Inevitable Read online

  Inevitable

  by Nicola Haken

  Inevitable

  Copyright © 2013 Nicola Wall

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events and places are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or people, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without written permission from the author, except in the case of critics or reviewers who may quote brief passages in their review. If you are reading this ebook and have not purchased it or won it in a blogger/author competition then you are reading a pirated version. Please support the author by deleting it and purchasing it from an authorized distributor.

  Dedicated to Michael, my husband and soul mate. For his love and support. For listening to me babble on about my ideas for hours on end. For taking over the house and kids while I head off into my own little world. But most of all, for being the best husband and father to our children I ever could have hoped for. I love you.

  Contents

  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

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Maddie

  Yesterday I was living in Manchester, England and today I pulled up outside my new home in Redwood City, California. As usual when it comes to emergency getaways my mum is in the shit. Also as usual she’s not told me why, but I’ve picked up from secret phone calls and whispers that she’s stolen an impressive sum of money from one of her ‘clients’ and as you can imagine he isn’t too happy about it. So I guess, technically, we are on the run.

  Compared to our previous flits this one has been a little more carefully crafted. We had been ‘hiding’ in a derelict flat for just over six weeks whilst I took care of visas, expenses and my mum’s alcohol levels. She insisted on being the one to sort out our passports so I let her, assuming she’d balls it up and I’d have to do it myself anyway. Amazingly, two shiny new passports landed on the mat just two weeks later. She got something right for once.

  My mum is what she likes to call ‘an attentive masseuse’ who goes by the name of ‘Sugar’. She drinks too much, smokes too much and dabbles in whatever substances she can afford that week. I am also pretty sure she suffers from some form of undiagnosed bipolar. Her mood swings are off the scale some days but she has always refused to seek help for fear the authorities would take me away from her. The fact that is my biggest fear too is the only thing that has stopped me pushing the subject.

  But she’s my mum. I love her. And so I look after her the best I can.

  “Maddie! Grab one of these will you?” my mum called as she struggled to unload our suitcases from the back of the taxi. Her voice snapped me out of the trance I’d fallen into whilst staring at our new home - which was effectively a rusty static caravan – and I scurried over to help her.

  I rolled my eyes watching her struggle towards the house – waddling from side to side with the weight of the case she was lifting by the handle with two hands.

  “Mum!” I shouted, drawing her attention to the wheels on the base of my suitcase. She flicked her gaze to the bottom of her own case and then huffed in frustration as she dropped it to the floor and dragged it across the weed ridden graveled path.

  I followed with my purple rucksack in one hand and my suitcase in the other, crossing paths with my mum as she went back for the last case. All the while our lazy-arse driver stood unhelpfully by his open door, scratching the earth with his dirty shoes as he waited for his fare.

  “Don’t you dare tip that lazy bastard,” she whispered, handing me her purse as she headed into the house with the last of our luggage.

  I nodded even though I planned to ignore her. There was no doubt he didn’t deserve a tip but he was four times the size of me with a scowl I’m pretty sure would kill you if you stared at it too long. Therefore I rounded the thirty-two dollar fare up to forty and breathed a sigh of relief when he climbed straight back in the car and sped off within seconds.

  “Well, this is nice. Isn’t this nice, Maddie?” my mum enthused as we set down our luggage in the living room of the tin can that was our new house.

  I flashed her what can only be described as an are-you-fucking-with-me glare whilst my eyes reluctantly weighed up my surroundings. The peeling wallpaper was dotted with large brown, old-lady flowers. The living room consisted of one tatty brown sofa, a wicker chair and a white garden table set and it was joined onto a tiny kitchen which had lightwood cupboards with half the doors missing, a rusty two-burner stove and a fridge with very precarious hinges.

  Nice? No fucking way.

  “Sure,” I lied.

  “What time have we got to be at Treacle’s for?”

  “Maddie no! It’s Trudy now remember? She’ll go ape-shit if you call her that in front of her family.”

  Treacle/Trudy is an old friend of my mum’s. I vaguely remember her… I think. Or maybe my brain has just formed fake memories from the freezer-bag full of photos my mum carries around with her.

  They met ‘at work’ before I was born and quickly became best friends and roommates. In fact, the three of us lived together until I was four or five but then Treacle landed on her feet when the real-life version of Pretty Woman’s Edward Lewis swept her off her feet on one of his business trips to London. According to mum he whisked her away to his life of luxury in California, married her and put a bun in her oven all within three months of his first ‘massage’ – leaving us behind with only twenty pounds to my mum’s name and half a loaf of stale bread.

  I could tell by the wounded tone of her voice whenever she told that story (which was often, especially when drunk, which again was often) that she resented Treacle for abandoning us – although she fiercely denied it.

  She’d always be Treacle in my eyes - that’s the only name my mum had ever called her by. The fact a bit of money was thrown her way didn’t change who she was. Anyway, we haven’t seen her since, although I think she and Mum wrote to each other a lot.

  That was about to change today though. Apparently I’d be going to school with her stepson whose name I can’t remember. I want to say Bryan, but that sounds too old for someone in high school. Ben maybe? Brandon? I’m sure it begins with a B. Anyhow in order for me to go to his school I have to pretend I live with them or something. I’m not sure why – catchment areas and exclusivity came up during one of my eavesdropping sessions.

  Still, whatever the reason, that’s why we were visiting today – so I had an idea where I was ‘living’ for all intents and purposes before my first day at school tomorrow.

  “Earth to Maddie.” My mums nicotine stained finger ticking from side to side in front of my nose pulled me from my reverie. I shook the jetlag from my brain and focused on her.

  “Yes?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “Five o’clock what?”

  “Trudy’s. We’re to be there at five,” she stated with an exasperated sigh tacked on the end.

  “Right. Well, I need a shower first. I feel manky as hell.” My clothes were sticking to my body and my hair was saturated with sweat. Although the weather wasn’
t as hot as I thought it would be, it was definitely hotter than the frigid February air England had to offer and I think my body was struggling to adjust.

  “Okay. You go choose your room and get yourself ready. I need a smoke.”

  On that note my mum turned to her handbag and I turned to the hallway. I say hallway, what I mean is a small square of midnight-blue carpet that reeks of cat piss with a door on each side and one directly in front. Without bothering to look inside I chose the room on the left. I was met with a single bed, a pine chest of drawers and just enough floor space to turn around – if I kept my arms by my sides that is.

  After heaving my suitcase onto the bare mattress I fished out the only sundress I owned – yellow with navy-blue spots – a towel and my vanity case. Then I made my way to the bathroom which ironically doesn’t even have a bath.

  I was out of the mildew infested shower cubicle in under three minutes and absurdly I felt dirtier than when I climbed in. I firmly buffed away any residual grime with my pink towel before raking a brush through my unruly chestnut hair and restraining it a bun. Then I slipped on my sundress, making the bold decision not to wear a bra knowing the straps would show underneath, before applying a dusting of foundation and hoping I didn’t sweat off my efforts before we met our new, loaded friends.

  I found my mum flipping out in the living room. Her suitcase was sprawled open on the floor and she was tossing the contents out one by one, sending them flying into every corner of the small room.

  “Mum stop! What are you looking for?” I asked, pressing steadying hands on her shoulders.

  “My black dress. I can’t find it! You know the one with the long sleeves? The black one. I can’t find my black dress!”

  She was in a full on panic. I could tell she was about two minutes away from the crying stage. I needed to calm her down.

  “You look fine as you are. Trea-Trudy’s your friend, you don’t need to dress up for her.”

  “Maddie, we haven’t seen each other in twelve years. Plus she’s all rich and toffee-nosed now. Fuck knows what her family will think if I turn up looking like trailer trash!”

  Okay so Operation Calm Mum Down wasn’t quite going to plan. Hell, after what she’d just said now I felt underdressed! So Treacle had married a bit of money – she was still Mum’s best friend. She had the same roots. She wouldn’t judge us. Would she?

  “We’ll find it,” I assured her, lightly restraining her flailing arms with mine. “Maybe it’s got mixed-in with my stuff.”

  After a quick rifle through my suitcase the missing dress – and the smartest item of clothing my mum owned – was now clinging to her body. She’d ran the straightening irons over her short spiky hair (which was purple this week) and caked her face in makeup, leaving no visible traces of her own skin underneath. Her heavily mascaraed lashes were weighing down her sad eyes. She was nervous, I think. It was hard to know for sure because my mum didn’t do nerves.

  “Why did you bring us here, Mum?”

  “I told you. We needed a change of scenery.”

  This was always her excuse for our midnight flits. We’d moved around for as long as I can remember. My mum had never been able to last longer than three months in one place without getting into some kind of trouble. During my life I have lived in just about every town and city the UK has to offer. In fact I’ve never stayed in one place long enough to remember its postcode. But this is the first time she’d ever dragged me to another country. Something told me whatever she was running away from this time must have been pretty damn serious.

  “But you have to admit this is the most drastic change of scenery we’ve ever had. I sort of understood at first, what with Trea-sorry, Trudy living here. But now we’re here it’s like you don’t even want to see her.”

  The impossible followed – my Mum fell silent.

  “Mum?” I pressed a little more impatient than I’d intended.

  “Trudy’s going to help us. No one’s ever helped us before, Maddie. She’s offered to pay for your schooling – for private schooling! She’s going to give you the life you deserve. The life I couldn’t.”

  I took three calming breaths and literally shook the frustration from my brain before my mouth opened and a 100mph rant came speeding from it. She’s paying for my school? Why? I couldn’t even begin to imagine how much that was going to cost. I suppose I just assumed my mum was going to pay for it until the money she stole ran out and then we’d no doubt move on somewhere else.

  I didn’t even want to go to school. I mean, back in England I could’ve been almost finished with college by now, and yet now I was back in bloody high school! And if that wasn’t bad enough I’d already been advised during an ‘informal welcome phone call’ with the school’s careers advisor that given my lack of experience with the American education system, and the fact that I was starting half way through the semester, I would most likely have to repeat my senior year. How is that fair?

  According to my mum it was all part of the better life she had planned for me. She was determined we were going to stay put this time. I was going to get a decent all-American education and go on to do amazing things with my life. She was apparently giving up the game too. She was going to get a job – a real, legal job – to support us and use her savings (AKA the money she stole) for emergencies, shortfalls and luxuries. It was all bullshit of course but I’d play along until she had another manic episode or stole from some other rich pervert and we had to run away again.

  But why did Treacle suddenly give a crap? She wasn’t all that arsed about my future when I was five. Not that she should have been of course. I was her friend’s mistake. I wasn’t her responsibility – just like I wasn’t now.

  “I haven’t had a bad childhood, Mum.” At least, not as bad as some kids. Granted I’d seen, heard and done things no child should ever have to experience but I always knew my Mum loved me. She did everything she could to stop Social Services taking me away – mainly running away. She fought for me, and somehow that made up for it all.

  “We both know that’s not true. I didn’t have a clue how to be a mother, Maddie. Guess I still don’t. But you know I love you, right?”

  “Of course I do. I love you too.” Right, time for Operation Stop Mum From Crying… “You know, this place is a shit hole,” I teased with a wink I knew she’d laugh at. Thankfully she did and it gave me hope we’d make it in and out of the posh people’s house without her flipping out on me. “But it’s our shit hole, right?”

  “Right.”

  I knocked on four of the neighbouring tin cans before someone finally opened the door. A greasy old man with a string vest and a comb-over eventually answered and allowed me use of his phone to call a taxi – although I’m sure it was only so the dirty old perv could gawp at my bum as I bent over the old, splintered desk to reach the landline.

  “Thanks,” I muttered dutifully, trying not to throw up at the stench of sweat and cigars being emitted from his hairy, round body. Then I literally ran for my life.

  I saw the taxi pulling up as I rounded the corner to our house. Christ, that was quick. My mum waved me over and I sprinted towards her, trying to sidestep pots of dead flowers and the odd car tyre.

  “Where to, girls?” the chirpy driver asked.

  “Atherton, please,” my mum said and I noticed the driver’s eyes widen in the rear-view mirror.

  “Atherton? You sure?” he asked in disbelief. I imagined Atherton must be some fancy pants rich persons town and we quite clearly didn’t fit the bill.

  Judgemental prick.

  “Quite. This is where we need to be.” My mum handed him a little square of white paper with something scribbled on it in black ink – Treacle’s address I assumed. He nodded and then cocked his head to one side as if my mum were crazy. Which she was of course, but he didn’t know that.

  “Atherton it is then,” he said, shaking his head. I was suddenly nervous. Were we going to be met by a mob of snooty protesters armed with wooden s
igns and banners ordering the immediate exile of the poor people?

  The taxi veered off onto a long winding road lined with evergreen trees and raised beds containing shrubs with red leaves. It was like we had just crossed an invisible line separating the rich from the ‘normal’. Huge iron gates, perfectly pruned greenery and ostentatious cars surrounded us. I stared down at my yellow dress – my best dress – and I felt like a tramp.

  “This must be it,” my mum said, her voice saturated with awe. I looked up from my hobo worthy dress to see we had stopped in front of some impressive arched, black iron gates. The driver leaned out of his window and pushed a little white button on a freestanding intercom unit. An inaudible muffle sounded from it.

  “I’ve got an Annie Welford and a Maddie Davis here, ma’am,” he spoke into the white box after asking Mum for our names - apparently I’m named after one of my potential fathers.

  The intercom beeped and then the imposing gates whirred as they prized themselves open. Slowly, more cautiously, we were driven down a lengthy paved driveway trimmed with shrubs and trees until it extended into a large court surrounding a magnificent building comprising of three white edifices with sloping red-tiled roofs, merged into one enormous house. There were huge stone statues everywhere. Two lions guarded the front door on stone podiums and faceless naked women in various poses were dotted around the meticulously manicured lawns.

  A woman – late thirties with honey blonde hair and a red-carpet worthy silver maxi-dress – stepped out of the house to greet us before we’d even vacated the car.

  “Jesus Christ, I barely recognise her,” my mum muttered under her breath whilst handing a chunk of crumpled notes to our driver.

  “Is that Trudy?”

  My mum nodded once and then shook her head in disbelief. I clambered awkwardly out of the car first, self consciously smoothing my trampy dress over my thighs with my palms. My mum followed and clearly feeling as insecure as I did, started to rake through her short purple hair with her nervous fingers.