Blood Rush (Lilly Valentine) (2 page)

‘How’s Daddy’s little girl this morning?’ Jack kissed the baby’s sticky cheek. ‘Are you pleased to see me?’

Alice gurgled and Lilly felt a familiar stab of regret. Alice was always pleased to see Jack. And he was always pleased to see her. How easy life would be if they could live like a normal family.

‘I have to get ready for work.’ Lilly spun on her heels and clattered up the stairs before Jack could see the sadness written over her face.

When Sam and Lilly had left, Jack breathed in the silence of the cottage and let out a heavy sigh. It was a complete mess. Every flat surface was littered with bibs and toys. The sofa was entirely covered in clothes that had clearly been carried from the tumble drier but hadn’t made their way upstairs. No doubt Lilly had been distracted by a phone call, or a question from Sam, or a leaf falling off a tree in a garden two miles away.

‘What’s the kitchen like?’ he asked Alice, who chuckled into his leather jacket.

The answer was a rat’s nest of toast crusts, unopened post and pans left to soak on the window sill. He’d been in crack dens cleaner than this.

He slid Alice into her high chair, reached for a dishcloth and sighed again.

God, he missed living here.

Daylight and noise spill into the dorm. Ten minutes ago, when the last bell for breakfast shattered the air like glass, the other boys had hauled themselves from their bunks, thrown on their crumpled shirts and blazers, and bolted to the dining room before the last rashers of greasy bacon could be cleared away.

Since then, Jamie has laid in his bed, unable to lift his head. His sheet is knotted and uncomfortable beneath him, but he doesn’t care. He is concentrating every ounce of his being on not
throwing
up.

‘What’s this, Holland?’

Mr Prior stands at the door, legs apart, hands on hips. Tristan Saunders does a pukka impression of him that has everyone laughing their arses off. He’s almost been caught in the act a few times, but he doesn’t give a shit. Tristan Saunders doesn’t give a shit about anything much.

‘I don’t feel well, sir,’ Jamie mumbles.

Mr Prior enters the dorm, kicking shin pads and a hockey stick out of his way with a grunt. Anyone would think he was a
general
in the marines, not some poxy housemaster at a boarding school.

‘Let’s take a look at you,’ he barks.

Half-heartedly, Jamie pushes back his duvet. The swoosh of cold air makes him shudder.

‘Sit up, boy.’ Mr Prior stands over Jamie, his five-foot-three frame almost blocking the light.

‘I don’t think I can, sir.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Holland,’ says Mr Prior and grabs Jamie by the shoulders.

The sudden movement sends the room spinning and Jamie gasps. His head is banging and his stomach lurches.

‘A shower is what’s needed here,’ says Mr Prior.

The pressure of his grip is agony. It’s as if the housemaster’s fingers are squeezing right through the skin to his bone. Jamie’s throat tightens and he gives a strangled cough.

Mr Prior releases his hold and drops Jamie back on to his bed.

‘Five minutes,’ he bellows. ‘Then I want to see you washed, dressed and in my office.’

As Mr Prior reaches the door, he turns and narrows his eyes at Jamie. They hold each other’s stare for a few seconds until Jamie leans over the side of his mattress and empties the contents of his stomach on to the floor.

‘Dear me, your pulse is racing.’ Matron holds Jamie’s wrist between her thumb and forefinger and checks her watch.

She’s moved him to the sick bay, where there’s always a smell of disinfectant and the beds have plastic under the sheets which crackle. Jamie once spent three uncomfortable days here with flu, sweating and sneezing into his pillow. At least it’s quiet and Mr Prior will leave him alone.

Matron wipes his forehead with a damp flannel. It feels
deliciously
cool.

‘Do you want me to call your parents, dear?’

‘No.’ Jamie answers far too quickly.

Matron squints at him, takes another swipe with the flannel.

‘They’ll be busy at work,’ says Jamie, ‘and I don’t want to worry them for nothing.’

Matron eyes him for a moment longer, then nods.

‘I’ll leave this here.’ She pats a metal bowl perched on the
bedside
table. ‘Just in case.’

Jamie smiles weakly. He knows she’s trying to be kind but he wishes she’d just give him some peace. When a day boy arrives with a blood-stained hanky covering his nose, Jamie can only sigh with relief and watch Matron bustle away to her next patient.

The room tilts and Jamie lowers himself on to the bed as gently as he possibly can. He closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose. Never has he felt this rough in all his life, and he swears on everything that is sacred and holy that he will never take drugs again.

Lilly pulled into the winding drive of Manor Park, her son’s school. As usual, she was stuck behind an army of shiny, new four by fours, inching their way to the entrance. Every morning she swore she would set off five minutes earlier and beat the yummy mummies to it, but every morning something got in the way. Today it had taken longer than she’d expected to scrub yoghurt from her eyelashes. 

‘You won’t be late,’ Lilly told Sam, with more confidence than she felt.

He shrugged, without looking up from his iPod.

With fondness, Lilly remembered how the school run used to be a cacophony of singing and questions.

As they approached the main entrance Lilly could see the
maintenance
staff stringing Christmas lights around the imposing oak door and the ten-foot fir tree that stood outside the music room window.

‘That’s going to look beautiful,’ she said.

‘Last year you said it was no wonder the fees were so
extortionate
if they wasted money on stuff like that.’

‘Well, last year I was Scrooge,’ she said.

Sam’s thumbs whizzed across the touchpad. ‘And this year?’

‘I’m the other one,’ said Lilly. ‘The one who loves Christmas.’

‘Tiny Tim?’

At last Lilly managed to pull into a parking space, the Mini Cooper dwarfed on both sides by black Range Rovers.

‘Not Tiny Tim,’ she said. ‘Bob what’s his name.’

Sam opened the car door and slid out in one fluid movement. A blast of icy air smacked Lilly in the face.

‘Bob Cratchit,’ said Sam.

‘That’s the man.’

Sam rolled his eyes. ‘So you’re going to be the guy who is
completely
exploited by his boss, never speaks up for himself, and sells out for a goose.’

Lilly tried to think of a clever retort, but nothing came.

‘Well, good luck with that,’ said Sam and slammed the door.

As she watched him take the steps two at a time, she wound down the passenger window.

‘Sam,’ she called.

He turned and raised an eyebrow.

‘Actually, I
am
the boss.’

He laughed and disappeared inside.

A dark-haired woman in her mid fifties, wearing a pillar-box-red overcoat and a scowl, was already waiting outside the offices of Valentine & Co. when Lilly arrived. She was stamping her feet against the cold and checking her watch at regular intervals.

Lilly smiled warmly. ‘You must be the new secretary.’

The woman peered at Lilly over glasses that were perched on the end of what looked more like a beak than a nose.

‘The agency told me you opened at nine,’ she said. ‘It’s ten past.’

‘The traffic was hideous on the A5,’ answered Lilly.

‘I see,’ said the woman. Her frown matched the grey winter morning. Her coat incongruously cheerful.

Lilly smiled again and unlocked the door. This was the sixth secretary she’d welcomed through the doors in as many months. The previous five had left in various states of despair at Lilly’s special brand of working practice.

Lilly had high hopes for this one. She’d come recommended from the agency as ‘robust and flexible’.

‘Let me show you around,’ said Lilly.

The woman said nothing as Lilly gave the tour of reception, meeting rooms and kitchen, though there was an audible intake of breath when Lilly opened the door to her own office.

‘I’m not the most tidy of people.’

Files were scattered across the floor and a brown apple core was discarded on her desk. Lilly scooped it up and catapulted it into an overflowing bin.

‘I don’t see clients in here.’ Lilly tapped the back of the spare chair which was piled high with documents and law books.

The woman didn’t put so much as a toe over the threshold.

‘So what do you think?’ Lilly opened her arms. ‘I think you’ll find I’m pretty easy to work for.’

The woman didn’t speak.

‘Any questions?’

The woman looked at Lilly as if she were completely mad. ‘No thank you.’

The hospital room is completely bare apart from the bed and a chair pulled alongside. No pictures or posters on the grey wall. No books or magazines on the window ledge.

Demi looks from her grandmother’s face to her sister’s and back again. She can’t say who looks worse, Malaya with her purple eyes, swollen shut, or Gran, her mouth pinched into a straight line.

‘Why don’t you get yourself a cup of tea, Gran?’

Gran glances up at Demi. But only for a second. She’s been at Malaya’s side ever since she got here and hasn’t taken her eyes off her.

‘What if she wakes up?’ Gran asks.

Demi opens her palms. ‘I’m here.’

Gran breathes through her nose, her nostrils flaring, unable to decide. She must be thirsty yet she can’t bear to leave her poor girl.

‘You need to stretch your legs,’ says Demi.

Gran gives a tight nod and pulls herself to her feet with a groan. She backs to the door, still unwilling to let Malaya out of her sight.

‘If anything happens …’

‘I’ll run and get you,’ Demi interrupts.

Gran hovers in the doorway.

‘Go,’ Demi urges, shooing her grandmother away with her hand.

Finally, Gran leaves and Demi takes her seat. It’s still warm.

Now she’s alone, Demi’s not sure what to do. She crosses her feet. Then she uncrosses them. Cross, uncross. Cross, uncross. She keeps time with the steady rhythm of the machine next to Malaya. It’s attached to her by a viper’s nest of wires. The nurse says the sound is her heart beating. Which seems incredible to Demi, because lying there, not moving at all, Malaya looks as if she’s already dead.

Demi leans forward and places her hand next to her sister’s. Malaya’s is bigger than hers. Fatter. A ring sinks into the
plumpness
of her finger like a sausage tied in the middle. Demi tries not to think about all the times she’s watched Malaya stuffing her face with fried yam and called her a pig.

‘This is a terrible thing.’

Demi turns to the door and sees their neighbour, Mrs Mboko. Like Gran, she’s at least eighteen stone, both their skins the anthracite black of the Igbo. At church on Sundays, dressed in their head wraps, they look like a couple of proud statues.

‘They think she’ll be okay,’ says Demi, though as far as she knows no one has actually told them that.

‘Your grandmother has already suffered so much.’ Mrs Mboko shakes her head sadly.

‘Yes,’ says Demi.

Mrs Mboko kisses her teeth. ‘These gangs are a wicked thing.’

It’s only now that Demi sees Chika skulking behind her mother, kicking her high-tops against the door jamb. She’s a few years older than Demi, and everyone on the estate knows her. She’s part of the gang that runs things.

‘You girls must concentrate on your studies and stay away from trouble.’ Mrs Mboko wags her finger.

Chika mumbles something under her breath and Demi assumes they’ll leave, but Mrs Mboko remains where she is, her eyes closed, her lips moving. Demi realizes she’s saying a prayer. When she’s finished, she crosses herself. Demi copies her. A reflex action.

‘Remember me to your people,’ says Mrs Mboko, and leaves.

Chika stays behind, her nose ring glinting in the striplights.

‘She really going to be all right?’

Demi shrugs.

‘That’s harsh,’ says Chika. ‘But you need anything, you let me know, yeah?’

Demi nods.

‘CBD look after their bredren, you get me?’

Demi nods again.

‘Have the police been?’ asks Chika.

‘No.’

‘They will.’ Chika enters the room and lowers her voice. ‘Say nothing, you understand me.’

‘Don’t have anything to say.’

A small smile plays around the edge of Chika’s mouth. Then it’s gone and something cold and hard settles.

‘We’re gonna sort this ourselves,’ she says.

‘How?’ asks Demi and instantly regrets it.

Chika narrows her eyes. ‘You fuck with our family and we gonna fuck with you.’

Lilly spun around in the swivel chair behind the desk in
reception
. She found that if she lifted her feet, she could make it almost 360 degrees.

Her would-be secretary had left without even taking off her coat. A record. The agency had promised a replacement by lunchtime. In return, Lilly had promised to tidy things up. And she would. Just as soon as she had made an entire revolution in the chair.

She held the edge of the desk and pushed herself from left to right to gain momentum. When she felt she had sufficient force, she propelled herself around, letting out a high-pitched squeal of delight.

‘Excuse me.’

Lilly came to a juddering halt.

Another woman was standing in the doorway. Her hair was sticking out at odd angles and she wore a bright-orange
waterproof
. Her expression was puzzled, but at least she wasn’t frowning.

Lilly leapt from her seat and held out her hand. She was
determined
to make a good impression. Spinning like a child was not a good start, she conceded, but still.