The Rules: A gripping crime thriller that will have you hooked. Kerry Barnes
struggled to fight off her inner demons, the two voices battling each other – one telling her to pull herself together and the other pressuring her to give in. Through blurry eyes, she stared at the packets on the bedside cabinet, knowing that she had to sell the gear or face the consequences. Her addictive personality had her by the throat, and she had to bite her nails to stop herself from touching any of it. It was as though the powder was calling her.
She jumped up from the bed to distract her weak thoughts but almost fell over. The dizziness knocked her sideways. As she steadied herself, waves of the sweats engulfed her body and violent hot rushes made her feel sick. A second later, in contrast, she started to shiver, and her mind begged for relief in the form of euphoria – the escape to another dimension. With a bathrobe around her shoulders, she rushed from the bedroom to escape the calling packet. Switching the small electric fire on, she huddled up to keep warm. Yet, outside, it was sweltering. The hot and freezing cold changes in her body temperature were making her desperate to have another line of the new drug. When her eyes shot towards the bedroom door and then back at the red glow from the fire, she saw herself in the mirror on the wall. What with a runny nose, her nails that were bitten down to the quick, and her sallow skin, she knew that she was probably now on the path to becoming a fully fledged junkie. But it was no use: it was impossible to rid her mind of that craving.
Another wave of sickness caused her to jump to her feet, and instead of rushing to the bathroom, she headed back to the bedroom. Nervously fingering the parcel, she told herself that just one small line would hopefully perk her up. Or was it that other voice that constantly nagged: Go on, Jackie, it won’t hurt? Without another thought, she rolled up her last tenner and snorted the flaky white powder.
She found herself back in the land of Disney.
Kendall tossed her rucksack over her bare shoulder and trundled off towards the station. It was approaching ten o’clock and the next train to Orpington was in three minutes. If she wasn’t outside the station in half an hour, her father wouldn’t wait; he’d made that crystal clear.
A surge of commuters barged past her, leaving little room to swerve in and out to make the train. The whistle blew, and just as the doors began to close, Kendall managed to slip sideways and squeeze in. Her exposed arms and neck were coated in a sheen of sweat. Removing her rucksack, she flopped onto the only empty seat. With her head down, she plugged her earphones in and took a few deep breaths.
The packed carriage sent her into a panic attack. She hated closed spaces, yet she detested people more, especially strangers. Her music stopped: the battery on her phone had just died. Reluctantly, removing the plugs from her ears, she heard two women whispering to each other. It was clear from the way they were glancing her way that she was the focus of their attention. ‘Yeah, she’s probably one of those Goth people,’ one said. ‘Ya know, all into the Devil.’
Kendall looked up, and her eyes narrowed. Two chubby women were standing, while holding on to the bar above to maintain their balance. One of them, wearing a lemon cotton dress, was exposing a hairy armpit. The sweat stains darkened the fabric and it turned Kendall’s stomach. She was about to retaliate with a smart comment, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Instead, she offered an enchanting smile and hid her petulance like an invisible veil. Both the women reddened and looked away in embarrassment.
Kendall inwardly sighed. Why did people assume she was a Goth or was even into devil worshipping? She couldn’t help that she was naturally pale or the fact that her hair was overly dark. Black was her favourite colour, and she felt most comfortable wearing it. The black boots she wore improved her high instep and the faded dark-grey T-shirt with the skull and crossbones was just to piss her mother off; other than that, she wasn’t a Goth at all. She could have slipped on a floral dress and some pretty kitten heels and had her hair in a neat plait, but why should she? Rebecca had her little dolly in the form of her younger sister, Brooke. One doll-like girl was quite enough in the family.
A sudden thought had Kendall gently feeling her cheek. The slap from her mother had actually hurt quite a bit, and she hadn’t checked to see if it had caused any swelling. She didn’t think it had, but, in some ways, she wished it had. At least when she met her father, she could show him, in the hope that he would feel guilty.
Her father was a no-nonsense man with a tough exterior. She admired him even though she wasn’t sure if she actually liked him. Perhaps it was because they were so much alike, and the complete opposite of her mother. She mused over the idea of her parents ever being together again, let alone getting married. They really were like chalk and cheese. Her mother, with her particular ways, bordering on OCD and ensuring everything was perfect, even down to the way she spoke, really grated on Kendall. She would cringe and almost squint her eyes when her mother made the most ridiculous demands like ‘Make sure you greet my guests politely.’ Then there was the other one: ‘Sit up like a lady.’ She wondered if at any age her mother would consider her a woman. Yet Rebecca spoke to everyone as if they were children. Her campaigners, her housekeeper, her personal assistant, yes – but not Alastair. Never him – he was the vocal one, the head of the family who dished out the orders when Rebecca wasn’t around. How ironic was that? she thought. Would her constituency supporters and those who voted for her still have faith in her, their local MP, if they could really see how feeble she was under Alastair’s watchful eye?
The little respect she did have for her mother went out of the window the day she had arrived to take her out of her father’s care. She’d heard the whispers and the undertones. Rebecca’s career was flying, and there must be no dirty laundry aired, no matter what.
The train came to a stop, and the bleeping as the doors opened brought Kendall out of her thoughts. She joined the queue of departing passengers. In flinging her rucksack over her shoulder, she deliberately managed to catch the woman with the sweaty armpits in the face.
‘Careful, young lady!’ she hissed, to which Kendall turned and smiled – devilishly.
Opposite the taxi rank and through the hordes of people, Kendall could just make out a black BMW. She hurried over with a genuine smile; it was the first one in a long time.
The blacked-out window slowly opened and there with mirrored sunglasses and a dazzling smile was her father. ‘Quick, Kenny!’
She had no sooner sat on the cool leather seat than he pulled away. ‘Ease up, Dad, will you? I haven’t even shut the bleeding door!’
‘Shut ya whining and buckle up. I can’t get pulled over by the Ol’ Bill.’
Kendall threw her rucksack behind her and put her seatbelt on.
‘Right, I just need to pop in the pub. It’s not far from here. I’ll only be two minutes, and then we can have a chat.’
Kendall felt her heart sink. Typical. Why could he never drop everything just once for her? She wondered who was best at being indifferent to her. Was it her mother or her father? She noticed him look her way and shake his head in disapproval. She wasn’t sure if that look of disdain was because of what she looked like or whether he was into telepathy. He had an uncanny ability of getting inside her mind.
‘What?’ she snapped as she sensed her father’s dismay.
‘How old are you now? What? Twenty-one?’ The smoky edge to his voice, implying he was annoyed, left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. She hated the tension when he was moody. And he had a knack of being unpredictable with his temperament.
‘Twenty, but shouldn’t you know that? I thought you were there at the birth?’
‘Oi, don’t get fucking lippy!’ he growled. ‘What’s with the fucking rebel T-shirt and studs in ya ears? Are you some kinda biker, or are you still acting like a kid? What’s that fucking Meat Loaf bollocks spread across ya chest?’
Kendall laughed. ‘Aw, this? This little number? I only wear it just to get right up Mother’s nose.’
She