Jacqui Rose - Taken

Walking up Old Compton Street, Casey stopped to read a board outside a comedy club; she could do with a laugh. But tonight she really needed to have a quiet drink and think about what she needed to do. After all, there was a reason why she’d come here, and she didn’t want to get distracted by anything else. She continued to walk into the heart of Soho, not noticing the stare of the man across the street.

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.