She felt as if
she
was the only person who could see just how withdrawn Jordanna was. Could see how unhappy the little girl was, and how lonely and how distressed she was at her mother’s neglect of her, and the viciousness that she had to endure on an almost daily basis from her mother.
What was it with these fucking people? Did they not have qualifications, degrees, did they not see how fucked-up that poor little child was, or how she blossomed when she was away from that fucking leech of a mother and her so-called friends?
Or did they just choose to ignore her dramatic weight loss when she returned to her so-called home, and the sudden fits of shaking when she was forced back there by her mother? When she wasn’t even allowed to say a goodbye to her granny, who she had been living with for weeks, sometimes even months.
Jordanna would be dragged out of her bed amid a volley of foul-mouthed accusations. Or taken from the dinner table, dragged and pulled like a doll, her little face terrified and her screams echoing off the walls. Mary herself, the mother of the drugged-up lunatic at her door, would then be forbidden to ever see the child again, she would have to stand there silently as her daughter accused her of everything from sexual assaults on the child to turning her daughter against her.
She saw the drug-crazed eyes and yet she could do nothing about it. If she retaliated, Imelda would just make her wait even longer before she got the call that told her she could visit once more, that told her to bring money. Yet Mary lived for those garbled phone calls, would go to her daughter immediately with whatever amount she demanded from her. And then she would ask her daughter, with all the humility she could muster, if she could maybe take the child home for a day or two, give Imelda a chance to rest, give her a
break
from the relentlessness that was motherhood. And Imelda would play the game, as Mary had known she would. She’d make her wait though, make her work for her granddaughter’s little bit of freedom. She enjoyed her power over them all. She’d insist on certain bedtimes, force Mary to agree to impossible timetables that she would not be capable of keeping, but Mary would smile and promise to keep to them, no matter what. Imelda would then tell her that the child was very naughty and very
sneaky
and needed a very firm hand, and she would make Mary promise to smack her if she wet her bed, or didn’t finish her dinner.
Mary would agree to everything, as Imelda knew that she would, and she would see her daughter’s look of triumph as she once more manipulated everyone around her. She would be forced to agree with Imelda that Jordanna was a drama queen, that she needed taking in hand, and that the child was deceitful and sneaky. It broke Mary’s heart to say those ugly things about a child who was so loving and so desperate for affection that she would still run into her mother’s arms if she was asked to. That was what the social workers saw, they saw a little child who ran into her mother’s open arms and who would hope against hope that this time it would be for ever. Only to be locked back in her dirty bedroom again once the social worker had gone. Who spent hours looking out of her bedroom window, a window devoid even of a curtain. Who slept on a mattress that stank of urine and despair and that had no sheets and no real blankets, that was used by her mother’s friends, people who did not feel that it was worth taking care of.
Jordanna’s toys were old and dilapidated because the newer ones were sold off, and was denied even the use of the toilet and, when she finally soiled herself, was beaten for being dirty and wilful.
It was a vicious circle, and Mary didn’t know how to make it stop. She prayed to God daily that Imelda would accidentally overdose, and yet even as she prayed for it, she felt the guilt of a mother who was wishing her own child dead.
Jordanna was two years old, and she was already wise to the world of junkies and addicts, she already knew how to judge people’s moods and how to avoid confrontations.
As Mary smiled at the child she loved so much she saw the grime that was ingrained in her feet and ankles, the matted hair and the nose encrusted with bright-green snot. She knew that the child had been left alone in a cold bedroom for days on end, and that was why her little nose was constantly running.
She would bath her, play with her, dress her in clean pyjamas, and read her a story. She would watch over her as she fell into a fitful sleep where she would jump nervously and moan before waking up in fear, wondering where she was, and Mary would see the relief in her eyes as she realised she was safe. Was with her nana.
Then, after a few days, Mary would see her begin to settle down a bit, start acting like a real child. Unless the doorbell rang, or the phone, or she heard a loud noise. Then she would sit in shock, waiting for her mother to come and start the whole fucking rigmarole all over again.
It was wrong, and the people who gave her daughter this much power over her child should be ashamed of themselves.
‘Come here, sweetheart. Let Nanny give you a bath, yeah?’
Jordanna nodded. Her eyes, so like her mother’s, were shining with anticipation at the evening ahead. She was still full of trepidation, sure that this little respite from her life would be curtailed at any moment.
Mary hugged the child to her tightly, and wished her daughter dead once more.
Jimmy Bailey was fuming. He had tried to get Michael Hannon to become a silent partner in his new business venture. He had not allowed for the fact that Michael Hannon might turn him down flat, which is exactly what he had done.
Jimmy had explained it to him quietly and succinctly, had emphasised the bonuses that would be guaranteed. He had shown him the figures that had explained how easily they would make their money back. Then he had sat back in his chair, and waited for Michael to agree to his proposal. It would be like printing money, it was such a lucrative proposition.
But Michael Hannon had smiled nicely, then he had said ‘thanks’, but ‘no thanks’. He saw the money that was there to be made, but he had no interest in brothels, or anything that concerned prostitution, period. He had thanked him for his offer, and then they had both had another drink, and parted company no worse off than they had been before the meeting.
But Jimmy had felt Michael’s distaste at what he had proposed, saw the slight curling of his lip as he had scanned the projected figures. He knew that even though they were good friends, Michael would always be that little bit wary of his business dealings because, like a lot of the men in their world, prostitution might be the oldest profession in the world, but that did not make it respectable. And this from a man who provided most of the drugs that were sold in the south-east of England.
Jimmy sighed. Well, if Michael wasn’t up for it, he would go into this one on his jacksie. He had only wanted Hannon’s name on the door anyway, it would guarantee him a free ride from the Filth, and the best behaviour from his clientele, though he was known as a hard man in his own right anyway. So, he was no worse off, it was just that sneer he had detected, that unconscious little look of distaste. It annoyed him that Michael saw him as beneath him and his fucking scams.
As Jimmy sipped his drink, his eyes scanned the pub. As he looked out of the large picture window into the garden, he saw Imelda Dooley and, as always, her face fascinated him. She was a junkie, that much he had already heard. She was also, apparently, a soft touch for anyone in need of a night’s bed and board. She was basically a fucking dog.
Even knowing that about her, he still felt an attraction towards her, and that was unusual for him, he generally liked his women clean and tidy, and without any reputation whatsoever. He liked to know that when he finally fucked them, he was going where no one had ever gone before. At least, not too many anyway. He was not a man who was content to fuck a bird who had been with more men than Catherine the Great, and who was not bothered about it.
Jimmy liked to think of his body as a temple and, even though women like Imelda Dooley were below his radar normally, there was something about her that attracted him. As he watched her, he saw her throw back her head to laugh, and her even white teeth and her high cheekbones were so beautiful that, as always on looking at her, he felt a sudden tightening in his guts.
She was still laughing as she turned to face him and, seeing him watching her, she smiled at him and waved. It was such a girlie gesture, and it made her look so young and carefree that Jimmy found himself waving back at her.
He had seen her intermittently over the years, and the state she was in was generally enough to make him back off as quickly as possible. In fact, he would practically run away rather than even acknowledge her.
But he saw her now, in the winter sunshine, with her twinkling eyes and her tight little body, and he found himself miming a drinking motion with his hand. She nodded her agreement and he watched her come into the warmth of the pub. As she approached him, he saw the effect she had on most of the men around him.
She had an almost feral sexuality about her that was so blatant, and so powerful, it was almost physical in its intensity. She seemed to have no knowledge of the effect she created, but Jimmy had a feeling that she was more aware of her sexuality than she let on. She smiled at him as she sat down opposite; her long legs were encased in sheer black tights and she had on a short denim skirt. Her boots were high-heeled and they were so tight she wore them like a second skin. She had on a punk rock T-shirt, and a tiny cropped jacket. She had to be freezing, but Jimmy didn’t mention that of course. Instead, he went to the bar and got them both a drink. He made sure that Imelda’s was a large one, he had a feeling that she would expect that from him.
She took the Jack Daniels and Coke and swallowed half of it before she even spoke to him. ‘How did you know I drank Jack Daniels?’
Jimmy smiled then, and said with mock guilt, ‘I’ve seen you out plenty of times, and noticed you were on the Jacky D. It ain’t exactly rocket science, is it?’
She didn’t smile back, she thought he was alluding to her taking heroin. Most people who used heroin drank strong alcohol while they were waiting to score; it took the edge off. But he wasn’t alluding to anything, and she realised that when he said sincerely, ‘I have to be honest, it’s not a drink I have ever seen many women favour. So that was why I remembered it so well.’
She finished the rest of her drink in one swallow, then, holding the empty glass out, she raised her eyebrows in a questioning motion.
Jimmy took the glass and went to the bar. He got her a triple this time and, taking it back to her, he watched as she supped half of the drink in two large swallows. She was a real drinker, and obviously she drank large quantities on a regular basis.
‘Oi, relax. If you keep sinking them like that you’ll be on your back in no time.’
Imelda laughed. Then, swallowing the remainder of the drink down, she said huskily, ‘Well, I’m game if you are.’
He was startled at the effect her words had on him. He felt a stirring in his groin and, as if she had read his mind, she leant forward and whispered, ‘I can feel it too, shall we go?’
He looked into her eyes, and they were so open, and so honest, that he was once more mesmerised by her. If any other woman but her had propositioned him as she had, he would have fucked her off with a very loud and expletive-strewn tirade. But he found himself following her out into the cold night air and, when they were seated comfortably in his very expensive and very clean Mercedes Sport, she lay back against the black leather seat and closing her eyes she asked him politely, ‘Can we go to yours? My flat is like a bomb site.’
As Jimmy pulled out of the Prospect of Whitby public house he caught a trace of her body odour - she had a deep muskiness that was apparent even over the cheap perfume she had obviously drenched herself in.
When they got to his flat in Kensington, they had still not spoken a word to each other and, when he opened the front door, and motioned for her to precede him, she smiled happily at his good manners. Once inside, he saw her looking around in amazement at his home and he felt once more the pride that this flat gave him.
It was absolutely stunning, and he had got it on the cheap, with all the furniture already
in situ
; a professional gambler had made the mistake of coming to him for a rather hefty loan. Jimmy had given him the loan without a thought, and he had also given him a second and, eventually, a third loan. The man concerned had been given every chance in life: private school, the works, yet he was still a fucking loser, a gambler who lived off his family. Jimmy had then called all the debts in simultaneously.
The man in question had brought him to this flat only once, very early in their acquaintance, it had been the prat’s way of showing him that he was a man of means, had a few quid in the pipeline. A way of proving he was more than capable of paying any debts that he might incur. But Jimmy had known it was a scam from the off. He was the usual Hooray Henry, all weak chin and no real bank balance. Jimmy had wanted this place from the off, and he had been determined to get it. Thanks to the bloke’s addiction to the horses and the roulette wheel, he had not had to wait long before he had got it. Fair and square.
Now he loved the look on people’s faces when they entered it, it was pure class, and you could not buy class. The ponce who had lost the place to him had that much going for him anyway, even if he didn’t have a lot else these days. Why people gambled, Jimmy did not know, it was a real mug’s game.
‘Like it?’
Imelda nodded, her face suddenly serious and reflective. She felt out of her depth and they both knew it. ‘It’s lovely, Jimmy. Can I use your john?’
He laughed at her earnest little expression, she was really sweet when she wanted to be. It was a side of her he had never experienced before. He decided that he liked it.