Often Alfie took to the stage himself, supporting the acts but securing the biggest laughs; it was one of the perks to being him, being a face, being someone everyone was scared of; even if he wasn’t funny, they were all too damn scared of him not to laugh.
Not that he wanted it to be that way. He longed for the applause and laughter to be genuine; he really did love doing stand-up, but his problem was the nerves.
‘You’re all wound up and tight like an Irish nun’s fanny. What you need to do is relax, Alf – enjoy it instead of bleeding worrying about what everyone else will think and being terrified you’ll be crap,’ Janine would say to him constantly.
‘Thank you bleeding Oprah. When I want your flipping input, Janine, I’ll ask for it – until then, keep your big fat mush shut.’
Annoyed, he’d storm off, slamming the front door behind him because what she said always hit a nerve. It was true he worried about what people would think of him and it was true the word failure loomed large in his head. And the more he worried about it, the worse it got; moments before he was due to go on stage with the solitary spotlight hitting down on him as the audience looked up in anticipation, the nerves would get the better of him; his palms and brow would begin to sweat, the well-rehearsed lines would disappear from his mind, leaving only panic and dread in their wake.
He wished he could confide in his friends but he knew he could never admit it to anyone; he’d a reputation to keep and it wouldn’t do for people to know that the great Alfie Jennings, the man so many men had feared, was crippled with stage fright. He’d be a laughing stock, and the fear of that was nearly as great as his nerves. He’d secretly gone to a hypnotherapist in Harley Street and paid through the fucking nose to try to conquer his fear but it hadn’t helped, nothing seemed to.
Up until five years ago Alfie’s hideaway flat had been above his foundling club, but when he’d started branching out into other business he’d decided to buy the penthouse across the road and it was now his second home. Not that the penthouse had been for sale – the owners had no intention of moving out until Alfie had sent round three of his henchmen with a stark warning and an offer. Six months later, he’d moved in.
The club had survived the nail bomb in Old Compton Street, though The Admiral Duncan, a pub a few doors along, hadn’t been so lucky, and neither had some of its punters. But Whispers Comedy Club had survived and as Alfie looked out at the club opposite, he felt a pride in his chest like the one he’d felt when he’d seen Emmie for the first time.
His thoughts were interrupted by banging on the bathroom door.
‘Alfie, let me in love. I need a wee.’
Alfie Jennings could feel his temper rising. Not only was she a mouthy brass, but she also expected to go for a piss in his expensive marbled bathroom. Swinging open the door, Alfie took in the state of the woman in front of him who an hour ago had been giving him a blow job and sticking her tongue in his arse. She stood naked, jigging about with her huge tits uncovered, pulling her face into a scowl.
‘Christ, about bleedin’ time. I’m going to burst like a dam.’
The scream from the young woman’s mouth was one of shock as Alfie picked her up and carried her through the doorway of his bedroom and out of his flat.
‘Put me down yer fucker.’
‘You want a piss? Piss here where the dogs do, it should be like home from home for you.’
Ignoring her effing and blinding, Alfie unceremoniously dumped the naked woman outside in the street before catching sight of a stunning looking woman across the other side, reading the board outside his club. He took in her curvaceous yet slim body, her long auburn hair and full red lips and for a moment he just stood there, forgetting about the tom he’d just thrown out, forgetting about the show later on that night; for one of the first times in his life, Alfie Jennings was mesmerised. He willed the woman to go into the club, but she turned away in the other direction. He contemplated going after her, turning on the Jennings charm, but he needed to get showered first and wash off the brass; it wouldn’t go down very well if he had the smell of another woman all over him. Besides, it wasn’t as if his dick would go hungry; Soho was always full of top class pieces of pussy waiting to get laid.
CHAPTER THREE
It was already six o’clock and Oscar Harding needed to get ready. He’d been trying to get ready since this morning but had found it impossible after waking up to the scene of carnage next to him. It was the second time it’d happened and although it hadn’t shocked him as much as the first time, it’d still fucked up his day.
He’d called Billy a few hours ago and had left a message but he still hadn’t arrived and that was really winding him up. He paid Billy a lot of money to be at his beck and call and on the few times he did call him, the little prick was nowhere to be seen.
It was his own fault though; his mum had always warned him about trusting coons. That thought pissed him off even more; knowing his mum had been right about anything.
‘Boss? Boss?’
Oscar watched Billy swagger into the bedroom of his large executive flat and then freeze as he took in the sight; his black skin blanching. ‘Fuck me.’
‘Are you trying to be an Anthony Blunt? I called you over three hours ago and the first thing you come in and say is fuck me. Where’s my fucking apology?’
‘Sorry Boss, it’s just a shock.’
Oscar looked at the horror on Billy’s face; he was short and stocky and his skin was black as a hole. And had a naked woman tattooed on his neck. Oscar decided that he needed to get rid of him as soon as possible. It was no good having a henchman who was shocked at the sight of a little bit of blood.
‘I need you to clear this up; I’m meeting Alfie Jennings down at the club later and the last thing I need is him moaning like a cunt because I’m late. I’m going to have a shower and I want it gone by the time I’m finished.’
Oscar stood feeling the hot water of the power shower beat down on his chest and as he opened his mouth to let the water bubble into it, the events of the night before came rushing back.
He’d spent the first few hours of the evening listening to Vaughn Sadler talk about his holiday trip to Marbella. It’d been excruciating and Oscar was sure if he was forced to listen to any more holiday anecdotes, he’d end up comatose at UCH.
He’d no interest whatsoever in travelling or in listening to Vaughn pretending to be a page out of the Lonely Planet. He’d tried to look at his watch discreetly but Vaughn had spotted him.
‘Somewhere else you’d rather be? I’m not boring you am I, Oscar?’
‘Not at all, Vaughn, it’s fascinating. I could listen to you all night.’
‘Glad to hear it. Now where was I? You’ve made me lose me train of thought.’
‘You were about to tell me about your new swimming pool.’
He’d wanted to bury an axe in Vaughn’s head to stop him talking, like he’d done to the Albanian guy last week who’d tried to rip him off, but he’d continued to smile through gritted teeth as he listened to the multiple ways of aerating the water in a pool.
Oscar doubted he’d be able to sit and listen to anyone else spouting shit like this but it was, after all, Vaughn Sadler – and even though he’d ‘retired’ and been out of the business for the last couple of years, Oscar didn’t know any sane man who would fuck with Vaughn. He hadn’t just heard about his reputation, he’d seen it first hand, and he was