She took a stool at the other end of the bar and ordered a brandy from an Australian with a bad Mohican and a face covered in studs. There was more metal in this guy’s head than in an average motorcycle wheel. The rest of his body was thick-blue with tattoo ink. He looked like a serial killer from the outback. She told him so and he nodded, before shaking her hand warmly. Her blood was still racing after her run-in with Oily Boy and the first brandy didn’t touch the sides. She ordered another, a double this time, rode the wave of adrenalin and waited for her pulse to ease down. She’d enjoyed the fight, but knew it was time to regain her focus.
‘What does your boss look like?’ she asked the barman, as he brought her brandy number three and decided to leave the bottle nearby to save his legs.
‘See for yourself,’ he replied. ‘That’s him over there.’ He nodded towards the doorway where an odd-looking individual had arrived, along with one of the bouncers from outside.
Cal Henson was quite the dandy. He had neat red hair in a side-parting, a purple pinstripe suit and a red cravat. If he was trying to stand out from the crowd it was working. He wandered across to the cute guy in the leather jacket at the far side of the bar. The pair exchanged a few words. The look Henson gave the guy was somewhere between uncomfortable and loathsome. He signalled to the barman to bring leather jacket another Guinness. The bouncer with him, who had the body and probably the brain of a mountain-gorilla, gestured in the direction of Cass. The pair made their way across.
‘A very good evening,’ said Henson, leaning on the bar beside her. ‘I understand from Eric here that you’re the young lady who pole-axed one of my customers earlier.’ His accent was camp, but with a frosty edge. His skin was so white you’d think it had never seen the sun.
‘I had to get your attention somehow,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, the boy needed a little treatment. He had a bad case of racism about him.’
Henson looked at her and chuckled, revealing yellow teeth. She was still wearing her shades. He seemed to be straining his eyes to penetrate the dark glass.
‘Well that’s as maybe,’ he said. ‘I hear there’s a lot of that sort of thing about right now.’ He took a small white handkerchief from his top pocket and waved it in the air, as if to reemphasise his distaste. ‘But he was a paying customer and I simply abhor mindless violence.’
‘Me too honey.’
‘I heard you wanted to see me…’
‘Sylvana,’ she replied.
‘Okay, Sylvana. You have thirty seconds.’
‘I want to dance on one of your podiums,’ she said.
‘No vacancies at present,’ he replied, with the kind of ugly smile that would send most kids running to hide under the bed. Henson was clearly the kind of guy that enjoyed having a bit of power, which in her book was just about every guy.
‘I’ll dance for free.’
‘Now why the dickens would you do that?’
‘Maybe I like dancing.’
‘There’re still no vacancies.’
‘I’m better than anything on show here.’
Henson looked across at the four dancers currently working.
‘They look an unusual bunch,’ he said. ‘But they all serve a purpose, all have a market, from the very young to the, shall we say, slightly more mature. But if a situation becomes vacant, maybe I’ll be in touch. Leave your number at the door. Come on Eric.’
Eric grinned at Cass. She grinned back. Henson turned to walk away, clicking his fingers to signal that the bouncer should follow suit.
‘And by the way,’ he said. ‘I’d appreciate it if you’d leave my customers with at least some of their self-respect intact in future, irrespective of their politics.’
5
Liam Kenny sat at the other end of the bar, his latest free pint before him. He ran his fingers down the condensation on his glass then wiped a little of the moisture across his forehead. The August heat was intensifying as the evening wore on. The club felt like an oven. He’d take his leather jacket off, but he didn’t like the idea of getting too much at home in this place. He was on his fifth pint already, all of them gratis, just like they had been for the past five nights. Free beer and empty promises; all he ever seemed to get from Henson.
‘Keep the drinks coming for this gentleman,’ said Henson when he turned up a few moments ago. ‘Don’t worry Liam. I’m working on a payment for you. It won’t be long now. Trust me.’
Fat chance. Liam hated the club and he hated Cal Henson, but he wasn’t going anywhere without his money. A month earlier he’d finally walked free after serving a full five-stretch in Liverpool; travel pass in his pocket and no time off for good behaviour. For half a decade he’d kept his mouth shut about the armed post office blag; a silence that a succession of parole boards seemed inclined to hold against him. He’d been loyal over the years, because that was how Liam Kenny was, but now he figured it was time for a little something in return. After all, he had earned it the hard way.
On release he played it safe and headed back to Dublin, just in case the law were tailing him to see who he contacted. Once he was sure he was in the clear he came to Soho to look up Cal Henson, the man who had taken all the profit from the job; one hundred and fifty grand in used notes. And boy, how Henson had changed. He was like the alley cat who’d got the cream; Mr Smug playing the eccentric English dandy; club-owner and black market entrepreneur, rubbing shoulders with the Maltese mafia. Liam had been patient with Henson so far, but his resolve was growing thin; as thin as the watered-down lager pissing out of the taps in front of him. If he didn’t see his cash soon, he’d have to make other arrangements.
At least the girl with the long boots had brightened up the surroundings. Liam had noticed her the minute she walked in and was pretty sure she was checking him out from behind the shades. Her wig looked plain crazy, but she had a walk that could start a forest fire and a body well worth dying and going to hell for. The girl had taken a seat across the other end of the bar now and looked like she was trying to keep the brandy business safe from the recession. The rate she was going, she’d need a new liver by sun-up.
Liam had seen Cal Henson and his no-neck stooge Eric exchanging words with her a minute ago. He wondered what the hell that was all about. Maybe she was one of his new turns. Henson was bad news alright, but she looked more than capable of taking care of herself. It was none of his business anyway. Whoever that girl was though, she certainly knew how to make an entrance and nail it to your forehead, so you kept on seeing it whenever you opened your eyes. Looking at her would certainly beat the sight of his own ugly reflection, but Liam only had one thing on his mind right now: the money he was owed by Cal Henson.
6
The dance floor was heaving with a general lack of any real rhythm. Cass had always figured most guys really shouldn’t try to dance and there was nothing here to make her change her mind. Drunken punters lumbered around, spilling booze, leering at the podium girls. She looked at each of the four dancers in turn. One of them would have to go, but which one? The two nearest girls could only have been about seventeen and had a Balkan look about them, Serbian or Albanian maybe. They had short dark hair and wore two-tone black and white dresses above bright red stilettos. They both looked decidedly uncomfortable, like they were trying too hard to shine.
The girls reminded Cass of some of the cases she’d met in prison. They had a hard time alright, those eastern Europeans; trafficked and prostituted, spending their adolescent lives being passed around like blow-up dolls for evil bastards with fat bellies and moustaches. Soho was full of these girls, shipped over like freight from the continent and put to work like farm animals, knives at their throats, too frightened to speak, let alone fight back. She wondered if Henson was involved in that racket. It wouldn’t have surprised her. Nothing surprised her in Soho. The guy was clearly a scum-ball businessman with a ruthless streak and though that wasn’t her problem right now, she figured these two girls probably deserved a break.
; The next woman along was struggling to keep pace with the junior competition. She had plaits and was dressed in a school uniform, complete with a hockey stick that made for a useful prop in an obvious kind of way. She was probably only in her late twenties, but beneath the flimsy blouse and short skirt it looked like the boobs and backside had already opted for an early retirement in the south. An undercurrent of quiet desperation betrayed her efforts to shine, whenever the neons hit her full on. Bright lights had a habit of exposing sadness in a face, especially towards the fag-end of a heavy night. Like everyone, this girl would have had dreams once and now all she had was this. She reminded Cass of a friend of her mother’s called Rita, who’d taken care of her as a kid when her mother did time for shoplifting. Rita was a no-nonsense old pro with a wicked mouth and a laugh like Sid James. She still smiled when she thought about old Rita.
That just left the fourth dancer and right now her odds weren’t looking good. She was a tall girl in her early twenties, wearing calf-length boots, a denim mini and a white blouse tied below her breasts. Her tan was perfectly even, as were the features on her smug face. A posse of droolers stood leering below her, their heads bobbing like nodding dogs, as a pool of saliva oozed down to the floor. She had the classic little-miss-rich-girl-wild-child appearance, from the bird’s nest designer scruffy hair to the diamond belly-button stud. If there was one thing Cass really hated it was a little-miss-rich-girl-wild-child. This bitch was obviously slumming it for kicks, when she could easily be somewhere better. Within a couple of years, when the novelty had worn off, she probably would be somewhere better, assuming the drugs hadn’t got to her first. Cass took another slug of brandy. She’d quickly made up her mind. Little-miss-rich-girl was about to take a holiday.
7
Rich girl finally took a break from her stint on the podium. She climbed down and made for the door. Cass finished her drink and followed her under the DJ box and into the room marked “Pussycats”. The smell of blocked drains wafted through the open window at the back of the toilets, which had been decked out back in the nineteen-eighties with mock-Roman decor. Toga-clad porn stars with mullet hair-dos were making sweet love on murals all over the wall. At every turn there were pencil sketches of rampant orgy. Cass found herself tipping her head this way and that.
‘And they wonder why their empire crumbled,’ she said to herself. For some reason, the pictures made her think about the leather jacket guy by the bar. She couldn’t for the life of her think why.
Little-miss-rich-girl was studying herself in the mirror above the marble basins. Cass stood beside her and smiled. Rich girl didn’t respond. Giggling noises came from one of the cubicles, a sharp intake of nasal snorting from another. Occasional peeing sounds came from the other three. Rich girl adjusted her boobs and started touching up her lipstick.
‘You’re a good dancer honey,’ said Cass. ‘Too good for this place. I think it’s time you moved on.’
Rich girl looked at her like she was an alien.
‘Are you an agent or something?’ she asked. Her diction was as crisp as the brand new fifty-pound notes that had no doubt paid for her public-school education. ‘Because I already have one.’
‘Not exactly,’ said Cass. ‘I’m more what you might call, your “replacement”.’
‘What?’
‘You’re going to take off now and you’re not going to come back for a while. A couple of weeks should do.’
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘The name’s Sylvana honey. How do you do and well, like I say, goodbye.’
Rich girl looked Cass up and down, like she was a piece of shit that she simply could not believe.
‘Take a hike darling. Cal Henson likes his girls to have a little class and well…’
She gestured up and down Cass’s body with her hands and shook her head. ‘Need I say more?’
Two girls emerged from one of the cubicles, wiping their nostrils. Cass turned to them and nodded towards the door. They didn’t hang around.
‘You’re making the wrong choice honey,’ she said. ‘A big mistake. Now I’ll ask you one more time. Why don’t you take a little career break?’
‘Just get out of my way, you tramp…’
Rich girl pushed Cass’s shoulder and tried to pass. One swift leg movement was all that was needed. She swivelled on one heel and struck with the other. The sound of shin breaking resounded around the marble toilet furniture, followed by the sound of a rich girl screaming her lungs out. She fell to the ground clutching her leg. Two more girls emerged from the other cubicles and quickly hurried out. The cubicle with the giggling had gone very quiet.
‘Lie still honey,’ said Cass. ‘It’s a pretty clean break. Be good as new in two, maybe three months, if you take it good and easy.’
‘You bitch,’ she screamed back, through her tears. ‘You fucking bitch…’
Cass strolled out of the toilets, across the dance floor and back to her barstool.
‘Do me a favour honey,’ she asked the Aussie barman with the metal face, after she’d ordered another large brandy. ‘Ask one of your guys out front to call an ambulance. There’s a girl through there who’s had a nasty fall. I think she may have been startled by some of that Julius Caesar porn on the wall and lost her balance. Oh and by the way, tell your boss he needs another dancer.’
8
Thursday
‘So long losers,’ shouted Marcella, spinning round and waving to the inmates lined up by the breakfast trolley. Eighteen months of eating meals off plastic moulded trays had come to an end. At last she was leaving this hell-hole. A couple of bitch screws told her to hurry up. They had work to do; they hadn’t got all morning. She picked up her bag of possessions and strutted towards the wing exit. One of the screws put a hand on her shoulder, as the other unlocked the gate. The bitch was trying to be seen being firm with Marcella in front of the other women. Marcella turned and stared at her.
‘I’m a civilian now honey,’ she said. ‘So you ever touch me with that dirty finger again and I’ll just have to rip it clean off and stick it right up your dirty ass.’
The screw whipped her hand away. Marcella winked and blew a kiss across the landing. The women of B-wing cheered like crazy as they watched her disappear for the last time. She had her friends alright, but most were just glad to see the back of her. Scars and bruises decorated many of the faces and bodies she left behind in HMP Holloway. Marcella had cracked some of the toughest nuts in the system in her time. Anyone who tried to bully, extort or take any kind of liberty with her had paid a heavy price. Proper hard cases had taken her on and been properly damaged for their trouble, the hospital wing seeing plenty of business whenever Marcella was at large.
Flanked by her guards, she made her way down to the gatehouse to collect her travel permit and discharge grant. A few minutes later the doors opened and the reception officer took her out to the driveway that led to the main gate.
‘You got plans Marcella?’ asked the officer. Her name was Rosie. Rosie was one of the few people in a uniform Marcella had met in or out of prison in the past ten years, who actually resembled a human being. ‘That acting and dancing stuff you did at Christmas with Cass Hall was real good,’ she carried on. ‘You should think about that. Do some training maybe.’
‘Maybe I will Rosie,’ she replied. ‘One day. Right now I’ve got another role to play.’
Rosie shook her head. She had no idea what Marcella meant, but didn’t like the sound of it.
‘You’re so full of anger Marcella. You always have been, but you’ve got to know it won’t do you any good in the end. Remember what they say about people who ride tigers.’
‘What the hell’s that?’
‘They say they can never get off.’
Marcella gave out a crazy laugh.
‘You’ve really lost me now Rosie,’ she replied. ‘But you take good care girl.’
With the officer watching and still shaking her head, Marcella walked
away and left the hell of prison life behind her. Her legs felt light, as she made her way left down Parkhurst Road, towards Holloway Road. “Parkhurst”, “Holloway”. Shit. The first thing she resolved to do was find a street that wasn’t named after a goddamned prison.
The free-world air tasted good after the sweatbox of B-wing, but it was a different taste she was craving. She knew she was supposed to be somewhere, but right now she just fancied a little drink. Marcella was impulsive like that. Plans tended to go to hell when she had a fresh whim.
The Prince Albert pub on the other side of the road was pretty shabby. It had seen better days for sure and wasn’t exactly what she had in mind in her recent daydreams, but right now it looked how a good-looking older man might look. Down on his heels maybe, going a little grey, but still kind of cute and a wiz at pressing the right buttons. She didn’t have enough cash for a real session, but the discharge grant burning a hole in her pocket would take her at least some way down the road to oblivion.
Marcella may not have felt a million dollars in her old jeans and denim jacket, but that didn’t stop the wolf-whistles flying from the passing cars. As she made to cross, a black cab pulled up alongside her. She did what was second nature to her by now and flipped her middle finger up to say hello to whichever scum-ball wanted to swap pleasantries.
‘Is that how you greet all your friends?’
Her face lit up when she saw who it was. Cass swung the cab door open and moved across to let her inside.
‘Haven’t you heard babe?’ replied Marcella. ‘This is the sign of peace in some weird cultures.’ She jumped in and gave her friend a hug.
‘Looks like I got here in the nick of time,’ said Cass, nodding at the pub. ‘Don’t worry honey. There’s champagne waiting for you later.’
My Bloody Alibi Page 2
