by Emmy Ellis
Her stomach was in knots every time she thought of Jonathan and remembered the sound of his voice. She idly flicked through the Sunday newspaper on her phone, seeing the pages but not taking in what was happening in the world.
Her mother’s key slid in the lock, and she entered the house chatting animatedly. “She’ll be so pleased to see you.”
She’s brought back someone from church.
“Gracie? Are you out of bed yet?” Mum called.
“I’m in the kitchen.”
“Are you decent before we come in, because I’ve brought home a guest.”
“Yes, I’m decent.”
“She doesn’t sound very happy, does she?” Mum walked in the kitchen.
Gracie didn’t look up from her phone but sighed, ready to put on an act for five minutes or so then escaping to her room.
“Perhaps I can cheer her up?”
Gracie’s stomach turned over. “What are you doing here?”
“Not welcome then? I got the impression last night…”
“I didn’t expect it to be you.”
“I’ll leave you to it,” Mum said. “I’ve got some letters to write, and they’re rather pressing.”
She left the kitchen. As soon as the door closed, Gracie got up, wound her hands around Jonathan’s neck, and kissed him.
He laughed. “Blimey, you’re forward. What d’you want to do today? I’m free until about six.”
“We could stay here or go out for dinner. I don’t mind really.”
“Let’s go out for dinner then. We can get to know each other a bit better being alone.”
Chapter Thirty
Jonathan chose a pub on the outskirts, far enough away from their patch not to be recognised. They went in Gracie’s car, and he kept a strict eye out to make sure they hadn’t been followed. They hadn’t—not by a particular old white van belonging to The Brothers anyway—and he relaxed.
In the bar, they had a drink, talking as if it were second nature to be sitting together as a new couple. The time slipped by quickly, and before he knew it, the barman had come over and told them if they wanted food, they’d better make their way to the eating area.
No one else occupied the restaurant section, and Jonathan talked freely with no pressure from the bar staff to hurry. Later, he paid for their meals, and they left The Jack of Hearts. He looked up at the sign which was a picture of a playing card. Leona and that damn poker game would always be there in the back of his mind, but he quickly shoved the thought away. No need to think about his other life; he still had a couple of hours to go in Gracie’s company yet.
Not wanting to drive home, he suggested a walk. He steered her down the lane beside the pub to see where it led. Open fields spread before them, and they tromped across one, chatting all the while. Holding hands, they appeared like any other couple, only that wasn’t true.
Over the way was another field, and, climbing over the stile, they jumped into it. Cows stood at the other end. Gracie sat and leant back on her palms, while Jonathan sprawled flat on his back, putting his hands under his head.
“Next time we should bring a picnic basket,” Gracie said.
“Oh, so you reckon there’s a next time then?”
“Why wouldn’t there be?”
Jonathan stiffened. “No reason.”
“We have nothing to worry about, do we?”
Why had she asked that? “No, nothing at all.” Guilt soured his gut.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her frown deep.
“Nothing.”
They went further than a kiss in the long grass. Later, chewing a blade of grass, Jonathan propped himself up on one elbow, looking down at her.
“Even that was different,” he said.
“It would be better on a bed. I don’t think Mum would let us go there. Under her own roof… A bit rude.”
“Well, my place isn’t much. It was my mum’s before she died. There’s a few sticks of furniture, so we can go there if you don’t mind slumming it.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Like you then.”
Gracie’s laugh tinkled across the field, and the cows lifted their heavy heads to stare in their direction.
“We’d better go,” he said, conscious of how long he’d been out.
They walked to the pub car park, and Gracie made the suggestion of another drink.
Jonathan nodded. “Yeah, but then I really have to get back. I’ve got a busy day tomorrow.”
In The Jack of Hearts, he paid for their drinks and glanced up at the clock on the wall behind the bar. Half seven. Leona would be wondering what he’d been doing all this time. He’d have to think of an excuse on the way home. Calculating when he’d eventually arrive—they had to drive back to Gracie’s and then he’d planned to walk from there—he’d have Leona’s suspicions aroused, unless he said he’d been at the office all day.
Drinks finished, they left the pub.
In the car, Gracie said, “I’ll drop you home. Then I’ll know where to come.”
Thinking fast, he told her his old address. He’d drop in at The Eagle and show his face, so at least someone had seen him throughout the day. He gave Gracie the directions, and they arrived in no time. She leant over to his seat to give him a goodbye kiss. Nervous of being spotted, he returned it then leapt out of the car, cursing himself for losing his cool. He gave her a peck on the cheek then closed the door.
Remembering he was meant to have met Sonny at twelve.
Fuck.
Chapter Thirty-One
Harry ‘Fartarse’ Findley needed to speak to Mickey urgently, and, not having found him at their usual haunts, he drove to the garage to check if he was there.
“What the fuck is that?”
A figure lay hunched in the light of his headlamps.
He swerved his car and parked, then ran to the figure he hardly recognised as Mickey. Face open to the elements, teeth bared, Mickey looked a right old fucking mess.
“Jesus Christ.” Harry heaved.
Mickey’s damaged leg lay sprawled in front of him, the other tucked beneath. Harry pulled out his phone and dialled a number he knew off by heart. “Fucking hell, get down here quick. Rook’s had his face slashed open. No, I’m not pissing you about, I mean it.”
“Who did that?” the person said.
“Fuck knows, but when I find out, they’re bleedin’ well dead.”
Mickey stirred.
Harry shoved his phone away and knelt, putting his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “It’s all right, mate. It’s me, Harry. Who the fucking hell did this?”
Mickey shook his head as if to clear it and winced. “Broth… Br…”
It was all Harry needed to know.
Then Mickey spoke again, only fainter this time. “Card…” He fell into unconsciousness.
Those fucking twins and Cardigan.
Thank God help would soon be here in the form of a bent doctor who’d gladly set Mickey’s leg and sew up his face.
For a sum.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was July, and Mickey recuperated in a safe house. Harry had made the decision to sort Cardigan in return for what he’d done to Mickey, and they’d devised a plan. It was risky, messing with Cardigan, but the bloke had gone too far, and someone needed to stand up to him. Mickey wouldn’t get the blame for this, as the less-than-law-abiding doctor from another estate had assured Findley he’d vouch that Mickey Rook wouldn’t have committed any crime in this state. All he was capable of was sitting in pain. And that was a crime to Mickey. He liked to be out and about.
“I’m going to have him,” Harry said, vehement, scrunching his eyes into slits.
Even though Harry was thin and darted about all over the place, hence the nickname Fartarse, Mickey wouldn’t want to meet him as an enemy in a dark alley.
Mickey was near enough his old self, apart from the pain in his face when he spoke. “Just be careful, that’s what I think. You can’t take Cardigan on
alone. He’s always got that limpet, Sam, with him. You’ll never be able to do it.”
“I’m just waiting on the geezer who gets the guns. I don’t have to be anywhere near the bloke to kill him. Get my drift?”
“Right, I’m with you now. I thought you were just going to rough him up a bit. What about the twins? What are you planning to do about them?”
“I don’t know yet. They were only carrying out orders, weren’t they?”
“No. They said my smile was a present from them. Because of that Shirley thing. I thought they’d forgotten all about it.”
“They’re like elephants in mind as well as body then, because they obviously didn’t forget; they were just biding their time. Crafty fuckers.” Harry shook his head.
“Well, I’ll leave it up to you, but didn’t someone say Cardigan paid them for my face? Perhaps they were just acting big when they said it was their doing.”
“We’ll give them the benefit of the doubt this time,” Harry said, “but if we hear any different in the future, we’ll have them sorted.”
“Do what you like. I’m thinking of getting out of London. It’s getting a bit too hairy for me. I’m tired of it all…and a bit scared, though I wouldn’t let on to anyone but you.”
“Shut your face, Mickey. We’re a team. Always have been and always will be. Don’t go deserting me when we’ve got our fingers in so many pies. We can make a bleedin’ packet if we hold on long enough.”
Mickey sighed and closed his eyes. He’d better get back to sleep before the pain kicked in again. His leg was sore and itched like mad beneath the plaster cast—still, it’d be coming off soon. His face was stiff where he’d talked too much. “We can’t do the market stalls and the door-to-door sales pitch anymore with the hooky gear. Or wait for the big boys to ask for some stuff and have them on our backs while we’re trying to nick it for them. We need to break into the big time, or I tell you, I’m moving on.”
“I’ll get something sorted out while you’re getting better. Don’t give up on me, especially while I’m in the process of getting Cardigan done over.”
Mickey’s head hurt. He closed his eyes and let sleep overtake him.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Shirley was sick of Vinny watching her. While she’d successfully avoided him—Iris had been walking her home in the early hours then getting a taxi from Shirley’s—she’d seen him standing opposite her flat, wedged in an alley between two houses with a couple of wheelie bins for cover. Except they didn’t give him cover, his top half visible in the light of a nearby streetlamp. If he wanted to be surreptitious, he wasn’t doing a good job of it.
She was on edge most of the time, and her work was suffering. Despite the CCTV at the parlour door, she kept tormenting herself with images of him turning up and barging in along with a booked client, overpowering Debbie then rushing to Shirley’s room and getting lairy with her. She jumped a lot whenever she thought someone was behind her, even in the reception area, and Debbie had noticed.
Now, safe in Debbie’s flat, Shirley discussed it with her. “It’s just that I need to get a handle on things, that’s all. He’s so weird, that’s the problem. I suppose if he’s only watching me, it’s doing no harm, but when it’s wreaking havoc with my day-to-day life…”
Debbie sighed. “If you don’t want Cardigan to do the honours, at least let me have a word with The Brothers. They’re not just Cardigan’s boys, you know, they work for others. I’d gladly pay them to give him a warning. They’re good at breaking legs. At least Vinny won’t be able to run after you when you’ve finished work.”
Shirley had been scarred in more ways than one from the cut. That man had warned her not to say anything else he’d kill her, and if Vinny got arsey enough, he’d undoubtedly do the same. “Nah, leave it. He’ll get bored eventually. Anyway, I need to get home. Got some washing to do. Thanks for the chat.”
Hugs given, Shirley walked down the steel steps and sidled to the corner of The Angel. She peered out to make sure no one was about—well, Vinny—then jogged down the street, mindful of keeping an eye out. She rounded the corner and crossed the road—sod walking directly past the cemetery again—and crossed back before she got to the alley Vinny usually loitered in.
She made it to her front door and cursed herself for not taking her keys out of her bag, ready. She knew he was there the moment she curled her fingers around the bunch. Behind her on the steps. She stared at the glass in the communal front door and caught his reflection. He stood to her right, appearing the same height as her even though he was two steps down.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said, “and I’m hurt.”
Earlier, Debbie had already predicted Vinny was fixated on Shirley, and she’d said, “He’s copped an eyeful of your scar and thinks you’re vulnerable, easily manipulated.”
Shirley couldn’t agree more. “Just been busy and haven’t seen you about.”
He cocked his head as if thinking about whether she’d told the truth. “Hmm. I’ll let you off on that one. But how come that Iris has been walking you home?”
“New rules at work,” Shirley lied. “We need to go in pairs.”
“So why can’t you walk her home, then get a taxi here?”
Because I’d be alone, you dickhead. “I don’t make the rules.”
“Open the door then.” He smirked.
She had the urge to kick the reflection of his face, turn and stab him in the eye with a key. “Um—”
“Did you ask Peony about letting me back?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say.”
“Maybe go and ask her yourself?”
“I want you to tell me.” He clamped a hand on her shoulder.
Shirley held in her fear. He was getting seriously frightening now. As if watching her wasn’t enough, he had to do this. Good job it was daylight, or she’d have crapped herself.
A wave of relief went through her—one of the other residents came out of her ground-floor flat and stared at Shirley. Julie. A sex worker. A lifeline.
Shirley pulled a face—fucking help me!—hoping Vinny didn’t catch it in the glass.
Julie copped on and came to the door, fake smiling. She opened it. “Ah, there you are. I was beginning to think you’d never come back. Are you ready then, or do you need a wee first?”
“Best have a wee.” Shirley stepped inside.
Julie shut the door on Vinny and led the way to her place. Inside, Shirley leant against the wall, her body wobbly all over.
“I’ve seen him down the alley opposite, and on the patch,” Julie said. “Nearly called the police the other night. I caught him trying to get into the flats.”
Shirley’s legs went, and she sagged down a bit. “What?”
“I opened my window and told him to fuck off. It was about four in the morning, the twat.” Julie bent over to help Shirley upright. “So what’s going on? Dodgy punter?”
“Yeah. Peony’s stopped him coming to the parlour. He was rude about my face.” Shirley touched it self-consciously. “She doesn’t hold with shit like that.”
“Cheeky bastard. You should ring the police if he’s been watching you. What did he want just then?”
“To see if Peony will let him back. I didn’t tell him she said no. Thought he might turn nasty.”
“Best thing. Come on, let’s go and see if he’s gone.”
“I have to go home. I’ve got washing to do.”
“Fuck the washing. This is more important.”
Julie walked off, and Shirley followed her, shaking at the thought of Vinny still being outside. He was down the alley again, actually sitting on a wheelie bin.
“He’s not right in the head,” Julie said.
No, he wasn’t, and neither was Shirley if she let this carry on. But what else could she do? If Vinny turned out like her cutter, she’d be dead.
Chapter Thirty-Four
George and Greg waited for Cardigan to arrive. He was coming over
to give them their instructions on sorting Mickey once and for all.
Greg was antsy. “Apparently, before he came to us, Cardigan went to someone else to do his dirty work with regards to killing Rook, but they refused. Said what he wanted doing was a step too far. God knows what it is. I don’t even know that we ought to do it, because if it’s been turned down already, it might be gruesome.”
“Greg, you’re like a sack of spuds. Don’t want to do this job, don’t want to do that. What’s up with you?” George frowned.
“Cardigan’s getting too much like the bleedin’ Mafia. One measly slight and he’s after your blood. I tell you, I’m pissed off to the back teeth with him. He clicks his fingers, and we come running. Does he think we’re scared of him or something? We could knock the old man out, and he wouldn’t be able to see for a week. He can’t be a hardman if he hasn’t got any hardmen.”
George snorted. “What’re you saying? That we should jack it in?”
“No, just get rid of Cardigan. He’s started to get on my nerves.”
“He’s the main one who pays the bills. We can’t get rid of him.”
“Of course we can, then we’ll take over The Cardigan Estate.”
“That’s not a bad idea, but I want to do Mickey first.”
“Oh, sod you,” Greg bit back, downhearted. “I can’t get through to you these days. All you seem to want is blood and gore. I bet you’ll take this job on without batting an eyelid. Some other fucker’s turned it down, and you? You’d take it. There’s something wrong with you.”
“Shut your bleedin’ mush,” George snapped. “Cardigan’s here.”
Greg peered out of the window. Cardigan had indeed turned up, late as usual. Perhaps they should give him a telling off for being tardy. It was all right for Cardigan to be late, but not them.
George opened the door, and Cardigan’s big frame swanked into the room, all smiles, his manner chirpy. Sam followed.