by Emmy Ellis
George nodded, his eyes a bit misty. She’d never seen them like this before.
“Why would you do that?” There had to be a catch, something she’d have to do for it. And she would. It’d be a massive weight off her shoulders not to have to work so many hours.
“We were too young to do that for our gran, weren’t even working.” Greg shrugged. “Plus, you coming here and letting us know about Lime, it’s the least we can do. How much is it?”
“A grand and a half a month.”
“Sorted.”
She didn’t know what to say. Emotion welled up, and what she’d endured piled on, setting her off crying.
Greg held her hand. “And we owe you an apology. We didn’t even know you were missing off the corner. I’ll be having a word with the watchers, ask why they didn’t report that to us. You should never have been nabbed.”
George cracked his knuckles. “I’m well naffed off about that. I bet it was Frank’s shift.”
Beth nodded. “It was.”
“Fucking ponce.” George inhaled deeply and stared at Greg. “We need to go out.”
Greg nodded. “We do.”
Chapter Fifteen
Frank had dropped his missus off at the shopping precinct and hoped she didn’t blow a wedge on clothes. Isla had too many hanging in the wall-width wardrobe as it was, most with labels still on them, those spare buttons they give you dangling from sleeves in a little plastic bag. He reckoned she had a problem, an obsession, stemming from her childhood where all her stuff was handed down from her elder sister, always a year or two out of date.
Isla liked to have the latest fashions as soon as they hit the shops these days, said it made her feel less of a charity case. If Frank were honest, he could understand why her parents did the hand-me-down thing. Bringing kids up wasn’t exactly cheap, was it, and having her for a wife wasn’t either.
Their bank balance was a lot healthier since he’d worked for Debbie, but it wasn’t an infinite pot like she assumed. The credit cards, five of them, were all racked up, and it took seven hundred a month just for the minimum payments. He’d have to have a word with her, ask her to curb it. Again.
He parked outside their three-bed terraced council house, relieved he could have a sit down in peace. His nose was still sore, throbbed if he leant forward, and his head pounded between his eyes. His wife was under the impression he’d just been in a scrap with some loudmouth coming out of The Roxy—she thought he was a bouncer there, not a protector of sex workers. She wouldn’t understand if he told her he was employed by Debbie. Isla’s world was far from the one he inhabited because he’d made it that way, and he wanted to keep it like that. One, because he was ashamed he’d had to resort to working for a dead gangland bloke’s missus to keep up with Isla’s monetary demands, and two, he’d get it in the earhole, her going on about him shagging the girls.
He looked—which never did any harm. Never touched—which did.
Indoors, he grabbed a few snacks, a couple of cans of pop, and flumped on the sofa, sticking the telly on. If Isla’s usual shopping trips were anything to go by, it’d be ages before she texted him to collect her. She had a habit of trying everything on, staring at herself in the changing room mirror forever. That was why he didn’t go with her anymore. Couldn’t stand sitting on ‘the chair’, waiting for her to make her mind up.
He flicked through Netflix, shoving aside her request that he load the dishwasher and set it going as soon as he got in. He could do that in a bit before he picked the kids up from school. She’d be none the wiser.
Frank selected a comedy and opened a share bag of crisps.
Share, my arse.
He shoved some in his mouth, wincing at the salt getting in the splits on his lips, chewing slowly so it didn’t hurt his nose. It was amazing how many things brought pain. Sniffing, even straining on the loo. Blimey.
Half an hour into the film, someone knocked on the door. He ignored it. Whoever it was hammered again, and he tossed his empty crisp packet aside in frustration and got up. He’d bet it was that bloody Brenda down the road, asking if they wanted to buy some of her homemade shit. She made all sorts like tea cosies and toilet roll covers, claiming she needed the money because her dole wasn’t enough. Once, Isla bought a willy warmer off her, and Frank had the pleasure of telling her it was too small.
He walked into the hallway. The shadow behind the glass was bigger than Brenda, and taller, then another appeared. Frank opened the door, surprised to see The Brothers standing there. What did they want? Were they doing house calls now when employees were off sick? If that was the case, it was nice of them.
“All right?” he asked, uneasy. You never knew with these two.
They scowled at him, and the thought slammed into his head that Sarah might have had some kind of relapse and died. Then it’d be all his fault because he hadn’t been on watch at the time.
Shit.
“Stick the kettle on, fella,” George said.
Relieved they wanted a cuppa, which meant they couldn’t be here to have a go, Frank let them in and went to the kitchen, getting three cups out. He didn’t have a kettle but this water heater thing. Isla was impatient and didn’t like waiting for her first coffee, so he’d bought the machine. He only had to press a button.
“What are you having?” he asked them, some of his nervousness dissipating.
They stood close, filling the space, their breaths moving his hair at the back. Fucking hell, they scared him more often than not.
“Anything so long as it’s really hot,” Greg said.
“Coffee, that’s easier.” Frank spooned instant into the cups, trying not to imagine them boring holes in his skull with their stares. The silence behind him became a tad unnerving, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He hadn’t been brought up with the likes of these two, understanding the way things worked in their circles—he’d only learnt about it by working for Debbie. He’d had to get to know them on the job and from snippets his mate gave him, the one who’d suggested he work for them.
They kept silent until he turned and handed the drinks over, and he was ashamed his hands shook. Frank went to get his, but a boiling sheet of coffee hit his face, the heat burrowing through his skin. He yelped and clutched his cheek, the burn growing fiercer by the second, and it set off his nose. The bloody thing barked.
“Ah, my fucking hand slipped, didn’t it,” George said as if he’d just done something mundane.
Panicked, Frank rushed to the sink to run the cold tap, sloshing water over his too-warm skin, his heart going mental because George’s hand hadn’t slipped, he’d done it on bloody purpose, and that meant Frank was right in the shit.
“What was that for?” He cupped more water. “I said the Sarah business wasn’t my fault, and I thought you were okay with that.” He bent to sluice again.
I should have known that wasn’t the end of it. They always make you think you’re safe then pounce on you when you’re not expecting it. I wish—
A second burn hit his crown, the liquid flowing down the back of his neck, and fuck me, he was on fire. He dipped and shoved his head under the tap, grateful the water slipped onto his throbbing cheek. The coolness was a blessing, but the men behind him were not.
“When you’ve finished dicking about,” came George’s rumbling tone.
Frank stood upright, despite needing to cool the burns further, and shut off the tap, his legs going to jelly. He didn’t want to turn and look at them, see their expressions, how angry they were, but his mate had said if he did something wrong it was best to face the pair, stare them in the eye. They preferred that over being cowardly.
He swivelled and gawped from one to the other, and it felt as though the skin on his cheek was peeling back. He raised his hand to touch it just in case. Nothing but puffy hot flesh. “What the hell have I done?”
“Beth.” George glared.
Eh? He blinked. What were they on about? Had she got kicked in, too? If she
had, that was nothing to do with him. He was off on sick leave. “What about her?”
“When was the last time you saw her?” Greg cocked his head, a bird waiting to peck the crap out of a worm.
Frank had to think about that. He couldn’t remember exactly when it had been, and he should, it was part of his job. This wouldn’t go down well. “Um…I don’t know, to be honest. A couple of nights ago?”
Greg chewed the inside of his cheek. Not a good sign. He shook his head and tutted. “Now, I’m going to ask questions, and think carefully before you answer. If you lie, I’ll know. I can smell a porky from a mile off, you got that?”
Frank nodded a bit too enthusiastically. “I won’t lie.”
Greg tugged his nose as if that act calmed him, then lowered his hand. “That last time you saw her. Did you stay around until she’d finished, like you’re meant to?”
He had, he recalled cursing to himself that she was always on the corner until four a.m., the only one to stick around for so long. He had to explain to Isla that he had to hang about until all the drunks had left the street, it was his responsibility to ensure none of them lurked when the bar staff left. She’d swallowed it, thank God. “Yep, she left at four, like always.”
“Over to you, George,” Greg said.
George pinched his bottom lip then ran a hand over his head, all casual, like they weren’t standing in the kitchen being intimidating. Just a relaxed visit between friends, only it wasn’t. How could it be when they’d bloody burnt him, the sadistic fuckers?
“Did you make sure she was all right when she walked around the corner?” George asked.
Now that, he hadn’t done. He’d been too eager to get home to his bed, bored off his tits watching the girls hop in and out of cars, men cruising with leering smiles, and inebriated dickheads gobbing off at other, equally inebriated dickheads when they left The Angel then The Roxy. “Yeah.” His lie might come back to bite him, but he had to blag this.
George nodded, seeming pleased, although that mask could hide the anger beneath. “Good. So you’d have seen her getting bundled into a car then, wouldn’t you?” He looked like he wanted to punch him.
“No! What are you on about?” Frank’s back passage warned him he might need the loo pretty sharpish, and he clenched.
George jutted his head forward, his eyes bulging. “She was fucking abducted, you prick. Driven off with a bag on her head. Stuck in a cellar, chained and starved.”
Frank’s mouth flapped of its own accord, and his knees threatened to give out on him. “P-pardon?”
“You bloody heard him,” Greg said. “She was taken on your watch, your week, and Sarah was beaten up on your watch, your week. What does that tell you?”
“T-that I’m a c-cock?”
“More than that, mate.” Greg came closer. “You messed with their lives.”
Frank was pressed up against the sink unit, the lip digging into his lower back. There was no escape with these two standing in front of him, and if he tried to get away, run around them, they’d only have to whip out an arm to stop him. They were probably waiting for him to leg it.
“Which messed with our lives,” George added. “I mean, if Beth hadn’t come to our place today and let us know what’s going on, we’d likely be dead on the streets come next week, because the person who took her was one of Lime’s men.”
Frank’s sphincter spasmed. Jesus fuck. He was in more trouble than he knew how to handle. There was no coming back from this. He’d been lazy with Beth, and it could have resulted in The Brothers being offed—they still could be if they didn’t watch out and Lime got hold of them.
He thought about the kids, waiting for him outside their classrooms when he didn’t turn up later. Of Isla, coming home to find him dead. Or would they take him away and do it elsewhere, at their warehouse where no one heard his screams, then they’d dump him in a remote place for wild animals to eat?
Frank had to make amends before it came to that. “I-I’m s-s-sorry. I didn’t m-mean to drop the ball, I swear.”
“Twice, though?” George stared, hard. “Once, yeah, we can forgive that, because you were called away with what you thought was a message from Lime, and that’s something we’d want to know, but Beth?” He shook his head. “You didn’t watch her round the corner. You didn’t make sure you saw her go into her flat down the road like you were supposed to. Did you even make sure all the others got into taxis?”
Frank nodded, his skin going tight and burning like mad. “Yep, I did that bit. I’m new, and it takes a bit of time to get used to all the rules.”
George chuffed out a mean laugh. “That’s a shit excuse. How come you didn’t let us or Debbie know Beth wasn’t around after that? Why didn’t you think it was odd she wasn’t on the corner? All right, she’s Debbie’s responsibility, but she passed that on to you. She trusted you to look after the girls. Or is that what Lime’s bloke wanted, eh? Did he really pay you to glance the other way with Beth and Sarah?”
Frank couldn’t get his words out quick enough. “I didn’t take any money, and I didn’t know I was meant to tell you or Debbie anything about girls not turning up for work. For all I know, they could have specific days they’re there.”
George sighed, like he was bored. “Didn’t you listen to Debbie’s instructions when you had your interview?”
Frank had got the gist of most things but had zoned out, to be honest. He hadn’t liked the way she’d ordered him about, as though he was shit on her shoe, and besides, she’d chatted to him in The Angel, and everyone was drinking, and he’d wanted a beer, too, so his attention had wavered. “I must have missed that bit.”
“Let me tell you a little story.” Greg planted his feet apart. “Prior to you coming on the scene, there was this girl called Shirley. A punter killed her—killed another before that, too—and Cardigan got rid of him. Since then, we’ve always said if no girl turns up for work, we want to know about it. Beth was gone for days.”
“What about the other women? Haven’t they got to take some responsibility?” Frank said. “Shouldn’t they all keep an eye out for each other?”
“They do, but what about when they’re with punters? They can’t have eyes in two places at once. And maybe they thought it was okay, because they reckoned you’d reported Beth as absent, and we’d gone to her place to ask if she was all right. And why the fuck are you questioning how we do things?”
Christ, this looked bad on Frank. “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t do it again, I promise. I’ll ask Debbie for the rules and write them down. Learn them.”
“No, you won’t do it again.” George whipped out a penknife, flicked the blade free, and jabbed it into the side of Frank’s neck.
The dull pain kicked in straight after the sharp stab, and Frank raised his hand, his first instinct to pull the knife out, but he thought better of it. If he did that, he’d bleed everywhere. Panic soared, and his heartrate spiked. He darted from side to side, unsure what to do, George and Greg just standing there, blocking him in, watching him, the evil bastards.
“You might want to have a little lie down, mate. You’re a tad pale.” George smiled.
Greg helped Frank to the floor and loomed over him. “When I pull that out, all your blood’s going to make one hell of a mess.”
He yanked it from the slice, and as warm blood gushed, Frank’s last thought was: I didn’t get to do the dishwasher…Isla’s going to be so dogged off.
Chapter Sixteen
Harry wanted some answers, and who better to get them from than Jack, the landlord at The Eagle. Jack had been one of Cardigan’s close pals, and maybe, now he wasn’t around to keep tabs, Jack might loosen his lips. Someone, somewhere, had to know something. The right amount of money might help him, although he’d heard Jack didn’t take cash, said they were basically bribes.
Harry pushed inside, the warm air enveloping him, and nosed about. Some customers were in, but it wasn’t too busy. Fewer people to stand around earwigging, w
hich was a bonus. Some ate food, their plates piled high with Fiona’s homemade dinner. She did one meal a day, calling it her ‘special’, and if you didn’t like what was on offer, you were shit out of luck and told to fuck off if you weren’t pleased about it. Today was cottage pie, peas, and gravy. He liked her cheesy mash with its fork ridges on the top, each peak baked so it was golden brown.
His mouth watered.
Harry approached the bar and smiled at Jack, who stood talking to the old duffer, Stanley, at the far end of the bar. Stanley was always in here, and people joked that he had no home to go to, or if he had a missus, he came to The Eagle to keep out of her way.
Fiona, Jack’s wife, came to serve Harry, and he inwardly cursed. He didn’t want to speak to her but couldn’t very well tell her to bugger off, could he. She’d bar him, saying he wasn’t welcome.
“What can I get you?” she asked, her smile nice and bright.
“Just a pint of lager, ta.” He slipped his wallet out and removed a tenner, placing it on the bar, the wallet back in his pocket.
She poured, the cream-yellow liquid inching up the glass, and glanced down at Jack then back to Harry a few times. What was that all about? Was she trying to get Jack’s attention? Why?
“Something wrong?” Harry asked to let her know he was onto her, that he wasn’t stupid and her actions had been noted.
She shook her head, all casual. “No, nothing.” She placed the pint on the bar, the head about an inch thick.
He handed her the money. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks, love, don’t mind if I do.” She wandered off to the till then turned to open the glass washer. Steam billowed into her face, and she wafted her hand. “It gets me every bloody time.”
Harry sipped his lager, making out he wasn’t watching, but he was from the corner of his eye. Fiona had been shifty, no doubt about it, and he’d got the distinct impression it was because of him. He’d be naïve if he thought otherwise.