the biggest knife she could find.
Billie Jo had been sound asleep until the commotion downstairs started. Her parents had always rowed but just lately their arguments were becoming worse and more frequent.
‘Put the knife down, Chelle, don’t be so stupid,’ she heard her dad say.
‘Don’t call me stupid, Terry. If I find out you’ve been cheating on me, I’ll cut your fucking bollocks off. I swear on my life, I’ll do a Mrs Bobbitt on you.’
Billie ran down the stairs at the mention of the word knife and was horrified to see her mum pointing a big one at her dad. ‘Mum, no please, don’t hurt Daddy,’ she screamed.
Momentarily, her daughter’s presence was enough to throw Michelle off balance. Grabbing the knife, Terry shoved her against the wall. He rang Davey Mullins and handed Michelle the phone. ‘Ask him where we was. Go on, you fucking nutter, ask him.’
Comforting his hysterical daughter in his strong arms, Terry gently led her up the stairs. ‘Ssh, stop crying now, Billie. It’s all over now, babe. It was only a silly misunderstanding. Now come on, sweetheart, we’re going out later, me and you. You don’t wanna be all red-eyed now, do you?’
Once she had spoken to Davey Mullins, Chelle regained her senses. If Billie hadn’t come downstairs, she wasn’t sure what would’ve happened. The way she’d lost it, she’d probably have plunged the knife straight through Terry. She’d certainly felt capable of it. Unsteadily, she made her way back into the living room. The thought of him leaving her was too distressing to even contemplate. She still loved him deep down, always had and always would, and the thought of him being with another woman made her turn into someone she didn’t recognise. The jealousy she had felt earlier was indescribable. She’d felt a sense of panic, as if her heart was being pulled out of her chest. She wasn’t totally stupid. She knew he didn’t love her any more. She also knew that if it wasn’t for Billie Jo, he’d have fucked off long ago. That’s why she drank so much, to blot out the truth.
It had been oh-so-different in the beginning. An only child, Chelle had been spoilt rotten and used to getting everything she wanted from a very early age. She was twenty years old when she’d met Terry in a local pub and she’d known instantly that he was the man for her. Handsome, wealthy and definitely a face, she’d made a play for him and got him. It hadn’t been difficult back then. She’d possessed the looks, charm and acting ability to snare whoever she wished.
Within a year, Chelle’s façade had started to slip. Desperate not to lose Terry, she’d purposely fallen pregnant. Billie Jo being born was her trump card. The child’s birth enabled her to hang on to the man she loved and the lifestyle she craved. If he’d left her then or now, she would be nothing, a no-mark. She couldn’t and wouldn’t let that happen. She’d kill him before she allowed him to walk out that front door.
Deciding a change of tactic was needed, she pondered over what to do next. She’d been playing Mrs Nice Wife recently and it had been getting her nowhere. A different game-plan had to be put into play.
Still too drunk to think straight, she guzzled the remainder of the wine, before sobbing in a crumpled heap on the sofa. If he was going to get rid of her, trade her in for some newer model, she was determined to go out with the biggest bang possible.
Terry made sure Billie was OK and then got into bed in one of the spare rooms. He could hear Michelle crying downstairs. She’d played the drama queen act for so long during their marriage that she was now an expert at it.
How the fuck has my life ended up like this? he thought silently, as he drifted back to his past. His childhood had been awful. The eldest of three boys, he’d been born into poverty. His father was a drunken brute, who had resented him from the day he was born. His mother was a typical downtrodden Irishwoman who did her best to avoid her husband’s violent temper.
Terry’s salvation had been starting work. At thirteen, he had got a part-time job at a car lot in Romford for a guy named Benny Bones. Being a streetwise kid, Terry was a fast learner and within months had mastered the trade off by heart. Benny was a cockney through and through. He knew every song, saying and villain that had ever come out of the East End of London. Terry loved his accent, stories and slang. He’d never felt Irish and having never really lived there, he classed himself as an Englishman. Irishmen reminded him too much of his drunken father.
Within a year of working for him, Terry had Benny’s repertoire off to a tee, so much so that customers used to think they were father and son. In Terry’s mind they were. Benny was the father he’d never really had.
It was around this time that Terry arrived home one night to see his mother lying on the floor, covered in blood, with her eyeball hanging out of its socket. Dragging his father out of the armchair, Terry proceeded to knock seven colours of shit out of him. All the years of pent-up frustration of being bullied by the bastard were finally released. Ex-boxer or no ex-boxer, a drunken ageing Paddy was no match for the up and coming Terry, whose parting sentence was to tell his father that if he ever touched his mother again, he would come back and finish him off. Terry walked out of the house that night and never went back.
Terry moved in with his boss Benny and over the next year or two used his knowledge to take the car trade by storm. Having saved enough money for a deposit, he then bought himself a little flat situated just off Seven Kings High Road. Enjoying his first taste of independence and throwing himself into his work, he had little or no time to bother with women. Witnessing his parents’ fucked-up relationship had put him off for life, and apart from a few one-night stands, he couldn’t be bothered.
He was thirty years old when he had the misfortune of meeting Chelle. His mother had warned him about girls like her, but he’d still been silly enough to let her dig her claws in and then trap him. The unplanned pregnancy had been a shock to him. Determined to do the right thing, he’d married her. Within months, he realised he’d dropped a clanger. A terrible wife equalled an awful mother, but determined his daughter would have a stable childhood, he battled on.
Now he was at the point of no return. Gone was the sweet, pretty brunette he’d first met. In its place was a money-orientated, nasty fat bitch with a mouth like a sewer.
‘What a poxy night,’ he muttered to himself, as he snuggled up under the quilt. He was wrecked now, worn out by it all, and couldn’t wait to get some shut-eye.
Part of him felt guilty. If he hadn’t come home so late, the row would never have happened. He wasn’t bothered about Chelle, she could go and fuck herself. Billie was his only concern and he could tell his daughter had been shaken up by the scene that she’d witnessed earlier. Deciding to make it up to her by spoiling her rotten, he nodded off into a deep, welcome sleep.
Hearing her dad snoring in the next room, Billie wept quietly. The rows between her parents she’d learned to live with, she’d had to, but the events of earlier had nigh on scared her to death. The thought of what might have happened if she hadn’t heard the commotion and come down the stairs was too traumatic for her to even think about. Her home life was bad enough, surely it couldn’t get any worse. Consoling herself with the thought that it was probably just a one-off, she willed herself to sleep. She had a busy day ahead and didn’t want it spoilt by being overtired.
As Billie nodded off to sleep, she was totally unaware of the run of bad luck that was catapulting towards her.
This morning’s episode had been the start of it, a taster.
Unfortunately for Billie, the worst was yet to come.
