Nothing but Trouble
Read Nothing but Trouble Online
Authors: Roberta Kray
The Debt
The Pact
The Lost
Strong Women
The Villain’s Daughter
Broken Home
Non-fiction
Reg Kray: A Man Apart
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-74812-301-8
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 Roberta Kray
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
For my great friends Marcelle and Stuart Carratt and their
lovely daughters Tanya, Kirsty, Sian and Narita.
On the surface there was nothing different about that dull August day in 1998, and yet it was to change all our lives for
ever. Shall I tell you about it? There’s a part of me that wants to, that longs to, but another part that’s simply too afraid.
I’ve kept it hidden for so long, and if I open the box all kinds of demons might fly out. I’m not sure if I can cope with
that. There’s something else I’m worried about too, another fear that can’t be pushed aside: I’m terrified of being judged.
Even as I write these words I’m aware of how cowardly they sound. But that’s who I am. I’m a coward and a liar, and because
of me a ten-year-old girl died.
Well, there it is. I’ve taken the first step, admitted it, and there’s no point in trying to backtrack now. So I’ll tell you
what I know. It may not be the whole truth, the
exact
truth, but I’ll do my best. Time plays tricks with the memory, and my account may not be completely accurate.
This is a story about six ten-year-old girls. On the day we’re talking about, five of them ate their breakfasts, left their
respective homes and met up at the rusting gates of the Mansfield
Estate. Becky Hibbert was the first to arrive, closely followed by Kirsten Roberts, Lynda Choi and Sam Kendall. Paige Fielding,
as always, was the last on the scene; she was the self-proclaimed leader of the gang, the tallest and the loudest, and she
liked to exert her authority by keeping everyone waiting.
Alley cats was what the neighbours called them, kids with too much time on their hands and nothing better to do in the school
holidays than aimlessly roam the East End streets of Kellston. On that particular Wednesday the sky was a gloomy shade of
grey, but the air was mild enough and the rain had stopped falling. The five girls, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, flip-flopped
down the high street with boredom tugging at their heels. With less than a quid between them, they were on the lookout for
anything that could be easily lifted.
After being thrown out of Woolworth’s – they’d raided that store too many times before – they headed for the market, where
there were usually easy pickings. Keeping their eyes peeled for careless shoppers who left their purses too close to the top
of their shopping bags, they strolled casually up and down between the rows of brightly coloured stalls, their quick hands
swiping what they could. Small, easily hidden items were what they were after. The jewellery stalls were their favoured sites,
with their heaps of rings and bracelets and dangly earrings. The girls had little idea of the value of what they took but,
like jackdaws, were drawn to anything that glittered.
After they’d accumulated as much as they safely could, the next stage was to find a quiet place to survey the haul. This was
always somewhere in the confusing maze of alleyways that criss-crossed the dingier parts of Kellston. On that Wednesday morning
they went round the back of Albert Street, haunt of the local toms – although none were working at that time of day – and
hunkered down by a pile of old crates. The ground was littered with discarded condoms, used needles and empty plastic cider
bottles.
It was Paige who gathered the spoils together, making sure the others didn’t hold anything back. She had a sixth sense for
when someone was lying to her and the ability to inflict the worst Chinese burns in living memory. Paige was, to put it mildly,
a Class A bitch.
‘Gimme,’ she ordered, holding out her hand, palm up, to each girl in turn.
Everyone did as they were told.
Paige would examine the stolen goods, sneering if she thought they weren’t up to scratch. Everyone had to contribute something
or they wouldn’t eat that lunchtime. Those were the rules and everyone stuck to them. Most of what they lifted was cheap costume
jewellery, but occasionally they struck gold with a purse or a wallet. When that was the case the cash was divided equally
between them, but the credit cards went straight into Paige’s back pocket.
That Wednesday, however, the pickings were slim. A few rings, a silver chain and a selection of bangles was the sum total
of the morning’s activity. As midday approached and their stomachs started to rumble, the gang drifted down to the Hope and
Anchor, where old Johnny Lucker, a lifelong fence, would be sitting hunched over his pint of bitter. Paige put her head round
the door, frantically flapping her hand until she got his attention. Then it was off to the staff entrance at the side. There,
beside the bins and out of sight of prying eyes, Lucker’s nicotine-stained fingers furtively examined the goods. His mouth
turned down at the corners as he saw what was on offer.
‘Barely worth leaving me pint for,’ he grumbled.
‘Aw, come on,’ Paige said, flicking back her long brown ponytail. ‘That chain’s worth summat. You know it is.’
‘I’ll give you five quid for the lot.’
‘Ten,’ Paige said.
‘Five,’ he repeated firmly. ‘And that’s being bleedin’ generous.’
He rummaged in his pockets and came up with four pound coins and a quid’s worth of change. ‘Here. Take it or leave it. It’s
the best I can do.’
Paige pulled a face but reluctantly accepted the cash on offer.
And perhaps that was why it happened.
Paige wasn’t happy, and when she wasn’t happy she always found a way to vent her frustration.
It was hardly the first time the girls had been disappointed. Sometimes they got lucky, sometimes they didn’t. So there was
nothing particularly different about that day, apart from one essential fact. As they wandered back in the direction of the
chip shop, Minnie Bright appeared from nowhere and tagged along behind them. She was the type of kid who no one wanted to
be friends with, small and spindly, with a colourless face and strange pale eyes. In fact everything about her was vapid,
as if she’d been put through the washing machine as many times as her ragged clothes. She had an odd smell too, a faintly
metallic odour.
‘Fuck off,’ Paige said.
But Minnie didn’t. As if oblivious to the demand – she was probably used to similar ones at home – she continued to saunter
behind them. One of the buckles on her cheap plastic sandals was broken, and it made a small clinking sound as she put one
foot in front of the other.
Becky Hibbert turned, placed her hands on her hips and glared at her. ‘Are you deaf or what?’ Becky saw herself as Paige’s
lieutenant, the second in command, and as such was always out to try and impress. ‘Fuck off, okay?’
Minnie lifted a hand, scratched hard at her scalp and gazed blankly back.
‘Yer not wanted,’ Becky said. Leaning forward, she gave the girl a shove. ‘Clear off! Don’t you understand bloody English?’
Minnie stumbled back a step, bit down on her lower lip, but didn’t say a word.
None of the others intervened. Although not cruel by nature, Kirsten, Sam and Lynda all had the same instinct for self-preservation.
They knew that as long as Becky and Paige were busy tormenting Minnie, they themselves were safe from similar treatment.
Suddenly, glancing to her left, Becky was distracted. Momentarily forgetting about her victim, she gave Paige a nudge with
her elbow. Her voice was a hushed combination of awe and excitement. ‘Look who it is. It’s him, it’s him!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘At the bus stop.’
‘Who?’
‘The Beast,’ Becky whispered.
All six of them simultaneously looked across the road towards the man in jeans and a dark jacket. He was in his fifties, an
average sort of height and with sandy-coloured hair receding from a large domed forehead. His mouth, wide and fleshy, tugged
impatiently on a cigarette. All the kids knew Donald Peck, or at least knew of him. He was the local bogeyman, the flasher,
the weirdo who liked to unzip his flies and show his floppy cock to unsuspecting children.
‘See that man, Minnie?’ Paige said, grinning. ‘The one with the black sports bag, yeah? Well, he kills bad girls like you
and chops them into little pieces.’
Minnie shrank back, her pale eyes widening.
‘See that bag he’s got? It’s full of arms and legs and tiny hands.’ Paige reached out and grasped Minnie by her skinny wrist.
‘Shall I give him a shout and tell him to come over here? Shall I tell him how bad you’ve been?’
Minnie frantically shook her head, her startled eyes darting between Paige and the man across the street.
‘What?’ Paige said. ‘I can’t hear you.’
‘N-no,’ Minnie eventually squeaked out.
The bus arrived and temporarily obscured their view. After a while they saw Donald Peck walk towards the rear and settle down
in a seat, placing the bag beside him. Paige waited until the bus had moved off before resuming her torment of Minnie.
‘Okay, I’ll let you come with us. But you’d better do exactly as I say, or I’ll be giving the Beast a bell and telling him
where you live.’ The corners of her mouth curled into a cruel smile. ‘He’ll come round in the middle of the night and snatch
you away, and you’ll never be heard of again. You got it?’
Minnie’s head bobbed up and down like a manic nodding dog.
‘Okay, let’s go.’
The others, realising Paige was up to something, exchanged a quick series of looks.
‘Where are we going?’ Kirsten said.
‘You’ll see,’ Paige replied.
She led them back along Station Road with her hands in her pockets and a new swagger in her step. From time to time she leaned
in towards Becky and whispered in her ear. The two of them giggled together, glancing over their shoulders at the others.
Even at that tender age, Paige had discovered the ancient art of divide and rule.
After five more minutes she swung a left on to Morton Grove, with its long row of dilapidated terraced houses. A few England
stickers were still pasted on to windows, along with some red and white flags, symbols of a hope that had long since died.
France had won the World Cup, and England had lost to Argentina. Beckham had been sent off after mistaking an opponent for
a football.
‘Where are we going?’ Kirsten asked again.
‘Almost there,’ Paige said, turning in to the alley that ran behind the Grove. It was empty, as most of the alleyways usually
were. They were known as a mugger’s paradise and all sensible people avoided them. A high red-brick wall lay to their right,
and to their left were the mean backyards, the majority concreted over and used as dumping grounds for unwanted household
items.
