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       SOHO

       LATE LAST NIGHT

      Alfie Jennings gulped down the last drops of the bottle of whiskey as he watched the orange and yellow flames of the fire dance about. Pulling his gaze away he stared at the letter he held in his hand, reading it once more as he tried to stop himself from trembling whilst feeling the same clawing terror he’d felt over the past ten months or so since the letters first started to arrive.

      Leaning over the neatly cut-up line of cocaine that sat on top of the black, hand-carved mantelpiece in the front room of the large Georgian house in Soho, Alfie snorted it up greedily. He hoped the coke he’d bought from his friend would somehow make him feel better. Get him high and make him forget.

      Closing his eyes, he swallowed as the white powder hit the back of his throat. He tasted the bitterness as a rush of euphoria raced through his bloodstream and for just one fleeting moment, his crippling fear subsided, only for it to return a few seconds later as it came crashing back all too hard, all too quickly.

      About to snort another line at the same time as making a mental note to pull up his mate for selling him low-grade coke, Alfie felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he stared at the screen. Number withheld. He frowned as he answered.

      ‘Hello? … Hello?’

      Getting no reply and trying to ignore the cold, clammy dread creeping over his body, Alfie attempted to convince himself that his racing heart was just down to the bad batch of coke. He spoke again. ‘Hello? Hello? Listen, whoever this is, let me tell you something: I don’t appreciate being prank called, and when I find out who you are, I will make sure I get …’ He stopped suddenly, hearing slow breathing on the other end of the line. But not wanting to show alarm, Alfie cleared his throat, now aware of his own breath; short and shallow, his voice smaller, quieter, fear mixing into his words.

      ‘Who is this? Look, this isn’t funny anymore. You hear me? I don’t know what you’re trying to do but if you think you’re going to scare me by playing the old heavy breather game, think again, cos you’re wasting your time. You don’t scare me. You think a few phone calls and a few letters are going to get me going? Do me a favour. You seriously can’t know who I am. I’m Alfie Jennings. You hear that? I’m Alfie, and I never get frightened about anything, so why don’t you just do one and call someone else?’

      Hurriedly, Alfie clicked off his phone, throwing it across the room as he took deep, long breaths, wiping the prickles of sweat off his face, trying to calm his trembling, trying to stop the wave of nausea overwhelming him as he swallowed the vomit back down along with his panic.

      It was stupid. So stupid. How could a few letters and calls make him feel so jumpy? Maybe it was just the coke making him twitchy. Paranoid. Christ almighty.

      But as Alfie stood – his handsome face pale and strained – in the large, newly decorated front room, still holding the letter in his hand, the second one he’d received that day and feeling like it was burning a hole in his palm, he knew the real problem wasn’t the substandard coke. The real problem was he was scared – really scared – and he hated himself for it. He was disgusted at his fear, and God knows he’d never admit it to anyone. The worst thing was, no matter how much he drank and snorted coke to take away the panic, the fear still sat there like a stone in his stomach.

      He couldn’t even tell Franny – his long-term lover – about it, although it was clear she knew something wasn’t quite right. She’d asked him on several occasions if there was some kind of problem, even going as far as suggesting that he took a break, went back to Spain, set up again there, anything to make him feel better. But all he’d said to her was that he was fine. That everything was just fine, but fine couldn’t be further from the truth.

      It was a joke. He was a joke, and the shame of it all sat on his shoulders like a weighted barbell. And besides, even if he wanted to tell Franny, what would he actually say to her? How would he say it? And how could she look at him afterwards with any kind of respect when he told her he was afraid? Afraid of the calls. Afraid of a letter. A flipping four-line letter. It was pathetic because after all when it came down to it, he was the great Alfie Jennings, the same Alfie Jennings who’d put fear into so many men over the years and the same Alfie Jennings who’d taken on gangs and notorious crime families to become one of the biggest faces there was. Yet here he was trembling like a girl over a poxy note, which this time had been left on the window of his car. But then, it wasn’t just any note, was it? Because the note wasn’t from just anybody, was it? No, because he was certain he knew exactly who the note was from.

      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