CHAPTER 4

'Mr. Turnbull will see you now.'

Oscar's silverback of a security guy gestured at me to go in, like I was waiting to go into a job interview. I tugged at the hem of my dress as I stood up, feeling stupid dressed like this in the middle of the afternoon and definitely

not like I was dressed for an interview, unless of course the job involved swinging upside down from a pole in Oscar's club, wearing nothing but my knickers and a fake smile.

It had been cold outside, my thin jacket barely doing anything to ward off the winter chill or the chill of my three-day comedown, but in Oscar's club, it was as if the heating had been cranked up to make-them-fucking-sweat level. I could already feel my dress sticking to my back.

The staccato-beat of the crappy dance music was muffled in the small velvet-draped foyer where I'd been sitting. Through the other door, the girls were already parading the stage in a whirlwind of tassels, bare flesh and hairspray, while half a dozen punters or so sat watching, despite the fact it was barely three o'clock, with one hand on their pint glasses, the other in their laps.

It seemed it was never too early for nipples and a hard-on.

Inwardly cursing Davey for making me do this, I flashed a grin at the muscle-head, earning nothing but a hard stare in return, and I walked past him through the now-open door of Oscar's spacious office, expertly navigating the way in my certain-death heels. I'd played this part so many times before, worn this dress, fixed my make-up and my smile, that it had become like second nature. And all to just get Davey what he wanted, and to keep Oscar happy, of course.

'Ere, Davey lad, send that tasty little sort of yours down to get the gear next time, yeah?

I was never sure what it was Oscar liked about me so much that had sparked his interest. He told me once that if I'd been a bloke, I'd have had bigger balls than every man working for him. I never quite worked out whether he meant it or whether that had been his idea of flattery, but I did know it meant I'd never had to come down here and let him hammer away at me while grunting like a sweaty Cockney pig, as I pressed my face against his 80's style black-lacquered desk and thought of England.

Davey wasn't partial to anyone taking too much of an interest in me, but when it came to Oscar, those rules seemed to be well and truly off the table. Sometimes I wondered whether he would sanction Oscar screwing me just to get his gear. Not that I would have, mind you, not even in the pre-Davey days when there weren't many who were off limits to me, but Oscar Turnbull was an odious, ugly fucker who only managed to get laid through intimidation and money, and there was nothing about that which turned me on.

Strangely however, where I was concerned, Oscar had been nothing but polite. In fact, I'd even go as far as to say he'd been surprisingly charming, but the thing with Oscar was that there was a dangerous edge to his charm, one that turned my stomach and made me wary every time I was in his company.

That was the problem with spiders, you see. They'd sit and wait out of sight, watching as you wandered unsuspectingly into the web and then they'd happily let you struggle for a while, until finally, when all your energy was used-up, they would attack.

I couldn't help but sense that was exactly how Oscar lived his life. Always waiting to attack.

'Casey, sweetheart!' he called out in his rasping, Cockney tone as I walked in, his arms stretched wide, ready to welcome me as he did every time; by grasping my arms and planting a slightly-lingering kiss on both cheeks. I always had to resist the urge to wipe the kisses off my face.

'How are you, Oscar?'

No one addressed Oscar as 'Oscar' to his face. Not his employees. Not even his business associates. There was a mark of respect there that he didn't even have to demand of people. They just called him Mr. Turnbull, like they instinctively knew he should never be 'Oscar' to them. But I'd always called him Oscar and for some reason, he'd never batted an eyelid over it. In fact, I had a sneaky suspicion he sort of liked it.

'Ah, you know me, darlin', always fighting the good fight and all that.'

I raised a brow. 'Yeah? Funny, can't remember hearing about you making an appearance at St. Mary's at Sunday worship.'

He squeezed my arms in response and leaned in closer, sending wafts of cigar and whiskey breath my way. 'And what the bloody hell would you know about Sunday worship, eh? You'd be struck down by lightning as soon as you stepped foot over the bloody threshold.' He winked a conspiratorial wink and released me, making me want to rub my arms where he'd squeezed a little too enthusiastically.

Sauntering over to the drink's cabinet, he shot me a brief glance, one that expertly took in my legs with one sweep of his eyes. 'What you drinking these days, sweetheart? Still rum and coke?'

I nodded, although the truth was I'd probably drink anything anyone put in front of me.

Dropping two large ice cubes into a tumbler glass, he poured me a generous shot of rum, followed by a barely-worth-it mixer of cola he got from the fridge beneath the cabinet, before walking over and placing the glass down on a coaster on his desk. Motioning for me to sit, he went back and made a drink for himself - some expensive scotch he always drank - on the rocks, and then returned to his chair, where he leaned back, running one hand through his thinning, grey hair.

The first time I'd met Oscar Turnbull, I'd had to fight the impulse to laugh. I'd always had this idea of an atypical London gangster, inspired probably by too many Guy Ritchie and Ray Winstone films, and Oscar had fit that image to a tee. He always wore a suit - always - and it was invariably one of those grey ones with a slight sheen to the fabric, a crisply-ironed shirt usually in some garish colour that looked a little too tight around his paunch, open at the neck, and with too much gaudy gold jewellery on show. His hair was worn slightly longer and combed back to try and disguise the fact he'd lost a lot of it on top and he smelt of too much aftershave and weirdly, of baby powder. I never got the baby powder thing at all, but the hint of that smell on someone who liked to break people's kneecaps just for fun always seemed to me to be a slightly sick twist on the clichéd gangster image he portrayed.

And if he was an atypical gangster, then his office was a perfect reflection of him. Black lacquered furniture and chrome were still all the rage in Oscar's world, as were the red carpet and matching accessories. It was like 80's office Hell on acid. I couldn't have conjured up a worse hallucination with five pills and ten tabs on my tongue. He even had one of those kinetic desk toys with the metal figures on the see-saw, which he seemed to take great delight in watching move up and down with one push of his finger. On the walls lined various black and white prints in thin black, varnished frames.

See that one, sweetheart, he'd said the first time I'd been invited to his office, pointing up at the small A5 size print. I'd noticed that his fingernails were slightly too long. That's my dad sparring with Henry Cooper. Do you know Henry Cooper, love? My dad used to spar with him down Eltham way. Knocked him clean out once too. Can you believe it? My ol' man knocking out the best heavyweight London's ever produced.

In the corner was a plush - again black - leather sofa, which I always made sure I never sat on, having heard the jokes in Davey's crew about it being Oscar's casting couch for all the pretty young things that wanted to work for him. The image of Oscar's long-nailed fingers on all that bare oiled flesh was enough to turn anyone's stomach, even mine, and so I avoided it, always prompting for the chair in front of his desk, where I could show off enough leg to encourage that steely glint in his eye, but not enough to make him think I'd be happy to take a turn on his couch.

'So, how you been keeping, Casey? You're looking well as always.'

I smiled briefly, wary to not let him think the flattery worked on me. It was always best not to extend any invitation where Oscar was concerned.

'Not bad, Oscar,' I replied, taking a sip of rum and relishing the burn on its way down. 'How's your mum?'

Oscar's mum, Rita May Turnbull - face like a

really ugly bulldog chewing a wasp – was an East London stalwart who, in her day, probably would have knocked the shit out of the husband who'd once knocked out Henry Cooper of all people (whoever the bloody hell he was). She was now reaching telegram-from-the-Queen age and still as feisty as she ever was, despite the fact she'd lost the sight in one eye and was now holed up in an old people's home over in Islington. I always asked after her though, which seemed to go a long way with Oscar.

'She's doing well, Casey, thanks, love. Causing all them buggers in Leafy Meadows no end of trouble, mind you.' He grinned a nicotine-stained toothy grin. 'How's your mother, by the way? You heard anything from her recently?'

I stiffened. I don't even know why I did because I always knew he'd ask the question. He did it every time, whether out of that habitual way we had around here of asking about each other's family, or whether because he sensed it unnerved me, I had no idea, but I hated the question all the same. He knew my mum, of course. Everyone round here knew my mum. In fact, I'd have hazarded a guess that half the boozers and every dirty alley north of the river knew her. Maggie Brogan wasn't a name you forgot once you'd met her. She left that lasting impression on people, only it wasn't the kind of impression that made you glad you remembered who she was.

'Nah,' I said with a smile that must have looked like it was straight off a shop mannequin. 'Last I heard she'd shacked up with Dougie Enright. He somehow managed to wangle a one-bedroomed flat from the council over in north Hackney.'

Oscar shook his head and made a face like he just smelt something nasty. 'Bad news that one,' he said. 'Still, good to hear she has a roof over her head, eh?'

'Sure,' I shrugged, before nodding a bit more enthusiastically when I saw Oscar furrow his brow at me. My mum might have been a fucking deadbeat loser, but as far as Oscar was concerned, you treated your mother with respect, deadbeat or not.

'So tell me, Casey, how's business?'

It never took him long to get the formalities out of the way before he started talking shop.

I took a breath and smiled broadly. 'Well, you'll be pleased to hear that New Year's Eve was a big success.'

He tapped the side of his glass with his index finger as he held it up to his lips, saying nothing as he looked at me. I hated it when he did that. There was an intensity to his stare that burrowed too deep and if there was one thing you had to remember about Oscar is that while he might have looked like he'd stepped out of a straight-to-TV gangster movie, the man himself was no joke.

He took a long swig of booze, smacking his lips together afterwards in exaggerated satisfaction.

'Really? Well, that's good to hear, darlin'. That's very, very good to hear.'

I continued. 'Yeah, biggest crowd we've had by a mile. The place was heaving. Plenty of good business going down. Davey reckons we can extend the regular club nights too off the back of New Year. Find some bigger venues, get more bodies through the door. He's seen a couple of abandoned warehouses that could do the trick. Do that and Davey says we could double the punters, maybe even triple them.'

'Oh, he does, does he?'

'He's got big plans for this year. And with the right amount of work and determination, there's no reason why he can't pull it off.'

'Well, if it's one thing Davey's good at, it's hard work and determination.'

I grinned. 'Exactly. We've even heard rumours that Brixton's night was a wash-out, although to be fair, the underground club scene there has been dying for months now. Everyone's defecting to Davey's nights, Brixton is practically dead in the water. This year is going to be bigger than ever and we've got to be prepared for the uplift.'

Oscar put his whiskey down on the desk and ran his finger slowly around the rim of the glass, nodding as he listened to me talk.

'So,' he said finally, 'I'm assuming this means he wants to renegotiate the small print of our deal?'

I faltered. Davey and Oscar had always worked off a tight business deal. The more Davey managed to shift, the bigger his cut from the takings, the more successful his nights were, the more Oscar supplied and the better off Davey was. But Oscar never discussed the actual deal with me. Ever. I was the gopher, nothing more. I'd come in, wearing Oscar's favourite dress, show off a bit of arse and leg, say the right things, smile at Oscar's jokes and go away with a designer bag full of coke and pills.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. 'Well, I'm sure that's something you can discuss with Davey.'

'I don't want to discuss it with Davey, I want to discuss it with you.'

This was different. This was new, and whatever this was, I didn't like it. I didn't like it one bloody bit. Taking a large gulp of rum, I frowned, feeling like my hand was hovering over my inner panic button.

'Well, no offence, Oscar, negotiating your deal with Davey isn't really part of my remit, is it?'

He leant forward, the leather chair squeaking as he moved.

'See, that's the interesting question, isn't it, Casey? What exactly is your remit?'

I wanted to hit that panic button so badly then. The sirens were going off, shrieking in my ears, telling me to run, to get out, but I was trapped there, unable to move or save myself, with absolutely no idea what was coming my way. That was another thing about Oscar - he was unpredictable at the best of times and I was starting to think this really wasn't the best of times.

Standing up, he returned to the drinks cabinet and brought the bottle of rum back to the table, refilling my glass and remaining there, perched on the edge of the desk. He was close - too close - and I found myself wanting to push back my chair, but I knew he'd see it, he'd see my retreat and know it for what it was. Fear.

For a moment, he didn't say anything, but this time he helped himself to a more obvious look at my crossed legs, where the tattoo stretched down the side of my exposed thigh almost to my knee and his eyes narrowed, a sharp appraisal that left me cold. When he did speak, his voice was softer, like he was talking to a child.