Reprisal (The Cardigan Estate Book 2)

by Emmy Ellis

  In bed, he stared at the Artex ceiling with its random circular shapes and imagined her ringing for an ambulance, her bloodied finger sliding over her phone screen, her panicking when she couldn’t get the call to connect.

  She’d have a nice scar forever now, a reminder of Harry’s first time with a knife. He’d enjoy seeing it, knowing it was his handiwork.

  Who knew violence brought on such a buzz?

  Harry let himself into his house and shook off the past. It was time to look to the future. His next threat session would be with Debbie. He’d frighten the information out of her. God knew pretending to be in a relationship with her hadn’t worked.

  He’d allowed her to steer the conversation into those waters tonight because he was sick of pussyfooting around the issue. He’d wanted answers—he’d wanted to find out if she knew he’d killed Cardigan.

  What he hadn’t expected, though, was the revelation about Mickey.

  He’d go and visit The Brothers tomorrow, see if they knew anything, and if they didn’t, he was sure they’d help him find the culprit. Then again, if they were busy sorting out the Sarah business, they might not give him the time of day.

  That was all right. He’d find the bastard himself. No one killed his mate and got away with it.

  He took a macaroni cheese out of the fridge and plonked it in the microwave. Shoved some garlic bread slices under the grill. The smell of the food cooking brought the memories soaring back, and he wondered what meal he’d have after he’d shit Debbie up. Maybe a curry with naan bread and those poppadoms that were like massive crisps. Yeah, that’d be nice. He couldn’t wait to eat it.

  A trip down to Tescos tomorrow then. Best to be prepared.

  Chapter Eight

  Bright sunlight shone through the windows, although it didn’t look warm out. Sarah was going mental stuck in her flat. Day one of being confined, last night’s attack still fresh in her memory. Too fresh. She saw it all as if it were happening now and blinked to erase the images. A residue remained, so she turned the telly on to occupy her mind.

  The thing was, her mind wasn’t playing ball, and it kept floating between the attack and the past. To Lime and what he’d done to her when she’d first started out on one of the corners he ran. She had no clue about street etiquette then, just thought she had to stand there and offer herself to any drivers who came by. She’d picked that corner because it was away from home, away from where her parents lived, too. A hideaway to do what she wanted and not risk being seen.

  How wrong she’d been.

  “Who the fuck are you?” a woman asked.

  She had bright-red hair, wrinkles beside her eyes, a bit long in the tooth to be doing this job, Sarah reckoned, but she supposed if this was all you knew, what else was there but to carry on even when you were past it?

  “Sarah,” she said, thinking the name was so common so she could be any number of Sarahs. If it was mentioned, people wouldn’t necessarily think of her, and anyway, she was too far from anyone who’d know her, so what was she worrying about?

  Her fellow sex worker played with her bottom lip. “Does Lime know you’re here?”

  “Lime?” Sarah frowned. She’d never heard of whoever that was, and why did someone need to know she was here anyway? It was none of their bloody business. God, it was bad enough this was her first time, let alone being grilled by some tart.

  “He runs the patch. If you work here, you need to give him a cut of your wages. If you don’t, there’ll be trouble.”

  A cut? Sarah almost laughed but didn’t think the woman would find it funny. “What do you mean?”

  The raise of eyebrows, a wry chuckle, the folding of arms beneath ample tits, probably held up with an underwire bra. “New to the game by any chance?”

  Sarah nodded—it was useless denying it. She stood out with her lack of understanding on how things worked. “First night.”

  “I remember my first time. Shitting myself, I was, and young, like you. I thought it wouldn’t be so bad, you know, doing it, but that initial customer…” She shuddered. “You’ll get used to it, and you’d best not stay here without permission if you know what’s good for you. If Lime finds out you’re on his patch without his consent…”

  Was Lime a version of Cardigan? Sarah had heard about the latter, of course she had. It was hard not to when someone ran the area where you lived and your dad’s cousins worked for him. She’d just assumed Cardigan did the whole of London. Stupid now she thought about it. A big place would be too much for one person to keep track of. She wished she’d listened more to The Brothers when they’d come round to see her parents. She’d have learnt a lot that way and wouldn’t be in this situation, the inexperienced against the experienced.

  “How do I find this Lime?” she asked, determined to do what she wanted and sell herself.

  “He’ll be in The Flag.” The redhead pointed down the road. “But he’s only there until nine, so get your skates on.”

  Sarah had no idea who she’d be speaking to. “What does he look like?”

  “Big fella, you can’t miss him. Shaved head. He’ll have Dave with him. He’s a weird-looking bloke. Thin face, greased-back hair. Wears a suit with checks all over it. Dogtooth or something, black and white.”

  Sarah smiled her thanks and, on wobbly legs, made her way to The Flag, telling herself it couldn’t be difficult, it was just like a job interview. She entered, the smell of beer and too many different aftershaves and perfumes attacking her, and glanced round at everyone to find the men she needed.

  There they were, standing at the bar, glasses in hand, ice and amber liquid in them. She hated whiskey, if that was what it was, and prepared herself to get a whiff of their manky breath when they spoke to her.

  She pushed through the crowd, standing out in the tarty clothes she’d chosen—knee-high leather boots, a short black skirt made of stretchy material so it was easier to…you know…and a yellow boob tube for the same reason. It was her uniform, and she’d picked a few colours of each to mix it up a bit. One day, when she’d made enough money, she’d switch to leather skirts.

  She stood between the men, gathering her courage to say what she had to. They turned and stared, Dave with beady dark eyes, Lime with narrowed blue ones, and some of her confidence slipped. They studied her like she was a piece of shit.

  “Yeah?” Dave asked, eyeing her up and down.

  Nerves took hold, butterflies hogging the room in her belly. “I’ve been told I need to speak to someone called Lime if I want to work the corner.” She’d sounded confident, thank God.

  Lime grinned. “You’re a bit…upmarket for that sort of thing, aren’t you? Seem a bit posh.”

  She bristled. “It’s what I want to do.”

  “Do you know what you’re letting yourself in for?”

  She had an idea from the telly. Mum had a Band of Gold box set. “Yes.”

  “Well,” Lime said, “just in case you don’t, here’s a little rundown…”

  Sarah shuddered at the memory of what had come after that. She hadn’t expected—

  She pushed the recall away. There was only so much she could handle at the minute. For now, she had to heal. She’d be bored, but it was better than her parents finding out. Hiding was the only alternative.

  Chapter Nine

  Richie stared down at the woman on his basement floor, annoyed at how her absence on the corner hadn’t been noticed yet. What sort of men were The Brothers to not twig she was missing? And as for that Debbie, she should know better, and the men who kept watch. Didn’t they keep a tally of who was at work and who wasn’t? Richie’s men did, because leaders didn’t think twice about using the girls as pawns to get their points across to the others.

  He smiled because he’d done the same thing with Sarah, although that was also a score he’d needed to settle. She was a little bitch, and the kicking was long overdue.

  “Look at the fucking state of you,” he said to the pitiful cow shivering on the con
crete.

  She was naked, chained to the wall, thick wrist manacles chafing her skin. He wasn’t so barbaric that he’d used short chains. They were a metre or so long, so she could walk about two steps back and forth if she wanted to.

  A nasty odour came from her direction, thick and cloying. He hadn’t let her wash or shower since he’d had her brought here, and her hair hung in stringy, greasy clumps. Four days of no shampoo would do that to you. Shit and piss covered the floor—he hadn’t bothered giving her a bucket—and the place smelt disgusting.

  He stepped back and unwound the hose on the opposite wall. Switched the water on. She’d be freezing while he drenched her, but it wasn’t like he gave a toss, was it. A bit of water torture worked wonders anyway, especially if he turned the flow on full. The end had a power attachment best used for cars and patios. It’d fucking sting her skin like mental.

  Richie laughed.

  He aimed the end of the hose at her, giving her a good dousing. She screamed in shock, her arms flying out to the sides, chains clinking. The point of the jet wiggled her tits, and a nice pair they were, too. This was the first bit of water she’d seen for ages apart from the stuff he handed her in bottles.

  He sluiced the crap and urine off the floor, using the force of the water to nudge it all to a drain in the corner, the black pipe feeding up into the house, then returned to her.

  “Open your stinking legs,” he ordered while turning the tap so the water came out faster. He laughed again. This was bloody excellent.

  “Please…why are you doing this to me?” She hugged herself, staring at the water smashing onto the concrete and bouncing back up. It left a clean patch, all the dirt powered away.

  “None of your fucking business, now open your legs.”

  She did, all the fight gone out of her, tipping her head back to lean it on the wall, and she cried like some little kid. He aimed the spray at her inner thighs and arse crack to get all the caked stuff off her. The skin was raw, and she screeched, gurgling on spit she was that upset. The pain probably wasn’t helping.

  Christ, women weren’t like they used to be, were they? Soft these days, the lot of them. He let the water do its thing. How would Sarah react to being down here? She’d visited his house—with a hood over her head—he just hadn’t taken her to the basement, and that was next on his list once her bruises were gone and she was back on the corner. He didn’t want to shag someone in her state, did he, and a week or two of waiting wouldn’t hurt. It’d give her a chance to think she was safe.

  With the woman wailing her head off, he lowered the force and drenched her hair, then took the shampoo he’d brought down off the top of a cardboard packing box. He had things in there he couldn’t have in the main house. People were nosy bastards, weren’t they, and tended to poke about if you weren’t looking.

  He stuck the end of the hose down the drain and went back to wash her hair. She’d been good apart from the screaming, so she deserved feeling refreshed. The silly bint didn’t even try to hurt him. Even though she was chained up, her wrists weren’t bound together. He liked the thrill of wondering if she’d put up a fight, but it seemed she couldn’t be arsed.

  Shame.

  He rinsed her hair then threw a towel at her. He switched off the water and took his time winding the hose on the wall-mounted, cast-iron holder. She cried quietly, which was a small mercy, and he reckoned she’d earned some food now. Days without, with only water to drink, must be tough. Anyway, it was all part of the process. He’d get her to obey him without question in the end, and she’d be willing to do whatever he wanted.

  Like getting in with The Brothers and passing information back to him.

  It’d all work out, he was sure of it.

  Chapter Ten

  Beth had been walking home from the corner when it happened, the sounds from people leaving The Roxy a gabble behind her, hoots and laughter, a few “Oi” thrown in, a shriek or two from drunk women almost falling arse over tit, and a man puking at the kerb.

  She turned right down the T that ran along the top of the road she worked on, there on the pavement one minute, dragged into a car with a hand over her mouth the next. Her brain couldn’t catch up to what was going on, those seconds of abduction lagging behind, her scrambling to latch on to them, to make sense of what was happening.

  She was stuffed inside the back of a dark car, a rag jammed in her mouth and her head covered with some kind of linen bag, so black only the occasional faint light through the gaps in the weave seeped through. Amber light. Streetlamps then, their glow appearing every so often, then none at all for a while. She imagined they were on a country road, but the glow came back. All the while, her wrists had been held together behind her back in what felt like a large and meaty hand, the skin soft, like the person hadn’t done a hard day’s graft in their life.

  The car stopped, and she was bundled out, hauled along so quickly one of her high-heeled shoes came off. Her stumble was lopsided, her bare sole touching grass, prickly and short, freshly mowed, the heel of her other shoe sinking. A field? Had they taken her somewhere to rape her? There had to be at least two of them, one sitting in the back with her, the other driving. Or was it a front garden?

  White light hit the bag, all the weave gaps filled, but she couldn’t make anything out beyond it. A shape appeared, blocking whatever the illumination was.

  “Ah, you got her then,” someone said. “Fucking ace.”

  A man. She didn’t recognise the voice, but it was deep and rumbly, the kind that gave the impression the owner was a big bastard.

  She shivered, tried to scream, but the rag scoffed it up.

  “Yeah, piece of piss,” someone else said, close.

  She reckoned it was the person who’d hustled her across the grass.

  “You know where to take her. She’s lost her sodding shoe, look. Pick that up, will you?”

  She was propelled forward. Her foot struck a step, and she lurched forward, then felt floor. Laminate? She moved ahead, the grip on her arm too tight, and the creak of hinges let her know a door had opened. She faced blackness, then a click came, and another light, less stark, pierced the cloth.

  “Stairs,” the bloke holding her said.

  She braced herself for a tumble, and he carted her downwards, her staggering along beside him, her stomach in knots in case she fell. At last they reached the bottom, and he let go of her, shoving her in the back. She pitched forward, landing on hands and knees, the pain jarring her joints, and pitifully, she cried out, the sound muffled by the rag, wishing she hadn’t let them know it had hurt. Them, or just the man who’d held her arm? It was frightening not knowing. For all she knew, several of them could be standing there staring at her. In a circle, her in the middle. Prey.

  “Get the fuck up, you dozy little cow.”

  She whimpered and pushed to her feet, shaking, wondering what was coming next, and which direction to face.

  “Take the bag off.”

  She did, her eyes closed, scared of what she’d see. And how stupid did she feel, with one shoe off and the other on? Unbalanced. Vulnerable.

  “Open your bloody eyes.”

  Beth obeyed and stared at a man in a houndstooth suit, his hair swept back with gel, and another fella, his head shaved, black dots over his scalp where the hair was on its way back through. He looked hard and scary, someone you didn’t want to mess with. His face was lined by years of scowling, she’d bet.

  “What’s your name?” Shaved Head asked, his voice the same as the man who’d spoken when she’d arrived.

  She removed the rag from her mouth. “B-B-Beth.”

  “B-B-Beth? Are you sure it’s not just Beth?” He raised his eyebrows, no evidence on his face that he was taking the piss out of her. Did he ever smile?

  She’d rather have seen an expression of him enjoying this, she’d know what sort of person she was dealing with then. She’d had a boyfriend once, and he’d smirked a lot when saying cruel stuff to her. But this man?
She couldn’t work out what he was thinking at all. It was like he had no emotions.

  She needed a wee. Fright, most likely.

  “Just Beth,” she managed.

  “Thought so.” He stepped forward, his bulk intimidating. “This here is my mate, Dave. He kindly picked you up for me along with his colleague. Now, I’m not into banging prossers these days, not unless I’m trying them out to see if they’re good enough for my corners, so don’t go shitting yourself thinking I’ll be taking advantage. You’re here as a bit of business, no other reason, and once you’ve been through the initiation, I’ll let you know what you’re doing. You’ll be paid—a lot—and you don’t have any choice in the matter, you got that?”

  Beth nodded. She’d do anything for cash—didn’t standing on the corner prove that? Maybe not murder or hurting kiddies or whatever, but if he wanted her to do business, she’d agree—anything to go back to how life was before she’d been snatched off the street.

  “Okay.” She tried to smile but failed, her lips wobbling.

  “Good. Now then, strip.”

  Didn’t he just say he wouldn’t take advantage of her? She looked from him to Dave, checking if it was him she had to shag, but both their expressions were blank.

  “Go on then,” Shaved Head barked. “Do as you’re fucking told, otherwise things will get nasty.”

  While she never got fully naked at work, usually just hiking up her skirt, she quickly stripped, kicking of her shoe, too, glad to be on even footing. She didn’t dare look around to see where she was, but it was cold and smelt funny, damp and musty. She held her arms by her sides, letting the men stare at her nude form, telling herself it was just a body, nothing to be precious about.

  She told herself that every time she had a punter, too.