Fighting for Survival (The Estate, Book 3) (13 page)

Ruth was at her garden gate now. She ran the last few steps to get away from the screeching behind her. Once inside the house, she drew the bolt across the front door and sat behind it, trying to calm her breathing before she had a panic attack.

The letter box clattered open.

‘You’re only a few doors away from me,’ Gina yelled through it. ‘I can find you anytime, remember that.’

Ruth jumped as the letterbox snapped shut again. She ran through to the kitchen and slammed the door. Her back to it, she slid to the floor and sobbed.  

Although they should have been at school that morning, it was ten thirty and Rachel and Claire were still lying in bed. Claire was reading the latest edition of
Heat
Magazine. Rachel was messing about on her mobile phone. Suddenly, it beeped as a text message came in.

‘Not meeting u 2nite. Hanging round with Stacey. Shell is 2. No hard feelings? Hayls.’

Rachel bit down hard on her bottom lip. Those cows! She knew they were up to something the other night. She should have punched Stacey Hunter when she had the chance.

She thought back to the other members in the gang, wondering who she could keep on side for the longest, Louise or Charlie? Louise had been with Stacey from the beginning. Now that Hayley and Shell had jumped ship, it would seem safer for her to gravitate towards Stacey too. And Stacey had been making headway to get Charlie to join her before she got sent down.

Suddenly, Rachel saw her little empire falling down before her. She glanced across at her sister, knowing she’d be no use if it came to a full blown war. She’d have to do some planning; see if she could get Hayley and Shell back on side, because if she didn’t, she and Claire would end up as sitting ducks. Despite the big attitude she portrayed when they were out with the gang, it was only an act. She knew Stacey would come out on top.

In frustration, she threw her phone down onto the bed. ‘Fucking bitches!’ she hissed.

‘What’s up?’ asked Claire.

‘Hayley and Shell have gone back to Stacey.’

Claire gasped. ‘But, I thought they were with us!’

‘So did I.’

‘What shall we do?’

‘We’ll have to get them back.’

‘How?’

Rachel sighed. ‘I don’t fucking know. What do you think?’

Claire shrugged. ‘Why can’t we go back to how it was before?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘When we were all together, it used to be a laugh and I reckon –’

‘Are you saying that I’m a shit leader?’ Rachel picked up a slipper and threw it at her.

Claire dodged it. ‘No, I’m –’

‘You’d better not be. You’re my sister; you’re supposed to stick up for me, think my ideas are good; fight the fight with me.’

‘I know that, but –’ Claire ducked as another slipper flew past her head. ‘Back off, will you and let me speak!’

‘Fuck off.’ Rachel pulled the duvet over her head.

‘Why is it that you always have your say but you won’t listen to me?’

The duvet flipped up again. ‘Because you talk so much shit.’

‘I only talk as much shit as you do.’

‘Shut up.’

‘I’m just saying that if you don’t want to be leader any more, it’s a perfect time to say. Stacey would take us back right now, but if we start messing around with the others, then we’ll be the ones hunted down.’

‘And you think that bothers me?’

‘It bothers me!’ Claire paused. ‘And if you must know you’ve become really nasty and I’m not sure it suits you.’

‘Ha, that’s a laugh, coming from you. We’ve always been known for being nasty.’

‘We’ve been known for causing trouble, and wrecking things and nicking things, but not beating people up.’

‘Well, you’re part of this so you’ll have to do what I say.’

Claire sighed. It was her turn to pull the duvet over her head. She knew Rachel wasn’t listening.

But she had tried.   

CHAPTER TEN

Ruth reached for her wine glass again, sighing when she saw it was empty. She staggered through to the kitchen to fill it up, only to find the bottle empty too. She couldn’t afford to drink wine but after the day she’d had, it had gone into her shopping basket as if it were an everyday essential. Three for a tenner that she hadn’t really got: one of them must work out as free, surely? So, in theory, she was really only about to start on her first bottle, not the second.

It was nine thirty on a very murky, very lonely, Tuesday evening. Ruth opened the bottle and took it back into the living room. She poured a glassful and drank it immediately. She wanted to be drunk, over the edge; pass out paralytic as soon as possible. She couldn’t take the pain caused by the images flashing through her mind since she’d bumped into Gina that morning.

Tears pricked her eyes as she thought of Glen. They had been married for seven years when he’d been killed. He’d been an electrician for one of the major electricity suppliers. The money was good, giving them a lifestyle far better than any tenant of Stanley Avenue could expect. But good money also meant overtime and being on call. That night, Glenn had been called out to fix a broken power line. Afterwards, he rang to say he’d be home soon and to get the kettle on because he was chilled to the bone. The winter temperatures had dropped to minus five. Ruth told him she’d be ready with hot chocolate and cheese on toast.

But Glenn never made it back. He’d been driving the work’s van; another driver in a truck coming towards him had lost it on a bend, slid straight into him, pushing him over the side of a bank. According to the police, the van had rolled over a couple of times but Glenn wouldn’t have known about it as a bump to his head seemed to have killed him outright.

Going to the front door and finding two policemen with bad news had been the worst thing that had ever happened in her life. At twenty-eight, her world and her future had been crushed. Everything she knew had been taken from her; and she had two small boys to look after.

After the funeral, over the next few months she spiralled further and further into depression. As the money stopped coming in, the mortgage went into arrears, the bills started to pile up, and eventually the house was repossessed. She and the boys went to stay with her parents. During this time, Ruth struggled to get on with the day-to-day mundane things and it was only a matter of time before she cracked. Luckily, her parents took control of caring for Mason and Jamie. Ruth couldn’t look after herself: there was no way she could see to two demanding boys as well. But slowly, she began to cope again. Eventually, she moved into a flat – the boys moving in with her on a permanent basis a month later – and she began to enjoy spending time getting to know them again. Being a mother was an important job, one she’d loved before she lost Glenn, her soul mate.

Oh, Glenn. She picked up the photo frame she’d been hugging to herself for most of the day and then took another swig of her wine before trying to focus on the room. She’d made it as homely as possible with what she had but still it looked sparse. It looked, and felt, like a house not a home. And that was her fault because she’d gone and lost the only man who had shown an interest in her since Glenn had died.

Ruth had started to self-harm about six months after she’d moved in with Martin. She could remember the day quite clearly: it had been the first time he’d hit her. He came home from the pub to find his dinner in the oven, shrivelled up because he was late, but he lashed out at her when she’d moaned at him. A crack across the mouth and a face-full of mashed potatoes had made her run to her room. She began to pick at a scar that she’d got from a burn on the oven door. Bit by bit, she picked at it until the half inch scar became a two inch mass of pus and blood. She ended up going to the doctors and he gave her some antibiotic cream. She remembered clearly the sting of the cream, putting it on every hour rather than the intended twice a day. Hurting herself blocked the pain she was feeling. For those few minutes, the anguish she felt took away everything else. The pain sometimes became so intense that she cried, but she didn’t stop. It was meant to try and wipe out her abysmal existence; it was her punishment. She couldn’t cope with Mason; she couldn’t cope with Jamie; she couldn’t cope with herself. Hell, she couldn’t even cope with life.

She took another gulp of the wine, the urge to self-harm becoming stronger with each passing minute. She slapped at her face, trying to ease the throbbing inside her head. She needed to hurt herself: she knew it would make her feel better. Stuff the do-gooders who thought it was a terrible thing to do. Stuff the people who stared at her arms as they caught a glimpse every now and then.

She picked at the most recent scar on her arm. It hadn’t had time to heal yet: she doubted it ever would at this rate. She dug her nails in, then picked, picked, picked until she saw the blood ooze out. There was blood underneath her fingernails: it satisfied her somewhat. But it wasn’t enough. She fetched her craft knife. 

‘Mum, don’t do that.’

Ruth looked up a few minutes later, trying to focus on the figure standing in front of her. Was it Mason or was it Jamie? And what the fuck were they doing out of bed?

‘Mason?’

‘Put down that thing. I hate it when you do that.’

‘Do what?’

Mason pointed. ‘That.’

Ruth looked down at her hand. She’d bought the knife from a craft shop in the town; it had been a godsend, perfect for the job at hand. As she looked at it more clearly, yet again it was covered in blood. She smiled; it made her feel so good.

‘Oh, that,’ she said, putting it down on the table. ‘It’s nothing. I’ve just found it down the side of the cooker. It must have been left behind by the people who lived here before.’

‘I know what you do.’ Mason stepped towards her. ‘I know you cut yourself. I’ve seen you lots of times. Why do you do that, Mum? Why do –’

Ruth grabbed Mason’s arm and pulled him nearer. She didn’t notice her son pull away from the stench of her breath.

‘You’ve been spying on me, you little bastard!’

‘No, Mum. I –’

‘Have you told anyone?’

‘No! You’re hurting me!’

‘You’d better not say anything to anyone. ANYONE, do you hear?’

‘I haven’t.’ Mason was crying now.

Ruth pulled him nearer still; she was having trouble focusing on him. Why wouldn’t he stay in one place?

‘If you do tell someone, they’ll put you and your brother into care. You’ll end up in a children’s home, with lots of other naughty kids and you and your brother will be split up. Because it’s your fault that I do this. You and your brother. You won’t behave yourself. You’re always up to mischief. Always doing something that you shouldn’t. There’s no way anyone would want the two of you, anyway. You’re nothing but a bloody liability.’

Mason stood still now, tears pouring down his face. ‘I – I only wanted a drink of water,’ he whispered.

It was enough to bring Ruth out of her trance. She pushed him away from her. ‘Go on then and be quick about it.’

Mason did as he was told and was gone in seconds. Ruth grabbed for the craft knife, picking it up by the blade and relishing the feel of it pressing into the skin on her fingers. Stuff them, she thought as she settled back into the settee. Stuff Mason, and Jamie. And Martin. And that fucking Gina Bradley.

As she drew the craft knife across the inside of her arm, for a second as she saw the red line getting thicker and thicker, she felt that little bit better.

While Ruth watched the blood drip out of the cut and onto her T-shirt, Gina was trying to focus on the cards fanned out in her hand. She peered at them with resignation. They weren’t good enough to win. She contemplated whether to call it a day or have another lager.

Pete put his cards down onto the table one by one, a triumphant grin on his face. He reached for the pile of coins on the table in front of him, but John placed a hand over his.

‘Not so quick, my friend.’ John spread out his cards. ‘Look at ‘em and weep, my son,’ he grinned, pulling the money towards him. ‘I win again.’

‘You lucky git,’ Pete cried as he shuffled the cards again. He looked at Gina. ‘Another game?’

Gina shook her head. ‘You’ve had all my fag money so far.’

There was a knock at the front door. All three of them looked up in surprise. It was way past midnight.

Gina got to her feet just as another knock rang out, this time much louder. ‘All right, all right, I’m coming.’

‘Where is he?’ Caren pushed past her and into the house.

‘Well, hello, to you too,’ Gina smiled lazily. Oh, she was going to enjoy this.

‘Jeez, what a mess,’ Caren muttered quietly as she walked through the living room and into the kitchen.

‘Oy, I heard that, you cheeky cow.’ Gina followed close behind her.

‘Caren!’ John smiled at her before returning to look at the cards in his hand.

Caren stood over them, folding her arms. ‘John, it’s gone midnight again. How long are you going to be this time?’