Julie Shaw - Bad Blood

Certain details in this story, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.

HarperElement

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperElement 2016

FIRST EDITION

© Julie Shaw and Lynne Barrett-Lee 2016

Cover layout design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2016

Cover photographs © Harald Braun/plainpicture (posed by model); Loop Images Ltd/Alamy (street scene)

A catalogue record of this book is

available from the British Library

Julie Shaw and Lynne Barrett-Lee assert the moral right

to be identified as the authors of this work

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Source ISBN: 9780008142858

Ebook Edition © July 2016 ISBN: 9780008142810

Version: 2018-07-09

For my wonderful, and ever-expanding family. My parents, my kids Kylie and Scott, and my very patient and loving husband Ben. When I eventually leave this world, I hope that the one piece of advice that sticks with my children is this: Be the best that you can be. The best parent, the best husband or wife, and if you happen to be a toilet cleaner, be the best at that. Always wonder if you could use a bit more bleach or scrub a little harder, because that is what will bring you happiness.

Bailey Boo, Harvey Bear, Tylah Pie, Dylan, Delilah and Tucker, my beautiful grandchildren, you are my world!

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Poem

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Acknowledgements

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Would you turn back time if you had the chance?

Would you run away or stay?

Like the smoker who thinks his time is up,

Then gets news of a clear X-ray.

His promises to God are forgotten then,

He dodged another bullet,

He continues to play Russian roulette,

Trigger finger poised to pull it.

Cross the line, step into the abyss,

Now there’s no going back,

You’ve lost control, you’ve gone too far,

There’s no defence, so attack.

You are no longer you, and you no longer care,

Join the ranks of the depraved.

One thing is sure from this moment on,

The pathway ahead is paved.

But would you change things if you could?

Can you see where it all went awry?

Would you not do that thing that set this course?

Would you really even try?

The past can’t be changed, but the future can,

Starting right here, right now,

You don’t have a lifetime to turn it around,

And no one can teach you how.

Bradford, July 1981

Christine squinted as her eyes met the bright July sunshine, and shuffled awkwardly down the front path to the car waiting in the road. Of all the cabbies in Bradford who could have picked them up, today of all days, it just had to be Imran. Imran who, in the absence of a female to leer at, would probably chat up a pot plant.

‘Lovely day for it, innit, ladies?’ he shouted conversationally, as Christine clambered awkwardly into the back. He had no choice. He was currently competing with a warbling Shakin’ Stevens, because, as was usual, he had his car stereo turned up loud enough to wake the dead.

Not to mention the soon to be born, Christine thought wretchedly, as the next contraction began to build. It was like a giant elastic band, gripping vice-like around her middle, and the panic began engulfing her again. Why hadn’t anyone told her how much it would hurt? Her own mum, for instance. The thought made her tearful. She’d never felt pain like this in her life. Ever.

‘Lovely day for what?’ her friend Josie snapped, as she climbed in beside her and slammed the door. ‘And, Christ, Im, turn that frigging shit down, will you?’

Imran beamed at the pair of them through the rear-view mirror. ‘Keep yer ’air on!’ he said. ‘I was only being friendly. Anyway,’ he added, leaning forward to turn the volume down a fraction, ‘where we off to today, girls? Somewhere nice?’

‘St Luke’s Hospital,’ Josie snapped. ‘And put your foot down as well. Seriously,’ she added, as Christine began to wail. ‘Or there’ll be more than our Christine and bloody Shaky making a racket. Get a move on! She’s already trying to push!’

It was only now, having twisted a hundred and eighty degrees in his seat, that Imran seemed to understand what was happening.

‘You’re about to have a baby ?’ he yelled, wide-eyed. ‘A frigging baby ?’

‘No,’ Josie deadpanned. ‘She’s about to have a wardrobe, you idiot. Now bloody move it!’

Christine sent up a silent prayer of thanks that Imran didn’t seem to need telling again. He shoved the car into gear and they squealed away down the road towards the hospital, the strains of ‘Green Door’ filling the air in their wake.

It was only a three-minute drive from Christine’s home to the hospital, but, in her terror, and with the lurching caused by Imran’s panicked driving, every yard felt like twenty. That was the main problem, she decided through the fog of increasing agony. That it felt as if a wardrobe was exactly what she was having. How could a baby, so small and soft, feel so enormous and full of edges? More to the point, how was she ever going to get out of Imran’s taxi and up to the maternity ward in one piece? She felt as if her whole body was trying to turn itself inside out; that if she moved so much as a muscle she’d rip in two.

But get out she must; they were now outside the maternity unit entrance and Josie, who’d leapt out and come round to open the other door for her, was tugging at her arm and trying to coax her out of the car.

‘C’mon, mate,’ she was saying. ‘That one’s dying down now a little, isn’t it? Which is why we have to get you in, before the next one comes along.’

Not for the first time, Christine was grateful to have Josie here to help her. Calm, capable Josie, who’d not batted an eyelid when Christine’s waters had broken and flooded the kitchen floor, because she’d done all this herself two years back, having her Paula. Who was nothing like her mother. Who was there for her. Who was her friend .