Rivalry (The Cardigan Estate Book 4)

by Emmy Ellis

  She wasn’t having any of the latter. Smoke was another of those smells and brought to mind an old wooden table and—

  He produced a wallet, snapping the clasp thing open, and took out twenty quid—he seemed suddenly with it, as if the drunkenness had been an act. Had it? Had he planned for her or someone else to let him in?

  “That enough for a blow job?” he asked.

  She stared at the cash, then at him, his grin wide, his teeth—had to be veneers—on full display. Something else tinged his features, though, something other than a smile. The hint of derision and disgust, of his disrespect for her. She was used to it, men coming to her, projecting the repugnance they felt for themselves onto her—revulsion because they were even with her, requesting her services when they felt the women were just there to be used.

  No one she’d ever met liked admitting they used sex workers.

  She shook her head. “I finished work ages ago.”

  She walked to the kitchen, flicking the kettle on, asking herself why she was doing it, making him a bloody coffee when he’d been so…derisive, so ‘You’re beneath me’. While she encountered it more often than she’d like, it was wrong here, in her home, when what she did for a living was elsewhere. He’d invaded her cocoon with his foulness, the one place she classed as a sanctuary, not to be sullied by anything unless she allowed it.

  “But you did allow it,” she muttered.

  “Talking to yourself is a sign of madness.”

  She swung round, surprised and a tad unnerved that he stood right behind her, the twenty quid still clutched in his large hand, held up by her face. How had she not heard him creep in? She was usually so alert, a remnant of her past, one of the few things she’d brought with her into the present.

  “I must be mad to let you in here,” she said, going for jovial so he didn’t pick up on her fear. “Sit down, and I’ll make you that coffee.”

  He sat, slapping the cash on the table then placing her pepper pot on top. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. That’s my job. Isn’t that how it works with women like you?”

  Ah, ‘women like you’, that old chestnut. ‘Men like him’ didn’t think her ‘sort’ had feelings, that they had lives outside of their job. She was there to service them whenever they wanted, or so they thought. Misguided fools.

  “I have set hours just like everyone else,” she said, “and I’m off the clock.”

  “But I want a blow job.”

  The kettle boiled, the bubbles inside as angry as the imaginary butterflies in her stomach. A good turn had morphed into something else, and if she wasn’t careful, she’d slip into who she used to be, either afraid to speak through fear of him being nasty to her…or that murderer she’d once been.

  “I think you need to leave now,” she said. Before everything goes wrong.

  “Nah, not until I get what I want.”

  He seemed to have sobered considerably, this neighbour of hers, a man who’d always paid her no mind if their paths crossed, which wasn’t often. A man she’d played ‘Guess the Life’ with, him obviously unaware, picturing what his job was—an accountant or architect?—where he went for lunch—a boozer or a gastro pub?—and whether he had a girlfriend. She certainly hadn’t seen one coming to stay recently, which had given the affair idea she’d thought of a set of bloody great wings.

  But his words—Not until I get what I want—had set off those whispers she’d once heard, the ones that had told her what to do, how to act, how to get rid of people like him. And they brought back memories, ones she’d tried so hard to suppress, except they’d whooshed out now, along with that quiet voice: “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you?”

  If he wanted some relief, he hadn’t been sated wherever he’d been prior to arriving home. Or he could be like Aaron, sex mad, always after a bit.

  “I’ve told you, my work day is done.” She smiled to keep this on steady ground, to let him know she was amenable, didn’t want any boats rocking, although she’d sink his if he wasn’t careful. She’d lived many a day on stormy seas, thank you very much, and now preferred the beach, a relaxed way of life.

  But he’d turned into a nasty wave that soaked her toes and had a mind to crawl up her legs to her waist, to her collarbones, an attempt at drowning her with his needs. He’d revealed himself as the type she abhorred: What I want, I get.

  No, she wouldn’t put up with it.

  “If you don’t go, I’ll phone the police.” She doubted he’d have heard of The Brothers, those angels who rescued you in times of need, who turned into devils and disposed of bodies.

  So her mind had gone down that road again, had it?

  She’d known it would.

  She left the kitchen and went into the living room to collect her mobile. It wasn’t on the coffee table—she was sure she’d left it there—so she checked between the sofa cushions, all the while on tenterhooks in case he followed her. The bedroom next, no phone there either, and a squeeze of panic closed her throat, that familiar feeling of old, the one that meant she couldn’t scream.

  Rosie took a long breath through her nostrils and centred herself. No more fear, that was what she’d told herself last time, and she was determined not to let it in. Her throat eased, loosening the lump, and it tumbled away somewhere, dissolving into nothing. Her chest, tight, was the only indication a speck of fright remained.

  She returned to the kitchen.

  He held her phone. Was that what he’d been doing earlier, putting it in his pocket?

  “Looking for this, were you?” He smirked. “Bit difficult to ring the coppers without it.”

  She wouldn’t lunge for it, go for the snatch. It hadn’t worked in her former world so wouldn’t work now, although in the past she’d reached for her clothes, not a phone. These men, the ones who thrived on dominance, putting you in your place, they all worked the same way. He’d withhold what she wanted to give himself a sense of power.

  Rosie sighed. “Okay, I’ll do what you want, but then you have to go.”

  “Can’t resist me, eh?” He stood, wavering a little, and slid her phone back in his pocket. “Get down on your knees, you stinking fucking bitch.”

  She’d heard worse, had put up with so much more, and his words failed to hurt her. Doing as he’d asked, at her own pace, taking back some of the control, she knelt in front of him. He undid his zip, took out what needing seeing to, and poked it at her lips.

  Yes, he’d definitely been with someone else tonight. She held back a retch at the smell.

  “I hate living here where slappers are,” he said. “That Shirley was the same. The pair of you are disgusting slags.”

  She wanted to correct him—Shirley was no longer a disgusting slag, she was dead—but Rosie left the words on her tongue. They wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference to his mindset. He thought sex workers were dirty, end of discussion, yet he was willing for a dirty woman to suck his dick.

  He fed himself into her mouth—so much trust there—and she acted as though it was just another punter, just another trick to perform. Once his frosty, ice-cold attitude melted, him relaxing into it, she counted to five then clamped her teeth. Gristle, muscle, both seemed to grind in her hold, and he released a roar of pain. The taste of blood flooded her tongue. She let go, stood, and stared at him bent double, hands cupping his groin.

  “Ah, you fucking whore!”

  Rosie stepped away to stand beside him, gave him a shove on the shoulder. He veered to the left, feet going from under him, and whacked his temple on the corner of the table. The bastard landed on the floor, and she got down there with him, pushing him onto his back. She straddled him, sitting on his hands, and clamped her knees to the sides of his forearms.

  “A whore who knows how to defend herself.” She smiled into his manic eyes.

  “Get the fuck off me.” He sounded groggy. The knock to the head most likely.

  “Why? Want to phone the police, do you?” She dug her phone out of his pocket a
nd reached up to put it on the table.

  His body relaxed, as if all the fight and hate seeped out of him. Rosie curved her hands around his throat and pressed on his Adam’s apple. Memories floated back, of another murderous time like this, guiding her, showing her death was the only way to be free. She closed her eyes, squeezed harder, and when she opened them again, the snap back to reality sent chills up her spine.

  Oh. He was dead.

  She hadn’t meant to do that, just scare him, let him know she was the boss in her flat, not him. She scrabbled off him, fear careening through her veins, a cold sweat coating her skin.

  She’d done it again. Oh God, she’d done it again.

  Chapter Three

  How lovely not to have to go to Mum and Dad’s for Sunday dinner.

  Marla smiled. While she loved the attention they showered on her, she was finding living life on her own terms much more rewarding. Especially the spying.

  A second black BMW had parked behind the first in her street, a newer model, and it appeared to have cost a bob or ten. Two big men had got out, grey suits, red ties, looking all expensive and important. Marla hadn’t caught sight of their faces through her living room voile—they hadn’t turned her way—but she’d spied on them through the glass in the main door of the flats, going to Julie’s then disappearing inside her place.

  The dirty cow was probably having a threesome.

  I wonder how much she charges.

  Julie wasn’t always dirty, not in that sense, but she’d become dirty in another.

  Marla had lived opposite the flats for a while now, in one of the houses to the side of an alley stuffed with residents’ wheelie bins. She kept hers in the back garden, didn’t trust her neighbours not to slip their black bags or recycled stuff inside hers. She didn’t trust Julie either, hence moving here.

  It hadn’t taken long to find her. People talked, their baggy lips spilling what she’d wanted to hear—Julie’s address, the fact she was always at The Angel round the corner in the evenings, at the back in what masqueraded as a massage parlour but everyone knew it wasn’t. Everyone in this vicinity anyway. The thing was, apparently, every room did have massage tables in them, so if the police raided the place, it seemed legit.

  So much gossip if you took the time to listen. And Marla had time.

  She’d been friends with Julie once—or was that Rosie now (this discovered while chatting to the sex workers on the corner up by The Roxy)—and they’d been quite close. As close as sisters, you might say, albeit only by law, almost, except it hadn’t progressed to Julie marrying Aaron. Marla had shared her dreams, and they’d browsed the shops on Sunday mornings then gathered for lunch with the family. It had been great at first, but Julie had changed, becoming jumpy, snappy, and keeping things to herself, so much so that Marla thought she’d done something to offend her. Mum had said Julie was like that with everyone towards the end, though. Something hadn’t been right, and Marla was confident what had happened in their past was a result of Julie snapping in an altogether different way, her mind so broken she’d turned to selling sex for a living.

  Marla missed her brother, Aaron. If he’d never met Julie, she was convinced he’d still be here today. What she didn’t miss was the rivalry, her always needing to take the limelight off him. That had been exhausting.

  The big men came out of the flats, and Marla straightened her spine and leant as close to the voiles as she dared to get a better look at them. Their faces appeared the same, twins then, and realisation came—they were The Brothers, men who ran The Cardigan Estate. Marla hadn’t moved in those circles prior to coming here, but she supposed, having inserted herself into various lives to glean information, she was well and truly ensconced now.

  She sighed. God, what had her life turned into? Spying on Julie, radically changing her appearance to disguise herself, following Julie around…

  But she needed answers, a night of full sleep, something she hadn’t had since Aaron—

  Best not to think about it. Nothing good ever came of immersing yourself in the bad points in your life, did it. Aaron had certainly hogged the limelight back then, even when dead—seemed someone dying meant people mourned you, and her parents had mourned far too much for her liking. Going backwards brought upset, too many questions, what-ifs, and wishing you’d done things differently. The future was where it was at, one where she’d see justice was meted out, a far cry from back then.

  The justice she was talking about was restoring her place on the podium, standing in the number one spot again, nudging Aaron’s ghost off it.

  The Brothers drove away, up the road past the cemetery gates and turning right, perhaps to drop in on the brothel/pub owner, that Debbie woman, who went by the name of Peony. All the sex workers in the parlour had flower names. Stupid, in Marla’s opinion. In the old days, if she’d chosen that profession, she’d probably be called Dandelion, a useless weed, looked upon as a blot on a perfect lawn, but saying that, when dandelions dried out, you used them to make wishes, asking for your dreams to come true.

  She’d ensure hers did.

  Why were The Brothers going that way? Maybe Julie was ill and they were passing on a message: She won’t be in tonight to spread her legs for all and sundry, just so you know.

  Marla set her sights on Julie’s living room window—she’d peered inside often enough in the dark evenings before seven, when Julie’s light was on, Marla’s off, the curtains open, the same for the next window along, the bedroom, Julie flitting about getting ready. Short skirts. Tops showing her midriff. Low necklines so her tits all but spilt out.

  How did she feel, exposing her body like that? She’d done the same when she’d first met Aaron, so he’d said, then had gone for more reserved clothing, dowdy even, the same as Marla used to cover herself with. That was what had drawn her to Julie, the way they matched in dress sense.

  How did Julie feel having sex—or, as folks were meant to believe, massaging men—every night, selling herself, being used? Why had she given up being a vet’s assistant?

  There was so much Marla didn’t know.

  Julie wasn’t the woman she’d known. Rosie now then, a different person, the paths she’d walked shaping her into a new being, who right this minute paced back and forth in front of the window, her head bent, a hand to her mouth. What had The Brothers said for her to appear so pent-up? Had she done something wrong in the parlour? Those twins, they kept people in line, and had perhaps visited to warn her to behave.

  Interesting.

  Marla turned away and went to the kitchen at the back. Her reflection in the window, or indeed the mirror, always gave her a shock these days. Gone was the shoulder-length blonde bob with the blunt-cut fringe, in its place a gaudy from-the-bottle red, clipped short, and her large, black-framed glasses all but covered half of her face, the tops hiding her carefully tinted auburn eyebrows. Gone was five stone, lost with a little help from Weight Watchers, and upping her steps each day—she wished she’d got a Fitbit sooner. Mum had taught her to comfort eat, and it had taken Marla a while to retrain her brain. Mum had fed her, producing calorie-laden food as a way to erase the fact she thought Marla was slow, stupid. Let’s fatten up the dimwit. Marla had allowed it to happen, because, well, it meant she had all the attention.

  She hadn’t recognised herself when the hairdresser had finished. Julie hadn’t either—or if she had, she hadn’t allowed it to show on her face. They’d passed several times on the street of a late afternoon, Julie nipping to the little shop down the end, and Marla just happened to be going there, too, ships in the night on Julie’s way back. Julie was always in her own world, head down, miles away.

  Talking of ships, Marla was so pleased she wouldn’t be classed as the Titanic anymore, something a cruel person had called her when she’d been at her heaviest. Now, she was a sleek yacht, and fuck everyone who’d been nasty to her.

  Was Julie so entrenched in her new life that the old didn’t register? And why would it? Why would
Marla be here? Besides, she’d remember Marla with more flesh on her bones, not someone as slim as herself.

  “A fucking bitch, that’s what you are, Julie,” she whispered, smiling at her slender face in the glass. “You’ll regret what you did once I get my hands on you.”

  Chapter Four

  Julie danced like no one was watching in Flamingos, the nightclub she always went to on a Friday night after a long week at work. She was a vet’s assistant and loved her job, but with too many pets euthanised in any given week, she threw herself into going out on the piss, forgetting the dogs’ wide, beseeching eyes or the cats’ ones filled with terror.

  They sensed death, knew what was coming.

  Her friend, Gail, the receptionist, was of the same mind, and they usually hit the town together. She was currently in deep discussion with some blond fella at the bar called Dean and, happy she was okay, Julie swung her body around—and bumped into a bloke.

  “Oops, sorry,” she shouted above the too-loud music.

  “That’s all right.”

  A good-looking sort, this one, his dark hair skinhead short, and he reminded her of an Action Man the boy next door used to play with when they were kids, passed down from his elder brother. He had the same staring eyes, which would usually give her the creeps, but his kind smile erased all doubt, and she found herself moving closer, dancing with him.

  It wasn’t long, the abandonment of the dance floor, and she sat in a red-seated booth beside him, each with a bottle of Becks, the area somewhat quieter so they didn’t have to yell their conversation. Julie had sobered a little, always good when being chatted up—she liked to gauge them, pick up on any nuances, things that put her off. Mannerisms and tones said a lot about people, didn’t they, and this bloke—Aaron, his name was—ticked the right boxes so far.

  They talked about all sorts, from work to likes and dislikes. He was a brickie, which explained his muscles and suntan, his big arms, and he went to the gym every evening until late, choosing a diet of chicken and rice over takeaways.