Gabby didn’t answer; it always amazed her that her mother could just push the blame away from herself without a second’s thought. She rubbed her belly – she was feeling awful today.
Seeing her daughter’s discomfort Cynthia said, ‘Get your stuff, Cherie, you’re coming home with Nanny.’ She held a finger up to her daughter in protest. ‘Not a word, you need your rest. Now, I’ve put a lasagne in the fridge, and I’ve got your ironing. So stop panicking and put your feet up.’
Gabby felt a rush of gratitude to this woman who she alternately loved and hated. Since Cynthia had seen how ill she had been with this baby she had been a diamond. She even talked about the baby as if she was looking forward to it, which Gabby thought she secretly was. Cynthia was buying little bits for it, and she had got out Cherie’s old cot, so she must be expecting the child to stay there on occasion.
For the first time in years, Gabby felt a modicum of contentment in her mother’s company as they chatted and laughed. It was as if the heavier she got with this baby the better her mum liked her. Her nana Mary thought she was mad, but they didn’t see this side of Cynthia – so few people ever did. There was no doubt about it – as her mother got older, she was becoming more like a mother should be. OK, not where James was concerned maybe, but then he’d always been difficult, to say the least. Gabby hoped none of her kids inherited his mental illness,
that would be too cruel. Whereas her mother had never been a loving mother exactly, Gabby was – she loved her family with all her heart.
She had tried to tell her nana and granddad about how her mum was behaving these days, but they both dismissed it out of hand, saying she was after something, just as she had been before. Gabby understood that they didn’t trust Cynthia, but even if she was after Cherie, now that Vincent was back he would never let anything happen to them.
Having him there made her so happy – she just wished he was home more. She knew that it had taken lot of work to get the garage off the ground, and he wanted to make a success of it. It was all for them so she shouldn’t really moan too much.
Cherie had her little bag packed, and was impatient to go with her nanny Cynthia now. She had brought all her drawing books with her; she loved drawing, and her nanny Cynthia had got her an easel which she loved painting on. She had a white smock just like the real painters in a book her nanny showed her.
Cynthia really thought the child had a talent, and she was determined to see her make the best of it. She could be the next Tracey Emin, that was Cynthia’s belief. She knew with certainty that this little girl had a brilliant future ahead of her, and she would move the heavens to see she got the chances Cynthia felt had been denied to her. She saw herself in little Cherie, saw her as she would have been with different parents, with people who could have given her a proper start in life. Cynthia blamed her parents for the way her whole life had turned out, and her son’s life as well. She believed with all her heart that her mother had had more say in James Junior’s upbringing than she did and, consequently, the blame for his condition lay at her mother’s door.
It never occurred to her that dumping her children at will, not loving either of them, and placing impossible demands on
them might have had something to do with her son’s illness and her daughter’s desperate craving for love. In fact, Cynthia was proud of her Gabriella; she was doing all right, and so long as she let her have Cherie she would remain in her good books.
It was Vincent that Cynthia had the main problem with these days. He didn’t like her having too much to do with the child. She knew she had to sort something out there. He needed taking down a peg or two. Since he had been released he thought he was the dog’s gonads – well, what man didn’t?
She smiled at the thought of bringing him down, and she drove back to her house lighter in spirit, with her little Cherie chattering away beside her.
The Golds had been watching the bank in Borough Green for the last few weeks and they knew down to the last detail who went in and who went out, at what times the bank was quiet, and when it was busy. On one specific day in every month, the bank held over one hundred thousand pounds before it was taken away by guards. Today they were sitting in a small coffee bar, watching the handover with interest.
There were three men outside the vehicle, and two inside – one driving, the other riding shotgun – so they were going to need to get the safety deposit box
before
they hit the inside of the back doors. It seemed to be a doddle.
The guards appeared very complacent, joking with the manager, and acting very relaxed. That was the beauty of carrying out robberies in small villages; they looked sleepy, and no one thought anything bad could happen in them. With sawn-off shotguns and the element of surprise to their advantage, this would be over in minutes.
Pleased with the day’s findings, the Golds got into their nondescript car and drove away sedately, sure that this was going to go without a hitch.
‘Well, she’s asleep. Surely you don’t expect me to wake her up!’ Cynthia’s voice was low, but full of contempt. Vincent was on the phone asking why she had not brought his daughter back as arranged.
She had not said when she would be bringing her back for definite, she had just said maybe Sunday night. Anyway, she had rung her daughter earlier and left a message to say that Cherie was a bit under the weather and then she had put her to bed. It wasn’t her fault that Gabriella had not checked her messages and she said as much. But Vincent was not a happy bunny.
‘You know she should be here, Cynthia, she’s got school tomorrow.’
Cynthia snapped right back at him, ‘Not with a cold, she isn’t. Plus, poor Gabby’s just about ready to drop, she can’t be running around after that lively little mare. Unless you’re staying home, of course.’ She knew she had him then and she smiled down the phone imagining how angry he was.
‘Well, I want her back tomorrow, all right? She spends far too much time at your drum for my liking.’
Cynthia didn’t answer him; she had won this battle and if it was left to her she would soon be winning the war.
When she put the phone down she went back into her kitchen and looked through Cherie’s drawing case. She had found a
piece of paper earlier, and on it, written in pencil, were the plans to rob a security van for a bank in a place called Borough Green, which was apparently in Kent.
Cherie had drawn a picture of a nice house, and she had been admiring it when she had spotted the little diagram on the back. This was how you planned any robbery, Cynthia knew, from her time in Jonny’s circle. You used Ordnance Survey maps and you always used pencil – never pen. Then, once the route was established, the map was destroyed, along with anything else incriminating. Cynthia knew that this would have been destroyed eventually, but Little Miss Trouble had got to it first, unaware that it was her father’s blueprint for his next job. She laughed with glee. That Vincent really should be more careful about what he left in his office at the garage.
She hugged the paper to her chest. Oh, the old saying was right: God really did pay back debts without money; of that she was now sure. In her hands was the fate of Cherie’s interfering fuck of a father, and she knew
exactly
what she was going to do with it.
Mary Callahan wasn’t well, and Jack knew it. She was having trouble breathing, and she seemed to spend longer and longer having a ‘bit of a lie down’, as she called it.
He looked at her now as she slept next to him in their bed. Her face still held some of the beauty that had attracted him all those years ago. In repose, the lines were not so harsh, and she seemed younger somehow, more how he liked to think of her. She had been an eyeful all right, like their Celeste. Hers had been an understated beauty, as opposed to Cynthia’s in-your-face sexuality. Mary had aged prematurely; all the trouble that Cynthia had brought to their door over the years had certainly taken its toll on her as, he supposed, it had on him too. But, for all their trials, he still loved this woman, and he hoped to God that he died first, because he didn’t think he would cope without her.
He decided to make her an appointment at the doctor’s, but tell her it was for him – she would accompany him then to make sure he went. It was the only way he’d get her there – she spent so much time worrying over everyone else, but not a second did she waste on herself.
She had never been the same since their Celeste went. He knew that she blamed herself for her daughter’s eventual decline but it wasn’t her fault. Celeste, unlike her sister and indeed her
own mother, hadn’t had the strength of mind needed to cope with what life had thrown at her. It had finally worn this wife of his down too; she was losing weight by the day, and she had no appetite.
He was suddenly assailed by a memory of her having their Cynthia. She had given birth at home and he had been angry because his racing paper had been used to mop up after her waters had broken. It had made him feel slightly sick. Then, after what seemed like ages, he was presented with his little daughter. Even then, as a newborn, Cynthia had been absolutely gorgeous – everyone said so. And he remembered saying to his exhausted wife, ‘She’ll break some hearts, this one!’
If only he had known then that she would break not only hearts but also whole families apart, he would have drowned the evil cunt there and then. He remembered his Mary, tired but triumphant, looking down at that child as if she was the most precious thing in the world. Where had it all gone so wrong?
He felt near to tears, and told himself it was just his age creeping up on him. If truth be told, he wouldn’t be too trashed about shaking off this mortal coil, and going for the long sleep. In fact, he would rather enjoy it.
He laid his wrinkled hand on to his wife’s hair, and it was only then that he realised she was cold. His Mary had died in her sleep. She was past all the hurts that life had thrown at her. For the first time in years, Mary Callahan was really at peace.
Sitting up in bed, Jack Callahan held his wife’s hand and cried bitter tears. He blamed Cynthia for this; Mary should have had years left to her. They should have had years left
together.
If Mary had not taken on the burden of her daughter’s children and all their combined problems, they could have lived out their twilight years in peace and companionship. His Mary was but another casualty in the war that was Cynthia Callahan. She had never really stood a chance.
Vincent held Gabby while she cried, and he knew it couldn’t be good for her or the baby. Mary’s passing had hit her badly, very badly. She had been the only real mother she had ever known, and he had a lot to thank her for, he knew. Without Mary and Jack, his Gabs would have been alone in the world with his daughter and completely at the mercy of Cynthia Callahan. Things had been bad enough as it was, and the guilt he felt at leaving her was ever present. As was Cynthia. It felt like she was always round, helping out.
All he needed was a couple of robberies under his belt and he could get them a decent house of their own, bought and paid for, and then get on with his legit businesses. He would only go out for a drive every year or so. It was a foolproof plan, and he wanted to make sure that this girl of his – and the children, of course – had everything they needed for the rest of their lives. It was important to him that they were all well set up.
He wanted his Gabby in their own little house, his kids at the best schools available, and a place in the sun. That had been his dream throughout his prison sentence, and now he would make it all come true.
Fuck Greene and Warner, with their ‘be patient’ and ‘bide your time’ nonsense. He was a fucking shrewdie and he knew
what he was doing. He was looking after his family; after all, that was a man’s job.
Cynthia brought in a tray with tea for her and Vincent and a small brandy for Gabby.
‘She can’t have alcohol, she’s pregnant.’
‘One little shot won’t hurt her, and it will make her sleep, calm her down. All this crying can’t be good for her or the baby.’
He could see the sense in what she was saying.
Cynthia took Gabby from his arms and, holding her close, said gently, ‘Come on, love, drink this up, eh? It’ll make you feel better.’
Gabby did as she was told, and drank the brandy, coughing at the raw taste.
‘There, that will make you feel better, love. Now come on, put your feet on the couch, darling. I’ll make you some hot milk with honey in it, like my mum used to make for me when I was feeling ill. I bet she did it for you too, eh?’
Gabby smiled brokenly and nodded her head.
Twenty minutes later the milk had been drunk and she was asleep. Cynthia looked at Vincent and sighed. ‘She’s taken it bad, Vincent, but it’s to be expected – my mum was more of a mother to her than I ever was.’
Vincent stayed silent; he didn’t know how to answer that statement.
‘Do you want me to take Cherie with me? I can take her to school, the usual – it’s best to keep to a routine with kids. There’s going to be a lot of running about with the funeral to arrange and everything. And, well, my dad isn’t going to be much use, is he? My mother did everything – he can’t even boil an egg.’