Dirty Bad Savage

by Jade West

  “I’ll see you midday, then, thanks for the heads- up.”

  She hovered. “You be careful with those Jacksons, Miss Harding. They’re not to be trusted. None of them. They’re trouble. No, they’re more than trouble, they’re downright dangerous.”

  “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

  I waited until she was long out of view before I opened the email.

  Ms Jackson called today. She would like an urgent visit pertaining to additional security. She advised that if we don’t respond and anything should happen to her property or possessions she will seek compensation via Lawyers-R-US - she’s seen them on the TV. Please respond.

  I’d only had the pleasure of meeting Hannah Jackson once since becoming estate manager, and that was for chasing down some rent arrears on behalf of the income recovery team. She’d seemed to know more about the system than I did, exceptionally clued up on exactly what benefits she was and wasn’t entitled to. I doubted she would be bluffing about the compensation threat, she’d bleat about unfair treatment to anyone who would listen, and those idiot firms advertising on daytime TV would be more than happy to hear her out. They love a case against the establishment. They’d probably truss her up in a pastel suit and play a violin soundtrack as she recounted her tale of woe in a testimonial study. I’d have to go out there, the sooner the better.

  I looked over to see Christine rounding up the team for her midday meeting, two full hours of her nit-picking and waffling on about how things were so much better in the days of old, before social housing had come under Housing Association control. I could do with getting out of that crap.

  Hannah Jackson or Christine White? Who would I rather spend my afternoon with?

  I grabbed my coat.

  ***

  The East Veil estate has its own guidelines for tenant interaction. The handbook says no individual visits, strictly pairs only, and I normally stick to it. Normally. East Veil has its problems—as do all London social housing estates—but in the broad daylight of a Monday morning the rules seemed grossly overkill. Maybe the management feared it would be one of us on the Lawyers-R-US testimonials if things went awry. Anyway, if I’d have pulled someone else out of that meeting to go along with me I’d have been shut down faster than a raw-chicken takeaway shack.

  I signed out of office with nothing more than tenant visit, perfectly vague. I’d be back in a lickety-split, before they’d even noticed, full of apologies at having to skip Christine’s meeting. Such a tragedy.

  I rode the tube down the southern line to East Veil, clipboard in hand and ID badge clearly visible for anyone who cared to look. The place was undeniably depressing:towering blocks of concrete splattered with graffiti, shuttered retail units with kicked-in windows. A couple of kids, who should have been at school, kicked a tatty football around the road and wolf whistled at my rear once I’d walked on by.

  “Hey, blondie. Fancy some cock?”

  “Posh totty!”

  “We love a bit of MILF!”

  Sure they do. Little shits.

  57 East Veil was at the far end of the estate, a blotch of dilapidation on the fifth floor of tower one. I walked confidently, quickly, with an air of authority I relied on to keep people at arm’s length. Estate manager equals demon to a lot of these people; it means rent arrears visits and spot checks, and the power to issue notices seeking possession.

  I’d worked so hard on Haygrove, implementing a whole host of community initiatives and pushing through a load of improvement funding. I’d done well, really well, well enough that I’d been commended with an inter-agency award and given a pay grade promotion. Now they’d given me this place; a whole new community to understand and a whole load of new tenants to build a working relationship with. I was still the enemy here, an outsider from the council, not to be trusted. Curtains twitched and people hushed their conversations as I walked on by, staring with the same hostility I’d had to work so hard to overcome last time around. I’d like to say I wasn’t nervous, but I’d be lying. Christine was right, East Veil wasn’t Haygrove, and for all my bluster I knew it. My pulse raced like a train, a familiar rush of adrenaline fizzing through my veins. This was the adrenaline I craved so badly, but not here, not today.

  I picked up pace, zooming through a connecting alleyway to avoid a small huddle of youths, right into the garage courtyard of block one. I was pacing too fast to change my route, already committed to my trajectory. My blood froze to ice as I realised I’d committed to walking headlong into a street fight.

  I’d seen scuffles before, it’s part of the job. I’d seen the tail end of plenty of punch-ups between locals at Haygrove, where the contenders would be jeered on by crowds of onlookers. They’d always seemed a bit of a spectacle, more like a stand-off than a genuine fight, but this one was nothing like that.

  The two men brawling amongst the garages of tower block one were gunning for blood. There was no shouting, no hysterics, just the low growls of exertion as the fists flew. One of the men was bigger, considerably bigger. He moved on heavy feet, swinging meaty fists with purpose. I heard one connect, a terrible crack, right on the jawbone of the man facing up to him. I forced myself into action, flattening myself into the wall behind while my jittery fingers searched for my mobile.

  The smaller man railed backwards from the assault, spitting out a gob-full of blood, but he still had his wits, ducking out of reach and coming back for a counter attack. His fists were a flurry, landing full and hard into the big man’s nose. Fresh blood splattered the tarmac, the air heavy with grunts of pain and curses, until again they were squaring up. I caught sight of the smaller man’s eyes—dark pools of rage and pain, like a wild animal. He was chiselled and wiry, with an unkempt mop of dark hair and the perfect ghosting of stubble. A beautiful thug. A beautiful, vicious, monster.

  Again the thump of fists on bone gritted my teeth.

  The bigger man found some distance and charged at his opponent, a raging bull of muscled flesh. He was an ugly brute, skin-headed and scarred, with a jagged tattoo across his scalp. I knew his tattoo, a tribal eagle above his right ear. This had to be Tyler Jones, another problem case, one known primarily for domestic abuse. He’d beaten his girlfriend black and blue a few summers before, landing himself a suspended sentence and a non-molestation order. I knew it well, another entry in the East Veil case file.

  My fingers wouldn’t work, landing on just about everything in my bag besides my mobile. Pissing hell.

  Tyler missed his target, lurching forward in his own momentum and losing his balance just enough for the other man to strike. Strike he did, a kick to the back of the knee knocking out Tyler’s legs from under him and landing him in a heavy heap on the tarmac. I flinched as a bellow of rage rang out, a feral war-cry and the beautiful thug continued the assault, kicking the man under him, over and over and over again.

  Just as he stopped, spitting blood on the ground beside his defeated opponent, I found my mobile.

  “Piece of shit!” he raged. “You fucking piece of shit!”

  “Fuck you, Jackson!” Tyler crawled away, clutching his side, keeping a wary eye out as he stumbled to his feet. “I hope they’ve beat her to death already, you cunt.”

  “If they’ve touched her, you’re fucking dead. I swear down on my fucking life.”

  “Not if you’re dead first, you fucking asshole.”

  I held my breath as Tyler stumbled away, letting out a sigh as he moved out of eyesight. Thank fuck for that.

  I entered the unlock code into my handset, keyed in the number for emergency services.

  “Emergency Services, which service do you require?”

  “Police!” I wheezed. “I need the police!”

  A shadow across my vision, blocking out the light.

  “No, you fucking don’t.”

  And that’s when I realised the beautiful thug was whole lot bigger than he looked.

  ***

  Chapter Two

  Sophie

&
nbsp; The beautiful savage was quick as a flash, snatching the handset from my fingers before I could move a muscle. He dismantled it with a grunt, snapping off the back panel and wrenching out the battery.

  “Jones had it coming, piece of shit.” He thrust the pieces of phone at my chest and I grabbed them from his hand. But his stare was on me. He was close. Too close. Close enough to scare me. And close enough that I could smell him. He smelt wild: of sweat and damp and pure fucking rage.

  Fuck. Adrenaline, fear, and hot, sweaty man flesh; a combination I crave, but shouldn’t. I definitely shouldn’t.

  “You should let me call an ambulance. Your jaw...” I swallowed the croak in my voice.

  He hacked up blood, spitting so close to my feet it splattered my shoes. “Taken worse.”

  I watched him watching me, hollow eyes unreadable. I flinched as he reached for my chest, but he was only going for my name badge.

  “Sophie Harding. Estate Manager.”

  “On my way to tower one.” I gestured to the looming hulk of my destination. Shadow and grime had never looked so safe.

  I should have been more careful with my paperwork. In the chaos my clipboard had lolled carelessly, and I was too slow to avert it from his eyes.

  “You’re going to me mam’s.”

  “I’m, um, making some local visits.”

  “She says any shit about me, she’s a fucking liar. I didn’t touch her.”

  I struggled to hold my nerve. “Tyler Jones said he hoped someone had been hurt... was he talking about her?”

  “Me mam?! Fuck no.”

  “Throw me a line here... I should be screaming blue murder and calling the police.”

  “Pretty sure of yourself, ain’t you? What makes you think I’d let you call the pigs on me?”

  I dared to stare right back at him. “What are you planning on doing? Keeping me here forever?”

  “Dunno yet.”

  “You could just tell me what’s going on. If someone’s in danger...”

  I flinched as he thumped the wall above my head, convinced I’d made a terrible mistake. Christine’s words smashed around my brain. Dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.

  “Like someone like you’s gonna help someone like me.”

  I dropped my eyes to the floor, kept my voice neutral but firm. “I know Tyler Jones has history... with women...”

  “You ain’t gonna help. You won’t give a shit.”

  “Try me.”

  “You’re gonna call the pigs anyway, as soon as I let you go.”

  “Then what’s to lose?” I chanced. “I won’t say anything about the fight. Jones would never talk, I know that as well as you do.”

  He clenched his fists, pressed them hard against the wall on either side of my head, caging me. “I can’t go back inside, not until she’s safe.”

  “Who’s in danger, Callum?”

  His eyes flashed with surprise at the sound of his own name, and for one tiny moment he was human. The pain I saw in his face nearly took my breath.

  “Casey,” he said, simply.

  “Casey?”

  “My dog. They took her.”

  I felt the tension leave my body enough to breathe freely. “You were fighting over a dog?”

  His face turned sour, as though I’d struck a blow.

  “Yeah, just a fucking dog. I said you wouldn’t give a shit. You can piss off now, estate manager.”

  He turned his back on me, gathering up a load of strewn clothes and shoving them into a tatty holdall.

  I brushed myself down, ordering my thoughts. My suit felt crackly, crumpled and tight. “What are you going to do now?”

  “Like you fucking care.”

  “Why did someone steal your dog?”

  “They didn’t. My stupid fucking mam gave her to Jones while I was locked up, then that sack of shit sold her.”

  “And you don’t think the new owners are taking care of her?”

  He shot me a look over his shoulder, one that made me feel about four years old. “The Scotts bought her. You know them? Dog-fighting cunts.”

  I knew them. And yes, they were. They were right at the top of my eviction hit list.

  “Have you asked for her back?”

  He didn’t even grace me with an answer. “Piss off and see me mam. And get some of those pissing bars she wants on the windows. She’ll need them if anything’s happened to Casey. Tell the pigs all you want, I don’t give a shit. She’s the only reason I’m out.”

  “The early release for good behaviour... that’s because of a dog?”

  “Never had a dog, have you?”

  He was right. I’d never had a dog in my life. Never had a pet, in fact. My parents weren’t ones for mess. I watched with my heart still pounding as Callum Jackson dug around in his bag, returning to wave a picture in front of my eyes: a battered photo of a scruffy black mongrel.

  “She’s not just a dog to me.” He took it away and shoved it deep in his bag. “I’m all she’s got.”

  And she’s all you’ve got. I daren’t speak it aloud. “How long have you had her?”

  “Few years. She was a stray, like me.” He slung his bag over his shoulder.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Whatever it fucking takes.”

  I reassembled my phone, weighing up my options. I should call the police, should call the office, should explain to anyone who’d bloody listen that Callum Jackson was embroiled in his usual round of shit and needed putting away again. Should, should, should, fucking should.

  “If you go up there starting trouble they’ll lock you up sooner than you can blink. Who’s going to take care of your dog then?”

  His shoulders stiffened. “Got no choice.”

  “You could let me call the police, they could get the rescue people out... take the dog away from them.”

  “Sure they will, yeah, and then they’ll just hand her back to me, won’t they? No fucking chance.”

  “At least she’d be ok,” I tried. “She’d be safe.”

  “She wouldn’t get a good family,” he said, sadness etched across his brutal features. “She’s no good inside, not trained.”

  I looked over to tower one. The Scotts were on the top floor, flat fourteen. “You’re sure they’ve got her?”

  His eyes were black as coal. “Course I’m fucking sure.”

  In spite of every shred of common sense in my body, I closed the distance between me and the man they call savage. “I could go up there, see if they’ll give her up.”

  His eyes narrowed, searching me. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

  Fuck knows. “It’s my patch, I won’t sit by while tenants abuse animals.”

  “No pigs?”

  “Let me try speaking with the Scotts first.”

  “If it don’t work...”

  “If it doesn’t work you’ll do whatever you have to do, and I’ll do whatever I have to do.”

  Dangerous. Every inch of him screamed danger. “If you’re fucking with me...”

  “I’m just doing my job.” But I wasn’t. This wasn’t my job.

  A grunt in the affirmative and he walked away, dropping his holdall to the floor and taking up position against a garage door. His eyes burnt my back as I set off for tower one. I walked slowly, shoulders high in an effort to convey a confidence I wasn’t feeling. My mind whirred. I was off script, procedures cast aside without care, and for what? To help a convict? A thug? Callum fucking Jackson?

  To help a dog. A dog in need.

  I held the thought like a mantra. I’d fucking need it.

  ***

  The lift stank of piss and poverty: a dingy, rickety contraption that had seen better days, just like the rest of the estate. I kept my breathing shallow, fearful of inhaling any more of the stench than necessary. The communal hallway wasn’t much better, littered with beer cans and a whole sea of cigarette butts. Number fourteen was right at the end. The door was fist-battered, tacky red paint flaking around the
edges. Music blared from inside, so loud it took three attempts at knocking before it dulled down.

  Janine Scott’s beady eyes looked out through the crack. They narrowed as she registered it was me, a look of pure disdain.

  “I’ve turned it down already!”

  “I’m not here about the music,” I said. “Can I come in?”

  “What for?”

  “I’ve had some complaints.”

  “What the fuck about this time? I paid a fiver off my rent last Monday, check my statement if you don’t believe me.”

  “It’s not about the rent, Mrs Scott. It’s about a dog.”

  She unlatched the chain, swinging the door wide. “Who’s been saying shit about my dogs?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say. You have a black dog, yes? I’ve had reports it’s been barking, causing a disturbance.”

  “They’re full of shit. The black dog don’t fucking bark, it don’t do shit, see?” She stood to the side, shifting her flabby ass enough for me to peer into the gloom beyond. A toddler darted into the kitchen, nappy-less and pissing a trail all the way. “Jayden, you little shit! Use the fucking potty!”

  Casey looked much smaller than I expected. She was a ball of matted fur, pressed tight against the carpet. Big, sad eyes looked out at me, ears flat to her skull.

  “You’re on a notice seeking possession already, Mrs Scott. Another count of anti-social behaviour will mean court action.”

  “You’ll have to come back when my husband’s home. It’s his bloody dog. He’s out, with our others. This dog don’t cause no problems. This dog don’t do shit.”

  “I’ve got witness statements to the contrary. I’m afraid this could lead to a full inspection, and police involvement.”

  Her mouth pursed tight, like a bright pink asshole. “They’re fucking lying!”

  I puffed myself up, putting on the most authoritative tone I could muster. “I’ve a duty to act on these allegations. You can let me take the dog now, and put a stop to the investigation, or I will be taking further action immediately. It’s your choice.”

  Her piggy eyes flew wild. “Take my dog?!”