Acid Row (4 page)

The child looked at her hands, suddenly hesitant. "You can change your mind at any time, sweetheart. You know I only want you to be happy."

The child gave another nod. “OK.”

Friday 27 July 2001 - 14 Allenby Road, Portisfield Estate 6.10 p.m.

THE SUN WAS still high in the western sky at six o'clock, and tempers grew short as air-conditioned shops and offices emptied into the sweltering temperatures of that July evening. Tired workers, anxious to be home, boiled in overheated cars and buses, and Laura Biddulph's progress along Allenby Road slowed as she braced herself for another round with Greg's children. She couldn't decide which was the more depressing, an eight-hour shift at the Portisfield Sainsbury's or going home to Miss Piggy and Jabba the Hutt.

She toyed with telling them the truth. Tour father's disgusting .. .

Don't even think I want to be your stepmother .. . For a brief and glorious moment, she pictured herself doing it, until common sense returned and she remembered her alternatives. Or lack of them. All relationships were built on lies, but desperate men were more likely to believe them. What choice did they have if they didn't want to be lonely?

Outside, the sunlight gave the uniform council houses a spurious glamour. Inside, Miss Piggy and Jabba were closeted in the front room with all the curtains closed and the television tuned at high volume to one of the music channels. The stench of sausage fat assaulted Laura's nostrils as she let herself in through the front door, and she wondered how many visits they'd made to the kitchen that day. If she had her way, she'd lock them in a cupboard on rations of bread and water until they lost some weight and learnt some manners, but Greg was consumed with guilt about his failings so they got fatter and ruder by the day.

She peeled off her cotton jacket, replaced her flat shop-assistant's shoes with a pair of mules from under the coat rack, and rearranged her baleful scowl into the vacuous, pretty smile they knew. At least if she went through the motions of caring, there was hope of a change.

She opened the sitting-room door, poked her nose into hot, stagnant air, ripe with teenage farts, and shouted above the noise: "Have you made your own tea or do you want me to do it?" It was a silly question greasy plates, smeared with tomato ketchup, littered the floor as usual but it made no difference. They wouldn't answer whatever she said.

Jabba the Hutt, a thirteen-year-old boy with rampant eczema where his double chins chafed his neck, promptly ratcheted up the volume on the set. Miss Piggy, fifteen years old and with breasts like dirigibles turned her back. It was a nightly ritual aimed at freezing out the skinny wannabe stepmother. And it was working. If it weren't for her daughter's easy acceptance "They're OK when we're on our own Mummy'she'd have cut her losses a long time ago. She waited for Jabba to mouth 'fuck off' to the air another routine that never varied before, with relief, she closed the door and headed for the kitchen.

Behind her, the television was immediately muted. “I'm home, Amy,” she called as she passed the stairs. "What do you want, sweetheart? Fish fingers or sausages?" It was the love they hated, she thought, as she listened for the muttered taunts of "Sweety .. . Sweety .. . Mumsy .. .

Mumsy .. ." to come from the sitting-room. Terms of endearment made them jealous.

But for once the teasing didn't happen and, with a flicker of alarm she peered up the stairwell waiting for the rush of boisterous feet as her ten-year-old pounded down the steps to fling herself into her mother's arms. Every time it happened, she persuaded herself she was doing the right thing. Yet the nagging doubts never went away, and when there was no response she knew she'd been deluding herself. She gave another call, louder this time, then took the stairs two at a time and flung open the child's bedroom door.

Seconds later she burst into the sitting-room. “Where's Amy?” she demanded.

“Dunno,” said Barry carelessly, flicking up the sound again. "Out, I guess."

“What do you mean ”out“?”

“Out ... OUT ... Not fucking in. Jesus! Are you stupid, or what?”

Laura snatched the remote control from his hand and killed the picture.

“Where's Amy?” she demanded of Kimberley.

The girl shrugged. “Round at Patsy's?” she suggested with an upward inflection.

“Well, is she or isn't she?”

“How would I know? She doesn't ring in every hour to keep me posted.”

The panic in the woman's expression persuaded her to stop teasing. "Of course she is."

Barry shifted uncomfortably on the sofa and Laura swung round to him.

“What?” she demanded.

“Nothing.” He gave a shrug. "It's not our fault if she doesn't want to stay with us."

"Except I'm paying Kimberley to look after her, not pack her off to a friend every day."

The girl eyed her maliciously. "Yeah, well, she's not quite the little angel you think she is and, 'cept for tying her up, there's not much I can do to keep her here. It's about bloody time you found her out.

She's been at Patsy's every day since the end of term, and most evenings she only gets in a few minutes before you do. It's fucking hilarious listening to you make a fool of yourself." She dropped into exaggerated mimicry of Laura's more educated speech. "Hev you been a good gel, darling? Did you prectise your ballay? Air you enjoying your reading? Lovey .. . dovey .. . Mummum's little pumpkin." She pointed two fingers at her open mouth. “It's bloody sick-making.”

She must have been mad to leave Amy with them .. . "Well, at least she's got a mother,“ she spat. ”Where's yours, Kimberley?"

“None of your sodding business.”

Anger made her vicious. "Of course it's my business. I wouldn't be here if she hadn't abandoned you to have babies with someone else." Her eyes flashed. "Not that I blame her for leaving. What do you think it feels like to be known as the mother of Miss Piggy and Jabba the Hutt?"

“Bitch!”

Laura gave a small laugh. "Snap. But at least I'm a thin bitch.

What's your excuse?"

“Leave her alone,” said Barry angrily. "She can't help being heavy.

It's rude to call her Miss Piggy."

“Rude!” she echoed in disbelief. "My God, you don't even know the meaning of the word. Pool's the only word you understand, Barry.

That's the reason you and Kimberley are heavy? She put sarcastic stress on the words. "And of course you can help it. If you used some energy to clear up once in a while you'd have some excuse she pointed an angry finger at the dirty plates 'but you stuff your faces all day then waddle away from the trough as if some servant is going to clear up after you. Who do you think you are exactly?"

She had promised herself she wouldn't do this. Criticism was corrosive, eating away at self-esteem and ravaging trust. In rare moments of accord between her and her husband distant memories now Martin had claimed it was a disease. Cruelty's in the blood, he said.

It's like a herpes virus. It stays dormant for a period, then a trigger sets it off.

“It's my house. I can do what I want,” Barry retorted furiously, his feet thrashing against the carpet as he tried to gain purchase to struggle out of the sofa.

It wasn't clear what his intentions were, but it was funny watching him. Even funnier when she placed a mocking hand on his forehead and pushed him backwards. “Look at you,” she said in disgust as he fell against the cushions. “You're so fat you can't even stand up.”

“You hit him,” accused Kimberley triumphantly. "I'll phone Childline .. . that'll learn you."

“Oh, grow up!” said Laura dismissively, turning away. "I didn't hit him, I pushed him, and if someone had taught you to speak English properly you'd understand the difference. That'll learn you makes about as much sense as Barry saying this is his house."

There was a perceptible rush of air as Kimberley surged out of her chair and made a grab at the woman's shirt.

Laura's instinctive response was to deliver a stinging slap to the girl's face and wriggle out of her grasp, but there was a split second of mutually recognized hatred before she had the sense to take to her heels.

“BITCH! BITCH!” the furious youngster roared, pursuing the woman down the corridor towards the kitchen. "I'm gonna fucking KILL you for that!"

Laura slammed the door and leaned her shoulder against it to keep Kimberley out, her heart thumping against her lungs. Was she mad? She was no match for the girl in terms of bulk, but she used the strength of her grip to stop the handle turning, betting on Miss Piggy's fingers being slippery from stuffing chips into her mouth. Even so, it was a war of attrition which only came to an end when the lower panels began to crack under the assault from Kimberley's boots, and Barry shouted that their dad would have her guts if she broke it again.

Gingerly, Laura relaxed her cramped hold as she felt the onslaught die away. She pressed her back against the wood and took a few deep breaths to calm herself. “Barry's right,” she warned. "Greg's only just finished painting the door since the last time you two fought over it."

“Shut up, bitch!” howled the girl, with a last, dispirited thump of a beefy fist. "If you're so bloody perfect, why does your daughter call you “Cunt”? Think about that the next time you “ooh” and “aah” when my dad gets his pathetic little dick out. Christ, even your daughter knows you're only sleeping with him to keep a roof over your head."

Laura closed her eyes, remembering Martin's laughter the first time Amy had used the word. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, he'd mocked. “Rent comes expensive,” she murmured. "Sex is free. Why else would I be here?"

Kimberley must have had her ear pressed against the wafer-thin door because every nuance of her voice came breathily through it. "I'll tell Dad you said that."

“Go ahead.” She stretched her arm towards the wall-phone, but, with her back against the door, it was beyond the reach of her fingers. Why hadn't Amy told her she went to Patsy's.. . ? Did she use it as a refuge .. . ? "But he won't be angry with me, Kimberley, he'll be angry with you. He was so damn lonely after your mother went he'd have moved a toothless granny into his bed if she'd been willing. Whose side will he take if you try to force me out?"

“Mine and Barry's when I tell him you're using him.” "Don't be an idiot,“ said Laura wearily. ”He's a man. He couldn't care less why I'm sleeping with him just so long as I go on doing it."

"You wishr the girl jeered.

“How many other women have been here, Kimberley?” “Bloody loads,” she said triumphantly. "We only got stuck with you because you dropped your knickers for him.“ ”And how many of them came back a second time?“ ”I couldn't give a shit. All I know is you came back.“ ”Only because I was desperate,“ she said slowly. ”If I hadn't been, nothing on earth would have persuaded me to come here." She listened to the girl's heavy breathing. "Do you seriously think your father doesn't know that?"

There was a perceptible pause. "Yeah, well, he didn't have to make do with a tart,“ the girl said sullenly. ”He's never even asked me and Barry what we think about it. He can't.. . you're always in the fucking way .. . rabbi ting on about your job .. . getting Amy to show off her stupid dancing."

"In the kitchen maybe .. . never in the sitting-room. You've made it clear I'm not welcome there."

“Yeah, right!” There was what sounded like a choked-back sob. "I suppose you've told Dad he's not welcome either."

"I didn't need to. You and Barry have done that pretty successfully on your own."

“How?”

"By never turning the volume down .. . never greeting him when he comes home .. . never eating with us ... never getting up until after we've gone to work .. .“ She paused. ”Life isn't a one-way street, you know."

“What's that supposed to mean?”

"Work it out for yourself Laura flexed her fingers to ease the muscles.

"I'll give you a hint. Why did your mother refuse to take either of you with her?"

Kimberley fired off again. “I hate you!” she snarled. "I wish you'd just piss off and leave us alone. Dad won't like it, but the rest of us'll be fucking ecstatic'."

It was the truth, thought Laura with an inward sigh, and if Amy hadn't pretended she was happy, they'd have gone sooner. "Don't worry about it, Mummy .. . I keep telling you, everything's fine when you and Greg aren't here .. ." Laura had believed her because it made her life easier, but now she was cursing herself for her stupidity. "Why does Amy go to Patsy's house?" she asked.

“Because she wants to.”

"That's not an answer, Kimberley. What Amy wants isn't necessarily good for her."

“It's her life,” the girl declared mutinously. "She can do what she likes."

"She's ten years old and she still sucks her thumb at night.

She can't even decide between fish fingers and sausages for tea, so how can she make choices about her life?"

"That doesn't mean she has to do what you say .. . She didn't ask to be born .. . You don' trucking own her."

“When have I ever said I did?”

"You behave like it ... ordering her around .. . telling her she can't go out."

“Can't go out alone,” Laura corrected. "I've never said she can't go with you and Barry as long as you stick together." She clenched her fists angrily. "God knows, I've explained it to you several times to avoid accidents. Amy's been here less than two months and still has difficulty remembering the address or the phone number. How is she going to find her way back if she gets lost?"

“She can't get lost going to Patsy's,” said Kimberley scathingly. "They only live five doors away!"

“She shouldn't even be there.”

“She's a cry-baby,” muttered Kimberley sulkily. "It gets on your nerves after a while. I reckon there's something wrong with her. She's always in the toilet moaning about her stomach hurting."

Laura pulled the door open abruptly and forced the girl to step back.

"Then I want my money back, Kimberley, because I'm damned if I'll reward you for something you haven't done." She checked her watch.

"You've got five minutes to have Amy in this house, and another five to put together the fifty quid you've had off me for two weeks of non-existent baby-sitting."