Born Evil (8 page)

She still drove him mad at times and probably always would. She was always moaning and getting on his case about work and shit, but he’d come to the conclusion that all women were the same. If they opened their mouths, they whinged. Simple as that. On the other hand, he knew his Debs was one of the most decent birds he’d ever met and that he’d struggle to find a better one.

‘Do ya want another drink, Bill?’

He politely refused. ‘Nae thanks, mate, I’m gonna get meself home to Debs and the wean.’

Billy left the pub feeling happy with himself. A bonny wean and a beautiful lassie, what more could a man want? Smiling, he decided to stop at the offie. His woman deserved a treat and he was just the man to buy her one. Browsing the shelves, he bought a bottle of wine, a box of Milk Tray and six cans of Strongbow. He’d had a good day today and had nicked at least a fifty. Deciding to really push the boat out, he headed to the local Chinese, and ordered a tenner’s worth of takeaway.

‘I’m home, hen,’ he called cheerfully as he entered the flat. ‘I’ve brought you loads of goodies, lassie.’

Debbie had had a good afternoon since her mother and brother had left. After the initial awkwardness, it had been really nice to see them and although no arrangement had been made to meet up again, she knew all she had to do was pick up the phone. She hadn’t had a go at Mickey after all. Her mother, for all her faults, had seemed genuinely pleased to be with her. Debbie had even put up with June doing her Hyacinth Bucket bit, allowing her to vac, polish and do some ironing.

After her family had left, Debbie had for once managed to get Charlie off to sleep. She now felt miles better after some much-needed shut-eye herself. In fact, she’d only woken an hour ago.

‘Surprise!’ Billy announced as he stood in the doorway.

‘Bill, come and look at all this stuff!’ Debbie called to him excitedly. She’d just been going through all the bags her Mickey had left for Charlie and he’d bought some blinding gear. Baby jeans, cord dungarees, little boots, the tiniest Nike trainers you ever did see, a baseball cap, toys … he’d thought of everything.

‘Look, Bill,’ she said again as she clapped her hands together in excitement. ‘Mickey got all these up Bethnal Green. He reckons there are some fantastic baby shops there. He said he’ll take me and I can pick out whatever I want.’

As Billy stood there with the Chinese in one hand and the carrier bag in the other, he felt like a complete and utter prick.

‘What you brought me then, Bill?’ Debbie asked cheerfully.

‘Nothing much,’ he said dejectedly. ‘Only a Chinese and that.’

She jumped up and slung her arms around his neck. She’d already decided not to mention the fact that her mum had visited, just in case it upset him. ‘Oh, you’re a darling. Go and dish it up, Bill, I’m starving! Let’s get stuck in while Charlie’s still asleep.’

Billy walked into the kitchen and threw the Chinese on to the worktop. He took the Milk Tray out of the bag and slung the box straight into the bin. His blood was boiling and he was fucking fuming. He’d thought Debs would be over the moon with his surprise, but no, her cunting brother had had to arrive here first like fucking Santa Claus and make his present look like a burnt offering.

As he chucked the special fried rice on to the plates, he took a few deep breaths. He had to keep his temper in check, couldn’t lose it, not now.

‘Mickey fucking Big Shot Cunt,’ he muttered to himself, as he shovelled prawn balls on the side. He hated being belittled and, for the second time in months, Deb’s brother had managed it quite easily.

‘What you doing, Bill? Hurry up, I’m starving!’ Debbie shouted innocently.

‘Coming, dear,’ he growled, gritting his teeth with anger. He couldn’t be made to feel a loser any more by her brother. He’d had enough of it. He’d have to put a stop to his visits, cause a row, do something. Mickey fucking Dawson was hardly Reggie Kray. The sooner he got the cunt out of their lives, the better.

‘DO YOU MIND
waiting behind for a few minutes, Debbie? Only I need to have a word with you in private.’

Debbie sat down on one of the plastic chairs and watched all the other mums and kids straggle out of the building. Feeling her cheeks redden, she braced herself for the worst. She didn’t have to wait long. Two minutes later Charlie’s teacher sat down next to her, a pitying expression plastered across her face. In her most patronising voice, Mrs Jones listed all the naughty things that Charlie had been caught doing that particular week. These included punching a little girl, spitting at a little boy and showing his willy to her and everybody else in his class.

As her son sat on a nearby chair, rocking in his seat and giggling uncontrollably at the stories of his own antics, Debbie cringed with horror. This wasn’t the first time she’d had to deal with this kind of situation, but she still didn’t know what to say.

She cleared her throat. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Jones. I promise I’ll have a word with Charlie’s father as soon as I get home, and I can assure you he will be punished for his bad behaviour.’

Mrs Jones nodded her head sympathetically. In all her years of teaching children, she had never come across one as intelligent as Charlie. He was approaching genius level developmentally. Streets ahead for his age, he was three going on thirteen. But so far as his behaviour went, he was the worst child she had ever taught. He was rude, constantly swore, had an extremely violent nature and was way too sexually aware for his tender years. Mrs Jones glanced at the child, still gleefully rocking on his chair and pulling faces at her. Turning her attention back to his mother, she felt nothing but relief as she delivered her final blow.

‘I’m so sorry, Debbie, but I think it would be best all round if you found another nursery for Charlie to attend. We’ve been extremely patient with him and given him so many chances, but we simply haven’t the staff to deal with him here. He seems to need constant attention and we have to divide our time equally between all of the children.’

‘He won’t misbehave again, I promise, Mrs Jones. Please, just give him one more chance?’ Debbie pleaded.

‘No,’ said the teacher firmly. ‘Charlie has had too many chances as it is. Recently we’ve had far too many complaints from the other parents. I’m afraid we have no choice other than to ask you to remove him. I’m really sorry, Debbie, but we just can’t control him and also feel that he’d benefit from a change of school. As you know, his intelligence is not in question, but unfortunately he needs far more attention than we can offer him here.’

Debbie stood up. ‘Okay, well, thank you for your time, Mrs Jones.’

‘Old bag, old bag, old bag,’ Charlie chanted, and started to laugh hysterically.

Grabbing her child out of his seat, Debbie dragged him towards the door. Telling him off was useless. He’d obey Billy, but with her it went in one ear and out the other. Five minutes from home, she happened to remember that she’d forgotten to collect her Family Allowance. With Christmas on the horizon, money was much needed so she decided to take a detour towards the Post Office.

‘Nooooo, wanna go home!’ Charlie screamed, sitting down on the pavement and refusing to budge.

‘Please, Charlie, now come on, be a good boy for Mummy. If we don’t go to the Post Office, Father Christmas won’t bring you any presents next week.’

‘Don’t care,’ he replied, folding his arms. ‘Father Christmas not real. I want toys today.’

Debbie wearily reverted to the only tactic she knew would work. ‘You be a good boy, Charlie. Come to the Post Office with Mummy and you can pick out any toy you want.’

Smiling, Charlie got up from the pavement. As young as he was, he knew exactly what buttons to press with his silly mummy.

At the Post Office, Debbie was greeted by the sight of a long queue and her heart sank. Charlie and queues didn’t really go together. Holding his hand and forcing him to stand next to her, she prayed for him to behave and not make a show of her. Her prayers must have fallen on deaf ears. Five minutes later, he pointed at the woman in the sari standing in front of them and screamed, ‘Look, Mum – Paki, Paki, Paki.’

Debbie was mortified. Billy had taught Charlie his foul and racist language, not her. Coon, Paki, cunt, wanker … she’d heard Billy laugh as he’d made his son repeat the words after him. Trouble was, with Charlie being so bloody intelligent, he knew exactly what the words meant and who they were aimed at. As she noticed the horrified expressions on faces around her, Debbie apologised and quickly left the queue. Sod the allowance, she didn’t need the money that much.

‘I want my toy,’ Charlie screamed as they headed home. He refused to walk, chucked himself to the ground, and in the end Debbie had to nigh on carry him over her shoulder.

Reaching the tranquillity of her flat at last, Debbie locked her son in his room and turned the radio on to drown out the sound of his tantrum. Today had been awful, and to say she’d felt embarrassed was putting it mildly. What the hell had she done so bloody wrong as a mother? Stressed beyond belief, she put her head in her hands and sobbed.

When his temper subsided, Charlie sat down on his bed. Tall for his age, his looks were a perfect match for his character. Dark-haired and dark-skinned, he had the smile of an angel and the eyes of a devil. As he thought of Mrs Jones, he smiled. Her face had been a picture when he’d called her an old bag. As for shouting out ‘Paki’ in the Post Office, that had been really fun. Giggling, he picked up his teddy and bounced up and down on his bed. As his laugher turned into hysterics, he leapt higher and higher.

Debbie opened the fridge door and reached for one of Billy’s strong ciders. Her life at the moment was totally shit, an absolute nightmare, she dreaded waking up in the morning.

Looking back now, part of her secretly wished she had listened to her mum and Peter. At the time, Debbie hadn’t thought she had much going for her before she’d met Billy when really she had. Now she was stuck here in a rut. A horrible, shitty rut that she’d probably never get out of.

At times she still loved Billy, but deep down knew that he was no good for her. He was one of life’s losers: dossing about, selling a bit of gear, drinking his life away. She knew that if she stayed with him, she’d never have the nice car, spacious house and happy lifestyle that she craved. The area they lived in didn’t help either. It was a rundown, depressing dump, full of junkies, winos and lowlifes.

Unfortunately for their situation, Billy had years ago managed to wangle a two-bedroomed flat out of the council by telling them he had kids in Scotland who would be coming to stay. Getting out of a one-bed was hard enough, but getting out of a two-bed was nigh on impossible, so they were stuck in the tower block from hell.

Debbie had often wondered how life would be if only they could get a transfer to Dagenham. Surely if they got out of Barking and were given a nice little house with its own garden, Charlie would be better behaved? Maybe that was all her son needed, a backyard where he could play, run about and let off steam.

Charlie’s behaviour was a massive cause for concern to Debbie. She knew it wasn’t her fault, everyone told her what a good little mum she was, but she had no control at all over him. Charlie did exactly what Charlie wanted, and some of the things he said and did would shock even the most open-minded person. None of her friends’ children were as badly behaved. They were normal kids. Mischievous but manageable. Trust her to give birth to a problem child.

The only time her son seemed happy or even behaved to a certain extent was when Billy was about, and that made Debbie feel like an out and out failure. He spent no more than a couple of hours a day with his son, but had a bond and mutual understanding with him that she could only dream of. She was the one who spoiled Charlie, she knew that. Maybe that was why he seemed to have no respect for her, but bargaining with him, buying and giving him things, was the only way she could get him to do as he was told.

Billy certainly hadn’t helped matters. She’d scold Charlie for swearing, and then Billy would be ecstatic when the child said the word ‘fuck’ or ‘wanker’ in front of him. He’d bounce him up and down on his knee, telling him what a top boy he was. It was no wonder really that Charlie was so badly behaved. He probably didn’t even know what was right and what was wrong.

Billy kept on and on lately about having another kid. Debbie couldn’t think of anything worse. Still wary of his temper, she’d outwardly gone along with his plan of adding to their brood and agreed to come off the pill. Unbeknown to her partner, though, she was still taking her contraception daily, hiding the evidence in the lining of her handbag. The thought of another child put the fear of God into her. She couldn’t control the one she had and dreaded the thought of a second.

What Billy didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him, she’d decided. She knew he wasn’t the type to march up to the fertility clinic to find out why she wasn’t falling. He was far too proud for that, and wanking into a jar certainly wouldn’t be his idea of a family day out.

If Billy found out that she’d been lying, Debbie knew there would be murder. He still lost his temper on occasions and wasn’t averse to giving her the odd clump here and there. He had improved, though, and had never really lost it with her since the time she’d landed up in hospital. The only digs she’d received since then were due to her brother’s visits. Billy hated it when Mickey turned up, laden with gifts, and every one of his visits caused untold grief afterwards.

Thankfully, over the last couple of months Mickey had been so busy he’d hardly had time to pop round. He had some new business venture on the go and was spending a lot of time flitting between France and Spain. Debbie never asked him what he was up to, but she’d guessed he was getting hold of cheap booze and fags. Every time he visited, he turned up with bundles of the stuff.

With Mickey in and out of the country, the only contact Debbie had had with her mother recently was via the phone. This suited her down to the ground, as whenever June was due to visit Debbie flew into a flustered panic and would spend hours tidying the flat up before her mother arrived. Problem was, no matter how much she vacced, dusted and tried to make the place look presentable, within five minutes of arriving her mother always found fault with it. Many times she’d heard the words, ‘Debs, bring in a dustpan and brush, love, you forgot to do under the sofa,’ or, ‘Get us a cloth, Debbie love, your skirting needs a good wipe.’