Bad Girl (3 page)

It was three quarters of an hour before the cab got to Chingford and another ten minutes before it finally reached the leafy suburb of Farleigh Wood and began to wind through the back streets. Lynsey had spent the journey in a state of agitation, desperate to get there but terrified of what she might discover when she did. Now, as the moment drew closer, her fear increased, her pulse starting to race, her heart thrashing against her ribs.

How would Alan react when she turned up out of the blue? Not well, she imagined. He’d be less than pleased to be exposed as the lying love rat he was. She remembered the first time they’d gone to bed, his mouth pressed close against her ear, his voice barely a whisper. She remembered all those afternoons spent in the flat, the evenings up West, the pubs and clubs, the bright lights of Soho and Mayfair. She remembered the parties where they’d danced together, their bodies so close they could feel each other’s heartbeat. And then there was that time when—

‘What number was it, love?’ the cabbie asked, interrupting her reverie.

‘Drop me here,’ she said, assailed by a fresh burst of panic. She wasn’t ready yet. She needed more time to get her head together. ‘This is fine.’

The taxi drew up and Lynsey stared out at the row of large semi-detached houses. It was close to midnight and most of them were in darkness. The people who lived here clearly didn’t keep late hours. Reluctantly, she passed the fare over, not bothering with a tip. It had cost more than she’d expected, and anyway, he didn’t deserve the extra after the way he’d looked at her in Kellston. She got out of the cab and slammed the door behind her.

Once the taxi had gone, she began to walk along the road, searching through the soft glow of the street lamps for a number on one of the houses. When she located number fifteen, she crossed over and shortly found herself outside Alan’s place. She stood at the gate and peered along the drive. From what she could see, the house looked much the same as all the others, a Victorian semi with a porch, a large bay window and a garden filled with shrubs. There was no light on in the front, but she could see a glimmer coming from a back room. Good, someone was still up.

Lynsey took a deep breath, pushed open the gate and walked up the path towards the front door. There was a knot in her stomach like a big fat snake coiled around her guts. Preparing for the worst, she let her finger hover by the bell for a few seconds before she made contact and heard it ring inside. Almost immediately a light went on in the hall. Through the opaque glass panes she could see a figure approaching.

‘Who is it?’ asked a female voice.

‘My name’s Lynsey. I’m a friend of Alan’s.’

‘He’s in bed.’

‘Yes, I’m sorry it’s so late, but it’s important. I really need to talk to him.’

There was a short pause before a bolt was pulled back and the door was opened. A young woman in her early twenties appeared. She had a long, horsy-looking face with a wide mouth and slightly prominent teeth. Her auburn hair was tied back in a ponytail. Lynsey’s gaze slipped down to the girl’s left hand, searching for a wedding ring, but the finger was bare. His sister, perhaps? She had a vague idea that he had mentioned a sister.

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you. I know it’s late, but I have to see him.’

The girl’s eyebrows shifted up a notch.

Another female voice, this one older, came from the rear of the house. ‘Who is it, Janet?’

‘A friend of Alan’s.’

‘He’s in bed.’

‘I’ve already told her that.’

‘Tell her to come back in the morning.’

Lynsey’s eyes widened. She hadn’t come all this way to be turned away at the door. And where would she go? The chances of finding another cab were slight, and anyway, she didn’t have money to burn. Tommy’s cash wouldn’t last for ever. ‘No,’ she insisted firmly. ‘I have to see him now.’

The girl gave her a cool look and then glanced over her shoulder. ‘Mum, she says she has to see him now.’

Lynsey was soaking wet and starting to shiver. ‘Please, just tell him it’s Lynsey Quinn. He’ll want to see me, I know he will.’

An older woman emerged, perhaps from the kitchen, and walked along the hallway towards the door. She was wearing a plaid dressing gown and slippers. Her face, with features similar to her daughter’s, had been stripped bare of any make-up and carried the greasy sheen of night cream. She looked Lynsey up and down, and frowned.

‘My son’s in bed. Is this some kind of police business?’

Lynsey could imagine how she must look, like a drowned rat in all probability. She could feel her wet hair clinging to her scalp. But still she managed a smile, relieved that this was Alan’s family home and not anything else. ‘No, I’m a friend of his. Something’s happened. I… I really have to talk to him.’

Alan’s mother appeared dubious, as though it was unlikely that her son could have any personal business with the working-class girl who was standing in front of her. Her eyes made a quick sweep from head to toe, her gaze lingering for a moment on the rain-splashed stockings. Lynsey could feel herself being judged and found wanting.
Common as muck
was what the older woman was thinking. Not the type of girl her son should be mixing with.

Although it was with a clear show of reluctance, Mrs Beck eventually stood back and said, ‘Well, I suppose you’d better come in, then.’

‘Ta,’ said Lynsey. ‘I mean, thank you.’

‘Janet, go upstairs and wake your brother.’

Lynsey stepped inside the house. It was only marginally warmer than outside, but at least it was dry. She followed Mrs Beck into a large living room that had patterned wallpaper, a busy carpet with blue and green swirls, a sofa and a couple of easy chairs. The fire in the grate had long since gone out and all that remained was grey ash and cinders.

‘He won’t be long,’ Mrs Beck said icily before retreating into the hall and closing the door behind her.

Lynsey perched tentatively on the edge of the sofa while she waited. She could have done with a brew, but no offer had been forthcoming. It was too chilly to take off her wet coat, and so she sat shivering as she made a more thorough examination of the room. There were a couple of rugs, a lamp with a tasselled shade and a large television in a mahogany cabinet. Another glass-paned cabinet was set against the wall, containing rows of figurines, bits of silver and a collection of china thimbles. Family photographs were lined up on the mantelpiece, including one of Alan in his police uniform.

Noticing a gilt-framed mirror hung above the fireplace, Lynsey jumped up, hoping to make herself presentable before he came downstairs. If they were going to have a row, she wanted to be sure that she looked good in the process. But her reflection soon put paid to that idea. Her mascara had run, and her fair hair lay in wet straggles around her face. As she rubbed at the dark shadows, tears of anger and frustration sprang into her eyes. Everything had gone wrong, horribly wrong. She wasn’t sure how much more she could cope with.

At the very second the thought came into her head, the door opened and Alan walked in. He’d got quickly dressed in a pair of trousers and a dark red sweater she hadn’t seen before. His hair was uncombed, his eyes still dull with sleep. She’d intended to play it cool, but the sight of him shattered her resolve and sent her running into his arms. She felt his body instantly tighten as she leaned against him.

‘Lynsey, how did you… I mean, what are you doing here?’

She pulled back and gazed up at him. ‘The bastard went for me, didn’t he? He went crazy and… I thought he was going to… He found out about us. I didn’t know what else to do.’ And then, remembering that she was supposed to be mad at him, her mouth took on a sulky pout. ‘I went to the flat, but you weren’t there.’

‘Jesus, your dad knows about me?’

Lynsey could hear the fear in his voice. He was clearly more concerned about his own safety than any traumas she might have been through. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said peevishly. ‘You’re a cop. He won’t touch
you
.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t… Did he hurt you? Are you all right?’

Lynsey rubbed at her arms where her father had grabbed her. ‘Just about. But I can’t go back there. He’ll kill me next time, I know he will.’

‘No, of course you can’t.’

‘So I can stay here?’

Alan pulled a face. ‘I don’t think my mum would… Well, it would be a bit awkward.’

‘I can’t go back,’ she said again.

‘We’ll think of something. Look, you’re soaked. You need to get out of those wet things. Why don’t I drive you over to Chingford? There’s a couple of guest houses there. We can find you somewhere to stay and then have a chat tomorrow.’

‘Tomorrow?’ she echoed softly.

‘Yeah, it won’t seem so bad after a good night’s sleep.’ He took hold of her elbow and gently but firmly started to propel her out of the room. Lynsey, angered by his obvious attempt to get rid of her, snatched her arm away.

‘Why didn’t you tell me that you lived here?’

‘What does it matter?’ he said dismissively. ‘I spend some time here, some time at the flat.’

‘But the flat isn’t yours. It belongs to that other guy.’

Alan raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if she was being completely unreasonable. ‘Sure, it belongs to him, but I help out with the bills and stuff.’

‘So why didn’t you tell me?’

‘God, Lynsey, can’t we do this tomorrow? I’ve got work in the morning and I’m going to be knackered.’

‘Do you take other girls there?’ She put her hands on her hips and glared at him. ‘Do you?’

Alan shook his head. ‘I’m not having this conversation now.’

‘I want to have it now. I want to know the truth.’ She sat back down on the sofa, making it plain that she wasn’t going to leave before she got the answers she wanted.

‘Don’t be like this.’

‘Like what?’

He raked his fingers through his hair and sighed. ‘You know what I mean.’

She leaned forward, dropping her gaze. If he thought things were bad now, they were about to get a whole lot worse. ‘Yeah, you’re making it pretty clear.’ She splayed her fingers across her thighs, studying the carpet while she searched for the right words. A short silence filled the room before she lifted her eyes again and said, ‘There’s something else you need to know.’

‘What’s that?’

She tried to speak again, but couldn’t. Her throat was as tight, as painful, as when her dad had pressed his fingers against her windpipe.

‘Lynsey?’ he said impatiently.

She swallowed hard and eventually managed to gulp the words out. ‘I’m pregnant.’

Alan’s intake of breath was clearly audible. ‘What?’ He gave a short, barking laugh, as if he thought she might be joking. But when he saw her expression, his face grew ashen. ‘No way,’ he said. ‘You can’t be. Are you sure? Have you seen a doctor?’

‘Of course not.’ Dr Harris, the family quack, would have been straight on the blower to her dad. Nothing was private when it came to Joe Quinn’s family.

His eyes contained a flash of hope. ‘So you could be wrong?’

‘I’m three weeks late. I’m never late.’

He paced up and down the room while the news sank in. Then suddenly his legs seemed to give way and he slumped down on the sofa beside her. ‘Does he know? Have you told your father?’

Lynsey gave a snort. ‘You think I’d be sitting here now if I had? I’d be laid out in the bloody morgue.’

‘Christ,’ he murmured. She heard him take a few deep breaths before he turned to her, put his hand on hers and said, ‘It’ll be okay, love. You’re not on your own. You don’t need to worry.’

Lynsey felt a wave of relief roll over her. ‘Are you serious? Do you really mean that?’

He squeezed her fingers. ‘Of course I do.’

‘So we can—’

But before she had the opportunity to tell him about her plans for the future, he’d jumped to his feet again. ‘I’ve got some money. It’ll be okay. We can sort this.’

Lynsey felt her stomach turn over. ‘Sort it?’ she said softly.

‘Sure. There are people… you know… I’ll take care of it.’

Lynsey stood up too, her face pale and angry. ‘You want to… you want to kill our baby? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘It’s not like that. We’re both too young. We’re not ready to be parents.’

‘You mean
you’re
not bleedin’ ready!’ she yelled. Her blood was boiling now, her rage and frustration bubbling over. She launched herself at him, battering her fists against his chest. ‘You bastard! You rotten filthy bastard!’

He grabbed hold of her wrists, forced her away from him and glanced towards the door ‘Keep your voice down, for God’s sake.’

‘Why? Scared your precious family might find out what you’re planning to do?’

‘Just calm down. There’s no need to shout.’

‘There’s every bloody need!’

Alan pushed her back on to the sofa and leaned over her, his eyes cold and angry. ‘This isn’t just to do with you. There are two of us in this.’

Lynsey bared her teeth. ‘Three, actually. And I don’t give a damn about what you want. I’m keeping this baby and there’s nothing you can do about it.’

‘You’re crazy!’ he hissed. ‘You’re out of your tiny little mind.’

And it was in that moment, as Alan Beck stared down at her with pure loathing on his face, that she knew there would be no fairy-tale ending. He didn’t love her. He’d never loved her. But there was no going back now. She had made her bed, as her mother used to say, and now she would have to lie in it.

The first thing Helen saw as they turned the corner into Camberley Road was the long line of cherry trees, their branches laden with soft pink blossom. The blooms must have been there in the morning, but somehow she had failed to notice them. She felt an overwhelming urge to leap up and try to grab a handful of the flowers, but even if she had been tall enough – which she wasn’t – she knew that the attempt would be met with disapproval.

She glanced at the long, thin face of her grandmother. Joan Beck disapproved of a wide and varied list of things: drinking, smoking, swearing, short skirts, pop music, make-up, sleepovers, glossy magazines, queers and Roman Catholics. And that was just the stuff that came to mind. If she really thought about it, the list would probably be as long as a book.

At eleven years old, Helen considered herself too grown-up to be met from school, but she didn’t bother to protest. To voice an objection would be to invite a lecture on ingratitude or the dangers to children of walking the streets alone. If her grandmother was to be believed, Farleigh Wood was awash with evil. Lewd men lurked behind bushes or loitered in parks, waiting patiently for their victims.
Never talk to strangers. Never take sweets from strange men.
These frequently voiced pieces of advice were as familiar to Helen as the dull Sunday sermons at the red-brick church of St James’s.

No matter how hard she looked, Helen had yet to spot one of these elusive perverts. In daylight she was sceptical of her grandmother’s claims, but at night, even in the safety of her own bed, she was less certain. The men came to her in dreams, their gnarled hands reaching out to her, their sly eyes turning her bones to jelly. As fragments of these nightmares floated back into her head, a small shiver rattled the length of her spine. Momentarily distracted, she lost track of what her legs were doing and stumbled on a bit of uneven pavement.

‘Pick your feet up,’ her grandmother said sternly. ‘Those are new sandals you’re wearing. Look where you’re going.’

It was at that very second, as Helen lowered her gaze, that she saw the police car parked outside the house.

‘What now?’ Joan Beck muttered under her breath.

Helen glanced at her again, knowing exactly what and who she was referring too. This wasn’t the first time the police had appeared at number twenty-four – in fact, it was the third time in eight months – and it could only mean one thing: Mum was in trouble again. Helen’s own feelings about this were mixed. On the one hand, it would mean rows and a whole lot of bad feeling; on the other, it meant that before long, she would see her mother again.

It was this mixture of emotions that caused her stomach to flip as they approached the gate. She watched as the uniformed policeman got out of the car. She’d expected to see PC Wainwright – he was the one who usually delivered the news – but this man was older and greyer, with three white stripes on the sleeve of his jacket.

‘Mrs Beck?’ the officer asked.

Joan Beck gave a curt nod.

‘Sergeant Mills,’ he said. ‘Are you Lynsey Beck’s mother?’

‘Mother-in-law,’ she replied sharply, eager to dispel any notion that she might actually be a blood relation. ‘What’s the stupid girl gone and done now?’

The sergeant glanced briefly down at Helen before looking at her grandmother again. ‘Perhaps we could talk inside.’

‘If we must.’

The three of them walked in silence down the drive. Once the front door was unlocked, Helen was ushered inside. There were stripes of sunlight on the floor and the hallway smelled of beeswax. Her grandmother took her coat and gave her a little push towards the stairs.

‘Go up to your room for a while. We won’t be long.’

Helen was used to the procedure. As she climbed the stairs, she was aware of the adults going through to the living room. She wondered what her mother had been arrested for this time. Shoplifting? Drunk and disorderly? Soliciting? She rolled this last word around on her tongue, not entirely sure what it meant.

On reaching the landing, she leaned over the banisters and tried to eavesdrop on the conversation, but the door had been firmly closed. Oh well, she would find out soon enough. And before long, her mum would be here again, for a few days, or maybe even a week. Or perhaps, just perhaps, she might decide to stay for ever.

Helen went into her bedroom and bounced down on the bed. She knew that her mum did bad things sometimes, that she got in trouble and got herself arrested. And then, when she was finally bailed, she was usually released to this address. The truth was that Lynsey Beck wasn’t like other mothers. She didn’t bake cakes or wash clothes or do the ironing. She didn’t even live in the same house as her daughter. But none of that mattered. To Helen, she was still the most beautiful and the most important person in the world.

She jumped up and went to stand by the window so she could see when the sergeant left.

Impatiently she hopped from one foot to the other. It would probably be tomorrow, Friday, before her mum got here. Then on Saturday there would be a trip to the cinema or to the shops up West. She didn’t much care what they did, so long as they did it together.

Before that, of course, there would be what she had come to think of as ‘the battle’. Helen’s forehead creased into a frown. Her mum would arrive and make a rambling apology for whatever she had done. Gran would say, ‘Sorry isn’t good enough. When are you going to grow up? You’ve got a child. You’ve got responsibilities.’ And Mum would say, ‘I don’t remember Alan taking much notice of his responsibilities.’ And then the two of them would go at it hammer and tongs.

It was an old, well-worn record that Helen had heard countless times before. She didn’t fully understand the bad feeling between the two of them, but she knew that it was to do with her father. She glanced over her shoulder at the photo on the dressing table. It was a picture of her parents on their wedding day. Her mum, standing on the steps of the registry office, looked happy and radiant. Her dad wore a more solemn expression. When Gran asked if Helen remembered him, she always said yes, but the truth was that she wasn’t really sure. She’d only been five when he’d died, and her memories of that time were dim.

While she waited, Helen thought some more about him. Once a month she was taken to Chingford cemetery to lay flowers on his grave. Her father was a hero. That was what Gran said. He’d died in the line of duty, a serving police officer murdered by a pair of violent thugs. Helen had the same dark brown hair as him, and the same grey-green eyes. Although it made her feel guilty, she couldn’t help wishing she looked more like her mum. She wanted her eyes to be brown, her hair to be long and straight and blonde.

She heard the front door close and quickly turned her attention back to the window. She watched as the policeman walked smartly down the drive, hesitated for a moment, glanced back at the house and then got into his car. She waited for her gran to call her downstairs. A couple of minutes passed, but nothing happened. She heard the light ting as the telephone was lifted and knew that a call was being made. Carefully she opened the bedroom door and crept out on to the landing.

Helen heard the murmur of her grandmother’s voice, but couldn’t make out what she was saying. She leaned over the banister, straining her ears. She thought she caught her mother’s name being mentioned, but couldn’t be sure. Was it Auntie Janet on the other end of the line? Another ting signalled the end of the call and she quickly retreated to the bedroom.

Five minutes passed, and then ten. What was going on? Excited at the thought of seeing her mum again, Helen couldn’t keep still. She danced from one side of the room to the other, stopping at the window to gaze out at the street before retracing her steps. Her stomach made a tiny grumbling sound, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since lunch.

She went to the door again, opened it, peered and listened. Nothing. She frowned, disturbed by the silence. Usually she would have been summoned by now. Too impatient to wait any longer, she made her way downstairs. She looked into the living room, but it was empty. She went on to the kitchen and gently pushed open the door. Her grandmother was sitting at the table with a cup of tea by her elbow.

‘Gran?’

Joan Beck’s eyes narrowed in confusion. ‘What are you doing here?’ she said. ‘You should be in school.’

‘School’s finished, Gran.’

‘Finished?’

Helen glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘Over an hour ago. We walked back together, remember?’

‘Oh yes, of course.’ She gave a faltering smile. ‘You’d better get yourself a drink.’

Helen went to the fridge and poured a glass of milk. This wasn’t the first occasion her grandmother had acted strangely. The episodes had started after Grandad had died, over a year ago now. Usually they didn’t last long, a few minutes of vagueness, of absent-minded confusion, but sometimes – like last month, when Gran had got up in the middle of the night, turned the oven on and started cooking – they were more prolonged.

‘Gran?’ she asked tentatively. ‘What did the policeman want?’

Her grandmother seemed baffled by the question. Her hands rose, hovering briefly in the air before fluttering back down to the table again. She glanced at Helen and then out of the window. Her brown eyes were vague and unfocused. ‘The policeman,’ she murmured, as if struggling to understand.

‘You know,’ Helen prompted. ‘The man who was here earlier. He came about Mum. Is she coming tomorrow? Is she coming to stay?’

‘Oh, I don’t think so, dear.’

Helen felt a sharp stab of disappointment. ‘But I thought—’

But she never got a chance to articulate her thought. Her grandmother pushed back her chair, slowly got to her feet and wandered off towards the hall. ‘Now where did I put that shopping list?’

Helen finished her milk, washed out the glass in the sink and placed it neatly on the drainer. Then she went out into the garden, where she leaned against her grandfather’s shed and wrapped her arms tightly around her chest. She didn’t like it when Gran acted oddly. It made her feel unsteady, unsafe, as if the ground was shifting beneath her. Like at the fairground, when you got off the ride but your knees continued to feel wobbly.

She thought about the policeman again. Why wasn’t her mum coming? It was weeks now since she’d last seen her. And only one phone call since then.
I’ll see you soon, baby
, that was what she’d said on the telephone. Helen worried at her lower lip. The sergeant had asked Gran if she was Lynsey Beck’s mother. She’d heard it with her very own ears. So something must be going on.

The old wooden shed was warm from the afternoon sun. She turned, pushed open the door and stepped inside. It smelled musty and abandoned. There was a row of tools hung up on the wall, a lawnmower in the corner, flowerpots and seed trays stacked on the shelves. Nothing had been touched since her grandad had died. She ran a hand along the edge of the table, picking up dark smears on her fingertips. There was dust in the air, and cobwebs had gathered in every nook and cranny.

Helen could feel the shadow of her grandfather’s presence. He had been a quiet man, but a kind one too. He’d also been the peacemaker in the house, bringing calm to the stormy relationship between his wife and daughter-in-law. Yes, even her mother had liked him; he was the only one of the Becks she’d ever had any time for. Everything had changed now that he’d gone. Nothing would ever be the same again.

She backed out of the shed and closed the door behind her. As she glanced towards the house, she saw Janet through the kitchen window. Their eyes met and her aunt beckoned her inside. Helen walked up the path, wondering what she was doing here. Janet had two small children of her own and usually only came around at the weekend. She remembered the phone call Gran had made earlier, and a sense of uneasiness stirred inside her.

By the time Helen stepped into the kitchen, the two older women were already seated.

‘Come and sit down,’ Janet said solemnly. ‘I’ve… we’ve got some news for you.’

Helen glanced from her aunt to her grandmother before obediently pulling out a chair.

‘Now you’re going to have to be a brave girl,’ Janet said. ‘You can do that, can’t you?’

That was when Helen’s stomach really sank. You only ever had to be brave for bad news, not for good. She managed a small nod, despite her inner trepidation.

‘You see…’ Janet began, but then abruptly stopped. Her hands wrestled with each other on the table, and her eyes darted away from Helen’s face, as if she couldn’t bear to look at her.

It was her grandmother who took over, her voice a little shaky. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident, dear. It’s your mother.’

Helen felt a flutter of panic in her chest. ‘Is she… is she in the hospital?’ That was where they took people when they were ill or hurt. The doctors made them better. Or at least sometimes they did. She had a sudden vivid memory of her grandad propped up in the hospital bed, the sheets stiff and white around him. His wasted body had seemed far too thin for the pair of blue and white pyjamas he was wearing.

Her grandmother shook her head. ‘No, dear.’ She gave a long sigh. ‘I’m sorry. She’s not in the hospital.’

‘She’s in heaven,’ Janet said softly. ‘She’s with Jesus now. He’s taking care of her.’

Helen felt a pain like a knife slicing through her. No! She wanted to stick her fingers in her ears, to block out the words. If she couldn’t hear them, then it couldn’t be happening. What right did Jesus have to interfere? Why couldn’t he find someone else to take care of? She didn’t want her mum in heaven. She wanted her here, smiling and laughing, making plans to go up West.

‘It’s a shock, I know,’ her grandmother continued. ‘Terrible news. And of course we’re all extremely upset, but… Well, we can only do our best and try to carry on. You’ll have to be a brave girl for your mum, Helen. I know it’s not easy, but it’s what she would have wanted.’

Helen had a lump the size of a boulder in her throat, a hard stone of grief that had lodged in her windpipe. She was faintly aware of Janet’s hand reaching out to touch her own but then slowly retreating. The Becks weren’t comfortable with displays of emotion. ‘Can I go upstairs?’ she eventually managed to croak. She wanted to get away from their scrutiny, to grieve in the privacy of her own bedroom.