‘Give me the gun, Em.’
Oscar had appeared from nowhere, giving her the fright of her life and nearly causing her to pull the trigger. He’d come up behind her in the flat and taken the gun from her trembling hand. She hadn’t been able to take her eyes off Jake just lying there with blood running out of his ear; she’d wanted to run, wanted to scream, but she’d been unable to do anything. Her heart had raced but she, like Jake, was motionless, and she hadn’t known what to say.
‘You did well, Emmie.’
‘But I didn’t do it; he was here on the floor already, I swear.’
She’d turned to face Oscar who’d smiled and stared at her intensely before going over to Jake’s body with the gun in his hand.
‘We want to make absolutely sure now don’t we?’
‘Please Oscar, you have to believe me, I didn’t do it.’
‘Whatever you say; but you know as well as I do, the only reason why Jake Bellingham’s lying here is because of you.’
Oscar grinned at her and then he’d bent over the body and put the gun against Jake’s head at close range and pulled the trigger, blowing a hole as wide as Emmie’s fist into Jake’s skull.
She’d screamed hysterically as bits of Jake’s brain splattered over her clothes. The room had spun round and she’d seen the framed poster of Stan Collymore, Jake’s all time favourite player, in front of her, splattered with blood. Oscar had put his gloved fingers to his lips to tell her to be quiet before he’d led her out of the flat and driven her to one of his homes.
‘Your cocoa’s going cold. You need to get it inside you; don’t want to send you home with a cold.’
Emmie felt sick. All she could see in her mind was the gaping hole in Jake’s brain. Stupidly she hadn’t thought it’d be so real. How many times had she and her mum watched
CSI: Miami
curled up on the settee
?
But it wasn’t like that: there were no ad breaks or any opportunities to turn over and watch something different; instead there’d been the pool of Jake’s blood, almost black in colour and nauseatingly sweet-smelling; a potent coppery stench which Emmie thought she could still smell. Then there’d been the pulp, the muted grey flesh, the blood-flecked pieces of Jake’s brain that had sprayed onto her.
Looking back she knew she should have called her Uncle Vaughn; he’d always been so kind to her. When they’d hung out, she’d always had so much fun and he made her feel special, which she didn’t feel very often. She hadn’t called him because she’d been afraid he might tell her dad, but that would’ve been a whole lot better than what she’d got herself into.
‘I’d really like to go home now, Oscar.’ Emmie spoke in a small frightened voice.
‘I don’t think that’s sensible at the moment. Trust me though; you’ll be home before you can say bang.’
Oscar laughed and looked at Emmie shaking on his couch, wrapped in his large duck-down duvet. She’d been such an easy target; a gift. He hadn’t been going to leave it to chance or a stupid schoolgirl, so he’d arranged for Billy to pay Jake a visit just before Emmie was due to arrive.
Billy had done well and it’d been over in a matter of minutes; a sharp instrument through Jake’s ear and through to his brain, which wouldn’t be picked up at the autopsy after he’d used the gun to blow a hole in Jake’s head. Billy had managed to find the packets of heroin as well, which Jake had stupidly hidden at the back of one of the kitchen cabinets.
They’d watched Emmie go into the block of flats and he’d given her a few minutes before following her. She’d played right into his hands; she’d given him the gun. He’d blown a hole in Jake’s head, frightening her. By the time he’d finished fucking with her head, Emmie Jennings would be putty in his hands.
She hadn’t seen his
pièce de résistance
when he’d kicked the gun under the couch; she was too busy screaming and wallowing in self-pity, looking for comfort from him. It’d worked out perfectly: so well he’d had to bite down on his lip to stop himself laughing out loud.
Oscar took a sip of his drink; he was enjoying every moment of this. It wasn’t about the money. At first it had been, but it was about so much more than that now. He was going to show the great Alfie Jennings what it felt like to fall, and he was going to show Vaughn he’d made a very big mistake to think he could fuck with him. The one thing both Alfie and Vaughn had in common, their one Achilles’ heel, was Emmie; daughter and goddaughter respectively. And it would be their love for her which would be their ultimate downfall.
Finishing off his drink Oscar knew the best part was yet to come: the fireworks hadn’t even started, the games were just about to begin; his revenge was about to be taken.
Casey’s head was all over the place. She couldn’t believe what Lola had told her. Her daughter was almost within touching distance. Of course she wasn’t a hundred per cent sure it was her but Lola had been certain that the name ‘Williams’ was Janine Jennings’s maiden name, the same Janine Jennings who was married to Alfie and the same Janine Jennings who’d looked at her like scum in the restaurant. It was incredible, and if she’d read it somewhere she wouldn’t have believed it herself. Alfie Jennings of all people.
But now the problem was to know what to do. It was stupid: all these years of waiting and she hadn’t actually planned what she’d do. Of course her heart said to go charging in but she knew that would be wrong; she didn’t know even if Emmie knew about being adopted, but even if she did there was no saying she’d want anything to do with her, and the last thing Casey wanted was to mess up her daughter’s life. She would need to think very hard before she made any decisions.
For some reason Casey thought of Vaughn. She wanted to talk to him. Not about this; she’d certainly keep this to herself, but she had a sudden urge just to hear his voice, though she wasn’t so sure he’d want to hear hers. She hadn’t really had many friends in life and there was something nice about having someone there. Bracing herself she dialled his number.
‘You’re some fucking sort of joker calling me up, Casey, you know that? You should take a spot at Alfie’s club, I’m sure he’d be amenable; after all, you two are well acquainted.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Why are you behaving like this? If you’ve got something to say, just say it.’
‘I’m saying nothing.’
Vaughn hated phone calls at the best of times; he’d rather face the person, especially when he was having a barney with them. He wanted to see Casey’s lying face and see if there was anything resembling guilt on it.
He wasn’t going to mention he’d found out about her being Emmie’s mother; that was something else entirely. He needed time to get his head round that and tread very carefully. His problem with her was Alfie, and what he’d said about them spending the night together.
Everything Alfie had told him hadn’t mattered: he’d still wanted to give them a chance; they could’ve taken their time and worked everything out over time. He would’ve been happy to help and support her in any way she’d needed; he would’ve given her everything he had, as well as giving her something he’d never thought he’d give to any woman – he would’ve given her his heart. But it was too late now, and he was determined not to wallow in it; it was pointless, it was over, she and Alf had seen to that.
He sighed, trying to compose not just his anger but mainly his jealousy whilst picking off a dead petal from the small potted rose on his desk. He was trying not to become childish by being mean to her, and he had to admit he wasn’t doing a very good job of it; but he was hurt – it’d knocked him sideways and sent him reeling to hear about her and Alfie, and hearing her voice on the phone sounding so bright and fucking breezy just added to his misery. He guessed he had no right to dictate to Casey who she could or couldn’t sleep with, but Christ almighty, sleeping with Alfie Jennings was certainly a massive kick in the balls.
‘I didn’t call for an argument.’
‘Well what did you call for, Cass?’
‘Just to say hello; nothing else.’
‘Well you’ve said it now.’
He could’ve kicked himself; his hurt was getting the better of him and he was being a prize jerk, but he found it so hard to keep his mouth shut when she started to feign fucking innocence. He’d kept hundreds of secrets; ones if he ever opened his mouth about would mean a lot of men would be in a lot of trouble. He had no trouble keeping those secrets, no problem keeping schtum; but for some reason Casey turned him into a male version of Janine: a total gobshite.
‘I don’t know what’s got into you. I understand you’re still angry about the other night and I’m sorry, really. I’d had a bad day and I shouldn’t have had so much to drink; I’ll be the first one to admit that and hold my hands up. It’s no excuse I know, but I’m sorry. Can you forgive me? And as for the stuff with that guy, nothing happened …’
‘Which guy Casey? Which one of them?’
‘I’m sorry …?’
‘Look, I really don’t want to talk about it any more. It’s done; finished.’
Casey wanted to talk about it some more but she knew when to leave it. She didn’t want to try to defend her bad behaviour and through guilt become defensive and say things she might regret. She’d actually hoped Vaughn would’ve forgiven her making a fool of herself with the guy in the street. For a moment it crossed her mind that maybe Alfie had mentioned her crashing out at his flat, but they’d specifically agreed not to, and why would he? Vaughn and Alfie were friends and she was sure he wouldn’t want to hurt Vaughn by telling him, though really there was nothing to tell; it would’ve taken a whole brewery and then some for her to ever contemplate sleeping with Alfie Jennings.
She knew Vaughn was a proud man and she didn’t expect that he would forget her drunken behaviour, but she’d hoped he would’ve heard the sincerity in her apology and they could be friends again. The tone in his voice, however, told her he was far from over it, and certainly not in a forgiving mood. ‘Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you, Vaughn.’
Casey put the phone down, leaving Vaughn full of frustrated anger; most of all towards himself.
‘Two fucking days! What the hell am I supposed to do?’
It was nearly eleven at night and Alfie was pacing up and down in the all-white front reception room. Janine sat on the handmade Italian leather couch and watched her husband despairingly, as desperate for news as he was.
‘I fucking told you to keep a better eye on her, Jan. If anything happens to her, I’m blaming you.’
‘Me? How the fuck do you work that one out, Alf? She’s run away because she found the letters.’
‘I told you to get rid of them. Did you not think she’d find them eventually? Fuck me Jan, how stupid could you be to keep a box of letters from her real grandfather and not think it was a bleeding time bomb waiting to explode?’
‘I wanted to keep them for her when she got older, to show her she wasn’t given up because she wasn’t loved.’
‘When did you become a fucking social worker, Jan? Who says she ever needed to know? Who says we were ever going to tell her? I certainly wasn’t. She didn’t need to know, Jan, because things like this happen; she runs away.’
Janine looked at her husband. He’d always been determined Emmie would never find out about her adoption and he hadn’t wanted to listen when she’d said she didn’t think it was a good idea, so she’d left it.
When the yearly letters had started to come from Emmie’s paternal grandfather via a third party who’d been part of arranging the initial adoption, she’d written back to let him know how Emmie was getting on; she felt it was the least she could do. There had not only been a sense of longing in the letters to know his granddaughter was safe and happy, but also a sense of regret that things had turned out the way they had. They’d touched a chord with her, and she hadn’t been able to ignore them and just throw them in the bin.
Alfie hadn’t been too happy about it and he’d told her to get rid of them, but she’d kept them to show Emmie when she was older. She’d never imagined she’d find them.
She’d discovered the box of letters at the bottom of Emmie’s wardrobe – she hadn’t even known they’d gone from where she’d hidden them – when she was looking for Emmie’s address book to phone round her friends to see if they’d seen her.
Everything had fallen into place. No wonder Emmie had been moody and distant: she’d discovered after all these years that they weren’t her biological parents; they weren’t who she thought they were and she wasn’t who she thought she was. Essentially they’d been lying to her, and no doubt she didn’t trust her or Alfie any more. The kid must have been really screwed up, and Janine prayed they’d find her soon so they could start picking up the pieces for her.
Alfie was still pacing and was beginning to rant at her again, breaking her off from her thoughts.
‘And whose fault was it eh? Tell me. Who was the one who took our daughter to see Jake?’
‘She’s probably with him.’
‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better is it?’
‘No, but I’m sure that’s where she is. Where else can she be?’
‘You’ve tried all her friends?’
‘She didn’t really have any, Alf; not from what I can see. I looked at her Facebook account and most of what I read on Emmie’s wall was from those nasty bitches at school spouting their poison about her. I’m telling you Alf, when I see those girls I’ll break their fucking necks. Only nice thing was what Emmie had written about Jake, you know, the usual teenage love stuff. So I reckon they’ll be together; I’m sure she’s with him.’
Alfie roared loudly, kicking the vase of lilies over onto the white carpet, furious at what he was hearing.
‘How can you be so sure, Jan? Have you spoken to him?’
‘No.’
‘No, because fuck knows where he is. And if Emmie is with him, then that means fuck knows where she is too. So you see whatever crap you’re coming up with, it’s not helping is it? So do me a fucking favour, darling – keep it shut, because you’re wrecking my head.’
Janine knew Alfie was being torn in two, but so was she, and she wished for once they could come together instead of tearing each other to bits.