CHARLY HAD STAYED the night at a newfound friend’s. His advice had been invaluable and now she was setting things in motion to ensure that if it really was over with Joel then she was covered. She wasn’t going to be turfed out onto the street after everything she had put into her relationship with Joel. So this morning she was going back to the flat and she was going to reason with Joel to take her back. She genuinely loved him, but Charly wasn’t stupid. She knew when something wasn’t working, and if it meant switching into self-preservation mode then so be it.
She let herself into the apartment. Joel was sitting in the same position that she had left him in, but today he was comatose – he reeked of booze, and there was a bottle of brandy at his side. The TV was displaying the DVD screensaver. Charly walked over and pressed eject on the DVD player. It was some dodgy porno entitled Dangerass. Charly threw the DVD on the floor and looked at Joel in disgust. While she’d been crying her heart out, he’d been sitting here wanking and getting as pissed as was humanly possible. Lovely, she thought. At this moment in time Charly despised him. Not that she was going to let him know and anyway, she knew that if he changed his mind and showed that he wanted to be with her she could quickly be convinced to put all of this behind them.
She walked over to the chair where he was slumped, his chin rough with stubble. ‘Joel,’ she whispered. He opened his eyes momentarily. Charly was dressed in a bottom-skimming skirt, six-inch heels and a tight low-cut top, and had liberally applied her favourite scent which she knew drove Joel wild. She leaned forward so that he could see her cleavage. This was the last thing she wanted to be doing at this precise moment in time, with the knowledge that Joel had been making do with Dangerass the previous evening, but needs must, she thought.
He studied her for a moment as if he was trying to work out if he was dreaming or if she was really standing in front of him. ‘I told you to get out,’ he said groggily, with little conviction.
Charly leaned forward and stroked his head gently. ‘But you didn’t mean it, baby, did you?’
He sat up in his chair as if he was trying to decide what to do next. Charly leaned forward and kissed him deeply, sliding herself onto Joel so that she was straddling him. She took his hand and pushed it under her skirt and between her legs. She felt Joel stir – there was no way he was going to ask her to get off him, she could tell. She definitely had his attention.
‘No knickers,’ he said, raising a lascivious eyebrow.
‘I know; I’m a naughty girl, aren’t I? Just how you like me.’
*
At the top of the Bolingbroke estate stood a lone row of shops. The last time she had been here, years ago, the cornershop had been boarded up and the name Mr Shop Right had been doctored by graffiti to read Mr Shit Right. Now it still had grilles covering the front but the graffiti was kept to a minimum and was of the usual Leoni loves Liam 101% type. She had always wondered, as she’d stood at different bus stops throughout the country over the years, why kids who wouldn’t know a percentage if it came up and sat on them insisted on adding them to the end of their graffitied declarations of love.
Bolingbroke didn’t look so bad. The council had obviously used some of their much-talked-about grant money for something other than six-foot-high pottery phalluses. (Bradington Council had commissioned a radical Edinburgh-based artist to create a sculpture to sit outside the town hall. She claimed it was a modern-day totem pole, celebrating the uniting of cultures. The man and woman in the street, when interviewed by the local news, disagreed. One man summed up the general feeling perfectly: ‘Well, they’ve spent two hundred grand on a giant knob, haven’t they?’) Bolingbroke looked clean now, the grass was trimmed and there were even a couple of Victorian lamps and a large wrought iron sign saying Bolingbroke at the bottom of the main road into the estate.
She had hoped that when she finally did return to the place she’d sweep in, looking stunning, and knock everyone for six. But she’d just popped in for a drink at the Beacon, and she didn’t recognise anyone, which was just as well because she didn’t feel particularly stunning. The last decade had put paid to any notions of a midlife being conducted as Michelle Pfeiffer’s twin. Her face was puffier than she would have liked it to be. Her slender figure had grown lumpy and shapeless. She still had pretty eyes but she felt that they were buried somewhere in her face rather than being the first thing people noticed about her and she was conscious that her hair colour had stopped looking baby blonde years ago and was now a permanent brittle peroxide with harsh roots. She didn’t have a choice though. She didn’t have the luxury of buying Nice ’n Easy; she was on a strict budget and she wasn’t about to waste it on hair dye. She used the stash of peroxide she’d nicked from the hairdressers where she’d had her last job, over a year ago, to make do. When that was finished she promised herself she’d grow it out, although she was scared to see what colour her own hair actually was.
She walked along the road and came to the top of her old street. She’d never assumed that it would be easy, that she’d just walk back in, shout ‘Hi honey, I’m home’ and pop the kettle on. But she hadn’t bargained on the feeling that gripped her now. She was paralysed with fear. Not the fear of what she would encounter but the fear of change. What if nothing was as she remembered it? She knew that certain things had changed in her family’s life; that was obvious and inevitable. But what if things had changed so irrevocably that there was no room for her at all? She faltered at the top of the road and turned on her heel. She couldn’t go back yet; she needed to have a serious think if she was doing the right thing. This was the second time in a month that she’d stood at the top of her old road and not had the courage to confront her old life, but it was a lot to confront and she needed to be ready to face up to her mistakes.
*
Tracy left Mac in the car and approached the first door on her rounds. Mac had tried to verse her in what to say but she didn’t really need the speech. She knew what to do. Get the money that they were owed. She was quite looking forward to putting her acid tongue to commercial use. A woman answered the door holding a baby. She was in her thirties, scruffy and overweight, and none too pleased to have some woman standing at her door who seemed to be there in an official capacity.
‘I’ve told you lot to fuck off.’
‘Charmed, darling, but you’ve not told me to fuck off yet or you’d know about it.’
‘You from Social Services?’
‘You’ll be wishing I was from Social Services when I tell you why I’m here and what I need you to do for me.’
‘You what?’
‘You heard. Now, you owe my business associates four hundred and fifty eight pounds and seventy two pence.’
‘Fuck off, I owe two hundred pounds.’
‘Well, if you weren’t thick as fuck you’d know what compound interest is but as you obviously are I’ll spare you the details. You’ve missed your last two payments.’ Tracy stepped menacingly towards the woman.
‘Where’s the fella who usually comes round?’
‘Don’t worry about that, darling; you’re stuck with me now till your debt’s paid off in full.’
‘And what you going to do if I can’t pay?’
Tracy put her hand out and touched the baby’s head. The woman pulled him away. ‘I saw a baby last week badly scalded; tragic really, scarred for life. Turn your back for two minutes and these things can happen, can’t they?’
‘You’re fucking deranged!’ the woman shouted.
‘That’s right, I am. So you’d better get your shit together and make sure that this time next week you’ve got your weekly instalment ready. Alright?’
The woman looked genuinely terrified. She nodded and shut the door on Tracy.
‘How did you get on?’ Mac asked, as Tracy got back in the car.
‘Told her I was going to boil her baby – seemed to work a treat.’
Mac laughed. ‘No, what did you really say?’
Tracy looked at him and raised an eyebrow.
Mac let out a slow whistle. ‘Fucking hell, Tracy, remind me never to cross you.’
‘I was only bloody joking, wasn’t I? She doesn’t need to know that though, does she? Now, where to next?’ She could get quite into this.
*
Jimmy couldn’t push the car on his own and Len hadn’t been able to help – he was still suffering from the injuries he sustained the previous evening. Gemma was obviously sick to the back teeth of having to push Jimmy’s welded together contraption so they’d had to call a taxi to get them back to the house. Len was now propped up in a corner of the shabby living room drinking a pint of cider and watching the racing while Gemma made beans on toast for everyone. Jimmy had gone down to the off licence to buy some more drink for the afternoon and Len reached for his phone to check for the hundredth time today if Charly had bothered calling him – she hadn’t. There was a knock at the door. Gemma shouted through to Len to answer it. He pushed himself up from the chair and headed for the door. When he opened it, the last person in the world he expected to see was standing there: Tracy Crompton. Tracy looked as if she was about to launch into a speech, as if she was canvassing for some political party. Although Len knew well that the only parties Tracy went near had to involve tons of drugs and booze. When she saw that it was Len who had answered the door, she reeled backwards.
‘What you doing here?’ Len asked.
‘Might ask you the same,’ Tracy said, trying to compose herself.
‘Our Jimmy lives here. I’m just here for the night.’ Len was trying to get Tracy to look him in the eye, but it didn’t seem to be working.
‘Right, well, it’s not you I’m after. I’ll call back another time.’
‘Wait, Tracy. The other night, I wanted to talk to you but you weren’t having any of it.’
‘No I wasn’t,’ she said, lifting her head and meeting his eye for the first time.
‘I just wanted to clear the air between us.’
‘Well, it’s too late for all that really, isn’t it?’ Tracy seemed to be gaining back some of her bravado.
‘Yeah, maybe you’re right. When our Charly was with your Scott I often thought about coming round but decided not to.’
‘Well, you made the right decision. Anyway, I’ve not got time to stand here idly chatting with you. If Gemma Bartle’s in, give her this card and tell her I’ll be back next week for fifteen quid.’ Tracy looked over her shoulder as if checking to make sure that someone was still there. Len followed her gaze but couldn’t see anyone.
Len looked confused but when he looked at the card she had just handed him it became clear that Tracy – for whatever reason – was working for Markie and that Gemma had been daft enough to borrow money from them. Len knew all about Markie’s money-lending business. He and Mac were effectively loan sharks, but their rates weren’t quite as extortionate as others in the business and their terms were slightly fairer – in that you could hope to keep your head in the vicinity of your shoulders for a little longer than most loan sharks allowed if you failed to keep up repayments.
‘Can we just be civil with one another? It’s years since we knocked about together.’
Tracy looked at him with burning hatred. ‘Knocked about together, is that what you’re calling it now?’
‘Went out. Were an item. Courted. Whatever,’ Len said, looking at Tracy, hoping for some clue as to where all this animosity was coming from.
‘Have you forgotten what you did?’ Tracy was shaking with anger.
Len stepped back; he obviously had. He and Tracy had been kids when they got together and they used to fight like cat and dog, get blind drunk, have sex, then fight again. ‘We did a lot to upset one another – that’s what kids do.’
‘Well, why don’t you piss off back inside and have a long hard think about how you used to be and see if anything comes back to you.’ Tracy looked like she was about to burst into tears. It might be nearly thirty-five years since they courted, Len realised, but Tracy was obviously still prone to dramatic histrionics.
‘Tracy, wind your fucking neck in, will you?’ Len said, getting ready to shut the door. He’d heard enough. He was waiting for a barrage of abuse back but got nothing; she just turned on her heel and walked away from the house, head bowed. Len looked after her, stunned. He might just be the only person in the world who’d ever had the last word in an exchange with Tracy Crompton.
*
‘You alright?’ Mac’s voice was concerned. Tracy nodded, knowing she obviously didn’t look alright. She was shaking and if she looked as sick as she felt she was probably as white as a ghost.
‘Fine. Just saw a blast from the past, that’s all. Wasn’t expecting it.’
Mac nodded. ‘So, did you get any money from the woman?’
Tracy looked at Mac; she’d almost forgotten what she’d called at Gemma’s for. ‘Oh no. Next week. Another fear-of-God job. They’ll pay up, don’t worry,’ she lied.
‘Good,’ Mac said, looking at Tracy’s profile as he put the car in gear. ‘This blast from the past . . .’
‘Very old news.’
‘Has he ever laid a hand on you?’
‘What makes you ask that?’ Tracy asked with mock surprise.
‘You look terrified.’
‘I’m fine.’ Tracy was adamant.
‘Well, if you ever get any trouble from anyone let me know and I’ll sort it. Don’t have to tell Markie; it can be our little secret.’
‘Thanks Mac, I might take you up on that one day,’ Tracy said, gazing out of the window over to the house where she had just come face to face with Len Metcalfe.
*
Charly was sitting in the lounge in her dressing gown as Joel, stark naked, poured himself a bowl of cereal and hobbled over to where Charly was and slumped onto the settee.
‘Are you my friend?’ Charly asked tentatively.
Joel cocked his head to one side, eyes narrowing. He held Charly’s gaze for what seemed like an eternity before slumping back in the chair and shrugging. ‘S’pose,’ he said.
Charly breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I’m sorry about my dad.’
‘So am I.’ Joel nodded. ‘I never want to see him again.’
‘I know, course you don’t.’ Charly wanted to say a lot to Joel about this whole messy situation. She wanted to point out that her dad had only been defending her, that Len’s anger might have been out of control but his intentions were purely honourable: he knew his daughter had been hit by her boyfriend and he was sticking up for her.
‘I won’t be responsible for my actions.’
Charly had grown up with threats and danger never far away on the Bolingbroke estate. Her family were renowned as the hard cases on the estate, not just her dad, but her extended family. Charly’s mother Shirley’s side of the family seemed to stretch across the length and breadth of the estate and she had cousins she didn’t even know were relations until they popped up and informed her of the fact; something that happened regularly throughout her teens.
Her mother’s side of the family acted like a protective clan. But once Shirley had disappeared they seemed to close ranks, becoming distant and making Charly, Jimmy and Len feel as if they were somehow responsible for her disappearance. They were also a family of troublemakers, stirring up discord at every opportunity, which meant that Charly knew what it felt like to be permanently on her guard. As a result, Charly was well aware of when she needed to think on her feet and now was definitely the time with Joel. She didn’t think things were going to get any better. Whatever her feelings for Joel were, deep down her instincts for self-preservation were stronger.
‘I know, babe, I know,’ she said, getting up and walking over to Joel. She gently touched his head. He pulled away, wincing. ‘Want me to get you some ice for your bruises?’
‘Yeah, alright,’ he said sulkily. Charly got up and went over to the freezer. She was going to be nursemaid to Joel until he was better. She wanted Joel to propose to her and for them to live happily ever after but at the moment she couldn’t see a time when they’d manage a day without falling out. She wanted desperately for them to be compatible. She couldn’t understand why he seemed to hate her so much. But there was a part of Charly that knew what she really should do. She needed to buy herself some time and put a get-out strategy in place. She didn’t want to be left with nothing other than a broken heart. This sort of thing should have come easily to Charly, who’d been brought up the hard way. But it didn’t. She didn’t want to be one of those women who walked away from a relationship and feathered their own nest in the bargain. She wanted to be with the man she loved. But she knew that she was clutching at straws hoping that he was going to truly love her in return.