London, England. March 2006.

Help. The most awful and most marvelous word in the English language. I recently found out how true this is. If you will listen, I will tell you how.

Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Frank Martin. I'm in the transportation business. No, I'm not the guy the movies are about. I just share his very common name and job. I transport people and things without asking too many questions. By birth, I come from Houston, Texas. My adopted city, though, is London, England. I've lived here a number of years, and for most of them, I've driven a cab. Usually, it's small potatoes jobs. Get a person or package from one place to another, that's it. Most of my tasks involve everyday people and the things I see are pretty normal. It's lonesome work, but at least it pays well.

It's nowhere near as exciting as some jobs. Some transporters I know have way more interesting lives. My buddy David Wu for example. He drives exclusively for Keira Knightley. Me, I drive for any Tom, Dick, or Jane I pick up on the street.

I've lived in London for the past seven years or so. I love it here. There's odd sights around every corner. The laws make more sense to me than those of America, and a lot of the people seem nicer and smarter in many ways. The TV shows have fewer commercials, the streets are cleaner, there's less traffic. There's a sense of history here, and a sense of literature. Neither is denied or hidden, instead they are honored. Yes, America is better in many ways. It does the same things in many ways. It's also a good country. Wait, what was I talking about? Oh yes. My recent encounter with a request for help.

Said request of course came from one of my passengers. I picked her up outside of BBC Worldwide Headquarters, Broadcasting House, Portland Place. I was in that part of town because it usually gets me a lot of business. Lots of entertainers don't like to drive themselves, and they pay well. Great tippers. She flagged me down outside the BBC studio building. I pulled over immediately. I recognized her. If you live in London and you watch the BBC, you'd probably recognize her too.

Her name was Kellie Shirley. She has been a regular new character on the popular BBC soap opera East Enders for the past few months. You don't know East Enders? Well, it's set in London's East End, it's a serial drama about families and gangs. It's very highly rated and well-written, mostly because of its realism. Despite its constant nagging from the critics, it has won several awards. Some of its storylines have dealt with violence, rape, AIDS, religion, murder, and other controversial topics. It's very inspiring, as inspiring as Dallas or any other classic American soap opera. Kellie's character, Carly Wicks, is inspiring in particular. She is clever, intriguing, and very skilled at a variety of tasks. She's a woman, and she works in a garage. She's also a huge soccer fan. Physically she's a beautiful blonde. Shapely body, nice hair, killer legs, capital knockers. Today she's wearing a nice silk red pantsuit. Jeweled butterfly brooch at the left breast, buttoned-up top, knee-length skirt, sheer white stockings. Ouch!

There she was now, flagging me down. Standing outside Broadcasting House, smiling like a beacon. I immediately pulled over and grinned as I opened the door of my black Rolls-Royce Phantom. How do I afford a Rolls-Royce, you ask? They're cheap over here, and they're still classics. "Hello, ma'am," I greeted Kellie. "I'm Frank Martin."

"I know who you are," Kellie said. "I need your help."

"Help is something I gladly give," I replied. "Where can I take you?"

"I'll come right to the point," she said, getting in and closing the door behind her, lounging on the backseat. "This is going to be an unusual request."

I paused, frowning at her. I adjusted my Astros cap- yes, I live in London, but I'm still a fan of American baseball- and looked at myself and her in the rearview mirror. My blue eyes blinked once, then twice, then I shrugged. I get "unusual requests" every now and then, especially when I work this area. Usually they're fun stuff. Not simple transport jobs. They involve danger, excitement, adventure. Nothing on the order of the movies about my namesake, understand. I hardly crave these things, my normal life is trouble enough. Still, they're great when they occur. Don't you agree? I have quite a reputation for allowing people to indulge in them, helping them. It's a good thing to do in my business. Kellie and I have never met before, but obviously she's heard of my reputation. She's a fan of mine, or she wouldn't have flagged me down like this and made such a request. I too am a fan of hers, so I know her as well as any fan can. I am quite willing to help her out.

"What is it?" I asked, my tone cautious but interested.

"Take me to the East End," Kellie said. "Hackney. Conrad's. We're making a pickup."

I paused again, taking in the directions. The real East End of London is nowhere near the crime-ridden neighborhood the media portrays. They naturally exgaggerate, summarize, leave things out. The East End is really a pretty nice place, a place of varied cultures and lives. It's a wonderful place to live- I myself live in Redbridge. Still, though, some parts are dangerous. Hackney in particular. Hackney is an area that has more crime and poverty than a lot of other places. It's very much a ghetto, inner city. And Conrad's- that's a disreputable location of the worst sort. Every city has places like it. One of those bars where trouble happens every night, one can't seem to stop it. The place just attracts the wrong crowd and encourages them. Who the heck could we be picking up there? Or what?

I turned and looked directly at Kellie. "I have rules, you know. No drugs."

"We're not picking up drugs," she insisted. "We're picking up a friend of mine. She's got herself in a spot of trouble."

That's different, I thought. Trouble. I never like seeing people in trouble. Especially not women. And this woman is likely a celebrity, just like Kellie. I may even be a fan of hers. Thus I decided to assist the lass. "Tell me about this friend," I said, pulling out from the curb and starting to head for Hackney.

"Her name is Jessie Wallace," Kellie began hesitantly. "Have you heard of her?"

I thought for a moment, then nodded. Jessie Wallace. Who in London hasn't heard of Jessie Wallace? Long-running member of the East Enders cast, veteran actress, native daughter of this fair city. Her character, Kat Slater Moon, is known as a fiery vixen on the show. A man-chaser and man-eater, frequently drunk and lusty. Despite this, she's kind and internally wholesome. A tart with a heart. Jessie's one of my favorites on the show. I laugh at her antics all the time. At the same time, though, I'm worried about her. It's been reported in the tabloids quite a lot that she is in reality very much like her character. Alcohol problems, depraved sexual habits, drunk driving arrests. I don't know how much is true and how much isn't. Like most fans, I don't speculate. Hearing her name now, though, and where we were going, I found myself worried. Worried as all-get-out.

"Kat Slater Moon," I replied to Kellie's query. I felt my tone deepening, my pug face going into a frown. "She's at Conrad's?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Kellie sighed. "She went there and I need to get her out."

"You got on the show after she left," I reminded her. I'm a fan of East Enders. I know a lot about it. "You don't know her. What do you care where she goes?"

"I care," Kellie snapped, her pale face turning angry. "We all care. Hurt one of us, you hurt us all. That's not just the theme of our show, you know. It's a fact of how one has to live."

I mused over this for a moment. As she said these words, we passed the Chinese Embassy. I noticed the Falun Gong protesters standing vigil outside it. So many old faces, so many new. A tight-knit community with shared ideals, beliefs. Just like so many real East End families, and the cast of East Enders too, I guessed. I looked back at Kellie. "You're new on the show," I said. "You want to prove yourself."

"Yes," Kellie nodded, smiling again. "Yes, I do."

"Well, well, well," I muttered, looking around at the road as we turned a corner. Traffic is light today, but enough to keep me busy. It's not rush hour, not yet. The weather is cloudy, but nice. Thinking on this, I turned back to Kellie. "This is about how many times Jessie has left the show and then come back, right? You think you can get her to come back again. This isn't for ratings, is it?"

"No," Kellie snapped immediately. "It's for her. She's got a kid, you know. She needs to raise him right."

"A kid?" I raised an eyebrow, then remembered. Oh yes. "Where is that kid now?"

"With his godfather," Kellie answered. "He'll be fine. It's Jessie I'm worried about."

Me too, I grimaced. "Did his godfather put you up to this?"

"Yes," Kellie said, then sighed. "Him and others. But I would have done it anyway, no matter who asked me. I'm a nice person, Frank. I do things like this all the time."

"Of course you do," I agreed. Everyone said things like that when helping people, especially those who did it infrequently. "And you need my help."

"So many people have told me how you've helped them," Kellie nodded. "They say you're incorruptible, very skilled, very precise."

"Transportation is a precise business," I quoted my namesake. "I plan every detail."

"Well, this is sudden," Kellie said, putting her hands together and staring out the window at the Falun Gong. "It's not constant, it's not built-up. I'm improvising, jumping in the lake without a paddle. I'm not sure what I'm doing. I don't really know this girl."

"You only know what you've heard," I said. She nodded in agreement. "No problem," I assured her. "I have experience in things like this."

"Many people have told me so," Kellie smiled. "That's why I came to find you. I was glad when I saw you. Do you really think you can help?"

"I can try," I shrugged, turning another corner. Kellie nodded and said nothing. We rode in silence for some time, the hour or so it took to reach Hackney. I didn't ask her too many more questions about Jessie or her situation. I didn't need to know. Sometimes it's better if you don't know. I'm not a police officer after all. No one is expecting me to make arrests or reports about this. I may never even see these girls again after what I do here. I am simply the random helper who steps in at a time of crisis. It doesn't matter whether I know the people I'm helping or what I think of them. After doing what I can, I go back on my way. Sometimes I get repeat business, but it's a rare thing. It's really not that important to me. I just do what I can, then I move on.

"You drive here often?" Kellie asked as we entered Hackney from the southwest. Hoxton and Shoreditch. Home of the London Arts and other things. Clubs, bars, music. A nice place with an odd reputation. I like it a lot.

"Now and then," I shrugged. "Not that often, but I know the area."

"Good," Kellie said. "Then you can find Conrad's?"

"With no trouble," I sighed, turning a corner and driving through Hoxton Market. We soon passed The Theatre, or where it used to be. It burned down a long time ago, but there's a monument on the site. From Hoxton, we drove into Haggerston, and then into London Fields. We passed churches, schools, apartments- terraced gated communities mostly- and shops. I saw furniture sellers hawking their wares next to cobblers and other merchants. People passing by too. People of all ethnicities. Indians, Jamaicans, Southeast Asians, English, Russians, Spaniards, too many kinds to count. They're doing too many things to count too. Shopping, sports, talking, just strolling about aimlessly, playing songs, reading books, doing other things. Truly in the world there is endless diversity.

"Have you picked up people from Conrad's before?" Kellie asked as we passed what used to be the Haggerston Pool. It's still closed, future uncertain. No one knows when or if it will ever reopen, despite the number of people who want it to. It has a story very much like ours, I thought to myself as we drove by.

"A few times," I replied cautiously. "It's not a place I like to visit." This is an understatement. I am worried about Conrad's. The last time I picked up someone from that place we had to outrun a large mob of angry bikers. The time before that I got my headlights broken along with my knuckles. Yes, I gave as good as I got, but that's not important. The time before that I almost got myself and my passenger arrested. They're fun stories, perhaps I'll tell them to you another time.

"The boss knows I'm coming," Kellie said. "He wants Jessie out of there. He called our show's boss, told him about what she's been up to. He's worried."

"Your boss sent you?" I asked.

Kellie shook her head. "I volunteered. There's a chance to meet the legend. Jessie Wallace. Six years on the show, popular character, such an icon. I've heard so much about her."

I nodded. "And you're wondering how much is true."

"Yes," Kellie agreed. "I've heard so much, but I know a lot of it has to be exgaggerated. Made up, spun for whatever reason in whatever way the storyteller decides. I have to know what's fact and what's fiction."

I shook my head, wondering if she was fully prepared for a rude awakening. Didn't matter, I decided. We'd soon find out, both of us. We entered into Hackney Central, passed by St. Augustine's Tower, the oldest building. Next we passed Hackney Empire Music Hall, the recently reopened center for the performing arts. Then we passed the railway station, and soon after that Dalston Market. I wondered if Kellie would notice we were taking a roundabout route, working in as many landmarks as possible. Lots of cabbies do this, and so do people in my current situation. It helps them refamilarize themselves with the area they're in, gives them time to think things out and plan. It bumps up the meter too, but that's a side benefit, not the main reason. There are things more important than money, after all.

Soon we passed other Dalston landmarks. The Rio Cinema, one of the few places like it left in this part of the city. The bookshop Centerprise, which I sometimes shop at in my off hours. And then Fasset Square, the inspiration for Albert Square of East Enders fame. Past that, on a dirty street whose name I've never bothered to notice, was Conrad's.

How to describe Conrad's? Well, if you've never been there, you wouldn't understand. It's a small place, no larger than your average one-bedroom apartment. Yet all the things that go on in there could fill volumes. They serve all kinds of drinks, and food too. There's billiards, dancing, air hockey, video games. I don't really know much about what goes on in there. I don't care for the taste of alcohol, so I don't visit bars that much. Even if I were a social drinker, I would probably stay out of places like Conrad's, though. I like to pride myself on my good sense.

As we neared the place and I came to a stop, I saw several dozen rough characters entering and leaving the bar. Punks in black leather, diverse otherwise. Some black, some white, some other races. Some big, some small, some short, some tall. Some with lots of piercings, some with few. All look like trouble. There are other sorts of people too. Preppy kids who don't belong here, respectable types who think they're fooling themselves by rebelling enough to enter a place like this, strange dirty folks about whom I do not bother to speculate. People of all stripes, varied professions. It takes all kinds. There is no accounting for taste. It despairs me to see how many people are in this place, and to think about their reasons for being here. I really think ... Oh, right. The story.

"There she is!" Kellie called out, pointing at a woman being escorted out of the bar by a large bald Russian man with a flowing mustache. He's the main bouncer at Conrad's. Igor is his name. Just as with all mad scientists' assistants, he's a helpful scary fellow. The thin little Belgian walking beside them was Lord Jim Kurtz, the owner of the establishment. I don't know if he's really a lord, but he likes to style himself that way. Dandy clothes, monocle, arrogant dress and manner. The horror, the horror of the man.

Jessie Wallace now, there's nothing horrible about her. She's beautiful. Long black hair, highlighted by streaks of silver. Pale skin, dark blue eyes that stare right into your soul and dig out the deep secrets. That smile of hers, I like it immensly. Her figure too is wonderful. Especially in that black leopardskin dress she was wearing that day. And those gold hoop earrings- they were nice too. I noticed she was staggering a bit at the moment, her features flushed and sweaty. When I saw this, I was sure that she'd had a lot to drink recently, probably too much. My suspicions were confirmed as she stopped halfway through the door and started throwing up. Igor the bouncer quickly shoved a ready bucket at her and she took it gratefully, then continued heaving into it. Lord Jim turned away in disgust. I did the same. Kellie, meanwhile, got out of my cab and walked over to meet them. I rolled down my window, curious enough to listen in.

"You arrived just in time, girl," Lord Jim snapped, waving at Kellie and then at Jessie. "I had someone watching for you. This one's been ruining the atmosphere of my pub, she has."

"I know," Kellie grimaced, looking him up and down. She had never met Lord Jim before, probably. He makes one hell of an awful first impression. "I'm here to help her."

Jim spit on the ground. "This girl is beyond help," he declared, making a wide gesture with his hand. "I ought to exterminate all these brutes, all these people. I ought to kill them all!"

But they earn you money, I thought, glaring at Jim. What a despicable fiend, I shook my head. Truly a demon. He hates his clientele, yet he is perfectly willing to exploit them over and over. He preys on the weak, the addicts, those in need. Deeply do I despise him and all his ilk.

"Fuck you, you evil prick," Jessie looked up at Kurtz suddenly, her face set in a mocking sneer. "Someday you'll be dead."

"Aye," Jim spun and glared at her. "Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, ease after warre, death after life, does greatly please." He smiled at his phrasing, adjusting his eyepiece. "And you'll be dead someday too, girl. From one too many drinks in a place like mine, more than likely. You'll be back."

"And again, you'll throw me out!" Jessie smiled, standing erect and shaking a finger at him. "Water me down, cut me off, then toss me out. Just like you do every night!"

"Not every night, lass!" Jim cackled. "Or have you forgotten? Some nights you walk out of here, head held high! Other nights you go home with people. All kinds of people. Men, women, brutes, you name it! And..." he gestured at Kellie, "some nights a friend of yours drags you home. I guess this blonde girl is the latest replacement for that bobby of yours. What was his name?"

"Dave Morgan," Jessie snapped, spitting on the ground just as Jim had done earlier.

"Yes, Dave Morgan," Jim shook his head, wagging a finger at her. "Your fiance, was he not? The father of your child. And then he exploited you, called the tabloids and helped them arrange to take pictures of you. Sold all those stories about you to the press again and again. You were right to dump his ass, girl."

She should dump yours too, Jim, I raged at him silently. Mellow out, calm down, get herself a good man and some help. Her East Enders character did it, surely she can too. I hope so anyway.

"Fuck you!" Jessie fumed, throwing up her hands and smiling as she stared at Jim and the bouncer, then the crowd. "Fuck all of you! Fuck you and your mothers and your fathers! Fuck them all!"

"Get her out of here, Igor!" Jim ordered the bouncer, his tone full of venom. The man nodded, then shoved Jessie away with one huge hand. The flabbergasted Kellie caught her by the shoulders, grimacing as she tried to hold up the laughing Jessie. I was worried too. Did she still have vomit in her to cough up? Other things too possibly? Would I have to charge Kellie extra for the cleaning of my cab?

Shrugging this off for the moment, I hopped out of my taxi and opened the right rear door for my passengers. Kellie supported Jessie as they walked over, one hand on her arm and one on her shoulder. Her face was a cloud of embers, a storm of worry and fear. Jessie was still laughing, an expression of mirth and unbridled passion. She enjoys being who she is, I thought, only briefly wondering why. I know so many facts about her, I mused, but none can really explain who she is, how she lives the way she does. Facts, I reminded myself again, are inadequate to explaining the true inner life of a human being.

"Good to see you again, Frank!" Jim called out from the bar's entryway. I shot him the finger. He laughed and walked back into the bar, the smiling Igor at his side.

"He's a horse's arse," I growled. Kellie, slamming the cab door behind her, nodded in agreement.

"Aye!" Jessie chuckled joyfully. "He's a right putz, he is! A real rotter sod!"

I waved a hand to shush her, glad we were getting away from Conrad's without any violence. What did Jessie do to get herself tossed out of the place? I wondered. Nah, it wasn't important. Maybe she insulted someone, maybe she tried to pick a fight, maybe she tried to pick up the wrong person. It wasn't important. Whatever the reason, she was in my cab.

"Jessie," Kellie got her attention, staring at the other woman and waving a hand in front of her face. "My name is Kellie Shirley. I'm a new cast member of East Enders."

"Oh," Jessie smiled at her, blue eyes mirthful. "I was wondering who you were. Did Shane send you?"