Tangled Lives

by Stephanie Harte

  ‘I’ve confiscated the wad of notes and the knives the teenagers were carrying, boss,’ Curly said. ‘They finally admitted, after some persuasion, that they work for the Albanians.’

  ‘Where the fuck is Charlie?’ Alfie asked, getting up in my face.

  ‘He’s in the back office,’ I replied.

  *

  Charlie was still savouring the moment when Alfie, Knuckles and I walked into the room. He blinked, startled by the intrusion, but the cocaine had made his eyes water, so it took him a moment to focus. Alfie’s eyes were drawn to the discarded credit card lying on top of the mirror and Charlie realised he’d been busted. While grinning like a lunatic on day release from an asylum, Charlie reached forward and took a tissue out of the box on the desk. Keeping eye contact with Alfie, he dabbed at his dripping nose.

  ‘Two guys from a rival firm were dealing drugs on my dance floor while you were in here getting wasted.’ Alfie wasn’t impressed.

  The blood drained from Charlie’s face. There was no point offering Alfie empty excuses; Charlie knew they wouldn’t wash with him. The only thing he could do was apologise profusely. ‘I’m sorry, mate; I fucked up. What more can I say?’ The blond man stood up and steadied himself on the desk.

  ‘There’s plenty more you can say. You could attempt to explain yourself, and don’t call me mate; I’m no friend of yours.’

  Alfie fixed Charlie with a death stare, and the young man looked taken aback. Alfie’s words came as a shock to him. Up until now, he’d always been the boss’s golden boy.

  ‘What you do in the privacy of your own home is your business, but you don’t take drugs on my time.’ Alfie might be happy to be a distributor, supplying dealers who in turn supplied users, but he had zero tolerance for people in his inner circle taking drugs. He was well aware of Charlie’s habit, but he chose to ignore it, so he didn’t want it flaunted in front of him. ‘You’ve disappointed me. Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to bite the fucking hand that feeds you?’ Alfie was fuming.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alfie, I’ve honestly only been in here for a couple of minutes. I thought everything would be OK. I left Nathan in charge…’

  Alfie put his hand up to silence Charlie, so he left his sentence unfinished. ‘And look what happened. The man’s a complete cretin. He let two foot soldiers armed with knives into my club. They could have caused carnage. That bastard couldn’t organise a piss-up in a pub.’

  The atmosphere in the room suddenly changed. I felt myself snap and I lunged forward, but Knuckles threw his huge arm across my chest and stopped me in my tracks. I was furious, and it showed. My nostrils flared as anger simmered inside me. I’d always had a temper and knew I could explode at any minute.

  Alfie looked over his shoulder, locked eyes with me and smiled. ‘What’s the matter? Have I hit a nerve? Sometimes the truth hurts, doesn’t it?’

  I clenched my jaw to keep my mouth shut. Tempting as it was to get into an argument, I knew I shouldn’t. If Alfie hurt Luca in response to my outburst, I’d never forgive myself. I had to will myself to keep a lid on my temper. But it was difficult. Having to stand in a room full of people while Alfie belittled me was hard to stomach. Alfie seemed content to ignore the fact that the door staff had waved the boys through in the first place, so technically, it was their fault. But as usual, he laid the blame firmly at my feet. I was going to have to carry the can.

  ‘Get back on the door, Charlie, and don’t let me catch you doing a row of sherbet soldiers again or I’ll be forced to let Knuckles do a spot of DIY on your features. He’s a dab hand with power tools and a blowtorch.’ Alfie raised an eyebrow.

  Charlie nodded to acknowledge he’d understood, then lowered his eyes to the floor before he walked out of the office and went back on the front door.

  Alfie, Knuckles and I made our way to a private booth in the VIP area where a bottle of Cristal was waiting on ice.

  ‘Who do those cheeky fuckers think they are? They’re barely old enough to order a pint, and they waltz into my club, tooled up, and start selling right under my nose. They deserved to get a serious hiding. If word got out about this, it would damage my reputation. I’m not about to let that happen.’

  Alfie was raging; he couldn’t understand what had possessed the Albanians to try and muscle in on his territory. Knuckles opened the champagne and passed Alfie a glass. He looked like he could do with a drink. Alfie raised his glass and drained it. Then signalled to Knuckles for a refill.

  Alfie sipped at his drink for some time before he spoke. ‘I’m going to have to send a message loud and clear to the Albanian boss and the wider community that only a fool shits on his own doorstep.’ Alfie put his empty flute down on the table before he stood up and pulled down the sleeves on his navy suit jacket. ‘Right, Knuckles, it’s time to teach those little wankers that Nathan let in a lesson. We’ll show them what happens when you fuck with the Watsons.’

  *

  Alfie stood in the doorway of his office staring into the terrified boys’ faces. ‘We’re going to give you two a lift home. It’s way past your bedtime, and I need to pay your boss a visit.’

  Alfie gestured to Knuckles, and the huge man walked over with the grace of Frankenstein’s monster to where the boys sat side by side on high-backed chairs. Standing behind them, he grabbed the teenagers by their jackets at the scruff of the neck and pulled them onto their feet.

  ‘Should I come with you?’ Curly asked. He’d been sitting on the edge of Alfie’s desk, with his arms crossed over his chest, keeping watch over the dealers.

  ‘No, we’ll take it from here. As of now, you’re officially relieved of your babysitting duties,’ Alfie replied.

  Curly smiled and exposed his gold front tooth.

  *

  Somebody’s head was going to roll for the fuck-up tonight, so it might as well be mine for a change. I wanted to point out that I wasn’t solely responsible for the cock-up. Charlie should have been supervising me instead of getting wasted on company time, and the boys had also got passed the two minders on the door. But I was the one Alfie wanted to blame, so there was no point trying to talk my way out of it.

  In all fairness, it was my first night on the door. How was I meant to know those two harmless-looking boys were part of a rival gang? They just looked like regular teenagers to me. But Alfie was never going to let me forget it. In his eyes, the damage had already been done.

  Alfie was in no mood to listen to excuses. As far as he was concerned, because of my stupidity, the teenagers had got away with dealing drugs right under his nose. They’d made a fool out of him, and now somebody was going to have to pay. Given my lack of options, I did the only thing I had the power to do. I took the ear-bashing like a man. Receiving a daily dressing-down from the boss had become part of my job description. Initially, I’d wondered if he was trying to break my spirit, but it was more likely that Alfie was just entertaining himself at my expense.

  The ball was unquestionably in Alfie’s court. It wasn’t as though I could hand in my notice or file a formal complaint with the human resources department, so I’d just have to get on with it. But I didn’t find it easy to turn the other cheek. I’d inherited my short fuse from my mum. Being quick-tempered was a curse. Biting my tongue didn’t come naturally to me, but I was going to have to learn to control my rage while I was around Alfie. He liked to push my buttons because he knew he’d get a reaction out of me. I’d have to stop being so predictable.

  In some ways, working so closely with Alfie was a good thing; it was teaching me how to exercise self-control.

  39

  Alfie

  The Mercedes had only just cruised past the four chimneys of the iconic London landmark, Battersea Power Station when Knuckles turned down a pothole-ridden alleyway littered with debris. It was clearly a magnet for fly-tippers. The derelict industrial estate was a million miles away from the elegant Art Deco Grade II listed building. Driving slowly to avoid damaging the car, Knuckles parked up outside unit
twenty-two.

  ‘What a shithole,’ I said, peering out of the tinted window at the dingy-looking lock-up.

  The vast warehouse, located in Wandsworth Business Park, was in a serious state of decay. At least half of the original cast-iron window frames were boarded up and the ones that weren’t had broken panes of glass. The smog-stained, red-brick exterior was covered with colourful graffiti, and well-established plants grew out of the gutters.

  I got out of the car and approached the double loading doors. Nathan and Knuckles followed closely behind, flanking the two young men we were returning. As I watched Knuckles steer the teenagers, dressed in black hooded jackets and low-slung jeans towards the door, I wondered how scum dressed like that had even been allowed to step over the threshold of Sherlock’s. I made a mental note to give the door staff a serious bollocking when I got back to the club.

  I placed my hand on the peeling paintwork of the door and pushed it forward. As it opened, I turned over my palm and brushed off the red flakes that were left behind on my skin. I had to clamp my lips shut when the musty smell in the cavernous room hit me at the back of the throat as I stepped over the threshold. I’d never smelt anything like it. The decaying aroma mingled with the scent of excrement to produce a terrible combination that assaulted my senses. My leather shoes echoed around the room as I crossed the concrete floor. It was covered in pigeon shit, from the multitude of feathered creatures that were residing within the warehouse’s four walls.

  Three men were playing cards, sitting on plastic chairs gathered around a filthy table. The bare bulbs that hung from the ceiling did an inadequate job of lighting the dingy space. When I walked into a room, everyone stood up. That was the level of respect I commanded, but these men barely even acknowledged my presence. They were a different breed.

  I stood and observed the gang dressed in cheap nylon tracksuits for a moment. They were grubby and didn’t look like they’d washed in weeks. They could have clambered out of the back of a lorry having just clawed their way out of poverty for all I knew.

  ‘I’m not going to pretend to know how things operate in Albania, but in this country, firms have set boundaries, so unless you want a turf war on your hands, keep your dealers out of my club and away from my customers,’ I said, marking my territory.

  The man facing me laughed. The fucking cheek of it. I felt myself bristle at the disrespect being shown to me. It was something I wasn’t accustomed to. The man lifted up a bottle of clear spirit and poured some into two glasses. When he added water to the drinks, the liquid turned milky white. The man pushed back his plastic chair and stood up.

  ‘We drink first, then we talk,’ he said before he walked over to me.

  The scent of liquorice wafted up my nose as I lifted the glass to my lips. I paused before I took a sip and looked suspiciously at the drink in the glass. ‘Is it ouzo?’

  ‘No, it’s raki. It’s much better than ouzo; it’s twice the strength. Taste it. You’ll like it; it’s ninety per cent alcohol.’ The man laughed and extended a work-worn hand towards me. ‘My name is Zamir. They are Esad and Dren. They work for me.’ Zamir gestured with a nod of the head to the two men sat at the table.

  I stared at Zamir’s dirty fingernails and reluctantly shook his hand, but my ego wouldn’t allow me to introduce myself. Zamir should know who I was. Everyone knew Alfie Watson. I knocked back the aniseed-flavoured spirit and hoped I didn’t catch something off the murky glass. The raki burned my throat as I swallowed it. Zamir was wrong: I didn’t like it. It tasted like firewater. It was obvious I possessed a more refined palate than my new acquaintance. A tramp sitting on a park bench drinking neat spirits from a paper bag would probably appreciate the raki, but if I ever tasted it again, it would be too soon.

  I looked over my shoulder and gestured to Knuckles to release the teenagers. ‘I think they belong to you.’

  Zamir sat back down at the table, and he began speaking to the other men in Albanian.

  ‘Shut the fuck up. You’re getting right on my tits now,’ I said, as I treated Zamir to my famous death stare. ‘If you want to find yourself up to your eyeballs in trouble you’re going the right way about it, my Balkan friend.’

  ‘Relax, boss man, we don’t want any trouble,’ Zamir said, flashing me his untrustworthy smile.

  I cast my eyes over the dark-haired, dark-eyed group. The men were all medium build, with facial hair, and weren’t particularly distinguishable from each other. ‘Fuck me, what is it with you lot? You all look the same. Are you related?’

  Zamir let out a wheezy smoker’s laugh. My intentional politically incorrect comment didn’t seem to have offended him. ‘I like the dry British sense of humour. You are very funny.’

  ‘I’m not trying to amuse you; I’m merely pointing out a fact. Is having a crew cut and a beard company policy?’ I smirked, but after I spoke, I knew there was a notable shift in my demeanour.

  Zamir explained the uncanny resemblance the team had to one another was no accident. It was a tactic they used to make it harder for the authorities to identify them. If the men were ever arrested and ended up in a line-up, it would be very difficult for a witness to tell one of them from the other, so they wouldn’t be able to say without reasonable doubt which man had committed the crime.

  Even though I would never admit it, I couldn’t help thinking whoever came up with that idea was a genius.

  40

  Alfie

  After I’d paid Zamir the unexpected visit, I’d done a bit of digging and discovered that the Albanians primary business was prostitution, so they shouldn’t have been any real threat to me. Unlike a lot of other criminal organisations, that wasn’t an area we were involved in.

  Zamir’s gang trafficked Albanian girls using insider knowledge. The higher you went into the mountains in the north of the country, the further back in time you travelled. The people who lived in these remote rural areas were very poor and vulnerable, which made them easy targets. Zamir recruited many of the youngest girls from this region. In some cases, the parents sold the victims after their daughters were offered exciting propositions that were too good to turn down. The girls’ parents didn’t think twice about handing them over after they were given the chance of a new life with plenty of employment prospects. Opportunities like that didn’t come along every day in tiny Albanian villages.

  Social media was also used to target some of the girls. Organised gangs ran fake employment agencies that posted job vacancies in childcare and hairdressing along with other professions that didn’t exist. Girls were happy to leave their homes in remote parts of the country following bogus job offers. The traffickers sometimes pretended to be scouting for modelling agencies to get very young girls interested. Apparently, this tactic even worked when the girls were ugly. The prospect of making huge amounts of money that could be sent home to support the family ensured the parents were taken in by the scam.

  I couldn’t help thinking they should have known better, but I shouldn’t judge them because I’d never been in their position. These people were desperately poor, and the young girls had been promised a better life with better opportunities. The parents had no idea what was going to become of their precious daughters.

  Once ensnared by the traffickers, the unfortunate women were sold from gang to gang as commodities and found themselves in a terrifying network of underground crime. Zamir’s gang used corrupt truck drivers to smuggle the women into the UK, where they would be subjected to sexual exploitation.

  Zamir was the head of the highly successful illicit enterprise. His firm ran most of London’s prostitution rackets in Soho and surrounding areas. The sex trade was a huge market, so he required access to a large number of women. That wasn’t a problem. A vast network of criminals that operated all across Europe kept him in good supply. He ran a people-trafficking business with any surplus girls and his firm was involved in false document production, which was a big money-spinner in this line of work.

  This was a m
ale-dominated culture, and by all accounts, Zamir treated the girls who worked for him with no respect. Many of them were forced to work unpaid as prostitutes. The others faced labour exploitation, working under the radar for little or no money. The Albanians were incredibly cruel to their employees and treated the women very badly. They were made to feel they had no value. They had a reputation for brutality. The trafficked girls were terrified of them. They were plucked from their homes and were now being held prisoner by their captors, victims of modern-day slavery.

  We were involved in plenty of illegal activities, but I was glad the sex trade wasn’t one of them. These men were in a different league. They were animals. I was shocked by the level of cruelty and degradation Zamir subjected the women to, and it had to be said, not much shocked me. If anyone treated my sisters like that, I’d kill them with my bare hands.

  41

  Gemma

  I’m not usually a suspicious person, but Alfie seemed to bring out that side of me. Recently, he appeared to be carrying out a campaign of flattery in an obvious attempt to win me over, but his charm offensive wasn’t having the desired effect. The attention he was giving me made me feel uncomfortable. The more time I spent with him, the more it heightened my desire to put some distance between us. I could sense he had a hidden agenda.

  I’d had enough of walking on eggshells around Alfie. It was time to clarify the situation. It would do more damage in the long run to sugar-coat it. The way he watched me with his blue stare left me in no doubt what was on his mind. Clinging on to my every word wouldn’t persuade me to sleep with him again. That was never going to happen. I should never have cheated on my husband and bitterly regretted having a one-night stand with Alfie. It had been a stupid decision to risk my marriage for a drunken fling, but I would never make the same mistake again. The sooner Alfie understood that, the better it would be for both of us.