by Emmy Ellis
Aniyah went into the bedroom and climbed under the covers, hating herself for still obeying Kevin even now. She could have left, phoned Dad, told him everything, and they could have all run. New lives.
But this was her problem, not theirs. They didn’t deserve having their world uprooted because of a man named Kevin Robins.
Where would the attic man go now? Back to wherever he’d been before? Would they snatch him again? So many things whirred inside her mind, and the last time she glanced at the glowing green numbers of the bedside clock, it was quarter past five. She longed for oblivion, for a way out of this mess, but most of all, she wished Kevin was dead. She fell asleep imagining stabbing him with one of his Japanese chef knives, the blade ten inches long.
She woke at eleven, glad it was the weekend and she didn’t have to go to work today. The trouble was, that meant she had the whole of Saturday and Sunday here, and tonight, he’d probably cart her off somewhere, showing her off as a trophy. A restaurant, a club, the theatre. She’d smile and laugh, do all the right things, but inside, she’d be dying.
The bedroom door flew open, and a rumpled Kevin thundered in, hands bunched onto fists beside him. “What the fuck’s been going on?” He stopped beside the bed and stared down at her, fists clenched.
She waited for them to land on her and huddled under the covers on instinct, then remembered what she’d heard him say about her last night and flung the quilt off her to stand, courage coming from somewhere. “I’ve been stuck up here for hours, that’s what’s going on.” She pushed his chest.
He moved aside without argument, staring at her walking off towards the en suite—she caught his reflection in the wardrobe door mirrors. He smiled, and she let him know she’d seen it by making direct eye contact. It was weird, looking at him like that when he was behind her, but that smile, it proved he got off on people standing tall after they’d been cowering.
“Seven o’clock you left me up here last night,” she said, pausing at the bathroom door. “’Don’t move!’, you said. ‘Stay in here.’ Well, I did, and now, with the morning half gone, you come up here and ask me what’s been going on? How would I know?”
She walked into the bathroom and slammed the door, leaning on the back of it, her heart rate scattered and her breathing erratic. She’d bitten back, stood her ground, and hopefully thrown him off the scent of her setting that poor man free.
Aniyah listened to sounds of him opening the wardrobe, probably to take out clean clothes. He’d get ready in another bedroom—there were so many he could take his pick. She showered, took her time about it, too, then returned to the bedroom. Kevin wasn’t there, but he’d scribbled a note and left it on the chair in the corner:
Get dressed then come down. I want to
show you something—we’re going out. K.
She dreaded to think what that meant but nonetheless did as she was told. Downstairs, she found him in the living room, all indications of the men gone, the place tidy, the scent of polish in the air instead of smoke, hoover stripes on the carpet, the window open, letting in a sharp breeze. The cleaner had been and gone then. Maybe she’d turned up and woke them all.
“Come on,” was all Kevin said.
He drove her to another part of London and stopped under a railway bridge that arched above the lane. “Down there is an embankment. At the bottom, there are loads of people who have nowhere to go. Scabby sods, men who can’t be bothered to fight for what they want—they’ve given up. I’ve got this thing I do, where I take them home, make them want to leave, get their fighting spirit going. If you want something badly enough, you’ll get it, but if you flop at any hurdles, you end up worthless.”
“I don’t understand why you’re telling me this.”
“Because every time I whip them—don’t act so shocked, you know who I am—with each strike, they’ll either wish they were dead or push themselves to endure it, get out on the other side.”
“That’s sick.”
“It worked with you, didn’t it? You’re answering back now. Hmm. I like it. I think I’ll keep you.”
Dread swirled through her body, her head lightening. What? This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. She was meant to be set free now she’d proved she wanted more than what he was giving. He’d moved the goalposts to fuck with her head. Keeping her meant forever, didn’t it?
She only had one option left now, no matter the risk.
To run.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The work phone rang.
“Answer that, will you?” George asked Greg while he navigated the streets towards home. The scene at Carla’s sat heavy on his shoulders, a right old monkey on his back.
Greg put it on speaker. “All right, Mavis? Remembered something, have you?”
“I have, son. A crossword clue reminded me. One across: A posh person. The answer was toff.”
“Right…”
“Well, aren’t you going to ask the relevance?” she said.
Greg glanced at George: For fuck’s sake.
“What’s the relevance?” George asked, anger nipping.
“Someone else went to the house next door to Carla’s, a man who didn’t belong around here. It was before the pair with the moustaches.”
George’s interest piqued. “Which house?”
“Number sixteen.”
Lavender’s…
“I was coming across the green, having been to the little shop for my loaf—I fancied some beans on toast. Banging on the door, he was, then Carla came out, and they talked for a bit.”
“What did he look like?”
“Floppy blond hair, tall, in a suit. He even had a waistcoat on, not something you see every day on this estate, is it? So, a toff. Anyway, by the time I got up the stairs he was gone, must have used the ones at the other end, and Carla wasn’t there either. However, he was down in the street, getting into a fancy red car.”
“What was it like?” Greg asked.
“One of those low things, can’t remember the name, but my Ben had one back in the day. It looks old-fashioned now, but it was in good nick. Um… That’s it, a Jaguar E-Type.”
“Red, you say?” George clarified.
“Yes, like a postbox.”
“Cheers, Mavis,” Greg said. “We owe you one.”
She laughed and hung up. What must it have been like for her, a young thing married to Ben, who hung around with Cardigan, Sam, Jack from The Eagle, and countless others? Cardigan’s wife hadn’t wanted anything to do with what he did for a living, sticking her head in the sand instead, but Mavis had embraced it. George supposed she had a lot of memories to keep her going.
“How many blond men do you reckon drive a red E-Type?” Greg muttered.
“No idea, but Clarke can find out. Do me a favour and ring him, will you? Ask him to check.”
“He’ll moan that it’ll be flagged on the system.”
“I don’t give a fuck, that’s what we pay him for. It’s his problem getting out of shit at work.”
Phone call made, Clarke said he’d message them the name within five minutes once he’d rung the desk sergeant for the info—and yes, he’d moaned.
George drove past the flats where Harry had shot Cardigan. It seemed like forever ago that had happened. While he continued on, he made a mental note to check in with his men, money collectors and the like, see who’d paid up and who hadn’t, and if there were any issues that needed sorting. Hopefully, everyone was behaving themselves and they’d have hassle-free days until after Thursday.
The phone bleeped, and Greg read the text out. “Charles Lambrough. There’s an address an’ all.”
“The little bastard. What was he doing at Lavender’s? And more to the point, how come, after he’d been there speaking to Carla, she gets offed by Robins and Black?”
“Doesn’t take a genius, George.”
“I was thinking out loud, dickhead.”
Greg sighed. “He’s in with them.”
“That or he’s being forced to get hold of her. The visit to The Angel, now this. What were they doing, waiting to see if she was in, sending him inside, then they were going to turn up and whack her?”
“No idea, but Charles needs a visit.”
George nodded, checking the sky. Darkness was almost here. “He does. No time like the present.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Charles, in the comfort of his own home, was on his fourth Smirnoff Ice with added vodka. He splayed out on the sofa with strains of Bach wafting out of his Bluetooth speakers. He’d messaged his girlfriend to tell her they wouldn’t be going out tonight after all—he’d claimed a headache, which was true—and there was nothing on his agenda now but getting off his face and sleeping away the events of today. The events of this week, actually.
Aniyah had a lot to answer for, and if he were that way inclined, he’d teach her a lesson himself, but he wasn’t, so those two ingrates could deal with her. He’d live vicariously through their telling of what they did to her, imagining it was him instead.
God, he’d loved every bit of her, had so many plans for them, then she’d ended it, vanished, leaving him lonely and pining—pining, for God’s sake. He’d expected her to come back after a break, realising she missed him, but once a year had passed, he’d known. Two years, three, and here they were, together again but with different agendas.
He stared towards the back of his living room through the French doors, darkness coming to cloak London prior to the rush hour, although saying that, the only visual was his slouched reflection. He looked like one of those people he despised, a touch broken, a lot drunk, and with no control over his life. But he had control, he was someone, and they weren’t—that was the difference.
He was having a low moment, that was all.
The handle lowered on the French door, and he gawped at it, wondering if he’d had enough alcohol now if he was seeing things. Above his reflection, where the front window behind him was covered by dark-grey curtains, was a shape he couldn’t identify. He frowned, pushed himself upright, and turned to stare at it. Nothing there.
“Stupid prat,” he muttered and flumped round to face the other way again.
Two massive men stood in front of him, all in black, balaclavas covering their faces. One held a long iron bar, the other a red cable tie. All this, registered in seconds that felt like several minutes, a slow-motion reveal.
“W…what the devil are you doing in here?” he said, his heart missing beats.
His visitors laughed.
“Who the fuck talks like that?” one of them said in a broad Cockney accent.
Thugs. He had thugs in his home. Outrageous. “I’m calling the police.” And he realised how ridiculous he sounded—men in balaclavas wouldn’t care if he reached for his phone, especially not the one holding the iron bar. He was no threat to them. Shit. Shit!
“W-what do you w-want?” And he thought about Johnny, Robins, how they operated. Was it them? Had they come to sort him out because he’d messed up with Aniyah today? Was this what they did to people after their usefulness had run out? “Oh God…”
“We’ve heard you’ve been a naughty boy,” Iron Bar said.
No, that wasn’t Johnny or Robins. Who then? One of their gang?
“W-what have I d-done?” The vodka was doing a runner, leaving sobriety in its place. He contemplated running himself, into the toilet beside the front door and locking it, but they were too close and would grab him, stop him.
“Lavender,” Cable Tie said. “You’ve lied to her.”
“When?” Charles had to fight his way out of this, to prove to Robins and Black he was reliable.
“You gave her the impression you were on her side, that you were warning her about Robins and Black, trying to help her.” He paused. “Except…you weren’t, were you?”
“I don’t know w-what you m-mean,” Charles spluttered.
“You went to her flat today.”
Charles laughed, so relieved he was giddy. “Oh, is that what this is about? A simple misunderstanding then. I was going to ask her out for dinner on Friday night, nothing sinister.” And it was what Robins and Black had told him to do.
“That when they plan to grab her, is it? You feed her a nice meal, get her guard lowered, then they come for her?” Cable Tie flexed his fingers on one hand and clutched the tie tighter in the other.
“P-pardon?” How do they know this? They’ve got to be Robins’ men. If not, what’s going on?
“Don’t play coy, you trumped-up prick.”
Charles tensed at the man’s tone. “I swear to God, I was going to ask her out.”
“What did you say to the woman next door?”
“She came out and said Aniyah had gone away. She had a suitcase. The woman wouldn’t tell me whose car she got in.”
“Other than being a nosy bastard, why would you need to know that?” Iron Bar asked. “And it was a BMW, by the way.”
Had they been watching Aniyah? Yes, they must have done.
“Look, I just wanted to know, in case she was seeing someone else,” Charles said. “I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes.”
“Good of you. The thing is, you’ve stepped on ours.” Cable Tie tapped his foot. “Because of you, the woman you spoke to has found herself with a bullet through her fucking head.”
“What?” Charles shrieked, appalled at how womanish he sounded, how weak.
“She’s dead, and that’s on your conscience,” Iron Bar informed him. “See, she was under our protection, on our patch, and we don’t enjoy twazzocks like you coming along and causing hassle. I’m afraid you owe us.”
That was something Charles could handle. He had money, and plenty of it. “How much to make this go away?”
Iron Bar laughed. “It costs more than money.”
“What then? I have TAG Hueur watch. Here, take it.” He fumbled to get the dratted thing off.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Cable Tie snatched it out of Charles’ shaking hand and placed it on the coffee table. He looked at his companion. “Do the honours.”
Iron Bar brought the length of metal down on it, smashing Charles’ treasured possession. He’d saved for it when he’d first become a solicitor, his badge that showed he’d become someone. All right a Rolex would have shouted louder, but he’d loved the TAG, and now…
“Do you know how much they are?” He felt sick.
“Yeah, got one myself,” Iron Bar said and brandished his wrist. “Mine cost more than yours, though.”
Cable Tie laughed. “Got ourselves a right wanker here, haven’t we.”
Iron Bar nodded. “I’m bored now. Come on, let’s be getting on with it.”
The metal came towards Charles’ forehead, and he opened his mouth to scream, but pain and blackness got there before the sound had a chance to form.
Chapter Thirty
Lavender jumped at the rumble of an engine in the garage. She paused in making a coffee, aware it could only be Greg and George but scared all the same. She held her breath, listened to the key turning in the lock of the adjoining door, and released it once Greg stood there.
“Stick that in a to-go cup, top-right cupboard. I’ll go and get your shoes and coat,” he said.
Butterflies flurried in her chest. “What?” Had something happened? Wasn’t this house safe anymore?
“We took a detour after we’d been to Carla’s. Got some info on the way here. You’re going to want to come with us.”
“Oh…”
She took a cup out while he left the kitchen, the creak of his footsteps telling her he was going up to her room. Some coffee spilt, her hand trembling, so she wiped it up. Pressed the lid on.
The engine was still rumbling.
Greg came back, handed her the shoes and coat. “Get a shift on.”
Not knowing what was happening sent her clumsy, and she botched putting her shoes on. Thankfully, he held the coat out for her, so she slipped her arms inside then picked
up the coffee, her phone, and followed him into the garage. George sat in the driver’s seat, and he smiled and nodded. She got in the back of the BMW, popped her cup in the pull-down holder, and stuck her seat belt on. Greg took the passenger seat and clicked a fob. The garage door was already half open and rose farther. George reversed, and they were on their way.
“What’s going on?” she asked. “I need to be at work soon. Seven.”
“Ring Debbie and tell her you’ll be late—if you even make it in at all,” George said. “Switch it off afterwards.”
“You’re frightening me.” Although it wasn’t in the same way as Kevin and Johnny did. “What happened at Carla’s?” She texted Debbie instead: With you know who. Might be in later. She turned it off and slid it into her pocket, waiting for one of them to explain. Their silence had her more than worried.
“Not a lot,” Greg said. “We had a chat with some of the neighbours, copped an eyeful of the state of Carla, left. One woman saw two men go to hers, and she was the one who phoned us on our way back here. She remembered something else—someone else—going to Carla’s before that. So we got hold of Rod Clarke, our little copper friend, and found out who owned the car the bloke drove off in. Then we went to pay him a little visit. He’s someone you know well.”
“Who?” She couldn’t think, her mind so clouded she couldn’t grasp any proper thoughts. They were all fragmented, insubstantial wisps.
“Charles.”
“What?” Her body went cold, and she took hold of the coffee to stop herself from gripping her hair and tugging it. “Why would he go to my flat?”
“We asked him that. He reckons it was to ask you out to dinner.”
Revulsion crawled up her spine. “I wouldn’t have gone.”
“The thing is, see, he’s playing you. Came to The Angel, as if he’s on your side, when all along, he’s doing it for Robins and Johnny.”
Lavender couldn’t take the information in. Charles was working for them? Why would he do that? But then the past came roaring back, and she knew damn well why. They’d have forced him, threatened him with something, and he wouldn’t have had any choice. Couldn’t he have at least warned her, told her to run away again? No, they’d have twigged, his visit to The Angel coinciding with her disappearing.