by Emmy Ellis
Rejects - Text copyright © Emmy Ellis 2020
Cover Art by Emmy Ellis @ studioenp.com © 2020
All Rights Reserved
Rejects is a work of fiction. All characters, places, and events are from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
The author respectfully recognises the use of any and all trademarks.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the author.
Warning: The unauthorised reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the author’s written permission.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter One
The bleeps of the keypad to open the parlour door meant Debbie was coming back into reception. She’d gone out into the corridor to see what that crash was, like someone had broken in via the fire exit by the customer loos. A man had been speaking, but Orchid couldn’t make out what was said, his voice a rumble, Debbie answering him. It was probably Graham, the barman, who must have shot through from the pub side of The Angel at the same time as Debbie went out to investigate. Some prat had undoubtedly decided robbing the place was a good idea, but they mustn’t know The Brothers ran this estate or they wouldn’t have bothered. If they did, the lure of money may have addled their brains, but if that was what they were after, they’d be better off doing it around two in the morning once the parlour girls had earned a stack of cash.
Orchid wrapped her arms around her middle and sighed. She hoped Debbie wouldn’t press for info about the requested week off—they’d been discussing it prior to the interruption. Some things you kept to yourself, didn’t you, and having a shitty family was one of them. Running to London to hide from your sins was another.
Orchid had moved here from a town on the outskirts of Birmingham, where she’d asked to work on the corner and planned to keep herself to herself. The thing was, one of her brothers, Will, had got hold of her via text and said Mum had been threatened—by the leader of the gang Orchid was hiding from. Or Rebecca, as they knew her.
There had been times she could have phoned the police about one of their jobs so they’d get caught in the act. The problem was, that would mean Will being arrested, too, and she hadn’t wanted that. She couldn’t have let him know her plans to dob the gang in because he’d have told them. He was too scared to keep that sort of thing to himself. Then she’d fucked up, so she’d legged it, a midnight flit, hoping they’d never find her.
That was the thing with running in bad circles. Whoever ran with you tended to give chase if you veered off the track you’d promised them you’d stay on. She’d been living on her nerves, always expecting someone to jump out at her. And it was only today, this morning, she’d had an epiphany of sorts. All this time in London, and she’d still had her distinctive purple hair. How stupid had she been?
She’d gone to a salon and had it dyed blonde, fear propelling her there, and it had changed her features somehow, had her looking like a different person. She’d felt safer then, staring at herself in the mirror, the hairdresser exclaiming, “Wow, I wouldn’t know you.” If she hadn’t, others wouldn’t either.
Orchid hadn’t been working in the parlour long, a few months, but she’d done her stint on the corner for three years. She was just getting to the point where she reckoned no one was coming after her, then, a couple of days ago, Will’s text had ruined it all.
The door opened a crack, and Orchid held her breath, ready to deflect any questions. Debbie’s face appeared in the gap. Did she just mouth “Run!”? Orchid frowned and went to speak, but Debbie blinked several times, their code for ‘no’ or ‘shut up’ or any number of things where keeping your lips closed was the better action.
What was going on?
The door burst wide, and Debbie stumbled in, staggering towards Orchid and shoving her backwards onto the sofa. She landed on top of her and whispered in her ear, “Your name is Sunflower. You were never Rebecca or Orchid.” She slipped to the floor in a natural progression of the momentum and stared at the main door.
Someone else had come in—flat on her back, Orchid spotted them in the corner of her eye, and she glanced their way. Fuck, three men in balaclavas stood there, all with shotguns, the stocks polished wood. Fear drenched her in an immediate sweat. The sight of them flung her straight back to the past, when she’d worked with people just like them, in clothes just like those, and she knew, she bloody knew this was the end of the line for her in London.
They’d found her.
“Where the fuck is Orchid?” one bloke said, the taller of the three, waving his gun about.
London accent, not Birmingham.
“If you’d let me explain just now…” Debbie sat up. “I’d have told you you’re wasting your pissing time. But no, you insisted on coming in without letting me talk. There isn’t an Orchid here, for fuck’s sake.”
Lanky snorted, his eyes flicking from side to side. Was he scared? A novice at this? He reminded Orchid of herself on her first big job with the gang, nervous, more afraid of whoever had sent her on that path than the consequences of what she was doing. Lanky’s shoulders were rigid, his whole demeanour that of someone out of their depth.
“Don’t bullshit me, woman.” He sounded surer than he looked.
One of the others stuck his foot between the door and the frame and kept watch on the corridor through the gap. Would he hurt a punter if one came along? His mate stood beside Lanky, maybe for support, maybe so they appeared more menacing. Had this third fella sensed Lanky wasn’t fully in control?
“Get the other bitches out here,” Lanky ordered. “I want to ask them an’ all.”
Debbie pushed up off the floor, tutting, and strutted to the doors, somehow composed despite the threat of guns, her face revealing how angry she was, scrunched forehead, mouth puckered and tight. She’d once been the old leader’s bit on the side, so she was made of stern stuff, but bloody hell, how could she seem so calm in the face of armed thugs? She tapped on each door, and Lily, Iris, and Tulip came out, eyes wide, their breathing changing from normal to heavy in an instant.
Balaclavas meant trouble. Balaclavas meant you might want to think about shitting your pants.
Debbie did the blinking thing at them. “I’ve already told our guests we don’t have an Orchid working here,” she said quickly, “but they won’t bloody list—”
“Shut your mouth.” Lanky marched over to the girls. He stopped in front of them and scrutinised their faces, head cocked, as if imprinting their features into his brain. His breathing came out stilted, loud. “What’s your name?”
“Lily.”
He moved his head an inch to the right, eyes bulging. “And you
?”
“Tulip.”
He waved the gun again. “And you?”
“Iris.”
Lanky swung round, grunting—in frustration?—and pointed the weapon at Orchid. She’d seen many of them in her time, held one, too, and could shoot straight and hit whatever target she aimed at. She wished she had one in her hands now, because she’d blow their fucking heads off, sod the ramifications.
“What about you?” he asked her, his voice gruff.
She stared at him, defiant on the outside, crapping herself on the inside, and used the accent she’d spoken with since coming here. If she reverted to Brummie, she was fucked. “Sunflower.”
He glanced around at them all, mouth parted, a slither of teeth on show. “What’s in that room over there?” He indicated Debbie’s.
“That’s our rest room,” Debbie said. “Go in there if you like.” She appeared bored, like she’d seen far worse in her time and their game of trying to act hard didn’t wash with her.
He stomped over and barged inside. Orchid imagined what he’d see: a proper bed, an en suite. Debbie used to entertain Ronald Cardigan between those sheets, so the story went, but now the room stood empty for the most part.
He came back out, all but growling, lips twitching. “Where the hell’s the one with the purple hair? Where are you hiding her?”
Orchid swallowed, hoping her fear didn’t show on her face, and asked herself why he wasn’t checking all the rooms. Had these three been watching her to know her hair used to be purple? And how lucky had she been to have dyed it today? “There isn’t anyone with that colour hair.”
“Bollocks, we’ve been keeping tabs on this place. Last night. She came here. We watched her, so don’t try bullshitting me, it won’t work.”
“Oh, her. She left last night.” Orchid dared to sit up and maintained eye contact with him. If she glanced at Debbie, he’d know something was up.
“What was her real name?” he demanded.
She shrugged. “I don’t know. We’re all flowers here. We don’t tell anyone our real names.”
He surveyed them all one by one. “If I find out you’re lying, you’re done for, the lot of you.”
That was doubtful with The Brothers running the estate, but it wouldn’t do to antagonise this lot. Better to get rid of them and sort the rest out later.
“There’s someone coming,” the man at the door said.
“That’ll be a customer.” Debbie turned to stare his way.
“Shut the fucking door,” Lanky barked.
It clicked closed, and Lanky eyed the exit at the back, beside Debbie’s room.
“Where does that go?” he asked.
“The car park,” Debbie said. “You go out, turn left, then left again down the side of the pub.”
“Open it.”
She walked over there, giving them a filthy look, used the code, and pushed the exit wide. Lanky and his men converged on it as a seemingly stuck-together threesome, all guns raised, fingers thankfully away from triggers.
Orchid blinked away a memory. These men weren’t anything like the well-oiled machine the gang of her past had become. They were new to this, maybe employed to find her, and didn’t have any finesse about them at all. The other girls might not notice that, what with the guns taking up all their fear and attention, but Orchid knew a botch job when she saw one.
“Remember, not a word we’re after her.” Lanky led the way out.
Everyone remained still for a moment.
Orchid strained to pick up what the men were saying as they made their escape down the back of the pub.
“Should have followed her home last night, we could have got her there…”
Relief barrelled into her. She was still safe in her flat then, and anyway, it belonged to The Brothers. She rented it off them and lived next door to Martin Galbraith, a fella who worked for them. All the bills were in their names, so if a check into her whereabouts had been made in the last year, it’d seem she’d vanished. The previous flat had been in hers, she hadn’t had much choice on that, but everything was bought in cash now, so… Yes, she was safe on that score.
“We’ll have to report back and say we lost her,” Lanky said. “Fuck…”
Debbie pulled the door inwards and snapped it shut. She leant on it and glared at Orchid. “What the fuck was that all about?”
The men were from London, not her home town, but it was clear they’d been employed to find her. “We need to speak to The Brothers.”
“Damn right we do, and we need to get that fire exit fixed in the corridor. I bet they bloody broke it when they barged in. Not that I had a chance to check. They were on me too quickly. And there’s that customer at the sodding door.”
Orchid recalled the loud bang, how, a few minutes ago, her and Debbie had thought it was just someone breaking in. Also, Debbie hadn’t had a chance to switch the CCTV on. A camera was located outside the main parlour door so she could check who was there, and it was linked to monitors on her desk, plus on The Brothers’ phones and computers—but only when she switched it on. There would be no proof of what had just happened. Shit.
“What’s going on?” Lily asked. “What have you done?” She stared accusingly at Orchid, hands on hips.
Iris looked her way, too, but not unkindly. “Do you need help?”
Orchid nodded. “Probably.”
Tulip hugged herself. “They reminded me of Lime’s bullies.”
Tulip, real name Sarah, had been through the mill with a London leader, and she probably thought this was a similar situation. It wasn’t. The Birmingham lot were nothing to do with leaders and estates, but they were a gang. Orchid had run from them because of…a certain thing…and that stupid promise they’d made, where they’d always stick together, meant they’d have been on the lookout for her all this time. They weren’t tech savvy, nor did they know anyone who was, to find her whereabouts via poking into the electoral roll or through the council tax and her bills, but it seemed they’d found someone to find her.
Why couldn’t she be left alone? She’d never told anyone outside the gang what they’d got up to, and they should know that since no police had turned up at their doors. And it was a stretch of the imagination not to join the dots—a man went and threatened Mum, then those men burst in here.
What had Orchid hoped to achieve by going back to Birmingham for a week? To speak to the gang leader, tell him she’d kept quiet, then return here? Like he’d let her? She’d been stupid to think she could sort it, smooth any ruffled feathers, especially those of the lead crow.
It’d sound rotten to anyone who had a nice mother, that Orchid didn’t care if hers was killed let alone threatened, but she didn’t care, not now she was older and knew her upbringing had been wrong, her mum rotten to the core. She did care, though, about her younger brother, Will, in case he got caught up in this mess. Should she encourage him down here where it was safer?
Except it isn’t safe now, is it?
“Well, Lime’s well and truly dead,” Debbie said, “so it isn’t him, and because of the last fiasco with Rosie, all men working for that prat, Robins, have been…sorted just in case they were anything to do with that Marla bint who was after Rosie, so it can’t be retribution from Robins’ lot either.”
Orchid had heard about it—a bit hard not to when all the girls gossiped amongst themselves—but she didn’t know the proper ins and outs. Nor had she been involved with The Brothers other than to smile or nod their way if they came to the corner or The Angel, plus renting a flat off them, and that was with minimal words and meetings.
Seemed she’d be involved with them even more now. They’d have to step in—Orchid was under theirs and Debbie’s protection.
“Why can’t things just run smoothly?” Lily complained. She rarely had a glass-half-full outlook. Her surname ought to be Downer.
Debbie laughed, a bit too maniacally. “Because this is The Cardigan Estate. What do you expect?”
Chap
ter Two
“Beck, come here,” Mum called from the kitchen, her voice brusque, a steel wire scourer on the air, so abrasive.
Rebecca stopped reading her comic and froze, the pages shivering in her small hands. What did Mum want now? She never knew, could never gauge what demand would come out of her mouth. Run to the shop and get milk. Go and give Anthony Wainwright at number seventeen the money for the gear. Steal that woman’s handbag while she’s busy chatting to that lady there.
Rebecca got off the sofa. Will, her little brother, was two years younger than her. He looked at her, six-year-old eyes full of fear. It was always the way, the pair of them frightened. Living here was an endless round of being afraid, on edge, waiting for a hand to slap a cheek or an arse. Sometimes, fists were involved. And slippers. They were the worst if Mum used the plastic-soled ones.
“Stay there,” Rebecca whispered.
She gave Will her comic so he’d concentrate on that, left the living room, and walked down the narrow hallway where the walls always seemed to shift inwards with a mind to squash her. She stepped into the kitchen where Mum ‘conducted’ her business—Mum used words like that, ones Rebecca didn’t understand. Anthony was already there, sitting at the round table with her, a bag of weed in his skinny fingers. He smiled at her, the stretch of lips showing his meanness, maybe a bit of ‘You fuck this up and you’re in the shit’ thrown in.
Rebecca hated him. Hated his hair with the blond tips, the way gel had it standing up in hard spikes. Benny Chadworth, the gang leader, said Anthony had his heyday in the eighties and had never moved with the times, nostalgia keeping his hair and clothes in that style.
She ignored him. “Yes, Mum?”
“Anthony’s just given me some interesting info.”
That meant Rebecca had a job to do. Was it new or one she was already working on? Her stomach churned and, as always, she told herself if she got caught by the coppers, she’d tell them everything. Not that she would, it was something she said in her mind, a silent threat to them that warmed her heart. No one ever crossed Mum. If you did, it meant you were crossing Benny and Anthony, too, and you didn’t want to do that.
