by Jacqui Rose
Bringing her eyes up, she saw Christine Lucas sitting there with two of her cronies standing at the cell door.
Christine spoke in a reassuring tone, her Geordie accent apparent. ‘Hello, Franny, sorry I’ve taken so long to make your acquaintance, but I was down in “seg”. But now I’m back, I like to come and welcome the new women to my wing. I’m Christine.’
Franny stared coolly at Christine Lucas, noticing the huge roll of fat that hung down like an apron onto Christine’s lap. She knew exactly who this woman was. She was the ‘Daddy’ of the wing, the top dog, serving a triple life sentence for the violent murder of her three children.
Franny also knew why Christine had been in ‘seg’ – segregation; Christine had got a group of women to pounce on one of the new girls who had shot her mouth off about not being afraid of Christine. They had jumped on her in the showers – one of the few places in the prison where there was no CCTV – and had not only given her a good beating, but had also sexually assaulted her, damaging her insides.
Wanting to be on an equal level with Christine, Franny sat up, her eyes narrowing. She spoke icily. ‘I appreciate the visit, Christine, but if you don’t mind I’m a little bit busy.’
Christine looked around at the empty cell and then at the two other women who looked like a pair of club bouncers standing by the door. She laughed, showing off her ill-fitted false teeth. The sagging skin on her fat face fell into folds as she spoke to the women guarding the door. ‘We’ve got a right one here. It’s always the same; all the girls on remand think they can come in here and do what they like … but you all soon learn who’s in charge.’ She paused a minute before adding: ‘I reckon she owes me an apology.’
Showing no emotion Franny blinked. ‘As I told you, I’m busy, so if you wouldn’t mind …’ Franny gestured with her head to the door at which point Christine lunged at her, gripping Franny’s chin between her pudgy hands. ‘Maybe the memo didn’t get to you, but I rule this place and I say what goes on, do you understand me?’
Franny’s eyes darkened. ‘If I were you, I’d take your hands off my fucking face.’
About to pull the hidden razor blade out of the clip in her hair, Christine stopped as she heard a familiar voice behind her.
‘What’s going on here?’ Officer Jessie Ford, who’d worked in the prison for the past five years, stared at the women.
Christine grinned and sniffed loudly. ‘Oh you know how it is, miss, I just like to give all the new girls a welcome. That’s right, isn’t it, pet?’
Christine stared at Franny.
Jessie Ford clearly knew only too well how it was, as she said, ‘I just hope you’re not causing any trouble because I’m sure the governor would be happy to see you put back in seg, Lucas.’
Christine stood up, her obese six-foot-one frame towering over the diminutive prison guard, and this time when Christine spoke, her tone was colder. ‘Howay, man! I don’t like threats especially when I haven’t done anything wrong.’
Officer Ford refused to back down but the flicker of unease as Christine continued to loom over her didn’t go unnoticed by any of the women in the cell. ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Now go on, get back to your cell, Lucas, and take your buddies with you.’
Christine smirked, her green eyes void of any emotion as she turned to Franny.
‘How about you and I pick up this conversation another time?’
Franny held Christine’s stare. Her voice was as steely as Christine’s had been. ‘Let’s do that, anytime you want, darlin’ … you know where I am.’
Christine leant down to Franny, whispering her next words, her Geordie accent strong and sharp. ‘You must have a death wish, pet – either that or you’re stupid.’
At which point, Christine and the other women barged past Officer Ford, who followed them out, leaving Franny sitting in her cell wondering once again just how the hell she was going to get out of this mess.
6
‘Are you sure we did the right thing? You heard what Alfie said. He ain’t bothered about her. He don’t give a flying fuck about Mia.’
Worried, Shannon chewed on her tasteless gum as she sucked on her vape. Her bitten-down nails were painted a pearly pink.
In the past few months not only had her life done a three-sixty, but for the first time in her life she had actually experienced happiness that hadn’t been brought on from sucking on a crack pipe.
It had been pure and natural, brought on from Vaughn’s kindness, from his care, from his trust, from him not wanting anything from her, and for that, she would do anything for him. Anything. And she certainly wasn’t going to allow anyone to get in the way of it. Now she knew how intoxicating happiness was, the buzz from it better and higher than any rock of crack, she wasn’t about to let it go.
After her mother had died in an alleyway from a heroin overdose, Shannon had been taken in by Uncle Charlie and her aunt. But rather than it having been a loving environment, most of her life she’d worked for Uncle Charlie, being forced to give blow jobs and have sex with whoever he put in front of her. On occasion, her uncle had wanted the odd blow job from her as well, though thankfully he’d never wanted full sex with her; he’d just groped and rubbed himself and his flaccid penis all over her. The thought of it made her sick. But then, when all hope had gone out of life, she’d met Alfie, and through Alfie, she’d met Vaughn – and he had saved her.
And whilst Alfie was spinning, drinking and sniffing as much coke as he could lay his hands on, Vaughn had trusted her enough to help look after Mia, which she had done with pleasure. The distraction of Mia had helped her not to focus on her crack habit. Having another human being needing and relying on her was something else she’d never experienced.
But now the problem was if Alfie decided to take on Mia, to look after her like a father should, then what use would she be to Vaughn? The thought of it terrified her. She loved Vaughn, not that he knew it, not that he probably loved her back … yet … but maybe one day he would, one day he would make her his wife. Mrs Sadler – now that would be something special. That was what dreams were made of.
So she needed to make sure not only that that nasty bitch, Franny Doyle – who’d always looked at her like she was a piece of dirt – stayed in prison, but also that Alfie stayed in his stupor, stayed spiralling … Yes, yes, that was it, all she needed to do was make sure that Alfie continued to be an unfit father, and then she would become completely indispensable to Vaughn and then – perhaps, just perhaps – Vaughn would see her in a different light and fall in love with her as she loved him.
And with a renewed sense of relief, Shannon sighed and pushed her bright red hair back behind her sticky-out ears and smiled a crack-ravaged, toothless smile.
Vaughn stared at Shannon. She was a good kid and by Christ she’d had the worst start in life, used and abused and passed around by her uncle. She was only sixteen and she had seen and been through stuff that no one, least of all a kid, should go through.
He was surprised at how fond of her he was; after all, she was a scrawny teenager, and an ex-crack addict at that. But she was sweet and he was happy to put a roof over her head. She seemed a bit lost. After all she had no friends or family that she could count on.
If anyone had told him this time last year that he’d be looking after a kid and a baby, he would have thought they’d been smoking crack. But funny thing was, he was actually enjoying it. Though of course when the time was right, when she’d got herself together a bit, he’d talk to her about moving on; not that he would see her on the streets again. Far from it … Who knew, perhaps, he could set her up in a shared house with other girls her age. Maybe she could go to college. Shit, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do with a teenager.
Anyway, he could worry about all this later. For now he was grateful to her for not only backing up his story about Bree, but also for looking after Mia. And once Alfie saw that he needed his daughter as much as she needed him, Vaughn expected that Shannon would b
e more than happy to get on with her own life. But for now having her about worked – because he did care; Shannon felt like the wayward kid sister he never had.
With a renewed sense of relief, Vaughn sipped on the now cold cup of coffee, turning his thoughts back to Alfie.
He’d chosen to have a drink in the Italian deli across the road from Alfie’s flat. He had thought about going home to his flat, which he was renting from Johnny Taylor – above the club in Greek Street – but he’d thought better of it. He wanted to stay in striking distance of Alfie in case he really couldn’t cope with looking after Mia.
He checked his phone again just in case Alfie had rung and he’d missed it. Nothing. And he guessed nothing was a good sign. So why did he feel nervous in the pit of his stomach? It was stupid – almost as stupid as how much he’d been smitten by Mia.
‘I reckon Alfie is up there right now sticking the whole of Colombia up his nose.’
Irritated by Shannon making him feel more stressed than he wanted to feel, Vaughn snapped, ‘Do you have to chew that gum like that? You sound like a bleedin’ cement mixer and it’s getting on me nerves. And for the record, no, I don’t think he’s doing that, and yes, I think we’ve done the right thing.’
Shannon pulled a face. ‘I don’t know how you make that one out.’
‘The point is Alfie has always been stubborn, and sometimes you have to be tough with him to be kind. At the end of the day it’s his daughter and family means everything to him. Everything. It’s just been a rough couple of months. You’ll see; he’ll be fine. He’s probably up there now singing “Three Little Pigs”.’
Shannon pulled on her vape. ‘Then why do you look so worried?’
Vaughn banged down the coffee cup, spilling the milk over the table. ‘Because you keep going on about it. So do us a favour and stop. We’re here, he’s just over there, so it’s not like much can go wrong is it? He only … Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’
‘What? Vaughn, what is it?’
Vaughn’s handsome face paled and he began to stand up, scraping back his chair as he stared out of the window.
‘What’s wrong?’
Still not answering, Vaughn watched a group of men coming out of the block of flats in Old Compton Street where Alfie’s flat was. He recognised most of them, and he certainly recognised the person who was walking down the street. It was Mr Huang. Ruthless, violent and someone he’d heard Alfie mention recently – not that he knew what business they had together. But what he did know was anything that spelt Huang spelt trouble. Big, big trouble.
And without waiting to explain to Shannon, Vaughn Sadler ran towards Alfie’s flat.
7
Detective Balantyne slammed through his front door, throwing his bag to the side. He didn’t know what it was about Franny Doyle but she always got under his skin. She was a smart-mouthed bitch, smarter than a lot of people he knew, but finally, hopefully, she would get her comeuppance. And God, wouldn’t it be a long time coming.
Stalking through to the grey and silver wallpapered lounge of the mid-terraced house in East Grinstead, which was located in the north-eastern corner of Sussex – a place he’d moved to last year – Balantyne kicked the tabby cat out of the way.
He sighed heavily as he sunk into the putrid coral-coloured chair and gritted his teeth – too hard – immediately feeling a throbbing pain run through his jaw, making his current mood even worse.
He would much rather be at work, busy and not having time to think about anything else but the job at hand. Being at home meant all the distractions disappeared and he was left with his own thoughts, something he’d rather run from.
Reaching over to finish off the half glass of whiskey that had been sat on the walnut coffee table since last night, Balantyne stared gloomily into the glass before dipping his finger in, to flick out the midge that had landed in it. Then knocking back the whiskey, he felt the welcoming burn in his throat, hoping that the drink would not only lighten his mood but would lessen the dull ache from his tooth as well.
His thoughts drifted back to Franny and her father, as well as Alfie and Vaughn. The faces of Soho, old and new, who as far back as he could remember he’d played a cat and mouse game with – though frustratingly, and he hated to admit it, they were always one move ahead of him.
To try to catch them out, he’d even stepped over to the wrong side of the law at times: getting information by bribing or blackmailing terrified witnesses, planting evidence to try to get some kind of confession, or even strong-arming the suspects when they were in custody. Anything just to bring them down.
He knew that if they’d known some of the things he’d resorted to over the years, a lot of people he worked with would wrongly label him as a bent copper. And of course, that would be a joke; he was far from that. He did what was needed to try to get results, to try to get the lowlife scum put away. It was as simple as that.
He wasn’t the criminal, they were. And when it came down to the likes of Franny Doyle and Alfie Jennings and his sidekick, Vaughn Sadler, the only option was to play dirty, to play the game at their level. So if walking the wrong side of the line occasionally would keep the streets clean of them, he was more than happy to do that.
‘I suppose you’ve been with her again?’
Balantyne’s thoughts were abruptly broken as he looked towards the sound of the voice. Standing in her dressing gown in the doorway was his wife, Emma. Tall and thin, her long blonde hair falling messily out of the high ponytail and yesterday’s mascara sitting smudged under her eyes.
Quietly, Balantyne shook his head as he placed his glass down on the floor. ‘Emma, please, I’ve been working. I’m tired, and I just wanted to unwind.’
‘Then why don’t I believe you …? And if you haven’t been with her, I know you’ve been with some other cheap slag.’
‘Em, I’ve just told you. I’ve been working. That’s it. So I’d appreciate it, sweetheart, if we didn’t have to go through the same thing again,’ Balantyne said quietly, staring into the glass of whiskey.
Without warning, Emma shrieked, her expression screwed up with anger. She rushed into the room, pushing her face inches away from Balantyne’s. ‘Liar! Liar! You’re a liar! I know it! I can smell her on you.’
A mix of anger and despair rushed through Balantyne. ‘The only thing you can smell is the booze you’ve been necking back all day.’
Emma’s eyes blazed with anger. ‘Do you blame me, Tone? Are you surprised that I drink? Wouldn’t you in my position?’ She paused then her gaze searched Balantyne’s face and with her voice full of resentment, she hissed, ‘It’s all your fault, Tone. I will never forgive you for what you did to me. You owe me.’
Balantyne, wanting Emma just to stop, nodded and said, almost inaudibly, ‘I know. I know, sweetheart.’
‘Then come on, tell me. Tell me the truth, have you been with her?’
Staring straight into Emma’s eyes, Balantyne shook his head. ‘No, Em, of course not. It’s all in your head. There is no her.’
It was like a red rag to a bull. Emma leapt at her husband, scratching his face as she tugged on his hair. ‘Don’t lie to me! I know you’re screwing around on me!’
Flinching from the pain in his scalp, Balantyne raged, ‘Well if you know that, Em, why bother asking me then?’
Emma’s shriek filled the room again. ‘You bastard! You fucking bastard! You think this is all a big joke, don’t you?’
Balantyne grabbed her arms, pulling them off him. He bellowed back, ‘Are you kidding me? Does any of this look like a joke? I’m just sick of it. Every day it’s the same thing, Em … I just want to know why you’re doing this? Why do you always have to do this, Em?’
Emma’s eyes filled with tears. Her voice danced on the edge of hysteria. ‘Don’t you dare turn this round! You know why I’m like this; you made me like this. I can’t trust you, and it’s all I think about. I know you’re seeing someone. I know it. I can smell her on you.’
Balantyne loo
ked at Emma despairingly. ‘That’s just not true.’
Again, Emma lunged at him but this time she clawed at his eyes, screaming at the top of her voice.
Scrambling up from the chair, Balantyne knocked Emma backwards, forcing her against the wall where he grabbed her by the throat, banging her head against the tall wooden sideboard.
Balantyne’s face flushed red. ‘Is this what you want, Em? Are you happy now? Happy that you’ve pushed me to do this again? So now you can say I’m the bad guy, can’t you? That’s what you want isn’t it? Now you can go around telling everyone I knock you about, can’t you?’
Emma yelled in Balantyne’s face. ‘Who is there to tell? I haven’t got any friends because you won’t let me. I’ve got no one because of you.’
Enraged, Balantyne dropped his hand from her throat and punched the wall next to the side of her head. ‘Stop lying. Just fucking stop! The truth is you pushed them all away because no one wants to be around you. No one can cope with it. No one can put up with your drinking. You’re toxic, Em.’
‘And whose fault is that? Whose fault is it that I drink?’
Balantyne pushed his body close to Emma’s. He hissed his words: ‘I told you if you want to blame me then go ahead, blame it all on me.’
Again, Emma’s gaze darted over Balantyne’s face, which was only centimetres away. ‘Is she better than me?’
‘What? What are you talking about now?’
‘Her. Does she make you feel something that I don’t?’
Feeling the blood run down his face from the scratch on his head, Balantyne spoke softly. ‘Em, I’ve already told you, it’s just you and me.’
‘Then prove it … Prove that you love me. Let’s have a baby, Tony … You know how much I want a baby. Our own little family.’
‘Em, please … You can’t even look after yourself let alone a child at the moment—’ Balantyne felt the sting from the slap. His cheek turned red and the mark of Emma’s hand left a welt.
‘How dare you! How fucking dare you? Who do you think you are?’