Blood Rush (Lilly Valentine) (9 page)

She pulled out a file and started to type. Mrs Clayton wanted to file for divorce under unreasonable behaviour. Her husband, she said, was mean, and would only pay for a housekeeper four days a week.

‘How am I to manage at weekends?’ she’d asked.

Lilly had tried not to laugh as she imagined her own cottage, where Sam’s bicycle lay in three pieces on his bedroom floor.

‘You might need to give me something a little more serious,’ Lilly said.

Mrs Clayton had thought hard. Her husband had also suggested that visiting the hairdresser twice a week was excessive.

In the end, Mrs Clayton had been forced to admit that the unreasonable Mr Clayton had been having an affair with his secretary for over two years.

‘Then let’s cite adultery,’ Lilly offered.

Mrs Clayton baulked. She was a size six, with a wardrobe Gok Wan would have been proud of. She worked out every morning and had her teeth whitened in Harley Street. She had so much botox in her forehead she looked like someone had melted a candle over her face. She did not want the world to know that her husband had chosen another woman. Particularly not a ‘fat tart from Essex’. Lilly imagined Mr Clayton tucked up in bed with a curvy blonde. Who could blame him?

‘I will not have that woman mentioned.’ Mrs Clayton tossed her professionally blow-dried hair. ‘I have my reputation to consider.’

Lilly’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. How on earth could she word the divorce petition in a way that would not make any judge fall off his chair laughing?

‘The Respondent, despite a huge income, deliberately kept the Petitioner short of money,’ Lilly read aloud as she typed. ‘He resented her having any luxuries.’

Alice, who was still in her car seat, began to cry.

‘I know it’s a pile of crap, but what can I do?’ Lilly laughed.

Alice continued to cry. Lilly put her head in her hands. Could the day get any worse?

‘Hello.’

Lilly looked up. She had forgotten to lock the door behind her and a man in his mid thirties was standing on the step outside, peering in.

Lilly cringed. After Annabelle had made her entrance in exactly the same way, you’d think she would have learned. She pushed her chair firmly under the desk to hide as much of herself as she could, and yanked off her hat. She felt her hair spring out like a nest of coiled snakes.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘We’re closed.’

He looked at her with a puzzled frown, then at Alice, who was bawling like a mourner at an Indian funeral.

When he took a step inside, Lilly saw that he was tall with dark skin that seemed to gleam. His shoulders were almost the width of the doorframe.

Lilly coughed and tried not to notice how attractive he was. ‘I said we’re closed.’

‘Penny told me you needed help.’ His accent was African. ‘She was not wrong.’

Penny? What did this have to do with Penny?

‘You’re not a Reiki master are you? Or an aromatherapist?’ she asked.

Penny was a fan of alternative therapies and was convinced the chaos that was Lilly’s existence could be alleviated by the
judicious
application of essential oils.

The man laughed, making creases around brown eyes. ‘I do administration, typing, help with paperwork.’

‘I thought that was a lady called Carol?’ said Lilly.

‘Or a man called Karol, perhaps.’

Lilly was stunned.

Karol gestured to Alice. ‘Do you want to go to the baby?’

Lilly reddened. If she got up he would see the full glory of her grubby nightwear, but what could she do? She pushed back her chair and put her chin up, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be in her pyjamas. She picked up Alice and shushed her.

‘This is Alice,’ she said.

Karol nodded. ‘I think you and Alice really do need my assistance.’

Mrs Ebola wasn’t listening to the doctor.

Jack didn’t blame her. The relief was written across her face in shocking simplicity. Right now, all she could concentrate on was the fact that her granddaughter was going to live.

She held Malaya’s hand in her own and rocked back and forth, whispering, ‘Oh sweet Lord, oh sweet Lord.’

Mr Stephenson stood on the other side of the bed, scribbling on Malaya’s chart with a heavy-looking fountain pen.

‘Malaya regained consciousness two hours ago,’ he said. ‘She hasn’t spoken yet, but we think she’s out of the woods.’

‘When do you think she might speak?’ Jack asked.

Mr Stephenson frowned. ‘You won’t be able to grill her just yet, I’m afraid.’

Jack put up his palms in surrender.

‘Not a grilling, Doctor, just hoping for anything that might help us catch whoever did this. Experience tells us that we have to move fast.’

‘And when that time is appropriate I’ll let you know,’ said Mr Stephenson. ‘Now I think we should leave the family in peace.’

Jack nodded and got to his feet. He passed his card to the doctor who immediately pressed it into his pocket without
looking
at it. Jack sighed. A little chat couldn’t hurt, could it?

He was about to leave when a rasping sound came from the bed. Malaya’s mouth was open and the noise came again. It was painful to hear, as if the skin inside her throat was cracking apart. Mrs Ebola poured water from a jug into a plastic cup and put it to the girl’s lips. As Malaya took the tiniest of sips, her eyes didn’t leave those of her grandmother. Then Mrs Ebola put the glass back down and wiped Malaya’s mouth with huge yet gentle hands.

‘There my baby, there, there,’ she soothed.

Malaya opened her mouth again and this time found her voice. It was faint, and hoarse. Jack couldn’t catch the words.

‘What did she say?’ asked Jack.

‘Really, Officer,’ Mr Stephenson sighed. ‘My patient is in no condition for this.’

Malaya tried again, but all Jack could hear was a small
scratching
sound.

‘You must leave now,’ said Mr Stephenson and pressed the heel of his hand into Jack’s back to direct him outside.

When he reached the door, Jack took one look back. Mrs Ebola was bent towards Malaya’s head as if she were kissing her cheek. Then she turned to Jack and pierced him with those glittering eyes.

‘She says to speak to Chika Mboko.’

Demi fingers the hoodies lined up on the market stall.

‘These are fake, man,’ Chika shouts at the guy selling them.

He’s got a fag hanging out of the corner of his mouth and looks at her through the blue plume of smoke.

‘No shit.’

She kisses her teeth at him and prepares to walk away until she sees Demi entranced by the thick black material and the gold lettering embossed on the front. D&G.

‘They ain’t real, sister,’ says Chika. ‘That’s why they’re cheap.’

Demi shrugs. It doesn’t matter. She can’t afford one, real or not.

Chika’s face softens and she thumps Demi playfully on the arm. ‘Try one on.’

Demi shakes her head.

‘Come on.’ Chika pulls the nearest one out, toppling the pile.

‘Watch it,’ says the man.

‘You wanna sell any of this tat or not?’

He grumbles under his breath and sorts out his stock. Chika holds the hoodie against Demi, nods and pulls it over her head. When Demi has it on Chika takes a step back and peers over her dark glasses to admire.

‘Not bad actually.’

Demi turns to look at herself in the old mirror propped up against the side of the stall. There’s a crack running right through the middle, but Demi can still see how she looks. She can’t hold back a smile.

‘We’ll take it,’ Chika pulls out a wad of twenty-pound notes from her back pocket and peels off two. ‘And one of those.’

Demi follows Chika’s finger to a baseball cap at the back of the stall. Like the hoodie, it’s black with matching gold lettering. Chika plonks it on Demi’s head and laughs.

‘You are looking fine now, sister.’

As they walk away, Demi feels a lump in her throat, like a piece of bread has got stuck. She tries to gulp it down.

‘Thanks,’ she whispers.

Chika shrugs. ‘Like I told you, bredren gotta look after each other.’

Demi doesn’t know what to say. It’s like a dream. She’s had breakfast bought for her. A fried egg sandwich and two cups of tea. Now she’s strutting through the market in the best clothes she’s ever owned in her life. She only hopes they bump into Georgia. Then she remembers that she’ll be in school and the thought makes her smile even wider.

‘It’s like this, Demi,’ Chika says. ‘I do something for you and another time maybe you do something for me.’

Demi nods. She has no idea what she could possibly do for someone as sorted as Chika, but she knows that nothing would stop her from trying.

The scent of burnt oranges filled the room as Lilly poured an indecent amount of aromatherapy oil into the bath. It was a gift from Penny, meant to help clear the mind. Lilly was agnostic as to the efficacy of such things, but either way, it smelled good enough to eat.

A bit like Penny’s other present, Karol. Now he really
was
good enough to eat.

Lilly chuckled at her own naughty thoughts. The man was ten years younger than her and looked like he spent half his life in the gym. She held her arms out to Alice, who was lying naked on a towel. The baby lifted her head and squealed in anticipation. She loved bath time and would happily remain immersed in the warm water until her hands were as wrinkled as month-old apples at the bottom of the fruit bowl. In this, she and Lilly were as one.

Lilly dropped her bathrobe, scooped up her daughter and stepped into the bath. She lowered herself down and perched Alice on her knees, swirling the delicious water around them. Alice let out an audible sigh of appreciation. Lilly followed suit.

A day that had started with disaster had steadily improved. Within minutes of entering her office and life, Karol had taken control, ordering Lilly into her office to work while he got on with the administration. She had acquiesced in a way that had surprised her. Even Alice had fallen under Karol’s spell, finishing a bottle he expertly gave her and rewarding him with a loud wet burp.

In barely an hour, Karol came to find her, carrying coffee and a typed copy of Mrs Clayton’s divorce petition. Lilly scanned it and smiled. It was impeccably worded, putting a spin on it that would make Lilly’s client the happiest of bunnies.

‘This is genius,’ she said.

He didn’t answer, just smiled and grabbed an armful of
paperwork
to file.

When Lilly’s stomach told her it was lunchtime, she made her way back to reception. Karol looked up from the computer and gestured to the suit Lilly had changed into.

‘A more conventional look for the office,’ he said.

Lilly laughed. ‘You have to admit my PJs had a certain style.’

‘It might catch on and we can all come to work in our
nightwear
.’ There was a twinkle in his eye. ‘Of course, I always sleep naked.’

Lilly laughed again. If anyone else had said something like that, she would have thought it crass, but Karol was so natural, so comfortable in his own skin, it was impossible not to play along.

At the end of the day they had agreed that he would come every morning until the office was under control.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said, pulling on his coat.

‘I’ll look forward to it,’ Lilly replied.

Back in the bath, Lilly mussed Alice’s curls and tapped her wet little nose.

‘Mummy is being very silly.’

Alice beamed, as if to say, ‘Yes, you are.’

‘Are you a virgin?’

Tristan leers at Jamie over a plate of spaghetti hoops on toast.

‘Shut up,’ says Jamie.

‘Course you are,’ Tristan continues. ‘I bet you’ve never even copped a feel.’

Jamie shakes his head in disgust.

The trouble with boarding, well, one of them, because there were so many that if asked for a list Jamie could fill pages of a notebook, is that there is nowhere to escape your tormentors.

Every school has them don’t they? The kids who seem to get a kick out of torturing anyone they think won’t fight back. It’s just that when you live there, you can’t get away from them. They find you in lessons, in the dorm, in the dining room, when all you want to do is eat your fucking breakfast in peace.

It’s all just one continual session of pain and humiliation. Jamie remembers that episode of
Big Brother
that the papers went mental about. The one where the girl who died of cancer and some old singer bullied the Bollywood star. Well, the
Daily Mail
should get a load of Manor Park if they want to see some real action.

Tristan spears a hoop on each prong of his fork and waves it at Jamie.

‘You’re a mummy’s boy, Holland.’

Jamie’s tempted to point out how daft a remark that is coming from someone who’s eating what’s basically food for toddlers. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t need a punch in the face.

Every time there’s a party, it’s the same. The girls whip
themselves
up into a frenzy over the latest Jack Wills catalogue, and the boys brag about who they got off with last time and how far they got. Casual requests to borrow a johnny make everyone paranoid that they’re the only one who hasn’t ‘gone all the way’.

If it wasn’t for the fact that Jamie’s only alternative is to go home to his parents, he wouldn’t bother with the party at all.

When Tristan realizes he isn’t going to get a reaction from Jamie he rams the last of his breakfast down his throat and goes off to find another victim. Jamie sighs in relief, and thanks God that he didn’t stick to his ‘no drugs’ policy. At times like this, looking
forward
to a small taste of freedom is all that stops him from doing himself in. Even if his body has to live in this cage, he can let his head fly away.

Jack opened the car window to let in a blast of air. He had barely slept the night before, tossing and turning, until his mind was as tangled as his sheets. He needed to sharpen up.