Bad Blood (Tales of the Notorious Hudson Family, Book 5) Page 2

  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.’<
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  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? Se
e 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.