Faceless (51 page)

something above your children, whether it be a drug or a man, was

wrong. How many women had she met over the years in prison

who had put a man over their children? Hundreds probably. Why

did it take so long for them to realise that you would not be young

for ever? That sex was peripheral and drugs only an escape? Your

children were to be enjoyed and loved because they endured, and

loved you no matter what. Look at her son now, hugging her even

though she had been away for most of his life. She wasn’t sure she

could have been so forgiving in his shoes. But then, she knew so

much more about her life than he did.

Which was probably just as well.

‘I was wishing you here, Mum.’

His words were like a balm to her. He had called her Mum. If she

died now she knew she would be happy. It was so long since anyone

had called her that and she’d never thought she would hear it again.

Had expected him to call her Marie or even Ria. The POs had called

her Ria in Cookham Wood.

She was assailed by grief once more and cried into her son’s hair.

He cried with her. Together they felt their combined grief and it

made it easier to bear.

‘I am so sorry, Jason, so sorry for leaving you.’

He half smiled, his handsome face so like Marshall’s it was eerie.

‘You’re here now. Mum, that’s all that matters.’

She kissed him again but in her head she was screaming out: For

how long? If she did what she planned she would soon be gone

from him again.

Verbena watched them from the hallway that had been painted a

pale lemon yellow because that was the colour of the moment. She

still found it hard to believe that her son could find anything even

remotely likeable about Marie Carter.

Marie locked eyes with her and the animosity between them was

almost tangible.

‘I don’t recall you ringing?’

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Verbena’s voice was superior and very clipped.

Marie didn’t answer her.

‘I said …’

Marie forced a smile.

‘I heard you the first time. Your husband gave me free rein, told

me to pop in whenever I wanted to, remember? I wanted to see my

son. I needed to see my son.’

She had said the word out loud. Son. A word that so many

women took for granted.

Jason hugged her closer.

‘I’m so glad you’re here. Tiffany missed you as much as I did, she

just didn’t know how to put it into words.’

He was trying to make her feel better. She realised that he was a

kind boy. Patrick had not passed on any of his malice and evil. Jason

was a good kid.

‘Go to your room, Jason.’

‘NO!’

The word was loud and it was final.

Marie found it in her heart to be sorry for Verbena. She was one

sad fuck, as they would say in prison.

‘Look, Verbena, why don’t you just go and make some coffee or

something?’

Ossie half pulled and half pushed his wife into the kitchen as he

spoke. Shutting the door on his son and Marie, he whispered

harshly, ‘What is it with you, woman? Can’t you see that she is what

Jason needs at the moment? She is his only link with his sister. His

only link with the past.’

Verbena snorted.

‘What past? You and I were both told the true circumstances of

his early life. Mother a drug addict, both kids neglected, she killed

two of her so-called friends. What kind of bloody link is that, for

Christ’s sakes? Remember what he was like when they brought him

here? A bundle of nerves, crying all the time, not eating! Remember

all that, do you?’

Ossie shook his head slowly at his wife’s angry words.

‘I remember all that, Verby. I also remember that he missed his

mother. Cried for her and called out her name. That is what I

remember. I also remember us discussing the bond that could make

a child love someone who had in effect abandoned them. And he

did love her. He still loves her. There are many types of love,

Verbena, and if you are not careful you will destroy what love that

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bov has for you because you are making his life so difficult! He has

lost his only sister - doesn’t that make you in the least bit sad,

woman? Can’t you find it in your heart to let Marie have a little

piece of his life?’

She shook her head furiously.

‘It’s either her or me, and that goes for you as well, Ossie. I

haven’t invested all these years in Jason for her to come waltzing

into my home and take him away from me. I love him more than

she ever could. I sat up with him through chicken pox and measles.

Jtook him to school and fed him and read to him and made sure he

was secure. Not her! I made sure he was dressed well, spoke

properly. I played with him, and taught him to read and write. I

don’t have room for her in my life and neither does he.’

‘But that is where you are wrong. Verbena - he does have room

for her. And if you want my advice you’d better make room for her

too. Because I intend to do that. I don’t think Marie is as black as

she is painted.’

He put the kettle on and she could see by the stiffness of his back

that he was really angry. Part of her wanted to go to him and caress

him and tell him he was right. But she didn’t. Pride had always been

her biggest failing. That wasn’t going to change overnight. Not

even for her precious child.

Busby was overjoyed to see her little brother. Her large frame was

wobbling with mirth as usual as she showed him into her lounge

and sat him down. She made him a white rum and Coke expertly

and placed it on a coaster on the table beside him. He could smell

rice and peas and his mouth watered in anticipation.

‘Let me check on the food.’

Alone he sipped at his drink and surveyed the room. A large

picture of the Last Supper adorned the main wall over the fireplace.

Jesus and all His disciples were black. It had to be a truer depiction

of the night than the white version. A blue-eyed blond man walking

round North Africa two thousand years before? He was with Busby

on that if not much else.

Patrick saw religion as a big scam, did not believe in any power

higher than his own. If God was so good, what the fuck was He

doing all day while people starved and died of illnesses like cancer

and AIDS Patrick believed that people who needed a God were fools,

could not bring themselves to take on board that this was it. Once

you were dead that was the end of you. Fuck eternal life, live this

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one as best you could, that was Patrick’s motto.

He had finished his drink and poured himself another. He could

hear Busby pottering around in her kitchen. It reminded him of

when they had been kids. His mother had been white, a fact that

shamed him though he would never admit it. Unlike his sister,

whose father and mother had both been black, he had always felt

left out because his mother had been a low-class white woman

whereas his father had been a respected religious man. Not that

religious though, obviously, or he would not have been taken in by

the white whore he had met at one of his domino nights.

Patrick had hated her, her drink-fuelled rages, even her smell of

cigarettes and cheap perfume. But his father had been besotted with

her.

When she had finally gone on the trot Patrick had been over the

moon, though he had loved his grandfather, the man she had

named him after. He didn’t have his father’s surname. In those days

if you were illegitimate you took your mother’s. But old Pat

Connor had loved him. He had been a hard-drinking, hard-fighting

Irishman who had loved his grandson, loved his blue eyes and his

sturdy body. He had also adored his daughter, and had faced out

the people who’d thought mixed-race relationships were wrong.

When his mother had left, Patrick had been brought here by his

father and raised by Busby, the elder sister who had adored him

from the moment she had set eyes on him. Twenty years older than

he was, she had seen him as the child she had never had.

He had visited his grandfather until his death from cancer when

Patrick was fifteen years old. He still thought about the old man as

he’d fought the disease, his big frame ravaged, leonine head of red

hair on a screaming skull.

Patrick always told people his mother was dead. She was to him

anyway. It was better that way.

He looked at the photos round the room. Nearly all were of him

at various stages of his life. In his school uniform, or on his

motorbike after passing his test. He stared at that smiling boy and

marvelled that no one had ever sussed out what had been going on

inside his head.

Busby came back into the room. She smelled of food and

comfort. He smiled at her. She was the only person he actually

cared about.

‘I had a letter from Lilian today. Do you want to see it?’ She was

already holding it out to him.

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He shook his head and Busby sighed as she saw the look that

came over his face.

‘I heard about Tiffany, you know. One of the ladies at the church

told me. I’d rather have heard it from you, brother.’

He closed his eyes slowly and looked suitably upset.

‘I didn’t want you worrying. I told you what was happening to

her, didn’t I? I tried to stop it all but she was bad. Like her mother,

she was bad.’

‘I know you were only trying to help. But Marie was her mother

and it always seemed wrong to me …’

Busby’s voice trailed off.

They had been over this so many times and on each occasion he

just went quiet. He had been the same as a child. But she was

determined to get a reaction of some sort this time. ‘What about

the baby, little Anastasia? Who is taking care of her? Has Marie seen

her at all?’

Then she said the words he had been expecting. Only now he had

changed his mind. If Busby took the kid he would be lumbered.

‘She could come here, you know.’

He shook his head.

‘No. Now, Busby, you listen to me. You can’t take on a little girl

like her. She’s better off in the hands of the professionals.’

‘You said the same thing about Tiffany and look how she ended

up.’

He closed his eyes to show her she was annoying him.

‘Don’t get vexed with me, Patrick. I am trying to save that child

from the same fate as her mother. We are her blood, this is where

she should be.’

‘Are we going to eat, Busby, only I have an appointment in about

an hour and I’m starving.’

‘You always starving. Pat. Don’t you eat in your big flat? Don’t

you even go to a restaurant to get some food? And why do you

always change the subject when I talk about the family? Poor

Lilian …’

‘Lilian is a fucking whore, and you and I both know it.’

‘Lilian is your mother and she was just a young girl when she had

you. How long you going to keep all this up? You must learn

forgiveness, boy. She wants to see the child as much as I do.’

Patrick stood up angrily.

‘ What is it with you fucking people?’

Busby prised her large bulk from the chair and bellowed, ‘Don’t

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different thing. You could lust after anyone but once the bonking

was over, what was left? Nothing. Just a few warm memories and

not much else. He always seemed to be out of pocket afterwards,

too, but that, as he told himself, was another story.

He finished his drink and then kicked open the locked door to

the office and looked through everything he could find. It was

always worth a nose when you were trouncing someone, you never

knew what you might find.

There were more videos and more money, a hell of a lot more

money. Not that he needed it, but it would wind up Connor no end

if he thought he had been robbed. As Mikey looked through the

videos and counted the money he was smiling. All in all it seemed

this was his lucky night.

They bundled the barman into the boot of the car to make sure

they had someone who knew Connor’s usual haunts and who had the

means of contacting other members of his workforce if necessary.

The boy was terrified and it showed. Before shutting the boot on

him Mikey said warningly, ‘I hope you aren’t a hero, son. I am in

the mood to hurt someone badly - don’t let it be you.’

Then he was in total blackness and had wet himself with fright

before they had even turned the corner of the street.

Lucy was round at Susan Tranter’s place. She wanted to know what

was happening with her father. It felt strange to be knocking on this

door but for now she could not face going back to Mickey’s house,

could not face seeing his mother and her rat-like eyes. So she

thought she would come and visit her father’s mistress as a means of

delaying her return to a place where she was not welcome.

Anyway, Susan was nice by all accounts. Lucy knew her by sight

and had nodded to her before, but it still felt odd knowing that this

was the woman her father had been with sexually. She had also

heard that Susan’s house was filthy though she was clean enough in