Faceless

INTRODUCTION


People often ask me about the titles of my books. The idea for this new one came to me while I was researching. I was interviewing a very nice woman whom I had known for a good few years. She'd been a prostitute for most of her life and was always kind enough to keep me up to date on the pavement jargon and with anecdotes about her working life. Anyway, the two of us were talking over a bottle of wine when she said something I shall never forget.

She had been, in her day, 'a well-paid brass' as she put it herself. By then, though, she was older and on the slippery slope that age invariably brings to women who sell themselves for profit.

Laughing, she said, 'We are faceless women, Tina, living faceless lives. Our punters are faceless. If I took a bloke on and he came back ten minutes later I wouldn't even recognise him. If we met again in the supermarket we wouldn't know one another.'

Well, she gave me the title of this book.

Since then her phone has been cut off and I can't seem to track her down. I heard she'd died of AIDS. I hope she is happy wherever she is. She was a good laugh and a good mate.

You know who you are. If you read this, give me a call and let me know you are OK. This one's for you and for all the laughs we have had over the years.


Book One


'What do you get when you fall in love?

A guy with the pin to burst your bubble.

That's what you get, for all your trouble.

I'll never fall in love again' -

Hal David and Burt Bacharach



'Mutual Forgiveness of each vice,

Such are the Gates of Paradise.'

William Blake (1757-1827)


Prologue


She heard the grille open and kept her eyes closed. She knew it would be Walker, a good PO as POs went, but she wasn't in the mood for talk just yet.

She breathed in heavily, feeling the close, heavy scent of the cell, letting it wash over her one last time. After twelve years and ten months on remand she was finally being released. She didn't think of it as going home because she had no home. She had no friends, no family, nothing that other women took for granted. Her children were lost to her; her mother had given up on her. The few friends she'd had, and they were few, had all dropped away over the years. But that was understandable. She was a convicted murderess. A double murderess. A woman who had killed two friends, no less, so it wasn't surprising that the few others she'd had were wary of continuing the acquaintance.

Inside she had kept herself to herself and the other women had respected that. One good thing about a big lump of a sentence, people left you alone.

She smiled gently and the action changed her face completely. The permanent frown was gone, revealing smooth unwrinkled skin. Her high cheekbones, the envy of more than a few screws and prisoners over the years, gave her face a Nordic beauty. Full, curving lips made her face look enigmatic, interesting. Her cool blue eyes were softer than usual, with the look of the girl she had been twelve years earlier when she had walked into a prison cell, more aware than anyone realised that she was away for what should have been the best, most productive years of her life.

She had kissed her children goodbye, and in effect kissed her life goodbye. But it was her own doing, she knew that. The judge had called her a callous and disturbed individual. He had been right. From her teens on, her whole life had been lived through a drug- and alcohol-induced haze. From petty thief to prostitute in two easy steps, she thought, a faraway look in her eyes.

Her mother had been right. Her favourite saying had always been: 'You will never amount to nothing.'

And her mother would know better than anyone. After all, it was a family trait.

The door rattled and she frowned, aware that she should have been up and dressed by now and ready to go. But she had been incarcerated for so long she wasn't sure if she could cope with the outside world again. It had never been kind to her.

Her eyes travelled around her cell. It was like a refuge to her today. It felt safe and homely. It felt right.

She pushed the thought away, knowing it was a natural feeling. Telling herself over and over that once she walked out of the gates and was free, her life would start again.

She was counting on it.

The first thing she'd do, after twelve years without a glimpse of them, was see her kids.

She sat upright, looking around her with the eyes of a woman about to be freed. Eyes that could bore into people's souls and see them as they really were. Eyes that were desperate for a glimpse of her children, greedily contemplating her first sight of them in all their glory. Not as distant memories that were hard to place because she had been out of it for so much of their young lives, but seeing the people they had become and hoping against hope that they didn't hold it all against her. That they would understand she had had no control over what had happened to them. That she wasn't really capable of motherhood then, any more than she was now.

Children were unlucky really. They were born without any say in things whatsoever. It was a lottery for them in some respects, what kind of mother they would acquire once out of the warmth of a snug and comfortable womb. A loving caring individual who would rush to fulfil their every whim? Or a selfish one who resented their intrusion into her otherwise orderly life? Children were a shock to the system for most women. The idea of a baby was wonderful; the reality of a toddler devastating. They drained you, made you realise you would never again be your own person. They kept you up half the night and ran around all the day. They needed feeding, training, time, effort, sweat and tears.

She had been fifteen when Tiffany had been born and seventeen when she had had Jason. Two different kids with radically different fathers. One black, one white. Her sister had joked she should go on Race Relations Board outings. But it had not been funny really.

She had been twenty-one, pretty in a make-up and tits kind of way, when she had beaten to death two other prostitutes in a squat in Kensington.

She closed her eyes at the unwanted image: waking up to the blood. Blood everywhere. On the walls, door, even the ceiling. She had been covered in their blood; it was in her eyes, her hair, her skin.

She felt the familiar rise of bile at the image and the crashing of her heart as it pumped her own blood through her body at a rate that made her feel light-headed. It was a reminder, every time her heart beat like this, just what she had robbed her friends of. And they had been friends, that was the strangest thing of all.

Why had she done it?

Why could she never remember what it had been over?

Why the fuck had she pumped herself so full of narcotics she'd successfully blotted out whole days of her life, never to be recalled?

All she could remember was drugs and drink and man after man. How had she lived that life for so long? After twelve years clean, more or less, she saw the world through different eyes. Saw the world as a straight person saw it. Didn't need to blot it out any more. Didn't need to get so out of it she could vomit and not know anything about it until she awoke to the familiar sour smell.

But she also knew she was institutionalised, living in an artificial environment. No bills to pay, and warmth, food and drink provided for her at regular intervals. She had not turned off a light switch in over twelve years. Had been bedded down by seven-thirty most nights, and escaped into books through the absence of television as a stimulus.

She turned towards the door, hearing the screw's approach.

'Come on, girl, up and out of it. Have you forgotten what day this is?'

She didn't answer, but made an effort to look busy. She was already packed, in fact, had been for a week. What she owned was so minimal she could put it all into a carrier bag. In over twelve years she had had not one visitor, not one letter.

She washed her face in cold water, then dressed quickly, silently. She sat on the bed with her small bag and waited for the breakfast she wouldn't even eat, though the bitter coffee would be welcome.

One half of her could not wait to get out of the door, get a new life, join society this time as a productive member. The other half was frightened witless at the thought of being out in the real world, talking and interacting with real people. People who knew nothing about her or, worse, people who did.

She put her face in her hands and sighed. Her Bible was on the bed beside her and she picked it up, whispering over and over, 'God forgive me, God forgive me, God forgive me.'

And in her mind's eye she saw Caroline and Bethany again, lying mangled and dead as she finally realised what she had done to them.

Caroline her friend; Bethany her best friend.

She had reduced them to bloody pulp with a baseball bat and a torque wrench. But why? That was the question she asked herself a hundred times a day.

Why?

For nearly thirteen years, she had not been able to find an answer.

* * *

She finally walked out of Cookham Wood Prison into a light rain. She stood for a few moments, savouring the feeling of the moisture on her face. It was cold, the kind of misty rain that soaked through clothes and skin, the kind of rain other people hated, but for her it was proof she was alive and well.

She trudged to the bus stop, aware that her clothes left a lot to be desired, in her pocket the address of a halfway house. She fingered the money beside it. It felt dirty and used, crumpled as it lay in her palm.

It felt like her.

Two young girls walked past her, their clothes and hairstyles looking completely alien. They stared at her rudely and she ignored them, remembering a time when she would have faced up to them. Would have frightened them with her language and her aggression. Instead she walked on, oblivious to their stares and muttered comments.

She breathed in the misty air, sucked it deep into her chest. Enjoyed the feeling of being outside yet alone. Wanted the comfort of the anonymous room she would occupy tonight. She wanted desperately to be alone, properly alone again. Wanted the opportunity to think in peace.

Instead she found herself on a train. She didn't want to think about where she was going. It would hurt too much.

She drank in the scenes that rushed by as she stared out of the window. A woman sat opposite her with a young boy. He was handsome, well-behaved. She couldn't help staring into his face as if she could read his mind with her eyes alone.

What were her own children doing at this minute? Did anyone keep in contact with them? She had signed the papers for them to go into long-term care and that had been that. The social workers would tell her nothing except that her kids were well cared for. Told her to forget about them, get her head down and do her time.

Well, she had done all that and the pain of parting from them was as real today as it had been all those years ago. Why did you have to lose something before you could fully appreciate it?

She stepped down from the train and jumped into a cab. The familiar streets made her nervous. She strained to see a face she recognised, a shop she might have frequented. Most of the pubs were gone. It was all different. This upset her more than she'd thought possible.

She paid the cab and walked up the narrow path to her childhood home, feeling sick with apprehension. She forced herself to knock on the door, watching through the glass as a woman bowled up the hallway, her bleached blonde hair like a magnet to the visitor's eyes.

The door opened and her mother stood there speechless, the smile of welcome dying on her face.

They stared at one another for long seconds.

'Hello, Mum . . .'

The other woman held up her arm as if warding off evil, hatred plain upon her face.

'Fuck off, Marie - and don't you ever come here again. We don't want you, we never did. You're trouble. Nothing but bloody trouble.'

The door was slammed shut in her face.

She wavered on the doorstep and seemed to sink down. She was sitting on the step, her tears mingling with the rain which was heavier now. A roll of thunder above her head made her shiver with fright, but she sat there and cried as she hadn't cried in years: deep sobs, wrenched from her bowels. The sound was as lonely as it was heart-breaking. As loud as it was terrifying. But the door didn't open again.

She knew it never would.


Chapter One


Louise Carter lit a cigarette and stared at her husband with anger and disgust. She smashed the kettle down on to the worktop and plugged it in with a venom he had not seen in years.

'Fucking cheek of her, coming round here after the trouble she caused!' He noticed her hand was shaking as she puffed deeply on her Embassy cigarette. 'I can't believe she had the fucking nerve . . .'

Kevin Carter stood up and pulled his tiny wife into his arms.

'Calm down, we knew it would happen one day.'

He hated to see her like this. Over the years they had resumed a semblance of normal life again. Their daughter Marie's aberration had been forgotten, or at least it had on the surface anyway. Friends stopped mentioning her and life had just about returned to normal. But it had been hard on Lou, bloody hard. It had broken her as the tablets she constantly popped proved.

'How did she look?'

Louise pulled herself from his arms. She stared into his face as if he had gone mad before her eyes, like their child had done all those years ago when she had killed her two friends.

'What kind of fucking question is that? She looked alive, which is more than the two girls she battered to death bloody look!'

'Calm down, Lou, for fuck's sake. I was only asking. I mean, would you recognise her, like? Remember her? Know who she was?'

She swiped her tongue across her lips and nodded.

'I'd know that bastard anywhere, but she was slimmer, prettier than ever. Waste on her, that was. Bloody whore! Always a bloody whore from a kid . . .'

Kevin shut out his wife's words. He had heard them too many times over the years for them to have any real effect. He wanted to go outside and see his daughter but knew that if he did, it would cause too much trouble.

Louise had never got over it all. In fact, none of them had, though he would still like to know if Marie was OK. Instead he made his wife a cup of tea and gave her one of her tablets.

But the thought of his Marie so close, and he unable to talk to her, hurt him inside. Whatever she had done she was still his daughter. Nothing his wife said could change the tie of blood, and Marie was his blood.

Still, Louise was his priority at the moment. Her breakdown had split the family, made everything so difficult. Marshall's suicide on top of everything else had finished her. Oh yes, his daughter Marie had a lot to answer for. He closed his eyes because tears were threatening.

Kevin Carter was a big man. At over six foot, he weighed in at seventeen and a half stone. In his younger days he had fought bare-knuckled to get himself a stake and now he had a small building business.

The Carters were respectable. The thought made him smile. Or they had been once, anyway. And over the years they had fought to get that much back at least. They would never get their son back. He was dead and buried this long time, but Louise visited his grave every day. It was Marshall's putting a gun into his mouth and blowing his head off that had tipped her over the edge once and for all. In a way it had seemed more of an act of violence than Marie's killings because Marshall had killed himself while he was sober and straight whereas Marie had been so out of it on drugs she at least could argue she had not known what she was doing.

A son and a daughter, gone in weeks. A family ripped apart in the time it took other families to have a holiday, come back, and go to work. It was all such a bloody waste, and now she was back, his Marie was back, and he wondered what trouble would follow her this time. Because trouble had followed her from the day she could talk and walk.

The front door opened and they both turned towards it fearfully.

It was Lucy.

'What's the matter with you two, sitting in the dark?'

Their other daughter's keen eyes registered tension in the room.

'She's gone then?'

Louise's voice was heavy with dread.

'Who? Who's gone?' queried Lucy.

'Marie.'

At the sound of her sister's name Lucy's face screwed up into a mask of disgust and she pulled her lips back over her teeth until she looked almost feral in her hatred.

'That's all we need! Mickey popped the question this lunchtime and I said yes. I suppose I can kiss him goodbye now, can't I?'

Louise stirred herself.

'Don't be so silly. I fucked her off out of it. We won't be seeing her again, love.'

Lucy slung her leather bag over her shoulder and walked towards the stairs. She didn't answer her mother, but the sound of her heavy footfalls on the stairs said all they needed to hear. Her bedroom door slammed and it was like a death knell.

'What made her come back here, Kev?'

He sighed.

'I don't know, love. Blood, I expect. We are her parents, after all.'

Louise stood up and smashed her mug into the sink. It was a satisfying feeling, smashing something. She had learned that over the years.

'You, Kevin Carter, can speak for your fucking self. She is nothing to me - nothing.'

He was getting angry now.

'Well, whatever you say, Lou. That's how it's always been in this fucking house so why change the habit of a lifetime, eh?'

He dragged his jacket from the back of a kitchen chair and stormed out. He walked slowly to the pub, eyes and ears peeled for any sign of his Marie. But she was gone.

Half of him was glad, the other half desperate just for a glimpse of her. Just to know she had survived and was OK.

In the pub he sipped his pint slowly. He had a lot to think about.

* * *

Amanda Stirling smiled easily at the woman before her.

'I've put you through here, OK?'

Marie followed her along a dimly lit corridor. It was freshly painted but still had the feel of decay about it. The coving was cracked and aged, the thin carpet bare in places. Marie closed her mind to it.

She walked into a room that was not much larger than her cell had been. It had a single bed, a bureau and a wardrobe. The walls were painted white, and a dark blue carpet graced the floor. The bedspread was like a throwback to the sixties, orange and blue circles on a green background.

She smiled her thanks tentatively.

Amanda shrugged.

'Not much, I know, but it's clean and it's yours.'

'It's fine, really.'

Amanda was aware that this woman was trying to make her feel better and decided she liked her. Considering what she knew about her, that was quite a surprise. Marie seemed to understand and smiled again.

'There's tea- and coffee-making facilities in the bureau, but as you know there is a large rec room if you feel up to mixing with the others.'

Marie smiled again and turned away. Amanda took this as her cue to leave.

'If you need anything I'm in my office.'

Alone, Marie let the mask slip and sank down on the bed. It groaned under her weight and she put her arms out as if she was going to fall.

It all felt surreal.

She looked at her carrier bag and sighed. Twelve years and ten months and she had nothing.

Nothing.

She busied herself making a cup of tea and tried to block out the thoughts that were crowding her head. Twenty-five minutes later she was in bed, a book in her hands and the curtains closed. She felt safe at last. Snug and safe. But she didn't feel free, and wondered if she ever really would.
* * *
Patrick Connor was black. Black, handsome and rich. He was a body builder with enormous biceps, a wide grin and, strangest of all, deep blue eyes. His Irish grandfather's namesake, he loved the shock people felt on first meeting him. Those blue eyes gave him the edge, no doubt about it.

He pulled out a Tesco bag stuffed with grass and shoved it unceremoniously into his gym bag. He was dropping it off as a favour, but he also had a mission in mind. He locked the door to his flat and skipped towards the lift. As he drove away in his brand-new BMW he let his mind wander.

He had a new bird, Corinne. She was half-caste and she was pretty, but she was also heavily into crack. Just what he was looking for, in fact. He was going to visit her later and see if she fancied a job. He had a feeling she'd jump at the opportunity. Crackheads would sleep with a Siberian tiger for a rock. That's what he liked about them.

His mobile rang and he answered it, his deep brown voice full of confidence as he shouted, 'Yo!'

A moment later his face paled and he pulled his car over, screeching to a halt to the consternation of the driver behind him.

'Are you sure?'

His street accent had reverted to Queen's English in a matter of seconds. He snapped the phone off and closed his eyes. Marie was out. She was out and about. She'd be looking for him and, Christ forgive him, he had nothing to tell her. Or nothing she would want to hear anyway.

He turned the car around and drove towards Silvertown. He needed some answers and he needed them now.
* * *
Lucy opened the front door.

'You took your fucking time.'

Patrick walked into the small terraced house, his huge bulk blocking out the light.

'Don't worry, they're out. Me dad's took her over her mum's. She was really in a state. Marie actually came here and knocked on our door.'

They stood in the kitchen facing one another.

Lucy was like Marie, you could see they were sisters, but she was a watered-down version. She didn't have the same thick blonde hair or piercing blue eyes. She was pretty enough until Marie stood beside her, and then she paled into insignificance. She also had an unfortunate way about her. Seemed to be constantly looking down her nose at people. She had always put his back up and she was enjoying doing it now.

'Fuck! Fuck!'

Patrick's voice was deep, low.

'She'll want to know where the kids are. What are you going to tell her?' Lucy goaded him.

He shrugged but didn't answer her.

'They might tell her, Patrick. Social Services. Now she's out they might think she has a right to know. They are her kids, after all.'

The sarcasm was not lost on him, but still he didn't answer her.

'Do you actually know where your son is?'

He finally met her eyes but didn't answer her.

'How did you get my mobile number?'

Lucy looked up at the ceiling.

'Is that all you can fucking say? That mad bitch is home, and she will come looking for us all. I know her better than anyone. She's going to cause trouble, she can't help it, Patrick. It's what she does.'

'Do you lot know where they are?'

She shook her head.

'Of course not. My mum made sure of that. I ain't so sure about me dad, though. Marie was always his pet.'

The bitterness in her voice was not lost on Patrick. He grinned.

'I kept meaning to ring, like, but I just never got round to it,' he said sheepishly.

Lucy looked at him, her face serious.

'She'll come looking for you, I guarantee it. And you know what she's like if she wants something.'

He laughed.

'Twelve years' bird will have knocked all that out of her. Take it from me, I know. She'll have changed. Anyway, she might not want to see the kids.'

His voice held a note of hope and Lucy turned her eyes to the ceiling once more.

'You are a fucking twat, do you know that? As bad as she was, she loved them kids. Even I have to give her that one.'

Patrick didn't answer for a few seconds then said thoughtfully, 'Well, she had a funny way of showing it, that's all I can say. Leaving them on their own for hours on end. Pissed up and shooting up in front of them. Oh yeah, she adored them.'

'You put her on the drugs, Patrick, and you put her on the game. The least you could do after you fucked up her head was look out for your own son.'

He laughed again, this time with genuine amusement.

'Hark at you! If he is really my son he'll be able to take care of himself. I had to and I ain't done too bad.'

'That, Patrick, is a matter of opinion. But I felt you should be warned. I mean, supposing she decides to pay back a few old debts, eh? Who'll be first in line?'

Lucy let the words hang in the air for a few seconds. Then she too laughed.

'Baseball bats and torque wrenches are still on sale locally, I should imagine.'

She was laughing as he stormed from the house.
* * *
Carole Halter heard the doorbell and looked at the clock beside her bed. It was twenty past nine in the morning. She snuggled into the warmth of her bed once more and closed her eyes.

The doorbell rang again and then a hammering on her front door caused her to leap from the bed naked and storm through the flat. She opened her front door wide, displaying a body that had seen its fair share of wear and tear. The obscenity she was about to scream died on her lips when she saw who was standing there.

'Marie? Marie Carter?'

Marie smiled at her.

'Can I come in, Carole?'

She walked into the flat and was instantly assailed by once familiar smells: sweat, fried food, perfume and damp. It brought her back to reality. It was years since she had breathed in a similar foetid odour, only then she had not really noticed it. Everyone she knew then had the same sour smell in their home, like old farts and alcohol mixed together. It was disgusting.

Carole saw her wrinkling her nose up. For a split second she felt the old antagonism return. Then she reminded herself why she had not seen this particular friend for so long and swallowed down the retort.

'Coffee?'

She made her voice light, but it took an effort.

Marie smiled.

'Please. If it's not too much trouble. Late night?'

Carole picked up a T-shirt off the worn sofa and pulled it over her head. It just covered her bum and heavy thighs.

'I was working last night. I'm in a club now. It's better money.'

As she put the kettle on she was eyeing Marie. The years had been kinder to her old friend than she would have expected.

'You look well, Marie.'

'Thanks, so do you.'

It was a kindly lie, but well meant. Carole looked dreadful, all dark rings under the eyes, wrinkles and dry skin. She looked fifteen years older than her actual thirty-five. Marie realised that she was aware of the fact herself and tried to change the subject.

'How are the kids?'

Carole shrugged.

'Bernice is duffed by some coon from Romford, she's just seventeen, and LaToyah is in Borstal. They caught her skanking in Oxford Street. She beat up the arresting officer.'

Carole grinned.

'Always a lairy bitch, her. Broke the geezer's nose and split his eye. She got bird, bless her. Her baby lives with foster parents and I visit every fortnight. Nice people, good house and that. I wish they could keep the little fucker - and her Shaquille is a fucker with a capital Fuck!'

She laughed at her own wit.

'Got a mouth like a sewer and she's only three.'

'Like her mother then. I remember LaToyah was a swearer.'

Carole placed two mugs on the cluttered table.

'She certainly was. Remember when she called your Tiffany a cunt and Tiffany jobbed her?'

She laughed again.

'Like you, Tiff. Deep waters, her.'

The laughter was suddenly gone from Carole's voice.

'I'm not supposed to be here. I'm on licence, like. So keep this under your hat, eh?' Marie told her.

Carole nodded as she lit a cigarette.

''Course. You'll be on licence for life. I mean, that's what happens after a murder stretch, ain't it?'

Marie nodded but didn't answer.

'You do look well, though. You've hardly changed.'

Marie had heard enough compliments. She got to the point.

'Where's Patrick, and what's he doing now?'

Carole had been expecting the question.

'Ain't you heard from him?' Her voice was incredulous. 'The black bastard! Are you telling me in all these years that ponce never kept in touch?'

Marie smiled now, a real grin.

'What do you think? You never wrote or visited. No one did.'

Carole drew deeply on her cigarette. Silence hung in the air like the smoke.

'I understand, Carole. It was all a long time ago. And, I mean, it ain't like I was in for shoplifting, is it? I had a fucking big lump and I accept it all now. I have done me time and don't want any more trouble. I just want to see me kids.'

'Ain't they told you where they are then?'

Marie shook her head.

'I ain't asked and they ain't offered. Enough said. Tiffany is just nineteen and Jason is seventeen. All I want to know is that they're OK. But I don't want everyone knowing what I'm about. I'll see them in me own time.'

'If they want to see you, you mean.'

'In a nutshell. So where is Patrick these days?'

'Gone right up in the world, him. Still runs women but with drugs as a sideline. He owns a gym and a wine bar, too. All blonde birds and BMW these days. Thinks he's the dog's gonads.'

Marie grinned.

'No change there then?'

Carole laughed with her, felt herself relaxing at last.

'Nah. No change there, girl. But I don't think he sees anything of Jason. Last I heard the kids were in a home in Wales. I saw your mum a few years back.'

'How was she?'

Carole shrugged.

'Same as usual, acting like her shit didn't stink. Do you know something, Marie? That is one bastard of a woman.'

Marie didn't answer her.

'Where's the gym?'

'Spitalfields, you can't miss it. There's a dirty great big sign saying ''Pat's Gym''. Real nineties stuff. Glass windows so they can train and show off all at the same time.'

Marie smiled.

'Why am I not surprised?'

Carole gripped her hand tightly.

'It's done my heart good to see you, love. We'll have to get out one night. Tie one on like the old days.'

Marie removed her hand and shook her head sadly.

'I couldn't cope with all that now. Those days are gone and I want to leave them like that.'

Carole's face creased into a frown of concern.

'Well, how are you going to live?'

Marie sipped at her coffee to give herself time to think before she answered.

'They're going to help me get a job and eventually a place to live.'

Carole lit another cigarette and blew out smoke noisily.

'Are you telling me you're going to go and work in a factory for a couple of ton a week when you could earn that and more in a night?'

Marie nodded.

'I done a degree inside. I also did computer studies, IT. I'll get by without flashing me clout.'

She tried to make it sound like a joke but it fell flat. She knew Carole was in complete and utter shock.

'You! You did a degree? What in, for fuck's sake - blow jobs?'

Marie closed her eyes tightly before answering.

'No, actually, it was in English literature. And I did a certificate after that. I could teach if I wanted to.'

Carole grinned.

'I know they're crying out for teachers in this day and age but I expect even sink estates would think twice about a double murderer, don't you?'

Marie didn't answer, just stared at her with dark blue eyes that seemed to look into Carole's very soul.

'I'm sorry, that was out of order,' she said nervously.

Marie stood up.

'It was true, and even I can't argue with the truth. But I'll keep me head down and see what happens. I'll be in touch, eh?'

Carole nodded.

'If you need anything, Marie, you only have to ask.'

'I know, mate. Thanks.'

As she walked away from the flat she was aware of her friend's eyes boring into her back. Marie knew she had made a mistake. Carole had always had a loose lip and now word of Marie's visit would be all over Silvertown within hours. But she had not known where else to go for information.

Seeing Carole had reminded her of a life she wanted to forget. She could still smell the odour of decay on her clothes as she stepped on to the bus.
* * *
Amanda looked at Marie as she sat down in the office of the halfway house. As duty probation officer Amanda had seen her fair share of murderers come and go but there was something different about Marie Carter.

She was self-contained, but then a long stretch did that to a body. This was different in that the woman before her seemed to have stopped living. She was just going through the motions and it showed. It was almost painful to watch her.

'How was the Job Centre?'

'OK.'

Amanda had long since realised that it was like pulling teeth, getting any reaction from Marie, so she took a deep breath and commented, 'You were a long time.'

'I was walking. It's so long since I could wander around, look in shops . . .'

Marie's voice trailed off.

'I understand. How are you adjusting?'

'OK. It's early days.'

Amanda nodded reassuringly.

'It gets easier.'

Marie didn't answer her.

'Is there anything specific you want to ask me?'

'My children?'

It was out before Marie knew what she was saying.

Amanda had been expecting the question. Had been surprised not to be asked immediately. She smiled again, uneasily this time.

'They have been approached and both have declined to see you. I'm sorry . . .'

Marie nodded. She had expected as much. Standing up, she picked up her bag.

'I think I'll go out and walk again, if that's all right? Try and get used to the area.'

'Certainly. Grab a coffee and get your bearings. Don't forget you have a curfew - six-thirty.'

Marie didn't turn back to face or answer her. Instead she walked from the office and closed the door quietly behind her.

Out in the street tears slid down her face and she wiped them away angrily. It was what she had expected, but it didn't make it any easier. They had blanked her. Her own kids had blanked her.

And who could blame them?
* * *
Lucy walked out of work and made her way to the bus stop. A red car pulled up beside her and she looked down into the face of Mickey Watson, her boyfriend.

'Have I done anything wrong, Luce?'

His voice was heavy with fear and she felt a moment's sorrow for the way she had treated him. She got into the car and smiled gently at him.

'It's me, Mickey. Something happened and I've been worried about it.'

'What's wrong, mate? You can tell me.'

She looked into his big moon face. He might not have the looks but he was a decent, kind man and that was what she wanted. When she was with him she was a nice person - he made her nice. Made her feel nice inside. Since childhood Lucy had had a nasty streak in her. It all stemmed from her jealousy of her sister. She knew that, but it didn't help. In fact it just made it worse because she couldn't control the urge to hate, and hate deeply, unequivocally.

'Marie's out.'

She saw his change of expression.

'Your mum won't like that, Mickey, will she? The murderer's loose again.'

He didn't answer her.

'Is she living back home then?'

Mikey was terrified of his mother's reaction and it showed.

'Don't be so bloody wet! Of course not.'

'Where is she then?'

'How the fuck should I know where's she's living? Why would I want to know. I'm telling you before someone else does, that's all.'

'All right! Calm down, Luce, for fuck's sake.'

'I hate her, Mickey. She ruins all our lives and then thinks she can just waltz back in as if nothing happened.'

'Well, I can't see your mum giving her house room, can you? It'll be a nine-days wonder and then everyone will forget about it.'

She could hear the hope and desperation in his voice.

'Do you think so?'

He nodded vigorously.

'It's nothing to do with me and you, is it?'

She shook her head.

'I suppose not. But your mum . . .'

'Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.'

He kissed her on the lips.

'Stop worrying. What can she do to us?'

Lucy didn't answer. She knew exactly what her sister was capable of, especially when she found out about her kids, and she would find out. She had always been a sifter, had Marie. She sifted information and calculated what it meant to her. The fact she had come to their front door spoke volumes. She was out . . . and out for revenge if Lucy knew anything about it. She herself would be, in her sister's place, Oh yes, she would settle a few old scores if she was in Marie's shoes.

But she didn't voice her opinion. As Mickey said, they'd cross the bridges as they came to them.

They had no other choice.


Chapter Two


Marie answered the loud knocking at her door, frowning to see a woman standing there. She had dark back-combed hair and heavy black eyeliner. She smiled at Marie, her false teeth too big for her mouth.

'Marie Carter?'

It was a statement more than a question.

Marie nodded.

The woman held out her hand in a friendly manner.

'Sally Potter. I'm next door.'

Marie shook hands, saying nothing.

'You can call me Sal,' her visitor said encouragingly.

'Thank you.'

The woman grinned.

'I done a lump, love, murder like yourself. Been out nearly eight months. 'Course, I topped me old man, and give his bird something to think about and all. I thought I would introduce meself, that's all. I ain't trying to pry or nothing. If you fancy a bit of company give me a knock, OK? It takes a few weeks to acclimatise, like.'

She smiled again and walked off.

Marie shut the door, her heart hammering in her chest. She sat on the bed and listened as the radio blared through the thin wall. Closing her eyes, she sighed heavily. She wanted out of this place and she wanted out soon. Everyone wanted to pry into her business, everyone wanted something from her and she had nothing to give.

She felt dry, empty.

Even friendship frightened her these days and yet once, friends had been everything to her. She closed her eyes and saw once more the two bloodied bodies, saw the carnage her drink- and drug-fuelled rage had caused, and felt the familiar bile rise into her throat.

Friends were not an option any more. She was much safer alone.

Everyone was safer if Marie could just stay alone.


* * *
Carole Halter sat in the club alone. It was early, most of the girls wouldn't be in till later, but she liked to have a few drinks under her belt before she started her night's work.

The bouncer, a young blond body builder called Declan, looked her over and obviously found her wanting.

'Had your look?'

She challenged him from habit, neither of them really caring about the other's opinion. He put himself above her and she saw herself as beneath him. It worked for them both.

'Have you seen anything of Tiffany?' Carole asked.

He shook his head. Didn't even bother to answer properly.

'Why the fuck would I want to see her anyway?'

'I was only asking!'

Carole's voice was loud and aggressive now.

She carried on sipping her drink, eyes prowling the club in case a punter had crept past her. A small good-looking blonde girl came in. Though heavy-breasted she was otherwise practically anorexic in build. Long bleached hair hung like a curtain across her face. She pushed it away with one slim hand, violet-painted nails looking dangerously long.

Carole smiled at her.

'All right, Tiff?'

The girl stared at her for a few seconds.

'It's OK, Carole, I know. I was told earlier.'

She carried on walking to the cloakroom that also doubled as the strippers' changing room and Carole followed her.

'What are you going to do?'

The girl pushed the door open with surprising force and shrugged.

'Do? What am I supposed to do?'

'Well, she is your mother.'

Tiffany grinned into the dirty mirror above the sinks.

'So I hear.'

Carole was alarmed at the girl's attitude and it showed.

'I don't think you quite realise the strength of her, Tiff. She is strong, not just physically - and we all know the truth of that. But mentally she's like man mountain Dean. If that fucker wants to see you bad enough, she will.'

Tiffany shrugged.

'Yeah, so? Shall I practise my curtsey now then?'

Carole shook her head sadly.

'Listen to me. She is still your mother, love. No matter what. She loved you in her own way . . .'

Tiffany waved her hands angrily.

'Oh, yeah? Left us for hours on end by ourselves, drugged out of her fucking brain! Well, Carole, that kind of mother love I can do without, OK? Now if you don't mind I have to get undressed.'

'But I've had her round my gaff, Tiffany . . . She won't give up. Especially if she finds out 'bout little Anastasia.'

The girl rolled her eyes in exasperation.

'Yeah? So? If I don't want to see her, then I won't. Now piss off!'

Her voice was hard, uncaring, and Carole knew better than to push it. She left the room quietly, her heart heavy at the thought that her one-time friend's daughter wanted nothing to do with her. And if Marie found out that Carole actually worked with Tiffany and had not said so, what would be the upshot? It was this that worried Carole more than anything.

Tiffany stared into the cracked mirror and then began to apply a thick layer of foundation to hide the acne scars in her skin. As she brushed on her blusher she knew she was just putting on an act for everyone. In fact she was frightened of what her mother might stir up. As Carole said, if Marie wanted to see her she would.

Tiffany's eyes registered her grimy surroundings and she shuddered. What would Marie make of her daughter's life and job? 'History repeating itself' was how Pat described it, saying she was just like her mother at the same age.

Well, fuck her mother! She had in effect dumped Tiffany when she was a baby so she had no right to any respect now. And if pushed, Tiffany would tell her that.

Oh yeah, she would tell her that to her face.

The girl remembered her mother as a force to be reckoned with. The neighbours had all been terrified of her. Marie could make even men nervous when she was out of it. There was an air of violence about her that people picked up on pretty quickly. Pat had regaled her with stories of her mother's marathon temper bouts and drinking and drug binges. Tiffany knew enough about Marie to realise she didn't want her anywhere near her own child. A double murderess was hardly the kind of person she wanted around her Anastasia, thank you very much. But inside she wondered exactly what can of worms would be opened by her mother's release into society.

Ten minutes later Tiffany was ready for her first act. Stripping was lucrative and Pat had promised to get her into a lap dancing club where the money would be even better. It was her ambition in life to buy a little place of her own, and she was determined to do it. Her daughter deserved the best, and she would see that Anastasia got it.

Tiffany cut herself a line of coke to give herself an edge. As she went through the ritual of cutting, cleaning and snorting it, she felt more relaxed inside.

Unlike her mother she used drugs, and not vice versa. All she needed was a little lift now and then, just a lift to give her an edge.

And after the revelations of today, she needed that lift more than ever.
* * *
Louise Carter listened to her daughter's mother-in-law-to-be, gritting her teeth. Mary Watson was a busybody, a two-faced, interfering bastard of a woman.

'I hear she walked up to the front door, large as life and twice as pretty . . .' The last was a jibe at her son's girlfriend and they all knew it. 'But then she was always a good-looking girl, you can't take that away from her. Fair's fair in that respect. Marie was a looker.'

'For all the good it did her. Now if you don't mind, Mary, I would rather we dropped the subject.'

Louise's voice was dangerously low and Mary suppressed a small triumphant smile.

Lucy stood up abruptly and said in a false bright voice, 'Shall I make more tea?'

She left the room and Mickey followed her.

Louise stared at the woman before her, took in the brown rat-like eyes and tightly pursed mouth, and wondered how her daughter could want to join a family with this vicious old bitch at its head. It never occurred to Louise that she was looking at another version of herself. The two women hated one another because, as Mickey had pointed out on many occasions, they were too alike to get on.

Though no one had yet had the guts to say that to either of them.

'So, I suppose it will all be dragged up again, won't it? The violent murders. The drink, drugs, whoring . . . It will give this lot round here grist to their mills for a while.'

Louise didn't answer the taunt. She dropped her eyes and concentrated on a small stain on the carpet, fighting an urge to swing back her arm and fell the woman sitting on her sofa. Instead she plastered on a smile and said gaily, 'The wedding will likely take the edge off the gossip anyway. You know, the murderess's sister marrying your only son.'

She saw the barb had hit home. Mickey was a mummy's boy and everyone knew it. But Lucy was well able for him and his mother once the marriage was a fact. They both fell silent, but the animosity in the room was almost tangible.
* * *

Marie watched the activity in the Spitalfields gym. It was eight-thirty in the morning and people were already there working up a sweat. She observed them from a small café opposite and marvelled at the women working so industriously to keep their bodies in shape for men. It was the same in prison; most women were only in there because of a man yet their one aim in life was to get out and get another as soon as possible. It had amazed her.

Marie was happy to be alone. She was an expert in it nowadays. As she sipped her coffee she kept an eye out for Pat Connor. The thought of facing him scared her, but she knew she had to. He owed her, owed her big time, and although she was wary of him there was no real fear of him any more. There was nothing he could do to her now, say to her now, that she hadn't done or said to herself.

One thing about prison, it made you mentally strong if nothing else.

He arrived at nine-thirty-five in a black BMW convertible. He looked good, but the old feelings she'd harboured for him were long gone. Once his body had drawn her like a beacon. He looked better these days, toned, well-dressed, but she knew what he really was now and he no longer attracted her.

She paid her bill, gasped at the thought that three cups of coffee had cost nearly six pounds, and as she crossed the road to the gym told herself she would have to walk back to the hostel because she was skint.

Marie gathered a few admiring glances despite her old clothes. She was a good-looking woman even without make-up or expensively styled hair. But she ignored them. She was on a mission and she was going to complete it. She was smiling as she walked into Pat's Gym.
* * *
Patrick Connor was sipping herbal tea and totting up his night's takings when Wednesday, his young secretary, told him a woman was outside insisting she wanted to see him.

'What's she like?'

The girl shrugged.

'Blonde, not bad-looking but scruffy . . .'

Before she could finish Marie had walked into the room.

'Hello, Pat. Long time no see, eh?'

She enjoyed seeing the fear in his eyes, and the greyness that was appearing underneath his chocolate-brown skin.

Wednesday looked from one to the other with obvious interest.

Pat sat down behind his executive desk. His legs felt weak.

'Goodbye, Wednesday.'

His voice had a note she had never heard in it before. She had seen her boss deal with violent drug dealers and bona fide faces. This woman was intriguing. Who was she that she could rattle Patrick Connor?

'Shall I bring through some coffee?'

The girl was smiling at Marie as she said it, evading Pat's eye.

Marie nodded in a friendly way.

'That would be lovely, thank you.'

Alone she and Pat looked at one another for long moments. He broke the silence as Marie knew he would. It was a knack she had developed in prison. Quietness scared people, she'd found. If you waited long enough they would speak first and it gave you the upper hand. And with Pat, you needed that edge. He would lie about what he'd had for breakfast, couldn't help it, it was part of his make-up.

'You look well, Marie. How's things?'

It was lame, they both knew it was lame, and it made Marie smile. That changed her face and she saw him relax.

'How do you think I am, Pat? I'm confused, scared, but most importantly, keen to know about me kids.'

Pat stared at her. She knew his mind was crunching like a 1950s gearbox.

'Have you seen them at all? Have you kept in contact with our son? That's all I want to know, Pat.'

He was biting his top lip, a nervous action she remembered from years gone by. Then his mobile rang. It was a loud tune, Bob Marley's 'No Woman, No Cry'. It seemed appropriate to them both and he stared at it, then at Marie, who grinned.

'Clever. Never seen one close up before. One of the women on my wing had one, a PO smuggled it in for her, but I never actually saw it meself. They turned her cell over and that was that. Four days on the block for wanting to phone her daughter. But then, unlike me, she had a number for her, an address. She actually saw her child.'

Pat wiped one large hand across his face.

'What you want, Marie?'

'Don't try your Jamaican accent on me! You never left London all your life. I heard through the grapevine you was finding your roots - well, save it for the silly little birds who are interested in it. Where's me kids?'

'How the fucking hell would I know that?'

She looked into his piercing blue eyes and sighed.

'You never bothered with your own son, is that what you're telling me?'

He couldn't look her in the eye but stared at his hands instead. He was ashamed and they both knew it. Annoyed, Pat tried to justify himself.

'I didn't need this shit, Marie. I was having enough trouble keeping meself . . .'

She sat quietly staring at him as he attempted to dismiss twelve years of neglect. With that accusing stare levelled on him he tried, unsuccessfully, to excuse what he had done.

'What good would I have been to him, eh? Think about it. I wouldn't have been able to take care of him, would I? I mean, think about it, what would I do with a kid?'

She was shaking her head in despair.

'So he didn't have either of us then. What about Tiffany, have you seen her?'

Patrick was quiet for a moment.

'No. Why would I? She wasn't mine, was she?' he said at length.

It was what she'd expected.

He opened the desk drawer and took out a bundle of money, twenties and tens, all rolled up with an elastic band around them.

'Here you are, girl. I was gonna give you something anyway, get you on your feet, like.'

Wednesday came in with the tray of coffee. Marie brushed past her and walked from the room. Pat's mobile rang again and the tune brought back more painful memories. It made her think of blues in Brixton, walking along the Railton Road looking for a dealer. Standing around half-naked in the freezing cold, staring into car windows and smiling at strange men. Brought back the salty smell of sex and the uncomfortable feeling of being fucked unceremoniously in the back seat of cars. New cars, old cars. Cars that had kids' toys in the back, or a briefcase. Cars that said so much about their owners' lives, if they only knew it.

It made her aware once more of the wasted years she had spent in prison until in a strange way they brought her salvation.

She still wanted to cry for her little boy, left without a father and a mother. Unlike her daughter Jason had known who his father was, had had a sort of relationship with him. He must have been terrified going into care, being alone with no one to look out for him. And you read such stories in the papers . . . kids being abused, left unloved, starved, beaten.

'Are you all right, love?'

Marie looked into the old lady's face and nodded.

She realised she was standing in the middle of the street oblivious to passers-by and traffic. The pain in her heart was tangible. It felt like a hand was gripping it tightly. She thought she was going to faint.

She could still see the kids' faces looking at her with big expressive eyes on that last day in court. Could still smell their hair as she'd hugged them close. A year on remand had cleaned her up, made her realise what she was missing out on all those years she was drugged out of her brains.

It had been too late then and it was too late now.

She began the long walk back to the hostel, the cold air cutting into her lungs. She didn't want anything from Pat, especially not money he had made off young girls and women. That money was tainted with tragedy and shame. She could do without it.
* * *
'Who was she then, Pat?'

Wednesday's nasal voice was getting on his nerves.

'Why don't you mind your own fucking business for once?'

Wednesday was miffed and it showed.

'I was only asking!'

She stormed from the room, her tight little ass wiggling for all it was worth. Pat was oblivious. He knew that Marie was going to bring trouble, big trouble, and wasn't sure how he could stop it. If she knew the full SP, would she kill him?

He had a feeling she was capable of it for all her newfound calm. She was always a funny one, was Marie. Could pick an argument with her own fingernails if the mood was on her.

And he had tucked her up big time.

He realised that much, just wondered how long it would be before she got wind of the whole situation and what would be the upshot then.
* * *
Tiffany smiled at her daughter's little face. Anastasia really was a very pretty child, all wide eyes and crinkly black hair. She was light-skinned, very light-skinned. If her hair was relaxed she could pass for Greek or Italian.

Tiffany loved her with a passion that had surprised her. She wondered if her own mother had ever felt like that about her, but doubted it.

Tiffany would kill for her child. Her mother had killed for a fix.

A knock at the front door sent her leaping from her chair. She was smiling widely as she opened it.

'All right, mate?'

Patrick smiled into the girl's eyes. She was just how he liked them: skinny, adoring and malleable. He wondered if the fact that she was Marie's daughter added to her attraction. Sometimes she frowned and it was like looking at Marie again. Tiffany didn't have her mother's stunning looks, or her lush body at the same age, but she had the look of her.

That innocent look that belied the fact they would fuck anything for a few quid. Well, Tiffany wasn't that bad yet, but he was working on it.

'I talked to me mate. He says you can audition for him tomorrow night. It's the Aida Club by Tobacco Dock. Wear a schoolgirl's uniform, he's a right fucking perve.'

'It is a lap dancing club, ain't it?'

Tiffany's voice was heavy with sarcasm.

'Of course it is, but the girls always come out in costume like, then someone pays for it to be removed. It's good money, Tiff, I promise.'

Anastasia put her hands on Patrick's trousers and he jumped as if he had been burnt. The little girl was upset and Tiffany picked her up gently.

'For crying out loud, Pat, she was only touching you.'

'These trousers cost me over three hundred quid and I'm not about to have them covered in her old crap.'

He could see the confusion on Tiffany's face as she stared at him and it reminded him of her mother's expression when she had sat in his office earlier that day. Anastasia looked from one to the other, her face a picture of puzzled innocence as she felt the tension between them.

Tiffany felt the familiar sinking of her heart as she watched father and daughter survey one another.

'She is your child, Pat . . .'

He took a deep breath and sighed.

'Look, Tiff, I have seven kids to my knowledge and I love them all, your brother included. But I ain't the hands-on type, you know that. I give you money and I see you both all right but I have never connected with any of them.'

Tiffany knew he was telling her the truth but all the same it galled her. He was the only man she had ever been with and he had pursued her. Christ, had he pursued her. Always taking her out, giving her things, and then she was pregnant. Like her mother before her she soon found out that Patrick Connor was not only unreliable but downright cold and callous. At six months old Anastasia had been taken to hospital and Tiffany had rung and rung his mobile to no avail.

She knew he was with someone else and it hurt her, hurt her so much she had felt an actual physical pain, but there was something about him that held her to him though she didn't know for the life of her what that was. But once his arms went around her she was his. No matter what he had done.

He was Pat, and he was a law unto himself, and if you wanted to keep within his orbit you learned that lesson fast.

He had arrived home a few days after Anastasia was discharged, made a fuss of Tiffany and the baby, and she had forgiven him.

But it had hurt, hurt her deeply.

Now she was aware that her days with him were numbered. He was into youth, extreme youth. He needed little girls with no brain and no idea about the real world. She was getting into the lap dancing club because she knew deep inside that soon she would be the sole breadwinner for her daughter, and also that what she wanted for her child was going to take money, real money, to achieve. Anastasia would have the life she had wanted for herself, all those lonely nights spent in the children's home and later in foster care.

Anastasia was going to get everything, Tiffany was going to see to it personally. She might look a bit like her own mother but that was where the similarity ended. Her child was her world and she would do anything for her.

It was a promise she was to keep but the price was to be far higher than she'd expected.

Patrick was already walking towards the door. She watched him sadly. He was annoyed and it showed. Now he would walk out on her for a few days because she had had the nerve to make a remark.

'Have you seen me mum yet?'

Even as she said it she was telling herself to shut up, not to antagonise him further, but she couldn't help it.

'She's been round to Carole's so she's obviously on the prowl.'

Patrick looked at her coldly.

'If I see her I'll offer her her old job back. I like to keep things in the family - or haven't you noticed that yet?'

As the front door slammed behind him Anastasia whimpered and Tiffany felt the old longing for him return. She felt an urge to run to the door and beg him not to leave her for days on end as he usually did, but she fought it. Instead she hugged her little daughter close and wondered if her school uniform was still in the top cupboard in the bedroom. Once she was financially secure she would feel better able to cope with Patrick Connor and his mood swings.

But at times like this she felt so very, very lonely. He was all the family she had ever really known.
* * *
As Pat pulled up outside Sonny Lee's flat he was fuming inside. Tiffany had the knack of making him feel guilty; her mother had had the same way about her. Anastasia meant literally nothing to him. Oh, he liked showing her off to his mates when she was dressed up and looking cute, but the actual everyday care of kids, especially little kids, pissed him off.

Sometimes he wondered why he let women have his babies, it changed them inside. A lot of them changed on the outside as well - stretch marks and flab being just a few of the things he hated about some of his exes. Still, the punters didn't give a toss and that was the main thing. All his kids' mothers were on the game, and soon he knew Tiff would be just like them. She had a shock coming to her at that club and he was intrigued to see how she would handle it.

Before he rang the buzzer of Sonny's flat he checked inside his sports bag. He had two hand guns and a large bag of cocaine. Pat liked Sonny; he was an earner and was also sound. Would keep his mouth shut if he was caught and do his time without too much trouble. Young men today opened their traps to their briefs before they were even charged. It was laughable. Big men on the streets and little boys in the filth shop if they thought they had a good capture.

Winning Patrick's trust took time and effort and Sonny had come up trumps for him more than once. As he buzzed for entry Pat was smiling again.

Sonny's flat was smart, all black leather and cream walls, completely at odds with his appearance. He looked like a walking flag of Ethiopia, Jamaican through and through. In fact Sonny was a Brixton boy, had never even been to Jamaica, but that didn't bother him too much. His mother was white, a school teacher, his father an African businessman with the gift of the gab. Sonny had never met him, nor had his mother seen him again after their three-week fling.

Now Sonny was playing with his dreadlocks and smoking a large joint. His permanent grin was in place and he gave off the sweet odour of grass and sweat. He was a plastic Rasta, Jamaican when it suited him, like Connor.

'That fucking skunk stinks!'

Pat was waving his hands in front of his face in mock horror.

'It's the plants in the bedroom. Fuck me, the electric bill is like the National Debt!'

Both men laughed.

'Can you smell it outside, Patrick?'

He shook his head.

'Nah. Are they nearly ready?'

'A few days, that's all, then we can harvest. Have you got the stuff?'

Pat nodded as he was given an ice-cold Bud.

'Tell Devlin if he fucking shoots anyone with that gun it's a serious drink, right? He knows that, don't he?'

Sonny nodded, his grin wider than usual.

'I think he wants to shoot Dicky Tranter with it. I know they've had a fucking big tear up over money. Dicky is a cunt to himself. He always has to have a touch, it's in his nature.'

Pat sighed and dropped on to the black leather sofa.

'Dicky has been asking for a serious word for a while. He was the same at school, a prat to himself. Have you got me money?'

Sonny was weighing a gun in his hand and smiling.

'You ever shot anyone, Patrick?'

His voice was genuinely interested.

Patrick laughed.

'As I said to Old Bill not six weeks ago, Sonny, that's for me to know and you to find out!'

'You're a bad man and no mistake. How's that little woman of yours?'

Sonny realised he had said the wrong thing from Patrick's expression but pressed on.

'Still giving you hag? Listen, you ain't had hag till you lived with my old woman. Liselle could aggravate Jah himself when she gets going.'

'Where is she?'

'Over Lakeside with her sister. I thank God every day for that place. It is the easiest place for shoplifting in the country, she reckons - and she should know, she's done them all.'

'She still skanking?'

'It's in her blood, innit? She can't help it.'

Pat laughed.

'Usual rates for the guns and the sniff. There's a good few cuts in there so you should do a nice bit on top for yourself, OK?'

Sonny nodded.

'Can you deliver some rocks for Irie?' he asked. 'He's selling out like mad. I had to chase him for the money. I think he smokes most of them himself.'

'Jimmy has a new cook and I'm going to try him out. But tell Irie that if I hear any more about him then he is rowed out once and for all, right? Tell him he'll disappear like Wilson and I will see to it personally, OK?' Patrick still looked calm and relaxed. Sonny wasn't smiling now.

It was the first time that Pat had ever given an inkling that he knew what had happened to Tony Wilson, and it shocked Sonny. Word on the street had put Patrick's face in the frame and so did Old Bill, but so far it had only been speculation. Patrick Connor was harder than most people realised. Sonny knew that, had always known it.

If he was branching out again Sonny wanted part of it, but not if it meant a large lump of bird. He had already done one stretch and wasn't inclined to do another, especially not for Patrick Connor.

'You largeing it up, Pat?'

Sonny's voice was jocular.

Patrick looked at him with piercing blue eyes.

'You'll have to wait and see, won't you, Sonny?'


Chapter Three


Lucy was at work. She hated her job but she liked the money. The other girls were all a good laugh and she enjoyed her days there. But her new supervisor, Karen Black, was giving her grief. As luck would have it she was a cousin of Bethany Jones, the same Bethany Jones who had been beaten to death by Marie. Unlike Lucy's own family, Karen hadn't had a problem with her cousin being on the game. In fact, she always pointed out that Bethany had sold her arse for her kids, making her cousin sound almost saint-like in her maternal devotion, though in fairness to Bethany she had been a good mother to all intents and purposes.

Now Marie was out and it was common knowledge, old enmities had flared back into life and going to work was almost a torture.

Lucy had liked Bethany, she had been a naturally up person, always joking and laughing. Marie had loved her.

But then Marie had also killed her.

As Lucy placed her coat in her locker, Karen was waiting as usual these days. She was big all over, all double chins and flabby belly. As she walked her legs seemed to meet at the knees from the weight and she looked as if she was going to drop to the floor at any moment. Her hair was permed, badly, and her teeth were yellowing. She always had a smell about her, a mixture of cigarettes and cats. As she leant on the lockers she looked like a grotesque parody of a good-time girl, though considering her cousin's sad demise Lucy felt it might not be diplomatic to mention this fact.

Puffing deep on a Raffles cigarette, Karen blew the smoke into Lucy's face. It was a heavy stream, blown with gusto, and she closed her eyes tightly at the onslaught.

'Seen your sister lately?'

Lucy sighed heavily.

'No. And before you ask, Karen, I won't be seeing her. I loathe her, can't you understand that? I know what she did, and I hate her for it. I liked Bethany. So why you keep wanting to hassle me, I really don't know. But if makes you feel better then go for it.'

As she went to pass Karen a heavy push knocked her backwards. Lucy was shocked by the force of the attack and it showed on her face. The hand holding the cigarette was raised and for a split second Lucy thought Karen was going to stub it out on her face; she was capable of it. Instead she poked it towards her victim menacingly as she spoke.

'You tell your sister I am going to smash her fucking face in, right? Tell your mum and your dad, too, and make sure Marie gets the message. I ain't scared of her. I ain't scared of no one. You remember that. Bethany's kids are without her while your sister is walking round with normal people, having a life. Well, I will see that she pays properly for what she did.'

Lucy could feel terror welling up inside her.

'I hope you do find her, Karen. If I find out where she is, I'll let you know, OK?'

Karen smiled then.

'But you can find out where she is, can't you? Being her sister, like.'

Lucy realised then exactly what Karen wanted. She wanted to set her sister up for a beating, and knowing Karen, a serious one.

'How am I supposed to do that?'

'You ring the parole board, probation, whatever, and tell them you want to meet her. I'll take it from there.'

'You want me to set Marie up? Blatantly set her up?' Lucy's voice was incredulous. 'That's a nicking for the lot of us, you included.'

Karen saw the logic of what she was saying.

'I suppose I can find out where she is and let you know without setting up any meeting. What you do after that is your business,' Lucy said slowly.

Karen grinned.

'Fancy a cuppa?'

Her fierce expression was changing by the second. Now she had what she wanted she was her old amiable self again. As they walked to the canteen Karen grabbed Lucy tightly in a head lock. The stench was overpowering. It was a jokey gesture outwardly but was Karen's way of letting her know who was the stronger. The message was heard loud and clear.

Lucy would happily set her sister up for a bit of righteous retribution if it kept Karen Black off her own back for the foreseeable future.

* * *
Mrs Harper was a trial but Kevin felt he was well able for her. He was building a small extension on to her kitchen and it felt like he was undertaking the construction of the Sistine Chapel. Her Irish accent grated on him now. This was the longest job in recorded history. Or at least it felt like it anyway.

'Do you think I should move the sink at all?'

Kevin sighed.

'The sink is better off at the window. Give you a bit of a view when you're washing up, eh?'

He smiled as he looked out over her twenty-three-foot garden and into the home that backed on to it.

'But won't I have the dishwasher?'

Kevin looked at the ceiling and took a deep breath.

'You will still use the sink, though, won't you?'

Silently he cursed her, as he cursed his wife and everyone he could think of. It was nearly time to go home and he couldn't wait. It was Thursday and that meant steak and eggs, his favourite meal of the week. With thick bread and butter it slipped down a treat.

But along with the food he would have Louise's whining and never-ending saga of Marie and what she might do, could already have done or might be considering doing in the future. It was driving him mad. As much as he loved his daughter and he did, though he could only admit that in the privacy of his own thoughts, her release had opened up a real can of worms. But for all the upset, he was glad she was out.

The thought of her locked up all those years had preyed on his mind. Every Christmas had been like a knife in his ribs as he wondered what she was doing, if she was enjoying herself. As they had sat down to dinner he had wondered what she was eating. Did she get any cards, gifts, whatever?

Although what she had done was terrible, she was still a person, still his daughter, and she had been a drug addict. That was something everyone conveniently forgot. Marie was so out of it in those days she didn't know the day of the week most of the time. He remembered how she would prowl the streets looking for a dealer. It was an illness, whatever people wanted to think. But it was a self-inflicted illness.

He began to get his tools together and heard a theatrical sigh from Mrs Harper. Well, she could go and boil her shite. He had had enough for one day. Ten minutes later he was sinking a large brandy in the pub.

Cissy Wellbeck walked over to him and he forced himself to smile. She was all right, was Cissy, but he wasn't in the mood for her at the moment.

'Can I have a word in private, like?'

He nodded, had no choice. If Cissy wanted to talk to him she would.

'Marie was down the market today.'

The words had the effect of a bucket of cold water thrown over him. At least Cissy had dropped her voice. Usually she sounded like a fog horn.

'So?'

He didn't know what else to say to her. Louise would have been well able with a put-down, but it wasn't his style.

Cissy poked her large moon face at him.

'Look, Kev, I ain't trying to add to your burdens but Marie is not exactly flavour of the month round here. You know that without me having to spell it out. All I'm saying is, have a word with her. There are still a lot of people who feel she ain't paid the right price for what she did. Personally I think they were all as bad as one another. Accidents waiting to happen, the three of them. But she's taking a big risk showing her boatrace round the market. Caroline's mother still has a stall there and if she sees her . . .'

Cissy left the rest of the sentence unspoken.

'What do you want me to do?'

'Have a word.'

He smiled grimly.

'I can't have a word, as you put it. We fucked her off out of it. We don't even know where she is.'

Cissy shrugged.

'Fair enough. I'll keep it to meself, but others must have recognised her too.'

'Well, if they did that's their problem, ain't it?'

Cissy looked into his eyes and felt sad for the man before her. She could see the misery inside him. Knew that Marie had been his favourite. She had been a good kid, old Marie. But the drugs had taken their toll, as drugs and drink are wont to do. Whether alcohol or smack, eventually it destroys whoever is involved with it.

'It's no good getting the fuck with me, Kevin. I'm only trying to avert a disaster. I knew it was pointless talking to Lou about it, so I thought I would mention it to you.'

He gripped her arm gently.

'I'm sorry, Cissy. But since she's been released it's brought it all back, you know?'

She nodded.

'I know, mate. I know. But if she wants lynching, she's come to the right place. Too many long memories here. You know that as well as I do.'

He watched her walk away. She wasn't a bad old stick really. Lou hated her even though she spoke to her. But if Marie was back in the area his wife was going to go berserk. Maybe he should visit his daughter. Put her wise, like. Without Louise knowing, of course.

It was a good idea. It would give him a bona fide reason to see Marie, and if Lou found out he could always say he went to see Marie for her. To stop Lou getting grief. To stop Marie going to the market and stirring up trouble.

He knew he was a coward, but with Lou being like she was it was the only way he could see his child.

And he wanted to see her desperately.
* * *
Marie listened with half an ear to the woman at the Job Centre. She had heard it all before, she knew better than anyone that the chances of her getting a real job were nil, but she went through with the charade anyway.

It had taken her four years to go from A-category, lockup, to D-category, open prison, and then another year before she had been able to hit the pavement. Her life had been decided by a panel of police and probation officers and social workers. People she knew would be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life. If she changed jobs, they had to know. If she moved, they had to be told. If she shat more than twice in one day . . . She could not even get into an argument like normal people. If she caused any kind of disturbance she was back inside and forced to finish her sentence. Even an unpaid parking ticket could get her locked up for years.

She forced the thoughts from her mind but it was wearing, this constant vigilance. Keeping your natural reactions under close check. She daren't even argue with anyone because then she could be straight back inside, and maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

Now she was out she could see that her real climb back to normal living was going to be harder than anything she had ever accomplished before. But she listened politely because it made life easier. That was the first thing she had learned twelve years ago. Listen, and listen, and listen. Whether it was to a screw, the Governor, or another prisoner. Keep a still tongue and smile or frown as required. It made life much easier in the long run.

She was brought back to the present by the bombshell dropped by the woman sitting opposite her.

'Mr Jarvis is willing to give you a go. He knows your history, remembers reading about it, and he knows also that he is getting you and your skills cheap. But beggars can't be choosers, eh?'

Marie forced herself to smile politely, but the urge to tell this woman what to do with her job and her condescending attitude was almost overwhelming.

The woman handed her a piece of paper with an address in East London.

'He wants someone to do the wages and generally run his office for him. I think you will be more than up to it but he won't pay you very well. Five pounds an hour max.'

Five minutes later Marie was walking along a busy road and pondering what the woman had said.

It was a job and she needed one. Needed something to fill in the time which was lying heavy on her hands. It was in an office, which she wanted. Factory work was too personal. People in factories knew each other's lives intimately, and camaraderie and back biting didn't really appeal to her. No, a small office would do for her, and Mr Jarvis had a small office by all accounts.

As Marie jumped on a bus she felt lighter than she had for a long while, for all she knew she could earn more in a few hours back in her old life than she would in a week with Mr Jarvis.

But that was in the past, when money had been the be-all and end-all of her existence. Money for skag, brown, shit, whatever epithet you wanted to put on heroin. She was assailed once more with fractured memories of strange men, strange cars, and the sickly smell of unwashed male bodies. She went quiet inside as she had taught herself to do when such memories flooded her being.

That was the past. What she needed to get herself was a future.
* * *
Tiffany was dressed and ready to go when the doorbell rang. It was Carole Halter and her sidekick Mary Bragg. She let them in and made them a quick coffee.

'Where's Anastasia?'

'Me mate's got her till the morning. I'm off on a job interview.'

The two women looked at her in the skimpy school uniform and smiled.

'You look about twelve in that!'

Tiffany grinned.

'I ain't got me make-up on yet, and I will have to blow soon. What do you want?'

Carole blew out her lips, making a raspberry sound.

'Could you borrow me a ton? Just till the weekend, like.'

'Look, Carole, if I had it I'd give it to you, but I really ain't got it.'

Carole looked deflated, all her good humour leaving her in an instant. She shook her head sorrowfully.

'All I done for you . . .'

Tiffany had heard it before, but she didn't interrupt the woman.

'I didn't tell your mum where you were. I lied for you. Lied through me teeth to me oldest mate for you. Told her no one knew where you were. I lied to a murderer for you, and you can't see your way clear to lending me a few quid.'

The whine in the older woman's voice was annoying and unnecessary.

'I ain't got it . . .'

Carole stood up as if to leave.

'Well, if you ain't got it . . .'

'I can let you have thirty quid, but that's all I've got. I'll leave meself short.'

As she said it Tiffany cursed herself. She would have to get the fucking bus in a school uniform now. Or try and borrow some dosh herself.

But Carole was her only link with the past and she needed that sometimes. Though why, she wasn't sure. Maybe it was true, the old saying that blood was thicker than water. She still wanted to feel that her mother was close by even if she didn't actually want to see her in the flesh, and over the years Marie's old pal Carole had provided that contact with the past Tiffany seemed to crave. As she handed over the money she knew she wouldn't see Carole for a few weeks. She never did when she was owed money. Carole was scum with a capital S. But she had been there for Tiffany when she was younger and she owed her for that much at least.

When they had gone she went into Anastasia's room and opened the little girl's piggy bank. As she emptied it she felt shame wash over her like a blanket of sweaty heat.

But she would replace it, she would, and if she got this job it would be back before the weekend.

At least that's what she told herself.
* * *
Alan Jarvis surveyed the woman in front of him with a smile.

'Coffee . . . tea?'

Marie was so nervous she could hear her heartbeat.

'No, thank you.'

She sat down when he offered her a chair; noticed that he watched as she crossed her legs.

He was a good-looking man in his early fifties, tall and well-built if inclined to fat. She guessed he ate properly to stop himself piling it on. He had nice eyes, but was full-lipped which made him look as if he had sex on his mind constantly. Years ago she would have booked him as a good punter.

The thought made her tremble.

He could, to all intents and purposes, have been a punter.

That bothered her more now she was out than it had when she had been inside. To acknowledge that there had been a time in her life when the filthiest of old men would have been worth a trick to get a few quid preyed on her mind.

She had that same feeling now she had hated then. Receiving that once-over look men had always given her made her feel she was still the old Marie, the one who would do anything for money.

His office was a Portakabin full of pornographic calendars and the usual crap collected by men who had no real understanding of the female mind, let alone body. He was sad and he knew it and she knew.

The old Marie would have overlooked it all, done whatever he wanted for the cash. Not the new one. The new improved version, like the washing-powder adverts claimed, was stain-free these days. But it took just one look to bring all the shame and humiliation right back.

'I understand you want the wages and PAYE doing. What else is in the job description?'

He smiled again, a lascivious smile that made him look ridiculous.

'What else do you want to do, love?'

She stared at him with cold blue eyes. Quiet again, she knew that eventually she would unnerve him. She carried on staring at him and saw confusion first and then embarrassment in his eyes again.

'Let's start again, shall we?'

She didn't answer him, just raised one eyebrow a fraction.

He pretended to read her CV this time.

'I see you have a degree in English literature.'

He glanced up at her as he spoke and she nodded.

'For all the good it will do me. But it made the time pass. Reading is a big hobby in prison, as I am sure you appreciate.'

Mentioning prison first was a good gambit for her and she realised it immediately.

'Long time, I understand?'

'Nearly thirteen years including remand. I was cat-A, locked up, and eventually went down cats until I was allowed out. Now here I am, in your office, looking for a job. Time is a funny thing, Mr Jarvis. You think it will never pass but it does. And the next thing you know, a whole new life is opening up before you.'

It was the right thing to say.

He looked ashamed and also relieved that she had put her cards on the table. She knew it had suddenly occurred to him that he was trying to banter with a woman who had already killed twice.

She smiled and the expression completely changed her face.

'Look, Mr Jarvis, you know what I was imprisoned for - it was a nine-days wonder at the time. But if you give me this job I will work hard for you and can promise I will do whatever is necessary to keep this office running smoothly. I am over-qualified for this job, but as the woman at the Job Centre pointed out, beggars can't be choosers.'

'Do you know anything about the scrap metal business?'

Marie grinned.

'No, sir. But I am willing to learn.'

He looked into her open face, remembering the photos of her in the papers. The Sun had said she was a murderer with the face of an angel, and they were right for once. She had the blonde good looks that many women envied. She had a good bone structure and with the right clothes could be a stunner.

He knew that her novelty value would go a long way in his line of work. Most of the people who needed his services were faces, villains, etc. He had a feeling she would fit right in once she got over her nerves.

'When can you start?'

'How about tomorrow?'

She looked around the scruffy little room and then gazed at him in a friendly way. 'I'll bring cleaning stuff, shall I?'

He nodded, amazed to find that he actually liked her. She was far stronger than most people would be in her position.

Yes, he liked her a lot - and that was not something he'd ever have expected to say of a murderess.
* * *
Joey Carr was big, fat and ugly. His mother had once remarked that at his birth the midwife had slapped his face instead of his arse. Joey had thought this hilarious and repeated the story to friends and enemies alike.

He was a self-made man with no scruples, no feelings and no morals. His clubs were seedy dives for seedy people and he understood that fact and revelled in it. He drove a gold Rolls-Royce, had enough diamond rings on his pudgy fingers to keep a family in luxury for a year, and wasn't the greatest at personal hygiene.

He took one look at Tiffany in her school uniform and thick make-up and grinned widely. She was just his cup of tea: young, scared and desperate to make some money.

'Tiffany, ain't it?'

He had a gravelly voice from the fat Churchill cigars he smoked constantly. They had made his teeth brown and his breath stink. Again, not things that bothered him. He bought company and knew that if the price was right he could buy any female company he wanted.

This girl was about to put out for a job even if she didn't realise it yet.

'Show me your tits, love.'

'Eh?'

Tiffany was shocked at the barefaced cheek of the remark.

'Show me your tits. I need to see what the punters will see, don't I?'

She undid her blouse slowly.

'Pop them out of the bra. You'll be naked round the pole, love, so I need to see the goods properly. If you have stretch marks we have professional cover-up you can buy at trade price, OK? I know you have a kiddie.'

He was so matter-of-fact it made Tiffany relax a bit. He was only doing his job. Eventually she was naked before him. His office was cold and her whole body was shivering as she stood there.

He walked around her as if she was a horse he was going to buy. She half expected him to look at her teeth. She put her mind on auto-pilot and concentrated on the office around her. It was lovely, all mahogany desk and thick pile carpet. He obviously liked his comforts.

As his hands squeezed her breasts she closed her eyes.

'You'll do. A bit on the scrawny side, but the older men like that. You are over sixteen?'

'Of course!'

'Well, that cunt Patrick brings me babes in arms sometimes. Fucking jail bait!'

She ignored what he was saying. She really didn't want to know. He sat at his desk and surveyed her.

'You could earn in excess of three hundred a night dancing from seven-thirty till two-thirty in the morning. You can earn more. I take twenty per cent and for that the bouncers keep the beady on you in case you have hag, whatever. As the drink flows, the abuse grows. One of the girls coined that phrase and it's true. So be prepared. Now then, do you want the job?'

She nodded hesitantly and smiled. Over a grand a week! What she couldn't do with that.

He started to undo his trousers and she watched him in amazement. He was already erect. She looked into his little piggy eyes.

'Well, come on then, it's fucking freezing in here. You do this as and when I request it as part of the deal, OK? It gets you the front tables, the real earning tables, so get your laughing gear round that and stop playing the wilting fucking virgin.'

Tiffany hesitated and he began to replace his member in his pants.

'Fair enough, love. But in excess of a grand a week is sitting here and you should think long and hard about that.'

She walked over to him and dropped down on to her knees. She just prayed she wouldn't throw up all over his nice carpet.

This was for her daughter, for her child.

It was the same thing her mother had told herself many years before, though Tiffany didn't know that.

Ten minutes later he gave her a glass of brandy. The burning sensation was worth it. Someone had once told her that alcohol was like bleach, it killed bugs and germs. She hoped it was true.

Tiffany couldn't bring herself to kiss her daughter for days afterwards, but it was for a thousand quid a week. It was worth it in the long run.

At least, that's what she repeatedly told herself.
* * *
Marie answered the knock on her door warily. It was Amanda Stirling. She carried a half-bottle of white wine and two glasses. She also held a large brown paper bag.

'Congratulations. You got a job!'

She was genuinely pleased the first big hurdle was over and it showed. She unscrewed the wine and poured it out. As she passed a glass to Marie she saw the confusion in her face.

'I ain't had alcohol for years. Even inside I never bothered with the home-made.' She didn't take the glass. 'Do you mind if I pass on this? I was an addict and that means I'm addicted to any kind of stimulant or drug. Especially alcohol.'

Amanda felt bad to have put her on the spot but she smiled.

'Sure. I brought these for you.'

She placed the brown paper bag on the bed. Inside were two black tailored suits. They were newish and smart. Marie was overwhelmed.

'Just what I needed. I was wondering what the hell I was supposed to wear to work. I guessed I would need new stuff.'

'Well, I hope they fit. I put them aside when they came in as I thought they'd be ideal for you.'

Marie was overcome with emotion. The kind act made her feel like breaking down and sobbing her heart out. It was so long since anyone had thought of her expressly it overwhelmed her.

'I can't thank you enough.'

'You'll have to get shoes, of course, but I think we have enough in the kitty to provide them. A couple of blouses and some tights and you should be OK for a while.'

'I was going to go to Romford when I got paid and look round. I need a coat, a proper coat.'

'A bit of make-up and you'll look a million dollars.'

'I don't need make-up.'

'True. What I wouldn't give for your skin and eyes.'

Marie was shaking her head in embarrassment.

'I didn't mean it that way . . .'

Amanda laughed gently.

'I know! I was only joking. But you are a very attractive woman.'

'For all the good it's ever done me.'

The two women looked at each other for long moments.

'This is a new life, Marie, and you have to embrace it. Leave the past right where it is - in the past.'

'I'm trying but it's hard.'

A little while later Marie was wearing one of the suits. It fitted like a glove and she knew she looked good in it. Her eyes strayed to the glass of wine Amanda had left on the bedside table. She picked it up and smelled it.

The aroma was tart. It was cheap wine and she remembered drinking stuff just like this as a forerunner to going out when she was a girl. Carole and she would drink a litre of cheap Liebfraumilch to get them in the mood for the night's events. They had to be out of their heads to enjoy themselves then. Drink made them lose their inhibitions, made them relax. She remembered the feeling as if it was yesterday.

The temptation to take a sip of wine was strong. But she knew that one sip would lead to one glass and that in turn would lead to one bottle. She poured it down the sink and washed the glass out, then she went back and tried on the other suit.

She felt good about herself. Better than she had in a long time. She could handle Alan Jarvis. She would keep the job and get a life. For the first time that seemed a possibility.

When she finally went to bed she slept like a baby. The usual dreams and worries were put on hold for a while.

She had made a start. Now she would take one step at a time.
* * *
Tiffany was drunker than she had ever been in her life and she knew it. She had tracked Pat down to the gym and now he was looking at her as if he didn't know her.

The gym was closed, they were in his office. She started to strip off and he stopped her.

'Leave it out, Tiff. I'm knackered. I have an appointment in a while anyway.'

'You bastard! Who you going to see this time of night? A fucking bird, that's who.'

'So what if I am?' In a parody of a black woman's voice, holding up his hand he cried, 'I don't see no ring on my finger, baby.'

Tiffany knew she was defeated, inside her drink-fuddled mind she knew it, but reason was tossed aside.

'If you go to another bird then we are finished, right?'

It sounded childish even in her own ears.

'Fair enough. Goodbye, Tiff.'

He was hard, so hard, and he loved it.

'Give me some money.'

'Bollocks! You want to be Miss Independent, you get your own money.'

'I need a cab. I need to get home to our child.'

Pat laughed.

'You make me fucking die. You really think you are something else, don't you? Why do you think I got you that job, Tiff? It was to get shot of you, my love. I knew you were just like your mother, that you'd blow that fat cunt for the money. It's in the blood, love. Enjoy it, did you?'

Somehow Tiffany had believed Patrick would never find out what she had done. It had never occurred to her that he could have set her up for the night's events. She felt suddenly sick, her stomach rebelling at the alcohol and the unpalatable truth. She walked unsteadily from the room.

Outside in the street the cold hit her and she pulled her coat tighter around her. Then the tears came, maudlin tears because she felt so sorry for herself. A little later she heard Pat's BMW. He passed her by without a second glance.

As drunk as she was, she'd learned a valuable lesson. She was alone with her daughter, and would always be alone. It was a sobering thought. She had crossed a boundary tonight and she knew it. But it was a boundary she would have to cross frequently to keep her head above water and give her child all the things she herself had never had.

Carole had once said that Pat had brought her mother to ruin. Finally it occurred to Tiffany that she might have been right about that. Because if he had treated her mother as he had just treated her, then it must be right.

Tiffany threw up in the gutter and it made her feel physically better at least. But the mental wounds would take a lot longer to heal.