Fighting for Survival (The Estate, Book 3) (6 page)

‘I – I didn’t see who it was,’ Jill muttered.

‘And who do you tell everyone else who attacked you?’

‘The Mitchell Mob,’ Jill sobbed.

Rachel shoved her forward head first and Jill fell to all fours. For good measure, she kicked her up the backside. ‘Now, get out of my sight, you pathetic loser.’ She turned to Charlie, who had returned after chasing Sarah away, and grinned.

‘You’re in.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Caren padded across the dark red quarry tiles, being careful to avoid the chunk missing from the corner of one right in the middle of the kitchen floor, and yanked the cold water tap clockwise as much as was physically possible. The bloody thing wouldn’t stop dripping. Drip, drip, drip, all day, every day since they’d moved in. She leaned on the kitchen worktop and sighed loudly.

Two weeks they’d been in this dump and, despite the jobs they’d carried out, she hadn’t begun to make a dent in making it feel like home. She looked out at the tip of a rear garden: she could just about make out a pathway through the jungle of grass and overgrown hedges. A mass of green, apart from the huge pile of rubbish left by the previous tenant – she’d been onto Mitchell Housing Association and been told that she’d have to shift it herself! Compared to the house they’d left behind, this garden could have fitted onto her decking area before heading towards the well-maintained, landscaped gardens.

Even the late September day was trying to be cheery. She squinted as the autumn sun peeked out from behind a rain cloud. It was ten thirty. After coming in at 2am the night before and waking with a hangover, John had taken the car to have two new tyres because it had failed its MOT. Not able to stand another minute alone with the few remaining boxes left to unpack, she grabbed her keys and bag and headed for the door. It was too depressing to face right now; she had to get out. A trip across the shops would do her good, even if just for a bit of fresh air. 

She walked down the front path and came face to face with Gina Bradley. She cursed silently underneath her breath.

Gina spotted her at the same time. Fuck! If she’d known she was going to bump into Mrs Frigging Perfect, she would have made more of an effort before she’d left the house. As it was, she was only nipping out for some fags to get out of Pete’s hair. They’d been arguing for well over an hour; she’d stormed out with a slam of the back door. So, wearing antique leggings that sagged absurdly at the knees, slippers and a black T-shirt, her hair unkempt and not a flicker of age-defying make up on, she was looking dire to say the least.

She walked slowly down the path, glancing in Caren’s direction but trying not to make eye contact. Damn, she looked as good as she had when she’d watched her moving in. Her hair hung straight like a velvet curtain, framing her face on either side. She wore make up to enhance her beauty, black trousers and a smart jacket that looked like it had cost a fortune. Gina could hear her heels tippy-tapping down the steps from here. Finished off with a Burberry scarf knotted around her neck, to Gina, she oozed class.

They reached the street at exactly the same time. 

Caren knew it would be awkward when they first met again but she wasn’t going to be the one who was discourteous. Brought up with manners, she knew it would give her the upper hand if she used them. Gina would assume she wouldn’t want to bother with her. Well, she didn’t, but she could at least hide it well.

‘Hi, Gina,’ she smiled falsely.

‘Hello,’ said Gina, giving her the once over in as intimidating a manner as she could muster.

A silence followed as both women stood still. Caren wondered what to say next while Gina stared at her.

‘Where are you off to?’ asked Gina sharply.

‘To the shops. I fancied a bit of fresh air.’ Another silence. ‘You?’

Gina shrugged. ‘Off to my mum’s – you remember, she lives at number twenty-eight? My dad died but she’s going strong, the old doll.’

‘Oh.’ Twenty-eight was next door but one. Caren hoped there wouldn’t be any more of the Bradley clan in Stanley Avenue. One was more than she could bear right now.

But Gina picked up on the ‘oh’ like a dog with a rabbit.

‘What do you mean,
oh
?’

 ‘Nothing.’ Caren took a step forward, wondering how quickly she could get away.

‘I suppose this avenue is too low down for you and your precious John,’ Gina spat out nastily. ‘Me and my family have quite a few houses here. My sister, Leah lives at number thirty-three – not that she’s home much now since she started seeing her fella. So, that’s three of us. Is that enough scum for you in one place?’

Even though she’d half expected it, Caren was taken aback by Gina’s hostility. ‘I didn’t mean anything,’ she said.

‘Good, because there’s nothing to worry your little head about. We won’t be bothering with the likes of you.’

‘And what exactly is that supposed to mean?’

Gina pointed at her. ‘You… you think you’re so high and mighty but you’re as low as the rest of us. What brought you back to the Mitchell Estate, hmm? Remember what you said? Because I do. ‘I’m never coming back to this shit-hole’, you said.’

‘I wouldn’t be back if it wasn’t for…’ Caren’s words faltered as she realised she was about to give away more than she’d intended.

‘If it wasn’t for you going bankrupt?’ Gina smiled, loving the look on Caren’s face.

‘How did you find out?’ Beneath her make up, Caren paled. She couldn’t believe John had blabbed about that. How dare he tell everyone their problems!

‘He told me and Pete last night, when they came home pissed.’ Gina smiled even more when she saw Caren’s eyes widen. ‘Didn’t he tell you that he stopped by our house afterwards? I was going to go to bed because it was so late but I’m glad I stayed up now. They brought back fish and chips and shared it all with me. I did loads of bread and butter and we opened some cans. You’re not mad with him, are you?’

Trying to keep her emotions from spilling out, Caren shook her head. ‘No, I’m not his keeper. And you know John, he can look after himself.’ She made a big deal about checking her watch. ‘Look, I’d better be going, I’ll be late back else.’

Gina popped up a hand and waggled her fingers. ‘Ta-ra for now,’ she said to Caren’s disappearing form. Watching her scurry away, she smiled and congratulated herself. Even looking like she did as opposed to Caren’s picture of beauty, she’d managed to get the upper hand. She opened the gate to her mum’s house and practically ran up the path. Suddenly the need for a cigarette had gone.

Ruth Millington turned the key in the lock of number thirty-two Stanley Avenue, pushing open the door quickly so that she could put the bags she had carried down. She stood upright and rubbed at the small of her back. God, they had been heavy. She shouldn’t have tried to carry that many but she hadn’t realised how far away she was here from the bus stop. Her fingers had ridges where the bags had dug into them. She clenched and unclenched them to get back their circulation.

Tears welled in her eyes as she gazed around the dismal hallway, at the yellow stripy wallpaper that was peeling off more than it was stuck onto the walls. The carpet had seen far better days, worn and grimy with some spectacular dirty marks, but it would have to stay down. Either that or they could all walk on bare floorboards. There was no money to spend on flooring.

She dragged heavy feet into the living room. It was a bright space, a large window at either end. The fireplace was made from old, cream tiles and probably worth a fortune now if it wasn’t chipped in a dozen places. There was no carpet in there. Ruth looked above the windows: there were no curtain rails. There wasn’t even a bulb in the electrical fitting hanging pitifully from the ceiling.

Feeling familiar panic bubbling up inside her, Ruth tried to keep it at bay. She went upstairs. Directly in front was the bathroom. Although she’d seen the property the week before, the only thing she could remember about the room was the state of the bath and the toilet. Tentatively, she pushed open the door, hoping to find that the cleaning fairies had taken pity on her, but no such luck. There was a rust mark between the hot and cold taps down the white-enamel bath where the water must have dripped for years. It swirled down into the plug hole. Ruth doubted that would come off, no matter how much bleach and elbow grease she used. She peered into the toilet, gagging at what she saw, and knocked down the lid. The force of it slamming made it slide to the right, only one hinge keeping it in place. Ruth flushed it, wishing it would take her away into the deepest, darkest depths of nowhere. But then again, wasn’t she already there?

The eerie silence suddenly became welcome as she stepped in and out of the three bedrooms. At least the boys had separate rooms, even though they were now living in Stanley Avenue. She hadn’t wanted to move here but she’d had no choice. There were no more empty properties with three bedrooms. Two bedrooms would have been a challenge. Mason and Jamie would never give her a moment’s peace if they’d had to share a room. And all this because that bastard Martin Wallace had decided that he needed some space. Three years she’d given him and what had he given her, apart from the odd backhander and a huge dose of depression and anxiety? Nothing. He hadn’t even had the decency to help her move, and she’d had to fork out for a removal van.

Finally, she made her way back downstairs and into the kitchen. The units were made from white Formica, the cheapest you could get on a job lot, she reckoned. A front of one drawer was missing and two doors hung lopsided. She ran a hand over the grubby worktop before bursting into tears. The house would take ages to get right, especially with her arm playing up again. She pulled up her sleeve and pecked at the scab forming there. Then she dug her nails into it. It stung like hell, but she scratched until it was bleeding again. Quickly, she rolled down her sleeve before she did even more damage.

A knock came at the front door, echoing around the hallway: she could almost feel the emptiness from where she stood. Ruth wiped her eyes before moving to answer it.

‘Morning love,’ said a tall, thin man, carrying two small boxes. ‘Where do you want these going?’

‘Mason’s room. Turn right at the top of the stairs, back of the house.’

The man nodded. ‘Right you are. Ooh, is that the kettle I hear boiling?’

‘I doubt it,’ said Ruth. ‘It’s in one of the boxes on your van. Couldn’t carry it on the bus, could I?’

The man wouldn’t be deterred. ‘I tell you what,’ he nodded his head towards the door. ‘I’ll find the kettle, you make a drink and I’ll share my digestives with you. What do you say?’

Ruth nodded: anything to get him gone and on his way so she could be alone. She couldn’t bear to be among cheery people at the moment, especially ones whom she was paying to do a job for her. Alone with her thoughts, her feelings, her sorrows – that’s what she needed. Even if it was ten minutes before she had to fetch the boys from school; before all hell broke loose again.

‘I’ve just bumped into that stuck up cow, Caren Williams,’ Gina said to Barbara as she let herself into her mum’s house and found her in the kitchen. ‘She’s already getting on my nerves with her high and mighty attitude.’

Barbara was sitting at the table, three curlers in the front of her grey hair, sipping at a cup of tea.

‘At least she made an effort to work and move off this estate,’ she replied. 

‘She thinks she’s too good for Stanley Avenue. I’ll show her if she doesn’t watch with the attitude.’ Gina slid her hand across towards an open packet of biscuits. Barbara slapped her fingers away. ‘Ow! What was that for?’

‘I’m ashamed of you, Gina. Why couldn’t you be nice to Caren? She must be feeling really vulnerable right now, what with losing her house and all.’

Gina folded her arms. If she knew she’d get this much grief, she wouldn’t have bothered to escape from Pete! ‘Bloody hell, Mum, you’ve changed your tune. You said she’d had her come-uppance when she first moved in.’

‘Yes, but that was before I’d seen what she’s done to that house.’ Barbara looked up from the magazine she was scanning. ‘She’s cleaned every window, all the sills, cleared the front garden of rubbish and John’s cut back all the hedges. You can’t walk up your pathway without getting soaked when it’s been raining – and there’s enough rubbish in
your
garden to have a ten foot bonfire.’

‘You know we haven’t got any hedge cutters,’ Gina offered lamely, already anticipating her mother’s reply.

‘You could borrow mine at any time – even at my age, I still use them. And stop making excuses for that lazy bastard you call a husband. Why can’t he be like John?’

Why indeed, thought Gina.

‘Mum, don’t start all this again.’ She pushed herself out of the chair and switched on the kettle.

‘Hit a nerve, have I?’ Barbara smirked.

‘Well, you’ve never worked a day in your life, so I don’t see how you can go on about me.’

‘I didn’t need to work because your Dad provided for this family. Not everyone was on the take. I had my morals.’

‘Yeah, morals you forgot when you were arguing or fighting with someone from the estate. Honestly, Mum, it’s like the pot calling the kettle black. You were no better than me.’