by Emmy Ellis
She sang at the top of her lungs, tapping the steering wheel. “Fun and sunshine, there’s enough for everyone…”
She could do with a bit of that. Fun. Sunshine. A life without grief lurking in the wings, ready to pounce when she least expected it. Sometimes it went away completely, fooling her while she was busy, occupied, only to return when her mind wasn’t full of work, harsher than before. And people said it got easier with time. It didn’t. Every new reminder brought it home she didn’t have Cardigan in her life anymore, just memories.
They weren’t enough.
Maybe she’d ask Lavender to run the brothel for a week and take herself off somewhere hot. White beaches, cocktails with crushed ice, and a sunbed with her name on it beside a turquoise pool. A waiter, soft music playing, the shush of the ocean close, because she’d pick a hotel near the beach, a secluded one for privacy. She’d be alone, but maybe that was what she needed, time to let herself think, to process the grief she was still going through. Face it instead of pushing it aside and filling her days with work, work, and more work.
That fucking man had a lot to answer for, killing Cardigan. Look what he’d done, taking away the love of her life, and now all she had was her job and maybe that holiday. If Shirley were here, Debbie would have taken her abroad with her, but she wasn’t, and Debbie had no other close friends she’d want to spend that much time with.
Bastard. He’d ruined everything.
She continued through the backstreets like George had suggested. Her car wouldn’t be caught on camera, he’d said, as the route didn’t have any. They kept tabs on CCTV every day, sending someone to drive round The Estate and check for any new ones being put up by residents, and a bloke on their payroll at the council informed them of any recent official ones.
Those two had everything covered.
“Besides,” George had said, “if a camera does pick you up, our mate will doctor the footage, but better go the way I said. Some things slip by the wayside, and you can’t afford to be tied to this.”
The song switched to Bitch by Meredith Brooks, and she smiled wryly. She took a right onto a long stretch of road that went down by the river. A few warehouses were there, spaced out, all of them in darkness, nighttime a ghoulish spectre, cloaking everything in shades of black and grey, giving the moment a blade-like edge that had murder written on it in blood.
She’d be killing someone soon—and she looked forward to it.
The gates were open at their building—Greg had said they would be—and she was to park, then close them and snap on the padlock, ensuring she had gloves on.
“No one likes a murder being interrupted,” he’d informed her.
She had to agree with that. If The Brothers had popped out from beneath that tarpaulin in Jack’s cellar when she’d been killing Mickey, she’d have lost the plot. She’d wanted it to just be him and her, no one judging how she slashed at his face, no one telling her to stop.
Debbie swept into the car park and swerved into the space to the left of Harry’s runabout. Her convertible wouldn’t be seen from the road now, a high brick wall behind it. Only the BMW closest to the gates was visible. She got out and ran in her trainers to the gate—she’d dressed in black leggings, a long-sleeved top, and leather gloves, not walking through The Angel to leave but down her flat steps, taking advantage of the darkness. The less people who saw her the better.
Gate secured, she rushed to her car and took the knife out of the compartment in the console. It was apt using it on the man, two wankers killed with the same weapon. She’d sling it in the dishwasher once she got home and then pop it back in the knife block on her kitchen side, never using it, but it’d be a permanent reminder that she’d done her best for Cardigan and Shirley.
At the door, she tapped out a pattern of knocks George had shown her by rapping on her worktop earlier. Faint footsteps, then the door opened. He moved aside to let her in, holding her wrist to indicate she stay with him. He blocked her view of whoever was inside and locked up. She itched to peer around him.
“We’ve already got a confession out of him,” he whispered, “so no need to ask him any questions. I’ll tell you what he said once we’re over there. It should get you riled up enough to do what you have to do—that and who it actually is. I stuck a rag in his mouth, couldn’t stand listening to the whiny prat any longer. His reasoning was lame, and he pissed himself once he realised we were serious.”
“Fine by me, I don’t want to hear what he has to say anyway. No explanation is good enough for me.” She smiled and held her hand out. “Shall we?”
He nodded and led her towards…
Harry? It was him?
A strange sensation washed over her skin, as if all the blood drained down to her lower legs. Her heart seemed to clatter about, and she stopped to stare, everything fading except for him. He sat on a chair, one he’d mentioned several times in his bragging sessions. He’d had a mad glint in his eyes when he’d told her what him and the twins did to anyone who sat in it, and she’d bet he didn’t feel so braggy now, knowing what was to come, that he was in the hot seat, waiting to be killed.
Why had he asked her for a relationship? To keep an eye on her in case she suspected he’d killed Cardigan? Get in with her, make her love him so she wouldn’t believe any rumours? The scheming little dickhead had an agenda, just like she had. She’d slept with a killer, the one man she was after, and hadn’t known or suspected a damn thing. All while he’d been getting on her nerves, her telling him how Cardigan’s death had affected her, he must have been laughing.
She felt sick. Violated.
Harry let out frantic grunts and snorts. He was attempting to speak to her, shaking his head as if trying to tell her his side of the story. As far as she was concerned, like she’d just said to George, whatever side Harry had, whatever his reason for shooting her lover, she didn’t want to hear it. He’d done the unthinkable, had lied to her face about it, and any excuses he had he could keep to himself.
She stood in front of him, rage almost bringing her to her knees, and stared into his eyes—eyes that showed his fear; wide, watery, too much white on show.
Debbie pulled all her courage up and forced herself to sound calm. “Evening, Harry. I hear you shot Cardigan.”
His gaze flicked to the knife by her side, and it seemed he’d got the gist—she was going to off him, not the twins. She’d be the one stabbing him.
“Nuh,” he said.
That was probably a ‘no’. Fucking liar.
“Don’t bullshit me,” she snapped, her anger rising, cheering her on. “George, what did he have to say for himself?”
“Apparently, he did it for Mickey, all over that money from the poker game.” George folded his arms, his face a tight mask of disgust.
Greg tightened his hold on Harry’s shoulders, the ends of his fingers blanching. “Yeah, he reckoned he’d tell you that me and my brother were going to do it. Now, I know there were rumours flying around about that, but if we were going to kill him, why the fuck were we there to sort whoever was after Cardigan? We were parked by his car, Sam saw us, so how the hell could we do it with him watching? Sam would have had us sorted, you know that.”
Harry groaned and shook his head, denying it.
Denying he’d killed him or denying they’d parked where Greg had said?
She couldn’t be sure, but it was just like Harry to make something up, deflect the accusations pointing at him. He’d told her he knew who’d done it but he couldn’t say. Of course he couldn’t—she’d have knifed him right there in her living room.
George tutted and looked at his brother. “Harry here is a divvy prick and thinks Deb’s so stupid she’ll believe him.”
Greg sighed. “Like she would.”
Harry grunted again, his nostrils flaring.
Debbie stared at him, sickened by the sight of him. “If you tell me the truth, I won’t stab you.” Lie number one. “If you be honest, these two here will back off—I a
sked them to if you told us what we want to know.” Lie number two. “I just want to find out who did it, plain and simple.” She took a deep breath. “Did you kill Cardigan?”
Harry nodded frantically, snot flying out of one nostril, landing on Greg’s hand.
“Filthy dickhead.” Greg swiped it off with his sleeve.
Debbie took a moment to process the information. He’d believed her when she’d said they’d back off. Was he stupid? Incandescent rage bubbled up so thick and fast she didn’t hesitate. She stabbed him in the eye, downwards to avoid his brain, and the scream that followed, although muffled from the rag, was still loud. She withdrew the blade, his eye sliding off it to the floor, and stared, fascinated, at the cords in his neck straining where he screamed again. So many of them, the skin stretched between. Blood dribbled down one cheek, curling under his chin and onto his neck, while tears did the same on the other side.
He was in pain. Good.
She studied the knife, holding it up. “I killed Mickey with this. Cut off his dick, slashed his face, then stabbed him in the heart. It was so easy. Such a nifty little thing, this.”
George laughed, competing with the wails coming from Harry. “I gather you sharpened it before you came out, Deb. Look at that.” He nodded at her feet.
Harry’s eye had been sliced clean in half and rested in a crack on the floor, goo on the back curve of one, the other staring at her with its creepy iris speckled with dirt. She shuddered inwardly, a moment of reality hitting her—I’ve stabbed someone again, Jesus Christ. But she had to.
Steeling herself for the rest, she gave Harry her attention. He drummed his feet, the noise echoing, then tried to buck Greg’s hands off him. Sweat soaked his hair, some of it plastered to his forehead.
“Noisy fucker,” she said.
Debbie darted forward and slashed at his face, memories of doing the same to Mickey filtering into her head. She kept on until her arm ached, then stepped back for a breather to watch how he coped with that, getting immense satisfaction from his pain. He cried and screamed—hardly surprising—his arse off the chair, his body bowed upwards. Greg dug his hands into his shoulders, getting ready to haul Harry up then smack him back into the seat, but Harry’s groin was in a prime position, and Debbie couldn’t resist. She switched the knife to her left hand then punched him in the bollocks.
They all waited patiently for him to writhe in more agony then calm down a little.
“It’s not so good when you’re the victim, is it?” George asked.
Harry sobbed, chin to chest, saying, “Beas.”
Please? Fuck you.
“Look at me, you piece of shit scum,” she shouted.
He did, his face a state, ribbons of flesh, gaps in his cheeks showing hints of teeth, so like Mickey it was perfect. She’d sliced one of his earlobes off in her frenzy. It sat on his thigh, the darkness of blood surrounding it, seeping into his jeans.
“Tarra,” she said.
For a second or two, hope lit his remaining eye, as if he thought it was over and that was all he was going to get, the dodgy doctor sewing his face up and Harry walking around with scars as badges of a near miss. She moved the knife to her right hand and lunged forward, stabbing him in the heart area. His eye bulged, and he stared at her accusingly, as if she had no right to kill him. Well, he was wrong. Cardigan would have wanted her to do this.
Unexpected tears stung.
Blood bloomed on his top around the handle hilt, and she let go, watched the claret spread for a while, creeping across the fibres. His head drooped, his chest stopped going up and down and, at last, a true sense of having accomplished her goal swept through her. She’d done it, avenged Cardigan’s death, and now maybe she could get past this and live again. Sort of.
She wrenched the knife out.
“Do you want to chop him up?” George gestured to the table behind the chair. “That saw’s bloody brilliant.”
She laughed, for too long, bordering on hysteria.
Sobering, she smiled. “Why not? Maybe as well finish what I started.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sarah put her hood up, pulled it low, and walked towards the little shop on the corner of her street. Duggins, it was called, run by Simon and Olivia, Duggins being their surname. Simon’s dad used to run it, but he’d retired now. Sarah missed him, because he’d always taken her brand of ciggies out of the cupboard before she’d even asked. Simon and Olivia hadn’t got used to the regulars yet. He was a bit of a wimp, and she was prickly, hardly the right sort to deal with customers.
Sarah needed some cigarettes and Diet Coke, maybe a tub of sour cream Pringles while she was at it. She fancied a night in front of the telly. A good film was on at nine, so she’d best get a move on so she didn’t miss the beginning.
She approached the corner, the tarmac in front of the shop lit up from the lights within, square shadows breaking it up from where the BOGOF posters blocked the brightness. A sharp pain stabbed her chest from her dodgy ribs, and she winced. She’d get some painkillers as well, she’d nearly run out.
A car swung round the bend, coming to a stop behind another vehicle, the glow from the headlights preventing her from seeing who it might be. She ignored it and pushed inside the shop. Simon was behind the counter tonight, and a teenage girl in a green apron stacked the crisp shelf, loading packets of Walkers cheese and onion in a perfect row. Sarah shuffled down the aisle she wanted, keeping her head low.
The bell tinkled over the door.
Footsteps.
“Get out the back,” a man said.
Lime? Oh my fucking God…
Heart banging, mouth going dry, Sarah nipped along so she stood at the end of the aisle, out of sight, her back to the window. She glanced up to her right at the round security mirror in the corner, watching the scene. The teenager scuttled along to the staff door and disappeared through it, doing as she was told. Lime was at the till, hands on top of the counter, leaning towards Simon.
“Now then,” her old pimp said. “Just a friendly visit, although if you don’t do what I want, the next one won’t be friendly, know what I mean? You’re currently under the protection of The Brothers, yes?” Lime pushed off the counter, looked around, and laughed. “Doesn’t appear to be much protecting going on, does there. Where’s the men who’re paid to stop the likes of me barging in here?”
“They don’t keep watch,” Simon stuttered, his hands by his sides.
They both appeared distorted in the convex mirror, elongated heads and squat bodies. Lime’s arms seemed wide and too chunky, his bald head glistening in the overhead light.
He chuckled. “Shame—for you. Good for me, though. I’m taking over this patch. It’s a bit out of my way at the minute, but The Estate’s going to be mine soon, so best you switch over now, eh? And you will get a bloke standing out the front under my watch, at the fair price of a grand a week.”
Simon raked a hand through his hair. “I-I…I need to let The Brothers know I d-don’t need them a-a-anymore. I don’t want h-h-hassle off them.”
“You do that. I’ll be here this time next week. I want cash.”
Lime swept out, and Sarah sagged against a row of baked beans. Thank God she’d put her hood up. Lime couldn’t have recognised her when she’d walked into the shop, but then who would with her face so puffy and bruised?
She moved to hide in the aisle with the crisps so it blocked her from outside view. Tyres screeched, and she let out a long breath. Quickly, she grabbed what she needed and went to the counter.
Simon shook from head to toe, and he bit a nail, his gaze darting to the door. His pale face appeared clammy, a sheen of sweat coating it.
“They’re my dad’s cousins,” Sarah said.
He stared at her, lowering his hand. “Your face…” A frown created four deep lines. “Who are you talking about?”
“The Brothers.”
“Did you hear…?”
She nodded. “I’ll ring them for you when I ge
t home. Can I have twenty Superkings, please?”
Simon turned to the fag cupboard and drew the shutter door across, grabbing a package of one hundred.
“I just want twenty.”
He dumped them on the counter and pointed at her other things. “Do you want a bag?”
“Please.”
His hands trembled, and he placed her items inside. She felt sorry for him, had experienced the same fear through her interactions with Lime, so she knew damn well his head would be flitting from one scenario to another. Would he come back before next week? Would he send someone in to do the shop over in the form of a teen who’d swipe everything onto the floor and smash all the bottles of wine? Would a man enter in a balaclava, waving a gun with the intent to rob the safe?
She waited for him to use the till, memories flouncing into her head, reminding her of how cruel Lime could be, how one word from him, and you just did what he asked, because if you didn’t, you might lose your life.
Simon pointed to the bag. “Take it, I don’t want your money. Just phone The Brothers for me, for God’s sake.”
“I’ll pay, thanks. Like I said, just twenty fags. I don’t deal very well with freebies.” She thought of Lime and Dave using her. She’d been a freebie, and it hadn’t been nice, under their thumb, forced to do things she hadn’t wanted.
“Are you sure?”
“Definitely.”
He switched the cigarettes over and got on with ringing her purchases up.
Sarah hovered her card over the machine for Contactless. “Hope everything goes okay.” She picked up the bag and walked out, shitting bricks in case Lime had really seen her and waited up the road. She glanced around to check the nearby vehicles, then hustled on, head bent but her eyes up, scanning the street.
She made it to her place and pelted inside, the ache in her ribs reminding her she’d forgotten to buy the paracetamol.