by Jacqui Rose
Irritated, Nico chewed on the inside of his cheek. He stared at the photo of Alice on his wall. ‘Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing? Do you think that I’ve managed to run our family business for years and not know when I’ve got some sweet little bitch eating out of my hand?’
‘No, but I just think—’
Nico roared, banging his fist into the wall, ‘Understand this, Sal, whilst you’re talking to me, I don’t want you to think, I just want you to listen. You got that?’
‘Sì.’
‘Good. Now I want you to get Alice Rose for me, whatever it takes, but it’s important we get the money from Alfie; we need to make the most of this. So maybe step up the pressure, so he knows we’re not joking. Business could be better than it is at the moment, another reason why you need to get me out of here. Which reminds me, any word on the appeal?’
‘I’ve spoken to our lawyer about it and—’
Nico interrupted as he lay back on his bed. ‘I don’t want conversations, that’s all it ever is. Conversations. I want action. Those bloodsuckers are costing me a fortune, for what? I don’t want to be in the slammer in another six months’ time. Mi capisci?’
‘Nico, I hear you, my heart goes out to you. Bobby and I appreciate everything you do and the sacrifice you’ve made for us.’
‘So if that’s how you feel, do something,’ Nico snapped. ‘This motherfucking place is beginning to creep up on me now. What’s happening with my transfer?’
‘Sal, it’s not bad news. The attorney came up with some good points to appeal on overall and as for transferring you to a lower-category prison, it looks like that could be a real possibility. At the end of the day, Nico, the authorities should never have placed you in a maximum-security prison for tax evasion, and they know that. So, hopefully, the transfer could be any day now. I can send you the main legal and appeal points the attorney made if you like. It’s quite extensive, so you’ll need to read it. There are a lot of things to think about, but it’s pretty positive. You want me to email them to Officer Johnstone, so you can have a look at them?’
‘No, just send them to my phone.’
Salvatore paused a moment. ‘You know your phone’s not as secure as sending it to Officer Johnstone.’
‘What’s wrong with you, you think I’m fucking stupid? I know that, but I don’t want anyone fucking this up for me. I don’t trust Johnstone, he does what he’s told here, but I wouldn’t put it past him to tip off the parole board about what we’re thinking.’
Parked up, Salvatore watched Gian Colombo eat a large salami sandwich at the entrance to the warehouse.
‘You want me to arrange someone to go and pay Johnstone a visit? Remind him of his obligations?’
‘No, leave it. Let’s just concentrate on getting me out of here first, but in the meantime …’ Nico stopped to smile. ‘I’ll give Alice a call, check in how she’s doing, see if she’s having fun. After all, she really needs to start making the most out of life, because it can be snatched away, just like that …’
43
It was early morning the next day and the last trace of mist was beginning to disappear as Alfie drove towards the town of Newmarket, sixty miles short of London. White wooden fences lined the roads and stud farm after stud farm with vast green grass paddocks came into sight. The roads were mainly clear of traffic, instead filled with racehorses, thoroughbreds, ambling along with their jockeys towards the training grounds and gallops.
Driving extra carefully, Alfie headed across a roundabout on which was a gigantic statue of a rearing horse and its groom by its side. He sighed, trying to put Lola’s words out of his head, but he also knew desperate men did desperate things and, although he hadn’t admitted it to Abel or even Alice, he knew this was certainly desperate. But what other choice did he have? It was a gamble both literally and metaphorically, because Nico was playing a game, a game of roulette with Franny and Bree’s lives. So every decision he made had to be the right one, because the stakes were too high, and it felt like with one wrong roll of the dice he’d lose it all.
He gave a sharp intake of breath, not wanting to process his own thoughts, and instead tried to concentrate on where he was.
In the distance, he could see the grandstand of one of Newmarket’s racetracks, Rowley Mile, rise up from the valley. He passed Tattersalls, the oldest bloodstock auctioneers in the world, then horse hospitals, veterinarians, farriers and saddle makers until he arrived at the long grass slopes of the training ground, Warren Hill, just off the Clock Tower and along the Moulton Road.
Alfie parked his car, wearily got out and made his way towards the straight uphill grades to the north of Newmarket.
Usually when he stood by the gallop rails watching a string of horses thundering past, ridden by the jockeys wearing the same jackets and matching helmet covers from one of the various yards, he’d get a thrill, feel the adrenalin rush and tingle through his body. But all he felt now was a desperation, a despondency, a sense of ever-impending doom.
Triggered to light a cigarette, he gazed at a sinewy, grizzled jockey sat smoking on his horse, no doubt trying to stamp down his appetite. As Alfie let his gaze roam, he caught sight of Jack Connell, an old friend, renowned horse trainer and owner, whom he’d known from the old days when Jack had wheeled and dealed with the best of them, earning his money from strip clubs and hookers.
Waiting for Jack to approach him, Alfie watched with interest as Jack’s team of riders prepared themselves, shortening their leathers whilst trying to calm the excited sharpness of the athletic, charged-up young thoroughbreds.
By the time Jack had caught up with Alfie, the horses had set off, turning into turbo machines like Formula One cars. Side by side, they raced past Alfie, looking on top form as they rode in the crisp morning with the rising sun, racing up the mile and a quarter of the legendary Warren Hill gallops.
‘Here, have a butcher’s through this.’
As Alfie felt the ground rumble and shake, he took the binoculars from Jack, listening to him talk.
‘The black one’s Boo-boy, and the tall dapple, that’s Apache Flash. Going to earn me a fucking fortune. Didn’t pay more than ten grand for each of them, but they’re turning out to be something of a touch. I had some Arab geezer from one of the yards down the road wanting me to sell him Apache, offered me hundred grand for him, well, you can imagine where I told him he could stick it. Anyway, Alf, I got your message, sounds ominous. By the way, you ain’t looking so cushty.’
With the jockeys gathering at the ridge before walking back down again for another ride round, Alfie said, ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Jack. I need you to throw a race.’
Jack Connell laughed. His large red nose was scribbled with purple veins. ‘I would say you’re having a chuckle, but I know you, Alf, you’re being serious, ain’t you?’
‘Is that a question or a statement?’
Jack – a man who was partial to too many whiskeys – dressed in riding boots, jeans and a pink Ralph Lauren shirt, shrugged at Alfie, his overweight body straining through his clothes. He looked around before poking Alfie hard in his chest.
‘Whatever the fuck it is, the answer is no. Don’t come here and start talking that shit, you understand, Alf? Those days are over. Now, if that’s everything, why don’t you just get in your car and fuck off back to London.’
Alfie wiped his shirt where Jack had prodded him. He sniffed with irritation, looking up to the gallops before trusting himself to turn back to Jack.
‘I’ll let you have that one, mate, but if you ever put your fat fucking fingers on me again, I’m going to knock you right out and you’ll be over the finishing line before starter’s orders. Now, here’s what you’re going to do for me. Tomorrow, you’re going to get your best jockey to ride Apache, and then you’re going to get your second-best jockey to ride Boo-boy, cos there ain’t any room for fuck-ups. Boo-boy is going to win, not by much but just enough so the punters and the racing board don’t suspec
t a thing. I’ve studied the form and there aren’t any other horses that will come close to beating those two. So it won’t be a problem, will it? It’ll be like old times.’
Jack Connell, furious, leant forward as he puffed the smoke from his cigar right into Alfie’s face and spoke in a low, dangerous tone. ‘Let me tell you something. I’m offended, really offended that you think you can come here and give it large. Who the fuck do you think you are, Alf?’
‘I’m someone you came to when you wanted a bit of the old nose powder to give your jockeys, so they could keep the weight down. And we’re not talking just the once, are we? I don’t think the board would take too kindly to one of their licensed trainers dealing coke to their jockeys, especially as it seems to be a prerequisite for them.’
‘Turn it in, Alf, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t I? Come on, Jack, what’s the alternative for them? You have influence, and everyone around here knows that all it takes are a few words from you and no one will employ them, then bang goes their dream of becoming a jockey. So, you tell me which young lad with ambition, who’s also struggling with their weight and those hunger pangs that keep them awake at night, is going to turn down your offer? It’s perfect for you though, ain’t it? You get them lads wired and they’re up for anything. They become fearless, taking risks on the training grounds, not stopping when they’re tired, pushing the horses to the limit. But when those kids are burned out, hooked on the gear, what do you do then, hey, Jack? You just ship them back to Ireland and wait for the next bunch of poor fuckers to come across.’
‘Fuck you, Alf! You need to be really careful who you go around accusing of dealing.’
Alf laughed scornfully, his eyes dark with anger. ‘I hope that wasn’t a threat, Jack. Let’s face it, deal, give, provide, offer, coerce, they’re all fucking words, semantics, mate. Cos you know as well as I do, when you’re banged up, it will all boil down to the same.’
Stubbing his cigar out on the gallop rails, Jack glared at Alfie. ‘I never put you down as a grass.’
‘Needs must, mate, needs must. So, do we have an agreement?’
Waving over to his jockeys, Jack turned his back on Alfie and started to walk away. ‘You’ve already had my answer, but if you want it again, like I told you in the beginning, just get in your car and fuck off back to London … I’ll see you around.’
It was dark when Jack Connell, tired from the day, walked into his kitchen. Without needing to put the light on, he moved across to the cupboard, knowing exactly where to find the large, expensive bottle of whiskey.
Relishing the moment, he unscrewed the top and, not bothering to reach up to the shelf for a glass, took a large swig, feeling the burn of the drink hitting his mouth before it coated his throat with the citrus, peaty taste.
‘You going to pour me one of those?’
Alfie Jennings switched on the light, smiling as Jack looked like he was going to have a heart attack. He clutched his chest, drained of colour as he leant against the dark oak cupboards.
‘Fuck me, Alf, you looking to kill me?’
‘Might be, that all depends.’
Regaining his composure, Jack snarled back, ‘Get out of my house.’
Walking over to the middle of the kitchen, Alfie smirked nastily. ‘But you said, I’ll see you around, and here I am.’
Sweat prickled at Jack’s forehead. ‘Get out! I already told you that the answer’s no.’
Taking a small handgun out of his pocket, Alfie placed it on the table and spun it round.
‘You see, Jack, I thought that’s what you might say, and consequently, I also thought I’d bring a bit of encouragement along.’
Finally, reaching for a tumbler, Jack, his hand shaking, poured himself a large glass of whiskey. ‘Do you know what you’re even asking of me? Do you know how much money I’ll fucking lose? I’ve put me money on Apache and there’s no way I’m losing it.’
Not interested, Alfie shook his head. ‘Let me tell you something, Jack: you won’t lose as much as me.’
Glancing down at the gun before fixing his gaze back on Alfie, Jack sat down, taking another noisy gulp, his voice strained.
‘I don’t know what’s going on here, Alf, and to tell you the truth, I don’t want to know, but what you’re suggesting is totally out of the question. You’ve got this idea that apart from my two, the rest are donkeys. But that’s not right – I could name at least four other runners who will give Boo-boy a run for his money. It’s going to be a tight race.’
‘Then you need to get your jockey to try harder, don’t you? The fact is, Jack, on my side of the fence there isn’t any room for messing up. I need Boo-boy to win, that’s all there is to it. It’s as simple as that.’
Jack Connell sat in silence for a moment using his finger to slosh around the whiskey.
‘And if I still refuse, what then?’
Alfie leapt across the table, grabbing and pushing Jack’s head down onto it. The glass smashed on the floor. He pressed the gun hard into Jack’s temple, digging the nozzle into his skin.
‘But you ain’t going to refuse, are you? Because I’m going to do whatever it takes for you to see what’s good for you. Because at the end of the day, Jack, if I can’t sort this out, then I really, really ain’t got nothing to lose, so I’ll be more than happy to blow out your brains.’
44
The next day, Alfie Jennings sat by the window in the Soho flat smoking his fifth cigarette in half an hour. He tried to ignore the hostile, and what he saw as unhelpful, glares from Lola, who sat nervously opposite him on the large blue wing chair in the corner of the room.
Fed up with it, Alfie snapped, ‘Do you have to keep staring at me, Lola? It makes me feel uncomfortable. I know how you feel about all this but it ain’t helping. So do me a favour, darlin’, and cut the eyeballing.’
Lola sniffed disapprovingly. ‘Rather stare at you than speak to you. I ain’t got any words to sum up what you’ve done.’
‘Well, thank fuck for that, because that will save us all having to listen to you chewing off me ear.’
As Lola decided whether she was going to give any kind of comeback, Alice walked into the room carrying a glass of iced water. She smiled, but it was a distant smile; her mind had been on the ultimatum Nico had given Alfie.
Nico had called her twice, but she hadn’t been able to answer, largely because she wasn’t sure if she could actually hide her feelings from him.
Alfie had asked her again if she still loved Nico. Not only did she no longer love him, but she felt something new to her, something that she’d never experienced in her life. Hatred. Pure hatred.
She knew that hating someone was wrong. Her mother often told her and her friend, Isaiah, that hatred was not only a sin, but also one of the gravest sins, and she’d always tried to steer away from ever feeling such an emotion, even when someone had really upset her. But for once she didn’t care. She didn’t care at all.
Maybe it was because Nico had hurt her and like a silly little girl she had fallen for everything he had said. Maybe that was why the burning hatred smouldered and lived within her now, but whatever it was, if that meant she was a sinner, so be it, because like Abel she wanted to get her revenge, and she would, no matter what it took. Nico Russo would pay.
‘Are you going to give me that or are you going to water the plants with it? I’m gasping, darlin’!’ Lola broke through into Alice’s thoughts, waving her hand for the glass Alice held.
‘Sorry Lola, I … My mind was elsewhere.’
Lola nodded in understanding, her heart going out to the girl. ‘You don’t need to explain. I know, sweetheart, it’s difficult for us all. Look, why don’t you come and sit down with me? The race is about to start – maybe you’ll be our lucky mascot because, believe me, we need all the luck we can get.’ Lola tried to hold the smile, but at the thought of what Alfie had done with the little money they had made, it quickly faded, her expression turning
pensive.
Trying not to upset Alice, Lola made another effort, trying her best to sound cheerful.
‘Anyway, love, have you heard any more about your dad? Alfie said he was going to call the hospital.’
‘He did, and Dad’s still the same.’
‘That’s good though, isn’t it? He’s in the right place and he’s stable.’
Alice felt the guilt and the worry rise up in her again as she fought back the tears. ‘He’s in intensive care, Lola!’
‘I know, love, but it’s just a precaution, they know what they’re doing.’
‘I just miss him.’
Lola nodded. ‘I know you do, I know … Look, why don’t we call the hospital later, maybe they’ll have some more news?’
Alice tried to smile. ‘I’d like that.’
Wanting to change the subject, Lola asked, ‘Where’s Abel, by the way?’
‘He’s asleep. He told me he never really sleeps at night so—’
‘Here, look, it’s about to begin.’ Alfie cut into their conversation as he turned up the sound on the television, logging into his betting accounts on the iPad his friend had lent him whilst trying to ignore the sense of sickness and panic rushing over him.
‘A number of horses have halved in price as punters look to land a big-priced winner. Apache Flash is still favourite, Harlequin Rose who was 60–1 is now at 15–1, Boo-boy on good form is now …’
‘Which ones are they, Alf?’ As Lola asked the question she glanced at Alfie, seeing the fear and worry in his face, which only made her own anxiety worse.
‘Jack Connell’s colours are red and pink spots for Apache and blue diamond stripes for Boo-boy. There they are.’
With the sun shining through the window, Alfie pointed at the television. Ignoring it, Lola got up and shuffled across to where Alfie was, popping herself down next to him on the couch. She took his hand into her lap, shaking as she spoke.
‘Alfie, are you sure about this? I just don’t think it’s a good idea.’