Sweetie (5 page)

rassed by the news to do more than mutter their condolences, the second supportive to the point of being intrusive: knocking on the door at all hours of the day and night, offering to do shopping, washing, cooking, take the girls to school, or just come in and sit with them.

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For the most part Paul wished they would go away but Michelle wanted to talk about it all the time, it was her way of coping. He envied his wife her ability to let it all out. When she wasn’t sobbing loudly, she was angrily slamming pots and pans. Only at night, after she had taken the sedative prescribed by their doctor, did she grow still; but only temporarily, for even then, she would toss and turn and call out in the dark, her dreams shot through with horrific visions.

On the day of the funeral the sun came up hot and heavy as it had every day that summer. Michelle Foster sat on the edge of her bed, head slumped, staring at her feet. Her toenail polish was chipped and that wouldn’t do. She had to look her best for her baby. Preoccupied with this silly detail, she didn’t notice her husband Paul set down a cup of tea on the bedside table and gently touch her long black curls before going back downstairs to get the girls their breakfast. Reality came back to her then like a hammer blow to her head, the impossible truth bludgeoning her brain. My baby is going to heaven today, she kept telling herself, and yet still she didn’t want to believe it.

Michelle didn’t know how she was going to get through the day ahead; a part of her deep inside couldn’t quite take in the fact that Chantal wasn’t coming back, and occasionally when she heard Paul’s key in the lock after work she half expected her eldest 32

to shout up the stairs, ‘Mum, I’m home,’ before slamming the door behind her. Chantal was a real door-banger, it used to drive Michelle mad that she could never do anything quietly – now she’d give anything to hear the glass in the front door rattle in its frame, just as she’d like to hear her daughter playing her records too loud, especially ‘Save All Your Kisses for Me’ by the Brotherhood of Man.

Michelle must have heard it a thousand times, usually with Chantal singing along tunelessly, shuffling about and mimicking the famous dance routine, but now all was silence behind her bedroom door.

Michelle had not been able to face going into that room since her daughter’s mutilated body had been found in the alley behind the Bingo hall. There were still empty mugs and crisp packets on the floor from where Chantal had invited her mates round the day before her murder. Her baby had been so popular.

She was such a good-looking kid. All the boys had loved her and all the girls wanted to be her mate.

Their newly acquired phone would ring constantly and Michelle had loved to see that Chantal was so well liked.

Her possessions were littered around the flat as if she were still there to use them; her slippers kicked off in the bathroom, combs and brushes and beads on the kitchen table where she had been braiding her sisters’ hair. In the kitchen, on top of the counter stood a pile of overdue library books that Chantal 33

had been due to take back the day she was killed, and hanging over the back of a chair was a skirt of hers which needed hemming. Michelle wasn’t ready to clear any of these reminders away, but ready or not the time had come to say goodbye formally to her first-born. In less than two hours she would be sitting in the front pew of Christ Church, Spitalfields, looking at her daughter’s coffin – that white glossy coffin with the big bold brass handles, lined inside with white silk to cushion her girl while she slept.

After Chantal’s father Darren had formally identi -

fied her body, he’d spoken to Paul and made it clear that under no circumstances was Michelle to see her daughter. Chantal’s face had been horribly disfigured by the attack, and the husbands – past and present –

agreed that this was a sight that could push Michelle beyond the limits of her endurance. That she was holding up at all, despite all the tears and outbreaks of rage, was something of a miracle. This was a pain like no other she had known, a grief so deep and fathomless that it weighed down her body like lead.

Her breathing felt laboured and she kept sighing heavily, but somehow she managed to carry on living.

Michelle forced herself to stand up and stretch, then sat back down again from the effort of it all. She wondered briefly if she could get away with not going to the funeral, but the sound of feet thundering up the stairs and the little girls bursting through her 34

bedroom door made her sit up straight and paint on a smile. By the time the carriage arrived at 10.30 she was dressed in black, toenails freshly painted, grim-faced but determined.

The funeral cortège moved slowly through the streets of the small community. Behind the horse-drawn hearse, two little girls, two young boys, two women and two men walked slowly with their heads bowed.

This was Chantal’s family. Michelle, her second husband Paul, their daughter Trinity, and Aisha from her previous relationship with Darren Robinson.

Robbo, too, had remarried. By his side walked Chantal’s step-mother, Charmain, and her two sons, Darren Jr and little Max.

The sun beat down remorselessly and the black horse struggled to pull the hearse down Columbia Road, its body etched with sweat and black plumage weighing heavy on its head. Patches of white foam appeared around its muzzle as it drew the dignified black carriage that carried the body of Chantal Robinson.

Following on were four large cars full of family and friends, all with their faces covered with hands or handkerchiefs to hide red swollen eyes. Grief had ripped through the Foster and Robinson families and the whole close-knit community. The police were present to show that they supported the families and were determined to find the perpetrator. Neighbours 35

and friends lined the street in respect and sorrow, and groups of schoolgirls broke the silence with their wails and sobbing.

Traffic came to a standstill as the funeral cortège crossed Bethnal Green Road into Brick Lane near where Christ Church, one of Hawksmoor’s finest churches, stood.

Michelle stepped into its cool interior and was amazed to find that every pew was filled to bursting; there must have been over four hundred people in that church, even the galleried area upstairs was full.

She didn’t know most of the people’s names but recognised many faces. Local people had turned out en masse to express their shock and sorrow at such a young life being snuffed out so brutally. She hesitated before walking up the aisle to the front pew, taking in the sight of all those people in front of her; in that moment she knew that she would survive, that the human spirit could not be killed by the evil action of one man. She felt the love in that church and let it carry her towards her place near the altar as she held the hands of her two surviving daughters.

The service passed in a blur, afterwards Michelle could hardly recall it, she’d been staring so intently at the coffin bearing her beloved girl, and praying so hard that God would keep Chantal safe in heaven until she could join her. Michelle was only fully present for the hymn ‘Lord of the Dance’, when she’d 36

had to smile at the memory of Chantal singing it as a young child, the first hymn she’d ever learned in infants’ school. She would belt it out, loud and tuneless as always.

Chantal’s father Darren sobbed throughout the service, as did Aisha. Trinity, at four, was too young to really take in what was happening. Paul clutched her firmly on his lap in the second pew and, by breathing deep and hard, was able to contain his own tears.

The Vicar intoned, deep and low, ‘ “
I am the
resurrection and the life, saith the Lord; he that
believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he
live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall
never die . . . We brought nothing into this world,
and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord
gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the
name of the Lord.
” ’

His words washed over Michelle unheard. Only at the burial after the service, as Chantal’s coffin was being lowered into the ground, could she focus on what he was saying.

‘ “
Man that is born of woman hath but a short
time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up and
is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a
shadow and never continueth in one stay. In the
midst of life we are in death . . . For as much as it hath
pleased Almighty God of his great mercy to take unto
himself the soul of our dear sister here departed we
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therefore commit her body to the ground; earth to
earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain
hope of the Resurrection to eternal life
. . .”’

The Vicar nodded at Darren and Michelle, indicating that this was their moment to throw earth into the grave. They leaned into each other for support as they stepped forward to bid this final farewell to their little girl.

Paul stood to one side and fought back a flash of jealousy. He knew he shouldn’t begrudge Darren this moment, Chantal was his daughter after all, but the way he and Michelle had their arms around each other made his stomach turn. What if this was the thing that brought them back together? He had always feared that his wife had never really got over Darren, and it was only when their little girl Trinity was born that he’d felt Michelle was really his now.

Paul stared at his beautiful wife. For a moment he thought she might lose her composure, might hurl herself to the ground and beg God to give her back her daughter, but she stood firm.

‘ “
Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of
them that depart hence in the Lord, and with whom
the souls of the faithful, after they are delivered from
the burden of the flesh, are in joy and felicity; we give
thee hearty thanks, that it hath pleased thee to deliver
our sister out of the miseries of this sinful world
. . .” ’

At these words Michelle straightened up and 38

consoled herself with the thought that Chantal was out of it now, away from all the pain and the crap of this life on earth, away from the monster who did this to her.

‘ “
. . . may have our perfect consummation and
bliss, both in body and soul in thy eternal and
everlasting glory; through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen
.” ’

And it was over. The mourners drifted away from the grave in small groups with their heads bowed, men loosening ties and women fanning themselves in the heat with their Order of Service. Only Michelle and Darren stayed by the graveside, silently, side by side, unable to walk away from their little girl for the last time. Paul gently touched her shoulder and whispered, ‘I’ll take the girls and go on, I’ll see you there.’ He didn’t want to leave her with Darren but he had to allow them this. And besides, someone had to greet the mourners back at the pub.

The wake afterwards in the Birdcage was a muted affair. It was not uncommon for funerals in the neigh bourhood to turn into parties as the beer flowed

– a good send-off was considered standard practice locally. But there were no songs around the piano for Chantal today, no funny stories being told about things she had done. Instead groups of men and women sat in huddled groups, speculating angrily.

Sue Williams was leading the lynch mob, arguing 39

forcefully that Steven Archer needed to be dealt with.

‘What’s it gonna take, eh? Another kiddie being raped and murdered before we do anything?’ Sue’s husband Terry nodded his agreement, though after his conversation with Paul in the pub the night before he was beginning to doubt his wife’s certainty.

‘Fucking police are useless! I told them it was him but they haven’t picked him up yet. I saw him this morning outside the greengrocer’s, bold as brass, watching the hearse go by. It was all I could do not to get out of the car and throttle the sick bastard myself.’

Next to Sue was Nanny Parks, mother to Gillian and Grace. A widow, she was close to her girls and idolised her four grandsons, Adam and Luke by Grace, and Jamie and Benny Jr by Gillian. She had left Grace and John at the hospital this morning after visiting Adam. No stranger to hardship, she had little time for tears. After seeing her frightened little grand -

son cowering in his hospital bed, she had determined that all her anger and outrage would be directed at the person who had done this to him. Her mouth was set in a grim line and the sun shone through the windows of the pub, casting a halo around her purple rinse. ‘I’ve always said he was weird, that kid. Some -

one needs to sort him out.’

‘Exactly!’ agreed Sue.

‘The police will soon pick him up if he’s guilty, won’t they?’ Terry offered gently.

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‘Humph.’ Nanny Parks made an indignant noise and raised her eyebrows at Sue.

‘No, Terry, we can’t wait that long. Our kids aren’t safe all the time he’s walking around. Anyway, no one’s asking you to
kill
him, just put the frighteners on him. Enough to make sure he goes away and never comes back.’

‘Here, here,’ said Nanny Parks.

‘Another milk stout, Mum?’ Grace’s sister Gillian asked their mother, arriving at the table.

‘What do you think then, Gill?’ Sue asked.

‘Think about what?’ she replied.

‘Steven Archer – me and your mum reckon it’s him.’

‘That’s what I said to Grace the other day but she wouldn’t have it. Maybe now this has happened, though . . . I can’t believe what he did to Adam, it’s fucking sick . . .’ Gillian’s voice rose dangerously.

‘That sick fucker mutilated his little willy, it ain’t ever gonna function like it should. John’s beside himself.’

‘Enough, Gill,’ said Nanny Parks firmly. ‘There’s enough gossip going round without spreading any more. We all need to pull together and remain tight-lipped. Let’s talk about who done this and leave ya sister to get Adam better.’

A muted atmosphere fell over the group. Chairs were pulled up and moved around. Sandra Potts, or Potty as she was known, made her way over to Sue’s 41