Two Women Read online

  TWO WOMEN

  MARTINA COLE

  headline

  www.headline.co.uk

  Copyright © 1999 Martina Cole

  The right of Martina Cole to be identified as the Author of

  the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

  reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

  in any form or by any means without the prior written

  permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated

  in any form of binding or cover other than that in which

  it is published and without a similar condition being

  imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2008

  All characters in this publication are fictitious

  and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead,

  is purely coincidental.

  eISBN : 978 0 7553 5076 6

  This Ebook produced by Jouve Digitalisation des Informations

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette Livre UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachettelivre.co.uk

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  BOOK ONE 1960

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  BOOK TWO 1969

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  BOOK THREE 1985

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Martina Cole is the Sunday Times bestselling author of Dangerous Lady, The Ladykiller, Goodnight Lady, The Jump and The Runaway. As well as being hugely popular novels, Dangerous Lady and The Jump have gone on to become highly successful TV drama series. The Runaway is currently in production for TV. Martina Cole has a son and daughter and she lives in Essex.

  Praise for Martina Cole’s sensational novels of the criminal underworld:

  ‘A powerful novel’ Daily Express

  ‘You won’t be able to put this one down’ Company

  ‘Set to be another winner’ Woman’s Weekly

  ‘Martina Cole again explores the shady criminal underworld, a setting she is fast making her own’

  Sunday Express

  ‘Powerful, evocative and crackling with lowlife humour’

  Maeve Haran

  ‘Graphic realism combined with dramatic flair make this a winner’ Annabel

  ‘A major new talent’ Best

  ‘Move over Jackie [Collins]!’ Daily Mirror

  For Christopher, Freddie and Lewis.

  Son, daughter and grandson, keepers of my heart.

  Also, for Sally Wilden

  In your lovely suits and posh shoes!

  To me you will always be Sally Wally.

  Childhood playmate and late night bottle of wine artist!

  A friend for life, a mate for ever.

  (Remember the tech wall?)

  Prologue

  The sweatbox was humid inside. The heat of the summer day seemed to be amplified by the metal casing. Susan Dalston felt a trickle of sweat drip between her breasts and raised her hands to her face in a tired gesture.

  ‘Any chance of a cold drink?’

  The prison officer shook her head.

  ‘We’re nearly there, you’ll have to wait.’

  Susan watched as the woman took a long swallow from a can of Pepsi and then smacked her lips deliberately. Forcing herself to stare at the floor she fought against an urge to slap the supercilious bitch’s face. It was what the woman wanted, Susan Dalston on a charge, her appeal fucked by one rash move. Instead she looked the PO in the eye and grinned.

  ‘What’s so amusing?’

  She shook her head sadly.

  ‘I was just thinking, poor old you, stuck in here on a day like this. Unfair really, ain’t it? Now you’ve got all that journey back to Durham again. Long old day, eh?’

  The PO nodded.

  ‘Aye, but tonight I’ll be lying in my nice bed, watching telly and playing with my old man’s cock. What will you be doing? At least I’ve got something to look forward to.’

  The sweatbox lurched to a halt. Susan’s handcuffed wrists were aching. She knew the PO could have removed them, but also knew that she wouldn’t. Danby was a hard screw, everyone said so, and Susan wouldn’t give her the opportunity to refuse. As a lifer, a murderer, she had long ago resigned herself to just how difficult people like Danby could be.

  It was as if they enjoyed lording it over the prisoners. In a way Susan understood this. She knew from gossip that Danby’s old man had a wandering eye, that her kids were always in trouble at school, that her house was always on the verge of being repossessed.

  Screws gossiped like inmates.

  And she understood the woman’s need to belittle everyone around her. It was human nature after all. How Danby coped with her crap life and her crap job.

  The sweatbox began moving again and Susan breathed a sigh of relief. The London traffic was horrendous, especially early-afternoon. She had been cooped up in the van since five-thirty that morning and only once had they stopped for her to go to the toilet and have a bite to eat. Danby had brought a picnic with her and had eaten and drunk to her heart’s content, knowing that Susan, handcuffed and cramped, could do nothing about it.

  The viewing grille opened and a male voice boomed, ‘Nearly there, girls. About ten minutes and we’ll all be able to stretch our legs.’

  He left the grille open and Susan could hear the strains of David Bowie singing ‘Life on Mars’. She closed her eyes again and sighed heavily.

  Danby watched her, a closed expression on her face.

  ‘Dalston!’

  It was an urgent whisper.

  Susan opened her eyes and just moved her face aside in time as the last of Danby’s Pepsi was aimed straight at her. The dark liquid went all over her prison whites.

  ‘They ain’t letting you out, madam, not if I have anything to do with it.’

  It was an empty threat and they both knew that.

  She held her head down and stared once more at the floor. They travelled in silence until the van pulled into the main entrance of Holloway prison. The door was finally opened fifteen minutes after their arrival. Susan was half dragged out by Danby, and as she stood in the startling daylight, feeling a fresh breeze on her face, a sense of futility washed over her.

  The grim façade of the prison was a stark reminder of what life held in store for her here; the closing of doors, the clanging of gates, the sound of keys in locks, all she could expect from now on.

  Even though she had lived like this for two years it was the move for her appeal that had finally brought it all
home to her; this brief glimpse of freedom had heightened her awareness of prison life.

  Susan knew that unless she co-operated she would never get out and, equally, that she could never let on what had happened to her, could never tell anyone the truth. It was too frightening, too real still, to be talked about. Some things you kept inside.

  She smiled at the irony.

  She was registered and the handover went without a hitch. Danby kept up a constant stream of invective but the Holloway PO didn’t bother to answer her. She had heard it all before.

  Interrupting in mid-sentence she said quietly, ‘Go back to main reception and you’ll be taken to the canteen with the others. You can’t go any further than here.’

  Susan allowed herself a slight smile as the door was clanged firmly shut in Danby’s face. Looking through the well-spaced bars, she winked at the other woman.

  ‘Be seeing you, Dalston.’

  ‘Not if I see you first, Mrs Danby.’

  The screw unlocked her handcuffs and, rubbing her wrists, Susan followed her along a dusty corridor.

  ‘Northern arsehole! It’s Durham that does it to them - think they’re better than all the other POs ’cos they run a hard nick there. Well, they want to try this shithole for a while. Twenty-three-hour lock up on remand . . . even the shoplifters get a bit shirty after a while, let alone the real cons.’

  The PO unlocked yet another door.

  ‘You eaten?’

  Susan shook her head.

  ‘Not since this morning. I had a drop of Pepsi, though.’

  She laughed but the screw didn’t return her smile. She didn’t understand the joke.

  ‘Make it easy for yourself here, Dalston, we know all about you and your sock trick. Now I heard through the grapevine that the other bird was asking for it, and that’s fair enough, but don’t try it on here. We all have enough to do without babysitting you, okay? You want to give anyone a kicking, you do it in the comfort and privacy of your own cell. Nothing seen. Understand me, eh?’

  Susan nodded, serious now.

  ‘Remember, there’s lesbians coming out of the woodwork here, and they’re not all inmates. You take care of yourself. You do anything, do it discreetly - that’s the only advice I can offer you. Your rep has preceded you but you guessed that much. The way you slaughtered your old man goes against you from the off. Take my advice, love, keep your head down and your nose clean and we’ll all feel the benefit.’

  They were silent until they came towards the wing. The noise made by hundreds of women was deafening, growing louder and louder as they approached.

  Once on the wing Susan was assailed by smells as well as sounds. The deep stench of overcooked cabbage from lunch was everywhere, in between sharper smells like sweat and cheap soap and deodorant. Wirelesses blared and people talked louder to compensate. Susan knew they were watching the new arrival and held herself straight, pressing her bundle into her chest. The women were the usual prison mixture: prostitutes with outrageous hair and make up; mousy kiters - credit card thieves; hard-faced prison junkies. Same faces, different prison.

  It was all so depressing.

  As she walked up the stairs to the first landing she heard a loud laugh and turned to stare into a pair of lovely green eyes that seemed to be open to their utmost. The owner of the eyes was tiny and doll-like. She smiled widely at Susan who nearly smiled back.

  The PO pushed the girl away.

  ‘One of the baby killers, Dalston. Watch out for her. Looks like an angel but she’s madder than a rabid dog. She dropped her baby on to the gravel from her council flat - she was sixteen floors up. Post-partum depression. She’ll walk. But until then we’re stuck with her.’

  She followed the PO until they came to an open cell. The PO walked inside and Susan followed her, a feeling of apprehension washing over her. You never knew who you were to be celled up with, and until you’d found out, sussed them out and knew you could relax, it was a difficult business.

  Lying on the top bunk, her hair immaculate, her make up perfect, was Matilda Enderby. Dark-eyed, with masses of chestnut hair, she sat up and gave Susan the once over. Then, turning to the PO, she said gently, ‘You’re putting this in with me?’

  The voice was deep and husky with a middle-class accent.

  Susan looked the woman in the eye and attempted a brief smile.

  The PO ignored her, saying briskly, ‘Listen, Enderby, you don’t pick and choose in here, love. You gave up that right the night you murdered your old man. And as you’re both in for the same thing I think you two might have more in common than you think.’

  She left the cell and pulled the door to behind her.

  Susan placed her bundle on the bottom bunk and pulled it open. The first thing she did was take out the photos and letters from her children. Then she quickly unrolled the few belongings she had and put them into the empty drawer of a small bureau.

  Matilda Enderby watched her every move.

  When Susan had finished she slid on to the bunk and, lying down, gazed at her children’s faces. Especially the baby’s.

  Matilda left the cell and came back with two large mugs of tea. She opened a packet of Digestives and placed a few on the bunk beside Susan.

  ‘Did you really hit your old man . . .’

  Susan interrupted her acidly.

  ‘One hundred and fifty-two times with a claw hammer? Yes, I did, I counted the blows, it gave me something to focus on.’

  Matilda nodded. Even her face seemed still now. Gone was the perpetual eye movement betraying someone who was carefully observing what was going on around her. The two women were quiet for a while.

  ‘What happened to you then?’

  Matilda half smiled.

  ‘Don’t you recognise me? I’m the focus of a lot of media attention at the moment. I’ll be out of here soon. Mine was one stab through the heart, and the bastard deserved it after what he put me through.’

  Her voice was full of bitterness as she asked, ‘Why did you do it?’

  Susan shrugged.

  ‘Who knows?’

  ‘Well, you know, surely, even if you’re not telling.’

  Susan didn’t answer her.

  Instead she lay back on the bunk and tried to empty her mind. She had never told anyone what had led up to the murder and she didn’t think she ever would. There were too many people involved, too many secrets to keep.

  But then, that was how she had lived her whole life: one lie on top of another lie, one secret on top of another secret.

  Later that day, as the prison noise calmed down and the cell door was finally clanged shut until the morning, Susan was left to her own thoughts. The same thoughts she had night after night. It was only in her own head, in the dark of night, that she could allow herself to think about what she had done and, more importantly, why she had done it.

  She knew that to understand her own actions she had to go way back into her early life. That held the key to everything that had happened to her later. After the last two years of listening to psychiatrists repeatedly trying to find out the reason behind her crime, Susan finally understood why she had done what she had to Barry.

  BOOK ONE 1960

  ‘Nothing begins, and nothing ends.

  That is not paid with moan;

  For we are born in other’s pain,

  And perish in our own.’

  - Francis Thompson (‘Daisy’, 1913), 1859-1907

  ‘Oh! how many torments lie in the small circle of a wedding ring.’

  - Colley Cibber (The Double Gallant, 1707), 1671-1757

  Chapter One

  The girl opened her eyes. Sleep was sticky in them and she wiped it away with one small hand. She could hear her sister’s steady breathing, little muffled snores that reminded her of a puppy’s. The bed was warm and enveloping. She snuggled into her sister’s back, the two little bodies fitted together like a pair of spoons, and drifted back to sleep.

  The crash woke them both.

&nb
sp; Susan knew she had not been asleep long because her arm wasn’t dead yet and it usually was when she slept all night cuddled into her sister’s bony frame.

  Their father’s shouting was reaching a crescendo.

  Debbie giggled.

  ‘Silly old bastard! I wish he’d go to sleep.’

  Susan laughed too.

  The fight, which had been going on for two days, was because her mother had got a job in the local pub. Their father was convinced she was only working there because there was something funny going on between her and the landlord.

  He was always convinced their mother was having an affair and usually he was right.

  That was what made the two girls smile. Even at eight and nine they knew the score and it amazed them that their father hadn’t quite sussed it out yet. Their laughter stopped when they heard a loud slap, followed quickly by their mother’s heels clacking down the lino-covered passage.

  ‘You fat bastard! I’ll fucking knife you one of these days.’

  ‘Knifing, is it, eh? Always stabbing someone, you. Getting stabbed with that fucker’s prick is all you’re good for, lady.’

  The battering was really starting now. They heard the thud as their mother’s head hit the wall and both girls winced.

  ‘You get up, Sue, I went last time.’

  She sat up in bed and shook her head.

  ‘No way. He hates me, you know he does.’

  A loud smashing noise told the girls the fight had moved into the small front room.