Читать книгу: «Taken»

CHAPTER TWO

Alfie Jennings hated tarts. He didn’t mind fucking them but that was as far as it went. He’d certainly no wish to exchange small talk with them – he got enough of that at home with his wife, Janine, without some big-breasted brass talking shit in his ear. All he’d wanted was to get his cock sucked in peace and now he was being forced to listen to a brass talking ten to the dozen.

‘Bleedin’ hell it was cold outside last night; I nearly froze my tits off and it’d been so sunny during the day. Apparently the rest of the week is going to be rainy but I’m …’

The shoe missed, which was Alfie’s intention – it wasn’t really his scene to hit women, not unless he really had to, but he was certainly coming close to it now; the brass was jangling his nerves with all her yacking.

‘Ow! What was that bleedin’ for, Alf? You could’ve hit me on my boat race!’

‘If I’d wanted to shag a flippin’ weather girl, I’d have given Ulrika a call. And if I was trying to hit you, believe me darlin’, I wouldn’t have missed.’

‘Oh that’s nice ain’t it? If that clump of a shoe had hit me, it would’ve split open me fucking lip and then how would I give blow jobs then? It’d take at least a week to heal and that’d be a whole week’s money lost, not to mention …’

Alfie walked into his en-suite bathroom and slammed the door closed; hookers weren’t what they used to be. He could remember the time they fucked, sucked and kept their mouth shut. Now they all wanted to talk; thought it was their right to; and that pissed him off no end. He wanted a whore not a fucking wife.

Still hearing the complaints on the other side of the door, Alfie Jennings leant his muscular body on the edge of his black marble sink which had cost him a small fortune and no end of grief.

The men who’d delivered it had tried to tell him it was so heavy that they couldn’t bring it up the stairs due to health and safety reasons, so they’d no other option but to leave it on the pavement outside. He’d offered them a score each and asked them politely to make an exception, but they’d given him a point blank no, before starting to get lippy with him.

‘Sorry mate, I’m not hurting my back or getting a parking ticket for you; you’ll need to get some other mug to lug it up the stairs.’

Alfie had given the men time to grin triumphantly at each other before he’d grabbed hold of the sweaty fat one, pinning him up against his newly decorated hallway whilst noticing the man’s yellow-stained teeth as he grimaced in fear.

‘You better shut yer north and south you paki cunt otherwise I might do something I regret.’ The look of fear on the two men’s faces had amused Alfie no end, making it more entertaining to watch them later struggling up his stairs with blood streaming out of their broken noses, carrying the handcrafted sink.

The whole country was changing; nobody wanted to do anything for anyone else unless there was something in it for them. Alfie knew no one should really have to go to those extremes just to get some bellends to help him; not that he didn’t enjoy a ruck. Violence to him was like a good wine you savoured and took pleasure in any time of the day.

Sighing, he opened the smoky glassed bathroom window, enjoying the sound of West End life and taking in the cutting cold air on his bare chest.

His flat looked out over his favourite street in London and was directly opposite his club. Old Compton Street was in Alfie’s mind the heart of Soho; he’d even argue it was the heart of the capital: he never tired of it. He could still remember the excitement he’d felt as a boy when he’d jumped on the number 8 bus with his father on a Saturday night, heading away from the gloom of the East End and towards the heaving streets of Soho.

His father regularly visited an old brass at the Soho Square end of Greek Street, leaving Alfie outside no matter what the weather. Far from seeing this as another spiteful torment from his bullying father, Alfie had always relished the time, taking the opportunity to explore the smells and sounds of the Soho streets. Even on the coldest of winter nights the lights and the vibrancy of the people had made Alfie feel warm.

He’d got to know the bouncers of the clubs and the toothless toms with their vulgar jokes and stale breath touting for business outside the peep show doors in Brewer Street. He’d seen the pimps and the gangsters hanging out on the corner of Wardour Street and the small time crooks and drug dealers in the numerous side alleyways, and Alfie had loved every moment of it.

It was worlds away from the East End, where each street seemed to Alfie to be made up of drab grey houses, the smell of poverty lingering on every corner.

‘I’m going to get myself a club here when I grow up. That one there is the one I’ll buy.’

He was twelve years old when he’d pointed out the club painted black with the silver double doors and the silver lettering on the sign. His father had looked at him with so much scorn on his face Alfie had wondered how it’d all managed to fit on.

‘You’ve more chance in going to the moon. You’ll come to nothing, you little bastard.’

‘Then I’ll be in good bleedin’ company won’t I?’

Alfie had got a battering from his father leaving him with a broken rib and a long walk to the Whitechapel hospital. Even with all the pain, Alfie had thought it’d been worth it; he’d got to tell the old fucker the truth.

On the day Alfie turned twenty-three he’d bought the club with the black sign and silver lettering in Old Compton Street. He’d dragged his alcoholic father from his filthy Mile End council flat into his car, hauling him out at the other end and depositing him in front of the silver double doors of the newly bought club which was to be the start of Alfie’s empire.

‘There you miserable fucker; have a look at that. That’s mine, every fucking last brick of it. Now try telling me I’ll come to nothing.’

The scorn hadn’t changed on his father’s face but the fear was new, and Alfie had enjoyed seeing it.

As Alfie continued to stare at his father he watched the fear turn into a sneer. ‘I don’t care if you’ve got bleedin’ money pouring out of yer fucking arse, it won’t change the fact yer a useless little prick; as useless as a third sleeve on me fucking vest.’

Alfie had kicked his father in the head, sending him reeling backwards into the path of passersby. He’d continued the attack; stamping on his father’s ribs, twisting his foot on his face and hearing the breaking of cartilage in the nose of the man who’d beaten and humiliated him, and laughed as he’d come home drunk and forced Alfie to get on his hands and knees whilst he urinated on him.

It wasn’t until a tall black man with dreadlocks had pulled him off his father that the assault had stopped, leaving Alfie Senior in a pool of blood, covering his face in agony. Alfie had felt the tears rolling down his face, partly from anger, partly for his mother, but mainly for himself.

Some years later, Alfie had been doing some business off the Mile End Road, when he’d seen an old tramp outside the Nag’s Head pub. He’d been about to put his hand in his pocket to hand him a pony – feeling flush after winning on the dogs – but when he’d looked again at the tramp, underneath the heavily unshaven face, the long straggly hair, he’d seen the familiar grey eyes, the cold blank stare, and he knew it was his father. They’d locked eyes for a moment, neither of them saying a word, staring at each other with steely hatred, then Alfie had turned away and walked back to his car.

He’d sat there for countless hours, his head filled with painful memories, but as the sun had begun to rise over the grey houses of the East End, he’d put his keys into the ignition and driven away; away from his past and away from his pain. Alfie Jennings never laid eyes on his father again.

Alfie didn’t know why he loved this street so much – after all it was full of nancy boys and tourists and he wasn’t partial to either – but it was where he felt at home. Over time Alfie had secured other properties in London; flats in Docklands, shops in East Ham, and he’d bought a large eight-bedroom family home in Essex for his wife Janine and his daughter Emmie, but it was always this street he came back to, although he never allowed his family to come. At home he was Alfie the husband, Alfie the father; but here in his own apartment he was just Alfie the man.

Although Janine hadn’t been to the flat it hadn’t been for want of trying; she never missed an opportunity to nag his earhole off to ask to stay. ‘Why can’t we come up West with you, Alfie? It’d make a nice change for me. Oh come on Alf, what do you say?’

His wife had looked at him over the large breakfast table with egg yolk spilling down her chin. He wondered what had ever possessed him to marry her. When he’d first met her she was a tiny pretty thing who found it hard to say boo to a sparrow, let alone a goose. Fast forward twenty-two years and she’d morphed into something unrecognisable; a fat nagging moaning bitch of a wife who’d too much to say about everything.

One thing Alfie had never done was raise a hand to her; he wasn’t sure why, because he’d no problem using violence on anyone else, whether it was a mouth full of knuckles to a man who owed him money or a slap round the face to a brass who’d given him too much cheek: as long as it wasn’t his family it didn’t matter.

The thought had crossed his mind that the reason he didn’t hit Janine – though god knows every time he was with her more than an hour, he longed to put his fist in her mouth – was because he’d watched his own father beat the shit out of his mother on a daily basis.

Living with Alfie Senior had eventually become too much for Annabel Jennings, and Alfie had come home from school one day to discover her lifeless body in the outhouse at the bottom of the garden, lying in a pool of blood, still clutching the garden shears she’d used to stab herself in the neck with.

Alfie had sat with his mother until the next morning holding her cold hand, sometimes screaming, sometimes crying silently; hoping a miracle would bring her back to life.

As soon as his father had come home and the doctor had been called, Alfie had gone out and battered senseless the first kid he’d come across.

Alfie couldn’t remember how many diets his wife had been on and none of them ever seemed to work; if anything, with each coming year she’d got bigger, though ironically, her tits, the part of her body he’d been most drawn to, were the one part of her body that’d lost weight. Now they were sagging, empty sacks and when she lay on her back in bed, they’d hang over each side of her body, almost touching the mattress.

‘Why don’t you touch me any more?’ Janine would complain. ‘I bet you’ve got some skinny tart up Soho and that’s why you don’t want me to come up.’

Most of the time Alfie was able to convince his wife there was no one else and his lack of sexual interest in her was down to tiredness, but sometimes words didn’t cut it, and he was forced to show her with actions. Shagging his wife was like shagging the Mersey Tunnel Alfie thought – large, cold and passionless.

When he did fuck her, he always struggled just to get semi-erect, which Alfie thought said a lot about his wife; even with the oldest and ugliest of old brasses he’d no problem getting a boner, but Janine Jennings, with her big fat mouth and her just as big fat pussy, had a flaccid effect on his poor penis.

Alfie had kept the black sign of the club for nostalgia and as a reminder not to allow himself to fail. The fear of failure was a legacy from his father who had constantly told him he’d never make it; that he’d amount to nothing. So each day when he went into the club and put the key in the imposing door, it was his vindication to himself he’d proved those words wrong.

He’d had the club since he was twenty-three and had given it a facelift, renaming it Annabel’s Whispers, though everyone called it Whispers Comedy Club or Whispers for short; but to Alfie it would always be Annabel’s Whispers – named after his gently spoken mother. Having her name there was a way of keeping his mother alive to him – it was important to Alfie because he couldn’t remember her face any longer, causing him to feel a deep sense of shame and sadness. When he tried to remember, all he could see was the blood, and all he could hear were his childhood screams.

Whispers had evolved over time and it’d become useful for his other businesses. It was a place where he could hold his meetings with the biggest faces in London, a place he stored the countless numbers of stolen goods which came in and out of his possession and a place to launder money, but for all Alfie felt he had achieved, the one thing he was proudest of was the public face of Whispers. He’d turned it from just a drinking bar into a successful comedy and nightclub. He regularly attracted the biggest acts in the business; sometimes pulling in favours from the cigar-smoking promoters and sometimes resorting to what he knew worked best; bribery and threats. Whatever it took, Alfie made sure Whispers was the place to be.

Often Alfie took to the stage himself, supporting the acts but securing the biggest laughs; it was one of the perks to being him, being a face, being someone everyone was scared of; even if he wasn’t funny, they were all too damn scared of him not to laugh.

Not that he wanted it to be that way. He longed for the applause and laughter to be genuine; he really did love doing stand-up, but his problem was the nerves.

‘You’re all wound up and tight like an Irish nun’s fanny. What you need to do is relax, Alf – enjoy it instead of bleeding worrying about what everyone else will think and being terrified you’ll be crap,’ Janine would say to him constantly.

‘Thank you bleeding Oprah. When I want your flipping input, Janine, I’ll ask for it – until then, keep your big fat mush shut.’

Annoyed, he’d storm off, slamming the front door behind him because what she said always hit a nerve. It was true he worried about what people would think of him and it was true the word failure loomed large in his head. And the more he worried about it, the worse it got; moments before he was due to go on stage with the solitary spotlight hitting down on him as the audience looked up in anticipation, the nerves would get the better of him; his palms and brow would begin to sweat, the well-rehearsed lines would disappear from his mind, leaving only panic and dread in their wake.

He wished he could confide in his friends but he knew he could never admit it to anyone; he’d a reputation to keep and it wouldn’t do for people to know that the great Alfie Jennings, the man so many men had feared, was crippled with stage fright. He’d be a laughing stock, and the fear of that was nearly as great as his nerves. He’d secretly gone to a hypnotherapist in Harley Street and paid through the fucking nose to try to conquer his fear but it hadn’t helped, nothing seemed to.