Reprisal (The Cardigan Estate Book 2)

by Emmy Ellis

  The door swung open, and George barged past Debbie into the waiting area, expecting to see Sarah sitting on one of the sofas. She wasn’t, and he worried she’d gone.

  “Where is she?” He spun round to look at Debbie.

  “In mine. It’s more comfortable in there.”

  He nodded and entered the room. Inside, a bedroom, different to the ones the girls used, what with them having massage tables instead.

  And there she was, Sarah, sitting on the bed with Rushton, the bent doctor who fixed things and kept his mouth shut so long as he got a backhander—he owned the Renault. Her face was a mass of bruises, swollen, one eye closed, oedema pushing beneath the skin, threatening to split it. Drying blood covered the space between her top lip and nose, her chin stained with it. The strips of bare legs between the hem of her skirt and the tops of her boots were a riot of patchy dark colours, and her arms, her collarbones, her neck, all of it pointed to a vicious attack.

  Greg came in and stood beside George. He sucked in a breath. “Bloody hell…”

  Debbie entered and closed the door.

  “What the fuck happened here?” George demanded. “Where’s the protection?” He glanced at Debbie. “That’s your department.”

  She stared at him as if he’d been well rude. “I’m aware of that. Frank was on tonight. He came in the pub before his shift and let me know he was there.”

  Sarah stared at George with her good eye. “Don’t be having a go at Deb. Frank was there, then he wasn’t. I thought he’d gone for a pee. Then this bloke came up to us, me and Marie, asking prices. Out of nowhere, he hit me. I went down, and he kicked and punched me, pushing Marie off when she tried to help.”

  “Did you recognise him?” Greg asked.

  Sarah shrugged. “Never seen him before. Blond, beefy, about six foot.”

  “Could be anyone,” George muttered, although he’d bet it was something to do with Lime. Couldn’t just be a coincidence Sarah had been the target. Lime had done his homework then, finding out who was in their family, choosing her, and she was susceptible on the corner.

  That didn’t explain Frank, though. Where had he gone? Was he in on it? Did he take money from Lime to turn a blind eye for a few minutes? Most fucking likely.

  “He still wasn’t there when I went to get Sarah,” Debbie said.

  “Then he’s either fucked off or someone made him fuck off.” George gritted his teeth. He’d have to let his cousin know what had happened, tell him things were in hand. Then again, Sarah might not want him to. She was an adult, not some kid.

  “What’s the damage?” he asked Rushton.

  The doctor stood and clasped his round belly, that bloody handlebar moustache of his wavering. He worked at the local hospital, and no one would suspect, from his kindly manner, what he did on the side. “A bruised rib—that’ll be from a kick, and it’s thankfully not broken—but other than that, just the facial bruising you see here. I won’t be able to tell about that eye until the swelling’s gone down. These injuries can look nastier than they are.”

  True. Sarah would probably be stiff as a board for a week but otherwise okay. Her pride was likely more damaged than her body. She’d always said she could take care of herself, and usually, she did. Being blindsided like that, though… If she wasn’t expecting a wallop, she wouldn’t have been on her guard.

  The thought of how much that kicking had hurt set his nerves on fire.

  “Right. I’ll sort your money and send someone along with it,” he said.

  Rushton nodded. “Thanks. Have a good evening.”

  “Are you taking the piss?” George glared at him.

  Rushton walked to the door. “No. There’s a silver lining. Think of Shirley. This could have been a lot worse.”

  Another truth. George couldn’t hack the image that popped in his head, Sarah in place of Shirley, on her knees on a bed, crouched over, dead, her back sliced to expose her spine. They’d all prefer the present scenario, although it shouldn’t have bloody happened in the first place.

  “I see what you mean.” He smiled tightly.

  Rushton and Debbie left the room. Now they were alone, just family, George asked Sarah again whether she recognised her attacker.

  “No, I said that already.” She winced and touched her top lip. Oddly, neither were swollen. “My fucking face is killing me.” She stood and moved towards the en suite. “I’m going to have a shower, Debbie said I could. And I’m miffed off. I’ll lose wages.”

  “We’ll pay them until you’re better,” Greg said. “In fact, stop the game altogether, and we’ll employ you for something or other.”

  She turned, holding the doorjamb. “No, you don’t understand why I do it. Why I need to do it.”

  “Whatever.” George had long since given up trying to wheedle the reason out of her. “Get showered, then we’ll arrange for someone to take you home. Are you telling your mum and dad?”

  “Do you think I want them on my back? Again?”

  “Suppose not. We need to go to the corner, see what the hell is what down there.”

  She entered the bathroom, moving slowly, and George swore he’d kill the bastard who’d done this to her. He glanced at Greg. If their expressions matched, people would be under no illusion as to what they were feeling.

  Someone had blood on their hands, and the twins couldn’t wait to get some on theirs.

  Chapter Three

  Frank came to down an alley. His head ached, and pain lanced across his cheek. He reached up to touch his lips—they felt massive, numb, and one had a split in it. He licked the cut and cringed. His nose, it must be broken, going by the throbbing. He dare not touch that. His whole face was on fire.

  Managing to get on his feet, he took in the alley. The streetlights at one end and the edge of The Roxy let him know exactly where he was, and he remembered someone calling him down here. Then the punch from nowhere, his nose cracking, agony spearing. Going down to the ground. A kick to his temple, and he was out of it.

  How long had he been like that?

  Frank staggered to the mouth of the alley, desperate to get back to his post. He’d be right in the shit if Debbie told The Brothers he’d gone AWOL. While she paid his wages so was technically his boss, the twins watched out for her. Frank had been warned by his mate who’d got him the job, that if he muffed up, it wouldn’t be pretty.

  So why did I take the job then?

  He knew damn well why, and it rankled.

  He peered across the street. The girls stood in a huddle on the corner, talking with their heads close, and guilt stabbed him at leaving them. It looked like something had happened. The women cast furtive glances, and one of them spotted him. She raised her fist and shook it.

  Shit.

  The Brothers stomped out of The Angel towards the group.

  Christ, it had to be bad if they were here.

  Frank staggered across the road, hands up, getting funny looks from people on their way to the pub, a thunderous one from George, who veered over, heading his way.

  Fuck.

  “What the hell were you playing at?” George gripped Frank’s jacket and lifted him a couple of inches off the ground.

  Frank didn’t dare to raise his hands to loosen the man’s grip. He’d already discovered that George in a mood was a dangerous thing.

  “I don’t…” He couldn’t get any more words out.

  George glared right into Frank’s eyes. It was unnerving, but Frank didn’t turn away. If he did, that’d be wrong.

  “Sarah’s been beaten up—where were you?” George’s fist pressed against Frank’s windpipe.

  He struggled to breathe. “Someone…” It came out as a rasp.

  George lowered him and let go, giving him a shove. “Yeah, seems like you got a pasting as well.” He took his phone out and jabbed the screen. Listened to the rings. Spoke to whoever answered. “I need you back here to set a broken nose. The parlour. Cheers.” He gave Frank his attention again. “Well?” />
  “Some blond bloke called me down the alley, said he had a message for you from Lime.” Frank was desperate to get himself out of the shit. He needed this job, and if The Brothers decided to get rid of him—and not just giving him the sack—his wife and kids wouldn’t have any income, plus they’d have to find money for a funeral. He doubted Debbie would pay for it, he hadn’t worked for her long enough.

  “Lime,” George said. “What did he say?”

  “Just that, then he started on me, punched my nose, and at that point I was too stunned to do anything about it. I fell over”—Christ, he hated admitting that—“got a kick to my temple, then passed out.”

  Greg was talking to the girls, and Frank wished he was dealing with him instead of George. Still, if George had asked for a doctor, which Frank assumed, then surely he wasn’t going to go mental on him. Was he?

  “There was nothing I could do,” Frank pleaded. “I swear to God, it was over within seconds.”

  George nodded. “Don’t crap your pants, he did the same to Sarah. She was standing one minute, down the next. Now, piss off to The Angel. Tell Debbie you need to use her room and the doctor will be there in a minute.”

  Frank weaved away, thanking his lucky stars George had believed him. The last thing he wanted was for The Brothers to suspect he’d done something behind their backs. He never would, he was loyal, and to prove it, he’d help them find out who the hell had done this in Lime’s name.

  Chapter Four

  The water soothed Sarah’s aches and pains, but the minute she stepped out of the shower, they came back full force. Everything hurt, but not as much as her soul. Standing on the corner was something she craved, couldn’t exist without it. What the hell was she meant to do until the bruises faded? She wouldn’t be herself, the person she was supposed to be. She’d be stuck indoors, bored out of her mind.

  Her eye stung beneath the swelling, a throbbing along with her pulse setting up home, and her head pounded. The doctor had given her some strong painkillers, but they were only just kicking in.

  She dried herself and left the bathroom, tears pricking at Debbie being so thoughtful. Some clothes had been laid out on the bed—leggings and a T-shirt, both things that wouldn’t chafe the bruises; she had a couple on her legs that had only just come out—and Sarah put them on, grateful not to have to squeeze into her boob tube or the pink leather skirt. They were on the bathroom floor, her boots underneath them, so she collected her stuff and sat to untangle her auburn hair using a brush on a small table that also had Debbie’s perfume and makeup on it.

  George and Greg had told Sarah ages ago she could work in the parlour, use Debbie’s room, but she’d declined. One, it wasn’t up to them, this was Debbie’s gaff, and two, Sarah preferred the thrill outside.

  The impression she gave was that she was a law unto herself, but inside, that was far from the truth. The fact that she was related to The Brothers meant nothing. They didn’t own her, didn’t get a say in what she did, and neither did her parents. Only Lime had controlled her once she’d left home, and she’d vowed never to let anyone do that again, yet she slipped from time to time.

  She wondered whether George would tell her mum and dad, despite her saying she didn’t want them to know, but her phone hadn’t rung, Mum going on in her earhole, so she reckoned he hadn’t.

  Good. She’d keep out of their way so they didn’t see the state of her and ask a million questions. How many times had she told them it was her life, not theirs? She was the one to make the mistakes, to walk down her chosen path, and it was nothing to do with them what she did or who she was. Just because you gave birth to someone, didn’t mean you could rule their lives, did it.

  She’d grown up being moulded into being someone else, stifled by their need for her to be what she wasn’t, and just wanted to break free. Her family didn’t understand her, but she understood herself, and that was what mattered. If she wanted to sell her body, she would. If she wanted to risk this happening to her again, she would.

  A soft knock came, and she placed the brush down and stood.

  “Are you decent?” Debbie called.

  “Yes.”

  The door opened, and Debbie stood there with Frank, his face less alarming than Sarah’s, but it told the story. He’d been beaten up as well, and once she’d come round, she’d known who’d ordered it. Inevitable that he’d find her eventually, letting her know he hadn’t forgotten what she’d done.

  “Shit,” she said.

  “I’m so sorry.” Frank stepped inside. “He got me before he got you.”

  Sarah sank onto the bed, her knees weak. This was someone who knew what Frank was doing there. Someone who’d been watching.

  It had to be Lime.

  She held back a cringe at the image of him in her head, his creepy smile, the way he spoke close to her ear, his breath hot on her skin.

  “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Can’t change the past.”

  Although she wished she could. The past had jagged edges to it, their pointed tips still prodding the here and now—and her future if she was any judge. Some things just never went away no matter how hard you tried to stop them encroaching.

  “Sorry you got hurt,” she added. Hurt because of me.

  Frank opened his mouth to answer, but the doctor was back again, bustling past a worried-looking Debbie in the doorway.

  “Oh, bloody hell,” he said, staring at Frank, “you do have a broken nose, don’t you. Come on, let’s set it.”

  Sarah left them to it, going out into the waiting area. She sat on one of the sofas, and Debbie plonked down on the other one.

  “Thanks for coming out,” Sarah said. “You know, to get me.”

  “Always.” Debbie smiled. “You’re supposed to be safe on that bloody corner, and I’m sorry you weren’t. Going by the state of Frank, it was planned.”

  “Yep. I’d like to see that bloke again sometime, though. Cut his dick off.”

  They laughed, Debbie a tad maniacally, although Sarah wasn’t joking. If he ever came near her, she’d be ready. She’d get her penknife out of the drawer at home, hold it all night, even when with customers, and the second someone tried anything funny, she’d stab them in the neck.

  She was a Wilkes, and no one would get away with hurting her ever again.

  Chapter Five

  Richie Lime laughed. “Fucking decent. She’ll be off the corner for a few days now. Wish I’d been there to see it, watching her go down like a sack of shit. And that bloody Frank.”

  He sat in a black leather armchair in his four-bed house, the light from two lamps on the sideboard low, an onyx Buddha between them. That Buddha had helped him bash people’s heads in many a time, the blood and gore washed off at the end of the session. It was a heavy bugger, did some damage. That was why he’d bought it. Who’d suspect an ornament had cracked people’s skulls?

  His right-hand man, Dave Reynolds, stood by the window, staring out into the night. “Frank’s thick, not savvy in our line of work, which begs the question, why was he employed? As soon as our man mentioned your name, he left his post. I mean, what sort of dick does that?”

  “A novice move. And fuck knows why The Brothers use him, or maybe it’s that Debbie.” Richie shook his head. “Still, we knew he’d fall for it. Any of the other protection blokes would have ignored our man.”

  A scream came from the basement. She was at it again, airing her lungs.

  “Fucking hell, when will she give it a rest?” Richie sighed. “I told her no one will hear her. Why scream if you’re told that?”

  “There’s always hope.”

  They laughed.

  Richie lived in a quiet street, the houses spread apart in their horseshoe, great clumps of grassy areas between them. His place was soundproofed anyway, so it was pointless the silly cow playing up. He’d run this section of London for a good few years, his eye always on The Cardigan Estate, and now the old sod was dead, the patch should be his. After all, he was
next in line to take over an area—even though the leaders of the various patches didn’t get along, they’d agreed to take it in turns when a new position became available.

  In the end, Richie aimed to have the whole of London, although he’d have to bump the rest of the leaders off first. He was dogged off someone had got to Cardigan before him. All that planning and surveillance gone to waste, all that excitement of running a larger area.

  Those fucking twins had swanned in before he could stake his claim. Cardigan hadn’t even been cold in his bloody grave. None of the other leaders were interested, saying it was Richie’s fight and he should’ve moved faster. Truth be told, they were right, probably laughing at him thinking he had time. The Brothers had been running The Estate for months now, and no amount of polite nudging on his part had shifted them.

  There was a code, and they hadn’t followed it.

  Well, the time for nudges was over. Sarah being kicked in sent a strong message, and if they ignored it, woe betide them. And if they ignored that bitch in the basement being missing an’ all, they wouldn’t live to regret it.

  Chapter Six

  The shift had ended, and Debbie wasn’t looking forward to entertaining Harry. It was weird, because with other men, she’d managed to switch right off, but him? There was always some of his essence filtering into her semi-closed-off mind, loitering, telling her he was there and what he was doing to her. She made all the right movements, the right sounds, yet she wasn’t truly present. She had to do that or he’d suspect something was off. Shagging an inanimate partner was a red flag unless your name was Vinny.