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.
It didn’t take long. Though Lizzie had obviously had sufficient presence of mind to present a calm, motherly exterior at the reception, Josie was still outside the post-natal ward when she first picked up more familiar tones. What was the stupid woman thinking of? Turning up there, hanging out all her dirty washing in public? No, she might not give a flying fuck about who heard the torrent of abuse she intended for Christine, but did she not have sufficient pride to worry about how it would make her look? Like a pissed-up old fishwife with a mouth like a sewer – and it was odds on there’d be someone in earshot who’d know of her, even if they didn’t know her personally.
But it was clearly too late to try and lead her away and talk some sense into her. As Josie approached the double doors, she was already behind a small gathering of nurses, who were hurrying to the scene in a blur of blue.
She spotted Lizzie right away. It wasn’t difficult, as she was dressed to be noticed, in spray-on drainpipes and a clingy long-sleeved vest top. And Josie could tell from her stance that she was as drunk as she’d sounded on the phone – slightly wide-footed, as if recently dismounted from a horse. The same stance she remembered from her own childhood, when her mam had returned from a lunchtime session down the pub. She’d stand in front of the mantelpiece, randomly prodding her hair, and trying to focus sufficiently to apply her signature blood-red lipstick. Like a kid holding a crayon and trying to colour inside the lines. One of the reasons Josie never adorned her own mouth.
Christine was still in bed. She’d given birth less than two hours ago, for fuck’s sake! And to the side, standing protectively in front of both mother and baby (and looking like she’d happily deal with any nonsense) stood a nurse – senior by the looks of it, probably the ward sister – with her hands held out in front of her, at chest height. She put Josie in mind of a football referee trying to stop an angry forward starting on a defender.
She hurried up. Touched Lizzie’s arm, which was immediately shaken off. ‘Lizzie, it’s me,’ she hissed. ‘Will you please calm the fu—’ she quickly swallowed the expletive – ‘down!’
Lizzie glanced at her, but only briefly. She was already engaged in conversation with the nurse, clearly. ‘Of course I’m going to fucking leave!’ she was saying. ‘Does it look like I want to stay here? I’ve seen everything I need to see, thank you very much. And, yes,’ she added, in response to some pointed nodding and gesticulating by the nurse to one of the others, ‘feel free to call whoever the fuck you like, love. I am outta here,’ she finished dramatically. Josie rolled her eyes. Had she heard that expression off the telly? ‘And as for you, you little bitch –’ she stabbed a burgundy-tipped finger in Christine’s direction – ‘don’t even think about coming back home.’
Christine, whey-faced and visibly shaking, said nothing in response to this.
The nurse did. ‘Mrs Parker!’ she exploded. ‘That’s enough!’
Josie became aware now of the occupants of the two other beds in the bay. Both young-looking. Both wide-eyed. One with a hand to her mouth. There was the sound of a baby crying. Christine’s baby, she realised. She saw her friend glance at the cot. Watched Lizzie’s eyes swivel too, towards the source of the noise. Josie touched her arm again. Grabbed onto it more firmly this time. Was she bloody going or wasn’t she? The nurse was moving towards her, perhaps to take hold of her other arm.
The nurse didn’t, though. She just strode up and was right in Lizzie’s face. ‘Out.’ She didn’t raise her voice now. She didn’t need to. A noise from behind alerted Josie to the reason why – the arrival of more support. She let Lizzie go and glanced backwards, relieved. She wouldn’t put it past Lizzie to engage in a spot of brawling, but perhaps not with the three burly young porters who were now approaching.
Lizzie wasn’t done yet, however. Stepping round the nurse, presumably keen to add a pithy parting shot, she headed straight