The Heights: A dark story of obsession and revenge. Juliet Bell

But, truth be told, she didn’t love him. In a way, she hated him. If he hadn’t been growing inside her, she never would have married Ray Earnshaw. She certainly didn’t love Ray. Or the daughter she’d given birth to back in the days when she had accepted Ray pawing at her on a Friday night after he’d been down the pub with his mates. And as for that bastard boy – she could barely stand the sight of him.

      It occurred to Shirley that maybe she didn’t really know what love was. But one thing she did know was that she had no love for this town, or that house, or any of the people who lived in it.

      It made her wonder why she was wasting her life here. She paused. She told herself she could go down to St Mary’s and sit for a while, let the coolness and the quiet of the church calm her. But it wouldn’t work. Eighteen years since she’d had the baby that had tied her to this place and this husband for so long. Five years since Ray had brought that bastard home. She’d put up with more than anyone could expect. She wasn’t going to sit and think and pray and hope to feel better. She wasn’t going to clean and cook and do everything for everyone else.

      Something inside her had been pulled taut for too long. And now it had snapped. The girl she’d been all those years ago was awakening inside her and screaming that it wasn’t too late. What Shirley Earnshaw was going to do, was walk back into that cold little house, put her things in a suitcase, get the post-office book Ray knew nothing about from her knicker drawer, and walk away.

      Mick pushed his giro cheque over the counter. This was the life – getting paid for doing nothing. It wasn’t much money, but it was more than he’d had before. And it beat working. He was free to do as he pleased. He stuffed the book and money into his pocket and sauntered out into the street. Davo and Spud were leaning on the railings outside the post office. The trio fell into step.

      Spud dropped his fag butt to the ground. ‘We getting some beers now then?’

      Davo laughed. ‘He’ll have to hand it all over to his dad, won’t he?’

      Mick shook his head. ‘No way. I do what I like with what’s mine.’

      That was a lie, but he wasn’t letting on. His dad had this idea that now Mick had left school he ought to be paying rent, but that was crap. He couldn’t pay rent because he hadn’t got a job. His dad had plenty to say about that too, but would he help him get one? Not bloody likely. His dad was a supervisor down the pit now. He was a big man. He could’ve got Mick a job if he’d wanted. But no. He said it was up to Mick to make his own way. What was he supposed to do? There weren’t any jobs going outside the pit. At least not for the likes of Mick.

      He led the way to the Spar across the road, and picked up a pack of cans. A few years ago, they might have gone to the youth club. But that was closed now. And besides, they weren’t kids any more. They could go to the pub. Spud was still a couple of months short of his eighteenth, but nobody would say anything. Not at the Red Lion. Trouble was, the Lion would be full of his dad’s mates. They’d all be talking about Maggie Thatcher and Arthur Scargill, and the mine and the union and the government. That was all anyone ever talked about. The pit was all that mattered. Some had already closed, and there was talk that they were going to close even more. But the Gimmerton Colliery would never close. It was too big and making too much money.

      Mick and his mates made themselves at home on the steps around the statue in the middle of the village and opened the cans.

      ‘Saw your sister yesterday,’ Spud said. ‘She was up the blue hills with that gyppo kid. What’s his name?’

      ‘Heathcliff.’ Mick spat out the word as if it was leaving a foul taste on his mouth.

      ‘Yeah. Him. What sort of a name is that anyway? It doesn’t sound gyppo.’

      ‘Don’t know. Don’t care,’ Mick said, lighting another fag from the butt end of the first.

      Two girls emerged from the Spar. They looked up the hill towards the statue. Mick watched as they exchanged whispers. The blonde one cast a glance his way

      ‘She’s a bit of all right,’ said Spud, jabbing an elbow in his ribs. ‘You might be in with a chance.’

      ‘Nah. She’s just a kid.’

      ‘I dunno,’ laughed Davo. ‘Hey, do you think that gyppo kid and your sister are…’

      Mick swung his arm and slapped him up the back of the head.

      ‘Shut your mouth. That gyppo will never lay a finger on my sister.’

      ‘Yeah. Sure,’ Davo said quickly. ‘Just saying, they spend a lot of time alone out in them blue hills. Well, we all been up there with girls, haven’t we? You know what goes on.’

      Mick crushed his empty can against the statue. Spud kicked his across the square. ‘I’ve gotta get back.’

      Mick frowned. Spud never had anywhere to be. ‘Where you going?’

      His mate shrugged. ‘Tracy’s mam said I could do a few hours for her on service washes.’

      ‘Fucking laundry?’

      ‘Tracy says we have to start saving for baby coming.’

      ‘Well, bugger off then.’ Mick’s expression closed as his mate strolled away. Spud was trapped. He wasn’t old enough to order a pint in the pub, but he’d got Tracy up the duff and now he had to marry her. He’d have a kid to support. They had no money and were living with her parents. No way Mick was going to end up like that.

      Davo chucked his own can against the statue and stood up.

      ‘You off too?’

      ‘Well, there’s nowt doing here, is there?’ The clock on the building opposite hit twelve o’clock. ‘Mam’ll have lunch on.’

      That was a thought. Mick’s mum would be at one of her church groups, but when she got back she’d do sandwiches with the leftovers from the roast. Mick shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. I’ve got stuff to do too.’

      Davo nodded. ‘See you then.’

      Mick made his way through town and onto the Heights. It was pretty quiet this time of day. Two of his mates from school had already moved to Manchester to work. One had gone all the way down to London. Some were already working at the pit. A couple of others had gone to college. He saw them every afternoon trudging up from the bus stop at the bottom of the estate at the end of the day. If he ever got away from Gimmerton, he’d never come back. He wasn’t going to end up like his dad, working in the same place every day for forty years, just to pay the mortgage on a terraced house in the Heights. Mick opened the front door and shouted for his mother. There was no answer. He stood at the bottom of the stairs and shouted again. ‘Mum. I want a sandwich.’

      No answer. She mustn’t be back yet. He’d have to make his own sandwich. Then he might go up the blue hills. Cathy was a pain but she was his sister. He weren’t going to have people saying his sister was at it with some pikey bastard.

Chapter Five

      April, 1983

      Cathy watched the other kids shuffle forward in front of her. She could feel the itching starting at the back of her neck. Her head always itched in the queue. She couldn’t help but imagine the nits crawling through her curls, drinking her blood and laying their eggs in her hair. She thought about it. Had it been itching before she got in the queue? Had it been itching at playtime? Or last night in bed?

      She was second from the front now.

      ‘Hands out of pockets.’ Mrs Bell’s cold voice made her look around. Heathcliff, standing behind her, was the object of the teacher’s glare. She was always telling Heathcliff off. He shrugged his hands down by his side and stared at Cathy.

      The queue moved forward. At the front of the line Joanne Warren was having her ginger curls pulled one way and the other by a fat, grumpy-looking woman in a dark-blue dress.