Geezer Girls, page 1
Geezer Girls
Dreda Say Mitchell
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2009 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
2
Copyright © Dreda Say Mitchell 2009
The right of Dreda Say Mitchell to be identified as the
Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor
be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other
than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious
and any resemblance to real persons, living
or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title
is available from the British Library
Epub ISBN 9781848946165
Book ISBN 9780340937112
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.hodder.co.uk
This one’s for Anastasia. What a sister!
Big thanks to Marise and Barry for letting me nick one of the brilliant ideas from their wonderful wedding and to my agent Jane Gregory, Stephanie Glencross and to the amazing team at Hodder. Love and hugs, as always, to Tony.
And of course Tricia Burns and memories of growing up on the Berner Estate.
CONTENTS
Geezer Girls
Imprint Page
Dedication
Quotation
Part 1
Chapter 1
Part 2
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part 3
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Part 4
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Blood Sister
About the Author
Any woman who’s got balls bigger than a bloke is a Geezer Girl.
East London saying
now
JacKiE
one
The bride and bridesmaids stared at their guns.
Uzi.
Pistol.
Revolver.
MAC-10.
They stood in one of London’s hottest clubs. On the middle floor. In a room that was two floors up from the silent dance floor, two floors down from the members-only spa. They stood in a semicircle. Around the table where the guns lay. The bride, Jackie Jarvis, dragged her gaze away from the shooters. Stared directly at her three friends. Roxy. Anna. Ollie.
Finally she broke the silence. ‘Ollie’s right, he’s coming to get us, I know he is. And we can’t take the chance that he might not come to the church.’ She stopped. Her tongue did a nervous flick across her lips. ‘If you want out, now’s the time to say it.’
Once again, she gazed at her friends.
‘I’m in,’ Ollie said calmly.
‘So am I,’ Roxy added.
‘You know me, girl.’ Anna gave Jackie a half-smile. ‘I’m always in.’
Jackie nodded. ‘OK, this is the set-up. Anna and Roxy, there’s no need for you two to be tooled up. But as soon as we hit the church you both become our eyes. Check the place over, up and down, to see if he’s there.’
‘And if he is?’ Anna cut in.
The glow in Jackie’s green eyes became grim. ‘If that bastard has the brass balls to gatecrash my wedding . . .’ She stopped. Eyeballed the guns. ‘Me and Ollie will have no choice but to blow him away.’
They all looked at Ollie. She ran her gaze over the guns. Reached out. Picked up the double-action pistol. Shoved it inside the bouquet she held in her hand. Now they all looked at Jackie. She took a deep breath. Leaned forward. Plucked up the compact revolver.
‘Anna, hide the other shooters,’ Jackie commanded as she stepped back from the table. She moved quickly towards a chair. Lifted her right leg. Placed her white satin shoe on the seat. Her dress made a whooshing sound as she bunched it up. Past her ankle. Over her calf muscle. To the top of her thigh. Until her white stocking leg and electric-blue garter gleamed in the midday light. She stretched the garter with one hand. Placed the gun between it and her thigh. Shivered as the coolness of the metal settled against her skin.
‘Sweet Jesus, Mother Mary and all the saints,’ she whispered. Then she gently placed the garter back in place.
She moved towards the free-standing mirror, walking in the shaft of sunlight that hit the room. She gazed at her white reflection. Sighed. This should’ve been the happiest day of her life. The others quickly gathered around her. Stared tensely at their own reflections. They wore sky-blue A-line, above the knee, bridesmaids’ dresses, and claret heels, the colours of Jackie’s favourite footie team, West Ham United.
‘Whatever happens,’ Ollie said as her hand tightened on her bouquet. ‘Always remember that we’re family. We came into this together and we’ll come out of it together.’
They remained silent as they stared at their collective reflections like it was the last picture they would ever take together.
‘OK, ladies,’ Jackie said. ‘It’s time to rock ’n’ roll.’
They moved. Towards the door. The door opened just before they reached it. In the doorway stood the one man they all trusted. The man who had saved their lives. The man who would be giving Jackie away at the church. He gave Jackie an ecstatic, proud smile. ‘Sweetheart, you look like a flamin’ angel.’
Jackie’s wedding dress whispered as she moved to meet him. He crooked his arm. She slid her arm into his. Smiled. He kissed her on the cheek. Then they turned. Stepped out of the door. The gun on her thigh began to warm up against her skin.
‘Ready?’
Jackie nodded at the man who held her arm as they stood on the threshold of the church where the packed crowd waited inside. Her right hand tightened on his sleeve. Her left hand smoothed along her dress, feeling the outline of the gun. She took a deep breath. Held it. Stepped forward. Exhaled. The organ started to play West Ham United’s theme song. The congregation turned around, watching Jackie coming down the aisle, as they began to sing.
‘I’m forever blowing bubbles.
Pretty bubbles in the air . . .’
The song bounced with a rowdy, jubilant quality that any Hammers fanatic would be proud of. Jackie’s six-year-old son, decked out in claret trousers and jacket and blue waistcoat, blew bubbles at his mum as she passed by. Jackie gave him a reassuring, shaky smile as a wet bubble burst against her veil. She quickly looked away, her gaze searching the crowd. For him. The geezer.
She checked the faces of the crowd on the left as the pulse of the singing swayed higher.
‘They fly so high, nearly reach the sky . . .’
Checked right.
‘Then like my dreams they all fade and die . . .’
She blew out a deep, low breath because there was no sign of him. Her face lit up into a cheek-popping smile. She fixed her eyes straight ahead. Onto the man she was about to marry. Everything’s gonna be alright; everything’s gonna be alright, she chanted in her head as she moved. Finally she reached her husband-to-be, as the crowd raised the roof with the song’s final line.
‘Pretty bubbles in the air.’
The groom lifted her veil. Touched her face. His hand fell away as Father Tom began.
‘Dearly beloved . . .’
Yeah, everything was gonna be alright.
Fifteen minutes later the priest announced, ‘I now pronounce you husband and wife.’ Jackie stared up at her new husband, the gun at her thigh forgotten. His hand slid to her face. Pulled her forward. Gave her the biggest smacker she’d ever had. The crowd wolf-whistled and clapped. A camera flashed.
Bang.
A gunshot ripped through the air.
Someone screamed. Jackie knew it wasn’t her. Her husband clung to her. Pressed her close. Then his arms fell away. He staggered back. Her head flopped down to stare at her wedding dress. To stare at the blood splashed across it. Her knees began to buckle as the blood began to spread. As she began to remember how all of this had started . . .
ten years ago
jaDE
two
A death sentence.
That’s how it all started.
It took off on a Sunday, 16 December, as the plane left London’s Heathrow. Touched down on Monday when it landed at General Latifi airport in the African republic of Sankura. Kicked off as thirty-three-year-old Nikki Flynn and Maxine Munro waited with the other passengers in the cramped and crowded lines at passport control.
They stood in the second line from the right, the third line from the left. Behind the young, black woman who was getting a mega-grilling at the immigration desk. Both women were decked out in classic V-line pencil skirts that clung to thighs and split to allow calf muscles to peep outside. Male officials at airports always went for a bit of leg. Distracting men was at the heart of their success in their chosen profession. Being members of what they had nicknamed the Glittering Game – the illegal importation of gems.
The sweat shone on Maxine’s face as she looked nervously around, arms clenched around her middle like she was standing in the midst of a winter day.
‘Shit,’ Nikki said under her breath as she saw what Maxine was doing. She leaned towards her and whispered sharply, ‘Cool it. You look as jumpy as a junkie facing rehab.’
The muscles in Maxine’s pale cheek twitched. ‘I can’t help it. I’ve got a real bad feeling.’
Nikki’s head reared back as the smell of whisky on Maxine’s breath slapped her in the face. She’d told Maxine to lay off the booze. She’d tried to keep an eagle eye on her the whole flight. Maxine must’ve been guzzling away in the toilet like a bloody fish during happy hour. Bollocks, she didn’t need this kind of aggro.
‘The only bad feeling I’ve got is you fucking up because you’re tanked out of your head all the time,’ Nikki hissed. ‘Just hand over your passport, smile and show your pearly-whites to the geezer behind the desk and you’ll be alright.’
Maxine’s hand darted into the side pocket of her shoulder bag and pulled out her asthma pump. Her hand shook as she placed the pump at her mouth and inhaled twice. Nikki shook her head as she snapped back around. She would have to do something about Maxine sooner or later. Her mate of fifteen years was becoming a friggin’ liability. A total pisshead. As soon as they got out of this arse-end of a country she was going to sit her down. Lay the law down. But not now. Now they had a job to do.
The black woman at the immigration desk was still getting the third degree. Nikki hugged her black Gucci shoulder bag. Her fine fingers caressed the leather in a quick motion that matched the eagerness of her need to be reunited with her suitcase. A suitcase that had a false bottom stashed with cash that was to be used as part of the exchange for the most lucrative gems of all – diamonds. Nikki had no idea how much cash there was because their boss, Jason Nelson, always insisted on packing the cases himself.
Bang. The noise of the immigration official finally stamping the black woman’s passport brought Nikki back to the present. Right, here we go, she told herself. She shook out her shoulder-length copper-red hair. Slapped on a smile. Stepped forward. Reached the desk. She leaned slightly over so that her breasts were clearly outlined against her white Lycra top. She handed her passport over. The immigration official’s stone-brown eyes checked out her face. Slid from the gold chain around her neck to her breasts. Lycra and boobs never failed to be the magic combination. Nikki tilted her head to the side. Smiled some more. He ignored her smile. Turned his attention to the maroon passport and began to thumb through it. Abruptly he stopped. Flicked his head back up to look at her. She straightened her head, knowing he had found the ten-dollar bill she had discreetly folded inside her passport. She watched as he quickly grabbed the note and thrust it under some papers. The power of the mighty dollar worked every time in one of these poor countries. He stamped her passport and handed it back to her. She moved towards the bustling arrivals hall. Kept her gaze trained on the black woman who had been ahead of her in the queue, her hand anxiously playing with her necklace as she waited for Maxine. A few minutes later her friend joined her.
‘I told you it would be a piece of piss,’ Nikki whispered.
Twenty minutes later their baggage was loaded onto their trolleys. Nikki looked across the revolving baggage carousel and found the young black woman, who had started to move her trolley.
‘Ready?’ she asked Maxine. The other woman nodded. ‘Let’s get the fuck outta here.’
They moved their trolleys behind the black woman, across the hard floor that was the colour of congealed desert sand. Their trolleys slowed when they saw the line of soldiers waiting near the ‘nothing to declare’ exit. Ten of them at least. Some cradling guns. Others holding the leashes on dogs primed to attack.
‘Told you I had a bad feeling,’ Maxine whimpered.
Maxine’s bad feeling was beginning to rub off on Nikki. Not that they hadn’t seen guns before. They had, but mostly on villains posing for photos in the front rooms of their council flats. The men in the distance held them like they used them every day before they proudly took the head of the table with their wives and kids every evening.
‘Just follow the usual routine and everything will be cool and dandy.’
They picked up speed. Pressed forward. The humidity built invisible walls in the air. The black woman just ahead of them reached ‘nothing to declare’. A large uniformed official stepped towards her. The woman stopped, sweat running down her face. Here we go, thought Nikki triumphantly. He waved his hand at the woman, indicating she should keep moving. Bouncing bollocks, Nikki thought, that wasn’t meant to happen. The black woman turned her head slightly. Looked at Nikki. Caught her eye, like she knew her. Which of course she did.
Jasmine, or Jazzy as they called her.
The third member of their crew.
Their decoy.
The set-up was simple. Jasmine always travelled in economy class – or battery-hen class as they laughingly called it – pretended to speak little English, using a false passport with a Nigerian name. A walking stereotype that officials just couldn’t resist pulling over. While they searched her bags, which contained nothing illegal, Nikki and Maxine would sail through behind her.
But the set-up hadn’t worked today. Jasmine turned hastily around as she wheeled her trolley away. Nikki’s bad feeling turned into full-blown panic. Above her head the blades of the ceiling fan wheezed to the beat of the breath of a dying man. She and Maxine kept moving forward. The soldiers stepped towards them. Nikki plastered the smile back onto her face. Caught the eyes of one of the men. A very large man. The one she figured must be head honcho. His uniform was all-over posturing khaki green with epaulettes and gold and silver braid and SSP written in black letters on the top pocket of his shirt. She moved her gaze away from him and as they reached the customs desk, the official standing behind it held up a hand. They stopped.
Shit.
Take it nice and easy, girl, Nikki told herself. She kept smiling and looked the official directly in the eye. The man looked at the large man standing with the other soldiers. Turned back to Nikki and asked, in clipped English, ‘Have you anything to declare?’
Nikki shook her head as she answered, ‘No.’
The official once again looked back at the man. Then back at Nikki.
‘Are you sure?’
‘I said so, didn’t I?’
Her tone was full of stress. She could’ve kicked herself for answering like that. Keep it cool, girl, nice and easy.
The official picked up a leaflet from his desk and handed it to her.
‘Have you read this?’
Her eyes quickly scanned the contents. It was the usual crap you got in any country.
The things you weren’t allowed to import – drugs, weapons, foodstuff . . . Her eyes flicked back up to him without finishing reading.
‘Yeah, I’ve read this and I’m not carrying any of these things.’
