Taken
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.
Up until five years ago Alfie’s hideaway flat had been above his foundling club, but when he’d started branching out into other business he’d decided to buy the penthouse across the road and it was now his second home. Not that the penthouse had been for sale – the owners had no intention of moving out until Alfie had sent round three of his henchmen with a stark warning and an offer. Six months later, he’d moved in.
The club had survived the nail bomb in Old Compton Street, though The Admiral Duncan, a pub a few doors along, hadn’t been so lucky, and neither had some of its punters. But Whispers Comedy Club had survived and as Alfie looked out at the club opposite, he felt a pride in his chest like the one he’d felt when he’d seen Emmie for the first time.
His thoughts were interrupted by banging on the bathroom door.
‘Alfie, let me in love. I need a wee.’
Alfie Jennings could feel his temper rising. Not only was she a mouthy brass, but she also expected to go for a piss in his expensive marbled bathroom. Swinging open the door, Alfie took in the state of the woman in front of him who an hour ago had been giving him a blow job and sticking her tongue in his arse. She stood naked, jigging about with her huge tits uncovered, pulling her face into a scowl.
‘Christ, about bleedin’ time. I’m going to burst like a dam.’
The scream from the young woman’s mouth was one of shock as Alfie picked her up and carried her through the doorway of his bedroom and out of his flat.
‘Put me down yer fucker.’
‘You want a piss? Piss here where the dogs do, it should be like home from home for you.’
Ignoring her effing and blinding, Alfie unceremoniously dumped the naked woman outside in the street before catching sight of a stunning looking woman across the other side, reading the board outside his club. He took in her curvaceous yet slim body, her long auburn hair and full red lips and for a moment he just stood there, forgetting about the tom he’d just thrown out, forgetting about the show later on that night; for one of the first times in his life, Alfie Jennings was mesmerised. He willed the woman to go into the club, but she turned away in the other direction. He contemplated going after her, turning on the Jennings charm, but he needed to get showered first and wash off the brass; it wouldn’t go down very well if he had the smell of another woman all over him. Besides, it wasn’t as if his dick would go hungry; Soho was always full of top class pieces of pussy waiting to get laid.
CHAPTER THREE
It was already six o’clock and Oscar Harding needed to get ready. He’d been trying to get ready since this morning but had found it impossible after waking up to the scene of carnage next to him. It was the second time it’d happened and although it hadn’t shocked him as much as the first time, it’d still fucked up his day.
He’d called Billy a few hours ago and had left a message but he still hadn’t arrived and that was really winding him up. He paid Billy a lot of money to be at his beck and call and on the few times he did call him, the little prick was nowhere to be seen.
It was his own fault though; his mum had always warned him about trusting coons. That thought pissed him off even more; knowing his mum had been right about anything.
‘Boss? Boss?’
Oscar watched Billy swagger into the bedroom of his large executive flat and then freeze as he took in the sight; his black skin blanching. ‘Fuck me.’
‘Are you trying to be an Anthony Blunt? I called you over three hours ago and the first thing you come in and say is fuck me. Where’s my fucking apology?’
‘Sorry Boss, it’s just a shock.’
Oscar looked at the horror on Billy’s face; he was short and stocky and his skin was black as a hole. And had a naked woman tattooed on his neck. Oscar decided that he needed to get rid of him as soon as possible. It was no good having a henchman who was shocked at the sight of a little bit of blood.
‘I need you to clear this up; I’m meeting Alfie Jennings down at the club later and the last thing I need is him moaning like a cunt because I’m late. I’m going to have a shower and I want it gone by the time I’m finished.’
Oscar stood feeling the hot water of the power shower beat down on his chest and as he opened his mouth to let the water bubble into it, the events of the night before came rushing back.
He’d spent the first few hours of the evening listening to Vaughn Sadler talk about his holiday trip to Marbella. It’d been excruciating and Oscar was sure if he was forced to listen to any more holiday anecdotes, he’d end up comatose at UCH.
He’d no interest whatsoever in travelling or in listening to Vaughn pretending to be a page out of the Lonely Planet. He’d tried to look at his watch discreetly but Vaughn had spotted him.
‘Somewhere else you’d rather be? I’m not boring you am I, Oscar?’
‘Not at all, Vaughn, it’s fascinating. I could listen to you all night.’
‘Glad to hear it. Now where was I? You’ve made me lose me train of thought.’
‘You were about to tell me about your new swimming pool.’
He’d wanted to bury an axe in Vaughn’s head to stop him talking, like he’d done to the Albanian guy last week who’d tried to rip him off, but he’d continued to smile through gritted teeth as he listened to the multiple ways of aerating the water in a pool.
Oscar doubted he’d be able to sit and listen to anyone else spouting shit like this but it was, after all, Vaughn Sadler – and even though he’d ‘retired’ and been out of the business for the last couple of years, Oscar didn’t know any sane man who would fuck with Vaughn. He hadn’t just heard about his reputation, he’d seen it first hand, and he was one man he never wanted to get on the wrong side of.
He’d known Alfie and Vaughn since their early twenties when they all hung around the clubs of Soho desperate to make a name for themselves. It was Vaughn who’d shot up the ranks first with his fearlessness; never shying away from anyone or anything. When everyone else including himself had been reluctant to go to certain places, Vaughn had gone in controlled and precise, his presence as menacing as the weapons he carried.
Vaughn had taken on the older faces, people like Mad Boy Collins and Leroy Andrews, who even by Oscar’s standards were merciless in their quest to get justice for anything they saw as disrespect or wrongdoings.
Rumour had it Mad Boy Collins had been owed less than two grand by Eddie Williams – a small time crack dealer with a big time gambling habit – but Collins had taken exception to the fact he’d had to wait for the money whilst Eddie had gone on a weekend trip to Amsterdam. Pissed off by what he saw as disrespect, Collins and his men had stormed into Eddie’s house while he was away and raped his wife and two teenage daughters, before chopping them up into tiny bits – but not before Mad Boy Collins had made himself a cup of tea and a ham sandwich.
Taking on men like Collins without fear had gained Vaughn respect and he’d earned his place amongst the top faces. He’d stayed at the top ever since.
Along the way Vaughn had earned vast amounts of money; everyone had wanted to do business deals with him, knowing they’d never be turned over by Vaughn, who had a reputation not only for being an untouchable but for having integrity; a rare and strange quality in their world.
Oscar had never done any business with Vaughn, although he’d have liked to – he’d heard whispers that Vaughn thought of him as untrustworthy. It’d fucked him off no end to think Vaughn Sadler went around thinking he was better than him, but not nearly as much as it fucked him off to have to sit and listen to him recount his tedious tales of his latest trip abroad. It was either that, though, or risk getting on the wrong side of Vaughn – and no one wanted to do that.
Finally, he’d been able to make his excuses when his phone had rung and he’d pretended it was his mother.
‘You know how it is, Vaughn, got to go and see me old mum. She’s on her own now and she hasn’t been very well.’
‘That’s what I like to see; sons looking after their mothers.’
Thankful to get out of the bar on Glasshouse Street, Oscar had thought about his mother. There was no way he ever wanted to lay eyes on her again or even speak to her; moreover, if he ever saw her lying in the street he’d cross to the other side. She was nothing more than a drunken slag and if it wasn’t for the fact he’d promised his father before he died that he’d look after her, he would’ve put her in the ground a long time ago.
Thinking about his mother always brought on one of his headaches so he’d decided to do the five-minute walk to Whispers to see what was going on. The club had been empty besides a few nervous and very bad comedians. He’d watched as they took their turns at the open spot and he’d struggled to raise even a smile. Oscar couldn’t see the point in a comedian’s existence; to him, it was a fucked-up kind of life if you needed to spend it trying to make other people laugh.
He’d heard Alfie’s stand-up routine many times and by far he was the worst comedian he’d ever seen; it verged on the embarrassing. Oscar guessed owning the club was the only way Alfie would ever have the chance to go on stage; nobody else in their right mind would let him. But however bad a comedian Alfie was, Oscar had to admit he was a savvy businessman and the club was a perfect smokescreen for their projects; especially the one they were just buying into.
As Oscar had stood eyeing up the barmaid, he’d felt one of his migraines coming on, making him doubly grateful Alfie wasn’t performing. It was one thing listening to Vaughn talk about his holidays but an entirely different one listening to Alfie Jennings on stage.
Oscar had left the club when a female comedian had come on stage talking about periods and the menopause. He’d headed back to his flat in Holborn, feeling the pain in his head travel down behind his right eye and the taste of metal on his tongue.
He’d picked up the phone when he’d got home and spoken roughly to the person at the other end.
‘Bring me one.’
‘Which one Boss?’
‘Any. I want to have some fun.’
The girl had stood looking at him nervously and Oscar had guessed she was about twenty, though it didn’t really matter how old she was; he’d no interest in knowing anything about her. She was very slim with dark hair but when she’d taken her clothes off, he’d been annoyed at the size of her tits; they were huge and it’d made him feel sick; it reminded him of his mother.
She’d lain back on his clean slate-coloured sheets, naked, and as his headache had got profoundly worse, Oscar had heard her mutter something inaudible, then she’d leant forward and started massaging his penis; first softly and then hard, using her tongue in rapid motion on his shaft.
Nearly blinded from the pain in his head, Oscar had stared down at the woman working away on his limp penis. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a hard-on and the useless bitch with her colossal tits certainly wasn’t helping.
With a lunge of his arm he’d thrust his hand between her legs; she’d screamed loudly, accentuating the pain in his head. He’d punched her; hard enough to daze her but not hard enough to knock her out.
Grabbing hold of her hair, Oscar had dragged the girl further towards him; manoeuvring her underneath him, ready to show her he was a real man. He’d prised her legs wide open and attempted to enter her but he hadn’t been able to get an erection.
The humiliation and frustration he’d felt had turned into anger, and in a flash he’d started to kick out at her in a frenzy.
Oscar had looked down at the slate-coloured sheets which had turned into a pool of crimson blood and suddenly he’d felt very tired. It was then that he’d realised his headache had gone; and his pleasure at being pain-free was only slightly marred when it dawned on him he now needed to sleep on the couch, rather than in the blood-soaked bed.
Stepping out of the shower, Oscar hoped Billy had finished cleaning up. He was happy now he remembered what’d happened; all day it’d troubled him. Not what he’d done; she was only a cheap whore anyway and he doubted she’d ever be missed; it was the not remembering he hated.
Whistling, Oscar continued to get ready for his meeting. He was in a good mood and even Alfie performing his stand-up act couldn’t change that.
CHAPTER FOUR
Emmie Jennings sighed as she looked in the mirror for the umpteenth time. Her room was dusky pink with cream silk wallpaper – ordered from America – bordering the bottom part of her walls. Her mother insisted on her having Ralph Lauren silk bedding at all times and her new fifty-inch flat screen TV sat on the far wall with MTV on mute.
There was a pile of clothes on the floor and a walk-in closet full of designer outfits, but nothing she’d tried on so far looked right. Her friends at school had always complimented her on her tiny figure, but no matter how many times they told her she was slim, Emmie always felt fat.
Her dad, Alfie, was up in town and her mum Janine was going up to North London to see some of her friends so it gave Emmie the perfect opportunity to go and meet Jake.
Justin Bieber was blaring out on her iPod station when her mother opened the door and walked in. Emmie had put a sign on the door last year saying No entry without knocking but neither her mum nor dad had taken the slightest bit of notice of it since it’d been there.
Emmie watched her mother eating a king size Mars Bar as she sat on the end of her white leather double bed. There was no denying how much she loved her mother but she couldn’t help feeling ashamed of her; and having those feelings made Emmie feel ashamed of herself.
She was always mortified when her mother turned up at school and it’d been especially difficult when the other kids had started teasing her.
‘Your mum’s so fat when she stepped on the scales it said to be continued. Your mum’s so fat even God can’t lift her spirits. Your mum’s so fat I thought she was a solar eclipse. Your mum’s so fat she has to wake up in different time zones.’
The hurtful jokes had continued until Emmie, not being able to take any more of the taunting, had told her dad – and after a little coercing and the bribe of a new Chloe handbag, she’d pointed out the kids to him.
Her dad had paid a visit to each of the children’s parents with a couple of dodgy looking friends and overnight the teasing stopped, but Emmie had continued to carry the guilt of her own thoughts. She loved her mum, but Emmie’s biggest fear was she’d become like her; she spent many hungry hours worrying about it, and hours after that feeling wretched for thinking such horrible things.
‘What are you going to get up to tonight, Em?’
‘Mr Lucas has given us a ton of biology homework; I swear I’ll die doing it.’
Janine Jennings smiled at her daughter; she was always so dramatic and had been since she was a toddler. She would bet her Prada handbag the homework Emmie was complaining about was probably no more than one page of revision. Even though Alfie paid over eighteen thousand a year in school fees, it was hardly a school of great academic achievement.
‘I’ll be back late. Don’t wait up, but I’m on my mobile if you need me. And eat something, Em; there’s food in the fridge. You’ll be nothing but skin and bones if you’re not careful.’
Her mother gave her a huge hug before heading out of Emmie’s bedroom, leaving the empty chocolate wrapper lying on her bed.
Emmie waited until she heard the purr of her mother’s Range Rover driving away, and as soon as she’d gone, Emmie went to the back of one of her closets and pulled out a shoe box which was well hidden under clothes. Taking the lid off, she stared down at the letters. She’d read them so many times she knew them all off by heart. She should really put them back where she’d found them but she couldn’t quite find it in her to do that yet. It had become a ritual; every time she knew she was alone, she’d open the box and just stare at the letters without taking them out. Feeling a surge of anger rising in her, Emmie put the lid back on and placed the box safely away from prying eyes.
Turning on her iMac, Emmie scanned the screen to see if she had any messages. Not that she was really expecting any; the few friends she’d had she’d pushed away when they’d started to show concern over her eating.
‘Oh my days, Emmie, you’ve lost so much weight, you look like one of those lollipop girls; head too big for their body. You’d give the skeleton in the science lab a run for its money.’
Emmie hadn’t appreciated them sticking their noses into her business; she got enough of that from her mother. So she’d slowly backed away from their friendship and eventually they’d stopped calling. She saw them at school but she didn’t sit with them in lessons or at lunch as she used to; she preferred to keep herself to herself.
And so that only left the OMG girls, or as Emmie liked to call them, the bitches. She’d always been selective with her choice of friends and had deliberately kept away from the girls with their loud mouths and cruel comments. She’d never liked being mean to people and the thought of being friends with girls who spent their time bitching about other people made her shudder. No, she was happy being on her own – though she wasn’t really on her own any more was she?
Unable to resist, Emmie logged onto her Facebook account and with a smile she changed her status from ‘single’ to ‘in a relationship’. That would give them something to talk about when they saw it. It would stop them calling her ‘Skelly Emmie’. It would show them that someone thought she was nice, someone thought she was pretty and someone wanted her.