Copyright

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

HarperElement

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First published by HarperElement 2016

FIRST EDITION

© Julie Shaw and Lynne Barrett-Lee 2016

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 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

Dedication

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!

Contents

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

Also available in the Notorious Hudson Family series

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About the Publisher

Poem

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.

Chapter 1

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.

And Josie was right about the contraction, which was why it hadn’t even been a question. The pain was dying off as quickly and as decisively as it had come. Gripping her belly, Christine shuffled her legs round and onto the pavement.

‘You and all,’ Josie said, sticking her head back into the car as Christine tried to climb out of it.

‘Me?’ spluttered Imran. ‘What you on about, woman?’

‘You,’ Josie told him. ‘Assuming you’ll want paying. Come on, out. I need you to help me get her inside.’

Christine privately agreed. Josie was tiny. There was nothing of her. And though Christine had never dared to ask, she imagined that was why her friend’s nickname had always been Titch. And there she was, like a whale, a great lumbering whale. And with the shakes now. She felt woozy and unsteady on her feet.

‘Me?’ Imran said again. Then he shook his head firmly. ‘Sorry, love, but I can’t be doing that. S’pose someone sees me? They’ll probably think I’m the fucking father!’

‘You wish,’ Josie replied in disgust. ‘Mate, she doesn’t go near your type.’

‘Mate,’ Imran parroted. ‘I don’t go near hers. No offence, love,’ he added, as he came round to the kerbside. He grinned and his fabled gold teeth both winked at her in the sunshine. ‘Come on,’ he coaxed. ‘Let’s be having you before the little bleeder plops out in the road.’

Christine cringed with shame and embarrassment as the two of them dragged her none too gently from the parking bay to the maternity-ward entrance, the words ‘your type’ going round and round her head. She loved Josie – couldn’t manage without her, truth be told – but she wished she would shut up for once, because what she was saying to Imran was really too close to the bone.

Up until now, she had kept the paternity of her unborn child a secret. Told anyone who asked to mind their own business. But the time had come now. She’d be keeping her guilty secret no longer. In a couple of hours – probably less, given how her insides were feeling – everyone would know who the father of her baby was. Or they’d make an educated guess. And they’d be right.

The Maternity Department at St Luke’s sat at the furthest end of the huge sprawl of hospital buildings, and seeing the familiar entrance calmed Christine a little. A place she’d never once so much as glimpsed before the nightmare had happened, it had become something of a sanctuary for her over the past few months – a safe place where no one ever questioned her or judged her. A place where they didn’t care about the whos and whys and wherefores of her pregnancy – where they simply took care of her, were kind to her, were concerned about her well-being. Was she sleeping? Was the baby kicking? Was she taking her vitamins? Was she exercising enough? Was she eating the right foods?

It was a place she’d mostly visited alone, too, and that was fine by her. Though Josie had come with her on her first visit, when she was feeling so ashamed and scared, she’d since been happy to trot down to her antenatal appointments on her own – even had her mam offered to go, which, unsurprisingly, she hadn’t. She had about as much interest in Christine’s pregnancy as she had about Christine herself – which meant precious little, just like always. Christine hadn’t minded. She didn’t exactly want her mam involved. This was her kid, her future, and she vowed, over and over, that she was going to do things differently. Do it better. Do right by the child growing inside her. Be not at all like her own mam.

So she’d been happy to sit there with all the other expectant mothers – much preferred it, even. Here she was just one among many other waddling women, all chattering away, in the bright, busy waiting room; like a warm enveloping hug telling her everything would be okay. That girls just like her became mothers all the time. That it wouldn’t be the end of the world.

But now it felt like it, and Christine was horrified to hear that Josie wasn’t allowed to come in with her now. ‘Sorry, lovey,’ the nurse at the admission desk told them. ‘Your friends will have to wait out here. We need to whisk you off for an examination. See how baby’s doing, see how far you are along.’

Imran pulled a face, and let go of her as if jolted by a sudden electric shock. He was only lingering, Christine knew, because he was still waiting for his fare.

‘Don’t you worry, mate,’ Josie reassured her, pulling a purse out from her handbag. ‘You’re in safe hands now, and I’ll go and track your mam down, okay? Get her down here to look after you.’ Though both of them knew there was a good chance, what with her mam currently being at the bingo, that she wouldn’t get there in time even if she wanted to. Which, despite Josie’s constant attempts to change things, Christine was pretty sure she wouldn’t. Josie meant well, but she didn’t get it – they just weren’t like her and her mam.

So she tried to stay calm, knowing Josie was right. She was in safe hands, and now she was here, they’d take charge of things. Indeed, were already doing, because almost immediately Josie had left with Imran, a second nurse, after some consultation with a big whiteboard behind the first nurse, seemed to scoop her up almost – it felt as if she was being propelled along the corridor – and into an empty consulting room just off the waiting room, at the very point when the next contraction hit her.

The nurse helped her up onto the big trolley bed and, once again, being examined – as she had been, so many times, some on this very table – Christine was stunned by the intensity of the pain.

‘No wonder you’re pushing, love,’ the nurse said, peeling latex gloves from her fingers. ‘You’re eight centimetres! This little one of yours is obviously anxious to be born!’ Then she popped her head around the consulting-room door and yelled, ‘Someone fetch me a wheelchair!’, and within moments it seemed everyone was panicking.

This was it, Christine thought, as everyone hurried and fussed around her. All these months of wondering what labour would be like. She was frightened, but at the same time there was nothing she could do to stop it and all she could do was surrender herself to the inevitability. Only one thing was certain, or would be, she reckoned. That, good or bad, nothing in her life was ever going to be the same again.

The maternity wards were up on the second floor of the unit, and Christine was taken up in the wide hospital lift, which smelled of disinfectant and creaked as they rose. Only the week previously, a group of mums who had similar due dates had been shown around one of the wards, which, with its bright bays, patterned curtains and crisply made beds, had seemed a place in which nothing bad could happen. Though it had the same clinical smell everywhere else in the unit seemed to, it had a cheerfulness about it; a sense of homeliness, even. And there’d been a lull in labours – only one bed had been occupied, and the woman had been sleeping – and Christine had felt an unexpected surge of confidence. With the sun streaming in and the sense of calm and order, she could almost believe that whatever rows she had coming from her mam, it would, in the end, all be okay.

She was wheeled along the corridor, groaning now, almost growling – she couldn’t seem to stop the embarrassing animal noise coming out of her – right past the wards to one of the delivery suites. Here there was no such sense of calm. There was no way of dressing it up. It was a room with one purpose – one all too evident from the huge cylinders of oxygen strapped to the far wall, evident from the scales and instruments, from the functional Perspex cot and, worst of all, from the leather foot straps that hung from the ceiling and swayed above the bed.

‘Here we go, love. Let’s get your things off,’ the midwife commanded. Her name was Sister Rawson, and Christine was relieved to see her – even if a little earlier than expected. She’d last seen her only on Monday, and wasn’t due to see her again till next week, because she was still a good ten days from her due date.

Sister Rawson was middle-aged and hefty. Her uniform strained across her huge bosom and she had chubby pink hands; hands that held Christine firmly as she helped her out of her hateful borrowed smock, and into a crackling hospital gown that did up with tapes down the back. ‘Anyone coming? Baby’s dad?’ She held a monitor in her hand now. ‘No, it’ll be your mam coming, won’t it?’ she said as she began to strap the monitor around Christine’s belly. ‘She knows you’re here, does she?’ she asked conversationally.

Christine shook her head, gasping as a fresh wave of pain hit her. ‘She’s out. She doesn’t even know I’m here yet. My friend is going to let her know.’

Though it really was doubtful whether Josie would be able to get word to her in time. She’d left only an hour back for bingo, leaving the girls to their own devices. Down the Mecca on Little Horton Lane with her cronies, same as always, all trying to win the big one; the jackpot that might change their lives.

They never did, of course. They spent as much on cheap lager as they did on the bingo, and on the slot machines that hardly ever paid out. And they’d stay there, through the afternoon and on into the evening, topping up on lager till they left to go down the pub. No, there was little hope of her mam coming to help her, even if she was struck by a sudden rush of love and maternal feeling.

Which was also doubtful, even before she saw the baby. Christine was under no illusions on that score, and never had been. She knew intuitively that whoever had turned out to be the father, her mother just wouldn’t want to know. It was exasperating sometimes, how people didn’t get it. How they kept saying, ‘She doesn’t mean it. She’ll come round, just you wait and see.’ How they imagined that when it came to it her mam would become somehow different – how she’d suddenly realise how much she’d be missing. How, when it came to it, she’d be so excited to be a granny.

Christine had long since given up trying to enlighten anyone about this. Not Josie’s mam, June. Not Mr Weston, who she worked for in the café down on John Street. And though Josie knew better – one of the very few people that did – she still didn’t quite get how bad it was, not really. She still hung on to the idea that there was this unbreakable maternal bond; just that it was very deeply buried. But there wasn’t. There really wasn’t. But no one wanted to hear that. So Christine didn’t bother enlightening Josie further either. Her mam cared about two people, and that was pretty much it. Herself and her bastard of an on-off boyfriend, Rasta Mo.

At the moment, that was. That was all subject to change now. What hadn’t changed so far was how her mam dealt with the pregnancy. First she’d been furious, then resigned, then just irritable and resentful. Especially in the last weeks, when Christine had had to give up her waitressing at the café. With the extra money no longer coming in, Christine’s mum had all but washed her hands of her – at least (as she’d been fond of remarking, over and over) till she got off her fat backside and sorted out her dole. ‘You made your own frigging bed and you’re just going to have to lie on it, girl,’ she’d told her. And she’d know all about that. Because she’d had to do exactly that herself. Not just when she had Christine, but also when she’d given birth to her older brother Nicky – neither of them knew who their dads were, and never would.

And it hadn’t helped that Christine had stuck so resolutely to her guns. Because, like her mam before her, she hadn’t told anyone who the father was, either. Hadn’t and, in fact, couldn’t, even though there wasn’t a shred of doubt. Though, in the vain hope that things might not turn out as badly as she expected, she’d not rushed to contradict her mam when she’d reached her own conclusions; deciding that it was probably Paddy Sweeney’s – the lad Christine had been seeing briefly before she’d left school. ‘That bloody half-wit,’ her mam had said. ‘Trust you to pick that no-hoper. There’ll be no hope of any support there – not from that bloody family.’

If only she knew, Christine thought. Because it was so much worse than that.

The monitor finally in place, and a second excruciating examination completed, Sister Rawson swept from the room, leaving Christine alone, with a bright-toned but ominous ‘I’m just going to fetch the doctor!’

Then silence. Well, bar the beep of the monitor stand beside her, and the constant lub-dub, lub-dub from the microphone on her belly. Christine tried hard to focus on the baby’s racing heartbeat. To lose herself in the strange, urgent sound the machine made; such an odd sound, she’d thought, when she’d first been able to hear it. Almost as if it was coming from under water. Which, of course, it sort of was. But it was hard to concentrate – soon impossible. Would the agony never stop? There seemed no break now from the pain; it was as if her body was no longer hers. It had become uncontrollable, unpredictable, an unstoppable alien force.

This was it, she knew. There was nothing going to stop her baby coming. And as the urge to expel it became ever more urgent, Christine realised quite how hard she had tried not to believe it. That the day would really come. And now it had. And now they’d know.

‘I can’t push any more!’ Christine sobbed as someone mopped her clammy forehead. ‘I can’t!’

Time had passed. She had no idea how much time, but she had a definite sense of having lost some. A vague memory of an injection, of a mask placed on her face, of sucking up gas, and the unrelenting, dreadful, searing pain. It felt different now, somehow; more a terrible burning – like she was about to be split in two. As if whatever was inside her was now fighting to get outside of her – hacking at her insides with a knife.

She felt sick, and cast about her, terrified she’d throw up all over herself. A bowl appeared, as if from nowhere, but, though she retched several times, nothing came.

There was still no sign of her mam, either, which, though entirely expected, made her tearful all over again. And she really, really, really didn’t want to break down and cry, because she didn’t want to be treated like a kid. If she wasn’t being already, which turned her tears to anger. That people made assumptions about young girls like her.

Did this midwife? She looked between her knees, at the indistinct navy blue bulk of Sister Rawson, who was standing at the end of the table, bending forward, her bosom huge.

‘Course you can push, girl!’ Sister Rawson answered. Her tone was different now – sharp and snappy. ‘You and a million other girls before you, my love. Natural as breathing, is giving birth … what a woman’s body was made for. Now, come on, love. I need you to push!’

There were others in the room, too. A man in white. The doctor? And another nurse, a younger one, bearing a small trolley. The plastic mask replaced the kidney bowl. ‘Come on, love, suck on this,’ a gentle voice said. ‘Suck on this, then a big old push. Listen to Sister, okay. Listen to Sister.’

‘That’s the way, love.’ Sister Rawson’s voice again. ‘Hold it tightly. Deep and slow now.’ She kept glancing at the monitor, across which a jagged line travelled left to right. ‘That’s the way,’ she said. Something glinted in her hand. What?

Panicked now, Christine strained to see but couldn’t. She well remembered what Josie had said about what might happen if she didn’t push hard enough; if she couldn’t get the baby out by herself. That was what had happened to Josie. She was too tiny. Much too tiny, so they’d used things called forceps. Enormous forceps, forced inside her, bigger than the baby’s entire head …

‘Christine! It’s going to peak now! Christine, look at me! Baby’s coming. Baby needs to come, now. Do you understand me, Christine? So this time you have to push. As hard and as long and as strong as you can. That’s the way, lovey. Coming now. I can just see the head now.’ Her voice grew hard then. ‘But Christine, I mean it. You have to try. You have to give it everything you’ve got left, okay. Everything. You have to PUSH!’

It had been a pair of scissors, that was all. Not forceps, just scissors. Just to help. And they had helped, and she had pushed, and it had finally worked. The baby had been expelled from her so fast it was if it was entirely outside her control. Expelled and scooped up, and hung momentarily by its ankles, the face puckering, the mouth contorting, and then that single plaintive cry. And there it was – there he was. Her perfect child.

‘It’s a boy!’ someone had said. ‘You have a son! You clever girl, you!’ And then the nurse by the scales had said ‘bless her’, though not to her. She’d said ‘bless her’ to the doctor, in tones not meant for Christine. ‘She’s only just seventeen.’ She’d sighed then. ‘No more’n a child herself.’

They’d sounded relieved, though, which had helped. And here he was on her chest now, staring up at her from his swaddling of blue cellular blanket, her blessing; her little coffee-coloured son.

Sister Rawson was standing beside her, beaming, pulling off her plastic apron. ‘A beautiful baby boy,’ she said as she balled it in her big pink hands and deposited it in the bin. ‘Well done, lovey. Seriously. You were a brave girl. Well done.’

She reached across then, her expression strange, and swept a strand of Christine’s wet hair from her eyes. It was an action so gentle that it made Christine want to cry. The sort of tears you couldn’t help, because someone was being nice to you. And for a moment, she almost let herself give in to them. ‘And your mum’ll be here soon, I’m sure,’ Sister Rawson said softly. ‘Not too long now, eh? And, aww, he’s beautiful, isn’t he? Just look at him. A little stunner, he’ll be. Look at those lovely, lovely eyes.’

Christine looked – it was all she could do not to, ever since she’d been handed him. And tried to find something in the baby’s eyes that reminded her of his father. But no. There was nothing. He was perfect. And he was hers. And she knew in that instant that she would always, always love him. That her bond to him, unlike her mam’s, would be unbreakable.

Yes, his existence was about to cause hell for her, she knew that. So she was scared. She could imagine her mum’s face, and she was scared.

But in that moment she didn’t care. He was hers and she was his. No one else could matter more. She felt blessed.

Chapter 2

Josie held the phone receiver away from her ear. And then brought it quickly back again, mindful of a nurse hurrying past her. Lizzie Parker was known for many things, and one of the chief among them was the way she could scream and yell when she lost her rag. ‘Calm down, Lizzie,’ she hissed. ‘I’m only the pissing messenger! And anyway, all I’ve told you is that he’s black. That doesn’t automatically mean it’s Mo’s.’

Lizzie laughed down the line, the bitterness in her voice evident. ‘Course it’s fucking Mo’s kid. Who else’s would it be? I fucking knew there was something going on. I knew it. And don’t pretend you didn’t. She’s a fucking little slut, she is. Just you wait till I get my fucking hands on her.’

In the end, a while earlier, it had been Josie who’d seen the baby first. Knowing Lizzie wouldn’t be at home when she and Imran had left the hospital she’d had him drive down to the Mecca and made him wait outside, planning to let Lizzie know that Christine had been admitted and, if she wanted, that she could use the cab to hurry back there. But she’d missed her. She’d already gone to the pub.

Josie could have gone looking for her at that point – there were several pubs locally Lizzie and her cronies frequented – or she could have gone home and tried again later. But knowing how far gone Christine had been, and that Paula was safe round her own mam’s, she paid Imran and this time walked back to St Luke’s. No, they wouldn’t let her in till the baby was safely born, but it felt all wrong that there was no one there for her, and once it had been she’d be grateful for a friendly familiar face.

And Josie was glad she’d come back, because the baby was born just as she’d been finishing up her WRVS sandwich and, as all was apparently well, she’d been allowed in almost right away. And right away, the suspicions she’d had for a while had been confirmed.

‘So it is his, then?’ she’d asked. Though she hadn’t really needed to. Christine’s drawn, anxious expression had said it all, really – said in an instant what she’d been unable to say for the whole sodding pregnancy. But which Josie had worked out all by herself.

But had Lizzie? It hardly bore thinking about.

Christine sniffed, a single tear running down one pale cheek as Josie peered into the little plastic cot beside the bed. ‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ Her voice wobbled. ‘Oh, Josie. What the fuck am I going to do?’

Josie found herself overcome with a terrible rush of fury. The bastard. The sodding bastard. She had to work hard to keep her voice light because it was all too close to home for her. ‘He is, mate. He’s gorgeous. No thanks to his twat of a father. Doing the mother and then the daughter? That’s pretty low. Chris, what happened? You have to tell me. Come on, truth. Did that bastard rape you?’

This suggestion only produced a fresh bout of tears. ‘Oh, Josie …’ Christine started.

‘He bloody did, didn’t he?’ Josie fumed. ‘Fuck, Chris, why didn’t you tell someone?’

But Christine was shaking her head. ‘It wasn’t …’ she began again. ‘Josie, I … Josie, I let him. I can’t lie. I …’

‘You what?’ Josie could almost sense her pulse throbbing in her temples. She sat on the edge of the bed and tried to calm herself. It was always like this. ‘How exactly did you let him, Chris? Was this a thing that was already going on with you? Please don’t tell me you –’

‘No! Josie, God, no. He’d never been like that with me before. Which was why it was all such a shock. He was just like there, and Mam was out, and we had some wine – he’d brought some wine with him – and …’

‘And one thing led to another? Christ, mate. What were you thinking?!’

‘I was drunk, Josie.’

‘I’ll bet you were. I’ll bet he saw to that bit for you.’

‘And it was like I was kind of there but not there … and …’ She trailed off, remembering, and put her hands to her face.

‘Great. So he slipped you a pill as well, did he? Christine – Jesus.’ She sighed heavily. ‘That utter, utter bastard. He did you good and proper, didn’t he? What were you thinking?’ she said again, because that was what she kept coming back to. ‘No, scrub that. You weren’t thinking, were you? Incapable of thinking, more like. The bastard.’

Christine pulled a paper towel from the dispenser by the bed. ‘I don’t know how I could have been so bloody idiotic, Josie, I really don’t. So bloody soft …’

Josie blinked at her friend. ‘Not soft on him? You being serious?’

Christine shook her head immediately. ‘I told you. I don’t know what I was thinking,’ she said, but there was something in her tone that told Josie otherwise. That whatever nonsense he’d spun her to get her into the sack was still swilling around in her head even now. A whole nine months, and a whole baby, later.

‘Chris, truth now. It was just that one time? You’ve not been –’

‘God, no!’ Christine’s response was too immediate to be anything other than truthful. ‘Christ, no! He’s not been near me since and I wouldn’t let him, either!’

But Josie still wasn’t sure she had the full unvarnished truth. Not where Christine’s feelings were concerned, anyway.

‘So does he know? Has he sussed it? Christ, that was so bloody unlucky.’

‘Tell me about it!’ Christine said. ‘I nearly died of shock when I realised.’

‘And you’ve always known it must be his, have you? All along, I mean. For certain?’

‘Course,’ Christine said. ‘There’s not been anyone else.’

‘So does he know?’

‘Course he does. I told him straight away. I didn’t know what to do, so –’

‘So he told you what to do, did he?’

‘Pretty much. He told me to get rid of it and when I said I wouldn’t, he told me – well, he basically told me to sod off. That I could do what I liked and that he’d deny everything even if I didn’t get rid of it. He didn’t seem to care about what mam would think …’

‘And that surprises you, does it?’

‘No, but … I just thought … I didn’t know what …’

Her eyes were brimming again. A vale of tears, Josie mused, looking at the sleeping newborn in the cot beside the bed. How could something so beautiful come out of such shit? She put one arm around her friend and reached for another paper towel with another. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Come on, mate. Blow on that. That’s the way.’ She nodded towards the cot. ‘So you never wavered? You know. In keeping him.’

Christine shook her head. ‘Not once, Josie. Never. I know what you’re probably thinking. That I’m an idiot.’

‘Some would say that, yes.’

‘But I just couldn’t. Not in a million years. It would be like getting rid of a part of me. And –’

Josie kissed the top of her head. ‘You don’t have to explain, mate. I know. Something of your own. Something to love. Someone to love you. I understand.’ Then she smiled ruefully. ‘Christ, I sound like a bloody soap opera!’

Christine balled the paper towel. ‘My life is a bloody soap opera!’ she said, with feeling. ‘But at least now I can get out of it. Get away from that shit hole. Get away from her and make a life of my own. But, look, Josie, you’ve got to tell her for me. Tell her before she comes here. Give her a chance to –’

‘To what? Build up a proper head of steam before she gets here?’

Christine shook her head. ‘Just to get used to the idea before she arrives. Not that he’s Mo’s kid. Just that he’s a half-caste. Just to get her used to that idea first.’

‘Love, you’re not thinking straight. You think she won’t work it out? Really?’

‘She’s no reason to if I deny it. And that’s what I plan on doing.’

‘And you’ll say it’s whose, exactly? Like who exactly might be in the frame, here? Like you really think if you tell her it’s some anonymous bloody Indian bloke she’s going to believe that? Like, say, Imran? I think you’re clutching at straws, love, I really do.’

Christine looked across at the cot. Reached a hand out to touch her baby. ‘She’s going to kill me, isn’t she? She’s going to hate him for ever. Even if I …’ She started sobbing again. ‘She’s going to kill me.’

Josie sighed as she reached for her handbag. ‘I’ll try her again now, okay?’ she said, squeezing her friend’s arm, then passing yet another paper towel to her. What a mess. What a complete fuck-up. ‘I’ll see what I can do, okay? See if I can at least get it down to life without parole.’

Josie put the payphone to her ear again, reflecting on the irony that she’d initially thought it a bonus that Lizzie had picked up. She’d not expected her to – thought she’d probably stay out for half the evening, so she’d tried the house phone again more in hope than expectation. But she was now seeing the error of her ways. It would have been so much better just to leave it. Leave it all till tomorrow. Tell Lizzie Christine was staying at hers for the night. She’d have believed that, because she often stayed over.

Josie could see that now, of course, and mentally kicked herself for not thinking it through. Because Lizzie was currently two things – furious and drunk. A bloody nightmare of a combination.

‘I will, you know,’ she was saying now. ‘I’ll fucking kill her. Everything I’ve done for that little bitch and how does she repay me? By sleeping with my fucking boyfriend!’

Josie considered pointing out that Lizzie wasn’t quite right on that score. However much she might bury her head in the sand about it – and she clearly had – it was common knowledge that Rasta Mo had a number of girlfriends scattered around the estate. Not to mention kids – and quite a few of them, if talk was to be believed. And besides, to mention that would be to confirm that it was Mo’s. Which, despite her knowing it was pointless, Christine had made her promise she wouldn’t.

And it was pointless, because another thing everyone knew about Mo was his penchant for a bit of young flesh. And Lizzie knew that too, however much she might try to kid herself otherwise. One day, as far as Mo went, she’d be deemed over the hill.

Josie pondered how to play it – whether she should state the bleeding obvious; that her beloved boyfriend might have somewhat forced his hand there. That Lizzie knew what he was like, how he’d have groomed Christine in preparation. Then raped her, to Josie’s mind, for all Christine denied it. She wasn’t yet convinced he hadn’t told her to say that. Commanded her to say that. Or else.

But there seemed little point. Not right now. Because Lizzie was half-cut. Best just deal in facts, not recriminations. ‘What’s done is done, Lizzie,’ she said firmly. ‘So you’re just going to have to make the best of it. Oh, Liz, I tell you, he’s so gorgeous. Just wait till you see him. I know it’s … complicated, but can’t you just –’

‘Make the fucking best of it? What are you on about?’

Okay then. Time to fight fire with fire, Josie thought. ‘Lizzie, will you just get over yourself?! We’re talking about your fucking grandson!’

‘My grandson? My grandson! I tell you what. Give that slut a message, will you? That that sprog she’s popped out is no grandson of mine! Actually no. Don’t do that, Jose. I’ll fucking tell her myself!’

The receiver went down with a clatter.

It was around a ten-minute walk from Lizzie’s house on Quaker Lane to St Luke’s, and Josie’s immediate thought was to hurry back there and attempt to head her off. But no sooner had she got halfway down Little Horton Lane (having opted not to waste time going back to the ward and explain to Christine) than she saw a car flash by, hooting – a car that she recognised. It was Gerald Delaney’s, a young lad off the estate, and she could see Lizzie glaring at her from behind the windscreen. She silently fumed. How much unluckier could you get?

She turned around and began jogging back where she’d come from, watching the car swing into the hospital grounds and disappear out of sight. Where it would soon disgorge Lizzie, a spitting ball of bile and fury.

Breathing hard, she reached the entrance, the car having long gone now, wondering quite what she was heading back into. It had been a vain hope – a mistake – trying to play the ‘happy grandparent’ card, clearly. This was a woman without a maternal bone in her body. Which wasn’t all her fault. Josie had sufficient empathy to understand that. Josie might have had a tough childhood, what with what had happened to her and everything, but at least she had a mam and dad who’d loved her, in their way. And her brother Vinnie. Always Vinnie. All things Lizzie had never had – she’d been not so much brought up as dragged up, when they could be bothered, by a pair of neglectful, preoccupied drunks. It was a miracle they hadn’t lost her to a foster family years back – she remembered her own mam saying that. Or, if you looked at it another way, a shame.

Either way, Lizzie Parker was on the warpath, and she needed to catch her.

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