68
Thunder rumbled overhead. It had been raining heavily since first light and the windows of the small café were all steamed up. Chantelle shivered. She was soaked to the skin having come out of her hidey-hole to find some breakfast, a place no one would think of looking for her in a million years.
Another rumble of thunder.
Using her hand, she wiped a window in the condensation and peered through it. Outside, people in summer clothes were running for shelter under misshapen umbrellas, cars had their lights on and a small group of shoppers were sheltering in a doorway across the road, waiting for a break in the weather. Chantelle wondered how Rooney was doing at home. Probably hiding under her bed, scared stiff as usual. She loved that cat. He was a stray she’d picked up off the street, the only living thing she gave a shit about. He needed his scran, just as she did, and would probably starve to death in a few days if he wasn’t fed.
Depressed by that thought, Chantelle finished her bacon buttie and picked up her tea. But the mug was empty, just cold dregs in the bottom. At the counter, the middle-aged woman who owned the café was serving take-aways to youths from the building site down the road. She had greying hair cut too short for her oval face and was wearing a Harrow checked tabard type apron fastened at the sides with Velcro. She gave a young man his change, throwing a concerned look at Chantelle as he made his way out the door.
‘Are you OK?’ she asked.
Other customers turned to see who the owner was talking to, their eyes sliding over Chantelle.
‘I’m fine!’ Chantelle said. ‘So you can all stop gawping!’
The owner wasn’t convinced. ‘You don’t look it.’
‘You looked in the mirror lately?’ Chantelle bit back.
‘Did your mother never teach you manners, young lady?’
Yeah right, Chantelle thought. The only thing her mother had ever taught her was how to play roulette and how to apply fake tan.
The woman had come out from behind her counter and was now standing over her.
‘Can I get you anything else before you go?’
It was a heavy hint that she was no longer welcome.
Ignoring the woman, Chantelle dropped her head into a magazine someone had left on the table, eyeing the lush watches on the wrists of the stars. One of them was practically identical to the watch Laidlaw had been wearing last night. The memory of the encounter made her tremble. Chantelle had been watching the vicious cow for days and knew exactly what she was up to: fancy new watch, new car, new names too, according to the papers. Well, not any more. Not now Chantelle had done her civic duty by tipping off Daniels and the fat fucker.
The police were lucky there were people like her around.
‘You need medical attention.’ The loitering owner uncrossed her arms and pointed at the makeshift bandage on Chantelle’s wrist, the blood-stained fingers poking out from beneath. ‘Your face isn’t much better. Look at the state of you!’ Her voice softened. ‘Has something happened to you, dear? Shall I call someone? The police?’
‘No! Just get lost and leave me alone. I slipped in the bath, that’s all.’
Chantelle’s lie was the first thing that came into her head: the excuse women give in prison if they’re attacked in the shower block and don’t want to snitch to the zombies looking after them. She knew the wound needed stitches but was too scared to go to casualty in case Lucy was watching. She didn’t want the café owner’s sympathy. She couldn’t cope with that.
‘Then I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave . . .’ The owner indicated the door. ‘This is a café, not a waiting room, and you’re upsetting my regulars. Besides, it’s against health and safe—’
‘Bollocks!’ Chantelle got up so suddenly the chair fell backwards and landed with a crash on the floor. Two old ladies at the next table picked up their shopping and made for the exit. A bell sounded as they pulled the door open and waddled out into the pouring rain. Chantelle turned back to the owner. ‘See . . . you’re the divvi upsetting everyone! You could do with a course on customer service. And don’t you ever call me dear!’
The woman held out her hand. ‘That’ll be one pound fifty.’
‘Bacon was off. Tea was like piss. You can swing for it, pet!’
And with that, Chantelle was gone.