it takes to get back in her good books, Jake.’
‘What do you mean, “what it takes”?’
‘Do I have to spell it out? Tell her you want to find this manuscript to spite me, if that’s what works.’ She smiled serenely. ‘I’ll leave it up to you.’
‘It won’t be easy.’
‘Use your charm, Jake. There’s not much point in having it otherwise, is there?’
As he remembered her words, fresh determination surged through Jake. He’d show Caroline he could be much more than a toyboy. He would make her take him seriously, whatever it took.
The shower had helped a little but Jane still felt raw and tender. She made them both coffee, swallowing a couple of painkillers while she waited for the kettle to boil. She wasn’t sure if what she was planning was the right thing, but she couldn’t see any alternative and she wanted to be as close to firing on all cylinders as she could manage. She took the mugs through and perched on the edge of her bed. ‘There’s someone I’ve got to go and see,’ she said. ‘I want you to wait here.’
‘Who you going to see?’ Tenille demanded. Having unburdened herself, her usual demeanour seemed to be reasserting itself.
‘Someone I think will be able to help.’ Jane hoped her tone would head off further questions.
Tenille stared into her coffee. ‘My dad,’ she said expressionlessly.
Jane tried to hide her surprise. Not long after Tenille had started hanging round with her, Jane had fallen into conversation at the bus stop with one of her neighbours, a young mother from a couple of doors down. ‘It’s none of my business,’ the woman had said, ‘but I noticed that Tenille hanging round your place. You want to watch yourself there.’
‘Why is that?’ Jane had bristled. ‘She seems like a bright kid.’
‘She’s bright, all right. But it’s her old man you want to worry about.’
Jane frowned. ‘I think you’re mixing her up with someone else. She hasn’t got a dad. She says she doesn’t know who her father is. Her mother always refused to tell her, and Sharon says she’s got no idea.’
The woman gave a contemptuous little snort. ‘If Tenille doesn’t know, she’s the only one. Everybody else round here knows the Hammer is her dad.’
Jane felt her eyes widen in shock. ‘John Hampton?’
‘That’s right. He’s always kept an eye out, but from a distance, like. Sharon doesn’t want her to know, see? I mean, you can see why, can’t you?’
Jane could certainly see why. She’d learned very early on that John ‘Hammer’ Hampton was the criminal equivalent of the mayor of Marshpool Farm. He was a serious gangsta, not some teenage wannabe. Drugs, sex and violence were his stock in trade and there was no doubting his grip on the illegal activities on the estate. Jane had heard stories of punishment beatings meted out to those who thought they could freelance on the wrong side of the law without giving the Hammer his due.
And now, here was Tenille openly acknowledging something Jane had thought was deeply buried. ‘You know about your dad?’ Jane said, stalling for time to get her head round this.
‘That he’s the Hammer?’ Jane nodded. Tenille shrugged. ‘I’ve sort of known for years. Somebody at school told me. I didn’t believe them at first. I didn’t want to, I suppose. But one day when Sharon was out, I went through her things. And stuffed right down the back of one of her drawers, I found a photo of my mum with the Hammer. He had his arm round her. They was smiling into each other’s faces, like they was in love or something. And then I knew for sure.’ She took a deep breath. ‘He’s never said a word to me, like. He’s always walked straight past me without a look. I figured he don’t want to know.’
‘Or else he wants to protect you,’ Jane said, reaching for a gloss that might give Tenille a more positive image of her father. ‘He must have enemies. By not letting on to you, it’s like he’s saying, “I could give a shit”, which means you’re a less attractive target to someone who wants to get at him.’
Tenille looked sceptical. ‘Or else he just don’t want anything to do with his bastard now the baby mother’s gone. It’s not like he hasn’t had his pick of other women since my mum died. He’s probably forgotten all about her by now.’
She was probably right, Jane thought wearily. But right now, talking to the Hammer was the only thing she could imagine restoring Tenille to safety. It wasn’t a comfortable thought. Her skin crawled with apprehension and revulsion. The things she’d heard laid at the Hammer’s door were not calculated to inspire a desire to spend time in his company. ‘We’ll see about that,’ she said, half to herself.
‘You gonna talk to him about Geno?’ Tenille looked at her with incredulity.
‘Of course I am.’ Jane finished her coffee and stood up.
‘Respect,’ Tenille said, sounding surprised at herself. ‘You’re pretty spicy for a white girl.’
Or pretty stupid. ‘Stay here till I get back. Don’t let anybody else in, OK?’
‘You know where to find him?’ Tenille asked.
‘I’ve got a tongue in my head. I can ask.’
‘No need. This time of the morning, he’ll be at home. D Block, far end. Flat 87.’
Jane acknowledged the information with a nod and grabbed her coat. ‘Don’t worry, Tenille. We’ll get Geno sorted out.’
We are agreed that he will return in three days when we are both free from encumbrance or obligation. I will confess that I am eager to hear his story. So much has been written and said about the destiny of this ship but only one of the principals has been heard from. It is certain that my friend’s account will provide us with much fresh insight into the mutiny itself & solve the mystery of what happened subsequent to the Bounty, & to those who took her. Aside from my friend, I think there is no man living on these islands who has an inkling of the fate of the Bounty after she sailed away from Otaheite with her crew of mutineers & Natives. I am eager to comprehend these events & to translate them into a Poem. I am limbered up for such a long work with my great Poem. It will be a remarkable undertaking.
Jane closed the front door behind her and paused, taking a deep breath. She was probably mad to do this. Whatever the unwritten rules were, she was almost certainly breaking an unconscionable number of them by turning up unannounced on the Hammer’s doorstep to tell him it was time to take care of his unacknowledged daughter. But Tenille didn’t have anyone else to look out for her. There was so much promise there, Jane knew she couldn’t just walk away and leave the child to sink or swim.
She turned up her collar against the wind and made her way across the estate to D Block, the tallest of the eight L-shaped buildings that comprised Marshpool Farm. It stood at the north side of the estate, a couple of storeys higher than the other blocks. To her surprise, the far entrance lobby was free from rubbish and graffiti. There was even the faint smell of pine disinfectant. She thought she’d chance the lift since she was going to the eighth floor. Not only did it arrive when summoned, but its interior could not have been cleaner if it had been in one of the towering office blocks at Canary Wharf. If she needed evidence of the power of John Hampton, it was here before her eyes.
Flat 87 was opposite the lift. The door was painted a deep burgundy, in sharp contrast to the scruffy grey-blue of the other doors on the landing. Vertical blinds on the windows obscured the interior. Jane squared her shoulders and pressed the doorbell. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the door swung open, revealing a massive mixed-race man in his early twenties dressed only in a pair of jogging pants. His broad