His dad had been a face, as had his granddad and his father before him, and from a very early age he’d known that there was only one option, and that was to go into the family business whether he liked it or not.
He knew over the years he’d gained a fearsome reputation, but mostly that’d come from the early days when he’d been young and over the top with his fists; trying to compensate for the fact the aggression didn’t come as naturally to him as everyone presumed it would. The reputation had suited him well; it’d meant a lot of men only needed to see him walk into the room before that look of fear crossed their face and they told him what he needed to know.
He was pleased he was out of the violence, but that didn’t stop him missing the excitement of the life. He’d thought when he retired he’d step away from the people as well, but after a few months he’d gone back to his old haunts – to the old faces, to the men he’d shared drinks with and the men he’d shared fights with. It was who he was through and through; it was the core of him and there was no other place he’d rather be than the heart of Soho. And then of course there was his promise; the promise he’d made to Alfie’s brother all those years ago.
It was an easy job – or it was supposed to be: break into the old warehouse down on the Canning Town dock. Everyone who needed to be paid off had been: the onsite drivers, the night security, even the cleaners had been bunged a few grand to keep their mouths shut tight and their eyes shut tighter.
The prize in the warehouse was worth paying the hush money for; 300 kilos of the finest brown, shipped in from North Africa and stored in the old warehouse by the McKenzie brothers, a rival South London gang. The brothers had left it there thinking no one would be foolish enough to touch it, but Vaughn and Alfie’s brother Connor were impervious to the fearsome reputation of the McKenzie boys.
The brothers had hidden it at the back of the warehouse where the fish and meat traders kept their goods and went about their daily business, not realising they were in touching distance of nearly half a tonne of heroin which was like powdered gold. The people who worked in the warehouse didn’t know either; all they were aware of was that they were being paid to look the other way.
Vaughn stood up and watched Connor sitting tensely over in the corner of his front room; he was worried about him. He’d known Connor since his late teens and nearly eighteen years later he was as close to him as ever.
The first time they’d met, they’d got into a fight with each other after Vaughn had accidentally knocked a cup of tea onto Connor’s cheap looking suit. Connor’s strength and height had been no match for Vaughn’s, but he’d squared up to him nevertheless in the back of Johnny’s All-Night Cafe on the corner of Greek Street.
‘Bleeding look where you’re going, mate. You’ve gone and ruined my whistle.’
Vaughn had looked at the red-faced Connor and had smiled apologetically before walking towards the gents. A moment before he’d reached the door, Vaughn had felt a hand on his shoulder and then a fist to the back of his head.
It’d been an easy fight for Vaughn; he’d grabbed hold of Connor’s arm, twisting it round expertly before dragging him effing and blinding into the men’s lavatories, dunking Connor’s head into the bowl of the stinking unflushed toilet.
Far from being enraged like Vaughn had thought he’d be, Connor had rolled backwards and spluttered and spat out the offending toilet water, prior to bursting into laughter; they’d been inseparable ever since.
It was Vaughn who’d brought Connor up the ranks with him; his friend was too hot tempered to be running any turf on his own but he was loyal and funny and Vaughn enjoyed having him around. He especially admired the way Connor looked out for his younger brother Alfie, never letting anyone disrespect him or harm him and always making sure his brother had money and a decent roof over his head; it was touching to see.
Connor had once confided in Vaughn how guilty he’d felt for not being there for Alfie when his mother had committed suicide. He’d been banged up in a boys’ reform school at the time for breaking and entering. On the day he’d been let out, instead of going on the piss and shagging a hooker he’d gone straight home and cooked a meal for Alfie. He’d looked after him ever since; mother, father and older brother all rolled into one. Connor tried his hardest to give his younger brother the stability he needed and which, Vaughn suspected, Connor had always longed for himself.
Connor never talked about what had gone on inside the reform school but from what Vaughn had heard from other people over the years, it became clear Connor had been abused more on the inside of the grey stone walls of the East End school than he’d ever been on the outside by his violent alcoholic father.
Vaughn also had a sneaking suspicion that Connor had not only been abused physically in the reform school but also sexually, although he’d never dream of saying anything to him about it; not for fear he was wrong, but for fear he was right. Vaughn couldn’t bear to know too much about the pain his friend had to carry around with him, so he stayed silent and tried to make it up to him in his own way, by keeping him by his side and making his life as easy as he could.
One thing Connor did talk about with him – and one of the legacies of being in the reform school – was his fear of small spaces, and over the years Vaughn had done everything he could to stop Connor getting banged up: paying other people to fess up to the crime; framing people; even doing a small stint himself for Connor; but the last time he’d been fingered by the law, Vaughn hadn’t been able to get him off and Connor had served thirteen months in Belmarsh Prison for GBH.
When Connor had been released, Vaughn was there to meet him at the gates; but the person who greeted him was a shadow of the person who went in. To see him through the months and to take the edge off his fear of confined spaces, Connor had turned to smack. He didn’t manage to shake the habit once he got out, making him unpredictable and unreliable. Looking over at Connor now sitting in his chair, Vaughn could see he was either clucking for some brown or coming off some.
‘Why don’t you stay here, Connor? The job’s all neatly wrapped up – we can manage without you.’
Vaughn watched as Connor bounced his knee up and down agitatedly.
‘Are you trying to push me out, Vaughnie? I’ve heard rumours you’re trying to get me out. If you’ve got a problem with me just say so and we’ll have it out here and now.’
Vaughn looked at his nails absentmindedly. He knew Connor and he knew he was looking for a fight, but he wasn’t going to indulge him. The smack was addling Connor’s brain and Vaughn knew he had to get some help for him once the warehouse job was over. He spoke with slight annoyance in his voice.
‘Fine, Connor. Just saying, mate. You want to come along that’s fine with me – you won’t see me objecting. I’m not your keeper.’
Those words would come back to haunt Vaughn Sadler.
Emmie sniffed loudly, breaking the intensity of Vaughn’s thoughts as he continued to lead her down the stairs. At the bottom, he noticed a woman with long auburn hair, swaying from side to side, struggling to pick up her keys. Smiling, he bent down to get them for her. ‘I think you’re trying to get these.’
‘Thank you.’
As he gave her the keys, he hesitated, taking in her face. She was beautiful, one of the most stunning women he’d ever seen; but also there was a familiarity about her face. He was about to speak to her again when Emmie let out a huge wail, making both him and the woman jump in fright.
As Vaughn walked down Dean Street and back towards Whispers Comedy Club, attempting to hold up the lamenting Emmie, his mind started to wander back to the woman and where he knew her from; but as he turned the corner into Old Compton Street, any thoughts of her were forgotten when he saw an animated Janine Jennings, causing mayhem outside the club.
Weds 16th Aug 1995
Told Mum and Dad last week. Dad refusing to talk to me and Mum walking round with a glass of vodka stuck to her hand as if she’s an old drunk. Anyone would think I killed someone rather than just being pregnant. Dad came into my room last night trying to make me tell him who the father is. When I didn’t tell him, he got mad and started to call me names. Then he got really angry and started chucking my stuff round the room. He broke the china doll he got me last year. An hour later he came in to say sorry. Wouldn’t talk to him. I hate him but not as much as I hate myself.
Thurs 7th SeptNov 1995
Mum and Dad sat me down and told me they’d made a decision. I thought they were going to tell me they were getting a divorce, seeing as they’re both so unhappy with each other but they think nobody knows. Everyone knows!! Especially Dad’s friends; they all cover for him when he goes to meet some woman. He’s
an idiot
a prick. Instead of talking about a divorce, Dad said Mum thinks I should get an abortion, couldn’t believe it. Told them I was five months pregnant, so there was no way. Mum started to cry, Dad started shouting as usual. Mum managed to stop crying enough to tell me if that was the case she was going to arrange for my baby to be put up for adoption!(bitch) Ran out of the room and won’t open bedroom door to Dad’s stupid knocking on door. Anyone would think this is the 1930’s not 1995. So much for parent support. Don’t know what to do. Very, very scared.
Fri 22nd Sept 1995
Woke up in hospital. Everyone thinks I want to kill myself. I don’t, I just wanted to tell my side of the story to someone who might listen. I wanted to tell them I love my baby and want to keep it but no one seems to be listening. Ugly social worker came to see me (she had big wart on side of nose) She seems to agree with Mum about giving baby up for adoption. Says drinking the vodka and taking Mum’s sleeping tablets shows that I’m not emotionally mature. What does she know? Says I might have harmed the baby. Devastated. All I want to do is love my baby. I can’t believe I might have hurt him or her. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I love you. Still scared might have to run away but I have nowhere to go.
Thurs 18th Jan
1996
Think I’m in labour!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Casey closed the diary and sat motionless on the bare floorboards of the flat. Her head was spinning from all the excess alcohol she’d drunk, but reading the extracts seemed to have a sobering effect on her. The writing was immature and there was a tragic innocence about it; she didn’t recognise the naive girl who’d become the woman she was today, but she still felt that pain as if it had happened only yesterday.
The diary looked unremarkable on the outside with the dog-eared corners and faded cover, but the pages inside told a different tale: they grasped on to her past, refusing to let go, like a dying man wanting to hold on to his last breath.
It held the key to who she used to be, even though she hadn’t been able to read it for years; it had been a hot piece of coal burning into her, making her hurt all over again. She didn’t want to hurt any more.
She was tempted to go to the off-licence she’d seen on Shaftesbury Avenue to buy a bottle of scotch, but that would only make her a casualty of the situation again; something she’d fought so hard over the years to avoid. She’d come to London to try to find out the truth, she’d found out so little over the years but from the one lead she’d managed to find, she hoped finally she was in the right place and drowning herself in alcohol – which she’d done for too long now – had victim written all over the label.
Wiping away a tear, Casey decided the best thing she could do was try to get some sleep; she’d a busy day ahead of her. Undressing rather unsteadily and checking there weren’t any nasty creepy crawlies wanting to share the bed with her, Casey lay down and closed her eyes. But within a moment the unwanted memories came running into her head.
‘It’s best this way, Casey, you’ll see.’
‘Best for who, Mum?’
‘For everybody.’
‘But it’s not. It’s only best for you and Dad. Please, I know I’ll be able to look after it, just give me a chance. Let me keep my baby.’
‘Casey, you don’t know what you’re talking about. A baby isn’t something you can put away in a drawer once you get bored of it. I know it seems hard at the moment but later on you’ll thank us and realise we were just doing what’s best. You’ll be able to go on and make a life for yourself, get a career and get married. You’ll have the chance to have more children one day and put all this business out of your mind. I doubt you even know who the father is.’
‘Of course I do, but I’m not telling you.’
Her mother snorted in disgust. She wasn’t going to tell her who it was; she could think what she liked. Granted, Paul was just a boy at school – he hadn’t been the love of her life, but he wasn’t the one-night stand her mother thought he was. They’d dated for a few months until he’d moved to Swansea with his parents. She hadn’t bothered to keep in touch with him and when she found out she was pregnant, she certainly had no desire to complicate anything further by adding him to the equation. So her mother could continue to think she spent her time jumping into bed with strangers; Casey knew whatever she said she wouldn’t be believed anyway.
She spoke with as much hostility as she could conjure up between the painful contractions.
‘I’m not like you, Mum; I’m not going to pretend things aren’t happening because it’s easier. Maybe that’s what you can do with Dad but I can’t.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean, young lady?’
‘You know exactly. Dad’s been shagging about for as long as I can remember. And you know something? I don’t blame him one little bit.’
The pain of the slap on Casey’s cheek from her mother stung less than the pain from the hurt and humiliation it caused. The midwives rushed forward and started to usher Casey’s mother out of the room.