January 28th 1987
Helen Beckett was eight and a half months pregnant. Huge, uncomfortable and wanting ice cream at 3am. She lay in bed and had a debate with herself wether to get up and go to her favourite hang out, the 24 hour garage on Jamaica Road Bermondsey. A place that guaranteed junk food, donuts, chocolate and ice cream no matter what the hour. Her bump was the ruler of her world, after four months of pucking at the mere thought of anything except cheese and pickle sandwiches, she now craved sugar at the oddest times. Her colleague in A&E, Rashida, stated her never-ending cravings for ice cream and ice lollies meant she was having a boy. Helen had been quite insistent during her scans that she did not want to know the sex of her baby. She was thirty-five and considered an older, high risk pregnancy, so had had three scans and undergone her tests to ensure a healthy baby. Junior was thriving and on line to be a natural birth. She was good friends with the midwives at Guys, where she currently worked, her birth plan worked out. The nurse no longer worked in radiology but in A&E, hectic and always busy. Helen liked her work and she was glad of her independence. There was on site daycare, so her bump would be well looked after when she worked shifts after her six months of maternity leave. She had no family to fall back on, just friends. She had tried to make things work with John, but he always put himself and his work first. This unplanned and completely unexpected bun in her oven had steeled Helen to finally be her own boss. Her catholic upbringing meant she only considered abortion as a last resort. She still was thankful she had not been made to decide to abort or carry a disabled child. Now, within weeks of the birth she had hardened her heart. No longer would she simper and chase after John, not after the 20 minute chat in Paris that was supposed to be them discussing the future like adults. His reassurances that everything would be OK after junior emerged was just hot air. Helen would continue to work, be a mother and she would file for divorce. A quickie was a certainty with John's checkered past and his complete absence from prenatal care and classes. John, her beautiful John, got no more chances. The spell in prison had been the last time she stood by him no matter what. After 10 years together, she realized she had spent 95% of that time on her own.
Helen dressed and left via the fire escape rather than disturb the Mrs. Patel across the hall. The nosy old woman seemed never to sleep and always seemed far to interested in Helen and her impending arrival. Her one bedroom flat in Bermondsey was cramped but cheap. She missed the townhouse she and John had shared in Chelsea.
She was dressed like a tramp, she had to admit. Large hoodie with hood pulled up, enormous anorak and sweatpants, she skirted down the rear alley on Prospect Street and across the small patch of trees providing cover before crossing the A200 to the small petrol station run by VJ. Hell, she knew the proprietor by name, his birthday, his wife and kids. In the past three years, she had spent more time with this shop owner than John or his creepy little brother, Ian. She was glad Ash occasionally popped over, less so now John worked abroad. That guy was a hopeless jerk, always trying too hard. She guessed he was another in the thrall of easy going, effortlessly charming and wonderfully handsome John.
The selection was small. Helen herself had made a major dent in the supplies at the garage. She pondered over the cola flavoured icepops and the one tub left of Cookies and Creme Ice Cream. She wanted butterscotch or toffee but for that she would have to wait for Tesco's to open at 8. She bought two icepops and a large bar of Dairy Milk Chocolate to tide her over and waddled back to her third floor flat on Prospect Street. She stood transfixed behind a tree as she observed Ash staring at her flat from the street. There was a loud bang, glass shattered and Flat 3d, her home, erupted in flame. Helen stood shocked for a moment before coming to her senses. She was perfectly placed, to be unobserved, by the bins to the rear of the block of flats opposite her former home. She watched Ash leave and then returned to the garage. VJ's brother ran a taxi firm. She would travel to Waterloo, and put the escape plan John had arranged into motion. Her world had just merged with John's. If she was in danger so was he. She started to make plans, VJ also had a range of under the counter, probably hot mobile phones for sale. She would warn John and then get the hell out of London. She checked her purse. She had all her rent money, £750 in cash. She thanked god for cravings, for the fact Mr. Monroe insisted on cash for her monthly rent and for the fact John was a paranoid bastard and had drummed into her the idea of trusting no one. Ash had just tried to kill her and her child. That hardened Helen like no other truth would. John was a calculating cold killer under all that charm. The double crossing psychopath Anthony Sean Howell, John's idea of a godparent for their unborn child, was now a dead man walking.
