The Business (41 page)

‘Are you all right, Jorge?’

Jordanna nodded sadly. Her lovely face was resigned now, and that just made Joanie even more angry. She wanted some kind of a reaction from her friend, wanted her to finally open up and tell her about what her life was really like with her mother.

‘How can you sit there so normal? Your mother has surfaced after all these years and you act like it means nothing. Don’t you want to find out what she’s been up to, what she’s been doing?’

Jordanna shook her head. ‘No, I don’t. You saw her, Joanie, would you be interested in someone like that? She’s a fucking junkie. She is only interested in one thing, her skag, everything else means nothing to her. It’s how drugs work, well, heroin anyway. I only really remember her burning herself an armful, that and the trouble she would cause for us all.’

Joanie nodded sagely. Her thin lank hair was already sticking to her scalp in the summer heat, her eyes were grey, large and oval shaped, and they gave her a permanently startled look. She was pretty enough in her own way, but she knew that beside Jordanna she paled into insignificance. But she didn’t care about that, she was not jealous of her friend’s beauty, she had a feeling that her kind of looks eventually brought you nothing but trouble.

‘Can I ask you something?’

Jordanna shrugged, hoping she was finally going to change the subject. ‘ ’Course. We are best friends, aren’t we?’

She saw the way Joanie’s eyes seemed to change. The dull grey was now the colour of steel and they looked as hard. She saw the way Joanie’s body seemed to draw away from her as if she was tainted somehow, as if her mother coming back on the scene had made her less of a person, as if she was now without any kind of respect.

‘Did
you
shoot Lance, Jorge? I know we have never talked about it, but now your mum’s turned up, I can’t help wondering . . .’

Jordanna went white at her friend’s words, staring at Joanie as if she had never seen her before. As if she was a complete stranger.

She knew that the story of Lance’s death would always be talked about, but until now no one had ever mentioned it to her face. She was nearly sixteen, and she had never discussed that night with anybody. She understood now that it had not stopped everyone else from discussing it behind her back. Especially her so-called friends. The realisation that she was basically no more than fodder for the gossips was another shock to her already depleted system. First her mother had appeared after all those years and hadn’t been able to recognise her, and now her best friend wondered if she had killed Lance. She had asked her outright, ‘Did you shoot Lance?’ She had not asked her gently about what happened on that terrible night, had not tried to get her friend to open up to her, had not attempted to get her to unburden herself. Joanie wanted to be told that she was a murderer, and given all the gory details. She had asked a question that had obviously been on her mind for a long time. A question she had obviously answered for herself long ago.

Jordanna looked around the bedroom she loved, and she saw it as Joanie and everyone else must see it. She had a double bed, new mirrored wardrobes, fitted carpets and a TV. She had a state-of-the-art stereo system, and she knew that in comparison to her friends she was classed as rich. She had not really thought about it before, she just saw herself as a person; what she had and what she owned was always secondary in her mind. She liked people because they were nice, not because of what they had.

Now though, after the day’s revelations, she knew that her lifestyle was probably another thing that was discussed in graphic detail by all and sundry, like her mother’s departure and the shooting incident. She felt a fool, an idiot, wondered why it had never occurred to her before that her life might be the cause of so much speculation, even among her closest friends. People she would never have talked about behind their backs, no matter what might happen to them. She would not have discussed them with anyone, and she knew that was a fact. She had believed that Joanie was the same as her, was not capable of treachery, was only interested in friendship and loyalty. She had been wrong, so wrong.

Her mother, as always, ruined everything she touched. One meeting with her, and suddenly Jordanna’s life was in tatters once more. It was almost as if Imelda deliberately set out to ruin everything for her.

Joanie knew she had just done a wrong one, had fucked up a good friendship with a few ill-chosen words. ‘I’m sorry, Jorge . . . I wish I had not asked you about . . . I could fucking cut me tongue out. Please forgive me . . . Please don’t hold it against me . . .’

Joanie was literally begging for forgiveness, she was genuinely sorry for probing into her friend’s past life. All the years they had known each other, she had never once even referred to it, even in passing. Guessing that if Jorge wanted to tell her something so huge, she would do it in her own time. But she had not been averse to hearing other people’s opinions on it, she had listened to the stories and wondered, like everyone else, what had really happened.

Now she knew that Jordanna would never, ever trust her again, and that she had ruined a friendship that was even more important to her than she had realised.

Jordanna took a deep breath, then, turning her back on Joanie, she said quietly, ‘I think you had better go, don’t you?’

‘Please, Jorge, don’t let’s fall out over this. I wish I had never mentioned anything. You know how much I care about you.’

Jordanna could see the angst and remorse on Joanie’s face as she watched her in the mirrored doors, unable to bring herself to turn and face her friend once more. She felt as if she was suddenly in a parallel universe where everyone and everything she had believed in was gone, replaced with distrust and deceit; it was like a physical pain it hurt her so much.

‘Just go home, Joanie. I need to be by myself.’

 

Kenny came in late, and he knew he was in for a mouthful. As he stepped through the back door into the kitchen, he saw his sister kneeling beside his granny, her head in her lap, and her body shuddering with the strength of her sobs. She was in bits, and he had never before seen her crying like that.

Jordanna was not a crying type of person, and as he took in the scene before him a huge and black anger began to erupt inside him. He was a big lad, already over six foot. He was also handsome, and he knew it. He had a deep voice and a kind nature. He was also capable of great violence if he felt his family or his personal pride was being abused in any way.

Going to his sister’s side, he put a huge hand on her head and asked loudly, ‘What the fuck is going on? Has someone done something to you? If they have, you tell me who they are and I’ll fucking annihilate them.’

Mary waved him quiet. ‘Sit down, you bloody fool. She has had the misfortune to bump into your mother who, as usual, has caused fucking ructions. I curse the day I brought that whore into the world. If it wasn’t for you two, her life would have been lived without any meaning whatsoever.’

Kenny was unsure what to say to that. He had never really known his mother, he had only vague memories of her and he knew they were always accompanied by a feeling of a terrible, crushing fear. Now he was grown, he did not think of her at all. Only sometimes, at Christmas, or on his birthday. But the thoughts were fleeting, and he didn’t really know her well enough to say he missed her. Though from what he had heard over the years, she was not a person who would be missed by anyone who was in full possession of their faculties.

So his sister’s reaction to meeting her was not something he was prepared for. ‘Come on, Jorge, wipe your eyes. Don’t let her fucking make you feel bad. She is a cunt and she ain’t worth it. Tell her, Nan, she shouldn’t waste anything on her.’

Mary nodded and sighed. She had been all set to launch her grandson into outer space when poor Jordanna had come home. She had known then something was wrong. When young Joanie had left without even saying goodbye to her, she had guessed something was in the offing. When Jorge had come down the stairs and told her that she had met her mother in a pub in South London Mary had nearly died. It had been a long time since she had even thought about her daughter. She had happily wiped her from her memory and her life, had been overjoyed at seeing the back of her.

Mary knew that the time was nearing to tell Kenneth about his father’s demise and that, from what poor Jorge had told her about Joanie, she now knew for definite that if she didn’t put him in the picture then someone else certainly would. He needed to hear that story from his family, not from friends, people who had told it so often it had been stretched and bent out of all recognition. People who had not been there and who actually knew fuck all about it except what they had heard through drunken gossip and speculation.

She hated Imelda for the trouble she had caused for everyone who had ever come into her orbit. Her father was dead and everyone she came into contact with she had destroyed one way or another. Now Mary was faced with how Kenny Boy was going to react once he was told the truth of his family history. Imelda was not a person who garnered sympathy, and she was not a person who had understood the power of it. She had once more taken her own child and destroyed her in a heartbeat without any real understanding of how her actions affected those around her.

She was good at that, always had been. But Mary was determined that these children would be protected from her, and she would make sure it was done properly and with the required threats. That was all Mel understood, so she would make sure that is exactly what she got. Her old dad used to say God is good, and he was good, but he was also very busy. He just needed a bit of help now and again.

 

‘Oh, leave it out, Mel.’

Imelda was laughing, and it was a pleasant sound. She was, as always, on the skank. On the ponce. She would try and get anything she could for free. A cigarette, a drink, a pair of tights. She saw it as her mission in life. The man was zipping up his trousers, and she carried on laughing at him as he fastidiously checked himself over. She had him a couple of times a week. He was a fucking earhole, but he really believed he was a ladies’ man. He combed the reminder of his hair with a plastic comb that had more teeth missing than a gypsy wedding picture. He smelt of Boots shaving cream and American strong mints. He had a very overinflated opinion of himself and Imelda found him absolutely amusing when she was this stoned.

‘I need another fiver, El, I hope you can see your way to helping me out. I have to see me daughter. I swear to you, she needs me. Lovely girl, real pretty.’

‘No chance. I’ll be back tomorrow or the next day, you can earn it. I ain’t giving the money away, what am I, a fucking charity?’

Imelda grinned once more in her usual, easy-going way. She had already palmed his cigarettes and lighter so she was not going to push the issue, she knew when she was beaten. She slipped out of his car and sticking her head back in the warmth once more, she said gaily, ‘See you soon then, eh? And do me a favour, El, have a fucking bath first next time, you smell worse than a dustbin outside a kebab shop.’

She slammed the door shut and he drove off. She gave him a wanker’s sign once he was out of range. She knew he would be back, she was not only within his price range, she was also on his wavelength. She knew how to do the business afterwards, and that was something most of the girls never got the hang of. If you left them with a good bit of chat, decent banter, something to make them remember you, they always came back, over and over again. They felt safe, confident that you would make sure they were satisfied.

It was very dark, but it was still a nice warm night. The traffic was not even audible now, the roads being almost empty. The night was all hers. And she enjoyed it, she loved the night, always had. The night was for the people who knew that they were different to everyone else, who embraced the darkness and relished the anonymity it offered them. The night was all she ever wanted: she endured the days because she had the surety of the night to come and the ease it had always afforded her.

She settled herself down on a wooden box that had once contained cheap trinkets from Sri Lanka, her legs were still pretty good and she crossed them, showing them off to their full advantage. She knew that she would probably get another couple of goes tonight. A lot of the men she serviced liked the night. Like her, they wanted to use it as a cover for their activities.

She knew there were men working someplace near who cruised the market on their breaks. They would never normally have entertained the notion of a prostitute, but the night workers were often tempted by the proximity of the women who were not only cheap but were also available and especially welcoming.

She waved at another woman who was leaning against the wall nearby, she was a heavy blonde with thick lips and an over-abundance of varicose veins. She was nice enough though but, considering she was only in her late-thirties, she made Mel feel like a fucking Page Three girl beside her, and that was saying something, she knew.

A dark-blue Jaguar slid to a stop beside her. Pulling herself up slowly from her box, she was not surprised when the passenger door was pushed open for her. Imelda smiled at her good fortune, she was on another planet and her body was relaxed and comfortable for the moment. It was as if she was outside of herself, looking in. If she died, she would not care, would just enjoy the moment as a great way to go.

She slipped into the car’s interior, smelt expensive leather and even more expensive aftershave. She liked the feel of the seat, knew it was built for comfort. She knew that the owner of such a fine vehicle would be worth a few quid, and would not be averse to paying out for services rendered. That happened occasionally on the Cross, a few quid would come looking for the thrill of the unknown fuck. It was what kept her sense of adventure alive.