Kitty Neale 3 Book Bundle. Kitty Neale

that’s right, in Streatham, but apparently because it’s a larger shop she’s got an assistant manageress. It allows her to take every Thursday off. She seems so different now that she isn’t our boss, and I think she must be lonely as she usually invites me to join her for a coffee and a chat.’

      ‘I always felt her cold and distant,’ Carol commented. ‘Anyway, let’s get back to Mabel. As I just said, my dad slammed the door in her face, and since then when I see her, I make my feelings plain. I even spat at her feet the other day.’

      Not Mabel again, Amy thought as she once again tried to divert Carol, asking, ‘Have you seen anything of your brothers?’

      ‘Since I told them I wasn’t going to do their washing and ironing, we hardly see them.’

      ‘Has your mum been in touch?’

      ‘No,’ Carol said, her face saddening.

      Amy noted that as usual now, Carol’s face was void of make-up. Her hair was shiny though and looked newly washed, but it hung without any attempt at styling below her shoulders. ‘Carol,’ she said, ‘I liked Linda, the girl who was taken on to replace you and we became friends, but I was shocked when she was caught fiddling the till. She’s been sacked so there’s a job going; I’m sure Mrs Jones would take you on.’

      ‘No thanks. I was sick of smelly feet and anyway, I’m needed here.’

      ‘Don’t you get fed up with being stuck at home all day?’ Amy asked.

      ‘Not really. I’ve discovered that I like cooking and I enjoy trying out new recipes. I made a lovely meat pie with suet pastry today and my dad loved it. At least he’s still eating, but I’m a bit worried about him. He’s drinking heavily and goes to the pub every night.’

      ‘So you’re mostly on your own,’ Amy said, feeling sorry for her friend.

      ‘It doesn’t bother me,’ Carol said, nodding towards the recently acquired television. ‘I’ve got that for company now and I’m happy enough.’

      Amy found it hard to believe. Just a short while ago the thought of making a cake or pie would have had Carol in fits of laughter, and she wouldn’t have been happy stuck indoors every night in front of a television.

      It didn’t seem possible that in such a short time she had changed so much. Had the old Carol gone forever? Amy was beginning to think so and the thought saddened her.

      Frank finished his pint, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and went to the bar to order another. He wasn’t in the mood to chat and once served, he went back to the table to sit alone with his thoughts. At first he’d believed his daughter’s story, but it was so sketchy that it didn’t really add up. She didn’t know the bloke’s full name, who he worked for, nor where the flat was in Tooting. It didn’t ring true, and he’d come to the conclusion that Carol wasn’t as innocent as he’d thought. She’d been caught out though, made a mistake and found that she was pregnant. The bloke had probably buggered off, leaving her little choice than to get rid of the baby. If the abortion hadn’t been botched, he wouldn’t have known anything about it, but it had gone wrong so Carol had to come up with a story, using rape as her only defence.

      His stomach churned. Until all this happened he’d seen Carol as his perfect, untouched daughter, but he was now seeing her in a different light. And it didn’t help that she looked so much like her mother. Frank knew that he was sick, that the feelings he’d until now stifled were unnatural, but every night, lying alone in his bed now, the urges grew and one day he feared he’d act on them. He gulped his third drink, determined to get drunk. That way he’d return home incapable of anything other than passing out again, sleeping it off until his alarm woke him in the morning.

      Frank had downed his fourth pint when the door opened and Terry Price walked in. He was a big, bullish-looking bloke, a bouncer who was handy with his fists. His wife, Edna, was another one like Mabel Povis, a nosey bitch who loved to gossip. ‘Watcha, Frank. How are you doing?’ Terry asked.

      ‘Fine,’ he slurred. ‘How’s your missus? Still busy on the jungle drums no doubt.’

      ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

      ‘That she’s got a big mouth,’ Frank said, inciting what he knew would be coming.

      ‘I can see you’re drunk, but I ain’t standing for that. There’s nothing wrong with my missus.’

      ‘Yes there is. She’s a fat, ugly, old cow,’ Frank slurred, sure that he had gone far enough now. With the sick thoughts in his head he deserved a good kicking.

      Frank didn’t offer any resistance as Terry hauled him to his feet and dragged him outside.

      Stan could see what was about to happen, and limped outside, with about five other men following behind him eager to see the fight. They watched the blows landing, but when it became obvious that Frank Cole was incapable of defending himself, Stan became fidgety. Maybe he should wade in, but Terry Price was a huge bloke and unless the others joined in to help, he was likely to come off as badly as Frank.

      When Frank no longer had a wall at his back he fell to the ground and Terry laid into him with his boots. Like a pack of animals scenting blood there was baying, but Stan couldn’t watch it any more and stepped forward, shouting, ‘He’s had enough, Terry.’

      The man’s head shot round, eyes wild as he growled, ‘I ain’t even started yet.’

      ‘Leave it out. You can see he’s drunk,’ Stan said, incensed as Terry continued to put the boot in.

      The kicking stopped as once again Terry fixed him with cold, gimlet eyes. ‘He wasn’t too pissed to insult my wife, but if you want to take his place, come on then, I’m waiting.’

      Terry stood with his fists raised, ready, and Stan swallowed, but he limped forward, only to see the man drop his arms as he said, ‘You’re a cripple, Stan, but the only one with the guts to take me on. It wouldn’t be a fair fight, so forget it.’

      ‘That wasn’t a fair fight either,’ Stan pointed out, nodding towards Frank who was still lying on the ground. ‘Are you going to leave him alone now?’

      ‘He deserved a kicking, but yeah, I’m done. It was no fun when he didn’t fight back.’

      Now that the fight was over the other men trailed behind Terry as he walked back into the pub, while Stan hurried over to Frank. He crouched by his side, and urged, ‘Come on, mate. Let’s get you home.’

      ‘Nah … nah … neesh a drink,’ he said through a nasty split lip.

      ‘I think you’ve had enough,’ Stan said, seeing that as well as the split lip, Frank’s eyes were puffy, which meant he’d probably have a couple of black eyes. ‘Can you stand up?’

      ‘Yesh … I think so,’ but on trying Frank curled on the floor, clutching his ribcage.

      ‘Frank, maybe I should call an ambulance,’ Stan said, worried about the damage Terry’s boots had inflicted on Frank’s body.

      ‘No … no … I’m all right. Jush gi … give me a minute,’ he said, and then after a couple had passed he raised an arm. ‘It … it’s agony when I take a breath, but if you give me a hand …’

      Stan did, though it wasn’t easy, and then came an unsteady walk home as he did his best to support Frank’s weight. ‘You daft sod. If you’d kept your mouth shut about Terry’s wife, this wouldn’t have happened,’ he admonished.

      ‘Gl … glad it did,’ Frank gasped painfully.

      Puzzled, Stan managed to take Frank’s keys and open his door, saying as they staggered inside, ‘How can you be glad about taking a beating.’

      ‘Ke … keeps me out of mischief,’ Frank said as he collapsed onto the sofa.

      It made no sense to Stan, but the room was in