Faceless

  She’d asked him as an afterthought and they both knew that. But Kevin thought before answering.

  ‘From what you’ve said, Marie, if I go there I’ll just cause trouble. You know me, love, the proverbial bull at a gate.’

  She didn’t answer. She remembered him coming after her years before. Looking for her in squats and grubby flats. Fighting anyone who stood in the way of his getting to his daughter. He had wasted so much time and energy on her.

  She closed her eyes against the memories. She couldn’t change those times and she knew better than to dwell on them. She had to concentrate on now. On her kids, on getting a semblance of a decent life around her.

  ‘She sounds so much like you, Marie,’ her father said wistfully.

  His voice was sad and she felt sorry for him. Knew the disappointment she had been to both her parents.

  ‘I expect she knows it all, eh? Been there, done that. You have to step back and let her get on with it otherwise it will drive you mad, love. I had to let you go in the end, as harsh as that sounds. Your mother couldn’t take any more, and frankly neither could I.’

  Marie looked at her plate, tears gathering in her eyes at the futility of her father’s words. He was still confused about what had made her like she was. Still felt guilty as if it was directly his fault. She knew he still lay in bed trying to work out what he could have done to make it all different. Her heart went out to him and the guilt made her feel almost nauseous it was so acute.

  She grasped his hand.

  ‘I’m sorry, Dad. Sorry for everything. I think about Caroline and Bethany every day. I know they would be walking around now, enjoying life, if I hadn’t been such a mess. I still don’t remember anything. In a way that’s probably a good thing, don’t you think? At least I only see them dead. I don’t see them cowering and begging for their lives so that’s a touch, I suppose.’

  She swallowed deeply.

  ‘I still don’t understand how it all happened, Dad. How I could end up killing me mates and leaving me kids. And doing thirteen years in prison. Sitting day after day feeling like my life was on hold and trying to stop thinking about my babies . . . the babies I didn’t give two fucks about once because I wanted to be permanently high. The kids I loved and nevertheless abused because I thought they would always be there. I’m frightened of seeing Jason, Dad. I’m frightened he will turn his back on me like Tiffany did. I know I deserve it, but I’m not sure I could cope with it if it happened. Patrick dumped him just after I did. He must know that. His sister has a child by his father. My grandchild and my son are brother and sister. I fucked them up, Dad, I fucked us all up. Me, you, Mum, Lucy, all of us, but especially my kids. My poor kids.’

  She was openly crying now and other people in the restaurant were watching her, fascinated.

  ‘How am I supposed to cope with all this, Dad? They didn’t even give me weekend release, I was just dumped into the outside world - a place I left when people still wore glitter boots and twenty fags cost a quid. Everything is alien to me, everything. I just don’t know what to do, where to turn. I’m lost, Dad, as lost as I was when I was pumping myself full of heroin.’

  Kevin listened to his daughter with sympathy but also with pride. She was facing up to her life and that could only be a good thing. She had no false expectations, made no demands. She had faced up to life, faced up to what she had done. If anyone deserved his help it was Marie. He would trace her son and see him for her. Pave the way. Make it easier for her if possible.

  Yes, she had done a terrible thing, but she had paid the price. More than paid the price.

  He held her until she stopped crying, and then he ordered her a large dessert. Comfort was what she needed now and this was as good a place as any to start.

  ‘Listen, you have paid your debt to society, OK? You have a job and a new life just starting for you. The past is the past, leave it there. Concentrate on the future. You’re still a young woman, a beautiful woman, and unlike most people you have learned by your mistakes. You just need to resolve some unfinished business.

  ‘We’ll sort things out with your boy, I promise you. But whatever happens, you have to move on, right? We all do, it’s what life is all about. Moving on and making the best of bad situations. I should know, I’ve been married to your fucking mother for years, that’s a life sentence in itself. If I’d topped her years ago I’d be out now and wouldn’t have to look at those accusing eyes every day of me life.

  ‘I chose to stay with her and I regret it, Marie. She is one bastard of a woman as you know. She made you what you were, like she made Marshall what he was. She bowls through life, destroying everyone around her, can’t help it, and Lucy, poor whore, takes after her. They both live joyless existences where they try and control everyone around them. You rebelled, that’s all, in the only way you could. By getting out of your nut. And that black ponce didn’t help, putting you on drugs, making you graft on the streets for him. If you hadn’t met him, most of the trouble would never have happened. I believe that. I have always believed that. Now eat that apple pie and cream, and let’s say no more about any of it until we both feel calmer.’

  Marie listened to him, shocked by such plain speaking. She didn’t believe any of it, but she was grateful to have him as an ally. He had always taken her part and had paid for that over the years with her mother. Marie knew that better than anyone.

  Louise sat in her lounge with pictures of Marshall all around her. She sipped at a cup of tea and smoked a king-size Embassy slowly, savouring the quiet and her time alone with her son.

  The priest always made her feel so much better. There was a man who knew what he was talking about, and how to stay quiet to show he agreed with her. She wished she had visited him again today but she’d felt under the weather.

  It never occurred to her that the priest was only humouring her by listening to her and that his silence did not mean he agreed with her. Louise put her own connotation on everything. In her mind he was a great man; anyone who agreed with her was a great person. A decent person. She felt so lonely at times, it was refreshing to find a kindred spirit. Someone who understood the pieces of shit that had to be dealt with on a daily basis while her son, her golden child, was dead to her.

  She closed her eyes and pictured Marshall as a little boy: his hair curly and silky soft, his blue eyes forever smiling at her. He had been exquisite, like a little doll, while the girls had been great lumps of children. Heavy on the hip and miserable to boot, especially that Marie, all blue eyes and heavy limbs. Even as a small child she would show off, singing and dancing for people, saying nursery rhymes that were risqué. That was her father’s doing, of course. People always made a fuss of her. ‘She’ll be a film star with them looks.’ How many times had Louise heard that one? ‘She’ll be a model, look at that figure.’ All breasts and make-up by the time she was twelve. Whoring was in her blood. At least Louise had made a point of keeping Lucy under wraps. At least she had not shown the family up.

  She closed her eyes against the scenes in her mind. Her husband . . . another useless ponce as far as she was concerned . . . walking the streets looking for their daughter at all hours of the day and night. He cared more about her than any of them. Hardly noticed his son. Poor Marshall had had to fight against that big-titted slut for attention. They all did. Even her, his wife. Kevin would sit there on the sofa with Marie, cuddling her and laughing and joking with her. Ignoring the other kids.

  Louise conveniently forgot that she herself had had no interest in her daughters, though out of the two she’d preferred Lucy because she at least toed the line.

  Marie had sussed her mother out at a young age. There had been no respect from her ever. The girl would look at her with those ancient eyes and Louise knew she was laughing at her, behind her back and to her face. Her sleeping around was meant as a personal affront to her mother. Marie had done it to get back at her. That was what galled Louise more than anything, that her daughter could so demean herself
to score points.

  The cigarette had burned down until it was nearly touching her fingers. She stubbed it out and immediately lit another.

  Marshall smiled at her from his photographs and she felt at peace once more. How she loved him still, her baby. She lay back in the chair and pushed the bad thoughts from her mind. All she wanted to do was think about her son. She forced herself to relax in peace and sighed heavily with contentment.

  This was what she did. She pretended Marshall was still alive and invented a life for him of academic success and happiness. He earned a fortune and the neighbours were all impressed and suitably humble in his presence. He was a god who adored his mother and did everything for her.

  It was balm to her tortured soul, these dreams of what might have been, of her son’s success reflecting on her. It took away the bad taste of her daughter’s decline into drugs and debauchery.

  These dreams made her happy. Were what made sleep come easier, and kept her going from day to day.

  As she pictured him achieving yet another academic feat she was smiling happily.

  The petrol bomb came through the front window at speed. As it shattered against the wall, flames engulfed Louise as she sat in her chair. The nylon overall she wore to do her housework was melting but she didn’t notice. She was trying to pick up Marshall’s photos and save them from destruction. She could smell her own hair burning.

  The shock had set in quickly and the pain was not yet evident. She was running on pure adrenaline. Instead of racing from the house she kept on trying to collect Marshall’s memorabilia. His school swimming certificates. His Sunday School Bible. All the little things that meant so much to her. The curtains were in flames, shreds of black charred material floating round the room and causing further fires. But Louise wasn’t interested. She had to remove all her son’s things, couldn’t let them be taken by the fire.

  The smoke was making her eyes water. With her arms full, she finally pulled open the door. The whole room seemed to explode before her eyes with the rush of air. Flames were licking across the carpet and rushing down the hallway towards the front door. That was when she realised the hallway too was on fire. The front door was ablaze, petrol fumes everywhere.

  She tried to make her way to the kitchen, arms laden with memorabilia. Then she collapsed, and before she lost consciousness shielded her most precious possessions with her body to try and save them from the flames.

  Her last thought, as usual, was of Marshall.

  Patrick and Tiffany were in bed. He was holding her close and whispering how much he loved her. It was a tonic that she needed. Like this, being held and loved, she felt that her life was worth all the upset. In the last few days he had tried to repair the damage he had done to her. She listened out with half an ear for Anastasia, who had fallen asleep happily after an eventful day.

  Patrick knew what she was doing and as he was in a good mood it didn’t annoy him like it sometimes did.

  ‘You’re a good little mum, Tiff. One of the best mums I have ever seen.’

  She basked in his praise.

  ‘I try. I love her so much.’

  ‘Not as much as me, I hope?’

  It was said as a joke, but a serious question nevertheless. She smiled and buried her face in his chest so she didn’t have to answer him. He pulled her face up to his. Her eyes were wary now and one part of him hated what he was doing while another part wouldn’t let him stop.

  Like Marie, she made him feel guilty. Marie had had a knack of doing that and it took away from the enjoyment he garnered from destroying them. Tiff’s mother had had a mouth on her and she would use it.

  ‘My kids mean more to me than you ever will, Patrick bloody Connor. I only want you when you can fix me, you prat.’

  The words echoed in his mind as he looked down at Marie’s little daughter in his arms. She had meant every word as well, so he would hold back the gear then watch her beg. But no matter how much she’d needed a fix Marie would never say she loved him more than the kids. In the end she would score for herself if he didn’t come through. In the end Marie would fuck anyone for a fix. Eventually she would fuck for whatever she needed. She had even fucked the fat old git in the off licence for a hundred fags. He closed his eyes in disgust. No wonder these women needed a pimp, they’d give themselves away for nix otherwise.

  Tiffany watched the fleeting expressions on his face and, satisfied she was out of the shit, relaxed against him once more.

  He pulled himself roughly from the bed, knocking her flying.

  ‘I’m going.’

  The curt words were almost barked at her. She sat up in the bed and pulled the clothes around her.

  ‘Why do you do this, Pat?’ Her voice was a plea, she was desperate and they both knew it.

  ‘Do what?’

  He was nonchalantly pulling on his clothes, his face set and angry. He couldn’t get one trainer on and threw it at the wall. It crashed down on to the dressing table, sending all her little bits and pieces flying.

  She stared at him with her mother’s eyes and suddenly she had had enough.

  ‘Fuck you, Patrick. I’m sick of all this. Jealous of your own daughter now.’ She picked up her cigarettes and lit one, her hands visibly shaking. ‘Why do you have to wreck everything, eh? I am trying to get a home around me for our child, for little Anastasia and what do you do? Break everything. Well, you can fuck off, I have had enough.’

  He was staring at her now. She finally had his full attention.

  ‘What did you say?’ His voice was incredulous. ‘Run that by me again, bitch.’

  She was losing her nerve.

  ‘You heard.’

  Her voice was smaller now, scared. How it should be as far as he was concerned. He moved suddenly, and then he was dragging her naked from the bed by her hair. He dragged her through the flat, then, opening the front door, threw her out on to the landing. She was trying to scramble to her feet, aware that she was naked and that any minute now the neighbours would be looking through their spy holes to see what was going on. But he had her again, then she heard the door shut behind them and fought to get on her feet.

  ‘The baby’s in there and we’re locked out!’

  He dropped her to the ground and, turning from her, kicked the door in. The child’s cries could be heard all over the flats now.

  Then he grabbed Tiffany again and carried on dragging her down the stairwell. He threw her through the lobby doors and out into the street. Her humiliation was complete. As she lay on the pavement, her whole body screaming with pain, he kicked her in the ribs then said in a normal-sounding voice: ‘Be ready at seven. You’re working tonight.’

  He pulled out his car keys and unlocked the BMW. He drove off at speed without looking back.

  Melanie Drover, a neighbour, helped Tiffany to her feet. She put a dressing gown around her shoulders and held her as she stumbled back up to her flat. Anastasia was being comforted by Melanie’s eldest daughter, a painfully thin thirteen year old with acne and overlarge hips.

  ‘He’ll kill you one of these days,’ the girl said.

  Even at her young age she was aware of what went on in the world of adults.

  Tiffany didn’t answer her. She just took the baby and hugged her tight as they cried together.

  Her life was a mess. She wanted the neighbours to go so she could have a hit on her pipe. It was the de-stresser she needed daily now. In fact, two or three times a day. And as Patrick had taken the crack with him she was working out in her mind where to score even as she cuddled her baby daughter in her arms.

  Lucy listened to her mother’s breathing, loud in the confines of the ICU. The police had already filled her in on the events of the day. Every time she thought of what had happened she felt sick inside.

  Someone had not only thrown a petrol bomb at the house but simultaneously poured petrol through the letter box at the front and set fire to the large wheelie bin by the back door. Louise had been trapped inside alone.


  She had suffered seventy per cent burns and no one would say what her chances were. She was to be moved to Billericay burns unit the next morning, but Lucy had a feeling that she would not be alive by then and that frightened her. As bad as her mother was, she was still the only ally Lucy had ever had in her life. The house had been completely destroyed by the fire and she was in effect homeless. No one had been able to locate her father as his mobile was switched off. He did that a lot lately, switched off his phone and disappeared for hours on end.

  Mickey Watson watched his intended as she wiped her eyes again. He felt useless, but that was nothing new so he didn’t dwell on it too much. He knew as well as she did who had done the evil deed and like Lucy he would not tell the Old Bill. No way were they going to get any comebacks. Her father should have left well alone where the Blacks were concerned.

  Kevin should never have pushed Karen so far. She was a complete lunatic, as this had shown. Kevin had committed the cardinal sin, he had shown her up, and that was tantamount to a death sentence in the world of the East End hard nut families. The Blacks were a by-word for lunacy and being a law unto themselves. Now this was the upshot.

  He looked at Louise. She was covered in tubes and had one for breathing coming out of her chest. It made a regular clunking sound, horrendous to listen to, but he had to keep Lucy company. At least until his dinner was ready. His mother was already being very vocal about the incident and he knew he was going to get it in the neck as soon as he walked in the door.

  Fucking Marie! Wherever she was trouble soon followed. She was a magnet for upset and aggravation. Always had been, even as a girl. Men fought over her. She seemed to bring out the worst in people. Made them go against the grain, do things they wouldn’t normally do. Look how she had affected her own brother. Nearly sent him mad, she did, with her escapades.

  Now she was inadvertently the cause of her mother being fried like a Walker’s crisp, and him getting it like billyo from his own mother for the next six months.

  Fucking women. They were more hag than they were worth.