Ever since he'd been shot, Alfie had been working on his very own opera, he asked Tommy to deliver you to him, and Tommy wouldn't explain why, other than a rough explanation of Alfies state. He said something about Alfie asking for you since you were his muse. Or something like that.

"He's become a bit of a shut in, doesn't go out anymore.." Tommy said as he took you through Alfie's security measures.

In the industrial elevator, it was dark, and a little scary, nothing but black stretched before you when the mesh gates opened until overhead lights were flicked on one section at a time.

A chair, lamp and gramophone lay set up like one might find them in a home, but what they were doing below the surface of Margate, you had no idea.

"Take a seat, love," Tommy said, nodding to the only chair.

"He won't hurt ya, I'll make sure of it," he said reassuringly. The record on the gramophone finished playing, summoning Alfie from the shadows, one half of his face in darkness.

"I always thought opera was just fat people fuckin' shouting," he said, taking the record and slipping it back into its paper sleeve.