by Emmy Ellis
In her flat above The Angel, she sat on her sofa with a cuppa and contemplated what had happened to Sarah and Frank. Someone had planned those attacks, and it didn’t take a genius to work out who it was. Lime had been coming into the pub before he’d gone to ground, talking to the customers, letting them know loudly the patch rightly belonged to him, and if they knew what was good for them, they’d ignore The Brothers and follow Lime instead.
Cheeky bastard.
She’d put on her hard-nosed face and told him to get out, he wasn’t welcome until he’d secured The Cardigan Estate as his own, and even then, he had no right to boss her about. She ran her own ship, her own street corner, and if he thought she’d give that up, he was mistaken. Cardigan had left it all to her, so that was that.
Lime had laughed, then said, “If I say this pub, the brothel, and the corner belong to me when I take over, then they belong to me. What are you going to do, fight me for them? You know you’ll fucking lose.”
She’d wanted to smack his smug face.
The clang of someone coming up the steel steps beside her flat churned her stomach. Sodding hell, no guesses as to who that was. She got up, reluctant to let Harry in, but needs must. They’d already been to bed before her shift, so she’d gladly put him off that particular pastime. The fact she hadn’t got any info out of him after all these weeks was bugging her. Maybe she ought to push it tonight.
She opened the door, not bothering to smile, and he stood there, grinning a grin she wanted to punch away. God, he bugged the shit out of her. “Glad you turned up. We need to chat.”
Harry sighed. “Oh, one of those times, is it? This is why I don’t like proper relationships. Too heavy.” He tromped past her, dejected after clearly expecting to go straight to bed.
That rang alarm bells. He’d asked her to be an item.
She took her time securing the door, thinking of how she’d play this.
“What are you doing, making a fucking Yale instead of just locking the one you’ve got?” he shouted from the living room.
Very funny, you prat.
She gritted her teeth, walked down the hall, and stopped in the doorway. He’d taken her place on the sofa, and it irritated her more than it should. She sat on a chair instead, the seat cold, so she took the fluffy throw off the back and covered her legs.
“This Sarah business.” She stared at him to see if his face showed any signs of him already knowing about it beforehand. Wouldn’t put it past him. “What do you think it was about? You’re in with The Brothers, so…”
He rubbed his nose so violently it clicked. “It’s not like they had time to speak to me earlier, is it? They went straight to the corner. I was still in the pub.”
True. “Okay, but do you know anything?” Like I think you know what happened to Cardigan.
He frowned. “Why the hell would I? Dodgy punter, that’s all. Most girls get beaten up at some point in their ‘career’.” He snorted. “If that’s what you call it.”
She bit back a verbal reaction. Yes, it was a career, to her and the girls anyway. It paid the bills, didn’t it? Dickhead. She stayed on track and asked, “Why beat Frank up, though?”
Harry stared at her as if she’d lost the plot. “Punters know someone keeps watch. It’s obvious with them loitering about at the end of the alley. I mean, come on, you can’t miss them. Get rid of the protection, you can do what you like to the girls then.”
That was exactly what had happened, and it shouldn’t have. Had they chosen Frank because he was gullible? If so, did that mean they’d been keeping tabs, observing, finding out who each man was then working out which one would be easiest to lure away from his post? She only employed two, and Frank wasn’t as clever as the other one.
She pretended to be puzzled, like only Harry would have the correct answers. “Why Sarah?”
He shrugged, clearly not giving a shit. “Random. Maybe he fancied her. She probably stood out in her stupid pink skirt. Or maybe she’d turned him down one night and he got the hump. Sarah’s young and pretty, and not being funny, she’s easy to look at. The attacker might have got fixated on her, who bloody knows.”
He sounded genuine enough, but he was used to lying, saying the right thing. Selling bent gear and pretending to the coppers you didn’t, well, it gave you lessons in how to lie, didn’t it. Then there was Sid Dempsey in the pub earlier. Maybe they’d arranged it together.
She was clutching at straws, desperate to know why this had happened.
“So what about Shirley and that other bird who was killed?” she asked. “What if it’s the same fella and he just went into hiding after Shirley?” She didn’t believe that, was just throwing a scenario out there in the hope Harry slipped up.
He shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Shirley and that tart weren’t beaten up. Why go up to Sarah in the street and do that if you wanted to take her home, slit her back, then shag her dead?”
He had a point, but something was iffy about it. Why couldn’t he see that? Why was he acting as if it didn’t matter? And as for his blunt description about what Shirley had been through, well, she wanted to be sick.
She pressed in another direction, eager to take her mind off the visuals of Shirley on that bed. “You know, I’m so tired of people doing nasty stuff to each other. I mean, look at what happened to Cardigan.”
Harry didn’t quite manage to hide his flinch. “People were sick of him.”
“Mickey, for one,” she said.
“Of course he was. He won that money off Cardigan fair and square, yet Cardigan wanted it back. Before that there was Shirley getting her face slashed, and Cardigan thinking it was him. It wasn’t.”
Why are you so sure? “Who was it then?”
He chuffed out a laugh. “You don’t need to know.”
“Oh, I do.” Anger simmered inside her.
He stared at her as if willing her to shut up with his eyes. “It’s in the past. Finding out who did that to her won’t solve anything now. She’s fucking dead.”
“But it’d make me feel a whole lot better if the bastard was done over for it.”
He fiddled with his hands, looking down at them. “Keep out of it.”
That had sounded ominous, threatening, and she wanted him out of her flat and her life. Instead of asking him to leave, she smiled.
“Sounds like you know who did it.” She folded her legs beneath her to feign ease, when inside she was a mess.
He picked at a hangnail. “Maybe I do, but you’ll never know.”
“Don’t you trust me?” She affected a hurt expression. “And there was me thinking we were going somewhere.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You know, being in a proper relationship, but oh, you said you don’t like those.”
“If that’s what you want, being proper, I don’t mind so long as you don’t rag my arse every five minutes. Women, they like to nag.” He linked his fingers and put his hands behind his head.
“What I want is to find who killed Cardigan. Mickey didn’t do it.”
“I know.” He clamped his mouth—clearly, he’d said too much.
Her heart rate increased. “How do you know?”
“Because he was in the safe house with a broken fucking leg, divvo.”
She’d let that slide. By his behaviour and him calling her that, he wasn’t showing himself in a good light. “Were you with him at the time Cardigan got shot?”
“Yep.” His eyelid flickered, a manic tic.
She went for the finale. “Was it you, Harry?”
He stood abruptly and moved to the window, his back to her. “You don’t need to know who killed Cardigan. That bloke was getting to be a bit much, know what I mean? He was after Mickey for no valid reason, and then he started on about what Mickey was supposed to have done to Shirley’s face. Then came the bloody rumour Mickey wanted to kill Shirley—he only said it as a passing comment, didn’t bloody mean it. How the fuck was he meant to have done
that, given the state he was in at the time? Cardigan pointed fingers at the wrong people.” He barked out a wry laugh. “And he called himself the leader of The Estate. What a joke. He couldn’t even get his facts straight.”
She narrowed her eyes, willing him to turn round so she could see his lying mouth as bullshit spewed from it. “You know something, don’t you.”
He shoved his hands in his pockets. Defensive much? “You could say that, but believe me, you don’t want to know who it is, and I can’t say.”
She was surprised he was being so forthcoming. Why? Did he have an agenda? Was he playing her like she was him? “How come? Would they come after me if I knew?”
“Something like that. They’d have to shut you up, wouldn’t they.”
“You ought to tell The Brothers, let them deal with it.”
He took his hands out of his pockets and clenched them into fists. “No.”
He obviously didn’t care that someone had shot Cardigan in the forehead. If she looked at it without her feelings involved, she could understand it. Cardigan was a bastard to most people who crossed him, and to the outsider he appeared mean and unrelenting if he had someone he wanted to teach a lesson. She supposed if the tables were turned and he was after one of her friends, say Shirley, she wouldn’t care if he died either, so long as Shirley was okay.
It hit her then. Harry and Mickey had been best mates forever. What better way to protect Mickey than to take the threat away?
“Do you miss him?” she asked.
“What, Cardigan? Do I fuck. The Estate’s a better place without him running it. At least The Brothers don’t go around falsely accusing people. They get the facts first, then approach.”
“I meant Mickey.”
He whirled to look at her. “Yeah, I miss him, and I’m fucked off he didn’t tell me where he was going. Why did he just up and leave like that without saying something? All right, he’d told me he’d had enough of it round here, but still.”
A perverse sense of satisfaction went through her. “Mickey’s dead.”
His face displayed his shock, eyes wide, mouth hanging. “You what?”
She hid a smirk. “Someone killed him for offing Cardigan.”
His eyebrows met in the middle. “How the hell do you know?”
“I run a pub. I have ears.”
“Who was it?”
She switched his words back on him. “Believe me, you don’t want to know who it is, and I can’t say.”
“You stupid fucking bitch.”
He moved to her, hands on the chair arms, leaning over, looming. She should be scared, but she had a knife down the side of the seat cushion. If he pushed her to use it, that was his problem. Self-defence on her part, not that the police would hear of her stabbing him. The Brothers would sort it out.
“Back off.” She glared up at him.
“No, not until you tell me what you know.”
She smiled. “Not until you tell me what you know.”
His eyes were frenzied, and he was holding back. She’d seen that look before. He wanted to hurt her, force the truth out of her. Hit her. Do some damage to appease his raging anger.
“No,” he said.
She shrugged. “Stalemate. Now it’s time for you to leave. I suddenly don’t want you here anymore.”
He stood upright, took a step back. “If that’s how you want it.”
“I do. In fact, don’t bother coming back. Your reaction just then. I don’t like it. You were stopping yourself from hurting me.”
“Excuse me? How do you know what I’m bloody thinking?”
“It’s all in the eyes, Harry, and yours gave you away. I’ve seen plenty of punters staring at me like that to know exactly what’s going on inside their heads.”
His wince had given him away with regards to Cardigan, and she was sure she had her answer now. He’d done it, he’d killed her fella, and right before she killed him, she’d let him know exactly who’d murdered Mickey Rook.
Me.
Chapter Seven
Harry stormed from Debbie’s flat, incensed she hadn’t given up the name of who’d killed his mate. Killed? Fuck, Harry thought Mickey had just buggered off to a new life, walked away from everything, starting afresh elsewhere. All this time, he was bloody dead, and whoever it was would pay for it.
He should have known Mickey wouldn’t go off without telling him where—they’d shared a lot in that safe house, becoming closer. And how come Harry hadn’t heard about his death until now? People whispered on The Estate, and word should have reached his ears. Was there some info blackout in place so he wasn’t told? That wouldn’t surprise him. Enough threats, and people stayed quiet if they didn’t want broken legs and jaws.
He stalked down the road, past The Roxy, trying to think of who it would have been. The Brothers? Had they quietly dealt with him, no fuss, because of what they thought he’d done to Shirley’s face?
Harry could never admit that was him. He’d done it for Mickey, although his mate didn’t even know. The bitch had upset him one time too many, their relationship volatile, and Harry had had enough of hearing about it. Someone had to teach the cow a lesson, so he’d taken it upon himself to do it.
Memories crowded in.
“You’d better stop fucking Mickey about.” Harry pressed Shirley up against the wall, one hand holding her wrists together, the other clutching his knife. Adrenaline fizzled through him, sharp and violent, reaching every nerve ending, and he couldn’t wait to show her who was boss. Show her he wasn’t the prat she probably thought he was.
“What are you on about?” she asked.
She stared at him, fear in her eyes, the stupid beauty spot above her top lip doing his nut in. He could slice it off it was that bugging.
“You keep denying him stuff in bed. You’re a tart, so you should do whatever the punter wants. It’s not up to you to say what you will and won’t do, not when people are paying you money. You don’t go into a steakhouse and expect pork, do you.”
“Of course I bloody can. I have limits.”
“Don’t we all love, and I’ve reached mine.” His excitement peaked—God, he had to do something to her soon or he’d explode.
“Get off me, Harry.” She squirmed in an attempt to get away.
“No. I’m here to give you a warning, something Mickey should have done ages ago, except he’s too nice.” He paused. “I’m not.”
She shivered, and he raised the knife so she could see it. Her eyes grew massive, and her bottom lip quivered. Yeah, she knew he meant business all right.
“You’ll be permanently smiling in a minute,” he said, his throat tight. “To show Mickey you’re happy to do whatever he wants.”
“We’re not together anymore. What will he care whether I’m happy or not?”
“Doesn’t matter, the damage is done.” And it was. She’d hurt his mate, and that was unforgivable. He didn’t dwell on the fact he’d hurt him if Mickey found out he’d been with Shirley, too. That was different. She was a slapper, and any man could go with her.
Shirley tried to get her wrists out of his grip but failed. “I’ll tell Cardigan it was you.”
He laughed. “Nah, you won’t do that. If you do, I’ll kill you.”
She tried to knee him in the balls, but he’d anticipated that and blocked her by turning his groin to one side. He squeezed her wrists, digging his nails in, wanting to harm her so badly she’d never forget it.
She winced. “Harry…please… You’re hurting me.”
“That’s the fucking plan, you slag.” He brought the blade to her face. “Open your mouth.” He liked the way he’d sounded. Scary.
She shook her head, clamping her lips shut.
“I said, open your fucking mouth. Do you think I’m joking? Messing about? I didn’t come here to threaten you with just words, Shirley. Is that what you thought? Stupid Harry who hasn’t got any balls? Someone who just sells stolen goods? Well, you thought wrong. I’m more than that,
and in the future, people will be frightened of me like they are of The Brothers.”
He sliced her then, the knife going easily through her skin, ear to ear, coming to a stop at the edges of her skull. Knife pulled away, blood dripping down the handle onto his arm, so warm and wonderful, she screamed. He let go of her wrists to watch her raise her hands to her flapping face. Harry stepped back, fascinated by her pain, the blood, the carnage, the fact he’d cut her like he wanted and didn’t feel guilty about it. No, he was elated, on top of the world. Fuck, he should have done this years ago, let people know he wasn’t just some two-bit prat only good for selling shit out of his car boot, at the market, or on doorsteps. This was what he’d always wanted to be, someone feared, something worth shitting yourself over.
One day, he’d be in a position to do this all the time, he just didn’t know when, but if you had a dream, you fought for it, did everything you could to make it come true.
Shirley crumpled, sinking onto her arse, scrabbling to fix the flap of skin back in place. She sobbed, lowering her hands to stare at them, at the blood coating her palms and fingers, some of it dribbling down her arms. Little rivers they were, wending their way towards her elbows.
Harry smirked. “Like I said, tell anyone who did this, and I’ll kill you.”
He walked away from her, content she’d keep her mouth shut yet hoping she didn’t. He’d love the chance to off her. She’d be his first, but he had a feeling she wouldn’t be his last.
He returned home, burnt his clothes and trainers, showered, told himself to be the Harry people knew while in public, and when he saw Shirley again, only they’d know the secret. Maybe a few more verbal warnings wouldn’t go amiss in the coming months, giving him a thrill, a sense of being powerful knowing she was shit scared of him.
A microwave macaroni cheese and garlic bread slices done under the grill was a meal he’d always associate with slicing her. He’d eat it again in remembrance, even in front of her when he was in The Angel, and though she wouldn’t know the significance, he would.