Silas

by Tilly Delane

  And that I don’t like whatever he does that gets him battered like that.

  I ponder on that while I wait for inspiration to hit me as to what I should do with the rest of the day. Sleeping in until the afternoon has completely thrown me out of sync again and I get the idea that my body thinks we’re back on DC time. Great.

  It takes me a while to admit to myself that my fidgetiness has nothing to do with my inner clock. I miss him already and I’m scared.

  I’m scared that whatever he does is gonna get him killed.

  Silas

  “Come in.”

  Diego beckons to me as Goran ushers me into the office at the Benson Mansion. Apart from one children’s birthday party when we were eight, complete with bouncy castle, popcorn, candy floss and ice cream vendor, for which us plebs were ushered straight past the side of the house and into the garden, I have never been here.

  The Bensons had just moved in then, and I guess they wanted to show the rest of the old neighbourhood how far they’d gone up in the world. To be fair, they never took George out of school to put him in private education or any bullshit like that, even after the big move.

  Still don’t know what made them go from old-time relatively small fry to big fish in the Brighton pond. Don’t wanna know either.

  Suffice to say that one year they were just running some gambling rigs, a bit of illegal fighting here and there, but nothing to write home about, and the next they were suddenly major players.

  The rumour mill always churns on about how their ascension happened to coincide with a certain fire in town, which eliminated all hope of a certain structure ever being restored, making certain powerful people very happy. But I don’t buy it.

  It’s more likely to do with Grandma Benson.

  Grandma Benson was a character, not in old Brighton but in ancient Brighton, and seriously minted. I never met her because she didn’t really mingle with her son, George senior, much, but I know my old school friend, who is currently looking at me from behind a desk, inherited the TripleX building from her. That’s serious property.

  Unlike this.

  They call this place the Mansion, but it’s one of these things that start as a joke and then become the norm. Really, it’s just a detached five-bedroom mock Tudor family home with a decent sized garden, an indoor pool under something that looks like a dome-shaped greenhouse and a triple garage. Would still cost a cool two mill or so if they ever put it on the market. It’s the thing with this town. Property is fucking stupid money. Once upon a time, Woodland Drive was where the slightly richer people had their family homes. Now it’s full of internet celebrities and gazillionaires who make their money doing things no honest working person will ever understand.

  The heretofore slightly richer people now live in Mum’s old terraced house up muesli mountain.

  And we live in Shoreham.

  “Snake,” Diego greets me by my fight name once I’ve crossed the threshold and indicates the empty chair across from him. “Take a seat.”

  I didn’t pick my name, he did, but I guess it suits my fight style and physique well enough. I can feel Goran’s eyes on my back, checking me out as I pass him, sizing me up for our forthcoming match. Since he won the penultimate bout last night, we’ll be up against each other next, headlining. Diego runs the nights like a league and right now we’re numbers one and two. The season finishes in ten weeks, five more rounds. And then I’m out. For good.

  I know Goran’s itching to cut that short and take me out.

  He’s about twice the size of me and thinks it’ll be a walk in the park. We’ll see. I’ve studied him. He’s lumbery and overprotective of his right knee. I don’t think he’s aware of it. I’m guessing it’s an old injury that doesn’t even trouble him anymore, but the important thing is, his guardedness makes him unbalanced. I’m as sure as you can ever be that I’ve got this. Provided I heal okay in the next couple of weeks, until we’re on. Fucking Arlo.

  I take the chair that’s offered and lean back, looking around. It’s just a home office like any other. The desk is dark wood, massive, old and covered in green felt. There is a smaller, modern one, hosting a laptop, pushed against its side to form an L-shape. The carpet is dark grey with a swirly beige pattern, the walls off-white. Dotted around are some nondescript amateur watercolours of the seaside, a few of those old prints with dogs playing snooker and some pages from The Illustrated London News from the late 19th century. One showing a bare-knuckle boxing duo, others showing cock and dog fights. Subtle.

  It’s all very pretend bourgeoisie. Not that any of the Bensons would know what that means or how to spell it. Diego was always bottom set in English. He can’t read or write to save his life. Not many people know that.

  Right now, though, here, he’s definitely top set. His back is to a French window that looks out onto the garden. There is a massive cherry tree behind him. It’s in bloom, pretty.

  An irrational thought flickers through my mind. Is this the last pretty thing I’m ever going to see?

  It’s stupid because the Bensons are crooks but not killers. That’s why they get on with the police so well.

  But ─ I’ve never been summoned like this before and my gut, what Arlo left of it, tells me that it can’t be a good thing. Another irrational thought follows hot on the heels of the first one.

  I don’t want the last pretty thing I see to be a cherry tree. I want it to be a pretty American with long red hair, green eyes and a cat pout.

  I let my gaze wander away from the tree and look at Diego. He’s still smiling, showing his full set of perfectly corrected teeth. Makes him look like a fucking movie star. Brad Pitt’s little brother. Only blonder.

  He nods to Goran, and Goran shuts the door. From the outside.

  We’re alone.

  Diego’s smile falters. He looks serious but not pissed off. One of the advantages of having known your boss from when you were both in nappies is that I can read him like an open book. We’re okay. But we have a situation.

  “We have a situation,” he says. “You went a bit heavy on Arlo. So the pigs aren’t happy.”

  Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I feel sick.

  “Is he dead?” I ask levelly, my heart pounding in my chest.

  I haven’t killed a man yet and I’d like to keep it that way.

  “Nah,” Diego answers, grinning. “He might need a hearing aid, but he’ll live. Just got some overzealous piglet not happy with the usual write off. So I’d like you to lie low for a bit. Take a holiday or something.”

  He must be having a laugh. I can’t afford to take a fucking holiday. That’s the problem with a secured loan versus the nice normal mortgage no bank would give us because we weren’t earning enough. You miss your repayment, they take your fucking house.

  “Geo–“ I catch myself. “Diego, I can’t afford to take a holiday, man. I need the money. I don’t have to fight but let me at least carry on doing the door, please. Or stick me on some other security detail. I’ve worked for Santos-Benson security before. Julian likes me. You must have gigs going away from the club,” I plead.

  He frowns at me the way a mother frowns at her children when they aren’t listening.

  “Stand up,” he says.

  I have no idea where he’s going with this, but I do as I’m asked.

  “Take your jacket off.”

  I take my jacket off.

  “Lift your shirt.”

  What the fuck?

  I lift my shirt.

  He stands, leans over the desk and studies my bruises. What’s with all the interest in my injuries today? First Grace, now George. He nods sharply at what he sees.

  “That’s why you’re taking a few weeks off,” he states unequivocally and sits back down again. “Sit,” he demands a second later, and I do. “I can’t afford for your mum to find your sorry arse dead in bed one morning. She’d have my hide.”

  He grins again and I can’t help but smile back. Mum
always had a reputation among my school friends for being something fierce, basically because any time a teacher would be unfair to us, she’d come in and rip them a new one. Back when. Before he broke her.

  “So do us a favour,” he adds, “and go sit on the beach for a month.”

  I take a big breath, but he fends me off with a gesture.

  “On the house. Full pay.”

  Too good to be true.

  “For what?” I ask, and his grin goes wide like a crocodile’s at the dentist.

  “I’m glad you asked,” he responds. “I’m scheduling you for a fight. Outside the league. Something a bit different,” he pauses, cracking his knuckles, and a cold shudder runs down my spine.

  I don’t like this.

  I don’t like this one bit.

  “Who am I fighting?”

  His smile contracts until only a knowing smirk is left.

  “Oh, you’ll like it, Silas,” he whispers, and I notice he’s dropped the ‘Snake’. “You’ll like it a whole lot. And it’s gonna make us all a boatload of cash. He isn’t new to the game. Just come down from London. We’ll build it up while you’re gone, and then we’ll stage a proper clash of the titans.”

  He gets up and puts out a hand.

  “Just stay away from the club in the meantime. Stay west of town for a bit. Deal?”

  It’s not like I really have a choice, and he knows it.

  I shake his hand, and I am pretty sure I’ve just sold my soul to the Devil for a golden fiddle.

  Grace

  When the front door opens, Sheena, Kalina and I are sitting in the kitchen playing Texas Hold’em.

  With Monopoly money.

  Sheena has a massive thing about not playing for real cash. Suits me ‘cause I suck royally at this. I may be the only American at the table, but I’ve never played poker before. Kalina and Sheena had to explain the rules to me. I’m not sure I’ll ever do it again. Way too stressful. They are both absolute fiends at this and it’s a bit like being the little clown fish who is watching two sharks circle one another, deciding who gets to eat the little clown fish. But I’m really enjoying their company. Kalina is sitting cross-legged on the chair at the head end of the table, one eyebrow permanently hitched and giving nothing away.

  She had some social afternoon drinks thing with her course today and she’s wearing a shimmering top and jean shorts with a white frilly hem. No idea where they went but she smells like candy floss and has come home with a partial face painting, a glittering butterfly on her temple. She looks like a fairy princess instead of her normal ‘I wish I was a boy’ outfit.

  I’m sitting with my back to the door and Sheena opposite me. I’m seeing a side to her that’s really making me laugh. Inwardly, of course. Poker face and all that jazz. She’s adorable, though. She’s wearing a white terry cotton bathrobe that’s got the Palais logo stitched on a totally pointless breast pocket and her short hair is still hidden under a towel turban, despite the fact she came out of the bath two hours ago and cooked us all soggy pasta with pesto in the meantime. And she’s pulling the most pokery poker face imaginable. The thing is, it seems to work.

  She’s taking us to the cleaners.

  It’s a good distraction. To a point.

  I’m still out of sorts with what happened earlier. In this kitchen. I look around furtively, as if there was anything to see. As if the tiles on the wall are somehow screaming, ‘Grace had an orgasm in here! Just over there, by the kettle! Just from a kiss and a little bit of nipple action!’ The thought alone drives another bolt of pleasure through me, but this one is mixed with a whole lotta fear and insecurity.

  It’s the strangest thing because when he’s around I don’t even think about how insane our attraction to one another is. It just is. But as soon as he’s not there, I start questioning my every reaction to this man. You’d think it would be every woman’s dream to find a guy who can just make her come like that. But, actually? It’s scary as hell. Especially if you know barely anything about him, really.

  That’s not how that’s supposed to go, according to my mother.

  According to my mother, you go on a few civilized dates, you get to know each other, see if you have anything in common, check out if your politics, beliefs and outlook in life match and if they do, you take it from there. If he then rocks your boat in bed, bonus. You don’t just go ‘you smell so good, I want to eat you whole’ and fuck any getting to know each other slowly tropes.

  That said, my mother met an American history professor with a penchant for the British Georgian era while he was staying at the Palais, fell into bed with him, got pregnant, followed him to America, realized said historian had no real ambition and no zest for anything that wasn’t already dead and buried, split, got the manager’s job at the Atlantis, raised me on her own and to my knowledge never had another love affair until she died. I don’t even know if she ever had sex again. Sad thought.

  Thinking about it like that, I see where she was coming from. Still, I’m not her, there is very little chance of me getting knocked up because I have an implant and I’m only here for another three weeks. So I’ll just keep going with the ‘you smell good approach’ for now.

  And, boy, does he.

  I catch his scent now as he enters the kitchen.

  He stands a couple of feet behind me and goose bumps break out on my neck.

  Good ones.

  The best kind.

  Sheena looks up from the cards in her hand and the mask of indifference she’s been wearing turns into a frown.

  “What are you doing home early?”

  He doesn’t answer immediately, and I look around to catch a glimpse of him. He’s standing there like a little boy who’s been naughty and who doesn’t know which lie to tell. It’s a bizarre look on somebody like him.

  “I’ve taken some time off,” he finally says. “A month to be precise.”

  “What?” Sheena puts her cards down and glares at him.

  He holds up a hand reassuringly.

  “It’s fine, Mum. I got it covered. We’ll still be able to make payments.”

  Her frown deepens and for a moment they hold such intense eye contact with one another it’s uncomfortable to be around, but then they break away from the encounter and the vibe in the kitchen returns to normal. Sheena picks up her cards again, but there is no way I can concentrate now. Not with him in the room.

  “I’m sorry, ladies,” I say with a big smile, putting down my hand. “I’m fried,” I blatantly lie. “I need to catch some sleep.”

  I get up from my chair, turn and come face to face with Silas.

  Just the look in his eyes makes me tingle from the roots of my hair to the tip of my toes. I can see him searching my face, and then he smiles, just a little. Just one corner of his delectable mouth turning up.

  “I’ll be up in a minute,” he says, and my heart fucking stops.

  He’s basically just proclaimed to all and sundry, to his mother, that we’ll be sleeping together.

  Not that he’s even asked.

  Or I ever said yes.

  Silas

  It’s a bold move, entirely unlike me.

  I was raised by Mum to believe in what she calls courting. Taking it slow, being friends first, all that crap. Which isn’t really crap. I know that. It’s what Niamh and I were built on. She was supposed to be my one. Until he fucked it all up for us. But this thing with Grace? It’s completely different. It’s like she’s in my blood. I’ve known the woman a week and I can’t imagine her not being here, her scent not lingering in the air. Torturing me, healing me.

  And the thing is, I decided something after I left the Bensons’ today. If there is even the remote possibility that I’m gonna get killed in a month’s time, I want to spend that month with her. Have more of what happened in the kitchen this afternoon. Have whatever she is willing to let me have. And she seems to be okay with that idea ‘cause I can hear her going up the stairs and opening the door to my, our, room.
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br />   At the table, Kalina and Mum have put their cards down. Kalina unfolds her crossed legs and moves around to sit in Grace’s chair.

  “Heads up?” Mum asks, and they nod at each other before Mum starts reshuffling the pack.

  She throws me a quick look, somewhere between curiosity and a warning. But she doesn’t say anything. It’s so surreal for me to behave this forward with a girl, I think even Sheena O’Brien is lost for words.

  I turn around and follow Grace up the stairs, my heart racing faster with every step I’m getting nearer to her. It’s taken pretty much all my courage, declaring us just now like that, but I really did have a bit of an epiphany when I left the Benson Mansion.

  I saw the old man come back, parking up his 4x4 on the driveway. I guess he’d been out in the country, shooting pheasants or something, since the car was proper dirty and he had all the gear. Flat cap, tweet jacket, rifle, the lot. The gentrification clobber is funny as hell to me because I remember him in the cheap suits he used to wear, sporting knock-off Rolex watches.

  He got out of the car just as I got on my bike and he looked at me in a way that left no doubt that he knew why I was there.

  So I’m pretty sure I know what they’re up to. I’ve seen it before, once or twice.

  They don’t do it often but occasionally they go for a big rig. They’re gonna build up this other guy, and then they are going to tell one of us to lose, depending on the odds. But if that’s me, I already know I won’t stay down. Not ‘cause I’m stupid or because of honour or any shit like that, but because when that red mist descends, I will fight till I’m done. Always. I wouldn’t be able to pull the plug. Even if I wanted to. It’s as simple and as fucked up as that. ‘Cause I’m a fucking psycho.

  I stop in my tracks.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  I can’t drag her down with me.

  I turn around and bolt out of the house.

  Grace

  I can feel the exact moment he changes his mind.

  I listen to him ascend the stairs, and then suddenly he stops in his tracks and the next thing I hear is the front door falling shut.