Refusal (The Cardigan Estate Book 3)

by Emmy Ellis

  “All right, all right…” He took in their surroundings and sucked in a breath. The warehouse area, the one by the river. He’d heard whispers about this place but had never passed them on. If The Brothers thought he knew this was where they killed people, they’d kill him just for knowing.

  He needed the toilet.

  The car came to a stop in front of a set of iron gates. George got out and inserted a key in the padlock, then swung the gates wide. He got back in, drove through, parked, and left the vehicle again to lock up.

  There would be no escaping.

  Sid remained where he was, the knife still too close to his neck.

  Greg’s hand didn’t shake. Bad sign.

  George appeared at the passenger side, shitting Sid up, and the door opened. The knife vanished, George’s hand came in, and he gripped Sid’s top, dragging him out. Sid was dying to tell them he’d only done the note passing for Harry for some cash, that he didn’t know what the notes said, or that it was to do with offing Cardigan, but it’d only piss these two off.

  Greg was out of the car now, and George herded Sid to the warehouse door.

  Inside, the lights off, he stumbled along in the dark, George’s fingertips digging into the soft underside of his arm. Let go, he staggered to the side, then hands clamped on his shoulders, pushing him down. He flung his arms out to prevent a hard fall, but his arse met with a seat, his teeth clattering from the impact. Breath coming out in a whoosh, he recoiled at a harsh light snapping on overhead.

  He blinked to focus. An empty warehouse greeted him, blood spatter all over the floor, some pools of it. Fuck, whose was that? Panicked, he looked over his shoulder, and there was a table with a circular saw on top, claret on the toothy blade, and a mallet.

  Fuck. Fuck!

  George walked along, smoothing his fingertips over the table edge. “Now, our clean-up team haven’t had a chance to arrive yet from the last bit of work we did, so we need to be quick.”

  A crick in Sid’s neck had him facing forward, although he didn’t like having George and mallet at his back, let alone a bloody saw.

  “I’ll message them to hold off,” Greg said from the door.

  Sid glanced at him. Greg strode in, thumbs busy on his phone screen, the light from it giving his face a ghostly glow.

  “Good idea.” George sounded ominous back there. “This way, we can do a bit of torture, string it out. Been a while since I got to be proper cruel. My therapist’s been helping out with that, but sometimes, I fancy reverting back to how I was before. You know, going over the top. There’s a certain pleasure in it.”

  Sid had heard whispers about the therapist, too, but it wasn’t something you could bring up with the likes of George. Everyone knew he was a nutter, that if he didn’t see someone, he was likely to go even more off the rails than he currently was.

  Sid swallowed, all the gin he’d gulped in The Roxy threatening to come back up. Torture? What for, handing Cardigan a bit of fucking paper then sending it to Harry? That was hardly a crime. He’d been told to be quiet, but fuck if he was going to. Not if George was letting himself loose on him.

  “L-look, this is a bit m-much, isn’t it? Harry got hold of me to visit Cardigan. I did that, t-then took a note—on Cardigan’s orders, I might add—to Harry. Cardigan even paid me for it, so if he wasn’t pissed off I was involved, why should you b-be?”

  “No, you didn’t take it to Harry,” Greg said. “See, this is what pisses us off. People can’t even tell the truth when they’re in this chair, when it’s clear they’re going to die. You went to a postbox to send the note to Harry, who was in safe house.” He stood in front of him and slid his phone in his pocket. “We followed you—Cardigan’s orders, I might add.”

  Sid knew sarcasm and taking the mick when he heard it.

  “Don’t you think it would have been the prudent thing to do and give that address to Cardigan?” Greg stroked his chin. “I mean, he was the scarier option at the time. Hmm, let’s see, am I afraid of Cardigan or Harry? I know who I’d have picked. Or was it because you knew Harry was going to kill him so you’d be safe?”

  “No! I didn’t know anything, just did as I was told.” He was so scared, he couldn’t remember whether that was true or not.

  “Then you went to The Grapes,” Greg continued.

  “That was to collect my payment, nothing funny going on there.” Sid needed a shit. A piss. He needed to go home. Out of his depth, he was, in more trouble than he’d ever dreamt he’d be in.

  “We know that an’ all. I had a look through the window and saw you in there.”

  “Why have you w-waited until n-now to ask about this?” Sid had battled hard not to stutter, but he had anyway. He waited for them to laugh.

  Greg smiled. “Because we had Harry to sort out first.”

  “So it was you two.” All the fight left Sid. “The rumours were true.”

  “Partially, but we squashed them.” George prodded Sid in the back. “Not that it’s any of your business.”

  The truth was coming, Sid could feel it. “So he’s dead?”

  “What do you think, you thick plonker?” George tutted.

  “What about Mickey?” Sid stared up at the looming Greg.

  “Fucking long gone, mate. But we can’t take the credit for either of them. Someone else had the pleasure.”

  “Who?” Sid couldn’t think who that would be, who else would have the balls, unless it was another leader.

  “No one you need to know about,” Greg said. “We don’t grass on those who’re on our side. Loyal people.”

  Sid laughed wryly. He was so fucked. This was it, the end, how he died, sitting in a fucking chair in some warehouse. “You may as well tell me, because I’m dead soon, right?”

  “Right.” Greg nodded.

  Sid’s legs shook uncontrollably.

  Greg rubbed his forehead. “Oh, and the fella from The Grapes? That’s his blood on the floor.”

  Sid felt sick with fear, the remnants of his laughter disappearing. What were they doing, picking off everyone involved? Shit, he wished he’d never agreed to do the job for Harry now. Who else would the twins go after? The mate who’d rented them the safe house? The one who’d loaned them the flat where Harry had gone to shoot the old bald bastard?

  “Pass us that thing, George.” Greg held a hand out, wafting his fingers in a ‘give me’ gesture.

  Some sort of tool came over Sid’s shoulder, he couldn’t work out what it was, and Greg took it, stepping back. A curve of rope flew over, landing on Sid’s lap, heavy, then George drew it tight against Sid’s stomach. Now was the time to fight, to try to get away, they weren’t fucking about, they were serious. Sid pushed his feet on the floor, ready to stand, but Greg whipped a gun out of his inside jacket pocket and pointed it at him.

  “Stay the fuck put,” he said.

  More rope, wound around and around, fixing him in place, the tops of his arms pinned to his sides.

  “That chair you’re on.” Greg nodded to it. “Loads of people have sat on it, and not one of them walked away, catch my drift?”

  Sid nodded, frantic. “Come on, please, I’m s-sorry I p-passed the notes. If I c-could do it all over, I w-wouldn’t have agreed. It was just for m-money, no gripe against Cardigan or a-anything.”

  “Money, the root of all evil.” Greg slid the gun away.

  The backs of Sid’s calves snapped against the front legs of the chair, tugged by George, and more rope swung over him. It landed on the floor, slapping, and Sid stared at it as George pulled it backwards.

  Sid was strapped, couldn’t kick out. Couldn’t move.

  “Now,” Greg said. “This might hurt.”

  He went down on his haunches and positioned the tool at the tip of Sid’s finger. The weapon had red handles and silver pincers on the end, like a set of grips used to take nails out of the wall.

  Nails…

  Sid spewed in fright, liquid arcing out of him to splosh on the floor, dilutin
g the blood. He heaved again, waiting for the next lot to come up, his eyes streaming. A vague sensation of cold metal on skin, then a painful dig of it at the end of his finger. He puked some more, the stuff landing on the coils of rope on his torso, and Greg snatched his hand and the tool back.

  Horrendous pain shot up Sid’s finger, his hand, his arm, into the side of his neck. He screamed, eyes bunched shut, and then it came again, on another finger, and another, and another, and then the thumb. With each ripping nail, he convulsed, wailed, the chair rocking on its feet, his shouts and screams silent, the pain was that intense. His throat hurt from them, his scalp burnt along with his hand, and he cried, his teeth bared.

  It could have been minutes or an hour, Sid didn’t know, but he calmed sufficiently enough to open his eyes. George and Greg stood in front of him, fascinated, George’s head cocked in that mad bastard way of his.

  “Hurt, did it?” Greg asked.

  “Mhmhm.” Sid couldn’t form a proper word, his mouth wouldn’t work right.

  “Let’s give you something else to think about, take your mind off your minging hand.” George took the pincers off his brother.

  Oh God, what was he going to do? Sid’s other hand?

  “Round the back, Greg.” George jerked his head.

  Greg did as he was told, and his hand came around in Sid’s line of vision. It clamped on his chin, his other on his forehead, and Greg wrenched Sid’s mouth open so hard the jaw cracked.

  His tongue, George was going to rip out his fucking tongue.

  “You know when you were a kid?” George said. “You got tonsillitis, didn’t you.”

  Sid tried to nod, but Greg’s hold was too strong.

  “No need to tell me, I can see you did. They’re a right old state, but that bit that dangles down in the back of your throat?” He paused. “I’ll have that.”

  Sid screamed—it made a sound this time. George came closer, inserted the pincers into Sid’s mouth, and Jesus wept, he gripped hold of that thing and pulled. If Sid thought his fingernails being ripped off was bad, this was even worse. Blood filled his throat, gargled by a new scream, and the pain went right down into his toes and up to his scalp. He juddered on the chair, his whole body rattling with the sheer agony, neck cords straining. He choked, coughing out a spray of blood, hot tears falling down his temples and into his ears.

  George held up the piece of flesh clamped by the pincers. “Nice.”

  Again, more time passed, Sid’s hand throbbing, and tickling, where blood dribbled from his fingertips. His throat was on fire, he couldn’t swallow the blood fast enough, and he wanted to die so badly he wished Greg would get that gun out and shoot him.

  But the torture had only just begun.

  His other fingernails.

  His toenails.

  He passed out.

  Woke.

  His tongue was stabbed repeatedly with a knife.

  Blackness, sweet blackness.

  Awake.

  His foreskin.

  It was at that point Sid welcomed the Grim Reaper.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Brothers cracked up on the drive home.

  “That was brilliant,” George said, turning the wheel to swerve round a parked car. “Haven’t got my hands dirty like that for a while.”

  “Don’t let the madness back in,” Greg advised. “You know what you get like.”

  “Yeah, but we were restrained with The Grape’s fella, and I had an itch in my system. Still needed scratching. I missed my therapist’s appointment last week.”

  “I have to say, going for his dick…” Greg smoothed his hands over his face. “That was too much for me.”

  George shrugged. “It was only a bit of skin.”

  The surroundings changed from the warehouse area to the outskirts, then the housing estate they lived on. George loved their new place, they’d done it up lovely, and it was everything he’d wished for as a kid. So was this car. A BMW beat their old clapped-out white van any day. Who’d have thought they’d be in this position, back when they were starting out?

  “We’re lucky,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “We made something of ourselves.”

  Then he clamped his mouth shut. He didn’t want to talk anymore, not about their status, not about why they were lucky. That belonged in the past, and he often wondered whether that was what had sent him screwy. That and the violence, the thirst to mete it out. Still, that violence had got them where they were today, so he wasn’t complaining.

  He parked the car in their garage, and they entered the house via the side door, going straight into the kitchen. It was coming up for four in the morning, and later they needed to speak to Lavender. With the time limit, they’d have to move fast, get rid of Robins and Black, but before that, they’d have to work out how they could do it.

  Asking them to a meeting to discuss things of mutual benefit regarding their patches was one way, but that might mean Robins told his other men about it, had them hiding in plain sight while they chatted. George didn’t want anyone else knowing, so if he could get enough info from Lavender to work out a game plan, no one would be any the wiser. Robins and Black would disappear, and fingers would point at the next leader in line to take over their patch.

  Words would be whispered in ears to that effect anyway.

  Greg locked the internal door. “I’m off for a shower and bed.” He stripped down to his undies. “But first, I’ll burn the suits.”

  “D’you know,” George said, shrugging off his jacket, “we ought to wear cheap ones when we do this shit. I’m a bit tired of putting what amounts to a grand on the fire.”

  “You need to wear cheap ones. I already do. There’s always plastic boiler suits.” Greg waited for the rest of George’s clothing, then took the bundle into the living room.

  George climbed the stairs and stopped halfway. “Shoes. Don’t forget the shoes.”

  Fuck it. Another pair of his Ted Baker’s going up in smoke.

  Chapter Twelve

  Aniyah had packed her own carrier bags, plus a black one that was supposed to line the kitchen bin. Shona had said only to bring her favourite things, and she’d buy everything else new. They’d go to town together, and Aniyah could choose whatever she wanted, and they’d have lunch in the pretty little café Dad took her to, the one that sold iced buns and the nice lady who served them always patted Aniyah on the head.

  Aniyah liked the idea of that. She couldn’t remember ever going to the shops or the café with Mum, just the market or the jumble sale at the church, where everything smelt funny and had stains on it. Where Mum swerved from side to side in the aisles between the tables, people muttering, “Drunk again on the sauce…” and “Would you just look at the state of her?”

  The vicar usually came by and led Aniyah to the toy table, telling her she could pick one and he’d pay for it. It was always a Barbie, their hair matted, their clothes dirty, but Aniyah took them home and washed them, combed the hair, and cleaned the outfits using soap in the bathroom sink, scrubbing with the nail brush, and drying them on top of her bedroom radiator.

  The memory stung her eyes. There would be no more jumble sales, no more vicar, but she consoled herself with the idea of better times ahead.

  Yesterday, Mum had received the official outcome about Aniyah going to live with Dad, and they’d agreed he would collect her today. She’d been to court, too, and afterwards let Aniyah know all the ‘lies’ Dad and Shona had told about her. Aniyah had spoken to someone from Social Services last week, admitting home life wasn’t the best, that Mum drank a lot and left her by herself some nights. Mum had found out what she’d said. Shouted. Slapped Aniyah’s face.

  Aniyah had overheard Dad and Shona talking the last time she was at his place. Mum was something called a prostitute, whatever that was, and she left Aniyah every night after she’d gone to sleep. That was scary, to know she had no idea that, while she slept, she was alone. It wasn’t just the nights
out at the pub with Willa.

  The judge called her ‘despicable’ and a ‘terrible parent’. He’d said she wasn’t fit to look after children until she’d cleaned up her act, and even then that was unlikely. Mum had got drunk, shouting about it in Aniyah’s face, pushing the point that it was Aniyah’s fault she’d got caught and the Social came snooping. If she hadn’t told them about the mess, the drinking, the nights by herself, and everything else, Mum wouldn’t be in trouble.

  It wasn’t Aniyah, she hadn’t said anything to Dad and Shona before they’d gone for full custody, they already knew somehow. Was it Willa? Had she made good on her promise and told on Mum? Had she been giving them information all along, pretending to Mum she hadn’t?

  Aniyah hefted the bags downstairs, the carriers in one hand, the black bag over her shoulder like Father Christmas. They bumped against her with every step, the softness of the clothes inside squidgy. She placed them on the ratty floor—Mum still hadn’t cleaned since the Social lady had been round to check the state of the place. Maybe she didn’t care enough to fight for Aniyah to stay and that was why it had gone to court. Maybe the drink, like Dad had said, made her brain poorly and Mum wasn’t the same as she’d once been.

  He reckoned Mum had been nice until Aniyah was about four. She’d bathed her, cuddled her, then Nan had died and things went ‘south’. Aniyah didn’t know where that was, but it wasn’t a nice place.

  She went back upstairs to look at her room for the last time. The judge said she couldn’t come back here to live, ever, and she’d see Mum via ‘supervised visits’ where someone from the Social was there, too. Happy about that, Aniyah smiled. At least Mum couldn’t shout at her then or ‘poison’ her mind—Dad had mentioned that when he thought she wasn’t listening—and the kids over the road wouldn’t be about to shout out that nasty name.

  The rumpled, smelly covers on her bed drew her, and she smoothed them out as best she could. They were still warm from where she’d slept beneath them. The floor needed hoovering, but there was no junk or toys on it. Aniyah liked to keep her space tidy, the only room in the house that was. A battered wooden chest of drawers had toys on top, ones she’d outgrown, and maybe Mum would give them to the church jumble sale so someone else could play with them. The vicar could buy them for other children then. The scarred wardrobe still had some clothes hanging inside, ones that were too small, the jeans ‘ankle swingers’. They were all clean, because of Willa.