Refusal (The Cardigan Estate Book 3)

by Emmy Ellis

  “The right decision, you standing there,” Kevin said. “Get in. We’ll go for dinner then nip round to see Mum. We might even go and see your dad and Shona, remind you of why you’ll do as you’re told. Won’t that be nice?”

  She sat, closed the door, and held back a scream. How had it come to this? How had living next door to him as a kid brought her to this point? How had Willa’s kindness bound her to the man beside her?

  He drove away. “Always fancied you, I have.”

  Her stomach churned. “I always thought you hated me. You picked on me enough. I seem to recall you thought my name was Shitbag.”

  “Don’t you know boys treat you badly if they like you?”

  “Not in my world they don’t.” She thought of Charles, his kindness.

  “They do in mine. I’ll take you to my place after.”

  Panic set her heart racing. “What for?”

  “So I can show you how much I fancy you.”

  Oh God, he was being serious. How the hell could she get out of this?

  The meal didn’t settle in her stomach. The rich chocolate dessert was what tipped her over the edge. She excused herself to use the toilet and threw up, recalling his insinuations on how their life would be from now on. She’d be his girlfriend, his whore, show him how much she was like her mother. The things he’d said over dinner in a deceptively calm voice were foul, debasing, and every so often, he’d talked about Dad, as if to remind her of why she’d do what he wanted.

  She’d told herself to go to the police, but he’d countered that with, “And if you think about involving coppers, by the time they’ve landed on my doorstep, someone will already be at your old man’s place. I bet his brains will look good splattered on the hallway wall. That’s where they’ll get him, as soon as he opens the front door. Gun up, trigger pulled, hole in the forehead, dead.”

  She stood from the toilet and flushed it. Washed her shaking hands. Swilled her mouth and took some chewing gum from her handbag to get rid of the taste furring her tongue.

  She returned to the table, unable to make eye contact with him.

  “I hope you didn’t phone anyone… Shitbag.” He smiled.

  “No, I was sick, actually.”

  He laughed, so loud people turned to stare.

  “You’ll be sicker before the evening’s out.” He leant forward. “I’ll use you until I’m bored of you, then you can be on your way, but until such time, you’re mine.”

  Although the concept was hideous, she could handle that—couldn’t she? If she acted crap in bed, he’d soon tire of her. She could file it away with her other memories once it was all over, the ones where Mum was drunk and shouted. She’d got past terrible things before and she could do it again.

  She was strong, Shona had said so. She was brave.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Later, in the afternoon, Martin jumped at a knock on the front door. Clarke had gone hours ago, saying he’d make sure someone came by with a bit of shopping. While the cupboards had a few tins in them, there was no milk or fresh fruit and veg—he’d said that would help Martin heal if he ate well. So far, he’d warmed beans in the microwave, but a homeless man’s belly was never full enough.

  It could be one of three options at the door. The person with the shopping, the doctor, or The Brothers. Martin preferred the shopping. If it was the doctor he’d have to undress and show him the state of his skin, and if it was The Brothers…

  Fucking hell.

  He shuffled to the front door and checked the peephole. Two massive men stood there, faces almost identical, skewed by the convex bubble. Christ, it was the twins. Martin’s hand shook as he drew the silver safety chain across then undid the Yale. He swung the door wide and stared at the mountains.

  “All right, mate?” one of them said, a huge smile showing his nice teeth.

  Martin nodded, crapping himself. “I’m…I’m okay. Thanks.”

  “George Wilkes.” He offered a hand. “And this is my brother, Greg.”

  Martin felt stupid shaking that hand, so big that his seemed like a kid’s. It was another moment of feeling out of his depth, a man with no control over his future, someone else directing his puppet strings. He let go, embarrassment searing his cheeks, and stepped back for them to enter. It seemed wrong, them waiting there to come into their own flat, but he supposed if they were polite and not barging in, that might be the heart Clarke had told him about. While they owned the place, it was Martin’s home for now, and it seemed they respected that.

  He closed the door, and they waited, packed into the hallway, a pair of oversized sardines with a skinny one, and he wondered why they didn’t move into the living room.

  “Lead the way,” George said. “We’ll not act like this is our place. Not in the habit of intimidating people who don’t deserve it. We hear you’ve had a tough time, mate.”

  Mate. “Um, yes. Thanks again.” Martin took them to the kitchen then remembered there was no milk. “I’m waiting for some shopping. Clarke said…”

  “We’ll take the coffee black, not a problem,” Greg said. “Don’t worry about things you can’t control, just focus on what you can. At the minute, it’s coffee.”

  They remained standing.

  Martin didn’t know what to do. “Do you want to sit down?”

  “Cheers.” George smiled.

  Martin filled the kettle and put it on to boil, all the while feeling watched, measured. It was similar to being at home, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I… Why are you doing this? I’m not used to… People don’t just…give you a flat. What do you want from me?”

  “We’re not most people.” George stuck his hands behind his head and leant back. “You can live here, get your own job, and pay us rent, or you can live here and have a reduced rent because you work for us. It’s that simple. We need a cleaner—it’s legit apart from being cash in hand, and we’ll pay you top whack so you’re not skint after you’ve dealt with your bills. Or you can come in with us and get your hands dirty. Either way, your choice.”

  Greg eased forward, his elbows on his knees. “I get that this is weird. People like us, well, you don’t expect kindness, do you, but so long as you don’t give us grief, we won’t give you any. We’re still human underneath. Your…problem with Robins has tugged at the old heart strings, so indulge us, let us help you.”

  “What sort of dirty are you taking about?” Martin had made a cup of black tea earlier yet still forgot where the cups were. Maybe it was them being here, addling his brain. He opened a couple of cupboards until he found them, which gave him a chance to think. “Like, will I have to hurt people?”

  “Not unless you want to, and anyway, you have to earn that right, prove to us you’re trustworthy,” Greg said. “To start with, it’s shit like being a lookout, going to various places and watching, reporting back to us.”

  “I can do that.”

  “The first job would be standing outside a casino for a few hours.” George smiled. “The wages are a grand.”

  What? Fucking hell…

  “You’ll need to keep your head down, though, put a scarf over the bottom half of your face.”

  “Why’s that?” Martin spooned coffee into the cups.

  “Because the people you’ll be watching out for know your face—with and without a beard—so a disguise won’t work.”

  “Robins and Black?” Martin’s legs jolted at the knees.

  “Yeah, but you’d just be watching, that’s it, from a doorway opposite—we’ve already cased the area. They won’t see you in the dark. If they come out of the casino before midnight, you phone us. We’ll provide a burner. You don’t use it for anything but contacting me or Greg. You don’t let anyone else know you have it. You keep whatever you do for us to yourself. If we find out otherwise, it won’t be pretty.”

  “I-I understand.”

  “You just do the jobs you’re comfy with, keep your mouth shut, and you’ll be fine. We won’t force you to do anyth
ing either. We offer the job, you accept or decline, no hard feelings. You can clean anyway, on top of other shit, if it makes you feel better. You’ll earn more that way.”

  The kettle clicked off. Martin busied himself pouring the water, his back to them, thinking, thinking, thinking. It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? But what would he do if he saw Robins and Black? How would he feel? Angry? Want to lunge at them? Run away?

  “They should be in the casino from eight until twelve,” George said, “so all you’ll be doing is freezing your nuts off, waiting. We’ll provide you with some new clothes, get you started. Looks like you’re a size small, but that’ll change with good food inside you and a few stints in the gym. Trackie bottoms and the like for now, eh?”

  “Okay.” He couldn’t turn to look at them. Tears burnt his eyes, and they might take the piss like Dad if they saw them—he didn’t know these blokes well enough to judge yet. “Thank you. I-I’ve never had anyone be this nice to me before, so it’s a bit…weird.”

  “Just accept it,” Greg said. “We’re looking after you now.”

  Martin still had the idea there was a catch somewhere, old habits died hard, but for now, he’d take the men at face value.

  He took their drinks to the little table. “I can do that, stand near the casino.” Was he telling himself that or them?

  “Good lad,” Greg said. “See, we’re after someone like you who will do these small things without our other men knowing about it. Sometimes, we need a third person when we work alone, one we trust, one who won’t get loose lips when he’s had a few.”

  Martin liked that idea. He’d be a secret but also needed, part of a family.

  He was desperate for a family, one who actually cared.

  Thoughts of what Clarke had said filtered into his head. If he was loyal, these two would look after him. It was all he’d ever wanted, care, someone who had his back.

  “I don’t drink booze,” he said.

  The twins smiled.

  “All the better.” George sipped his coffee. “We’re a perfect fit. Are you in?”

  Martin nodded. “Yeah, I’m in.”

  The shopping arrived then, and Greg carried it all in, and the twins put it away. So much stuff. Food.

  Christ, I must have died at Robins’ place and gone to Heaven.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Charles sat in The Flustered Goose, one of those gastro pubs, a Bacardi and Coke in front of him, no ice, no slice, just condensation dripping down the glass, much like the sweat at his temples and hairline. He’d never been involved with bad people before outside of his job, and because of Aniyah, he was stuck in this mess. No wonder he wanted to help them pay her back for disappearing on them. On him. He’d do whatever they wanted.

  Let’s be fair, if I don’t, I’m in trouble.

  Johnny walked through the double front doors, the opaque glass etched with a goose apiece, wings flapping, probably to get across the ‘flustered’ element. He glanced around for Charles, frowning, as if he thought he might not turn up, but upon spotting him, he raised a hand, nodded to perhaps satisfy himself all was well, and gave a shadow of a smile. A smile that said: No one’s got the bottle to ignore my requests.

  Charles could well imagine that.

  Johnny walked to the bar, a brawny fella Charles knew attached to his side. He’d only gone and brought Robins with him.

  Fucking hell, this was getting serious if the man himself had deigned to show his face. The past appeared in Charles’ head, of Robins demanding to see Aniyah, to have her representing him. If only they’d known it would lead to…this.

  Charles gulped some of his drink to calm his upset nerves, telling himself to get his solicitor head on, the one that gave the impression he was on his game and no one could faze him. There had been times in court he’d been frightened, out of his depth and on edge, but Aniyah had assured him no one could tell. He’d revert back to the scared part of himself later, once this meeting was over. He hoped it didn’t last long. Too much time in their company wasn’t on his to-do list, and he was wary of someone from the firm walking in. Johnny had insisted on this pub, and the work offices were down the road. Just Charles’ luck a partner would come in and spot him with criminals.

  Amber liquid in squat glasses, no ice for them either, Johnny swaggered over, earning wary glances from some, but others ignored him, maybe much to his chagrin. There were people who had no clue about leaders, wouldn’t know one if they were slapped in the face with Robins himself, and Charles suspected it rankled the pair if they didn’t get the desired fearful expressions from folks. The duo had egos as big as houses.

  The men sat, Johnny on a burgundy velvet stool, Robins in a green velour carver chair, his arms draped either side of it, fingers loose. Casual. As if he didn’t regularly scare the shit out of people.

  Charles swallowed tightly, unsure if he should speak first. What was the protocol with thugs? He was out of his depth with illicit meetings in full view of an unsuspecting slice of the public. These sorts of meetings were reserved for some of the people he represented, down back alleys, ones he’d so far only imagined when clients told him their whereabouts to clarify certain aspects so he could lie in court and set them free. Now he was here, one of them, and the reality was far fouler than he’d envisaged.

  Too much time had passed with none of them talking, the silence between them stretched so taut it might snap at any second.

  Charles needed the toilet.

  “Hi,” he said. That had sounded stupid, strangled, but it was out now.

  “Down to business.” Robins sipped some whisky—it smelt strong, the good and expensive stuff. “I haven’t got time to piss about. Got to see a man about a dog in a bit.”

  Charles dreaded to think what they were really doing. Dogs would have nothing to do with it, unless they were into dog fighting, and that wouldn’t surprise him in the slightest. If that was what they were playing at, he wouldn’t represent them if they got caught. Cruelty to animals wasn’t on his list of things to defend.

  “Okay…” He looked at them in turn then cast his gaze about, unable to maintain eye contact. They had creepy eyes, eyes that delved into your secrets, spotting every one of them.

  “Go round her flat after this chat and ask her to dinner. Say Friday,” Robins said. “Don’t take no for an answer either. You’ll be going to The Higgledy-Piggledy Hen, got it?”

  Charles nodded. He’d been there once or twice himself. Exorbitant prices, a bit of a bash on the old credit card, which was what he’d have to put it on. The firm had paid the bills on every previous occasion. He balked at having to fork out such a high amount and not get compensated for it, but it wasn’t like he could give them an expense receipt, was it.

  “Get there for seven,” Robins went on. “We’ll intercept when you leave the place. String it out until ten, so that’s drinks after, too.”

  Charles gulped, totting up the amount—a three-course meal, drinks, a tip. Him asking for a cocktail at eleven pounds a pop because the firm was paying didn’t seem so amusing now. He’d also chosen the most expensive food on the menu. Karma had waited, claws out, and now gouged his bollocks with them, the spiteful bitch.

  “What if she won’t agree to come?” Charles asked. “That could be a problem. She’s moved on; we haven’t been a couple for a long time. She left the firm and ran, not giving a forwarding address. My art of persuasion might not work on her anymore. She’s probably changed.”

  “Use your brain,” Johnny chipped in. “You play a blinder in court.”

  Charles hid a jolt. Had they been watching him from the public gallery, for goodness sake? No, Johnny was there for Robins’ trial. Stupid of him to forget that, considering he’d clocked that scarred earlobe.

  “And, failing that,” Robins added, “force her. Believe me, if you use an authoritative voice, she’ll buckle.”

  The nutters downed their drinks in one gulp, stood, staring at him for a heartbeat, then walked away,
through the doors, gone—and thank fuck for that. Charles chucked his Bacardi down his throat, also thanking fuck he had the afternoon off so he could get the meeting with Aniyah over with and go home to drown his sorrows with a few companions called Smirnoff Ice.

  He used the loo to give time for Robins and Johnny to piss off. The thought of seeing them outside on the street wasn’t something he wanted to entertain, but there it was, in his head all the same, the image of two hardmen waiting for him to come out, watching him get into his car, maybe following him to Aniyah’s to ensure he did what they’d ordered.

  Oh, he’d be doing it, didn’t have a choice, but in his own time, without an audience.

  A different audience appeared beside him at the urinal, the man peering at Charles’ dick as if he needed assurance that his own was adequate. Charles tucked himself away, red-faced, and quickly washed his hands, not bothering to dry them.

  Just get me out of here.

  Funny how his thoughts had switched so eagerly, him greedy for the outside now, the fresh air, the claustrophobia and sheer non-privacy of the toilets gone, the inspection of his manhood a violation that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

  He left the pub with its unsettled geese—as unsettled as him, he’d be bound—and scanned the street. No ominous men. No brutes in a car. No colleagues from work. He got into his vehicle, glad he’d only had one Bacardi. He couldn’t be doing with getting pulled over by the police on top of all this.

  Charles shot off in the direction of Aniyah’s.

  He arrived without any knowledge of how he’d got there, his mind full of bad men and what they could do to him. Her street was empty, no one out walking their dog, no one leaving to go shopping. Quiet. Anything could happen here, and maybe no one would know. The houses stood as though vacant, people at work, the block of flats with its multiple square eyes, the balconies on three of the four levels, the front doors, and behind one of them, at number sixteen, lived Aniyah.