Read Online The Wicked Girls by Alex Marwood - Free Book Online Page B

five-syllable words,’ she says. ‘To give the rest of you something to sneer at. So what do we know?
     Anything new on the vic?’
    She quails faintly inside as she says it. The vic – a life reduced to flippancy.
    ‘Nothing new. The mum and dad are doing an appeal this arvo in the town hall.’
    ‘Is that where everybody else is?’
    The man from the
Mirror
tuts. ‘Don’t be stupid. It’s not till four. They’re all in the White Horse, up on Dock Street.’
    ‘News-gathering,’ says the photographer, and winks.

Chapter Nine
    Amber’s in the kitchen, on the phone in pursuit of a computer for Benedick, when someone starts pressing the doorbell. Urgently
     and insistently, over and over, a couple of seconds between each peal. Whoever it is, they want in, now.
    ‘I wonder who that is?’ she says, cutting the call.
    Vic looks up from the
Sun
. ‘Well, I’ll guess it’s either a waif or a stray. Stray, probably, by the sound of the ring. Waifs don’t ring that hard.’
    ‘Ha,’ she says, and runs for the door.
    A figure stands with its back to her, the hood of an Adidas top pulled up over its head, gym bag over its shoulder, scanning
     the cars and concrete bollards of Tennyson Way as though expecting someone to appear.
    ‘Can I help you?’ Amber asks. The figure turns. It’s Jackie Jacobs, looking just awful. Below the top she wears what look
     like pyjama bottoms and a pair of the shuffle-along flip-flops Romina used to wear. Her face, devoid of make-up, is lined
     and grey, with deep vertical runnels on her upper lip.
    ‘I didn’t know where else to come,’ she says. ‘I’m sorry.’
    ‘Oh my God,’ says Amber. ‘Come in.’
    She stands back to let Jackie pass, and follows her indoors. Vic sees her from his seat at the kitchen table and shoots to
     his feet. ‘What’s up, Jacks?’
    Jackie pushes her hood back. Her hair is greasy, unbrushed.Amber finds it hard to believe that this is the same exuberant creature she shared the beach with yesterday. ‘He’s just standing
     outside my flat and he won’t go away,’ she says, and bursts into tears.
    Amber doesn’t need to ask who she’s talking about. ‘Oh my God,’ she says again.
    ‘He’s just … there. All the time. He just sits outside the flat. Or he’s … you know. Like yesterday. Down at the beach, or
     down at the supermarket, or wherever I am. I feel like I’m going mad.’
    ‘You’re not.’ Amber takes the bag, drops it on the stairs. It’s clear they’ve got a house-guest. Amber Gordon’s Home for Fallen
     Women, Vic calls it. When he’s feeling nice. Sometimes, depending on the guest, he calls it the Whitmouth Dog Sanctuary. ‘I
     can understand why you feel that way, but you’re not. You haven’t spoken to him, have you?’
    ‘No,’ says Vic. ‘You’re supposed to ignore them.’
    ‘I’ve tried,’ says Jackie. ‘But what am I supposed to do? If someone’s there every day, when you go to the shops, waiting
     outside work, ringing on the doorbell, leaving messages, leaving …
daisies
on your doorstep …
you
try ignoring it.’
    ‘Oh God, Jackie. You always make a joke of things. I didn’t realise it was this serious.’
    They follow Vic back into the kitchen. He goes to fill the kettle. The Whitmouth solution to all troubles, a nice cup of tea
     and a biscuit. And God knows, for most troubles it works a treat.
    ‘I know. Yes,’ says Jackie. ‘I guess maybe I didn’t either. I thought he’d get the message or something. Get bored. But since
     you … The body. That poor girl. One minute she’s alive and the next some bloke’s just … Maybe it’s freaked me out more than
     I thought it had. But it’s worse now. I can’t … I really can’t be there any more, Amber. He just stands there and stands there,
     and it doesn’t seem to make any difference what I do. I’ve no idea when he sleeps, ’cause it feels like he’s there twenty-four/seven.’
    ‘It’s OK,’ says Amber. ‘You can stay