TRAPPED (23 page)

‘It was only a few sandwiches, Max. I worried about him not eating.’

Max laughed scornfully.

‘You’re pathetic. Serving Nicky food stops right here but I’m curious how sandwiches fits in with you thinking something’s happened to him.’

‘He hasn’t touched them or put them back in the fridge like he always does. I’m afraid Max. Like he’s overdosed or something.’

Max roughly pushed past his wife and barged into Nicky’s room, closely followed by Sheila. His face was red from his sudden exertion and fury. He marched into the room, flinging clothes, shoes, magazines and anything within his reach out of his way. Using his feet, Max opened Nicky’s wardrobe, turning his nose up at the stench of stale clothes and yellowing crack pipes.

Max looked on the top shelf of Nicky’s wardrobe which seemed to serve as an extra waste bin. Dried orange peel, foil, burnt out matches and damp paper filled the shelf which then filled the floor as Max threw his son’s belongings around.

Sheila watched the back of her husband’s head as she gnawed on her lip. He suddenly stopped, and turned around to face her, holding an envelope with the word, ‘Mum’ written on it. Immediately he tore it open, reading it silently. Sheila knew better than to ask what it said. She watched her husband screw the letter tightly up in his hand then throw it in the middle of the room. ‘Nothing’s happened to him woman, not yet anyway. Your precious Nicky has done a fucking runner and when I lay me hands on him, he’s going to wish he never had legs to move.’

Max marched towards the bedroom door past where Sheila was standing. Without thinking she instinctively reached for Max’s arm, afraid for her son. She grasped hold of her husband for only a fleeting moment before she realised what she’d done, then locked eyes with her husband as fear and dread hit her, along with Max’s clenched fist.

Max Donaldson felt sick. He always did when he stared at his wife’s face. Pulled up in a tight scrunch, always looking out for trouble, it was making him sicker than usual.

He could hardly see her eyes. They were hidden in deep red and purple swollen flesh. The bridge of her nose was bulging out with puffy tenderness and her bottom lip hung to the left with the weight of a painful engorgement.

He’d been looking forward to eating his bacon sandwich but Sheila was turning him right off it. What pissed him off even more was how much ketchup she’d put in the butty. It’d dripped out and run down his fingers, getting into the cut caused by his knuckle coming into contact with Sheila’s front tooth and now it was stinging like mad.

‘Turn yer fucking face away woman, unless of course yer sticking yer face out for another walloping.’

Max spoke as he shoved his sandwich away to one side. The force skated the green plate along the table until it came to the edge, then didn’t stop until it crashed to the tiled kitchen floor.

He was annoyed with himself, or rather with Sheila for making him do that to her face but he’d been so enraged by her grabbing him that he didn’t stop to think. To plan where he was going to lay his fists. Over the years, the do-gooders brigade had started to stick their noses into other people’s business when they turned up in casualty. Gone were the days of him being able to teach his family a lesson in the way he saw fit. Now some stuck-up doctor always wanted to know exactly how the injuries occurred.

Of course, his family knew not to talk, but he’d got more cautious, sticking to body blows with his wife. Apart from keeping unwanted people out of his business, it had the added bonus of him not having to look at her swollen face which always made him feel sick, as it was doing now.

The other reason he felt annoyed was Frankie Taylor. He’d been on his mind and any time Frankie came into his mind, Max felt angry. Angrier than usual. If Max had had his way he’d have an all out war; but wars cost money, and although he didn’t want to admit it, Frankie with his fake tan and whitened teeth was popular amongst the other faces. Max wasn’t certain it was a good idea to go to battle, knowing most of London would be siding with Frankie.

No, Max would go about it another way. The way he knew would hurt. He’d already had his men watching Frankie’s family, reporting back the movements of his wife and son. But he was going to have to do something big, if Frankie was going to take real notice. And it needed to hurt. Frankie had stopped him from being able to make the money he should’ve done years ago, but when he’d thrown the drink at him, he’d also humiliated him. Frankie would pay for that; or rather, his family would.

Sheila turned away from her husband. The whole of her face was aching and she didn’t know how she was going to face the kids. The shame she felt when she looked at her children from behind swollen features hurt more than the injury could.

She saw what they thought, it was written in their eyes as
clear as if she was reading a book. Their incomprehension at why she stayed, why she still continued to put up with the violence and abuse with each passing year and why she’d brought them into the world only for them to join her in the torturous chaos.

But she was trapped, imprisoned by an invisible wall, stopping her from freeing herself and her children – and she hated herself for it. Hated herself more than she did Max.

Gypsy pulled a face as she watched Frankie from across the table. He was tucking into a plate of fried egg, chips and jellied eels bought from Eddie’s in Brewer Street. For the past twenty years it was always the same order but today it turned Gypsy’s stomach. Everything about her husband at the moment had started to annoy her.

It’d been Frankie ignoring her which had done it. At first, she’d tried to make amends for whatever she was supposed to have done, had wriggled up in bed with him but he’d pushed her away as if he’d found some vermin crawling up his leg. She’d made him his favourite dinner; rib roast with Yorkshires and all the trimmings but he’d told her he wasn’t hungry and had gone to make a cheese sandwich instead. She’d even run him a bubble bath, offering to watch porn with him – her pet hate – on the large bathroom television whilst they lay in the tub together. He’d looked at her, his face full of derision and quietly told her he’d already had a shower before storming off to one of his clubs, not returning until the next morning.

It was after that she’d started to feel annoyed, bristled by her husband’s attitude and treatment of her. Unless he gave her an almighty apology for thinking she’d bashed Lorna over the head and an even bigger one for making her feel so bleeding lousy about herself, she wasn’t going to make any effort either.

Frankie watched Gypsy who was deep in thought. As usual she was done up to the nines. She was a classy East End girl and always had been. Her make-up was always immaculate. Her hair was beautifully coiffed within an inch of its life and her clothes, a grey Vivienne Westwood ensemble, looked stunning. The more beautiful she looked to him the more furious Frankie felt about her betrayal.

He thought about the Tom he’d picked up the other day from Wardour Street. He’d needed it, after spending the last few days by Lorna’s bedside. However, his thoughts had gone straight back to Gypsy. Instead of taking the girl to his club, he’d brought her back to the house, hoping Gypsy would’ve caught them. He’d wanted to see the hurt in his wife’s eyes as he revenge-fucked some silly bit of nothing in the bed and in the house which Gypsy and he had made together and been so proud of.

His wife knew he tasted all kinds of goods at the club; white ones, black ones, oriental ones, but she’d never actually
seen
it. He’d been discreet because he knew how women were, so he’d never rubbed it under her nose like she’d
done to him. He wanted to tarnish everything that was
good about their lives like the way she’d tarnished his heart.

Gypsy hadn’t come back to the house and he’d been disappointed. In actual fact he’d been disappointed in a lot of things. The fuck, the way the tart had looked like she wasn’t enjoying herself, and strangely enough, he’d been mostly disappointed in himself.

‘Are we going to get going Frank or what?’

Gypsy’s voice was loud and aggressive and her cockney accent cut through the words all the more.

‘I ain’t stopping you getting in the bleeding car woman. I don’t need to be Zimmer-framed to it. You may not have noticed but I’m on the mend.’

‘Oh too right I’ve bleeding noticed, Frankie Taylor. Only men on the mend leave other people’s stuff lying around.’

Frankie looked puzzled.

‘Don’t talk in bleeding riddles Gypsy, this ain’t an episode of
Countdown
.’

‘No? I beg to differ, because what’s been happening in this house lately is nothing but one big fucking conundrum. Next time, Frank, tell yer tart not to leave her knickers in me bed, I dunno where they’ve been.’

And with that, Gypsy marched out of their breakfast room, leaving Frankie with egg on his face, both literal and proverbial.

The white-washed ward on the twelfth floor was a women’s only ward and the private room paid for by Frankie at the end of the corridor was where Lorna had been taken after her stay in ICU.

Frankie made his way down the corridor, walking carefully along the overzealously polished floor. Gypsy walked a few steps behind him, taking the trouble to smile at the old ladies sitting up in their beds, wrapped up in what looked like uniform pink crocheted shawls and waving to anyone who passed.

At the door, Frankie waited for Gypsy to catch up and noticed how she avoided his gaze. He tapped on the door; lightly at first and then harder when there was no answer. He heard a muffled, ‘come in’ from the other side.

Frankie opened the door widely, booming loudly, rather too loudly. Knowing her husband as she did, Gypsy sensed he was covering up his unhappiness.

‘Alright girl? How are you doing? You had us worried there for a moment. Bleeding hell, I thought you were brown bread. Spoke to the doc and he says your CT scan was fine. He said you were good to go almost, you can be shot of this place if you feel up to coming home soon.’

Lorna smiled at her brother, touched by his concern but more touched about her surroundings. She was in a private room which meant she wasn’t going to take any shit from anyone, especially the nurses who wiggled around in their uniforms like a poor man’s Marilyn Monroe. Even though the doctors had said she could go home soon, she was enjoying being waited upon; perhaps she could squeeze out another few days before she went home.

She was starting to enjoy and appreciate what money could buy and it certainly bought people being at her beck and call, whether they bleeding liked it or not.

From behind her brother she saw Gypsy, done up to the back teeth in designer gear, trying to look younger than she was. The last person she wanted to think about at the moment was Gypsy, but seeing her walk in as if she didn’t have a care in the world made her impossible to ignore.

Lorna scowled at the sight of her, surprised Frankie hadn’t given her the big heave-ho but even more surprised she hadn’t taken her warning seriously.

She’d assumed Frank would’ve kicked her out by
now with his toe up the crack of her arse but it was clear he
was struggling to do that. Before her attack, he’d told her he needed to think about the best way to deal with it all. From the looks of him, Lorna guessed he was caught up in sentiment and no doubt with what was between Gypsy’s legs.

Maybe she was going to have to put a bit more pressure on Gypsy to show her she wasn’t playing games. The only reason she’d hesitated in saying anything to Frank about the letter was that she wasn’t quite sure how he’d take it. Yes, he’d get shot of Gypsy alright, but what she didn’t know was if he’d shoot the messenger as well.

‘I hope the room’s alright for you, Lorn; they didn’t have any on the top floor in the private wing, so I sorted this one out instead. Couldn’t have me favourite sister roughing it with that lot out there.’

‘Thanks Frank, you know I appreciate it. I ain’t one to be impressed by splendour, unlike some.’

Lorna paused dramatically and stared at Gypsy, making it clear who she was talking about. ‘I don’t want much, you know that Frank. Simple pleasures is all I ask for, though sometimes I didn’t even have them. But I don’t like to moan, so it’s nice to be treated with some care for once.’

Gypsy couldn’t believe what she was hearing; she’d seen Frankie’s bank accounts and knew her husband sent Lorna a couple of grand each month without fail, let alone all the extra birthday and Christmas money. Lorna Taylor was an ungrateful cow and she’d shown her true colours to her. Of course she was nervous about what Lorna had over her but she wanted to at least get one thing straight.

‘Gucci, Dolce & Gabbana, Chloé – call them simple pleasures? Do me a favour. Stop the bleeding quacking, Lorn. Let’s just get this sorted shall we, Frank?’

Frankie glared at his wife, amazed after everything that she still had the cheek to front up.

‘When I need you to butt into my business, Gyps, I’ll
frigging
well call.’

‘But it
is
my business when you go accusing me of nutting your sister over her bonce.’

Lorna sat herself up. It was the first time she was hearing this. The old bill had come to talk to her but she’d told them nothing and hadn’t wanted to until she ran it by Frankie. She’d told them she didn’t remember a thing, but the face of the intruder was as clear as the face on her Rolex watch and it certainly wasn’t Gypsy. But now she was hearing something else and she wanted to hear more.

‘I’m sorry, Lorn, I never wanted to bring it up like this but Gypsy here obviously thinks otherwise.’

‘I only want to get it sorted Frank because believe it or not I’m pig sick of it. You and your frigging accusations.’

‘
You’re
pig sick of it? What about Lorna? Bleeding hell, she comes over and next thing she’s laid up in hospital thanks to you. Lucky she ain’t no grass, otherwise you’d be sewing bags at Her Majesty’s.’