Jacqui Rose - Taken

‘Any left for me?’ The unidentified man came up behind her and put his hands round Casey’s naked waist. He leant forward and kissed the back of her neck, sending shivers of disgust down her body. She could feel his erect penis pushing hard onto the back of her legs as she bent down again to snort some more cocaine, hoping to numb herself from what was about to happen.

‘How do you want it, baby? Slow and hard or quick and rough?’

He was laughable; did he really think any woman would be turned on by him sounding like he’d just stepped out of a cheap American porn movie? What she really wanted to do was tell him to fuck off, but instead she sighed and answered him in a slow drawl, mirroring his cheap and corny line.

‘Anything you want, honey; as long as it’s quick, baby. Just make it quick. ’ She knew this would be the last time; it had to be. There could be no going back now, and somehow she needed this feeling of self-loathing; this debasement of herself to remind her if she didn’t make it, couldn’t make it, this was what was waiting for her. With tears stinging her eyes she’ll let the man’s rough hands wander over her body.

After it was over, Casey dressed and walked out, leaving the man hungrily finishing the last of the coke. All she wanted to do was get out of there. Get on a train and head for London, the place she’d been avoiding going for so many years. But it was finally time.

‘I didn’t know they let blind people drive,’ the taxi driver yelled as he overtook a white Fiat, jolting Casey from her thoughts. After getting blocked in by three double-decker buses outside the fire station in Shaftesbury Avenue, the cab driver finally managed to turn right – after much hand gesturing and swearing – into Wardour Street.

‘Do you want me to drop you here or go right round, love? It’s one way so I can’t go down.’

‘Here’s just fine.’ He pulled over without signalling, causing the cyclist behind him to swerve onto the other side of the road, very nearly hitting an oncoming car.

After handing over a ten-pound note for the nine-pound fair and watching the taxi drive off, beeping the horn violently, Casey made her way down Dean Street. She caught glimpses of her stooped, tired looking reflection in the windows of the bars she walked past. She was only thirty-two, but felt much older – each passing day seemed a lifetime. She continued down the street, noticing the mix of Georgian houses once occupied by aristocratic families, and the contemporary shop faces and restaurants, feeling the knots of anxiety in her stomach.

The flat she hadn’t seen yet but had agreed to on the phone was next to a pub being refurbished and almost opposite the Soho Theatre. In front of the communal front door Casey saw a Turkish couple arguing violently, and her heart dropped as she wondered if they were to be her new neighbours.

It was just gone five thirty when the landlord, who’d agreed to meet Casey at four o’clock, showed up.

‘Hope I haven’t kept you waiting.’ Bernard Goldman spoke in such a manner it was apparent to Casey he didn’t care if he had or not. He continued to talk in a bored voice as he took out a large set of keys from his brown leather briefcase.

‘So, like I said on the phone, its one month’s rent in advance and one month’s rent as a deposit. Each month I’ll come and collect the rent in cash and if you can’t pay, then it’s out. Okay?’

Casey nodded and followed him up the bare staircase to the battered white door at the top of the building. The landlord paused and it took a second for Casey to realise what he was waiting for. Quickly she scrambled in her bag and took out a large envelope, handing it over to him.

After taking several minutes to count the money twice, the landlord was eventually satisfied it was all there.

‘Here’s your keys; flat, building and utility meters. If you’ve any problems you’ve got my number.’

‘What about an agreement?’

‘What about it?’

The landlord sighed and scratched his flaking head, answering Casey in a sardonic manner.

‘Okay. I agree and you agree. Happy now?’

He turned and walked down the stairs and Casey heard the slam of the bottom door close as he hurried out. She stood on the top landing wondering what she’d let herself in for and after a deep breath she put the key in the lock.

It was worse than she’d expected – and she hadn’t expected a great deal. The paisley brown wallpaper was visibly peeling off the walls, exposing a multitude of wires. The furniture was non-existent and the floors were bare boards, though Casey thought that was probably a blessing; the idea of having to live with a carpet, riddled with god knows what, might take some doing. The kitchen was really a kitchenette, built as if an afterthought on the far right wall of the L-shaped room. The stove was filthy and Casey reckoned it was a good thing she hated cooking. Surprisingly the kettle was new; so at least she’d be able to have a cup of coffee in the mornings without fear of electrocution.

She opened the door to the bathroom to see what horrors awaited her and immediately shut it closed again. The last door was to the bedroom; in it was a double bed with a mattress still covered in plastic wrapping, a side cabinet with one of its legs being propped up by a pile of yellowing porn magazines, and a large curtainless window overlooking the street.

Even though she wanted to pick up her bag, leaving the squalid flat to its crawling inhabitants, she’d no other choice but to stay there now. The rent with the deposit had worked out to nearly three and a half grand which had totally wiped out all her savings and she certainly couldn’t afford to lose it, plus, unlike most landlords, Mr Goldman only insisted on hard cash and not references and Casey knew it’d be hard to come by a flat in London whose owner didn’t require all the proper paperwork and, for that, being extorted by ruthless landlords was the price she’d have to pay. Not wanting to open the bathroom door again, Casey washed her face and brushed her teeth in the kitchenette sink. Pulling out a beige sweater from her bag, she touched the tattered red diary lying at the bottom of it. She’d started writing it when she was fifteen and had only kept it up for a couple of years, but the idea of throwing it out had never even crossed her mind. Over the years she’d moved around the North of England and the first thing she ever packed was her diary, always unable to throw it away, but always unable to open it. Now she had no choice. If she wanted to reconnect with the girl she once was, she had to remember. That girl had had hope, ambition, but more importantly she’d been innocent – and when Casey thought about who she’d once been, it was if she was thinking about another person.

Opening it, Casey read the first entry – written in red capital letters and two lines long.

Sat 15th July 1995

OH GOD – I’M PREGNANT!!!! MUM AND DAD ARE GOING TO KILL ME.

Casey slammed the diary closed and threw it back in the bag. She needed a drink; preferably several. It was the end of a long day and she refused to let herself feel guilty about needing to take the edge off. She could start her good intentions tomorrow. For now, she was going to let her hair down.

Looking round at her new home, she realised how utterly alone she was; moving round so much had given her few opportunities to make friends but this was different and the loneliness frightened her. There was no hiding from the truth either; she’d hit rock bottom and if she was going to ever climb out of this hole, she needed to find the courage to do what she’d come here to do.

Unable to stay in the flat for a moment longer, she hurriedly pulled on her jumper, brushed back her long auburn hair and grabbed her jacket before heading out and down the stairs, just in time to see a woman from the flat below being dragged out into the street by a man who was clearly a junkie.