To say that Vicki Wilkinson wasn’t pleased with Lucy’s interference would be an understatement. Who the hell does she think she is? On her way out, Lucy had just warned Vicki that her relationship with Mick could put her licence at risk. There was an underlying warning of another sort, which piqued Vicki’s curiosity. She isn’t even my probation officer! When Vicki returned to the flat, Mick had his shoes on and was about to head out the door.
‘Where you off to, love?’ she asked innocently.
Mick grabbed her arm roughly. ‘Are you keeping track of my movements now? What the fuck has it got to do with you, and what did that bitch tell you?’
‘Owww.’ She pulled her arm away, giving him a dirty look. ‘What are you doing that for? I was just bloody asking, but I won’t bother next time. Lucy said fuck all to me. What’s your problem?’
Mick squared up to Vicki and whispered through gritted teeth, ‘Watch that mouth of yours, Vicki … I’d hate for something to happen to it.’ He pushed her out the door roughly with a final warning, ‘Now get the fuck out of my flat!’
‘Heeeey! I only have this sheet on! For fuck’s sake, at least let me get dressed. What about my keys?’
‘Not my problem. I have plans. Now fuck off.’ Mick locked the door behind him.
Vicki was mortified. In her alcohol-fuelled hazes she’d often woken up in strange places, outdoors, with less on than what she was wearing now, but she hadn’t expected Mick to be so cruel. Vicki pulled the sheet tighter around her, ready to make the walk of shame home, but she didn’t know how she’d get back into her flat. If the landlord was home, maybe she could convince him that she had accidently locked herself out. She’d ring Shell and ask if she’d drop the spare key round. Vicki could easily get a new one cut. Shell would be furious.
Prior to release from custody, Vicki had completed a course on healthy relationships. She knew she was no angel, especially when drink was involved, but she’d been to counselling and built up her confidence. Every now and again she’d felt herself fall back into old habits, but was working hard, and didn’t want to fall prey to another abusive relationship. Didn’t want that cycle to start all over again.
Nearly home, Vicki noticed the landlord walking down the path, two large black bin bags in his hands, his tracksuit bottoms falling down just enough to give Vicki a glance at the crack of his arse.
‘Mr Bury! Mr Bury! I need to get into my flat!’
Vicki blushed when she saw him look her up and down with distaste, but he dropped the bags and gestured for her to follow him. Vicki could hear him mumbling under his breath and, in normal circumstances, probably would have used her own vicious tongue to come up with a smart remark. She was desperate to get into her flat, though, and couldn’t afford to piss him off. He pulled a large batch of keys from his pocket and, within minutes, Vicki was in her flat and slumped on her old, lumpy couch. Then the tears started.
Vicki woke up, freezing cold. The crying had brought on sleep and cleared her thoughts, sobered her up. Looking at her watch, she realized that a few hours had passed. She needed to call Shell before Timpson’s closed, otherwise she’d be trapped in her flat until tomorrow … and right now, Vicki needed a drink badly.