The Family Firm

Chapter 45

Frankie was hyperventilating by the time she reached her car, and as she struggled to put her key into the ignition, she screamed, long and hard, until choked sobs ripped through her body and heaved her chest with every laboured breath. After a few moments, her painful wailing turned to hysterical whines that cracked off and broke into near-silent air passing through her vocal chords.

She took a few breaths and calmed herself enough to dig through her purse for her pills, struggling to open the cap on the bottle. Once she had, a number of them had spilled out onto her palm, but she threw them into her mouth anyway, desperate for something-anything-to dull the emotional pain. She washed them down with an open bottle of vodka she had in the centre compartment, choking a moment as she got them down, and after she finished she wiped the liquor, tears, mucus, and streaks of make-up off her face with the palm of her hand.

She managed to start her Peugeot with trembling hands, and in a matter of moments she was on her way down the road with nothing but the cool air and the night sky to accompany her. She couldn't believe what had just happened. Freddie had hurt her before, plenty of times, but it had been the way he just discarded her like he had, threw her on the ground like she was rubbish . . . It had terrified her.

She had been on a downward spiral for months but Freddie was suffering too. He was coming unhinged. And what had she done? Not stood by him and helped him like she should have, like she always did. She screamed at him and scratched his face. She still had his blood under her fingernails.

God, why had she done that? Why had she fought with him? She loved him, and she knew he loved her. He always had her best interest in mind, and that was the way it had been since they were young. But now, she just wasn't sure any more. Her jealousy had boiled up and spilled over and now she was paying the price. She was so stupid, stupid, stupid . . .

She was in Chingford before she really realised it, and by the time she had pulled into her parents' drive, the moisture on her cheeks had dried and her eyelashes were sticking together from her damp, clumpy mascara. She wasn't sure why she had gone to see her mum, but at that point, at complete rock bottom, she didn't know who else to turn to.

Inside, Beth awoke to the sound of heavy pounding on the door. The house was one-storey with a little loft for storage, a chalet bungalow really, and so the sound rang through the entire house. Checking the time on the digital clock that sat on the little table near the bed, she squinted into the darkness and rubbed her face, which was still smooth from her nightly ritual of Pond's cold cream cleanser and hot steam.

Throwing on a pale blue silk dressing gown, she padded out into the hall and into the front room to see who the bloody hell was banging on the door so early in the morning. Her husband was still in his usual recliner, fast asleep as always with the TV still blaring, the gormless oaf. Though, she had to admit, as much as she hated to see his soft, lumpy form permanently planted into his chair like jelly in a crystal bowl, it was better than the old days, when he would be out until God knows what hour in the morning, coming back eventually smelling like sex, whiskey, and some tart's cheap perfume.

She had been that woman, though, back before they were married, when he was with his first wife, Martha, Freddie's mum. She had been the "tart" in Martha's eyes, the bitch who stole away her husband. But Charlie, for whatever he was worth now, had been quite the man back in the day; handsome, Irish, and dangerous. The unholy trinity, as she liked to put it.

She had been drawn to him like a moth to a candle, but unlike Martha she wouldn't allow herself to be burnt up by the flame. She had taken things into her own hands, had made him give her a proper life-at least, what he could-away from that poxy caravan park and his dirty family. It had forced him to grow up a bit; he stopped laying his hands on her, and learnt to save his money to take care of his son and her daughter. Together they had made a good home and a decent family out of nothing, and she was proud of what they had, and proud of herself for making it happen.

Of course, now most of their income came from Freddie. He took care of them, and what a good son, was their Freddie. She liked to think Freddie was the new-and-improved Charlie. He was more handsome, and more charming, and more successful. She had loved him since he was a little boy, and had always known he would do great things. He was the reason she, Charlie, and her Frankie ever had anything at all those days. He took care of them and now had all the Evans cousins working for him, too. He had built up a little empire for himself, and by himself, and they were all reaping the rewards. Anyone who couldn't see how brilliant he was was a damned fool.

Beth pulled open the front door and was shocked to see the state of her daughter. Frankie looked absolutely atrocious. The curls she had put in her hair the day before were pressed flat on one side of her head, as if she had slept on them. Her make-up was streaking all over her face, half-smudged black lines that, like her red-rimmed eyes and nostrils, denoted her crying. The upper right side of her face was swollen, her eye on that side squinting shut, and her lips were puffy. She still wore her jewellery but her clothes looked slept in, and the varnish on her nails was chipped.

She knew Frankie had been having a rough time-the woman drank from the moment she got up until she passed out at night. Even Charlie, with his tiny Neanderthal brain, came out of his drunken stupor long enough to notice his daughter's alcoholism and addiction to pills. But even so, the sight of her surprised Beth; she looked absolutely pitiful.

'Come in, girl, before the neighbours see ya.'

As soon as Beth pulled her inside and closed the door, Frankie practically collapsed into her arms, crying softly against her bosom. Beth was shocked at the gesture; never, in all her life, had her daughter come to her like this. They had never been close, not really. Needless to say, the fact that she was there in her arms spoke volumes.

After the initial shock wore off, she gently wrapped her arms around Frankie's petite frame, stroking her messy hair and kissing the top of her head. 'Come on now, love,' she said quietly, soothingly, pulling her away from her just enough to carefully wipe the tears that stuck to her cheeks. 'Let's go into the kitchen before we wake your father.'

She rubbed her daughter's back as she led her into the kitchen. Frankie sank into a chair as if she had simply deflated, and Beth rubbed her shoulder affectionately before passing her to put a kettle on the stove. Once the water was heating, she returned to Franks and sat beside her, taking her hand in hers and squeezing gently.

Frankie was sniffling with big fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Most of her make-up had run off by then, but her face was swollen, both from her brother's fist and the crying. 'Mum,' she said, her voice cracking pitifully. 'Freddie's hurt me. And I hurt him, too. He wants noffink to do with me any more.'

On this, she broke into soft, heart-broken tears once more, and Beth stood from her chair to wrap her arms around Frankie's narrow shoulders, stroking her and holding her close. 'Oh, child,' she said softly, 'I always told you he was a bastard, didn't I. I knew he was going to hurt you. Didn't your mum tell you? But you was too stupid to listen, weren't you. I always did know what was best for you, girl, and it ain't never been our Fred.'

Frankie sobbed harder, squeezing her eyes shut as she cried into Beth's chest. 'I was so bloody stupid, Mum. I shoulda listened.'

Beth softly caressed and hushed her daughter, stroking her hair and watching the wreck of a woman slowly crumble beneath her. 'That's it, babe. Well, you listen to your mum now and I'll make everything better. We're gonna get you cleaned up, and we're gonna have a cuppa rosy, and then you are going to spend time with the man you ought to be spending time with-your husband.'

She watched as Frankie looked up at her with those puffy, reddened eyes, and knew that at last the woman would do anything she said, that she would finally listen to reason and make peace with Donny. And as she stood and ushered her daughter to the toilet to bathe her and tidy her up, Beth knew acutely in her heart that with Frankie out of the picture, she could finally have Freddie all to herself.

He was meant to be hers, after all. He always had been.