The Victim. Kimberley Chambers

houses and me and Matilda were so happy until Dennis turned up one day and set fire to the place with us inside. We managed to escape through a back window, but it were such an awful experience, Frankie. Even to this day, a whiff of smoke is enough to frighten the living daylights out of me.

      ‘The police never caught Dennis: he went on the run, and he knew the right people to protect him. Me and Matilda got moved again, this time to Surrey, but I could never say we were happy there. I used to sit in the dark most nights in case Dennis had found out where we were. Then, one fine day, a copper knocked at the door. Dennis had been found dead on the streets of Brixton. He’d OD’d on drugs, crack cocaine, and the police reckon he’d died in a house or flat and had been dumped on the pavement after his death. I was so happy. All I wanted was to move back near my family and friends, but Dennis dying just seemed too good to be true. I insisted on viewing his body – I needed to know it was definitely him – and when I saw his evil face in that morgue, I danced for joy, as I was finally free.’

      ‘So, how did you end up in here? The police didn’t accuse you of injecting him or something, did they?’

      Babs shook her head. ‘Dennis died over ten years ago and I vowed never to get involved with any other man, but I was desperate for a brother or sister for Matilda, so I had a fling until I got what I wanted. Jordan’s dad was a guy called Brandon. I barely knew him, and I never told him Jordan were his son. He seemed an OK sort of dude, but he lived with a girl. I doubt he would have been happy about it, as I’d told him I was on the pill. Me and the kids were then given a council house in Streatham and that was the happiest I’ve ever been in my life. There was a park nearby and because I never had much money, I used to buy a cheap loaf of bread and take the kids there to feed the ducks. Then one day I got talking to this guy. I’d seen him there before and he seemed so nice. He was great with the kids, especially Jordan.’

      When Babs began to cry, Frankie sat on the bunk next to her and put a comforting arm around her shoulder. ‘If it’s too upsetting for you, don’t tell me any more,’ Frankie whispered.

      ‘I want to. I need to tell someone,’ Babs sobbed.

      Trying her hardest to pull herself together, Babs continued her story. ‘Unlike all my ex-boyfriends, Peter was a white dude. He was a bus driver and seemed such a kind, honest, down-to-earth person. I didn’t rush into anything. I met him loads of times at the park before I agreed to go out on a date with him.’

      ‘Ssh, it’s OK. He can’t hurt you no more, nobody can,’ Frankie soothed, as Babs began to cry once again.

      ‘I went out with Peter a whole year before I let him move in with me. He’d play football with Jordan, help Matilda with her homework, he seemed like the ideal stepfather. Then one day I was meant to be taking Jordan to his friend’s birthday party. Peter had offered to look after Matilda and I told him I’d be back in a couple of hours. When I got to the party, they’d had to cancel it because the child’s grandma had died suddenly. Jordan was upset, so I said we’d go home and Peter would take us all to the Wimpy. As I opened the front door, I could hear Matilda crying. I thought she’d fallen over and hurt herself, but as I listened more carefully I realised it was something much worse. “Please stop, Peter, you’re hurting me,” she was pleading. Twelve years old, that’s all she was.’

      ‘Oh my God,’ Frankie whispered. She had guessed what was coming next.

      ‘I told Jordan to be quiet and sit in the living room, then I took the dagger out of the drawer. It had once belonged to Dennis, but I had always kept it after I split up with him, as it made me feel safe. I crept upstairs and saw the bastard with my own eyes. Matilda was naked from the waist downwards and Peter was raping her. I tiptoed into the room and then I stabbed him in the back over and over again, until the breath and blood seeped out of him.’

      Frankie was crying herself now. She thought she’d had it tough with Jed, but it was nothing compared to what poor Babs had been through. ‘You won’t get life. If you tell the jury the truth, they’ll let you off, I know they will.’

      ‘I can’t. Apart from you, I’ve told nobody. I told the solicitor I killed Peter because he used to beat me up.’

      A good judge of character, Frankie now decided that Babs was the real deal, totally genuine. She urged her to listen to what she had to say. ‘I’ll have a word with my dad if you like. He’ll find you a good brief to represent you. Babs, you must tell the truth for the sake of your children. I know your mum is looking after them, but they need you, especially Matilda.’

      Babs shook her head furiously, then put her hands protectively on her rounded stomach. ‘I will never put my Matilda through a court case and let’s not forget, I’m carrying that evil bastard’s child. I love my children more than anything else in the world, and to protect them, I’m willing to keep my trap shut and do life.’

      Eddie Mitchell stared at the clock on the kitchen wall. He had promised himself he would make a decision by midnight and he had ten minutes left to do so. He poured himself another Scotch and stared at the now empty bottle. Jessica used to hate him drinking the stuff, said it changed him as a person and made him violent. Well, tonight he’d done at least three quarters of a litre, but he wasn’t drunk and had only been drinking to help him make a decision. Picking up his glass, Eddie walked into the lounge. A big photograph of his dad was on the opposite wall to Jessica’s. It had been taken on his dad’s sixtieth birthday at the restaurant where they’d all celebrated and Harry looked as large as life, with a big grin on his face and a fat cigar in his hand. Ed stared at the photo and smiled sadly. He still missed his dad dreadfully and he would never rest until he found out who had murdered him so brutally. One day Ed would find out, that thought kept him going, and when he did, he would torture those responsible before he actually killed them. He began to speak, his voice full of emotion.

      ‘I’ve had to make a decision, Dad, and I want you to know that it’s been the most difficult one of my life. I would like to shoot every O’Hara tomorrow. I could easily kill the fucking lot of ’em, but I can’t because of everything that’s happened and I would hate to see Frankie’s kids end up in care. I’m gonna plan my revenge carefully. Last time when I tried to kill Jed, I went at it like a bull in a china shop and look what happened – I lost my beautiful Jessica and I’ll never forgive myself for that. This time around, I need a proper plan. Things have to be perfect and, when they are, I’ll use my loaf, keep my wits about me and strike. I hope you can forgive me for what I’m about to tell you, but there’s a good chance Ronny and Paulie will be arriving at the Pearly Gates soon. I don’t want that to happen and I’ll be devastated if and when it does, but I really do have little choice in the matter. Ronny and Paulie have dug their own graves, unfortunately, and I have to put the safety of my children first and also Gina and Raymond, who both mean the world to me. Please forgive me, Dad, and if you see Ronny and Paulie before me, tell ’em I love ’em and I’m sorry.’

       CHAPTER THREE

      ‘Mummy! Come back, please, Mummy. Don’t leave me! I promise I’ll be good.’

      Harry O’Hara woke up and rubbed his tired eyes. At three years old, Harry was eighteen months younger than his sister, Georgie. To look at they were chalk and cheese. Harry was a pale-skinned, chubby blonde boy, whereas Georgie was very tall for her age, skinny, with long, dark hair and dark skin. Harry got out of bed, toddled over to his sister and prodded her arm.

      ‘Georgie, what a matter?’

      Georgie sat bolt upright and began to cry. She kept having the same awful nightmare. Her mum would come back home, then she would walk out and leave her again.

      Harry clambered onto his big sister’s bed. Georgie was the only one who would give him a cuddle these days. His mummy used to give him loads, but whenever he asked his dad, nanny Alice, or grandad Jimmy for one, they all laughed at him. ‘Stop being such a sissy, Harry. You’re a big boy now and big boys don’t need cuddles. Cuddles are for babies and girls, you dinlo,’ his dad would tell him.

      Georgie