Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama (2 page)

‘Sure.’

‘Alright.’ He looked at her again and with contempt snarled, ‘Drink up and piss off. I’m a busy man.’

Tiffany didn’t need telling twice. She knocked back her drink, pulled up the chewing gum on the table and popped it back into her mouth, then almost let out a scream as his big, hairy paw gripped her wrist like a vice and yanked her across the table. He had her so far forward he could whisper in her ear. ‘Listen up and listen good, this isn’t Disney World and we’re not playing Mickey Mouse games here. Don’t ever,
ever
try and get in touch with me. Don’t ever,
ever
muck me around and don’t ever,
ever
start blabbing to anyone – because if you do, you’ll pay the usual price and I don’t care that you’re sweet sixteen. I’ve had younger than you put in the ground for taking liberties. Do I make myself clear?’

Tiffany stared back, bug-eyed and trembling. ‘You don’t need to worry about me. I’m no grass. I’m from The Devil’s Estate.’

He let go of her wrist and Tiffany drew herself to her feet. ‘Good. The Plod pick you up, you don’t know me.’

She laughed at him. ‘I don’t give a toss about the cops, I know how to deal with them.’

It was the first time she saw anything remotely like respect as he looked at her: ‘Yeah, I know, I’ve heard that about you.’

Tiffany Miller was so chuffed with herself on the way home that she forgot to bunk the fare on the bus. As she stared out of the window at the once grand houses on Mile End Road, long since gone to seed, she started to softly sing ‘What’s Up?’ Her voice grew louder as she sang the line about getting real high and some of the other passengers turned to look at her.
Fuck
’
em; let
’
em stare
. The East End was full of kids like her who wanted to get on the lowest rung of the gangster ladder in the hope that one day they might hit the big time. And now she – little ole Tiffany Miller – had managed it. But this wasn’t about her trying to be some East End hood; nah, this was all about the kicks – anything to break the mind-numbing boredom of life on The Devil’s Estate with her deadbeat mum and her wannabe snob sister.

Two

‘Please, take your sister with you, Jen; I don’t want her ending up down the cemetery.’

Eighteen-year-old Jennifer Miller slammed the hairbrush down on her dressing table by way of reply and then turned to face her mum in her bedroom doorway. Jen had the type of looks that had been attracting the lads on the estate for a long time; not that she had the time of day for them. She folded her arms, defiantly tilted back her head and looked down her nose at her mother. Babs Miller looked tired and weary; it was a look she reserved for when she wanted something, and it usually worked. As her daughter knew, her life was hard enough and Jen was too soft-hearted to make it any harder.

‘Please, Jen,’ Babs pleaded. ‘Take her with you – I’ll make it up to you, I promise. She won’t be any trouble.’

Won’t be any trouble? Who was her mum kidding? Tiffany Miller was built from lumps of trouble left lying around their estate. All Jen wanted was a peaceful Saturday night on the razzle, to spend a couple of hours letting her hair down. A bit of fun, was that really too much to ask for, for crying out bloody loud?

‘No way am I taking her anywhere,’ Jen continued stubbornly.

Her mum groaned. ‘Why not?’

‘Why not? For a start she’s only sixteen and that means the bouncers will keep me and Bex out of any decent bars and clubs. I’m eighteen and me and Bex have enough trouble getting in places as it is.’

‘Your sister could pass for eighteen, easy.’

‘Twenty-one, mum, she has to pass for twenty one – and the way she carries on, she couldn’t pass for ten.’

‘When she’s dressed up, she looks old enough. You know that.’

And it was true; Tiffany Miller did look all grown up, when she wanted to. The shame was that her mind didn’t usually follow, which is why her older sister didn’t want to drag her along. ‘Plus she’s got no cash which means she’ll be poncing drinks off me and Bex.’

‘I’ll give her a few sobs. I’ll take care of that.’

‘She swears, she fights and she’s a right show-up.’

Babs sounded hopeful. ‘I’ll have a word with her – tell her to behave.’

Jen shook her head in disbelief. ‘Have a word with her? She won’t listen to anyone. You know that. She don’t listen to you, she don’t listen to me, she don’t listen to teachers, cops, neighbours, shopkeepers. She wouldn’t even listen to the Queen or her flippin’ corgis.’

Babs Miller looked properly washed out. She had nothing to say back; she knew her eldest girl was right.

Jen sighed. She hated it when her mum looked like this – like the weight of the whole, nasty world was on her shoulders. It wasn’t her fault that she’d given birth to a Class A teenage nutcase. Jen got up, walked up to her mum and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. She whispered, ‘And you want to know the main reason why I’m not taking her up West with me and Bex? Because she doesn’t really want to go: she’s only saying she does because she knows it will wind me up and fuck my evening out.’

Babs sighed, squeezed her daughter’s hand as she sat on the bed. ‘I know,’ she said weakly, like all the life had drained out of her.

Satisfied, Jen went back to her dressing table, picked up her brush and began combing her long blonde hair, which was styled exactly like supermodel Cindy Crawford’s, all blow-dried volume with a large wave on one side kissing her cheekbone. She wore a knock-off Dior little black dress, from The Roman. The stallholder had promised her the dress was the real deal. Perhaps he was right and it really was; it certainly looked authentic. Together with a pair of designer heels that someone on the estate had sold her – ‘don’t ask me where they came from; it’s against my principles to tell lies’ – she looked the part, ready to strut her stuff in town.

‘The thing is,’ her mother wasn’t giving up, ‘the Old Bill dragged your sister home again the other evening when you were out. They rounded up Tiff and her mates down the cemetery and found some leaf in the girl’s pocket, a car radio in her bag, and she was tanked out of her head. They’re going to let it go this time but if they catch her again, it’s going to mean the courts and social workers, probation officers and the rest of it. We don’t need that lot poking their snouts in our business, do we? She’s only a kid after all. If you take her into town, at least you can keep an eye on her and keep her out of trouble.’

Jen turned on her mother in fury. ‘Where is she?’

‘Downstairs.’ Babs followed her daughter out and shouted after her, ‘Don’t have a go. She’s only a kid.’

While her mum and sister were going at it upstairs, Tiffany was in the front room. A boy who lived on their landing had rung the bell five minutes before and passed her a piece of folded paper. He’d told her that the note had come from a friend and she knew at once which ‘friend’ it was. She took it off him, stuck it down her top and returned to the sofa to watch
Blind Date
. She had one hand in a bag of salt and vinegar crisps and was using the other hand to play with her Mod style short hair and flat fringe. She had a huge, smartass smile on her face. She’d heard the shouting upstairs and knew what was coming next.

Until her job interview with the guy in the Bad Moon, Tiffany didn’t have many pleasures in life. But then, as she often thought, not many sixteen-year-old girls on The Devil did. She liked a slug of something hard and a smoke, pinching stuff and the odd fight, but none of these compared with royally winding her sister up.

Jennifer had ideas above her station. She was constantly giving the bum’s rush to the local lads looking for a date, because they had no drive or ambition. Drive and ambition? Where the bloody hell did Jen think she was, talking bollocks to the judges at Miss World? She was always moaning, ‘I’m better than this’ when something bad happened on the estate. She had all these big, fairy-tale bollocks dreams. Just because she was studying part-time on a fashion course in that college in Whitechapel, it didn’t make her better than anyone else. Tiffany loved dragging her straight back down to earth, reminding her she was just another no-mark from the East End of London, like all the other tuppenny birds.

When her sister came stomping through the door, Tiffany looked at her, pulled a face and then shook her head. ‘Oh no, sis, I’m not going out with you if you’re going to be wearing that. Supposing someone sees us?’

Jen stopped suddenly, as if someone had whacked her over the head. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘That dress – it’s a bit slaggy, ain’t it? Haven’t you got something else? I suppose not; you’re too much of a tramp.’

Her big sister’s eyes gave Tiff a scornful once-over like she was something in the Sally Army shop window. But Tiffany didn’t care. She was proud she didn’t go around like Jen in pretty-me-girlie gear. None of that shit make-up for her; a tracksuit was way better than a dress that hardly covered your fanny.

Jen took a handful of her sister’s hair, pulled her head towards her and hissed, ‘You’re not coming into town with us so there’s no danger of anyone seeing you – and you’re not going down the cemetery with your crapster mates either. You’re going to stay in and watch telly with Mum. Do you understand?’

Tiffany had the same look on her face that a cat has when it brings a bird into your house – it knows you’re disgusted but there’s nothing you can do about it.

She faked a pout and wailed, ‘But Mum said you’d take me. Otherwise, I might sneak out of the flat and hang out with all the boys and who knows what will happen to me then?’

Jennifer Miller tightened her grip on her sister’s hair. ‘You ain’t coming.’

Unlike most minicab drivers, the one taking Rebecca ‘Bex’ Blake to meet her friend Jennifer actually drove her onto the Essex Lane Estate – known to all those in the know as The Devil’s Estate – rather than stopping on one of the roads that ran by it and refusing to go any further. Perhaps he was braver than the others or perhaps he was new to the job, wasn’t from the area and didn’t know its reputation. But the fact that he’d asked for the fare upfront suggested that he knew the full S.P. about The Devil’s Estate. He skated down one of the estate’s drives, beneath the looming dark blocks, and dropped Bex off near the lift that led up to the Millers’ flat. Then he drove away at high speed, like a getaway driver in a gangster movie. The local kids weren’t above building barricades out of wheelie bins and then demanding a ‘parking fee’ from any driver that they’d forced to stop.

Bex pulled her Gap coat tighter around herself, making her high-end bra pop up even further (not that her 40C boobs needed more assistance). It was summer and warm but her coat was full length to cover her fake tan legs. No girl walked around The Devil in a short number if she wanted to avoid trouble: filthy catcalls being the least of it. She put her head down to avoid eye contact with anyone who might be hanging around and hurried over to the block’s entrance. The door had had its window put through. She opened the door and nearly jumped out of her skin when a man emerged from the shadows.

He held a can of brew in his hand and swayed towards her. ‘You looking for some action?’ In his boozed-up slurred voice the words came out as, ‘You ’ookin’ for slum ashion?’

Bex ran past him and belted for the stairs, which she knew wasn’t a smart move – all sorts went on in the stairwell of the block Jen lived in, and right enough she ran into a group of three boys smoking joints halfway between the first and second floor. Luckily they were too stoned to make the usual threatening and rude comments so she side-stepped them and kept going until she reached the third floor. She hurried along the landing and pressed the bell on Jen’s door.

As she waited, she looked out, over the balcony wall, across the long line of darkened, deck-access flats and blocks that looked like prison wings rather than homes. In the shadows that the buildings threw, dirty deeds were done most nights. Not for nothing was it known as The Devil’s Estate for miles around. Bex lived on the other side of Mile End and The Devil made her estate look like a palace. Sometimes she considered asking her friend if they could meet up at Mile End Tube or up West, to spare her this journey. But that would remind poor Jen what a proper dump she lived in and Bex didn’t want to do that. Her friend had enough problems. And she knew what kind of a place she lived in, anyway. Bex totally got why she wanted out, a good job and an honest fella. Getting off this estate might not have been much of an ambition, but it was the only one that counted, until you did.

When Bex knocked on the door, it was Jen’s mum who answered it. Mrs Miller smiled and greeted her but avoided making eye contact, which wasn’t like her. Babs was always so open and friendly that sometimes Bex wouldn’t have minded nabbing her and taking her home to replace her own mother, who never had much time for her, but plenty for the Bingo.

She shouted her daughter’s name and Jen came to the door. Bex couldn’t help but be gobsmacked at what a knock-out her mate was. She was slim and trim, unlike Bex who carried a muffin top around her middle, currently squeezed into a panty girdle that was hurting so much it made her eyes almost water. It didn’t matter how many diets she tried, she just couldn’t shift the fat. Big-boned, that’s what her mum claimed she was, but Bex knew she was a gut-bucket with a sweet tooth that went berserk come midnight. Still, she could always count on Jen to make her feel like a million quid, telling her that men liked something to hang onto: a nice bit of plump ’n’ grind.

The girls gave each other a quick peck on the cheek and that’s when Bex noticed that the devil’s offspring, the gum-chewing Tiffany, had appeared at the door too. Bex stared daggers at the little bitch. She despised Jen’s sister; a mega headache that even a box-load of Anadin couldn’t make go away.

‘Alright?’ The thing next to Jen had the cheek to speak to her, before resuming that cow chewing, her arms folded.