by Jacqui Rose
He didn’t ever want to be called nice, kind, warm, loving, not by anyone. Not by his ten kids he never saw, not by any of his ex-wives and certainly not by the people who worked for him. Though after being in the business for as long as he had, he doubted anyone who knew him would call him those names. And he was comfortable with that. Very. Because those names were synonymous with weakness.
Weakness to him was a disease. A disorder. It was what his mother had been, night after night when instead of fighting back, she’d allowed his father to beat her up and then done nothing when his father’s attentions turned towards him and his younger sisters. Attentions that not only included kicks and punches, but also long, painful, drawn-out attentions in the bedroom, day or night.
And it’d been after one particular night when Charlie Eton was just twelve years old, when the friends his father had brought home – to join in with his perversions – had left, that Charlie had first heard his father call him a bastard. And it’d been a revelation to Charlie. Like listening to the sweetest music. He’d seen it as a coming of age. His own version of a bar mitzvah. Because that winter’s day in the cold, cramped, damp two-bedroom house he shared with his parents and four sisters, Charlie discovered that he too had power.
His father had been sprawled naked on top of one of his sisters whilst their mother drank herself into a stupor in the next room. Charlie had seen the fear in his father’s eyes as he held the coal fire’s burning red poker against his neck, and right then Charlie had understood that his father, the man he’d spent his whole life terrified and cowering from, could also be afraid. Could also be weak.
And the weakness exuding from his father had spurred Charlie on, exciting him. Making him feel alive. Making him feel worthy. Strong. Powerful … Untouchable. And for the first time in his life, Charlie had felt a glimmer of happiness. A glimmer of peace. And the more fear, the more weakness his father had shown him, the more it had encouraged Charlie to use his new-found courage to burn and blister his father’s flesh further, smelling the sizzling, stubbled skin mixed in with the smell of his father’s fear. Then it’d happened. The moment when the words, ‘You bastard,’ were screamed from his father’s lips and the moment Charlie Eton knew life would be different.
Although he’d got the beating of his life, ending up in hospital with a broken arm, fractured skull and dislocated jaw, he’d learnt a priceless lesson that had helped his bruises and broken limbs hurt less. He’d learnt that weakness was a man’s enemy.
‘Hey, boss! Boss?’
Sitting on the gold-leafed toilet seat, trousers around his ankles with his bloated body falling over the lavatory bowl in waves, Charlie’s thoughts were sharply interrupted by one of his men who stood in the entrance of his expensive, black-tiled bathroom. Annoyed by the intrusion, Charlie snarled.
‘Can’t a person go to the frigging carzey in peace?’
‘Sorry, Charlie, I just …’
‘Watch your manners!’ Throwing the nearest thing he could reach, which just so happened to be the toilet brush, at the man’s head, and fuming, Charlie stood up, pulling up his trousers without bothering to wipe.
‘Sorry, Mr Eton, it’s just that you asked me to let you know when I saw Alfie going into his club.’
Narrowing his grey eyes, Charlie glared. ‘Yeah, but I don’t remember that including disturbing me when I’m having a shit.’
‘Yes, boss. Sorry.’
Sighing and deciding there and then that he was going to give the man his marching orders, Charlie asked, ‘How long ago?’
‘Must have only been about ten minutes ago. He didn’t look so great to tell you the truth. He looked a bit ill.’
Stepping forward, Charlie breathed into the man’s face. The sticky aroma of unbrushed teeth wafted between them. ‘When I want a medical diagnosis, I’ll call 999, but in the meantime, just shut the hell up. You understand?’
‘Yes, boss.’
Satisfied, Charlie nodded. ‘Good, now off you trot … oh and whilst you’re at it, get your things and go.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me, go. Leave. You’re sacked. I don’t want to see you around here again. Got it?’
‘But why? I don’t understand.’
Bemused, Charlie brought back his leg, kneeing the man hard in his balls. ‘Why? Because I’m Charlie Eton, that’s why. And for your information, I don’t need a reason to sack you, and come to think of it, I don’t need a reason to kill you either. So, if I were you, I’d piss off out of my sight before I count to ten.’
Fifteen minutes later, Charlie Eton sat on the large blue leather sofa, dressed in designer jeans and a pink Ralph Lauren shirt, in the crisp white back room of his club, deep in thought and ruminating about Alfie Jennings whilst Shannon attempted to work on his limp penis.
Fed up and feeling a bit of chafing, Charlie kicked Shannon away, sending her crashing into a pile of beer crates.
Indignantly, she screamed, her big green eyes filling up with tears as she looked down at her laddered black tights, which she’d only just bought cheaply from one of the shoplifters who regularly came by the club selling their goods. Looking through the fringe of her red curly hair, Shannon’s bottom lip quivered as she wailed. ‘What did you go and do that for?’
‘Turn it in, Shan – or at least turn it down. I’m not in the mood for any of your whining and blubbering. I’ve already had enough shit tonight, and that’s before I decide what needs to be done about Alfie. I mean, who the hell does he think he is setting up a club right on my doorstep? He must think I’m a flipping mug. Do I look like a mug, Shan? Come on, be honest. Do I look like I’ve got idiot written on my forehead?’
Wiping away her tears, Shannon shook her head. ‘No, Char, he’s the one who’s the mug.’
Charlie stared at his niece and smiled. He liked her loyalty. That went a long way in his book. Okay, so she moaned a lot, she chewed off his ear more than the other girls that he had working for him, but when all was said and done, Shannon was a good grafter – he’d give her that. And underneath the thick, exaggerated make-up, there was a beautiful girl and even though she was just sixteen, there was still the look of a child about her. A vulnerability. When she wiped off the cack from her face, she could easily pass for as young as ten. A ten-year-old with a woman’s body. Punters paid a lot for that.
The other thing he’d always liked about Shannon was that she seemed grateful. Grateful for the care he gave her. He supposed there was something to be said about having family working for him. Not that his sister, Shannon’s mother, had been much use to anybody. Far from it.
Like their own mother, she’d been weak, spending most of her life in and out of mental institutions before she’d been found dead from an overdose of heroin in a back alley off the Old Kent Road. As a result, Shannon had gone to live with one of her aunts who, in his opinion, had done a good job with the girl. She’d prepared Shannon for the harsh realities of life. She’d made her strong. She hadn’t wrapped her up in cotton wool, which didn’t do anything for anybody apart from making them weak.
No, what his sister had done was get Shannon out there. Exposing her to how life really was. Getting her to earn her keep from the start by pawning her out, before putting her full time on the game, and Shannon had not only earned his sister a crust, but she’d also made a little bit of pocket money for herself too. If his memory served him right, he recalled his sister telling him once that Shannon had been earning at least fifteen pounds a week for herself when most eight-year-old girls would be lucky to have a couple of pounds. Shannon certainly was a lucky girl.
To Charlie, a strong work ethic was one of the most important things in life because nothing in life came free. He of all people should know that, and now Shannon, thanks to his sister, knew that as well. Still, even he knew on occasion there were exceptions to those rules.
He grinned, digging into his trouser pocket, and winked at Shannon as he pulled out a small off-white rock of crack cocaine, th
rowing it to her gently.
‘You’d thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you? Well I hadn’t … Happy birthday, Shan. Now you can’t say I don’t give you anything … Come on then, come and give your uncle a birthday kiss.’
3
Another person who seemed to have Alfie on their mind was Franny Doyle, but it was another couple of hours before she’d cleaned herself up and found herself walking slowly along the bustling streets of Soho towards their club just off Sutton Row.
Although Soho had changed a lot over the years, she still felt at home here. It gave her a certain kind of peace like nowhere else did.
She’d been raised in the small square mile of Soho and around each and every corner were memories. Happy childhood memories, and she could almost feel the ghosts of the past.
She smiled sadly to herself as she walked past St Anne’s Church on Dean Street, remembering how her father Patrick, a number-one face, had once raced her home from there to their large house in Soho Square; him running, and her pedalling away on the new pink bike he’d given her, like her life depended on it. And they’d laughed hard and hysterically whilst the rain lashed down, and they’d been soaked to the skin but it hadn’t mattered, not one little bit.
Until those days had become complicated, they were happy ones. And she supposed that’s what she missed most of all. The simple pleasures. The laughter, something that was certainly absent from her life of late, though one thing that being back had done was reconnect her with the past, and take away any doubts she had. It made her see even more clearly what was important to her, and that was family. Family came in all different ways and in all different manners. Family didn’t need to be about blood, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t protect them like they were. No matter what it took. No matter what she had to do.
So yes, even though life at the moment was difficult and stressful, and at times it felt like she wasn’t coping properly, she was pleased to be here among the vibrant streets of Soho. Not that it had been her idea to come back – it had been Alfie’s. Nor had it been her idea to get back into the club business – again that had been Alfie’s – but considering the state of mind he was in, she couldn’t have persuaded him otherwise even if she’d tried.
Though hopefully, very soon, Alfie would realise what was best for him. Realise he really did need to get away. Properly away. To Spain. To Mexico. To Brazil. To anywhere but here. He’d looked ill earlier, a shell of his former self, and no matter what, she still did care about him. She always would. Just because he’d be in one country and her in another, it wouldn’t mean the end of them, but right now, her and Alfie’s relationship was the least of her worries.
Taking a deep breath, Franny closed her eyes for a moment, the enormity of everything washing over her. She had to keep on believing that things would work out in the end. In fact, they had to, because it wasn’t just Alfie feeling anxious. If things didn’t work out very soon, she wasn’t sure what she was going to do.
Opening her eyes and regretting not putting a warmer top on, Franny, once more beginning to feel the pressure build up, started to walk again, still with Alfie firmly on her mind.
Ten minutes later, having stopped for a quick catch-up chat with one of the old prostitutes who’d worked the area for as long as she could remember, Franny arrived at the club. She walked down the stone basement stairs towards the discreet entrance and as she did, her phone rang.
She answered quickly. Her tone was hushed and cold as she stood in the shadows of the night, her gaze darting around anxiously.
‘Yes? … What? … For God’s sake, haven’t I told you not to call me unless it’s an emergency? … No, you listen to me. I said that I’d come round and I will. I’ve never let you down before have I? … No, that’s right. You know I’ve got a lot on so I don’t appreciate you making everything harder … I’m going to check on Alfie first, but like I say, unless you want us both getting into trouble, don’t call me again on this number.’
‘Who shouldn’t call you again?’
Franny jumped, turning round and letting out a small scream as she clutched the phone to her chest, backing away. ‘Jesus Christ, you nearly gave me a heart attack. Don’t go around creeping up on people like that.’
Vaughn Sadler stepped out of the shadows into the light, staring at Franny, his green eyes twinkling with suspicion. ‘I wasn’t. Not my style, darling. Sneaking about has never been my thing.’
He held her stare and, annoyed, she waved him off. ‘Whatever, Vaughn. You carry on telling yourself that.’
Vaughn tilted his head, finishing off his large cigar. ‘You seem jumpy.’
Wiping away the tiny beads of perspiration on her brow, Franny snapped, ‘Well yeah! Because you’ve jumped out on me.’
Vaughn leant in, a smirk spreading across his handsome face. ‘You carry on telling yourself that … So go on then, who was on the phone? Who shouldn’t call you again?’
Franny bristled with anger, desperate to get away. ‘Sorry to tell you this, Vaughn, but you’re not my keeper. Now if you don’t mind getting out of my way, I’m here to see Alfie.’
She turned to head for the entrance but felt the firm grip of Vaughn’s hand on her arm.
‘Not until you tell me.’
Franny shook her head, pushing her long chestnut hair out of the way. ‘Not a chance, and not because I’m hiding anything, but because it’s none of your business. Now I’d appreciate it if you’d take your hands off me.’
Vaughn dropped his hold. The coldness in his tone turned to ice. ‘I don’t like you, Franny, and I certainly don’t trust you. If it wasn’t for Alfie, after that stunt of yours you pulled last year, you’d be six foot under.’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘No, it’s a regret. We should’ve got rid of you a long time ago because I know as well as you do that behind that pretty face of yours and those big innocent eyes, you’re a scheming bitch and come to think of it, you still owe me a lot of money. I don’t forget, and I certainly don’t forgive people who rip me off.’
Trying to keep her temper under control, Franny chewed the inside of her bottom lip. ‘You know it wasn’t like that.’
‘Like I say, you’re a scheming bitch. You might have Alfie fooled, darlin’, but sweetheart, I know your game. You are so like your father it’s unreal. Gangster through and through aren’t you?’
Irritated, Franny sighed. There was no love lost between her and Vaughn, who’d been Alfie’s business partner for a long while now. And no, she didn’t entirely blame him for being pissed off with her. But he knew as well as Alfie did that the stunt he was always referring to, the ripping off he often spoke about, simply wasn’t true. Okay, she’d taken his and Alfie’s money without asking them last year. A lot of money. Two million pounds to be precise. But it wasn’t about conning or cheating anybody. The fact was she knew if she’d asked them they, or at least Vaughn, would’ve said no. And no would’ve meant two people who were very dear to her would’ve likely been killed by the notorious Russo brothers, who’d demanded the money in return for her family’s safety. Not that it’d ended up being as simple as that, far from it, but she would defy anyone not to do the same in her position, and that included Vaughn.
‘I didn’t rip you off, you know that, and I’d do it again if I had to.’
Vaughn nodded. ‘I know, and that’s the problem. You aren’t to be trusted, and if Alfie can’t see that, then I’ll make it my business to make him see.’
‘Keep out of my business, Vaughn, you hear me?’
‘Not a chance. I’m going to bring you down, Franny.’
Franny barged past Vaughn, pushing down her anxiety and doing her best to ignore what he was saying.
‘I’m watching you, Franny Doyle. You hear me? I’m watching you!’
As Franny walked into the overheated basement club, her mood wasn’t helped when she saw Alfie slumped across the bar with one of the women who worked for them almost sitting on his knee. The minu
te she saw Franny, she blushed, tottering off quickly in her too high stilettos and shorter than short mini skirt muttering an apology under her breath.
Stony-faced, Franny sat on the Perspex bar stool next to Alfie as she looked around the club full of wealthy punters. Punters who were happy to flash their black Amex cards and pay well over the odds for the middle-of-the-road Champagne they served. And in return for their money, they got to wind down and chat freely to the pretty girls who worked there, away from their wives’ prying eyes.
Not that their girls were actual underage girls, not like Charlie Eton’s. That wasn’t even a possibility. To Franny, Charlie was the scum of the earth. She’d seen first-hand how young they were as well as seeing how badly he treated them, and in truth, it made her sick to her stomach. They were all vulnerable or runaway kids who saw Charlie and his club as an escape. Somewhere better than where they had come from. And Christ, that was the most depressing part of it all.
Franny had always been strict with the recruitment process. The youngest girl who worked for them at the moment had just turned twenty, and on account of it being almost impossible to know how old someone was just by looking at them, she always insisted on seeing the girls’ passports without exception.
The other thing she was strict on was making sure the girls understood from the get-go that the place wasn’t a knocking shop, or an escort business, nor did it have a room at the back for giving clients sneaky blow jobs.
All that was required of them was to look pretty, to be friendly, and to keep smiling, in addition to getting the punters to buy drinks. Lots of drinks. Obviously, what the girls did in their spare time with the clients wasn’t any of her business, but she warned them from the outset that if she heard them offering the clients sex, they’d be out on their ear before they could say the full works.
Membership for the club was in excess of ten thousand pounds a year, and so far, not only was the place doing very well, they also had a waiting list. The clients seemed to appreciate the air of discretion and sophistication, so having Alfie looking like he was about to vomit all over the expensive, plush black marble floor any minute was not a good look.