Sinner

Shaking and with his thick, dark hair stuck to his sweating forehead, Alfie glanced down again at the letter.

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

I’m your worst nightmare and I’m coming for you.

Screwing it up tightly and throwing it into the flames, Alfie rested his head against the fireplace.

The letters had been one of the reasons he’d moved back up to Soho from Essex; it made him feel safe, or rather he’d hoped it would’ve done. He’d thought the familiarity of the place, seeing the people he’d grown up with and throwing himself back into his old ways would make him feel better, make him forget. But he hadn’t. Not one little bit. He was still looking over his shoulder, still drinking more than he should to stay as sharp as he would’ve liked to, and still taking too much coke, all behind Franny’s back.

The only thing it had helped him do was forget Bree Dwyer, an old friend who he’d bumped into last year, and when he’d stupidly thought that Franny had ripped him off in a business deal and wasn’t coming back, he had sought comfort in Bree and very quickly they’d become lovers. Then just as he was beginning to settle down with her, Franny had come back, explaining the reasons why she’d done what she’d done, but by that time it was too late, because he’d already fallen in love with Bree without bothering to fall out of love with Franny.

But over time, Franny – who’d always been the strong one – did something that if he’d been in the same position, he knew he couldn’t have done; she’d become friends with Bree, trying to make the three of them work. And Jesus, it’d been complicated, especially when Bree had found out she was pregnant. Not that she’d been certain if it was his or her ex-husband’s baby, though ultimately it hadn’t mattered whose it was, because Bree had had a miscarriage. Afterwards, she’d decided she didn’t want anything to do with him and once again his heart had been broken when she’d moved away without saying goodbye and without leaving a forwarding address.

And through all of it, and although Franny had been hurt, really hurt by his relationship with Bree – albeit he’d never set out to cause her any pain – Franny had been kind. Supportive. Worrying about him. Suggesting he took time out in Spain whilst she stayed in England to run the businesses. Not that he’d taken her up on it and anyway, when the first letter had come all those months ago, Bree and his broken heart were soon forgotten, overshadowed by his own debilitating fear.

A sound in the hallway cut into Alfie’s thoughts. For a moment he froze before quietly stepping back towards the hearth, his eyes fixed on the lounge door.

Feeling his heart begin to race again, Alfie carefully slid his hand behind the bronze clock on the mantelpiece, and pulled out a large jagged knife. He paused, listening again, then made his way slowly around the room, quickly turning off the light, leaving him in darkness save the glowing embers of the fire.

He could feel the tightness in his chest as he gripped the leather handle of the knife. Moving across the room in the darkness, careful to avoid banging into anything, afraid to make a noise, Alfie stiffened as he heard the sound again. Someone was coming. They were getting nearer.

Nervously playing with the knife in his hand, he twirled it around and around in his palm, which was now wet with sweat as he stared into the darkness, just waiting. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and there it was again. Just outside the door now.

As the door began to open, Alfie pushed himself as far back as he could then without hesitation he jumped forward, grabbing the person in a neck lock, spinning them round and with as much strength as he could, he threw them hard against the wall, kicking at them brutally as they fell to the floor.

In the darkness, Alfie, enraged, slammed their head against the wooden floorboards over and over again at the same time as ignoring the punching and struggling from the person beneath him. With one hand, he grabbed their throat, pushing down hard as he brought the knife to their cheek, pressing it into their flesh. He could hear choking as he held their neck. ‘You haven’t got nothing to say now, have you? Let me show you what happens when you think you can take me on. Thought you could frighten me, did you? Well I’m going …’

‘Alf … Alf …’

Horrified, Alfie suddenly let go, scrabbling back as he dropped the knife, frantically leaping up to turn the light on. ‘Franny? Oh my God, Franny. Jesus, what have I done?’

Sickened at himself, he stood transfixed as Franny rolled around in pain, the small nick on her face oozing with blood. Then shaking himself out of his trance, Alfie dropped to his knees, cradling Franny’s head in his arm as he pulled up her top to reveal the angry bruise on the side of her ribs. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Are you all right? Jesus Christ, I could’ve killed you. What were you thinking of creeping about like that?’

Rubbing her throat, Franny began to sit up, wincing at the pain, her voice croaking from the chokehold as she stared at Alfie in shocked bemusement. ‘Me? What I am doing? Alfie, I live here!’

Turning his shame into anger, Alfie snapped, ‘I know that, but you could’ve been anybody!’

‘Like who? Like who, Alfie?’

Alfie shrugged, not wanting to hold eye contact. ‘I don’t know, like a burglar.’

‘Are you kidding me? When was the last time you knew a burglar to use a key? What is wrong with you?’

Although he knew he was out of order and should be full of apologies, her tone bristled him. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. Why would there be anything wrong with me? What are you trying to say, Fran?’

Standing up with great effort and holding her side, Franny shook her head, strands of her long chestnut hair covered in blood from the wound on her cheek. ‘Have you heard yourself? Are you …’ About to say something else, she stopped as her eyes caught sight of the lines of cocaine still sitting on the mantelpiece. She spoke coldly. ‘What is that?’

Alfie glanced towards where Franny was staring. Shit, he’d forgotten about that. Irritated, but aware it was more about being caught out, he said, ‘What do you think it is? Can’t a man have a bit of downtime?’

Stepping towards him, Franny matched Alfie’s tone. ‘Not when that downtime turns you so paranoid you think you need to attack me for coming into my own home!’

‘Turn it in, Fran. I hate it when you exaggerate … Look, I’m really sorry, okay? I thought you were …’

‘Thought I was who, Alf? Talk to me.’

Alfie shrugged, aware of his anxiety as he tried to sound casual. ‘I dunno. Does it matter?’

‘What matters, Alf, is that you were so high you could’ve killed me. You didn’t even wait to see who it was … Baby, what’s going on? I mean you haven’t been yourself for a long time now. I’m worried about you. I know I’ve said it before but why don’t you think about getting away? Take some time out. Set up again in Spain if that’s what it takes. You were happy there and we can make that work. We’ve done it before; after all Spain is only a couple of hours away … What’s that you’re burning?’

Franny looked at the fire and again, Alfie shrugged. Uncomfortable, he mumbled, ‘Nothing.’

Franny’s voice was soft. ‘Alfie?’

‘Don’t look at me like that.’

‘Like what?’

Rubbing his chin, Alfie snapped, ‘Like I’m hiding something.’

‘Well are you? Because I can clearly see something burning.’

Angrily and unable to deal with his emotions, Alfie grabbed his coat before turning to stare at Franny with as much hostility as he could muster. ‘What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? You’ll be wanting to know what time I went for a piss next.’

‘Alf …’

Alfie cut in, leaning in to Franny’s face. She recoiled at the smell of the whiskey on his breath. ‘Don’t flipping Alf me. I already told you, it’s nothing. Like the coke is nothing. It’s my nothing. It hasn’t got anything to do with you, so why don’t you just leave it? Now unless you’ve got anything else to say, I’m off to the club. Someone around here has to earn the money you seem to spend like water.’

And with that, Alfie Jennings slammed out of the room, leaving Franny to stare at the dying flames of the fire.

2 (#ulink_7b7ba67a-1c2d-53b7-b01c-123d910321b7)

Shannon Mulligan was on her knees. It was only 8pm and she’d already lost count of the amount of blow jobs she’d given that day in the small members-only club in Mead Street, Soho. Though on analysis, she reckoned it must be a lot on account of how painful her knees were and how much her jaw was aching – those were two good indicators in her book. Her rule was, if she didn’t feel the burn in her knee joints and the throbbing in her jaw, well she hadn’t done enough, which ultimately meant her pimp, Charlie Eton, would have something to say. And one thing that Shannon Mulligan knew all too well was that Charlie’s first language wasn’t English when it came to money.

Charlie talked in bust lips, black eyes, broken ribs and knocked-out teeth. Not that she was particularly bothered about her teeth – they’d started falling out a long time ago, long before she’d started working for Charlie and around about the same time she’d moved from heroin on to crack. Besides, she didn’t think it was half bad not having all her front teeth: it made the blow jobs easier and stopped the punters’ pubic hairs getting stuck in them, which was one of her pet peeves.

Bored and glancing up, Shannon’s view was blocked by her client’s enormous pasty white wobbly belly as he thrust into her mouth one final time before he let out a loud squeal – reminding Shannon of the pig she’d seen on TV last week – as his legs gave way underneath him, and he collapsed satisfied to the floor.

Staring in disgust, Shannon stood up and sighed. Today was her sixteenth birthday.

Charlie Eton was one of life’s bastards and he prided himself on this self-proclaimed title. If anyone called him a bastard, rather than be offended, he took it as a compliment, knowing that he must be doing something right, because to Charlie being a bastard showed strength. It showed aggression. It showed he’d wound somebody up enough for them to be upset. Everything he aspired to do and be – that word said it all.

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.