Last Request. Liz Mistry
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often wondered which jackass had thought that nobody would notice that Listerhills was missing a botanical garden, a boat pond, a pavilion and a manor house, when they’d categorised it an estate. Did they think snotty-nosed kids forced by economics and unemployment into wearing wellies in summer and sandals in winter would grow up to have high aspirations? Nikki snorted. Who was she kidding? That was her childhood, these kids faced other challenges. Poverty only changed its face, it never went away.
She stood on the corner of Lister’s Front Terrace, leaning against the wall, waiting for Deano to emerge from his mother’s house on Lister’s Avenue. In the shadows, she was barely visible, although the flicker of lights in the houses opposite kept her company. The rain had persisted throughout the day and it seemed that most people had been driven indoors for the road was almost deserted. Cars lined the streets, half of them mounting the kerbs, and standing like sentries along the pavements were a series of wheelie bins. Must remember to put the bins out tonight. On a different day, Nikki would have got out her supply of police notices, to tell people to park properly. Not that it did any good. Within days, they’d be back to their old tricks, blocking the pavements making it impossible for wheelchair users or mums with pushchairs to pass. She’d swapped her leather jacket for a parka and had replaced her mud-soaked Doc Martins for her old pair. She reckoned she’d be lucky to salvage them, but she’d bunged them in the washing machine on a quick low-temp wash, in the hope that she might be able to eke out a few months of wear in them.
Even from across the road she could hear the TV from Deano’s house. Anywhere else there’d be a noise complaint within minutes, but not here and definitely not now Deano was back. Deano’s house was like a cold sore between two perfectly manicured premises. The gate was hanging off its hinges and someone had wrapped a rope round it in an attempt to stop it clattering to the pavement. The garden was more weeds than flowers with an old sofa, its arse hanging out as if it had evacuated a volcano of yellowing foam from its innards. Three old crates, two burst black bin bags and a broken coffee table completed the ensemble. Deano’s wheelie bin lay on its back, lid half detached, and with the house number 38 scrawled across it in black paint. An enormous tabby cat sat on the windowsill observing the proceedings indoors like some sort of feline Gogglebox character.
As she waited, Nikki scrolled through her texts. One from Charlie saying she needed twenty quid for some school trip or other and five, no six texts from Marcus. She responded to Charlie’s, telling her to tidy her room and help the younger two with their homework and maybe she’d consider it. The others she deleted, squashing the pang of guilt that she was becoming more and more used to of late. Marcus sensed she was pulling away and she knew she was. The one thing she didn’t know was why. And that was something she’d analyse sometime in the future when hell froze over.
If the little rat didn’t come out soon, she’d be forced to head over and knock on the door. Last thing she wanted, though, was to stress Margo out. Poor woman had enough on her plate with an abusive husband and now her runt of a son was back. If Nikki turned up on her doorstep, she could guarantee that Margo would be sporting a black eye at the very least, next time she saw her. No, best to get Deano on his own and exert her own kind of threat if his mum got hurt.
The cat stretched its front paws out on the windowsill and yawned. The roof overhang was keeping him dry, unlike Nikki who was beginning to feel like a damn fish. The door clattered open, sending the cat in a yowl of meows skittering over the rubbish and into the next-door neighbour’s garden. Deano, all five-foot-one of sheer unadulterated nastiness, hunched over on the doorstep, lighting his cig. He took a few hard drags before stepping out into the rain, designer hoodie pulled up over his shaved head so that the swastika at his left temple was covered. Nikki was familiar with the artwork on his arm as well: a St George’s cross with the slogan Pakis Out underneath. What made it worse was that the stupid arse was half-Pakistani himself.
When he was younger – hell, he was only 18 now – she’d wondered if his stunted growth had made him a victim. If it was the bullying that had pushed him to the dark side. Now, though, she didn’t care. She just wanted him and his puppet master, Franco McNally, off her estate.
He walked down the path, phone held to his ear. ‘Come on, Kayleigh. For fuck’s sake pick up, will you? Need to know you’re okay.’
He flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the neighbour’s garden and kicked the gate, before dragging it open. It grated against the cement slabs as he walked onto the street, with a quick glance up and down the road.
Watching with interest, Nikki wondered who this ‘Kayleigh’ was, who was causing Deano such stress. If she ever met her, she’d be sure to buy the girl a drink. Stepping forward into the gleam cast by the streetlights, Nikki waited. He stopped, lit another fag, took a quick puff and then, using his thumb and index finger, he flicked it through the drizzle, to land in the gutter in a flicker of orange embers. ‘Aw for fuck’s sake. If it isn’t piggy, piggy, oink, oink.’
‘That the best you got, Deano? Losing your touch?’ She crossed the road, one hand stuffed in her pocket and gestured for him to walk with her. At five-foot-two, Nikki just topped the lad by an inch, but the way he walked, the way he held himself, still had her wary of him. She’d turned her back on him to show him she wasn’t cowed by him, but her entire body was on alert, her shoulders tensed, ears straining for any rush of activity behind her. Inside her pocket she gripped her Mace. In the other hand her car keys protruded from her knuckles ready to blind the little bastard if he chanced his luck. It was the only way to go with thugs like Deano. In fact, it was that same attitude that had earned Deano his reputation. His inability to back down, the way he bulked his small frame up to its maximum – Nikki used the same strategies in her professional life. It was the only way she knew to survive. Sometimes she wondered if she had that same look in her eyes too. The one that made people quickly glance away and cross the road. The one that looked like his soul had been ripped out through his throat and all that was left was a mulch of dark, bloody gore. ‘Having girlfriend trouble, are we?’
‘Eh?’
‘Kayleigh? Giving you a hard time, is she?’
Glancing round, Deano hesitated and then fell into step beside her. ‘You stalking me now, Parekh? Got an obsession with me, eh? Want a bit of my meat, do you?’ He thrust his hips out and cupped his groin with his hand as he walked.
‘Your meat still come with a side helping of chlamydia and crabs, does it? Think I’ll pass, if it’s all the same.’
At the end of the road, she stopped and leaned against the post box that stood on the corner. Cars drove by, their headlights sweeping past them, bouncing off the puddles and sending up a thin spray of water as they passed. On the opposite side of the road a Chicken Cottage was doing a roaring trade and Deano, if his glances in that direction were anything to go by, had been heading there.
‘Say what you gotta say and then fuck off back to your pigsty.’
‘Oh, Deano, Deano, Deano … originality isn’t your strong suit is it?’
‘Eh?’
‘Thing is, you’re not welcome here.’ Her tone was conversational, tired, bored almost. As if she couldn’t quite bring herself to be overly concerned with him. Of course, it was all an act. A squirm of emotions, like maggots on gone-off meat, wriggled inside her chest. Deano was only a kid, yet he was toxic and she would never forgive him for the things he was responsible for. Never. His presence on her estate was a scab that she couldn’t avoid picking.
‘Just visiting me mum. Nowt wrong wi’ that.’
Nikki shook her head and took a deliberate step forward to invade his space. A glance over the road told her Sajid was parked up in his car, as arranged. She relaxed a fraction. Not even Deano would knife a police officer in full view of CCTV and, if he did, Sajid would have him within seconds. ‘Thing is, Deano. That’s where you’re wrong. You being here puts Margo in danger.’
‘Humph, I’ve never hurt me mum.’
‘No, you haven’t, but your stepdad has. He doesn’t like you, does