Rivalry (The Cardigan Estate Book 4)

by Emmy Ellis

  “Although saying that, I do like a kebab after a night out, my only sin.”

  She could handle just one sin.

  “Cheesy chips for me,” she said, “curry sauce on top.”

  He laughed. “That’s gross.”

  “You should try it.”

  And so it had gone, nattering until chucking-out time, the music dead, the overhead lights harsh, and with Gail stumbling over to say she was going off with whatever his name was, Julie accepted Aaron’s offer of walking her home. She only lived a few streets along, a flat above a laundrette in the centre of a parade of shops.

  “You can eat your manky chips on the way,” he said, digging her side with his sharp elbow.

  It hurt a bit, but on first dates you didn’t tend to complain, did you, in case the bubble burst. She smiled instead.

  The queue at the kebab van was long, and they talked some more, Julie laughing a lot at the crap he came out with. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed being with a man, one who didn’t seem to have anything wrong with him. Some displayed arrogance, others were too meek, but him? He’d do.

  Food in hand at last—Aaron paid, and she’d protested that he really shouldn’t, as you do—they strolled down the street, leaving the drunkards behind them by turning the corner. Their jeers and shouts faded, and it seemed like a different world, slipping through a veil into a more civilised existence. They nattered between bites of food, and he tried her chips.

  “Okay, I admit they’re bloody nice,” he said, “although too many too often will put fat on you.”

  That was an odd thing to say, but his smile lit up her heart. Mum, God rest her soul, had said if it seemed too good to be true, it probably was, so despite being comfortable in his company, Julie held a part of herself back—the part that could get hurt. She didn’t want to be with anyone who was constantly banging on about putting on weight either, so she’d keep her ears tuned for any more talk like that.

  At the row of shops, they sat on the bench facing them, opposite the laundrette. She never did one-night stands, didn’t ask men inside the first night she met them, and wouldn’t be changing that. She hadn’t even told him which flat was hers yet.

  It was a warm night, the summer air still loitering, as if a fan heater was on full blast. A storm would do nicely, clearing the humidity, and she was so relaxed, she’d dance, right there on the pavement if it tipped down. They shared some more info about themselves, still sitting there once the sun came up, and later, when people emerged onto the street around seven, going to the newsagent’s to buy their pints of milk and loaves of bread, tea and toast for breakfast.

  “We’d best be getting some sleep,” he said.

  She stood along with him, and that sudden awkwardness descended, the type that attached itself to the end of an otherwise great few hours, questions flipping through her mind.

  Shall I break my own rule and ask him up?

  Do I make it clear I’m not ready for that yet?

  Do I kiss him before he walks away?

  “Great getting to know you.” He took his phone out and gestured to her little sequinned handbag hanging off her shoulder. “Get yours out then. We’ll swap numbers.”

  She didn’t mind that, could always block him if things went pear-shaped. They saved each other’s then stood staring at one another, both laughing softly, him seemingly understanding the tension, feeling it, too.

  “I’d best be…” She shrugged.

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  And he strode away, leaving her by the bench in her glad rags, her high heels, people staring at her as if she’d gone to a man’s house for the night and had got sent on her way once the sordid deed was done.

  She waited until he’d gone around the corner, then tottered to the stairs at the side of the hairdresser’s. The climb up had her thinking of him coming here, for a meal maybe, their easy-going chatter taking them through a nice evening.

  She walked along the rear balcony to her front door and let out a squeal of happiness, hoping this would go somewhere, that he didn’t forget her as soon as his head hit the pillow, and in the morning, asking himself: “Who the fuck is this bird on my phone?”

  Julie went inside and had a shower to get the muck of the night off her, that unseen film that clung to you in the hot months, alcohol residue seeping through your pores, the scent of curry sauce. She got into bed, no covers, and curled onto her side, hoping, when she woke, there would be a text from him waiting for her.

  * * * *

  Aaron: How’s the head?

  Julie hadn’t heard the text alert when it had bleeped at midday. She’d been dead to the world until three, half of Saturday gone. She smiled upon seeing the message—she hadn’t thought he’d bother. Seemed he liked her then, so that was something.

  Julie: Okay now I’ve had some sleep. You?

  It was always the way, wasn’t it? Polite conversation the morning after, feeling your way, yet the night before, it had seemed so easy and free. Questions came once alcohol had left your system, ones that didn’t matter previously: I don’t know him, not really; what if he’s an axe murderer? Has he already got a girlfriend? Is he married with kids?

  Aaron: I had a bacon sandwich—Mum insisted, even though I try to eat clean.

  Julie: Do you live with her then?

  They hadn’t touched on that while they’d talked in the nightclub booth and on the bench outside the shops.

  Aaron: Yeah.

  Julie had been lucky enough to have some money left to her after Mum’s death, which had paid for her flat deposit and a couple of months’ rent in advance. If the tumour hadn’t taken over the poor woman, Julie would still be at home, too. She was only twenty-three, for God’s sake, no age to be out in the world by herself, but it still felt weird that Aaron was at home. He was coming up to thirty.

  She wasn’t sure what to say next so left it for a moment, staring at the ceiling, telling herself to get out of bed and have another shower.

  Julie: What are you up to for the rest of the day?

  Aaron: Building a brick wall in my sister’s garden, finishing it tomorrow.

  Was that a brush-off? An ‘I’m too busy to see you?’ Julie shrugged, half bothered, half not. She’d only just met him and couldn’t expect Aaron to drop everything for her.

  Julie: That’s nice of you.

  Aaron: Want to go for a drink tonight?

  Her heart seemed to flip right over, and she smiled.

  So much for not being bothered.

  Julie: You’ve twisted my arm.

  Aaron: Didn’t take much.

  She sent a smiley face, and he replied with where to meet and what time—The Flag, eight o’clock. Fine by her. Except it wasn’t fine in the ‘What the fuck do I wear?’ and ‘Should I tone it down if I’m not going clubbing?’ department.

  In the end, she opted for a shortish skirt and a tight top, a low neckline—he’d liked her with similar on last night so must go for that sort of thing.

  Julie walked into The Flag a lonely, anxious woman without Gail by her side. Funny how friends bolstered your confidence, gave you a bit of a boost. She glanced around, nerves spiking, and spotted some fella in a God-awful houndstooth jacket talking to another who seemed equally dodgy. Switching her attention to everyone else, she scanned them, and her heart sank.

  Aaron wasn’t there. How easily she’d deflated.

  Maybe he was in the loo.

  She stood at the bar and ordered a shot of neat vodka plus half a lager and lime, bumbling her words, the barman giving her a strange look. How come it was so daunting by herself? Why did her legs go to jelly and her tummy play up? Probably because she didn’t know anyone in here, it wasn’t her local, despite her living a couple of streets away.

  She paid and took her drinks to a round scar-topped table by the window with the evidence of many people spilling alcohol on its surface, going by the rings that had penetrated the varnish. It was a pretty rough place, in need o
f a revamp, nothing like the trendy ones she went to. Music came from somewhere, although no speakers were visible, so maybe it was the jukebox over there by the toilet doors.

  Julie necked the vodka and chased it down with a sip of lager. She checked her phone a few times, and in between peeks at the screen, studied the customers. An older woman with red hair came in, skirt up her arse, a cerise boob tube clinging to her torso, and Julie had the momentary thought of: Is that what I look like when I go clubbing? Said woman approached Houndstooth Jacket, and his friend pinched Redhead’s bum. She handed him some money, then swanned out again, giving the staring Julie a wink.

  What was all that about?

  Julie shook off the encounter and sipped some more lager. Another glimpse at her phone—nothing. It was ten past eight, and she’d give it until half past, then go home. While she liked Aaron, no man was worth hanging around for to the point it was obvious you’d been stood up.

  The music changed to a nineties tune—Dreamer by Livin’ Joy—and she sang the words in her head, remembering this coming on last night at Flamingos, how she’d danced to it alone, surrounded by others doing the same. It hadn’t mattered that she’d been by herself then as Gail was only at the bar, and it was a stark contrast to now, where she felt so alone, segregated, a stranger in a pub of locals, an outcast, one to be viewed with suspicion, a ‘What’s she doing here?’ vibe closing in around her. ‘Who is she?’

  She gulped the rest of her drink and stood. She’d waited half an hour, sod staying any longer. While she was disappointed, she’d put it down to a mistake and move on. Was she really up for a relationship anyway? Or even a casual fling?

  At the door, she had the sense someone stared at her back, hard, and she turned. Houndstooth crooked a finger, beckoning her over, and she stalled, unsure what to do. Maybe he knew Aaron and had a message for her? No, that was silly. If he had, he’d have called her to him sooner.

  She walked across to him and smiled, trembling inside. “Yes?”

  “Need work, do you?” He gave her the once-over.

  “Um, no?” She’d said it as a question so he’d elaborate.

  “It’s just that if you need extra cash, we’ve got an opening.”

  She frowned. “Doing what?”

  “Spreading your legs.” He grinned.

  Heat flushed her face. “You dirty bastard!”

  She spun to go, stopped from leaving by his hand on her wrist. He yanked her around to face them again, nails digging into her skin. No one seemed to think this was wrong or came over to help. Should she scream?

  “You’d earn a packet, looking like that,” the other man said. “You’ve got a touch of the Asian about you. Chinese?” He held a hand out. “The name’s Richie Lime.”

  She ignored that hand, ignored the Asian comment. Yes, her dad was half Chinese, but he’d left Mum as soon as the words ‘I’m pregnant’ came out of her mouth. “Let me go.” She glared at Houndstooth.

  He squeezed her wrist. “You’ll cave, they all do, and none of them realise who he is until it’s too late.”

  What the fuck was he talking about? Who was ‘he’?

  He released her, and she rushed out of The Flag, her chest tight, tears burning. Glancing left, she balked at the sight of a crowd coming her way, all loud lads and giggling girls, the thud of loafers and the clop of high heels, so she checked right. Women stood on the corner, and Redhead was there, on the kerb, her face poking into the open window of a car, one leg straight, one bent at the knee. Others smoked or chatted in pairs, and others still paced the pavement.

  Did they work for those gross men?

  Julie didn’t know which way to go. She peered left again. The crowd filtered into the pub, so she walked down that way—in the opposite direction to home, but what the hell, she didn’t want to go past the women. Head down, she rushed on, the tears falling, angry that she cried at all. The experience had been so odd, not to mention Aaron leaving her sitting there like a right prat, and she just wanted the safety of her flat.

  She hurried around the corner, planning to make a loop so she ended up at the top end of the next street, then she’d be close to the row of shops where she lived. Her mind full of questions she didn’t want to answer, she bumped into someone and lifted her head to apologise.

  “Oh, Aaron.”

  “I’m so bloody sorry.” He raised a bandaged hand. “I dropped a brick on my fingers at my sister’s. Been in A and E for hours, didn’t have any phone battery to let you know.”

  “Oh.” Every bad thing she’d thought about him melted away. “It’s okay.” And it was, if just for the fact she wasn’t by herself anymore.

  “Do you still want to go for a drink?” he asked.

  Not in The Flag she didn’t. “Um, can we go somewhere else?”

  “But it’s my local. Come on.”

  He took her elbow and guided her along. Had he noticed she’d been crying? If so, why hadn’t he asked about it?

  Going back into the pub was hateful. It felt as if they all knew she’d been stood up and secretly laughed at her. Silly, when in reality they probably didn’t give a shit, but that thought was there all the same.

  Her unease increased once Aaron got the drinks in and they sat at the same table she’d chosen before. Houndstooth stared over and nodded at him, and Aaron nodded back, some secret communication floating between them. Was it just a ‘hello’ or something more? It was Aaron’s local, so…

  Julie soon forgot all about it when he launched into the story of exactly how he’d hurt his hand, and later he got her laughing, smoothing away her ragged edges, erasing the prickly itch on her soul. She was relaxed now, his company as easy to stomach as it had been last night, and she told herself it was just nerves that had sent her daft, sent her running from The Flag.

  Just nerves.

  Chapter Five

  George stared at the body on the warehouse floor. “Wasn’t expecting to do this tonight. I’m not complaining, though. I love a bit of disposal.”

  He held the electric circular saw, an old friend now, one they used to chop people into slices. Not only was it easier to dispose of them in the Thames down the bottom of the grassy area out the back, he enjoyed it. Debbie had given him the idea when she’d cut someone up.

  “We do what we have to for those we protect,” Greg said. “And this tosspot deserved what happened to him. Fancy doing what he did.”

  George couldn’t stand blokes who treated women like shit, ordering them about as if they didn’t have a say in the matter. Just because the girls offered sex, didn’t mean the punters had the right to behave the way some of them did.

  “There are going to be questions, you know that, don’t you,” Greg said. “He’s bound to have family, friends, maybe even a missus. People like to poke about after the fact.”

  George shrugged. “Clarke will sort it.” He couldn’t stand the wanker of a copper, a DI who was in with them, one who hadn’t quite got the gist yet that he didn’t have carte blanche to turn up at their house for a ‘chat’.

  Greg had warned him last time that if he did it again, he’d break his fucking neck. He would an’ all—if he got there before George who was just waiting for the detective to slip up so he could teach him some manners. Some men tended not to have any, as if their gender meant they didn’t have to behave in a decent way.

  “Wonder how long it’ll be before someone comes round and finds this prick gone?” Greg sat on a chair, the one they used to torture people, who they secured with thick rope bound around their middle, arms pinned to their sides.

  George shrugged. “It’ll probably be when he doesn’t turn up for work in a few hours. Might even be Wednesday by the time his employers get arsey and put the feelers out.”

  Greg picked at a hangnail. “Clarke didn’t seem bothered by it. I reckon he secretly wishes he was us, going around hurting people.”

  George thought about the FaceTime call they’d had with the copper earlier once they’d got h
ome from Rosie’s. No, Clarke wasn’t miffed or fazed, but he had mentioned trying to cover it up successfully if his DS insisted on trooping round this ponce’s flat with him once the missing person’s call came in.

  “I’ll send her off on another job or something,” he’d said. “Like I did with the Frank business.”

  Frank. The Brothers had killed him in his kitchen for dropping the ball. Frank had been a watcher, someone employed to mind the girls by standing in the alley opposite the corner Debbie ran. Useless piece of shite. He’d left behind a wife and two kids. Unfortunate, but needs must.

  “Whatever.” George longed to press the ON button, get the saw revving, the sound of the whir a balm to his sometimes black soul. “More to the point, it’s a bit worrisome, what Julie said.”

  “What’s that? About her doing it again?” Greg nodded and dangled his hands between his splayed legs, elbows on his thighs. “I thought the same. Can’t be doing with another girl’s past coming back to get her. There was Sarah, Beth, Lavender, and now Rosie.”

  “They work the streets because they have pasts, never forget that,” George said. “It’ll be a recurring theme, you wait and see, although if Rosie’s problem grows, I won’t be happy. It needs to end here.” He smiled at his twin. “Right, I’m getting on with this. Shame there won’t be much blood. The damn stuff’s bound to have congealed by now. I do like a bit of claret.”

  Greg shook his head. “The therapist, George. Make sure you go during the week.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He pressed the button to bring the saw to life and laughed.

  Chapter Six

  Rosie couldn’t concentrate. She’d had four punters since half seven, going through the motions, absent of mind, lost inside memories. At one point, a bloke had slapped her face—God, it had stung—something she didn’t usually tolerate, and she’d let him get away with it, her thoughts elsewhere.

  She’d have to warn him next time that if he did it again, he was banned. Debbie didn’t put up with them being abused. That was the best bit about working for her. All danger was eliminated as much as possible. Shame that couldn’t be said for what she’d done to her neighbour.