by AJ Adams
I was about to cry when Terry rang. “Frosty, I just picked up Sooty. He’s posting some cumshots on Instagram.”
Bile jumped up my throat. “Cumshots?”
“Yeah, and I can see Andy Twitterton in the background.”
The Twittertons were Peckham Knaves. Three brothers and all mean as snakes. Oh my poor Delicia! “Where’s Andy live?”
The address flashed up instantly. “Erm Frosty, there’s a girl in those pics. She looks a lot like Millie’s niece.”
“Yeah. Look, Terry, sit tight, okay? Don’t do a thing.”
“Fuck, look, I’m not a hairy-chested man of action, but if that’s Delicia, give me ten minutes, and me and some mates will come with you.”
Don’t people surprise you? It actually brought tears to my eyes. “I’ve got some muscle with me.”
“Good. I hope you cream the fucker. Listen, one more thing. That man you put me on to, Quique? He’s like serious business, Frosty. I mean way-out fucking dangerous dude.”
“I know. Just get me what you can.”
“He scares me, and I’m not ashamed to say it. Those Zetas are from a hick town called Nuevo Laredo. It’s got a higher kill rate than Iraq. This Quique is like mega-heavy, and his pals are international thugs. We’re talking drug trafficking, murder, arms dealing—there’s no limit to the shit they’re into.”
Terry’s warnings made me thank my stars I had a Zeta on call. “Thanks. Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
Enrique, or Quique as Terry had called him, still sounded totally pissed off, but he pitched up in minutes, and apart from a bit of yelling, the man was a total star.
“We’ll have her out of there right now.”
He did, too. He ran five floors at top speed, broke down the door, and then there were three blokes lying on the living room floor, bleeding. Not just any blokes, either, but Twittertons who were big, bad, ugly buggers some six foot two tall and bulging with muscle.
The brothers were Peckham Knaves heavies, used as enforcers and general thuggery. The Met won’t go into Aylesham Estate to get people like the Twittertons unless they’re in groups of ten, but Quique hadn’t even broken a sweat. He was like a one-man army, a totally merciless bugger, and I loved him for it.
“Take your time,” he said. Like it’s normal to crash through doors and pistol-whip people.
I’d been screamingly desperate to find Delicia, promising God all kinds of things if only she were safe, but stepping into that bedroom took all my courage.
When I was attacked, I felt broken, my body torn into bits, my soul smashed to smithereens. I was expecting blood, broken bones and tears; Delicia was bruised here and there but otherwise intact. When she stirred and looked at me, her eyes were like saucers. Whatever they’d given her had put her on a different planet.
“Nats, we’re having a party,” she slurred.
“That’s nice, love.” I didn’t realise till much later that I was crying steadily. “Where are your clothes, my darling?”
All I could find was a tee under a pile of used condoms. As Delicia’s legs wouldn’t hold her up anyway, it didn’t matter. If I’d been by myself, I would have been stuck, but Quique folded her in a sheet as if she were a quesadilla.
“Are you here to party?” Delicia slurred.
“I’m taking you home, chiquitína.”
“They got mad when I asked,” Delicia’s voice was doubtful, strained.
“Don’t you worry. I’ve fixed them,” Quique growled. “Now close your eyes and let me give you a power ride home.”
Then he lifted her up and had her out of there before she had time to look around her. He was so gentle with her that she giggled all the way, completely relaxed and unafraid.
As for me, it wasn’t till we were halfway down the stairs that I realised the three we’d left behind had been motionless. I had dismissed some vague pops as background noise, but then I figured out what had happened. Quique had shot them. Then, based on the blood everywhere, he’d beaten them. I remembered spotting a golf club. The Twittertons were a bloody mess, maybe a dead bloody mess.
Maybe I’m destined for hell, but my first thought was one of unadulterated pleasure. But while I dearly wanted them out of this world, the sensible bit of me reminded me that the Peckham Knaves had plenty of friends. They’d come after Quique and me for revenge.
Also, if the plods discovered this, I’d be an accessory to at least three counts of assault with a deadly weapon. I don’t know what you get for that, but I bet it’s not a handshake and a thank-you. A triple murder would get me life.
I puzzled it over and concluded that the local boys wouldn’t want to tangle with the Zetas, but the authorities might want to use me. In short, I hung on to the watch with predictable results.
“Bruja mala leche!” Quique snarled. “Zorra!”
I didn’t blame him. After all, he’d done his part, and I was being a total bitch. Also, I’d called him a child molester, which would stick in anyone’s craw. I was about to apologise when he stalked off. I knew he’d be back, so I put him out of my mind. I called Dr Zoe, begging her to come and see Delicia, and then I had to go inside and face the biggest challenge of the day: Millie.
“Nats, oh, thank you!” Millie was hanging round my neck in absolute floods. “You got her back! Oh, Nats!”
The whole family was there from my ex right down to Daisy, his two-year-old cousin twice removed. They were incandescent, confused and ready to point fingers.
“She’s been missing since last night? How the hell didn’t you notice, Millie?”
“What in God’s name happened?”
“She was high and drunk!”
“Was she shagging someone? At her age? Jesus! I hope she’s on the pill!”
Millie was torn between wanting to defend herself and protecting her little chick.
Me, I didn’t want her blamed, so I spoke up. “Three nights ago Larry Whedon, the man who is the premise licence-holder for the pub, tried to blackmail me into letting him off a massive bar tab.”
“Bet you told him he could shove it where the sun don’t shine,” Frank said sourly. He was no doubt remembering all the times he’d tried to drink for free.
“Typical,” Pat grumped. “You did right to tell him to take a hike.”
Everyone chorused their agreement until Johnathan’s blank gaze and Millie’s frown sank in.
“Sooty decided he’d take revenge,” I spoke into the silence, “and he took aim at Delicia. He and some of his mates raped her.”
There was a stunned silence, and then the storm broke loose.
“He did what? Is he fucking insane?"
“Our Delicia? He raped our Delicia?”
“Him and some of his mates.”
There was a stunned silence, broken by Millie and Rose beginning to sob.
“This is all your fault!” My ex was on his feet, delighting in delicious, zealous revenge. “You’re so tight that you squeak when you walk. You saved a couple of quid, and Delicia paid the price!”
“Right! You’ve got to learn to open the purse strings,” Roger lectured. “You’re mean, Nats.”
Rose and Sadie were silent, but they were giving me nasty looks.
I was regularly in for it, but to my immense surprise Millie stood up. She was red with rage, actually shaking with anger. “You bloody hypocrites!”
“Steady on, Mum,” Roger said uncomfortably.
“Don’t you dare!” Millie raged. “Nats isn’t the problem; you are!” Then she read the riot act. “It’s Nats who stepped in and saved the business and the house! She works night and day and all to keep me and Delicia. She hasn’t had a holiday in over a year!”
“She’s paid a good salary for it,” Roger sulked.
“No more than you took!” Millie fired back. “And unlike you, she makes money! She doesn’t chuck it down the drain by buying rounds for a bunch of drunken bums!”
“But Delicia!” Frank said.
“That
was Sooty’s doing! Don’t you dare blame Nats for that!”
“What happened exactly?” Suzie asked. “I mean, did you call the police?”
“That lot are as useless as a chocolate teapot!” Millie mimicked the police officer, “Oh, teenagers disappear all the time, Mrs Truelove. She’ll be back.”
“How did you find her then?” Frank frowned.
“Nats got her. Somehow she tracked her down and brought her back.”
It was all eyes on me.
“You?” Frank’s voice was loaded with doubt. “You got Delicia away from Sooty? And his mates? Peckham Knaves?”
“You were with some people.” Pat had helped Johnathan carry Delicia upstairs. Now he was remembering the car. “Who were they?”
I didn’t think it was the place and time to confide my doings. “Delicia is back, and that’s all we need to talk about. Or rather, we don’t talk about it. She needs time and a bit of privacy.”
“Right,” Roger shuddered. “Best nobody talks about our Delicia. Everyone will say she’s a tart.”
“Don’t you dare blame her!” My mouth was bypassing my brain. “She’s a young girl who was attacked. Don’t fucking well dare blame her for that!”
“But she did go with him, right? And she was high! Did she try to fight them?”
And that’s when I had him up against the wall, one hand at his throat and the other grabbing his nuts. “How about I take these off? Think that would your fault or mine?” I squeezed, and he squealed with fright. “Hey, Roger, you’re not fighting! Does this mean this is your fault?”
Amazing, right? To keep it together through all the murder and mayhem only to lose it for a no-good little prick like Roger? But I did, and by the time I dropped the coward and stomped out, everyone was screaming at each other.
I met Dr Zoe by the door. She’s a sweetheart, that woman. She was a doctor in Poland, so she’s never heard of GPs who keep you waiting for six weeks. She even does house calls for emergencies, and she knows when to talk to social services and when not. She’s a stranger to grammar, but she’s a bloody brilliant healer.
“Delicia was drugged and raped,” I told her bluntly. “If she needs a hospital, I can take her, but I’d rather avoid the police.”
Dr Zoe nodded. “You drink a brandy for shock. I fixing Delicia.”
It reminded me of someone else who needed fixing but not in a pleasant way. In a righteous world I could just shoot Sooty and then go finish off the Twittertons, but in London that would only get me life in jail. Luckily a cunning plan popped into mind.
To buy time, I called Terry. “Thanks for your help. Want the money in cash or transfer?”
“Transfer. I’ll invoice it as computer tuition.”
“Okay.”
“Frosty, is Delicia okay?”
“Doc Zoe is seeing her now.”
There was some fervent swearing. “I hope you left Sooty in severe pain?”
“He’d scarpered before we got there. Speaking of which, I need to make arrangements.”
I had thought over my revenge, examined the plan from all angles and it was solid. My next call didn’t need a phone. I just knocked at the flat below Millie’s.
“Frosty,” Grunter Pierce—actually Percival but named for the noises he makes when taking part in local boxing matches—looked his usual pugilistic, muscle-bulging, bare-shaven self. “Long time no see.”
“Yeah, about that, congratulations!”
“Six months sober,” he grinned.
“Still boxing?”
“Oh yeah!”
“Still working with Criminally Gifted?”
“Now how did you know that?”
Criminally Gifted are a rival gang who were always fighting the Peckham Knaves. Grunter didn’t want it known, but when he was still drinking, he’d let something slip in the pub one night that put me onto him.
“Open for a private job?” I laid it out for him. “I want Sooty to suffer. Weeks in hospital, months if at all possible.”
“It will be a pleasure.”
We shook on it. “Do you know where to find him?”
“Leave it to me, love. I’ll catch up with him.”
I left, happy with the plan. I couldn’t take Sooty on, and if Frank, Roger and the cousins tried it, they would instantly draw the wrath of the Peckham Knaves on them. With my plan, Sooty would get what was coming to him, my family wouldn’t be sucked into a war they couldn’t win, and Grunter would be fine, as it was just in his normal course of business.
Maybe you’re horrified by this, but when the plods refused to help Delicia, I crossed a mental line. I didn’t mind them fucking me over, but when they didn’t give a fuck about a thirteen-year-old being gang-raped, something inside me changed. From now on I would do what was needed to protect me and mine. I’d have Sooty beaten to a pulp as a warning to anyone else who thought of fucking with us.
There was no point in legal action. There are 100,000 rapes a year in the UK, but it takes two years or more to go to court. Also, the conviction rates are abysmal, with just 1 in 15 found guilty. If I wanted justice for Delicia, I’d have to take care of it myself. I’d thought it over, and I knew I could get away with it. Hate me if you like, but that was the decision I came to.
As for the Twittertons, I Googled the news on my phone. I was half expecting headlines, “Three men dead in Aylesbury Estate attack” but there wasn’t a whisper of it, not even when I looked on Twitter and Facebook.
I had a look for Delicia’s name, but that came up clear too. Even so, I knew those Twitterton buggers would have posted selfies and worse. Poor Delicia. If her schoolmates saw those, they’d eat her alive. I realised I should’ve asked Terry to remove anything he saw about her online, so I called him back and got a nice surprise.
“I removed them last night as they were posted. Blocked their accounts, too.”
“Terry, you’re a star.”
“Nah. Revenge porn is just plain wrong.”
“I’ve got their phones, if it helps.”
“Yes, I can use those to track and trace. But others might’ve already copied them and sent them on.”
“I’ll pay you if you can sweep for pics the next couple of days.”
“Deal. Or rather, I want a freezer full of food. Lasagne and apple pie.”
“Consider it filled.”
I looked at one of the phones, and the selfies there made my guts churn with rage. The Twittertons had been given their beating, which was a pity, as I was aching for revenge.
It was getting on, and I needed a shower before work, but as I walked home, I found myself dragged back in time, remembering the horror. It wasn’t surprising, really. I mean, Sooty decided to punish me by hurting Delicia. It was an approach I was familiar with.
You see, those cigarettes Frank ripped off belonged to Francis Duke, a nasty East End villain. Frank had lifted them when someone left a warehouse door open, and he stashed them in my car. I didn’t know, so when I double-parked for a few minutes outside work, the car got towed, the police spotted the stash, and I got done.
“It wasn’t my fault!” Frank whined. “I just wanted to make some cash!”
“A job would’ve done. Why steal, for chrissake?”
Frank stormed out, and when there was a thunderous knocking two minutes later, I thought it was Frank, that he’d lost his keys, so I opened it.
Rip, tear, the pain as he tore into me was like a knife. “You tell Frank that nobody steals from Francis Duke!”
Afterwards it took me about an hour to get off the floor. Getting the gun took five seconds. It had been Frank’s grandfather’s, a souvenir from the Korean War. Frank kept it in his bedside drawer, for macho bragging purposes.
“Always ready to go,” he always boasted. “Just like me.”
I took the gun and walked over to Duke’s place. I killed him, and on the way back, I dropped the gun in the Thames.
I never told Frank, because I thought the guilt would crucify him.
In fact, I never told a soul. I installed extra locks and burglar-proof windows and took some self-defence classes.
I tried to forgive Frank, but I just couldn’t get past it. I also couldn’t bear for him to touch me. At first he thought it was because I was mad at him for being arrested, but then he decided I was having an affair.
“You bitch!” he yelled at me. “It’s that bloke at La Maison, isn’t it? The chef!”
I told him not to be a damn fool, but he went off and revenge-shagged every bird who’d have him.
We fought for weeks. I have a nasty tongue, and Frank got physical. I didn’t mind the slaps, but after he broke my nose and ribs one night, I knew it was over. I threw him out and divorced him.
I’d repressed the memories for three years, but thanks to Delicia’s attack, I was having the heebie-jeebies. When I got to my apartment block, I was so freaked that I paused. Quique may have had scruples about pulling a gun on me in broad daylight and demanding his watch back, but he might have decided to wait for me here.
My heart was in my mouth as I walked up the stairs to my flat, baton extended and ready in my hand. When I got there, the corridor was empty, but the sight of the word ‘bitch’ splashed on my front door in grey paint paralysed me.
A quick look reassured me that I was alone, and a moment’s thought underlined that the cartel don’t use paint. Also, this wasn’t the first time my door had been tagged by vandals. No, this was just one of those things. Annoying but not life-threatening.
I unlocked my door with trembling hands and scooted inside. Now I was safe. Temporarily, at least. I had no doubt that Quique would be after me.
Fifteen minutes later, after my mirror pointed out that I looked like a domestic violence victim, I contemplated the safe that was built into the wardrobe. I kept a little cash, my passport and Mum’s pearl necklace in there. I also had a little gun. A .22 I’d bought, don’t ask where, after the divorce.
I put a note into the safe and decided to leave the gun there rather than carry it. To cheer myself up, I wore the pearls, tidied myself up and went off to work.
The pub was bouncing still, and thanks to my beautifully black jaw, I got to tell my story over and over again. After the events of the day, it felt weird, like something that had happened years ago. Still, I was raking in piles of cash, and so I was grateful. When my mercenary joy ran thin, I went into the kitchen and cooked.