JACQUI ROSE
Trapped

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 2013

This ebook edition published by HarperCollinsPublishers in 2018

Copyright © Jacqui Rose 2013

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: 9781847563217

Ebook Edition © February 2013 ISBN: 9780007455737

Version: 2018-05-01

Dedication

To my daughter Georgia, whose courage, pain and love inspired and embodies the character of Maggie. This one’s for you.

Mummy x

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

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Acknowledgments

Keep Reading

About the Author

Titles by Jacqui Rose

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

‘Bleedin’ hell.’ Maggie Donaldson swore loudly as she jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being hit by the china teacup which came whizzing past her head as she opened the front door. She watched, slightly bemused, as it smashed against the garish lamp in the corner and tiny fragments of blue china showered down.

Using the back of her red scuffed heel to shut the battered front door, Maggie’s confusion slowly turned to anger as she looked around the gloomy hallway, listening to the raised voices. She sighed loudly.

She’d been away for just over a year and somehow during that time she’d convinced herself things would be different. It had been stupid to do so. Violence in her family was like a thirst; as recurrent and necessary as other people’s cups of morning tea.

How many times as a child had she cowered in bed listening to the screaming arguments? The crying and the slamming of doors, before she’d made sure the coast was clear to creep downstairs to comfort and tend to her mother’s injuries.

The brutality hadn’t just stopped there. It had touched everyone with sadistic cruelty, twisting and coiling itself around the heart of her family. Maggie could count on one hand the times she’d been hugged as a kid but she’d lost count of the number of black eyes she and her siblings had received growing up in the Donaldson household.

She’d only managed to survive her mother’s visits to casualty, her father’s drunken rows and the daily terror she’d seen in her siblings’ eyes by having hope; hope that one day it’d all come to an end. But as Maggie Laura Donaldson looked at the discoloured silver cutlery strewn all over the floor with the mismatched tea set thrown about the hall like hand grenades in a battlefield, it told her all she needed to know. Her hopes had once again been as taunting and hollow as ever. Only a miracle could change things – and Maggie knew miracles didn’t happen in the Donaldson household: not even small ones.

Standing with weary resignation in the newly painted kitchen doorway, Maggie watched as her father – armed to throw another porcelain bomb at her retreating mother – spat out his venomous words. ‘Jaysus fucking Christ, Sheila, if it’s the last thing I do, I’ll put you in your grave. I’ll happily do time for you. Look at me like that again and see what happens. I swear on the Virgin Mary, I’ll …’

Interrupting her father’s furious rant, Maggie spoke. Her voice was filled with the icy, hard edge she’d learnt from him. ‘Hello, Dad. This is a nice welcome home ain’t it? It’s good to see nothing changes. Home sweet home, eh?’

Max Donaldson turned abruptly to stare at his daughter. His bloated red face showed a flicker of surprise before it turned into a familiar veil of scorn.

As he met her gaze, he noticed how much thinner Maggie’s face looked from the last time he’d seen her. Her eyes had a distant look about them which hadn’t been there before; but however worn out she looked, it could never detract from her beauty.

Her long auburn hair tumbled down in lustrous waves to the middle of her back. Her skin was flawless and pale. Her piercing blue eyes – a throwback from her Irish heritage – were mesmerizing. Where she got her looks from, Max didn’t know. He knew he was no Rembrandt and as far as he was concerned his wife’s looks were more in keeping with the living dead. Enough to frighten the devil himself.

As startling as Maggie’s beauty was though, it didn’t blind him as it did others. When he looked at his daughter he saw her for what she was. A cheeky mare who’d always had too much lip and bravado. The hundreds of beatings he’d given her hadn’t done anything to curtail her air of arrogance. If anything, with every thrashing, with every bust lip she’d ever had at Max’s hand, her sense of superiority and disdain towards him had grown.

Looking back, Max couldn’t remember a time he’d seen her cry, in stark contrast to her brothers, who’d done his nut in by wailing for hours on end when he’d raised his fists to them. Maggie had taken the punishments he’d dished out to her in silent martyrdom. There’d been no tears, no screams, just her huge piercing blue eyes sadly gazing up at him; serving only to infuriate and double the severity of her beatings.

There was something about his daughter – though he’d never admit it to anyone, he even struggled to admit it to himself – which made him feel uneasy. He’d almost go as far as saying she made him feel ashamed of who and what he was. And because of these feelings he harboured inside him, that lodged in at the back of his throat like bile, Max Donaldson hated his daughter, Maggie. Putting down the fruit bowl he was about to throw at his wife, Max addressed Maggie with sneering contempt.

‘Saints and mothers preserve us, look what the fucking cat’s dragged in. I thought there was a nasty smell.’

The words slashed out at Maggie and it hurt. It always had. It was all she’d ever known from her father but somehow she’d never learnt to shield herself from his words as she’d done his fists; they continually managed to wound.

Sometimes the pain of his words became so great, it felt as if she was going to pass out, but like Max, when it came to her feelings, Maggie Donaldson was stubborn and proud. She’d rather put her fingers in a vice than ever let her father know that his verbal ill-treatment injured her more than any mouthful of knuckles or black eyes ever could.

Expertly, Maggie pushed the pain to one side, drawing up the protective wall she’d had to build throughout her life.

‘Never one to disappoint are you, Dad? God knows what would actually happen if you managed to say “hello” after not seeing me for a year. It’d be like the Second Coming.’

‘Oh please, you’ll have me running to the bog to shit out the crap you’re talking. You expect me to roll out the red carpet when you got yourself into the mess in the first place?’

‘No, just a “hello” would do.’

Max snorted. ‘You must think you’re the Queen of Sheba. Take off that pair of big fucking boots you’re wearing before they kick you in the arse.’

Maggie paused and took a deep breath. She was determined her father wouldn’t get the rise he was looking for. When she had the fire in her belly not many things would stop her clenching her fists and wading in, even if it meant her coming off worse.

That’s what’d partly got her into the latest trouble. Most of her life her anger had gotten the better of her. She’d become resilient to being knocked about and getting into fights with people when her temper rose up. But everything had to be different now. She’d made a promise to herself. Even though she knew it was going to be hard not to resort to fists and fury, she had to try. Besides, being away this last time had changed her.

After a minute she spoke, narrowing her eyes as she did so. ‘You’ve got the front to stand there and say it was all my fault?’

Max grinned menacingly and winked at his daughter, waiting for the usual reaction. But instead, Maggie calmly stepped forward, surprising herself with her control. The surprise was also reflected in Max’s eyes. This wasn’t the Maggie he knew. The Maggie he knew would have verbally leapt at him without thinking of the consequences, but this tall, beautiful, self-composed woman was a stranger to him. A stranger who unnerved even him.

Maggie was within spitting distance of her father’s whiskey-smelling breath, centimetres away from his unshaven face. She stood glaring back at him, struck by a sudden realisation; she wasn’t afraid of Max now, not the way she used to be. Wary perhaps, but she’d lost the nauseating fear that used to sit tightly around her chest, stifling the air she breathed, causing her to sometimes wet herself, even as a teenager, when she’d heard his voice.

She felt a light touch on her arm and Maggie became aware of her mother, Sheila, standing fearfully by her side.

‘Leave it Maggie, please. For me. No trouble.’

Maggie looked at her mother and smiled softly, wanting to calm the dancing fear she saw in the terrified eyes staring up at her. Feeling the trembling hand on her arm made Maggie’s heart almost burst with sadness.

She took in every detail of her mother’s face as they stood in the overheated kitchen; the deep furrowed lines, the grey hairs by her temples, the little scar above her lip – the result of a broken bottle thrown in her face – and lastly, her mother’s eyes: wide, anxious and blue like her own. Maggie slowly nodded. She would keep the peace – at least for today she would.

Stepping back from her father and facing her mother straight on, she spoke quietly and warmly with love in her eyes.

‘For you; I’ll do anything for you.’

Maggie touched her mother’s cheek then bent down slightly to kiss Sheila on her forehead. ‘It’s good to see you Mum. I’ve missed you.’

Max Donaldson watched this exchange scornfully but also acutely conscious of the change in his daughter.

She was no longer afraid of him and he knew it could only spell one thing: trouble.

Still deep in thought, Max took out a small folded wrap from his pocket and emptied the white powder on the table. Leaning over, he pulled a rolled-up twenty pound note from his other pocket and, holding one nostril and placing the note in the other nostril, he expertly snorted up the cocaine in one go.

As it cut the back of his throat and the first tingle of coke hit his bloodstream, he straightened himself up, rubbing his nose between two nicotine stained fingers to wipe off any excess. He stared hard at Maggie who stood defiantly watching him from across the other side of the table.

He chose to ignore her. He had to think. Picking up his car keys, Max walked out of the kitchen, deciding he needed to find a way of putting his tramp of a daughter firmly in her place – and preferably sooner rather than later.

As soon as she heard the front door shut, Maggie threw down her bag and grinned excitedly, giving her mum a huge hug as she spoke.

‘Well, where are they? Where am I going to meet them?’

Sheila broke away from the hug and looked down nervously at the red tiled floor, deciding it needed another clean now that most of last night’s dinner had been chucked onto it. Not wanting to look at her daughter directly, she spoke softly.

‘That’s what I was going to tell you love; I didn’t like to worry you when I came to visit, but a few things have changed since you were here.’

Maggie squinted her eyes. She always knew when her mum didn’t want to tell her something, especially if it was something bad. This was one of those times. Watching her mother shuffle from side to side, Maggie bent her tall, slender frame down to her mother’s eye level and spoke firmly but quietly.

‘Mum, if you’ve got something to say, for God’s sake, spit it out.’

Shelia stared into her daughter’s eyes for a split second but quickly turned away, unable to hold her gaze. Her daughter’s big blue eyes always made her feel guilty, reminding her of her kids’ rotten childhood.

Maggie had seen so much and heard so much but complained so little. She’d always been a good daughter to her. Even though Maggie had suffered at the hands of her father and had been left for hours on end to look after her siblings when her mum was either in hospital or just couldn’t cope, Maggie had always been loyal.

Her daughter was the only one who’d helped around the house, making well-needed brews, helping with the mounds of dirty laundry and the seemingly never-ending piles of washing up. It was only Maggie who’d ever spoken kind words to her and it was only Maggie who’d ever walked through a blizzard of snow to come and visit her in hospital when Max had fractured her pelvis. And closing her eyes at the thought, Sheila knew it’d only ever been Maggie who, even from an early age, had stood terrified but bravely in front of Max, willing to take the punches instead of letting him hurt her mum and siblings. Shamefully she’d let her; Sheila had let her daughter stand there, becoming a human shield for her and for her other children.

Shelia knew by rights it should’ve been her who was there for her daughter, but knowing life would’ve been even more intolerable than it already was without Maggie, she ignored the gnawing guilt of this role reversal and just continued to be grateful for the care her daughter showed. And now the one time Maggie had actually asked her for help and needed some support, she’d let her down and Sheila Donaldson didn’t quite know how she was going to tell her.

‘Sweetheart, you better sit down. You won’t like what I’ve got to say.’

Max Donaldson hacked a deep chesty cough, releasing sticky yellow mucus from the back of his throat before spitting it out expertly on the step of Ronnie Scott’s Jazz Club. He was angry. Not just because Maggie was back home. And not just because the stifling heat of the Soho streets was causing the sweat to drip down his back. And certainly not just because of the run-in he’d had last night at the casino with one of his rivals. He was angry for no other reason because that was who he was and always had been.

Since he was young, Max had felt the presence of anger as he felt the presence of the air he breathed. On some days he’d wake up feeling the slow burn of irritation, and by the time he’d got washed, shaved and was ready for breakfast, he was ready to pummel anyone who got in his way. He didn’t fight the feeling – it got things done; made things happen. His temperament had made him a face. It stopped people taking the piss; the sensible ones anyway, the ones who didn’t want to wake up in a hospital bed.

Striding to his car and ignoring the ‘no littering’ signs, Max threw away the contents of his pocket next to the bin. He was heading over to Wembley Park to see a person who hadn’t taken what he was saying seriously – but Max was certain once he had paid them a visit, they’d never make such a stupid mistake again.

He’d thought about sending his ‘butchers’ to deal with it. They were the men who did the chopping – the hurting – but today he’d wanted to do it himself. In fact, he’d go as far as to say he was looking forward to it.

On paper, the Windsor Estate sounded majestic. Anyone who’d read only the name might be forgiven for imagining large white houses surrounded by trees with wildlife roaming in the nearby woods, but in reality Max knew the only wildlife the occupants saw were the cockroaches running up and down the cracked walls. And the closest it got to being majestic was its residents being carted off to do a stretch at Her Majesty’s pleasure. There was no other way to describe it but bleak; bleak and harsh. It was, as Max saw it, the arsehole of life.

The estate, also known as Crack Castle, had been forgotten by society, making the tenants living on it easy pickings and often desperate for his services. When they ignored his warnings, there was no one foolish enough to call the police. More tellingly, there were no police officers willing enough to respond to their call.

Max stared at the grey door with peeling paint and indecipherable graffiti. He took a deep breath, preparing himself as if about to go into the ring, then kicked the bottom of the door several times, not wanting to touch it with his hands. The dried red marks looked suspiciously like blood. Receiving no answer after three knocks he booted it hard, taking the door off the top part of its hinges as he did so.

Fired up, Max ran into the front room curling his nose from the stench of urine and ignoring the sounds of a crying baby. He bellowed loudly, banging the wall with his fist and feeling the charge of adrenalin seeping through his body.

‘Where the fuck are you?’

A woman in a nightie appeared at the door of the bedroom with a look of shocked recognition. Her thick brown hair was a mass of knots and grease, her skin had an outbreak of angry red spots and her eyes were devoid of any life.

‘He ain’t here.’

Max snarled, disgusted at the woman’s appearance.

‘I’ll be the judge of who’s here or not. Get out of me way.’

Max didn’t wait for her to move. He pushed her hard, knocking her to the floor and stepped into the bedroom to see a child no older than six slumped on a dirty mattress which lay on the bare floorboards.

‘Where’s your Da?’

The boy’s eyes were as dead as his mother’s and he shrugged fearfully at the angry intruder.

‘I said, where’s your fucking Da?’

The woman – recovered from her fall – scrambled in front of Max, petrified for her son.

‘Leave him alone, he ain’t done nothing.’

‘That’s right, he ain’t, but it don’t matter to me who I have to knock about to get me money. So cop on to yourself and do your son a favour; tell me where your old man is. He owes me big time.’

The woman’s eyes darted from Max to her son.

‘Go through to the kitchen, get yourself a drink love, I’ll be though in a minute.’

The boy ran out of the room quickly.

‘He’s paid you; he’s already paid you the five hundred quid he borrowed.’

‘Yeah, but he was late and as we agreed when you were so eager to borrow the money from me, any late payments means double payments.’

‘He was only late by two days.’

‘I’m no charity sweetheart. Interest occurs on my loans, just like in a bank. Think of me like a bank.’

‘We haven’t got anything else to give you; you had your men take the telly last week.’

Max sneered and stepped closer.

‘If it makes you feel any better darlin’, there’s nothing on telly worth watching.’

He sniffed and spat on the floor continuing to talk in a threatening manner, feeling the early summer’s heat stifling the already putrid air. ‘I want this week’s payment now or you’ll be standing watching your boy becoming my punch bag.’

‘You’re sick, you know that.’

Max leaned into the woman’s face, smelling her early morning breath and stale cigarettes.

‘I may be sick babe, but that don’t stop me wanting my money. I’m telling you now, I want to feel the greens in my hand by the count of five. Don’t underestimate what I’ll do.’

The woman’s eyes suddenly flashed with terror.

‘Look I ain’t got your money, I swear.’

Max touched the woman’s face and circled his large podgy fingers around her lips.

‘Well there lies the problem because I’m not sure if you’ve got anything I want. Now if you didn’t look like an arse end of a rat I might get you to work for me; pay off the money, but I can’t imagine many punters willing to pay to shag a hanging bag of bones, can you?’

Max watched the woman’s eyes fill up with tears as he walked towards the door.

‘Now where is your old man? Or do I have to go and find that son of yours to show you how serious I am? One … two … three …’

As Max counted he produced a small silver headed cosh out of his pocket. The woman’s eyes flitted around the room then she nodded her head towards the tall wardrobe in the corner, indicating Max should look there. He opened the doors, then laughed scornfully as he saw a sinewy looking man cowering in the bottom of it.

‘Well, well. What have we got here? A coward and a money cheat.’

Without waiting for the man to talk, Max leapt at the trembling figure. His fists pummelled into any part of human flesh he could find. He felt his knuckle knock through front teeth and felt the wet of the blood on his hand. He pushed again with his clenched fist and heard the squelch of the teeth leaving the gum behind.

Max hammered down with the cosh; over and over again, until he felt a twinge in his back. He stood up, panting, still attacking the man with his feet as he kicked him in the side of his head.

‘Next time you pay me on time. I don’t like having the piss being taken out of me. Next time I won’t go as easy on you.’

Max looked down at the man who was silently nodding. He was fairly certain the next time he came for his money it’d probably be wrapped in a big pink bow. Turning to the woman, Max grinned. He walked towards her and started undoing his trouser belt. As he reached her his hand stroked her shoulder.

‘Perhaps it’s your lucky day after all.’

Outside, Max lit a cigarette. It was only the beginning of summer and already the oppressive city heat was starting to drive him crazy. He unzipped his jacket which made little difference. Walking back to his car he thought of Maggie, hoping that putting the fear back into her would be as easy as it had been with the man.

The North Circular, the road which would take Max back to central London, had come to a standstill, along with Max’s air conditioning. The combination of the two gave way for him to contemplate last night’s altercation with a newfound rage.

The altercation had been with Frankie Taylor, a Soho face and successful businessman who’d made his money through strip clubs and peep shows. Max had known him for as long as he could remember. First as a business associate, and then as a rival. As the years passed the rivalry between the two of them had turned to hatred. Then the hatred had turned to a full-scale war between them. There wasn’t a person Max loathed as much as the vain, perma-tanned, loud-mouthed Frankie Taylor. And there wasn’t a person he didn’t want to see in the ground as much as he did Frankie.

He’d bumped into Frankie at the casino and as usual the man had been as arrogant as ever. But the evening had taken a turn for the worse when Frankie had thrown a drink at him in full view of some of the biggest faces in London.

Remembering it, Max touched his chest, almost being able to feel the wet sticky humiliation of last night’s drink on his shirt. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Frankie had been surrounded by a group of his heavies, he would’ve taken him out there and then. But he could wait. What was it the priests used to say to him back in Ireland? All good things come to those that wait.

Frankie Taylor had made the ultimate mistake. He’d humiliated him, but Max knew exactly how he was going to pay him back. As the traffic started to move, Max smiled. Frankie had an Achilles heel. An Achilles heel which came in the form of his wife and son.

CHAPTER TWO

Maggie wiped away her tears. She was so unused to them, seeing them as some kind of weakness. She looked at her mother, bewildered by what she’d just been told. Not knowing what else to do, Maggie bent down, holding her head in her hands as she sat at the kitchen table. Not for the first time that day, she took a deep breath to stop her rage getting the better of her.

Prison time had changed her, or at least that’s what she wanted to believe. She’d done a number of small stretches a few years ago but then it hadn’t mattered. This time it had. She was twenty-five and as she kept telling herself, life had to be different now. She had to keep her temper in check. Stupidly she had thought it was going to be easier than this. She’d only been home a few short hours and already she could feel her resolve being sorely tested.

Her mother poured the tea as she talked.

‘I’m sorry love but what other choices were there? We were desperate. Nicky told me Gina offered to help out; it seemed like a good solution at the time. What else could I have done?’

Maggie tried to stop the hysteria coming into her voice as she watched her mother put down the teapot to open the back door, in a vain attempt to get some air into the stifling room.

‘I don’t know Mum, but anything; anything would’ve been better than this. It’s the only thing I’ve ever asked of you.’

‘It was hard to get out. I know it sounds like an excuse but …’

Sheila Donaldson trailed off. It not only sounded like an excuse, it was an excuse. And not until now, looking over at her daughter who was clearly in distress, did she realise how hollow and pathetic it sounded. Sheila tried again, not quite sure what she was going to say, but wanting to say something which might plaster over the damage.

‘Mags … I …’

Maggie put her hand up to stop her mother saying anymore. She loved her mother so much, but the enormity of the situation was starting to sink in. Conflicting emotions were overwhelming her.

‘Not now Mum, please. Not now.’

Sheila’s agitation stopped her from being able to stay quiet. ‘You won’t do anything stupid will you Maggie? I don’t want you getting into trouble again. I can see you brewing up already. That temper of yours is a Donaldson family trait; a curse running through our veins like bleedin’ poison. Before you know it you’ll be back inside and we’ll all be back at square one.’

Maggie stared over at her mother. She tried to smile the same reassuring smile she’d conjured up even in the darkest of moments since she was a child, but nothing came. It was unprecedented, but for the first time, Maggie found herself unable to give her mother what she needed to make her feel that everything would be fine.

Recognising her mother was about to start talking again, Maggie scraped back her chair on the stone red tiles. Without looking back she stomped out of the house and into the heat of the Soho streets, determined to ignore the words of caution from her mother which she could still hear as she walked down the street. She needed to find her brother.

Nicky Donaldson opened his eyes, wondering where he was. As he began to get his bearings, feeling like he was in a furnace, he realised someone was hammering on the car window. He’d only meant to catch a couple of hours’ sleep before driving home. Now he guessed it was the next day, at God knows what time, with God knows who banging on the window.

His lips were stuck together with dry spit and his parched mouth felt as if he hadn’t drunk anything for days; which was ironic as only a few hours before, he’d been knocking back double Scotches to take the edge off the effect of the generous amounts of cocaine he’d shoved up his nostrils. He wasn’t sure how much he’d spent; only his wallet would know that.

Everyone he knew took coke; Soho was drowning in it. Nicky was certain if NASA took a satellite picture from space it’d look like the area was covered in a white cloud.

For some reason, the cocaine had taken a liking to him and however hard he tried, he wasn’t able to kick the habit. Admittedly, he hadn’t really tried very hard and taking the coke didn’t really bother him. What did was the amount he spent on it. More to the point, how much he owed because of it.

The hammering continued and Nicky cursed loudly, before pulling himself up and half falling out of the car as he opened the door.

He was greeted by the amused face of Gary Levitt, Gina Daniels’ nephew but more importantly, his coke dealer. Nicky got himself properly onto his feet and stretched, eyeballing Gary hard.

‘Do you have to batter on the frigging window like that; you fair gave me a heart attack.’

Ignoring Nicky’s annoyance, Gary spoke. He was amused to see Nicky wearing the same clothes he’d been in the night before, which meant he’d probably crashed out on coke and been in the back of the car ever since.

‘How long have you been here? You look and smell like crap.’

Nicky Donaldson couldn’t answer the first part of the question; he’d no idea what time it was. The second part of the question he agreed with so he didn’t say anything, instead attempting to scrape off the encrusted vomit from the collar of his black Chanel shirt.

‘I thought I recognised the car. It’s your old man’s ain’t it? A nice bit of motor; shame he’ll have to sell it to pay off your debts.’

Nicky shot his head up at Gary. He knew he owed money but he didn’t think it was anything near the region of the price of a luxury car.

‘Don’t look so worried, I’m only having a rib, I ain’t going to be too hard on you. Gina tells me you’ve been sorting her out, I appreciate that. Just do me a favour and clear the money up in the next two weeks. In the meantime, take this.’

Gary Levitt went into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bag of white powder, passing it to Nicky, whose eyes were wide with anticipation.

‘Cheers Gal, is this on the house?’

Gary burst out into scornful laughter. ‘Is it fuck, I’ll just add it to the bill you already owe me.’

As Nicky jumped back into the car and drove off towards Covent Garden, Gary watched and wondered how Nicky could be such a fool for the drugs when he already owed so much. Not that he minded. His clients owing him was a natural part of the business. Eventually they owed him so much he ended up owning them. Hook line and fucking sinker. His to do what he liked with.

More often than not, he’d pimp out the women who owed him money. The men who did? He’d pimp out their girlfriends. They were too scared to object. One way or another he always got his money back and then some. And Nicky Donaldson would be no different – whether Nicky’s father, Max, was a face in Soho or not.

Of course he had to be careful, but he doubted Max would give him any trouble. The man didn’t seem to give a damn about Nicky. No one did. Apart, he supposed, from Nicky’s sister, Maggie, who he hadn’t seen in a while. The entire family was messed up and none more so than the oldest Donaldson son, Tommy.

CHAPTER THREE

Tommy Donaldson sat rubbing his eyes on the unmade bed, the only piece of furniture in the whitewashed room apart from the closet. He was enjoying the peaceful solitude as he stared at the blank wall in front of him. This was his private sanctuary. No one really came here and that was just the way Tommy liked it.

There were times he needed to get away, just to think, just to try to get rid of the voice and the vision of the woman he saw and heard so often inside his head. Now was one of those times.

He turned to look at himself in the mirror; he was twenty-eight years old but his blue eyes showed the signs of someone older. A man who hadn’t slept for a couple of days. His skin was pallid and pale and Tommy knew he looked as bad as he felt. He was tired; his head was tired and that was a constant.

It seemed as if he’d lived with the voice and the visions most of his life. As a child he’d heard and seen it but there was never anyone to tell. No one to help him understand what it was. No one to trust, except for maybe Maggie. He’d often thought about telling her, but when it actually came down to it, he couldn’t. Worried by what she might think. So every night he’d huddled alone in the dark, listening to the voice. Seeing the woman’s face which haunted him and made him live in terror. Then on the rare days his head was quiet and still, he’d had to listen to the screaming voices of his mother and drunken father in the room below.

As a child he’d always been too frightened to call out for help in case the woman with her bloodied whispering screeches – which only he could hear or see – became angry with him. Or worse still, in case his father had heard him calling out and had come up the stairs to beat him for making a noise, leaving him struggling to walk the next day.

Over time, the secret fears which had plagued Tommy’s mind as a child began to isolate him from his family. He was unable to listen to their raised voices as well as the one in his head.

Sometimes it got lonely being on his own, though he’d never had many friends as a child either. Not after the age of ten, not after Tommy had brought two of his best friends home after school to celebrate his birthday.

He remembered he’d had fun; his mother had secretly made him a cake. Maggie, who was three years younger than him, had given him a cross of St. Christopher, having nicked some of the church collection money off the plate. It had all been going so well, then his father had come home and found them playing with his music collection. Although nothing had been broken or damaged, no excuses were ever needed in the Donaldson household to launch into a violent attack.

His friends had managed to escape with only minor cuts and bruises; too terrified to tell their parents for fear of reprisal from Max. But Tommy had been badly hurt, as well as deeply humiliated at the thought of his home life becoming the subject of his classmates’ idle gossip.

After he’d recovered in hospital – telling the medical staff he’d been attacked by a group of boys – Tommy had left friendships for other people. As he got older, the only other people he had around him apart from his family were the almost daily one-night stands. He liked the company of women. If it’d been his choice some of them would’ve stayed in his life longer than the few midnight hours, but he knew his father would have none of it, seeing women only good for two things; fucking and causing trouble.

On some days like today, shameful, clear and vivid memories came back to Tommy. Things he’d been a part of, things he certainly couldn’t tell anyone about. And then he’d find himself drowning in his private sea of despair unable to save himself, seeing himself as a monster; a freak.

It was too late now to tell Maggie, everything had already gone too far.

Tommy stood in the deserted car park behind Lexington Street, wondering if anyone had seen him. It was dark as he stood over the semi-naked woman lying helpless at his feet on the cold wet ground. He saw the fear in her eyes as she looked up at him, wondering what he was going to do now.

His breath formed a hazy mist in the frosty unlit night. He tilted his head to one side watching the woman’s chest rise slowly up and down with rasping breaths, blood oozing out from the side of her mouth onto the freezing earth. He put his hand on her mouth but the sound of the horn startled him and Tommy quickly ran off into the dark chill of the night.

The mobile phone rang in his pocket. Tommy’s thoughts were immediately broken. He could feel his face covered in perspiration as the adrenalin pumped through his body and the images in his mind started to fade away.

Looking at his watch he saw it was coming up to three. He needed to get a move on; he was supposed to be meeting his father in Soho later. There was always hell to pay if he wasn’t there by the strike of the clock. The last thing he needed today was his father on his case, especially when his father was gunning for the Taylors.

CHAPTER FOUR

Johnny Taylor slowly opened one eye and groaned as the previous night’s heavy session of drinking and copious amounts of cocaine finally caught up with him. He could feel the air was heavy with the early summer smog of London and the sound of a saxophone cut through the morning. If he’d been at all capable of moving, Johnny might’ve been tempted to open the window and throw iced water onto the musically inept busker outside, whose flat rendition of ‘Moon River’ certainly wasn’t helping his hangover.

Carefully he lifted his head, which slammed it into a pulsating throbbing pain. He tried not to move it any more than necessary; afraid of the hangover from the bowels of hell he was certain to awake.

Opening the other eye just as slowly as the first, he was surprised to see the naked body of a sleeping woman, ungainly sprawled with her mouth wide open, snoring discordantly at the end of his bed. Though at least he recognised her, which was a start.

There was no mistaking the harsh bleached blonde with the dark roots and the faded rose tattoo on her thigh who worked in his father’s clip joint at the end of Berwick Street. Her name was Lucy; not that Johnny heard many people call her by her real name any more.

She’d turned up looking for a job a few years ago and within a short period of time she’d acquired the nickname, Saucers, thanks to the impressive size of her nipples. Far from being offended however, she’d warmed to the name immediately, proudly telling the punters her new pet name as she licked her heavily glossed lips.

Johnny found Saucers to be a bag of contradictions; a hardened brass who never raised her eyebrows at the often perverse requests asked of her, yet one who spent her spare time devouring books, romantic classical novels being her favourite. On many occasions he’d sat in the back of one of his father’s strip clubs, handing her a box of Kleenex as she cried tears over one romantic hero or another.

‘Oh I’d like to wring his neck. Pass me another tissue, Johnny.’

‘Who is it this time?’

‘Prince Stepan Oblonsky, that’s who. Not a heart in the man. He’s only gone and had an affair with the governess. Chop his balls off, I would.’

As usual he’d look at her blankly, only for Saucers to raise her eyebrows in exasperation at his ignorance. ‘Anna Karenina?’

‘You’ve lost me now, babe.’

She’d laughed warmly and stared at him. ‘Johnny, a snail would bleeding lose you.’

As Johnny lay on his bed trying to blank out the saxophone, he was thankful that their nakedness was undoubtedly down to the Soho heat, rather than him screwing her. He saw Saucers like he would a sister. Besides, he’d tried to leave all the one-night faceless beauties behind; on the whole he’d managed it. It was really only when he’d had too much to drink – which wasn’t that often – that he found himself waking up beside a woman with no name.

He could feel the breeze coming from the open window. He winced as he tried to turn towards it. The pain was now making its way round to the back of his eyes. Even the small movement made his head hurt, though he wasn’t surprised. He’d been on one of his ‘legendaries’.

They were a joke amongst his friends and family. In the past he’d had to make SOS calls, finding himself stranded in places as far-flung as Hull with no recollection of how he’d got there, or who he’d been with.

He’d always been a lightweight when it came to alcohol; cocaine was more his style. But last night he’d stupidly combined the two and as usual it’d been like poison. He’d had no intention of going on a legendary but then he’d seen Saucers at the club, bubbling with non-stop talk and excitement.

He’d looked at her as she grinned, showing off her gold back teeth; wondering what she was talking about. Then it hit him and it all became clear. Not only had the penny dropped but so had his face. Even in the dim light of the club, Saucers had seen it too and going on one of his legendaries was the only thing he’d wanted to do then.

Johnny heard Saucers stir. He heard her gravelly voice before her face came into view as she leant over him.

‘Bleeding hell, the look on your face; anyone would think you’d looked down and your dick had vanished.’

Before Johnny had time to answer, Saucers plonked her head on the pillow next to him, sending shockwaves of pain through his body as the bed jolted.

‘Keep it down sweetheart, my head’s banging.’

‘Your problem, Johnny Taylor, isn’t that your head’s hurting, it’s that you need to sort your life out once and for all.’

‘Listen, if it was that simple I’d be the first one to be smiling, but it ain’t.’

‘It’s not simple because you don’t make it simple Johnny; none of you do. Fuck me, I want to bash your head against something hard; bring you to your senses. It’s Anthony and Cleopatra all over again.’

‘Oh do me a favour. Spare me your book of the week shit.’

Saucers shrugged, changing tact.

‘I’ve said it before Johnny, but it’s that …’

He knew what Saucers was about to say. He didn’t want to hear it. He turned his back to her, putting his hands over his ears like a child. A few minutes later he felt her hand on his shoulder. He turned round to see Saucers offering him a warm smile.

‘I know it’s hard Johnny and the last thing I want to do is upset you. I just care, babe. Care and worry about you.’

Johnny felt no malice towards Saucers. She was one of the few people who knew the story; he trusted her. He knew she’d keep her mouth shut.

Johnny closed his eyes, hoping to snatch a bit of extra sleep. This idea was short-lived, however, when a minute later the door was flung open. The booming sound of his father’s jovial voice made Johnny’s head feel as though it was being stamped on.

‘Now this is a sorry fucking sight, son.’

Frankie Taylor stood in the doorway with a wide grin on his handsome suntanned face. He was aware his black Savile Row suit was fitting a bit too snugly around the top of his legs for his liking; a consequence of too many paellas from his recent fortnight at his villa in Marbella.

Pulling at his trousers slightly, hoping to get a bit more slack on the thighs, Frankie took in, as he always did, his son’s impressive bedroom. It really was everything Frankie would have wished for as a child – but his mother had been too piss poor to even afford three square meals a day for him, let alone a half-decent house, so it gave him a feeling of satisfaction and immense pride to be able to provide what he’d never had for Johnny.

Most people he knew with sons had already kicked them out or they’d left home on their own accord by the time they reached the age of twenty-five. But with the sixty-inch inbuilt flat screen TV, the custom-built Goldmund chrome music system, the games consoles and the tabletop football with the tasteful drinks bar underneath, he knew there was no reason for his son ever to move out. And Frankie Taylor liked it that way.

It made him feel safe knowing his family were under his roof and as long as he felt safe, Frankie was happy. Family was everything to him. He hadn’t known his father and he had a sneaking suspicion his mother hadn’t either. He didn’t hold that against her. What he did hold against her was her pitiful existence, her acceptance of her surroundings, her inability to provide for her family, and her refusal of ever attempting to raise a smile, even on Christmas Day. These were the things which fuelled Frankie’s bitter resentment of his childhood. He could recall her words as if he was hearing them now. ‘What’s there to bleeding smile about, Frankie? The only time I’ll be smiling is when I’m dead and gone from this miserable earth.’

Even though his mother had been the most miserable bleeder he’d ever known and he’d resented his upbringing, it hadn’t stopped him loving her. He’d loved her like no one else.

As a child he’d always worried about her, running home from school instead of playing with his friends to make sure she was alright. When his mother had gone on a night out, he hadn’t been able to settle until she’d come home. Always staying up waiting for her, making sure she’d got in from wherever it was she’d been. If she hadn’t arrived home by eleven, Frankie had gone looking for her. Usually finding her skewed up to the eyeballs on penny lagers, with her knickers round her ankles from one nameless encounter or another.

He was only twelve when the butcher at the end of their street had found his mother keeled over at the bus stop after her heart had had enough of beating. What initially struck Frankie wasn’t sorrow but shame at the fact she’d been clutching onto a bag of scrap end meat. They’d needed to break her fingers to remove it from her grip.

When he’d seen her lying on the mortuary slab the first thing he’d looked for was a smile, but all he’d seen was the same tight, pursed expression she’d had when she’d been living and breathing.

He and his eight siblings had been carted off to the local kids’ home in Stepney in the East End of London where one by one, they’d been separated. Picked off like cherries from a tree as do-gooders came along looking for a child to complete their own family, not realising or caring they were breaking up one already there.

Fifteen years ago he’d tracked all his siblings down, but besides from his sister, Lorna – who called him every Wednesday evening to moan about everything from her burning haemorrhoids to the miserable skinny fucker she was living with in Belgium – he’d lost touch with all the others again.

The pretence of family unity had been too much for them to keep up. The ties had been severed and damaged a long time ago, and eventually they’d all stopped calling each other, slowly backing away; slinking off to their separate lives. All relieved that they could stop pretending they cared.

As sad as it was and at times painful for Frankie to think about what could’ve been, he had his own family right here in front of him. He had his own wife, his own son and there was no way history was going to repeat itself. He wasn’t losing contact with anyone, because no one was going anywhere, not if he had anything to do with it.

Looking down at his son with a naked Saucers lying next to him, Frankie smiled. Johnny was certainly a chip off the old block. He was proud of him. He couldn’t have asked for a better son. Johnny certainly knew how to have fun, but there was a time for fucking about and a time for work.

If they weren’t careful they’d be late opening the clubs and as business had been down lately, he didn’t want to give any of his regular punters an excuse to go somewhere else. Besides which he didn’t want a nag-full from his wife, Gypsy, if she came home and saw him running late.

He smiled again when he thought about his wife. He’d been married to her for thirty-two years, the ceremony being held on the day she’d turned sixteen. And after all this time, she still did it for him. Still gave him a boner when he thought about her – and Frankie knew very few people could say the same about their own missus.

Not that he didn’t bang the goods at his clubs on a regular basis. No one in their right mind could expect him to love, care and be faithful to his wife. By anyone’s standards that would be taking the piss. If he had to do that he may as well cut his balls off now and feed them to the fish in Hyde Park.

He looked at his white platinum Rolex watch; a present from Gypsy for his fiftieth birthday to go with the white gold diamond knuckledusters she’d got him the year before. He really needed to be at the first club by four at the latest, but thinking about his wife had left him feeling horny. Perhaps once he got to his club he’d search out the little blonde with the big tits who’d started work last week. Get her to give him a blow job. Part of the perks of running girls – but for now he and Johnny had things to do.

‘Come on son, get up. I’ll meet you in the car in ten minutes. We don’t want to be here if your mother comes home. You know what she’s like.’

Frankie roared with laughter, then roared even harder as he saw Johnny grimace, putting a pillow firmly over his face. He smacked the pert naked bottom of Saucers who groaned as well. Walking out of the room he whistled, feeling very pleased with himself. Though in particular he felt pleased with himself because the night before he’d managed to rub Max Donaldson up the wrong way. Anything to do with annoying Max always left Frankie feeling good.

CHAPTER FIVE

The ride in the back of the black Mercedes to Holloway Road should’ve been a comfortable one, but Tommy Donaldson was finding it quite the opposite. Not simply from the broken air conditioning but from having to sit and listen to his father firing off a ranting tirade of abuse, directed at him.

Tommy noticed whenever his father was angry there was a change in his Irish accent. Over the years it’d become watered down from the years he’d lived in Soho. The anger, however, turned it back into a thick guttural growl, making all his words sound more violent and attacking than usual.

Catching his father’s eye in the driver’s mirror, Tommy continued to listen to the barrage of abuse, hoping desperately to get to their destination as quickly as possible.

‘Is it only me who’s able to tell the bleeding difference between four and half past four? When did you start to think it’s alright to be late? I didn’t bring up me kids to make a mug of me. Virgin Mary help me, because I’ll beat the shit so hard out of you son, you’ll be needing a colostomy bag. Between you and Frankie Taylor you’ll have me digging me own grave. What is it with people that think they can get away with disrespect? Well tell me lad, do I have cunt branded into me arse?’

Tommy glanced out of the window, biting his lip; he didn’t know if the question was supposed to be rhetorical or not. If he didn’t answer when he should’ve done, he knew when the car stopped he’d get a hard slap. If he answered when he shouldn’t; the same rules applied.

Before Tommy had decided what to do, Max swerved the car with blackout windows into the carwash off the traffic-filled Camden Road. The brake was put on too quickly, sending Tommy and one of his father’s heavies face first into the back of the leather front seats.

‘Well, well, well. Look what we have over there lads. They’re right when they say talk of the devil and he’ll appear. I’ll tell you something, the rats are coming out today in their droves.’

Max Donaldson spoke, staring with hatred at a white Range Rover on the other side of the empty forecourt. As Tommy followed his father’s gaze, Max opened the door and got out, giving Tommy a clearer view of the recipient of his father’s anger. There, standing larger than life, enjoying a joke together in the late afternoon’s sunshine were Frankie and Johnny Taylor.

Watching his father stride over towards them with his face curled up in a vicious snarl, Tommy sighed, preparing himself for trouble.

‘You’ve got a nerve, Taylor, showing your face round here.’ Frankie looked up, slightly taken aback but not unduly concerned to see Max Donaldson marching towards him, red-faced. He waited for Max to come closer then spoke, his tone laced with amusement.

‘Round here? Now all of a sudden this is your turf is it? My, my, how the Donaldsons have an inflated sense of self. You should lay off the coke Max, or is it just your son who sticks the whole of London up his nose? Glad to see you’ve changed your shirt since last night.’

Max lunged forward but was held back by Tommy. Apoplectic with rage, he turned his anger on his son.

‘Get off me boy. I don’t need a fecking babysitter. Grab me again and I’ll not think twice about slicing you.’

Max shook off Tommy’s arm, pushing him out of the way, and stepped a foot closer to Frankie. Squaring up and breathing hard as Frankie stood his ground, thinking about the way Max behaved towards his own son. The man was twisted with anger towards everyone.

Frankie didn’t have a problem with fighting usually. However the last thing he needed now was Max Donaldson with a bruised ego, squaring up to him because of a thrown drink and a wet shirt. He was already late to get round all the clubs so he wasn’t in the mood for any of Max’s crap.

‘Listen Max; pick a time and a place. You know I’m happy to have it out with you, but not here, not now.’

‘Why not Frankie? Scared you’ll not be able to put up when you haven’t got your men around you?’

Frankie shook his head. It was clear Max wasn’t about to back down and wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t get at least one swing in. He’d known him for years. Too long to remember. He’d always been a sadistic little bastard. It was common knowledge he’d frequently battered his wife and kids to the point of bones being broken.

Frankie knew the Donaldson boys quite well through his encounters with Max and from the fights Johnny had had with them when they’d been younger. He’d only ever seen Max’s wife and daughter in passing, years ago. Though he wasn’t complaining – the less he had to do with them the better. The whole family were messed up, or at least the boys were, so it wouldn’t surprise him if the girl wasn’t far behind.

He glanced at Tommy, who was standing behind his father. He kept himself to himself but he was known to be a bit of a looney tune. Still, however much of a nut job he was, Frankie had to admit, Tommy Donaldson certainly was a good-looking man. He could have easily graced the cover of any men’s magazine with his handsome face and tall, muscular physique.

The other brother, Nicky, whom he saw less of, was almost as handsome as his older brother. Handsome but another space cadet, sniffing up so much coke he hardly knew who he was. Frankie knew Johnny dabbled from time to time. Hell, he often enjoyed a line himself when he’d a late night ahead of him. But there was a difference between social enjoyment and a bang-on junkie.

It astounded Frankie how Max’s two boys could look so different from their father, who was short and stocky with a rounded face and beady, sunken eyes. A world apart from the handsome looks of his crystal-blue-eyed boys.

Frankie’s thoughts broke off as he felt Tommy’s intense stare. As blue and dazzling as they were, there was something unsettling about his eyes. Something that made him seem as if he was not all there. ‘Troubled’ as his old Nan would say. But then, having a father like Max Donaldson, it was no wonder.

Sighing, Frankie turned his attention back to Max. He could see Max wasn’t going to move unless he got a bit of a rumble. What he didn’t see was the small knife he was holding in his hand.

Not wanting a stand-off, Frankie took a swing, connecting his diamond knuckledusters to Max Donaldson’s lip. The warm blood spurted across both their suits and a tiny bit of bright red flesh landed on the concrete floor. Frankie saw Johnny step forward as Tommy and Donaldson’s goon came to wade in.

It didn’t take long for the adrenalin to take hold of Frankie, his appetite now wet for the fight. He went to take another swing at Max. Immediately he felt a cold rush go through his body. He touched his side and saw his hand covered in his own blood. Pushing down hard on the wound to try to stop the bleeding, Frankie stumbled forward, grappling to hold onto Johnny for support. He fell to his knees in front of his stunned son and managed to utter a few words.

‘He’s stabbed me. The fucking cunt’s stabbed me. Get hold of your mother.’

Then Frankie Taylor blacked out.

CHAPTER SIX

Gypsy Taylor sat down hard on the marble toilet. She’d been bursting for a wee all afternoon, but hadn’t been able to bring herself to use the public ones in Piccadilly. They smelt of stale urine which always reminded her of her beloved Auntie May who’d lived till she was well over a hundred and died with a smile and a fag on her lips. Gypsy was certain she could still smell the foul odour of the public conveniences lingering on her expensive clothes hours later, so she avoided them like the proverbial plague.

She supposed she could’ve made the short walk home back to Berkeley Square or to one of her husband’s Soho clubs to use the bathroom, but going back out to see her friends might have proved tricky. It would’ve meant explaining to her husband where she was going. And Frankie didn’t like her seeing her friends. Frankie didn’t like her seeing anyone. Anyone except for him.

Flushing the toilet and washing her hands in the Italian handmade sink, Gypsy wondered where her husband was. His phone was turned off. She’d tried the clubs but they hadn’t seen him; no one had. Not that she was worried, quite the opposite. She was going to luxuriate in the peace and quiet without him.

Gypsy loved Frankie with all her heart. She always had done. From the moment she’d seen him at the Reno nightclub on the Mile End Road she knew he was the one. But his possessive nature was starting to become too much. She was no longer the starry-eyed teenager he’d first met in the East End all those years ago. She was her own person now and she wanted her own life. However, trying to tell that to Frankie would be as good as asking him for a divorce.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to be married to him; she did. But him insisting on her having to call him throughout the day to tell him where she was and who she was with, had worn thin a long time ago. At first she’d thought it was sweet, Frankie wanting to know her every movement. However, over time sweet had turned sour; in fact, sweet had turned into a pain in the bleeding hole.

Her best friend was going to Spain soon with some of the other girls from the East End and they wanted her to go with them. ‘Come on, Gypsy; just tell your old man you’re going. Put your foot down girl.’ She’d looked at them and shaken her head. ‘You know what he’s like; he’ll probably think I’ll be jumping into bed with every Spaniard in sight. I wouldn’t put it past Frankie to turn up disguised as a matador so he can spy on me.’ Her friends had laughed hard. So had Gypsy, though her laughter was tinged with sadness. Not going to Spain was another example of Frankie’s control she couldn’t ignore any longer.

She needed her friends; they were a refreshing tonic. Unlike some women, Gypsy didn’t need the constant attention of men. She enjoyed the company of women and saw her friends not just to have a laugh with but also when she needed a shoulder to cry on. Most of all, Gypsy knew they just wanted the best for her.

Frankie, on the other hand didn’t see them like that. He saw them as he did anyone who came near her; a threat. A bad influence. ‘I don’t want you hanging round with those slags, Gypsy. You’re better than that.’ She knew it was pointless trying to convince Frankie. He was one of the most stubborn men she knew. But she still tried, always living in hope he might be able to see she could still love him and have her own life. ‘They’re alright, Frank. You don’t know them like I do. If you let yourself get to know them, perhaps you’d like them.’

The last time she’d said that to him, Frankie had banged his food down on the black cut marble table, and had gone to sulk in the cinema room where Gypsy had found him an hour later. They’d made love and as usual she’d enjoyed it. What she didn’t enjoy was her growing dissatisfaction with her princess in the tower lifestyle.

Gypsy sighed, looking at herself in the mirror. She wasn’t bad looking. A lot of people told her she looked like Bridget Bardot. Gypsy suspected a lot of her looks were down to the facelifts, along with the expensive weekly facials and that night creams she used religiously. ‘Fucking hell Gypsy, do you really have to slap that beauty mask on your face at night? Sometimes I think I’m shagging that geezer, Michael Myers, from Halloween.’

Frankie did make her laugh. Apart from his controlling nature he was good to her. And especially good to their son, Johnny, who was the apple of his eye. After Johnny she hadn’t been able to have any more children. Frankie had been gutted. Secretly she’d been relieved. Pregnancy hadn’t suited her. If she was honest, neither had the first few years of motherhood.

She’d suffered with depression for a long while after the birth of Johnny. She hadn’t been able to explain to Frankie what was going on. He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t on top of the world. He’d wanted her to go to the doctor but she refused, knowing whatever they said or did wouldn’t help.

The combination of the way she felt, trapped in the house with a young child, and Frankie’s possessiveness had been too restricting for her. She’d had two nannies to help. Although they hadn’t really been nannies in the conventional sense. They’d been two ageing strippers who’d worked in one of her husband’s clubs but had, according to Frankie, started to put the punters off with their wizened bodies and crinkled fannies.

Frankie was a generous man. A man who, even in the business he was in, was naturally given to looking out for others. Wanting to help and to reward the strippers’ loyalty, he’d employed them as home helps. She hadn’t minded. They’d been good with Johnny and she’d liked their company. But even with all the help, Gypsy still felt as if her wings had been clipped.

It was only when Johnny had started secondary school that she started to feel more like her old self and taste the freedom again. The more she tasted it, the more her hunger for it grew and with each passing year it got worse.

One way or another she needed to convince Frankie to loosen the rope – or one day he might wake up to find she’d cut the rope herself.

Her white Swarovski iPhone began to ring. Smiling, she saw it was Johnny.

‘Hello darling, how’s …’

Before Gypsy could get the rest of her words out, the colour began to drain from her face as she was interrupted by a hysterical Johnny. Within a moment Gypsy hung up the phone and began to run.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Nicky’s face was covered in blood. The water in the men’s room turned red as it poured into the clogged sink. For once Nicky’s bleeding nose wasn’t a result of being hammered by a fist or a foot, but by too much cocaine – which Nicky thought was better than being caused by too little.

It wasn’t the first time it’d happened. He knew it wouldn’t be the last. Nicky was in no doubt his nose would continue to bleed. Bits of flesh would continue to fall out and the cocaine would continue to erode the cartilage until it caved in completely.

But he couldn’t stop. Though at least he had a plan. If, or rather when, his nose did fall apart, all was not lost. He’d shoot snowballs or start to smoke more crack. He realised it was more difficult to function once he became heavy on the crack, but if that was the only way, so be it.

After washing his face in the men’s room, Nicky went into the main bar of the ‘Swag’ club; a lap dancing venue off Frith Street. The atmosphere was electric. He liked the place; it was classy, unlike a lot of the bars dotted around the area. Black velvet wallpaper, white leather seating and expensive chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The music was pumping out the latest sounds from New York.

It was a friendly establishment; he’d never seen or heard of any trouble in there. Most of the punters were male but Nicky always noticed a few women scattered around the dimly lit venue, sitting uncomfortably, pushing back into the seating, trying to distance themselves as far as physically possible to what was going on around them. Girlfriends, wives, all being brought along by their partners to join in the voyeuristic fantasies.

The lap dancers were tall, lithe women in their twenties. Good-looking girls who wanted to earn extra money, rather than the girls in the clip joints and peep clubs who needed to earn extra money. They gyrated expertly to the music in front of the clients, moving seductively, grinding their semi-naked bodies against the men’s laps; tempting them to pay for another dance.

Nicky liked it. But he wasn’t really interested in it. Not the drinking nor the women interested him, although he knew most of the girls by name. He wasn’t even really interested in the music. What he was interested in was the top-grade powder he could score.

He’d driven his father’s car back home, then taken the stuff Gary had given him on tick. Now he wanted more; needed more. He hoped Gary would be as obliging as he had been earlier.

Nicky smiled and spoke to the topless blonde Croatian woman sitting in the corner on her break. He raised his voice to be heard over the heavy beat of the music.

‘Have you seen Gary?’

She looked up at Nicky and grinned; a stoned glazed grin.

‘He’s in the back. Oh, Maggie came in; she seemed desperate to see you.’

Maggie. He’d forgotten she was coming home. Shit. He’d wanted to explain to her what had happened before other people started talking. He certainly didn’t want her to speak to Gina; that might ruin everything.

He was tempted to go and find Maggie and just hope she hadn’t seen Gina. Except the draw of getting some powder was too strong, and the grip on Nicky’s arm a moment later by the tall wiry black man was even stronger. He was going nowhere.

Gary Levitt was sitting in the back room of the Swag club smoking a cigar. He couldn’t abide the taste of them but he thought it looked good and added to his image. He wanted people to see him as sophisticated; not just some toerag dealer from Bermondsey. He glanced up from preening his manicured nails as Nicky Donaldson was marched into the room.

‘Nick-Nick. I’ve been wondering where you’d gone. I wanted to know where my money was.’

Nicky blanched. A look of confusion crossed his face. He’d only seen Gary a few hours ago. He’d told him he’d got a couple of weeks to straighten everything out, but here he was with a cigar longer than his dick hanging out of his mouth, demanding his cash.

‘I … I … I haven’t got it.’

‘Don’t stutter Nicky man, it makes me think of Porky Pig and I always fucking hated that cartoon.’

Nicky could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead, partly because he needed to score, but mainly because he was eyeing up the cosh that the goon standing behind Gary was holding in his hand.

‘I thought I had two weeks, Gary. You said two weeks.’

‘Yeah, you’re right I did. Now I’ve changed my mind, a man’s entitled.’

‘Listen, I can get you some of the money in the next couple of days, not a problem.’

‘But it is, Nicky. It’s very much a problem. I don’t want it in two days; I want it now. I suppose I could always ask your Dad for it. I’m sure Daddy wouldn’t want to hear you’re in any trouble.’

He chuckled at the deepened fear showing on Nicky’s face. Gary could no more approach Max for money than he could the Pope; he wasn’t stupid. As much as he knew Max probably wouldn’t give a shit about Gary putting the squeeze on his son, he was still as scared as the next man was of Max Donaldson. Though one thing was clear – by the expression on Nicky’s face, Gary clearly wasn’t as scared of Max as his son was.

It amused Gary to play games with Nicky who was soft by nature. The man had so many beatings and took so much gear that even the changing wind seemed to frighten him.

‘Fine Nicky; I’ll give you a couple of days to bring me some money, but I don’t want you to forget.’

‘I won’t. I promise.’

‘I’m sure you won’t, but I want to leave you with a little reminder, a little memo.’

Gary Levitt nodded to one of his henchmen and leaned back in his chair, too uninterested to watch as Nicky’s face came into contact with the cosh.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Maggie sat deflated on the steps of the walk-up in Greek Street, waiting for Gina and watching the crowds of people go by. It was getting late and the last of the summer sunshine had disappeared.

She’d been all over Soho looking for Nicky and after making her way round all the bars she’d finally decided to give up, guessing he was probably crashed out in some dive or drug den sleeping off the night before. She’d then taken herself off to Gina’s flat in Robert Street on the other side of Euston Road, bracing herself for trouble, but like everywhere she’d gone, there’d been no one in. The frustration of getting no answer had brought her to tears. The second time she’d cried that day. Even though she’d been on her own, she’d quickly wiped them away, feeling embarrassed.

Her next stop had been the sauna on Brewer Street. An old haunt of Gina’s, a place Maggie knew she still liked to hang out in. Although Gina’s mouth was clamped shut like a good Catholic girl’s legs when it came to providing any information about her own business, Gina Daniels did enjoy listening to other people’s gossip, especially if it involved their downfall; and in the sauna on Brewer Street gossip overflowed like a blocked toilet.

Another reason Maggie knew Gina enjoyed visiting the sauna was to get herself a bargain from the junkies who went in on a daily basis with their stolen goods, hoping to get enough money to score some brown or a bit of crack.

Perfumes, make-up, watches, even expensive lingerie, made its way to Sonya’s Sauna in Brewer Street. All sold for next to nothing – for the price of a hit.

‘Hello Maggie love, it’s good to see you. Gina ain’t here. I saw her earlier though with a big fucking smile on her face. Jammy cow got herself a pair of Gucci shades for twenty quid. She’s probably gone to see Joanie in the walk-up on Greek Street to gloat. If I see her I’ll tell her you’re looking for her shall I?’

Maggie had looked at the Tom behind the reception in the sauna and smiled. She’d known her for years; the last thing she wanted though was Gina to know she was looking for her.

‘No, don’t say anything. I want to surprise her.’

That’d been at half past six. It was now nearly half past eight. She wasn’t sure Gina was even going to turn up at the walk-up, but watching Soho life go by was better than going back home and worrying.

In the two hours she’d been sitting on the stone steps, she’d only had to shuffle over to make way for three punters, eager to make their way up the bare wooden staircase and along the unpainted corridor to be ‘serviced’ for twenty quid by Joanie. Business was clearly down.

As Maggie saw it, Soho was divided into three different levels and it was down to the individual to see what they wanted to see. The first level was for the tourists, who gazed about with excitement, soaking up the sounds and the smells of the cramped one square mile. Feeling a part of the magic but not getting close enough for it to cast a deadly spell on them.

The second level was the mix of communities; real people trying to live in harmony amongst different cultural and social backgrounds, all attempting to be sympathetic to one another’s beliefs. Most of the time everybody managed to be tolerant, but occasionally it kicked off. Then the air would be heavy with tension until the community leaders sorted it out.

And finally there was the deepest level of Soho. The darker level which Maggie had been born into, and doubted she’d ever escape from. The protection rackets, the drugs, the sex trade, and the gangsters. The faces of Soho who ran the areas weren’t seen until they wanted or needed to be. That was the part Maggie felt she belonged to. She knew everyone; knew who to avoid and who to take the time to speak to. Soho was in her blood as strong as being a Donaldson was. Whenever she left it she missed it; and whenever she was in it she wanted to get as far away from the place as possible.

‘Touting for business, love? I’ll give you a quid and even then I’m being generous.’

Maggie looked up and saw the grinning face of Lola Harding who owned and ran a cafe round the corner in Bateman Street. Lola was a good ’un; she’d been a brass most of her life and lived in the area for all of it.

Maggie remembered Lola’s kids from when they were little. They’d all played together, though they’d been slightly older than her. One Christmas Eve Lola’s kids had been taken into care by social services, and Maggie could still hear the desperate screams as Lola and her kids physically hung onto each other in the street as she tried to stop them being carted off.

When Maggie had seen what’d happened to Lola’s kids, she’d envied them. Wishing someone could swoop down and take her away from her childhood. She would’ve happily traded a place in the Donaldson household for a place in care on any given day.

‘Whatever’s troubling you babe, it won’t help any sitting with your bum jammed to the floor. When you’ve got an arse full of piles from sitting on that cold step, let me tell you, you’ll really have something to cry about. Come on love, why don’t you come and have a cup of Rosie Lee with me?’

‘No thanks, Lola. I’m waiting for Gina.’

‘Well I reckon you’ll be waiting a long time. She’s probably got her knickers off somewhere.’

Maggie scrunched her forehead into a scowl.

‘I thought she only worked as a maid now, thought she was off the game.’

‘She says she is, but nobody ever really is.’

‘You are.’

‘That’s because no one will have me. I’d end up having to pay the bleeding punters.’ Lola roared out a cackling laugh, making the passing Chinese couple huddle together and quickly cross over to the other side of the street in fright.

‘Sure you don’t want that brew, Maggie?’

‘I’m sure.’

‘Okay love, but you know where I am if you change your mind and want a chat. Say hello to your mum won’t you, and ask her why she hasn’t left that rotten bleeder yet.’

Another roar of laughter left Lola’s mouth and Maggie watched her walk away towards Soho Square. She wondered how after such a hard life Lola could still always find a joke; still see the bright side in the darkest of situations.

Maggie sighed, closing her eyes when she lost sight of Lola to the throng of the crowds. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since she’d been back in Soho, yet sitting waiting in the filthy doorway, surrounded by the smell of piss, made it feel like she’d been back a lifetime. But however bad the homecoming, she was still glad to be home. A year away had been a year away too long.

It’d been her own fault she’d been sent down. When the police had raided the house as they often did, hoping to find something they could pin on her father, she should have let them just get on with it. It was nothing new. Since she could remember the house had been raided. Every six months or so there’d be a hammering on the door, before it was booted in by a dozen or more boys in blue who charged through the house like elephants on crack.

The law knew who Max Donaldson was and he knew the law. He had his fingers in lots of businesses but first and foremost her father was a loan shark and a bag man. He extorted payments off landlords and shop owners. Charging a thousand per cent interest to old ladies who hadn’t been able to pay their winter fuel bills. With no strong credit history to take out a loan from a bank, they turned to her father for a hundred pound loan, only to find themselves paying back thousands of pounds from the interest on the interest on the interest. And if they couldn’t pay, her father would happily pay someone to break a bone as a warning. A taste of what was to come if they messed him about.

Her brother Tommy had been recruited by her father to join the family business. He hadn’t had a choice. And he hadn’t been able to drop out of it like Nicky had by default.

Nicky was soft like freshly picked cotton but his drug habit was out of control. It had been since he was twelve. It was this, not his soft kind nature which made him unreliable. Their father had eventually given up with him, giving him only the odd job to do now and again. Therefore it was poor Tommy who took the brunt, forced to work day in day out with their father.

Even though Maggie didn’t work for her father, she might as well have done. Everything came from him, whether she liked it or not. Her father owned their house, paid the bills, paid for food, for clothes, for the lot. Everything which was bought had to be run by him before he decided to put his hand in his wallet. She had nothing he didn’t own or possess. Including her.

Maggie had never had a job. She’d never been allowed to – a daughter of a face couldn’t be seen working outside the family business. Her father however didn’t want her working with or by him. Though she wasn’t complaining; she’d no desire to be involved in a business which thrived on exploiting the vulnerable.

Consequently, she should have been of use to the police coming into her room, turning it upside down and leaving it a mess. But for some reason, on that day it’d irritated her more than usual. When she’d objected, the copper had just sneered at her. She’d felt her temper swimming through her veins and she’d wanted to clout him, just to take the smug sound out of his voice. But she hadn’t, well not until they’d found the bag of pills which she didn’t know anything about. ‘I’ve never seen them before.’

‘Well then whose are they, Maggie?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t know what they are either and neither do you. They could be Smarties for all you know.’

‘I’ll need you to come down to the station whilst we check.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘I’m afraid you’ve got no choice.’

‘You don’t understand; I can’t.’

Maggie remembered she’d looked over to see her father coming to stand at her bedroom door. There would’ve been no way she could’ve talked to the coppers in front of him. To tell them what she needed to say and explain why she couldn’t get banged up then. ‘Listen, give me an hour and I’ll come. I promise.’

They’d grinned at each other, bursting out into laughter. ‘This isn’t a social engagement. You know the routine, Maggie; you and your family have certainly had enough practice. You’ll probably be bailed by tomorrow.’

Tomorrow. Her mind had raced. Wondering where her mother was. Then Maggie had looked over again to her father, and by the look in his eyes she knew he knew something about the pills. She’d stared at him harder, and out of view of the sergeant her father shrugged his shoulders, mouthing a mocking apology.

It was then she’d acted like a fool. And once again he’d managed to wind her up to the point of her behaving stupidly and rashly.

It’d actually been her father she’d flown at, not the Sergeant at the door standing next to him. But her fist didn’t differentiate between the two of them. It was a genuine mistake. But a mistake which had made all hell break loose.

A wall of blue uniforms had rushed towards her. For the next ten minutes Maggie Donaldson had kicked and struggled, pushing the men away, surprising them with her force. Then she’d felt a heavy weight on her back as she was forced to the ground by a knee. She’d slammed to the ground, banging her chin on the corner of the open drawer. The blood had sprayed everyone and Maggie had felt a burning pain as her chin split open. She’d howled a deep stomach churning cry, not for the pain, but for what she knew she was about to leave behind.

Maggie stood up from the cold step, rubbing her chin to feel the small scar. A reminder of her stupidity. She should’ve known better. But her father’s mocking scorn had hurt and made her feel humiliated, which always turned into anger.

At the time it’d crossed Maggie’s mind her father had deliberately put the pills – which turned out to be ecstasy tablets – in her drawer. But when she found out the truth, she’d seen it for what it was; a series of unfortunate events which had cost her dearly.

The pills had been confiscated from one of her father’s clients, who hadn’t been able to pay his weekly instalment.

Nicky had been given the task of picking them up to sell at the clubs. Their father, counting on Nicky to come within the hour hadn’t bothered being cautious and had left the pills in the house, which he never usually would’ve done, putting them in her drawer for an hour’s safekeeping. What he hadn’t counted on was Nicky’s insatiable appetite for drugs, his need for a hit being greater than the fear of the brutal consequences of disobeying their father’s orders.

Waiting for Nicky to turn up, Max had snorted some lines of coke, cracked open a bottle of whiskey and drank himself into a stupor. He was oblivious to the fact that Nicky hadn’t turned up until he was woken the next morning by the sound of the front door being broken down.

They didn’t charge her with possession. Her father had made the pill owner claim he’d left them in her room. The police didn’t believe the story, neither did anyone else, but the judge had given the man thirteen months, and Maggie suspected the terrified man had seen being behind bars as a preferable option to owing Max Donaldson money.

Nicky had been inconsolable at playing, as he saw it, a monumental role in putting her behind bars. But when Maggie had seen him in the prison visiting room she hadn’t been angry. She’d just hugged him until the prison officers had come over, warning her if there was any more physical contact the visit would be over.

Maggie’s heart had gone out to Nicky. Not just because of the engorged black eye and the cuts and bruises he’d received from their father, but because he was a Donaldson and how Maggie saw it, being born into her family was simply part of the series of unfortunate events.

It wasn’t in the name of love her father had helped get her off the charges. She’d no doubt if it was purely down to him he’d have let her take the rap for the pills and left her to rot in the cells. The reason her father had done what he did was because it was the thing to do; the thing expected of him. Max Donaldson couldn’t have been seen not to do the right thing.

Reputation was important. It was fundamental in his line of business; to him and to the other faces in London. Reputation got them to where they were. It helped keep them there. If word had got out that Max had left his own daughter to languish between the walls of Highpoint Prison, his reputation wouldn’t even be worth the paper he wiped his backside on.

The one thing he couldn’t do though was get the charges of attacking a policeman dropped. She, as her father had gladly pointed out, was to blame and ‘There’s fuck all I can do about you smacking a copper in the mouth, Maggie. There’s nobody to blame except yourself. My advice is, pack a decent toothbrush.’

She’d got eighteen months but had served only twelve and a half. Though every second, every minute hand of the clock going round had been akin to a life sentence.

Dusting off her G-star cropped jeans, Maggie started to leave but as she turned the corner into Bateman Street, a small round woman bumped into her. It was Gina Daniels.

Throwing her newly found resolve to the side, Maggie grabbed her, pushing her hard against the wall, slamming her spine into the red bricks and letting her built-up anger spill out. She spoke in a low growl, curling her beautiful lips into a snarl.

‘Tell me what is going on Gina, or I swear to God I won’t be responsible for my actions.’

Gina stayed silent, clearly shocked by the unexpected confrontation. The silence infuriated Maggie. She wanted answers.

About to shake the information out of Gina, Maggie remembered why she’d got herself into this predicament in the first place. Her temper. Her damned fiery temper. She closed her eyes, silently beginning to count to ten. Desperate to keep the Donaldson curse under control. As she counted she felt a slight tug on her jacket then heard a tiny voice.

‘Mummy!’

Maggie turned. Immediately falling to her knees. Her anger disappeared at once as she gazed into a pair of blue eyes full of warmth and love for her.

‘Harley! Oh my God. Oh my God.’

She gently stroked her daughter’s face, not quite being able to believe after twelve and a half long months she was finally seeing her again. She hadn’t allowed her mother to bring her to the prison. She hadn’t wanted Harley to be frightened. She’d been comfortable with that decision, imagining her daughter to be well cared for. Now as she looked at Harley’s unwashed face and tangled hair she could see this clearly hadn’t been the case.

Maggie scooped Harley into her arms. She’d waited for this moment. Waited to hold her daughter in her arms. To look into the eyes which were identical to her own. She’d been so selfish, so stupid to allow her anger to separate her from being with her little girl. From the one person who needed her the most.

Maggie glared at Gina. She still wanted the full story as to how Gina Daniels, a retired brass who Maggie didn’t know well enough to leave her pet goldfish with, let alone her daughter, had ended up caring for Harley. But first things first, they needed to get off the street. The last thing Maggie could afford to do was to let anyone see Harley.

CHAPTER NINE

Tommy Donaldson sat in the dark. What his father had done to Frankie Taylor had made him feel edgy. Bringing up memories he didn’t want to remember. To try to distract himself he’d come to his private place, to the place where he could think.

‘Move along sweetie, I know you’d like to stay up close and personal but we’ve got to be fair darlin’ and let these other passengers on.’

Tommy watched the woman whoop a hearty laugh as she indicated for him to move forward. He hadn’t wanted to go and sit in the front, he’d been happy standing and now he was stuck, squashed up against the window by an old woman with all her shopping bags. He hated buses, all the noise and the people; he much preferred being in the car but it was parked at the station.

Gazing out of the window and very much looking forward to getting back to Soho, Tommy heard the woman who’d been ordering everyone about laughing again. She was sitting directly behind him and he could hear her trying to get his attention by making jokes but he didn’t bother to look round.

Twenty minutes later they arrived at the bus terminal and as Tommy was walking away he saw a woman from the bus who’d been talking to another passenger about heading back to the West End.

‘Hang on, wait up darlin’.’

The woman turned around as she walked towards the main road and Tommy jogged to catch up. He smiled at her, his handsome face lighting up under the street lamps as she smiled back.

‘Seeing as though both of us are heading towards Wanstead High Street to catch the bus up West, why don’t we take the short cut across Hollow Ponds, it’ll save us having to go all the way round or wait God knows how long for another bus. And if the boogie man does come along, I can always jump behind you for protection.’

He listened to her talk and introduce herself and then he smiled at her, his beautiful eyes dazzling brightly.

‘Okay, hopefully we can get there before midnight.’

They began to walk as she chatted happily about her friend.

‘These big firms think they can treat people how they want to and they always seem to get away with it. My friend lost her job last week, oh, you should have heard the language on her. Still, I say she’s best off out of it.’

It was dusk but the path and the woods were still quite visible. She was still talking and Tommy let her go before him along the narrowed path, watching as her head moved whilst she talked.

They got deeper into the woods before he said her name and smashed his skull against her face. The force knocked her to the floor and the moonlight lit up Tommy’s face.

As she was about to scream he raised his foot and brought it down hard on her mouth.

‘No you don’t darlin’, no screams. We won’t have any screaming out of your mouth and we certainly won’t have any more of your incessant fucking talking.’

He dragged her through the bushes by clumps of her hair, knowing she was still conscious and feeling every scratch from the twisted thorns and twigs as he took her towards the car.

The sound of a distant alarm reminded Tommy he had to be somewhere. He really needed to get back home to see his mother. To make sure she was alright. His father was on the warpath after the fight with Frankie and he didn’t want her to be in the firing line.

Thinking about his mother made Tommy smile. He loved her so much but he didn’t think she’d ever noticed, or maybe it was just him she didn’t notice. Maybe he was as invisible as he felt.

CHAPTER TEN

It was a superficial wound but the police were sniffing around like pigs sniffing on an arsehole and Frankie Taylor watched them scribble down pointless notes.

‘Mr Taylor, are you trying to tell us you didn’t see who attacked you and neither did your son, even though it was broad daylight?’

‘That’s exactly right Officer; that’s exactly what I’m telling you. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like a little time with my wife.’

The police had stayed another hour attempting to glean out any bit of information they could, but Frankie and Johnny had continued to say nothing. In the end the two officers had left somewhat exasperated at the same time as Gypsy pulled back the faded blue hospital curtains with more cups of tea.

‘The dirty rotten bleeder. Max Donaldson needs to pay for this.’

Gypsy was on a roll and Frankie loved it. When they’d moved into Berkley Square she’d decided to get elocution lessons. He’d looked at her in amazement. ‘Are you off your tits girl?’

‘No Frank, I just want to get meself talking proper.’

‘Christ almighty Gyps, this ain’t my fair lady you know.’

They’d laughed hard but she’d still insisted on taking the lessons, and over time her East End accent had turned softer until it was hardly there at all. Unless of course she was talking about two things. The only two things which brought back the East End girl back into her voice. His sister, and Max Donaldson.

Frank watched Gypsy, her mouth moving ten to the dozen. Thousands of pounds of elocution lessons out of the window. But he didn’t mind. The angrier she got about the situation, the happier Frankie felt. He loved that she cared. Loved she’d have no problem rolling up her sleeves to get into a fight to defend him. Not that she’d ever need to – he was more than man enough to look out for himself and his family, but he loved that she was strong.

It was one of the things that had attracted him to Gypsy in the first place. She was beautiful, but so were many other girls down the clubs in the East End. They were all fuckable but they were also unmemorable. Gypsy had been different; her strength had shone out from under the bleached blonde hair and false eyelashes. Her spirit for life had been intoxicating; making him a fool for her. He’d never met a woman like Gypsy. She was so unlike all the other women and so unlike his poor feeble mother.

As he continued to think, Frankie’s contentment turned into a scowl. As much as he loved her strength, the problem he had now was her strength was starting to make its way into her overall attitude. A little bit too much for his liking. He could see her starting to want to break away, to do things on her own, when she’d previously only wanted to do things with him.

At first he’d thought she’d some other man boning her but after he’d got some of his men to follow her about for a couple of days he’d realised there was no other man. Gypsy’s infidelity was freedom. A whole lot harder to deal with than putting a bullet in some lover’s head.

Frankie shifted his body on the hospital trolley trying to find a more comfortable position to lie in. The painkillers were wearing off and he was starting to hurt. He’d had to have thirty stitches but the doctors had told him the wound would heal easily. What couldn’t be sewn up so easily was the other kind of wound, the one Max Donaldson had opened up. He’d opened a new hatred between them and he was going to wish he hadn’t.

He couldn’t really believe Max had actually had the front to stab him in broad daylight off the Camden Road. He wasn’t going to send his men round for revenge; he would wait until he could do it himself. He would wait to be able to get his hands on Max’s scrawny neck. The hatred had grown into a cancer over the years between the two of them and as much as he wasn’t quite sure why it’d gone on for so long, he was sure he had Gypsy’s support in the vendetta; in fact sometimes he’d got the distinct impression she was egging him on. The few times he’d thought of stopping the feud Gypsy had had more than a few choice words to say about the matter with her voice as thick as the smog that used to be in the East End. ‘And why would you want to bleeding do that eh, Frankie? You’ll be the laughing stock of Soho if you start waving the white flag. That’s not like you to let some no-good bastard get the better of you – or maybe you’ve lost your bottle and you’re scared?’

‘Fuck off Gyps, you know it ain’t that, I’ve never been scared of anyone in me bleedin’ life, just thought it might make things quieter round here.’

‘If I wanted quiet I’d put some frigging ear plugs in. Making peace with that piece of bleeding scum is the coward’s way out. Next thing you know you’ll be painting yourself yellow and there’ll be three white feathers stuck on the fucking front door.’

He’d laughed at her then. Had loved the way her nose always curled up when she got on one, but she’d been right. Looking back he didn’t know what he’d been thinking to even contemplate making anything but war with the likes of Max Donaldson.

Years back, before Johnny was born, he and Max had been indirect business associates. Eventually though, Frankie had distanced himself from him when he’d seen the kind of business Max ran and the cruelty he dished out.

Standing back from Max hadn’t really caused the rift. What had started it all was Max owing him money from a big poker game and making him wait over six months for it. Even that though, Frankie knew he could’ve let it go. What he couldn’t let go was when Max had picked up one of the girls who worked in his club on Brewer Street.

Max had taken the girl to a hotel, roughing her up and putting the fear of God into her. Turning her from a hardened brass into a quivering wreck. Her face had been messed up and Frankie had taken her to one of the top docs in Harley Street to get her nose and jaw fixed. The girl hadn’t stayed in London, deciding to return home to her native Glasgow with a few grand given to her by Frankie.

Frankie had then put the word out for none of his associates or acquaintances to do business with Max again. That had been a lot of people. In essence, Frankie had put the glass ceiling on Max being able to go further in his business and making the money he wanted to, as well as reducing him to a man who people feared but no one respected.

Frankie had then wanted to leave the feud. He’d shown Max that in a way he understood; he’d had his punishment. But the feud had started to grow, leaving him with no control over it. Johnny and the Donaldson boys got into endless fights. Gypsy stoked the flames as if she was building a bonfire, and each time he came across Max the man wasn’t ever able to keep his mouth shut and walk away. Leaving Frankie with no other option but to put him in his place, like he’d done last night by throwing the drink over him in the casino.

Frankie sighed, putting his hand out to touch the top of his wife’s head gently. The one good thing to come out of being stabbed would be having Gypsy at home with him without excuses. There’d be no sloping off to the shops or to the bars to meet her cronies for a drink, no squeezing half an hour to herself. After all, she could hardly tell a man who’d just been stabbed that she needed to go and get her nails done. He hated to say it but perhaps Max Donaldson had done him a favour after all.

Gypsy touched Frankie’s hand in response. She’d had such a fright when Johnny had called. She’d thought the worst but hoped for the best. Thankfully she’d got the latter. And the more she thought about what had happened the more thankful she became. Now Frankie would be laid up for the next few weeks perhaps she’d get some of that longed for freedom quicker than she thought. She’d be able to go to the shops and go to the bars to meet the girls without him popping up from nowhere. She hated to say it but perhaps Max Donaldson had done her a favour after all. Smiling, she looked at Frankie who smiled back just as warmly.

Frankie’s phone rang, jarring them both out of their own thoughts and waking Johnny up from his cat nap. Gypsy picked it up in her most eloquent of tones.

‘Hello? Gypsy speaking.’

There was a pause and she rolled her eyes as she listened to the caller on the other end, then quickly passed the phone to Frankie. It was his sister. Gypsy watched as Frankie spoke loudly with a big grin on his face.

‘Lorna! Alright girl, how are tricks?’

Gypsy looked at Johnny who was dropping off to sleep again and pulled a face. She got up to go and find something to eat. She wasn’t interested in listening to her husband’s conversation with Lorna.

She didn’t like Frankie’s sister. She was a loud-mouthed meddling bitch who thought she was Lady bleeding Muck because Frankie had a few bob. Before she’d met Lorna, Gypsy had been looking forward to meeting her, wanting to take her shopping and to hear about what her husband had been like as a child, but within an hour of picking her up from the airport she’d hated every bone in the woman’s body. From the moment Lorna landed from Belgium, she seemed intent of trying to cause a rift. Instead of being pleased that her brother was happily married to Gypsy, she wanted to cause problems. Bad mouthing her to Frankie behind her back and making constant snide comments. Not only had it irritated her, it’d hurt because all she’d ever wanted was to be friends.

It’d taken some hard negotiation but Frankie had managed to persuade Lorna to get back on a plane to Belgium one week later. She’d kicked up a fuss, wanting to stay another two weeks but they’d waved her off, all breathing a sigh of relief to see the British Airways logo speeding past them on the runway.

That’d been fifteen years ago and Gypsy hadn’t seen her since. Apart from occasionally picking up the phone to her, Gypsy had hardly spoken to her either.

Lorna’s occupation when she’d lived in London was as a small-time fraudster. Gypsy knew the police had wanted to question her on a number of chequebook scams; apparently one of the reasons she’d run off to Belgium. Her scams hadn’t been on any grand scale, though according to Frankie she’d done a couple of short stretches inside.

This was one of the reason’s Gypsy had been saved from any more of Lorna’s visits. Lorna couldn’t just jump on a plane. She was wanted but had no intention of serving any more time and unless Frankie provided her with a false passport to travel on she was stuck in Belgium.

Gypsy had managed to persuade Frankie not to sort one out, but it was getting harder and harder to do so. Frankie was a good man by nature, so the idea of his sister pining for the streets of London hurt Frankie, to the point of restless nights.

Twenty minutes later Gypsy found her way back to the cubicle. Plonking herself back on the chair next to Frankie her cockney twang was clear to her.

‘Well, what did the old witch want? It’s unlike her to call on a Tuesday; thought she’d be busy flying about on her bleeding broomstick.’

Frankie scowled at Gypsy. Lorna was a witch, a great big interfering one, but she was also his sister. Whatever trouble she had or hadn’t tried to cause between him and Gypsy the last time, she’d proved her loyalty to him by the weekly phone calls, the sending of the birthday and Christmas cards and her constant – yet turned down – offers of her coming to pay them a visit.

She was family – and family meant something. Not something, everything, so it didn’t feel right Gypsy bad-mouthing her. He’d always felt bad about the way he’d packed her off when she’d come to stay. But if he was honest he’d also been mightily relieved. The bickering between Lorna and Gypsy had done his nut in. If it hadn’t been for the company of Johnny, he’d have booked himself into a hotel.

Even though he’d sent her back to Belgium, he’d always shown Lorna respect, and wife or not, Gypsy needed to do the same. If she couldn’t, then the least she could do was keep her frigging cake hole shut.

‘Don’t say that Gypsy, she’s my sister.’

‘Yes, more’s the fucking pity.’

‘Oh so much for the soft-spoken lady. You’d put the blokes down Smithfield to shame.’

‘You know how she takes me, Frank.’

‘Is it too hard to hope my missus and my sister can get on?’

‘It is when it’s bleeding Lorna. Turn it in Frankie, you know what I’m saying’s true.’

He did know but he wasn’t about to start admitting that to Gypsy.

‘I tried to get on with her Frankie, you saw that. I took her shopping, for facials, to the casino. I even got her a pedicure from Marco and you know how long his waiting list is.’

Frankie didn’t and couldn’t see how having your nails manicured by some queer working in Knightsbridge was any different from getting them done by any of the girls in Chinatown which he on occasion did. But he didn’t say anything and listened patiently whilst Gypsy continued to work her jaw overtime about Lorna at the same time as stuffing her face with the grapes she hadn’t even bothered giving him.

‘Fuck me Frank, we showered money on her and all she did was bleeding moan and criticize. She tried to cause trouble between us. It’s no good shrugging your shoulders Frankie Taylor because you know as well as I do that she did. I’m telling you babe, that woman is a nasty piece of work. No matter how hard I tried with her she still acted like an ungrateful cow. What did I ever do to her? It was the longest fucking week of my life Frank, bleedin’ …’

Frankie had heard enough. He banged his fist on the side of the hospital trolley and immediately regretted the action. A sharp pain tore through his side, making him grit his teeth and throw back his head as he spoke.

‘Well now you’ve got a chance to try again because once I told Lorna what’d happened to me, she wouldn’t take no for an answer. I’m sending one of my men over tonight to give her a passport. By the morning she’ll be on her way.’

Frankie felt the bag of grapes hit his face before he saw it. Then he proceeded to listen as Gypsy screeched at the top of her lungs at him, before storming out of the Accident and Emergency department.

He looked at his son – who was now fast asleep – and sighed. At first he wasn’t really keen himself on his sister coming. But the more he mulled it over the more he thought he might be a good idea, even aside from the guilt he already felt for keeping her away for so long. It struck him he might be able to use Lorna’s visit to his advantage. Lorna might be just the person he needed.

As much as he’d try to insist on Gypsy being by his side over the next few weeks, he was well aware she’d try her hardest, make all the excuses she could to go out on her little jaunts. And when she did? He’d send Lorna, just to watch her, just to make sure he knew exactly where his pretty little wife was going. Yes, maybe this visit from his interfering, busybody sister was just what he needed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Maggie tucked a sleeping Harley into bed as she looked around the tired room. The woodchip wallpaper had been painted several times, yet it did very little to disguise the damp seeping through the walls, looking like dark angry clouds against a sky of pink. There was a section of the wallpaper which was peeling off completely, and had been patched up by Harley’s colourful abstract pictures.

The view from the tiny window looked out onto rows of monolithic grey tower blocks overlooking Tottenham Court Road. And with a heavy heart, Maggie knew this was where Harley had called home for nearly thirteen months. She was past furious.

Kissing her sleeping daughter on her head, Maggie looked once more at her, not quite believing they were finally reunited. She’d washed Harley’s hair and now it lay in beautiful blonde ringlets on her pillow rather than the matted hair she’d been greeted with earlier. Her face was tiny with rounded cheeks, though worryingly they were less round than they had been a year ago. Her freckles almost looked painted on, splayed perfect tiny brown dots spread across her tiny button nose. She was nothing short of perfect.

Quietly, Maggie closed the door. Giving up smoking hadn’t lasted. She lit up a cigarette, hungrily inhaling the smoke deep inside her lungs, trying to calm herself down. Hoping to stop her head from racing but more importantly, her temper from rising.

The television in the small lounge was on but the sound was turned off and Gina Daniels sat in the tatty burgundy chair in the corner. Maggie pulled a face in revulsion as Gina crammed another bite of the fried egg sandwich into her already full mouth. The egg dribbled out onto her lips, onto her chin and all over her fingers. Unabashed, Gina sucked the runny yellow spillage noisily.

Maggie stared at Gina who seemed deep in thought. She had to find a way to get Harley out of the flat but at the moment she didn’t have anywhere to take her. She couldn’t take her anywhere near home; even being on the other side of Oxford Street was really too close for Maggie’s liking.

In her family only her mum and Nicky knew about Harley and, until her daughter was much older and able to fend for herself, that was the way Maggie was going to keep it.

When she’d first discovered she was pregnant she’d been beside herself with excitement. She hadn’t thought she’d feel that way, especially as having children had never been high up on her list of priorities.

Her mother had casually raised her eyebrows when she’d told her, as if to say she didn’t expect anything different. Then when she’d told her the full story, the casually raised eyebrows had turned into a worried furrow. ‘Maggie, be careful. I’m so scared for you.’ Maggie had watched her mum tremble in fear and the surge of hatred towards her father had hit her once again. She’d taken her mother in her arms, trying to comfort her, trying to reassure her it’d be fine. Though she herself hadn’t known how it would be. ‘It’s okay, Mum. I’ll make it okay. I promise.’

The next person she’d told had been Nicky. He was the only other member of her family she really trusted. Telling Tommy hadn’t even come into the equation. He was lost to himself and over the years her elder brother had become lost to her. She’d tried to reach out but whenever she did, Maggie sensed a dark and powerful rage coming from him which frightened her, not for herself but for him.

When she’d been three months pregnant her mother had come up with a workable idea. She was going to pretend she was looking at a stretch. It hadn’t been difficult to convince anyone. Nobody had cared or questioned it. Her father had just sniffed when she’d told him she was looking at ten months inside for handling stolen credit cards. No one else had said anything or had even been concerned. Even though she hadn’t really been going away, Maggie had found the reaction painful, but it’d still been the perfect alibi.

She’d rented a poky room in Brighton and far from being lonely, she’d enjoyed the time away. The feeling of Harley growing inside her had been exciting and beautiful. It’d felt fresh and pure, unlike the rest of her life. Of course she’d missed Soho, it was in her blood, but her mother and Nicky had visited. There’d been days when they’d just walked on the beach together, eating fish and chips, enjoying each other’s company. Simple but so very rare. A world away from the heaving streets of Soho.

After Harley had been born everything had become slightly trickier. It’d taken a lot of juggling but Maggie had wanted to get back to Soho. Everything she’d ever known was there. It was the tie that bound.

Her mother was there who needed her; had always and would always need her. And though there were times Maggie wanted to run and keep running, taking Harley far away to build another life, she knew she couldn’t. Because there was no one else to protect her mother. Maggie was trapped. In a way they all were.

Nicky had found a flat to rent in Holborn for her. Far enough away from Soho, but near enough to be there each day.

Between her, her mother and her mother’s cousin, they’d looked after Harley, keeping her safe. At first everyone had found it difficult, paranoid someone would get suspicious, but after a time Maggie had realised once more that nobody gave a damn what she did with her life. They were all too busy not giving a damn about their own to worry about anyone else’s.

It’d all been going so well until the day she’d been nicked. Then bucket loads of shit had hit the proverbial fan. Not that she’d known at the time. When she’d been sentenced she’d made a phone call to Harley’s father begging him to make it right, and he’d told her he would. ‘Between us it’ll be fine. Put your head down, do your time. Okay? And Maggie … I love you.’

His words however had fallen short of anything remotely resembling the promise made. Nicky’s habit decided it was more important than his niece. Her mother’s cousin needed to go back to Ireland. Her mother had tried – though Maggie didn’t know how hard – but failed to get away from the house enough without raising suspicion. So that’d only left one person. The one person Maggie thought she could rely on. Yet he’d let her down. More to the point, he’d let their daughter down.

Sitting in the drab smoke-filled flat, it became clear to Maggie why Harley’s father hadn’t helped. It was for one reason and one reason only. He just didn’t care. Maggie Donaldson realised like all the other people in her life, Johnny Taylor didn’t give a damn.

‘I want you to start from the beginning, Gina. I want you to tell me why my daughter’s spent the last year in this dive with you. And why she looked so filthy, with holes in her clothes. And believe me, I’m not in the mood for any of your games.’

‘Bleeding charming I’m sure. No thank you for looking after my child when nobody else wanted her, Gina. Just abuse. I don’t know why I bothered.’

‘Don’t pretend you’re doing this from the good of your heart. I know you. You wouldn’t even bother sleeping if you didn’t think there was something in it for you. Come on Gina, what are you getting out of it?’

‘Nothing apart from bleeding grief. I expected a bunch of flipping Interflora to thank me for what I’d done, not the Spanish bleedin’ inquisition. I kept me mouth shut didn’t I? Christ alone knows I’ve looked after her as if she was one of my own.’

‘Your kids were put into care, Gina.’

‘Well I still say that wasn’t my fault. How was I supposed to know they’d knock on the neighbour’s door when they ran out of milk. I was only gone for five bleeding days, and anyway that’s beside the point. I’m telling you, Maggie, I’ve done nothing but put your kid first. At times over this past year, I’ve looked in the mirror and instead of seeing meself I saw bleedin’ mother Theresa staring back at me.’

Maggie shook her head, amazed at Gina’s audacity. It was clear she hadn’t and didn’t care about Harley.

‘Enough, Gina. I want the truth and I’m only going to ask you one more time. What was in it for you?’

‘Well I’ll tell you this; I went short for looking after your girl. There were times I …’

‘Stick to the story Gina.’

Gina looked at Maggie indignantly, then continued.

‘From what I gather some soft cow from the sauna had been looking after Harley, you know the sort, thinks taking kids to museums and making cack with them they see on CBeebies will do them good.’

Maggie raised her eyebrows but didn’t say anything. The woman sounded better than Gina.

‘Anyhow, her old man got himself nicked for smuggling in a truck load of tobacco. He’s on remand in Maidstone, looking at five years. So of course daft cow decided to move down there. And of course it’s not like Johnny could just go to a nanny agency. He could hardly trust a stranger to keep her mouth shut, with all that goes on in his business could he? So he was desperate. And me being me, when Nicky told me the story of the poor little mite, I couldn’t not offer to help. What with me loving kids and all.’

Gina noticed Maggie’s glare and, realising she may have laid the Mary Poppins part on a bit too thick, changed tack.

‘Johnny sorted Nicky out with a few bob. Nicky passed it onto me but that’s all it was most of the time. A few bob. I didn’t know a kid could cost so much. So you see Maggie, when it boils down to it, it was all from the good of my heart.’

‘And you’re telling me you didn’t slip some in your pocket? That’s unlike you, Gina. Goes against the nature of your beast don’t it?’

‘If anything slipped in me pocket it was a pile full of bills and a packet of headache tablets.’

‘Gina, I’m going to check with Nicky and if he tells me something different then you and I will be having more than just a chat.’

‘He’ll say the same. The only person who probably won’t is Johnny. No doubt he’ll pretend he was giving us the readies by the handful. But he’ll be lying.’

‘And why would he do that? Why should I think it’s you and not him who’ll tell me the truth?’

‘Then where is he? Where’s he been for the last year? I know I haven’t seen him. He’s been happy to palm Harley off.’

Maggie shifted uncomfortably in her chair. This didn’t go unnoticed by Gina. She continued to put the boot in, wanting to put more doubt in Maggie’s head.

‘I’m sorry Maggie but I don’t need to spell it out. You can see for yourself. I’ve been doing my bleeding best but I won’t lie, it’s been a struggle. The reason Johnny will probably say he’s been giving us more than he has is because he’s ashamed. Ashamed he hasn’t done enough. If I were you I wouldn’t say a word to him. Speak to Nicky instead. The last thing I want is trouble knocking on my door.’

Gina stopped then added slyly, ‘And if there’s trouble, then maybe I’d have to rethink about having Harley here. And what would you do then eh, Maggie? Who else would keep their mouth shut the way I’ve done? But of course sometimes it takes a little, how should I say it? A little extra incentive to keep mouths shut. I was only saying to Sonya the other day how I need to get myself a pair of new shoes.’

There was a long silence. Then Maggie leaned forward. She was close enough to smell Gina’s foul breath. Her blue eyes darkened as she spoke in a whisper.

‘Gina. I hope you’re not trying to blackmail me. You’d be very silly to do that.’

‘Blackmail! Phew, Maggie Donaldson, what an imagination. Wherever did you get that idea from?’

Gina Daniels wrinkled up her face, pretending to be hurt by the accusations. The last thing she wanted to do was piss Maggie off. She knew Maggie’s temper. The whole of Soho did. She’d been silly to say that to Maggie but Gina had a habit of always pushing things further, hoping to see what else she could get out of a situation.

She was onto a good thing. Gina and Nicky had worked things out nicely between themselves. She didn’t need little Miss Maggie May and her spoilt goon of a boyfriend ruining things.

She needed to play things carefully. It was the easiest bit of money she’d made in a long time. The kid was no problem. Most of the times she just sat in her room holding onto her stuffed rabbit or she’d be colouring and cutting up endless pieces of paper.

For a three year old she wasn’t any bother, but if she ever did become a bother, she wouldn’t hesitate to give Harley a hard slap. Hard enough to show her who’s boss, but soft enough for it not to show. One thing Gina wasn’t, was stupid.

CHAPTER TWELVE

It was coming into the early hours of the morning and Johnny Taylor looked at his phone. The five texts on his mobile were still unopened, still sitting in his inbox. They were all from Maggie. He couldn’t bring himself to read them. He knew what they’d say. He wouldn’t blame her. But what was he supposed to do? It was complicated. In fact it was impossible. And now his father had been stabbed by Max, the situation had become hopeless.

Sitting outside Whispers club in Old Compton Street, Johnny pulled his Armani jacket tightly around him. The night air was cool, which he was grateful for. Soho in the summer became oppressive. It was also clearing his head, but he could still feel the excess alcohol in his blood, and he sensed it wouldn’t take much for his head to start to ache again.

Johnny continued to sit on the metal chair, enjoying the lights of Soho against the cloudless night sky, aware there was a huge city beyond the other side of the buildings, yet the intimacy of the area made him always feel there was no other place he’d rather be.

He blew out a ring of smoke and slightly choked as it caught the back of his throat. He watched the crowds of people congregating outside the late night opening pubs, smoking their cigarettes, finishing off their beers. Standing around in short sleeved shirts and t-shirts. Feeling the chill of the air, but guarded against the full severity of the cool summer night by the warmth of the alcohol.

It’d been a crazy twenty-four hours. First his father with Max. Then Maggie. The reason he’d gone on his bender in the first place. The woman he loved but was supposed to hate.

If the circumstances had ever been likely to get better, if he’d ever been brave enough to try to broach the subject of their relationship with his parents, it definitely wasn’t going to happen now. There’d be all-out war. Once again he and Maggie would be stuck in the middle as they’d always been – and now Harley was stuck in the middle of it too.

Thinking of his daughter made Johnny flinch. After Thelma, the ex-Tom from the sauna, had moved to be near her old man in Maidstone, it’d all gone tit over head. He’d been lucky to find someone like her in the first place and it would be impossible to find anyone to replace her. So then it’d become complicated, and Johnny Taylor didn’t like complicated. He wasn’t very good at it.

All his life his parents had sorted everything out for him. He’d never needed to make any real decisions. Even when Harley was born he didn’t really need to worry, as Maggie had been happy to sort out all the day-to-day care of the baby, and he’d been happy to sort out the cash. Cash was the easy part. But difficult, complicated responsibility, he didn’t know how to do.

The problem was Thelma had been perfect. She was like Mary Poppins, taking Harley all over London; to zoos, to parks, to museums. Making cakes, painting pictures and always making sure Harley was beautifully dressed. And his daughter had been happy. The only other person he’d ever seen shower so much love on a child was his own mother when he was a child.

He’d been grateful to Thelma but Thelma had also been grateful to him. She’d gone from being shagged up the arse by strangers and giving ten pound blow jobs to being paid to spend her time going out on day trips in the company of his angelic little girl.

When she’d left he’d panicked. He’d even offered her ten grand to stay, but she’d been adamant she wanted to go to Maidstone. And there was no one else. In Johnny’s world strangers weren’t to be trusted. There was no way he could bring someone in who didn’t have a life like himself, who didn’t know the score. It could easily mean having the whistle blown – not only on himself but on his father’s businesses as well. There was no way he could’ve taken the risk.

He’d talked the problem over with Nicky who’d told him not to worry. Within a couple of hours he’d come back to him, telling him he’d sorted it. Sorted it in the shape of Gina Daniels.

Harley had been so upset when he’d taken her to meet Gina, who was a world away from the warm colourful cockney character of Thelma. He hadn’t been able to handle it. Didn’t know how to make it better for his daughter. So what he’d done, to his shame, was hand a crying Harley over then and there in the street, rather than take her to Gina’s to settle her in as planned.

He hadn’t bothered going to see her, even though he’d promised Maggie he’d help look after her. Though it wasn’t so much that he hadn’t been bothered, it was just he couldn’t cope with seeing his daughter upset. Begging him to let her go and stay with Auntie Thelma. All he wanted was for her to be happy. But Maggie wouldn’t see it like that. Maggie would see it as him palming Harley off to Gina Daniels and pretended she didn’t exist.

Johnny was a hard man in the eyes of many. Not a lot of Soho would cross him. He was the next generation of faces. But when it’d come down to standing up for his own, for his then, three year old daughter, he’d been weak. Hell, he’d been pathetic.

‘Hiding from someone?’

Johnny turned to see Saucers standing directly behind him. She looked as bad as he felt. Her hair was matted on one side of her head and even though Johnny knew she’d got up with him earlier on in the day, she looked as if she’d just rolled out of bed.

She had the same clothes on as the night before; a short black mini skirt barely skimming the cheeks of her backside, a tight grey top two sizes too small and a cropped white faux leather jacket on. It was clear as day to anyone what she did, as clear as if she’d had it branded on her forehead.

‘Who am I supposed to be hiding from?’

‘You tell me darling. I’m not the one with the complicated love life. My only love sprung from my only hate, too early seen unknown and known too late.’

Johnny shook his head. He didn’t need his head filled with Saucer’s crap now. ‘Do me a favour and keep it closed. I can’t be listening to any of your shit now.’

‘Shit? Johnny Taylor, go wash your mouth out with soap, you’ll have Bill twirling in his bleeding grave. I take it you haven’t seen Maggie yet?’

‘No, and to tell you the truth it’s killing me, but spare me the quotations.’

Saucers cackled and Johnny smiled at her warmly, watching as she took the novel she was carrying from under her arm to squash it into her tatty black bag. As much as he hated anybody knowing his business, he was grateful he could talk about it with Saucers if he needed to.

She’d found out when she’d caught them together after he’d sneaked Maggie into one of his father’s clip joints before opening hours. As he’d been the only one with the keys, he’d naturally presumed they’d be alone there and hadn’t counted on Saucers sticking her beak up from nowhere. When she’d walked into the main bar, he’d been shocked and hadn’t known what to say but as always, Saucers had made up for that. ‘Fuck me, this is a turn up for the books. A pair of star cross’d lovers. Romeo and Juliet

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