Good Girl Gone Bad Read online

  “I saw your mother today.”

  “What?” She scraped her chair back over the white floor tiles, panic sluicing through her, knees weakening until they lost their rigidity and she thought she might fall. What had Jez done? Had he gone round there and hurt her? “What… Is she all right?” Her cheeks heated to an uncomfortable degree, and she flapped her hands in front of her face, fork still held in one. She dropped it onto her plate.

  “She’s fine, Charlotte. What’s the matter with you?” He frowned. “Sit down, will you?”

  She lowered to her seat, shaking, the fright she’d had covering her skin with shock-induced pimples, the hairs on her arms standing on end. “You…I…I thought…”

  “Bloody hell, I didn’t think this through very well, did I?” He reached across to hold one of her trembling hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise your mind would go there.”

  “Well, it did,” she said quietly, hardly hearing herself. “It always does. He can’t…you can’t let him go near my mum.”

  “He didn’t, he won’t, I promise. Take a sip of that wine and a second to calm down. Shit. Again, I’m so sorry.”

  It appeared he wanted to kick himself, and she felt for him, sitting there like that with his face showing how upset he was, his mouth drooping, his eyes heavy-lidded, so she turned her hand over beneath his and curled her fingers to hold him tight.

  “I told you,” she said. “I told you I knew he’d hurt her if I disobeyed him and ever visited her. I imagined he thought you’d taken me to her place, and he went there to find me, and when I wasn’t there he…”

  “Hurt her,” he finished. “Christ.”

  She gulped some wine and winced. She’d never been a fan of dry. Hated the way it left her tongue feeling as though she’d sucked on a lemon. “So how did you see her? Did you call on her?”

  “No, she came to see me. Eat while I tell you. You’ve gone white.”

  “She came to see you?” She almost dropped her glass.

  “Just listen, all right?”

  She closed her mouth, placing her wine on the coaster, and he told her everything. She recalled a few lines from her mum’s letter, and it all made sense now.

  I should have expected something like this.

  “She…did she have anything to do with the actual ‘sting’, as you put it?” She pushed out a long breath. One of the napkins she’d folded into a swan earlier keeled over. She likened it to herself, knocked off her feet by his revelation.

  “No, but she knew quite a bit about how it went down, so I’m thinking the mother of the lad who’d been beaten and his brother…well, they probably told her what was going on.”

  “Did she look well?” She thought of the man who’d got into her taxi. How was his mother?

  “She looked…not what I expected.”

  Charlotte laughed, knowing exactly what he wasn’t saying. Her mum’s dress sense was outrageous, mutton dressed as lamb some would say, but she had a heart of gold to go with her sometimes potty mouth, and Charlotte had missed her so, so much. “She’s…flamboyant, hmm? What was she wearing?” She smiled, waiting for his answer.

  “You ever heard of Bet Lynch?”

  She nodded.

  “That.” He grinned. “Leopard print, as I recall. Fur.”

  “Mum used to go on about Bet. Coronation Street, I think.” God, it was so good to giggle, to feel like she had all those years ago, before her life had gone down a path tangled with poisonous weeds instead of flowers.

  “You don’t resemble her.”

  “No, I look like my dad.” She sobered, laughter disappearing as though it had been corked inside a bottle.

  “You don’t see him either?” He cut into his so-far-untouched enchilada, popping some into his mouth.

  “Never met him.” And it didn’t hurt that she hadn’t, not really, although she’d have loved to have seen him just once in the flesh instead of on an old, faded photograph that had been touched so many times by her mum over the years that the surface reminded her of snakeskin, the corners curled. The area over her father’s face was worn from her mum stroking it so much, the gloss of the image turning matt. God only knew what state it was in now. Maybe his face had gone altogether. If it had, did her mum remember what he’d looked like, or had his features faded without the visual reminder like they had for Charlotte? “He, uh, he died before I was born. Fell fifty feet off some scaffolding. Hit the ground. He didn’t die right away… A few hours later.”

  “Blimey, I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. “How’s your dinner?”

  “I wanted to tell you, it’s sodding gorgeous, but there wasn’t an appropriate time. Thank you”—he pointed his fork at his plate—“for doing this. You didn’t have to.”

  “I did. I’m camping out in your house. It’s fine. You’re helping me, so it’s the least I can do.” She tucked into her food, hungry again.

  The meal went by without them speaking, and once they were done, she automatically rose to clear the plates away.

  “This is where I put my foot down,” he said. “You cooked, I clean.” He pointed to her chair. “Sit.”

  She obeyed instantly, what he’d said alien to her—why would he want to clean?—and his eyes widened, a flush creeping into his cheeks.

  “Shit.” He pulled at his hair. “I didn’t like what just happened there.”

  “What are you on about?” She frowned.

  “I said sit, and you did it immediately, quickly, like you were scared.”

  Had she? “Oh.”

  “You should find someone to speak to when this is all over. You know, to get some things off your chest. To understand that not everyone expects you to behave a certain way like Pickins did.” He placed her plate on top of his. “I’d have suggested a Dr George Schumer in the next city over, but, uh, he was killed so…” He shrugged. “Maybe you can find someone yourself, eh?”

  “Maybe.”

  Kane smiled, and while he cleared things away, she stared out into the garden, at the tree silhouettes, the tops kale-like against a strange, orange-grey sky, the kind before night fully forces its way in to allow the stars to shine.

  “This time next week it’ll all be over,” he said, dropping the cutlery into the dishwasher basket so the blades and fork tines jutted upwards. “Think you can stand that long holed up in here?”

  “I’ve done it for sixteen years, so…” She drank some more wine, her mouth in need of fluid. It was gross but better than nothing.

  “Then you can move on.” He finished stacking plates in the machine, dropped a cleaning tablet into the bottom, and set the wash to start.

  The hum of the machine was exactly the same as hers, except it wasn’t hers anymore, and she’d rather do the dishes by hand than ever go back there and use it again. “I can’t believe it’s happening. That I got away.” A sense of bewilderment filled her, and she struggled with the emotions running riot.

  “I’m glad you decided to go out last night. It was…it was great,” he said. Was he blushing? “I, um, I hadn’t been with anyone for a while until you came along.”

  This was getting too personal. Last night she’d wanted revenge sex, and she’d had it, with his assurance they wouldn’t do it again, but after, he’d wanted more, and now it seemed he wanted to talk about things they shouldn’t. “Stop it.”

  He washed his hands and dried them on a tea towel. “Yeah. I should, shouldn’t I. And I will. Want to watch TV?”

  “Okay.” She didn’t—didn’t want to do anything really except sit where she was and imagine her mum in her whacky clothes. But she followed him into the living room, taking the wine she didn’t want either.

  She was used to doing things she had no desire to do.

  EIGHTEEN

  She turned up about half an hour ago, a couple of minutes early, but that’s all right, though if she doesn’t do exactly as she’s told next time, I’m liable to get arsey.

  That happens a lot.

&
nbsp; She’s dressed like a slut—like those prossers from last night. Tarty. Asking for it. Come and take my knickers off and show me your cock. Where’s the class gone these days? Why do most women wear stuff that makes them appear cheap? Gets right on my nerves. Then again, I’m a walking contradiction. I use those types of women, I go with the ragbags, maybe because it gives me a sense of superiority.

  Who the fuck knows.

  She’s eaten the Belgian bun, and the can of Coke is on the coffee table, don’t think she’s drunk much of it. I’d offer her the other type of coke, but it’d be wasted on her. She’s sitting on my sofa beside me, knees together, her legs smooth, but there’s a speck of blood on one of them. Probably where she nicked it shaving. Novice at the job, not enough practice to know you can slice your skin off with one of those razors if you’re not careful.

  Silly cow.

  She’s humming some tune or other, and it’s winding me up because I’ve heard it before and can’t place it, but I won’t show I’m peeved.

  Not just yet.

  “That’s a nice tune,” I say, lying through my sodding teeth.

  “It’s Ed,” she says.

  I know exactly what song it is now, remembering the words, and I could just smash her face in at her naivety, at how she thinks her being here is something it’s not. Oh, he loves me. He thinks I’m the best.

  The mantelpiece catches my attention, the town crier’s bell a wicked taunt, and I grind my teeth. It’d make a good weapon, that, if I could bear to touch it, to smack it onto her air-filled head, but it would ring, and then I wouldn’t be able to go through with my plans.

  “How’s school?” I ask.

  She raises her shoulders. “Oh, it’s all right. I feel too old to be there, know what I mean? Can’t wait to leave. Got another two years, though, now they’ve made it so you have to stay until you’re eighteen. I hate that rule.”

  I’ve got a few rules I need you to learn, and one of them is to stop pissing me off.

  “Don’t you like your lessons then?” I smile.

  It’s tight.

  She smiles back. Coy. Making out she’s shy. “Some are okay. Have you got anything to teach me?”

  Dear oh Lord.

  “I do as it happens, but my classroom’s at the end of the garden.”

  Wink.

  She perks up, all ears. “What’s down there then?”

  Like I said, my classroom.

  Why don’t they listen?

  “Oh, I’ve got a brick summer house. Nice. It’s got electricity, basically a room, except it isn’t connected to the house. Soundproofed, too.”

  “Oh, d’you play loud music in there or something?”

  Or something.

  “Want to see?” I stand and hold my hand out to her.

  She grabs it, palms clammy, maybe she’s nervous, and it turns me the hell off. Like sucking her hair did. She licks her lips, bats her eyelids; really does have the makings of becoming a slapper, this one.

  “Is it dark in there?” she asks. “Because I like doing it with the lights on.”

  This is just getting worse.

  “I like to see everything,” she says.

  If I were a better person, I’d feel sorry for her. But I’m not. So I don’t. Seduction is not her forte. She’s trying too hard, and I wonder why I ever thought I could have her in my life in that way.

  “Handy that there’s no windows out there then, so people can’t see us getting it on.” I laugh at myself.

  “This is really happening,” she breathes, her face showing her age, the kid she is. It’s like she’s an eight-year-old on her birthday.

  I don’t answer, just give her a grin, and she seems okay with that.

  I lead her through the hallway, the kitchen, then out onto the path made of round flagstones set a footstep apart in a curve. We reach the line of tall trees in front of my ‘den’, and I pull her between two and open the door an inch or so, the darkness within a long stripe against the white jamb.

  “Close your eyes before I turn the light on,” I whisper, checking the backs of the adjacent houses to make sure no one’s at their window. The police have gone, so I haven’t got to worry about any of them turning up.

  “Okay,” she says then giggles—too loudly.

  “Shh,” I say. “You don’t want anyone recognising that sexy laugh of yours and telling your mum and dad where you are, do you?”

  “Sorry.”

  You will be.

  I hold my hand over her eyes, her lashes flickering on my palm—she hasn’t done as she’s told, damn it. I resist lowering my hand over her nose and mouth like I did to that bird last night. I have to get her inside.

  I nudge her arse with my knee, and she enters, hands out in front of her, as though she’s about to pin the tail on the motherfucking donkey. I shut the door so it’s pitch black and feel for the metal panel that will cover the door and suction-lock to the metal wall once I press the remote to make it slide across.

  The sound of the soft schlup when it connects is almost as orgasmic as her panicked breathing.

  “Keep your eyes closed for just a minute longer, then you can see my classroom.”

  “You are funny,” she says, her voice riddled with a tremble. “Before you show me, though, can I just ask you something?”

  She’s ruining the big reveal.

  “All right.” I sigh quietly.

  “What’s the deal with Charlotte?”

  Oh. She’s said the wrong thing.

  Silly, silly girl.

  NINETEEN

  Debbie was so excited she could barely stand it. The tension mounted in the darkness, and seeing was like trying to stop Brexit, no way, no how. Until the light came on, she was stuck in a black void that had her thinking she’d been transported somewhere else—purgatory, that in-between place you went before you moved on to Heaven or Hell. The thought unnerved her, and for a tiny speck of time, she asked herself if it had been a mistake to come here.

  He was a man, she was a girl. A big difference.

  Then her ego trounced in, all big mouth and look-at-me-I’m-a-know-it-all—hey, you’re a teenager, so there you go—and she knew she could handle whatever went on in his summer house. She should feel privileged to be here and betted he didn’t bring just anyone into his private space.

  She was special.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “Shh a minute. I’m busy.”

  Doing what?

  Something smelt funny. She sniffed, picking up his scent plus another, one she couldn’t work out. Then a memory kicked in. It was kind of like the smell of a Barbie’s hair or her Girl’s World’s when it had been new and fresh out of the box.

  “Right!”

  She jumped at his voice, so soft, breathy, more like he’d said riiiiight in the way Dad did when he sighed the word after something disappointing had happened.

  “Before the light goes on, I’ve got a game to play.”

  Why was he talking like that? Like a…like a woman?

  “It’s my version of Guess Who, except it’s called Guess What.”

  He sounded so close, yet she couldn’t sense him anywhere near. An invisible cloud enveloped her, a sense of menace and uncertainty seeping off it and into her, unsettling her so much that for a moment she wanted to blurt—

  I need to go home. Please, let me go home.

  So much for thinking she could handle this.

  She didn’t say anything, though. If she did, she wouldn’t have him for a boyfriend then a husband, because he’d know she wasn’t mature enough, and her whole life would turn out differently to what she’d planned. This had been almost three years in the making—two and three-quarter years of pining, hoping, setting everything in motion. It’d be such a shame and a waste if she gave in at the first hurdle. It was the dark doing this to her, that was all, and he’d only sounded weird because her mind was playing tricks on her.

  “Okay,” she managed, her voice as breathy as
his.

  “Over here then.”

  His hand curled around her wrist, and she shrank back, startled.

  It’s only him. It’s okay.

  He tugged her, and she stepped forward, and it was weird that even though she knew it was just a room, she didn’t trust her footing. There could be anything in here—furniture in the way or whatever—and it was all right for him, he knew the layout, so he’d navigate without a problem.

  “Just here,” he said.

  “You don’t sound right.” It popped out, and she cursed herself. She should have kept her mouth shut.

  “It doesn’t matter what I sound like.” It was him again, his voice this time, angry, impatient. “Don’t talk now unless I tell you to or ask you a question.”

  She had the fleeting thought that someone else was in there with them, and a shudder raced through her. “Okay.”

  “What did I just say?”

  She stayed mute.

  “I said: Don’t talk unless I tell you to or ask you a question.” He squeezed her wrist and gave it a bit of a shake.

  Pins and needles in her palm, she swallowed, her throat tight, tears threatening. Why was he so angry? Why was he being like this? He’d never struck her as the mardy type before, so why was he like it now? She blinked to stop her eyes leaking, but they did anyway, hot liquid sliding down her cheeks, cold by the time it reached her jaw.

  “Now,” he said, sounding female again and lifting her hand. “You need to guess what you’re touching. You have three guesses. One, two, three!”

  She opened her mouth to say she had to go home then remembered he’d told her not to speak. Instead, she held her breath and pressed her lips together.

  He lowered her hand, and her fingertips came into contact with whatever it was she had to guess at.

  “Feel it,” he said, high-pitched.

  She moved her finger. The item was small, marble-sized, rounded on one end, kind of straight on the other. The curved end was smooth, but the straight was bumpy, reminding her of an uneven scab.

  “I’ll turn it over,” he said. “Now touch it again.”