Читать книгу The Traitor - Kimberley Chambers - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

Stanley’s alarm clock went off at eight the following morning and he immediately got out of bed.

After the mass brawl in the garden the previous evening, he’d sodded off upstairs without saying goodnight to a single soul. Jessica’s funeral had been a catastrophe from start to finish, and Stanley would never forgive the bastards that had ruined it. Animals, that’s what the Mitchells were, and he was just glad that Jock had already left when the whole wake kicked off.

Pulling his suitcase out from under the bed, Stanley began to pack his clothes. The quicker he got out of this cursed house with its awful memories, the better.

Hearing her husband banging about in the room next door, Joyce lifted her head off the pillow. She felt as sick as a parrot, and as she burped, she heaved. All she could taste and smell was brandy, and she vowed there and then never to touch the poxy drink again.

Joyce got up and put on her dressing gown. Her recollection of the previous evening was vague, to say the least, but she could sort of remember a big fight happening. Noticing a large bruise and cut on her leg, she winced as she touched it. Surely she hadn’t fallen over in front of all the mourners? Desperate to get rid of the taste of brandy, Joyce made her way downstairs to make herself a coffee. Gagging for some fresh air and to rid the house of the smell of stale smoke, Joyce opened the conservatory door.

‘Christ almighty,’ she mumbled in complete astonishment.

Jessica’s once-perfect garden looked as if a bomb had hit it. All the furniture was smashed to pieces. The wooden table was lying upside down and the chairs had no legs left on them.

Shuffling outside, Joyce put her hand over her mouth as she noticed that all the beautiful flowerbeds had been trampled on. Seeing shards of glass by her feet, she turned to her left. The three smashed windows were the final straw for Joyce, and she ran back into the house.

‘Stanley! Stanley!’ she screamed.

When Stanley marched down the stairs with a suitcase in his hand, Joyce looked at him in bewilderment. ‘What are you doing? What’s with the case? You seen the state of the garden? Everything’s smashed to smithereens.’

Dropping his case, Stanley ran out the back. He’d locked the pigeon shed, but what if it had been smashed or the birds had died of fright? Fearful for the safety of his babies, Stanley shook as he put the key in the door.

‘Thank God,’ he said, as all four cooed at him. ‘Daddy’s here now and he’s taking you back home, away from this loony bin.’

‘What are you gonna do about cleaning this mess up, Stanley? I think I’ll ring Raymond, he’ll know a glazier. The twins can help an’ all. I mean, we don’t ask ’em to do much, do we?’

For once in his life, Stanley felt like a man as he spoke. ‘You ask who you like, Joycie. I won’t be here. I told you yesterday, I’m moving back home.’

Joyce remembered bits of what Stanley had said the previous day about leaving, but she thought it had been one of his little tantrums. ‘Don’t be silly, Stanley. You can’t leave me here on my own.’

‘Come with me then, Joycie. I told you last night, I cannot live in this house one minute longer, and I meant it. There’s too many memories, and it’s making me ill.’

Joyce had waited all her life to live in a luxury property and she wasn’t about to walk away from it without a fight. Turning on the tears, she begged her husband to stay. ‘Please don’t go, Stanley. It makes me feel close to Jessica, living here. I can almost feel her presence at times. And what about the twins? You can’t leave them. They need both of us.’

Stanley shook his head. It was obvious Joyce didn’t remember that Frankie had done a runner last night. ‘Cor, you must have been well gone, love. Frankie left home last night. Don’t you remember the gypsy boy turning up here for her? That’s what started the fight. I bet you don’t even recall falling arse over tit in the flowerbeds, do you, dear? No, well you wouldn’t, would you? I’m off, Joycie. Jock’s coming round in an hour with the van. He’s gonna take the pigeons back for me.’

As he walked back out to the garden, Joyce glared at him. Stanley had always done just as she had wanted throughout their entire marriage, and she couldn’t understand what had suddenly got into him. Remembering what he’d said about Frankie, she went up the stairs and knocked on Joey’s bedroom door.

‘Joey, it’s Nan. Can I come in?’

‘Just leave me alone. Go away,’ Joey shouted.

Desperate to know exactly what had happened the night before, Joyce tried the handle. The door was locked. After the morning she’d had, Joyce quickly lost her temper and screamed at her grandson.

‘Open this door now, Joey, else Raymond will kick the bastard thing down. He’s on his way over, you know. He’ll be here in five minutes,’ she lied.

Her fib worked, and as Joey unlocked the door, Joyce stormed in. As she clocked the state of her grandson’s bruised face, Joycie’s temper melted.

‘Oh my God! What happened, love?’ she asked, as she sat on the edge of his bed.

Joey just burst into tears. ‘I tried to help Frankie, and Raymond caught me with his elbow. It was an accident, he didn’t mean it. Frankie’s gone, Nan. What am I gonna do without her? We’ve never been apart before.’

Joyce held him tightly. ‘You listen to me, Joey. That won’t last with that gypsy boy. Different breed, that mob are. Wicked bastards, I should know. One of ’em put a curse on me years ago. Frankie’s young, headstrong, but that boy’ll show his true colours, and when he does she’ll come back.’

‘I don’t think she will, Nan. She loves him. It’s as though he’s cast a spell on her. And what about the baby? She won’t leave him if she’s got his kid, will she? I hate him, Nan. He’s wrecked our entire family. I mean if it weren’t for Frankie getting with Jed, Mum would still be alive, wouldn’t she?’

Desperately wanting to put a smile back on Joey’s face, Joyce thought of the dogs. Buster and Bruno, the twins’ Rottweilers, had been living at Pat Murphy’s since the night Jessica died. Joyce didn’t like dogs very much. Bleeding nuisance they were, pissing and shitting all over the place. ‘I tell you what. Why don’t you get yourself dressed and go and pick Buster and Bruno up? I’m sure they’d love to come home and they’ll be a bit of company for you, Joey.’

Joey sighed. Buster and Bruno were no replacement for his sister, but at least they’d give him something to focus on.

As he got out of bed, Joycie played her ace card. ‘Before you trot off to Pat Murphy’s, I need you to do me a favour. Your grandad’s having one of his funny turns, says he’s moving back into our old house. Go and talk to him, love. Don’t tell him I sent you, but beg him to stay. If he says no, start crying, Joey.’

‘OK,’ Joey said sadly. He really didn’t want his grandad to leave. The house would feel so empty with just him and his nan rattling about.

Stanley was sitting on the sofa drinking a mug of tea. As Joey walked into the room, Stan put his mug on the table and stood up.

‘Please don’t go, Grandad. I don’t want you to leave. I love you,’ Joey begged.

Joyce smiled as she stood earwigging in the hallway. Joey was that good an actor, he should have gone to drama school, and as for Stanley, the silly old goat, he certainly wouldn’t have the guts to walk away from his distressed grandson.

When the doorbell rang, Joyce nigh on jumped out of her skin. ‘Oh, it’s you. I don’t think he’s leaving now,’ she confidently told Jock.

About to tell him to go back home, Joyce was shocked to see Stanley walking towards her with his case in his hand.

‘Put that in the van, Jock, while I sort out the pigeons. We’ll dismantle the shed and take it at the weekend,’ he said.

Joyce gawped at him. ‘You can’t go now, Stanley. Look how upset Joey is. You can’t leave him like that – you’ll break the boy’s heart. And how would Jessica feel? If she’s looking down, that girl would be disgusted by your behaviour.’

Stanley had no intention of changing his mind. How dare she use their dead daughter as blackmail? ‘I’ve spent my whole life doing things to please other people, Joycie, and it’s about time I started looking out for myself. Joey can come and stop with me whenever he wants, I’ve told him that.’

Aware that nothing and no one was going to change her husband’s mind, Joyce let rip at him. ‘You nasty, selfish old bastard. Go on then, get out and take them disease-ridden fucking birds with ya. I should have divorced you years ago, Stanley Smith. You’re nothing but a waste of space that’s dragged me down all my life and I’ll be better off without ya.’

While Jock stood open-mouthed, Stanley went off to the shed to collect his babies. He didn’t want Joycie to see him cry; he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

As Barry Macarthy was let back into the cell, Eddie tried to shut out the sound of his droning voice.

Macarthy, better known as Big Bald Baz, was a total head case and Eddie had had ructions with him years ago, when they were just teenagers. He had been about eighteen at the time and had been enjoying a quiet drink in a boozer in Mile End one evening. All of a sudden there was a fracas a few feet away, and Eddie had watched in horror as Baz smashed a glass straight into some girl’s face, ripping her cheek in half. Ed had always hated blokes who roughed up women, so, being a gentleman, he’d immediately intervened and got a damn good hiding for his troubles.

Eddie had stood no chance that night. Big Bald Baz was at least eighteen stone back then, and two of his mates had joined in as well. Even at the tender age of eighteen, Eddie wasn’t one to forgive and forget. Six weeks later, he’d returned to the same boozer with his dad, brothers and uncle and they’d given Big Bald Baz and his pals the hiding of their lives.

From that day onwards, Baz and his mates had given the Mitchells a wide berth. Ed had seen him about and heard plenty of stories about the fat bastard over the years, but they’d never spoken since.

Ed now knew why the screws had been laughing at him. Big Bald Baz was looking at a life sentence for murdering his old woman. Eddie had read all about it in the newspapers. The evil scumbag had even chopped off her hands and pulled out her teeth to hide her identity. The police had enough evidence to charge Baz, even though they didn’t have him bang to rights, and the case had made front-page news.

‘You’re quiet, Mitchell. I ain’t gonna lamp you one again, if that’s what you’re worried about,’ Baz said, laughing.

Eddie ignored him. He hadn’t spoken to the fat, arrogant prick since he’d first entered the cell yesterday and he wasn’t about to start now. Turning the pages of his book, Ed pretended to be engrossed. He wasn’t, of course. All he could think about was Jessica.

As Stanley slammed the front door, Joycie glanced at Joey. ‘Go on, love, go and pick the dogs up,’ she urged him.

As soon as her grandson had left the house, Joyce ran to the kitchen and poured herself a large brandy. ‘So much for not drinking it again,’ she mumbled when the sickly taste hit the back of her throat.

Taking the bottle into the lounge with her, Joyce slumped on the sofa and topped up her glass. She had to tidy up at some point. The house was still littered with dirty glasses, cans and overflowing ashtrays, but for once she didn’t know where to start. Knowing she’d be ill if she didn’t eat something, Joyce walked over to the table where the half-eaten food lay. She grabbed a sausage roll and heaved as she nigh on swallowed it whole. Two more brandies later, the realisation of what had just happened suddenly sunk in.

‘How could you be so callous, Stanley? How could you leave me at a time like this?’ she said between sobs.

By the time Joey returned with Buster and Bruno, Joyce had drunk half a litre and was screaming the house down. Wary of the nutty old woman, the dogs immediately flew out to the garden to get away from her.

‘You sound ever so drunk, Nan. Don’t drink no more,’ Joey said worriedly.

Joyce rarely showed her emotions, but when she did, there was no stopping her. ‘Thirty-six years of my life I gave to your grandad, and this is how he treats me,’ she screamed.

Joey felt uncomfortable as he tried to hug her. ‘Why don’t you go and have a lie down? You might feel better if you get some sleep, Nan.’

‘Sleep? Sleep? I want revenge. Revenge for all them years I wasted on that bastard.’

As his nan stood up and staggered towards the kitchen, Joey sat frozen to the spot. He could hear her rummaging about in the big cupboard, but didn’t have the guts to ask what she was looking for. Hearing the kitchen door slam, he crept over to the window. He gasped as he saw his nan zigzagging down the garden with his dad’s big hammer in her hand.

‘Shit!’ he shouted as he ran outside. Surely she wasn’t going to hurt the dogs.

Joyce had had little to smile about for weeks, but as she lifted the hammer and smashed it through the side of Stanley’s beloved pigeon shed, she began to laugh. ‘You fucking bald-headed old bastard,’ she shrieked, as she let fly again.

Wishing they were back at Pat Murphy’s, Buster and Bruno cowered next to the fence.

‘Nan, stop it. What are you doing?’ Joey yelled.

‘Your grandfather deserves all he gets. Shame he’s took them pigeons home with him. I could have killed ’em and cooked ’em in a nice pie,’ Joyce cackled.

Petrified by the look of madness on his nan’s face, Joey ran back into the house. If only Frankie was here, she’d know what to do. At the sound of more wood splintering, Joey knew he had to do something. Dashing upstairs, he grabbed his phone. ‘Please answer, please answer,’ he said out loud.

Thankfully, his wishes were answered. ‘Uncle Raymond, you need to come to the house quickly. Nanny’s gone loopy, she’s smashing Grandad’s pigeon shed up with a big hammer. I don’t know how to stop her. Please hurry up. Please.’