Faceless (18 page)

Tiffany looked at him. Suddenly she didn’t want Sarah to tell her anything. She had a feeling she didn’t want to know. But she didn’t say anything, just kept her head down and made sure she didn’t make eye contact.

‘Get her a cab and get her out.’

His voice was gruff, uncaring, and Sarah nodded at him without

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speaking. When he was in one of his moods it was the only way to deal with him. Twenty minutes later Tiffany was dressed and on her way home. She was still unable to walk without help and her whole body was aching.

She was amazed to see Patrick in her flat giving Anastasia her breakfast. He had cooked her an egg and made her toast. She also had a beaker of milk and some fresh fruit. He helped Tiffany into a chair and gave her a strong cup of coffee with plenty of sugar and cream. She sipped it as Anastasia gabbled to her. She found it in herself to smile at the child and stroke her hair.

Patrick chatted as if this was all perfectly normal. The mere fact that he was waiting on her was enough to disorientate her, without all this kindness and playing the perfect father. She was coming round now and watched him warily as he played with his daughter and made her laugh.

He kissed Tiffany gently on the mouth. ‘All right, babe?’

His voice was soft, gentle; he looked genuinely concerned.

‘He hurt me, Pat.’

Her voice was so quiet he had to bring his head forward to catch what she said. He knelt in front of her and wiped away the tears with his fingers.

‘I know, darling.’

He was undoing her clothes and looking at the marks on her body. He kissed her shoulders and breasts as he buttoned her back up. She was starting to sob at his kindness. When he put his arms around her and hugged her close she really started to cry. And as she cried he rubbed her back and kissed her face and hair, murmuring endearments all the time. He looked so forlorn, so sorry for her, that she felt herself respond to him. She needed this now, a strong man to tell her everything was going to be OK.

Then he pulled.her face up to his and kissed her nose. She stared into his eyes as he stared into hers. She saw the love in his eyes and felt a lifting of her heart as he smiled at her.

He carefully prepared her a pipe, holding it for her as he urged her to breathe deeply and take in all the crack in one go.

‘Come on. Tiff, this will make you feel better. Breathe it in, sweetheart.’

She took it in quickly, needing the release the crack would give her, desperate as she was to feel better again, to forget her pain and discomfort.

He smiled as he saw her body relaxing. He laid her carefully back

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in the chair, watched as her eyes glazed over and the lines disappeared from her brow.

Then he said seriously, ‘Don’t worry about last night. Tiff. You’ll get used to it.’

Kevin sipped at his tea and ate his toast. He had had to make his breakfast himself which spoke volumes. Louise was one of those women who felt that no one could do anything as well as her. She made all meals, all drinks, and nine times out of ten complained all the time she was doing it because she had no help and had to do everything herself.

Today she watched him as he opened the Sun and started to read. She hated him, she realised now. All her natural animosity was focused on him and what he had done.

‘Do you realise the trouble you caused our Lucy yesterday with your stupid heroics?’ she snapped at him.

He shrugged.

‘Do I look like I give a fuck, Lou?’

He didn’t even raise his eyes from the newspaper.

‘We’ll have the Blacks after us now. You know what they’re like …’

Kevin was enjoying her discomfort, he realised. A small part of him was ashamed of that but, after all the years spent listening to her go on and on about Marshall when they still had two daughters and grandchildren that needed them, it was sweet revenge.

‘Like I say, Lou, do I look like I give a fuck? We are harder than they think. I am not sitting back and letting the likes of them dictate to me and mine. I have kept me trap shut and me head down too long. That goes for you and all.’

Louise felt like she was about to explode. She stood up and pointed a finger at him. Her voice quivering with rage she said, ‘How dare you speak to me like that? All I do for you …’

He started to laugh at her. ,

‘Listen to yourself. What do you do then? A bit of washing and ironing, a bit of cooking? Millions of women do that and they don’t go on and on about it. Shut the fuck up until you have something to say! Get off your fat arse and do something constructive with your life. In fact, I will rephrase that - Get A Fucking Life. Because I intend to.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He could hear the fear in her voice, the uncertainty creeping in.

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‘What it says. You made your intentions perfectly clear to me yesterday. Well, in my book that means I have to get me conjugal rights somewhere else, don’t it? And I will, Lou. I can’t live like a fucking monk. If I got a habit you’d have me out monking for a few quid, wouldn’t you? Money mad you are. Well, in future, I pay the bills and that’s it. You want a few quid to go to Bingo, you better get a job, girl. This house is changing and you had better learn to change with it. There’s a new order here and it’s mine.’

He finished his tea. Picking up his car keys, he strolled from the kitchen. He didn’t even slam the front door, though he wanted to. Oh, how he wanted to.

Louise stood in the kitchen staring at the door for long moments. Then Lucy came into the room and said nonchalantly, ‘You caused all this. What’s the next step for him. Mum, eh? What’s he going to do next?’

Louise couldn’t answer her.

She was still in shock at her husband’s words. He meant them. She realised he meant every word he’d said. And he would do exactly what he’d said. That was one thing you could guarantee with Kevin Carter: if he said he was going to do something it was done. The thought of all her friends and neighbours knowing he was out and about almost gave her a coronary with embarrassment. She had managed to live down what Marie had done. Looking people in the face as she gave them a piece of her mind. Making them understand that her daughter was nothing to her. Nothing. In the end they had managed to make a life of sorts. But it was still there, underneath the surface. She knew her daughter was a legend in some respects. A double murderess, a whore who had drugged and drunk herself into oblivion. But she had made people respect her, she had forced them to give her what she saw as her due. Now Kevin was making it hard for them again. He was going to wreck the little bit of respectability she had left. She would be a laughing stock.

It was Marie’s fault. Since she had been let out of prison Kevin had changed. She was working her evil magic again like she always had. Like all men, he would do what she wanted.

Well, Louise would see them all get their comeuppance. If it was the last thing she did, she would sort that bitch out once and for all.

As she watched Lucy making a pot of tea she started planning, and the act of working out her revenge calmed her down. She would get even, not mad, that would become her motto from now on.

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Marie had been brought tea and toast in bed by Amanda, who remarked that she looked better. Marie had smiled at the kindly woman. She had eaten the toast and drunk the tea as the woman chatted to her. It was true what Amanda had told her, she did look much better, yet how that could be she didn’t know with the knowledge she had inside her head.

The swelling in her face had gone down considerably and she knew that skilfully applied make-up would hide the worst of it. But nothing would cheer her up. Seeing the nightmare that had been her own life re-enacted in her daughter’s had brought her to an all-time low. Even at her lowest ebb in prison she had never felt this badly about anything.

How many times had she lain awake trying to remember the night her friends had died so horrifically? How many nights had she tossed and turned trying to fathom what had made her capable of such an act? She had always come to the same conclusion: it had been the drugs and the booze. She had had so many blackouts by the time of the deaths that it had become normal for her not to remember days at a time. She would forget to feed her children, forget everything but the constant urge to obliterate her demons. She had fought punters as well, and started fights in pubs and clubs until she was notorious for being trouble. For being a druggie. An addict. A lunatic.

Yet the act of burning heroin made her calm; the knowledge it would take her out of the ball game gave her strength. As she injected it, the feeling of the drug taking over was preferable to any other feeling she had ever experienced. It made her euphoric for a few moments, made everything seem beautiful for a while. It calmed her and made her happy.

But that feeling had lasted for shorter and shorter spaces of time. In the end she was chasing the dragon and chasing the feelings because they were overtaken by her addiction. But whacked out of her brains was still the only time she felt entirely safe. Heroin was her friend, her only consolation. She didn’t want people, she didn’t need people, all she had needed was the skag.

Prison had been her wake-up call. The drugs in there had been so badly cut they couldn’t get a cat high, let alone a full-grown woman. She had realised then she had lost everything and had gradually come off drugs. Nights spent sweating and heaving had become rarer, and then she was seeing the world as an adult instead of a junkie.

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Her children’s faces had haunted her; the fact she had left them behind and would never get the chance to make it up to them had been a stick she had beat herself with constantly. But she had consoled herself with the thought that they would be taken care of. Finally be part of real families, see normal life and learn from that. Instead they had been parcelled out and Tiffany had become just like her mother without even realising it. Patrick’s fault. He was clever and devious, she knew that better than anyone.

Now she must find Jason and see what had happened to him. He was still only a boy - please God let him be a good one, she prayed. A happy, well-adjusted boy. Don’t let any part of his father be replicated in him, or any part of herself for that matter. Don’t let the drugs have taken him too.

She had murdered while high. Everything bad in her life had happened to her while she was high. Now she was going to kill again, but this time she would be stone cold sober and if she got a capture afterwards it would be worth it.

She would willingly never see the light of day again if it gave her daughter the chance to break free from Patrick Connor and his evil influence. He was like a devil, waiting his chance to wreck people’s lives. He had no conscience and no real feelings. Pat was out for number one and number one only.

It was down to Marie to stop him, and she would. If it was the last thing she did, she would take him out of the ball park and watch him die. Inside herself, she was almost looking forward to it. This fact frightened her more than anything.

Alan nearly fainted when he saw Marie cleaning up the office. Her movements were stiff, but she looked much better.

‘What are you. doing here, Marie?’

She looked at him and smiled.

‘I had to be doing something. It’s strange, but in prison I was always busy. It was how I coped. Now I guess it’s a habit. Most of my injuries are just bruises, so as long as I’m careful I’m fine.’

‘Your boat still looks sore.’

His sympathy cheered her. He cared, and after so many years of no one caring it was nice.

‘Shall I make us a cup of tea?’

He nodded and watched as she moved about the little Portakabin. Already it looked better. Women were a touch at cleaning. It only took Marie ten minutes and the place was tidy. When he tried

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it took all day and still looked grubby.

His mind was on the cocaine in his yard. He was getting seriously worried now. He could contact no one. All mobiles were off and no one was getting in touch with him. He had to get rid of it, and soon. If someone had had a capture, and that seemed likely, eventually one of them would give him up in exchange for a shorter sentence. He would hold no animosity, it was something he would do himself. He didn’t want a lump either. Especially since he didn’t even want to be in the business any more.

The phone rang and he answered it.

Marie sighed as she heard him put three grand on the two-thirty at Kempton. Alan was a gambler, and always would be a gambler. Addiction took so many forms that she wondered at times whether it was genetic.

‘I bought a greyhound, Marie. I was wondering, when you feel better, do you fancy a trip up to Peterborough to see it run? It’s a lovely dog. Been bumped a few times coming out the traps but if it gets a clean run it goes like the wind.’

‘Peterborough? Why not Walthamstow or Romford?’

‘It can’t run on SIS tracks, see. Not yet. But once we get it sorted it will.’

Marie felt like laughing again. He was so bent it was impossible for him to do anything like normal people.

As they sipped their tea she said nonchalantly, ‘Do you know a black bloke called Patrick Connor? He has blue eyes which makes him noticeable.’

She had trouble keeping her voice level.

Alan looked at her for long moments. ,

‘I thought you knew him very well. He ain’t exactly hard to trace, love, is he?’

His voice had gone cold on her and she mentally kicked herself for underestimating the man before her. She swallowed hard and the sound was loud in the silence.

‘I’ll rephrase that, shall I? What do you know about him and his dealings these days?’

‘Dealings being the operative word with him, eh? I probably know as much as you. He’s a face now. Always was a bit of a wide boy, but he’s worked hard and now he’s emerging as one of the main dealers. Have I told you anything you don’t know?’

Sarcasm was evident in his voice and demeanour. Marie was sorry to have vexed him. Alan was a nice man and had been good to her.