Blood Rush (Lilly Valentine) Read online

  ‘Not Tiny Tim,’ she said. ‘Bob what’s his name.’

  Sam opened the car door and slid out in one fluid movement. A blast of icy air smacked Lilly in the face.

  ‘Bob Cratchit,’ said Sam.

  ‘That’s the man.’

  Sam rolled his eyes. ‘So you’re going to be the guy who is completely exploited by his boss, never speaks up for himself, and sells out for a goose.’

  Lilly tried to think of a clever retort, but nothing came.

  ‘Well, good luck with that,’ said Sam and slammed the door.

  As she watched him take the steps two at a time, she wound down the passenger window.

  ‘Sam,’ she called.

  He turned and raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Actually, I am the boss.’

  He laughed and disappeared inside.

  A dark-haired woman in her mid fifties, wearing a pillar-box-red overcoat and a scowl, was already waiting outside the offices of Valentine & Co. when Lilly arrived. She was stamping her feet against the cold and checking her watch at regular intervals.

  Lilly smiled warmly. ‘You must be the new secretary.’

  The woman peered at Lilly over glasses that were perched on the end of what looked more like a beak than a nose.

  ‘The agency told me you opened at nine,’ she said. ‘It’s ten past.’

  ‘The traffic was hideous on the A5,’ answered Lilly.

  ‘I see,’ said the woman. Her frown matched the grey winter morning. Her coat incongruously cheerful.

  Lilly smiled again and unlocked the door. This was the sixth secretary she’d welcomed through the doors in as many months. The previous five had left in various states of despair at Lilly’s special brand of working practice.

  Lilly had high hopes for this one. She’d come recommended from the agency as ‘robust and flexible’.

  ‘Let me show you around,’ said Lilly.

  The woman said nothing as Lilly gave the tour of reception, meeting rooms and kitchen, though there was an audible intake of breath when Lilly opened the door to her own office.

  ‘I’m not the most tidy of people.’

  Files were scattered across the floor and a brown apple core was discarded on her desk. Lilly scooped it up and catapulted it into an overflowing bin.

  ‘I don’t see clients in here.’ Lilly tapped the back of the spare chair which was piled high with documents and law books.

  The woman didn’t put so much as a toe over the threshold.

  ‘So what do you think?’ Lilly opened her arms. ‘I think you’ll find I’m pretty easy to work for.’

  The woman didn’t speak.

  ‘Any questions?’

  The woman looked at Lilly as if she were completely mad. ‘No thank you.’

  The hospital room is completely bare apart from the bed and a chair pulled alongside. No pictures or posters on the grey wall. No books or magazines on the window ledge.

  Demi looks from her grandmother’s face to her sister’s and back again. She can’t say who looks worse, Malaya with her purple eyes, swollen shut, or Gran, her mouth pinched into a straight line.

  ‘Why don’t you get yourself a cup of tea, Gran?’

  Gran glances up at Demi. But only for a second. She’s been at Malaya’s side ever since she got here and hasn’t taken her eyes off her.

  ‘What if she wakes up?’ Gran asks.

  Demi opens her palms. ‘I’m here.’

  Gran breathes through her nose, her nostrils flaring, unable to decide. She must be thirsty yet she can’t bear to leave her poor girl.

  ‘You need to stretch your legs,’ says Demi.

  Gran gives a tight nod and pulls herself to her feet with a groan. She backs to the door, still unwilling to let Malaya out of her sight.

  ‘If anything happens …’

  ‘I’ll run and get you,’ Demi interrupts.

  Gran hovers in the doorway.

  ‘Go,’ Demi urges, shooing her grandmother away with her hand.

  Finally, Gran leaves and Demi takes her seat. It’s still warm.

  Now she’s alone, Demi’s not sure what to do. She crosses her feet. Then she uncrosses them. Cross, uncross. Cross, uncross. She keeps time with the steady rhythm of the machine next to Malaya. It’s attached to her by a viper’s nest of wires. The nurse says the sound is her heart beating. Which seems incredible to Demi, because lying there, not moving at all, Malaya looks as if she’s already dead.

  Demi leans forward and places her hand next to her sister’s. Malaya’s is bigger than hers. Fatter. A ring sinks into the plumpness of her finger like a sausage tied in the middle. Demi tries not to think about all the times she’s watched Malaya stuffing her face with fried yam and called her a pig.

  ‘This is a terrible thing.’

  Demi turns to the door and sees their neighbour, Mrs Mboko. Like Gran, she’s at least eighteen stone, both their skins the anthracite black of the Igbo. At church on Sundays, dressed in their head wraps, they look like a couple of proud statues.

  ‘They think she’ll be okay,’ says Demi, though as far as she knows no one has actually told them that.

  ‘Your grandmother has already suffered so much.’ Mrs Mboko shakes her head sadly.

  ‘Yes,’ says Demi.

  Mrs Mboko kisses her teeth. ‘These gangs are a wicked thing.’

  It’s only now that Demi sees Chika skulking behind her mother, kicking her high-tops against the door jamb. She’s a few years older than Demi, and everyone on the estate knows her. She’s part of the gang that runs things.

  ‘You girls must concentrate on your studies and stay away from trouble.’ Mrs Mboko wags her finger.

  Chika mumbles something under her breath and Demi assumes they’ll leave, but Mrs Mboko remains where she is, her eyes closed, her lips moving. Demi realizes she’s saying a prayer. When she’s finished, she crosses herself. Demi copies her. A reflex action.

  ‘Remember me to your people,’ says Mrs Mboko, and leaves.

  Chika stays behind, her nose ring glinting in the striplights.

  ‘She really going to be all right?’

  Demi shrugs.

  ‘That’s harsh,’ says Chika. ‘But you need anything, you let me know, yeah?’

  Demi nods.

  ‘CBD look after their bredren, you get me?’

  Demi nods again.

  ‘Have the police been?’ asks Chika.

  ‘No.’

  ‘They will.’ Chika enters the room and lowers her voice. ‘Say nothing, you understand me.’

  ‘Don’t have anything to say.’

  A small smile plays around the edge of Chika’s mouth. Then it’s gone and something cold and hard settles.

  ‘We’re gonna sort this ourselves,’ she says.

  ‘How?’ asks Demi and instantly regrets it.

  Chika narrows her eyes. ‘You fuck with our family and we gonna fuck with you.’

  Lilly spun around in the swivel chair behind the desk in reception. She found that if she lifted her feet, she could make it almost 360 degrees.

  Her would-be secretary had left without even taking off her coat. A record. The agency had promised a replacement by lunchtime. In return, Lilly had promised to tidy things up. And she would. Just as soon as she had made an entire revolution in the chair.

  She held the edge of the desk and pushed herself from left to right to gain momentum. When she felt she had sufficient force, she propelled herself around, letting out a high-pitched squeal of delight.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Lilly came to a juddering halt.

  Another woman was standing in the doorway. Her hair was sticking out at odd angles and she wore a bright-orange waterproof. Her expression was puzzled, but at least she wasn’t frowning.

  Lilly leapt from her seat and held out her hand. She was determined to make a good impression. Spinning like a child was not a good start, she conceded, but still.

  The woman shook her hand, her brow knotted.

&nbs
p; ‘Annabelle,’ she said.

  ‘Lilly.’ She grinned inanely. ‘Let me show you around.’

  She had already decided that her room was strictly out of bounds.

  ‘This is the reception.’ Lilly waved at the phone and computer.

  Annabelle nodded seriously.

  ‘I work on an entirely different floor.’ Lilly let out a strangled laugh. ‘Entirely separate.’

  ‘Is that where you want me to go?’ Annabelle asked.

  ‘No, no, no.’ Lilly shook her head. ‘Me and my things need not bother you at all.’

  ‘So where do you want me?’

  Lilly gestured to the chair. ‘Your domain. Completely free of my … stuff.’

  Annabelle smiled and strode across the room, a rucksack jiggling on her shoulder, sat down and looked at Lilly expectantly.

  ‘Why don’t you log on to the PC and I’ll make us a coffee,’ said Lilly.

  ‘Log on,’ Annabelle repeated.

  She seemed a little vacant but at least she was in the building.

  ‘Milk and sugar?’ Lilly asked.

  ‘Er … yes, please.’

  Annabelle’s hands were poised over the keyboard. She looked back at Lilly, who smiled encouragingly, and headed for the kitchen.

  When she returned with two steaming mugs, Annabelle was frozen in the same position, her fingers floating in mid-air.

  ‘I don’t mean to be rude,’ she said, ‘but I really don’t think I should access your computer.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Lilly. ‘Anything case sensitive is password protected.’

  ‘I’m still not comfortable.’

  Lilly reminded herself to be patient. Perhaps Annabelle had never worked for a lawyer before. How was she meant to know what she could or couldn’t be party to?

  ‘Seriously, you don’t need to worry.’

  Annabelle didn’t move to touch the keys.

  ‘How else are you going to type?’ Lilly joked.

  Annabelle’s face reddened. ‘Oh, I can’t type.’

  Lilly took a deep breath. She had told the agency that she would be prepared to take on someone without any prior experience. Actually, they had said that only someone who had never stepped foot in a solicitor’s office before might stand a chance of going the distance. Even so, there were some basic skills that any secretary needed to have.

  ‘How were you going to manage case notes and things?’ Lilly asked.

  Annabelle reached into her rucksack and pulled out a biro.

  Lilly stifled the urge to laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Annabelle, I mean I really do need someone like you, but I don’t think this is going to work out.’

  ‘But you don’t know what I’m going to say.’

  Lilly smiled in what she hoped was a kindly way. ‘Look, I’m sure you’re hard working and that you have lots of excellent qualities if only I would give you a chance, but with the best will in the world I need a secretary who can at least type.’

  Annabelle hung her head.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lilly, ‘it’s nothing personal.’

  The other woman buried her face in her hands and her shoulders began to heave.

  ‘Oh please don’t cry.’ Lilly reached out. ‘I’m sure you could go on a course or something.’

  Annabelle let out a choking noise in her throat and rocked back and forth. Oh God, this was terrible. Lilly had to force herself not to relent and employ the woman. She bit her lip to stop herself.

  At last, Annabelle let her hands drop and threw back her head. Her cheeks were puce and damp with tears. Lilly furrowed her brow. Annabelle wasn’t weeping. She was laughing.

  ‘Oh dear me.’ Annabelle pressed her palms into her eye sockets. ‘You think I want to work here.’

  Lilly frowned in response which sent Annabelle into another volley of giggles.

  ‘I’m sorry, but it’s so funny,’ said Annabelle.

  ‘You haven’t come for the job?’ asked Lilly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what did you want?’

  Annabelle fished a crumpled hanky from the depths of her pocket and blew her nose. ‘Some legal advice, of course.’

  ‘Oh shit.’

  Jack balled a handful of tissues and aimed for the bin.

  ‘Slam dunk,’ he called out when they landed on target.

  Alice gurgled in appreciation.

  He aeroplaned around the now-clean kitchen, his daughter waving her chubby arms and legs.

  ‘I used to be in the school basketball team.’ Jack changed his voice to a vague imitation of Marlon Brando. ‘I could have been a contender.’

  He scooped Alice up from her high chair and swung her in the air. ‘Now it’s your turn, kiddo.’

  She squealed, laughed, then burped as Jack pretended to line up his trajectory. He carried on pitching her high above his head until his mobile rang.

  ‘McNally.’ He slid his hiccupping baby back into her chair.

  ‘Jack, it’s the chief superintendent.’

  Aye, aye, something was up.

  ‘What can I do for you, sir?’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s been more gang violence. This time on the Hightown Estate.’

  Jack wasn’t surprised. The last six months had seen a rash of knife attacks on the bordering estates of Clayhill and Hightown.

  ‘It’s open warfare up there,’ the chief muttered.

  Jack grunted in response.

  ‘The latest victim is a fifteen-year-old girl. Beaten, kicked, left for dead,’ said the chief super. ‘She’s still unconscious.’

  ‘Witnesses?’

  ‘That’s why I’m calling you, Jack. These kids won’t talk to the police.’

  ‘I hate to break it to you, sir, but I’m job myself.’

  ‘Yes, but you have a way of gaining their trust, Jack.’

  Jack wasn’t convinced. ‘These gangbangers are different to the kids I worked with in Child Protection. Another breed altogether.’

  The chief super’s voice became firmer. ‘I’m getting a lot of heat about our success rate and the press are all over it.’

  Jack sighed. This issue had been boiling for months but the top brass only got involved when the press and the politicians got themselves involved. Same old, same old.

  ‘I’ll come in later, sir, look at the file.’

  ‘No time for that Jack. My secretary will text you the details and you can get cracking.’

  Jack was about to explain that he really needed to read all the information but the chief super was in no mood for discussion.

  ‘I’m putting you in charge of this investigation, Jack. Don’t let me down.’

  Then he hung up.

  Penny Van Huysan greeted Lilly with a kiss on both cheeks. ‘Hello, stranger.’

  She smelled of Jo Malone cologne and lip balm. In the unfamiliar world of Manor Park with its talk of horseboxes and second homes in Tuscany, Penny was a much appreciated ally.

  Not that Penny didn’t belong to this world, she did. Her teeth gleamed and her hair shone. The understated handbag slung over her shoulder cost several thousand pounds. But she was kind and funny and real.

  ‘How’s business?’ She linked arms with Lilly as they strolled from the car park to the quad where the pupils poured out in a river of green blazers.

  Lilly groaned. ‘I had another secretary walk out on me.’

  ‘You’re worse than Henry,’ Penny laughed, ‘and he’s a complete bastard to work for.’

  ‘It gets worse,’ said Lilly. ‘I made a client sit at the computer and ordered her to log on.’

  ‘Why on earth would you do that?’

  ‘I thought the agency had sent her,’ said Lilly, still mortified by the misunderstanding. ‘It turned out she was after legal advice for her foster daughter.’

  ‘You need some help,’ said Penny.

  ‘No shit, Sherlock.’

  Penny delved into the bag worth more than the GDP of most developing nations, and withdrew a leather-bound notebook
. A slender silver pen was attached. If it had been Lilly’s, the pen would have been lost within days, replaced by a chewed pencil.

  ‘I met Carol at Pilates.’ Penny scribbled down a number. ‘A total godsend.’

  ‘I need someone who can type, not bend me into impossible positions.’

  Penny rolled her eyes. ‘Carol is fantastic. Our paperwork has never been in such great shape.’

  Lilly frowned as she imagined neat rows of taxi receipts and hotel bills from Henry Van Huysan’s endless business trips to the Far East.

  ‘For goodness sake, Lilly, why do you assume the worst in every situation?’ asked Penny.

  ‘I do not.’

  Penny turned to her friend and pursed her lips.

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Lilly. ‘I accept I am not naturally an optimist.’

  ‘Cassandra was cheerier than you, believe me.’

  Lilly couldn’t help but laugh.

  ‘And I’m not even going to mention Jack,’ said Penny.

  ‘Then don’t.’

  As they waited for their children, Lilly counted in her head. One. Two. Three.

  ‘All I will say is that he’s a good man,’ said Penny.

  Lilly held up three fingers.

  ‘And he’s the father of your child.’

  Lilly exhaled slowly. Penny was right. Jack was a good man.

  ‘You two should be together,’ said Penny.

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ Lilly replied.

  Penny waved at her son who, unlike Sam, was always one of the first day boys to leave. He bounded towards her, his braces glinting. Lilly squinted into the distance, searching for Sam. Why was he always last?

  ‘Do yourself a favour, Lilly,’ Penny put an arm around her son’s shoulders, ‘and don’t make life so hard for yourself.’

  Lilly had barely opened the cottage door when Sam pushed past her and headed upstairs mumbling about homework.

  ‘Advanced PS3, I assume,’ she called out.

  He grunted and slammed his bedroom door. Lilly sighed. He’d given her the silent treatment on the journey home from school, declining to speak except to mention that he was quite capable of getting the bus. Being collected by his mother was ‘totally embarrassing’. Lilly had pointed out that Penny still did the school run.