She saw pretty girls with their boyfriends, saw the innocence of their love and was sorry that her daughter had never experienced any of this. Neither had she, come to that. Her whole life had been nothing but a waste.
But she was going to take retribution for her daughter’s death, she was determined on that. No one else’s child would have to endure what her daughter had because of Patrick Connor.
Marie only wished she could remember what had happened the last time she had killed. It would help her now to know what had triggered the outburst.
The day was still vague and clouded in her memory. She remembered going to score early in the morning. It had been a lovely morning, bright and sunny. She had been wired, out of it as usual. Her nerves shot. She remembered sweating, the feeling of nausea that assailed her as she poured milk over the kids’ cornflakes.
No matter how out of it she was, she had always made sure the kids had the basics. At the time she had thought that made her a good mother. Oh, if only she had known what trouble her lifestyle was going to cause she would have changed it, she’d sworn that to herself every day of her sentence. Not for her, but for her two babies. That day she had finally scored and been happy again. Until it wore off, which was when Bethany and Caroline had turned up, telling her to come to Kensington with them to a squat that was used by addicts and was always worth a visit for a good fix. They were all going to Mayfair anyway, to work Shepherd’s Market, so it was on their way.
The Market had always been a lucrative earner, and again they could score easily there as well. A Rasta would come round every hour with rubbers and heroin. The prostitute’s friend, they had called him. He was a nice bloke in his own way, earning a living like them. It was amazing where people saw business opportunities.
If only she could remember what had happened next. She remembered getting drunk, remembered the smell of Thunderbird wine and grass. Then arguing with her mother, she remembered that as well. She had gone round there to try and borrow some money off Marshall. It showed how wired she must have been to have gone to her mother’s house. She never went round there unless she had to. Unless she was desperate. It was not as if her mother wanted to see her grandchildren, she hated them both. Especially Jason, God love him. Because he was black, and because his father was Patrick Connor.
Well, Marie finally agreed with her mother on something. Patrick was all her mother had said he was, and more.
The killing itself was as usual a blank.
Tiffany had been really chatty that day and had made her mother laugh. She remembered that clearly, could see her daughter in her mind’s eye, in her little blue dress and her little white jellies, her hair half brushed as usual and her face smeared with Smarties. Tiffany had been such a nice little kid and she had never appreciated that fact until it had been too late. After a year on remand, clean and sober, she had said goodbye to them both. She still remembered the smell of Tiffany’s hair: Pears shampoo and bubble gum. Remembered Jason being frightened of her, unable to place who she was, and Tiffany’s little piping voice asking her when she was coming to take her home.
That had been the hardest day of Marie’s life. She had looked at her two kids and seen them as if for the first time. Tiffany had been beautiful, all hair and eyes, her long blonde curls silky to the touch. Jason had looked handsome, with a big red dummy sticking out of his face. His eyes had burned into hers as he tried to place her. But he had hugged her in the end because Tiffany had hugged her tightly. She’d thought at the time that Tiff knew she would not see her again for years. She had always been a shrewd kid. She had needed to be. She’d had to grow up fast because Marie had been such a useless mother.
If only she had known then what she knew now, how different it would all have been. Yes, hindsight was a marvellous thing. But she had been warned, over and over, and had ignored the advice she had been given. Her life then had been lived purely for fun; one big blurred adventure.
She felt tears start once more but swallowed them down. This was no time for crying. There would be plenty of time to cry when this was all over and she had to bury her girl, her child, who had rejected her over Patrick Connor, the man who was to take her life. Had already taken her life in many ways. The moment he had given her crack he had in effect given her a death sentence.
Tiffany would have been too young and naïve to understand that if a man was willing to let others use you it meant he had nothing but contempt for you as a person, a human being.
But he’d had Tiffany so she didn’t know what was right and what was wrong. From what Carole Halter had said she had been a good mother until he had decided to put her on the game. Decided to use her. Marie knew better than anyone did how charming he could be, and then how vicious he could become.
Carole had made her so angry with the stories she had told her. Marie hoped she had finally learned her lesson once and for all. She had left her with something to think about for a while.
She smiled at the memory.
She was sorting out every person who had hurt her daughter and it felt good. She had felt so useless for so long, but now she was finally doing something for her child. Even if it was too late.
If nothing else, it would make her feel better.
She wanted the names of the men in the video, then to see them with her own eyes. If they had children she would make sure they got a copy. Let them see what their fathers were capable of.
Thinking of children reminded her of Anastasia. She was happy enough in foster care, by all accounts. Liked the people. Probably enjoyed the normality of her life for once. Regular feeding and plenty of hugs worked wonders with little children, or big ones for that matter. Big grown-up children like herself.
Marie wanted to hold her grand-daughter, take her into her arms and love her like her mother had tried to do. Wanted to make amends for all the mistakes she had made with Tiffany and Jason. And she would. Whatever happened she would let that child know what a good person her mother had been underneath. Marie ached to hold the child, her own flesh and blood, her only link with her daughter now. She had promised Tiffany she would look after her and hoped that would be possible. That she didn’t get caught for what she was going to do to Patrick Connor. But whatever the turn out, she had to take that man off the street once and for all.
Maisie knew the names of judges and other people she said could help them. She had even given Marie a mobile, the first phone she had ever owned. If Patrick turned up there Maisie was going to ring her. She wanted what Pat had and, as far as Marie was concerned, was welcome to it. All she wanted was to know he was dead and buried then she could relax. Could breathe easier. Could try and get on with her life – what was left of it anyway. She knew she would never know another happy day. All that was gone from her with Tiffany’s death.
Marie trained her eyes on the gym and watched the world go by. She was on a mission now and would not rest until it was over.
She was looking forward to seeing Patrick’s face when she confronted him. He had always been wary of her because she was so strong. Unlike most women she knew how to fight. She had always been able to fight and had given him a few right handers over the years.
Now he was going to find out exactly what she was capable of. Years ago he used to brag to her about how the element of surprise was always a good frightener. Hit people when they least expected it, that had been his motto. Well, she’d see how he got on when suddenly confronted by her and her wrath.
Unlike everyone else he dealt with, this was personal, this was payback, and this was going to be vicious. Marie wanted him to see her face before she struck. Wanted him to know exactly who was taking him out.
Patrick had left the gym by the back door, and as he roared off in his BMW congratulated himself on his cleverness. He had taken out Malcolm Derby, wiped away Leroy and Maxie. Now the whole of the smoke was his for the taking. He wasn’t even worried about Old Bill because he had enough well-connected people on his payroll to feel that he was untouc
hable.
He turned up the CD player. It was Sade, and he remembered how much Tiffany had liked her songs. Well, perhaps they would play them for her at her funeral. He laughed to himself at the thought.
He remembered his daughter fleetingly then pushed her from his mind. He had a meet later in the evening and now he was going to dinner at his sister’s. He had to talk her round and get her to do him a favour. Busby would do anything for him, he knew. She had always done whatever he asked of her.
He was unaware of the car following him because he was so wrapped up in himself and what he was going to do. He made plans as he drove and sang along to his music like a man without a care in the world.
As he passed the Beehive on his way to his sister’s he saw three young girls sitting at the bus stop. He watched as they surveyed him hungrily. The clothes, the car and his blue eyes always made sure he attracted attention. He smiled at them. If he had the time he would stop and chat. Pretend he was lost and ask them for directions, all the time sussing them out. Seeing if any of them were live ones, ready to go out into the big bad world. It was amazing really. People told their kids to keep away from bad men, not the smiling one with the big bag of sweets and some nice puff in his prestigious car. Well, he was still a bad man in every sense of the word, the baddest man who’d ever walked the streets of London.
One of the girls was mixed race, about thirteen years old and already well-developed. Judging by her clothes, a small tight top and leggings, she was rapidly discovering the power of her body. She was just up Patrick’s street. A bit of flattery and she would be his for the taking. He filed her away for future reference. He was always around and about, he would see her again, he would make sure of that.
As he pulled up at his sister’s he was in a good mood, buzzing with it in fact. In the car he spooned some coke up his nose and snorted it in noisily. He needed a lift. He had had a long night and a long day.
Busy, busy, busy, that was him.
As he locked his car he was grinning and prepping himself for what he would say to his sister. She was another silly bitch with her African awareness and her ethnic clothes. But she was cool, she adored him. And why wouldn’t she? Every woman he met loved Patrick Connor. He checked himself over in his wing mirror. As far as he was concerned, he was fucking gorgeous.
Marie arrived at Verbena and Ossie’s at just after nine-thirty. She knew that Pat had left the gym unseen by her and also knew that she could wait for him. She had all the time in the world. She wasn’t expecting a warm welcome here but she was past caring.
She’d felt an urge to see her son and didn’t care what trouble it caused. Verbena’s feelings were not high on her list of priorities at the moment. She was a woman who needed to get out into the world and find out what real problems were.
Ossie answered the door. His handsome face seemed pleased to see her, but he had the hangdog look of a man who knew he was in for trouble. Verbena was not going to be over the moon at Marie’s visit, especially as it was unannounced. But the boy needed to see his real mother, whether she liked it or not.
Ossie welcomed Marie with a smile and a hug. She felt the strength of him as he put his arms around her and longed to bury her face in his shoulder, just for the comfort it would bring.
She knew that part of her was only here to delay what she was going to do. She was shocked inside that she was now contemplating murder in such a calculated way. All the years she had served Her Majesty, she had told herself over and over that violence solved nothing, it was a mug’s game, and she had been determined to be a better person. Now that was all turned upside down because she had to take revenge on Patrick Connor. But first she would see her son.
She walked into the beautiful home where he had been brought up and relaxed. She would see her boy, her child. He would stop the ache in her breast, stop the madness in her blood.
Jason ran to her and hugged her tightly.
Marie put her arms around him and felt at peace with herself for the first time since her daughter had died. As she pushed her face into his springy hair she was reminded of him as a baby. All her memories of her children were like that. She had missed out on so much of their lives.
Even their first steps were a blur to her. She still beat herself up over her neglect of the two most important people in her life, but they had not been important to her then, not really. Heroin had been her passion, her love. It was a destructive love. To want something above your children, whether it be a drug or a man, was wrong. How many women had she met over the years in prison who had put a man over their children? Hundreds probably. Why did it take so long for them to realise that you would not be young for ever? That sex was peripheral and drugs only an escape? Your children were to be enjoyed and loved because they endured, and loved you no matter what. Look at her son now, hugging her even though she had been away for most of his life. She wasn’t sure she could have been so forgiving in his shoes. But then, she knew so much more about her life than he did.
Which was probably just as well.
‘I was wishing you here, Mum.’
His words were like a balm to her. He had called her Mum. If she died now she knew she would be happy. It was so long since anyone had called her that and she’d never thought she would hear it again. Had expected him to call her Marie or even Ria. The POs had called her Ria in Cookham Wood.
She was assailed by grief once more and cried into her son’s hair. He cried with her. Together they felt their combined grief and it made it easier to bear.
‘I am so sorry, Jason, so sorry for leaving you.’
He half smiled, his handsome face so like Marshall’s it was eerie.
‘You’re here now, Mum, that’s all that matters.’
She kissed him again but in her head she was screaming out: For how long? If she did what she planned she would soon be gone from him again.
Verbena watched them from the hallway that had been painted a pale lemon yellow because that was the colour of the moment. She still found it hard to believe that her son could find anything even remotely likeable about Marie Carter.
Marie locked eyes with her and the animosity between them was almost tangible.
‘I don’t recall you ringing?’
Verbena’s voice was superior and very clipped.
Marie didn’t answer her.
‘I said . . .’
Marie forced a smile.
‘I heard you the first time. Your husband gave me free rein, told me to pop in whenever I wanted to, remember? I wanted to see my son. I needed to see my son.’
She had said the word out loud. Son. A word that so many women took for granted.
Jason hugged her closer.
‘I’m so glad you’re here. Tiffany missed you as much as I did, she just didn’t know how to put it into words.’
He was trying to make her feel better. She realised that he was a kind boy. Patrick had not passed on any of his malice and evil. Jason was a good kid.
‘Go to your room, Jason.’
‘NO!’
The word was loud and it was final.
Marie found it in her heart to be sorry for Verbena. She was one sad fuck, as they would say in prison.
‘Look, Verbena, why don’t you just go and make some coffee or something?’
Ossie half pulled and half pushed his wife into the kitchen as he spoke. Shutting the door on his son and Marie, he whispered harshly, ‘What is it with you, woman? Can’t you see that she is what Jason needs at the moment? She is his only link with his sister. His only link with the past.’
Verbena snorted.
‘What past? You and I were both told the true circumstances of his early life. Mother a drug addict, both kids neglected, she killed two of her so-called friends. What kind of bloody link is that, for Christ’s sakes? Remember what he was like when they brought him here? A bundle of nerves, crying all the time, not eating! Remember all that, do you?’
Ossie shook his head slowly at his wife’s a
ngry words.
‘I remember all that, Verby. I also remember that he missed his mother. Cried for her and called out her name. That is what I remember. I also remember us discussing the bond that could make a child love someone who had in effect abandoned them. And he did love her. He still loves her. There are many types of love, Verbena, and if you are not careful you will destroy what love that boy has for you because you are making his life so difficult! He has lost his only sister – doesn’t that make you in the least bit sad, woman? Can’t you find it in your heart to let Marie have a little piece of his life?’
She shook her head furiously.
‘It’s either her or me, and that goes for you as well, Ossie. I haven’t invested all these years in Jason for her to come waltzing into my home and take him away from me. I love him more than she ever could. I sat up with him through chicken pox and measles. I took him to school and fed him and read to him and made sure he was secure. Not her! I made sure he was dressed well, spoke properly. I played with him, and taught him to read and write. I don’t have room for her in my life and neither does he.’
‘But that is where you are wrong, Verbena – he does have room for her. And if you want my advice you’d better make room for her too. Because I intend to do that. I don’t think Marie is as black as she is painted.’
He put the kettle on and she could see by the stiffness of his back that he was really angry. Part of her wanted to go to him and caress him and tell him he was right. But she didn’t. Pride had always been her biggest failing. That wasn’t going to change overnight. Not even for her precious child.
Busby was overjoyed to see her little brother. Her large frame was wobbling with mirth as usual as she showed him into her lounge and sat him down. She made him a white rum and Coke expertly and placed it on a coaster on the table beside him. He could smell rice and peas and his mouth watered in anticipation.
‘Let me check on the food.’
Alone he sipped at his drink and surveyed the room. A large picture of the Last Supper adorned the main wall over the fireplace. Jesus and all His disciples were black. It had to be a truer depiction of the night than the white version. A blue-eyed blond man walking round North Africa two thousand years before? He was with Busby on that if not much else.