The Betrayer (36 page)

Maria couldn’t stop smiling as she sipped her wine and listened to the chit-chat. She was finally part of the Essex girls’ gang.

Tommy counted the money and handed the guy the keys and the logbook. As he watched his beloved Merc disappear into the distance, he went back indoors and slammed the door. He opened a can of lager, shoved some gear up his nose and lay down on the carpet. How the fuck had his life ended up like this? Everything had been cushy up until last year. He and Mustapha had led the life of Riley. They’d had birds, drugs, flash motors, vintage champagne and anything else they wanted, coming out of their arseholes.

Tommy’s world had crashed the day Mustapha got himself arrested. Over the years, they had ended up being partners in crime. They got on like a house on fire, and had trusted one another with their lives. Tommy was away on holiday with Alfie when Mustapha got spun. Any other time, he’d have been with him. But instead, he was caught with Emre, his pal who owned a kebab shop in Tottenham High Road. They were caught with a fair old lump. The filth would have a field day once they totted it up. Then again, the police always made it sound worse than it was. Instead of adding it up in ounces or kilos, they got a kick out of adding it up in £10 deals.

Mustapha and Emre were both currently in Belmarsh awaiting their court case. Twenty years plus, the poor bastards were looking at. Tommy had tried to carry on with the business, but hadn’t had much success. He’d never actually met the Mr Big who supplied Mustapha. The boss had always refused to meet Tommy. Apparently, he didn’t trust the English, and would only deal with his own. With very few other contacts, Tommy tried his luck with some south London Turks he’d met through Mustapha. They were having none of it – in fact, they had tried to kill him.

‘One week you go away and Mustapha get arrested. You fucking English grass,’ they shouted, as they chased him down the road with a machete.

Tommy had had to run like a greyhound to get away from the bastards. He could understand their loyalty, though. Even he had to admit, it looked fishy that he’d been on holiday when Mustapha had got caught.

With no major supplier, Tommy had no choice other than to buy small and deal on the streets again. After a lot of debating, he decided against it. He’d been a big fish for years and wasn’t ready to mug himself off by selling £20 wraps. He also had Alfie to think about now, and didn’t want to drag him into anything untoward. With little else on offer, he’d decided to take a break and see what cropped up. Trouble was, nothing had, and his money was disappearing fast and furious. His own drug problem hadn’t helped. He’d recently sold a property he owned in Ilford to help get him by, and had snorted and smoked the proceeds in under six months.

All he had in the world now was the house he lived in and the £18,000 from the motor he’d just sold. Tommy thought of his Merc and sighed. He’d loved that car, it had been a beauty to drive. Depressed, he went in search of his crack pipe.

Johnny pulled up outside his mum’s house. He grabbed the beers and takeaway from the footwell and walked up the path. He rang the doorbell three times before it was finally answered. One look at his mum’s face told him something was definitely amiss.

‘You OK? What’s happening?’ he asked.

Susan looked sheepish. ‘Can yer pop back tomorrow, love,’ she whispered.

‘Who’s that? It ain’t me old mate Johnny, is it?’

Johnny looked at his mother in horror. Dave Taylor’s voice had haunted him for years, and he recognised it immediately. ‘Why is he here, Mum? You know he’s bad news.’

Dave Taylor staggered towards the door. ‘Oi, shoeshine boy, who you calling bad news?’

Johnny grabbed him by the neck of his scruffy T-shirt. ‘You leave my mum alone, and if you ever call me shoeshine boy again, I’ll fuckin’ kill yer.’

Susan pushed Johnny up the path. ‘Don’t start, son. Just go, for my sake. I’ll ring yer tomorrow, OK?’

In a temper, Johnny slung the Chinese and beers up the path. He ran to his van, leaped in and drove off like a loony. Unable to see straight because of his tears, he angrily bumped the van up a kerb. His nan would know what to do for the best.

Maureen’s heart sank as she took the phonecall. How could Susan be so bloody stupid? ‘Forget her, Johnny, she’s not fuckin’ worth it. Now stop crying, love, just get yourself home.’

As Maureen stood at the bedroom window waiting for his van to pull up, she had plenty of time to reflect. Since Johnny had moved in with her at the age of ten, she had had a special closeness with him.

She’d been struck down with breast cancer within a couple of years of him moving in. The chemo had made her tired and Johnny had been her little helper. He hadn’t understood the seriousness of her illness, but he’d been her bloody reason for fighting the dreaded disease. Thanks to her grandson, Maureen had been extremely positive about her illness from the word go.

‘Nanny will be fine,’ she assured him.

Even when she lost her hair, they made a joke of it. He helped her choose a wig and they’d roared with laughter as she’d tried on numerous funny ones.

‘You look like Scary Spice, Nan,’ he’d giggled, as she put on an afro.

Thankfully, the chemo had worked and she had since been given the all-clear.

With her three having long ago left home, she’d brought Johnny up as though he was her only child. After his shit start in life, he’d done so well for himself. He’d worked hard at school, gone to college and was only months away from finishing his apprenticeship and becoming a fully qualified electrician. Unlike with Tommy and Susan, she’d done a good job of bringing up her grandson. He was a normal, down-to-earth lad who played football on a Sunday, and liked a couple of pints and a flutter on the horses. He even had the occasional girlfriend, but nothing too serious. Johnny reminded Maureen of James. He was good natured and kind hearted, just like her youngest.

Out of all of her children, James was, and had always been the apple of her eye. He was still married to Maria and, thankfully, they were now happier than ever. The Tommy episode was now long forgotten. In fact, James had never mentioned it since the day he’d turned up in bits around her house.

Apart from that one hiccup, Maria was the perfect daughter-in-law and Maureen couldn’t thank her enough for making her son so happy and producing the two most beautiful granddaughters in the world.

Tara, nine, and Lily, six, were Maureen’s other pride and joy. Maria’s mum, Janet, still lived next door and the girls spent many weekends being spoilt and fussed over by the pair of them. They had their own bedrooms in both houses; on Fridays they stayed at Janet’s, and on Saturdays they slept at hers.

James and Maria had now moved out to Ingatestone in Essex and the girls went to an excellent local school. They spoke ever so posh and Maureen loved the fact that her family had gone up in the world. They never discussed how James made his money. The tailor’s shop had been shut down five years ago, shortly after Harold’s death. Apart from knowing that her son was in partnership with Freddie, Maureen had very little idea about what he actually did.

Tommy was no longer part of their family circle. Both James and Freddie had nothing to do with him whatsoever and Maureen could count the times she’d seen him over the last couple of years on one hand.

Splitting up with Lucy was the worst thing that could have happened to Tommy. She’d given him a stable home life and, to a certain extent, had kept him on the straight and narrow. His son, Alfie, was nineteen now and Maureen rarely saw him either. A chip off the old block, he’d left home at eighteen and moved in with his father.

Lucy had been, and still was, distraught. She’d been a bloody good mother and couldn’t understand why Alfie had chosen to leave her. She had heard that Tommy was bang on the gear and was desperately worried about her son. She was still in regular contact with Maureen, but the pair of them were at a loss as to what to do about the situation. If a nineteen-year-old boy wanted to live with his father, in reality, there was sod all you could do about it.

Lucy had rung Maureen recently, telling her that she’d bumped into Tommy. ‘He looked awful. He’s lost so much weight and was out of his nut,’ she told her. Maureen hadn’t slept a wink that night.

‘We’ve got to help him, James, someone’s got to look out for Alfie,’ Maureen told her youngest the following day.

James shook his head. ‘Me and Freddie have both tried, Mum. He’s a crackhead, he’s too far gone.’

Unable to rest, Maureen had spent a week visiting all his old haunts to find out his home address. Not wanting to involve James, she’d asked Kenny if he would drive her there.

Kenny’s one-time undying love for Wendy had turned into a form of hate over the years and he was only too glad of an excuse to get out of the house.

Pulling up outside the house in Leytonstone, Maureen was surprised to see a well-kept, nice-looking property. She was even more surprised when Tommy opened the door, looking a damn sight better than Lucy had described.

‘I’ve been worried about you, Tommy. Lucy said you’d lost a lot of weight and looked really ill.’

Tommy laughed. ‘I ain’t surprised, Mum. I’d been out partying for three days solid when she saw me.’

On accepting the offer of a quick cup of tea, Maureen was relieved to see Alfie sitting on the sofa happily munching beans on toast.

‘How are you, love? Are you enjoying living with your dad?’

Alfie nodded. ‘Me and Dad have a right laugh. He’s not on my case all the time like Mum was.’

Maureen gulped her tea, made Alfie promise to ring his mum more often, said goodbye to Tommy and left. The inside of the house was untidy and in need of a good clean but, other than that, there was nothing much to worry about. At least the visit had put her mind at rest, if nothing else.

Maureen’s thoughts were interrupted by Ethel. ‘Maur, hurry up. Quick, I need the toilet.’

Ethel was eighty-six now and, apart from suffering from severe arthritis in her legs and hips, was still as strong as an ox. She no longer lived in her flat over the road. Three years ago, Maureen had insisted that Ethel give it up and move in with her. Ethel kept falling over, so, to stop herself worrying, Maureen had offered to care for her. Stubborn and independent, Ethel had flatly refused at first.

‘There’s fuck-all wrong with me, I don’t need bleedin’ looking after.’

An especially bad fall, which had resulted in a month in hospital, had forced her to change her mind. James had brought her a top-of-the-range sofabed to sleep on, and a commode. By day the lounge looked normal and at night it reverted to Ethel’s toilet and bedroom. Apart from needing help getting in and out of bed, Ethel managed to get about indoors with the aid of a frame. If Maureen took her out, they used a wheelchair. Her legs might have packed up, but her mind was still as sharp as a knife. Mentally, she hadn’t changed one iota over the years and, as Maureen pushed her around Tesco, she would still be on the thieve, hiding her haul under her blanket.

‘Maureen. Quick, I’ve crapped meself.’

Johnny arrived home just as Maureen was shovelling up shit. ‘Don’t come in the living room, love. Nanny’s had a little accident, and I’m just sortin’ her out.’

‘I’m not stoppin’, Nan. I’ve only come back to change me shoes. I’m going clubbing with the lads from football.’

‘Are you OK, love?’

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Johnny shouted, as he slammed the door.

Maureen sat Ethel back down and went to make a cuppa. Susan never failed to disappoint her. If Dave Taylor was round there, she was bound to be tempted to take whatever he was on.

‘If she goes back to her old ways, I’m never having anything to do with her again,’ Maureen told Ethel, as she explained the story.

Ethel said nothing as she sipped her tea. She’d had this same conversation with Maureen so many times over the years that she couldn’t be bothered to answer her any more. Maureen had had the wool pulled over her eyes so many times, it was a miracle that she could still fucking see!

Johnny stood quietly in the the corner of the club. All of his mates were mucking about on the dancefloor, but he had too much on his mind to enjoy himself. Seeing his mate, Gazza, walk towards him, he forced a smile.

‘What’s up, Johnny?’

‘Nothing. I’m all right.’

Gazza put an arm around his shoulder. ‘You’re not all right. I might not be a psychiatrist, but I know when me mates have got problems.’

Johnny was fairly drunk, and the alcohol, mixed with Gazza’s concern, made his eyes brim with tears. Feeling a right prick for showing his emotions, he dragged his mate towards the exit.

‘We’ll talk outside, but promise me, Gazza, you won’t tell the rest of the lads?’

Gazza held his hands up. ‘Scout’s honour.’

Gazza shook his head in disbelief as Johnny spilled the beans. His pal was so nice and normal, he couldn’t believe his mum was a smackhead.

‘Look, I’m driving tonight, ’cause I’ve gotta work tomorrow. I’ll tell the other lads that we’re shooting off early and I’ll take yer round your mum’s. At least if yer knock and make sure she’s OK, it’ll put your mind at rest.’

Johnny hesitated. ‘What if that cunt Dave Taylor’s still there?’

‘Fuck him. Even if he is there, at least you can see if your mother’s out of her nut or not.’

Johnny nodded. ‘You tell the others we’re going, and I’ll wait here. Tell ’em I don’t feel well or something.’

The journey to Becontree Heath was only a short distance from Ilford, and they were there within ten minutes.

‘Do yer want me to come with yer?’ Gazza asked.

‘Nah, I’ll be all right. Just sit in the car and watch me back in case Taylor starts.’

Johnny walked up the path and rang the bell. The house was eerily silent. Getting no answer, he pushed the letterbox open.

‘Mum, it’s me, Johnny. Open the door.’