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, throwing 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.’
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?
