locked, fumbled to unfasten it and wrenched it open.
Still sobbing, she was twenty yards along the dark street before she realized that Obbo might be waiting out here, watching. She cut across a neighbour's garden at a run and took a zig-zag route through back ways in the direction of Nikki's house, and all the time the wetness spread in her pants and she thought she might throw up.
Krystal knew that it was rape, what he had done. It had happened to Leanne's older sister in the car park of a nightclub in Bristol. Some people would have gone to the police, she knew that; but you did not invite the police into your life when your mother was Terri Weedon.
I'll tell Mist' Fairbrother.
Her sobs came faster and faster. She could have told Mr Fairbrother. He had known what real life was like. One of his brothers had done time. He had told Krystal stories of his youth. It had not been like her youth - nobody was as low as her, she knew that - but like Nikki's, like Leanne's. Money had run out; his mother had bought her council house and then been unable to keep up the payments; they had lived for a while in a caravan lent by an uncle.
Mr Fairbrother took care of things; he sorted things out. He had come to their house and talked to Terri about Krystal and rowing, because there had been an argument and Terri was refusing to sign forms for Krystal to go away with the team. He had not been disgusted, or he had not shown it, which came to the same thing. Terri, who liked and trusted nobody, had said, ''E seems all righ',' and she had signed.
Mr Fairbrother had once said to her, 'It'll be tougher for you than these others, Krys; it was tougher for me. But you can do better. You don't have to go the same way.'
He had meant working hard at school and stuff, but it was too late for that and, anyway, it was all bollocks. How would reading help her now?
'Ow's me boy?
He ain' your fuckin' boy.
'Ow d'you know?
Leanne's sister had had to get the morning-after pill. Krystal would ask Leanne about the pill and go and get it. She could not have Obbo's baby. The thought of it made her retch.
I gotta get out of here.
She thought fleetingly of Kay, and then discarded her: as bad as the police, to tell a social worker that Obbo walked in and out of their house, raping people. She would take Robbie for sure, if she knew that.
A clear lucid voice in Krystal's head was speaking to Mr Fairbrother, who was the only adult who had ever talked to her the way she needed, unlike Mrs Wall, so well-intentioned and so blinkered, and Nana Cath, refusing to hear the whole truth.
I gotta get Robbie out of here. How can I get away? I gotta get away.
Her one sure refuge, the little house in Hope Street, was already being gobbled up by squabbling relatives ...
She scurried around a corner underneath a street lamp, looking over her shoulder in case he was watching her, following.
And then the answer came to her, as though Mr Fairbrother had shown her the way.
If she got knocked up by Fats Wall, she would be able to get her own place from the council. She would be able to take Robbie to live with her and the baby if Terri used again. And Obbo would never enter her house, not ever. There would be bolts and chains and locks on the door, and her house would be clean, always clean, like Nana Cath's house.
Half running along the dark street, Krystal's sobs slowed and subsided.
The Walls would probably give her money. They were like that. She could imagine Tessa's plain, concerned face, bending over a cot. Krystal would have their grandchild.
She would lose Fats in getting pregnant; they always went, once you were expecting; she had watched it happen nearly every time in the Fields. But perhaps he would be interested; he was so strange. It did not much matter to her either way. Her interest in him, except as the essential component in her plan, had dwindled to almost nothing. What she wanted was the baby: the baby was more than a means to an end. She liked babies; she had always loved Robbie. She would keep the two of them safe, together; she would be like a better,