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.
CHAPTER FIVE
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
