faces and restaurants, feeling the knots of anxiety in her stomach.
The flat she hadn’t seen yet but had agreed to on the phone was next to a pub being refurbished and almost opposite the Soho Theatre. In front of the communal front door Casey saw a Turkish couple arguing violently, and her heart dropped as she wondered if they were to be her new neighbours.
It was just gone five thirty when the landlord, who’d agreed to meet Casey at four o’clock, showed up.
‘Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’ Bernard Goldman spoke in such a manner it was apparent to Casey he didn’t care if he had or not. He continued to talk in a bored voice as he took out a large set of keys from his brown leather briefcase.
‘So, like I said on the phone, its one month’s rent in advance and one month’s rent as a deposit. Each month I’ll come and collect the rent in cash and if you can’t pay, then it’s out. Okay?’
Casey nodded and followed him up the bare staircase to the battered white door at the top of the building. The landlord paused and it took a second for Casey to realise what he was waiting for. Quickly she scrambled in her bag and took out a large envelope, handing it over to him.
After taking several minutes to count the money twice, the landlord was eventually satisfied it was all there.
‘Here’s your keys; flat, building and utility meters. If you’ve any problems you’ve got my number.’
‘What about an agreement?’
‘What about it?’
The landlord sighed and scratched his flaking head, answering Casey in a sardonic manner.
‘Okay. I agree and you agree. Happy now?’
He turned and walked down the stairs and Casey heard the slam of the bottom door close as he hurried out. She stood on the top landing wondering what she’d let herself in for and after a deep breath she put the key in the lock.
It was worse than she’d expected – and she hadn’t expected a great deal. The paisley brown wallpaper was visibly peeling off the walls, exposing a multitude of wires. The furniture was non-existent and the floors were bare boards, though Casey thought that was probably a blessing; the idea of having to live with a carpet, riddled with god knows what, might take some doing. The kitchen was really a kitchenette, built as if an afterthought on the far right wall of the L-shaped room. The stove was filthy and Casey reckoned it was a good thing she hated cooking. Surprisingly the kettle was new; so at least she’d be able to have a cup of coffee in the mornings without fear of electrocution.
She opened the door to the bathroom to see what horrors awaited her and immediately shut it closed again. The last door was to the bedroom; in it was a double bed with a mattress still covered in plastic wrapping, a side cabinet with one of its legs being propped up by a pile of yellowing porn magazines, and a large curtainless window overlooking the street.
Even though she wanted to pick up her bag, leaving the squalid flat to its crawling inhabitants, she’d no other choice but to stay there now. The rent with the deposit had worked out to nearly three and a half grand which had totally wiped out all her savings and she certainly couldn’t afford to lose it, plus, unlike most landlords, Mr Goldman only insisted on hard cash and not references and Casey knew it’d be hard to come by a flat in London whose owner didn’t require all the proper paperwork and, for that, being extorted by ruthless landlords was the price she’d have to pay. Not wanting to open the bathroom door again, Casey washed her face and brushed her teeth in the kitchenette sink. Pulling out a beige sweater from her bag, she touched the tattered red diary lying at the bottom of it. She’d started writing it when she was fifteen and had only kept it up for a couple of years, but the idea of throwing it out had never even crossed her mind. Over the years she’d moved around the North of England and the first thing she ever packed was her diary, always unable to throw it away, but always unable to open it. Now she had no choice. If she wanted to reconnect with the girl she once was, she had to remember. That girl had had hope, ambition, but more importantly she’d been innocent – and when Casey thought about who she’d once been, it was if she was thinking about another person.
Opening it, Casey read the first entry – written in red capital letters and two lines long.
Sat 15th July 1995
OH GOD – I’M PREGNANT!!!! MUM AND DAD ARE GOING TO KILL ME.
Casey slammed the diary closed and threw it back in the bag. She needed a drink; preferably several. It was the end of a long day and she refused to let herself feel guilty about needing to take the edge off. She could start her good intentions tomorrow. For now, she was going to let her hair down.
Looking round at her new home, she realised how utterly alone she was; moving round so much had given her few opportunities to make friends but this was different and the loneliness frightened her. There was no hiding from the truth either; she’d hit rock bottom and if she was going to ever climb out of this hole, she needed to find the courage to do what she’d come here to do.
Unable to stay in the flat for a moment longer, she hurriedly pulled on her jumper, brushed back her long auburn hair and grabbed her jacket before heading out and down the stairs, just in time to see a woman from the flat below being dragged out into the street by a man who was clearly a junkie.
Walking up Old Compton Street, Casey stopped to read a board outside a comedy club; she could do with a laugh. But tonight she really needed to have a quiet drink and think about what she needed to do. After all, there was a reason why she’d come here, and she didn’t want to get distracted by anything else. She continued to walk into the heart of Soho, not noticing the stare of the man across the street.
CHAPTER TWO
Alfie Jennings hated tarts. He didn’t mind fucking them but that was as far as it went. He’d certainly no wish to exchange small talk with them – he got enough of that at home with his wife, Janine, without some big-breasted brass talking shit in his ear. All he’d wanted was to get his cock sucked in peace and now he was being forced to listen to a brass talking ten to the dozen.
‘Bleedin’ hell it was cold outside last night; I nearly froze my tits off and it’d been so sunny during the day. Apparently the rest of the week is going to be rainy but I’m …’
The shoe missed, which was Alfie’s intention – it wasn’t really his scene to hit women, not unless he really had to, but he was certainly coming close to it now; the brass was jangling his nerves with all her yacking.
‘Ow! What was that bleedin’ for, Alf? You could’ve hit me on my boat race!’
‘If I’d wanted to shag a flippin’ weather girl, I’d have given Ulrika a call. And if I was trying to hit you, believe me darlin’, I wouldn’t have missed.’
‘Oh that’s nice ain’t it? If that clump of a shoe had hit me, it would’ve split open me fucking lip and then how would I give blow jobs then? It’d take at least a week to heal and that’d be a whole week’s money lost, not to mention …’
Alfie walked into his en-suite bathroom and slammed the door closed; hookers weren’t what they used to be. He could remember the time they fucked, sucked and kept their mouth shut. Now they all wanted to talk; thought it was their right to; and that pissed him off no end. He wanted a whore not a fucking wife.
Still
