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.
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
