Bad Blood

Christine noticed that Josie’s mouth was downcast as well. And once again, she felt stupid and guilty. She should have kept her trap shut about her grandparents when she’d made her application to be housed, just as Josie had warned her. Which she’d managed with Sister Davies, but had failed to once they were down at the scary housing office; out it had all come, before she’d been able to stop herself, and now she was paying the price.

Up till then, Christine had begun to feel the first stirrings of positivity, not least because the trip down there three days back – Christine’s first proper outing anywhere with Joey – had turned out not to be the logistical nightmare she’d feared, but a welcome return to some kind of normality. Yes, she was shattered, and still sore, but she’d finally begun to gain in confidence; she’d managed to feed him and change him and dress him all by herself, and with hands that, increasingly, seemed to know what they were about.

And on the walk down there, pushing him in Paula’s old pram, which Josie had lent her, she’d felt something new and strange – something she realised was not unlike pride. Though it didn’t take long for it to vanish. She’d only been in the housing office once before in her life, when her mother had dragged her in there to complain about getting the garden fence fixed, and it was exactly as she remembered it. At the bottom of Leeds Road, near the dole office, it was a grim grey-brick building, set among others that looked every bit as dingy and depressing, because the sun never shined in this corner of town. It was as if it had been chosen specially to discourage people to go there.

Happily, however, Josie knew the drill. They’d taken a ticket and waited to be called when their number came up, sitting down at the end of one of the long wooden benches, filled with other single mums, unsmiling families and the odd elderly drunk, coughing and spluttering all over everyone. Fearing the germs, Christine tried to squeeze herself up as small as she could so she didn’t touch the dirty-looking old man at the side of her, who stank of beer and BO.

Thankfully, however, the wait wasn’t too long. Within half an hour they were called by a kindly-looking girl, who smiled warmly as she showed them to her booth. And she was kind, unthreatening, listening to Christine’s case without judgement, writing everything down on the lined pad in front of her, but all the while stealing glances across to where Joey was gazing wide-eyed at the strip light above their heads. ‘Aww, love him,’ she said. ‘He’s an angel, isn’t he?’

Perhaps that was it – that she was altogether too friendly. That she looked like she understood. And that she cared. That, like Sister Davies, she didn’t seem to hold it against Christine that she’d got herself in such a mess in the first place. In any event, when she asked Christine if she had any other relatives in the area, Christine just couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t tell a lie.

So Christine had told the truth. She was also fearful that they’d find out somehow anyway. And it was now going to cost her dearly. Just as Josie had predicted as they’d left the housing office and trudged home, now they knew Christine had family who could provide her and Joey with shelter, her need would be deemed not that urgent at all. Not compared with those who had no one.

And Josie had been right. Christine had known the minute she answered the door this morning. Miss whatever-her-name-was (she’d said it too fast for Christine to catch it) didn’t look at Joey at all, let alone smile or call him an angel.

‘She can’t go there!’ Josie said now, as the nameless housing officer continued writing. ‘No offence, and that,’ she said, glancing at Christine before continuing, ‘but her grandparents are a pair of filthy drunks. It’s no place for a baby, any more than her brother’s flat is.’

‘I appreciate your concern,’ the lady answered. ‘And I take on board your comments. And I’m not saying they won’t get a place in due course. But there are certain protocols and I’m afraid Christine doesn’t quite meet them. Not at present.’ She put the cap on her pen. ‘Not as things stand, at any rate.’

The way things stood, Christine thought miserably, as the damning notes were slid back into the woman’s expanding briefcase, were that she was standing between a rock and a hard place. She could well imagine that social services thought she had somewhere to go because her nan and granddad lived in a big house on Canterbury front, and had a whole empty bedroom she could have. And wouldn’t care if she did have it because most of the time they were off their heads on cider, or too busy arguing – usually both. They’d barely even register that she was there. Well, except when they were sober enough to have her running around after them as well and pinching her family allowance out of her purse.

And Josie was right. It was no place to be with a baby. It was way beyond unhygienic. It was a shithole of the first order – as her mum was fond of saying, ‘so dirty that you’ve to wipe your feet on the mat on the way out!’

And her preferred option – to go to Nicky’s – wasn’t a lot better. Not least because, actually, it wasn’t even Nicky’s flat. It belonged to his druggy mate, Brian, as Josie kept reminding her. But in this – which, ironically, would probably help her case a little – she knew she really did have to keep her mouth shut, because Nicky, in reality, shouldn’t even be there. Brian had only inherited the flat because his mam had had the foresight to add his name to the tenancy before taking the heroin overdose that had ended her life.

And how long before Brian went the same way? At just twenty-two he was already a well-known junkie – one who’d started off on weed when he was only seven or eight, and soon progressed onto the hard stuff like his mother. Christine wasn’t stupid. She knew he was little more now than a needle-jabbing mess; already on the same ride his mother never got off.

But, for all that, he was a gentle soul – there was nothing difficult about him. And, crucially, at least Nicky was not on the hard stuff. All kinds of other things, yes, but not that. He’d never waivered on that point. And he was her brother. Her kin. Whatever else was true, she still knew in her heart that he’d take care of her.

And perhaps she didn’t actually deserve any better, truth be known.

‘So, how long d’you think, then?’ Christine asked the housing officer politely. ‘You know, just so I have some idea.’

In truth she was hoping that a miracle might still happen. That she’d say it would only be a couple more weeks and then Josie would decide that, since it wasn’t going to be for long, that she might as well stay put with them. But it was a vain hope. ‘Could be a month, could be six,’ the woman told her flatly. ‘Regrettably, I don’t have a crystal ball.’

Christine caught Josie’s disgusted expression out of the corner of her eye, but luckily she kept her thoughts – and expletives – to herself. One thing was clear – you didn’t antagonise the people who held the power. And the keys.

The housing officer left soon after, walking with a brisk, stiff-necked gait, her tatty briefcase swinging beside her, as if she couldn’t wait to be somewhere else. They watched her all the way to the corner. ‘What a cow,’ Josie said. ‘What a miserable frigging cow.’

But though Christine agreed, her thoughts were closer to home. To the house round the corner and the mother who’d thrown her out. And closer still. Which provoked a kind of helpless, wretched fury.

After all, who could she really blame but herself?

Chapter 6 (#u1d9f07eb-8571-5f7f-9ac4-ab585437e615)

Hanging over the balcony on the sixth floor of Elizabeth Towers, Nicky Parker had only two thoughts on his mind. The first was that he’d be spending the foreseeable future sleeping on Brian’s ratty futon. And the second – unbelievable, even a whole twenty-four hours later – was that, in theory (he’d have to see what Chrissy had to say about it), he was officially related to Rasta Mo.

‘You’re joking, right?’ he’d said to Eddie down the Listers the previous evening. And, despite Eddie’s stern looks (he’d already delivered The Lecture about shaping up while his little sis was staying) Nicky’d genuinely thought he was having a laugh. But he hadn’t been. No, she hadn’t actually admitted it, as such, not to him. But she certainly had to Josie, and why would she lie? And who the fuck else’s would it have been, given that it was half-caste? And then Eddie had gone back to his droning, like he was Nicky’s dad or something. No drugs round the baby. No weed. Definitely no heroin. And don’t look so shocked. I’m not wet behind the ears, mate. Keep it clean. Don’t fuck up. Don’t fuck things up for your sister.

Nicky had had half a mind to tell Eddie he should bloody well keep the pair of them, if he was that worried about things at the flat. But, weirdly, given how mortified he’d been when Chrissy had asked if he could take them in, there was this strong, unlikely sense in him that it was his responsibility anyway. That with his fuck-up of a mother going ape – no surprises there, given Mo – it was his duty to step in and help out. So on one level he even resented Eddie thinking that he didn’t have it in him to do so.

He took a drag on his joint and scanned the road below for signs of Chrissy and her baby’s arrival. It was so hard to get the words ‘her baby’ around his tongue. Yes, it had happened, no doubt about it – it was coming to fucking live with him – but he couldn’t quite square the thought of his little sister, who he still essentially saw as a kid, and the business of her having given birth to her own kid. And in doing so, making him an uncle.

Unbelievable. A fucking uncle! And – even more unbelievable – to Rasta Mo’s son. Still, there was an upside, and it was the fact that it made his mam a granny. That was the most laughable part of it all. Her with her make-up, and her tart’s clothes, and her pathetic denial – did she look in a mirror, ever, and actually see herself?

His mam a granny. She couldn’t hide that under an inch of slap. And that was probably as much the reason she’d told Chrissy to fuck off out of it as anything else she’d come up with. Which made him smile too. She was like the Telegraph and fucking Argus when it came to gossip about anyone else. But her a granny. No, she wouldn’t like hearing that one bandied about – not one little bit. She’d hate that as much as the other enormous bombshell. Nicky still couldn’t quite believe it. That it was Mo’s.

He recognised Eddie’s Escort while it was still some way distant – one of the benefits of having such a lofty view of life – so there was time to take a last welcome drag before grinding the joint out under the heel of his boot, and for the tell-take smoke to blow away. That little ginger cow would do her nut if she copped him smoking. And then there’d be another tedious lecture.

He hoicked his jeans up and pushed open the flat door with his foot. ‘They’re here, Bri,’ he yelled into the hallway as he entered. ‘Fuck off into your bedroom for a bit, will you, mate? Not for long. Just till the Gestapo have gone.’

He heard a mumbled ‘yeah’. Brian already knew the score. He shuffled about like a pensioner, and usually smelt like one too, and with his sallow skin and with him having a pair of pupils you could usually park a fucking bus in, Josie and Eddie would only have to take one look at him to set them off again. About fucking junkies and how they were a scourge on the world. Which was as ironic as it was boring, given that Josie was a McKellan. Her sister was one of the dealers he sometimes bought from. But perhaps – he had the wisdom to admit it – that was why. Lyndsey, a mum herself, was a fucking state.