Julie Shaw - Bad Blood

Christine pulled a paper towel from the dispenser by the bed. ‘I don’t know how I could have been so bloody idiotic, Josie, I really don’t. So bloody soft …’

Josie blinked at her friend. ‘Not soft on him ? You being serious?’

Christine shook her head immediately. ‘I told you. I don’t know what I was thinking,’ she said, but there was something in her tone that told Josie otherwise. That whatever nonsense he’d spun her to get her into the sack was still swilling around in her head even now. A whole nine months, and a whole baby, later.

‘Chris, truth now. It was just that one time? You’ve not been –’

‘God, no!’ Christine’s response was too immediate to be anything other than truthful. ‘Christ, no! He’s not been near me since and I wouldn’t let him, either!’

But Josie still wasn’t sure she had the full unvarnished truth. Not where Christine’s feelings were concerned, anyway.

‘So does he know? Has he sussed it? Christ, that was so bloody unlucky.’

‘Tell me about it!’ Christine said. ‘I nearly died of shock when I realised.’

‘And you’ve always known it must be his, have you? All along, I mean. For certain?’

‘Course,’ Christine said. ‘There’s not been anyone else.’

‘So does he know?’

‘Course he does. I told him straight away. I didn’t know what to do, so –’

‘So he told you what to do, did he?’

‘Pretty much. He told me to get rid of it and when I said I wouldn’t, he told me – well, he basically told me to sod off. That I could do what I liked and that he’d deny everything even if I didn’t get rid of it. He didn’t seem to care about what mam would think …’

‘And that surprises you, does it?’

‘No, but … I just thought … I didn’t know what …’

Her eyes were brimming again. A vale of tears, Josie mused, looking at the sleeping newborn in the cot beside the bed. How could something so beautiful come out of such shit? She put one arm around her friend and reached for another paper towel with another. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Come on, mate. Blow on that. That’s the way.’ She nodded towards the cot. ‘So you never wavered? You know. In keeping him.’

Christine shook her head. ‘Not once, Josie. Never. I know what you’re probably thinking. That I’m an idiot.’

‘Some would say that, yes.’

‘But I just couldn’t. Not in a million years. It would be like getting rid of a part of me . And –’

Josie kissed the top of her head. ‘You don’t have to explain, mate. I know. Something of your own. Something to love. Someone to love you . I understand.’ Then she smiled ruefully. ‘Christ, I sound like a bloody soap opera!’

Christine balled the paper towel. ‘My life is a bloody soap opera!’ she said, with feeling. ‘But at least now I can get out of it. Get away from that shit hole. Get away from her and make a life of my own. But, look, Josie, you’ve got to tell her for me. Tell her before she comes here. Give her a chance to –’

‘To what? Build up a proper head of steam before she gets here?’

Christine shook her head. ‘Just to get used to the idea before she arrives. Not that he’s Mo’s kid. Just that he’s a half-caste. Just to get her used to that idea first.’

‘Love, you’re not thinking straight. You think she won’t work it out? Really ?’

‘She’s no reason to if I deny it. And that’s what I plan on doing.’

‘And you’ll say it’s whose, exactly? Like who exactly might be in the frame, here? Like you really think if you tell her it’s some anonymous bloody Indian bloke she’s going to believe that? Like, say, Imran? I think you’re clutching at straws, love, I really do.’

Christine looked across at the cot. Reached a hand out to touch her baby. ‘She’s going to kill me, isn’t she? She’s going to hate him for ever. Even if I …’ She started sobbing again. ‘She’s going to kill me.’

Josie sighed as she reached for her handbag. ‘I’ll try her again now, okay?’ she said, squeezing her friend’s arm, then passing yet another paper towel to her. What a mess. What a complete fuck-up. ‘I’ll see what I can do, okay? See if I can at least get it down to life without parole.’

Josie put the payphone to her ear again, reflecting on the irony that she’d initially thought it a bonus that Lizzie had picked up. She’d not expected her to – thought she’d probably stay out for half the evening, so she’d tried the house phone again more in hope than expectation. But she was now seeing the error of her ways. It would have been so much better just to leave it. Leave it all till tomorrow. Tell Lizzie Christine was staying at hers for the night. She’d have believed that, because she often stayed over.

Josie could see that now, of course, and mentally kicked herself for not thinking it through. Because Lizzie was currently two things – furious and drunk. A bloody nightmare of a combination.

‘I will, you know,’ she was saying now. ‘I’ll fucking kill her. Everything I’ve done for that little bitch and how does she repay me? By sleeping with my fucking boyfriend!’

Josie considered pointing out that Lizzie wasn’t quite right on that score. However much she might bury her head in the sand about it – and she clearly had – it was common knowledge that Rasta Mo had a number of girlfriends scattered around the estate. Not to mention kids – and quite a few of them, if talk was to be believed. And besides, to mention that would be to confirm that it was Mo’s. Which, despite her knowing it was pointless, Christine had made her promise she wouldn’t.

And it was pointless, because another thing everyone knew about Mo was his penchant for a bit of young flesh. And Lizzie knew that too, however much she might try to kid herself otherwise. One day, as far as Mo went, she’d be deemed over the hill.

Josie pondered how to play it – whether she should state the bleeding obvious; that her beloved boyfriend might have somewhat forced his hand there. That Lizzie knew what he was like, how he’d have groomed Christine in preparation. Then raped her, to Josie’s mind, for all Christine denied it. She wasn’t yet convinced he hadn’t told her to say that. Commanded her to say that. Or else.

But there seemed little point. Not right now. Because Lizzie was half-cut. Best just deal in facts, not recriminations. ‘What’s done is done, Lizzie,’ she said firmly. ‘So you’re just going to have to make the best of it. Oh, Liz, I tell you, he’s so gorgeous. Just wait till you see him. I know it’s … complicated, but can’t you just –’

‘Make the fucking best of it? What are you on about?’

Okay then. Time to fight fire with fire, Josie thought. ‘Lizzie, will you just get over yourself?! We’re talking about your fucking grandson!’

‘My grandson ? My grandson! I tell you what. Give that slut a message, will you? That that sprog she’s popped out is no grandson of mine! Actually no. Don’t do that, Jose. I’ll fucking tell her myself!’

The receiver went down with a clatter.

It was around a ten-minute walk from Lizzie’s house on Quaker Lane to St Luke’s, and Josie’s immediate thought was to hurry back there and attempt to head her off. But no sooner had she got halfway down Little Horton Lane (having opted not to waste time going back to the ward and explain to Christine) than she saw a car flash by, hooting – a car that she recognised. It was Gerald Delaney’s, a young lad off the estate, and she could see Lizzie glaring at her from behind the windscreen. She silently fumed. How much unluckier could you get?