The Memory of Blood

∨ The Memory of Blood ∧

6

Fracture

Anna Marquand hated the litter-strewn alleyway. It ran behind Jamaica Road to the back of her terrace and was the fastest way to get from Bermondsey tube station to her back door. The problem was that she had to pass the sons and daughters of the Hagans.

The Hagans were a four-generation criminal family who lived in the street’s corner house. They often hung around at the mouth of the alley, watching and waiting for trouble to ignite. Three hard little girls with angry, feral faces and armour-plate attitude, two dim-eyed drug-flensed brothers in baggy bling and a morbidly obese child of indeterminate sex. They lurked in varying combinations depending on the night, as if on sentry duty.

The oldest boy worried Anna the most. His eyes followed her from beneath the arch of his baseball cap, defying her to return his stare. Anna had always presumed herself immune from the attention of men, but Ashley Hagan made a point of noticing her. He licked his lips as she passed.

“Don’t be intimidated,” said her mother. “They’re all bad apples, those Hagans, flashing their drug money around and behaving like they own the street. The old man used to sell stolen goods after the war, and now his greatgrandchildren are still doing it. The police never touched them, not then, not now.” But it was easy for Rose to say; she never went out any more, and waited at the window, watching for her daughter to arrive with the groceries.

Tonight the alley looked grey and empty. Two of the streetlights were out. Anna had a very good reason for not wanting to meet any of the Hagans. A week earlier she had argued with Bunny, the youngest daughter, over the McDonald’s containers that were nightly discarded on her back doorstep. The conversation had quickly escalated into threats from all three sisters, who had warned that they would stab her if she complained again. In one respect Anna’s mother was right: going to the police was likely to exacerbate the problem, so for a week she had avoided the alley.

But now a storm was breaking overhead and she had no umbrella, so she had taken the shortcut.

And someone was walking fast behind her.

She knew that looking back would represent an acknowledgement and continued to face forwards, but increased her pace.

Ahead, an unruly spray of buddleia had sown itself into the masonry in a thicket, the dense panicles of its pink flowers laden with raindrops. As she skirted around it her shoes slipped on the paving stones, nearly tipping her over. It took a concentration of balance to right herself and continue. The sharp footsteps behind briefly stopped, then quickened, closer now.

The Hagan girls always wore grubby pink tracksuits and trainers – a man, then, but which one of them? Someone in shoes, so an older member of the family. Anna told herself this knowledge was a safety mechanism, not paranoia, and that there was no reason to be afraid. As she walked, she located her house keys. She clutched them tightly in her right hand, swinging her shopping in the left.

Nearly home now.

She had reached the back door of number 14 Hadley Street, had unlocked it and dropped the keys in her shopping bag when she felt a sharp tug on the handles. In the four years she had lived with her mother in Bermondsey, she had twice been mugged for her mobile. She wasn’t about to lose another one, so she yanked back hard and felt the plastic bag stretching.

It was like pulling a Christmas cracker and knowing you had the half without the toy inside. She did not want to see into his eyes, in the same way that you would not stare at a dangerous animal. He was just waiting for something to fracture.

This was what life had become for Anna – an endless tug-of-war between her mother, her employers, the government, even strangers in the street. Suddenly sick of it, she let go. Let him keep the damn groceries.

The move caught her mugger by surprise. The bag dropped between them and was quickly snatched up by unseen hands. Anna dared to raise her eyes and look. Through splinters of rain she saw a baseball cap, a black jacket, a pale face lost to shadow.

The neon panel above the back door flicked on, casting a harsh mausoleum light; her mother must have heard the commotion and come into the kitchen. Anna used the moment to throw herself inside the house, locking the door behind her. She stood behind the barred glass and listened, her heart thumping, but heard nothing. Surely he should have run off?

“Call the police,” said her mother, but Anna knew there would be no point. Instead, she instructed Rose to go back to the lounge. She stood in the middle of the kitchen waiting for her pulse rate to drop. Then she did what so many British do after a moment of crisis. She made herself a strong cup of tea.

The rain fell harder, rattling the gutters and spattering the windows. Anna sat in the bright, empty kitchen with her steaming mug and tried not to think about anything. Her doctor had shown her how to do this whenever she was stressed. Now, though, something made her rise – a drop in the wind, a sudden silence – and she needed to see.

Quietly, slowly, she opened the back door and looked out. Her spilled shopping bag was still on the step. Gathering it up, she brought it inside. Her wallet, work folders, shopping – it was all intact.

The only things missing were her mobile phone and her keys.