Sweetie (35 page)

Everybody drank hot, sweet tea before bed. In front of the girls Potty said that she would go to the police station in the morning and report what she had 355

heard and they were not to worry – the police would soon find the man and lock him up. Only Lucy sensed this wasn’t true.

When all the girls had settled down in their bedroom and the giggling had stopped, Potty and Michelle spoke openly. ‘How you feeling then?’

Michelle lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply.

‘Terrified, kind of, but more angry than anything else. It makes me really fucking
angry
to think of the hold this animal has over us. We can’t go anywhere or do anything without him being there the whole time. I feel as if he’s stolen our lives. It didn’t seem real at Grace’s the other night, talking about killing him, but now I can imagine myself doing it. I don’t think it would be wrong any more. As a matter of fact, I want the bastard dead!’

‘I agree it doesn’t seem real, but I don’t reckon we’ve got any other option left. Besides, it’s not like just one of us feels this way, we all do. How wrong can it be?’ Michelle slipped off her shoe and rubbed a blister on the back of her heel.

‘I can’t believe we’re really going to kill someone.

Actually take a life. What if we go to hell?’ Potty whispered.

‘Potty, we’re already there,’ said her friend as she lit another cigarette.

Victoria Park was a desolate scene now that only litter and trackmarks from the rides’ machinery 356

remained. The fair had already left. A lazy wind blew round the bandstand and flicked the candy-striped cloth of the deckchairs around it, lifting them slightly off the grass. An eerie mist swirled round the band -

stand’s circular wall and the solitary figure sitting on the steps leading up to the platform. Smoke billowed from the end of a cigarette and then the powerful figure stood up, hitched the belt on his trousers and began to walk away in the direction of Cambridge Heath Road.

The caravans followed each other in a neat little convoy, over the canal bridge, round a back road and then down towards the roundabout that would take them on to the motorway junction.

A mother cradled the limp body of her baby as others looked on. She kissed his head and whispered softly into his fine hair, telling him all would be well.

The man from the fish-for-a--duck stall stood beside his common-law wife, unable to speak from rage but chewing the skin inside his cheek as he looked down at his boy, battered, buggered and bruised.

His grandmother held court as the others in the caravan raised angry voices, demanding revenge. But she knew only too well that there was no justice for travellers like them. Their sorrow and grief would go unheard; the authorities listened to householders, not people passing through. Madame Marla held their gaze with her own and spoke calmly. They had to 357

believe her, she told them. This crime would be avenged and the person responsible would meet a grisly end.

She had seen it tonight in the cards.

Potty didn’t sleep much. She watched the sun come up through the gap in the curtains, feeling curiously calm and still, and smiled to herself when she heard little voices in the girls’ bedroom. Her love for her children was her greatest strength. She could feel it lifting her up. Without them, there really would be no point to any of it. She got up and quickly jumped in half a bath of not quite warm water, sliding beneath its surface to wet her hair. She emerged ten minutes later feeling refreshed and ready. She squirted some of Michelle’s Opium behind her ears, its deep, sharp tones making her feel powerful.

‘Oh, my God, Mum, how much perfume have you got on?’ asked Lucy, coughing, as she came into the kitchen.

‘It’ll settle down in a minute, it’s just a bit strong to start with. Do you want some cereal?’ Potty opened cupboards, looking for bowls and spoons.

‘No, I’m not hungry.’ Lucy was still half asleep.

‘I want you to take the girls over to Grace’s today, Lucy. Nanny Parks will mind them. But we need to stop off at home first to get some clean clothes.’ Potty whistled as she filled the kettle with cold water from the tap.

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‘Are you going to work then, Mum?’

‘Yeah, I’m doing ten till four,’ Potty lied.

‘Are you gonna go to the police station?’

‘Yeah, I’ll do that on my way,’ she lied again, hoping Lucy would leave it alone. Michelle came into the kitchen then wearing just a T-shirt and a pair of knickers, exposing her long beautiful legs and pert bottom. Her hair was fanned out around her face in a large halo and through the light from the kitchen window Potty thought she looked like some kind of avenging angel.

‘You seen my fags anywhere?’ she asked sleepily.

‘Yeah, on the coffee table in the front room where you left them last night. Tea, Mich?’ asked Potty.

‘Please, Potty. What time you off then? It’s only half-seven.’ Michelle squinted up at the clock.

‘I’m going to get cracking and pick up some clothes for the girls at the flat before I go to work,’

said Potty, stressing the last word and winking at Michelle.

‘Right, got ya,’ she said, winking back. ‘You’ll call me from work, though, let me know how you got on at the police station?’ They continued this panto -

mime for several minutes, for Lucy’s benefit. They’d already made their plans the night before.

Grace would meet them round at Sue’s with Lizzie and Gillian at about ten; give them time to get the kids up, washed and fed before dropping them with Nanny Parks. Terry had decided to stay on with the 359

girls at his sister’s in Broadstairs for a few more days, so that was him out of the way.

Michelle’s Paul had come home the night before to find Potty and her kids staying and hadn’t questioned it once Michelle explained what had happened at the fair. He had just shaken his head wearily, beginning to despair that this monster would ever be caught. All the fight had gone out of him. They’d done every

thing they could; it was

down to the police now.

John thought Grace was a bit jumpy and off-colour but had no reason to suspect she was up to anything. She was bound to be in a state. They were all fried with tiredness, and he just wanted to take his family away to the sunshine for a few weeks, give them a chance to get their breath back and relax.

As he watched her apply make-up in the bathroom mirror that morning, and took in her provocative outfit of tiny denim shorts and red vest, he let out a wolf-whistle. ‘What’s all this for then, you off to meet your fancy man?’ he chided her.

She just smiled and said nothing, her stomach doing somersaults all the time. She couldn’t eat a thing but that wasn’t unusual. She struggled to get anything down her most mornings except for a cup of tea, and even that was tricky.

‘I’ll see you later then, love,’ John said. ‘I might be a bit late, I’m gonna try and get that Spitalfields job finished today.’

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Grace had to stop herself from rushing him as he let himself out of the front door; had to fight back the part of her that wanted him to know and to put a stop to it. But she didn’t. She let him go, not knowing what would have changed by the time she next saw him.

After running through everything with Nanny Parks concerning the kids and what food there was in the cupboards, Grace was the last to arrive at Sue’s just after ten. Nobody said much. They huddled around the kitchen table, talking in whispers, waiting for Potty to come back from the garage where she had gone to break the lock. In the quiet a sudden loud knocking at the door made them nearly jump out of their skins. Sue leaped up to open the door, expecting Potty, but found only an empty doorstep. She looked to left and right and saw a group of five children running for cover into the stairwell of the block opposite. ‘It’s just bloody kids playing knock-down ginger,’ she said, sighing as she came back into the kitchen.

‘Christ, I nearly had a bloody heart attack,’ said Gillian.

‘I wish Potty would hurry up, she’s been gone ages.

I hope she hasn’t been caught,’ said Lizzie. ‘Be just like her to fuck things up.’

‘Come on, Lizzie, she had the fright of her life last night, I think she’s bloody brave. You wouldn’t get 361

me breaking into a garage in broad daylight,’ said Michelle, defending her friend.

‘Yeah, I heard all about that carry-on last night,’

said Lizzie. Michelle filled in the details for the rest of them, who had only been given the short version by Potty. ‘He was just waiting there in the darkness, fuck knows if he got hold of anyone.’ Gillian and Grace listened attentively, not speaking but giving each other meaningful looks – looks that said, We’re gonna kill him.

‘It’s the fucking audacity of the bloke that gets me.’

Gillian twisted a lock of hair tightly around her finger, one knee bouncing up and down nervously under the table.

‘Jesus, I feel sick.’ Grace dry-heaved a couple of times and lurched towards the sink. Sue went and rubbed her back.

‘You sure you’re up to this, Grace?’

‘Not, it’s not that. I always feel sick at the moment.’

‘Morning sickness,’ Lizzie pronounced.

‘No, I can’t be.’ Grace wasn’t having any of Lizzie’s diagnosis.

Have you eaten this morning?’ Sue asked. Grace shook her head. ‘Has anybody eaten this morning?’

All the women shook their heads. Nobody had been able to manage food. ‘Right, more tea and fags then,’

said Sue, emptying the ashtray into the bin.

‘Go on then, Sue, I’ll have a bit of toast,’ said 362

Gillian, changing her mind. ‘Don’t want to get light-headed.’

Sue slipped four slices of Mother’s Pride under the eye-level grill on her Canon gas cooker, and as the smell of the toasting bread filled the kitchen they all decided to have a slice. Tea plates and knives came out of cupboards along with a jar of Marmite. Even Grace managed half a slice of dry toast, and they all felt better for having a bit of food inside them.

Potty arrived back just as Sue was filling a bowl with soapy water for the breakfast plates. She looked purposeful and calm, though a slight breathlessness in her voice gave a hint of her true feelings.

‘OK, it’s done. I knocked over a couple of tins of paint and hid a few tools so he’ll think kids have been in there nicking stuff. Oh, and I keyed that Cortina of his, wrote “Sex Case” in capital letters right across the bonnet!’

‘You didn’t?’ asked Gillian, horrified.

‘Yeah, I did, I couldn’t help it. Once I got inside that garage I was buzzing, couldn’t stop myself.’

Potty wore a slightly manic smile. Having previously insisted on confining her role to picking the lock and then waiting in the car, her experience at the fair had made her want to get stuck in and do some real damage.

‘Not one of your best ideas, Potty,’ said Gillian, sounding irritated. ‘Bit of a fucking giveaway.’

‘Well, it’s too late now. We just gotta get on with 363

it. No use rowing,’ said Lizzie to shut Gillian up.

Grace took a deep breath and pulled her long hair back behind her shoulders. ‘We fit then?’ She looked at her friends, checking to see if anyone had second thoughts. They all nodded resolutely and stood up.

They clustered in the passageway and ran through their plan one last time, making sure everybody knew exactly what was expected of them.

Sue was adamant. ‘I mean it, we got to stick together. Anyone bottles out and the whole fucking thing collapses, one of us could get hurt and he’ll get away scot-free.’

‘That’s not going to happen,’ said Michelle. The others chorused their agreement.

‘Ready, Grace?’ asked Lizzie.

‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ she replied. The others kissed her warmly and wished her luck.

‘We’ll be right outside, Grace. You just gotta bang on that door and we’ll be in there, we won’t leave you on your own, I promise.’ Gillian was afraid for her sister but also in awe of her bravery. Grace handed Gillian the keys to John’s Jag so she could drive with Lizzie in the front, Sue, Potty and Michelle in the back. They would be parked up fifty yards from the garages along Gossett Road where they would be able to see Grace go by with George. Once the two of them were inside, they would cruise quietly down the road and park opposite number forty-nine itself. The garages were often deserted even in broad daylight, 364

but it was a risky strategy nonetheless and one they would not be able to account for should they be caught.

They had argued endlessly amongst themselves about the best thing to say if somebody came along and asked what five women were doing parked up in a Jag outside a garage, and it was a circular discussion that never found a resolution. The one thing they all agreed on was the speed with which they needed to act.

‘No fucking around, no hesitation, we get stuck in and finish the job quick,’ Lizzie had instructed them.

‘Get in there, finish the cunt off and get out again.’

‘Lizzie, please, you know I hate that word.’ Gillian wriggled uncomfortably.

‘We’re about to do a bloke in and you’re worried about bad language? Get a fucking grip, Gill,’ Lizzie harrumphed and then lit a cigarette as the car pulled away.

Grace watched the Jag move slowly up the road and lifted a hand in final salute. She took slow, measured strides over the seventy yards of pavement to George’s maisonette. She arrived outside his corner unit, looking up briefly to see one window open, and knocked on the door steadily, four times.

The letterbox was jammed stiff and could not be used.

Grace detected some movement from within and braced herself, but no answer came. She knocked 365

again and this time through the frosted door panel saw a shadowy presence make its way down the passageway from the kitchen at the back. The figure stopped behind the door but made no move to open it.

‘It’s stuck. You’ll have to come round the side, through the gate in the alleyway.’ He sounded irritated at the disturbance and for a moment Grace was caught on the hop. She hadn’t planned on going round the back, wanted to stay out on the street in the open, not go into his house; if she went round the back she would be in his garden and she didn’t know that she wanted that.