Blood Rush

Book 4: Lilly Valentine

by Helen Black

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

The UK is gripped by the threat of gang violence - the media is building on that hysteria, convincing us that knife crime is rife and the streets are flooded with guns and drugs. So when a member of a notorious girl gang is charged with a brutal murder, sympathy is in short supply. Enter Lilly Valentine, a tough talking lawyer who is never prepared to take things at face value and is determined to uncover the truth, whatever the cost. A gripping crime novel that will force every reader to reassess what they think they know about society and gang culture. Praise for Helen Black: 'A dark and gripping read that will have you on the edge of your seat' Closer magazine 'A fantastic first novel [A Place of Safety].' Jane Elliott 'Terrific! A great read from start to finish.' [Dishonour] Jessie Keane author of Jail Bird. ''Unexpected and moving... A Place of Safety is written with sympathy and humour' EuroCrime

Release date: April 21, 2011

Publisher: C & R Crime

Print pages: 368

Sample

We’ve run the length of the estate and my breath comes out in weird little grunts. I glance at Malaya but she’s staring straight ahead. Either she hasn’t heard me or she knows better than to comment.

We slow to a jog, Malaya’s bangles jangling up and down her doughy wrist. Three of them. All gold. When I next get some peas, I’m buying me some of those.

We stop outside a chip shop, panting. A woman comes out with a hot parcel under her arm. The delicious smell of steam and vinegar fills the air and my stomach growls. When we’ve done this thing I’m heading straight to KFC, man.

Malaya looks up at the pair of box-fresh Nikes, tied together by their laces, and dangling from the telephone wire. We’ve crossed into South Side territory.

‘What will they do if they catch us?’ Malaya asks.

‘What would we do if we caught someone slipping into our ends?’ I shrug.

She knows the answer to that one.

We set off again, past the Spar, already closed for the night, metal shutters down, and into the estate.

I can tell Malaya’s bricking it. Her eyes are wide in her fat face. She wants to be part of the crew, course she does, but she wishes the entry ticket wasn’t so expensive.


I remember my jump in. Fuck, man. I had to cut some girl’s face. I was so pumped I nearly took her nose off.

We round the car park and arrive at a disused ground floor flat. The windows are boarded up providing a blank canvas on which the words South Side Massive are spray-painted in letters three-feet high.


Underneath are the tags of all the South Side members. Carmel, Chelsea and that crazy motherfucker Yo Yo, who would cut you open as soon as look at you. Then there’s Michaela, Kadene and that slag Tanisha McKenzie. Plus a load of others I don’t even recognise. Youngers.

For the first time I feel apprehensive and toss a spray can to Malaya. The South Siders are bad people and we don’t want to get caught.

‘Let’s do it.’

Malaya begins to write next to the mural and I draw a massive arrow flanked by two footballs. When we’ve finished we step back to admire our handiwork:

South Side Massive suck … and a huge pink cock covering the whole front door.


I can’t resist a laugh.

‘Fucking sick, man,’ says Malaya.

I nod and pull out my phone, take a picture of her grinning in front of it, her hand resting on top of an ugly bollock. Now we’re both laughing.

‘What’s funny?’

I spin to the sound of the voice. Shit. It’s that mental case, Yo Yo, barrelling towards us.

Malaya looks at me, her mouth opening and closing but no sound coming out.

I throw down my can. ‘Run.’

We dart sideways, out of Yo Yo’s path. I’m running hard now down the road and I can hear Malaya behind me, but I know Yo Yo won’t be far behind her. Up ahead I see the entrance to a swing park on the right. I crash through the gate, snagging my Adidas hoodie on a stray nail. Then I feel the sting and realize it’s sliced through more than my top. I put my hand to the gash in the material and feel the wet of blood on my fingers.


A group of white boys are huddled under the slide but I can tell by their scabby mouths and the stink of them that they’re glue-sniffers and won’t give us any trouble.

I risk a look behind me and see Malaya following, but she’s slowing down. Built for loving, not running. And Yo Yo is catching up, her teeth bared like the animal she is. Another girl follows. Then another. Shit, the whole crew are on our case.


I pound across the rec when I hear a thump and a groan. Either Malaya’s fallen or they’ve caught her. Either way, I ain’t stopping. No way. I’m right at the other end of the rec, at the fence, and I throw myself over into an overgrown garden. I hit the deck, smelling dog shit and the plastic tang of used condoms.

I keep my head down and listen good. No footsteps are chasing me. All I can hear is crying.

I hold open a couple of spiky branches and peep through a tiny gap in a bush.

Malaya is in the middle of the rec, lying on the ground, curled up like a baby in one of those ultrasound pictures. She’s making a noise in her throat, somewhere between a sob and a choke.

Yo Yo stands over her. ‘So what you got to say, girl?’

She jabs Malaya with her foot. Not real hard. Just enough to make Malaya groan.

‘Cos I’m wondering what reason you got, coming into my area, disrespecting my people.’

Malaya doesn’t answer, just covers her face with her hands.

Yo Yo’s mouth twitches like she’s done a pipe or something. But trust me, that girl don’t need a stone to get riled.


‘You ain’t going to answer me, bitch?’ she screams down at Malaya. ‘Cos if you don’t give me some explanation, I’m going to show you what I’m all about.’

Some of the other girls step forward to form a semi-circle around Malaya’s head and I have to swallow my panic. I could call my own crew, get them over here. But they’re on the other side of Clayhill, waiting on us. How long would that take? Enough time for the South Side to find me.

All I can do is lay low and hope Malaya can take it.

Then I see that slag, McKenzie, put her hand on Yo Yo’s arm. ‘Don’t be vexing yourself, sister.’

Sister. I cringe at that. Back in the day, Tanisha and me used to roll together. Used to be like we was family. Not any more.

Yo Yo shrugs her off. ‘You saying we should just leave it?’

Tanisha shrugs, picks her thumb nail.

Yo Yo nods. ‘Maybe you’re right and we should just send this piece of shit back to where she came from.’

Then she starts to walk away. I can’t believe it. Malaya’s one lucky bitch. When Yo Yo’s taken two, maybe three steps, I allow myself to exhale.

Suddenly, she spins sharply and runs at Malaya. Lands a flying kick in her back. The thud of trainer against flesh makes me heave. Acid stings my throat.

I close my eyes, hoping a few lashes from Yo Yo will be punishment enough. Each kick is accompanied by a scream from Malaya. One, two, three, four.


Then silence.

I open my eyes, praying it’s over. That someone has interrupted them and sent the South Side scattering back to the estate like the fucking rats they are.

But no. The park is quiet. Even the glue-sniffers have sloped away. The only sound is Malaya quietly crying and Yo Yo panting like a dog.


She steps back, wipes her hand across her mouth. The others look to her expectantly. I hold my breath. Please let this be it. Let Yo Yo get bored.

Then I see it. The flash in her eye. Like an electric current. She ain’t bored. She ain’t even got herself started. She throws back her head and yells at the night sky. Then she jumps on Malaya and stamps on her head. The others join her. Punching, slapping, kicking. Shouting, screaming, laughing. Hysterical.


Nothing will stop them. They got da bloodrush.




‘You look terrible.’

Lilly fixed her son with a glare. It had been a long night. Long and draining.

Sam reached into the kitchen cupboard for a glass, leaving the door wide open. ‘Do you want me to lie?’

She considered pointing out that telling lies and not telling the whole bald and ugly truth at all times were not one and the same thing. That there was no moral obligation to state the bloody obvious.

‘What?’ Sam helped himself to a carton of juice and nudged the fridge shut with his hip. He slurped his drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Nothing,’ said Lilly, and mentally filed this battle with the countless others marked ‘simply not worth it’.

Instead, she turned to Alice, who was smacking the tray of her high chair with a pudgy fist, and proffered a spoon of yoghurt.

‘At least you haven’t learned to talk yet,’ she said.

Alice rolled her head from side to side, her baby curls jiggling like a halo of red snails.

‘Come on, sweetie.’ Lilly brushed the spoon against her daughter’s lips. ‘Eat your breakfast.’

Alice clamped her mouth closed. More cat’s bum than Botticelli angel.


Sam leaned over, his fringe flopping into his eyes. He peered into the pot and wrinkled his nose at the white gloop.

‘Maybe she doesn’t like it, Mum.’

Lilly waved him away. ‘Of course she does.’

She waggled the spoon and its contents enticingly. Alice watched the trajectory of her breakfast with caution, her eyes following it from left to right. When it came within a whisper of her face, Alice gave a gummy grin.


‘She loves this stuff,’ Lilly sang out.

Her eyes twinkling, Alice opened wide and raised her hand as if she were about to give Lilly a high five.

‘See.’ Lilly was triumphant. ‘All babies love this stuff.’

The yoghurt wobbled as the spoon touched Alice’s lips, causing her to laugh out loud. Then, without warning, she batted the spoon away, splattering Lilly in the eye.


Sam let out a hoot. ‘Let’s face it, Mum, Alice is just not like other babies.’

 

The doorbell rang and Lilly made her way through the hall, Alice under her arm. She carefully picked her way through an assault course of papers and wine bottles awaiting recycling and answered.

It was Jack. ‘Mary, Mother of God, you look awful.’

‘So would you if you’d been up all night.’

Alice held out her arms to Jack and Lilly passed her over.

‘How’s Daddy’s little girl this morning?’ Jack kissed the baby’s sticky cheek. ‘Are you pleased to see me?’

Alice gurgled and Lilly felt a familiar stab of regret. Alice was always pleased to see Jack. And he was always pleased to see her. How easy life would be if they could live like a normal family.

‘I have to get ready for work.’ Lilly spun on her heels and clattered up the stairs before Jack could see the sadness written over her face.


 

When Sam and Lilly had left, Jack breathed in the silence of the cottage and let out a heavy sigh. It was a complete mess. Every flat surface was littered with bibs and toys. The sofa was entirely covered in clothes that had clearly been carried from the tumble drier but hadn’t made their way upstairs. No doubt Lilly had been distracted by a phone call, or a question from Sam, or a leaf falling off a tree in a garden two miles away.

‘What’s the kitchen like?’ he asked Alice, who chuckled into his leather jacket.

The answer was a rat’s nest of toast crusts, unopened post and pans left to soak on the window sill. He’d been in crack dens cleaner than this.

He slid Alice into her high chair, reached for a dishcloth and sighed again.

God, he missed living here.

 

Daylight and noise spill into the dorm. Ten minutes ago, when the last bell for breakfast shattered the air like glass, the other boys had hauled themselves from their bunks, thrown on their crumpled shirts and blazers, and bolted to the dining room before the last rashers of greasy bacon could be cleared away.

Since then, Jamie has laid in his bed, unable to lift his head. His sheet is knotted and uncomfortable beneath him, but he doesn’t care. He is concentrating every ounce of his being on not throwing up.


‘What’s this, Holland?’

Mr Prior stands at the door, legs apart, hands on hips. Tristan Saunders does a pukka impression of him that has everyone laughing their arses off. He’s almost been caught in the act a few times, but he doesn’t give a shit. Tristan Saunders doesn’t give a shit about anything much.


‘I don’t feel well, sir,’ Jamie mumbles.

Mr Prior enters the dorm, kicking shin pads and a hockey stick out of his way with a grunt. Anyone would think he was a general in the marines, not some poxy housemaster at a boarding school.


‘Let’s take a look at you,’ he barks.

Half-heartedly, Jamie pushes back his duvet. The swoosh of cold air makes him shudder.

‘Sit up, boy.’ Mr Prior stands over Jamie, his five-foot-three frame almost blocking the light.

‘I don’t think I can, sir.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Holland,’ says Mr Prior and grabs Jamie by the shoulders.

The sudden movement sends the room spinning and Jamie gasps. His head is banging and his stomach lurches.

‘A shower is what’s needed here,’ says Mr Prior.

The pressure of his grip is agony. It’s as if the housemaster’s fingers are squeezing right through the skin to his bone. Jamie’s throat tightens and he gives a strangled cough.

Mr Prior releases his hold and drops Jamie back on to his bed.

‘Five minutes,’ he bellows. ‘Then I want to see you washed, dressed and in my office.’

As Mr Prior reaches the door, he turns and narrows his eyes at Jamie. They hold each other’s stare for a few seconds until Jamie leans over the side of his mattress and empties the contents of his stomach on to the floor.

 

‘Dear me, your pulse is racing.’ Matron holds Jamie’s wrist between her thumb and forefinger and checks her watch.


She’s moved him to the sick bay, where there’s always a smell of disinfectant and the beds have plastic under the sheets which crackle. Jamie once spent three uncomfortable days here with flu, sweating and sneezing into his pillow. At least it’s quiet and Mr Prior will leave him alone.

Matron wipes his forehead with a damp flannel. It feels deliciously cool.


‘Do you want me to call your parents, dear?’

‘No.’ Jamie answers far too quickly.

Matron squints at him, takes another swipe with the flannel.

‘They’ll be busy at work,’ says Jamie, ‘and I don’t want to worry them for nothing.’

Matron eyes him for a moment longer, then nods.

‘I’ll leave this here.’ She pats a metal bowl perched on the bedside table. ‘Just in case.’


Jamie smiles weakly. He knows she’s trying to be kind but he wishes she’d just give him some peace. When a day boy arrives with a blood-stained hanky covering his nose, Jamie can only sigh with relief and watch Matron bustle away to her next patient.

The room tilts and Jamie lowers himself on to the bed as gently as he possibly can. He closes his eyes and breathes in through his nose. Never has he felt this rough in all his life, and he swears on everything that is sacred and holy that he will never take drugs again.

 

Lilly pulled into the winding drive of Manor Park, her son’s school. As usual, she was stuck behind an army of shiny, new four by fours, inching their way to the entrance. Every morning she swore she would set off five minutes earlier and beat the yummy mummies to it, but every morning something got in the way. Today it had taken longer than she’d expected to scrub yoghurt from her eyelashes. 


‘You won’t be late,’ Lilly told Sam, with more confidence than she felt.

He shrugged, without looking up from his iPod.

With fondness, Lilly remembered how the school run used to be a cacophony of singing and questions.

As they approached the main entrance Lilly could see the maintenance staff stringing Christmas lights around the imposing oak door and the ten-foot fir tree that stood outside the music room window.


‘That’s going to look beautiful,’ she said.

‘Last year you said it was no wonder the fees were so extortionate if they wasted money on stuff like that.’


‘Well, last year I was Scrooge,’ she said.

Sam’s thumbs whizzed across the touchpad. ‘And this year?’

‘I’m the other one,’ said Lilly. ‘The one who loves Christmas.’

‘Tiny Tim?’

At last Lilly managed to pull into a parking space, the Mini Cooper dwarfed on both sides by black Range Rovers.

‘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.

‘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 r. . .