A couple of times she’d come in demanding money. Once she was drunk and fell over and the other few times she’d turned up shouting and screaming. Terry had nicknamed her the wildebeest and Jade used to tell him off for being so nasty. But after a few altercations with Michelle, she understood why and thought it was a perfect name for her.
Their actual affair had started three years ago. A drunken kiss on a bitterly cold Christmas Eve had led them to where they were now. In all truthfulness, the pair of them had been in love with one another well over a year before it started. Frightened of their feelings, neither of them had the guts to admit or do anything about it. Terry had been honest with Jade from the word go.
‘As soon as Billie Jo turns sixteen, me and you can be together properly,’ he told her. ‘Until then we’ll have to keep it quiet. I know what Chelle’s like. She’ll use the kid as blackmail and I don’t want my little girl being dragged through the courts. Also if I fuck off now, she’d collar a load of dough off me. If I plan things properly, she’ll get nigh on sod all.’
Jade had agreed with Terry and had waited patiently for him. Billie Jo would be sixteen next year, so hopefully the wait would soon be over. She loved him so much that if he’d asked her nicely, she’d have waited for him for ever.
Terry started up his black Range Rover, put on his Kenny Rogers CD and headed towards Hornchurch where he’d lived for the past three years. Before that he and Michelle had lived in a three-bedroom semi in Rainham. Over the last five years Terry’s business had boomed and he was now the proud owner of a four-bedroom mock-Tudor house in Emerson Park. He had an ex-bank robber living one side of him and a footballer on the other, so he knew he must be doing well. The only downside he could think of was the fact he hated the fat bitch who lived in it with him.
Terry opened the glove box and took out the mobile phone that he had purposely left there earlier. They might have been one of man’s greatest inventions but they could get you hung, drawn and quartered in a minute. Eighteen missed calls and ten answerphone messages. Smiling to himself, he thought how much Orange must love him. With the bills he ran up and the calls he received, he reckoned he must keep the bastards in wages for a month. After dialling 123, he soon found out that all the messages, bar one, were from Michelle.
Number one said, ‘All right, Tel, where are you, babe?’ Number three, ‘I’ve been trying to get hold of you. Where are you? You bastard.’ Number six, ‘I hate you, you lying cheating no-good fucking shit cunt.’ He couldn’t understand seven, eight, nine or ten, as Michelle must have been so pissed by this time that the messages were totally incoherent. The last message had been left at 2.55 a.m., which pleased Terry because that meant the fat bitch had probably passed out around that time. All he needed to do was sneak in quietly. Later, he would swear blind that he had got in at half three.
‘“You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille, with four hungry children and a crop in the field.”’ Singing in perfect harmony along with Kenny Rogers, Terry decided to cover his tracks just to be on the safe side. He’d never stayed out all night before. Normally he was home by two or three at the latest. He didn’t want to give the wildebeest any more reason than necessary to be suspicious.
Pulling the Range Rover into a lay-by along the Hornchurch Road, he called his best pal Davey Mullins. Terry knew all his pals’ and business associates’ phone numbers off by heart. His motto was, ‘If you don’t leave Jack Shit lying around, no nosy bastard can find it.’ Same with the files and documents in his car lot. All he left in there was the simple stuff, anything important was stored in his brain. If the Old Bill ever shone the light on any of his illegal activities and decided to pay him a visit, he was confident that they would have had a wasted journey. As his mum used to say as she bathed him as a kid, ‘You’ve got the memory of an elephant, son, and a penis the size of its trunk.’
Finally the phone was answered. ‘Hello, who is it? What’s the time?’
‘It’s me, you tosser, who do you think it is?’
By the sound of his voice, Dave had probably been up all night getting on it, so Terry spoke slowly but surely.
‘Listen, I need a favour. I overslept round Jade’s last night and I’m only just on me way home now. If her indoors is awake, I’m gonna tell her we’ve had trouble with some motors. I’ll say we had a bit of grief with some geezers over in Swanley. If she don’t believe me, I’ll get her to ring you.’
‘All right, no problem,’ came the croaky reply. ‘Laters, yeah.’
Terry knew his best pal would never let him down. They had been in many sticky situations and tight corners over the twenty years that they had known one another and had stuck together through thick and thin. The only thing which worried Terry was that just lately Davey Boy’s cocaine habit had started spiralling out of control. Instead of having a few lines or a gram here and there like he used to, Dave had started shoving it up his hooter, morning, noon and night. Then of course the paranoia and rucks would follow, including one about a month ago with a gang of dudes on the Isle of Dogs. Terry had ended up with four stitches in the side of his head, trying to sort out Davey’s mess.
Terry liked the odd line here and there, but only used it sporadically. If something started to take hold on you, in his eyes, it was time to stop. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he had to sit Davey Boy down and have a serious chat with him. Terry sighed as he flicked the ignition back to life. Weaving his way out of the two cars that had parked either side of him, he headed back towards Emerson Park and the wildebeest.
Putting the front-door key into the lock, he quietly turned it anticlockwise. So far so good, he thought to himself, as he sneaked in. After disposing of his shoes on the mat, he practised his ballet dancing impression as he tiptoed down the hallway in his black socks. It was beginning to get light now, so luckily he could see where he was going without falling arse over tit.
Seeing the living-room door ajar, he made that his first port of call. He knew that since Michelle’s drink problem had escalated out of control, she rarely made it upstairs any more. He normally either found her flopped across the kitchen table, or lying comatose on their white leather sofa. He peeped through the crack of the door and like a fortune-teller predicting a tarot card reading, there she was, sprawled out like a beached whale recently washed ashore.
‘The state of that and the price of fish,’ he said quietly to himself. When they had first got it together, Michelle had been beautiful. Now, he found it hard to believe what had become of the girl he’d fallen in love with and married.
Michelle was out for the count. Lying flat on her back, the button and zip of her jeans were wide open, with mounds of fat bulging over the top. Terry inwardly chuckled. The thing that amused him most was the fact that apart from doing five gym classes a week, she was an honorary member of both Weight Watchers and Slimming World. It seemed the more she tried to diet and keep fit, the fatter she became. Hazarding a guess, he’d say she’d put on at least two stone in the last year alone. He’d often told her that she should go to the gym and her slimming classes and ask for her fucking money back. She must be the only woman in Britain whose before and after photos looked like they’d been switched the wrong way round.
Suddenly stirring, Michelle woke up and spotted him. Within seconds, she’d leapt up like a banshee.
‘You no-good fucking bastard. Who is she? Tell me who she is! I’ll fucking kill her.’
‘Calm down, it’s not what you think. I’ve had business to deal with.’
Terry grabbed hold of her wrists to stop her lashing out at him and tried to pacify her. Chelle was having none of it. She could tell when he was lying, always had been able to.
