Jacqui Rose - Toxic

Please don’t be angry Alfie, but something’s come up. It’s probably better if you don’t know what. But trust me when I say, I wish it could be different. I won’t be coming to England. One day you’ll understand why I’ve done this. If it’s any consolation, I do love you. F.

Dialling Franny’s number, it switched straight onto voicemail. Speaking quietly Alfie hissed through his teeth. ‘Franny, it’s me. You better start picking up the fucking phone, you hear me? Just pick up the fucking phone. I want my money.’

He clicked off the call before hurling the phone against the wall, wondering which was greater, his broken heart or his anger.

Stepping out of his silver Audi Q5, which had seen better days, Eddie Styler lit a cigarette, admiring as he always did the mock-Tudor cladding he’d had fitted last year on the large, five-bedroom property on the private gated estate, just south of Emerson Park, Essex.

The place was a far cry from the run-down council block in South London he’d been born and brought up in, where drug addicts shot up on stairwells and anyone passing who cared to used the lobby as a giant urinal.

Unlike his childhood home, which he’d been ashamed of, number 25 Colney Close impressed, making him the envy of his family, most of whom still resided in the same shit hole they were born in and no doubt would be carried out in a box from.

It’d been the double garage feature of the house which had excited him, and within minutes of seeing the place, he’d put in an offer, well over the asking price, much to his wife, Sandra’s disgust. But then, when wasn’t the moany cow disgusted at him for one thing or another? And God, didn’t she just like to remind him how it was her money and not his that had bought the place.

But they were married, so by rights that made it his whether she liked it or not. To have and to hold. For richer , for poorer. His home. His castle.

Irritated at the thought of her, Eddie gritted his teeth too hard, causing the white filling that’d cost him near on three hundred quid last week, start to throb, making his present mood considerably worse.

Stomping towards the house and having inhaled deeply on the cigarette, which made his green eyes water, Eddie opened the front door, being hit immediately by the nauseating smell of Sandra’s constantly burning vanilla and honeysuckle scented candle, causing his eyes to water some more.

He clenched his fists feeling the stress catapult through him. How long he’d resented Sandra he didn’t know. Maybe it was the moment he’d said ‘I do’ and had lifted her wedding veil to see her dark, cold beady eyes staring at him as she chewed down on a piece of gum. But no matter when it was, Eddie knew he resented her now … hated the stupid cow now.

They’d made an odd-looking couple; her at six foot three – all pale skin and jutting bones – and him, barely five foot tall of rounded Greek heritage. But it hadn’t mattered, because money had been the reason he’d got together with her in the first place, desperate to escape the poverty of his life, and Sandra, with her flashy car and expensive shoes, had been his ticket out. Well, that’s what he’d thought she was. But rather than having money at his fingertips as he’d imagined, she’d held onto her bank accounts tightly like they were a life raft.

Despite her, over the years he’d tried to make a name for himself, wheeling and dealing, using old contacts and being the middle- man for the Mr Bigs, but each time he’d thought he was making a reputation, each time he could smell success, each time he thought he could finally leave Sandra, someone or something came along to squeeze the balls out of whatever deal he was trying to make and he’d be left with nothing at all.

But a few years ago, things had started to look up. He’d got the call from Reginald Reynolds, the number one face in Essex, who made the Kray twins look like something out of a children’s storybook. And he’d worked hard for Reginald. Becoming his right-hand man. Setting up the beatings, the tortures, the paybacks, the deals, and with Reginald Reynolds’ men behind him, his own name had become synonymous with fear. There wasn’t a man alive who’d say no to him. He could run up debts at casinos, debts with pimps, he had money at his fingertips. That was, of course, before Reginald Reynolds had popped his clogs at a very inconvenient time.

At first though, he’d been pleased that Reginald had finally snuffed it, assuming he was going to take the Essex crown. But after discovering from Reggie’s widow, Reenie, that rather than him – after all his loyalty – being the natural successor to his empire, he’d arranged that the scumbags, Alfie Jennings and Vaughn Sadler, were going to take over, he’d gone to the cemetery in Chigwell and pissed on Reginald’s grave.

But there was one thing that Reginald hadn’t managed to finalise before he’d died. A deal which only he really knew about. And once he’d pulled it off, things were going to be different. What he had lined up would change everything and no one was going to mess this up. And unlike all the other times, there was no question he wasn’t going to pull it off. Because everything was riding on it. Everything .

Even though Reginald had left some outstanding money to pay on the goods, thankfully he was able to find some cash himself by forging Sandra’s name on a remortgage application, getting the readies transferred into a bank account she didn’t know about, which had given him enough to finalise the deal of all deals, and all without any of Reggie’s men or family knowing about it. And the beautiful thing was, even if Sandra did eventually find out about the loan, it wouldn’t matter because they’d literally be rolling in it. Or rather he would. And then? Well then, it’d be adios Sandra.

Tiptoeing along the dark, oak wooden hallway to the cupboard under the stairs, he glanced up towards the bedroom, pausing and checking for any sound. He opened the stair cupboard door, quickly rummaging in the large box of tools he never used, and pulled out a half empty bottle of whiskey. The screw top couldn’t come off fast enough for Eddie and he knocked it back in one; wincing at the burn.

Content and preoccupied in his thoughts, Eddie absentmindedly stepped backwards, knocking over one of Sandra’s glass candle holders, shattering shards of glass all over the dark wooden floor.

‘Bollocks!’

Sighing and feeling the effect of the alcohol, Eddie heard Sandra, her voice grating through the silence of the darkness.

‘Eddie, is that you? What time is it? Eddie! What the bleedin’ hell are you doing?’

Walking up the stairs, Eddie thought it best to knock a couple of hours off, knowing that his wife would start to complain and ask a dozen questions about where he’d been if she knew the real time.

Gritting his teeth, he gave a saccharine reply. ‘It’s one o’clock, teddy bear. Go back to sleep.’

Immediately, the bedside light flicked on, and Sandra, sleepy eyed and messy haired, stared at him accusingly. ‘How the fuck am I supposed to sleep when you’re banging about like a brass band?’

Knowing it was best not to reply, Eddie undressed and slipped into bed, feeling the cold as if the sheets were made of a thin layer of ice. He shivered as he lay on the very edge of the super king size bed, which was mostly taken up by Sandra and all her cushions.

‘Is Barrie in okay?’

In no mood to go on an early morning hunt for the cat he hated – who perpetually seemed to have a supercilious smugness on his face – and having seen him wandering down the street yesterday morning and not since, Eddie answered casually, pushing down the sense of loathing towards Sandra that immersed his whole being.