Billie Jo. Kimberley Chambers
first thing Monday morning.
Once he heard the front door slam and his wife’s Mercedes pull off the drive, Terry jumped out of bed. He’d been pretending to be asleep for the last hour, even acting out a couple of snores. Hearing his old woman getting ready, he’d guessed she was off out somewhere and rather than facing a Spanish Inquisition, he’d decided to stay put until she’d left. Casually he wandered downstairs.
‘Morning, Princess.’ Putting his big arms around his daughter, he pulled her close and held her tightly. Billie hugged him back and looked up at him.
‘Where was you last night, Dad? Why did you stay out all night? You might have known Mum would kick off.’
‘Oh, don’t you start on me as well.’ Terry felt guilty as he looked at his daughter’s worried face. Deciding to bluff it, he carried on. ‘I’m a businessman, Bill. I had some shit to sort out. Now forget last night, eh, what do you wanna do this afternoon?’
Billie didn’t really feel like doing anything. She’d had very little sleep and was yet to recover from the shock of her mum trying to stab her dad. Seeing her dad’s hurt expression at her lack of enthusiasm, she put on her best false smile. ‘I wouldn’t mind going to Lakeside to get a new outfit for tonight.’
Returning her smile with a false one of his own, Terry told her to get her arse in gear and be ready to go in ten minutes. ‘Bollocks,’ he muttered, as soon as she was out of earshot. He’d rather go to the dentist and have his teeth pulled out than spend a Saturday afternoon being dragged around Lakey. Four hours later and four hundred quid lighter, Terry loaded Billie’s bags onto the back seat and started up the engine. His little princess hadn’t been her usual bubbly self today and he was a bit worried about her.
‘You all right, babe?’
‘Yes fine, Dad,’ she lied.
Terry decided she must still have the hump over the silly row they’d had earlier. Standing by the doorway of Top Shop while Billie mooched inside, he’d noticed two boyband lookalikes, mid-twenties, clocking his daughter’s arse and making suggestive comments about her. Just as he was about to go over to the bench where they were sitting, drag them up by their scrawny little necks and teach them a lesson, Billie had seen what was going on. Screaming at him, she’d given him what for.
‘If you show me up in the middle of Lakeside, I swear I’ll never talk to you again. I’m not a kid any more, Dad. I’m a young woman and boys are bound to look at me from time to time. I’d have to be a minger if they didn’t. You’re so overprotective with me, Dad, you make me sick at times.’
Agreeing with her just to keep the peace, Terry had casually slung his arm round her shoulder, giving the two lads in question his most evil look as he passed them. He had what he called a hidden camera lodged inside his brain. Not one to ever forget a face, he debated whether to return to Lakeside alone, hunt down the two little fuckers responsible for the argument and show them exactly whose daughter they were dealing with. Calming himself down, he decided against it. They were only kids after all.
‘Oi, waiter, bring us another bottle of champagne over here pronto, will ya?’ Proudly perched on her chair in the Chigwell restaurant, Michelle was now enjoying herself immensely. With her voice increasing in volume by the second, she was the life and soul of the party.
Rushing over to the table from hell, Antonio shakily topped up the glasses and quickly made an exit. Four years he’d been working as a waiter in this restaurant and he absolutely hated the sight of this particular group of women. They normally came in on the first Saturday of every month and he’d had such a gutful of them over the years that he’d managed to wangle that particular Saturday as his day off. Now here they were, as bold as brass, on the second Saturday of the month. That was just his bloody luck.
Unable to cope with their drunken, abusive behaviour, Antonio feigned a migraine and swiftly left the restaurant.
‘Bye, Princess, have a nice time tonight.’ Terry smiled as he watched his daughter walk up her best friend’s driveway. Once he made sure that the door was opened and she was safely inside, he sped off to pick up Davey Mullins.
After drinking the restaurant dry of champagne, Michelle was in her observant mood. Sitting quietly, she surveyed her group of friends. They’d all met working out together at their local gym, and over the years had disclosed their innermost secrets to one another. They’d joked that one day, when they were older, they would sit down and write a book about their unusual lives.
Hazel Short was the first not-right that Michelle had palled up with. Forty-three years old with long blonde hair and a body to die for, Hazel had seemed quite normal at first. She was a typical Essex bird with a bubbly personality to match, but they say you should never judge a book by its cover and this turned out to be true, as Hazel turned out to be anything but normal. After marrying young to an ageing ex-bank robber called Stan and producing three children in quick succession, Hazel was very happy with the cards she’d been dealt. With plenty of money shoved into offshore accounts for a rainy day, Hazel was the brains behind Stan’s thieving. Stan would nick it and Hazel would stash it and together they made a very good team.
As time went on Stan moved into the pub protection game. Within a year, things went tits up and he got a ten stretch for torturing some poor bastard in the back room of a boozer along the Barking Road. Six months into his sentence, Stan keeled over with a heart attack and promptly snuffed it. Overnight Hazel became a very rich lady indeed.
Julie Beale was the next not-right to become Chelle’s friend. At forty-six years old, with the voice of a man and the body of a Russian shot putter, at first glance she could seem quite scary. An ex-prostitute, Julie had spent the latter part of her working life employed as a madam at a massage parlour in Ilford. A substantial inheritance left by one of her regular clients had led to her taking an early retirement.
The final member of the Fab Four went by the name of Suzie Robinson. At thirty-five years old, she was the baby of the gang. Happily married to Richie who owned a scrapyard in Rainham, Suzie had seemed quite square compared to the rest of them. It wasn’t until one evening when they’d been caning the wine all day, that her story bubbled to the surface. She had done a year in Holloway for an offence to do with her first husband, Trevor. Once released, Suzie left him and ran off up north with the eighteen-year-old brother of one of her former inmates. Sick of feeling like his mother, Suzie had had enough within a year and headed back down south. A year later, she married her current husband, Richie.
Michelle’s thoughts were interrupted by Georgie the owner telling them that their cab was outside.
Sitting in a backstreet boozer in Stepney Green, Terry began to get agitated. Giving Davey Mullins the nod to go up to the bar, Terry moved towards the lying little bastard sitting opposite him.
‘Look, don’t fuck with me, kid. I know for a fact your story don’t ring true, ’cause I’ve checked it with the other lads. No one else could have had that money away, bar you. Don’t take me as some kind of a cunt, believe me that’ll be the worst mistake you’ll ever make. Now, you’ve got until next Saturday lunchtime to get the money you’ve chored back to me. Think yourself lucky, Paul, that I’m good pals with your uncle, ’cause believe me, you wouldn’t have such an easy ride if me and Archie weren’t muckers. Now, I know where you live and I’m sending Davey Boy to pick up the dough. Once you’ve paid, I want you to get out the area. If I ever see your ugly mug again, Paul, I swear as God’s my judge, I’ll gut you like a fucking fish.’
Paul Cox could feel his bowel loosening as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Terry Keane frightened the life out of him and in all his twenty-seven years, he’d never met anyone with such evil eyes, piercing blue and pure fucking evil.
He could visualise himself being chopped up into little pieces and ending up in concrete, propping up one of the flyovers along the A13. He knew in that instant that he wasn’t cut out for this kind of work, dealing with these kind of people. He’d only got involved as a favour to his Uncle Archie, who was currently in the Scrubs taking a holiday at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Archie had needed someone he could trust