The Edge of Sanity (4 page)

Whistling, he turned away to waltz into the hall, stopping to pick up his car keys and the post the tart had dropped. Dunno what she thought was so interesting, he mused. Bills mostly—he tossed the brown envelopes aside—but
his
bills nevertheless. She hadn’t ought to be poking her nose in where it didn’t belong. She had delved in
his
bloody wardrobe for the shirt, cheeky cow.

Charlie made a mental note to pull something with a bit more class next time.

‘Let yourself out,’ he called jovially, over his shoulder. ‘Oh, and don’t touch anything. I know where you live.’

Actually, he didn’t have a clue, but what would she know? He left the front door wide and sauntered out, whistling cheerfully to himself. The headache had gone. Yes, he was feeling okay. Didn’t even mind the
Out of Order
sign on the lift.

He skipped carefree down the concrete steps. He was meeting Steve at the club later, where he would drop a few drugs, pull in some cash. Charlie was branching out, he had decided. Skunk was OK, and there was always a steady supply and demand, but it didn’t exactly leave him flush after he had paid for his own stuff. Charlie was moving on and up. The fact that he had his rather pressing debt to pay off was a big incentive, he had to admit.

Charlie remembered the text message he had received and pulled out his mobile.
Tomorrow Charlie, if you want to see the day after.
He read it again, his carefree mood dwindling and his stomach dropping.
Shit
. Sweat prickling his forehead, he checked the time the message had been sent. Six am. Charlie closed his eyes and breathed a sigh of relief. That was OK. It gave him tonight to raise at least the hundred he had promised, which he would, no probs.

E’s fetched ten to fifteen quid easy, and he could shift fifty or more on a good night. Coke he could shift at sixty to seventy quid a gram, or even eighty, depending how naïve the punter was. Smack and crack, Charlie tended to keep for his own personal use. Strictly for smoking that was. He didn’t want to end up being one of those sad gits, injecting ten times a day. Uh-uh, no way. It might be the cheapest drug per weight, at ten to twenty a twist, but the trouble was that once you started injecting, you needed more and more of the stuff.

Nah, injecting Charlie wasn’t into … apart from the odd occasion … like yesterday, when he had been a bit stressed. And the day before, which is why he owed a bit more money than he had thought. Only if he could guarantee a clean needle though. Never knew where they’d been otherwise, faggots and prostitutes all over the place, flashing their wares. Charlie couldn’t abide ‘em.

He hoped Steve had picked the stuff up from his contact. They’d have nothing to sell otherwise. Yeah, Steve would have, no worries. Steve was the reliable sort. And built like a brick shithouse, which was handy. He was a bit more reliable since Charlie had threatened to dob him in if he crossed him, of course. Not nice, but necessary, since Steve could be a bit gormless sometimes, opening his mouth before his brain was engaged. It was a bit aggravating him being stuck on that Hannah bint—she always seemed to be sniffing around—but Charlie tried not to mind. At least Steve didn’t tell him what to do.

****

Walls for support, Mary made it as far as the bathroom before her legs gave way. She retched uselessly into the toilet. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday, and what little she had eaten then had already parted company with her stomach, all over the kitchen floor.

That’d please him, the fucking cokehead. She stumbled to the bedroom, hastily retrieving what clothes she could find, scattered around the room as they were. She had been drunk last night, out of her skull. Must have been to have gone anywhere near that two-faced schizo.

Shuddering, she pulled on her leggings and top, stuffed her bra into her shoulder bag, and then groped under the bed for her shoes.
Hell,
where were they? She would just have to go barefoot.

She dragged one shoe out, and then stretched for the other one. ‘Got it!’ A spark of triumph surfaced above loathing, self-loathing. She had to get home, get in the bath, scrub herself … Her hand closed over the chunky four-inch heel of her shoe.

Except it wasn’t.

It
was
smooth, and cold, and long, but …

She squinted under the bed, cheek to carpet.

Mary was up, out of there, shoe or no shoe. She could have guessed. A sawn-off, under the
bed
, for God’s sake! He might’ve shot her. Would probably, if he came back.

She peered over the metal banister, then, having made sure the coast was clear, hoisted the bedraggled dog up under one arm and made a dash for it. I hope you overdose, bastard, she wished fervently as she barefooted down the steps, groping in her shoulder bag for her mobile as she went.

****

‘Well, did you ring her back!?’ Detective Inspector Michael Short barked into his mobile, his free hand clamped to his forehead despairingly, as he turned full circle outside the hospital ward.

‘No, I don’t suppose she would
want to continue the conversation
, once you asked her her
name.
’

Protocol. He sighed and stuffed a piece of Nicorette in his mouth. Horrible stuff. The more he chewed, the more he wanted a cigarette. What happened to the day when common sense took priority over
Treating Criminals Fairly,
he wondered bleakly. And a bit unfairly, he supposed, aware that staff on call duty had no choice but to follow protocol to the letter.

‘All right, all right. Thank you,’ he said, moderating his tone. ‘Keep me informed.’ Not that there would be anything to inform him about. DI Short ignored the rumble in his stomach, which probably thought his throat had been cut—so long had it been since he had fed it, and pocketed his mobile.

If the girl hadn’t rung back to enlighten them as to why she considered the subject of her first call an
effing maniac,
then she was probably running scared. As well she might be, having had a close encounter with a scumbag the likes of Charlie Roberts.
Dead-eyed Charlie,
as he was fondly called at the station.

DI Short felt the hairs rising icily on the back of his neck at the thought of what might have the girl running scared. Charlie Roberts, nasty little bastard that he was, didn’t pull any punches when it came to keeping his women in line.
She mouthed off …
he had said once, when they’d hauled him into the station on a complaint, his feet propped insolently on the table …
so I slapped her.

Yes. With a baseball bat, if the bruises were anything to go by. The woman had dropped the charges though. It didn’t surprise DI Short. They all did. Another young girl fell on a bottle. Fourteen stitches were her memento of a close encounter with Crack-head Charlie.

Then there was tiny Rachel Meadows. DI Short’s jaw tensed as he walked back into the ward. He looked down at Rachel, lying swollen and broken in the hospital bed. Five-foot tall and fool enough to fall in love with the lowlife. Another one who
accidentally
fell—down the concrete steps outside the flat, this time. Bounced from top to bottom, bruised
herself
from head to foot—and eventually lost her baby.

And still they never managed to get Roberts on more than a petty felony. Every time they hauled the little runt in, out he swaggered again, hands in pockets, a smirk across his face, and charges so small and insignificant. What DI Short would give to wipe that smirk off his face, once and for all.

He chewed hard on his gum. Dope was all they’d managed to find him in possession of last time, which was for Charlie’s own personal use, of course, according to his bird-brained brief. Yes, of course it was.

The scumbag had managed to ditch the hard stuff between pub and patrol car; DI Short would bet his pension on it. These smart-arse solicitors should try telling the parents that the kid they gave birth to, nursed and nurtured to the age of seventeen, or younger, just popped an E and dropped dead on the dance floor. Or tried to peel themselves—on a drug-induced trip to hell—because they thought they were an orange.

That was one of the perks of the job, and it gutted DI Short since he had kids of his own. Neither of them saints, he conceded, recalling how he had caught his daughter hanging out of her window, puffing away on a joint last week. He was pretty sure she didn’t do anything harder, but peer pressure was hard to walk away from. And with people like Charlie Roberts out on the streets …

He looked over Rachel Meadows again, who looked as fragile as a porcelain doll tucked under those sheets, and vowed that someday, someday soon, God give him strength, Charlie Roberts would get what was coming to him.

****

She had left enough time, thank God. No way was running for the bus an option in skyscraper shoes. If Hannah hadn’t got her fags, she would flipping well thump her. Kayla didn’t know why she bothered giving them to Hannah to keep anymore anyway. Her mum and dad wouldn’t notice if she were on fire, let alone smoking.

God, it was
so-o
hot. She lounged against the bus shelter—dead cool in Ray Bans—keeping one eye out for the bus, the other for Hannah, who would no doubt belt up the road last minute, soggy slice of toast in hand.

Bang on cue, the bus rounded the corner with Hannah in hot pursuit. Uh, oh, she wasn’t going to make it. Kayla played for time, dawdling up the step, hovering between the doors and then, in desperation,
accidentally
spilling the contents of her school bag on the platform, much to the annoyance of the bus driver.

‘C’mon, sweetheart,’ he grumbled. ‘I haven’t got all day.’

Sweetheart? Kayla raised an eyebrow. ‘In your dreams, mate.’

She scraped her books together as a grinning Hannah cleared the doors. ‘
Yessss!
’ they said together, flashing their bus passes and clumping upstairs.

Kayla threw herself down on the back seat, propping wedged feet up on the seat in front of her.

Hannah parked herself at the opposite end and did likewise. ‘Shit, that was close,’ she gasped, fumbling her sunshades out of her blazer pocket and plonking them on top of her head, hairband style.

Kayla rolled her eyes. ‘One of these days, you’re gonna miss it, y’know? I draw the line at throwing myself bodily in front of the bus, Hannah.’

‘Well, that’d stop traffic.’ Hannah smirked, inclining her head toward Kayla’s rapidly increasing bra size.

‘Shut it.’ Kayla folded her arms defensively. She hated it when people drew attention to her boobs. She didn’t mind drawing attention to them herself, if the occasion called for it, such as getting into the nightclub, and getting the attention of Charlie, but as for the ogles she got in school, accompanied by sniggers from spotty little limpdicks …
Uh-uh
. Frankly, she felt fat. And she’d much rather not have attention drawn to that.

‘Sorry.’ Hannah batted her eyelids apologetically. ‘And I’m
really
sorry I was late. It’s just Mum. She bangs on and on, like I haven’t heard it all before. But I needed to get my pocket money, assuming it’s still on for tonight?’

‘You bet it’s still on. I got shoes, see?’ Kayla confidently waggled a manquasher wedge. She was a teeny bit nervous in reality, not that she’d let that on to Hannah. ‘You gonna be meeting dickhead there?’

‘His
name
is Steve,’ Hannah replied curtly. She ferreted about in her bag for Marlboro Lights and tossed the packet across to Kayla. ‘And wherever Steve goes,’ she said, making insinuating eyes, ‘Charlie goes, too.’

‘Get lost,’ Kayla mumbled, blushing. She had only had one conversation with him. And even if he knew she’d got the hots for him, why would a twenty-something fantastic looking business man like Charlie be interested in her? He’d had a different blonde on his arm whenever they’d watched him and Steve leave the nightclub anyhow, so what chance would he notice her with her uninspiring black hair?

She had got her dad’s genes to thank for her colouring. For the Goth look, it was good. She could dye it blacker than black and look totally cool. But in a kid’s way. And kids Charlie wasn’t into. Kayla sighed, but mentally ran through her wardrobe, nevertheless.

‘Kayla …’ Hannah cut through her thoughts, just as she was discarding the mesh camisole. The gathered bust with rosebud detail would make her look about twelve. And the dropped waist dress was out. The blonde chavs all wore sequin vest-dresses and long legs. Dropped waist made her look as if she had got no legs. Maybe the stitched hot-pants or Hannah’s short black skirt with the silk cami?

‘ … if I’ve told my mum I’m staying over at yours …’ Hannah mused, furrowing her brow ‘ … and you’ve told your mum you’re staying at mine, where
are
we staying?’

‘All sorted.’ Kayla blew a thin line of smoke into the air. ‘Just make sure you bring your black chiffon skirt, okay?’

She jumped up, stubbed her cigarette out on the
No Smoking
sign and rang the bell. Lying to her parents didn’t sit comfortably, but needs must. Age twelve was about how they treated her. So she could hardly get ready to go to a nightclub right under their noses. They’d go mental, even though
everyone
her age went to Strobes. Well, she was going, and that was that.

In any case, she was probably better out of the way, like she ever wasn’t.

Chapter Three

Jolted from fitful sleep, Joanne crawled a hand from under the duvet and groped for the radio alarm. Finding nothing but empty space, she poked her head out and squinted disoriented around the room. How on earth had she managed to end up diagonally across the bed with her feet at the headboard end? Sighing, she heaved herself up, and jabbed at the pause button.

Her feet had barely touched the floor when the telephone rang. Jo ignored it. She did that a lot lately. People meant well, but what could they say once they’d dispensed with the preliminary, “How are you?”
Fine
was her usual, programmed response. But she was far from fine in reality.