Trapped

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.