My Bloody Alibi Read online

  ‘And remember honey,’ she whispered. ‘No funny stuff, or its goodbye gonads.’

  ‘He’s in there now,’ said bald Trevor. ‘At the corner of the coffee bar. You can’t miss him. He’s the one with the ponytail and the gold tooth.’

  Cass figured he was telling the truth when she heard the last part. She sent Trevor on his way with another brutal warning relating to the future of his groin and prepared to meet Barry Leonard.

  A minute later, she walked into the coffee shop in full Sylvana character, ready to knock Leonard dead. The time for levity was over. The plan depended on her. Marcella depended on her; expected her to come up with the goods. But what Cass didn’t expect to see was the pony-tailed, gold-toothed guy, who bald Trevor had just described, sitting at the coffee bar in a leather cap with a chain round the back, French-kissing another guy.

  13

  Marcella felt her blood run cold, as PC Jack Thorne stood next to her at the bar. He was a big guy, thickset and solidly built. His face was pink and smooth, his mouth set in permanent sneer mode. What remained of his thinning hair had been dyed dark brown and was combed into a widow’s peak, but his ring-finger suggested there’d be no widow left behind when Cass had done her business. Thorne bought three pints of lager, while his colleagues bullied a window table from an old drunk. Bastard pig filth.

  She could hear much of their conversation from her seat; standard work chat, football, bullshit about women. Between swilling down large mouthfuls of beer they threw the odd glance her way. She was making an impression. Their glasses quickly emptied and one of Thorne’s mates was preparing to get the next round. Marcella didn’t know how much time she had. She also knew that subtlety wasn’t her strong suit, so when the goofy guy arrived at the bar next to her she turned to him.

  ‘Excuse me babe,’ she said.

  ‘Yeah,’ he replied. Goofy looked back at his colleagues to make sure they could see the two of them talking. He was clearly over the moon to have been spoken to by a real live woman. He thought his luck was in. The guy was younger than the other two, but that was about the only advantage he had over them. His body was pear-shaped and his nose looked like someone had used his face for a football when he was a kid. His massive jug-ears made him look like a really ugly version of the FA Cup.

  ‘Who’s that big guy with you there?’ she asked, gesturing towards Thorne.

  Goofy looked disappointed.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ he replied.

  Typical copper, she thought. Never trusting, always asking questions.

  ‘Cos he looks kind of familiar. I thought he might be someone famous. He’s kind of cute actually. I’m sure I’ve seen him on the telly. Are you guys actors?’

  Goofy looked at her for a second and then began giggling. The giggling became louder and more ridiculous. Other punters started looking across the bar, wondering what the hell was happening. The scene might have been a little embarrassing, if Marcella had given half a fuck. Instead she joined in with her crazy laugh, until the whole pub was watching. Cop or no cop, this guy was practically a retard.

  ‘That’s a bloody good one,’ he said. ‘Jack Thorne, a famous actor.’

  Goofy chuckled his way back to the table and she listened while he regaled their banal conversation to his two friends. The seed was sown; Marcella could feel their beady eyes checking her out all the more now. She sat and waited for Jack Thorne to make the next move. She didn’t have to wait long.

  14

  The master plan had hit a problem. Cass hadn’t figured on Barry Leonard being gay. He certainly hadn’t been in Marcella’s recollection, but she hadn’t seen Leonard in years. Since then he’d obviously come out of the closet and leapt head first into the pink room, a development that rendered the notion of a “Sylvana” seduction a complete non-starter. Since she left Old Compton Street, Cass had been trying to work out what to do next. She needed some thinking time, but right now she had a date with a podium at The Alley Cat. Cal Henson had agreed to give Cass a chance the previous night, after the “accident” that waylaid Rich Girl. He told Cass she had a week to prove herself and please the punters, which was more than okay with her; a week would be all she and Marcella needed.

  Cass figured Henson didn’t have a license for strippers and pole-dancers and he probably didn’t want one. The club was already a goldmine, packed with punters who lapped up the eighties crap and drank themselves stupid. The podium dancers appealed to the sleaze-balls, but also brought a sense of camp to the dance floor that attracted a sizeable gay crowd. The formula worked at treat. Cal Henson may have been a poser and a prat, but he was no mug when it came to turning a profit.

  When she arrived at the club the Balkan teenagers and ageing schoolgirl were already in position, striving desperately to draw the crowds out and keep their boss happy. It was early evening and the place hadn’t come to life yet. The DJ was pumping out a Donna Summer remix, but the punters were still hugging the walls, lining their brains with over-priced cocktails and watered-down lager. Cass started her routine steadily, but began to work it up as she found her rhythm.

  She’d synchronised the movements of the Sylvana Strut with Marcella when they were in their Holloway prison cell and had practised it some more that afternoon. The dance was more like a fierce walk than anything else, elbows pumping, head still and then head crazy, feet sliding back and forth then stomping up and down like a mad bitch trying to stamp some fucker to death. There wasn’t much space on that podium, but there was enough for her to do a wild spin every so often, take a refrain with a weave of the hips, work up and down slowly, stretch out wide, glide her arms and float like she was riding the wave of a cool orgasm. A workout like this could make a girl good and healthy, if it wasn’t for the foul club air she had to breathe in the whole time, thick with sweat and black crud.

  The punters just lapped her act up. Within ten minutes the dance floor was packed and more bodies were heading her way. She panned her eyes around the room and saw Cal Henson. He was standing by the door with Eric, the mountain-sized bouncer with the mountain gorilla features. Henson nodded in her direction, before turning and heading towards the stairs to his upstairs office. Cass smiled to herself. She figured she’d passed the test. “Sylvana” was an instant hit. Now there was just the small matter of how to get to Barry Leonard and as she watched Cal Henson leave the room she had an idea.

  15

  Marcella felt a waft of hot beery breath run across her face. She turned to find herself looking straight into the dark eyes of Jack Thorne. Thorne was a pig in more ways than one. He stared at her intensely; beads of sweat glistening on his pink brow, nasal hair randomly poking out of either nostril. She wanted to kill the bastard there and then. She hated all coppers anyway, but after what he’d done to Cass, she despised this one with a vengeance. That wasn’t the deal though; this guy belonged to Cass. Her job was just to be the delivery girl.

  ‘I hear you want my autograph,’ said Thorne. He leaned on the bar beside her.

  ‘That was when I thought you were a star,’ she replied.

  ‘Haven’t you heard darling. I am a star around here.’ She could see his two mates chuckling in the background. ‘I’m the Metropolitan Police’s finest.’ He expanded his chest and banged it with his hand the way a well-trained chimpanzee might.

  ‘You’re a policeman?’

  She tried to look pleased at the revelation, which for Marcella was like chewing a hairnet full of wasps.

  ‘Don’t worry darling. I’m off duty now.’

  ‘I thought you policeman-types were never “off duty”.’

  ‘I’m always ready, if that’s what you mean.’

  Thorne leaned closer into her. It was all she could to stop herself throwing up.

  ‘Why don’t you buy me a drink?’ she said. Anything to distract him. ‘I’m Sylvana by the way.’ She held her hand out.

  ‘Jack,’ he replied, taking her hand; holding it a little too long. ‘Jack Thorne.’


  He bought Marcella another bottle then slurped his way noisily through another lager, watching her closely the whole time.

  ‘What’s with the shades?’ he asked.

  ‘A woman likes to keep a bit of mystery about her,’ she replied, raising the glasses slightly, looking him up and down slowly, the way she knew all guys loved. When she thought she glimpsed movement in his trousers, she really did think she was going to throw. Quickly replacing the shades, she changed the subject and for the next ten minutes she managed to humour and tease Thorne from a distance, while he lapped up every last line like a hungry dog.

  ‘Well thanks for the drink honey,’ she said, figuring the job was done for now. ‘But I’ve got to be somewhere.’ She climbed down from her stool. ‘I’m meeting someone.’

  ‘Boyfriend?’ he asked.

  ‘Something like that,’ she replied. ‘I don’t think this jerk’s going to be around for long though. He’s really starting to piss me off.’

  ‘So stand him up.’

  ‘I’d rather have him put down.’

  Thorne laughed. She had the guy eating out of her hand.

  ‘Are you here every night?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m like clockwork darling.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll come back and wind you up again then.’

  Thorne looked like he might explode with excitement.

  ‘What about tomorrow night?’

  ‘Maybe. You’ll have to wait and see, but come alone. I’m not sure I really want to be stared at all night by pinky and perky over there.’ She pointed across at his idiot mates. With that she walked out of the bar, pausing briefly at the door to give him a wave. Mission accomplished; right now Marcella really needed a bath.

  16

  Cass had been on the podium for an hour. The dance floor beneath pulsated with bodies, even more than the previous night. The DJ was still on the eighties retro kick, the speakers kicking out a mixture of early American rap and British New Wave. From her vantage point she could see the pills and plastic packets changing hands, the groping and coupling in the heat of the dance. She looked across the room and at the line of drinkers by the bar. The guy with the leather jacket was back in his spot again, brooding over his half full glass of Guinness. She watched his still body for a few seconds, his broad back and thick black hair. His eyes were trained ahead like a caged tiger: focused, driven, oblivious to his surroundings; lost in a world all of his own; probably a damn sight better world than this.

  She was so preoccupied with leather jacket she failed to notice the latest influx of punters into the room. When she did look around she began to recognise a few of the faces. They were the same guys she’d seen in the club entrance the previous night, the ones with the racist sleazebag she’d floored outside the cloakroom. When lighting permitted she kept an eye on them through her shades. There were more of them than last night and the new ones looked bigger and meaner. She watched them gather by the entrance to the room then disperse and spread out, gradually lining the dance floor, as if forming a circle around her.

  Then Oily Boy appeared at the doorway. He was staring up at Cass. He raised his arm and brought it down again; a signal. On cue his cohorts began dancing ridiculously, clumsily, barging people out of the way, steadily moving nearer. She saw what was happening. They were closing in on the podium, surrounding and trapping her. She had to act fast; think on her feet. One guy was just a couple of yards away from her now, still moving. He was almost within striking distance. Cass paused, held herself, waited for the right moment. The music changed; the DJ segueing a Sugarhill Gang number into the Clash’s Rock the Kasbah. A strobe light attacked the room and everything began to happen like slow motion.

  The time was right; Cass dipped her left knee in the middle of a dance move and fired her right leg out like a rocket. Her heel struck the guy’s nose clean in the centre. The cartilage gave way like putty. Blood exploded forward and sideways. He staggered backwards and fell flat on his back, clutching his face. A girl next to him screamed. Her face and dress were covered in blood. Cass spun round and repeated the movement with her left heel. Another guy got this one in the forehead. He staggered backwards and toppled like a dummy. The rest of the gang moved in quickly. One tried to flip her legs out from under her with a swing of the arm. Before he made contact she propelled herself through the air up and sideways, down onto the dance floor.

  The landing wasn’t good. She came down on her right ankle, but rolled with the movement and was back on her feet in less than a second. The strobe light was still firing away like a machine gun, as she turned to see more bodies coming at her. She threw a straight right that nearly went through one sucker’s eye. There was a squelching sound, as he stumbled back and screamed. She followed that with a fierce left into another guy’s groin. His face went purple; he dropped to his knees, but before she could ready herself for more strikes the rest of the mob were on top of her. She felt a hand clamp down across her face, another clasp her by the throat. They just kept coming, like a pack of zombies. They grabbed her arms and legs and formed a circle around her; a human barrier. The music pounded away in the background. The other club punters were looking away, carrying on like nothing was happening.

  Oily Boy forced his way through the wall of bodies and stood before her. He had a wicked grin on his face and a shiny, silver knuckle-duster wrapped round his right fist. He held his other hand up and flicked a switch; a blade flew out that glinted like wildfire in the strobe. He moved in close to her and whispered:

  ‘It’s time to teach you a lesson bitch...’

  17

  Oily Boy was bearing down on Cass, knife in hand, savouring the moment. All she could think was that the master plan that she and Marcella had spent so long crafting was potentially toilet-bound, due to a shower of interfering racist scum. The drumbeat was thumping louder in her skull, as Oily Boy closed in with the blade. The skinhead gripping her right arm was taunting her with insults, inching nearer. She could feel specks of his saliva on her cheek. His head was really close now. This was her chance; probably the only one she would get.

  With a sideways lunge of the head, she grabbed the guy’s ear between her teeth. She bit hard and waved her head like an angry terrier, ripping the lobe clean off. He squealed like a dog and pulled his head away. Blood spurted out. She yanked her right arm free, lashed her hand forward at Oily Boy’s face, burying her fingernails deep into the flesh, blocking his knife hand with her elbow. He screamed, dropped the knife and prised the hand away from his cheek. What she left behind was bloodied and scarred for keeps. He looked as if his face had been gouged with a small rake. He was about to lash back, when a fist the size of a shovel came out of nowhere and hit him flat in the face. The punch lifted Oily Boy off the ground and sent him flying backwards, like he’d been thrown by a bomb blast. The hand holding her throat was moved. The guy on the end of it was hoisted in the air and hurled across the dance floor like a rag doll. He landed on Oily Boy, flattening him again.

  Cass was free, but she still had no idea what was happening. She turned and found herself face to face with the mysterious guy she’d seen sitting at the bar. He was about to speak when another two members of the gang flew at him from behind. One jumped on his back and clung on like a limpet, while the other rifled him with body shots from the side. He hoisted the first guy over his head, got a decent grip then hurled him at the nearest wall, knocking him out cold. The second guy was sent flying over the bar where the Aussie barman smashed a bottle over his head for good measure. He picked up another empty and tossed it to Liam, who turned and cracked the bottle across the chin of another skinhead.

  Cass put her hands on her hips and stood watching. Within thirty seconds, leather jacket had laid waste to what remained of the gang, or at least the ones who didn’t have the good sense to run away. By the time he’d finished, bodies were littered around the side of the dance floor and against the bottom of the bar, dazed, bruised and much bloodied. Rock The Kasbah was still playing
in the background, as Oily Boy shouted something incoherent through his squashed, torn face about revenge. He hobbled out of the room with the help of one of his cronies.

  Cass and her mystery ally were left at the side of the dance floor looking at each other. She’d somehow managed to keep her shades on throughout the whole attack, but in the flurry of strobe light, his deep blue eyes pierced the glass and etched a mark on her brain.

  ‘Don’t feel you have to thank me,’ said the guy, his accent thick with southern Ireland. Her phone started buzzing.

  ‘Whatever,’ she replied, stepping away and lifting the flap to read the text. It was Marcella.

  ‘THE PIG IS ALMOST IN THE BAG.’

  Cass smiled. Good old Marcella. The plan was still on course. Just about. There was still the small matter of how to get to Barry Leonard.

  She replied:

  ‘GOOD WORK HONEY. ALL QUIET HERE. C U LATER.’

  18

  Cass sat opposite Liam Kenny at the bar. The time was approaching 2am and they still hadn’t spoken. The DJ had flogged the life out of the 1980s and was looking to ease matters down with a bit of Marvin Gaye. Battered by another night of excess, weary punters were forcing down their final drinks and forging late, desperate alliances.

  After the close call with Oily Boy and his racist mob Cass had jumped straight back on the podium and carried on dancing. Seconds later the bouncers arrived on the scene, followed by Cal Henson in his purple suit. Henson looked around at the aftermath of the rumpus and across at Liam Kenny, who was still standing proud at the edge of the dance floor. The stare between them continued for some time.