Free The Ladykiller by Martina Cole

face.
    ‘Don’t you worry, Bert, I’ve given him such a larruping he won’t be so quick with his tongue in the future.’
    The man looked at George with tiny dark eyes. The boy could smell the rancid odour of stale sweat and swallowed down the urge to vomit. The man’s belly was quivering as he moved to make himself more comfortable in his seat. His string vest was stained with tea and food. George tried to concentrate on the man’s red-veined, bloated face.
    ‘He ain’t saying much, Nance. What’s the matter, you little bastard? Cat got your tongue?’
    George bit on his lip for a second.
    ‘I’m very sorry . . . I’m sorry.’
    Nancy Markham put her face so close to her son’s he could smell her breath. ‘You know what else to say, Georgie boy.’
    He swallowed and took another deep breath. ‘I’m sorry . . . Dad.’ The last word was barely audible.
    ‘Speak up, lad.’
    ‘I’m . . . sorry, Dad.’
    The man saw the hatred in the child’s eyes. It was unmistakable. For one second he felt frightened, then pulling himself together he grinned, showing tobacco-stained teeth. This little runt was no more than five stone! He screwed up his eyes and made himself look as ferocious as possible, wanting to intimidate the child.
    ‘You remember to call me that, boy.’ He poked his finger at George. Then he looked at Nancy and bellowed: ‘Where’s me fucking tea, woman? Get this little shit out of me sight and get yourself sorted!’
    Nancy pushed George out of her way and stood in front of the man.
    ‘Don’t you talk to me like that, Bert Higgins . . .’
    He pulled his enormous bulk from the chair and brought his fist back.
    ‘You want a right-hander, Nance, or what? You might be able to sort out little kids but don’t ever think you can order me around!’
    George watched his mother’s face as she battled with herself as to whether to carry on fighting or whether to retreat. As usual her fighting temper came to the fore and George bolted from the room as her hand went to the teapot on the table and she flung it at Bert.
    George took the stairs two at a time, his injuries forgotten in the panic to get away from them. He rushed into the bedroom he shared with Joseph, straight for his sister’s arms. He began to sob again as he heard the crashing from below. Edith caressed the short-cropped head, wincing every time a loud crash thundered up from below. She saw Joseph lying on the bed staring at the ceiling and felt a sense of futility.
    ‘Oh, please God, make them kill one another. Please make them both die.’
    Her anguished voice was muffled with tears. Since Bert Higgins had moved into the house eighteen months earlier their lives had been even more disrupted than usual. Nancy had found in him a bully who was even more violent than she was. They had been alternately loved to death or beaten within an inch of their lives ever since they could remember. But since the advent of Bert, things had gradually grown worse. Their mother had never been stable; now she was positively deranged. Her main outlet for her frustrations was George. Edith did her best to keep him from her mother’s rages but lately it was getting more and more difficult. Bert drank, her mother drank, and the children, mainly George, took the brunt of it. Edith had been given the task of cleaning the house. Nancy Markham had pretensions to respectability, even blind drunk.
    All three stood rooted to the spot as they heard their mother running across the front room and out into the hall. Her heavy footfalls on the stairs were followed by Bert’s.
    ‘Talk to me like that, would you, you slut? You bloody big fat slut!’
    ‘Take your filthy hands off of me, Bert Higgins, I’m warning you now.’
    They listened to the scuffle on the stairs and then heard a thud and all went quiet. The three looked at each other in consternation.
    ‘Nancy? Nance?’ Bert’s voice was low and filled with fear.
    Edith pushed George from her and ran from the