by Jacqui Rose
Casey had played hostess many times at the lavish dinner parties she and Vaughn had at his sprawling Kent mansion, listening to the retired faces who could no longer cut it or who no longer had the edge to stay; all dissatisfied and unable to take to civilian life. But Vaughn had been different; he’d found peace outside the world of violence and multi-million-pound deals. But since the attack on Lola’s café last week he’d become obsessed with catching up with the people who’d done it. Almost overnight, the Vaughn Casey had known changed into a hard ruthless man, set on revenge.
‘Vaughn, this isn’t a one-man crusade. What about the others, they can help sort it out as well. There’s Del, Johnny, Alf …’ The moment Casey began to say Alfie’s name she immediately regretted it, as she saw the look in Vaughn’s eye. His voice was cold and agitated.
‘Alfie? Are you fucking serious? That man’s caused enough grief, wouldn’t you say, Cass?’
Casey decided to remain silent. Vaughn and Alfie’s history went way back. At one time, at the height of Vaughn and Alfie’s friendship breakdown, Alfie had told Vaughn he’d slept with her. And although Alfie Jennings had eventually admitted nothing had happened between him and Casey, it was still a sore spot for Vaughn when she talked about Alfie with any form of affection or positivity.
‘Well, Cass?’ Vaughn stood in front of Casey. She could see he was pushing for a fight, which would be his excuse to stay in London without having to discuss it with her. Well she wasn’t going to be goaded. If he wanted to stay in Soho then she wasn’t going to let him put it on her. She remained silent, staring at Vaughn.
Eventually Lola, having finished consuming a runny egg sandwich, broke the silence.
‘Listen Casey, Vaughnie is just doing what he knows best. He’s old school. Them triads need to be stopped and put in their place. This is Soho. Our Soho. Me and Vaughn’s. All of us have been round here as long as me memory will take me back. It’s where we belong. It’s all some of us know; all some of us want. You’re not from round here, love, so it’s different for you, harder for you to understand. But this is our home and we’ll do anything to protect it. So let Vaughnie do what needs to be done.’
Casey shook her head. ‘Lola, you know I love you like my own mum, and you’re right I’m not from round here, but neither is Vaughn, not anymore. He’s moved on. I’m not asking him to turn his back on you or Soho, I’d never do that, but he needs to leave it to the others, take a step back.’
Lola shook her head, her warm smile cutting through her craggy wrinkled skin. ‘Cass, it’s in him. Soho is in his blood. No matter what, that will always be the case and no matter how much he loves you, Soho will always come first.’
Casey was about to object but as she watched Vaughn walk out of the room without saying a word, something told her Lola might just be right.
The AA meeting in Greek Street was empty, save for an old man and a twenty-something skinny woman whose eyes gave away her hard life. But it wasn’t the people Casey had come to see, it was the sense of support she felt when she walked into the hidden meetings which could be found in every town. These sobriety meetings had saved her life. Stopped her from destroying herself when nothing else could reach her.
But as she’d got better, she’d relaxed, hadn’t bothered attending so many meetings, and that had been fine, but one morning last month she’d woken up and from nowhere the cravings had returned. That overwhelming sense of needing a drink. No matter what. No matter how much it hurt her or anyone else, the need to feel the burn of the alcohol hit the back of her throat had become overwhelming.
The cravings which in the past would’ve led to her putting herself in compromising situations with men and drugs were the demons which had brought her to Soho in the first place. Casey had come searching to put the past right, and whilst doing so had put herself right. Her life had gone from unmanageable to downright good. Life had come together. Her life finally had a purpose, and of course then there was Vaughn. She loved him and that love wouldn’t have been possible if she was still a drunk. A lush. He was again part of the reason she needed to stay sober because if she didn’t, it wouldn’t be a question of if she might lose Vaughn, it would just be a question of when.
But how could Casey tell him that their life and her sobriety were in danger of collapsing because of a craving? An urge so strong that in the past, when she’d been married to her first husband, she’d found herself sleeping with strangers just to get a drink.
Even at the time Vaughn had never really understood, although he’d tried. Although he’d seen Casey battle to stay sober, he couldn’t really get his head round the fact that booze came before most things, including him at times.
So here she was, sitting in a darkened basement, desperate to keep clean. But it was hard, so hard; if it wasn’t for the relationship with Vaughn she wasn’t sure if she’d have the strength to go another day without having a drink.
8
Casey and Franny sat in Lola’s newly refurbished café in Bateman Street.
‘Well, what do you think, ladies?’ Lola sat down by the two women, admiring her new set up. She’d been proud of it before, but this, she thought, this was the dog’s bollocks.
Casey, who’d worked in Lola’s café before she’d met Vaughn, smiled at the flamboyance of the tiny workman’s café. Gold and black chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Bright red tables and chairs had replaced the old wooden ones, the work counters were now a loud zebra print and the walls were painted lime green, with large silver-framed photos of Soho in the Sixties.
‘Well, it’s different.’
Lola grinned proudly. ‘It ain’t quite finished yet, but then I blame Vaughn. Can’t get hold of him. He promised he’d get one of those moose heads for me. I think it’d look lovely over there near the door. What do you think?’
Casey raised her eyebrows, her full red lips twitching with a smile. ‘Tell me you’re kidding.’
Lola looked shocked. ‘Kidding? Why would I do that?’
‘It’s just that … well, don’t you think it might be a bit OTT?’
Lola stood up, clearing the empty tea cups. She shook her head in dismay. ‘You’ve never had any taste, Casey. It’s all the rage; latest thing.’
‘A moose head?’
‘Oh yeah, I saw it in a magazine; they had photos of Hampton Court.’
Casey’s eyes widened. ‘They had a moose head in Hampton Court?’
‘Well it weren’t a moose head exactly; it was a deer’s head. But I’ve never liked them things; their eyes are too close together. Gives me the heebie-jeebies. Anyway, moose, deer; they’re all a bit classy ain’t they? And if Henry the eighth can have one on his palace wall then so can Lola’s café.’ And with that, Lola shuffled off, delighted at the admiration on Franny’s and Casey’s face.
Casey watched Lola for a moment before turning to Franny, her smile not reaching her eyes. ‘How’s your new lodger?’
‘Chloe-Jane?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Messy! I’m sure I was never that bad when I was her age, but then I’m not really surprised; by all accounts she’s hardly had an easy life, she’s had to fend for herself most of it. But she’s sweet. I like her.’
‘How long’s she staying?’
Franny grinned. ‘I dunno, she’s talking about giving me money for her upkeep, I think she’s worried I’m going to kick her out any day soon, poor kid.’
The women fell silent, then, making sure Lola was out of earshot, Franny whispered, ‘What’s going on, Cass?’
Casey looked down at the table. ‘Oh, nothing much. Usual stuff. Vaughn’s got a bee in his bonnet.’
‘About Alfie?’
‘About him and other stuff. Things aren’t so good.’
‘With Vaughn?’
Casey hesitated.
‘Cass, you can trust me. We’re friends. Whatever it is, I won’t say anything. I promise. I know what it’s like when you’ve got no one to talk to.’
‘Thank
s Fran, it’s just … I know I can trust you, but it’s difficult. Apart from you I haven’t got anyone else. I can’t talk to Lola because it wouldn’t be fair, you know with her being close to both of us, and I obviously can’t talk to Vaughn …’ Casey trailed off.
‘Then tell me.’
Casey’s eyes filled with tears as Franny reached across the table. ‘Cass, please. I’m worried about you. You haven’t been yourself lately. Tell me what’s going on.’
Everything in Casey wanted to tell Franny about how the urge to drink was making her feel. But her shame stopped her. Franny wasn’t like her. She seemed so sorted; she’d gone through so much, yet she’d done it all without a crutch and had only needed the support of her friends. Yet here Casey was, still fighting the booze and her demons. Still waking up with the overwhelming urge to go out and get drunk.
‘Is it Vaughn, Cass, and all this stuff in Soho? I know you want to be loyal to him, but what are friends for if you can’t lean on them? I won’t say anything.’
Casey looked up at Franny. It was easier to agree with her friend than tell her the truth, though it wasn’t a complete lie. Things were strained with Vaughn, but it was difficult to know how much was actually him, and how much was Casey. Vaughn had been pushing her away, but then she’d been doing the same with him. He couldn’t find out what was going on. He just couldn’t.
Feigning a smile, Casey spoke to her friend. ‘Yeah, that’s right. It’s Vaughn. All this stuff with Soho has got right under his skin. He’s like a different man.’
‘Try not to worry, Cass, Alfie’s no better. He’s roaming around like he’s got a rod stuck up his arse … It’ll be okay; if it’s any comfort, I know Vaughn loves you. But if I can give you any advice, Cass, it’d be this; talk to him. That’s what gets me and Alfie through the tough times. We talk to each other, and above all we don’t have any secrets.’
9
Mr Lee stood by the window, wondering quite why the English were so foolish. There seemed to be a common thread which ran through them, a thread of misplaced pride – or as he liked to call it, stupidity.
He’d warned them. Warned them that the trouble wasn’t necessary, and could have so easily been avoided. All they’d had to do was abide by the rules. How easy. How simple; yet as Mr Lee stared in contempt at the bloodied and battered Alfie Jennings lying on the floor, it was clear to him, simple was something the English didn’t like.
Sitting down on the large purple velvet chair, Mr Lee crossed his legs, making him look smaller and more diminutive than he usually did.
‘It’s a shame we couldn’t meet under better circumstances. I was very much looking forward to our discussion later on in the week, but as Robert Burns said, the best laid schemes of mice and men.’ Mr Lee paused, flicking off a stray piece of ash from the large cigar he was smoking. ‘When my men told me you’d decided to continue with your little venture, I thought it best to cut my trip short and have that chat sooner rather than later. I’m sure you understand. And I can only imagine you’ve got a good reason for disobeying my rules.’
Through his swollen, bruised eyes, Alfie glared at Mr Lee. ‘Ain’t no one going to tell me what I can and can’t do, especially from a fucking kitchen sink.’
Mr Lee looked puzzled. ‘Kitchen sink?’
Alfie sneered defiantly. ‘Chink.’
Chang Lee’s face expression hardened. He leaned forward and addressed Alfie, speaking quietly. ‘You see, Mr Jennings, it’s comments like those that I can’t ignore. It never ceases to amaze me how foolish people are.’ Mr Lee nodded his head to Lin and another of his men who walked across to Alfie. They yanked hold of his arms, pulling at his hands as Mr Lee stood up. ‘You leave me no choice, Alfie, and to think all of this could have been avoided.’
Mr Lee nodded again, watching as Lin brought down the machete on Alfie’s forcibly spread fingers. Blood splattered out everywhere along with Alfie’s scream as his little finger was cleanly cut off. His body jerked in shock as what looked like a river of blood streamed out from the mutilated hand.
Mr Lee bent over and picking up the severed finger, walked over to Alfie.
‘Hopefully now you’ll get the message, Mr Jennings and if you haven’t, there’s always the other nine.’ He went to walk away but stopped short of the door. Turning round, he threw the finger at Alfie with a grin. ‘I think you might have more need of that than me.’
10
‘Here you are. I got this for you.’ Chloe-Jane handed Franny eighty pounds.
Franny looked curious. ‘What’s this for?’
‘It’s for you. For me board and lodgings.’
‘I told you, there’s no need. Really Chloe, I’m happy for you to stay.’
Chloe-Jane shrugged her shoulders. ‘I just want you to take it.’ She pushed the money into Franny’s hand. ‘Please.’
‘Where did you get it from?’
‘I ain’t robbed it, if that’s what you think.’
‘I don’t think that.’
‘It’s me money I saved to come here. I told you I was going to give you some.’
Franny shook her head, going across to the other side of the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She opened a packet of dark chocolate biscuits, offering one to Chloe-Jane who proceeded to take several, much to Franny’s amusement.
‘Listen, Chloe, why don’t you keep the money? You’ll need it when you move on.’
Chloe-Jane bristled. She wanted to yell at Franny that that was the point. She didn’t want to move on. She wanted to stay, because aside from the fact she liked it with Franny, she had nowhere else to go. With a sad smile, Chloe replied, ‘Well until then; take it, it’ll make me feel better.’
Franny looked doubtful. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I am!’
‘Okay, what I’ll do is, I’ll put it up here in this tin, and for any reason you want it back just take it. No questions asked. Deal?’
‘Deal, and I’ll give you eighty pound a week from now on. I don’t want to leech off anyone.’
‘Well I appreciate that, Chloe. Thank you.’
‘It’s no problem. No problem at all.’
It was getting dark as Chloe-Jane walked along Brewer Street, watching as the passing men ogled at her and the women gave her a look of scorn. She wore a low-cut pink top with nothing underneath, erect nipples obvious under the clinging material. Her tiny white miniskirt skimmed the bottom of her buttocks, and her high patent yellow shoes gave a swagger to her walk.
‘Fancy a drink, darlin’?’ A large, sweaty passing workman hollered out to her from his van.
‘Not with you, mate, I’d rather stick me head down the khazi and drink from there!’
The van sped off beeping its horn, leaving Chloe to cross the road at the junction of Brewer and Glasshouse Street.
Hanging out on the corner, a car pulled up. A man in his late fifties rolled down the window. His voice was low and Chloe could hear a Northern accent.
‘You doing business, love?’
Chloe nodded, quickly looking around before getting in.
11
‘Just fucking sew it back on. I don’t care how you fucking do it, but there ain’t no way I’m ending up like frigging Anne Boleyn.’ Alfie grimaced at the hospital doctor as he clutched his wrapped bloody hand to his body.
‘She had eleven fingers, not nine, and it was her head that was cut off, not her hand.’ Chloe-Jane smirked at her uncle as she chewed on the constantly present piece of gum.
‘I’ll chop your bleedin’ head off if you don’t shut it,’ Alfie growled at his niece. Why the hell Franny had brought her along, fuck only knew and it pissed him off no end.
‘Alfie, there’s no need for that.’ Franny spoke, not unkindly.
‘Me hand’s fucking been chopped off and she wants to give me a fucking history lesson, do me a favour!’
‘One finger isn’t exactly your whole hand, Alf.’
‘No? Well it fucking feels like it, you should try it s
omeday. And look at the state of me boat, do I look like a person who’s just sat watching telly all day?’
Franny stared at Alfie, taking in his cut and bruised face. When she’d got his phone call asking her to come and see him, she’d been surprised and secretly pleased, thinking his male pride would have made it difficult for him to phone so soon. She’d been about to tease him about it but there’d been something in his voice which had stopped her. So instead she’d just listened, hearing the edge of urgency and panic in his voice. When he’d told her he was in the hospital, her stomach had tightened and she’d rushed to see him, bringing a complaining Chloe-Jane, who’d been very mysterious as to where she’d been, with her.
When Franny had opened the blue faded hospital curtain, she’d been shocked at the sight of his battered appearance.
She’d arrived in casualty full of sympathy but when she’d asked him questions about what had happened, Alfie had been rude and evasive, and Franny’s warmth had turned to what Alfie always called her bitch stance.
‘Perhaps a bit of sympathy would be nice. Ain’t too much to ask for.’
‘Well when you start behaving decently and answer my questions, maybe I’ll give you some.’
‘Has anybody told you you’ve missed your vocation? You should’ve been the Old Bill, do you go around giving everyone the third degree?’
‘No, only you when you’re being childish.’
Even through the pain, Alfie managed to stare at Franny incredulously, not quite believing what he was hearing. He’d called her assuming she’d be distraught with worry and concern, he’d even half suspected that she’d come to her senses, apologise and stop the stupid point she was trying to prove with Chloe-Jane. Sympathy. A little bit of TLC. Surely that wasn’t too much to ask for? A man wanting a bit of care from his woman. It should be a given; man provides for woman. In return, woman cares for the man and tends to his every need. That’s the way it was. Should be. And that’d been the case since the beginning of time and it would always be – unless the woman on your arm went by the name of Franny flipping Doyle. It was just his luck. Just Alfie’s fucking luck to fall in love with an independent, man-hating, beautiful, fiery woman. On top of which, he now had only fucking nine fingers to his name.