“Her days are numbered,” Carol seethed as she dry wiped the washed glasses. “She hardly moves her arse all night, then fucks off without helping. I don’t think so.”
Agreeing with Carol, I quietly got on with the cleaning. I wanted home for some much-needed sleep before it was rinse and repeat the next evening. I had Sunday off then back to the Prep school for three days of cute little six-year-olds and teaching. My jobs were night and day, but they paid the bills, which was all that mattered at the end of the day.
A delay on the Night Tube meant I was later getting home. It was with a sigh of relief that I closed the flat door behind me and noticed, for a change, mum had gone to bed and would hopefully stay there past half six in the morning. I peeked my head around her door to make sure she was sleeping sound, then sneaked around the flat searching for any bottles of booze she’d saw fit to hide. Finding only two, I tipped what was left of them down the sink without an ounce of regret. She’d most likely have some stashed away in her bedroom, but two quarter bottles of whisky, was a half she couldn’t drink.
I fell into bed and managed a blissful ten hours of sleep before waking up to my mother screeching my name at the top of her lungs.
Stumbling out of bed in a mini panic, I raced into the living room to find the place upended. She’d torn the cushions from the furniture, swiped pictures from the wall and smashed a glass on the coffee table. Hearing my gasped reaction to her anger, she wobbled precariously when she spun around, then lunged, knocking me to the floor. Standing over me, the wretched woman pointed her finger before striking me hard across the face.
“Where the fuck is it, bitch?”
Stunned stupid and still half asleep, I had no fucking idea what she was talking about. I blinked up at her, taken aback she’d put me on the floor and lashed out so violently. It often took her a while to get to the physical part of her abuse, she’d been sharp this time.
“My booze. Where is it?”
Oh. Oh, okay. That. “Down the sink.” I got up on unsteady legs and stood toe to toe. “You’re killing yourself the way you’re drinking.” Softening my tone, I went on. “I spoke to the doctor yesterday. Come down with me, Mum, they can help you. Please?”
Her eyes narrowed to slits so I could no longer see the yellowed tinge of her eyeballs, her fists clenched at her sides and I gave myself ten seconds to get the hell out of her way before I got a back hander to rival the slap. Whipping around, I took off back to my bedroom, slamming the door in my wake, engaging the two bolts I’d had put on the door. I never had to use them often, but today was a day I did.
Sure enough, less than thirty seconds later, fists rained down on the other side of the door. “Get out here,” she yelled.
No bloody way. I slumped down the door, leaning my back against it and let out a shaky sigh. For fifteen minutes I listened to the most godawful tirade she’d ever thrown at me, every derogatory name she could think of, she hurled with venom. Bitch, slut, whore, home wrecker… The list was endless, each word cutting and wounding, like they always did.
It was too much. Sinking further to the floor, I stuck my face in the space between my knees and sobbed quietly. I no longer recognised the woman whose fondest word for me began with the letter c. Bitter, ugly and twisted. Yet I loved her like no one else. Running away wasn’t an option, not when I was the only one who gave a shit about her.
Eventually, her cursing abated, and she stopped banging long enough to move away from the door. The flat fell silent once again. I didn’t dare move in case it was a trick to get me to open the door. She’d done that before, and it never ended well for either of us.
It was a long hour before I stood up, fixed my face with enough make-up to plaster a wall and sorted my hair, then got dressed as quietly as I could. Gingerly, I moved around my mother, who sat with another bottle she’d dug up from somewhere and cleaned up her mess. She didn’t say a word as I swept up the glass from the table and picked up the ruined pictures, depositing both into the kitchen bucket. If she saw me, or heard me sneaking out of the flat, she didn’t utter a word.
Yannick
“He did fucking what?” I was so furious I knew I’d be breaking bones within the next few hours. Or cutting fingers, Yannick Ischmov’s trademark tool of torture. There was no way some jumped up fucking runner was putting me inside because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“Told Devlin where he gets his drop.”
“Our Devlin, the copper?”
“The very one.”
What a stupid fucker. Thank God it had been Devlin and not some other fine member of the Metropolitan Police Force. Devlin was ours and could be attributed to the peaceful life we had with relatively few raids or stops from uniforms. He would have gone straight to Greg with whatever the runner had been
