Читать книгу Taken - Jacqui Rose, Jacqui Rose - Страница 13

Casey Edwards didn’t know if it was the thumping of her head which had woken her up or the loud scratching noise in the far corner of the room. After she’d discovered her emergency supply of vodka was empty, she’d taken herself out to a late night bar, but she had no recollection of getting home. As she opened her eyes, the noise got louder – she supposed in her intoxicated state she must have picked up yet another stranger with hygiene issues. Raising her head with a slight amount of difficulty, Casey stared in horror as she saw a large rat – of the four-legged kind rather than two – scratching away.

Her loud high-pitched scream didn’t do her head any favours as she ran into the lounge, barricading her body against the door. She felt the bile rise as she rushed to the toilet, forgetting for a moment about the filth awaiting her in the windowless bathroom as she violently emptied the contents from her stomach.

A black coffee and a half a Kit Kat later, Casey was on the phone to the landlord, frustrated at the lack of alarm Mr Goldman was showing.

‘What do you want me to do, love? Start charging him rent?’

‘I want you to do something about it. Come and take a look.’

‘It needs poison, not an audience. This is London love; weren’t you ever told the story of Dick Whittington? What you need is a cat.’

‘I thought pets weren’t allowed.’

‘They’re not.’

He laughed and carried on joking. This infuriated Casey, causing her to break down into floods of tears. Within a moment of her emotional outburst he agreed to take a look, preferring it, Casey supposed, to female hysterics on the phone so early in the morning.

After the call, Casey hurriedly went through her packed bag of clothes and discovered that apart from two pairs of lilac lace knickers, her only other clean item of clothing was a low-cut grey mini dress more appropriate for a night out than an overcast Thursday morning or a pair of jeans with a stubborn red wine stain on them.

After fifteen minutes of trying to get the stain out, Casey decided it wasn’t going to shift, no matter how hard she scrubbed. She felt faint and realised she needed to eat something other than chocolate; she had a busy day ahead.

Pulling on her jeans and putting on the least crumpled top she could find in her bag, she left the flat and wandered the short distance down Dean Street, doing a right into Bateman Street and walking into the first cafe she came across.

The runny egg on the chipped white plate and the overdone piece of fatty bacon were just two of the culinary delights of Lola’s Night Cafe. Casey stared at what was in front of her, feeling her stomach turning over once again.

‘Not hungry love? Never mind.’

Casey tried to smile at the woman who was speaking to her in between breaking out into short bursts of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, which was being played on the radio. Contrary to the toothless woman’s belief, Casey was very hungry, just not for what was on offer on her plate.

Getting up to pay, Casey saw the scrawled sign behind the counter: ‘Waitress wanted’.

‘Are you still looking?’

‘For what? My prince in shining armour? Bleedin’ hell, he’s already been in; took one look around and fucked right off again on his white charger.’

The woman opened her mouth wide and cackled loudly, causing Casey to draw back from her rancid breath.

‘I meant the waitressing job.’

‘I know what you meant, love. You’ll be no good to me if you can’t crack a smile.’

‘Sorry, I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’

The woman stared hard at Casey, looking her up and down and pausing at the top of her head; as if the job depended on Casey’s height.

‘You’ll do. I’m Lola by the way. Now take off that fancy jacket of yours and grab an apron.’

By the time four thirty had arrived, Casey’s feet were killing her and she was certain there were much easier ways to earn minimum wage. The stifling heat of the cafe, with its smells of old cooking oil, greasy fry-ups and countless bowls of watery tomato soup, combined with the lack of food in her stomach meant Casey needed to step outside on occasion into the busy street to get some fresh air.

‘I’ll dock your wages for that.’ Lola had glared at Casey for a moment but almost immediately had broken out into a smile. ‘You won’t have to mind me, Casey love; you’ll get used to me jokes. Keep smiling is what I say; helps your heart keep beating.’

Casey had warmed to Lola and found the woman’s open honesty about her past life refreshing but startling at the same time.

‘I was a brass for nearly twenty-five years. Don’t look so surprised! I didn’t always look like this. I use to have to put ear plugs in from all the wolf whistles I got.’

Lola laughed again and then her face went serious. ‘I would’ve carried on being a tom if it wasn’t for my last husband; been married five times and all of them were a waste of bog paper; but the last one, he was something else. You’ll probably see him in here from time to time, but take my advice, love – don’t be drawn in by his gift of the gab. Do yourself a favour and stay clean away.’

Casey nodded, taking in all the information.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Oscar Harding.’

Old Compton Street was packed with tourists with London guide maps in their hands and puzzled looks on their faces. It was nearly six o’clock and Casey wanted to sleep, but she’d no intention of going back to the flat until it was absolutely necessary. She thought about Lola and what she’d said, but for all she was and did, Casey suspected she was probably a darn sight happier than she was.

She could do with a drink to pep her up but she’d made a decision and for now she was at least going to try to stick to it. She sighed as she carried on walking. It was so hard to live in the present – her mind was always full of fading memories; but it was all she had and her reason for getting up each day.

The bus journey down towards Notting Hill Gate had taken longer than expected and Casey had been ready to get off the overheated bus and go back to the flat in Dean Street, but she’d seen a woman and a little boy sitting quietly at the back of the bus holding hands, saying nothing, just content in each other’s company. They reminded Casey what she had to do.

Portobello Road was dark and deserted, unrecognisable from the bustling market road it became during the daylight hours, and Casey wasn’t sure she’d come to the correct place. She looked down at the address she’d hurriedly written on a torn-off piece of newspaper and realised she was standing right outside where she needed to be.

The red door pushed open and Casey walked up the narrow stairs to the first-floor landing. There was another door to the left of her and she could hear voices coming from inside the room. Taking a deep breath, Casey opened the door to walk into a well-lit room.

‘Hello, please come in and take a seat.’

The red-faced man greeted Casey with a warm smile, gesturing for her to come and take the empty chair next to him.

‘We’ve just finished introducing ourselves. Perhaps you’d like to say who you are.’

Casey glanced at the man with his enthusiastic manner and smiled shyly.

‘Hello, I’m Casey and I’m an alcoholic.’

‘Hello Casey.’

The group greeted her in monotone unison, making Casey smile as it reminded her of being back in school.

‘I’m nearly one day sober and I need to get clean so I can find my son and tell him I’m sorry.’

The applause of the group made Casey blush and unexpectedly brought tears to her eyes as she was handed the white keyring of twenty-four-hour sobriety by a tall woman in her early twenties.

Sitting down in her chair she could feel her heart racing; she hadn’t thought she’d be nervous, after all it wasn’t the first time she’d been to a meeting. In Newcastle she’d been to a few and in Liverpool and in Birmingham as well, but maybe it was different because this time she was determined to get clean; she knew it was her last chance.

She’d never wanted this life but somehow it had invited her in and she’d stayed in its clutches. Living this way certainly wasn’t going to help her find her son, and even if she did, he’d never want her if she was a drunk. The meetings were her only way to keep steady on the tightrope she was walking.

Looking round the meeting in the small room above the designer clothing shop in Portobello Road was like flicking through the pages of a society magazine. There were models and actors both from film and from screen, musicians and old-time rockers, and sitting next to her was an infamous aristocrat holding on to his keyring of twenty-four-hour sobriety.

For the next forty minutes Casey sat listening to tormented stories about the struggle to stay sober, and as far removed as her life could possibly be from most of the people in the room, the sentiments by and large were the same.

In the remaining moments the serenity prayer was read out, as it always was at the end of any meeting, and even though Casey knew it off by heart she chose to stay silent. The words were so poignant to her and as she listened to them with closed eyes, she hoped they’d see her through the following days.

‘God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things that I can and wisdom to know the difference.’