
were. Benny was the father he'd never really had.

It was around this time that Terry arrived home one
night to see his mother lying on the floor, covered in
blood, with her eyeball hanging out of its socket. Dragging
his father out of the armchair, Terry proceeded to knock
seven colours of shit out of him. All the years of pent-up
frustration of being bullied by the bastard were finally
released. Ex-boxer or no ex-boxer, a drunken ageing Paddy
was no match for the up and coming Terry, whose parting
sentence was to tell his father that if he ever touched his
mother again, he would come back and finish him off.
Terry walked out of the house that night and never went
back.

Terry moved in with his boss Benny and over the next
year or two used his knowledge to take the car trade by
storm. Having saved enough money for a deposit, he then
bought himself a little flat situated just off Seven Kings
High Road. Enjoying his first taste of independence and
throwing himself into his work, he had little or no time
to bother with women. Witnessing his parents' fucked-up
relationship had put him off for life, and apart from a
few one-night stands, he couldn't be bothered.

He was thirty years old when he had the misfortune
of meeting Chelle. His mother had warned him about
girls like her, but he'd still been silly enough to let her
dig her claws in and then trap him. The unplanned pregnancy
had been a shock to him. Determined to do the
right thing, he'd married her. Within months, he realised
he'd dropped a clanger. A terrible wife equalled an awful
mother, but determined his daughter would have a stable
childhood, he battled on.

Now he was at the point of no return. Gone was the
sweet, pretty brunette he'd first met. In its place was
a money-orientated, nasty fat bitch with a mouth like a
sewer.

'What a poxy night,' he muttered to himself, as he
snuggled up under the quilt. He was wrecked now, worn
out by it all, and couldn't wait to get some shut-eye.

Part of him felt guilty. If he hadn't come home so late,
the row would never have happened. He wasn't bothered
about Chelle, she could go and fuck herself. Billie was
his only concern and he could tell his daughter had been
shaken up by the scene that she'd witnessed earlier.
Deciding to make it up to her by spoiling her rotten, he
nodded off into a deep, welcome sleep.

Hearing her dad snoring in the next room, Billie wept
quietly. The rows between her parents she'd learned to live
with, she'd had to, but the events of earlier had nigh on
scared her to death. The thought of what might have
happened if she hadn't heard the commotion and come
down the stairs was too traumatic for her to even think
about. Her home life was bad enough, surely it couldn't
get any worse. Consoling herself with the thought that it
was probably just a one-off, she willed herself to sleep.
She had a busy day ahead and didn't want it spoilt by
being overtired.

As Billie nodded off to sleep, she was totally unaware
of the run of bad luck that was catapulting towards her.

This morning's episode had been the start of it, a taster.

Unfortunately for Billie, the worst was yet to come.

Michelle woke up on the sofa to be greeted by the hangover
from hell. As the events of earlier that day came
flooding back, she cursed herself for letting fly at Terry.
She was now a hundred per cent sure that he was having
an affair. She was his wife for God's sake and women
just know these things.

The smell of perfume on his shirts. The fact he left his
mobile locked safely in his glove box. She'd even gone as
far as sifting through his dirty underwear, checking for
stains and that unmistakable smell of sex. She might be a
lot of things but silly wasn't one of them. Give him enough
rope and he'll hang himself, that had always been her motto,
and now she'd gone and blown it. After the earlier showdown
he'd be more careful than ever at covering his tracks.
Jackanory
would have been proud of Davey Mullins'
version of events. There were more holes in his story than
a pair of fishnet stockings. Swanley my arse, she thought
as she gingerly lifted herself off the sofa. Her head was
pounding and was making her feel sick. Deciding that the
only thing to perk her up would be the good old-fashioned
hair of the dog, she headed towards the kitchen. An Alka
Seltzer and two vinos later, she started to feel like her old
self. Her headache had gone, her hands had stopped shaking
and she felt ready to face another day. Hearing footsteps,
she froze for a second, thinking it was him. Once she
realised it was only Billie, she breathed a sigh of relief.

'Oh it's you. I thought it was your dad.'

Plonking herself down at the kitchen table, Billie came
straight to the point. 'Is it all right if I stay at Tiffany's
tonight? It's her dad's birthday and they've invited me to
go for a meal with them.'

Billie knew the answer would be yes before she'd even
finished the question. Her mum didn't give a shit where
she went, what she did or who she was with. If she said
she was going out with Fred and Rosemary West for a meal,
her mother would have OK'd it. Her dad was a different
kettle of fish. He wanted to know where she was going,
who she was with, spoke personally to all of her friends'
parents to check arrangements, and made sure she had a
lift to and fro.

'Of course you can stay at Tiff 's.' Michelle breathed a
sigh of relief. It was her best friend Hazel's birthday and
she'd arranged to go out later with her and the rest of the
girls from the gym. The fact she now didn't have to rush
back suited her down to the ground, let Sleeping Beauty
upstairs have a taste of his own medicine. See if he liked
it, if she stayed out all night. Surreptitiously retrieving
the wine glass that she'd shoved behind the microwave
when Billie had first entered the kitchen, Chelle turned
to face her daughter.

'I'm going upstairs to get ready now, Bill. You have a
nice time tonight.'

'Thanks,' Billie said, watching her mother swan out of
the kitchen.

Trying on outfits galore, then chucking them on the
floor in a temper as she realised they no longer fitted,
Michelle felt like screaming. Making as much noise as
she could to try and wake the no-good bastard sleeping
in the next room, she opted for her old faithful black
pinstriped suit. Looking in the mirror did nothing to
enchant her mood. She instantly decided she was rejoining
Weight Watchers first thing Monday morning.

Once he heard the front door slam and his wife's
Mercedes pull off the drive, Terry jumped out of bed. He'd
been pretending to be asleep for the last hour, even acting
out a couple of snores. Hearing his old woman getting
ready, he'd guessed she was off out somewhere and rather
than facing a Spanish Inquisition, he'd decided to stay put
until she'd left. Casually he wandered downstairs.

'Morning, Princess.' Putting his big arms around his
daughter, he pulled her close and held her tightly. Billie
hugged him back and looked up at him.

'Where was you last night, Dad? Why did you stay out
all night? You might have known Mum would kick off.'

'Oh, don't you start on me as well.' Terry felt guilty
as he looked at his daughter's worried face. Deciding to
bluff it, he carried on. 'I'm a businessman, Bill. I had
some shit to sort out. Now forget last night, eh, what do
you wanna do this afternoon?'

Billie didn't really feel like doing anything. She'd had
very little sleep and was yet to recover from the shock
of her mum trying to stab her dad. Seeing her dad's hurt
expression at her lack of enthusiasm, she put on her best
false smile. 'I wouldn't mind going to Lakeside to get a
new outfit for tonight.'

Returning her smile with a false one of his own, Terry
told her to get her arse in gear and be ready to go in ten
minutes. 'Bollocks,' he muttered, as soon as she was out of
earshot. He'd rather go to the dentist and have his teeth
pulled out than spend a Saturday afternoon being dragged
around Lakey. Four hours later and four hundred quid lighter,
Terry loaded Billie's bags onto the back seat and started up
the engine. His little princess hadn't been her usual bubbly
self today and he was a bit worried about her.

'You all right, babe?'

'Yes fine, Dad,' she lied.

Terry decided she must still have the hump over the
silly row they'd had earlier. Standing by the doorway of
Top Shop while Billie mooched inside, he'd noticed two
boyband lookalikes, mid-twenties, clocking his daughter's
arse and making suggestive comments about her. Just as
he was about to go over to the bench where they were
sitting, drag them up by their scrawny little necks and
teach them a lesson, Billie had seen what was going on.
Screaming at him, she'd given him what for.

'If you show me up in the middle of Lakeside, I swear
I'll never talk to you again. I'm not a kid any more, Dad.
I'm a young woman and boys are bound to look at me from
time to time. I'd have to be a minger if they didn't. You're
so overprotective with me, Dad, you make me sick at times.'

Agreeing with her just to keep the peace, Terry had
casually slung his arm round her shoulder, giving the two
lads in question his most evil look as he passed them. He
had what he called a hidden camera lodged inside his brain.
Not one to ever forget a face, he debated whether to return
to Lakeside alone, hunt down the two little fuckers responsible
for the argument and show them exactly whose
daughter they were dealing with. Calming himself down,
he decided against it. They were only kids after all.

'Oi, waiter, bring us another bottle of champagne over
here pronto, will ya?' Proudly perched on her chair in the
Chigwell restaurant, Michelle was now enjoying herself
immensely. With her voice increasing in volume by the
second, she was the life and soul of the party.

Rushing over to the table from hell, Antonio shakily
topped up the glasses and quickly made an exit. Four years
he'd been working as a waiter in this restaurant and he
absolutely hated the sight of this particular group of women.
They normally came in on the first Saturday of every month
and he'd had such a gutful of them over the years that he'd
managed to wangle that particular Saturday as his day off.
Now here they were, as bold as brass, on the second
Saturday of the month. That was just his bloody luck.

Unable to cope with their drunken, abusive behaviour,
Antonio feigned a migraine and swiftly left the restaurant.

'Bye, Princess, have a nice time tonight.' Terry smiled as
he watched his daughter walk up her best friend's driveway.
Once he made sure that the door was opened and she was
safely inside, he sped off to pick up Davey Mullins.

After drinking the restaurant dry of champagne, Michelle
was in her observant mood. Sitting quietly, she surveyed
her group of friends. They'd all met working out together
at their local gym, and over the years had disclosed their
innermost secrets to one another. They'd joked that one
day, when they were older, they would sit down and write
a book about their unusual lives.

Hazel Short was the first not-right that Michelle had
palled up with. Forty-three years old with long blonde hair
and a body to die for, Hazel had seemed quite normal at
first. She was a typical Essex bird with a bubbly personality
to match, but they say you should never judge a book
by its cover and this turned out to true, as Hazel turned
out to be anything but normal. After marrying young to
an ageing ex-bank robber called Stan and producing three
children in quick succession, Hazel was very happy with
the cards she'd been dealt. With plenty of money shoved
into offshore accounts for a rainy day, Hazel was the brains
behind Stan's thieving. Stan would nick it and Hazel would
stash it and together they made a very good team.

As time went on Stan moved into the pub protection
game. Within a year, things went tits up and he got a ten
stretch for torturing some poor bastard in the back room
of a boozer along the Barking Road. Six months into his
sentence, Stan keeled over with a heart attack and promptly
snuffed it. Overnight Hazel became a very rich lady indeed.

Julie Beale was the next not-right to become Chelle's
friend. At forty-six years old, with the voice of a man and
the body of a Russian shot putter, at first glance she could
seem quite scary. An ex-prostitute, Julie had spent the latter
part of her working life employed as a madam at a massage
parlour in Ilford. A substantial inheritance left by one of
her regular clients had led to her taking an early retirement.

The final member of the Fab Four went by the name
of Suzie Robinson. At thirty-five years old, she was the
baby of the gang. Happily married to Richie who owned
a scrapyard in Rainham, Suzie had seemed quite square
compared to the rest of them. It wasn't until one evening
when they'd been caning the wine all day, that her story
bubbled to the surface. She had done a year in Holloway
for an offence to do with her first husband, Trevor. Once
released, Suzie left him and ran off up north with the
eighteen-year-old brother of one of her former inmates.
Sick of feeling like his mother, Suzie had had enough
within a year and headed back down south. A year later,
she married her current husband, Richie.

Michelle's thoughts were interrupted by Georgie the
owner telling them that their cab was outside.

Sitting in a backstreet boozer in Stepney Green, Terry
began to get agitated. Giving Davey Mullins the nod to
go up to the bar, Terry moved towards the lying little
bastard sitting opposite him.

'Look, don't fuck with me, kid. I know for a fact your
story don't ring true, 'cause I've checked it with the other
lads. No one else could have had that money away, bar
you. Don't take me as some kind of a cunt, believe me
that'll be the worst mistake you'll ever make. Now, you've
got until next Saturday lunchtime to get the money
you've chored back to me. Think yourself lucky, Paul,
that I'm good pals with your uncle, 'cause believe me,
you wouldn't have such an easy ride if me and Archie
weren't muckers. Now, I know where you live and I'm
sending Davey Boy to pick up the dough. Once you've
paid, I want you to get out the area. If I ever see your
ugly mug again, Paul, I swear as God's my judge, I'll gut
you like a fucking fish.'

Paul Cox could feel his bowel loosening as he shifted
uncomfortably in his seat. Terry Keane frightened the life
out of him and in all his twenty-seven years, he'd never
met anyone with such evil eyes, piercing blue and pure
fucking evil.

He could visualise himself being chopped up into little
pieces and ending up in concrete, propping up one of the
flyovers along the A13. He knew in that instant that he
wasn't cut out for this kind of work, dealing with these
kind of people. He'd only got involved as a favour to his
Uncle Archie, who was currently in the Scrubs taking a
holiday at Her Majesty's pleasure. Archie had needed
someone he could trust for a while to take over the reins
and Paul had offered to lend a helping hand. Realising
he'd made a big mistake by being light-fingered, Paul
downed his bottle of Becks and rose unsteadily from his
seat.

'Look, I'm really sorry, Tel. I'll have your money back
by Saturday, I promise.' On exiting the run-down pub,
Paul found the nearest kerb and retched.

Michelle looked at the minicab driver and snarled, 'You're
taking the piss. You ain't getting thirty-five, you robbing
bastard. I'll give you a score.' Ali hated being a minicab
driver. He made his own fares up as he went along. The
worse the customer, the more he charged. Snatching
the money, he breathed a sigh of relief as the abusive, drunken
women got out of his car. Furious, he opened his window.
'I know where you live, you English bitches. I will be back.'
Pulling her trousers down, Michelle gave him a flash of her
fat arse. Hazel, Julie and Suzie opted for wanker signs.

In stitches, the girls spilled into Hazel's kitchen. 'I'll be
back,' Hazel said, mimicking an Indian accent.

'Fucking Delhi's answer to Arnie Schwarzenegger,' Chelle
screamed. Crying with laughter, the girls fell onto Hazel's
kitchen floor.

Over in Stepney, Terry's face was like thunder. He'd had
a proper little deal going for years now, with an old boy
from Bethnal Green who answered to the name of Archie
Cox. Archie and Terry had originally been introduced by
Terry's old boss, Benny Bones, and over the years they
had built up an honest and trustworthy friendship. The
little scam they had going had brought in bundles over
the years and until recently was infallible. Buying up
write-offs from salvage yards that were badly damaged but
not mangled beyond recognition, the motors were loaded
onto recovery trucks and driven out to the remote outskirts
of Cambridgeshire, where they owned a couple of yards
in the middle of nowhere. They would then call on the services
of the top-class young car thieves who were on their
payroll, to go out and steal the exact same model. The
stolen vehicles would immediately have the number plate
removed and swapped for the write-offs. They would then
be driven out to Cambridgeshire in the middle of the night
where three trustworthy mechanics would swap all the parts
over, change the chassis number and make them reasonably
untraceable. In reality, the original vehicles were
stripped down and ceased to exist. The newly built motors
were then shipped abroad to start a new life.