Authors: Jenny Tomlin
‘Babe, wake up! Guess what?’
Grace stirred and reached for the bedside light.
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‘What, John? What time is it?’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Oh, Christ! It’s gone one in the morning, can’t this wait?’
‘No, babe, listen – this is great, you’re gonna love it. George Rush has topped himself! Everyone in the pub was talking about it. Old Bill found the body this morning. He’s gone, babe.’
Grace sat up in bed, rubbed her eyes and asked him to say it again. John repeated the news, his voice getting louder and louder, and she had to shush him so he didn’t wake the boys. ‘I’m not surprised he couldn’t fucking live with himself after what he’d done,’ said John. ‘Good bloody riddance!’
‘How?’ Grace asked then.
‘What d’ya mean, how?’
‘How did he kill himself?’ If another chance had presented itself for Grace to tell the truth, she wasn’t taking it. It was almost as if she really knew nothing.
Over the past few days, her mind had slowly started to rewrite events. She had virtually convinced herself by now that she had played no part in George’s death and neither had any of them. Better by far to accept that it was suicide.
‘Stuck a hosepipe on the back of his exhaust and gassed himself in his car in the garages,’ said John, smiling broadly.
Grace threw her warm, sleepy arms around his neck and over his shoulder whispered, ‘Thank God,’
meaning it more than he would ever realise.
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*
TJ’s quiet funeral was held in the smaller St Anne’s Church, rather than Christ Church where they’d had Wayne’s. Sue and Terry didn’t want people wit
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nessing their grief any more, no matter how well-intentioned they were. These events always seemed to turn into a circus, and people gossiped about how many cars were there and who wore what. Only those who had known TJ and had a close relationship with him were invited.
When Terry had returned from Broadstairs with the girls he’d suggested that they should move down there and start again. ‘Otherwise we’ll always be the family people point at and say, “Two of their kids were murdered.”’ But Sue had no intention of going anywhere, though she didn’t have the heart to tell Terry that yet. There was no way she was leaving her two boys behind.
She didn’t want any black at the funeral, every -
thing – from the girls’ dresses, to the restrained flowers and the coffin – had to be white. The coffin wouldn’t be paraded through the streets this time.
There wouldn’t be a funeral procession, and the undertakers had arranged for everything to be in place when the mourners arrived. Sue insisted there were to be no flowers from anyone except family. If other people wanted, they could make a donation to the cerebral palsy charity instead. There were no hearses. John drove Terry and Sue with their girls to 389
the church in his Jag. Grace and the boys followed behind in a mini-cab. There were no more than twenty people gathered together to say goodbye to little TJ, but each and every one of them was a person he had known and cuddled and played with.
His tiny coffin was raised up on a trestle, adorned with a simple bouquet of lily-of-the-valley, and this symbol of a brief life moved everybody to tears except for Sue, who found solace, peace and simple satisfaction in knowing that she had avenged her babies’ deaths.
There was no wake after the service, the women merely exchanged brief goodbyes and meaningful glances, waiting until their pre-planned meeting the following day.
Grace was awake with the lark on Saturday morning and for the first time in weeks felt able to eat something. As she whisked eggs together and sliced bread for toast, she felt an unfamiliar sense of peace.
After John had told her the news about George, she had gone back to sleep immediately and slept the whole night through without any dreams, nightmares or sweats. She’d now had several nights of uninter -
rupted sleep and was feeling as if all her old energy was back. She had a smile on her face and, as a favourite song of hers came on the radio, cheerily joined in and began to dance around the kitchen like a teenager. She was looking forward to seeing the 390
others and sharing her euphoria with them.
It had been days since George’s body had been found, and there had been no visits from the police and no enquiries. Grace felt safe. John breezed into the kitchen, smelling of Old Spice aftershave, and wrapped his arms around her waist, swaying Grace across the room to the song she was singing.
‘I gotta go out for a bit and check on a job. I thought I’d take the boys with me. The drive will do them good and Adam loves to see the diggers at work. That OK with you, hun?’
Grace turned and kissed him. ‘Course, babe. Me mates are coming over soon. I think Terry’s taking his girls to the swimming pool, Lucy and Maria are off to Roman Road Market, and Paul is taking his two up to the farm. Seems like a day for fathers and kids.
Potty arrived first at 9.30, with a beaming smile on her face and a letter crumpled in her hand. ‘Lucy, bless ’er, has taken the girls with her and Maria.
Michael’s fucked off to see his bruv in Bournemouth, so I’m childless, promoted and completely made up!’
She shoved past Grace and went straight into the kitchen, almost skipping. ‘Who’d ’ave thought it, me a bloody supervisor?’ Potty could contain herself no more and let out a scream of sheer delight. Grace found it impossible not to be swept up in her excitement. As they skipped around joyfully the doorbell went again.
This time Sue and Michelle stood on the doorstep, 391
grinning like two Cheshire cats. Grace drew in her breath in pleasurable surprise. Sue looked so radiant and slim, and Michelle had on a lovely pink and white trouser suit with her hair in a perfect Afro. The kettle was soon boiling, the women chatted and smoked, and once again the bell rang.
Gillian looked like the cat that’d had the cream, and Nanny Parks and Lizzie harrumphed a few times as they bustled in behind her, almost jamming each other into the doorway. It was too much for Grace who started to giggle again, and this time her mum and Lizzie joined in.
From beneath her arm, Nanny Parks pulled a rolled-up copy of the
Hackney Gazette
and leafed through its pages until she reached a small item on page sixteen.
‘Listen to this,’ she said. ‘The body of a man identified as George Rush, 59, was discovered in a garage on the Columbia Row Estate at 10.40 a.m. on 26 August. It is believed that the man died by suicide as a result of carbon-monoxide poisoning. The police say that there are no suspicious circumstances sur -
rounding the death but that there will be a standard Coroner’s enquiry.’
Nanny Parks looked up at their expectant faces.
They were braced for more. ‘That’s it, five bloody lines is all. The police must know it wasn’t suicide, God knows what they’re playing at. Still, if we’re in the clear, who gives a bugger?’
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A chorus of laughter rang out. United together in joy and relief, the women laughed and laughed!
Considering how long it had hung around, everyone was amazed by the quick exit of the hot sultry summer. They went from shorts and T-shirts to coats in a matter of weeks, and autumn rushed into early winter with a flash flurry of snow as Christmas rapidly approached.
Grace’s house looked stunning with a large tree taking centre-stage, all decked out in red and gold.
Lights twinkled brightly as the evenings drew in, and the whole area seemed to have returned to normal. The air held a fresh, clean crispness, the flies had long gone, rubbish had been cleared, and the pubs overflowed with crowds bent on seasonal merriment.
The girls all arrived at Grace’s on Christmas Eve to exchange their gifts and sat around with full glasses.
It had been a strange few months, each of them silently acknowledged.
Potty looked amazing tonight in a beautiful new suit. Michael had decided to give Bournemouth a permanent go, and Lucy had been chosen for the London Youth Judo Squad. The twins were thriving in their beautiful new clothes and clean and orderly home. Michael’s decision to leave had turned the dynamic of their home life on its head, and now the Pottses were no longer the family other people looked 393
down their noses at. Potty thought of their presents waiting under the tree. Her new job had provided a lot for them, most of all freedom for herself in her new life without Michael.
The fair had come back to the area in the autumn.
She thought of how she and the girls had revisited the park as a happy family and had thoroughly enjoyed the rides in the autumn sunshine. The children laughed and ate their fill of hot dogs and candy floss.
She was glad she had seen Madame Marla again, and the young man with the beautiful blue eyes. They didn’t seem to hold the same sparkle any more, but she’d seen the satisfaction in the eyes of the tarot reader when she saw Potty’s cards for a second time.
Something there seemed to please her, but she had taken Potty’s money once again and said no more. A young lad sat in her caravan, playing with a toy train, and Madame Marla glanced at him several times, saying nothing.
Something Potty couldn’t see, hear or feel hap -
pened that afternoon and put any last traces of guilt or unease right out of her mind.
Nanny Parks was in her element. All the babysitting last summer had paid off and she had got herself registered as a child minder. She had turned a favour into a job and was rushing her drink tonight so as to get ready to go to the community church hall for the kids’ Christmas party.
Gillian snuggled up next to Grace on the large cream sofa, and thought how close the two of them had become. Not telling their mother the secret about Uncle Gary had been the right thing to do, she could see that clearly now. Grace had been right. As usual.
Sue and Michelle gazed at the large star on top of the Christmas tree and Grace knew where their thoughts lay. For a few minutes, she joined them in their silent prayers for Chantal, Wayne and little TJ.
Life would never be the same without them, but it would go on. A tear formed in the corner of her eye.
They had all come so far. Their actions had finally instigated a full investigation of George Rush, albeit after his death.
In the months that followed George’s maisonette had been searched and the garden dug up. It would never be ascertained just how many people George Rush had hurt or murdered in his reign of terror.
The remains of his wife and mother-in-law were found and reburied at St Anne’s. The turnout had been small but respectful. Envelopes containing eye -
lashes had been found dating back to the early sixties. The police remained unsure how many exactly had been taken from dead victims, but it was generally believed that Rush had claimed many more lives in the past.
Woodhouse and Watson sat opposite each other at the DCI’s desk in the smoky back office of the police 395
station. The ashtrays were piled high, and on the corner of the desk stood a bottle of whisky and two paper cups.
Woodhouse wasn’t a big drinker, but he liked to know it was there if he needed it, and during the last few months he had needed it more often than not. He knew George Rush had been murdered but had no hard evidence to lead him to the killers, and the only witnesses near the crime scene, Kelly Gobber and her two giggling mates, swore they had neither heard nor seen anything. No one was giving up any information on George Rush, and local enquiries had resulted in a big fat zero. The fathers of the victims all had solid alibis, and there were no other likely suspects.
The big robbery case had proved more successful for the DCI. A local gang had been arrested and placed on remand until the court case next year. They still hadn’t retrieved all the money, but he was satisfied he had the right men locked up.
Now file upon file was stacked to either side of Woodhouse and Watson. With heads leaning on hands, they waded their way through the paperwork, ballpoints working furiously.
Suddenly the door burst open and the young WPC blew her Christmas paper horn. ‘C’mon, sir, it’s the Christmas party! Everyone’s waiting for you.’
Woodhouse smiled at his young constable. ‘Let’s go then, Watson, can’t keep the whole station 396
waiting. And besides, this lot will still be here in the morning.’
The beautiful, melodic voice of an angel filled the school hall. ‘O Holy Night’ had never sounded so wonderful. Maria felt strong and confident as she reached every note effortlessly. Mrs Davy stood with tinsel round the neck of her black polo jumper, hands clasped to her face and tears of joy in her eyes. Maria had come so far, and with Mrs Davy’s help was now assured of a place at a local grammar school for the following year.
Mary sat on a narrow plastic chair in the front row and clung to Lizzie’s arm, watching her daughter and beaming with pride. Lizzie also felt remarkably humble before the bravery and sheer determination of her grand-daughter. Maria was a Foster after all, she thought.
As the crowd from the school dispersed, Lizzie chose to walk to Grace’s rather than get the bus. She kissed Mary and Maria goodbye and made her way down the high street. As she walked through the familiar catacombs of alleyways and paths, she gazed up at the cloudless dark sky. ‘We’re in for snow,’ she mumbled to herself. She decided to get some sweets for the kids and made small talk with Ali at the newsagent’s for a while. When she came out Harry the Horse was standing outside the quiet closed betting shop, dragging on a cigarette and making 397
circles with his mouth to form smoke rings.
‘It’s bleeding freezing, ain’t it, Harry?’ she laughed.
‘Yeah, it’s ’taters, love, you don’t want to be hanging around outside too long,’ he replied. ‘Ere, fancy a nifty Lizzie?’
‘Thanks Harry, that’s real nice of ya, but I’m off round me girls, see the grandkids, ya know.’ Lizzie thought for a while as she walked away.
‘I’ll take a rain check though if that’s alright?’
Lizzie smiled back at him.
Harry looked made up, ‘Righto Liz, I’ll hold you to that. Lizzie was flattered.
Lizzie rounded the corner, and glanced at the flats.