JACQUI ROSE
Taken

Copyright

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2012

This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers in 2018

Copyright © Jacqui Rose 2012

Cover design © Alison Groom 2018

Cover photograph © Shutterstock

Jacqui Rose asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9781847563224

Ebook Edition © August 2013 ISBN: 9780007455720

Version: 2018-05-01

Dedication

For my three wonderful children who are the air I breathe and the heartbeat of my life.

And for my wonderful agent, Judith Murdoch, who saw something in me I didn’t see in myself – thank you.

And finally for Keshini Naidoo, who was my editor before she stopped being my editor, but best of all, she then became my friend.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

In conversation with Jacqui Rose

Keep Reading

About the Author

Titles by Jacqui Rose

About the Publisher

‘Soho’ – derived from a 17th-century hunting cry

CHAPTER ONE

‘Dean Street please.’

Casey Edwards sat in the back of the black cab and sank her body against the grey faux leather seats. She was exhausted but knew it was pointless trying to get some sleep; she was too wired and decided after she’d settled in, she’d dump her bags and go for a well-needed drink.

‘Here on business or pleasure, love?’

It was a simple question from the cab driver, who stared intensely at her with his watery blue eyes in the driver’s mirror, but it was one Casey didn’t know the answer to. She wasn’t here on business and she certainly wasn’t here on pleasure; the driver was as much in the know as she was. Not being put off by Casey’s silence, the cabbie continued to talk whilst weaving in and out of the traffic on the invariably busy Euston Road.

Casey gazed out of the window, watching the passing cars absentmindedly as she thought about the events of the morning.

Casey opened her eyes and looked down, wondering who the naked man fast asleep on her leg was. She moved her body slightly to the right and groaned audibly as her head began to pound and the sticky residue of semen between her legs betrayed the fact that once again, she’d had sex with a complete stranger.

Her life had become a series of alcohol-fuelled sexual encounters and now for the first time last night she’d added cocaine to the mix.

Getting off the small double bed, she took a second look at the man, who momentarily opened his eyes before turning over and letting out a loud fart. Casey grimaced, trying to remember the events of the previous night, but her head hurt and trying to think made it ache even more.

Vaguely she recollected getting ready; unwashed skinny jeans, a white Gap t-shirt and black leather jacket, before heading to Luigi’s wine bar on the corner of Station Road. She recalled ordering an overpriced scotch on the rocks – the first drink was supposed to give her the courage she needed, but instead it became the first of many. The taste of the burning whisky on her lips was as far as her memory took her; she couldn’t think how she’d ended up in a shabby hotel room having had sex with a man who had a clear case of flatulence.

Going over to where she’d thrown her clothes, Casey saw the remaining cocaine cut neatly into lines on the tatty brown dresser. Picking up the rolled-up twenty-pound note, she bent over, greedily snorting up the fine white powder and feeling the coke immediately cutting the back of her throat, leaving an acidic taste followed by a tingle as the buzz hit her head and body.

Looking round the room, Casey noticed her suitcase was slightly open and her eyes were immediately drawn to the battered red journal which lay amongst her crumpled clothes.

‘Any left for me?’ The unidentified man came up behind her and put his hands round Casey’s naked waist. He leant forward and kissed the back of her neck, sending shivers of disgust down her body. She could feel his erect penis pushing hard onto the back of her legs as she bent down again to snort some more cocaine, hoping to numb herself from what was about to happen.

‘How do you want it, baby? Slow and hard or quick and rough?’

He was laughable; did he really think any woman would be turned on by him sounding like he’d just stepped out of a cheap American porn movie? What she really wanted to do was tell him to fuck off, but instead she sighed and answered him in a slow drawl, mirroring his cheap and corny line.

‘Anything you want, honey; as long as it’s quick, baby. Just make it quick.’ She knew this would be the last time; it had to be. There could be no going back now, and somehow she needed this feeling of self-loathing; this debasement of herself to remind her if she didn’t make it, couldn’t make it, this was what was waiting for her. With tears stinging her eyes she’ll let the man’s rough hands wander over her body.

After it was over, Casey dressed and walked out, leaving the man hungrily finishing the last of the coke. All she wanted to do was get out of there. Get on a train and head for London, the place she’d been avoiding going for so many years. But it was finally time.

‘I didn’t know they let blind people drive,’ the taxi driver yelled as he overtook a white Fiat, jolting Casey from her thoughts. After getting blocked in by three double-decker buses outside the fire station in Shaftesbury Avenue, the cab driver finally managed to turn right – after much hand gesturing and swearing – into Wardour Street.

‘Do you want me to drop you here or go right round, love? It’s one way so I can’t go down.’

‘Here’s just fine.’ He pulled over without signalling, causing the cyclist behind him to swerve onto the other side of the road, very nearly hitting an oncoming car.

After handing over a ten-pound note for the nine-pound fair and watching the taxi drive off, beeping the horn violently, Casey made her way down Dean Street. She caught glimpses of her stooped, tired looking reflection in the windows of the bars she walked past. She was only thirty-two, but felt much older – each passing day seemed a lifetime. She continued down the street, noticing the mix of Georgian houses once occupied by aristocratic families, and the contemporary shop faces and restaurants, feeling the knots of anxiety in her stomach.

The flat she hadn’t seen yet but had agreed to on the phone was next to a pub being refurbished and almost opposite the Soho Theatre. In front of the communal front door Casey saw a Turkish couple arguing violently, and her heart dropped as she wondered if they were to be her new neighbours.

It was just gone five thirty when the landlord, who’d agreed to meet Casey at four o’clock, showed up.

‘Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’ Bernard Goldman spoke in such a manner it was apparent to Casey he didn’t care if he had or not. He continued to talk in a bored voice as he took out a large set of keys from his brown leather briefcase.

‘So, like I said on the phone, its one month’s rent in advance and one month’s rent as a deposit. Each month I’ll come and collect the rent in cash and if you can’t pay, then it’s out. Okay?’

Casey nodded and followed him up the bare staircase to the battered white door at the top of the building. The landlord paused and it took a second for Casey to realise what he was waiting for. Quickly she scrambled in her bag and took out a large envelope, handing it over to him.

After taking several minutes to count the money twice, the landlord was eventually satisfied it was all there.

‘Here’s your keys; flat, building and utility meters. If you’ve any problems you’ve got my number.’

‘What about an agreement?’

‘What about it?’

The landlord sighed and scratched his flaking head, answering Casey in a sardonic manner.

‘Okay. I agree and you agree. Happy now?’

He turned and walked down the stairs and Casey heard the slam of the bottom door close as he hurried out. She stood on the top landing wondering what she’d let herself in for and after a deep breath she put the key in the lock.

It was worse than she’d expected – and she hadn’t expected a great deal. The paisley brown wallpaper was visibly peeling off the walls, exposing a multitude of wires. The furniture was non-existent and the floors were bare boards, though Casey thought that was probably a blessing; the idea of having to live with a carpet, riddled with god knows what, might take some doing. The kitchen was really a kitchenette, built as if an afterthought on the far right wall of the L-shaped room. The stove was filthy and Casey reckoned it was a good thing she hated cooking. Surprisingly the kettle was new; so at least she’d be able to have a cup of coffee in the mornings without fear of electrocution.

She opened the door to the bathroom to see what horrors awaited her and immediately shut it closed again. The last door was to the bedroom; in it was a double bed with a mattress still covered in plastic wrapping, a side cabinet with one of its legs being propped up by a pile of yellowing porn magazines, and a large curtainless window overlooking the street.

Even though she wanted to pick up her bag, leaving the squalid flat to its crawling inhabitants, she’d no other choice but to stay there now. The rent with the deposit had worked out to nearly three and a half grand which had totally wiped out all her savings and she certainly couldn’t afford to lose it, plus, unlike most landlords, Mr Goldman only insisted on hard cash and not references and Casey knew it’d be hard to come by a flat in London whose owner didn’t require all the proper paperwork and, for that, being extorted by ruthless landlords was the price she’d have to pay. Not wanting to open the bathroom door again, Casey washed her face and brushed her teeth in the kitchenette sink. Pulling out a beige sweater from her bag, she touched the tattered red diary lying at the bottom of it. She’d started writing it when she was fifteen and had only kept it up for a couple of years, but the idea of throwing it out had never even crossed her mind. Over the years she’d moved around the North of England and the first thing she ever packed was her diary, always unable to throw it away, but always unable to open it. Now she had no choice. If she wanted to reconnect with the girl she once was, she had to remember. That girl had had hope, ambition, but more importantly she’d been innocent – and when Casey thought about who she’d once been, it was if she was thinking about another person.

Opening it, Casey read the first entry – written in red capital letters and two lines long.

Sat 15th July 1995

OH GOD – I’M PREGNANT!!!! MUM AND DAD ARE GOING TO KILL ME.

Casey slammed the diary closed and threw it back in the bag. She needed a drink; preferably several. It was the end of a long day and she refused to let herself feel guilty about needing to take the edge off. She could start her good intentions tomorrow. For now, she was going to let her hair down.

Looking round at her new home, she realised how utterly alone she was; moving round so much had given her few opportunities to make friends but this was different and the loneliness frightened her. There was no hiding from the truth either; she’d hit rock bottom and if she was going to ever climb out of this hole, she needed to find the courage to do what she’d come here to do.

Unable to stay in the flat for a moment longer, she hurriedly pulled on her jumper, brushed back her long auburn hair and grabbed her jacket before heading out and down the stairs, just in time to see a woman from the flat below being dragged out into the street by a man who was clearly a junkie.

Walking up Old Compton Street, Casey stopped to read a board outside a comedy club; she could do with a laugh. But tonight she really needed to have a quiet drink and think about what she needed to do. After all, there was a reason why she’d come here, and she didn’t want to get distracted by anything else. She continued to walk into the heart of Soho, not noticing the stare of the man across the street.

CHAPTER TWO

Alfie Jennings hated tarts. He didn’t mind fucking them but that was as far as it went. He’d certainly no wish to exchange small talk with them – he got enough of that at home with his wife, Janine, without some big-breasted brass talking shit in his ear. All he’d wanted was to get his cock sucked in peace and now he was being forced to listen to a brass talking ten to the dozen.

‘Bleedin’ hell it was cold outside last night; I nearly froze my tits off and it’d been so sunny during the day. Apparently the rest of the week is going to be rainy but I’m …’

The shoe missed, which was Alfie’s intention – it wasn’t really his scene to hit women, not unless he really had to, but he was certainly coming close to it now; the brass was jangling his nerves with all her yacking.

‘Ow! What was that bleedin’ for, Alf? You could’ve hit me on my boat race!’

‘If I’d wanted to shag a flippin’ weather girl, I’d have given Ulrika a call. And if I was trying to hit you, believe me darlin’, I wouldn’t have missed.’

‘Oh that’s nice ain’t it? If that clump of a shoe had hit me, it would’ve split open me fucking lip and then how would I give blow jobs then? It’d take at least a week to heal and that’d be a whole week’s money lost, not to mention …’

Alfie walked into his en-suite bathroom and slammed the door closed; hookers weren’t what they used to be. He could remember the time they fucked, sucked and kept their mouth shut. Now they all wanted to talk; thought it was their right to; and that pissed him off no end. He wanted a whore not a fucking wife.

Still hearing the complaints on the other side of the door, Alfie Jennings leant his muscular body on the edge of his black marble sink which had cost him a small fortune and no end of grief.

The men who’d delivered it had tried to tell him it was so heavy that they couldn’t bring it up the stairs due to health and safety reasons, so they’d no other option but to leave it on the pavement outside. He’d offered them a score each and asked them politely to make an exception, but they’d given him a point blank no, before starting to get lippy with him.

‘Sorry mate, I’m not hurting my back or getting a parking ticket for you; you’ll need to get some other mug to lug it up the stairs.’

Alfie had given the men time to grin triumphantly at each other before he’d grabbed hold of the sweaty fat one, pinning him up against his newly decorated hallway whilst noticing the man’s yellow-stained teeth as he grimaced in fear.

‘You better shut yer north and south you paki cunt otherwise I might do something I regret.’ The look of fear on the two men’s faces had amused Alfie no end, making it more entertaining to watch them later struggling up his stairs with blood streaming out of their broken noses, carrying the handcrafted sink.

The whole country was changing; nobody wanted to do anything for anyone else unless there was something in it for them. Alfie knew no one should really have to go to those extremes just to get some bellends to help him; not that he didn’t enjoy a ruck. Violence to him was like a good wine you savoured and took pleasure in any time of the day.

Sighing, he opened the smoky glassed bathroom window, enjoying the sound of West End life and taking in the cutting cold air on his bare chest.

His flat looked out over his favourite street in London and was directly opposite his club. Old Compton Street was in Alfie’s mind the heart of Soho; he’d even argue it was the heart of the capital: he never tired of it. He could still remember the excitement he’d felt as a boy when he’d jumped on the number 8 bus with his father on a Saturday night, heading away from the gloom of the East End and towards the heaving streets of Soho.

His father regularly visited an old brass at the Soho Square end of Greek Street, leaving Alfie outside no matter what the weather. Far from seeing this as another spiteful torment from his bullying father, Alfie had always relished the time, taking the opportunity to explore the smells and sounds of the Soho streets. Even on the coldest of winter nights the lights and the vibrancy of the people had made Alfie feel warm.

He’d got to know the bouncers of the clubs and the toothless toms with their vulgar jokes and stale breath touting for business outside the peep show doors in Brewer Street. He’d seen the pimps and the gangsters hanging out on the corner of Wardour Street and the small time crooks and drug dealers in the numerous side alleyways, and Alfie had loved every moment of it.

It was worlds away from the East End, where each street seemed to Alfie to be made up of drab grey houses, the smell of poverty lingering on every corner.

‘I’m going to get myself a club here when I grow up. That one there is the one I’ll buy.’

He was twelve years old when he’d pointed out the club painted black with the silver double doors and the silver lettering on the sign. His father had looked at him with so much scorn on his face Alfie had wondered how it’d all managed to fit on.

‘You’ve more chance in going to the moon. You’ll come to nothing, you little bastard.’

‘Then I’ll be in good bleedin’ company won’t I?’

Alfie had got a battering from his father leaving him with a broken rib and a long walk to the Whitechapel hospital. Even with all the pain, Alfie had thought it’d been worth it; he’d got to tell the old fucker the truth.

On the day Alfie turned twenty-three he’d bought the club with the black sign and silver lettering in Old Compton Street. He’d dragged his alcoholic father from his filthy Mile End council flat into his car, hauling him out at the other end and depositing him in front of the silver double doors of the newly bought club which was to be the start of Alfie’s empire.

‘There you miserable fucker; have a look at that. That’s mine, every fucking last brick of it. Now try telling me I’ll come to nothing.’

The scorn hadn’t changed on his father’s face but the fear was new, and Alfie had enjoyed seeing it.

As Alfie continued to stare at his father he watched the fear turn into a sneer. ‘I don’t care if you’ve got bleedin’ money pouring out of yer fucking arse, it won’t change the fact yer a useless little prick; as useless as a third sleeve on me fucking vest.’

Alfie had kicked his father in the head, sending him reeling backwards into the path of passersby. He’d continued the attack; stamping on his father’s ribs, twisting his foot on his face and hearing the breaking of cartilage in the nose of the man who’d beaten and humiliated him, and laughed as he’d come home drunk and forced Alfie to get on his hands and knees whilst he urinated on him.

It wasn’t until a tall black man with dreadlocks had pulled him off his father that the assault had stopped, leaving Alfie Senior in a pool of blood, covering his face in agony. Alfie had felt the tears rolling down his face, partly from anger, partly for his mother, but mainly for himself.

Some years later, Alfie had been doing some business off the Mile End Road, when he’d seen an old tramp outside the Nag’s Head pub. He’d been about to put his hand in his pocket to hand him a pony – feeling flush after winning on the dogs – but when he’d looked again at the tramp, underneath the heavily unshaven face, the long straggly hair, he’d seen the familiar grey eyes, the cold blank stare, and he knew it was his father. They’d locked eyes for a moment, neither of them saying a word, staring at each other with steely hatred, then Alfie had turned away and walked back to his car.

He’d sat there for countless hours, his head filled with painful memories, but as the sun had begun to rise over the grey houses of the East End, he’d put his keys into the ignition and driven away; away from his past and away from his pain. Alfie Jennings never laid eyes on his father again.

Alfie didn’t know why he loved this street so much – after all it was full of nancy boys and tourists and he wasn’t partial to either – but it was where he felt at home. Over time Alfie had secured other properties in London; flats in Docklands, shops in East Ham, and he’d bought a large eight-bedroom family home in Essex for his wife Janine and his daughter Emmie, but it was always this street he came back to, although he never allowed his family to come. At home he was Alfie the husband, Alfie the father; but here in his own apartment he was just Alfie the man.

Although Janine hadn’t been to the flat it hadn’t been for want of trying; she never missed an opportunity to nag his earhole off to ask to stay. ‘Why can’t we come up West with you, Alfie? It’d make a nice change for me. Oh come on Alf, what do you say?’

His wife had looked at him over the large breakfast table with egg yolk spilling down her chin. He wondered what had ever possessed him to marry her. When he’d first met her she was a tiny pretty thing who found it hard to say boo to a sparrow, let alone a goose. Fast forward twenty-two years and she’d morphed into something unrecognisable; a fat nagging moaning bitch of a wife who’d too much to say about everything.

One thing Alfie had never done was raise a hand to her; he wasn’t sure why, because he’d no problem using violence on anyone else, whether it was a mouth full of knuckles to a man who owed him money or a slap round the face to a brass who’d given him too much cheek: as long as it wasn’t his family it didn’t matter.

The thought had crossed his mind that the reason he didn’t hit Janine – though god knows every time he was with her more than an hour, he longed to put his fist in her mouth – was because he’d watched his own father beat the shit out of his mother on a daily basis.

Living with Alfie Senior had eventually become too much for Annabel Jennings, and Alfie had come home from school one day to discover her lifeless body in the outhouse at the bottom of the garden, lying in a pool of blood, still clutching the garden shears she’d used to stab herself in the neck with.

Alfie had sat with his mother until the next morning holding her cold hand, sometimes screaming, sometimes crying silently; hoping a miracle would bring her back to life.

As soon as his father had come home and the doctor had been called, Alfie had gone out and battered senseless the first kid he’d come across.

Alfie couldn’t remember how many diets his wife had been on and none of them ever seemed to work; if anything, with each coming year she’d got bigger, though ironically, her tits, the part of her body he’d been most drawn to, were the one part of her body that’d lost weight. Now they were sagging, empty sacks and when she lay on her back in bed, they’d hang over each side of her body, almost touching the mattress.

‘Why don’t you touch me any more?’ Janine would complain. ‘I bet you’ve got some skinny tart up Soho and that’s why you don’t want me to come up.’

Most of the time Alfie was able to convince his wife there was no one else and his lack of sexual interest in her was down to tiredness, but sometimes words didn’t cut it, and he was forced to show her with actions. Shagging his wife was like shagging the Mersey Tunnel Alfie thought – large, cold and passionless.

When he did fuck her, he always struggled just to get semi-erect, which Alfie thought said a lot about his wife; even with the oldest and ugliest of old brasses he’d no problem getting a boner, but Janine Jennings, with her big fat mouth and her just as big fat pussy, had a flaccid effect on his poor penis.

Alfie had kept the black sign of the club for nostalgia and as a reminder not to allow himself to fail. The fear of failure was a legacy from his father who had constantly told him he’d never make it; that he’d amount to nothing. So each day when he went into the club and put the key in the imposing door, it was his vindication to himself he’d proved those words wrong.

He’d had the club since he was twenty-three and had given it a facelift, renaming it Annabel’s Whispers, though everyone called it Whispers Comedy Club or Whispers for short; but to Alfie it would always be Annabel’s Whispers – named after his gently spoken mother. Having her name there was a way of keeping his mother alive to him – it was important to Alfie because he couldn’t remember her face any longer, causing him to feel a deep sense of shame and sadness. When he tried to remember, all he could see was the blood, and all he could hear were his childhood screams.

Whispers had evolved over time and it’d become useful for his other businesses. It was a place where he could hold his meetings with the biggest faces in London, a place he stored the countless numbers of stolen goods which came in and out of his possession and a place to launder money, but for all Alfie felt he had achieved, the one thing he was proudest of was the public face of Whispers. He’d turned it from just a drinking bar into a successful comedy and nightclub. He regularly attracted the biggest acts in the business; sometimes pulling in favours from the cigar-smoking promoters and sometimes resorting to what he knew worked best; bribery and threats. Whatever it took, Alfie made sure Whispers was the place to be.

Often Alfie took to the stage himself, supporting the acts but securing the biggest laughs; it was one of the perks to being him, being a face, being someone everyone was scared of; even if he wasn’t funny, they were all too damn scared of him not to laugh.

Not that he wanted it to be that way. He longed for the applause and laughter to be genuine; he really did love doing stand-up, but his problem was the nerves.

‘You’re all wound up and tight like an Irish nun’s fanny. What you need to do is relax, Alf – enjoy it instead of bleeding worrying about what everyone else will think and being terrified you’ll be crap,’ Janine would say to him constantly.

‘Thank you bleeding Oprah. When I want your flipping input, Janine, I’ll ask for it – until then, keep your big fat mush shut.’

Annoyed, he’d storm off, slamming the front door behind him because what she said always hit a nerve. It was true he worried about what people would think of him and it was true the word failure loomed large in his head. And the more he worried about it, the worse it got; moments before he was due to go on stage with the solitary spotlight hitting down on him as the audience looked up in anticipation, the nerves would get the better of him; his palms and brow would begin to sweat, the well-rehearsed lines would disappear from his mind, leaving only panic and dread in their wake.

He wished he could confide in his friends but he knew he could never admit it to anyone; he’d a reputation to keep and it wouldn’t do for people to know that the great Alfie Jennings, the man so many men had feared, was crippled with stage fright. He’d be a laughing stock, and the fear of that was nearly as great as his nerves. He’d secretly gone to a hypnotherapist in Harley Street and paid through the fucking nose to try to conquer his fear but it hadn’t helped, nothing seemed to.

Up until five years ago Alfie’s hideaway flat had been above his foundling club, but when he’d started branching out into other business he’d decided to buy the penthouse across the road and it was now his second home. Not that the penthouse had been for sale – the owners had no intention of moving out until Alfie had sent round three of his henchmen with a stark warning and an offer. Six months later, he’d moved in.

The club had survived the nail bomb in Old Compton Street, though The Admiral Duncan, a pub a few doors along, hadn’t been so lucky, and neither had some of its punters. But Whispers Comedy Club had survived and as Alfie looked out at the club opposite, he felt a pride in his chest like the one he’d felt when he’d seen Emmie for the first time.

His thoughts were interrupted by banging on the bathroom door.

‘Alfie, let me in love. I need a wee.’

Alfie Jennings could feel his temper rising. Not only was she a mouthy brass, but she also expected to go for a piss in his expensive marbled bathroom. Swinging open the door, Alfie took in the state of the woman in front of him who an hour ago had been giving him a blow job and sticking her tongue in his arse. She stood naked, jigging about with her huge tits uncovered, pulling her face into a scowl.

‘Christ, about bleedin’ time. I’m going to burst like a dam.’

The scream from the young woman’s mouth was one of shock as Alfie picked her up and carried her through the doorway of his bedroom and out of his flat.

‘Put me down yer fucker.’

‘You want a piss? Piss here where the dogs do, it should be like home from home for you.’

Ignoring her effing and blinding, Alfie unceremoniously dumped the naked woman outside in the street before catching sight of a stunning looking woman across the other side, reading the board outside his club. He took in her curvaceous yet slim body, her long auburn hair and full red lips and for a moment he just stood there, forgetting about the tom he’d just thrown out, forgetting about the show later on that night; for one of the first times in his life, Alfie Jennings was mesmerised. He willed the woman to go into the club, but she turned away in the other direction. He contemplated going after her, turning on the Jennings charm, but he needed to get showered first and wash off the brass; it wouldn’t go down very well if he had the smell of another woman all over him. Besides, it wasn’t as if his dick would go hungry; Soho was always full of top class pieces of pussy waiting to get laid.

CHAPTER THREE

It was already six o’clock and Oscar Harding needed to get ready. He’d been trying to get ready since this morning but had found it impossible after waking up to the scene of carnage next to him. It was the second time it’d happened and although it hadn’t shocked him as much as the first time, it’d still fucked up his day.

He’d called Billy a few hours ago and had left a message but he still hadn’t arrived and that was really winding him up. He paid Billy a lot of money to be at his beck and call and on the few times he did call him, the little prick was nowhere to be seen.

It was his own fault though; his mum had always warned him about trusting coons. That thought pissed him off even more; knowing his mum had been right about anything.

‘Boss? Boss?’

Oscar watched Billy swagger into the bedroom of his large executive flat and then freeze as he took in the sight; his black skin blanching. ‘Fuck me.’

‘Are you trying to be an Anthony Blunt? I called you over three hours ago and the first thing you come in and say is fuck me. Where’s my fucking apology?’

‘Sorry Boss, it’s just a shock.’

Oscar looked at the horror on Billy’s face; he was short and stocky and his skin was black as a hole. And had a naked woman tattooed on his neck. Oscar decided that he needed to get rid of him as soon as possible. It was no good having a henchman who was shocked at the sight of a little bit of blood.

‘I need you to clear this up; I’m meeting Alfie Jennings down at the club later and the last thing I need is him moaning like a cunt because I’m late. I’m going to have a shower and I want it gone by the time I’m finished.’

Oscar stood feeling the hot water of the power shower beat down on his chest and as he opened his mouth to let the water bubble into it, the events of the night before came rushing back.

He’d spent the first few hours of the evening listening to Vaughn Sadler talk about his holiday trip to Marbella. It’d been excruciating and Oscar was sure if he was forced to listen to any more holiday anecdotes, he’d end up comatose at UCH.

He’d no interest whatsoever in travelling or in listening to Vaughn pretending to be a page out of the Lonely Planet. He’d tried to look at his watch discreetly but Vaughn had spotted him.

‘Somewhere else you’d rather be? I’m not boring you am I, Oscar?’

‘Not at all, Vaughn, it’s fascinating. I could listen to you all night.’

‘Glad to hear it. Now where was I? You’ve made me lose me train of thought.’

‘You were about to tell me about your new swimming pool.’

He’d wanted to bury an axe in Vaughn’s head to stop him talking, like he’d done to the Albanian guy last week who’d tried to rip him off, but he’d continued to smile through gritted teeth as he listened to the multiple ways of aerating the water in a pool.

Oscar doubted he’d be able to sit and listen to anyone else spouting shit like this but it was, after all, Vaughn Sadler – and even though he’d ‘retired’ and been out of the business for the last couple of years, Oscar didn’t know any sane man who would fuck with Vaughn. He hadn’t just heard about his reputation, he’d seen it first hand, and he was one man he never wanted to get on the wrong side of.

He’d known Alfie and Vaughn since their early twenties when they all hung around the clubs of Soho desperate to make a name for themselves. It was Vaughn who’d shot up the ranks first with his fearlessness; never shying away from anyone or anything. When everyone else including himself had been reluctant to go to certain places, Vaughn had gone in controlled and precise, his presence as menacing as the weapons he carried.

Vaughn had taken on the older faces, people like Mad Boy Collins and Leroy Andrews, who even by Oscar’s standards were merciless in their quest to get justice for anything they saw as disrespect or wrongdoings.

Rumour had it Mad Boy Collins had been owed less than two grand by Eddie Williams – a small time crack dealer with a big time gambling habit – but Collins had taken exception to the fact he’d had to wait for the money whilst Eddie had gone on a weekend trip to Amsterdam. Pissed off by what he saw as disrespect, Collins and his men had stormed into Eddie’s house while he was away and raped his wife and two teenage daughters, before chopping them up into tiny bits – but not before Mad Boy Collins had made himself a cup of tea and a ham sandwich.

Taking on men like Collins without fear had gained Vaughn respect and he’d earned his place amongst the top faces. He’d stayed at the top ever since.

Along the way Vaughn had earned vast amounts of money; everyone had wanted to do business deals with him, knowing they’d never be turned over by Vaughn, who had a reputation not only for being an untouchable but for having integrity; a rare and strange quality in their world.

Oscar had never done any business with Vaughn, although he’d have liked to – he’d heard whispers that Vaughn thought of him as untrustworthy. It’d fucked him off no end to think Vaughn Sadler went around thinking he was better than him, but not nearly as much as it fucked him off to have to sit and listen to him recount his tedious tales of his latest trip abroad. It was either that, though, or risk getting on the wrong side of Vaughn – and no one wanted to do that.

Finally, he’d been able to make his excuses when his phone had rung and he’d pretended it was his mother.

‘You know how it is, Vaughn, got to go and see me old mum. She’s on her own now and she hasn’t been very well.’

‘That’s what I like to see; sons looking after their mothers.’

Thankful to get out of the bar on Glasshouse Street, Oscar had thought about his mother. There was no way he ever wanted to lay eyes on her again or even speak to her; moreover, if he ever saw her lying in the street he’d cross to the other side. She was nothing more than a drunken slag and if it wasn’t for the fact he’d promised his father before he died that he’d look after her, he would’ve put her in the ground a long time ago.

Thinking about his mother always brought on one of his headaches so he’d decided to do the five-minute walk to Whispers to see what was going on. The club had been empty besides a few nervous and very bad comedians. He’d watched as they took their turns at the open spot and he’d struggled to raise even a smile. Oscar couldn’t see the point in a comedian’s existence; to him, it was a fucked-up kind of life if you needed to spend it trying to make other people laugh.

He’d heard Alfie’s stand-up routine many times and by far he was the worst comedian he’d ever seen; it verged on the embarrassing. Oscar guessed owning the club was the only way Alfie would ever have the chance to go on stage; nobody else in their right mind would let him. But however bad a comedian Alfie was, Oscar had to admit he was a savvy businessman and the club was a perfect smokescreen for their projects; especially the one they were just buying into.

As Oscar had stood eyeing up the barmaid, he’d felt one of his migraines coming on, making him doubly grateful Alfie wasn’t performing. It was one thing listening to Vaughn talk about his holidays but an entirely different one listening to Alfie Jennings on stage.

Oscar had left the club when a female comedian had come on stage talking about periods and the menopause. He’d headed back to his flat in Holborn, feeling the pain in his head travel down behind his right eye and the taste of metal on his tongue.

He’d picked up the phone when he’d got home and spoken roughly to the person at the other end.

‘Bring me one.’

‘Which one Boss?’

‘Any. I want to have some fun.’

The girl had stood looking at him nervously and Oscar had guessed she was about twenty, though it didn’t really matter how old she was; he’d no interest in knowing anything about her. She was very slim with dark hair but when she’d taken her clothes off, he’d been annoyed at the size of her tits; they were huge and it’d made him feel sick; it reminded him of his mother.

She’d lain back on his clean slate-coloured sheets, naked, and as his headache had got profoundly worse, Oscar had heard her mutter something inaudible, then she’d leant forward and started massaging his penis; first softly and then hard, using her tongue in rapid motion on his shaft.

Nearly blinded from the pain in his head, Oscar had stared down at the woman working away on his limp penis. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hard-on and the useless bitch with her colossal tits certainly wasn’t helping.

With a lunge of his arm he’d thrust his hand between her legs; she’d screamed loudly, accentuating the pain in his head. He’d punched her; hard enough to daze her but not hard enough to knock her out.

Grabbing hold of her hair, Oscar had dragged the girl further towards him; manoeuvring her underneath him, ready to show her he was a real man. He’d prised her legs wide open and attempted to enter her but he hadn’t been able to get an erection.

The humiliation and frustration he’d felt had turned into anger, and in a flash he’d started to kick out at her in a frenzy.

Oscar had looked down at the slate-coloured sheets which had turned into a pool of crimson blood and suddenly he’d felt very tired. It was then that he’d realised his headache had gone; and his pleasure at being pain-free was only slightly marred when it dawned on him he now needed to sleep on the couch, rather than in the blood-soaked bed.

Stepping out of the shower, Oscar hoped Billy had finished cleaning up. He was happy now he remembered what’d happened; all day it’d troubled him. Not what he’d done; she was only a cheap whore anyway and he doubted she’d ever be missed; it was the not remembering he hated.

Whistling, Oscar continued to get ready for his meeting. He was in a good mood and even Alfie performing his stand-up act couldn’t change that.

CHAPTER FOUR

Emmie Jennings sighed as she looked in the mirror for the umpteenth time. Her room was dusky pink with cream silk wallpaper – ordered from America – bordering the bottom part of her walls. Her mother insisted on her having Ralph Lauren silk bedding at all times and her new fifty-inch flat screen TV sat on the far wall with MTV on mute.

There was a pile of clothes on the floor and a walk-in closet full of designer outfits, but nothing she’d tried on so far looked right. Her friends at school had always complimented her on her tiny figure, but no matter how many times they told her she was slim, Emmie always felt fat.

Her dad, Alfie, was up in town and her mum Janine was going up to North London to see some of her friends so it gave Emmie the perfect opportunity to go and meet Jake.

Justin Bieber was blaring out on her iPod station when her mother opened the door and walked in. Emmie had put a sign on the door last year saying No entry without knocking but neither her mum nor dad had taken the slightest bit of notice of it since it’d been there.

Emmie watched her mother eating a king size Mars Bar as she sat on the end of her white leather double bed. There was no denying how much she loved her mother but she couldn’t help feeling ashamed of her; and having those feelings made Emmie feel ashamed of herself.

She was always mortified when her mother turned up at school and it’d been especially difficult when the other kids had started teasing her.

‘Your mum’s so fat when she stepped on the scales it said to be continued. Your mum’s so fat even God can’t lift her spirits. Your mum’s so fat I thought she was a solar eclipse. Your mum’s so fat she has to wake up in different time zones.’

The hurtful jokes had continued until Emmie, not being able to take any more of the taunting, had told her dad – and after a little coercing and the bribe of a new Chloe handbag, she’d pointed out the kids to him.

Her dad had paid a visit to each of the children’s parents with a couple of dodgy looking friends and overnight the teasing stopped, but Emmie had continued to carry the guilt of her own thoughts. She loved her mum, but Emmie’s biggest fear was she’d become like her; she spent many hungry hours worrying about it, and hours after that feeling wretched for thinking such horrible things.

‘What are you going to get up to tonight, Em?’

‘Mr Lucas has given us a ton of biology homework; I swear I’ll die doing it.’

Janine Jennings smiled at her daughter; she was always so dramatic and had been since she was a toddler. She would bet her Prada handbag the homework Emmie was complaining about was probably no more than one page of revision. Even though Alfie paid over eighteen thousand a year in school fees, it was hardly a school of great academic achievement.

‘I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up, but I’m on my mobile if you need me. And eat something, Em; there’s food in the fridge. You’ll be nothing but skin and bones if you’re not careful.’

Her mother gave her a huge hug before heading out of Emmie’s bedroom, leaving the empty chocolate wrapper lying on her bed.

Emmie waited until she heard the purr of her mother’s Range Rover driving away, and as soon as she’d gone, Emmie went to the back of one of her closets and pulled out a shoe box which was well hidden under clothes. Taking the lid off, she stared down at the letters. She’d read them so many times she knew them all off by heart. She should really put them back where she’d found them but she couldn’t quite find it in her to do that yet. It had become a ritual; every time she knew she was alone, she’d open the box and just stare at the letters without taking them out. Feeling a surge of anger rising in her, Emmie put the lid back on and placed the box safely away from prying eyes.

Turning on her iMac, Emmie scanned the screen to see if she had any messages. Not that she was really expecting any; the few friends she’d had she’d pushed away when they’d started to show concern over her eating.

‘Oh my days, Emmie, you’ve lost so much weight, you look like one of those lollipop girls; head too big for their body. You’d give the skeleton in the science lab a run for its money.’

Emmie hadn’t appreciated them sticking their noses into her business; she got enough of that from her mother. So she’d slowly backed away from their friendship and eventually they’d stopped calling. She saw them at school but she didn’t sit with them in lessons or at lunch as she used to; she preferred to keep herself to herself.

And so that only left the OMG girls, or as Emmie liked to call them, the bitches. She’d always been selective with her choice of friends and had deliberately kept away from the girls with their loud mouths and cruel comments. She’d never liked being mean to people and the thought of being friends with girls who spent their time bitching about other people made her shudder. No, she was happy being on her own – though she wasn’t really on her own any more was she?

Unable to resist, Emmie logged onto her Facebook account and with a smile she changed her status from ‘single’ to ‘in a relationship’. That would give them something to talk about when they saw it. It would stop them calling her ‘Skelly Emmie’. It would show them that someone thought she was nice, someone thought she was pretty and someone wanted her.

Smiling and sitting back on her bed, she took out her white Swarovski crystal iPhone and dialled a familiar number.

‘She’s gone. Where shall I meet you?’

The journey into London took Emmie longer than she thought it would. The traffic was terrible as they hit Upper Street in Islington and with the cab driver playing bhangra music complete with a deep bass the journey seemed even longer.

She’d decided to wear her black leather skinny VB trousers with a pink cowl neck top from All Saints but she wondered if she should’ve just put on her new Rock and Republic jeans with a plain black t-shirt instead; she didn’t want Jake to think she was overdressed.

She hadn’t really wanted to come up to the West End but Jake had told her he was going to have to work later, so if she wanted to see him, she needed to come to him.

Emmie could feel the butterflies in her stomach; she knew she was taking a risk by going so close to her dad’s club but she was desperate to see Jake, and the thought of not being able to see him for another week was more than she could bear.

It was another twenty-five minutes until they made it to Chinatown and Emmie got out of the cab looking round nervously in case she saw her father, whose club was only a few streets away from where she was standing.

The area was packed with people; a colourful mix of tourists, revellers and Chinese residents all milling round. The sounds and smells blasted Emmie’s senses and looking at the array of roast duck, crispy pork and char-siu hanging up in the various windows of the Chinese restaurants made her feel hungry. She’d already had some soup and an apple earlier on in the day and it’d made her feel like a pig and she’d ended up sticking her fingers down her throat, desperately hoping her body wouldn’t have absorbed any of the calories, so any thought of having a Chinese meal was totally out of the question.

Outside the dim sum restaurant she saw Jake standing with a long sour expression on his face. He was twenty-two; six years older than she was, but he was one of the few people apart from her father who made her feel good about herself.

He worked part time for her dad and she’d met him when he’d delivered a package to their house in Dagenham. Her father had been out and by the time he’d arrived back home an hour later, Emmie and Jake had already swapped telephone numbers and email details.

Of course, there was no way that she could tell her father about Jake; he was so protective of her, no boy could even look at her without her father threatening to ‘put brains on walls’.

When she’d had her fourteenth birthday, her father had hired out Sugarhut nightclub in Buckhurst Hill for her and her friends. She’d invited her friend, Paul, a sixteen-year-old sixth former with wandering hands. She’d spent the evening dancing with him and thought she was in love when he’d bent down to kiss her on her neck.

Emmie didn’t see Paul for a whole week after the party but when she did eventually catch up with him, she discovered he had two broken fingers and flatly refused to speak to her. In turn, Emmie refused to speak to her father until she came home from school one day to find a gorgeous Chanel suede jacket on her bed and a note from her father saying sorry.

Emmie so far had only managed to see Jake when he dropped off the packages each week to their house, and she had thought it best if she ignored Jake on these occasions in case her mother or father suspected anything. They’d spoken on the phone every day, sometimes twice a day, and Facebooked each other – but tonight would be her first chance of being on her own with him.

‘You’re late. I’ve been standing here looking like I’m touting for fucking business. My mate’s lent me his flat and I was supposed to be picking up the keys.’

‘I’m sorry, we were stuck in traffic.’

Jake scowled and marched off not saying another word, leaving Emmie to run behind him, trying to keep up with his long strides.

Vaughn Sadler happened to be walking out of Wong Kei’s – a Chinese restaurant in the heart of Chinatown – at the same time as a lanky looking man with bad skin barged past him. Vaughn, who’d always been a stickler for manners, was about to grab hold of the ill-mannered youth and teach him a lesson in etiquette, when he saw he was being followed by a very pretty blonde-haired girl; a blonde girl he’d know anywhere. It was Emmie, his goddaughter.

He didn’t imagine for a moment Alfie knew Emmie was wandering around Chinatown semi-clad, chasing some toerag, and if he did, Alfie would have him to answer to; he took his godfathering duties very seriously. Vaughn pulled out his mobile as he followed the star-crossed lovers across Shaftesbury Avenue.

‘Alf, it’s Vaughn.’

Alfie slammed the phone down. He was just about to go on stage and do his set when he’d taken the call from Vaughn informing him that not only was Emmie in London without his permission, but she was chasing some guy like a bitch on heat.

If it’d been anyone else phoning to tell him, Alfie doubted he would’ve believed it, but Vaughn was Emmie’s godfather. If he said it was Emmie, then make no bones about it, it was Emmie.

He attempted to get through to Janine to see what the fuck she was doing letting Emmie out, but it went straight to voicemail. He was grateful his wife wasn’t standing in front of him right now, as the promise he’d made to himself to never raise a fist to her might have been sorely tested.

‘Tell Oscar to wait for me, I’ve got some personal business to attend to.’ Alfie barked the order at his cousin, who was leaning back on a chair, drinking a bottle of Becks at the back of the busy club.

As Alfie raced past the bar, situated by the entrance of the club, he caught sight of one of the new bar staff who’d been giving him the eye earlier in the week. He’d planned to take her back to his place but now instead of feeling lips round his dick, he was going to have to go and find Emmie and deal with the fool who thought it was okay to date Alfie Jennings’s daughter.

Knocking several customers into the wall by the cloakroom, Archie marched out into the cold of the Soho night, ready to put brains on walls.

‘They’re in there.’ Vaughn looked at Alfie sympathetically, thankful he’d only himself to worry about rather than an unruly daughter. He could see the beads of sweat under Alfie’s thick fringe of black hair on his forehead.

‘You want me to come with you, Alf? Maybe I could stop the situation becoming too heated. Go easy on her and him. You know what kids are like.’

Alfie just looked at Vaughn; he didn’t want to use any more energy than he had to.

The stairs leading up to the flat looked like they were never swept. Alfie could hear a baby crying from another landing and the sound of televisions coming from the various flats. It was a shithole and a perfect place to do what he was about to do.

‘It’s that one. I watched them go in.’

Vaughn pointed at the door and then proceeded to grab hold of Alfie’s arm, feeling the tension in it.

‘Alf, remember what I said. Keep your head, pal.’

Alfie didn’t bother answering or knocking; he raised his right foot and kicked hard, using the momentum of the kick to put enough force behind it to boot the door open first time.

‘What the …’ Jake bellowed as he walked into the hall, clad only in a pair of off-white boxer shorts, ready to confront the intruder, but he was met by a fist slamming into his face, knocking his front teeth out before he managed to finish his sentence.

Jake’s blood sprayed over the damp walls of the hallway as he was sent sprawling across the floor by the punch. As Alfie raised his foot above the boy’s head ready to bring it down, he recognised who it was; Jake Bellingham, one of his employees, who he’d thought he could trust, had been trying to bang his daughter. The realisation made Alfie bring his foot down hard as he ignored Jake’s pig-like squeals.

Alfie looked up quickly as he heard a scream directly in front of him. It was Emmie.

‘Daddy no! Don’t! It was my fault. Daddy, please leave him alone!’

Alfie stared at his daughter, noticing she was in her bra, though thankfully she still had her trousers on – unless of course they’d already … Alfie stopped his thoughts. It was too much to contemplate, so instead of picturing what might have happened to his precious daughter, he dug his heel deeper into Jake’s face, twisting it into his nose; shattering the bones and making it bubble with blood.

‘Go and put some clothes on, Emmie. Now.’

As she ran back to the front room to get dressed, Vaughn looked at Emmie but turned his head quickly. He didn’t like to think of her with the pitiful piece of scum squirming on the floor; she was far too good for that.

‘Take her to the club for me, Vaughn. I’ve still got a few things to do here.’

‘Leave it now Alf. You’ve made your point.’

As Vaughn led the hysterical Emmie out of the flat, he grimaced as he saw Alfie take a pair of pliers out of his pocket.

Vaughn squeezed Emmie hard to him; all this violence wasn’t good for her to see. He’d have a word in Alfie’s ear when he’d calmed down.

As much as Vaughn had been born into the arms of London gangland and he’d been good at what he’d done, his heart had never really been in it; unlike the other men he’d known over the years, he’d never lived for the violence.

His dad had been a face, as had his granddad and his father before him, and from a very early age he’d known that there was only one option, and that was to go into the family business whether he liked it or not.

He knew over the years he’d gained a fearsome reputation, but mostly that’d come from the early days when he’d been young and over the top with his fists; trying to compensate for the fact the aggression didn’t come as naturally to him as everyone presumed it would. The reputation had suited him well; it’d meant a lot of men only needed to see him walk into the room before that look of fear crossed their face and they told him what he needed to know.

He was pleased he was out of the violence, but that didn’t stop him missing the excitement of the life. He’d thought when he retired he’d step away from the people as well, but after a few months he’d gone back to his old haunts – to the old faces, to the men he’d shared drinks with and the men he’d shared fights with. It was who he was through and through; it was the core of him and there was no other place he’d rather be than the heart of Soho. And then of course there was his promise; the promise he’d made to Alfie’s brother all those years ago.

It was an easy job – or it was supposed to be: break into the old warehouse down on the Canning Town dock. Everyone who needed to be paid off had been: the onsite drivers, the night security, even the cleaners had been bunged a few grand to keep their mouths shut tight and their eyes shut tighter.

The prize in the warehouse was worth paying the hush money for; 300 kilos of the finest brown, shipped in from North Africa and stored in the old warehouse by the McKenzie brothers, a rival South London gang. The brothers had left it there thinking no one would be foolish enough to touch it, but Vaughn and Alfie’s brother Connor were impervious to the fearsome reputation of the McKenzie boys.

The brothers had hidden it at the back of the warehouse where the fish and meat traders kept their goods and went about their daily business, not realising they were in touching distance of nearly half a tonne of heroin which was like powdered gold. The people who worked in the warehouse didn’t know either; all they were aware of was that they were being paid to look the other way.

Vaughn stood up and watched Connor sitting tensely over in the corner of his front room; he was worried about him. He’d known Connor since his late teens and nearly eighteen years later he was as close to him as ever.

The first time they’d met, they’d got into a fight with each other after Vaughn had accidentally knocked a cup of tea onto Connor’s cheap looking suit. Connor’s strength and height had been no match for Vaughn’s, but he’d squared up to him nevertheless in the back of Johnny’s All-Night Cafe on the corner of Greek Street.

‘Bleeding look where you’re going, mate. You’ve gone and ruined my whistle.’

Vaughn had looked at the red-faced Connor and had smiled apologetically before walking towards the gents. A moment before he’d reached the door, Vaughn had felt a hand on his shoulder and then a fist to the back of his head.

It’d been an easy fight for Vaughn; he’d grabbed hold of Connor’s arm, twisting it round expertly before dragging him effing and blinding into the men’s lavatories, dunking Connor’s head into the bowl of the stinking unflushed toilet.

Far from being enraged like Vaughn had thought he’d be, Connor had rolled backwards and spluttered and spat out the offending toilet water, prior to bursting into laughter; they’d been inseparable ever since.

It was Vaughn who’d brought Connor up the ranks with him; his friend was too hot tempered to be running any turf on his own but he was loyal and funny and Vaughn enjoyed having him around. He especially admired the way Connor looked out for his younger brother Alfie, never letting anyone disrespect him or harm him and always making sure his brother had money and a decent roof over his head; it was touching to see.

Connor had once confided in Vaughn how guilty he’d felt for not being there for Alfie when his mother had committed suicide. He’d been banged up in a boys’ reform school at the time for breaking and entering. On the day he’d been let out, instead of going on the piss and shagging a hooker he’d gone straight home and cooked a meal for Alfie. He’d looked after him ever since; mother, father and older brother all rolled into one. Connor tried his hardest to give his younger brother the stability he needed and which, Vaughn suspected, Connor had always longed for himself.

Connor never talked about what had gone on inside the reform school but from what Vaughn had heard from other people over the years, it became clear Connor had been abused more on the inside of the grey stone walls of the East End school than he’d ever been on the outside by his violent alcoholic father.

Vaughn also had a sneaking suspicion that Connor had not only been abused physically in the reform school but also sexually, although he’d never dream of saying anything to him about it; not for fear he was wrong, but for fear he was right. Vaughn couldn’t bear to know too much about the pain his friend had to carry around with him, so he stayed silent and tried to make it up to him in his own way, by keeping him by his side and making his life as easy as he could.

One thing Connor did talk about with him – and one of the legacies of being in the reform school – was his fear of small spaces, and over the years Vaughn had done everything he could to stop Connor getting banged up: paying other people to fess up to the crime; framing people; even doing a small stint himself for Connor; but the last time he’d been fingered by the law, Vaughn hadn’t been able to get him off and Connor had served thirteen months in Belmarsh Prison for GBH.

When Connor had been released, Vaughn was there to meet him at the gates; but the person who greeted him was a shadow of the person who went in. To see him through the months and to take the edge off his fear of confined spaces, Connor had turned to smack. He didn’t manage to shake the habit once he got out, making him unpredictable and unreliable. Looking over at Connor now sitting in his chair, Vaughn could see he was either clucking for some brown or coming off some.

‘Why don’t you stay here, Connor? The job’s all neatly wrapped up – we can manage without you.’

Vaughn watched as Connor bounced his knee up and down agitatedly.

‘Are you trying to push me out, Vaughnie? I’ve heard rumours you’re trying to get me out. If you’ve got a problem with me just say so and we’ll have it out here and now.’

Vaughn looked at his nails absentmindedly. He knew Connor and he knew he was looking for a fight, but he wasn’t going to indulge him. The smack was addling Connor’s brain and Vaughn knew he had to get some help for him once the warehouse job was over. He spoke with slight annoyance in his voice.

‘Fine, Connor. Just saying, mate. You want to come along that’s fine with me – you won’t see me objecting. I’m not your keeper.’

Those words would come back to haunt Vaughn Sadler.

Emmie sniffed loudly, breaking the intensity of Vaughn’s thoughts as he continued to lead her down the stairs. At the bottom, he noticed a woman with long auburn hair, swaying from side to side, struggling to pick up her keys. Smiling, he bent down to get them for her. ‘I think you’re trying to get these.’

‘Thank you.’

As he gave her the keys, he hesitated, taking in her face. She was beautiful, one of the most stunning women he’d ever seen; but also there was a familiarity about her face. He was about to speak to her again when Emmie let out a huge wail, making both him and the woman jump in fright.

As Vaughn walked down Dean Street and back towards Whispers Comedy Club, attempting to hold up the lamenting Emmie, his mind started to wander back to the woman and where he knew her from; but as he turned the corner into Old Compton Street, any thoughts of her were forgotten when he saw an animated Janine Jennings, causing mayhem outside the club.

CHAPTER FIVE

Weds 16th Aug 1995

Told Mum and Dad last week. Dad refusing to talk to me and Mum walking round with a glass of vodka stuck to her hand as if she’s an old drunk. Anyone would think I killed someone rather than just being pregnant. Dad came into my room last night trying to make me tell him who the father is. When I didn’t tell him, he got mad and started to call me names. Then he got really angry and started chucking my stuff round the room. He broke the china doll he got me last year. An hour later he came in to say sorry. Wouldn’t talk to him. I hate him but not as much as I hate myself.

Thurs 7th SeptNov 1995

Mum and Dad sat me down and told me they’d made a decision. I thought they were going to tell me they were getting a divorce, seeing as they’re both so unhappy with each other but they think nobody knows. Everyone knows!! Especially Dad’s friends; they all cover for him when he goes to meet some woman. He’s an idiot a prick. Instead of talking about a divorce, Dad said Mum thinks I should get an abortion, couldn’t believe it. Told them I was five months pregnant, so there was no way. Mum started to cry, Dad started shouting as usual. Mum managed to stop crying enough to tell me if that was the case she was going to arrange for my baby to be put up for adoption!(bitch) Ran out of the room and won’t open bedroom door to Dad’s stupid knocking on door. Anyone would think this is the 1930’s not 1995. So much for parent support. Don’t know what to do. Very, very scared.

Fri 22nd Sept 1995

Woke up in hospital. Everyone thinks I want to kill myself. I don’t, I just wanted to tell my side of the story to someone who might listen. I wanted to tell them I love my baby and want to keep it but no one seems to be listening. Ugly social worker came to see me (she had big wart on side of nose) She seems to agree with Mum about giving baby up for adoption. Says drinking the vodka and taking Mum’s sleeping tablets shows that I’m not emotionally mature. What does she know? Says I might have harmed the baby. Devastated. All I want to do is love my baby. I can’t believe I might have hurt him or her. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I love you. Still scared might have to run away but I have nowhere to go.

Thurs 18th Jan 1996

Think I’m in labour!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Casey closed the diary and sat motionless on the bare floorboards of the flat. Her head was spinning from all the excess alcohol she’d drunk, but reading the extracts seemed to have a sobering effect on her. The writing was immature and there was a tragic innocence about it; she didn’t recognise the naive girl who’d become the woman she was today, but she still felt that pain as if it had happened only yesterday.

The diary looked unremarkable on the outside with the dog-eared corners and faded cover, but the pages inside told a different tale: they grasped on to her past, refusing to let go, like a dying man wanting to hold on to his last breath.

It held the key to who she used to be, even though she hadn’t been able to read it for years; it had been a hot piece of coal burning into her, making her hurt all over again. She didn’t want to hurt any more.

She was tempted to go to the off-licence she’d seen on Shaftesbury Avenue to buy a bottle of scotch, but that would only make her a casualty of the situation again; something she’d fought so hard over the years to avoid. She’d come to London to try to find out the truth, she’d found out so little over the years but from the one lead she’d managed to find, she hoped finally she was in the right place and drowning herself in alcohol – which she’d done for too long now – had victim written all over the label.

Wiping away a tear, Casey decided the best thing she could do was try to get some sleep; she’d a busy day ahead of her. Undressing rather unsteadily and checking there weren’t any nasty creepy crawlies wanting to share the bed with her, Casey lay down and closed her eyes. But within a moment the unwanted memories came running into her head.

‘It’s best this way, Casey, you’ll see.’

‘Best for who, Mum?’

‘For everybody.’

‘But it’s not. It’s only best for you and Dad. Please, I know I’ll be able to look after it, just give me a chance. Let me keep my baby.’

‘Casey, you don’t know what you’re talking about. A baby isn’t something you can put away in a drawer once you get bored of it. I know it seems hard at the moment but later on you’ll thank us and realise we were just doing what’s best. You’ll be able to go on and make a life for yourself, get a career and get married. You’ll have the chance to have more children one day and put all this business out of your mind. I doubt you even know who the father is.’

‘Of course I do, but I’m not telling you.’

Her mother snorted in disgust. She wasn’t going to tell her who it was; she could think what she liked. Granted, Paul was just a boy at school – he hadn’t been the love of her life, but he wasn’t the one-night stand her mother thought he was. They’d dated for a few months until he’d moved to Swansea with his parents. She hadn’t bothered to keep in touch with him and when she found out she was pregnant, she certainly had no desire to complicate anything further by adding him to the equation. So her mother could continue to think she spent her time jumping into bed with strangers; Casey knew whatever she said she wouldn’t be believed anyway.

She spoke with as much hostility as she could conjure up between the painful contractions.

‘I’m not like you, Mum; I’m not going to pretend things aren’t happening because it’s easier. Maybe that’s what you can do with Dad but I can’t.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean, young lady?’

‘You know exactly. Dad’s been shagging about for as long as I can remember. And you know something? I don’t blame him one little bit.’

The pain of the slap on Casey’s cheek from her mother stung less than the pain from the hurt and humiliation it caused. The midwives rushed forward and started to usher Casey’s mother out of the room.

‘No Mum, please stay! Can you let her stay please?’

The Chinese midwife first looked at Casey and then her mother before speaking.

‘You can stay if she wants you to.’

‘Mum?’

Casey watched her mother’s eyes narrow and a stony expression appear on her face as another contraction began to take hold.

‘It’s fine. My daughter’s made her feelings abundantly clear. I’m sure she’ll manage just exceptionally on her own. She always does.’

‘Mum please, don’t go! Mum! Please, I’m scared!’

The banging of the labour room door reverberated round the little room. Less than an hour later Casey’s 9lb 8oz baby was born.

‘Can I see? Is everything okay?’

‘Everything’s fine, Casey, you did really well.’

‘Please can I see?’

The midwife looked sympathetically as she spoke.

‘It’s probably best you don’t; it’ll make it easier.’

The tears poured down Casey’s face as she begged the midwife in charge to listen to her.

‘Please, at least tell me if it’s a boy or a girl.’ It was the second time the labour room door had banged shut but it this time the noise sounded even louder to Casey as it hung in the air, mixed in parts with her scream.

Casey jolted herself up out of bed. She refused to lie there all night being melancholic. Moving back to the living room she started to search in her bag, hoping there was still some vodka left in the bottle she kept tucked away in case of emergencies.

CHAPTER SIX

‘I’ll give you fucking strict orders, mate.’ Janine Jennings’s face was red with anger as she pushed the bouncer in his chest, using the full force of her weight.

‘Let me fucking past, you great big lump of cunt.’

Vaughn smiled at Janine’s foul language. He’d known her for as long as he’d known Alfie and even though most of the time she tried to behave like an Essex princess sitting in her eight-bedroom mansion, the real East End girl came shining through when it mattered.

‘Now what’s all this?’

Janine turned at the sound of the familiar voice and saw Vaughn Sadler standing there with a bedraggled Emmie.

‘Where the fuck have you been, young lady? You’ve had me worried out of me bleedin’ mind. I drove up here like a bitch out of hell when I got your father’s message. You’ve got some explaining to do.’

‘I’m sorry Mum, I thought …’

‘You thought? Fuck me, Em, that’ll be a first.’

‘Don’t be too hard on her Jan; she’s had a bit of a rough evening.’

‘Hard on her, Vaughnie? She don’t know the meaning of it. Her father treats her like her shit’s made out of gold. I nearly choked on me fucking biryani when I got the message she was up West, and then when I got here this cunt said I can’t go in my own husband’s club!’

Vaughn saw Emmie start to cry again and he gave her a big hug, feeling sorry for her. He loved spending time with his goddaughter and he found her to be a sweet girl who was often overshadowed by Janine’s loving, but domineering personality.

Vaughn looked at the bouncer, who shrugged apologetically at him. He guessed Alfie had given him strict orders not to allow Janine in and it was probably worth more than the bouncer’s life to go against them.

It was a comedy club open to the public but he also knew it was a front for Alfie’s other business dealings. No doubt he didn’t want his wife poking around upstairs where he stashed a lot of his stolen goods.

Vaughn felt Emmie shiver and he brought her in closer to the warmth of his body. Alfie had asked him to take Emmie back to the club but now Janine had arrived he wasn’t quite sure what to do. He looked first at Emmie and then at Janine and decided to take matters into his own hands; as long as he kept an eye on Jan, it wouldn’t do any harm to take her inside. They could sit in the back room together until Alfie came back.

‘It’s fine; she’s with me, you can let her in.’

The bouncer didn’t get out of the way immediately and Vaughn not only noticed this but saw it as a blatant sign of disrespect. He grabbed hold hard of the bouncer’s crotch, making him double up in pain.

‘Don’t be an arsehole; get out of my way, shit-for-brains, otherwise your missus will have something else sliced up in her egg and bacon sarnie in the morning.’

Oscar had been wrong. When he’d left his flat he was certain nothing could’ve wiped away his good mood. Billy had done a good job cleaning up the bedroom, leaving it spotless and without any trace of the night before, and he’d been looking forward to the meeting to discuss the new business venture he and Alfie had branched into – but that had all changed after he’d been kept waiting. The only thing he felt like doing now was putting a knife in somebody’s head; preferably Alfie’s.

He’d been waiting nearly two hours, and as his good mood had been drained away by the passing of time and the countless comedians rehashing old jokes and expecting applause, Oscar’s head had started hurting and he’d been forced to take one of the migraine tablets he’d been given by one of his associates who dealt in pharmaceuticals.

The only part of the two-hour wait Oscar had enjoyed were the abusive heckles he’d shouted at the comedians. When Alfie went on stage, the audience were always pre-warned not to heckle. If anyone did, one of Alfie’s heavies would have a quiet word in their ear. Oscar remembered with a smile a man who thought he’d play tough guy and ignore the warnings; he was found later on in the evening outside Ronnie Scott’s with severe concussion and ‘funny cunt’ written on his forehead in black marker pen.

Oscar was about to get up and leave when he saw Vaughn walking into the club accompanied by an anorexic looking teenager and a woman who would put Ten Ton Bertha to shame. He quickly stooped down in his seat, not wanting to be spotted by Vaughn and having to engage in any more talk about fucking holidays.

Janine hadn’t ever been inside her husband’s club and she was impressed by what she saw. In the back of the large room was a stage, lit up by four huge disco balls with a dance floor in front of it. A DJ was on the stage playing a mix of classic soul tunes. Thick purple velvet curtains, which matched the velvet sofas and chairs placed round the room, hung down from the high ceiling framing the stage. There were different-shaped mirrors everywhere, and the long bar on the side wall was heaving with punters waiting to be served. It had everything. There were high-tech private booths at the back of the massive room complete with their own television and music players, and it looked to Janine as if business was doing very well. With that in mind, she continued to follow Vaughn into the back, making a mental note to ask her husband for a larger monthly allowance.

Half an hour later, Alfie walked into the back room, still wound up from the events of the night. He stopped dead in his tracks – causing Oscar to bang into the back of him – when he saw Janine sitting there eating her way through a large bag of crisps. He placed the pair of pliers, still stained with Jake’s blood, on the side and spoke angrily to his wife.

‘What’s the point in you having a mobile phone if you never answer it? You’re a fucking disgrace, Janine.’

‘Me? What about Emmie? It wasn’t me that sneaked out on heat chasing some guy.’

‘No, but pity the bloke if you were. Fuck me, you’re her mother! You should’ve been watching her.’

‘Stop it, both of you! I hate you! I hate you!’

Emmie screamed hysterically as she ran out of the room, leaving her parents open mouthed.

Oscar sat quietly watching this display; he’d known Alfie was married and had a kid but he’d never seen either of them until now. The daughter was pretty enough although she was evidently underweight, but the idea the handsome, womanising Alfie was married to the woman in front of him, whose right arm alone would feed the starving millions, took some believing.

Janine Jennings was about to open her mouth and chastise Alfie for upsetting Emmie but she saw the look in his eye and decided not to say another word.

She was furious with Emmie. Not just because her daughter had snuck off with a boy – she’d done that herself when she was the same age, and Emmie was no different to any other teenager – but she’d given her a fright, and when she got frightened she got angry; she’d always done that. The thought of something happening to her beloved daughter was unimaginable. Recently though, she’d noticed a change in Emmie; she’d become much more secretive and sullen, and Janine Jennings had a feeling there was more to it than just teenage love.

Alfie banged his hand on the table giving Janine a fright and made her jump out of her thoughts.

‘I’ll get one of my men to drive you both home and we’ll talk about it tomorrow, but tell Emmie she should count herself grounded.’

It was another hour before Alfie and Oscar arrived in Redchurch Street, a scruffy road full of office blocks behind Shoreditch High Street. He hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to Oscar properly yet, as Vaughn had insisted on having a drink with him; reminiscing about jobs they’d done together and trying to calm the hyped-up Alfie down. Then, when Vaughn had heard they were heading towards the East End, he’d jumped in the back of Alfie’s BMW and got a lift to an illegal gambling house in King John Court, a few streets away from where they were now.

As Alfie followed Oscar up the stairs of the empty block of offices Oscar owned, he wondered why he’d been so guarded about speaking in front of Vaughn. He’d always been open in sharing the ins and outs of his other businesses with him: the protection rackets, the counterfeit money, the stolen electrical goods and hundreds of cloned bank cards he’d kept above the club; even the copious amounts of drugs he shipped into the country each year from China: Vaughn knew about it all. But this venture, with Oscar, Alfie wanted to keep close to his chest.

The passage along the top floor was lit with a low-watt light bulb, making it difficult, but not impossible, for Alfie to see the rubbish strewn everywhere. At the end of the hall sat a large Albanian looking man sitting on a hard chair, staring at nothing in particular. At his feet lay a large machete and an empty bottle of water.

The man stood up, nodding an acknowledgement to Oscar as he approached, and opened a door to the side of him. Alfie trailed in silence through it and up another flight of steps. At the top, Oscar opened another door.

Inside Alfie saw five young women, aged from around sixteen to twenty-five. They stared with wide anxious eyes and expressions of fear as he walked further into the room. Alfie briefly thought of his schooldays as the girls stood to attention, scared to make a movement.

‘They’re no trouble, not like the brass here. They don’t talk much English, if any, but the guy downstairs speaks their language so communication’s no problem. They’ll do anything I tell them; they’re too scared to say no.’

Oscar grinned at Alfie then leered at the smallest and youngest looking woman, who quickly put her head down.

‘Want to test the goods, Alf? We need to start breaking them in, so you might as well start now.’

Alfie shook his head, feeling strangely uncomfortable. At the back of his mind he realised this discomfort was probably the reason he hadn’t confided in his long-term friend. Over the years he and Vaughn had owned brothels, but the brasses had come and gone as they pleased. This was different; this was trafficking, and even people like him had a conscience.

‘What’s up, Alfie, getting cold feet? Are you going soft on me in your old age?’

One thing Alfie Jennings prized highly was his reputation. He hated anybody thinking that he was weak, and looking at Oscar with that mocking glint in his eye pissed him off. What was he thinking? Business was business; there was no room for sentiment. Storming out, Alfie put the haunted faces of the girls in the back of his mind.

‘So are we going to keep them there?’

‘It’s not ideal. We could maybe move a couple above your club tomorrow morning.’

‘How many have we got?’

‘Ten; well nine now.’ Alfie raised his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.

‘It’s a long story, I’ll tell you on the way back.’

With all the temporary road traffic lights on the blink, the drive through Shoreditch and through the Angel into Soho would have usually frustrated Alfie but instead he sat listening to Oscar recount his tale of the previous night in stunned silence.

When they arrived back at his club, Alfie was still lost for words and it was Oscar who turned to look at him.

‘So you know everything now; my darkest little secret. There’s no backing out now.’ Oscar chuckled, rubbing his pulsating temples. ‘You’re well and truly in now, Alfie.’

As Oscar stepped out of the car, Alfie realised he’d let himself in for a whole lot more than he’d bargained on. There was no backing out now; Oscar had shared his secret with him and Alfie knew that in Oscar’s mind they were now both implicated. If he tried to walk away from the deal, Oscar would think he couldn’t be trusted and would bring him down. One thing Alfie was certain of was when Oscar got jumpy he was a dangerous person, and the last thing he needed right now was any more shit, especially when it came to Oscar Harding.

Oh yes, Alfie Jennings knew he was over a barrel, and a very large fucking barrel at that.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Casey Edwards didn’t know if it was the thumping of her head which had woken her up or the loud scratching noise in the far corner of the room. After she’d discovered her emergency supply of vodka was empty, she’d taken herself out to a late night bar, but she had no recollection of getting home. As she opened her eyes, the noise got louder – she supposed in her intoxicated state she must have picked up yet another stranger with hygiene issues. Raising her head with a slight amount of difficulty, Casey stared in horror as she saw a large rat – of the four-legged kind rather than two – scratching away.

Her loud high-pitched scream didn’t do her head any favours as she ran into the lounge, barricading her body against the door. She felt the bile rise as she rushed to the toilet, forgetting for a moment about the filth awaiting her in the windowless bathroom as she violently emptied the contents from her stomach.

A black coffee and a half a Kit Kat later, Casey was on the phone to the landlord, frustrated at the lack of alarm Mr Goldman was showing.

‘What do you want me to do, love? Start charging him rent?’

‘I want you to do something about it. Come and take a look.’

‘It needs poison, not an audience. This is London love; weren’t you ever told the story of Dick Whittington? What you need is a cat.’

‘I thought pets weren’t allowed.’

‘They’re not.’

He laughed and carried on joking. This infuriated Casey, causing her to break down into floods of tears. Within a moment of her emotional outburst he agreed to take a look, preferring it, Casey supposed, to female hysterics on the phone so early in the morning.

After the call, Casey hurriedly went through her packed bag of clothes and discovered that apart from two pairs of lilac lace knickers, her only other clean item of clothing was a low-cut grey mini dress more appropriate for a night out than an overcast Thursday morning or a pair of jeans with a stubborn red wine stain on them.

After fifteen minutes of trying to get the stain out, Casey decided it wasn’t going to shift, no matter how hard she scrubbed. She felt faint and realised she needed to eat something other than chocolate; she had a busy day ahead.

Pulling on her jeans and putting on the least crumpled top she could find in her bag, she left the flat and wandered the short distance down Dean Street, doing a right into Bateman Street and walking into the first cafe she came across.

The runny egg on the chipped white plate and the overdone piece of fatty bacon were just two of the culinary delights of Lola’s Night Cafe. Casey stared at what was in front of her, feeling her stomach turning over once again.

‘Not hungry love? Never mind.’

Casey tried to smile at the woman who was speaking to her in between breaking out into short bursts of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, which was being played on the radio. Contrary to the toothless woman’s belief, Casey was very hungry, just not for what was on offer on her plate.

Getting up to pay, Casey saw the scrawled sign behind the counter: ‘Waitress wanted’.

‘Are you still looking?’

‘For what? My prince in shining armour? Bleedin’ hell, he’s already been in; took one look around and fucked right off again on his white charger.’

The woman opened her mouth wide and cackled loudly, causing Casey to draw back from her rancid breath.

‘I meant the waitressing job.’

‘I know what you meant, love. You’ll be no good to me if you can’t crack a smile.’

‘Sorry, I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’

The woman stared hard at Casey, looking her up and down and pausing at the top of her head; as if the job depended on Casey’s height.

‘You’ll do. I’m Lola by the way. Now take off that fancy jacket of yours and grab an apron.’

By the time four thirty had arrived, Casey’s feet were killing her and she was certain there were much easier ways to earn minimum wage. The stifling heat of the cafe, with its smells of old cooking oil, greasy fry-ups and countless bowls of watery tomato soup, combined with the lack of food in her stomach meant Casey needed to step outside on occasion into the busy street to get some fresh air.

‘I’ll dock your wages for that.’ Lola had glared at Casey for a moment but almost immediately had broken out into a smile. ‘You won’t have to mind me, Casey love; you’ll get used to me jokes. Keep smiling is what I say; helps your heart keep beating.’

Casey had warmed to Lola and found the woman’s open honesty about her past life refreshing but startling at the same time.

‘I was a brass for nearly twenty-five years. Don’t look so surprised! I didn’t always look like this. I use to have to put ear plugs in from all the wolf whistles I got.’

Lola laughed again and then her face went serious. ‘I would’ve carried on being a tom if it wasn’t for my last husband; been married five times and all of them were a waste of bog paper; but the last one, he was something else. You’ll probably see him in here from time to time, but take my advice, love – don’t be drawn in by his gift of the gab. Do yourself a favour and stay clean away.’

Casey nodded, taking in all the information.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Oscar Harding.’

Old Compton Street was packed with tourists with London guide maps in their hands and puzzled looks on their faces. It was nearly six o’clock and Casey wanted to sleep, but she’d no intention of going back to the flat until it was absolutely necessary. She thought about Lola and what she’d said, but for all she was and did, Casey suspected she was probably a darn sight happier than she was.

She could do with a drink to pep her up but she’d made a decision and for now she was at least going to try to stick to it. She sighed as she carried on walking. It was so hard to live in the present – her mind was always full of fading memories; but it was all she had and her reason for getting up each day.

The bus journey down towards Notting Hill Gate had taken longer than expected and Casey had been ready to get off the overheated bus and go back to the flat in Dean Street, but she’d seen a woman and a little boy sitting quietly at the back of the bus holding hands, saying nothing, just content in each other’s company. They reminded Casey what she had to do.

Portobello Road was dark and deserted, unrecognisable from the bustling market road it became during the daylight hours, and Casey wasn’t sure she’d come to the correct place. She looked down at the address she’d hurriedly written on a torn-off piece of newspaper and realised she was standing right outside where she needed to be.

The red door pushed open and Casey walked up the narrow stairs to the first-floor landing. There was another door to the left of her and she could hear voices coming from inside the room. Taking a deep breath, Casey opened the door to walk into a well-lit room.

‘Hello, please come in and take a seat.’

The red-faced man greeted Casey with a warm smile, gesturing for her to come and take the empty chair next to him.

‘We’ve just finished introducing ourselves. Perhaps you’d like to say who you are.’

Casey glanced at the man with his enthusiastic manner and smiled shyly.

‘Hello, I’m Casey and I’m an alcoholic.’

‘Hello Casey.’

The group greeted her in monotone unison, making Casey smile as it reminded her of being back in school.

‘I’m nearly one day sober and I need to get clean so I can find my son and tell him I’m sorry.’

The applause of the group made Casey blush and unexpectedly brought tears to her eyes as she was handed the white keyring of twenty-four-hour sobriety by a tall woman in her early twenties.

Sitting down in her chair she could feel her heart racing; she hadn’t thought she’d be nervous, after all it wasn’t the first time she’d been to a meeting. In Newcastle she’d been to a few and in Liverpool and in Birmingham as well, but maybe it was different because this time she was determined to get clean; she knew it was her last chance.

She’d never wanted this life but somehow it had invited her in and she’d stayed in its clutches. Living this way certainly wasn’t going to help her find her son, and even if she did, he’d never want her if she was a drunk. The meetings were her only way to keep steady on the tightrope she was walking.

Looking round the meeting in the small room above the designer clothing shop in Portobello Road was like flicking through the pages of a society magazine. There were models and actors both from film and from screen, musicians and old-time rockers, and sitting next to her was an infamous aristocrat holding on to his keyring of twenty-four-hour sobriety.

For the next forty minutes Casey sat listening to tormented stories about the struggle to stay sober, and as far removed as her life could possibly be from most of the people in the room, the sentiments by and large were the same.

In the remaining moments the serenity prayer was read out, as it always was at the end of any meeting, and even though Casey knew it off by heart she chose to stay silent. The words were so poignant to her and as she listened to them with closed eyes, she hoped they’d see her through the following days.

‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things that I can and wisdom to know the difference.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

Casey groaned as she looked at the clock; her next shift at the cafe started in less than twenty minutes. She didn’t know if it was going without alcohol or the fact she’d never really worked in her life before, but she was knackered. She’d drifted in and out of work and never really had to worry about money till recently, having had a conservative but steady flow of money from her family who were only visible in her life through the money they’d put in her account.

Eighteen months ago she’d closed her bank account down, deciding it only served to rubber stamp her feelings of worthlessness; it made her feel her family were paying her to stay away. So now if she wanted to eat, drink or pay the rent, she only had herself to rely on; it was both frightening and liberating in equal measures.

Casey washed herself quickly and pulled on yesterday’s clothes. It was pointless putting on anything clean; within two hours of working in Lola’s she’d smell as if she’d taken a plunge in chip fat, and besides, if she was honest, she could just about make the effort to get dressed let alone bother to do herself up.

The cafe wasn’t open for another hour but Lola had asked Casey to come thirty minutes before opening time to help set up. She was early, which would give her half an hour to sit down with a cup of coffee, hoping it would help her wake up properly. The cafe door had a sign saying ‘closed’ but the open door said the opposite.

‘Lola? It’s Cass. Hello?’

There was no answer so Casey put her bag down and went to switch on the large urn to make some much-needed coffee.

Taking her coat off, she walked into the cloakroom and was stopped dead in her tracks by what she saw. Lola sat on the cold cracked tiles of the bathroom floor with a belt around her left arm, the other end of it between her teeth. In her right hand was a syringe, half full with a cloudy liquid which Casey guessed was heroin.

On seeing Casey, Lola paused for a moment before pulling the belt even tighter with her teeth, then plunged the needle greedily into her waiting vein.

Almost immediately Casey could see the heroin taking hold of Lola; her eyes rolled back and her head started to loll against the grimy walls of the cloakroom. Slightly incoherently, Lola spoke.

‘Don’t look like that, lovie, who did you think I was? Mother bleeding Theresa?’

Lola cackled and the force of her laughter against her drugged-up body threw her head forward to rest on her chest.

Casey was shocked and her stomach tightened as she watched the abandoned needle still stuck in Lola’s vein. The blood trickled down Lola’s arm and for a moment Casey didn’t know what to say. It was Lola who broke the silence.

‘He did this,’ Lola slurred, pulling out the syringe and lifting up her cream polyester blouse. Casey’s eyes widened as she saw a vast scar running diagonally from underneath Lola’s breastbone, across her stomach and finishing off at her hip.

‘My god, what happened? Who did this to you?’

Casey knelt down by Lola and touched the old but still raised angry scar gently.

‘I don’t really remember much of that night; me and the old man were watching some shit on the telly; usual Sunday night crap. He turned and stared at me as if I were a stranger in me own home; like he’d never seen me before. Then he blinked a couple of times and started cutting.’

‘Who did, Lola? Who?’

Casey watched Lola’s eyes roll when she tried to focus on her.

‘Oscar.’

‘Jesus, how long did he get?’

Lola burst into more high-pitched cackling. ‘He didn’t, I’m old school, love; we don’t grass on our own.’

‘But …’

‘But nothing, girl. I did alright; he got me this place as a way of compensation.’

Casey stood up and looked horrified.

‘Money’s money, love; it’s an expensive habit I’ve got. Most of what I earn goes up my arm and if I didn’t have this place I’d be back on the streets. So you see, Oscar did me a favour in a way.’

‘How can you say that? What he did was shocking.’

‘What he did was life, sweetheart. I’m happy like this, I like it, never wanted to give up …’

Lola just managed to finish speaking before she suddenly jolted and turned her head to the side to vomit. Casey curled her face in disgust and backed away. What the hell was she doing in a place like this?

‘I’m sorry … I’ve got to go.’

Lola wiped the side of her mouth and looked up. Casey could see the tears in her eyes and the pain on her face but she had no idea what she was supposed to do.

‘Don’t go, Casey. Stay and keep me company … please.’

Lola raised her shaking hand towards Casey and the stench of the vomit and the misery of the situation suddenly hit Casey.

‘I’m sorry, Lola, I can’t.’ Turning quickly and grabbing her bag from the chair, Casey ran out of the cafe to the cool of the morning air and immediately felt very ashamed for running out on someone who’d asked for help. She put her hand on the door to go back inside but something stopped her. The desperation of the situation was clear to see and it was as if she was looking at herself in the mirror – but all Casey wanted to do was run.

CHAPTER NINE

It was four thirty the following Wednesday and Casey had slept most of the last few days away. Walking in on Lola and going to sobriety meetings in the evening had taken it out of her, and as much as she hated being in the flat, she’d rather sleep than watch the minutes slowly tick by emphasising her struggle to abstain from drinking. What she really needed was to try to take her mind off it. She remembered the club Whispers had a comedy spot on most nights and even though she knew she’d have to stay strong not to drink, Casey decided having a laugh would be more helpful than lying on her bed staring at the ceiling. The sign said it didn’t open until seven o’clock, so Casey settled on the cafe four doors away. It was in these quiet moments she found the unwelcome memories came knocking; today they also had her reaching for her mobile phone. The phone on the other end rang twice before it was answered by a man with a deep voice.

‘Hello?’

Casey didn’t speak for a moment but held her breath, trying to calm the pounding of her heart. The silence on the phone caused the person on the other end to repeat their question.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello Josh.’

‘Casey! Oh god it’s good to hear from you. How are you? Why haven’t you called before?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘If it wasn’t for the postcard you sent me I wouldn’t have known you were alive, eighteen months is a long time, Cass. Are you sure you’re okay?’

‘I’m doing okay. I’ve been to a meeting.’

‘I’m glad. Wow, sorry it’s just such a shock to hear from you. Where are you?’

‘In London.’

There was an awkward pause before Casey heard Josh tentatively speak again.

‘Have you done anything about it yet? About … well you know.’

‘No not yet. Funny, I’ve waited all this time but now I can’t quite find the courage to go.’

‘Be careful Cass; I don’t want you to get disappointed … or hurt. It was so long ago, they might not even live there now. I don’t think you should Cass. Maybe you should let sleeping dogs lie.’

‘Anyone would think you don’t want me to find him.’

‘It’s not that … It’s just …’ Josh trailed off and Casey spoke impatiently wanting to find out what he was going to say.

‘Just what?’

‘Nothing, listen forget I said anything.’

‘I know you’re worried but for all the tourists and the craziness Soho is a tight-knit community; if they’re not there, I’m sure someone will remember them and even know where they’ve gone.’

Casey listened to Josh breathe on the other end of the phone. She knew him well, but then she should do; after all, she was married to him. She knew his silence was that of a person with a difference of opinion, but he was too diplomatic – or too sensible – to say anything.

They’d met at a wedding but it hadn’t been love at first sight; if she were truthful she hadn’t thought much about him at all. They’d spent the evening sitting next to each other in a huge draughty hall as they toasted the happy couple who she knew through her cousin. Josh had talked about his work and asked her polite questions which she gave the shortest of answers to. She’d been civil but aloof, but Josh had persisted.

‘Would you like to dance?’

She hadn’t, but she’d been unable to think of a good excuse before he’d got up and put out his hand for her to take. Even though it’d been their first dance, Casey couldn’t recall what song had been played – she’d stopped being sentimental the day she’d given birth; there was no room in her heart for it. What she had felt was a feeling of safety as he held her in his arms. For the first time in her life she’d felt secure. Three weeks later he’d asked her to marry him and she’d not hesitated in saying yes, hoping saying, ‘I do’ would fix the gaping hole in her heart and fill the void from losing her child.

‘Casey? Are you listening? I think you should be careful.’

Josh interrupted her thoughts and she returned her focus to the conversation on the phone.

‘Thanks for your concern; I’ll be fine.’

She could hear the tightness in her voice although she didn’t mean it to be there; she had no quarrel with Josh; he’d done nothing wrong. He was a kind, warm, sensitive man who’d tried to look after her and heal her wounds. She shouldn’t have married him and he was better off without her.

‘Bye Josh.’

‘Keep in touch, Cass, and think about what I said.’

Casey clicked off the phone and was suddenly startled by a man standing in front of her.

‘Can I get you another one; or maybe something stronger?’

Casey quickly wiped away her tears which seemed to spring to her eyes all too easily these days for her liking; she felt embarrassed being caught at a vulnerable moment.

Her answer was delayed as she looked at the tall well-built man with a wind-tanned complexion, dark brown hair with slices of grey running through it and intense green eyes. He was undoubtedly very handsome. The prospect of something stronger than her lukewarm coffee was also tempting, but she declined the offer.

‘My name’s Vaughn by the way.’

‘Casey.’

She gave him a small smile and Vaughn was knocked sideways by her beauty.

‘Did you manage to get in safely the other night?’

Vaughn Sadler watched as a blank expression came over her face. It was still niggling away at him – he was positive he knew Casey from somewhere, but hopefully it’d come to him.

He could tell she had no idea what he was talking about and he contemplated explaining how he’d helped her pick up her keys, but quickly he decided against it, in case the boy Alfie had given a seeing to had opened his mouth and talked to the hospital. That was of course if he was still alive.

If the filth were sniffing around, it would be foolhardy of Vaughn to admit he’d been anywhere near the building. He didn’t want to get fingered for something he didn’t do; and if he did get collared, it wasn’t as if he’d squeal on Alfie. With his form, they’d throw the book at him before you could say Jack The Hat McVitie.

‘Let me get you another coffee then.’ Casey nodded and wished she hadn’t given up smoking.

Whispers Comedy Club was starting to get busy by the time Casey and Vaughn had arrived. They’d talked for over an hour, with neither one of them divulging anything personal.

‘Tell me about yourself; I’m intrigued why a young lady like you is on her own.’

‘There’s nothing really to tell; and I’m not that young. What about you?’

‘Oh, I lead a very dull life.’

It was apparent to both of them that they were each hiding things but neither said anything, and neither pushed any further.

Alfie watched Vaughn chatting away from the stool at the bar; he recognised she was the woman who’d been looking at the board outside the club the other day. He never forgot a face; especially one that had distracted him from his show-night nerves. She was laughing, obviously enjoying the attention of his friend, and for some reason it fucked him off no end that Vaughn had beaten him to it. Not that he minded having his cast-offs – he slept with hookers most nights, so second-hand pussy wasn’t a problem for him – but it rankled his ego.

On the way across to join them, Alfie grabbed a bottle of cheap house red from behind the bar; if her pussy was already taken for tonight, he wasn’t going to bother breaking open a bottle of the expensive stuff, though from what Alfie could make out, so far she’d stuck to drinking water.

‘Vaughn!’ Alfie slapped Vaughn hard on his back, a little harder than usual; something which wasn’t missed by his friend.

‘Alfie; let me introduce my new friend, Casey. Casey, this is the friend I was telling you about who owns the club.’

Alfie smiled tightly as Vaughn quickly turned his attention back to Casey.

She waved as way of a greeting and Alfie sat down to join them to watch the show. It was gong night at Whispers, the most popular night of the week, and Alfie could feel the whole club buzzing with anticipation. Would-be comedians, old timers and members of the public had three minutes each to get on stage and keep the crowd laughing. Members of the audience were given red cards on entering the club, and if for any reason they found the person on stage unfunny or just took a dislike to them, they could lift up their card; three red cards in the air and the master of ceremonies would bang the gong, much to the crowd’s amusement.

Since he’d been running gong night, Alfie had seen very few people actually get through the three minutes, and the drunker the crowd got, the less chance anyone had of getting to the end; unless of course they were him. Not one card had ever gone up when he took to the stage on gong night – no one dared.

‘So are we going to get you up on stage tonight, Casey?’

‘I think I’d need something stronger than spring water if I was going up there.’

Casey smiled at Alfie, who gave her a discreet wink: another indiscretion which didn’t go unnoticed by Vaughn. The lights went down and the spot went up as the master of ceremonies amused the crowd with his opening set.

‘Ladies and gentlemen put your hands together for our first victim … I mean contestant.’

From the left hand of the stage, Casey watched a nervous looking man walk towards the mike; before he’d had the chance to even get there, three red cards went up one by one, much to the hilarity of the crowd. The master of ceremonies loudly rang the gong, to the annoyance of the comedian as he turned to leave the stage with the sound system playing ‘Hit the Road Jack’.

Casey roared with laughter, enjoying the atmosphere of the club along with everyone else. As the next anxious contestant walked on the stage, a loud commotion was heard at the back of the club, and pandemonium quickly spread through the audience. The clubbers started to scream and run towards the emergency exit as a handful of men came charging in, brandishing various weapons. A slap to the side of Casey’s head sent her flying backwards off her chair. She stood up to run but her path was blocked by a small fat man, who grabbed her and tried to drag her towards the back room – but his grip wasn’t tight enough and he let go, giving Casey the opportunity to run through a door marked ‘Staff Only’.

The tallest of the men jumped on top of Alfie and yelled angrily as another grabbed hold of his hair, bringing down a cosh and smashing it into his face; it took Vaughn only a nanosecond and a resigned sigh to get into action.

‘Lock the fucking doors!’ Vaughn boomed out his order, simultaneously smashing the bottle of red on the side of the table, and lunged across to the man who was holding a dazed Alfie in a neck lock.

Vaughn drove the jagged bottle into the man’s face, not as hard as he could, unwilling to do more than was necessary. The man fell to the floor, releasing Alfie as he dropped on his knees.

Vaughn stepped back, not wanting to continue with the violence now all Alfie’s men had run to step in to get things under control. Managing to recover, Alfie bellowed loudly as his foot pounded a dark-haired man on the floor.

‘You motherfucking cunt. Who sent you?’

The man didn’t answer and Alfie bent down, grabbing hold of the man’s arm and twisting it round as the bone threatened to snap at the shoulder.

‘You’ve got some brass fucking neck coming into my fucking club. Who sent you?’

‘Bellingham.’

‘Bellingham?’

‘Jake’s uncle, he’s a face from East Ham – he heard what you did to his nephew.’

Alfie would’ve laughed if his face hadn’t been hurting so much and his front veneer wasn’t broken. He’d been shitting himself when the men came in; he’d thought it was the Russians after the mess-up with the heroin last month, or even the Davidson brothers from Stratford, who were fucked off with him over the fake credit cards he’d been selling on their turf. But Jake’s uncle? It was fucking laughable.

‘Give Bellingham a message; tell him Alfie Jennings says his nephew’s a useless cunt and if he ever sends his men to my patch again, I’ll come looking for him and he won’t be as lucky as his nephew was.’

Alfie paused whilst he touched his nose, wincing at the pain. He turned his attention back to the man. ‘I want you to take him something back for me.’

Alfie put his hand into his back pocket and pulled out the pliers he always carried. He nodded to two of his men who came forward and pulled the man up from the fall. One held him up and the other prised open his mouth, leaving Alfie to teach him a lesson the Jennings way. ‘Now say “ah”.’

As Vaughn turned away from the violence, a thought struck him.

Where’s Casey?

Casey ran through the back room hoping to find a way out. The exit door was locked but there was another door slightly ajar, and she could see a flight of stairs behind it. Rather than stay in the back room or head back into the chaos, she decided it’d be safer to head up the stairs.

At the top, Casey saw crates of wine and boxes stacked up neatly against the wall. She walked cautiously down the corridor hoping to find one of the doors open and a room she could wait in. The first door she tried was locked but the second opened and led to a storeroom full of large boxes. Almost unconsciously, Casey continued to look around. There were televisions, computers, Blu-ray players, iPods and iPhones, all boxed, plus a huge selection of Romeo y Julieta cigars.

There was a door at the back and Casey, letting her more inquisitive side take over, quickly opened it to see what was behind it. It was a tiny bathroom.

About to walk out of the storeroom, Casey heard voices coming down the corridor. She felt panic rise within her and she stayed motionless and waited for the voices to go past.

The voices didn’t pass. Casey could hear them directly on the other side of the door. She saw the handle turning and immediately crouched down behind the largest box, hoping whoever it was wasn’t coming in to take the plasma TV she’d just hidden behind.

The voices Casey heard were foreign. One belonged to a man and the other was female. Casey peeked around the box. She got a glimpse of the man, and saw that there were two women with him, not one as she first thought.

She continued to watch, terrified she might make a noise. She saw the man push one of the women hard in the back as he opened the door to the bathroom. The woman let out a tiny squeal and was given another shove to stop her cry. Casey felt as if she should be doing something but she didn’t know what, so she stayed hidden and watched as the man leaned on the doorway of the bathroom, not letting the women have any privacy as they used the toilet.

Crouching behind the box, Casey noticed the women were dressed in tracksuit bottoms and thin short-sleeved tops and their feet were bare. As they were coming out of the bathroom, the light was bright enough for her to see the smaller woman’s arm was covered in bruising and marks. The man opened the door to the storeroom, leading the women out behind him. Casey listened to the footsteps disappearing down the corridor.

In the darkness of the tiny storeroom Casey could feel her whole body shaking; she was terrified and she knew she couldn’t be caught hiding. She took some deep breaths to try to calm her racing heart and listened to see if she could hear anybody else coming. It was all quiet and she decided it was probably safe to go back downstairs.

Casey cautiously walked down the corridor. She wasn’t sure what she’d just seen but whatever it was she certainly didn’t want to get involved; she was here in London for one reason only and all she wanted to do was get the hell out of there.

Coming down the stairs Vaughn was standing at the bottom.

‘Where’ve you been? I was worried sick. You alright? You look a bit pale.’

‘I’m fine; thought it was best to wait on the stairs.’

Vaughn looked to the top of the stairs.

‘That’s where you’ve been all this time?’

Casey nodded her head and couldn’t help but think Vaughn was looking at her suspiciously. She was feeling very unsafe and it dawned on her how stupid she’d been to agree to have a drink with Vaughn in the club alone. She didn’t know the first thing about him, but after what she’d just seen happen, if he was a friend of Alfie’s he was part of something very dangerous.

She wanted to go home but she didn’t want to raise Vaughn’s suspicions any more than they seemed to be raised already. She needed to be careful; she didn’t want him guessing she’d seen the girls. Mustering up some courage which she didn’t feel, Casey spoke, hoping her voice would sound light and be relieved of any tension.

‘Anyway, Alfie was right; gong night is certainly something not to be missed.’

Casey grinned up at Vaughn who grinned back, with neither of their smiles reaching their eyes.

CHAPTER TEN

‘For fuck’s sake, woman, can’t you be a little gentler? You’ve got hands like a fucking gorilla.’ Alfie pushed his wife’s hands away as she tried to clean the hardened dried blood off his face with a ball of cotton wool.

He knew he should’ve washed it off last night but by the time he’d got home to Essex, his face had been hurting so much, he hadn’t wanted to look at it in the mirror, let alone touch it.

He’d taken some sleeping pills, but he’d been rudely awoken a few hours later by Janine’s piercing scream directly in his ear, after she’d turned over in bed and seen him asleep next to her with his face covered in blood.

‘What the fuck are you screaming about, woman?’

‘I thought you were bleeding dead.’

‘And if I was, how the hell does screaming make it better? You nearly fucking gave me a heart attack.’

‘Well what was I supposed to think?’

‘Nothing, like you usually do. Christ almighty, Janine, if I was going to cop it, I hope my dying hours wouldn’t be lying next to you snoring your head off.’

Janine had laughed and waddled off to find some cotton wool and TCP to bathe Alfie’s face.

Alfie had been driven home by one of his men, which had given him time to think about the situation with Jake. He hadn’t actually known he’d been connected to the Bellinghams in East Ham, not that it would’ve made a difference; in fact, he might have enjoyed dishing out the punishment all the more.

He still hadn’t spoken to Emmie any more about the matter; the last thing he wanted to listen to were wails of hysteria from his lovestruck daughter. He’d leave her to stew for a few days and then he’d pick her up something special from Selfridges to cheer her up.

It still pissed him off when he thought about it; he couldn’t get the image of his daughter with that scumbag out of his head and as he put on his shoes, the image of Emmie in just her bra got larger and he felt the rage start to enter his body. He stood up abruptly, throwing the bowl of hot water Janine had brought onto the floor.

He stormed along the marbled landing, kicking Emmie’s cat out of the way, and marched down the elegant curved staircase to the front door, slamming it behind him as he banged out of the house.

‘Fucking hell, Alfie, has Janine been knocking you about again? There’s helplines you can ring for that sort of thing you know.’

As they sat in the large back office, with crates and boxes piled at the far end of the room, Oscar grinned at Alfie. He’d heard about the showdown at the club from one of his informants and he’d been annoyed he hadn’t been around to see it; he’d had one of his headaches and had needed to sit quietly in the dark of his flat for over an hour to let it calm down. When it had, he’d taken a phone call and rushed down to Shoreditch.

‘You’ll understand why I’m not in the best of moods, Oscar; I still have to go to the dentist to get me veneer fixed, so if you wouldn’t mind I’d like to get on with our meeting.’

Oscar grinned and was rewarded by a scowl from Alfie, which made him laugh out loud as he spoke.

‘You weren’t the only one who had a bit of a problem last night, Alf. I got a call from Nesha, the Albanian guy looking after our girls down in Redchurch Street. One of them managed to open the window when she went for a piss and …’

Alfie sprang up from the chair, sending waves of pain through his face, and the suppressed anger he’d tried to contain earlier broke through.

‘What the fuck? Oscar, I thought you said you had them all under control?’

‘I did; I do. Nobody, not even me could’ve guessed the little whore would’ve jumped out of a sixth-floor window.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, silly bitch decided to jump.’

‘What, do they have rubber bones in Albania? How did she think she’d survive?’

‘She probably thought it was a better option to jump.’

‘Jesus.’

Oscar grinned, his eyes dancing with amusement.

‘I know, fucking waste of money.’

Alfie shot a stare at Oscar. ‘You haven’t got a heart have you?’

Oscar put his hand on the front of his chest, pretending to try and feel the heartbeat. ‘No, not even a pulse. You need to stop getting fucking soft on me, Alf; I didn’t think you’re the type.’

‘I’m not, and I don’t like you thinking I am, because I might have to show you what sort of heart I’ve got if you carry on taking the piss.’

Oscar looked at Alfie; pleased with the reaction. He didn’t need to do business with a pussy.

‘Of course, Nesha moved the body quickly; put her in the boot and then threw it in the canal at the Hackney end; it’ll be a while before she’s found. Obviously the car wasn’t registered, but he left it on a nearby estate so it can be burnt out by some little fucker who gets his kicks that way.’

‘What about the girls?’

‘Moved them to Bow, but it’s only temporary, it’s too small there. I thought maybe you could keep some more above the club for a while. I’m going to speak to Lola and get her to break them in.’

‘I thought you hated your ex-missus?’

‘I do, she’s a hard bitch who’d sell her own grandkids for money – so she’s exactly what we need.’

It’d been a week since Casey had walked in on Lola, and every day since, she’d regretted the fact she’d walked out on her. Yes, it’d been shocking for Casey to see Lola like that, but the most shocking part of it all was how much Casey had seen of herself in Lola – and it was for that reason that Casey had run away from the situation. It wasn’t Lola she’d seen on the bathroom floor vomiting on the cracked tiles, it was herself. The similarities between herself and Lola frightened her.

Taking a deep breath Casey opened the door of the cafe, which was jam-packed with mud-clad builders, all looking for a fry-up after their morning’s work on the building site in Manette Street. Over the steam of the cafe, Lola and Casey locked eyes. Lola broke out into a big grin.

‘Bleeding hell, what kept you? Your shift started a week ago.’

Lola threw Casey an overall and with a wink, turned back to continue taking the overly large woman’s breakfast order in the far corner.

Casey had been working the morning shift and was expecting to finish at noon, but the rush of people made it necessary for her to stay on for the afternoon shift.

‘You don’t mind do you, Casey?’

Even though Casey was exhausted she was happy she could help out; anything to try to make up for walking out like she had.

‘No problem. And Lola, I’m …’

Lola put up her hand to stop Casey saying any more.

‘There’s no need to say anything girl. It should be me saying sorry. Now we’ll hear no more about it. But Casey?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m happy you came back.’

By four o’clock, the lunchtime rush was over and Casey sat down for a cup of tea; the first she’d had all day.

‘Want me to put some whiskey in that, love?’ Lola cackled as she sat down with The Daily Star. Casey wasn’t sure if she was joking or not; there was a strong possibility she had smelt like a brewer’s daughter the day she’d discovered Lola’s cafe but since the sobriety meeting she hadn’t touched a drop, though it was killing her. She’d found a miniature bottle of whisky tucked away in one of her boots this morning and she’d sat staring at it for over twenty minutes before she’d finally poured it down the kitchen sink. Her addiction was still holding her as tightly as ever.

Sipping her tea she thought about the club. She still felt shaken by what had happened, and the women she’d seen had troubled her; they’d more than troubled her, they had frightened her; but she was doing her best to put it to the back of her mind. She didn’t want to get distracted by anything – she needed all her energy on getting well and finding her son.

She hadn’t bothered asking Vaughn about it. To a certain extent it was through fear, but mainly she wanted a simple life, without any complications; she’d had enough of those to last her a lifetime.

Vaughn had insisted on walking her home, but he hadn’t spoken much and had seemed rather distracted. When they’d been out on the street, the fear she’d had of him in the club had slightly diminished; he’d seemed so much less threatening, and even though he’d been in his own thoughts, she’d picked up something else from him: something warm, caring even; but then what would she know? She wasn’t the best judge of character by any means, and besides, it didn’t really matter what he was or wasn’t; she didn’t want to get involved.

He’d asked to meet up with her the following Saturday for a drink and she’d accepted his invitation, just to be polite, just to humour him, but now she regretted it. She was a fool; her own worst enemy.

Casey took a sip of her tea as the cafe door opened and both she and Lola looked round; two tall men walked in, bringing with them an air of confidence. Casey recognised one of them; it was Alfie. His face was swollen and shockingly bruised.

Lola stood up and hurried over nervously to the men, who sat down at the far table.

‘Bring us some teas, Casey love.’

Casey got up and went across to the large silver tea urn, sensing she was being watched. Putting the teas on the Princess Diana tray to take over, Casey glanced up and immediately locked eyes with Alfie, who was staring at her intently.

She placed the tea in front of them without saying a word and without wanting to listen to anything being said; it was obvious to her something was going on, and she was determined to know nothing about it.

Alfie couldn’t help staring at Casey; he’d no idea she was working with Lola. Casey looked so out of place: no matter how stained her clothes were and unbrushed her hair looked, there was no hiding her beauty. Lola on the other hand blended into the greasy walls of the cafe like she’d crawled out of the walls with the cockroaches.

Alfie decided he was going to ask Vaughn if he’d finished with Casey. He could do with a treat after the week from hell he was having, and she was just the treat he needed. He imagined her sitting on his cock, riding away with her tits bouncing up and down. He was about to continue his fantasy, when Oscar’s voice threw cold water onto his thoughts.

‘Alfie?’

‘What?’

‘I think that blow you took to your fucking face must have hit your brain as well.’

Alfie glared at Oscar. He didn’t like the fact he was disrespecting him, least of all in front of a rat’s arse like Lola Harding. He’d have a word with Oscar later, but for now, he’d keep quiet and listen to what he was saying.

‘We want you to show them how it’s done, Lola. I thought they’d be like lambs but they’re still wanting to think for themselves. Your job is to get them smacked up; get them so used to the taste of brown they can’t do without it. That shouldn’t be too hard for you.’

Lola cackled, taking a sip of the hot, milky tea in front of her, and continued to listen to Oscar.

‘The other thing is the pill; I don’t want them knocked up when the punters ride bare back, so you need to get hold of some. Plus, show them how to use the sponge when they’re on their periods; a lot of the punters will be put off by the blood and I don’t want to lose money because of bleedin’ bitches.’ Oscar laughed loudly at his own joke. ‘It’s easy money for you, Lola. It’ll be like home from home, as long as you keep your mouth shut of course.’

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