Our Vinnie (19 page)

Josie refused Lyndsey’s offer to make her supper and walked home feeling thoroughly miserable. She’d thought she’d feel better now – and maybe she did – but it was completely overshadowed by another worrying feeling. What was that story she remembered hearing in school? That was it –
Pandora’s Box
. She remembered going home and asking Vinnie if he’d heard of it; how she opened the box and all the bad things flew out, and she couldn’t get them back inside again, except for one – hope. And Vinnie had told her that it was something called an ‘allegory’, about how humans should know when to leave well alone. Should she have done that? She knew she shouldn’t but she felt that all the same. That a lot of bad things would come flying out. Having hope didn’t seem much of a consolation, either. Nothing she ever hoped for worked out.

She was glad to get home to a quiet empty house, and went straight to her bedroom without bothering with her tea. It was way too early for bed yet, so she spent some time trying to read but failing, so just lay in the gathering darkness, silently saying an ‘Our Father’ and hoping that tonight she would sleep without dreaming. She wasn’t a holy person but the nuns always said that you could pray to God for anything. She mused for a moment about why the nuns always looked so miserable and then threw in a ‘Hail Mary’ for good measure.

She thought of Robbo and what the nuns might think of someone like him, and how he might react when Lyndsey told him what she’d told her. How weird it was that it was
him
, of all people, who was going to put the frighteners on Mucky Melvin – when he’d tried doing almost the exact same thing himself. Well, kind of, in his pathetic, stoned, ineffectual way. Looking back, she decided she could have fought him off easily. He just thought he’d try it on and when he realised he wasn’t wanted … She wasn’t scared of Robbo. Not really. He was just what he was – a stupid idiot. And what
he’d
done was something she’d definitely
not
be telling Lyndsey – not at any time, ever. Which depressed her to think about – why did
she
have all this horrible shit to deal with? What was it about her that made these things happen?

It was because she never told. That’s what she kept coming back to – what the nuns would say. Because she didn’t tell in the first place. If she’d told then maybe someone would’ve got rid of Mucky Melvin. Maybe Saggy Tits Sally would have had him arrested. That was the sort of thing she was good at. And if she
had
told, Robbo would’ve
known
to keep his filthy druggy hands off her, and Melvin himself would be history. She so wished he was history right now.

She stared at the David Cassidy poster pinned to the back of her bedroom door, and tried to tell herself she’d done the right thing telling Lyndsey. That Carol was right – that it
had
made her feel a bit better, and that she could trust her sister to put him straight and scare him off. But though she could just about persuade herself that telling Lynds was better than having not told, she couldn’t see anything good coming out of that idiot Robbo being involved.

But she
had
told. So there was nothing she could do now either way.

The banging on the door had started as a distant, muted drumming. In a jungle somewhere, deadened by miles of dense and dripping foliage; a jungle in which June was currently hacking her way, in order to get to … now, where exactly
was
she headed? All she knew was that the sound was getting louder and louder, and that soon she’d be … Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang, bang!

Consciousness came all at once, hammering against her eardrums, and she yanked the eiderdown up round her ears. Where was Jock? Was it him? What the fuck was going on?

Bang, bang, bang! Finally it hit her. It was the front door.

‘All fucking
right
!’ she screamed down, at the top of her lungs. ‘Shut the fuck up! I’m coming, okay?’

She threw the covers back, shivering as the cold air hit her bare legs, and rose unsteadily to her feet, feeling groggy. Unable to locate anything warmer, she reached for the negligee that matched her new baby-doll black nightie, then padded downstairs, popping her head round the living-room door when she reached the bottom, to check the time on the guitar clock on the wall. Eleven thirty in the morning – Christ! She’d slept that late? How had
that
happened? And where was Jock?

‘Okay, okay, leave the fucking knocker on!’ she yelled as she approached the front door, only stopping in bewilderment as she pulled it open to reveal two uniformed policemen on the step.

‘Morning, June,’ said the tallest of the two – who appeared to be a sergeant. He grinned at his colleague before taking his time looking her appreciatively up and down. ‘Good,’ he said brightly. ‘I see you were expecting us.’

June scowled at him, in no mood for grinning cops on any morning, let alone one after the night she decided she must have had last night. Eleven thirty? What fucking time did she make it to bed?

‘In yer bleedin’ dreams, plod,’ she snapped. ‘What do you want anyway? Only I’m freezing me tits off stood here.’

‘Mind if we come in, June?’ the other copper said, equally brightly. What the fuck did these two have to be so cheerful about?

‘I do mind, as it goes,’ she said. ‘Our Vinnie’s still locked up, so we’ve got – let me see – about three more months before you start harassing us again. Now, what do you want?’

The tallest copper cleared his throat. ‘Well, June,’ he said, ‘it’s about these stolen club cheques – the ones that were taken from the site your Jock was working at a while back. We’ve been following a bit of a chain and it all seems to lead back to you, June. So again, shall we come in or do you want to conduct this on the doorstep?’

June managed to curl her lip into what she hoped was an innocent-looking smile. ‘Club cheques?’ she asked. ‘
Club
cheques? Are you right in the fucking head? I’ve no idea what you’re on about, mate. Now, is that it? Because from where I’m standing, you couldn’t conduct a fucking church choir, let alone an investigation.’

June glanced at the shorter of the two, who seemed to be staring at something on the floor. She followed his eyes to see her morning post scattered on the lino in the hallway. Just as her mind registered what it was he was staring at, the copper bent down and picked up a postcard. A postcard that might have meant nothing whatsoever, were it not for the ‘Greetings from Blackpool’ written in swirly writing diagonally across the front.

He was way too quick for her. Before she could reach out and snatch it up, he’d already done so and was now holding it out of arm’s reach to read. Typical Maureen, she thought, staring at the back of it, or rather the front of it: a cartoon couple, fat and sunburned, eating ice-creams on the beach. Brilliant. Fucking brilliant. He started reading aloud now.

‘
Dear Jock and June
,’ he read, addressing his words mostly to his sniggering colleague, and adopting a high-pitched posh lady’s voice, ‘
cash the rest of our paper money in – wink, wink, nudge, nudge – because me and Steven might come back here with you and Jock. Wish you were here, love Mo
.’

June made a second attempt to grab the postcard, but once again the copper was too quick for her. ‘Give it here, you lousy bastard. I’m sure that’s a fucking offence, that is – tampering with the Royal Mail!’

He held it above his head now, seeming amused to see her jumping up to try and get it. How dare he fucking laugh at her, he and his dumb fucking mate.

‘Sorry, June,’ he said pleasantly, ‘not when it’s evidence, it isn’t. Shouldn’t have been so greedy, love, should you?’

He slipped it into a pocket then, and patted it for good measure. ‘And just so you know, there’s no point in you putting on that “butter wouldn’t melt” face, either. This –’ he patted the pocket again ‘– just sort of seals it. We already knew most of the picture already. Them fuckers up Buttershaw are not as scared of you as you and your little gang like to think. Anyway, Jock around?’

‘No,’ said June, her mood growing as black as her expensive nightie. ‘He’s gone to Torre-fucking-molinos. What do you think?’

And how she wished that they really could. Ideally
now
.

Two months later, June was carefully cutting an article out of the
Telegraph & Argus
newspaper. ‘Oh What a Tangled Web We Weave’ read the headline, and beneath it was a black-and-white picture of June, Jock and eight others, all in their Sunday best, outside Bradford Courts, smiling for the camera.

Our Vinnie’s gonna love this, thought June as she folded the cutting and placed it on the fireplace. She grinned as she remembered the day in court. The judge had shaken his head in disbelief as they all, one after the other, had been called up. They had all pleaded guilty of course. No getting out of it, but the fine and the warning had been worth it. All that money they’d spent and enjoyed, and then the look on that judge’s face. Priceless.

Chapter 15

September

June couldn’t remember that last time she’d felt so happy and yet so anxious all at once. So much as if everything was slightly shifted off kilter. In some ways it had felt as if the time had passed so quickly, yet in others it felt like a lifetime had passed. Vinnie was almost 17. It didn’t seem possible.

She squealed when she saw him – her boy! Home at last! And then again as, when she ran to him to try and give him a squeeze, he lifted her up – right off her feet, too; she couldn’t believe he was tall enough to do that – and planted a kiss on the top of her head.

‘Alright, Mother?’ he said. ‘Well, I’m back.’

‘Oh, put me down, you daft bleeder,’ she said, hoping he wouldn’t. Not just yet – he was home and she wished the whole world could see.

He did put her down then, and grinned at her, cupping a hand to his ear – God, his hair was so
long
now! – and saying, ‘What’s that? Nope – I can’t hear that kettle whistling!’

She followed him inside then, marvelling at him. He looked so different. She’d clocked that the minute she’d clapped eyes on him, studying him minutely from the first second she’d seen him, strolling up the road carrying his case with such a swagger. She hadn’t seen him since last Christmas, so it had been a while now. And that had been a rare treat in itself. He saved his visiting orders for Brendan so he could keep in touch with his mates. Which wasn’t surprising, she supposed. Why would he want to waste them on his mum? She’d reminded herself of that so many times over the last couple of years, so that Christmas visit had been a real shock. He’d grown so much. Become so manly.

And now he’d changed again. There was something. Something tangible.

He was taller still. That was a definite. He’d grown a good couple of inches. And he was leaner; not so much thinner – he’d always been a stringy little bleeder – as less soft, less boyish. He had proper man’s muscles now, as well – no doubt all that manual labour the screws made them do – and his jaw seemed to be set in a firm, angular line. He’d grown a moustache, too – a proper bushy one. It was red like his hair was, only flecked with brown and blond too. It was odd seeing him with it, but it suited him. June couldn’t wait to take him down the Bull and show him off.

She hurried into the kitchen to fill the kettle. He’d had a long journey: the train from Redditch, and then bus journey from the city centre, then the walk – it must have taken him a good five hours or so and, if she knew him, she didn’t doubt he’d have stopped along the way, too, to catch up with a couple of his mates.

It had been a bit of a shock opening the door to him after so long away; watching him carefully set his case down, take off his immaculate new Crombie coat, smooth that silky-looking shoulder-length hair. She’d have liked to touch it, but didn’t reckon that would go down too well.

Tea, that was the thing, she’d thought. Make him a cuppa. Let him settle. Josie’d be home soon – home like a bleedin’ whippet, June knew – she was that desperate to see him. Jock too, she thought, even though his only comment before he headed off to the bookies earlier was to say that he hoped his idiot son would keep his fucking nose clean from now on.

Which was a bit rich, coming from him, given how they’d spent
their
summer. She smiled to herself then; she couldn’t wait to show Vinnie the piece from the
Telegraph & Argus
. See where all those fivers came from – see where that smart coat had come from, for that matter.

‘Tea won’t be long, love!’ she called through to the living room, her face wreathed in steam as she poured.

Vinnie was watching TV when she went in with the cups, sitting in his dad’s chair, elbows on knees, leaning forward, intent on it, ignoring her.

‘What you watching?’ she wanted to know. ‘Here you are love –’

He took the proffered cup without speaking.

June sat down on the sofa, feeling ignored. ‘Turn that off, will you? I want to talk to you!’ There was a silence. He was really glued to it. ‘
Vin
!’ she said more insistently. She didn’t do being ignored. ‘You’ve only just got home, for fuck’s sake!’

Now he did turn towards her. ‘Shush, Mother!’ he said. Then he stood up and went over to turn the volume up a bit. ‘Look!’ he said, pointing. ‘Bombs! Bombs’ve been going off in London!’ He shook his head. ‘I fucking knew it. I knew they weren’t lying, the little fuckers. I
knew
it!’ He grinned at June as he sat down again, this time next to her on the couch.

‘Bombs?’

‘The IRA, Mother. They haven’t declared it yet, or owt, but they will do. Just you wait.’

June studied the screen. It was a station. King’s Cross. It looked bad. She turned to Vinnie. ‘How would you know about that, then?’

‘I was locked up with a couple of them, wasn’t I? Mad fuckers, the pair of them. Call themselves ‘political prisoners’ apparently. Looked just like any other fucking mad Irish to me.’

‘And they did
that
?’ June nodded her head towards the TV.