Born Evil. Kimberley Chambers

her drama queen mother deserved one another. As for the lies they’d concocted, she’d never forgive them for that.

      Pulling her case out from under the bed, she started to pack her clothes and belongings. They wouldn’t have to wait till next weekend to get rid of her, she’d be long gone before then. She crammed in the last of her necessities, zipped the case and slid it back under the bed. She was seeing Billy tomorrow morning and couldn’t wait to tell him the whole sorry story. He’d been asking her to move in with him for the last few months, but she hadn’t wanted to upset her parents so had said no. Now, though, she couldn’t wait to set up home with him.

      Billy had a council place on an estate in Barking. The area was a bit rough and his flat was dirty with virtually no furniture. In fact, it was the complete opposite to the clean house and nice area that Debbie had become accustomed to.

      All it needs is a woman’s touch, a good clean, a bit more furniture and we’ll be fine, she told herself.

      The last night in her perfectly furnished bedroom with its pink wallpaper, hi-fi system, TV, video, and all her other personal belongings, wasn’t an easy one for Debbie. She spent the whole night tossing and turning, unable to sleep. Ninety-nine per cent of her felt sure she was doing the right thing. Moving in with Billy and having his baby was what she wanted, wasn’t it? There was only that one little seed of doubt at the back of her mind telling her that her choice could be wrong.

      There’s an old saying in life: ‘Little seeds grow into very big trees.’

      Unacknowledged by her, Debbie’s little seed had already begun to sprout.

       TWO

      JUNE SAT ON a floral-upholstered chair in the conservatory, a thousand thoughts spinning through her mind. She sipped her coffee and stared through the plate-glass window while Peter mowed the lawn. Watching her daughter leave home this morning, suitcase in hand, had broken her heart. She hadn’t said a word as Debbie had walked away but kept schtum, to please Peter. What kind of mother did that make her? She should have shaken the girl, made her see sense, cuddled her and begged her to stay. Maybe even sat her down and told her the whole sorry story of her own younger years. Surely that would have been enough to make Debbie sit up and take notice.

      Instead she’d done nothing, absolutely sod all, just let her daughter walk down the path and out of her life, with that no-good bastard Billy McDaid standing smirking by the front door. All she could do now was hope and bloody pray that her Debbie’s life didn’t turn out to be a mirror image of her own.

      June Dawson had been only a kid, sixteen years old, in fact, when she’d had the misfortune to meet Johnny Fuller at the local fairground. Ten years older than herself, he was a handsome bastard. He had the clothes, the looks, the chat and the charm to impress a gullible teenager. June had fallen for him, hook, line and sinker. She could remember the night she’d lost her virginity like it was yesterday. He’d looked so good in his black Crombie, tight trousers and winkle-picker shoes, she’d been overwhelmed with lust for him, putty in his hands.

      Her pregnancy had shocked her parents to the core and they’d demanded she go away to a home, give birth to the child and have it adopted. Blinded by a mixture of naivety and love, June had ignored their request and chosen her own path. A brief spell living with Johnny’s mother was followed by a council tenancy in a house in the back streets of Poplar.

      Overjoyed at having her own home and determined to be a good mother and potential wife, June threw herself into a homemaking role where cooking, cleaning, scrubbing and lovemaking were all part of her everyday duties. Trouble was, as happy as she was in her new life, her Johnny wasn’t. Within weeks of their moving in together, he was spending more and more time in the local pub.

      The night her Mickey was born would stick in June’s mind forever. At just turned seventeen, she knew nothing about having babies. On the night her waters broke, she thought she’d accidentally wet herself. When the contractions started she put it down to an upset tummy, blaming the bread and dripping she’d eaten earlier. For four hours she lay on the floor, crippled with pain, hoping and praying that Johnny would come home. Finally, unable to stand it anymore, she crawled on her hands and knees to old Lil next door.

      Lillian Wade had lived through two world wars. After taking one look at June, she grabbed a towel and a pair of scissors, and forty-five minutes later young Mickey Dawson let out his first cry.

      Johnny Fuller arrived home five days after his son was born. Unbeknown to June he’d met some old scrubber, eighteen years his senior, from the Whitechapel area and had been staying at hers. After spending less than an hour with his first-born, Johnny headed off to the pub to wet the baby’s head.

      Life grew harder for June from that moment onwards. Money was scarce, and as time wore on she was left more and more alone with her son; Johnny was usually nowhere to be seen. But June, being a fighter, learned how to cope on her own with her boy. Her neighbours were wonderful, and whenever her so-called partner stayed away for long spells they helped her out with Mickey, making sure that both of them were okay. Many a cold night June and the boy sat huddled around a neighbour’s coal fire for a bit of warmth; the rest of the time, they sat indoors with their coats on and a blanket over them.

      As the years rolled by, June and Mickey settled into a nice routine. By now, Johnny hardly came home at all. If he popped in twice a year, he overstayed his welcome. Working up North was his excuse, but truth be told he was living with a bird over in Dagenham, playing Daddy to her two kids.

      June’s pleasant routine ended on the morning of Mickey’s sixth birthday. Lily had baked him a cake, all the neighbours had chipped in to buy him a second-hand bike and a party was planned for him that afternoon. Hearing the front door open and slam shut, June thought it was Lily bringing the cake in.

      ‘I’m in the kitchen, Lil.’

      To her horror, it wasn’t Lily at all. It was a drunken, unkempt, old-looking Johnny carrying a bin liner full of belongings in his hand.

      ‘I’m home, darlin’,’ he slurred. ‘For good this time, there’s no more work up North.’

      Life got a lot worse for June from that moment on. Nursing a broken heart and an alcohol addiction, Johnny drank for England, refused to work, and took out all his frustration on her and the boy.

      The beatings started within weeks. First it was just the odd clump here and there, but within months he was knocking seven colours of shit out of her.

      June hated him, wished he was dead, but she was trapped.

      Due to his drink problem, he’d stopped wanting regular sex but she dreaded the nights he beat her. It wasn’t the pain, she could handle that, it was the aftermath. The violence seemed to arouse him and he’d then force himself upon her. It was on one of these nights that Debbie was conceived.

      A couple of weeks after June’s pregnancy was confirmed, Johnny did another disappearing act. Money was still tight and life was tough, but once again the neighbours helped out and June began to smile again.

      Debbie was just over a year old when her father returned from his last jaunt. This time his behaviour was worse than ever and the beatings became more frequent. Things came to a head a few months later when, instead of just knocking his wife about, he started beating the living daylights out of Mickey boy as well. After a particular vicious attack on her son, June confided in her neighbour Lily, who knew exactly what to do. The lad was rushed to hospital and the police were called.

      June did not clap eyes on Johnny Fuller again from that day onwards. A year later she met Peter at a wedding and had not looked back since. He had loved her, supported her, and made her financially and emotionally secure. Which was why, whatever happened, she had to stick by him. He had rescued her from a living hell and she would always be indebted to him for that.

      ‘Are you all right, my darling?’

      Peter wiped his muddy boots on the mat and sat down opposite his wife. Taking her hands in his, he spoke