eh?’
All her daughters called her ‘Mummy’, but coming from Hettie it was more like a nickname. There was no feeling in it. Since the onset of her agoraphobia her eldest daughter had lost all respect for her mother and it hurt. She was trying to feed her chicken but Verbena had no appetite for it.
‘When are you going home, Hettie?’
It was a loaded question and they both knew it.
Her daughter sighed.
‘Don’t start, Mummy. You know how I felt about Sonny. He stole from me, he stole from us all. Unlike you I don’t have the spirit of Christian forgiveness.’
Verbena sighed again. Her daughter was very like her in looks. She was big, Caribbean big, with the ample hips and breasts inherited from a long line of Jamaican women. But she didn’t have the kindness that usually went with them. Her whole life was a fight or an argument of some sort. Yet she had loved this child more than the others until Sonny had arrived. Maybe Hettie knew that. Had sensed it? Verbena couldn’t think about it now.
‘I just meant the kids are probably missing you, that’s all. I know how you felt about Sonny. You don’t need to come to his funeral. Anyway, we don’t know when they will release the body.’
Verbena was talking so normally, it was eerie to listen to herself. But she only wanted people at the funeral who’d cared about Sonny, and this daughter of hers hadn’t. Though who could blame her? Sonny had robbed her, stolen a ring from her one Christmas when she had visited her mother, and he’d sold it. The worst of it all was it was her husband’s mother’s ring, worth nothing in money terms but priceless in other ways.
But it had been for his mother, it had always been for his mother. He was dead because of his mother but Verbena would never say that out loud. Poor Jude had enough to contend with as it was.
She pushed away the food and stared out of the window again, watching the children as they hung around the estate while she waited for more news. Any news was welcome at this moment. She had already heard the worst anyone could hear. Nothing else could ever hurt her in quite the same way.
Tyrell was in a drinking club in Brixton Heights, the Railton Road to the uninitiated. He knew he should not have gone out but he could not sit there at his mother’s and listen to his son being dismissed like so much garbage by everyone but her. He wasn’t ready for that yet even though he knew he should be. Poor Sonny had got what he deserved after all, if anyone really deserved to die for trying to nick a video or a DVD recorder. It was the gun that still troubled Tyrell most. Where would his son have got a gun? No one seemed to know but he was going to make it his mission in life to find that out.
He had been doing security around London for years; now he had his own company. He had no shortage of cronies and employees to sit with him while he got drunk. He wasn’t a rum drinker by nature but it was a good drink to get drunk on. Anyone who tried it once would understand that.
Tyrell laughed at his own thoughts, and smiled at his friend, Paxton Regis.
‘Do you know, when he read the autopsy the Coroner said that the geezer had used excessive force on my boy. Excessive . . . that sounds a lot when you say it out loud, don’t it?’
He coughed loudly before he continued, ‘He carried on hitting Sonny even after he was unconscious.’
Tyrell gulped at his drink.
‘Fear, see. He was frightened. Guns do that to people, don’t they? They scare me, I can tell you. Once we had an incident on a door in Ilford. We ejected some little bullyboys and they came back with a gun. Little fuckers! I was so angry when I saw it, so angry. So I know what that bloke saw, you know?’
Paxton nodded sadly.
‘I could understand his fear because I have felt it too, you know. But even though I understand how he reacted, I can’t forgive him for taking
All her daughters called her ‘Mummy’, but coming from Hettie it was more like a nickname. There was no feeling in it. Since the onset of her agoraphobia her eldest daughter had lost all respect for her mother and it hurt. She was trying to feed her chicken but Verbena had no appetite for it.
‘When are you going home, Hettie?’
It was a loaded question and they both knew it.
Her daughter sighed.
‘Don’t start, Mummy. You know how I felt about Sonny. He stole from me, he stole from us all. Unlike you I don’t have the spirit of Christian forgiveness.’
Verbena sighed again. Her daughter was very like her in looks. She was big, Caribbean big, with the ample hips and breasts inherited from a long line of Jamaican women. But she didn’t have the kindness that usually went with them. Her whole life was a fight or an argument of some sort. Yet she had loved this child more than the others until Sonny had arrived. Maybe Hettie knew that. Had sensed it? Verbena couldn’t think about it now.
‘I just meant the kids are probably missing you, that’s all. I know how you felt about Sonny. You don’t need to come to his funeral. Anyway, we don’t know when they will release the body.’
Verbena was talking so normally, it was eerie to listen to herself. But she only wanted people at the funeral who’d cared about Sonny, and this daughter of hers hadn’t. Though who could blame her? Sonny had robbed her, stolen a ring from her one Christmas when she had visited her mother, and he’d sold it. The worst of it all was it was her husband’s mother’s ring, worth nothing in money terms but priceless in other ways.
But it had been for his mother, it had always been for his mother. He was dead because of his mother but Verbena would never say that out loud. Poor Jude had enough to contend with as it was.
She pushed away the food and stared out of the window again, watching the children as they hung around the estate while she waited for more news. Any news was welcome at this moment. She had already heard the worst anyone could hear. Nothing else could ever hurt her in quite the same way.
Tyrell was in a drinking club in Brixton Heights, the Railton Road to the uninitiated. He knew he should not have gone out but he could not sit there at his mother’s and listen to his son being dismissed like so much garbage by everyone but her. He wasn’t ready for that yet even though he knew he should be. Poor Sonny had got what he deserved after all, if anyone really deserved to die for trying to nick a video or a DVD recorder. It was the gun that still troubled Tyrell most. Where would his son have got a gun? No one seemed to know but he was going to make it his mission in life to find that out.
He had been doing security around London for years; now he had his own company. He had no shortage of cronies and employees to sit with him while he got drunk. He wasn’t a rum drinker by nature but it was a good drink to get drunk on. Anyone who tried it once would understand that.
Tyrell laughed at his own thoughts, and smiled at his friend, Paxton Regis.
‘Do you know, when he read the autopsy the Coroner said that the geezer had used excessive force on my boy. Excessive . . . that sounds a lot when you say it out loud, don’t it?’
He coughed loudly before he continued, ‘He carried on hitting Sonny even after he was unconscious.’
Tyrell gulped at his drink.
‘Fear, see. He was frightened. Guns do that to people, don’t they? They scare me, I can tell you. Once we had an incident on a door in Ilford. We ejected some little bullyboys and they came back with a gun. Little fuckers! I was so angry when I saw it, so angry. So I know what that bloke saw, you know?’
Paxton nodded sadly.
‘I could understand his fear because I have felt it too, you know. But even though I understand how he reacted, I can’t forgive him for taking
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