Born Evil (3 page)

To her dismay, both lifts in the block were out of action, and by the time she’d walked down the thirteen flights of stairs she felt absolutely knackered.

The party was awful. The pub was a shit-hole, everyone was slaughtered and the DJ was a blind man. She’d have tried to enjoy it if only she could have had a drink, but standing in the corner on her own all night, with only a glass of Coke for company, wasn’t much fun. Billy had introduced her to everyone earlier. He’d even stood with her for the first hour, but now he was drunk and up at the bar with the lads.

Debbie found herself studying him. He looked really smart tonight. Like her, he was no oil painting. Billy was skinny and pale, with light brown hair and sharp features. Attractive in his own way, though. She loved his Glaswegian accent, it made her laugh, and he was always cool and self-assured.

‘It’s Debbie, isn’t it? Debbie Dawson?’

Swinging around to see who was talking to her, Debbie vaguely recognised the short lad with blond cropped hair, but couldn’t think where from.

‘Darren,’ he said, shaking her hand. ‘Darren Jackson. I was in your class at junior school.’

Once the penny had dropped the evening flew by for Debbie and she spent the rest of the night with him, discussing their classmates, teachers and old friends.

Billy stood at the bar, seething. Talk about making him look a prick in front of all his mates! With his blood at boiling point, he could stand it no more. Slamming his pint down on the bar, he walked over to where his slut of a bird and the blond-haired dwarf were standing.

‘Whaddya think you’re doing, you fucking slag?’

Terribly embarrassed, Debbie tried to smooth over the situation. ‘Stop mucking about, Billy. This is Darren. He’s an old school friend of mine.’

‘I couldnae give a fuck who the cunt is, we’re going home!’ Billy grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the packed pub.

As they walked back to the flat, Debbie felt more and more uneasy. Billy looked furious and hadn’t said another word.

‘Tell me what’s the matter, Bill? Has someone upset you?’ she asked him. When he still said nothing, she carried on, ‘Surely you’re not annoyed because I was talking to that bloke. He’s only someone I went to school with.’

Squeezing her arm fiercely, Billy pushed her ahead of him. ‘Get home, you slag. I’ll deal with you indoors.’

The nearer they got to the flat, the more worried Debbie became. She’d never seen him like this before and his behaviour was intimidating. With the lifts still out of action, Billy shoved her towards the staircase.

‘Get up them stairs, bitch!’

Coming down thirteen flights of stairs while pregnant had been bad enough, but going up was even worse. Unable to keep up with his pace, Debbie sat down on the landing on the eighth floor, panting for breath.

‘Please, stop pushing me, Bill. I need a rest … I can’t breathe.’

Billy grabbed her hair and pulled her to her feet. ‘You do as I say, you fucking whore! Get up them stairs,
now
.’

The look on his face told Debbie she had best do as he said. Petrified, she tried desperately to calm him down. She was frightened to go inside the flat with him in this state.

‘Billy, tell me what I’ve done? Please don’t be like this. I love you … why are you doing this to me?’

Ignoring her plea, Billy dragged Debbie into the flat and pushed her down on to the sofa. He put on a Simple Minds LP and turned it up full blast. He knew Debs was friendly with the neighbours and didn’t want the nosy bastards knowing his business. Then he walked into the kitchen, took a can of cider out of the fridge and gulped it down. Taking a deep breath, he ran towards Debbie who had started to get to her feet and pushed her back on to the sofa, using his full body weight to trap her there.

‘You acted like a slag tonight … making me look a cunt! If you ever, ever do that again, believe me, I’ll fucking kill ya!’

Not knowing how to handle the situation, Debbie loudly protested her innocence. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong, Bill. Honestly, he was an old school friend who …’

She got no further. Billy stood up, lifted his right foot and kicked her with such force between the legs that it brought tears to her eyes.

‘Nooooo, Billy, stop it! Why are you being like this?’ she screamed.

Billy snarled at her, ‘I can do exactly what I want, Debs, and do you know why?’

Debbie shook her head.

‘Because
that
is mine,’ Billy said, pointing at her crotch. ‘That also is mine,’ he said as he gestured towards her oversized stomach. ‘And, believe it or not, girl,
you
are mine. If I was you, I’d get that into your thick skull and start behaving appropriately.’

Debbie was stunned as Billy left the flat. She’d done nothing to deserve this treatment, absolutely nothing.

Lifting herself gingerly off the sofa, she staggered over to the record player. ‘Alive and Kicking’ was playing. After what had just happened to her, it was the last bloody song she needed to hear. At a loss as to what to do next, she climbed into bed. She was too frightened to knock at her neighbours’. If Billy came home and she wasn’t there, it would make the whole situation ten times worse.

Pulling the old blue blanket over her head, Debbie started to cry. She was desperately worried about the safety of the child she was carrying, and now knew that her mother and Perfect Peter had been right all along. Who was Billy McDaid? Tonight had proved she didn’t know him at all. Devastated, she cried herself to sleep.

Billy was at his mate Andy’s flat on the second floor. He’d calmed down by now, the cannabis and Strongbow had seen to that.

‘I’ve had it now, mate, I’m off to bed. You stay as long as you like, Bill,’ his friend told him.

As Andy left the room, Billy felt his anger return. It wasn’t Debbie who’d caused it this time, but memories of his childhood and the bastard cards he’d been dealt.

Billy McDaid was born in 1955, at home, in a slum in the back streets of Glasgow. Father unknown, Billy had spent his younger years watching a succession of uncles coming to and from the house. His mother barely spoke to him, and most of his time was spent with his brother Charlie, who was seven years older than himself.

Looking back, Billy must have been the only wean in Glasgow who actually looked forward to going to school. The teachers there were nice to him and showed him kindness, something he’d never known at home. When he was seven, his mum bought home a man called Uncle Colin. When he was nine, Uncle Colin came into his room one night, turned him on his front and shoved his penis up his arse.

‘This is our wee secret, Billy. One word to your mother and you’ll no’ see her or your brother again.’

The abuse carried on for years. Every time he was in the house alone with Uncle Colin, he was subjected to the man’s sexual depravity. By now his brother had left home and Billy hadn’t a soul in the world to talk to about his predicament.

At eleven years old, he could stand it no more. He told his teacher. Mrs McLintock informed the appropriate authorities, who then approached his mum. The social worker stood by and did nothing as his mother then beat him to a pulp.

‘You lying little bastard!’ she screamed accusingly.

A children’s home was the next stop for Billy. Hoping life would be better there, he behaved himself and tried his hardest. He needn’t have bothered. He ended up bullied and sexually abused there, too.

At sixteen he made contact with his brother Charlie and went to live with him. It was only then that he found out that Uncle Colin had subjected Charlie to the same abuse as himself.

The next couple of years were the happiest of Billy’s so far poxy life. He and his brother lived together, worked together and drank together. Billly felt that he had more or less recovered from his fucked up childhood; unfortunately, his brother felt differently.

Unable to deal with the guilt he felt for knowingly leaving his younger brother in the hands of a paedophile, Charlie began to experiment with heroin. The drug helped him forget what he’d done, but at the same time took a hold of him. He died three months later, of an overdose.

Overcome by grief, Billy went off the rails. He drank himself into oblivion and shagged everything in sight. Within six months, two girls claimed that they were carrying his children. Unprepared for fatherhood, Billy decided a fresh start was the best thing for him. He headed South and picked up work on a building site in Bow.

Hoping a change of scenery would make him forget the past, Billy worked his arse off and made new friends in the process. Sadly, as the years rolled by and he grew older, the past increasingly returned to haunt him. All his relationships seemed doomed. As soon as he got close to someone, all he could think about was his dead brother, and cuntsmouth Colin. He knew all the problems in his life were his mother’s fault. That’s why he hated women so much. Slags, they were, all of them. He didn’t trust ’em one little bit.

Billy finished his drink and spliff, stood up and brushed the ash off his suit. Debbie, though, was a good girl, different from all the other slags, and he was desperate to make things work with her. He loved her, she’d been the making of him, and he owed it to her to make a go of things, whatever it took.

Shutting Andy’s front door behind him, he took the stairs two by two. He was desperate by now to reach the thirteenth floor and put everything right again. Out of breath, he dashed into the bedroom.

‘I’m so sorry, Debs, really I am. I promise you, babe, I will never hurt you again. I swear on my life. Please believe me?’

Debbie saw the sincerity in his eyes as he crouched down beside the bed. The baby had been kicking her all night and seemed as strong as ever. The love she felt for her unborn child was worth forgiving its father for.

‘Just get into bed, Billy. You were well out of order earlier, but I’ll forgive you, just this once. If you ever do anything like that again, me and you are history.’

Later, unable to sleep, she lay wide-eyed as Billy snored. Tonight had been awful but Debbie wasn’t about to give up on him, not just yet. It was obvious now that Peter had been speaking the truth about Billy’s past. Well, she’d made her choice and it was up to her to deal with it. Going back to her mother’s, cap in hand, wasn’t an option. Debbie was stubborn as an ox and the thought of Perfect Peter telling her ‘I told you so’ was a non-starter.

The only thing she could do now was to think positive: hope and pray that what had happened tonight was a fluke, a one-off. Turning on to her side, Debbie willed herself to go to sleep. Her baby seemed to move about morning, noon and night. She was having a nightmare pregnancy and couldn’t wait for it to end.

Debbie wished more than anything that she could ring her mother, talk to her and ask her advice. Angrily, she wiped the tears from her cheeks. She knew she had to be strong. There was no other way.

Peter’s last words to her still echoed in her mind.

‘Life is full of choices, Deborah. People make their own beds, and if they choose the wrong one, they should bloody well learn to lie in it.’

MICKEY DAWSON PULLED UP
at the top of the cul-de-sac, turned the van around so he wouldn’t be seen, parked up and switched off the engine. Positioning the wing mirror so that he could clearly see his mother’s front door, he pulled down his baseball cap until it partially covered his eyes. Picking up his copy of the
Sun
, he prepared himself to wait, however long it took.

Ten weeks he’d been out of prison, ten fucking weeks, and he still hadn’t seen his mother or sister once, thanks to that jumped-up ponce they happened to be living with. Not wanting to cause them any grief, he’d decided against bowling up to the front door. He’d been itching to knock and give Peter a right-hander, just to wipe the supercilious look off his face, but he knew that in the long run it wasn’t the best way forward. Debbie would probably have laughed, but it certainly wouldn’t earn him any brownie points with his mother. This was why he’d decided to borrow his mate’s plumbing van and was now waiting for the dickhead to fuck off to work before he made his move.

As luck would have it, he didn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes later the front door opened, Peter appeared with a briefcase, jumped into his Ford Granada and sped off. Not wanting the nosy neighbours to see him, Mickey grabbed his phone. When he’d gone into nick, mobiles were unheard of and he’d purchased his first one only a couple of weeks ago. It was an absolute godsend, especially in his line of work. His mum’s phone was answered on the fifth ring. A lump came into his throat at the sound of her voice.

‘Mum, it’s me. I’m outside in a Watts’s Plumbing van. It’s parked on the corner. I really need to see you. Come out for a drive with me and then I’ll take you to lunch. Debs can come as well, if you like.’

June very nearly dropped the phone in shock. She didn’t receive many calls in the morning and certainly hadn’t been expecting this one. Part of her wanted to dash outside and envelop her beloved first-born in her arms, but she was too worried about Peter finding out to go with her instincts.

‘Oh, Mickey, what are you doing outside? I’m not even dressed. What if somebody recognises you?’

‘Don’t start worrying, Mum, I’m in disguise. No one is gonna know who I am. Just put your glad rags on and get your arse out here! I’ve been sitting here, waiting for the Gestapo to go to work. The least you can do is come out for a drive with me and have a bit of grub. I am your bloody son, after all.’

‘Okay, I’ve already had a bath. I just need to do my make-up and get dressed … I’ll be about twenty minutes.’

Mickey smiled as he ended the call. It had been nearly three years since he’d last had the chance to talk to his mum properly and he was desperate to rebuild their relationship, even if it had to be done in secret.

Hands shaking as she applied her slap, June finally closed her make-up bag and began to choose her outfit. She settled on a grey jumper dress. She knew she’d gained a bit of weight recently so put a black blazer on top to cover her bulges. Desperate not to look old-fashioned, she added black suede boots and slung on some gold costume jewellery as a finishing touch. Mickey was her only son after all and she was eager to look nice for him.