Grace: A Disgrace Trilogy Novel

by Dee Palmer

  “Mum.” Will forces a smile, but I can see the tension in his jaw. This is not good.

  “Will, where’s Jason?” I ask again, trying to keep my voice level even as my anxiety spikes.

  “Why don’t you both come in?” He steps back, and I walk through the gap, followed by Will and Jason’s mum, Mrs Sinclair. There is a surreal moment of hesitation when we all look to one another. We all know who the other is, and it feels a little late for introductions even though I haven’t actually met Mrs Sinclair.

  “Hello, Mrs Sinclair, I’m Sam. I’m sorry I haven’t met you before today. This rush was very much a surprise.” I swallow the lumps rising in my throat, and she steps forward with the sweetest smile, apparently mistaking my dread for nerves.

  “Oh I don’t doubt that for a moment. Honestly, these boys will be the death of me with all their shenanigans.” She steps up to me and gives me a hug before holding me at arm’s length and casting an appraising eye. “It’s lovely to meet you, Sam, and I can see why Jason…Wait! Oh, my dear, you shouldn’t see him before the ceremony!” She shakes her head and holds her hands to her mouth like seeing him is the worst thing in the world. Will steps up and puts a protective arm across her shoulder and helps her sit down.

  “Will, I need to speak to Jason. I’m sorry, only this is really important.” I add a tight smile to try and ease the building tension.

  “He’s not here. He left.” His eyes are wide with panic and flit between his mother and me, gauging which one of us will break. His words hit hard and direct. Sill, I only crumble on the inside. Mrs Sinclair folds over in a gasp of shock. Will crouches instantly at her side and looks so worried I don’t know what to do, but I still need answers.

  “When…when did he go?”

  “We came back from the shoot and he went to your room to drop his bag off and then just stormed back here and took off.”

  “Did he say anything?” I keep having to swallow the saliva filling my mouth and the rising lump in my throat. This is really happening?

  “Not directly. He was cursing and said that he can’t do this or believe this…I don’t remember exactly. I tried to stop him but I could see in his eyes that wasn’t an option. Sam, I’m so sorry.” He makes to stand and step toward me, when his mother sobs out loud, and I have had a little more time with this news, so for the moment, I’m able to remain standing, even if it is like a statue. He leans around to wrap his long arm over the back of the chair, his mother looking more frail with each passing minute. I didn’t think it was possible to feel worse.

  My eyes glaze, and I feel the first tears fall onto my cheek. I turn and walk to the dressing table to grab a tissue, and there it is, crumpled in a tight ball. I recognize the colour of the paper and the clinic logo distorted with the crease of the paper. I grip the edge of the table for support and to steady the weakness in my legs.

  “How could he do this to this poor girl?” Mrs Sinclair’s voice wobbles almost as much as my legs. “I don’t understand how he could be so cruel, Will?” Mrs Sinclair sobs, her broken words and deep unsteady breaths fill the room.

  “I don’t know, Mum. Please don’t upset yourself. Please try and keep calm.” Will crouches down, and I can hear the genuine concern and a touch of fear in his deep voice.

  “How can I be calm? I lost a son today!” Her words come with a fresh slew of tears. “I will never forgive him for this.” Her voice is as grave as her words are devastating.

  “No!” I cry out. “No, you can’t do that. He loves you so much, he…he…” I falter.

  “I’m sorry Sam, you sweet, sweet girl, but this is unforgivable.” Her kindness to me is heartbreaking.

  “I’m pregnant.” I choke out. The shit storm waters just keep rising, and I’m struggling to keep my footing. Drowning seems like a good alternative to the agony I’m witnessing in this room. Will’s eyes widen to the size of serving plates.

  “Oh Lord, no!” Mrs Sinclair presses her hand to her chest, and I can hear her laboured breathing. She takes a moment then lifts her head, eyes watery and cold. Her fierce glare strikes me, and I can feel all the warmth in my body freeze. “Then he’s a coward…no son of mine would—” I can’t let her finish, it’s too much. He doesn’t deserve this, he really doesn’t.

  “I don’t know who the father is.” I close my eyes tight at the confession, when I open them I see one pair of eyes deeply worried and one filled with utter hatred.

  “You cheated on my son!” Mrs Sinclair screeches so loud I wince. I wouldn’t have credited her slight frame and delicate demeanour the ability to make such a noise. Not when she looks so frail in the chair and guarded as she is by Will’s large protective frame. The door bursts open and Leon rushes into the room, only to stand transfixed, as all eyes are on me.

  “I…I…” I can’t breathe. I look up, and the absolute agony on Will’s stricken face and panicked eyes that flit between me and his mother is too much to bear. “Yes.” I mutter.

  “Yes!” She snarls and pulls herself to stand, but she wobbles, and Will is there, supporting her and continues to implore me with a light shake of his head. This must be killing him too but I understand where his priority is. Given his brother has hightailed it, I don’t blame Will for standing by his mother’s side. Family always comes first. “You are a slut and a whore to cheat on my son when he loves you so dearly. To try and trick Jason into marriage is utterly disgraceful. You should be ashamed of yourself.” Not so fragile after all.

  “Now wait a fuc—” Leon steps just in front of me and I quickly pull him to face me, and with one look, silence any further protestations on my behalf. He mouths a quick, ‘What the fuck,’ but my scowl silences even that. I’ll take the hit. I’ve had worse. I do, however, need to take his hand regardless of the disgusted look Mrs Sinclair is now openly pitching at me.

  “I am so very sorry, Mrs Sinclair. I love your son more than anything. I would never trick him. That’s why I needed to speak to him, and it’s clear he has made his decision and I have to live with that. I never meant to hurt anyone. I can promise your family one thing though, not one of you will ever see me again.” I try to catch Will’s eye, but he hasn’t looked up since his mother called me a whore. I straighten my back and lift my chin. I used to have so much strength and yet now I’m clinging to the remaining fragments, hoping it’s enough to hold my broken self together for a few moments more. I just need enough to leave the room.

  “Do you want me to call the police?” James’ voice holds a shit-tonne of concern over the speaker in my car, and rightly too. I have been cursing and plotting for the last hour how I plan to end this low life son of a bitch. Threatening me on my wedding day. That bastard sent me a personal message first thing this morning, but because of the early breakfast and clay shoot I’d left my phone in my room and didn’t pick it up until later. Hopefully, it’s not too late. My head’s a fucking mess. He threatened to release that video on every social media platform from YouTube to fucking Facebook, today, on my fucking wedding day! I slam on my breaks to miss a rabbit on the narrow bend of this unbearably long and winding country road in the middle of fucking nowhere.

  “No, I don’t want you to call the police. I want you to tell me that fucking cunt is still at the address, because if I miss him one more time, I’m going to lose my shit. This is my wedding day for fuck’s sake, and if I’m not back in time, Sam will very likely have my bollocks for dinner, and that is not how I prefer to have them served.” It was a risk leaving, but the address James discovered was only thirty miles from our hotel, and that message this morning was the fucking limit.

  I sent money the first time, against police advice, and the second time, they fucked up the rendezvous. So this time, it will be just me and him, and he has no idea I’m coming. It might be my wedding day, but this is too important to risk going viral. I have kept this from Sam, and if I’m back in time, it stays that way…If I’m not, then… I don’t want to think about if I’m not.

  “He’
s still there. He rented the place for six months and only moved in yesterday, according to the agent. He’s still bouncing his emails from one of the city addresses, so I doubt he knows he’s slipped up.” James tries to hide the uncertainty in his voice. I tore him a new one after the last goose chase, although that was more from frustration than negligence on his part, and I apologized. It’s just, now we have a name. I know it’s only a matter of patience, and my tolerance has completely fucking run out. This ends…today.

  “I fucking hope so.” I swing the car up a single-track lane that is banked high on either side with thick hedgerows. The fresh spring leaves are such a vibrant green they don’t look natural, more like a Photoshop filter has splashed the countryside with artificial life. The Sat Nav announces I’ve arrived, and I get a sick, excited turn in my stomach. I’m so ready for this to end so I can get back to my bride and we can start our life, without this cloud, this threat, hanging over our heads—well, my head. Sam is blissfully ignorant and I intend to keep it that way.

  I crest the brow of the hill and ease off the gas. There is only one small building at the end of this road, which looks barely habitable. It is surrounded by rolling hills and open fields to the side and front. The house backs to a dense-looking woodland. The trees cast an eerie shadow over the single-story, stone building, despite there not being a cloud in the sky and the sun having risen as high as this time of year allows. I don’t see another vehicle, and my hands grip the wheel with pent anger that this might be a wasted journey.

  I swing the car to a skid on the gravel and dirt drive and jump from the car.

  The slate roof is weathered and has gaps where the wind as taken bites and left ragged holes and crooked tiles. The windows are thick with dust and filth, and the door I’m about to pound on looks like it was made with wood from the Ark, it’s so ancient. I half expect it to splinter with the first thump of my fist but it just creeks its disapproval and then swings open. The dark interior is filled with light, and I guess I should be looking at the two dark holes of the end of the shotgun inches from my face, yet I’m taken with the darker circles of the terrified man aiming the gun at my head.

  It’s not even a split second, but that fraction of time is all I need as the next moments play out in slow motion frame by frame.

  The heel of my hand hits the barrel high and out of his lose grip. I snatch the weapon midair and flip it. Holding the barrel away from this arsehole, I jab the butt of the gun hard into his shocked face. Blood explodes from his nose as bone and cartilage splinter in his face. He stumbles back screaming, hands cupped to his face trying to stop the flow or maybe hold his face together. I don’t care which. I jab him again, and he falls onto his back. His chest crunches beneath my boot and he gasps for the air that I have just stomped from his lungs. I’m now aiming the right end of the gun directly at his face.

  “You broke my fucking nose!” His high pitched cry is muffled behind his hands and the squelching sound of the copious amounts of liquid pouring from his face.

  “Trust me, I’m breaking more than that before I leave.” I take my foot from his chest and step to his side. The shotgun in one hand, I bend low to grab a fistful of his blonde ponytail with the other and kick the front door shut behind me. He grabs for my hands at the first pull from my movement, only they are slippery with his blood and gain no purchase. His feet race comically on the flagstone floor, desperate to keep his body moving at my speed as I drag him further into the house. It’s tiny; just two interior doors, and the first is open, so that’s where I head with the piece of shit. We’ve been tracking him since James discovered his identity, but he’s kept moving until now.

  I don’t need an introduction; I’ve stared at this face on my screen for hours, memorizing each line, making sure I would recognise him anywhere. The pale, lifeless eyes and sallow expression, praying I would get just five minutes alone. Stanford Johnson III, business partner to Sam’s ex-boyfriend Richard. Well, ex-business partner. I haul him up only to drop him on the single chair in the kitchen, next to the table. This place is a hovel. I don’t know what he spent the money I sent the first time on, but it wasn’t interior decor. The walls are grey stone, damp, and each crevice, crumble, and crack in the surface houses a thick woven layer of cobwebs. The windows are bare, with no curtains or blinds; no pictures hang on the walls, no clocks or mirrors adorn the room, no rugs, no trace of home comforts.

  There is only one freestanding unit in the kitchen, sturdy looking, stained, antique pine, and on the top, is a small travel kettle, a solitary cup with steam still rising from it, and the milk bottle cap on the floor, which makes me think I disturbed his morning brew. Even psychopaths need a tea break. I pull the drawers open in search of something suitable to tie him up. His head flops to the side and he lets out an agonizing groan. I don’t think he poses much of a threat now, but I’ve watched enough movies not to take that risk.

  I slam the last drawer closed, having found nothing, and Stanford jumps, crying out at the sudden noise. Pathetic. He’s just a pathetic excuse for a human. Lank, thinning, greasy blond hair, tall but no build to speak of, and his pallid completion makes me wonder if he’s nocturnal or maybe allergic to the sun. Even so, his eyes chill me. Even filled with terror when he opened the door, which made me think he’d never actually held a gun, let alone shot one, the vacant, soullessness was so much worse than the gun pointing at my head. I walk to the other closed door to continue my search for some rope or tape.

  “No!” he shouts out in panic. “Don’t go in there!” I take a step away from the door and turn to face him. His eyes widen with fear, his nose still pumps rivers of blood down his face and I can see his hands tremble as he tries to stem the flow. “Please don’t go in there!” His urgent plea makes my lips curl with a cruel smile.

  “Oh…okay.” I take another step back and watch as he lets out a breath and his shoulders drop with relief. Fucking idiot. I pitch back on one leg and let the other fly forward and kick that motherfucking door wide open. The door swings hard against the wall and wedges itself open, the dust billows, and it takes a few seconds to swell and settle. When it does I don’t believe what I’m seeing.

  “What the fuck is this?” My feet won’t move and I have to steady myself on the door frame. Movement brings me out of my trance, and I easily catch Stanford as he tries to make it to the back door of the house. His ponytail makes him an easy catch. Idiot handle. I grab it tight and slam his face once, then twice into the door before hauling him over to the bedroom and throwing him on to the floor. My stomach roils, and I have to swallow the bile that’s leapt from my stomach because there is no way he’s going to see how this disgusts me…how it affects me. A person would have to be a monster for this not to affect them.

  The walls are covered with photos from various videos involving Sam: Sam and Richard, Sam, Richard, and an audience. I can’t believe what I’m seeing, and when I turn around, my whole world implodes. This wall looks like a CSI incident room, only this is before the crime. There is a map of London, with pins of every place Sam has been in the last six months with corresponding photographs. There are lists of daily activities, foods she’s eaten, where she’s shopped. There are even photos of her in my fucking club! I kick Stanford as I walk over to the desk and he whimpers. Good. With any luck, he’s going to bleed out, but not before I get some answers. The desk has three laptops, all the screens are blank, sleeping. Time to wake up. I touch the pads and they all flick on, bright and wide awake.

  The desk is littered with junk, fake identity cards, credit cards, and a Stone Security employee swipe card.

  “How did you get this?” I roll him over onto his back with my foot and crouch down to hold the card in front of his face. He squints mumbling something about pain. I’ll give him motherfucking pain. I notice a packed black bag on one side of the bed and something in the top catches my eye, silver duct tape. Perfect. Reaching for the bag, I grab the roll of tape but tip the contents on the floor because who the
fuck packs duct tape in their luggage? The contents litter the floor, a Stone security polo shirt and pants, rope, knife, plastic ties, and a brown medicine bottle with the label torn off. My hand grips the gun. I can feel my fingers shake and the sweat now coating my body makes the gun slip in my palm. One of Stanford’s laptops pings, and I welcome the distraction as the macabre pieces of his evil plan fall into place.

  I click to open the new email.

  Dead Man Walking,

  Transfer paid. I do this for my family. Enjoy my money and enjoy it quickly.

  “My brother killed himself whilst at school not long after this video you sent to blackmail me with. I will not have my mother seeing this as the last memory of him. He told me about this video at the time, and I shared his shame, if you look later at the clip you will see he’s no longer there. The fact that you have him at all is enough to pay this ransom.”

  If I ever find out who you are, you fucking coward, I will kill you myself.

  Christov C

  I turn and look at Stanford as he crawls and hoists himself more upright only to slump against the bed gasping for air. I hope I broke a rib, punctured a lung.

  “Talk!” My voice is low, filled with hatred and menace.

  “How did you find me?” He grumbles like a petulant child, and I walk back over to him so I tower above and he has to crane his neck to meet my glare. I hold the gun so the tip of the barrel stops his chin from dropping, maintaining our eye contact. I want to make sure he can see me, see what I am capable of.

  “You don’t get to ask the questions, you piece of fucking shit. What has Christov just paid for? And if you say Sam, take a deep breath because it will be your last.”

  “That was plan B!” He rushes to explain as if that will help his situation.

  “Kidnapping and selling my wife was plan fucking B?” I roar, and he rightly cowers. The gun is shaking in my hand as blind rage consumes me.