Brotherhood of Blades (3 page)

Georgia never told anyone, nor did she talk about the pain and indignity of the abortion. It was devastating, but giving birth to the child of the foul-smelling monster who raped and abused her was unthinkable. And it was all her own fault for disobeying her parents. She kept the guilt to herself, not only about the termination, but also the way it left her damaged and unable to bear children. But she changed her mind about her career choice.

At fifteen she headed for a career in the police force. She was going to catch criminals and put them where they belonged – behind bars. She no longer went out after dark, but spent her evenings at home studying. She achieved excellent grades in her school exams, then went on to university, where she didn’t involve herself much in student life, but left with a first class degree. She was accepted into the Met as a police cadet, and shortly afterwards transferred into CID as a trainee.

She met stiff competition in a department dominated by white males, but she could handle that; it only made her more determined. And she was doing just fine. Her experience that dark night had made her a fighter and a survivor. Now, at nearly thirty-one, she was a detective inspector with her sights set on going much further, proving that everything served as a lesson in life.

She had no steady relationship, just a string of broken ones. The ambition she harboured drove her to work too hard to keep a relationship going, and none of the men she met understood that. The result was a succession of casual encounters when she needed to de-stress; she never let anyone close.

DCI Banham had called this morning’s meeting for an update on gang violence, and to share new information they had on gangs. The DCI reminded them that no matter which crew thought they were cleverest, they were going to learn different, because the biggest gang of all was the police, who also had the training. Georgia argued that everyone knew the Brotherhood were responsible for the recent police shooting, but no resident would speak out against them, so the result was that they were getting away with it. DCI Banham told her to be patient; he reminded her about the Buzzards, the last gang that thought they ran the Aviary. Someone had come forward with information on a post office hold-up and the police had rounded up the whole gang, and they were all behind bars. Banham also told her they had an informant on the estate, and it was now just a matter of time. He went on to assure them that the members of the Brotherhood responsible for the shooting of PC Elvin would be brought to court. He told them to concentrate on Stuart Reilly, street name Yo-Yo, a big twenty-stone bloke who ran the gang. Reilly was behind it all, and all the other gang members were merely his puppets. He added that he was bringing in a gang expert from the West End to help.

The Brotherhood terrorized their neighbourhood, and it was important for the residents of South London to see that street crime wouldn’t be tolerated and that the police always won.

The meeting was finished. As Georgia headed over to the new coffee machine that made real Starbucks coffee, her mobile burst into a brass band chorus. Her phone was set up so that when
Onward Christian Soldiers
sounded out, it meant the call was urgent: the Hat team, the on-duty murder squad detectives, had been called out to a death, which was suspected or confirmed as murder.

Sergeant Stephanie Green pushed the front door shut with her foot. The home-delivered curry smelled delicious. The kids were out so she didn’t have to prepare a meal; instead she had bought a takeaway lamb biriani in the hope that she wouldn’t get called out by the Hat team and could enjoy a night in front of the television. Two teenage children and her demanding job as a sergeant in the murder division meant she rarely saw the television. Tonight’s three soaps and detective drama didn’t appeal, so she had pre-recorded a programme about car maintenance, which she really enjoyed, but rarely got the chance to sit and watch.

She put her curry on a tray, turned up the central heating and drew her hair from her face, securing it at the back in a ponytail with the elastic band from the curry boxes. She had a wide, Germanic face with a rosy complexion, and large, perceptive grey eyes, which needed minimal make-up – just as well, because they hardly ever got any. Her naturally fine shoulder-length fair hair was badly highlighted with thin bronze streaks, and looked as if marmalade peel was woven unevenly through it. She dressed in boyish clothes, often with trendy caps, and people in the department sometimes questioned whether her sexual preferences leaned toward the female of the species. Not for long, though; they soon heard the stories of end-of-investigation piss-ups in the pub, where she got tongues wagging by downing far too many vodka and tonics and snogging the face off any of the male detectives who were up for it. The next day she always said she didn’t remember a thing. She knew the men on the team had a nickname for her: Sighs and Thighs. Sighs because of the noise she made during sex, and thighs because hers took up most of the bed. Stephanie didn’t care. DI Georgia Johnson liked and trusted her, and always made sure she was on her team.

Stephanie carried the tray through to the armchair in the living room and picked up two cans of non-alcoholic beer. Things were better around here now the kids no longer needed her to taxi them around. Ben hadn’t long turned fourteen, but Stephanie didn’t worry so much when he went out with sixteen-year-old Lucy because she looked out for him. Ben was a typical boy, going through a rebellious teenage phase. Lucy was the opposite; she was the sensible one, and had plans to join the police force after university.

Stephanie often wished Ben had a father’s influence in his life, but their father had been a waste of space when he lived with them. Nor had he done anything for them since he had left; he never even remembered birthdays or sent Christmas cards or gifts. Stephanie had to be both mother and father, and sometimes she felt exhausted.

Tonight they had gone to a party together. She hoped they would come home together, but she suspected Ben might give Lucy the slip. If he did, Lucy would use her inherited detective skills and track him down, so Stephanie could relax. Right now she had the television to herself, a large lamb biriani and two non-alcoholic beers. The diet could start on Monday. There was no one in her life to lose weight for, so why bother? She enjoyed sex, but there were lots of opportunities without a relationship – plenty of chances to socialize in the department, and indeed everywhere else in the station. She knew she had a reputation for being up for it, but she didn’t care.

She realized she had let herself go. Being five foot four and eleven stone wasn’t good for her job, her sex life or her health, but tonight she wasn’t thinking about it. She would watch her car maintenance programme in peace and her lamb biriani was delicious. She was a happy bunny.

Then the phone rang.

Chantelle Gulati was still pretty, although the vibrant eyes that reminded Jason of chocolate Maltesers had dulled recently. Her full, pert mouth was now dry and cracked.

When she was a child it had constantly bubbled with giggles, revealing the narrow gap between her front teeth; these days, her open, child-like face rarely found reason to smile. Her body was still well-toned and muscular, albeit a little skinnier, but she no longer worked at keeping in shape; her dreams of dancing around the world on a cruise ship had faded as a craving for cocaine, and now a taste for a pipe, steadily increased, taking with it her self-respect.

Yo-Yo Reilly had been her friend at first. He had sympathized with her over Jason, confiding that his own mother was in Holloway, so he fully understood the empty pain when that special someone was out of reach. He had told her she was beautiful, that he dreamed of her, and if she ever changed her mind about Jason that he would be waiting. In the meantime he would settle for her friendship.

He gave her a present of an eighth of grass, good stuff, telling her it would help her chill and take the heat out of her day, making the burden of waiting much lighter for her. He showed her how to roll herself a nice thick joint, and even supplied the papers to do it. When she said she wasn’t sure, he reminded her it was the same as alcohol but without the calories; no harm, just an escape, to dull the pain and help her sleep at nights while she waited for Jason. She liked that idea.

The joints that followed were presents too, from Yo-Yo, the friend who cared, understood and sympathized. The odd E had gone down well too. Then came the cocaine. Only occasionally, he told her, for special times. It gave her a huge high, but she could handle it. Then he’d introduced her to the joy of a pipe: a little sight of heaven, he promised – and she was hooked. That was six months ago, and now all she thought about was that little sight of heaven. These days they were no longer presents; they came at a very high price. As the need for them accelerated into desperation, her debt soared. Yo-Yo’s crew, the Brotherhood, were the sole suppliers around here. No one would dare to tread their patch or undercut their rates. The reputation of the Brotherhood gang had spread across London; other gangs had tried taking them out, but had soon learned better. Anyone who dared to take them on lived, if they were lucky, to regret it. At best they bore a scar in the shape of a spider somewhere on their body; at worst they lay six feet under, a bullet lodged in their brain. No one messed with Yo-Yo Reilly or anything belonging to him. The Brotherhood were his crew, and Chantelle was now his puppet.

Her continued need for the pipe meant she now worked the streets around the estate for Yo-Yo, with her friend Luanne. At first she just screwed Yo-Yo in return for drugs, but then he brought members of the Brotherhood in for some action and she was too scared to refuse. Then he told her he was bored with her, and she had to work to earn her way. That meant going out on the streets with the other girls, and offering herself to passing motorists. When she begged him not to make her he turned nasty and gave her the first of many punches in the face. He’d split her mouth open, and worse, told her she’d get no more drugs until she showed she was grateful. He was doing her a favour, he told her, by showing her a way to make money to pay for her habit. He forced her to apologize and tell him he was right, that he was always right. Then he had made her sink to her knees and beg him to let her whore for him. Whoring was competitive, he explained, and she had to learn to use her assets to their full advantage; then he made her suck him off slowly and meaningfully. He promised to help her get work as long as she paid him a cut; but if she crossed him, he’d really hurt her.

Now she was one of the girls she used to feel sorry for in the old days, when she passed them on her way to dance classes. The days when she was happy and free, and Jason was around. She used to watch those girls as they stood at the kerb, offering their bodies to the cars that crawled the area, and her heart had gone out to them.

She should have seen it coming. Aunt Haley had warned her time and time again:
Keep away from drugs
. Drugs had been her mother’s downfall, had led her to an early grave, leaving Chantelle with only strict Aunt Haley to look after her. Jason’s mother had gone the same way. That was why he’d always said he’d sell, but never use; and he never had. Yet for her it had all happened before she realized. It seemed like one day she was happy, and the next she was craving a pipe and working the streets to pay for her need. Yo-Yo had assured her that that no harm would come to her because she was one of his girls, and Yo-Yo took good care of his whores – for another fat fee.

But now it had gone one stage further. Chantelle was really worried.

It was Friday night, best night of the week for trade. She would carry on as usual. What else could she do? She was dressed and ready in a red PVC mini-skirt and a black basque with red ribbon threaded through, so her brown breasts and the edge of her nipples were on display. A black leatherette bomber jacket hung over her shoulders. She checked that the tops of her lacy black hold-up stockings were visible below her hemline – always good for trade. The outfit had to be chosen for luring punters, her best friend Luanne had told her, not for comfort. Luanne was experienced; she had been whoring for Yo-Yo for a long time. She only smoked grass, but that cost too, and Luanne had a twelve-year-old sister who needed to be fed and clothed and kept out of trouble. Luanne and her sister Alysha lived on the thirteenth floor of the Sparrow block. They had no mother, only a father who only came home to sleep off his drunkenness, and was, in Luanne’s words, just another liability. Luanne was a little older than Chantelle, and had also grown up on the estate. She taught Chantelle how to jump in a car; if it was blow job, which mostly they were, she could be in and out without removing anything if she dressed right. Or if you had to do the full business, and you had knickers tied at either side with ribbon, you just pulled the ribbon free and off came the lacies, straight into your pocket. Afterwards you were out of the car and into the alleyway, wipe yourself clean with the packet of baby wipes you carried in your pocket, and on went the lacies again for the next punter. And on the odd occasion while the punter was smoothing the rubber down his mostly pathetic and withering dick for an up-the-arse job, Luanne had taught her to make a mad dash for it. It filled her with such self-loathing. Mostly you were quicker than the punters and out of the car before they’d even put the rancid thing away. Some tried to catch her, but no one ever succeeded. She had the speed of a cheetah when it counted, and could outrun any of the fat bastards with their smelly cocks. The punters had to pay up front and they deserved to be ripped off. And they were hardly going to report her to the police. What would they say?
Excuse me, officer, I’ve just been kerb-crawling and the bitch of a whore did a runner after I paid her to let me give her one up the arse!
Yeah, right!

She stood in front of the mirror and let herself think about the time she and Jason lost their virginity to each other. They had fumbled nervously, without much tenderness at first because it was all so clumsy, but there was a connection between them, and it had grown. But that was just a memory now. She’d heard he was out, but what was the point of contacting him? She was so ashamed of what she had become, yet she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop.