Chapter 50

GREAT-GRANDMOTHER COOPER

Bet Cooper, eighty-six years old, her bones marrowed with hate and vitriol, said, “Did you bring that bastard with you?”

Tash’s hackles rose.

Bet laughed, seeing Tash’s discomfort. “She is a bastard, ain’t she—born out of wedlock.”

“Shut up, Bet,” said Tash’s dad. “We came here to talk nicely.”

“Fuck you and nicely,” said the old woman. “You put me in this home, Roy Hanbury. You ain’t even family.”

“Rose was my wife.”

“Shut up,” said the old woman. “Locked me up in here. I never put my mother in a home.”

“No,” said Tash, “you locked her in the bedroom and let her starve to death.”

Bet’s blue eyes flashed coldly. Tash stared into the old woman’s hate-filled eyes.

Why was she so bitter, so twisted?

When Tash had brought Jasmine to meet her—”Say hello to your great-great-gran, Jasmine”—Bet Cooper had spat in the child’s face.

“She’s a cow, that’s all,” said Tash’s dad at the time. “She’s a hateful old woman. Has to have something to hate or she doesn’t feel alive. When you and Jasmine visited, she hated single mums and their kids—bastards, as she calls them.”

Tash glared at the old woman now and remembered her dad’s words. “She stores up every hate she hates,” he’d said, “and plucks them out now and again.”

Just like now, calling Jasmine a bastard.

Tash bristled but controlled her fury.

“Let’s all sit down and take it easy,” said Roy, dressed in a blue shirt and a red tie.

Tash never saw him dressed up. He was always in his vest with his tattoos and his muscles on show. His hair was nicely brushed too, and his brown, leather shoes polished. Tash thought he looked like a grandfather, and she felt love for him in her heart.

She scanned the room where Bet Cooper vented her fury and spat out her hate.

It was decorated in floral wallpaper. Red carnations sat in a vase on a chest of drawers. The room smelled of soap and flowers.

There was a television set and a stereo, with CDs of Andrea Bocelli and Russell Watson piled on a table. A large window looked out on to a garden. Winter had stripped the trees of their leaves.

The residential home was in Bromley, Kent. Tash’s father had been paying Bets keep at the institution for fifteen years. In the past, he could afford it. Crime paid. But when he left prison, he gave most of his money to charity. He stored a pile of cash in a trust fund for Jasmine. And now Tash wondered how he funded Bets stay in a floral-wallpapered room with a garden view.

“What do you want?” said the old woman. “I ain’t got no money. And I don’t know where the treasure’s buried, neither.”

“Treasure?” said Tash.

“She’s joking,” said dad.

“I don’t joke,” the old woman said. “I take the piss, but I don’t joke.”

Someone knocked on the door and entered without being invited. It was a care assistant. She said, “Good morning, good morning. How are we today, Mrs Cooper?”

Bet looked away and mumbled something that Tash couldn’t hear.

The care assistant was a heavy girl with black hair and an emerald stud in her nose. She wore a blue, nylon tunic and black trousers that were too tight around her hips. On the coffee table, she placed a tray containing three cups, a silver pot, and a plate of biscuits.

“I’m Simone,” said the girl, “and if you want anything, just ring the bell, there.” She pointed to a switch near the door marked BELL in biro.

After Simone left, Tash’s dad went on. “Bet, you got to tell us about your grandad.”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Because,” said Tash, “me and Jasmine, we’ve started dreaming things.”

Bet blinked.

“It’s all nonsense,” she said.

“You saw things,” said Tash’s dad. “Rose told me. She saw things too. And her mum.”

Bet grimaced.

Tash’s dad said, “This is important, Bet. You’re a grumpy old cow; you’ve always been one. But something’s up on Barrowmore.”

“There’s always something up on Barrowmore,” said Bet.

“You can see,” said Tash. “I can see, and my daughter can see. What are we?”

Bet said nothing.

“You know what I dreamed?” said Tash.

The old women stayed quiet.

After a moment Tash said, “I dreamed something to do with Jack the Ripper.”

Bet looked her in the eye.

“What do you know about Jack the Ripper?” asked Tash.

“You want to know what I know?” said the old woman. “I know too much, darlin’. We all do. We’re cursed—me, you, your kid, my mum. My girl, too. My Grace. You know what it’s like to know your child’s going to die? You know what it’s like to see it’s going to happen and you can’t do nothing about it?”