Hidden Sin: When the past comes back to haunt you
The explosive sequel to #1 Sunday Times bestseller Bad Blood.Set 18 years later, Hidden Sin is the story of Joey, his girlfriend Paula and Rasta Mo, the man he is to discover is his dad.Joey Parker is a young man with big dreams. Almost eighteen, he’s desperate to escape the shackles of his window cleaning round, so when’s offered the chance to try out as a drummer in a local Blondie tribute band he jumps at the chance. But it isn’t just the music that moves him. It’s also the fact that Paula Foster is the lead singer. The daughter of his mum’s old mate, Josie, she was once a childhood friend. They’ve not seen each other in years, and their mutual attraction is immediate.Meanwhile, notorious local drug overlord, Rasta Mo, has recently returned to Bradford after a spell inside and years in Marbella. He is instantly enamored with the good-looking drummer he discovers is his son. He decides that his new club is in need of a house band – and so begins his attempts to woo him.This book charts a journey between two men into a future neither visualized. And, in Joey’s case, into a dangerous criminal world he’s never known. And, while his mother and step-father can only look on in horror as Joey potentially becomes the one thing she’s always dreaded – his father’s son.Joey is oblivious to who Mo is. The truth has always been hidden from him. All he cares about is that his and Paula’s dreams are all starting to come true. But will the cost of achieving them be too high to pay?
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Certain details in this book, including names, places and dates, have been changed to protect the family’s privacy.
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First published by HarperElement 2018
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© Julie Shaw and Lynne Barrett-Lee 2018
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Cover photographs © plainpicture/Valery Skurydin (young woman); © Romany WG/Trevillion Images (figure)
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Source ISBN: 9780008228484
Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008228491
Version: 2018-04-05
This book is simply dedicated to our Alan Taylor. Rest in peace, Alan – you fought with every last breath to stay as long as you could with my lovely little cousin, Sue, AKA our Nipper, and your girls, Penny, Lou and Lindsay. They all did you proud, Alan, and always will do. You were everything a man should be and you’ll be sadly missed. x
Contents
Bradford, June 1997
Mo took a slow look around him and sniffed the air. Nothing had changed, he realised. The Sun Inn still delivered: its familiar cocktail of stale beer, cheap perfume and sweat. Did it feel good to be back? He wasn’t sure yet.
On balance, though, yes. Because he knew he still had it. Knew from the ripples of reaction that seemed to flow out when he moved. The odd stare. The covert nudge. The inevitable whispered conversations. Conversations that he knew were taking place in his wake. So on balance, yes. Yes, the weather was shit, obviously, but for the most part it felt good to be home.
He swayed – he couldn’t help it – to the rhythm of the music. A young band. Loud and fast. A little raw, but pretty good, currently banging out Blondie’s ‘Picture This’. He leaned in towards Irish Pete – well, as close as his nose allowed, anyway. ‘These are good, man,’ he shouted at his friend above the noise. ‘What they called?’
‘Parallel Lines,’ Pete said. ‘Blondie tribute band.’
‘I think I got that much.’
‘And that blonde tart’s a dead ringer for Debbie Harry, is she not? I know what I’d fucking like to do to her, too!’ Pete grabbed at his crotch and thrust his hips forward. ‘She wouldn’t have to picture this, eh? She’d get the whole ten fucking inches!’
Mo eyed his old friend with distaste. One thing he’d forgotten during his long years on the oh-so-much more civilised (well, at least in that sense) Spanish Costas was that the Petes of this world never changed. Dirty-tongued, always. And dirty-mouthed, too. The recipient of some very expensive dental work recently, Mo was the proud owner of a gleaming new set of teeth, which only served to highlight what a sewer Pete’s own mouth had become since he’d gone away. It stank like one every time he opened it, however sweet the words that issued forth, the rank-smelling interior fenced in by uneven rows of yellowy-brown, misshapen teeth.
‘In your dreams, Pete,’ he said, turning sideways to avoid the stench. ‘Ten fucking inches, my arse.’ He nodded back to the stage. ‘Seriously, you know anything about them? I’m on the lookout for some talent for when me and Nico’s place gets sorted. Decent house band. Something with a bit of class.’
And they did seem to have that. That sense of knowing their own worth. The blonde at the front, in particular – she had enough attitude to start a war. And the kid on the drums. There was definitely something special about him. Muscular. Mixed-race. Maybe twenty. Possibly younger. A whir of mesmerising movement beneath a cloud of chocolate curls, his hands moving in an expert blur across the whole drum kit.
‘Not sure about “class”,’ Pete was saying. ‘The bird’s Josie McKellan’s kid.’ He nudged Mo. ‘You know? Paula? Don’t you recognise her? Tidy wee fucker she’s turned out to be, eh?’
