Poison

10

Vaughn stared at Alfie, who was sat on the high leather stool in the kitchen. From where he stood, he could see the whole of Old Compton Street out the wide, tinted panoramic window. It was busy; the theatregoers had come out in their droves and crowds of tourists and Londoners had descended on Soho to enjoy the sunny May day.

But as Vaughn continued to stand and watch Davey sew up Alfie’s cheek, his thoughts were slightly distracted … He’d texted and called Shannon, but so far, he hadn’t heard anything back. And maybe it was nothing and he was just winding himself up. After all she was street-savvy, more than she should be … But, and it was a big but, she was just a kid. A kid who not so long ago was on crack cocaine and anything else she could get her hands on.

He rubbed his head, massaging his temples. Fuck, he had to stop this. He was just being paranoid. He trusted her – or at least he thought he did – and besides Shannon seemed to be thriving looking after Mia. Plus, he’d already read her the riot act about even speaking to people from her old life, and that if she ever went near the pipe again, she could wave goodbye to him and Alfie looking out for her. Hopefully that was a big enough incentive as anything else, better than any expensive rehab treatment.

He’d seen it too many times before. He’d seen people think they could still acquaint themselves with their old life, thinking what harm would it do. But only too quickly and too easily they were spiralling back down the dark, drug-fuelled rabbit hole.

‘For fuck’s sake, do you have to jab me like that? What happened to a bit of TLC?’

Davey Stevens laughed, his slim face crinkling up in a mass of wrinkles as his grey eyes watered. ‘Stop being such a drama queen.’

Alfie glared at Davey, looking at the long, sharp suture needle he was using. ‘It fucking hurts, and you ain’t exactly Florence Nightingale. I think you need to work on your gentle touch a bit.’

Again, Davey laughed as Alfie took a swig from the bottle of whiskey next to him. He felt sick from the pain but sicker from the fact that Huang and his men thought that it was okay to come to his flat and give him a pasting. And the worse thing was: he knew it wasn’t over; it had only just begun.

Wincing at the whiskey as well as the pain of Davey sewing up his face, Alfie tried to distract himself from his thoughts. He glanced around the expensive white and silver kitchen before his gaze came to rest on Vaughn, noticing the worry on his face.

Still in acute agony, and through gritted teeth, Alfie said, ‘What’s up with you? You look like you’ve walked in on someone fucking your missus.’

Vaughn, irritated by Alfie’s comment but also not wanting to tell him the truth about his concerns about Shannon, snarled, ‘Turn it in, Alf, and as if you have to ask what the matter is.’

‘Well it seems like I do,’ Alfie snapped back, just as irritated.

‘What the fuck do you think’s wrong with me? I leave your daughter with you for a couple of hours then when I come back, you’ve been sliced up. Are you really surprised I ain’t happy?’

Bitterness poured from Alfie’s mouth, his thick black hair falling over the gash on his forehead. ‘Oh, so it’s my fault is it? I’m to blame for cutting up my face, am I? Well thanks for the sympathy.’

Knowing that he could trust Davey, who no doubt was a keeper of a lot more secrets than just theirs, Vaughn felt comfortable to continue to speak in front of him. ‘Do me a favour will you, Davey? Stab that fucking needle into him, will ya? Stick some sense in him, cos he’s starting to do my head in.’

Pushing Davey out of the way, Alfie – with the thread still attached to the needle hanging down from his cheek – jumped up from his seat, marching across to where Vaughn was leaning. He held his ribs, feeling the throb in them from where Huang’s men had kicked him senseless. ‘What is your problem? I already told you not to bring her. I ain’t interested, so if anyone’s to blame, it’s you, because as usual you wouldn’t listen.’

Vaughn moved away from Alfie to grab hold of the packet of cigarettes on the side. He lit one up, inhaling deeply, staring at Alfie in anger. ‘Alf, you’re not getting it. Look at the state of you: you can hardly see through one eye, your mouth looks like it’s been put through the mincer and your cheek is half hanging off. This ain’t anything to do with me bringing Mia to you, but whilst we’re on that subject, I ain’t happy you never told me about Huang, cos I certainly would’ve thought twice about leaving her here if you had.’

‘Well I told you not to.’

Vaughn prodded Alfie in his chest. ‘Don’t give me that, you weren’t concerned about her – you’ve already said as much. You’re just pissed off that I found out … So go on then, what have you done, Alf? How did you fuck him over … Why is Huang after the great Alfie Jennings?’

Feeling ill again from the pain, Alfie slumped down on the stool once more. The last thing he wanted was for Vaughn to chew off his ear, and besides, thinking about what happened – talking about it – opened too many boxes for him, stuff he just didn’t want to deal with.

‘Leave it, Vaughn, will you? Anyway, you’re just presuming that it was Huang. You’re the only one who’s mentioned his name.’

Taking another drag of the cigarette, Vaughn stared contemptuously at Alfie before laughing bitterly. ‘Oh, do me a favour, don’t try to mug me off. I saw Huang come out of these flats. You’re not trying to tell me that it was a coincidence and the person who did that to your face was someone entirely different.’

Getting almost to the end of the whiskey, Alfie took another slug then spoke wearily. ‘I ain’t trying to tell you nothing. Can we just do this another day?’

‘No, mate, we can’t cos right now, I’ve got the upper hand. You’re in a hell of a lot of pain, crippled with agony no doubt, and the last thing you want me to do is to keep at you. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do: keep at you. I’m not going anywhere until I find out exactly what’s going on. And both you and I know, by tonight you’ll be gagging to tell me the truth, just to shut me the fuck up.’

11

Deep in thought, Franny walked along the prison corridor to the showers, passing a group of women who were chatting outside one of the cells. They gave her hostile stares, but rather than turn away she stared back; cold and steely, narrowing her eyes to give a threatening glare, until the taller of the women, suddenly seeming less assured, dropped her gaze to the floor.

In this place it was dog eat dog, and the first sign of weakness … well, she knew only too well that not only would the vultures begin to circle, that’s when the nightmare would really begin.

Bullying and violence were big problems in most prisons and certainly the one she was in. And although it was mainly the men’s prisons that were written about in the media, the women’s jails had their fair share of trouble. Whatever the men did, the women could do it just as well.

The wing she was on was a mixed bag; unlike some prisons where they kept them separate, the long-termers and the women on remand were held together. Apparently it was supposed to help the remand prisoners integrate to prison life by having the long-termers support and mentor them. To her, that was a joke – it was prison, not Girl Guides, and the simple fact was that everyone was out for themselves. It was the only way to survive.

Yawning, and feeling a sharp tension in her shoulders and back, Franny continued down the noisy corridor, carrying a towel and a prison washbag. The sound alone was difficult to get used to. Day or night, the whole prison was a constant racket of women shouting and calling, banging and clattering, peals of laughter and screams of terror. But the sound she found most difficult was the wailing from the psychiatric wing. Unremitting howls that sent a chill down even her spine. And not for the first time it struck Franny that, of all the things she hadn’t appreciated before she’d arrived, the biggest was the simple pleasure of silence.

Turning the corner to the showers, Franny hoped that this time they wouldn’t be filthy. Yesterday when she’d gone in there, the whole place looked like it had been used as a pig shed. Shit and vomit had been wiped all over the cracked beige and green tiled floor and walls and it had taken all her willpower to stop herself vomiting from the smell alone. So she was praying that, today, there wouldn’t be any nasty surprises in store.

Pushing open the large swing door, Franny was relieved to see it was not only pretty clean but also empty. Grateful, she made her way to the far-end cubicle; entering and leaning on the cool of the tiles, she sighed.

She felt tired, drained of all energy, and it hadn’t helped that last night she’d slept heavily and dreamt of Spain, a place she had fond memories of. So when she’d woken, it had taken her a few seconds to get her bearings and realise where she was – and when she had, the reality had come crashing down on her like a crowbar.

Placing her washbag and towel on the floor, Franny put her head in her hands, knowing that no one was watching – there was no CCTV – and for the first time in longer than she could remember, she felt the tears well up and begin to fall.

Immediately angry with herself for being weak, she took a deep breath, wiped the tears away with her sleeve and felt the simmering hatred in her soul for Vaughn rise up once again. And she welcomed that, because that feeling would keep her strong.

Wrapping her long chestnut hair in a bun, Franny took off her grey marl sweater and sweat pants and clicked on the shower, straight away letting out a groan. It was freezing cold; yet again, it seemed the prison boilers weren’t working. But having no other choice, she gritted her teeth and began to wash herself quickly, trying to scrub the smell of prison out from her skin.

Shivering and with her body now covered in goose pimples from the cold, Franny washed the last of the soap away before clicking off the shower. Hearing voices coming from down the other end, she grabbed her clothes, pulling them on without bothering to dry herself.

Slipping her elasticated pump shoes on – the lace-up ones having being confiscated due to the prison’s suicide risk policy – Franny stepped out of the shower to see Christine Lucas and her cronies huddled up in the far corner, laughing like a bunch of hyenas.

Not wanting to get involved in whatever they were up to, she took another quick glance at them, picked up her washbag and started to make her way out.

Christine, having not spotted Franny until that moment, turned her head and grinned as she stopped what she was doing to block Franny’s way. Her neck fat jiggled as she chuckled at Franny. Her Geordie accent as strong as ever as she said, ‘Well hello, pet, this is a nice surprise. It’s a shame I wasn’t here a few minutes ago, I could’ve helped you soap yourself down. Help you get into all those tricky places.’ She licked her lips, flicking off the dry piece of food stuck to her mouth.

From the corner of her eye, Franny could see there was someone on the floor hidden behind where the other women were standing. Not only that, she could see a trickle of blood making its way from whoever it was lying there to one of the drains in the centre of the shower area.

Franny nodded towards the blood. She spoke as coldly as she felt. ‘Someone had an accident?’

Christine stepped nearer to Franny. Her eyes blazed with hatred. ‘It depends on your definition of an accident, pet.’

Franny shook her head. She glanced down at the ground before looking back up at Christine. ‘Anyway, it ain’t nothing to do with me, so if you don’t mind, I’ve got things to do.’

But as Franny went to step around Christine, her path was blocked once more. ‘I think you must’ve forgotten what I told you, love. I run this place. So I say what people do and don’t do. I say when they piss, I say when they shit and I say when they sleep, and I also say you’re not going anywhere until we finish that chat we were having before.’

Even though Franny was more than used to violent confrontation, her heart still began to beat faster and she could feel her mouth becoming dry. ‘I ain’t got anything to say to you, Christine. So how about we keep out of each other’s way? It’ll do us both a favour.’

Christine burst out into laughter, her beady eyes disappearing under the fat on her cheekbones. ‘In another life perhaps you and I would’ve been friends. I like a woman who can hold her own.’

‘Let’s just get this clear from the start: I would never be friends with the likes of you, no matter what life we were in.’

The tension between the women was palpable as Christine spoke. ‘So I take it you’ve heard what I did?’

‘Yeah, Christine, I know exactly what you did. We all know how you took a hammer to your kids and battered them to death, and you wear that fact like you’re wearing a frigging rosette.’

Christine shrugged. Again she smiled. ‘Well, what can I say? I’m famous.’

With as much hatred as she could muster, Franny whispered, ‘No, Christine. You’re evil. Make no mistake about that, and everyone around here knows it; it’s just that they don’t say it.’

Christine’s face darkened. She turned to the other women. ‘Is that what you all think?’

The women chuckled but didn’t answer, as Christine added, ‘Shall we show her what happens to smart-mouthed bitches?’

The circle of women opened up and there on the floor, her face sliced to ribbons and the word dead carved into her forehead, was a young woman, probably no older than twenty.

Franny ran her tongue along the back of her teeth and stared coolly without blinking, making sure she gave no reaction to Christine.

‘Why aye, pet, you’re a hardened bitch, aren’t you? Not even a flinch. You play the game nearly as good as I do. Not that it makes much difference – like I say, I’m the one who calls the shots around here.’

Christine stopped talking to nod to a tall, skinny blonde woman with tattoos and self-harm markings covering both her arms. ‘Keep watch for me will you, pet?’ Not having to be asked twice, the woman grinned and sauntered to the door. Then turning back to Franny, Christine winked. ‘That’s better, we won’t be disturbed now.’ And with those words Christine Lucas slammed her elbow viciously into Franny’s nose.

Blood spurted out and across Franny’s cheeks like a fountain, and for a moment she felt light-headed. The whole room spun around. She staggered backwards as Christine – to the roar of the rest of the gathered women – lunged at her again. But, being faster and more agile, Franny ducked just in time, avoiding Christine’s clenched fist.

Managing to grasp Christine around her waist, Franny pushed and slammed her into the tiled walls with a loud thud, but not before Christine gripped hold of Franny’s hair, pulling it so hard that it felt to Franny like it was being ripped right out of her scalp.

The impact of being barged against the wall made Christine lose her balance. She fell sideways, taking Franny down with her like a ton of bricks.

Her teeth bit down on her tongue and with her mouth full of blood, Franny tried to clamber off Christine, stretching out for her washbag. She grabbed hold of it but immediately she felt Christine’s grip on her ankle.

To the baying sound of the women, Franny frantically kicked at her, twisting her body to shake herself free as she quickly scrambled to open her washbag, pulling out the sharpened-ended toothbrush to use as a weapon.

Breaking free of Christine’s grip, Franny was able to jump up, holding the makeshift shank in her hand, the end of the toothbrush razor sharp and pointed, ready if needed to do some damage.

Her voice was hard and dangerous as she glared at Christine. ‘Come near me, and I won’t think twice about using this. Do you understand me?’

Christine’s face broke into a smile. She pulled up her trouser leg – which exposed a huge, faded fist tattoo on her calf – and grabbed something out from her sock. ‘Oh I understand, but you’re not the only one who enjoys a fight.’

Franny stared at what Christine held in her hand. Like her own weapon – which, if they were sensible, most of the women carried and hid on their persons for protection – Christine’s shank was made out of a toothbrush, but unlike hers, Christine had melted the end of it and inserted razor blades into the plastic. ‘Come on then, Franny, what are you waiting for, love?’

With her heart pounding, and her eyes fixed on the shank, Franny stood working out what she was going to do. She was outnumbered and right now she wouldn’t have placed her money on getting out unscathed.

She glanced over to the small group of women who gazed back at her curiously and seeing Franny on the back foot, Christine cackled again, spinning the shank in her hand. ‘Seems like our Franny’s going to lose that pretty face of hers. Howay, man, never mind!’

‘Screws are coming, screws are coming!’ Suddenly, the blonde-haired woman who’d been keeping guard rushed in, shouting out her warning.

There was an immediate scramble as the women darted out of the shower room but not before Christine, with the quickest of flicks, nicked Franny on her neck with the razor blade.

Flinching, Franny’s hand shot to her neck. She could feel it was only superficial but the pain was still sharp and she felt the warmth of her blood beginning to flow through her fingers.

Christine hurried towards the door. As she was about to exit, she turned back and said, ‘Take that as a warning. Next time, pet, you’ll look more like her.’

She laughed as she nodded towards where the young woman was lying in a pool of her own blood, her face torn and carved up, and with that Christine disappeared out of the room.

12

Rushing over to the woman on the floor, Franny bent down. She spoke quietly to her. ‘Hey, you’re okay now. They’ve gone. Can you get up at all?’

Through half-closed eyes the woman – barely being able to move her head – looked at Franny, who stared curiously back at her. Or rather who stared curiously at what was in her mouth. She had something stuffed into it. Carefully, Franny opened the woman’s mouth, prising her fingers between her teeth to pull out the soggy mess. The minute she did so, the woman began to cough and splutter.

‘Take a deep breath, that’s it.’ Fearfully, the woman glanced at Franny and even though she didn’t say anything, Franny could see the gratitude in her eyes.

Chucking the paper on the floor, Franny suddenly saw that it had something written on it. Intrigued, she picked it up, but immediately her attention was drawn back to the woman, who started to vomit violently. Shoving the paper in her pocket for later, Franny gently rubbed the woman’s back whilst she retched noisily.

Wincing slightly as she watched, Franny spoke warmly, ‘That’s it, doll. Get it all out, sweetheart.’

It was after a couple of minutes – and after Franny herself began to feel sick – that the woman actually did get it all out. She turned to Franny, her voice trembling and so quiet that Franny had to crane forward to hear what she was saying.

‘Thank you, I dunno what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come along. I think she would’ve killed me …’

Franny had no doubt that’s exactly what would’ve happened. She really wanted to ask the woman a lot of questions but it was clear she was in no fit state, so instead she simply asked, ‘What’s your name?’

‘Jessie.’

Giving a small smile, Franny nodded. ‘Well it’s good to meet you. I’m Franny by the way. Look, let’s get you under the shower shall we? And then you need to get looked at. The cuts are deep, but I reckon they’ll be able to fix you up.’

Before Franny had time to say anything else, the door of the shower room was abruptly opened. Standing in the doorway were four prison officers and on seeing them Franny muttered under her breath, ‘Shit.’

The stockier, more masculine-looking screw stared at Franny. She spoke in a Scottish accent. ‘What’s happened here, Doyle?’

Standing up, Franny said nothing as the prison officers walked over to her and Jessie.

‘I asked you a question, what happened here?’

Again, Franny didn’t answer. There was an unwritten rule in prison. It was simple: never say anything. Not unless you wanted the whole prison on your back. Even when the governor would promise the women a safe transfer to another prison to grass someone up, word would travel to the place you were going and life would be a living hell. Franny knew only too well that there was no room in prison for a grass: no matter what, it was still a question of the screws on one side, and the women on another.

‘The cat got your tongue? Because if it hasn’t you better have a good reason for not answering me. Not that I can’t see for myself.’