Sighing, Frankie turned his attention back to Max. He could see Max wasn’t going to move unless he got a bit of a rumble. What he didn’t see was the small knife he was holding in his hand.
Not wanting a stand-off, Frankie took a swing, connecting his diamond knuckledusters to Max Donaldson’s lip. The warm blood spurted across both their suits and a tiny bit of bright red flesh landed on the concrete floor. Frankie saw Johnny step forward as Tommy and Donaldson’s goon came to wade in.
It didn’t take long for the adrenalin to take hold of Frankie, his appetite now wet for the fight. He went to take another swing at Max. Immediately he felt a cold rush go through his body. He touched his side and saw his hand covered in his own blood. Pushing down hard on the wound to try to stop the bleeding, Frankie stumbled forward, grappling to hold onto Johnny for support. He fell to his knees in front of his stunned son and managed to utter a few words.
‘He’s stabbed me. The fucking cunt’s stabbed me. Get hold of your mother.’
Then Frankie Taylor blacked out.
Gypsy Taylor sat down hard on the marble toilet. She’d been bursting for a wee all afternoon, but hadn’t been able to bring herself to use the public ones in Piccadilly. They smelt of stale urine which always reminded her of her beloved Auntie May who’d lived till she was well over a hundred and died with a smile and a fag on her lips. Gypsy was certain she could still smell the foul odour of the public conveniences lingering on her expensive clothes hours later, so she avoided them like the proverbial plague.
She supposed she could’ve made the short walk home back to Berkeley Square or to one of her husband’s Soho clubs to use the bathroom, but going back out to see her friends might have proved tricky. It would’ve meant explaining to her husband where she was going. And Frankie didn’t like her seeing her friends. Frankie didn’t like her seeing anyone. Anyone except for him.
Flushing the toilet and washing her hands in the Italian handmade sink, Gypsy wondered where her husband was. His phone was turned off. She’d tried the clubs but they hadn’t seen him; no one had. Not that she was worried, quite the opposite. She was going to luxuriate in the peace and quiet without him.
Gypsy loved Frankie with all her heart. She always had done. From the moment she’d seen him at the Reno nightclub on the Mile End Road she knew he was the one. But his possessive nature was starting to become too much. She was no longer the starry-eyed teenager he’d first met in the East End all those years ago. She was her own person now and she wanted her own life. However, trying to tell that to Frankie would be as good as asking him for a divorce.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to be married to him; she did. But him insisting on her having to call him throughout the day to tell him where she was and who she was with, had worn thin a long time ago. At first she’d thought it was sweet, Frankie wanting to know her every movement. However, over time sweet had turned sour; in fact, sweet had turned into a pain in the bleeding hole.
Her best friend was going to Spain soon with some of the other girls from the East End and they wanted her to go with them. ‘Come on, Gypsy; just tell your old man you’re going. Put your foot down girl.’ She’d looked at them and shaken her head. ‘You know what he’s like; he’ll probably think I’ll be jumping into bed with every Spaniard in sight. I wouldn’t put it past Frankie to turn up disguised as a matador so he can spy on me.’ Her friends had laughed hard. So had Gypsy, though her laughter was tinged with sadness. Not going to Spain was another example of Frankie’s control she couldn’t ignore any longer.
She needed her friends; they were a refreshing tonic. Unlike some women, Gypsy didn’t need the constant attention of men. She enjoyed the company of women and saw her friends not just to have a laugh with but also when she needed a shoulder to cry on. Most of all, Gypsy knew they just wanted the best for her.
Frankie, on the other hand didn’t see them like that. He saw them as he did anyone who came near her; a threat. A bad influence. ‘I don’t want you hanging round with those slags, Gypsy. You’re better than that.’ She knew it was pointless trying to convince Frankie. He was one of the most stubborn men she knew. But she still tried, always living in hope he might be able to see she could still love him and have her own life. ‘They’re alright, Frank. You don’t know them like I do. If you let yourself get to know them, perhaps you’d like them.’
The last time she’d said that to him, Frankie had banged his food down on the black cut marble table, and had gone to sulk in the cinema room where Gypsy had found him an hour later. They’d made love and as usual she’d enjoyed it. What she didn’t enjoy was her growing dissatisfaction with her princess in the tower lifestyle.
Gypsy sighed, looking at herself in the mirror. She wasn’t bad looking. A lot of people told her she looked like Bridget Bardot. Gypsy suspected a lot of her looks were down to the facelifts, along with the expensive weekly facials and that night creams she used religiously. ‘Fucking hell Gypsy, do you really have to slap that beauty mask on your face at night? Sometimes I think I’m shagging that geezer, Michael Myers, from Halloween.’
Frankie did make her laugh. Apart from his controlling nature he was good to her. And especially good to their son, Johnny, who was the apple of his eye. After Johnny she hadn’t been able to have any more children. Frankie had been gutted. Secretly she’d been relieved. Pregnancy hadn’t suited her. If she was honest, neither had the first few years of motherhood.
She’d suffered with depression for a long while after the birth of Johnny. She hadn’t been able to explain to Frankie what was going on. He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t on top of the world. He’d wanted her to go to the doctor but she refused, knowing whatever they said or did wouldn’t help.
The combination of the way she felt, trapped in the house with a young child, and Frankie’s possessiveness had been too restricting for her. She’d had two nannies to help. Although they hadn’t really been nannies in the conventional sense. They’d been two ageing strippers who’d worked in one of her husband’s clubs but had, according to Frankie, started to put the punters off with their wizened bodies and crinkled fannies.
Frankie was a generous man. A man who, even in the business he was in, was naturally given to looking out for others. Wanting to help and to reward the strippers’ loyalty, he’d employed them as home helps. She hadn’t minded. They’d been good with Johnny and she’d liked their company. But even with all the help, Gypsy still felt as if her wings had been clipped.
It was only when Johnny had started secondary school that she started to feel more like her old self and taste the freedom again. The more she tasted it, the more her hunger for it grew and with each passing year it got worse.
One way or another she needed to convince Frankie to loosen the rope – or one day he might wake up to find she’d cut the rope herself.
Her white Swarovski iPhone began to ring. Smiling, she saw it was Johnny.
‘Hello darling, how’s …’
Before Gypsy could get the rest of her words out, the colour began to drain from her face as she was interrupted by a hysterical Johnny. Within a moment Gypsy hung up the phone and began to run.
Nicky’s face was covered in blood. The water in the men’s room turned red as it poured into the clogged sink. For once Nicky’s bleeding nose wasn’t a result of being hammered by a fist or a foot, but by too much cocaine – which Nicky thought was better than being caused