Taken

Alfie banged his hand on the table giving Janine a fright and made her jump out of her thoughts.

‘I’ll get one of my men to drive you both home and we’ll talk about it tomorrow, but tell Emmie she should count herself grounded.’

It was another hour before Alfie and Oscar arrived in Redchurch Street, a scruffy road full of office blocks behind Shoreditch High Street. He hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to Oscar properly yet, as Vaughn had insisted on having a drink with him; reminiscing about jobsthey’d done together and trying to calm the hyped-up Alfie down. Then, when Vaughn had heard they were heading towards the East End, he’d jumped in the back of Alfie’s BMW and got a lift to an illegal gambling house in King John Court, a few streets away from where they were now.

As Alfie followed Oscar up the stairs of the empty block of offices Oscar owned, he wondered why he’d been so guarded about speaking in front of Vaughn. He’d always been open in sharing the ins and outs of his other businesses with him: the protection rackets, the counterfeit money, the stolen electrical goods and hundreds of cloned bank cards he’d kept above the club; even the copious amounts of drugs he shipped into the country each year from China: Vaughn knew about it all. But this venture, with Oscar, Alfie wanted to keep close to his chest.

The passage along the top floor was lit with a low-watt light bulb, making it difficult, but not impossible, for Alfie to see the rubbish strewn everywhere. At the end of the hall sat a large Albanian looking man sitting on a hard chair, staring at nothing in particular. At his feet lay a large machete and an empty bottle of water.

The man stood up, nodding an acknowledgement to Oscar as he approached, and opened a door to the side of him. Alfie trailed in silence through it and up another flight of steps. At the top, Oscar opened another door.

Inside Alfie saw five young women, aged from around sixteen to twenty-five. They stared with wide anxious eyes and expressions of fear as he walked further into the room. Alfie briefly thought of his schooldays as the girls stood to attention, scared to make a movement.

‘They’re no trouble, not like the brass here. They don’t talk much English, if any, but the guy downstairs speaks their language so communication’s no problem. They’ll do anything I tell them; they’re too scared to say no.’

Oscar grinned at Alfie then leered at the smallest and youngest looking woman, who quickly put her head down.

‘Want to test the goods, Alf? We need to start breaking them in, so you might as well start now.’

Alfie shook his head, feeling strangely uncomfortable. At the back of his mind he realised this discomfort was probably the reason he hadn’t confided in his long-term friend. Over the years he and Vaughn had owned brothels, but the brasses had come and gone as they pleased. This was different; this was trafficking, and even people like him had a conscience.

‘What’s up, Alfie, getting cold feet? Are you going soft on me in your old age?’

One thing Alfie Jennings prized highly was his reputation. He hated anybody thinking that he was weak, and looking at Oscar with that mocking glint in his eye pissed him off. What was he thinking? Business was business; there was no room for sentiment. Storming out, Alfie put the haunted faces of the girls in the back of his mind.

‘So are we going to keep them there?’

‘It’s not ideal. We could maybe move a couple above your club tomorrow morning.’

‘How many have we got?’

‘Ten; well nine now.’ Alfie raised his eyebrows, waiting for an explanation.

‘It’s a long story, I’ll tell you on the way back.’

With all the temporary road traffic lights on the blink, the drive through Shoreditch and through the Angel into Soho would have usually frustrated Alfie but instead he sat listening to Oscar recount his tale of the previous night in stunned silence.

When they arrived back at his club, Alfie was still lost for words and it was Oscar who turned to look at him.

‘So you know everything now; my darkest little secret. There’s no backing out now.’ Oscar chuckled, rubbing his pulsating temples. ‘You’re well and truly in now, Alfie.’

As Oscar stepped out of the car, Alfie realised he’d let himself in for a whole lot more than he’d bargained on. There was no backing out now; Oscar had shared his secret with him and Alfie knew that in Oscar’s mind they were now both implicated. If he tried to walk away from the deal, Oscar would think he couldn’t be trusted and would bring him down. One thing Alfie was certain of was when Oscar got jumpy he was a dangerous person, and the last thing he needed right now was any more shit, especially when it came to Oscar Harding.

Oh yes, Alfie Jennings knew he was over a barrel, and a very large fucking barrel at that.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Casey Edwards didn’t know if it was the thumping of her head which had woken her up or the loud scratching noise in the far corner of the room. After she’d discovered her emergency supply of vodka was empty, she’d taken herself out to a late night bar, but she had no recollection of getting home. As she opened her eyes, the noise got louder – she supposed in her intoxicated state she must have picked up yet another stranger with hygiene issues. Raising her head with a slight amount of difficulty, Casey stared in horror as she saw a large rat – of the four-legged kind rather than two – scratching away.

Her loud high-pitched scream didn’t do her head any favours as she ran into the lounge, barricading her body against the door. She felt the bile rise as she rushed to the toilet, forgetting for a moment about the filth awaiting her in the windowless bathroom as she violently emptied the contents from her stomach.

A black coffee and a half a Kit Kat later, Casey was on the phone to the landlord, frustrated at the lack of alarm Mr Goldman was showing.

‘What do you want me to do, love? Start charging him rent?’

‘I want you to do something about it. Come and take a look.’

‘It needs poison, not an audience. This is London love; weren’t you ever told the story of Dick Whittington? What you need is a cat.’

‘I thought pets weren’t allowed.’

‘They’re not.’

He laughed and carried on joking. This infuriated Casey, causing her to break down into floods of tears. Within a moment of her emotional outburst he agreed to take a look, preferring it, Casey supposed, to female hysterics on the phone so early in the morning.

After the call, Casey hurriedly went through her packed bag of clothes and discovered that apart from two pairs of lilac lace knickers, her only other clean item of clothing was a low-cut grey mini dress more appropriate for a night out than an overcast Thursday morning or a pair of jeans with a stubborn red wine stain on them.

After fifteen minutes of trying to get the stain out, Casey decided it wasn’t going to shift, no matter how hard she scrubbed. She felt faint and realised she needed to eat something other than chocolate; she had a busy day ahead.

Pulling on her jeans and putting on the least crumpled top she could find in her bag, she left the flat and wandered the short distance down Dean Street, doing a right into Bateman Street and walking into the first cafe she came across.

The runny egg on the chipped white plate and the overdone piece of fatty bacon were just two of the culinary delights of Lola’s Night Cafe. Casey stared at what was in front of her, feeling her stomach turning over once again.

‘Not hungry love? Never mind.’

Casey tried to smile at the woman who was speaking to her in between breaking out into short bursts of ‘Fly Me to the Moon’, which was being played on the radio. Contrary to the toothless woman’s belief, Casey was very hungry, just not for what was on offer on her plate.

Getting up to pay, Casey saw the scrawled sign behind the counter: ‘Waitress wanted’.

‘Are you still looking?’

‘For what? My prince in shining armour? Bleedin’ hell, he’s already been in; took one look around and fucked right off again on his white charger.’

The woman opened her mouth wide and cackled loudly, causing Casey to draw back from her rancid breath.

‘I meant the waitressing job.’

‘I know what you meant, love. You’ll be no good to me if you can’t crack a smile.’

‘Sorry, I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.’

The woman stared hard at Casey, looking her up and down and pausing at the top of her head; as if the job depended on Casey’s height.

‘You’ll do. I’m Lola by the way. Now take off that fancy jacket of yours and grab an apron.’

By the time four thirty had arrived, Casey’s feet were killing her and she was certain there were much easier ways to earn minimum wage. The stifling heat of the cafe, with its smells of old cooking oil, greasy fry-ups and countless bowls of watery tomato soup, combined with the lack of food in her stomach meant Casey needed to step outside on occasion into the busy street to get some fresh air.

‘I’ll dock your wages for that.’ Lola had glared at Casey for a moment but almost immediately had broken out into a smile. ‘You won’t have to mind me, Casey love; you’ll get used to me jokes. Keep smiling is what I say; helps your heart keep beating.’