Blood Sister: A thrilling and gritty crime drama (28 page)

‘Nicholas, are you listening to me?’

He couldn’t help but hear her; she’d been chewing his ear off with mind-numbing nonsense since she’d arrived. He slouched back in the leopard-print sofa and nodded. Gail Thornton – ‘Just call me Gail; first names are so important to our emotional well-being’ – could’ve been a right looker, Nicky thought, if it weren’t for those twit-twoo owl-shaped glasses and her hair tied back, as if she were trying to rip it right off her scalp.

‘You want me to draw a picture, do you?’ Nicky turned on a mischievous grin, the one the girls liked, at that club he and Chad sneaked off to. His face lighting up, he picked up the pencil and paper on the table and started to draw. It took him all of one minute to finish, and then he shoved it at her with an innocent look.

Gail turned red and her mouth fell open as she gazed at his effort. He’d drawn the outline of a woman with big ones and a massive bush as well.

‘That’s . . . that’s disgusting,’ she babbled, not able to take her eyes off the picture.

‘But you said to draw how I saw myself in the future. I want to be a Doris, don’t I. You know, get one of them sex change things.’

His counsellor stormed to her feet. ‘That’s it. For the last three weeks I have tried, but this isn’t working.’ She turned around and pulled the door open as Nicky chuckled to himself. She marched off to the massive kitchen where his mum was.

‘Here comes trouble,’ Dee whispered to her precious Banshee, a small, fluffy ball of a cat, as she watched a furious Gail Thornton step into the room. She cradled her pet against her cheek, near her massive, gold hoop earring. She’d long since dumped the long weave-on and replaced it with her own hair, straightened and layered close to her head like Halle Berry, with butter blonde streaks on the tips of the fringe. Her body had maintained its trimness, still with that extra bounce on her bum and she worked out to keep those legs sleek and long. She wore a mauve, velour sweat tracksuit, which fitted into the relaxed feeling she always got in one of her favourite rooms in the house. Not that she did any cooking or stuff like that – she left that to the housekeeper, plus she had her gel nails to think about.

With one hand she reached for the fluted glass near her on the counter and took another sip of champagne, savouring the bubbles in her mouth. Oh yeah, this was the life. A million and one miles away from the grotty memories of her childhood. She thought of every one of those twats who predicted she was going to end up gutter-side, and wondered what they would say if they could see her now, in her huge house in Essex. It still sent a thrill through Dee that she had managed to finally get John to tie the knot. It had taken her six months, and some pussy blowing sex after the car ring had been smashed, to get him down the aisle.

After their wedding, she’d wasted no time in getting John to widen his horizons and enter the drugs bizz. She’d even helped him organise his first big deal, which had been signed, sealed and, oh so beautifully delivered during their honeymoon in the Seychelles. John had established himself as a big-time player and she was very proud of him. Now they were well on their way. John was leaving some of the drugs trade behind and investing their money in legitimate businesses.

She watched Gail Thornton with an eagle eye as the other woman reached her.

‘I’m sorry,’ the counsellor explained, ‘but I’m not sure I can do this anymore.’

Christ above, what’d he done now? After Chris disappeared – that was the word John used to describe what had happened to his former right-hand man and Dee wasn’t about to contradict him – his son Nicky had been taken in by his Nan, who was a walking Hammer House horror story. Her rat hole of a flat had smelt like wee, with a kitchen stacked full of unwashed dishes, cans of empty Tennent’s everywhere and a toilet in such a state, a young child was bound to pick up an infection. Dee had wanted to do something when she and John had visited the place, but he said they weren’t blood, so they couldn’t do a thing. Of course what she could never say to her husband was that she was riddled with guilt about what had happened to Chris. If it hadn’t been for her, his beautiful little boy wouldn’t be in this horrible mess now. But during one grim visit, when Dee had seen maggots crawling near the fridge, she’d whipped that kid into her arms, marched out of the place and vowed to never take him back. Chris’s gran had made a loud fuss until John had stumped up enough cash to shut her up. It hadn’t taken them too long to adopt him and now Nicky was her boy.

Dee carefully popped Banshee onto the tiled floor. ‘Whatever the problem is, I’m sure we can get it sorted.’ Each of the other three counsellors she’d paid for Nicky had gone the same way – out the door and never looked back. She was paying this woman a ton an hour and expected results. ‘What are you claiming he did this time?’

Gail huffed and puffed. ‘Claiming? He drew an obscene picture.’

‘He’s artistic.’ She was dead proud of his arty talent and just didn’t get why his school complained about what they called his ‘graffiti’; she’d read up about it and told them they should be calling it ‘self portraits’. ‘Should he be drawing during your sessions? I’m not paying you to run a nursery in my house.’

The other woman had that look on her face that told Dee she was going to use that baby voice she did sometimes, like Dee was too dim to understand what she was saying. ‘It’s called art therapy. Sometimes drawing a picture can be an easier vehicle for someone to convey their emotional stress and pain.’

Dee didn’t know what she was going on about. The only vehicle she liked was her beautiful motor, sitting pretty outside in the driveway.

‘I’m not paying you to turn him into Damien Hirst either, love.’ Without waiting for her to respond, Dee marched out of the kitchen, showcasing the glittering logo on her tracksuit bottom – Juicy Bling. She yelled Nicky’s name; he knew that when she was shouting for him, he better get his shit together before she got there.

Her heart pinched when she saw him. Aww, he was still her cute little boy. Dee still couldn’t get over how that prick Chris – rest his soul – had produced such a gorgeous-looking lad; his wife must’ve been a stunner. Nicky had gold-blonde hair made for the sun and features that seemed to have been perfectly placed on his face. What stopped him from being tagged as a pretty boy was the small scar next to his right eye that he’d got when he’d fallen when he was younger. That boy was going to be a lady killer when he got older, no doubt about it. He held his Fedora in his hand; now that was respect – to take your hat off in the presence of a lady. Her little saint: and anyone who said different better beware.

Time had proved he was probably the only kid she was ever going to have; she and John hadn’t been blessed with any. John had tried to get them to visit one of those private fertility clinics in Harley Street, but no way was someone shoving their hand inside her and telling her she had a dud womb. Anyway, the problem must be John firing blanks; he hadn’t had any sprogs with his other wives either.

‘Gail here says you’re wasting her time, drawing filth.’

Nicky stood up. ‘No way, Mum.’ He shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t do that.’ He put his hat down and then held out a piece of paper to her. ‘That’s what I drew.’

She took it from him and her heart nearly broke. It was a picture of a small boy holding hands with a much larger man. At the top of the picture were the words, ‘Me and dad.’ From the colour of the dad’s eyes and hair she knew it wasn’t John but Chris. She knew Nicky missed the dad he could barely remember, terribly. John made sure he didn’t hold back and told Chris’s son all about him: well, the legal bits anyway. Despite her guilt over what happened to his real dad – and she maintained to this day, that’s not how she’d wanted it played out – she remembered what her Auntie Cleo used to tell her: ‘Sometimes you just have to sweep bad stuff under the carpet.’

Dee held the picture up for Gail to see. ‘Does this look like something from a porno mag to you?’

Shock covered Gail’s face. ‘He must’ve drawn this while we were conversing in the kitchen.’

Conversing? Didn’t this woman know, life was so much better if you just dropped all the la-di-da lingo. Dee walked up to her menacingly, her fists curling at her side. ‘You calling my boy a liar?’

The blood drained from Gail’s face. ‘Of course not.’

Dee nodded satisfied. ‘Well then, get on and sort him out. Make him better.’ Dee leaned in close and whispered, ‘Word to the wise, babes, you might want to stop wearing them black flats on your feet and swap them for some Jimmy Choo’s. And make your hemline wiggle up a bit further north. He might start respecting you then.’

Gail reared back. ‘Right, that’s it.’ She flounced across the room to grab her bag and then headed for the door.

‘Hold up,’ Dee shouted, following her into the hallway. ‘I don’t know what the problem is. All I said was that you might wanna put more on display in the window.’

The front door slammed.

‘I think she needed to have her own counsellor,’ Nicky said softly as he came to stand beside Dee. ‘I mean, drawing pictures is for five year olds.’ He put his arm around her and leaned his head against her shoulder. ‘Why do I have to go to back to school? I want to stay here with you.’

It was at times like this that Dee wanted the same thing. But kids needed to be in school to learn and Nicky was no different. She wanted him to have the best. He might’ve lost his father but he wasn’t going to lose anything else on her watch.

She kissed him on the cheek. ‘Go upstairs and play with one of your computer games.’

Not long after, John arrived back home. He found his wife in the conservatory out back, having a Bacardi and coke, and a fag. John might’ve lost all his hair – he’d taken his wife’s advice and had it shaved off instead of wearing that comical comb-over in the years they’d been together – but he wasn’t losing his business touch. He had fingers in more drug pies than Keith Richards and he was raking in the cash. That’s all that mattered to Dee. Blokes with looks were ten a penny, but guys who knew how to keep that ka-ching bell ringing in a girl’s life were the real men.

‘I thought I saw Nicky’s counsellor heading out,’ John said as he sat down. ‘A bit early for her to be off?’

Dee wearily took him through the Nicky–Gail ding-dong.

‘Come on, Dee,’ John said. ‘He’s playing you for a mug. He did what she accused him of.’

Dee glared at him. ‘I know that, Dumbo. I’m not a total idiot. But to have thought of a trick like drawing another picture so quickly shows that he’s smart.’

‘That’s why we sent him to one of those posh schools, but they cost money and it’s like watching my hard-earned cash go down a black hole.’

‘
Our
cash,’ Dee cut in. ‘He’s just a bit sensitive.’ She glared harder when her husband snorted. ‘Maybe he feels out of place with all those posh boys.’

‘What that boy needs is a cuff around the ear. That will knock some sense into his skull.’

‘You what?’ Dee erupted with fury, almost jumping off her seat. ‘You touch that kid and you’re a dead man, John Black.’

Her husband quickly held up his hand, trying to calm her down. ‘All I’m saying is, spare the rod, spare the child, some would say.’ Dee calmed herself down, settling back in the chair. ‘A mate of mine was telling me about this boarding school—’

‘No way—’

‘I hear those places turn boys into men.’

‘You must be joking. I wouldn’t see my boy until the school holidays. Anyway, he’d probably fire bomb the place.’ She shook her head. ‘What he needs is someone who understands his situation. Someone who’s been there and done it at his age, but managed to sort their shit out and come out smelling like roses.’

Banshee wandered in and started spitting and hissing, baring her sharp teeth when she saw John. Dee took her into her arms and stood up. As she started to leave the room, she mumbled into the cat’s fur, ‘Who are we going to find for Nicky, my precious Banshee? Who’s going to straighten him out?’

The only answer the cat gave was to turn, squint her green eyes at John and growl.

Thirty-Eight

This is the last time I’m doing this, Jen vowed as she clutched tight to her Louis Vuitton knock-off handbag in her seen-better-days Ford Escort outside Brixton Prison. She’d had to park in the council estate across the road because you couldn’t park outside Brixton, it being off a main road. She’d be more visible if she stood on the side of the road, but that was asking for trouble, especially in a place like South London; some nutter was bound to think she was touting for business. And that was bound to happen, because, despite her troubles, Jen still drew a man’s eye. Her mostly blonde hair was layered into a volumised bob cut with burnished bronze dyed along the bottom half and tips. Her body still looked good in the short denim skirt and jacket, despite giving birth to two kids.

Nuts was coming out after doing bird for six months. The prat had been done for handling stolen goods. Just thinking about Nuts coming out brought back all the terrible memories of him being nicked during their first year of marriage, while she was pregnant with Courtney. It had taken the Plod a while to track him down, but they’d been looking for him for months in connection to a car ringing gang. What had slowed the police in their hunt for him was his use of so many names – including, she learned to her disgust, Knobby. And what a knob head he’d been. She was too embarrassed to tell people the truth, so she told them he was doing a contract job in Wales. This time she’d said Scotland, time before that, Ireland. No one was fooled of course, but as long as they didn’t dispute her story to her face, she was fine with that. Mind you, each time he did a stretch, at least her body had time to heal from the punishing bruises he gave her.

After Nuts had been so wonderfully helpful with Tiffany down the police station, they had started seeing each other on a regular basis. He’d wined and dined her at upmarket restaurants, loved to be seen with her on his arm at the local boozer and given her flowers – not nicked this time – on so many occasions, Jen couldn’t believe her luck. There had been no how’s your father for the first few months; oh no, Jen wasn’t giving it up until she knew what she was getting into. But he’d been so sweet, so nice, that when she’d finally gone to bed with him it had seemed right. Typical that she should get up the duff after that first time. They’d gone down the aisle a month later – registry office job – and gone to the council hand-in-hand to get a place together.