Trapped. Jacqui Rose
Читать онлайн книгу.
he’d seen Saucers at the club, bubbling with non-stop talk and excitement.
He’d looked at her as she grinned, showing off her gold back teeth; wondering what she was talking about. Then it hit him and it all became clear. Not only had the penny dropped but so had his face. Even in the dim light of the club, Saucers had seen it too and going on one of his legendaries was the only thing he’d wanted to do then.
Johnny heard Saucers stir. He heard her gravelly voice before her face came into view as she leant over him.
‘Bleeding hell, the look on your face; anyone would think you’d looked down and your dick had vanished.’
Before Johnny had time to answer, Saucers plonked her head on the pillow next to him, sending shockwaves of pain through his body as the bed jolted.
‘Keep it down sweetheart, my head’s banging.’
‘Your problem, Johnny Taylor, isn’t that your head’s hurting, it’s that you need to sort your life out once and for all.’
‘Listen, if it was that simple I’d be the first one to be smiling, but it ain’t.’
‘It’s not simple because you don’t make it simple Johnny; none of you do. Fuck me, I want to bash your head against something hard; bring you to your senses. It’s Anthony and Cleopatra all over again.’
‘Oh do me a favour. Spare me your book of the week shit.’
Saucers shrugged, changing tact.
‘I’ve said it before Johnny, but it’s that …’
He knew what Saucers was about to say. He didn’t want to hear it. He turned his back to her, putting his hands over his ears like a child. A few minutes later he felt her hand on his shoulder. He turned round to see Saucers offering him a warm smile.
‘I know it’s hard Johnny and the last thing I want to do is upset you. I just care, babe. Care and worry about you.’
Johnny felt no malice towards Saucers. She was one of the few people who knew the story; he trusted her. He knew she’d keep her mouth shut.
Johnny closed his eyes, hoping to snatch a bit of extra sleep. This idea was short-lived, however, when a minute later the door was flung open. The booming sound of his father’s jovial voice made Johnny’s head feel as though it was being stamped on.
‘Now this is a sorry fucking sight, son.’
Frankie Taylor stood in the doorway with a wide grin on his handsome suntanned face. He was aware his black Savile Row suit was fitting a bit too snugly around the top of his legs for his liking; a consequence of too many paellas from his recent fortnight at his villa in Marbella.
Pulling at his trousers slightly, hoping to get a bit more slack on the thighs, Frankie took in, as he always did, his son’s impressive bedroom. It really was everything Frankie would have wished for as a child – but his mother had been too piss poor to even afford three square meals a day for him, let alone a half-decent house, so it gave him a feeling of satisfaction and immense pride to be able to provide what he’d never had for Johnny.
Most people he knew with sons had already kicked them out or they’d left home on their own accord by the time they reached the age of twenty-five. But with the sixty-inch inbuilt flat screen TV, the custom-built Goldmund chrome music system, the games consoles and the tabletop football with the tasteful drinks bar underneath, he knew there was no reason for his son ever to move out. And Frankie Taylor liked it that way.
It made him feel safe knowing his family were under his roof and as long as he felt safe, Frankie was happy. Family was everything to him. He hadn’t known his father and he had a sneaking suspicion his mother hadn’t either. He didn’t hold that against her. What he did hold against her was her pitiful existence, her acceptance of her surroundings, her inability to provide for her family, and her refusal of ever attempting to raise a smile, even on Christmas Day. These were the things which fuelled Frankie’s bitter resentment of his childhood. He could recall her words as if he was hearing them now. ‘What’s there to bleeding smile about, Frankie? The only time I’ll be smiling is when I’m dead and gone from this miserable earth.’
Even though his mother had been the most miserable bleeder he’d ever known and he’d resented his upbringing, it hadn’t stopped him loving her. He’d loved her like no one else.
As a child he’d always worried about her, running home from school instead of playing with his friends to make sure she was alright. When his mother had gone on a night out, he hadn’t been able to settle until she’d come home. Always staying up waiting for her, making sure she’d got in from wherever it was she’d been. If she hadn’t arrived home by eleven, Frankie had gone looking for her. Usually finding her skewed up to the eyeballs on penny lagers, with her knickers round her ankles from one nameless encounter or another.
He was only twelve when the butcher at the end of their street had found his mother keeled over at the bus stop after her heart had had enough of beating. What initially struck Frankie wasn’t sorrow but shame at the fact she’d been clutching onto a bag of scrap end meat. They’d needed to break her fingers to remove it from her grip.
When he’d seen her lying on the mortuary slab the first thing he’d looked for was a smile, but all he’d seen was the same tight, pursed expression she’d had when she’d been living and breathing.
He and his eight siblings had been carted off to the local kids’ home in Stepney in the East End of London where one by one, they’d been separated. Picked off like cherries from a tree as do-gooders came along looking for a child to complete their own family, not realising or caring they were breaking up one already there.
Fifteen years ago he’d tracked all his siblings down, but besides from his sister, Lorna – who called him every Wednesday evening to moan about everything from her burning haemorrhoids to the miserable skinny fucker she was living with in Belgium – he’d lost touch with all the others again.
The pretence of family unity had been too much for them to keep up. The ties had been severed and damaged a long time ago, and eventually they’d all stopped calling each other, slowly backing away; slinking off to their separate lives. All relieved that they could stop pretending they cared.
As sad as it was and at times painful for Frankie to think about what could’ve been, he had his own family right here in front of him. He had his own wife, his own son and there was no way history was going to repeat itself. He wasn’t losing contact with anyone, because no one was going anywhere, not if he had anything to do with it.
Looking down at his son with a naked Saucers lying next to him, Frankie smiled. Johnny was certainly a chip off the old block. He was proud of him. He couldn’t have asked for a better son. Johnny certainly knew how to have fun, but there was a time for fucking about and a time for work.
If they weren’t careful they’d be late opening the clubs and as business had been down lately, he didn’t want to give any of his regular punters an excuse to go somewhere else. Besides which he didn’t want a nag-full from his wife, Gypsy, if she came home and saw him running late.
He smiled again when he thought about his wife. He’d been married to her for thirty-two years, the ceremony being held on the day she’d turned sixteen. And after all this time, she still did it for him. Still gave him a boner when he thought about her – and Frankie knew very few people could say the same about their own missus.
Not that he didn’t bang the goods at his clubs on a regular basis. No one in their right mind could expect him to love, care and be faithful to his wife. By anyone’s standards that would be taking the piss. If he had to do that he may as well cut his balls off now and feed them to the fish in Hyde Park.
He looked at his white platinum Rolex watch; a present from Gypsy for his fiftieth birthday to go with the white gold diamond knuckledusters she’d got him the year before. He really needed to be at the first club by four at the latest, but thinking about his wife had left him feeling horny. Perhaps once he got to