Faceless (26 page)

Lizzie Banner was the head girl and well liked. She knew that Carole understood what she was saying. Though she felt sorry for her, there was no way she was working looking like a victim of a car crash.

‘It’s just simple economics, Carole. The other girls will get all the work anyway. No disrespect, but you only get the dregs these days.’

Her voice was kind but the barb hit home.

‘I’m here because of economics, love. I need the bastard rent.’

Lizzie sighed.

‘I can give you a sub and that’s it.’

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‘How much?’

‘Twenty quid.’

Carole was insulted and desperate. She shook her head and answered viciously, ‘Shove it up your arse, Liz.’

Lizzie, hard and well able to take care of herself, grabbed hold of Carole’s dress.

‘Be careful I don’t feel the urge to shove it right up yours, love. Now piss off and come back when you can fucking work.’

Carole saw the other girls laughing at her. Saw their unlined faces, their trendy clothes and make-up, and felt old. Old and ugly. Her days in this club were over and they all knew it. It was the Cross for her and the knowledge made her feel deeply depressed. All the time she was in a club she’d felt she had a bit of kudos. Felt a bit more upmarket than her pavement-walking counterparts. She hated getting in and out of cars. Hated putting herself up for violence on a daily basis. At least in the club they used a designated hotel and the porter would rap on the door when the time was up. The men were friendly because you had spent a while chatting to them and getting pissed with them.

Now it was King’s Cross in all fucking weathers. Or Shepherd’s Market in a cheap coat, having to compete with the little runaways and rent boys. She walked forlornly from the club and out into the bustle ofSoho.

Clubbers were walking around, their smiling faces beacons to each other. The theatre crowd were making their way to warm restaurants to discuss the night’s entertainment, and the homeless looked on with expectant faces, hoping for a few quid from the people walking past. She would miss it all, had loved the camaraderie of the club, the laughs they’d had at the men’s expense. Had loved that feeling of belonging somewhere, of having somewhere to go where she could have a few drinks and a few laughs and get paid for it.

An over-boisterous young man shoved past her and knocked her into the road. She gave him the finger and walked through to Old Compton Street where she picked up an unlicensed cab to King’s Cross. She had to earn tonight, had nothing, not even a pack of cigarettes. Her last few quid would go on this cab. Her mind was in turmoil now about how the hell she was going to cope. She’d spent every penny she had and her benefits were not due until next week. She was boracic lint and she was scared.

At the Cross she walked slowly towards the other women and

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girls and saw them eyeing her suspiciously. It was dark and the wind was getting up. She had dressed for the warmth of the club and now she was starting to freeze. Her strappy shoes were no insulation from the cold pavement and suddenly she felt the urge to cry.

A large brunette with enormous breasts in a front-laced corset walked over to her.

‘All right, love?’

Her voice was friendly and Carole responded in kind.

‘Not really. Look at me boat.’

The other woman nodded sympathetically.

‘You must be hard up. Want a fag?’

Carole took the proffered cigarette gratefully.

‘What’s it like tonight?’

The woman shrugged. ‘Same as usual, a few bites, but it’s early.’ She drew heavily on her own cigarette. ‘Come round the corner, it’s better there. Gets rid of this wind and you can check for cars coming.’

A man kerb crawled past them and they both smiled into the window of the car but it drove on.

‘Wanker!’

Carole laughed at the woman’s exclamation. As they walked round the corner she saw a small crowd of other women and her heart sank. It occurred to her that she was being set up. A young girl with a long curly wig looked her over. For a few tense seconds Carole was paralysed with fear. They could rip her to pieces and she would be unable to defend herself.

‘You look like you could do with a drink.’

The girl handed her a bottle of brandy and Carole took a deep swig from it gratefully.

‘Thanks, love.’

They stood around stamping their feet and chatting. Every time a car came along they all smiled and walked out under the streetlight. When one got a punter they waved her off with ribald comments and eventually Carole relaxed.

‘You got a pimp, love?’

This from the big woman who called herself Rosalie.

Carole shook her head.

‘You got a choice of two here, one of Pat Connor’s number twos or little Mo Reinhard. Go with Mo, he’s fairer. He don’t mind the older ones either. Connor only really likes the kids.’

‘Where can I find him?’

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‘He’ll find you, love, don’t worry about that.’

Patrick Connor had put her back here on the street. Indirectly, she knew, but if she had not tried to help Marie and Tiffany she would be in a nice warm club now. Well, she would pay the three of them back. She didn’t know how but she would.

Especially Connor.

A car pulled up and Carole had her first ride of the night.

As she climbed in she could smell after-shave and a magic tree. The man was small with a friendly face and badly cut hair. He drove to a piece of waste ground and shoved a tenner in her hand. As he undid his trousers he grabbed her hair and pulled her face into his lap.

It was all over in minutes and she realised too late that he had not put on a condom, the dirty bastard. When she had tried to raise her head he had pulled her hair so hard she nearly cried out. He came in her mouth and she gagged.

He was still laughing long after he had kicked her unceremoniously from his car. She spat on to the dirt, her body instinctively rejecting him1, and then looked at the tenner in her hand. This was her life from now on and the sooner she accepted that the better off she would be. But it rankled.

She’d known her club days were nearly over anyway but chose to blame Patrick, Marie and Tiffany.

It made her feel so much better.

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Chapter Thirteen

Karen Black was not impressed with Holloway. She hated the smell, the dimness and the close proximity of other women. She had already been warned that she had to shower regularly or she would get a kicking from her cellies or her cell mates. They were a pair of nutcases, one in for murder, the other for drug trafficking and conspiracy to murder. So she wasn’t exactly top dog in her new environment.

As she walked through to her reception visit she was angry. Angry, hungry and tired. She had found it hard to sleep. The constant noise had driven her mad; the coughing, crying, laughter and shouting.

She saw her husband and tried to smile. He had to tell other people she was coping. He was her lifeline to the outside world and what was being said about her. She ambled over to the little table like a woman at one with her new surroundings.

‘All right, Kal?’ His voice was nervous and that placated her a bit.

She answered aggressively.

‘What do you fucking think? What’s the story then, on the street?’

She had the prison patois already and her husband was impressed. He was her second cousin on her father’s side and they actually looked alike. The Blacks had a reputation for marrying in the family and her sister’s two children were accredited to her own father as opposed to errant boyfriends.

Karen and Petey looked like brother and sister as they sat holding hands across the table.

‘Everyone is talking about it, Kal. Fucking hell, you’re a legend, mate! All I get all the time is. How’s Karen? How’s she holding up? Especially in the pub.’

She was practically preening. This would pat down her ruffled feathers and her husband knew it. He could not tell her the truth:

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that people were cold towards them all. That the public consensus was she was well out of order. That she was as bad, if not worse, than Marie Carter, who in fairness had been out of her brains.

‘How’s me mum? Is she over the temper yet?’

‘Well, she’s upset obviously.’

In fact Rita Black had publicly washed her hands of her daughter. Unlike Karen she had an idea of how far you could and should go in the pursuit of revenge. Especially on a council estate filled with like-minded people. But Petey knew that now was not the time to mention any of this. Not unless he wanted to start looking for someone with a bollock donor card anyway.

‘Love her heart. Tell her I’ll drop her a line, OK?’

He nodded once more.

‘Have you retaliated yet, Petey?’

He had been dreading this question. As he shook his head Karen frowned.

‘What do you mean, no?’

She sounded upset now.

‘Listen, Karen, we need time to see how the land lies before we all end up inside, don’t we? If we do anything now then they’ll suss it’s us straight away.’

Karen didn’t answer.

‘Like I said, Kal, everyone is talking about you. I mean, you are like fucking Marilyn Monroe, an icon.’

She was placated once more. Felt a rush of adrenaline at the knowledge that she was top girl. That she was being talked about, that she was someone.

‘Kevin Carter is on the missing list …’

She laughed at that.

‘Sorted that cunt and all, ain’t we? Fucking do that to me! Now people know what they get if they fuck with the Blacks.’

She was glad she had burned Louise Carter. It had helped her achieve her aim to be the baddest woman in her own little world, and it seemed she had achieved it with flying colours. Kevin Carter had run away. She wished she had done something like this before now.

Petey knew exactly what she was thinking and wondered what the hell was going on in his wife’s head. They had even gone to Lucy Carter’s workplace to try and make amends but he couldn’t tell his wife that. They had received threatening letters and calls. The police were watching them all like hawks, and his wife was sitting in her 178

own fucking fantasy world where she was the dog’s gonads. Kevin Carter had disappeared all right, but he was also known to be looking all over the smoke for the men of the Black family. Petey had been told that by many people. Kevin Carter wasn’t going to let his daughter’s beating and his wife’s injuries go unpunished. And who could blame him?

Yet Petey’s wife thought she was Don Corleone and could do as she liked with no repercussions. He could smash her one himself for all the trouble she’d caused. But he knew he couldn’t burst her bubble. Not yet. Karen had enough on her plate. Instead he smiled and got her another cup of tea and a king-size Kit-Kat.

Alan Jarvis was tired out, emotionally and physically. As he loaded another twenty keys of grass into the trunk he yawned loudly, making the two men with him start ribbing him.

‘You are one lazy ponce, Alan.’

He ignored them. Used to their way of carrying on now, he didn’t bother to retaliate. A key was 2.21b. Loading in twenty at a time was over 401b each lift and he was not used to manual work. Hated it in fact. But he wanted this load out of sight as soon as possible and that was why he was working fast and hard. The black bags were also awkward to lift and slippery from the sweat on his hands - sweat that had more to do with nervousness than physical exertion.

He hated these swaps, they made him nervous. It was still early evening. If anyone came to the yard they would suss the situation out in a few seconds. He had so much money now it frightened him, but in the process he had put himself in a situation he couldn’t escape.

If he once voiced even a hint of negative thinking he felt the animosity from everyone concerned. They were all taking coke and all suffering from the Nick Leeson syndrome. All were in a drug-induced dream world where they felt and believed they were invincible.

Hence this daytime swap, in the open, in his yard where people dropped in and out all the time. Scrapyards were like that. Other mettlers would shoot in for a chat and a cup of tea or a beer. Talk about the prices they were getting or new contacts they had made. It was a sociable business, always had been. And they looked out for one another. Everyone scammed somehow, usually the taxman, but drugs were an anomaly these days. The sentences frightened people.

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No one wanted to be associated with them if they had half a brain.

Not the people Alan knew anyway. He had the money to buy a shorter sentence if he had a capture, he was aware of that now, but he didn’t want to do six years, six months or even six days.

He had to have a proper talk with Mikey Devlin. He was losing it. It had been bad enough doing the swaps at Thurrock services, but at least they’d had a chance of escape from there. In his own yard it was the capture of a lifetime for Old Bill. Especially where Alan was concerned.

As if his thoughts had conjured him up Mikey screeched into the yard in his Mercedes sports.

Davey and Jonas both stopped what they were doing. Alan felt the tension and wondered briefly what was going on. But these days Mikey Devlin made everyone nervous just by looking at them.

Mikey jumped out of the car, wrapping a bicycle chain around his fist. He looked demented with anger. Even his bald head looked angry. Alan felt his heart sink down to his boots. He racked his brains to think what he could have done to bring down Devlin’s wrath on him.

But it was Jonas who was the recipient of the violence this time.

‘Jonas, you slag!’

As Jonas tried to run, Mikey brought the chain down across his head with gusto, and pulled the boy to his knees. Then he began to lay into him. As Alan and Davey saw the blood and skin raining from him they moved away from the spray. They were powerless to stop it. The beating went on for over five minutes. Finally spent, Devlin threw the chain on to the boy’s bleeding body and kicked him in the guts.

‘Get that cunt out of my sight, Davey!’