Page 31 of Crave

Chapter Eight

Razor

I shoved Darren into Keeley’s room with her and Maisie so I could bag the sofa.

No, I didn’t like it. She was only sixteen. But the worst had already happened. What more damage could that little prick do now? And honestly, better he was here than out there running the estates, looking for trouble, finding Ghost instead of a future. At least under this roof, I could keep half an eye on him and get a few hours’ kip before the front door went.

Keys, then footsteps. Mum.

She peered into the living room, still in her work uniform, grease on her sleeves, dark circles under her eyes. “You still here?”

“Where d’you think I’d be?”

“I dunno, Rich. Never know if you’re gonna come home at all, do I?”

“Same as I don’t know what state you’ll be in when I do.”

“Oh, don’t start.” She slammed a plastic carrier onto the table. Groceries, technically. But nothing for the kids. A cheap bottle of wine and a pack of fags. Luckily, she had a box of food from the drive through she worked at or we’d all go hungry as there was fuck all in the way of breakfast.

Yeah. I hated that. Hated what she’d become.

She hadn’t always been this way. Once she’d been bright and steady. She’d worked at my primary school as a midday assistant, laughing with the kids. We used to watch telly together. She used to cook dinners. They weren’t of any culinary standard, mind, mostly oven stuff, but I remember having peas with my fish fingers occasionally. Healthy food’s expensive though, innit? But we used to laugh. Then he came along. The saviour she thought would dig us out of debt. Instead, he dug her under it. Took her pride, her job, her laugh. And left her with cheap wine and bruised arms.

But don’t worry.

I got rid of him.

Didn’t mean much now, though.

The baby started crying from the bedroom, all lungs and no patience. Keeley shouted something about bottles while Darren swore under his breath. I rubbed a hand over my face, the night still stuck to my skin.

“The council should give her her own place.” Mum stepped over toys and piles of baby stuff to reach the kitchenette. She shoved the wine bottle into the fridge and lit a cigarette while she slapped the kettle onto boil.

“You know they won’t, not while she’s got this flat.” I stood, stretching, joints cracking.

Mum gave me a once-over, smoke curling from her lips. “When you moving out, then? You could afford somewhere better than this shithole.” She gestured at the window, where the view was all tower blocks and broken fences. The city’s arse-end on full display. “We wouldn’t be so cramped now Darren’s moved in.”

It was a good point. I should leave. Could leave. I made enough. Four, five grand a week easy. But to rent, I needed payslips. Proof of income. References. All I had was cash and a name I couldn’t put on forms. If I flashed money, people’d ask where it came from. If I moved off the block, the police would think I’m washing it. The Firm then thinks I’ve flipped. Tyler had his own gaff courtesy of his girl. She worked at some nail bar, beauty spot. Place that washed more than feet, if you catch my drift. But to keep safe, I stayed here.

Same tower. Same stink.

Safer to rot where you grew. And I saved what I could so I could pay for a place outright one day.

“And leave you lot?” I crossed the kitchen and kissed her cheek, then plucked the cigarette from her fingers and stubbed it out in the sink. “Don’t smoke around Maisie.”

She clicked her tongue. “I smoked with both of you. You turned out fine.”

Fine.

Son a drug dealer. Daughter pregnant at fifteen.

But she meant medically, I guessed. Lungs intact. Hearts still beating. And that was it, really. The reason I never went looking for my own place. Her. Keeley. The baby.

Mum peered up at me wide-eyed. “You got some cash?”

“I gave you a ton yesterday.”

“And that’s gone.”