Their father was a bloody blagger for starters! And, as she was always pointing out to the social services, caught not once but twice! She conveniently forgot her own past associations with the criminal classes and her part in them. She was good at rewriting history – she could wipe out anything that did not fit in with her version of events.
But now, thanks to Cherie, and the training she had been given to update her nanny on what they were doing with her mother, Cynthia had the opportunity to prove once and for all
to the powers-that-be that her daughter was not fit to look after her own children.
Then they would be hers, and they would
stay
hers. Let Gabriella and Vincent make a new family, because there was no way they were going to get these kiddies. She would do whatever it took to get what she wanted. A little voice reminded her it wouldn’t be the first time but, as always, she forced the thoughts away. Over the years she had become very good at that.
‘No, Cherie, you can’t go back to your nanny’s. Look, you got what you wanted – we came back to my house. Your brother is asleep in the other room, and I’m very tired too. So come on, honey, you can sleep in here with me tonight.’
Cherie looked at her mother and decided that she had better do what she was told; after all, she had won the fight about staying at Great-Granddad Jack’s. It wasn’t really that he smelled – she didn’t like it there because her great-granddad was all over little Vince. She used to be his favourite but that all changed when her brother came along. These days he hardly took
any
notice of her, except to say she was ‘too much like Cynthia’, and he said it as if it was a
bad
thing. Now she was lying in bed with her mummy, and she was feeling quite tired. Getting her own way could be exhausting.
‘Can I have a story, Mummy?’
Gabby pulled her close, and said happily, ‘’Course you can, darling. What story do you want?’
‘Little Red Riding Hood, please. The
long
version.’
Gabby laughed and started telling her the story. Cherie was asleep in no time and, holding her daughter to her own body, Gabby felt close to her for the first time. She couldn’t wait for this to be her normal life. Soon she would have her babies back, and she would have her Vincent home. He had sworn he would go straight this time, that he would not do anything that would part him from his family. She knew that everyone thought
she was mad, but she loved him, and she had to believe what he told her. It had been even harder when he had gone away this time and she had not coped well at all. And poor Vincent had been stuck on the island again, and unable to do anything to help her. She knew how hard that must have been for him, but that was all in the past now. She was on the mend, and he would be home at some point. All she could do was look to the future. She would not keep the kids away from her mum; after all, she had been there for them for a long time. But she wouldn’t lose them to her. She would show them all that
she
was the best thing that could happen to her kids.
Gabby fell asleep smiling, thinking of how lovely it would be to have her family back together. Her, the kids, and her Vincent. It was the stuff that dreams were made of.
Three hours later, she awoke to a room full of smoke.
Cynthia let herself into her daughter’s home and stood in the darkness of the kitchen, looking around her in the gloom. It was clean, she would give her daughter that, but it was still shabby. It was still council in her eyes. It broke her heart that her grandchildren would be reduced to this. Well, not for long.
She knew the best way to cause the fire was to start it from the front door, and let it take its own course, so that is exactly what she did. As she set to work, it did not cross her mind that she was destroying everything her daughter owned in the world – her photos, her clothes, all her personal effects. All she had to do was start the fire and then the Calor Gas heaters her daughter used for warmth would do the majority of the damage for her. She was grateful for the light from the street-lamp outside – she daren’t put a light on, or make a noise. These places were like rabbit hutches, even a toilet flushing next door could be heard by all and sundry. She was smiling as she lit the match, and she slipped out as quietly as she had come in.
On the way home she was playing ABBA on her car stereo and singing at the top of her voice. This really was her Waterloo; she would play up her daughter’s dangerous stupidity for all it was worth. A lit cigarette could cause untold damage – ten lit simultaneously could do even more! She guessed the washing
basket full of clothes would be the first to really ignite, but the bin in the kitchen would also be a big help.
She would explain away the petrol by saying it was an insurance scam, that her daughter had hinted at money to come. She had covered all bases, and now she would have those kids until they sorted out accommodation and all the other shite that went with a major fire. Either way, this was a win-win situation for her.
Cherie was shaking Gabby, screaming at her to wake up.
‘Mummy, Mummy, the house is on fire!’
Gabby could barely breathe; the bedroom was engulfed in smoke. Coughing, she jumped out of the bed. Vincent, the only thing she could think about was her baby Vincent, alone and afraid in his room.
She phoned the fire brigade in a panic and then, taking her daughter by the hand, she did the worst thing possible; she opened her bedroom door.
‘Are you Cynthia Callahan?’
Cynthia, who had partaken of a few drinks to celebrate her late-night excursion, was bleary-eyed as she looked at the policeman and woman at her door.
‘Yes, I am. What’s going on? What’s happened?’
Sergeant Proctor could hear a rising panic in her voice. He walked her through to her kitchen and, sitting her down, he nodded to the policewoman, who looked through Cynthia’s cupboards until she found a bottle of brandy. Pouring out a large one, she placed it in front of the frightened woman.
All the time this was going on there was a panic rising inside Cynthia. This wasn’t just about a burnt-out house. This was too ominous.
‘Please, tell me! What’s happened?’
Sergeant Proctor took her trembling hand in his and said gently, ‘There’s been a fire at your daughter’s house. I’m very sorry to have to tell you that your grandson Vincent O’Casey died in it. The fire was too fierce for anyone to get to him and, believe me, your daughter tried. She’s suffered third-degree burns on her hands as a result. Both she and your granddaughter are in the Old London. Your granddaughter is unharmed though – she’s just being treated for smoke inhalation.’
Cynthia could hear the Sergeant’s words, but she couldn’t
take in what he was saying. ‘But they weren’t in the house!
Why
were they in the house? They were staying at my dad’s. Cherie told me on the phone that they were staying at my dad’s . . .’ She was shaking with shock. She looked into the Sergeant’s eyes, pleading with him to tell her that none of it was true. When she had sneaked into the house, no one had been there – the house had been
empty.
She knew that because they were supposed to be at her fucking dad’s! Oh, why could her daughter
never
do what she was supposed to! Now look what had happened. If that girl could only do what she was supposed to . . .
‘You’re wrong. You
must
be wrong. My daughter and my grandkids are at my dad’s. You’ve got the wrong house, the wrong people . . .’ Cynthia started to cry then. ‘Please . . . Please tell me you’ve got the wrong people, please . . .’
Sergeant Proctor held her while she cried and, as he would say later back at the station, never had he heard crying like it. She had sounded like a wounded animal. It was only when the doctor finally arrived and sedated her that her raving abated and she dropped into a deep, troubled sleep.
‘It’s like I’m cursed, Granddad. The first night they stay with me, and my little boy gets burned to death. My mum was right, I should never have been allowed to have them on my own – look what happened. Cherie had been on at me about smoking, she said she hated the smell of it. It’s why I came home from your house. Why didn’t I just stay at yours?’
Jack Callahan wished to God that he could ease his granddaughter’s pain, but he knew no one could do that for her. Still, he hoped that what he had to tell her would relieve her of some of her guilt.
‘Look, Gabby, there’s something you should know. The police think the fire was started deliberately, and they think it was James who did it. Someone got into your house and lit cigarettes all over the place. It wasn’t you. Whoever it was had placed piles of clothes under the fags, and your wastepaper basket and bin. I wasn’t supposed to tell you this – they didn’t want you to know until they thought you could cope with it, but your mother thinks it was James and so do the Old Bill now. She said he had turned up at her house a few days before and demanded money. I rarely agree with her, but I think this time Cynthia is right. It was James – it
had
to be. Who else would do something so fucking wicked?’
Gabby was thunderstruck. ‘James? But why would James hurt me and my kids? It don’t make sense!’
Jack shrugged. ‘Why does that mad bastard do anything? There’s no sense to be had out of this, and you’ll drive yourself crazy trying to make some. He’s a fucking nut-bag, always was, and always will be. So stop beating yourself up, love. I’ll tell the police I’ve told you. Will you believe it if you hear it from them too?’
Gabby was numb; of all the explanations for what might have happened that night, her brother being the culprit was not one of them. But she supposed it had to be true – maybe he had thought they were out?
She felt the tears streaming down her face once more, and she looked at her heavily bandaged hands that had been burned down to the bone with her efforts to open her son’s door. Her baby boy, her Vince, was dead, and it was her own brother who had killed him. There was no doubt about it – they were cursed, the whole family was cursed.
Cynthia was not herself and everyone remarked on it. In the week following little Vincent’s death the weight dropped off her and she looked older. People talked about how good she had been with those kids; she was hailed as a wonderful grandmother who had given up her life to raise her daughter’s children. But she knew the truth, and it was eating at her like a cancer.
It had been quick thinking on her part, even in her distress, to say her son must have done it, and that had seemed to ring true. After all,
they
were the ones who’d told her about his threat to burn her out. He would eventually turn up like a bad penny, and they would charge him. It would do some good anyway; this time they would lock him up and throw away the key. They should have done that years ago.
It was the nights that were the worst for Cynthia. She thought she could hear little Vincent calling for her. And he would have called for
her
not his mum – it was Cynthia he would have wanted. She felt the sweat as it suffused her body, and the shortening of her breath that always accompanied it. Why had she done it? She had just wanted to make it seem as if her daughter was trying to fiddle the insurance and get herself a better house to live in into the bargain. Why had she not checked the bedrooms? She felt the tears once more, the tears that were
never far from the surface. That little boy, that dear, handsome little boy . . .
As Cherie came and placed herself on her nanny’s lap, Cynthia held her tightly, loving the feel of her small body, and remembering little Vince as he snuggled into her, his sweet baby smell of Johnson’s powder. Now he was gone, burned to death, bless him, though the fireman said the smoke was what finished him off. He would have been lying in that cot, choking, and calling for his nanny Cynthia. He would have expected her to come and save him, she who had loved and cared for him all his life.
She leant forward and took a large swig of her whisky; it was the only thing that afforded her even a modicum of peace. She drank it whenever she needed solace, and that was all too often this past week. She needed its strength to help her forget for a few hours what she had done. Nothing in the world could ever wipe it out completely, but the Scotch helped and she drank it like water.
All she had left was her Cherie, and she could not lose her as well.
Vincent was devastated, and he knew that whatever he was feeling, his Gabby would be feeling it a hundredfold. Little Vincent, his namesake, was gone. It was hard to believe, because he had never really known him. But he had still been his son, the boy he watched being brought into the world, the boy he had such hopes and dreams for. His heart bled for Gabby, facing the worst that life could throw at a woman, and facing it alone, without him. It was like a nightmare.
Everyone in nick was being fantastic – even the POs had been sympathetic. One had even brought him in a bottle of Courvoisier brandy, courtesy of Bertie Warner and Derek Greene, and he had appreciated that. It was good of them to think of him, and he had been told they would stand the money for the funeral for which he was grateful. But he would pay them back every penny; the least a man could do was bury his own.