Authors: Jenny Tomlin
tastic Christmas dinner. Her taste for the tradi tional was indulged to the full. Cards dangled everywhere; the real tree had a fantastic smell and was decked with expensive little glass ornaments. Candles were 62
lit in the centre of the table, and everything co-ordinated in red and green, from serviettes to crackers. Grace had meticulously wrapped all the presents that she loved to give.
Everyone had been in a party spirit. The real coal fire gave off a glow, and they were all peacefully pissed and content after a giant Christmas dinner and the Queen’s Speech. John remembered how he had sat there, brandy glass in one hand and cigar in the other, watching his family force one more Quality Street down themselves, and the way a few cashew nuts had spilled over on the coffee table. He thought of all the silly things he’d noticed. Adam’s first fire engine toy; the look on his face as he played happily on Nanny’s lap. Everyone so content. John wondered briefly if those days had gone for ever, if they could ever get that feeling back. He suspected Grace would never be the same again.
Sighing heavily, he snapped himself back to the present, putting his lighter back in his pocket.
Conversation moved awkwardly around the topics of work and cars for ten minutes until Terry wondered aloud where Potts had got to – his empty glass still stood on the table. He didn’t have to wonder for much longer.
A man came out of the gents’ and made his way over to their table: ‘Is he with you, that long-haired, dirty sod?’ It could only be Potts he meant and they nodded yes. ‘Well, you’d better sort him out. He’s 63
passed out in a pile of sick in there. Bloody disgusting! Shouldn’t drink if he can’t handle it.’
The man, a regular called George, a big bloke in his early fifties who worked as the school caretaker, was well known for moaning. He shuffled off, tutting to himself, and Paul decided this would be the moment to get out of the pub.
‘Come on. Let’s shoot off before he comes round.’
They drained their pints quickly and headed out of the pub. Once on the pavement they looked at each other, waiting for someone to make the next move.
Finally Paul said, ‘Come on, we’ll wait near the garages until we see Eileen come out.’
They didn’t have to wait long. The first fat raindrops of summer were beginning to fall when Lizzie Foster, accompanied by another woman, unwrapping a rain hat and placing it over her care -
fully shampooed and set hair, emerged from the staircase at the bottom of the block of flats. The two women paused to light cigarettes and then, placing their large handbags over their forearms, turned left on to Ravenscroft Street, chatting animatedly as they headed for Hackney Road.
‘This is going to be a bit rough on old Eileen,’ said Paul, thinking aloud.
‘And it isn’t rough on my Grace or your Michelle?’
John’s voice held a hint of steel. He was ready now, all the suppressed emotion rising rapidly to the surface.
‘Yeah, come on, Paul, don’t bottle out now.’
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Emboldened by John, Terry had to put in his tuppence worth.
‘Who said anything about bottling out?’ Paul suppressed an urge to deck Terry Williams, the stupid twat, who was always ruled by his wife. ‘Come on then, let’s go.’
The three men found the lifts at Dunbar House out of order and walked the six flights up to Eileen’s flat.
They knocked and waited, then knocked again.
‘He’s not in,’ said Terry. It seemed as if he was almost relieved Steven was out.
‘Yes, he is,’ John insisted.
‘How do you know?’ asked Terry, now starting to feel cramps in his stomach.
‘Because I can hear the telly, and anyway, I don’t expect Eileen lets him out in the evening, especially now everyone knows he’s a fucking pervert.’ John pointed through the glass panel in the front door.
‘He’s coming.’ Steven’s face appeared in the frosted glass as he tried to work out who was knocking.
‘Open the door, mate.’ Paul’s voice sounded friendly, light. Steven hesitated for a few moments then slipped back the chain and opened the door. His expression was a study in confusion. These were faces that were familiar to him, but not so familiar that they would usually call at his house. He shuffled uncomfortably from one foot to the other then gingerly opened the door.
Terry asked, ‘Mind if we come in and have a little 65
chat, son?’
Steven looked confused. ‘My mum says not to let strange people in when she’s out. I’m watching
The
Two Ronnies
. I love the singing. I can make tea. We can be friends and watch the television and drink tea.’
‘
And it’s goodbye from me and goodbye from
him
,’ a voice announced from the television as Steven was pinned down on the floor.
Slow at first, the rain fell steadily thicker and faster, till huge drops pelted down on top of Lucy Potts’s head as she made her way into Audrey Street from the school where she did judo class on a Friday evening. It had been a great night, and the music session afterwards had given her the chance to listen to some of her favourite pop songs. She had been dancing little steps with the other girls and loved
‘December ’63’. ‘
Oh, what a night
’ kept ringing in her head.
Lucy had the same unruly head of wavy hair as her mum, but that was where the similarities ended. Lucy was determined to get on in life. A miserable marriage to a waster and no money to call her own weren’t for her. She worked hard at school, and afterwards went to any and every club going – ballet, tap, judo, swimming – anything that got her out of that squalid flat so she didn’t have to look at her mother, stretched out on the sofa like a zombie, 66
watching the television. How she hated that Ken Dodd and his Diddymen! Mum would count every long hour until Michael came home, and for what?
Another blazing row.
As the rain fell harder Lucy began to quicken her pace but soon her clothes and bag with all her kit were soaked and felt heavy next to her skin. She was still quite sweaty from class and now felt damp down to her bones. She wished she had showered, but con -
scious of her developing body had decided against it.
Abruptly she did an about-turn, deciding to take the short-cut through the park behind City Farm. Her mum always told her she was never to go through the park at night, but it was still light and it would shorten her journey considerably. As she sang the catchy song out loud, she made her decision.
Sod it! she thought. She just had to get through the wooded area and on to Edith Street which bisected Haggerston Park and City Farm. Usually there would be gangs of boys on bikes hanging around, but the rain had driven them into the corridors and landings of the local flats and Lucy was grateful for that as she was busting for a pee.
The rain was now falling in sheets as thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. Lucy ducked under a beech tree, hoping for some shelter and somewhere to go to the loo. She looked about her and, unable to see anyone, pulled down her tracksuit bottoms and pants and squatted, leaning against the 67
trunk of the tree. The relief made her forget momentarily how uncomfortably wet she was. With rain dripping on her head from the tree branches above, she lost her footing and pee splattered on her plimsolls.
Fuck! she thought as she straightened up. Then the sound of a branch snapping behind her made her start, and with her trackie bottoms just at knee-height she couldn’t turn in time to see what had caused the noise. Before she knew what had happened, she had been pushed over and pinned to the ground on her stomach. Momentarily winded, she struggled for breath. The next moment she felt a hot, stale mouth and prickly beard against the side of her head and started struggling to get away. His breath was so disgusting she felt nausea welling up in her stomach.
A hand roughly probed around her anus, squeezing and pinching, and eventually trying to force its fingers into her, but her tracksuit bottoms were too tight at the knees and prevented him from parting her legs. He took one hand away momen -
tarily to unzip his trousers and try to force her legs apart. With its grip on her arm released, Lucy was able to jerk back her elbow with all her might. It landed a blow which hit home in just the right place.
There was a loud groan and he rolled off her. Lucy seized her chance to clamber to her feet, pull up her trackie bottoms and run away as fast as she could, 68
not looking back or even bothering to stoop and pick up her kit bag.
The earth beneath her feet was becoming slippery with the burst of unexpected rain. Despite the short downfall, the air remained sticky and hot, but she ran and she ran through the rain, crying, ‘Oh, God, please help me! I want my mum,’ until the traffic on Hackney Road came into view.
When she finally turned to look back there was nobody behind her but she kept running anyway, squeezing the cheeks of her bottom together, until she hit the main road and flagged down the first car she saw. Wet, bedraggled and red-faced, a sobbing Lucy slumped against the driver’s door, begging for help.
The old couple who had stopped for her were from Bangladesh and spoke little English, but they under -
stood the word ‘police’ and recognised the state that Lucy was in. They let her into the car and took her straight to the police station on Bethnal Green Road.
Unseen by anyone at that time was the drumstick lolly, tangled into Lucy’s dishevelled hair at the back of her head.
69
Chapter Five
A throng of people exited the Bingo hall from all four sides. The usual moaning and groaning of ‘God, that was close’ or ‘If only number twenty-three had come out’ could be heard above the drone of voices as everyone spilled out on to Hackney Road before dispersing down the smaller side streets and alleyways.
‘Do you fancy a quick cuppa, Lizzie?’ Eileen Archer was in a buoyant mood after winning two lines. Not the full house she was hoping for, nor the pyramid game, but she was still a fiver better off than when she’d started, which would come in handy now that Steven was home for the holidays. She had for -
gotten how much teenage boys ate and it was costing her a small fortune. How Steven loved his food, and what a sweet tooth he had! Ali at the local news -
agent’s always made sure he kept aside a tenpence mixed bag for the boy every day. It was so kind of him. Steven loved the variety bag of flying saucers, blackjacks, white mice and a drumstick lolly. Ali had a bit of a soft spot for Steven, and no matter what the other locals might say, Ali wasn’t just another Paki on the take, he was a genuinely nice fella.
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The streets were still wet from the downpour earlier that evening but the rain had stopped, the air felt fresher, and the first strong breeze for weeks wrapped Eileen’s raincoat closer round her as she walked. The rain had also dampened the rotting rubbish, washing away some of its stale smell. She felt her spirits lift in the fresh clean air.
‘I don’t think I will, Eileen. This damp has got into my bones, and you know what a martyr I am to bloody rheumatism. My ankles are swelling already.’
Lizzie hoped her friend couldn’t hear the nervous tremor in her voice. She had been unable to con -
centrate at Bingo, kept looking at her watch all evening and feeling sick to her stomach. She had lied to and deceived Eileen, and knew that the guilt she felt for that would stay with her a long time.
‘All right then, love, I’ll get back and see what that boy of mine is up to. Probably emptied the biscuit tin and drunk all the Cokes, if I know my Steven.’ Eileen squeezed Lizzie’s hand and smiled at her. ‘Thanks for dragging me out tonight, Lizzie. I always feel guilty, going out when Steven’s back for the holidays, but it has done me the world of good. You’re a good friend.
You’ve always been there for me and my boy, even when others turned their backs. Thanks, mate.’
‘No trouble, Eileen. Any time you fancy another trip out, just give me a shout. I’m only stuck in that flat by myself, staring at the four walls and cleaning most of the time, so it’s good for me to get out too.’
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Lizzie turned away before Eileen could see the tears begin to well in her eyes. A huge lump had formed in her throat and her head began to throb.
Christ, what had they done? Poor Eileen didn’t deserve this.
It’s for the best, she told herself firmly then.
Someone had to put an end to it. But her heart was thumping in her chest nonetheless as she took leave of her friend and headed back to her flat. Eileen’s parting words still rang in her head and by now Lizzie was seriously questioning what she and the others had done. God, she hoped they were right!
Eileen pressed the button for the lift, but of course it was out of order again so she started the long climb up six flights of stairs to her flat. She stopped every now and then to catch her breath, and in doing so took in great lungfuls of the stench of rotting rubbish from the large cylinder bins at the bottom of the rub -
bish chutes situated on each balcony. She inwardly cursed the council for never doing anything to tidy this place up. The stairwells were daubed with graffiti and smelled of stale piss and puke. Not for the first time she promised herself that she would definitely put in for a transfer. She was tired of cleaning her part of the staircase, tired of pouring tin after tin of Jeyes Fluid down the landing, and tired of trying in vain to get others to do their bit.
She reached her flat breathless but relieved to have 72
made it, and found all the lights blazing and the sound of the telly and a newsreader’s familiar voice audible through the front door. She’d told Steven about staying up late and he’d promised her he’d be in bed by ten. She fished around in her large handbag, rummaging amongst her purse, peppermints, rain hat, fags and lighter, before finally coming up with the key, but as she went to push it in the lock the door swung open, thudding against the hall wall. Intuition or mother’s instinct, call it what you like, lifted the hair on the back of her neck and she knew imme -
diately that something wasn’t right.
‘My boy, my baby,’ she murmured to herself, and then raised her voice: ‘Steven?’ When there was no reply, she called his name again and opened his bedroom door but he wasn’t in there. His jigsaw puzzle lay untouched on the thin piece of cardboard he used as a makeshift table, a bottle of Coke stood half-empty on his bedside cabinet; his bed had not been slept in.