Come and Be Killed: A Chilling Psychological Thriller, page 5
Thicker now, with those bare patches growing over since she’d bought in her own shopping. She could also afford more expensive colorants and keep up with the trends in Primark. But on £6 an hour and then tax, no way could she even think of renting somewhere on her own.
The Shannon problem, although lessened, was still ongoing. She’d returned from a summer fortnight in Ibiza with skin the colour of a pumpkin and cheap gold not just on all her fingers but looped round her neck as well. She’d bragged on that she’d met a bar owner called Chuck and it looked like her MA plans were on hold. An MA paid by Beryl, of course, whose savings were now down to £5,245 with the rent set to rise again next year.
Frankie made sure that Ellie was safe and snug before switching off the light and locking the door behind her. Down in the Formica-coated kitchen, under the shrinking balloons which she’d tied to the main light, she lit up one of Beryl’s Marlboros and was just about to add hot water to the instant coffee in her Scooby-Doo mug when she heard footsteps on the stairs. Furtive steps, not those of someone simply going from A to B, and for a brief, awful moment Frankie was reminded of John Arthur’s nocturnal visits.
Every smallest noise carried in that 1950s semi. Each WC flush sounded like Niagara Falls. Even Mrs Tilley’s movements next door could be logged if you had the inclination for that sort of thing. Whenever she switched on Women’s Hour. When Corrie hit her screen.
*
Shannon was dressed from head to toe in white, like the bloody Snow Queen, thought Frankie. Her boat-necked top revealed the extent of her topped-up tan, her jeans the unmistakeable cleft of her sex between her thighs.
‘You got any dough?’ she asked, helping herself to a cigarette from the open packet on the draining board. Frankie let it go. Season of goodwill and all that. Besides, she had her future to consider and from now on, just like the college principal had said at the prize-giving, Perfectionist was going to be her middle name.
‘How much you after?’
Shannon shrugged. Lit up and channelled her first exhalation towards the balloons.
‘Thirty?’
‘Why?’ She’d a right to ask, after all.
‘Clubbing.’
‘Now?’
‘Yep. Down at Gee’s.’
The hottest spot in town, with a dance floor suspended over the river. Where just to step over the threshold would set you back twenty. To leave your belongings in their guarded cloakroom, more again.
‘Tell me something, then.’
‘What?’ Eyeing her bag like a dog hooked on a promised bone. Clearly wondering how long this was going to take. ‘About where you came from? All that stuff? Excuse me while I yawn.’
Frankie killed her dimp in the glass ashtray and unzipped her bag. Heard Beryl stirring in her old room above.
‘Ask her, for fuck’s sake.’ Shannon’s made-up eyes scrolled to the ceiling. ‘She was the one who fixed it all up.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘They took some four year old in for a few months, then a nine year old after that. Disasters both of them.’
‘Both girls?’ Frankie asked hopefully, to cover up her disappointment.
‘One of each. Don’t think they knew what they wanted. Then I overheard Mum say they’d try for a newborn. I’m surprised the powers-that-be let her have a third bite of the apple.’
Frankie thought of Ellie. Her newborn. She’d already shown her off to the home’s residents so there was no need to make her endure tonight’s festivities. But the fact that Beryl Holt hadn’t necessarily wanted a girl or picked her out sent a distinctly unfestive chill to her heart.
Shannon finished her cigarette and checked her watch – another cheap import – as a flush of frustration crept up her neck. Frankie made her wait some more by opening up her wallet and letting her fingers play amongst its folds. Teasing the graduate into thinking the payout was imminent. Everyone she knew had photos in theirs. Family, pets et cetera. She always made a point of looking at these at checkout tills. But her wallet stayed strictly functional. At least, for now.
‘Beryl says my mother was a stuck-up bitch,’ she said, bringing a fiver half out of its slot. ‘Did you ever see her?’
‘Once.’
‘Once?’ Frankie almost shouted, letting the wallet drop. ‘For Christ’s sake, tell me what she looked like . . .’
‘Thirty quid,’ Shannon reminded her, opening her white vinyl bag in anticipation.
With shaking fingers, Frankie found the rest. Another fiver and a twenty. Worn and thin between her fingers as she passed them over.
‘So?’ But no sooner were the notes in Shannon’s hand than she’d lunged for the back door and legged it down the passageway.
*
Frankie boarded the 219 bus into town, two stops from the home, so that by the time she and her bag were thrown together on to the nearest of its smelly velour seats she was not only freezing but knackered.
‘Busy night, eh?’ the black driver had quipped as she’d paid her fare. ‘Hope this fog’ll clear before tomorrow.’ He kept his eye on her for most of the journey. There was no hiding place unless she crouched down out of sight between the seats, but why should she do that? She’d paid full whack, ninety-eight pence, after all. Perhaps it was her outfit that was exciting his interest. A zebra-striped top with the shortest, tightest skirt she possessed. Her hair trained last-minute into twenty short aggressive spikes. All because of Shannon.
The old folks and those few family members who’d bothered to visit them for the evening had clapped and cheered as she’d been pronounced the karaoke winner then duetted ‘My Way’ with Robbie Day-Glo, a local balladeer in his fifties, who’d been cheap to hire. Her heart hadn’t been in it, of course, but she was learning to put on a good show. To be what people wanted her to be.
At the end of all the fun, with all the Hi Life diluted orange juice and ham sandwiches gone, the oldest resident, Walter Perkins, handed over a set of war medals embedded in a silk-lined box. He’d explained with tearful eyes how he’d no living relatives and that she, Frankie, was the next best thing. At least she’d appreciate them, not like some junk shop.
‘Course I will, Wally. No worries. Thanks ever so much.’ She’d kissed his whiskery head then held his hand for a moment, amazed that such valuables hadn’t already been nicked from his room during escorted toilet visits. She also idly wondered about his will.
Frankie stared out at the dismal scene beyond the bus window, where sky and buildings blurred as one and bright lights were rendered faint smudges in the gloom. The remaining seats soon filled up with revellers – some pissed already, the rest halfway there. She prayed to a God she’d never believed in that no one would recognize her.
‘Everybody out,’ shouted the driver when the bus finally came to a halt. ‘No one’s kipping in ’ere tonight, if you don’t mind.’
‘You must be fucking joking,’ said a chav in a Man U baseball cap.
Everyone disembarked to be lost in the city’s smog. She resisted pushing her way through the wall of bodies exiting for fear of attracting attention to herself, so she was the last to leave.
‘Off somewhere nice?’ The driver leant towards her.
‘No,’ she muttered, lugging the heavy bag behind her. ‘Just meeting my dad.’
‘Lucky Dad,’ he said, gathering up his things as she stepped out on to the teeming pavement. She’d only been to London once, on a Year 10 school trip to Madame Tussauds, paid for by the governors. By the time the party had glimpsed Winston Churchill and the Chamber of Horrors – which didn’t scare her in the least – it was time to leave. She’d never seen so much heaving humanity seemingly going nowhere.
Now was different and she was swept along in a fog of smoke and liquor while carols from a passing Father Christmas motorcade filled her ears. She felt dizzy, losing her purpose. At last, she spotted a Ladies and took herself down into its strangely scented depths.
‘Twenty pence, please.’ A scraggy old crust held out her hand. ‘And no tampons down the pan. More than me job’s worth.’
Frankie passed her the right coin, trying to avoid making contact with either her eyes or her fingers. This was a disaster. The crone would surely recognize her later, but what else could she do? To turn and go would be even more obvious. Once inside the cubicle, and careful not to let anything touch the floor, she changed. She overheard the same woman in an argument with a group of foreign students. This gave her the chance she needed to slip away unnoticed and make her way against the human tide towards the river.
*
Gee’s was throbbing with Duran Duran and testosterone. There were blokes everywhere and for one unnerving moment she wondered it was a gay night. That her target had got it wrong. The uniformed bouncer outside the entrance to the converted warehouse eyed her up and down then, with a practised touch, frisked her bag. She held her breath for fear he’d focus on the old boy’s medals, which might well take some explaining.
‘On your own?’ he asked, finally zipping it up again.
‘Meeting some mates.’ She smiled.
‘ID?’
‘What?’
She blushed. Her fucking name was on everything . . .
‘Look,’ he said, grinning, ‘you don’t look like no pusher. Least, not to me. Have a good time, eh?’
‘Thanks.’ Frankie winked at him, showing her best profile. ‘I will.’ She wasn’t going to let him see how relieved she was.
Beyond the foyer, a curve of shallow marble steps led to a galleried landing full of drinking, braying bodies. As far as she could see, there was no one dressed in white. No one with the Snow Queen’s hair.
Give it time, she thought, offering up her widest grin for the reception girls then handing over her bag. Her grin wasn’t reciprocated. One stupid cow was eyeballing her as if she had nits.
‘Cheers,’ she said after the back of her left hand had been stamped with a number. 358. A bloody weird coincidence, she thought, setting off for the stairs.
Cher’s ‘I Believe’ was blasting from all corners. Frankie mouthed the words, which, although not exactly mirroring her experience, nevertheless empowered her as she climbed upwards. They gave her heartbeat a stronger rhythm, the courage to press her way through to a vast dark room swimming with ribbons of coloured lights. It seemed like Heaven and Hell all rolled into one. Or an aquarium where vertical fish were moving close together, wide-eyed, striped blue, pink, purple.
Frankie shook her head at the words of the song. Except for Justin Rosser she’d never been truly madly deeply in love, and most pop songs were therefore irrelevant. After Shannon’s victory, she’d tuned into the cool angst of Morissette and Coldplay. Just thinking about the tall, hunky football-mad Rosser refocused her mind. Partly why she was here.
She spotted the illuminated sign for the Ladies and slipped behind the crowded tables into its lighted doorway. Anxious to avoid being seen by those preening themselves in front of the wall-length mirror, she entered the first cubicle and locked herself in. Just as she was about to retrieve a pair of latex gloves from her jeans pocket and encourage them over her fingers as she would before applying hair colour, she heard the outer door bang shut and two voices, one of which she recognized.
‘That’s why there’s nothing doing with my MA. If that lazy cow had a better job, Mum could afford the fees. As it is, what does my dear adopted sister decide to do for a living?’
‘You tell me.’ The voice had a strong Brummie twang.
‘Caring. In some old folks’ home. I ask you.’
‘Hardly bringing home the bacon, then?’ The girl chuckled before the sound of running water took over. ‘Didn’t think anyone in those places had an IQ of more than five.’
‘Too right. Why it’s probably about her level. You should see the state of her. Hair like a tart’s beaver after a rough night. And that face! God was having a day off when that one came up for him to sort.’
‘Bitch Face.’ The tap turned off now, and the hand drier activated, masking the worst of the Brummie’s cruel laughter.
‘Stingy Bitch Face.’
Frankie’s stomach tightened. She forgot to breathe as the chat went on, accompanied now by ‘Silent Night’.
‘And guess what, Jess, she’s got this doll, right? Like it was a real kid or something. Gives me the creeps. You should see it. I’m surprised it didn’t arrive with placenta all over it.’
‘Ugh. Please.’
‘Exactly. Whoever’s made that has got to be sick.’
Frankie slipped on each glove in turn, flexed her fingers . . . Hold on, she told herself. Wait. And she did, until the pair had clacked their way back towards the door and let it shut behind them.
‘Ding dong merrily on high, in Heav’n the bells are ringing . . .’ sang the metallic choir and the girls, still ranged by the mirror, were singing along to it, too blitzed to notice her leave. Her hurt still stung like a wound and both hands felt hot, constricted inside the gloves, as she re-entered the disco. No way could she risk them catching the light, so she couldn’t be chatted up or even order a drink.
Christ, she could do with a fag. Fifty, in fact. Before she got on with it.
She hunted for that all-too-familiar white hair with its devil’s horns. Not a sign. Far as the eye could see.
‘Fancy a jive?’ A midget in a denim suit looked up at her from under his dark fringe. He’d appeared from nowhere like something out of The Hobbit. Another potential witness.
‘Sorry. Waiting for me mate. Thanks all the same.’ She smiled, before checking her watch in the spinning lights. She felt dizzy, hungry as nothing on offer at the care home had whetted her appetite.
It was 11 p.m. The last bus back was at 11.23. Forget it.
All at once, a peal of laughter hit her. Hers, without a doubt. Frankie followed it, hands in pockets, towards a pair of glass doors which lay open to the night.
Fog and river mist embraced both the smooching couples and those cokeheads who danced alone on the black-painted decking, absorbed only in themselves and their fucked-up world. It seemed to hover untainted by the colours from within. Paler where the floor heaters pulsed out their acrid warmth. Thicker when added to by human breath.
She was still laughing when Frankie moved through the glass doors and pretended to sway, head down like the others. The river below gave off the same smell as the insides of her trainers.
The Snow Queen faced the water, greeting someone or something unseen, pressed up against the trendy silver pipework which formed the safety barrier. Her jeans still right up her arse.
Seagulls, that was it. Hovering, squealing as if in reply. She was bombed, no question. Stank of neat vodka . . .
Frankie withdrew her hands from her pockets and while the Black Star track was at its loudest, clamped them round that gargling chain-draped neck. She thought of Lila, of Beryl and the days and nights in Dartmoor Road.
Eleven weeks at the home had strengthened her muscles, tightened her grip – the best preparation for what she did next. Never mind the war medals, she had a lot to thank them for. Especially as Shannon had suddenly grown limp, just like Lila.
Frankie glanced round at her spaced-out companions, none seemingly aware of her at all as she then hefted the geography graduate upwards, limb by limb, over the waist-high barrier. Suddenly, without warning, that hated face turned to her with a shot of recognition, almost putting Frankie off her stroke. The scream just like a gull’s as she fell was drowned by the dull plop of water which followed. Frankie waited for that soft gurgle from her filling lungs, and watched as she sank without trace.
*
‘Had a good night, then?’ asked one of the green-haired girls retrieving her bag from the cloakroom.
‘Cool, yeah. Cheers.’ She beamed, thinking of Shannon’s last look and her bag which would never be claimed. ‘Be back in the New Year sometime.’ She left a one-pound tip.
‘Ta. Hope Father Christmas brings what you asked him for.’
‘He has. I got it early.’
Chapter Eight
The VernePortland. Jan 19th. 2002
Dear son,
I know you probably won’t read this, but that doesn’t stop me from writing to you. I’m allowed to pen one letter a week and who else have I got to send one to? Your uncle Malcolm and aunt Sheila haven’t been near me since I arrived, nor have they written or called. So, you see, I have no one.
Once I’m out of here, believe me, I’ll make it up to you.
Am still being pushed for damages and if I lose, I’ll be bankrupt. It’s gutting to know that the house – my hard-earned buffer for my old age, and, don’t forget, your ultimate inheritance – should be lost in such a way. I get flak for being a poshy, as they say here. I didn’t realize there was so much envy around. Like a plague of locusts.
That’s all for now, and remember, a visit would buck me up no end.
Dad
Me, me, me . . . Fuck him, thought Martin as he screwed the lined sheet of notepaper and its envelope into a ball and kicked it down the nearest drain outside his Vauxhall flat. Not just because the s in son wasn’t a capital letter, but why should he even read a line of it, with his mother now rotting in a grave some fifteen miles away.
The past four and a half years of life had been marked without even the smallest achievement. And the careers-choice questionnaire he’d filled in during his first term of the sixth form was no more than a sick, tantalizing joke. He’d walked the Boulevard of Broken Dreams all right. All the bloody way, starting with the Met. He’d not even made it over the doorstep. The polite rejection had arrived the day after his mother’s funeral. When the newspapers were still dredging up still more eyewitness accounts of the runway crash. Still braying for tighter controls on pilots’ lifestyles.
