Cath Staincliffe - Ruthless

‘What’s she like, the wife, Gloria?’ Janet said. ‘Reckon she knows any more than she’s saying?’ She examined her teeth in the washroom mirror, checking there were no stray bits of food stuck in them.

Rachel shrugged. ‘Don’t know. I think she’s had enough of him – the way she tells it. Glad to be shot. Ha ha!’

‘Funny,’ Janet said.

‘Well, she probably does better on her own. Tandy comes home and all hell’s let loose. Tossers, the lot of ’em.’ Rachel sounded angry.

‘You all right?’

‘Fine,’ Rachel said crossly, ‘pig in shit.’ She did that, hackles up like a dog at the slightest excuse. Particularly when she thought people were criticizing her or asking about personal stuff.

‘Bite my head off,’ Janet said.

‘I wasn’t. God, you’re so touchy.’

Janet gave her a look.

‘I. Was. Not.’

‘You sound like our Taisie.’

Rachel brushed her hair, didn’t speak.

‘Sean all right then?’ Janet said.

‘Will you leave it? Sean is fine. I am fine. My mad frigging mother is fine. We are all fucking dandy. Why do you have to be so nebby, sticking your nose in all the time?’

Janet was stung, her chest tightened. Normally she’d have tried to defuse the situation, joke about it or back off, but she’d run out of patience.

‘You need to grow up,’ she said coldly, ‘and get a fucking grip. I’ll be upstairs.’

But halfway there her phone went. Mum calling.

‘Hello?’ she said.

‘I know you must be busy,’ Dorothy said, ‘but you did say to ring…’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, Elise is in a right state. Up in her room, crying her eyes out. I asked her if she’d like me to get you.’

‘OK,’ Janet said, ‘tell her I’m on my way.’

She went quickly to the office and signed out. Told Lee she had to get home, personal business, and asked him to let Rachel know she’d have to go and talk to the Tandys on her own. Janet would check in with her later if she could.

Elise was still crying when Janet got home, lying on her bed, face red, nose and lips puffy from it all.

Dorothy made herself scarce and Janet sat down next to Elise. ‘Hey.’ She ran her hand over Elise’s head. ‘What’s to do?’

‘Holly messaged me. There’s going to be a service for Olivia, like a celebration of her life, and people are doing things, cards and poems and music and stuff,’ she gulped, ‘and I can’t go.’

‘Says who?’

‘Vivien. She said I’m not welcome. She said that to them, Mum. Olivia was my best friend, for ever, I loved her so much and I’m not even allowed-’ She couldn’t continue, she was sobbing so hard.

Janet sighed and stroked her back. ‘That’s not fair,’ she said, ‘it’s mean and it’s hurtful but that’s because Vivien is hurt and she’s looking for someone to blame and she’s picked on you. But listen to me, she’s wrong. This was not your fault, you are just being made into the scapegoat.’

‘Holly said some of them, they don’t think it’s fair and if I can’t go then they won’t either. Like a boycott,’ Elise said.

Janet sighed. ‘I don’t think that’s the answer. It’s good to know that they would do that to support you, that they understand, but then the service would become about you and who’s there and who’s not and who’s right and wrong and all the ins and outs of Olivia’s death and that wouldn’t be right, would it?’

‘No,’ Elise agreed.

‘We’ll just have to have our own private thing. I’m sure Taisie would like to do something, she’s really upset too, and your dad and I would.’

‘What like?’ Elise blew her nose.

‘Well, we can make cards, read poems, and take flowers to the cemetery once they’ve had the funeral. We could plant a tree.’

Elise pulled a face at the last suggestion.

‘You think about it,’ Janet said, ‘think what you’d like to do.’

‘OK.’

‘Have you had anything to eat today?’

She shook her head.

‘You need to have something. Soup?’

Elise shrugged.

‘Soup it is then, chicken or tomato?’

‘Tomato.’

It was vindictive of Vivien, Janet thought, demonizing Elise; perhaps in the future she would come round and see that it was unjust. The ostracism pained Janet but she took heart from the fact that some of the girls’ friends were mature enough to support Elise and want to include her.

Rachel pressed the entry phone at the safe house and was buzzed in. Connor was in the living room, the TV was on, loud, an action film going by the soundtrack but Rachel couldn’t put a name to it.

‘Where’s your mum?’ Rachel said.

‘Shopping.’

‘Shopping where?’

‘That Aldi you told her about.’ He seemed twitchy, scratching at his arms and his neck, his eyes glittering. Was he high?

‘Can you turn that down a bit,’ she said, ‘or off?’

‘Why?’

‘I want to talk to you.’

He nudged the volume down a notch.

She rolled her eyes. He gave a heavy sigh and snapped it off.

‘Thank you.’

‘What’s happening with me dad?’

‘I can’t discuss that with you,’ she said.

‘Why not?’ He stood and paced over to the window. ‘He’s my dad.’

‘I know. Connor, I wanted to ask you about a man called Stanley Keane. You know him?’

‘No,’ he scowled.

‘You sure?’

‘Yes, I said, didn’t I?’

‘Has anyone been to the house to see your dad since he came home?’

He groaned, hit at his head with the heels of his hands. ‘Why won’t you just get it? My dad, he’s done nothing. You’ve got to let him go.’

‘Once we’re satisfied-’ she began but he jumped in. ‘No! No!’ he shouted, stabbing his finger at her. He was off his face, wired up on something, she was sure. She could see the sweat darken his hairline.

‘You think he did those niggers, he never. He never.’ He swung away from her. The sweatshirt they’d supplied was too big for him, covering half of his hands and down to his knees.

‘We’ll see. Please, Connor, sit down.’

‘No! We won’t see,’ he mimicked her. ‘You’ve got to let him go. You haven’t got the gun, have you?’

‘What do you know about the gun?’ she said.

He sniffed, scratched the back of his head. He was stepping side to side, unable to keep still.

‘Connor? Did you see someone last night shooting at your house? You can tell me.’

He ignored her and said, ‘He wasn’t around on Friday night, he’d gone. Did he tell you that? It wasn’t him.’ He hadn’t gone far though – to Keane’s – but he was ensconced in the boozer when the murders happened, which left Stanley Keane as their key candidate.

‘We have to go by the evidence,’ Rachel said. None of which quite matched anyone. Yet.

‘You haven’t got the gun, have you?’ he said again.

‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Connor, I can’t talk about it, but your dad is still in custody and he’ll be there as long as we require him to be. And I’ll tell you this for nothing, he’s going back inside. He’s broken the terms of his licence.’

‘No!’ he yelled. ‘Fucking bitch.’ He moved his hand quickly, behind his back, and then he had the gun. The barrel pointing straight at her. Maybe three feet between them. He couldn’t miss.

‘Put that down,’ she said, her mouth dry, sweat slicking her skin, buzzing in her ears. The gun wavered; firearms were heavy, Rachel knew. She also knew she had to keep him talking, had to engage him if she stood a hope in hell of getting out of there. ‘This isn’t going to help anyone,’ she said, ‘not your dad or you.’

‘You tell them to let him go.’ His eyes shone.