She mulled Celia’s offer over for a couple of days, then thought of the money and all that she could do with it out in the big wide world some day in the future when she was no longer so scared as she was right now, scared like she had been ever since the man-and-woman stuff had started with Dad. So she said yes.
It wasn’t so bad. All she had to do, she discovered, was what she had always done in the past – just take herself off somewhere in her mind while it happened, let that familiar old blankness settle over her and then, wallop, two minutes and it was all over and the customer was off out the door.
By the time she hit nineteen, she had a pretty good stash of loot put aside in the bottom of her wardrobe but she had no idea what to do with it. Dreams, plans, those were for other people. Unlike Ellie, there was nothing she objected to with the clients because she was never actually there while it happened. So she did the lot. The blow jobs, the full sex, the hand jobs, anal, even some tying up and whipping (although most clients preferred to go to the more experienced Aretha for those services) and she even accommodated the Golden Rainers who liked to piss on a woman for some weird perverted reason of their own.
‘Oh, I seen worse than that, girl,’ said Aretha. ‘One of my boys? He likes to eat my… well, I think you get the picture.’
Nothing was off limits to Dolly, because she never felt it, was never truly aware of it happening. Somewhere, deep in her core, she knew that something had been killed in her; something that had once been alive and well was now dead and rotten.
‘Smarten yourself up a bit, will you, Doll?’ Celia asked sometimes when the blackness descended and Dolly’s scruffiness reached a new low.
Dolly kept up with the home dye but her hair did look frazzled. Sometimes an inch of dark root showed through. She chain-smoked and didn’t eat good food, only rubbish, so her skin was bad and she had to slather thick make-up on it to make it look passable.
Celia nagged Dolly sometimes about her appearance, but the truth was she didn’t much care what she looked like because what was it for? The punters, who climbed on board and used her? Fuck them. If they didn’t like it, they knew what they could do.
Despite the bad memories it conjured up, she still made the occasional bus trip to her old home, just to stand at the end of the street, watching. She didn’t know why. It was something she felt she had to do, a compulsion, beyond her control. Common sense said leave it. The past was dead and it should stay that way. But every so often she’d get the urge to go back there and no amount of reasoning with herself could stop her.
Then one day – the day when she realized hell had opened up – she stood there at the end of the street for over an hour. That day she saw no boys, no Nige, no Dick, no little Sand trying to jump over the front wall and falling on his arse as usual, no Mum. What she did see was Sarah, her little sis, now fourteen years old, coming out of the door with Dad, and going out the front gate.
She saw Dad’s arm draped around Sarah’s shoulders. Saw his springy bow-legged walk, and felt her stomach heave.
But the worst thing? When she thought about it afterwards – and she couldn’t stop thinking about it, try as she might – the very worst thing was Sarah’s face. It was turned up to her father’s and Dolly saw clearly that it wore an expression that was cowed but at the same time pitifully hopeful. Dolly’s heart stopped in her chest as she saw it. Sarah’s face said: I’ll be good, Dad, so please don’t hurt me. I love you, Dad, why do you hurt me?
And in that instant, sick beyond words, sick to her stomach, Dolly knew.
46
Dolly had her own worries, her own private concerns, but she wasn’t completely cut off from the rest of humanity. She went downstairs one morning and into the kitchen, and there they all were: Celia, Darren, Aretha and Ellie, all sitting around the table with untouched cups of tea in front of them, all looking like they’d lost a tenner and found sixpence.
Dolly stopped inside the kitchen door and stared at them. Celia hadn’t even lit a fag, hadn’t even put one in her ivory holder. It lay on the table in front of her, unused, beside an unopened packet. It was like they were all in suspended animation. They didn’t even look up at her.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked, gazing around at their still, frozen faces.
Celia was the first to respond.
‘Oh! Doll,’ she said, and seemed unable to say more.
‘What is it?’ asked Dolly, taking her usual seat. She gave a tentative smile. ‘What’s happened then? Somebody died or something?’
Celia gave a slow dip of a nod. ‘Yeah. Something like that, Doll.’
‘What?’ Dolly had been joking. The smile fell from her face.
‘You know the Delaney boys?’ said Aretha.
‘What about them?’ said Dolly.
‘We got the news ten minutes ago. Can’t take it in really,’ said Celia.
‘What is it?’ Dolly’s mouth was dry. Whatever it was, it was bad. Really bad. She could see that.
‘Tory Delaney’s dead.’
‘Tory…’ Dolly frowned. Tory was the one in charge of the Delaney gang they paid protection money to, the one who’d come in here with his hair-trigger-tempered brother Pat and sorted out that punter who’d been beating on Ellie.
‘He’s been shot. Outside the Tudor Club in Stoke Newington,’ said Celia, whose face was pale with shock.
‘Four times, they reckon,’ said Darren. ‘Three in the chest, one in the head. Nobody knows who did it, but we’re all thinking the Carters.’
Dolly knew the Delaney and Carter gangs were at loggerheads – had been for years. But this… this was going to bring open warfare on to the streets. And if Tory was dead, who was going to be in charge of the Delaney gang now? Who was going to take revenge for Tory’s murder?
‘Redmond will take over. He’s the eldest. Not Pat – he hasn’t the brains for it,’ said Celia.
‘Redmond? That’s the one with the twin, ain’t it?’ asked Aretha.
‘That’s the one. Redmond and Orla. Redmond’s a thinker. Christ, I’ve only just got used to dealing with Tory. Tory was always a bit of a hothead, but Redmond? He’s a cold fish. Cold right through, that’s Redmond, that’s what everyone says,’ said Celia.
‘Wasn’t there another son? Younger still?’ asked Ellie.
‘That’s Kieron, the painter. No, he wouldn’t be into dirty games like the others. He’s kept himself apart from all that,’ said Celia.
Dolly tuned them out; she was still thinking about seeing Sarah and Dad on the street, still reliving it, still seeing little Sar’s face. She felt powerless and terrified whenever she thought of Dad. She couldn’t face him, she couldn’t bear it.
But oh God. Sarah!
‘Dolly! Wake up girl, stick the kettle on, will you? This tea’s stone cold,’ said Celia.
Dolly tuned back in. She stood up and did as Celia asked, feeling a cold shiver run right up her spine. Things were changing here at the knocking shop, and she hated that.